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: 4491
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.
Padfoot,
I apologize for my tardiness in writing this letter, but the last couple days have been hectic, and eventful to say the least. First off, cursed scars. I have found nothing but a paragraph on the subject. The main titles within the texts I read were about abnormally shaped scars, "divination” with scars, and coloured scars. Not much at all worth mentioning, really. Though, I might have to regale you with the tale of a Grindelwald war hero whose scar sung battle hymns.
Second, though I know you would never sic yourself on your dear canine brethren, I have something of very particular interest to you... Unofficially, I may have a girlfriend. Of course, the whole situation has proven to be more difficult than I had originally imagined it could be. I truly hope to remedy this sooner rather than later.
And last, that is all you get to know.
Excluding any other information of my ulterior motives,
Moony
Remus genially scanned over the letter he’d written and briefly thought to elaborate on the subject of this “unofficial girlfriend,” but shook his head and let a knowing smile crease his features as he rolled up the parchment and gently slipped it onto the bird’s leg. He stood from his battered, wooden table and shuffled across to the small, two-paned window in the wall. He stroked the owl’s beak and bid the creature a ‘farewell’ and a ‘safe journey’ and released it, watching her expand her wings and fly over the tree tops toward whatever sun could be seen in the above graying sky. Pushing the window closed and locking it, he then found his seat at the table once more and began to distractedly rotate the tea bag in his cup, his thoughts drifting to the permanent occupant who had taken residence only months ago.
He had conversed with Isabelle twice in the last four days, conversations involving Isabelle’s complaints of overly long hours and clashing heads of departments and him telling her of his yet again failed attempts to find paid work and trying to tidy his small home. Remus recalled a slight scoff from her end at his mention of a ‘long overdue spring cleaning;’ her reply being ‘If you make it a habit to tidy up as you make messes, it will never feel like you’re actually cleaning.’ At that particular moment it had not made much sense to him, but having contemplated the idea and put it into motion, he had found his home staying a tad tidier than he remembered.
Although Remus was not a slob, his home possessed the ability to generate its own messes without his knowledge. When he resigned his position at Hogwarts, he came home to dust bunnies and small creatures that had taken residence during his absence. He had also found a wild niffler sleeping under his bed, but the animal had scattered and dispersed before Remus could properly put it back in its natural habitat. Besides incidences like those, Remus knew that his moods could greatly affect the cleanliness of his home.
As mad as his logic was, sometimes he would leave his things lying around and wait a few days for it to clutter. Cleaning gave him something to do rather than sulk about his unemployment.
Staring out at the darkening sky, he briefly let his contemplations switch to weather, wondering how much rain would fall upon his home tonight. As a child and even now, no matter how much rain fell upon the small area he lived, he knew he would always adore the rain. He loved the soft pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof and windows, and more often than not it helped him to sleep at night. Though it became significantly cooler in the night, he would wrap himself in his thin covers and wait for his heartbeat to slow and REM to take place, where flora and fauna, general daytime happenings, and more recently Isabelle would bombard his subconscious. Rain never ceased to elevate his mood, even if he did have to take an extra effort (not that it needed it) to place charms upon those places where water leaked through cracks in the ceiling.
‘Does Isabelle like the rain?’ he thought upon shortly, a shallow warmth rising in his chest, like a candle resting at the base of his breastbone had been lit. ‘She seems like someone who would,’ he concluded, somewhat taken aback as the tepid rise beneath his ribcage began to passively extinguish. Remus brought a hand up and made an indenture into his chest, pondering on what had so suddenly brought itself upon him and had just as suddenly dissipated.
Shaking it away and deciding it was nothing, a look of immense contemplation crossed his worn face. Standing up, he crossed into his living area where he went and knelt in front of the fireplace.
Stoking the fire some and throwing a handful of gold colored powder into the flames, he reached up and slid a slip of parchment off the mantel and uncoiled it. Nervously, he read, “Ministry of Magic, Level Two Department of Magical Law Enforcement, office two-seventeen,” and waited.
Looking into the orange flames of the fire, he saw a room come into view and took a deep breath and breathed a “hello.” Seeing her turn in her seat and kneel by her fireplace, he noted that the corners of her lips had curved upward into what looked like an inviting smile.
Today, she wore peach Ministry robes that seemed to give her usual pallid cheeks a bit of color, which was quite an abnormal - though welcoming - sight. He had never seen her wear such a bright color, and he had to admit that he quite liked it better than her usual, more professional black and deep purple robes. Her long hair was in a single plait that curved around from the back and settled on her breast. Her brown eyes did not look as dark due to the light of the flames reflected in them.
“Hello,” she responded.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important, did I?” He prayed that his nervousness at calling her at work did not show as much as he felt it.
Isabelle made a face and shook her head. “Oh, no; things have slowed down a bit here, thank heavens. I’ve been doing paperwork most of the morning. Very boring, to say the least,” she paused and took a breath. “I’m glad you took me up on my offer; all right, I s’pose?”
He shifted his position by the fireplace, sitting cross-legged instead rather than on his legs. “Yes, I’m well. Things are always slow ‘round here. Wrote a letter and have been cleaning. Nothing quite as spectacular as paperwork,” he joked. “What of you?”
She scoffed. “Like you, nothing spectacular. I had tea with me mum the other night, which went surprisingly well. I didn’t leave slamming the door this time which is a major plus. Then I had the day off yesterday and spent it with my odd, but loveable niece.”
“You have a niece?” Remus interrupted. Though he knew it was rude to interrupt someone while speaking, this was an opportunity to learn more about Isabelle’s family, and maybe even her brother. His curiosity had got the best of him.
It had been odd for Remus to find out that Isabelle had a brother who was a werewolf, but not surprising when he speculated on it. Questions that had manifested since his and Isabelle’s initial meeting had been answered by that simple fact alone. Though he had still a ways to go in understanding her, he had a slightly better comprehension of her emotions, at least, toward her family. That being the absolute slightest piece you can have, Remus thought dismally.
“I do,” she answered. “I rarely ever get to spend time with her nowadays, but the excess time that I do get, I try and spend it with her.” Yet again, the woman stopped in her speech, a reminiscent look in her eyes. She then added, “She’s a piece of work, that one. All the same though, she’s one of the few people I find myself not easily annoyed by, and that’s a luxury.”
Remus laughed. He mentally noted that she avoided the parentage of her niece, denying him any other useful familial information. Contemplating that maybe she would be more open if they were in a more personal setting, he changed the subject. Opening his mouth to say something, he just as quickly shut it, realizing that he had no idea what to change it to.
“You know,” he started, “I’ve never seen you wear such a bright color.” His eyes widened considerably at the boldness of his statement. “I mean to say that? You - you look nice.” He awaited her reaction. He had inkling that she was not a person who took compliments well, but then you never know.
She surprised him for the second time today when she responded, “Uh, thank you.” She turned her face momentarily, touching either side of her cheeks with the back of her hand.
She’s blushing!
Attention back to him, she said, “You’re the fourth person to have noticed.” Her cheeks continued to reveal her embarrassment to him, a feat Remus thought impossible until now. “It’s just, I haven’t had time to do laundry and any robes that happened to be in my closet were dress robes and then this one caught my attention.”
The amusement Remus got at seeing her rant and attempt to find an excuse for wearing peach robes was priceless. Her eyes betrayed her though, and Remus commented, “There’s no need to be ashamed of the fact that you’re the type of person who likes to wear colors that reflect her mood.” He had discovered this early on in their friendship. “From the sound of it, you’ve been having a good couple days.”
Remus momentarily thought he had somehow offended her, by the glare she had acquired within seconds of his observation. She removed her attention from him and shook her head, seeming to be in a mental disagreement.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked slowly, praying that he had not done so in the least.
“No,” she said a bit too quickly for him to believe her.
“Okay,” he said a beat later, suddenly remembering the other reason as to why he had dared disturb her at work.
“You all right there, Remus?” she queried. She was no longer glaring and had, on the contrary, taken on a very calming disposition.
“Fine,” he said, somewhat preoccupied.
The odd rise of warmth in his chest had returned. His palms had begun to perspire and no sooner than they had he was wiping them on his trousers.
After writing his letter to Sirius earlier, Remus had contemplated actually asking Isabelle out on a proper date. The thought had slipped his mind when he saw her wearing her beautiful peach robes, but was now at the front, nagging him to do be the Gryffindor he was and ask her. Before he could continue to ponder how to do so, Isabelle interrupted him.
“I would love to stay longer Remus, but I should probably be getting back to work.”
“Wait!” he found himself calling out.
“What is it?”
Wiping his hands on his trousers again, he sat up a bit straighter and proceeded, “Are-are you doing anything tonight?” His heart had begun to pound quite vigorously beneath his ribcage at this point.
She thought upon this and moved her head side to side as she answered, “Not anything of particular importance. Why?”
Closing his eyes tightly, he took a deep breath and opened them again. There was a pressure in his chest that he knew he would not be able to appease until he got this out. So without any further hesitation, Remus boldly asked, “How-how would you like to-to come over and have dinner? With me?”
Her shocked face cut through him like a knife, but then was equally shocked when she smiled, teeth and all, and said, “Eight o’clock good?”
A balloon had deflated in his chest and an air of happiness coursed through his body as he responded, “Perfect.”
After extinguishing the fire, Remus had collapsed on the floor before his mantelpiece. He had lain there for close to an hour, with his knees bent and arms at his sides, in complete disbelief that he was going to be having dinner with Isabelle in a mere couple of hours. Though, it eventually dawned on him that if he was going to have dinner with her, he would need to prepare it.
Within an hour, Remus had fingered through his mother’s old cookbook and had begun to prepare a simple pea soup and rolls, both he remembered having enjoyed as a child. While he let the soup liquidize and the rolls bake, he ran to the bathroom to take a quick shower.
Out of the shower, he stood with his towel wrapped tightly around his waist and applied a cheap Muggle shaving lather to the areas of his face ridden with stubble. Expertly, he shaved away any trace of a growing beard and mustache then applied aftershave. Running his index along his jaw line and down his upper lip, his reflection showed a satisfactory grin and he moved on to his next obstacle: his hair.
His tawny hair, peppered with gray, seemed overly long as it dripped water down his bare back and shoulders. He’d known for some time that he was long overdue for a hair cut. Unfortunately, he had never been quite as good at hair cutting charms as his mother had, and was hesitant to do so.
Knowing that the opportunity would not arise again until he next thought of it in another couple months, he grabbed his wand from the shelf above the toilet and pointed at the back of his head.
“Capillus tonsoris.”
Like a bunch of scissors had taken to his hair, pieces of strands of hair began to layer his shoulders and the bathroom floor. Once he felt that enough hair had been sheared off, he said, “Tonsoris strigare,” and the sensation that there was something living in his hair ceased.
Cleaning up and leaving the bathroom, he went to his bedroom to change. Standing in a pair of black trousers and an undershirt, Remus hunched over an ironing board, pressing a solid, light blue, collared shirt he had found buried in his dresser. Finishing up, he laid the shirt on the bed and put away the ironing board in his closet and put on his shirt. Looking at the small clock on his bedside table, he saw that it was a quarter ‘til eight and jogged to the kitchen.
He made it just in time to take the rolls out of the oven and point his wand to the dishes that were piled on the table in order to set them. He then took the pea soup and rolls to the table. He poured two ladles of soup into each bowl and placed a roll onto each plate. With a minute to spare, he admired his completed product and used his reflection in the window behind him to make sure he looked nice.
Congratulations. First date in six years and you managed to not burn dinner.
Hearing the chiming of the doorbell, he took a deep breath and headed to the front door to greet his guest.
“Hello, Isabelle,” he said, opening the door to let her in.
“Hello,” she said, coming in.
Tonight she wore a red, loose sleeved top with a colorful, patchwork skirt and a pair of red, strappy heeled shoes to match. Remus had never been fond of the color red, since he always equated it with blood, but seeing her so elegant in the color, he could definitely learn to like it. Her hair was not up like it had been that afternoon. It seemed she had just taken it out of her plait and brushed it through a couple of times, as the blonde strands fanning across her back and gathered at her elbows were in soft waves.
Remus marked that she was observing his home, most likely recognizing that he had thoroughly cleaned it since the last time she had been here. He saw an amused expression on her face and asked, “What is it?”
She stifled a laugh, and turned on her heels to face him, her hair swinging around with her. “You really have nothing better to do in your time than clean, do you?”
“Well, unless you would like to see what I have done with the tanks of my water dwellers—”
“No!”
“Okay,” he said, snickering at how vehemently she despised his creatures, “then how about we continue this lovely conversation while we eat?” He came up beside her and motioned for her to move in the direction of the dining room.
She inclined her head and replied, “Well, that’s what I’m here for, aren’t I? I’m bleeding famished!”
Walking into the dining area, Remus stopped her from sitting and pulled out her chair for her.
“Always the gentleman,” she commented, smoothing her skirt under her as she sat down and let him push her in. “Merci.”
Remus came around the table and sat in his seat across from her. They both placed their napkins in their laps and she kept her hands in her own as she continued to observe her surroundings.
Her eyes took in the whole of the entire kitchen, from the clean counter-top to the walls around them. A couple days ago Remus had taken the liberty to clear his wall of the rotten paper it once had. There were still areas that had dried glue and small holes from nails and other sharp objects that had hung various decorations, but he had been too exhausted to continue. Though the walls were dingy and weathered, she looked beyond it and her eyes lingered upon the food in front of her.
“Oh, this smells? Delicious,” she said hesitantly, spooning the soup curiously.
Remus had his spoon halfway to his mouth when he stopped to look at her. He watched her take a sip, then a couple spoonfuls. “Anything wrong?” he asked.
She gazed at him with surprised eyes, her eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Oh, you thought I was thinking it didn’t look good?”
“That’s the impression that I got,” he said, arching one of his own eyebrows.
She shook her head. “I’m just surprised that you actually cooked this yourself,” she laughed. “It is delicious, but you don’t look like you’ve cooked a thing in your life,” she said unabashedly.
Remus blinked, staring at her curiously as he pondered a response. After a beat, he said, “You know, in other cultures, a svelte figure is a sign of good breeding.” He ate some more soup, watching her.
Her eyebrows arched once more and she looked up at him, smiling as she responded, “America isn’t a culture. It’s counter-culture.”
“So I’m the opposite of good breeding?” he asked incredulously.
“How could I answer that? You’re capable of changing your breed every full moon.”
“Touch é,” he replied shortly, both eyebrows arching high.
Isabelle finished the soup in her dish and ladled some more into her bowl from the pot in the middle of the table. As she put the ladle back into the pot, she questioned, “So where did you learn to cook?”
“My mother,” he said. “When she taught me, it was a time when my parents believed I would not have the privilege of having a magical education. So when they home schooled me as a child, they not only taught the usual subjects of maths, reading, and science, they taught me practical, everyday things. Like cooking, sewing, Muggle tools. Even during the summers when I came home from Hogwarts, my parents would continue those rituals.” He paused to take a couple spoonfuls of soup. “As you can tell, it came in handy.”
Remus could not decipher the stare with which Isabelle gazed at him. It was a mixture of intrigue and reminiscence, an odd combination, he thought. He wondered if maybe something he had said had triggered a memory of some sort, maybe even one having to do with her brother.
He ladled more soup into his dish, and began, “What about you, Miss Starrpynski? Did you ever learn to cook?” He remembered her mentioning that she was no good at cooking charms, but maybe she could cook the Muggle way?
She laughed hollowly at this question and bluntly replied, “I’m utterly inept at cooking, no matter if it’s using charms or doing it the Muggle way. Mum has attempted to teach me, but labeled me incompetent when I was seventeen and burnt the stove-top.”
“How did you manage that?”
A distant thoughtfulness shone in her eyes and she simply supplied, “I cannot remember. What I do remember of it is that Mum yelled for an hour, I got angry and rowed with her, and then I went outside for a smoke and to fly on my broomstick.”
Remus nodded; fascinated that he was able to have a more personalized conversation with her, without it being ridden with such things as work and unemployment.
For the next hour whilst they ate, they continued to question each other with non-serious questions, like favorite colors and places they’ve traveled. Remus remarked that her answers were curt and vague, as if not allowing him to know anymore than he truly needed. And though he would invite her to continue, she would decline and subtly proceed to the next topic.
Hearing her clear her throat, Remus gazed up from where he sat, lost in his own musings, and stared at her. Having thought up a question, he returned his vision to the dish in front of him and asked, “What are you afraid of?” He knew the risk at asking such a question, and had no doubt in his mind that she would figure out his real meaning by the question.
Her body had stiffened, and the atmosphere in the room was no longer friendly as he watched her tuck fallen, blonde strands behind her ear. Though he could not catch her eye, he knew that the look she held was stern, maybe even angry. She knew that his inquiry was, by no means, a casual one; that he wanted to know why her answers were vague, why she wouldn’t give him any real answers - answers that could lead to his unraveling of her.
She stood from her seat, taking one last sip of wine and tucking her chair under the table. Sighing, she said, “I think we’re done here. Dinner was wonderful. Thank you.” and she walked out of the kitchen and toward the front door.
Remus quickly pushed his chair out and ran into his living area, where he found her standing in front of his door with her hand on the knob, but she wasn’t turning it. She just stood there with her eyes on the fireplace, watching the flames dance.
“I’m so-” he paused, remembering the last time he had attempted to apologize had backfired. So he tried a different approach, an approach he wasn’t used to, but one he knew that would get through to her. “That was underhanded of me and I shouldn’t have asked so lightly a question that would rile you like this. It’s just,” he stepped closer to her, “I want to know you! Not the you I see each day who wears dark colors and never has a smile on her face, but the you that I saw today through the fire; the woman who wore peach robes that gave her cheeks color, the woman who looked like there was nothing wrong!”
Remus stopped, realizing that she had turned around. He could feel his face burning, and he rationalized that he was most likely flushed, which was why she most likely stared at him with such intensity.
She continued to gaze at him, and he felt the tips of his ears burn red as the silence between them prolonged. But it was soon broken as he watched her body shudder with a stifled giggle, and as he continued to watch her, her stifled giggle transformed into an uninhibited, childlike laughter he had never heard from her. Within minutes, she was laughing so hard that she wrapped her arms around her body and doubled over.
Remus thought he would never see such a sight from Isabelle! His blush had died a bit, leaving his cheeks a light pink color, and he soon felt the air rush into his lungs at hearing a snort escape her doubled over form and he found himself following suit, laughing to the point that tears were streaming down his face.
The laughter gradually came to a halt as both recovered and caught their breath from their displays. Isabelle held her hands at her right side just below her rib cage; Remus deduced that she had a stitch in her side.
“I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that,” she admitted, her voice somewhat strained.
“What brought it on?” Remus inquired, remembering that her look before resembled something with which Lily used to give James and Sirius when they did something idiotic or dangerous. He reminisced that his mother used to stare down his father like it, too, when he attempted to fix things the Muggle way rather than by way of a simple spell. Did all women possess this look?
She didn’t answer him, but walked toward him and placed her hand at the back of his head, ruffling his hair. She stepped around him, and Remus could only wonder what she was doing. “Your hair’s uneven.”
He gazed over his shoulder to be met with an enigmatic smirk. “Yeah, I decided to trim it, and I’ll be the first to admit to not being the best at hair cutting charms.”
“Find me a pair of scissors and I’ll make it even.” When he went to go fetch a pair, she said after him, “I shouldn’t have reacted that way, but?” Remus stopped at the bathroom door in the hallway, waiting for her to finish. Mind my own bleeding business; he could hear her stern voice saying. “It’s a first date. It’s probably frustrating to you that I keep to myself, and you most likely feel that you don’t know a thing about me though we’ve known each other for four months. But just so you know,” she hesitated on these last words, “I have never accepted a first date.”
Remus felt the odd warmth beneath his ribcage return. This time, though, he did not feel the need to question it.