Journey to Perfection
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended. I only claim ownership to the characters I create (i.e. Isabelle Starrpynski) and the situations (that are not Canon) that I place them in.
Rating: R, for sexual and adult themes, violence, and imagery.
Word Count: 2351
Summary: Remus Lupin has not always had an easy or a happy life, but now after resigning from a job he loved and enjoyed, he's forced to, once again, sulk on his lonely and bitter existence. Wallowing in his self-pity, Remus ventures into the Hog's Head, only to meet a erudite woman that may just help to disrupt the monotony his life has become. Remus/OC, Post-POA.
Note: This story was featured on Mugglenet Fan Fiction, in March 2005.
Sitting on top of her desk with her legs crossed and fingertips gently rubbing her temples, Isabelle took the floor. Clearing her throat to get the attention of her students, she instructed, “Ahem, after your Augurey talons have dissolved, begin gradually adding the powdered moonstone whilst stirring your potion, anticlockwise, seventeen times.”
Sliding off her desk, she began walking the room and peering over the novices’ shoulders. Rolling her eyes at the sight of the mixtures, she advised, “Your preparations should be a brilliant green color, like an emerald. If it is black,” she referred pointedly to a person behind her, “add more crushed talons and continue stirring until it resembles an emerald-like color.
“In some of yours, there may be swirls of a periwinkle, a light lavender-blue. This means you have added too much powder, but need not worry. It will not affect your potion in any way.” She calmed her more uptight, worrisome persons. She didn’t need to give them more of a fright than what they had already experienced while taking this summer course.
Isabelle began wandering the room again, handing out pointers and tips to those whose potions were a bit off-color, encouraging them to keep up their progress. When she observed that most had fixed their mistakes and that their potions looked similar to hers, all cauldrons filled with an emerald sheen with silky, ivory wisps of smoke, she congratulated them.
“Well done! No explosions or spouts of purple glop splattering my walls or staining my robes today!” She flashed them a pseudo enthusiastic smile and clapped her hands together. “You have all successfully—without wasting too much of my life—created a “Raining Draught.”
A young woman, who looked no older than twenty-two, raised her hand and asked, “Ms. Starrpynski, why is it called a Raining Draught and what is it used for?”
Isabelle cast an amused glance at her and the rest of her novices, a smirk playing on her lips when she answered, “Good question, Gertrude. Who would like to take a stab at answering it?”
Isabelle stared around the dingy dungeon and noted how they cast their heads down, twiddled their thumbs, or blankly gawked at her. Rolling her eyes, she sat atop her desk once again and faced her victims. She took out a nail file from the inside pocket of her robes and began filing, waiting patiently, as if nothing was going on, for one of them to speak.
“You know,” she said in an accusatory tone, “if you wish to act like a bunch of second-years, fine with me. I’m not giving you an answer until someone at least guesses what this Draught is for.” She glared pointedly at her more intelligent students; the ones that usually answered all her questions. “Of course,” she emphasized, “since you all read the chapter I assigned, this should not be that difficult.”
From the back, a young man in deep blue robes with light hair that fell into his eyes called out, “The Draught is used by Wizarding farmers when there’s little to no rain for their crops to grow. The proper name for it is an Irrigation Draught. It is poured slowly onto crops and evaporates overnight, creating miniature storm clouds over the contents on which it was poured.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow and chortled, “You never cease to amaze me, Rystan.” She finished, “Since someone answered and has saved you all from failing, clean up and you all may leave. Oh, and read up on chapter nine for next class. We’ll be discussing Veritaserum and its affects on the human psyche.”
Cleaning spells were heard from around the room and the students left. Some said goodbye, and others walked briskly out the door. Sighing, Isabelle checked her lab for any missed spills or dropped ingredients and was happy to find nothing. She tapped her wand against the wall and locked her lab for the night. She didn’t have to be back to work until Monday morning, and she had the rest of the evening and tomorrow to relax and catch up on lost sleep.
Yes, life was good.
Not paying attention to where she was going when turning the corner, Isabelle walked into someone with a seemingly thin, lean-muscled frame. She muttered a response that sounded something like, “Look before you walk around a corner, will you?” at the same moment a male voice stuttered, “So sorry! I should have looked . . .”
Instantly, Isabelle recognized the voice. “Remus?”
Remus looked up. The tips of his ears were flushed pink and he ran a hand hastily through his short, tawny hair, attempting to hide his embarrassment.
“Hello.”
“Hello," she said with a hint of amusement. "Funny running into you here . . .” A small smile traced her lips.
“Yes, yes. I guess so. Um,” Remus contemplated how to word his next sentence.
Isabelle had a hunch as to why he was here. He was here about her apology "note." She would say something but she was tickled "pink" by Remus’s very pink-tipped ears. She made note of how easily he embarrassed, at least, in front of her.
Finally she spoke, “You’re here about the poem.”
“Yes and no,” he replied, his ears returning to normal.
She brushed past him and Remus followed behind her, keeping up with her vivacious pace.
“What are you doing?” he asked, thoroughly confused.
She whipped around and cocked her head to the side. “I’m clocking out and going home to change. You will meet me at the Leaky Cauldron," she said with an air of finality, a mischievous spark igniting within her eyes. "Everything will be explained.”
Before Remus could even comprehend what she said, she had clocked out and Disapparated. Damn she’s quick, he mentally cursed and Apparated into the Leaky Cauldron.
When Remus appeared, he was greeted by the smiling face of one Isabelle Starrpynski.
“What took you so long?” she teased.
Yet again, Remus was baffled. “It never crossed my mind that a female could change clothes in the matter of seconds.”
Remus sat down at the same time Isabelle stood. She bent to his level, graced him with a playful grin and patted his thigh. “Stand back up, Remus. I said for you to meet me here. I didn't specify that I would explain here. Did I?”
He stared serenely at her and stood back up. “Then where are we going?”
“Benjy’s Takeaway. I’m starving, and I don’t feel like cooking tonight. I’m awful at cooking charms.” She tossed her hand nonchalantly and proceeded outside.
Remus left the pub and jogged to catch Isabelle, weaving carefully through the people. It was obvious she was playing games with him. Though he didn’t understand why, he concluded that this was one of her personality traits—or flaws. Then again, he had been a trouble-maker once. He knew what kind of games there were and how dangerous the play could get. It had been awhile since he had let a bit of his "marauder" side show through, and he was a willing and eager participant.
Isabelle stopped halfway and watched Remus jog down the pavement, and smirked. Though she wished she knew what the werewolf thought of her sudden upbeat and playful mood, she enjoyed the dark satisfaction of leaving him in the dark. A little mystery never hurt anyone.
Now having caught up with her, they shared a brief moment and, boldly, she intertwined her fingers with his in friendly companionship. They leisurely paced the rest of the way to the sandwich shop.
Remus hid his surprise as they reached the small shop on the corner. Her hands were slender and soft like that of a rose petal, but cold. It had been a long while since he last held someone's hand within his own. It was an odd sensation, an odd one indeed. Suddenly feeling overwhelmed, he immediately dropped her hand and recovered by opening the door for her.
She angled her neck and leered at him, an unreadable emotion crossing her face. It was not one of hurt, but rather a mixture of understanding and inquisitive fascination. Breaking eye contact, she turned away and stared lost in oblivion, her young facial features contorted into, what seemed, a serious expression. She shook herself from her daze and continued on into the shop.
Benjy's Takeaway was a minuscule place with a couple booths lining the walls, some stools along the counter, and a few well-placed tables in the centre. The color scheme consisted of deep, passionate shades of browns, reds, and oranges, giving it an elegant feel to it. Though, not many occupied the tiny establishment, it seemed like the perfect place to have a private conversation among acquaintances.
Once they had seated themselves and ordered, Remus cleared his throat and asked, "So may I ask my question or am I going to have to rummage through my thoughts another couple weeks?”
Isabelle laughed, “No. I can already see you have more than one, so ask away,” and she took a bite of her sandwich and a sip from her water.
“Okay,” Remus nodded. “Well, I think the first logical question would be, how did you obtain my address?”
Isabelle gazed wide-eyed and chortled, “How do you think? Anyone can go straight up to the . . . Registry and ask for the address of a known—”
“You can say it, you know, werewolf,” he whispered with emphasis. “It’s just a word. It’s not like you’re going to offend me in any way by saying what I am.”
Wiping her hands with a napkin and tucking some escaped strands of hair behind her ear, she acquiesced, “Okay.”
Remus observed that his words of wisdom had effected a significant change in her demeanor, a change that affected him to immerse himself deeper into his analyzation of her. From this observation alone, he instantly acknowledged that she was not as thick-skinned as he had first impressed upon. If she couldn’t say werewolf, it was obvious, to him, that she could not say Lord Voldemort either. Of course asking her would not be an option. Here he was having a nice time with an attractive woman that did not cower at the mere thought of him being a werewolf (or so he thought). He was not about to go and ruin everything.
"Anyway," he continued, staring fixated at the white and brown-speckled table as if it was something fascinating, "I don't believe I should be inquiring about this but," he paused to collect his thoughts, avoiding eye contact at all costs, "a poem?" He shook his head and his lips curled as if he was pondering a fond memory. "Why?"
Isabelle, like Remus, paused momentarily. She didn't quite know how she was going to explain this to him. Though she figured he'd understand either way, no matter how convoluted her reason sounded, she didn't want to reveal anything too personal.
Isabelle moved her plate over and scooted closer, resting her elbows on the table and clasping her hands together in a professional manner, she recommenced her thought collecting.
Remus watched patiently while she calculated an answer, wondering desperately if his question had maybe brought about a bad or personal memory of some sort. Though he was curious, he didn't want her to suffer a pained flashback from a horrible experience... And as if she had read his mind, she said:
"Don't have second thoughts about your question, Remus. It's a valid inquiry, and better for you to hear it from me than for you to formulate your own hypothesis." Seeing his mystified look, "And no, I do not have telepathic powers. You're just easy to read.
"I write a lot in my spare time. It helps me organize and tear into the “whys” and “how’s” of my emotions. The smaller the composition, the more I understand. And just to inform you, a poem is quite minute compared to some of the four feet essays I have composed."
She bit her lip and dropped her gaze. The strands she had placed behind her ears hung loosely against her face once again. Their ends collecting on the tabletop due to their length. Gazing back up, not bothering to tuck the fallen tresses again, she noticed Remus lost in thought, like she had been earlier.
Abruptly, Remus interrupted the silence. "I know I must be becoming a bit of a nuisance to you, but I have one more slightly personal question. A simple answer will quench my curiosity fine," he finished hastily.
"Go ahead."
"You went to all that trouble—writing a poem, obtaining my address, Apparating to my home—when you could have just said you're sorry. Though, personally, I did not ask for an apology nor was I looking for one. Again, why Isabelle?" It was the first time he had spoken her name.
Hushed, she said, "Because I can't verbally say it. And please do not pry. I don't believe we've known each other long enough for me to reveal the reasoning behind it, and I'd prefer not to reveal it here." She now found the table to be an intriguing object.
"Then I hope we do get to know each other," he said honestly.
Without hesitation, he laid his hands on either side of her clasped ones and squeezed them gently. At first, the overwhelming feeling came back and he couldn't breathe. He let it surpass, not giving in to it like he had before, and it gradually faded to nothing; a comfortable silence encompassed them until they left the small sandwich shop, and she had let him walk her home.
He told her of his fruitless job hunt. The rejection and the hurt he had felt afterward. She didn't talk, and gave no indication of her feelings on the matter whatsoever, but, rather, had listened and nodded. Her comfortable silence appeased the ill thoughts he had toward the ignorant, discriminatory people of the Wizarding World. Though he wished to know how she came to her unbiased opinion of werewolves, right now, he didn't care.