Title: E Pluribus Unum

Author: Sandra

Category: Angst, romance.

Spoilers: Harry Potter and The: Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban, Goblet of Fire.

Rating: NC-17, eventually. Violence, sex, everything in between.

Summary: Based on a scene from PoA. Why was Lupin so chummy with Hermione? Hmm, what? Time travel? Hermione/Lupin, Hermione/Sirius.

Disclaimer: Of course not.

Author's Note: Yes, it's a cliché. And?

Feedback: Well, duh.

Etc: Please note that the prologue has huge chunks lifted from the third book; if you haven't read it, skip this story. You don't want to be spoiled. If you have read it, yay. I leafed through it last week to make sure I knew what Peter sounded like, and on my second reading, I noticed that, if you project really hard, you can make the Shrieking Shack encounter seem very shippy.

The prologue is straight from the book, beginning at page 344.

Setting: Year Six.

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"Well, you're thinking anyway. Why not think big?"

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"I don't believe it!" Hermione screamed.

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her. She had raised herself off the floor and was pointing at Lupin, wild-eyed. "You—you—"

"Hermione—"

"—you and him!"

"Hermione, calm down—"

"I didn't tell anyone!" Hermione shrieked. "I've been covering up for you—"

"Hermione, listen to me, please!" Lupin shouted. "I can explain—"

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"NO!" Hermione screamed. "Harry, don't trust him, he's been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too—he's a werewolf!"

There was a ringing silence. Everyone's eyes were now on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather pale.

"Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione," he said. "Only one out of three, I'm afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don't want Harry dead...." An odd shiver passed over his face. "But I won't deny the fact that I am a werewolf."

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Lupin stopped dead. Then, with an obvious effort, he turned to Hermione and said, "How long have you known?"

"Ages," Hermione whispered. "Since I did Professor Snape's essay...."

"He'll be delighted," said Lupin coolly. "He assigned that essay hoping that someone would realize what my symptoms meant.... Did you check the lunar chart and realize that I was always ill at the full moon? Or did you realize that the boggart changed into the moon when it saw me?"

"Both," Hermione said quietly.

Lupin forced a laugh.

"You're the cleverest witch of your age I've ever met, Hermione."

"I'm not," Hermione whispered. "If I'd been a bit cleverer, I'd have told everyone what you are."

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"Er—Mr. Black—Sirius?" said Hermione.

Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything quite like her.

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Chapter One: Zeitnot

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North of Varna, Bulgaria, there is a beach.

Sandy, surrounded by resorts. Hidden behind a granite monument no one pays any attention to. No magic needed.

The sun never quite bothers there. Sunrise, sunset—all the same. Fashionably gloomy. Viktor Krum lives just down the path.

He has a midnight ritual, she's noticed.

Cinnamon rolls. Hot, straight out of the oven. Too much icing, if there is indeed such a thing. Muggleicious. Funny, really. Not his style. Sugar is more Ron's vice.

Viktor—he does it for her benefit.

Coffee, black. He doesn't drink, just stares at it. The mug is Greek. She stole it from Percy Weasley last summer. Pre-breakup gift, given to him by Penelope. A cathedral looms behind the handle. Black text under it says 1974. Nothing special, of course. Nothing in Percy's life is, after all. Thick-bottomed cauldrons. 'Bout as exciting as it gets.

So, she doesn't feel guilty for taking it.

Viktor—he tries. Sometimes he adds a little something. Red currant rum. Cornelius Fudge's favorite. Smells like work. Tastes like trial.

"Are you sure, Herm-o-ninny?" Viktor asks once the coffee goes cold.

She gives him a small smile, and nods. "It's almost September, Viktor."

"But you vill come vatch me, von't you?"

She gives him a noncommittal reply, and asks him to take her for a walk.

The beach is usually deserted. Too remote for that cosmopolitan atmosphere. Sometimes, if Viktor doesn't talk, she can hear the ships. The main port isn't too far away.

"This is vhere the Sultan was captured," Viktor points out, and she absorbs. "The King—he attacked here. 120,000 Turks, Herm-o-ninny. Their ghosts are most unpleasant."

Every night, they steer clear of the alcove. The rocks there are jagged, and Viktor worries.

"You could stay here, Herm-o-ninny," Viktor tells her. "Stay until September. I von't mind. My house is y—"

She hugs his arm tighter.

Eventually, he leaves for practice. Early, very early in the morning. She owls the Weasleys. Succinct. Just making sure you're okay, Ron, Harry. Every day.

Pigwidgeon doesn't like her anymore. He's almost drowned twice.

Errol never made it. Ron's birthday present is at the bottom of the sea, somewhere.

"Wasn't meant to be. Don't worry about it so much," Ron wrote her bravely. "Fate, right?"

Fate.

Deadly, but slow. A weapon like any other. Slightly more frightening. Unstoppable, unchangeable, there. A cosmic joke when Professor Trelawney gets involved.

"I see—I see you will die a slow, painful death, Hermione. You should never have left my class. I could have helped you, child. But now—now you will die a slow, painful death."

Currently in progress anyway.

Unforgivable.

Like Russell Crowe winning an Oscar. Like Bebe prices. Like the four curses.

Crucio.

It hurts. Nothing specific, no. Nowhere, everywhere. Dull ache that makes her feel—feel. Tearing silk. That's what it's like. A slow ripping. Needles stabbing at her brain. Heartbeat; skipping at random. Pulse thrumming beneath her breastbone. Blood.

Viktor's house is full to bursting—Chinese Oil and medical magazines. Scientific approach to magical afflictions. Rabies of the wizarding world. Better not get it, the vaccine is too expensive.

But something is missing. Like there is something inherently wrong with her being here, now.

School starts soon. Her sixth year. Not long now before she's made Head Girl, before she graduates and is gone. Home.

But it's Hogwarts, she tells herself. Hogwarts is home.

She packs slowly, leaves Viktor a note, and runs.

The alley she picks is appropriately dark. Gently, she takes out her wand, hesitates for a moment, squeezes her eyes tightly shut and points her fingers.

The bus, its magical engines humming softly, is there before she can even open her eyes.

Sickles and galleons at the ready, she walks up the steps. The doors close behind her.

By the time she realizes something is terribly wrong, it is far too late.

Or early.

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He's seen her grow up in pictures.

It didn't quite hit him until he saw the Daily Prophet. She was leaning against a stoic-looking Krum, posing for whatever Quidditch scout was scheming in the background. She seemed taller than he remembers, but then again, it's been twenty years since—

"How do you think it happens?" Sirius asks with a frown.

Lupin shrugs. "Does it matter?"

Sirius looks at him for a long moment, cracks his knuckles, then shrugs, as well. "No, I suppose not."

On the wall of Lupin's office, hangs a lunar chart. It's common knowledge now. Relief, mostly. He doesn't have to hide anymore.

Voldemort is rising—there are far more hideous creatures to fear than a lowly werewolf professor.

The full moon was last week. The first week after always puts him in good spirits.

Lycantrophy.

Doorway to immortality.

Not quite there yet, but—

Bargain, really. Once a month. He doesn't even mark the days anymore. The calendar hasn't changed. The potion is the same. Snape brings it, sneers, waits to make sure.

Different time—remedies are abundant.

Malnutrition and nerves are in his way. His hair is graying. It doesn't matter much. He's not a vain man. If he survives. Aging slower, like Dumbledore. He can't prove it, of course. But there's that feeling.

The Shrieking Shack. Chance after chance. Understanding. Wise Dumbledore. Old Dumbledore. Very old Dumbledore.

"Ah."

Speaking of—

"I'm certainly glad to find you both here," Dumbledore's saying, hands clasped behind his back. Fawkes, his phoenix, looks sickly. Time to die.

"It's happened," he continues. Sirius frowns and looks at Lupin.

"So, we just wait, is that it?" one of them asks.

Dumbledore nods with a hint of a smile. "It will be much longer for her than us, I'm afraid," he says and pets the stone gargoyle.

When he's out of earshot, Sirius Black asks, in his least gloomy voice, "So, are we making her choose when she comes back?"

Remus Lupin simply smiles.