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Cinnamon heat tickled Remus' nose as he blew out a slow breath. He smacked his lips against the burn of Firewhiskey on his tongue and sighed as he stared at the circular badge that laid on the wooden table just out of reach.
His fingers itched to stroke the gentle ridges in the face of the metal—to feel the weight of sacrifice in the palm of his hand and wear it as a badge of honor. To proudly display the spoils of war and the gutting he'd taken over the past two decades in order to receive such recognition for his contributions to help better Wizarding society.
He scoffed; an unattractive, sarcastic sound. Finally, his fingers danced along the curved face of the Order of Merlin, blistering instantly against the silver.
How fitting. A silver medal given to a werewolf for bettering wizard kind.
Fucking hypocrites.
The sudden rattling of his window startled Remus from his bitter thoughts and forced his bleary eyes to look upon a barn owl holding a thick red envelope. He sighed, pushing up from the table to unload the burdened bird and deal with yet another angry letter from someone who "didn't follow the purist agenda but…"
They never sided with the purists, of course. But, it was obvious in the angry voices of the howlers that they were not happy with a half breed, washed up werewolf receiving an Order of Merlin—first class, no less.
Remus knew if his skin was any thinner, he would take it all to heart. He would have let the shrieking parchments drive him to his end, would have left town, would have turned them into the DMLE as Hermione had suggested.
But, Remus is a glutton for punishment, it should seem.
Knowing the process would go easier if he just opened the blasted envelope, he slid his finger beneath the seal and waited as the words filled the air with prejudice and anger. "Despicable", "abomination", "should be ashamed"...they always said the same thing.
Halfway through the spiel, Remus looked over his shoulder as a light rapping sounded against the door. With his brows drawn together in confusion as to who could possibly be here on a random Tuesday afternoon, he opened the door to reveal a flustered looking Hermione Granger.
She huffed in irritation as her hand shoved her fringe from her face, her eyes scanning over him before a small frown tugged her lips.
"It's not even noon," she stated.
"I'm well aware," he responded, leaning against the doorframe. Whether it was to block her view from the miserable state of his cabin or to hold himself upright, he wasn't sure.
She huffed a breath, tutting slightly as her eyes trailed over him again. "I've been trying to reach you for days."
"Unless it's in the form of a Howler, it goes straight into the fireplace as kindling," Remus shrugged.
"Are you going to invite me in?" she asked, looking at him with an eyebrow raised expectantly.
"Hadn't planned on it, no."
Hermione huffed again and Remus fought the twitch in his lip as a smirk threatened to overtake his piss poor mood. He had discovered over the last year that riling Hermione up was not only incredibly easy to manage, but was often quite entertaining.
"Well, that's just too bad," she snapped, shoving past with a rough jostle of his shoulder.
Hermione stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips as she stared around at the state of the small house. Her eyes landed first on the crusts from this morning's toast, then the stack of unopened mail atop the mantle. She tutted, shaking her head as she crossed the room, waving her wand in smooth motions to clear the clutter and freshen up the air.
"Tea would be nice," she suggested, taking a seat at the table and pulling her little, beaded bag from her wrist.
Remus let out a puff of laughter, "Yeah, I suppose it would."
"Well," she waved her hand toward the tiny kitchen space. "Get to it, then. I am your guest, afterall."
He deadpanned, tilting his head slightly as his arms folded across his chest. "An uninvited guest."
"But, a guest all the same," Hermione reasoned, dipping her hand into the small bag and rifling around inside of its depths. "Black, if you please—that one with the vanilla and lavender."
Remus shook his head and crossed the space to the counter, filling the kettle and placing it on the hob to heat as he rummaged through his countless tins of tea for Hermione's preferred blend. He listened to Hermione as she hummed to herself while the clinking of phials punctuated the tune as she dug through the bottomless satchel. As the kettle sang a tune of completion, Remus busied himself fixing their respective cups and winced as he squeezed a wedge of lemon into the blue, chipped mug Hermione liked.
"Bugger," he whispered, shaking the sting from his fingers.
In an instant, Hermione was at his side, a look of concern on her face as she held a small phial out. "Here, take this."
"I don't need a pain tonic, it's just a blister." Remus explained, showing her his finger.
Hermione grimaced, "Well, good thing—because this is a sober-up."
He sighed, taking the phial and swallowing down the contents. "Happy?"
"Not particularly, no. Why is your hand blistered?" She asked, frowning now as she grabbed his hand and inspected it closely.
Remus waved toward the table, "That bloody medal. They gave me a silver medal."
The grip on his fingers tightened and he felt the inappropriate pitter patter of his heart in response to it, the similar feeling of want he often felt around her these days. It was funny, he thought, the way war brings unlikely souls together. But, then again, Hermione had always been a kindred spirit, hadn't she? A brilliant outcast with a penchant for getting herself into trouble because of a Potter. It felt all too familiar. Perhaps, that was why he couldn't step away from this strange friendship he had found himself in.
It was only as a small tin came zooming into his peripheral, did he realize he hadn't heard a word Hermione had said. She seemed rather furious though, which was always a sight to behold. Her brows pulled together, nostrils slightly flared as she yanked the top of the tin off and swiped a bit of murtlap balm onto her fingers, rubbing it gently onto his own hand while she continued spitting venom at the audacity of the Ministry.
"...And furthermore, the idea that Kingsley would even allow—"
"Hermione…"
"—this to be sent to you! How could he be so neglectful in making sure that you were awarded—"
"Hermione," Remus interrupted, with a bit more force. She stopped mid-rant and stared at him, his hand still held in hers. "We've been over this before. It's injustice, we know that, but just because Voldemort is gone, does not mean werewolves will suddenly be seen as equals."
"After everything you've done for them? After everything you've been through?! It's sickening, Remus, that you allow them to treat you like this."
Remus sighed, biting the inside of his cheek as he stared into wide, bright eyes. "I have been an outcast my entire life. It's going to take people more time to come around to the idea of—"
"The idea of what, exactly? Werewolves being human?"
He pulled his hand from hers, ignoring the strange feel of emptiness that accompanied the action, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not human, Hermione. Not fully."
"Bullshit."
He couldn't help the bark of laughter that escaped him at the ferocity behind the obscenity she hissed. And, as she placed her hands on her hips, looking particularly vexxed, he laughed again.
"Stop laughing," she demanded. "It isn't funny, Remus! You treat yourself the way they treat you, and frankly, I'm tired of it!"
That stopped his chortling in its tracks and he stared at her, slack jawed. "W-what?"
"Well, you do!" She continued, stepping away from him and pacing toward the living space. He took that as a cue and followed her, shoving his freshly healed hand into the pocket of his trousers.
"You sit in this cabin like an outcast, you let them throw you from society and still continue to do everything at their beck and call and it's been that way as long as I've known you! So, I can only assume you've always treated yourself as poorly as they treat you."
"Look at me," he argued, his unpocketed hand motioning to his face. "I'm not what anyone wants to look at. People take one gander at me and they instantly know my struggle. You don't get this disfigured from just anything! I'm old, I'm beaten, and I'm of no use—"
"Don't you dare finish that statement," she cut in, rounding on him and crowding into his space. "You are not old and beaten."
"That's quite easy for you to say when you're twenty-one, Hermione. I'm forty, I'm hardly a guppie. And you have spent the last year healing me after a full moon to know that I am indeed very beaten."
"Forty is the new thirty, haven't you heard?" she said, rather petulantly in Remus' opinion.
He could help but laugh as he shook his head, "It doesn't matter. I'm still noticeably damaged goods."
Her face softened as she took another step forward, eyes darting back and forth, searching his face for something. Whatever she was looking for, he hoped she'd find it. Hoped she'd wisen up and take his advice to finally run the other way, to not tie herself to a title of being a werewolf sympathizer. War Heroine or not, that title would not be light to carry.
Her hand came up to cup the side of his face, her thumb running lightly against the thin skin under his eye. Remus hated that he closed his eyes; hated that he pressed, ever so slightly, into the warmth of her palm against the unshaven scruff on his cheek.
When his eyes reopened, they were met with the close proximity of a pair of chocolate brown irises. Her breath ghosted over his lips and it smelled of cinnamon and he had the overwhelming urge to find out if it tasted spiced as well. That inappropriate pattering of his heart sped up and he pulled back a fraction of an inch.
"Hermione…" Remus whispered, feebly. No idea where he was going with the statement.
"You are not damaged goods," she said. The intensity of her gaze overwhelming as she pushed on, "You are not less than. You are exactly as you are supposed to be, and I think you're lovely."
Remus swallowed, unsure of what to say. His knee-jerk reaction begged him to argue her points, to tell her how wrong she is. By the time his brain caught up with his mouth, his words were swallowed by Hermione as she pressed her lips to his.
His mind instantly split into two warring camps. One side cheering and begging for more, the other wanting desperately to shove her away. But, as the tip of her tongue flicked his bottom lip experimentally, the irresistible urge to know if she tasted as sweet as she smelled overtook him.
Their tongues met in a tangled dance of cinnamon and tea flavoured tango. Remus gained some sense and pulled his hand from his pocket, splaying it across the small of her back and cupping her jaw with the other as they explored each other's mouths. Finally, when the need to breathe fresh air was too strong, Hermione pulled away.
"Hermione, I'm sorry I shouldn't—"
She pressed a single finger over his lips and smiled, "You're wonderful, Remus. And some of us truly don't care if you're an outcast. You aren't the only one."