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: 2038
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.
The candles that illuminated the moderately sized bedroom flickered ominously in the breeze from the window, dispersing light at odd angles and frustrating the woman writing on the bed. Throwing her legs over the side, Isabelle walked to her window and shut it tightly, locking it. She rubbed her arms briskly, more out of habit than out of coldness - as it was a nice night outside - and sat back down, cross-legged, on her queen-sized mattress. Heaving a sigh and running a hand through her already messy hair, Isabelle took the parchment and quill that she had previously been writing with and continued to work her way down the length of the stiff material.
Other than her Potions Lab and her old room at her Mum’s house, Isabelle’s room was her sanctuary. The room had plain burgundy walls, and only one wall had anything on it, consisting of awards and acknowledgements she’d received from the Ministry in her last ten years of employment there. She had a large bed with a stained-wood frame and floral covers, along with furniture and window curtains to match. In each corner of the room there were baskets for essays her students had written; one basket for graded essays, the other for unmarked ones. The bedroom might look cluttered to those who did not live or ventured into the house often, but Isabelle found it comforting.
Upon Disapparating home, shortly after her date with Remus, Isabelle felt the need to tidy up. She had straightened each cushion on every piece of furniture in the living room, had neatly stacked the papers strewn on her kitchen table into a neat pile onto the counter-top, and had gone down into the basement to check on the potions she was brewing for a particularly grueling class to come. Physically exhausted, Isabelle retired to her bedroom, changed into her night clothes, and got under the covers. As per usual, she found that she couldn’t sleep. Instead of taking her usual sleeping draught, she took out a couple feet of parchment and a quill from her bedside table and began to write, emptying her head of thought.
Having hit a snag in her scribbling, Isabelle tapped her quill impatiently against her left temple for a few minutes, then quit. Reading over what she had written, she lightly blew on the ink and rolled up the scroll of parchment, tied it, and reached under the bed for a box.
The box was slightly larger than an average-sized shoebox and looked like it had been decorated by an eight-year-old, with lots of color, bows and ribbons, and sequins to match. Setting the box in her lap, Isabelle slowly lifted off the lid and placed it carefully beside her. In the box, there were many scrolls of parchment, all of which were stacked neatly in one half of the box. The rest of the box was occupied with an assortment of things of sentimental value and a small photo album, which Isabelle picked up and reminiscently touched with the tips of her fingers, gently running them down the cover.
Inhaling a deep, shuddering breath, Isabelle cracked open the tiny album and involuntarily smirked at the first photograph that greeted her. Her hazel-eyed, dark-haired brother waved at her from the photo, his sparkling teeth shining in the sunlight. It never mattered if there might have been something ailing him. Whenever a camera was in his presence, and he was consciously aware the photographer had the camera aimed at him, he always felt the need to flash a smile. Although she was grateful for it, Isabelle had never quite understood how the click of a camera and a blinding white light could make her brother’s smile so genuine. Although, it dawned upon her that the older her brother became in the photographs, the less his smile seemed to reach to his eyes.
The aromas of sulfur and fragrance fused together and roused the nostrils of workers and loiterers as a certain employee gruffly walked past them. Isabelle did not stop as she passed Amelia Bones, who looked to be discussing Ministry business with a fellow colleague, but only glanced momentarily at the grey-haired woman and hoped that, once again, her friend and Head of Department would ignore that she was not wearing appropriate Ministry attire. Not that Isabelle was going to be long, but it was better that she not be questioned about idiotic regulations and such after her encounter with Bartemius Crouch earlier that morning.
As she entered the corridor where her classroom resided, Isabelle noticed that the door stood ajar, and she paused before making her entrance. Carefully stalking up to the heavy door and leaning in, she rolled her eyes when she heard her students’ complaints of the class and her tardiness. Not that the latter happened often, but when it did, her pupils felt the need to point it out. Bringing her pale hands up to either side of her forehead, she began to gently rub her temples to alleviate the migraine starting to plague her, and concluded that today would be a difficult one.
Rolling her shoulders and angling her neck from one side to the other, she opened the door fully and graced them with her presence. She didn’t utter a word as she slammed her bag upon her desk, startling the class, and split it open. She reached in and took out a stack of parchments. Isabelle stared at the papers in her hand and fingered them with her other, a feral smile creeping upon her lips.
“These, Class, are your essays,” she said, coming around her desk to the front and comfortably setting the small of her back against the wood and crossing her ankles. “Please do not point out to me that you turned these in two weeks ago because I obviously knew that. The reason it took so long? It’s a new semester, and feeling as vindictive as I have been lately, I felt the need to criticize.”
Straightening up, she stepped down from the platform and began to pass out their essays. As she did so, she spoke, “Though I hope, for your sake, that time is your best friend, it is not mine.” She set an essay face down on a student’s table, giving him a particularly articulated stare. “There are so many jobs within the Law Enforcement sector of the Ministry, but so many do not know this and are blindsided by the action-filled jobs of Aurors.” She paused, placing more essays on tables. “They do more paperwork than you would believe.
“Each job has certain criteria for how paperwork must be written.” Isabelle finished giving the students their essays back, a grim satisfaction settling within her at the appalled looks which they gazed upon her. This is what you get for discussing and complaining of my tardiness rather than the work given, she thought ruthlessly. “Of that criteria, your employer asks that you be concise, and not loquaciously so.” She sat on top of her desk and crossed her legs, her hands sitting on either side of her. “In the future, when I ask for five feet of parchment on a subject, I want five feet. I give fifty words of leeway, and that’s it. If I ask for a foot of parchment on the properties of newt eye, I do not want to read three feet of the properties and its effects. What I ask for is what I want to read, and I will not reiterate this.”
The class nodded, most still shocked at their marks except a fair few who had done excellently. A student in the back, named Rystan, sat at his table lightly drumming his fingers and sporting a superior smile reflecting the grade he had received on his paper. A girl with frizzy, blonde hair and worried eyes gazed curiously at her essay, wringing her hands beneath her table. Then another young man with broad shoulders had his forehead touching tabletop, looking as if he wished someone would put him out of his misery.
Having had her fill of academic melodrama for one day, Isabelle sighed and sunk her head into the crooks of her arms, where she then ran her hands over her face and through her unkempt hair. Jumping down from where she sat on her desk, she came around behind it and leaned over onto her elbows, staring directly at her class.
Clearing her throat and warranting a few odd stares, “What I failed to mention,” she started, “is that these essays do not count into your overall grade. I wanted an idea of what drivel I’d be reading this semester, as this is the research and writing portion of this course.”
There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the room, and people began to set up for class. Isabelle stopped them.
“All you need today is a decent amount of parchment and a quill, and to read the instructions on the board.” Isabelle lazily plucked her wand from beside her and tapped the board, where it filled with semi-legible script. She noticed that some students were still distractedly rummaging through their bags. “You know, if any of you are on the path to becoming Aurors, the Wizarding World is doomed,” she drawled, bored, and watched as the students straightened in their seats and silently read.
Today, Class, you will be collecting ingredients for a paper you will be writing in the coming week. The paper will be a research analysis on the uses and properties of common, naturally grown plants, both magically and non-magically inclined.
We will be travelling to Crestfire Clearing to collect these herbs and fungi. Many of you have probably seen this small forest, as it is a clearing found a few kilometres north of the outer edge of Hogsmeade. You will Apparate there today. When you have carefully read this and gathered the things I asked you to, please do so.
Isabelle bent her head into her arms again as her class Apparated to where she requested, and after the last person had done so, she lifted her head up and exhaled.
For the last few weeks, life had granted her a break from her usually chaotic schedule and stress, which she had been quite grateful. She and Remus were steady and had gone on a few more dates, all of which had gone much better than the first, yet nothing could replace the tranquillity she had felt at the end of that first one.
She and Remus had ventured to a historical Wizarding art museum for their second date, something she had enjoyed more with a companion than admiring the paintings in solitude. Then, a week ago, she and Remus had got so caught up in a discussion of politics that at only four a.m. did they realize that they had spent the whole night talking.
Though, that very morning that she had arrived home with dark crevices underneath her eyes and an exhausted smile on her face, she found an owl waiting by the window. Curious, she went and opened the window, where the owl stepped onto her arm and put his foot out for her to take the letter wrapped around his small leg. After releasing the owl, she had sat at the table and unrolled the scroll of parchment and paled.
The letter was from Richard.
In all her time recently spent with Remus and fulfilling her duties at work, she had completely forgotten about the man and that he was in Russia on business. Her chest constricted tightly as she stared at the parchment in her trembling hands, and breathed shallowly as she began to difficultly read the letter, which he had yet again written in Russian.
Isabelle,
I can’t talk long, but I wanted to let you know that my homecoming has been postponed until November. It is inconvenient, I know, but all this cooperation shit doesn’t happen overnight. From what I hear, you’ve been keeping busy at work, but that doesn’t surprise me. You’ve always been somewhat of a workaholic.
Anyway, will try and keep in touch, but don’t count on it.
Miss you.