What Makes Us

Chapter 23: Paris

It was entirely possible, Hermione thought, that this might not have happened at all––this reignition of her feelings. If Remus had not made the remark about travelling to meet a pack of werewolves in Paris, on the same weekend as her appointment with the French Ministry...if Robert, her friend the publisher, had not made the offer to host her as well...

As it was, she now found herself sitting in a café in Paris, Remus across from her, Robert's seat temporarily occupied by his winter coat; he had gone to the toilet. And she was forced to confront the tingling upon her skin when she looked at Remus and remembered why she had ever fallen in love with him at all.

He was a married man. She knew that. She knew, too, that she would never approach him; that she would never do that to Tonks, to Remus, even to herself. It was something she had never been able to stomach. And yet––could she pretend that she had never been inappropriate? Could she pretend that a touch was innocent, no matter how innocent in reality, if it made her burn for him? No––what would be innocent with anyone else always left a burning, thrilling sensation deep within her when it was Remus. No, something that could set her aflame inside like this, something so subjectively sinful, could not be innocent, no matter how innocuous the act. The briefest brushing of fingertips, pure happenstance, when she passed him something; the warmth of his presence by her side...Hermione would catch herself savouring it, long after the accidental contact.

She had thought she was done, recovered, out of the woods. She'd thought that her liking for Josef had meant she was truly free of that old love from that strange other world. How naïve of her––how little it had meant, in the end. She thought of Josef far less frequently than she did the man she had tried so hard to forget.

She would never forget him. Not on her own.

On their third and final evening in Paris, Robert took his leave of them, leaving the two to themselves in the three-bedroom flat Robert had arranged. Hermione felt odd, and guilty, to be alone with Remus now, but she renewed her silent mantra, that she was incapable of betraying her friends, and she saw, too, that Remus was perfectly at ease. And why shouldn't he be? she thought. There was nothing of her on his mind.

"Let's get a quick dinner before the meeting?" Remus suggested, eventually appearing at her door when night had fallen and Hermione remained in her room in the flat, trying and failing to put the finishing touches on an assignment for her supervisor. Remus had been outside; he still wore his coat, and a few pearly drops of rain clung to his shoulders and his hair.

"Yes," she said, rising quickly to prevent his entering the room, to prevent his closer presence. "Where did you go today?"

"I went to the crypts, and walked along the river. There's a little bookshop, Hermione, you'd love it..."

Remus continued as they traced a path to a familiar restaurant, one Robert had taken them to on the first night. She smiled, and nodded, and tried to hide her feelings for him. She thought of how he treated her and how there had never been any difference in the way he treated any of his friends. He did not treat her differently for being younger and a former student; no, they were friends. Equals.

As they were seated she realised she must have been silent for a long while. For he had asked her, "Hermione, are you alright?"

He looked at her with kindness, and all at once she had the understanding, for one brief, heartstopping second, that he was exactly the same man he had always been. He was not that man she had left in the other time, but that had never been the question; not when he, Remus who sat before her and looked into her eyes at this very moment, had been the one she had fallen in love with. Every kindness, every tender act, all the calm and quiet beauty of his soul, she had known it here already. She had simply shut him out of her mind, as people did every day to those they knew they could never have. It happened all the time: to save friendships; to preserve other relationships; to stay within the limits of love that society accepted.

"Yes, I'm alright, Remus." She found a smile now, somehow, and swallowed the pain of looking at the smile he gave in return. "I was thinking of something else just now, I'm sorry. Let's enjoy our last night here."

They hurried after dinner to the final meeting Remus had planned that weekend, with a man with whom he had been corresponding for some time, and lately about his book. Paul was a werewolf who had left the packs behind and now, like Remus, spent the majority of his time in wizarding society. He had invited them to join him on a local river cruise on the Seine.

Remus brought her a drink from the bar and gave it to her along with an apologetic look. "Paul's said he wants to speak of something private just for a moment..."

"Oh, go ahead," Hermione said at once. "Thanks for the drink. I'll join you later, go on."

Remus gave her a grateful smile and moved away with his friend. Hermione took a sip of the drink and turned to gaze out at the clear Paris night, the trees and streetlights and familiar buildings made unfamiliar by the dark.

"Is he your husband?"

Hermione started, turning to the young woman beside her.

"Oh, no," she answered, startled.

"He is so good to you."

"Oh, well. That's just who he is."

The young woman's friend joined in, her smile more than a little suggestive: "Then you are in Paris on the Seine with the husband of another?"

"No...I mean, not like that. He would never––we're old friends, I mean."

The girl flashed her a devious grin. "Ah, he would never..." She raised her eyebrows, and said something in French that Hermione did not catch. Beside the girl, her friend laughed softly, though they did not seem unfriendly.

"Nor me," said Hermione, flushing. "Obviously."

"Why obviously?" The girl shrugged. "It happens. And I see that you like him."

Hermione looked around, hoping that Remus and Paul were still on the other side of the ferry's expansive outdoor deck, safely out of earshot. They were. They seemed deep in conversation. Hermione wished she could extricate herself from the conversation she now somehow found herself in.

"I don't," she lied.

"He is so good to you," said the girl's friend. "I think maybe he likes you, too."

It was not true, she knew, but still she felt herself react to it, the flush growing warmer, more incriminating. For she had never even considered the idea: that Remus could like her, too. No, he could not, and did not. Not here. She knew him.

"Of course, he likes me," she returned lightly. "We're old friends."

Hermione moved to join Remus and Paul shortly afterward, and the rest of the evening passed quickly. Before long they bid their adieus, and she and Remus took their leave.

"It's a little chilly," Remus observed as they walked. "Here––" he cast them each a warming charm. Hermione thanked him. They were passing the Notre Dame again, quiet and beautiful in the dark, and she felt, immensely, the romance of the moment.

"Hermione," Remus said then. His face was half in shadow, half in the light of the half-moon that hung above them. She looked over at him and wished helplessly that he might love her.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to say––I hope you would always feel able to speak to me, me and Dora, if you ever need to."

Why was he saying this? She swallowed. He was good to her. She felt a soft pain begin to ache in the back of her throat.

"Thanks, Remus."

"It's been wonderful working with you on the book." Remus glanced at her with a smile. "And I'm glad you're alright. I'm grateful for your friendship, Hermione; I don't feel I've said that nearly enough."

Hermione gazed into the dark waters of the Seine. Once, one day long ago, she would have been touched, filled with simple love at his words. Now the longing, the regret and guilt in her––they took the moment and made it difficult, sullied with the thoughts of what had been, what could have been.

"I'm glad, too, Remus."

It was the truth, and it wasn't.

"Despite my condition––" he began.

"Your condition," Hermione heard herself cut in warmly, "isn't––shouldn't ever be relevant. We're friends. It doesn't matter to me, not then, not now. Like your mother, if you were always the wolf, I––" I would still love you. She caught herself, abruptly.

Remus was staring at her. "What?"

Hermione was confused for a moment; then she wished she could simply disapparate right away, no matter the muggles watching, if only it would not raise still further suspicion. She did not reply, and this only served to draw more attention to what she had said.

Too late, she said, "I just meant...it shouldn't matter to anyone. That's all."

But Remus was too sharp to miss the depth beneath the surface of her words. "What do you mean? Why did you say that––about my mother?"

"I just meant I've never cared..."

"Did I tell you that? When? Did you know me in the time you were in?"

She wished she had the time to think, but every pause only added to the doubts, the omissions behind her words. "Not really," she stumbled. "I told you––we only met once."

Remus had stopped walking. He was staring at her, and she could read on his face the words he did not speak out loud: I don't believe you.

"It was a separate time," she heard herself saying now, distractedly. "Things happened differently there. I did meet you, once."

"Not that differently." They had spoken, briefly, about the world she'd lived in; the few glaring differences, and the overwhelming similarities. Some things had not been different at all.

But that was not what he was speaking of now. No: he was asking her about them, the two of them. She hoped he would be distracted by the mention of other details of that world, but still he looked at her in that dark Paris night with an intensity on his face she suddenly found she had dearly missed. "But why did you say that, Hermione? I must have told you..."

She swallowed. She'd slipped; she'd been caught. He knew now, that she had known him. Known him beyond a mere meeting; that she must have known him to some greater degree of intimacy, for him to have confided in her the words his mother had spoken to him. She would wonder later, with a pang, whether some part of her had wanted to be caught.

"Yes," she said, finally. She did not look at him. The waters of the Seine reflected the lights above, and she watched a couple as they followed the riverbank, making their way along the stone path. "I did know you, there. We were friends."

"I see," he said. Now he was inscrutable. All the while she felt he was reading the emotions that ran so close to the surface now, within her. He knew she was holding something back; knew she was not telling the whole truth. Or, indeed, the truth. Yet of course he could not guess exactly what had come to pass between them––Hermione felt sure of that...

"I'm sorry." She felt she had composed herself as well as she could. "I didn't tell you. I wasn't supposed to speak to anyone about this, you see."

Remus inclined his head, but did not speak. She waited, anxious to speak but holding her tongue lest she revealed yet more.

After a moment he said: "Let's get back. It's late."

In the morning they went directly to the site of return travel back to London. There was a quiet between them; not a silence, for she could sense that though Remus was deep in thought, he held no anger or resentment toward her, no matter her wayward fears. As it was, Remus did not speak of it again, or at all, until they were back in London and preparing to return finally to their respective homes. She had been adjusting her carry-all sack, and looked up, startled, at his question.

"I just wanted to ask you again, Hermione. To make sure. Since you did know me––was it me, then? And if it was, did I do anything else?"

He made a motion toward her, and she understood that he was speaking again of her scar, the mark Remus had given her what now felt like a lifetime ago.

She could not tell him, she knew. For to answer truthfully would be to raise still more questions, this time about the nature of their relationship, for him to have given her such a mark.

"No," she answered, suddenly simply tired. "No."

A/N: I hope you are all still keeping well, and send my warmest wishes to all. Thank you as always for reading, and your touching comments!