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: 1389
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.
Isabelle sat on a tree stump outside the Quidditch Pitch, with her arms and legs crossed and foot swinging angrily. It was nearly time for the Cup to start and she had yet to see Remus’s face in the crowd going up the steps. She had specifically asked him to meet her outside her tent at one o'clock. Here it was, late afternoon, and still had yet to show.
People gave her looks as they went past, and she responded with a glare that could rival Satan himself. On the outside, she was absolutely fuming. The next time she saw Remus, she promised herself to kick his arse from there to the time that Manticores walked the Earth. On the inside, she was so terrified that not even the worst of nicotine cravings could calm her nerves. She never thought Remus the type to break important engagements without contacting someone first, and the fact he had not done so scared her.
Seeing that everyone had passed, she stood up and began to slowly ascend the steps, glancing over her shoulder every few to see if the familiar footsteps of one Remus Lupin were catching up behind her. She sighed dolefully and began jogging the carpeted stairs. She tightened her crossed arms and cast her head down so no one could observe the single tears that trailed down her cheeks.
Remus sat against the wall of an empty room with cracked walls and dried blood stains everywhere. He stared mournfully out of a small window near the ceiling, watching the setting sun. Different colors—oranges, reds, and yellows—danced on the walls and gradually slowed and darkened as time passed. Soon, a shining grey-blue color would cast its rays and hinder Remus’s mental capacity to appreciate the lovely shades.
An onslaught of thoughts from two different sources was chiding him, his conscious debating with his subconscious. His guilty conscience didn't help the matter either as he waited for his doomed fate to overtake him. Four days ago he was ecstatic for this day to arrive, to spend time with Isabelle rather than his demented alter ego. Of course, at the time, he had not thought of the latter when he agreed to accompany her to the Quidditch World Cup. He hoped that she wasn't too angry with him. If only he could explain.
Why explain? She wouldn't understand. No one would.
Remus blinked and vigorously shook his head.
Don't deny it! If she really wanted you to go, you would not have been the last one on her list of fools that she would have asked!
He clapped his hands to either side of his head and began to rock back and forth; his mind slowly unhinging as both voices gained their own distinct sound and quality.
No, I don't believe you. She can learn to understand. She's not like the rest. She wouldn't play me for a fool!
The other voice countered, really then? Tell me what's worse: dying in your decrepit, pathetic state, or killing the woman? Imagine the look in her eyes when you tear into her. It will happen, werewolf. She'll hate you, you know. Killing is who you are, you're a bloodthirsty beast, and eventually, you'll die too.
Remus’s heart thundered beneath his chest as he looked to see the uncovering moon outside the tiny window. The moon's grayish blue colors were shimmering upon the wall, and everything was closing in on him. Claustrophobia, paranoia, and schizophrenia were tittering on the edge of Remus’s sanity and all at once, they surfaced.
His limbs violently began to shake and he was choking on his own breath. Remus felt as if larvae were hatching and crawling underneath his skin. He maliciously ripped his clothes and scratched at his skin, cutting himself with his dirty nails, the blood coagulating under them. Long, dark brown hairs sprouted where he scratched and he heard the sound, like a cracking whip, as his elbow popped out of place. The wolf was taking over, and its ringing mirth was filling his transmogrifying ears.
Remus had no Wolfsbane to save him this time; to ease the pain and keep the wolf's reckless thoughts from transpiring. He cried out, praying for whatever higher power existed to help him: his last rationalization involuntarily wishing, more than anything, that he were with Isabelle.
The crowd spoke excitedly around her as Isabelle descended the stairs; she felt slightly closed in due to the massive amount of people. As she passed, men winked and gave her appreciative glances, and the women ignored her altogether; obviously threatened by her. She quickly wove her way through the people, bumping quite hard into a fair few, (not caring to apologize).
Isabelle was in a rather surly mood. Though Krum had caught the snitch, Bulgaria had lost. The bachelors in her section had been pompous, hormonal half-wits wishing to get into her knickers. She had led them on for a while and bluntly shot them down when she mentioned her "boyfriend wouldn't approve." Worst of all, Remus had never shown up. As the Quidditch Cup went on, her anger had dissipated and worry had settled in its place.
Finally out in the open, Isabelle trembled in the cool summer night air. She wore a long, sleek skirt and a skimpy, sleeveless top, both in a deep red. She looked upon the people celebrating and shook her head, rolling her eyes. She had no idea how she was going to sleep with all this raucous cheering and drunken laughter.
Once back in her very Muggle-looking tent, she changed into her pajamas, blew out her lantern, and curled up snugly in her sleeping bag. She felt lonely, and she also wasn't tired. She had taken a nap earlier, which she now realized had been a bad idea. If only Remus was here. I could use some stimulating conversation, she thought. She propped herself on her elbow and grabbed her reed wand next to her.
"Lumos," she whispered. She laid her wand on top of the lantern and reached into a small duffle behind her. From there, she took out a short book titled Phantasmagoria and Other Poems by Lewis Carroll; reading always helped settle her thoughts.
Isabelle tossed and turned, sweat surfacing through her pores and heat inflaming her skin. She felt as if she was being char broiled, and the person doing so was using a pair of tongs to flip her over. There were people screaming. Everything beneath her eyelids looked orange. She awoke to find herself in the arms of a stranger wearing grubby clothes. Her left arm stung and her lungs and nostrils burned. Her cheeks were wet with perspiration and her eyes blurred with unshed tears. She blinked, letting the saline drops slide along her hot cheeks.
The stranger set her down. "Who the hell are you?" she asked groggily, observing her surroundings. There were people running past, screaming; children crying. She looked up and saw four grotesque shapes in the air and gasped. "Oh God, what's going on?" she asked again, horror-struck.
"Death Eaters, that's what. If you can lass, you best be running orf into the forest for safety. You aren't very safe 'ere. Your tent caught fire." He paused and looked at her left arm, which she was holding. "Might want to get that check—"
They heard a loud explosion and a green light illuminated the campsite. Isabelle gasped and the stranger gestured for her to get going.
"What about you?"
"Just go, I'll be all righ'," and he Disapparated.
Isabelle took his advice and ran into the forest, clutching her burned and blistered arm. She would Disapparate, but she had too much on her mind. She'd probably splinch herself if she tried. She was a bit out of breath after running for a good ten minutes and collapsed against a tall Pine tree to rest.
Death Eaters, she thought. I hope those Muggles they're torturing will be okay. Thank God for Obliviation. I wouldn't want to remember that. She shivered slightly. Isabelle tilted her head back and stared up, and screamed.
Someone had conjured the Dark Mark. She was close to hyperventilation. As she stared at the nasty green insignia, she noticed something else . . . it was a full moon.