Warning: Slash, meaning male/male relationship. If it's not of your taste,
please don't read any further.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I would have been rich. Want to see the state of my bank account?
*
A New Man
"--and in a gust of rain everyone is you or almost you before it's someone else."
Blues, John Burnside
*
Thirty owls perched on his roof; the neighbors are complaining as the hooting has reached apocalyptic proportions. He ignores the letters, all messages from the Order, but spreads bread crusts on the ledge and the birds come soaring down, a cloud of wings darkening the sky. He listens to the sound of beaks against the window glass, a half-eaten piece of bread in his hands.
It's a difficult color, the uneventful monochrome of this late November sky. The morning frost and afternoon showers are chasing the last shreds of autumn away; new seasons are brought forward. Since the planetary system is still kept in orbit, Remus Lupin tries to do the same.
He pieces the routes together and calls it a life. To the launderette, once a month. To the market for groceries, once a week. To the newsstand at the Diagon Alley for a copy of the Prophet, daily. To Hogwarts for wolfsbane, more often than he'd like.
The collars of his robes are widening and it's a pleasant feeling, as if he is diminishing, becoming transparent. When the postman strikes up a conversation, small talk over the honeysuckle bushes of the fence, it startles him, the sudden revelation of his visibility. But the only one who doesn't just look, the one who really sees him is Snape, Severus Snape of all people. Under his scrutinizing gaze Remus feels exposed, a gutted fish laid out on a slab.
"Drink up."
The bitterness of the wolfsbane makes tears well up in his eyes.
"Thank you, Severus. I should be on my way now."
"Did you receive the Headmaster's messages? There's a coven of werewolves in Southern France that could be convinced to join our side. He wants you there as the ambassador."
"Send someone else."
"Are you objecting? I assumed you'd long to meet the rest of your canine family."
"I don't think I'm adequate for the role, Severus."
"It's not my decision, Lupin, it's the Headmaster's request. Though I have to agree, you don't look fit for anything. When was the last time you had a proper meal?"
"Are you concerned about my well-being, Severus?"
"No. But the Order needs you."
Snape meanders from the corner of the room and around the desk, towards Remus. His robes are billowing around him, a huge menacing bat, but the pale face in the epicentre of the whirling blackness looks truly concerned, or at least more concerned than gloating.
For some reason, the expression terrifies him. He jumps to his feet, upturning the chair, stumbling over the edge of the carpet. His back hits a solid something; he reaches out behind him with blind fingers and tries to grab the door handle.
"What's wrong? Where are you going?"
"I really should be on my way, I don't want to impose any further on you."
"Lupin, you need to understand." Snape fidgets, rubs his hands, an absurd sight. "There's something. The way you never mocked me. Your good-for- nothing friends did, but you were always decent."
"So you want to help me now? I never did anything to help you either. Don't flatter me and don't flatter yourself, Severus, it never had anything to do with you. I was just never good at making choices."
Snape's mouth is set in a hard line. "You are really an idiot."
He is very close now; a lattice of movements and Remus is suddenly trapped between a body and a door. He can see himself reflected in Snape's pupils, cowering, almost shaking.
"Lupin, you need to understand. The Order needs you."
He can understand very well, the translation of the phrase is easy, replacing 'the Order' with 'I.'
"Severus, are you completely out of your mind?"
Snape cups his face, pressing fingers into the hollow of his cheeks, nobody has touched him in months; he wants to peel off his skin and scrub it clean.
"Black isn't worth all this grief."
At these last words he finally snaps, anger surpassing his uneasiness. The first instinct is to knee Snape in the crotch but there's no space, so he just shoves him hard and sends him reeling backwards. The desk creaks, a pile of papers slides over the edge and flutters languidly to the floor.
He rubs his face frantically; it feels dirty, covered in sticky thumb marks.
"Don't even mention him again. And keep your paws off me."
"Paws? Are you forgetting which one is the animal here? Let me remind you." The voice is pin-sharp and cold. "Remus Lupin. Werewolf."
He'd like to claim that it's his lost friends speaking through him, their presence a phantom weight on his tongue, but it's his own, long-repressed and long-forgotten menace that guides him to mouth the words, slowly, deliberately. "Severus Snape. Deatheater."
Snape pales. "Get out."
*
On the way home he carries a brown paper bag with the weekly groceries, yesterday's newspaper locked under his elbow. The wind snaps his umbrella as November floods the neighborhood. He squints; wet strands of hair are plastered on his forehead. He spreads the newspaper over his head, a little fortress against the rain. It's melting, little paper bits of yesterday coming off in his hands, watery ink seeping in streaks between his fingers.
In the blur of rain he notices someone who could almost be Sirius. Tall, shoulders hunched, pushing through the streets with his gaze down, long unkempt hair curling over the collar of his robes. The only option is to follow him, losing his track as the alleys bend and curve, and then finding him again, chasing a pinpoint of light on a radar screen. Coming closer, moving apart.
Rainwater floods the gutters, there's meaning in every movement, even these whirlpools of dirt have a destination but he doesn't, trapped in a perpetual suspended step, an arm's length away. The man slows his pace, it would be easy to grab hold of him now, whirl him round. But he doesn't. He's never been good at making choices and a scrap of an illusion never hurt anyone. The stranger can be Sirius forever now, forever walking away from him, forever into a world where Remus doesn't belong.
"Hey," he says to the figure that's diminishing, diluted in rain. "You still owe me ten galleons."
Then the paper bag rips apart and he chases bruised apples down the street, stuffing them into his pockets.
*
The fireplace is blazing, there's a muted glow from the silver candleholders. The crystal decanter on the desk spills a little rainbow across the polished wood. He tilts his head from side to side, watching the colors merge.
"In Merlin's name, you look even worse than before. Lupin? Lupin, are you drunk?"
He can still taste the liquor in his mouth, fiery and sweet; his tongue is dipped in burnt sugar. His scalp tingles pleasantly, a small, flickering pleasure. Wreaths of bourbon angels tangled in his hair.
"It's one way to numb the effect of our sessions."
"Drink up your potion."
Snape's office sways in rocking motion, the faces of the portraits are ghost ships, vanishing and reappearing through the ocean fog.
"Albus has arranged for you to be in France next week, after you and your canine friends have recovered from the full moon."
"I said I wasn't going anywhere."
"Thankfully, the Headmaster chose to ignore your request. Pull yourself together; you need a shave and a haircut. And judging by your looks, you still need a good meal too."
Snape's voice cuts through the hazy sweetness of alcohol, like nails scraping across a blackboard.
"My, my, are you going to be my good fairy?"
Snape curls his lips with contempt. "You're drunk so I'll pretend I didn't hear this. I never said I was going to do anything for you, Lupin. You have finally mastered the fine art of being a waste of space, so I wouldn't want to hinder you career."
The wolfsbane is bubbling up in his throat, bitter gal. The lazy pirouettes of the room have ended; it's swaying violently now, a sinking ship. The flood waters are rushing in, the waves seem about to tear the limbs from his body. He is levitating somewhere above, above all, at the rim of the world, ready to slide over the edge. Remus is mildly curious about the outcome.
"Are you going to be sick? Not here, you idiot, this is my office!"
A rough arm curls around his waist and he leans into it. "Come on, up we go."
Snape pushes a hand under his knees and suddenly Remus is up in the air, face mashes against a black-clad shoulder and Snape is carrying him to the bathroom, cradling him like a child.
*
He comes to his senses on the floor tiles, cold beads of sweat on his forehead, and hopes to pass out again, but consciousness persists. He draws his knees up in the narrow space between door and sink, trying to curl as far into himself as possible. But his body is limp and fails to obey. Alien to others, alien to himself.
This has to end, he thinks, there must be a choice to make, something to make him true again, a sign that he is meant to exist. Love, no. Been there, done that. Hate, possibly. Love-making, hate-making. Hate-making in the bushes. Hate-making on the parent's bed, when mum and dad are away. He wants to giggle, realizing he is even more drunk than he thought in the first place.
Snape's hands are on him, gentle enough, stroking his back and hushing him, brushing tendrils of hair from his face.
"Better?"
He nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm.
"Severus, I don't know how to apologise properly. I'm so sorry, this is very embarrassing."
"There's toothbrush and paste by the sink. Wash yourself up; I'll get you a clean change of robes."
He brushes his teeth, leaning against the sink with both elbows, spits blood and peppermint down the drain. A stranger with bruise-rimmed eyes is staring at him from inside the mirror, then smiles, distractedly, as if by afterthought.
"Put these on."
Snape stands behind him, holding a folded bundle of robes.
"Come on, Lupin, you need to change, you're soaking wet. Shall I do it for you?"
Their eyes meet on the reflection and Snape looks tense, fingers twisting around the black material.
"Alright then," Remus says, the alcohol glossing over his uncertainties. "If you want to, then yes." He is not referring to the clothes but Severus probably didn't mean them either.
"Just like that?" Fingers are rucking up the bottom of his shirt. The first pale centimeters of his skin surprise him, and so does his heavy-lidden expression on the mirror.
"What did you expect, Severus? Am I supposed to act coy? Or possibly attempt to woo you?"
The water is still pouring, warm, overflowing the sink and dripping on the bathroom floor. As if by phantom breath, the mirror slowly turns misty.
"How do you like it?"
"Rough," Remus murmurs, closing his eyes. "Black and blue."
"Hm. You?" The cold and slippery tongue on the nape of his neck sends shivers down his spine. "Or me?"
He leans back, his elbows pressing against the body behind him. Fingers are digging red paths into his ribcage.
"Full moon, Severus. Won't you be a good boy now?"
*
Familiarity. A nest of sheets on a rickety bed, the smell of rain, water streaks on the window, the taciturn, complicit silence of the room. There's a sticky arm draped across his chest, damp black hair splayed on the pillow. He props his head up on his elbow, examining the spider web of scratches on his partner's back.
Then Snape turns in his sleep, snatching the covers away in the process and the illusion shatters as they both edge as far away as possible without falling off the bed, limbs kept carefully untangled. It's a pity almost, their breathing in synchrony, their lives failing to converge.
This is not what I wanted, he thinks, but - but it's not that bad, for a little while. He is in the process of stealing away a part of the duvet, when the first wedge of moonlight slips through the broken blinds.
The last goblet of wolfsbane ended up in the bathroom sink, this is dangerous, he needs to get out. He swings out of bed, knees hit the stone floor and he is crawling towards the door, the distance seeming to grow as he struggles to move closer. Then it strikes him, hard and fast, his body arches as a twine of pain unravels across his spine. His forehead smashes against stone; he bites his tongue; spits out blood and a piece of tooth.
The human surface is eroding. 'I am Remus Lupin. I am Remus Lupin. I am-"
The sheets rustle, the sound of bare feet shuffling towards him, but he shouldn't touch, he shouldn't be touched, not like this, clawed, tainted, with a mouth full of pinpoint teeth.
"This is not what I wanted," he thinks. "But-"
*
The world is always far too clear and precise after a storm, a brittle china sky, the light full of sharp edges. He can almost taste the pungent scent of a new day.
To the launderette, once a month. To the market for groceries. To the newsstand. He pieces the routes together and tries and tries but he is running out of destinations, fingering old bus tickets in his pocket, a life he is failing to live.
He notices a familiar figure across the street. Same time, same place, chasing someone he almost finds, almost recognizes. The man with the hunched shoulders is pushing through the streets with his gaze down but there is no veil of rain to disappear behind. The game has moved to the territory of light, under the panoramic sweep of the sun.
He follows the man, always an arm's length away, zigzagging between the crooked houses that tower at the sides of the street, piled haphazardly one on top of the other. At the turn of an alley, right in front of a stall selling Fizzing Whizbees, the stranger makes his choice for him. He turns round, grabbing hold of the lapels of Remus' jacket and shakes him.
"What do you want? Why the hell are you following me?"
All similarity to Sirius evaporates. The stranger is young, fresh scrubbed, and resembles a dark-haired Bill Weasley.
"You still owe me ten galleons," he coughs out and can't help the sudden stream of laughter. It's such a nice day, the sun warm on his face. The Fizzing Whizbees vendor is watching the scene with interest, hovering a few feet above the ground, belly round from the helium sherbets.
"Excuse me?" The boy gapes at him. "I probably just look like someone you know."
"Trust me, you don't," Remus Lupin smiles. "Have you ever been to Southern France? I've heard so many stories. The sun, the vineyards, the women-"
The end
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I would have been rich. Want to see the state of my bank account?
*
A New Man
"--and in a gust of rain everyone is you or almost you before it's someone else."
Blues, John Burnside
*
Thirty owls perched on his roof; the neighbors are complaining as the hooting has reached apocalyptic proportions. He ignores the letters, all messages from the Order, but spreads bread crusts on the ledge and the birds come soaring down, a cloud of wings darkening the sky. He listens to the sound of beaks against the window glass, a half-eaten piece of bread in his hands.
It's a difficult color, the uneventful monochrome of this late November sky. The morning frost and afternoon showers are chasing the last shreds of autumn away; new seasons are brought forward. Since the planetary system is still kept in orbit, Remus Lupin tries to do the same.
He pieces the routes together and calls it a life. To the launderette, once a month. To the market for groceries, once a week. To the newsstand at the Diagon Alley for a copy of the Prophet, daily. To Hogwarts for wolfsbane, more often than he'd like.
The collars of his robes are widening and it's a pleasant feeling, as if he is diminishing, becoming transparent. When the postman strikes up a conversation, small talk over the honeysuckle bushes of the fence, it startles him, the sudden revelation of his visibility. But the only one who doesn't just look, the one who really sees him is Snape, Severus Snape of all people. Under his scrutinizing gaze Remus feels exposed, a gutted fish laid out on a slab.
"Drink up."
The bitterness of the wolfsbane makes tears well up in his eyes.
"Thank you, Severus. I should be on my way now."
"Did you receive the Headmaster's messages? There's a coven of werewolves in Southern France that could be convinced to join our side. He wants you there as the ambassador."
"Send someone else."
"Are you objecting? I assumed you'd long to meet the rest of your canine family."
"I don't think I'm adequate for the role, Severus."
"It's not my decision, Lupin, it's the Headmaster's request. Though I have to agree, you don't look fit for anything. When was the last time you had a proper meal?"
"Are you concerned about my well-being, Severus?"
"No. But the Order needs you."
Snape meanders from the corner of the room and around the desk, towards Remus. His robes are billowing around him, a huge menacing bat, but the pale face in the epicentre of the whirling blackness looks truly concerned, or at least more concerned than gloating.
For some reason, the expression terrifies him. He jumps to his feet, upturning the chair, stumbling over the edge of the carpet. His back hits a solid something; he reaches out behind him with blind fingers and tries to grab the door handle.
"What's wrong? Where are you going?"
"I really should be on my way, I don't want to impose any further on you."
"Lupin, you need to understand." Snape fidgets, rubs his hands, an absurd sight. "There's something. The way you never mocked me. Your good-for- nothing friends did, but you were always decent."
"So you want to help me now? I never did anything to help you either. Don't flatter me and don't flatter yourself, Severus, it never had anything to do with you. I was just never good at making choices."
Snape's mouth is set in a hard line. "You are really an idiot."
He is very close now; a lattice of movements and Remus is suddenly trapped between a body and a door. He can see himself reflected in Snape's pupils, cowering, almost shaking.
"Lupin, you need to understand. The Order needs you."
He can understand very well, the translation of the phrase is easy, replacing 'the Order' with 'I.'
"Severus, are you completely out of your mind?"
Snape cups his face, pressing fingers into the hollow of his cheeks, nobody has touched him in months; he wants to peel off his skin and scrub it clean.
"Black isn't worth all this grief."
At these last words he finally snaps, anger surpassing his uneasiness. The first instinct is to knee Snape in the crotch but there's no space, so he just shoves him hard and sends him reeling backwards. The desk creaks, a pile of papers slides over the edge and flutters languidly to the floor.
He rubs his face frantically; it feels dirty, covered in sticky thumb marks.
"Don't even mention him again. And keep your paws off me."
"Paws? Are you forgetting which one is the animal here? Let me remind you." The voice is pin-sharp and cold. "Remus Lupin. Werewolf."
He'd like to claim that it's his lost friends speaking through him, their presence a phantom weight on his tongue, but it's his own, long-repressed and long-forgotten menace that guides him to mouth the words, slowly, deliberately. "Severus Snape. Deatheater."
Snape pales. "Get out."
*
On the way home he carries a brown paper bag with the weekly groceries, yesterday's newspaper locked under his elbow. The wind snaps his umbrella as November floods the neighborhood. He squints; wet strands of hair are plastered on his forehead. He spreads the newspaper over his head, a little fortress against the rain. It's melting, little paper bits of yesterday coming off in his hands, watery ink seeping in streaks between his fingers.
In the blur of rain he notices someone who could almost be Sirius. Tall, shoulders hunched, pushing through the streets with his gaze down, long unkempt hair curling over the collar of his robes. The only option is to follow him, losing his track as the alleys bend and curve, and then finding him again, chasing a pinpoint of light on a radar screen. Coming closer, moving apart.
Rainwater floods the gutters, there's meaning in every movement, even these whirlpools of dirt have a destination but he doesn't, trapped in a perpetual suspended step, an arm's length away. The man slows his pace, it would be easy to grab hold of him now, whirl him round. But he doesn't. He's never been good at making choices and a scrap of an illusion never hurt anyone. The stranger can be Sirius forever now, forever walking away from him, forever into a world where Remus doesn't belong.
"Hey," he says to the figure that's diminishing, diluted in rain. "You still owe me ten galleons."
Then the paper bag rips apart and he chases bruised apples down the street, stuffing them into his pockets.
*
The fireplace is blazing, there's a muted glow from the silver candleholders. The crystal decanter on the desk spills a little rainbow across the polished wood. He tilts his head from side to side, watching the colors merge.
"In Merlin's name, you look even worse than before. Lupin? Lupin, are you drunk?"
He can still taste the liquor in his mouth, fiery and sweet; his tongue is dipped in burnt sugar. His scalp tingles pleasantly, a small, flickering pleasure. Wreaths of bourbon angels tangled in his hair.
"It's one way to numb the effect of our sessions."
"Drink up your potion."
Snape's office sways in rocking motion, the faces of the portraits are ghost ships, vanishing and reappearing through the ocean fog.
"Albus has arranged for you to be in France next week, after you and your canine friends have recovered from the full moon."
"I said I wasn't going anywhere."
"Thankfully, the Headmaster chose to ignore your request. Pull yourself together; you need a shave and a haircut. And judging by your looks, you still need a good meal too."
Snape's voice cuts through the hazy sweetness of alcohol, like nails scraping across a blackboard.
"My, my, are you going to be my good fairy?"
Snape curls his lips with contempt. "You're drunk so I'll pretend I didn't hear this. I never said I was going to do anything for you, Lupin. You have finally mastered the fine art of being a waste of space, so I wouldn't want to hinder you career."
The wolfsbane is bubbling up in his throat, bitter gal. The lazy pirouettes of the room have ended; it's swaying violently now, a sinking ship. The flood waters are rushing in, the waves seem about to tear the limbs from his body. He is levitating somewhere above, above all, at the rim of the world, ready to slide over the edge. Remus is mildly curious about the outcome.
"Are you going to be sick? Not here, you idiot, this is my office!"
A rough arm curls around his waist and he leans into it. "Come on, up we go."
Snape pushes a hand under his knees and suddenly Remus is up in the air, face mashes against a black-clad shoulder and Snape is carrying him to the bathroom, cradling him like a child.
*
He comes to his senses on the floor tiles, cold beads of sweat on his forehead, and hopes to pass out again, but consciousness persists. He draws his knees up in the narrow space between door and sink, trying to curl as far into himself as possible. But his body is limp and fails to obey. Alien to others, alien to himself.
This has to end, he thinks, there must be a choice to make, something to make him true again, a sign that he is meant to exist. Love, no. Been there, done that. Hate, possibly. Love-making, hate-making. Hate-making in the bushes. Hate-making on the parent's bed, when mum and dad are away. He wants to giggle, realizing he is even more drunk than he thought in the first place.
Snape's hands are on him, gentle enough, stroking his back and hushing him, brushing tendrils of hair from his face.
"Better?"
He nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm.
"Severus, I don't know how to apologise properly. I'm so sorry, this is very embarrassing."
"There's toothbrush and paste by the sink. Wash yourself up; I'll get you a clean change of robes."
He brushes his teeth, leaning against the sink with both elbows, spits blood and peppermint down the drain. A stranger with bruise-rimmed eyes is staring at him from inside the mirror, then smiles, distractedly, as if by afterthought.
"Put these on."
Snape stands behind him, holding a folded bundle of robes.
"Come on, Lupin, you need to change, you're soaking wet. Shall I do it for you?"
Their eyes meet on the reflection and Snape looks tense, fingers twisting around the black material.
"Alright then," Remus says, the alcohol glossing over his uncertainties. "If you want to, then yes." He is not referring to the clothes but Severus probably didn't mean them either.
"Just like that?" Fingers are rucking up the bottom of his shirt. The first pale centimeters of his skin surprise him, and so does his heavy-lidden expression on the mirror.
"What did you expect, Severus? Am I supposed to act coy? Or possibly attempt to woo you?"
The water is still pouring, warm, overflowing the sink and dripping on the bathroom floor. As if by phantom breath, the mirror slowly turns misty.
"How do you like it?"
"Rough," Remus murmurs, closing his eyes. "Black and blue."
"Hm. You?" The cold and slippery tongue on the nape of his neck sends shivers down his spine. "Or me?"
He leans back, his elbows pressing against the body behind him. Fingers are digging red paths into his ribcage.
"Full moon, Severus. Won't you be a good boy now?"
*
Familiarity. A nest of sheets on a rickety bed, the smell of rain, water streaks on the window, the taciturn, complicit silence of the room. There's a sticky arm draped across his chest, damp black hair splayed on the pillow. He props his head up on his elbow, examining the spider web of scratches on his partner's back.
Then Snape turns in his sleep, snatching the covers away in the process and the illusion shatters as they both edge as far away as possible without falling off the bed, limbs kept carefully untangled. It's a pity almost, their breathing in synchrony, their lives failing to converge.
This is not what I wanted, he thinks, but - but it's not that bad, for a little while. He is in the process of stealing away a part of the duvet, when the first wedge of moonlight slips through the broken blinds.
The last goblet of wolfsbane ended up in the bathroom sink, this is dangerous, he needs to get out. He swings out of bed, knees hit the stone floor and he is crawling towards the door, the distance seeming to grow as he struggles to move closer. Then it strikes him, hard and fast, his body arches as a twine of pain unravels across his spine. His forehead smashes against stone; he bites his tongue; spits out blood and a piece of tooth.
The human surface is eroding. 'I am Remus Lupin. I am Remus Lupin. I am-"
The sheets rustle, the sound of bare feet shuffling towards him, but he shouldn't touch, he shouldn't be touched, not like this, clawed, tainted, with a mouth full of pinpoint teeth.
"This is not what I wanted," he thinks. "But-"
*
The world is always far too clear and precise after a storm, a brittle china sky, the light full of sharp edges. He can almost taste the pungent scent of a new day.
To the launderette, once a month. To the market for groceries. To the newsstand. He pieces the routes together and tries and tries but he is running out of destinations, fingering old bus tickets in his pocket, a life he is failing to live.
He notices a familiar figure across the street. Same time, same place, chasing someone he almost finds, almost recognizes. The man with the hunched shoulders is pushing through the streets with his gaze down but there is no veil of rain to disappear behind. The game has moved to the territory of light, under the panoramic sweep of the sun.
He follows the man, always an arm's length away, zigzagging between the crooked houses that tower at the sides of the street, piled haphazardly one on top of the other. At the turn of an alley, right in front of a stall selling Fizzing Whizbees, the stranger makes his choice for him. He turns round, grabbing hold of the lapels of Remus' jacket and shakes him.
"What do you want? Why the hell are you following me?"
All similarity to Sirius evaporates. The stranger is young, fresh scrubbed, and resembles a dark-haired Bill Weasley.
"You still owe me ten galleons," he coughs out and can't help the sudden stream of laughter. It's such a nice day, the sun warm on his face. The Fizzing Whizbees vendor is watching the scene with interest, hovering a few feet above the ground, belly round from the helium sherbets.
"Excuse me?" The boy gapes at him. "I probably just look like someone you know."
"Trust me, you don't," Remus Lupin smiles. "Have you ever been to Southern France? I've heard so many stories. The sun, the vineyards, the women-"
The end