Title: Rye and Mistletoe

Prompt: 7spells community at livejournal, a DiY set, # 1 -- "glass moon"

Pairing: Remus Lupin/Draco Malfoy

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2454

Summary: Draco makes Remus an offer he cannot refuse.

Author's Notes: pre-slash, very mild male/male content

"I can make it stop," the boy had promised. "It can be cured."

Remus knew he had been a fool to believe him. He sat stiffly before the battered desk that had once belonged to Sirius. When it had occupied a position in the corner of the elder Black son's bedroom, it had been virtually buried under sheaves of Muggle newspapers and yellowed school parchment curled up in the corners; advertisements for various grooming potions and thick, dog-eared guides to motorcycle repair the old-fashioned way had also dominated. Remus had taken it upon himself to liberate it, after Sirius' death. He could scarcely face entering that cold, solitary room, preferring to leave the taint of Sirius' imprisonment to the memory of the walls and the contented spiders. Everything he found useful, he had removed, deliberately relocating them downstairs, to the seldom-used drawing room that held no trace of personality, not even that of the domineering Mrs Black.

The desk had been cleaned, the accumulation thrown away. Only one item remained perched upon it: a slim glass phial set inside a weighty silver holder. It was not standard Potions classroom equipment; this one was from someone else's personal collection, used perhaps to display the magnitude of one's brewing ability, or the high value of the phial's contents. The liquid inside shone a simple amber, and Remus found himself almost disappointed just by looking at it. It was obviously useless stuff, brewed by a careless hand for the explicit purpose of being sold to the gullible, cursed wizards like himself. At least, Remus considered, they might have made it red, like blood, for effect. "Or silver, yes, perhaps silver. After all, don't the Muggles believe silver might kill a werewolf?" He spoke this last out loud, barely hearing the sound of his own voice as it shattered the quiet of the dusty room.

"You can trust me," spoke up the blonde boy, a trifle irritated. Perhaps boy was not the correct word; Draco Malfoy was bordering upon manhood. He had grown taller in the intermittent years since Remus had held his teaching post. Pale golden hair, which he had once worn somewhat longer, was cut severely short, in a style that spoke of purpose and maturity, the sort of man who had places to go and people to see, and could no longer be bothered flirting with schoolgirls or fussing over hair potions. "What, you don't believe me?" he queried after a moment's continued silence. Shaking his head, he glowered slightly at the older man, wishing he would put his fears aside and just drink the potion. It had been extremely difficult to procure, and Draco did not feel Remus' hesitation was an ample reward for his services. "Go on, then. Try it."

"I --" Remus began. Then he fell silent. Shaking his head very slowly, he reached out a tentative hand towards the phial, freezing when his grasp was just inches away. "Where did you learn of this?" he asked, abruptly. Snatching his hand back as though to touch the glass would result in a bad burn, he glanced curiously at Draco. "I've studied, I've read! Not a word, not in any text, not even from the greatest healers St Mungo's has to offer. There has never been so much as a rumour about a possible cure for lyc -- for what I am. This curse," he uttered, with finality. "Don't you understand? This is my life we're talking about! I've lived nearly four decades with this thing, constantly dreaming that one day I might be free of it, but no matter how much searching I've done, all the dreaming and praying, there has never been so much as a whisper of anything like this."

Unmoved by Remus' impassioned speech, Draco sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. "You don't trust me," he confirmed, sounding put out.

"Of course I don't," Remus answered quietly. He realised he had been nearly shouting the moment before; the crystal in the dining room was still ringing. He hardly noticed that Draco, like all other normal wizards, could not hear it. "Do you realise what you're suggesting? You're trying to tell me that this" -- he pointed at the phial's contents, which shimmered like oil -- "this meek little potion, can change me. I've wanted something like this my entire life, but it can't be. There is nothing known to wizard-kind that can make a werewolf into a normal man."

Shrugging, Draco folded his hands in his lap. "But if there was?"

Remus raised his head, fixing his stare directly at Draco. His hazel eyes shone, momentarily otherworldly. "Then I'd do anything."

"So drink," Draco instructed, gazing momentarily at the ceiling in a polite gesture of exasperation. He ran one hand down his perfectly creased trousers, smoothing them, and allowed himself to fidget for just a moment, tracing the embossing on one of the buttons on his robe. Then he sighed again. "Well?"

Remus pushed his chair back from the table, shaking his head. He stared down at the phial in its gleaming silver rest, and finally touched it. The silver was cold against his skin, but he could sense heat from the potion. For a moment, he drew it nearer himself, toying with the idea of giving it a chance. Then he shoved it away from himself rudely and stood up quickly. "No."

"For the love of Salazar, why ever not?" demanded Draco, who had grown quite impatient. He slapped one hand against the table, palm down, in annoyance. "I went through a lot of trouble to get you this, so explain, sir." Momentarily paling at his usage of an out-of-date title, Draco cleared his throat and rose as well. He was nearly Remus' height, and managed to convey an air of haughty superiority. "Lupin," he corrected himself, with a slight smirk. "You lost that position because you're a werewolf, didn't you? Well, no point in mincing words," he went on as Remus gaped. "You are, in fact, a werewolf. Apparently, you prefer it that way, as you're so loathe to even give this potion a try. In that case," he said, reaching forward and snatching up the phial, "I'll take my leave. This is valuable stuff, you know. It would fetch a very high price on the black market, and I know a number of werewolves who frequent Knockturn Alley who might be interested. You couldn't pay for it anyway, could you?"

Remus gripped the table edge tightly, not certain what would happen if he let go. His pulse had quickened, and he could feel his tired heart hammering away in anger and -- though he was afraid to acknowledge it -- hope. "I've tried everything," he said, his voice audible proof of his agony. "I want it, but I'm tired of clinging to old hope when there is absolutely no chance of any success. You mentioned Knockturn Alley; take a good look the next time you go. If you pay close enough attention, which few ever do, you'll see secret tiny shops with names you won't remember, street vendors in ragged cloaks of invisibility, and do you know what they sell? Wolf's fang amulets, virgin's blood restorative potions, glasses designed to blot out the moon, scraps of paper with spells to cause an eclipse, even bottled transformation spells -- all designed to circumvent the lure of the moon, to turn werewolves back into normal men and women. And none of them," he went on, voice rising to a furious tide, "have EVER WORKED!"

Confidence was on Draco's side, so he acknowledged Remus' sudden ferocity with a casual smirk. "Temper, temper. I understand your frustration, Lupin, I do. I know what it's like to be trapped with no way out." The arrogant smirk faded and Draco's face took on a more serious expression. He looked somewhat haunted. "My perfect life," he uttered with a dry laugh. "Oh yes, I have money, I have prestige, a name that makes people stand up and take notice, though usually they try to scuttle out of my path as fast as their legs can carry them because it's fear, not admiration, that they know when they see me. I'm still as trapped as you are. You're luckier, in fact. You're only a werewolf once a month. I'm Lucius Malfoy's son twenty-four hours a day."

"You have no idea what it's like," Remus stated mournfully.

"More than you might guess, actually," Draco countered.

Remus sighed. "I think you should go. Here, it's --"

"I can find my own way out, thank you. Yes, I do know my way around here," he said smoothly as Remus looked surprised. "My mother brought me once, when I was very young, to see my great aunt. She had a number of things she wanted to leave to me, and some for my mother. I scarcely remember her; she was very old, had a temper like you do. Always yelling," he went on calmly, with the barest shadow of a smirk returning to his face. "Now, then, you're certain you won't accept my offer?"

"You never even told me what your offer was, aside from that," answered Remus, indicating the bulge in Draco's pocket where the small phial was.

Nodding in agreement, Draco smiled carefully. "Too right. I thought I'd forgotten something."

Waiting patiently, Remus crossed his arms. Then he raised his eyebrow. Finally he said, "well, what was it?"

"Nothing worth worrying about now," Draco said. "After all, you aren't interested. Still…." He reached a hand into his pocket and set the phial back upon the desk. Both men's faces gleamed in the golden light from the phial's liquid contents. "You're sure you won't reconsider? Come on, Lupin, take a chance on it. Think, if it really did work --"

Remus clenched his hands tightly, looking nervously from Draco to the phial. Finally, in a great burst of energy he reached forward, his hands closing around the object, and yanked it closer to himself. Without pausing to think, he lifted the cork smoothly from the mouth of the phial, then tilted it back, draining the contents in one swift swallow.

A strange heat overtook him. It did not feel painful, like a sunburn might, but Remus still had the impression that he was standing too near a raging fire, only the fire was inside of him, meandering warmly down his throat, flowing into the connecting rivers of his veins and settling -- lightly, though the stuff had tasted like syrup - in his stomach. Dropping the phial back down, Remus waited, his hands on his belly and his eyes closed, for some sort of reaction. Fearfully, he wondered if he might transform into something infinitely more hideous than a werewolf. All manner of consequences became clear as he considered his folly. It was a joke, it had to be, or else the meanest trick. Nervously, he clenched his eyes shut tighter, worrying that perhaps it was something more sinister, like poison. However, though he felt vaguely light-headed and his skin was coated with a new sheen of sweat, he did not feel any of the symptoms that were often described during a poisoning. His stomach was nervous, but he was not sick. He did not hurt. He had been left alive, for which he ought to have been pleased, but it hurt to accept that he had been let down once again. Reluctantly surrendering hope, Remus opened his eyes.

"Now," said Draco casually, as if nothing interesting had transpired. "About my payment."

"I don't have much, just a few Sickles left. It's hard getting work; once my employers figure out there is a pattern to my absence, they usually realise what I am, and then sack me. Besides, why would I owe you? It wasn't what you said it was."

"Oh?"

"Euphoria potion? No, couldn't have been," Remus mused. "I felt relieved, but not really euphoric." He wracked his brains, trying to remember his dismal days as a student of Potions. He had been poor in the subject, despite his efforts, and still had no head for it. "Warming draught's not the same colour. Perhaps it wasn't a potion at all. That seems more likely. Fire-whiskey and water, I'm guessing, with some honey or rich butter-beer boiled in."

Draco walked around the table, closing the distance between Remus and himself. The light in his eyes was questioning, but amused. "What's this then? What are you going on about?"

"It was a fake. Nothing happened," said Remus quietly. He told himself he never should have gotten his hopes up, and swore he would never buy into such fancy again. His condition was permanent; hadn't the best minds any healer school in Britain told him so? Naturally, his parents had invested in a multitude of options, and he had continued to search as an adult, but none of them had made any impact. He felt only the dull stab of disappointment, and it was primarily in himself, for being so gullible yet again.

Managing to look offended, Draco gazed at Remus with eyes that sparkled. "For my payment, I want -- hmm," he mused, close to laughing. "Kiss me," he decided, surprising himself by speaking the hidden desire out loud. He had never quite realised any feelings for the man, whom in fact he knew only slightly, but something about the current of emotion under Remus' skin, and the shine of his eyes, touched a nerve. "Yes, that'll do." He leaned in closer, brushing his lips against Remus' cheek, awaiting a response.

"I'm not paying you a Knut," answered Remus coldly. Nothing Draco said had registered through his upset; his mind was still a haze of discontent. He sank against the table, his legs weak. "Didn't you hear me? It didn't work."

Draco smirked. He laughed. "Is that so?"

"You know as well as I do."

"Really?" Draco commented in the tone of someone who was particularly impressed. "And yet, I beg to differ. You see -- go on, look -- out that window there?" Remus turned, and froze, and stared, and Draco really did not need to speak the obvious, but he voiced it anyway, pleased to be able to shatter Remus' doubts. "You're still human." He pointed at the night which had fallen outside beyond the windowpane. The sky was inky black, shadowed with edges of clouds, in the middle of which hung the harvest moon, fully bloated.

- Fin -

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