Work Text:
He’s fifty-five now and settled. Life is settled, and he has no complaints whatsoever. Things couldn’t be better, actually; as far as Remus could say. He never expected to have this—happiness. Contentment. To live to a ripe middle age and know the comfort that is routine. Like a well worn, familiar path in the forest. Or groove in said path made by his wheelbarrow (because, no, Moony; we don’t need magic for everything; menial tasks are good for health, too).
Teddy is seventeen-and-a-half and in his final year of Hogwarts. His son is more than he could have ever imagined. He thrives in the hustle and bustle of school and peers. He excels when challenged, and is constantly organising some new club: chess (Muggle and Wizarding), debating, dueling, Arithmancy… even Muggle Mathematics. Remus once worried the quiet of home over school holidays would never be enough for his son, but Teddy adjusts and blooms and never complains. He’s everything. All Remus is proud of and thankful for.
He doesn’t think about how this is the last year of normal as he’s come to know it.
Not. At. All.
Liar, Moony accuses. Remus doesn’t rise to the bait, though. He’s settled there, too. Half-a-century with a werewolf in his mind, and this is life. He knows nothing else. There’s no end to the pain, transformation, canine affinities, dual personalities and thoughts making themselves at home inside him—except in death. And… Remus doesn’t wish for that. Not as he used to. Not like before. The hard years have passed. Winter is gone; spring, summer, and autumn are here to stay.
He’s at home with himself. At rest with his life. Lacks for nothing. Wants for nothing. All is settled.
Until it isn’t.
Because… it’s in September, the 19th to be precise, he gets a neighbour.
It shocks him.
When he purchased this cottage in the middle of nowhere, he’d been told the yellow cottage across the hedge wasn’t available for purchase, but that the owners hadn’t been there for years. It’s been unoccupied in all the time he’s lived here, and that’s been fifteen years now. He doesn’t know what to make of it when he returns from feeding his chickens and weeding the garden and he’s in deep thought about whether he should trim the hedge or not, and all the windows of that yellow building are open.
They’re open and music filters out.
He doesn’t know the composer, but it’s something that he thinks is Motzart, Chopin, or Beethoven. Maybe Debussy (was that that old bloke’s name? Moony snaps it doesn’t matter). Moony catches a whiff of a scent that makes him purr like a kitten—because, yes, that’s somehow possible for an old werewolf—and refuses, refuses , to stray too far from the home and hedge the duration of the day. There is noise in his neighbor’s yard, and Remus steadfastly ignores Moony’s snaps, barks, yaps, and snipes to find out who this stranger is.
It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. The owner coming to clean it out and make it ready for a buyer. Moony savours a deep inhale, identifying cinnamon, oranges, fresh soap, and ink, and huffs something about hoping the unknown person stays. Humming and occasional laughter ooze into the open air, and Remus finds that he doesn’t disagree.
It’s Hermione. Hermione Granger—formerly Hermione Granger-Malfoy. But not now. No. It’s just Granger. Hermione. Granger.
He finds out as one does, because Hermione comes over to inquire if he has a carrot in his garden. Remus isn’t certain, but he thinks he made an idiot of himself seeing her for the first time in… ages. Truly. He remembers being invited to her wedding, but didn’t attend. She’s rarely at the Weasley’s or Potter’s for Christmas or Easter. It isn’t as though he planned on losing touch with Harry’s sister-best friend; it just happened in the course of life. So, the fact that she’s at his doorstep, looking a vision in denims, a faded old t-shirt, wild curls pulled back in a loose bun, wand buried in said bun, covered in dust… it catches Remus off-guard.
She’s bright and glowing when she sees him, cheerfully chiding a non-present Harry, saying she can’t believe he didn’t tell her they’d be neighbours when she told him of her plans to move into an old family home, and she corrects herself, saying that it’s likely Harry never put the two locations together when she talked about it—all of this happens in the span of time that’s less than a minute, and Remus doesn’t inject a word. Isn’t certain he even blinks over the course of it all. Hermione breathes and beams at him (Remus, not Harry; Moony snarls and growls low under his breath when considering Hermione beaming at Harry for some reason ), and makes inquiries about a carrot. She remembers from Neville and Harry that Remus maintains a substantial garden and wondered if she could borrow a carrot for her chicken pie tonight.
Remus responds with something idiotic: that it isn’t borrowing if she isn’t going to be returning it. He wants to find a hole to live out the rest of his days in there. Or just die. Burn and die from the shame of it all. Moony snaps and growls in frustration over that, but it’s been too bloody long since he’s spoken with a beautiful witch with such a tantalising scent. Too long since… since… He doesn’t know. Just… a long time.
Hermione claps a hand over her mouth, laughing and smiling. She bloody agrees with that stupid statement, and touches his arm with her other hand as she continues to giggle. She leans into his space next, not much. Just… enough. Enough for Moony to lose it and demand Remus offer her the entire basket of carrots in the cellar. Remus doesn’t do that, but offers her significantly more than one if she’d like. Hermione agrees, but only if Remus joins her for dinner sometime this week. He agrees and Hermione surprises him by inquiring if he’s free that very evening.
He is.
One dinner turns into two that week.
Which turns into five over the first two weeks after she moves in.
Which turns into… things. Not things as Teddy and his mates would naff about, the things Sirius would be smirking and waggling his brows over. Call him old-fashioned, because that’s how he is. Remus is a settled widower, after all, and Hermione is divorced. There’s a safety in the things they find themselves partaking in, but it’s the fact they’re partaking together. It’s things together with Hermione. Things. Together. With. Hermione. That’s wholly unsettling all on its own.
It’s so innocent and seamless, he doesn’t realise what’s happened until it’s happened. They each have their own work: he keeps his hours at the bookshop in Hogsmeade, and she’s pouring over books for research and writing in the day. But it the middle of November, he realises he doesn’t recall the last time he’s eaten dinner alone. He even comes home to invite Hermione over for lunch a time or two in the week. Or she pops into the bookshop before lunch to browse, then ask him if he’d like to join her for a bite. They have tea in the afternoons over the weekend. Hermione assists in his garden, and asks if he’ll help her plan a garden for spring. Moony preens under her praise, preens and prances.
He finds himself mentioning Hermione in his letters to Teddy; nothing significant, a mere name-drop here and there. It’s enough for Teddy to notice and ask questions Remus hasn’t thought to ask. How long has she been divorced? Was it bad? I didn’t follow it in the papers, but I remember there were articles. Wasn’t she gone for a while? James says she’s cool, but they don’t see her much. What does Moony think of her? Are you seeing her? Shagging her? Do you want to see or shag her? DON’T ANSWER THAT! But, have you thought about it, Dad? She’s gotta be forty now, yeah? That’s old enough, and you’re not too old for a good shag, but, Merlin, I repeat: DO NOT TELL ME ANYTHING! I do not, not, NOT want to know! Remus doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t have answers, except that she isn't forty (four years shy to be precise). Isn’t certain he’s in need of any answers. Not just yet.
It’s comfortable as it is. Age doesn't mean much in the the clarifying weight of all life has chucked at them. It's sobering, and makes him shake his head at how simpering he'd once been over his age and Moony with Dora. These things no longer bother him, and it's pleasant almost to the point of feeling downright settled by the time December rolls around. They talk of everything and nothing, but somehow they never talk of their previous spouses. Of Dora or Draco.
Until they do.
They tell all on the night of a half moon the first week of December, under a canopy of stars with a tangled labyrinth of bare branches and limbs above. Hermione had suggested a supper picnic of cold chicken, cheese, crackers, fruit, and warmed cider and cinnamon cookies. It’s the most wonderful meal Remus has ever eaten, and he doesn’t know who reaches first, but their fingers are suddenly twined together, and they’re leaning against each other as they talk. Shoulder to shoulder. Leg to leg. He finds himself resting his cheek over the top of her curls, and they talk and talk. They talk and lay on their backs beside each other, fingers laced together, and don’t return to their separate homes until the first pale hints of dawn glimmer on the horizon.
He cries a little talking of Dora. Not a lot; some, though. His voice would turn watery at some moments and he’d find a lump in his throat he didn’t recall permitting to form. It’s strange; it’s been so long since he’s cried for her. Over her. For the life of togetherness they’d been meant to share. He’s believed himself beyond mourning by this point in time; apparently grief never fully leaves one alone. Hermione is patient and compassionate. She makes inquiries and listens to all the stories he tells. She squeezes his hand when he tells her that Dora wasn’t perfect, that they would have had issues down the road that feel inconsequential in the light of war… but he loved her. They would have been able to work it out.
He asks her if she thinks she and Draco could have worked things out, and she tells him no. Her eyes swim with unshed tears, and he doesn’t know if they’re from Dora, their journey down memory lane, or Draco. He doesn’t break the fragile silence of the moment by asking. He swipes his thumb under her eye and cups her cheek instead, murmuring hoarsely that she doesn’t have to answer. She’s quiet and still for the longest time.
Until she’s crying, too.
Crying, then sobbing.
Remus holds her until the last tear is shed, and then it’s his turn to listen.
And listen he does. Because… what an honour it is.
Of all the people in her life, all the friends she has, and she’s chosen to befriend a neighbour when she doesn't have to. She’s chosen to open her life and home and heart to him. She tells him all of what she failed at and what Draco failed at. She tells him of the good times, too. Tells him what was nice and exciting, and how it all faded, then imploded. Tells him of how she’s been divorced now longer than they were together and married, and that hurts. Tells him she hates spending time with Harry’s and Ron’s children as much as she loves it. Tells him how she’d worked herself into a stupor of a life she hated until she talked to Harry and decided she needed a change. That she found the paperwork for an old family cottage that had been closed up before the war… One her parents don’t know exists, because they no longer know they have a daughter.
It was on my birthday I decided on a whim I needed shaking up, she tells him. Something to unsettle the dust that had seeped into my life. Does that make sense, Remus?
It’s then that he kisses her for the first time. Barely. Dips his head down and brushes his lips over hers. Holding the touch long enough to be a kiss, but not so long it pushes for more than either of them are ready to give. She smiles at him as he ends the kiss. Presses her forehead to his.
He tells her it does, make sense that is. The unsettling makes sense, and he’s happy to explore the possibility of further unsettling of routine and life with her.
With her, Moony echoes, savouring all things Hermione until they reluctantly part to prepare for a new day.
Hermione calls out to him over the hedge, asking if it would be too much unsettling if she asked him to a proper date at a fancy restaurant tonight. Moony howls in glee, tail thumping against the edges of Remus’ mind. Remus maintains composure, however, and calmly responds that he doesn’t think it would be too much at all. Uncharted territory to say the least, and a bit unnerving, but not too much unsettling.
Slightly unsettling in the clear light of day and he’s brooding over the contents of his closet, searching through the sea of faded brown and green for anything resembling a suit… But he doesn’t mind. Doesn’t mind at all. It’s exhilarating being this unsettled, as when visiting the seaside and taking deep breaths of salty and sweet grassy air. Thrilling, yet safe. Like the possibility of finding a new home.
And Remus doesn't mind the thought of that at all.