Fic

"Professor Lupin?"

Remus looked up from a particularly ill-written paper on simple hexes, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Hermione," he said. "Come in, sit down."

He laid down his quill and stretched, popping a few stubborn vertebrae in his back. She sidled through the open door of his office, and sat on the edge of a chair, letting her book bag fall to the floor. It made rather a louder thud than he expected, and he noticed it was full almost to bursting with books.

A conversation with Hermione Granger, on anything, was bound to be a welcome relief from papers. She reminded him of himself when he was a student -- well, all right, a bossier, louder, less tactful version of himself -- really, she was more like James. Still, he liked intelligence in a student, and Hermione had that in spades.

"Did you have a question?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk and leaning forward slightly. She looked tired -- closer to exhausted -- and her face was pale, eyes nervous.

"I...um...about the assignment for Thursday..." she said.

"Was something unclear?" he asked, worried. If Hermione was confused, he could expect mystified befuddlement from the rest of the class.

"No, I was wondering..." she looked down at her knees. "ficodaveanstenshn."

He tried to make sense of what sounded like a spell gone wrong. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

"I was wondering if I could have an exension," she said, slower but no louder.

He sat back, and regarded her.

"Are you ill?" he asked. She shook her head. "Have you been called out of school?"

"No," she said softly.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but it's school policy not to -- oh, blast."

He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief as she began to cry, quietly and with more dignity than one normally expected a thirteen-year-old girl to possess. He crouched by the chair and offered it; she took it, stared at it for a moment, and then crumpled it in her hands, twisting it in her lap.

"There's just so much work and I haven't had t-t-time to go to the library and I can't find anything on the topic and..." she trailed off into another discreet but heartfelt stream of tears.

"Professor McGonagall told me you're taking a heavy courseload," he said, " and she did have reservations -- "

"I can do it!" she said defiantly. He took the handkerchief away from her and dabbed at her face.

"I've no doubt, but there's no shame in not doing it," he said, wishing Dumbledore was here. He'd barely encountered children at all before Hogwarts, how did one deal with a blotchy-faced, defiant teenage girl?

"But I can," she insisted. "Just a weekend extension, I promise I'll have it on Monday, I can even turn it in Sunday night..."

He sighed, and put the handkerchief back in her hands. She swiped at her eyes with it.

"It's just Ron and Harry won't talk to me and that means Dean and Seamus don't want to and I was only trying to help," she continued, sniffling every few words. "I don't want Harry to die!"

He smiled. "None of us wants that, Hermione. Harry and Ron are just being typical boys. They'll grow out of it. Most of us do."

She tried to match his smile, only half-succeeding. "You weren't ever like them, were you?"

He thought, reservedly, of a few times when he desperately wished he'd opened his mouth and said something to James.

"As a matter of fact, I was," he answered. "I was probably worse. There now, that's amusing, isn't it?"

She nodded, and blew her nose noisily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make a scene -- "

"Nonsense," he said, sensing vaguely that this might not be the most appropriate thing to say, but not having any better ideas. "Now, about this extension..."

"Please, you can take points for lateness. I'll write an extra-long essay to make up for it," she said desperately.

"I tell you what, I'll give you until Sunday night, you can slide it under my door. But I really do think you should at least consider lightening your workload, Hermione. Between you and me and the grindylow, Divination isn't worth your time, and Muggle Studies is ridiculous when you were raised in the Muggle world." He straightened. "You look a bit better now. Run on and get some rest." She smiled, and shyly offered him the damp handkerchief back.

"Thanks," she said, in the doorway. "I'm sorry -- "

"Don't be sorry, Hermione," he interrupted. "Just have the paper to me by Sunday, and get some sleep in the meantime."

She nodded, and vanished out the door, leaving him with a damp square of cloth and the feeling that there were probably better ways to handle this.