Harry Potter:  "Alternate Moonlight"

an original fan story by Julie Fortune

AnnieSJ and Circe_Tigana and QueenMab_223 double-dawg-dared me to do an overdub of "Experiments In Moonlight" with Snape instead of Sirius. So here we are: Post PoA, Remus is living alone, waiting for word of Sirius ... and surviving on hope and moonlight. Um, adult content, y'all. And, er, gratuitous R/S. (S, by the way, is not for Sirius.)  Feedback to juliefortune@comcast.net would be ever so lovely. 

BETA ADORATION to ... Queenmab_223, Teffy, and Misbegotten!   And any errors contained herein are mine, not theirs, and certainly NOT the fault of Psychofilly, because Dobby the House Elf wouldn't give her the damn manuscript. :)
 

WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING WARNING

This is a slash story.  It contains adult content.  Please do not proceed if you're (a) underage, or (b) sensitive to these kinds of things.

He didn't remember dying, but he supposed he must have, because only coming back from the dead could have been this terrible.

It will pass. Some part of his mind was desperately trying to reassure him, but the animal was howling. Ripping. Claws punching into soft flesh and dragging in rich, red furrows, trying to dig out the pain ... stop it, must stop it ... the wolf, taking its last desperate fury out on the man who was killing it.

He couldn't stop, but then the claws became blunt, blood-slicked fingers scrabbling at torn flesh, and that danger was past. He couldn't do himself much more damage ... at least, not with his hands.

He screamed -- half a howl -- as bones crackled, reformed, forged hot ivory towers beneath trembling flesh. The wolf did not go quietly. Remus Lupin, the man, was dragged up out of clinging, sticky darkness into fire and acid and endless pain.

It was like clawing his way out of a grave.

He collapsed face down on cool grass that tasted of dew and dust. His skin dappled and shivered with chill. A pale pearl of sun was rising over the hills, but it brought no warmth; the mist was cold, and it wrapped him in close gray arms.
Mother-naked in the woods. Destroyed and reborn. Well, destroyed, anyway. Reborn would take time. It seemed to take longer each month.

He rolled over on his back, gasping the thick damp air, and stared up at the fluttering leaves. Can't remember. He didn't know where he was, what had happened, who he'd ... who he'd ...

I'd remember if I'd killed. But the fear was always there, his constant black companion, and he wasn't sure whether or not he'd feel any different if he'd left behind a half-chewed corpse.

A flicker of memory came back, vivid and nauseating. Panic. Moonlight. Frightened pale faces, someone screaming. Severus Snape, facing him down, risking his life ... three children behind him ...

"No," he whispered, or tried to; his throat felt as if it had been scrubbed with steel wool. "Oh God, no, I couldn't have ..." Harry. Hermione. Ron.

It hurt to move, but he rolled slowly over on his side and tried to get up. His legs refused to obey. His bloodied arms trembled and collapsed when he put his weight on his hands to crawl. He sucked in a shaking breath and tried again. Again. Again. Couldn't give up ... he had to find out, had to know what he'd done. Bugger pain and weakness, he had to know.

He managed to stay on his hands and knees, but when he moved something fragile and new-mended snapped inside, and he screamed and pitched forward to the grass again, huddling in on himself.

Weak. Still so weak.

"There!"

He saw movement in the trees above, and heard a confusion of voices. Run! the animal inside howled, but of course he couldn't, and wouldn't if he'd been able. Let the consequences come, he'd find a way to bear them. He always had.

He managed to drag himself upright and put his shivering back against the crumbling bark of a tree. Some semblance of dignity, at least; he could have that, at the end, if nothing else. Over the trees, he caught sight of the gray ancient spires of Hogwarts piercing low clouds. He was somewhere on Hogwarts grounds, and last night ...

... last night, he'd seen ...

The memory focused and came shockingly clear. He'd seen Sirius Black.

Impossible. No, he must have dreamed it. Seeing him like that -- skeletal, filthy, ragged, mad -- that had to be a dream, a moondream born of grief and fury. Sirius couldn't have been there. Couldn't have been that terribly, horribly changed.

Twelve years in Azkaban prison. And you let him rot there.

Remus closed his eyes and remembered the hot press of a hand on his chest. It's flesh, only flesh ... Only Sirius would have said that. Only Sirius would have remembered how to touch him just that way, and try to keep him calm.

"Down here. He's alive." The dispassionate dark-velvet voice filtering down from on high was all too familiar. Remus opened his eyes and saw the dazzle of sunlight blocked by a shadow. Black hair, black eyes, black wind-whipped robes.

"Severus," he acknowledged in a whisper, and swallowed iron and blood. "... don't have to sound so ... overjoyed."

"I assure you, I'm not." Snape lifted his head and gestured with an impatient hurry up of his hand at whoever was still behind him, out of sight. "Stay still."

"... won't run."

"I doubt very much you're capable." With a fluid motion, Snape swirled the black cape from his shoulders and dumped it over Remus's shivering body. The relief was immense -- not just from the chill, but from the numbing embarrassment of sitting naked in front of his ... what was Snape, exactly? Enemy? Peer? Antagonist? He didn't thank him, other than by a convulsive nod. Snape, for his part, ignored it completely, as if his cloak had simply fallen in Remus's lap by accident.

A shuffling of fallen leaves announced the arrival of another party. No, two more: The elegantly robed Albus Dumbledore, looking grave and drawn, and the bristling, bear-shaped shadow of Hagrid behind him.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, and there was a world of sadness in the sound. He leaned heavily on the staff he held, and looked very tired. "How bad is he, Severus?"

"Wretched," Snape said. "Though no doubt he'll survive." He didn't sound bothered. Remus wasn't sure whether to find that annoying or comforting.

Dumbledore moved closer, leaning over to peer at Remus over the tops of his half-glasses. Such bright, penetrating eyes. There was no hiding from that kind, unflinching assessment.

"Do you remember the events of last night, Remus?" he asked softly, and Remus shook his head. "I was afraid that might be the case. Well, all that isn't ended can be mended. Hagrid, if you don't mind giving our fallen professor a little assistance ... "

Hagrid scooped him up like a bag of feathers. He was as gentle as it was possible for someone of Hagrid's size and strength to be, but Remus couldn't hold back a long, tortured moan as broken things jarred and shuddered inside of him, their healing interrupted.

Dumbledore's warm hand brushed his forehead. "Rest, my boy," he said. "There's time enough for pain later."

Darkness.

When Remus woke, he felt no pain at all, only a peculiar kind of levitation, as if he was hovering a foot above his body. Potions, he thought, and felt a flash of irritation. He didn't want to be further indebted to Severus Snape, but it appeared that he had no choice in the matter.

He didn't recognize the room in which he rested -- large, cavernous, draped in shadow and crowded with heavy black furniture. Gloomy, at best. Snape was standing at the far end of the room, in front of a large roaring fireplace carved in the shape of a serpent's mouth, crystal fangs and eyes glistening.

He was in Snape's private quarters, then. How odd.

The firelight slid orange over Snape's pale skin. There was rather a lot of it on display, as he'd shed his robe and white shirt – they were draped over the back of a nearby chair – and he was wrapping linen bandages around his narrow torso. Remus, rendered inert and peaceful by the potion, simply watched. Snape's shoulderblades were hard sculpture under ivory skin, and the interplay of light on working muscle was mesmerizing.

Snape tied off the bandages, lifted the white shirt and held it up to the fire, and Remus saw the bloody stains on it. He knew the pattern of the claw marks, and his fingers flexed involuntarily in response.

"You should get Poppy to see to those," he murmured, and realized he'd said it aloud when Snape whirled, face white as bone, eyes burning.

"Awake, are we?" Snape thrust his arms through the damaged shirt and buttoned it up with fast, jerking motions of his fingers, then shrugged on the robe as well. Remus watching in mild fascination. "Stop leering at me, Lupin. I'm not your type."

"Not a werewolf? No, I know that." Remus shut his eyes wearily. "Or did you mean something else?"

Snape didn't bother to answer. A rustle of cloth, a smell of harsh sweat, a copper jangle of blood buried deep underneath ... Snape's hand pressed his forehead, not nearly as gently as Dumbledore's had in the forest.

"You're still fevered," Snape said. "Pain?"

"No."

"There will be."

"I'll look forward to it. Why am I not in the infirmary?"

"Really, Lupin, I'd have thought you'd know better. Students troop in and out of the infirmary for everything from Mandrake bites to Quidditch scars. The Headmaster thought it best you be kept out of sight. Your quarters were inadequate." The lingering pressure of Snape's hand finally withdrew. Remus didn't open his eyes, but he felt the blankets being eased away, and sucked in a breath as harsh fingers probed a soft and barely-healing wound. "A few more scars for your collection. You're lucky."

"I dreamed – " Remus swallowed. "Sirius. Sirius was here."

No response from Snape, who walked away. Remus opened his eyes and saw that the blankets covering him were still disarranged. The result was an alarming number of bandages and an embarrassing amount of pale, scarred hip and leg left on display. His chest was heavily scored with claw marks. Padfoot. He felt a burn in his shoulder where the dog's teeth had gone deep.

"Yes, Black was here," Snape said. He was across the room, facing the fire again; his robe was open, and it looked for the world like a Muggle judge's, black with the white severe column of shirt from throat to waist. May God have mercy on your soul. "Here and gone. I'd suspect Potter in his escape, but -- "

"Harry?" Remus's heart twisted painfully in his chest. "The children – I remember turning on them – I didn't hurt them ...?"

Snape's dark eyes flashed with something that wasn't quite so simple as anger. "Luckily for you, no. Otherwise I'm sure you'd be having this conversation from a cell in Azkaban, with a Dementor ... Potter is fine, barring cuts and bruises. Weasley's leg was broken – oh, don't look so stricken, it was Black, not you, and Madame Pomfrey released him this morning in any case. Even Granger suffered little damage."

He was afraid to ask. "And Sirius?"

"Black escaped from the tower cell. But not to worry. I'm sure the Dementors are hot on his trail."

Remus let his head fall back to the pillow and struggled to breath evenly. The potion dulled panic, but it didn't entirely erase it. "Was he – was he badly hurt?"

"I have no idea. Nor do I care." Snape's eyes were bitter and saw far, far too much.

"He's innocent, you know."

"Of killing the Potters? Perhaps."

"All these years, innocent ... you wouldn't want even your worst enemy to endure that, would you? In Azkaban, with the Dementors?"

Even Snape had no reply to that. He turned back toward the fire, the gaping mouth of the serpent. He looked tired, Remus realized. No doubt he'd had no sleep since well before the incident in the Shrieking Shack; he'd been hurt then, and hurt again when Remus – when the wolf attacked. I'd have killed him. I'd have killed them all. Sirius had saved him from himself. Again.

"I need to find him," Remus murmured. His eyes closed, and he remembered – clearly, this time – Sirius's exhausted, drawn face, his matted long hair, his emaciated body. He wouldn't be able to run far, or fast. Have to protect him.

"You're not going anywhere," Snape said, and it sounded as if he'd Apparated to a great distance. "Not yet, in any case. Nor any time soon, if I have anything to say about it. The last thing this school needs is another scandal courtesy of you and Sirius Black."

Sirius ...

And then he was asleep.

He found, by the time that he was capable of walking on his own, that word of his condition had spread over Hogwarts like wildfire. Remus did not have to ask who was behind the rumors. Snape might not have revealed the secret himself, but he'd planted enough seeds early in the term to see it bear fruit. Exposure had been merely a matter of time.

"In his defense," Dumbledore said over tea in his study, on the last morning of Remus's tenure at Hogwarts, "Severus at the time believed quite strongly that you were helping Sirius gain access to the school, and that Sirius was determined to kill Harry. He acted for the good of the students as he saw it."

"He acted to create another vacancy in the Defense Against The Dark Arts position," Remus corrected with a faint, aching smile. He felt fragile, as if his bones had been replaced with china. "We both know how badly he wants it."

"Which is why he won't have it," Dumbledore said equitably. "At least, not yet. It does Severus a great deal of good to be frustrated, I've found."

"Do you really trust him?"

"Implicitly." Which, from Dumbledore, was an absolute. "As I trust you, Remus. As I once trusted Sirius."

"And now?"

"Ah. That's no longer a matter of guilt or innocence, you know. Twelve years in a place so devoid of hope or light as Azkaban will change a man." Dumbledore's crystal-blue eyes did not smile. "You should bear that in mind, Remus. He may be very unpredictable at present."

"I will." Remus sipped tea politely, but without much relish; Dumbledore liked it stronger than he preferred, and no amount of milk and sugar could offset the bitterness. "You know that the word is out about Hogwarts' resident werewolf, then?"

"Children talk. Alas, they also talk to their parents upon occasion."

Remus nodded. "I'll be leaving, then. Today."

"You're not well enough to steer a wise course just now. A few more days ..."

"If I stay, there will be demands from well-justified parents that you dismiss me. Allow me to keep some small measure of dignity, Albus. I'd rather leave than be sacked." He fiddled with the saucer and took another slow sip, willing his hands not to tremble. "And I'd rather die than put these children at risk again. It was my own fault ... I should have taken the potion, but Severus was late and I couldn't let the chance to catch Peter slip through my fingers. That's no excuse, of course. By my own decisions, I put the children of this school at terrible risk. I might have killed someone. You'd be quite right to sack me."

"I would not do that, Remus."

"I know." Remus smiled, and this time, he let his sadness show. "And I can't allow you to compromise yourself on my behalf. I'm not that important, you see. Harry is. You stand between him and the dark."

"As do you."

Remus slowly shook his head. "You forget, I'm a Dark Creature. Well, someday, perhaps, I might do my part. But not now. If I stay, I'm something they can use against you. Best I go my own way, and you can call on me when needed." He set the tea and saucer carefully on the side table, mindful of the still-seething kettle. It hooted steam and started to pour him a second cup; he forestalled it with a wave of his hand. "Please, don't try to talk me out of it. It's hard enough to leave here as it is. This is the only place I've felt ... human ... in a long time."

Dumbledore's mouth opened, shut, and for the first time Remus could remember, the old wizard looked briefly uncertain. He reached out a hand and put it on Remus's arm, and gripped tight. Patted twice.

"My boy," he murmured. "You were always the bravest of them, you know. And, in many ways, the best."

Remus, without thinking, covered Dumbledore's hand with his own, and they sat for a few moments in silence, remembering lost friends, before he recovered his cane and limped off to find some way to put a brave face on leaving behind the only home and security he'd ever really had.

In London, three weeks later, an owl arrived. Remus had conditioned himself not to expect good news, and to a large part he'd succeeded. He'd stopped searching for familiar faces on the street, or listening for the brush of wings on the night air bearing messages.

Having a tiny little barn owl land on his windowsill with a thick letter clutched in its bill tested that resolve to its limits.

"So who wants me, then?" he asked it. The owl regarded him with great tawny eyes, blinking slowly. "Not anyone I'd want to talk to, I'd wager. Well, thank you, my little one." He fed it, scratching the delicate place at the base of neck. The owl nipped gently at his fingers, hooted, and set off for its next destination.

He turned the letter over and saw it was addressed to R.J. LUPIN, REGISTERED LYCANTHROPE #4983.

The seal was from the Ministry of Magic.

He set it aside on the table and sat for some while just looking at it, then got up to pace around the narrow little bedsit, straightening piles of books where they leaned against the walls. He'd built some makeshift shelves of bricks and discarded boards, but there were never enough, of course. Books were his vice and his first love ... books and music. His beloved enchanted Muggle Victrola sat in the corner with its box of ancient records; he wondered what the appropriate soundtrack was, for such a thing. Night on Bald Mountain? March to the Gallows? Or perhaps one of Sirius's favorites. I see a red door, and I want to paint it black ...

He'd heard nothing at all of Sirius, beyond the wild rumors in the Daily Prophet. That still ached like an unhealed wound.

He turned away, walked back to the table and broke the seal on the letter. The paper inside was crisp and official, written in an elegant copperplate that was too lovely for the meaning it held.

By order of the Ministry of Magic, all werewolves are hereby ordered to report to one of the six (6) Werewolf Hospices (see attached list) no later than one (1) day prior to the beginning of the next full moon. All werewolves will be detained at said Hospices during the duration of the full moon, plus any necessary recuperative period, and will be henceforth required to conform to this schedule on an ongoing basis.

Penalties for noncompliance with these regulations include forcible imprisonment and treatment. Resistance will be met with use of magical force, up to and including the lethal use of silver.

The next page held a list of the Werewolf Hospices. One of them was in London, only a few blocks away. He'd walked past it once, stood at the gates and listened with wolf-sharp hearing. He'd heard nothing but the eerie silence of despair. He'd felt their attention on him, although no one was visible in the deserted yard, and had quickly walked away. They could find him, if they wanted. The tattoo on his arm ensured that – part identification, part tracking charm.

He sometimes woke up in the night, waiting for them to come.

The Ministry of Magic was not concerned with curing werewolves, other than by application of a silver bullet to the brain. He'd known far too many lycanthropes who'd interned themselves in a hospice, searching for care and comfort, and ended up on the monthly statistical report. Suicides, mostly. Some killed in self-defense – supposedly – by guards. No different from Azkaban, really, except they had committed no crime except to be unlucky.

He set the letter aside and stared out the window for a long, long time. He had only a little time to decide what he would do, but really, there wasn't much of a choice. If he defied the Ministry, his days were numbered. He'd kept up with the whispers in the werewolf community, and to date no one had succeeded in blocking or removing the tracking charm; the Ministry would find him easily enough, no matter where he went. He could fight it legally, he supposed. Arthur Weasley would be outraged enough to put himself on record against it; no doubt others would weigh in. There might be a public hearing, at which someone like Lucius Malfoy would, with cool relish, recount the events of a night at Hogwarts in which a werewolf ran loose and menaced three students on school property. And however much Harry, Ron and Hermione might want to deny it, they couldn't, could they? Because it was the truth.

He was dangerous. All of Snape's potions, the strong-room downstairs with its chains and locks ... none of it made much difference, really.

It only took one mistake.

The letter had a notation at the bottom. A hand-lettered deadline. As he watched, it counted down in a slow wash of minutes.

He could almost hear Sirius's voice -- the old Sirius, the one with the lunatic grin and broad sense of the appropriate -- saying, better get your joys in while you can, then, Moony.

It was good advice, really.

Remus poured himself a drink.

The countdown on the letter was mesmerizing, really. Ironic, that he was focused on watching the numbers turn, and completely forgot the time, until a sharp pop of Apparition pierced the air and reminded him.

Severus Snape was due to arrive with his monthly dose of wolfsbane.

"Hello, Severus," he murmured, and set down the empty glass he was turning in his fingers.

Snape adjusted his robes in an ill-tempered flourish and swept him with a look that just verged on contempt. "Ah. Lupin. At least you have the courtesy to be at home at the appointed time."

"A miracle, with my busy social whirl," Remus agreed. "But you've wasted a trip. I don't think I'll be needing your potion this month."

"Don't be ridiculous." Snape took a vial from his pocket; it swirled with a poison-pale liquid. Captured moonlight, reflecting in opal glints. "I know you have an inflated idea of your own self-control, but -- "

Remus silently handed over the Ministry letter. Snape took it, tilted it toward a guttering lamp and read it with swift, cutting movements of his black eyes. When he was finished, he gazed into middle distance and handed it back. "I see," he said. Nothing in his voice. "What will you do?"

Remus shrugged. "What can I do?"

"You do realize that once they have you inside, they don't have to let you out again?"

"Yes."

"And that the two men in charge of administration of the Werewolf Hospices are former Death Eaters?"

He had not, in fact, known that, but it did not come as much of a surprise. "I suspect that it's got to do with You-Know-Who's agenda, yes. I remember the last time. They focused on the outcasts first ... werewolves, unlicensed hedge witches. Then Mudbloods. It's part of the escalation."

"And yet you would just turn yourself over to them."

"Better the hospice than Azkaban. Or a silver bullet through the brain."

Snape had gone just a shade paler, or perhaps that was Remus's imagination. "Don't play the martyr, Lupin, it doesn't suit you. What about Black?"

"What?"

"I presume you've been in contact with him. What does he have to say about this?"

Remus shifted his gaze from the fire and met Snape's eyes directly. "I haven't seen Sirius since the Shrieking Shack," he said. "And I'll thank you to stay out of my personal business."

"Personal business? Or personal affairs?" Snape shot back nastily. "You're giving yourself up just because Black has slighted you? Tell me this isn't some lovestruck suicidal tendency you're indulging in, like some arrant schoolgirl. It's not only beneath you, it's pathetic to witness."

Without willing it, Remus moved. Moon-bred quickness. His long, strong fingers closed around Snape's scrawny neck and shoved him back against the wall. "Pathetic?" he breathed. "You dare speak to me of pathetic, you self-centered, superior, cold, jealous little -- "

"Jealous?" Snape hissed, and pressed the tip of his wind against the fast-beating pulse at the side of Remus's neck. "Have a care, Lupin. What precisely would I ever be jealous of? You fucking Sirius Black?" He made a low, crackling chuckle deep in his throat that vibrated against Remus's unyielding grip. "Unless, of course, you prefer he fucks you. Top or bottom?"

"Shut up."

"Ashamed? That's sensible. Wanting to shag a loathsome, filthy skeleton of a creature like -- "

"SHUT UP!" His hands tightened of their own accord, and for a second he was honestly terrified of his own capacity for violence. This wasn't the wolf inside of him, it was the wounded, desperate, frightened man, driven beyond endurance.

"Let go, or I swear I'll destroy you." Snape's voice was mangled by Remus's grip on his neck. The wand jabbed hard, in unmistakable warning, and Remus loosed his hand and stepped away, breathing hard. The green glow whispering around the tip of the wood left no doubt of Snape's sincerity.

"Avada Kedavra, Severus?" he asked. "I didn't think you hated me that much."

"Stop trying to introduce my Adam's apple to my backbone, and I won't." Snape lowered the wand, and the green glow flickered out. "He's not coming to your rescue, Lupin, any more than you came to his in Azkaban. Don't make the same mistake. Don't put yourself in the Ministry's hands."

"What else can I do?" he spat furiously, and turned away, stalking the room in fast, agitated strides. "If I don't report by moonrise tomorrow night, they'll find me. Not even Albus Dumbledore can keep them from tracking me down. Where am I supposed to hide?"

"Pettigrew managed to hide from everyone for twelve years."

"Yes, because everyone though he was -- "

Silence. Perfect, ringing silence. Snape didn't blink as Remus turned slowly to meet his stare.

"Dead," Remus finished softly, contemplatively.

"If you're thinking of cutting off a finger and staging some grand gesture, I doubt that will – "

"No," Remus interrupted him. "I'm thinking of suicide."

Snape was silent, watching him. A bit of a frown beginning to crease his high, pale brow.

"I know something about the Ministry's attitude toward werewolves," Remus continued. "Better off dead, and all that. All it takes is an official death certification, and the records are closed."

"All it takes?" Snape echoed mockingly. "Don't be stupid. They're well aware of what it takes to kill a werewolf. Silver – "

"Or an overdose of wolfsbane," Remus finished, and tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "In a potion."

"Don't you dare involve me in this. I may not hold you in high regard, but I'm hardly willing to be your murderer."

"The potion you give me every month contains a near-fatal amount of wolfsbane."

"Near."

"Are you saying it's beyond your ability to create a potion that simulates death?"

Snape regarded him with furious, unblinking focus for a long moment, a faint flush building in his cheeks, and then turned his back and folded his arms. "Of course not. But simulating death and convincing the Ministry are two very different things."

"All we need is an Auror's certification."

"No. The Ministry will require your body be viewed throughout the full moon. If you change – "

"Can you do it or not?" Remus interrupted flatly. "Can you brew a potion that will make me appear dead for that long?"

"Not without risking the real thing."

"Ah," Remus whispered. "Risking. So it's only a matter of odds."

"Speaking of odds, Lupin, is this an elaborate form of depression? The suicide rate for werewolves is extremely high, or so I'm told."

Seventy-two percent within the first ten years, Remus wanted to tell him, but restrained himself. He knew the statistics by heart. The Ministry kindly furnished them on a regular basis, under the guise of wanting to provide counseling; like the hospices, their concern was a soft, sticky trap. He'd beaten the odds, over and over.

It seemed like a betrayal to use them in his favor now. Like stealing hope from those who hardly had enough to live on themselves.

"Can you brew the potion?" he asked Snape. "Or shall I pack a few things to take with me to the hospice and wait for them to start experimenting?"

Snape hissed in fury and stalked away, robes swirling. "Of course I can brew the potion, you twit. That's hardly the point. It will probably kill you, and it will certainly be the most horrible agony you can imagine, and it will quite possibly drive you insane. Beyond that, I see no difficulty at all. Have you considered cutting off your arm?"

"Have you?" Lupin replied. "I'm not the only one with my past burned into my skin."

Snape turned back on him, eyes sparking with anger. He extended his left arm and unbuttoned the sleeve, then skinned it up to reveal a pallid forearm, a black smudged shadow on flesh. "I use my past. It doesn't use me. You might learn something from that."

The Dark Mark. He could see the outline of the skull, the blurred form of the snake emerging from its mouth. He'd known Snape had it, of course, but seeing the reality was far different. A sobering reminder of just how much Snape risked at every turn.

He tore his eyes away from the mark of evil disfiguring that ivory flesh, and met the man's black, impenetrable eyes. "Then let me," he said. "I can't live like this any more, not at their mercy. If I'm going to be of the slightest use to anyone, I have to be alive to do it. This is my best chance, Severus. My only chance. Are you going to help me? If not, thank you much, ta, bugger off."

Snape yanked down his cuff and buttoned it with quick, jerky motions, avoiding his eyes. "I never said I wouldn't."

Remus supposed that he should have expected that Snape might elect to brew such a delicate and dangerously restricted potion in situ rather than at Hogwarts, but it still caught him by surprise when Snape Apparated in a rather large crate of materials, which included a special, highly burnished cauldron, several bottles of ingredients, and ...

"Incense?" Remus asked, picking up a packet at random. "Did you bring the grass as well?"

Snape shot him a filthy look and plucked it from his fingers. "I'm not regressing to our school days, Lupin. You'll find that incense counteracts the fumes of the potion. Trust me, you'll thank me later."

"Ah, well, then, I'll just put on the Rolling Stones for old times sake, then."

Snape ignored him. He cleared a space on Remus's table -- Remus hastily rescued the discarded books -- and set up the cauldron and magical burner with quick, efficient movements. He was methodical about his ingredients. Remus settled himself into a dusty armchair to watch as the man turned each bottle at a precise angle, labels clearly visible, and arranged them in an order known only to himself. He laid out measuring spoons, some designed for quantities as small as a child's fingernail, at regimented intervals across the table.

The elaborate preparations took the better part of an hour, by which time Remus had tired of watching and reached for the comfort and companionship of an Anne Perry novel. There were times -- frequent times -- when her characters reminded him of people he knew. Particularly in their flaws.

"I'm ready to begin," Snape said at last, and when Remus looked up he saw that the potions master had shed his heavy black robe and was down to white shirtsleeves and black trousers, with his cuffs folded back carefully up to his elbows. It was impossible not to focus on the black smear of the Dark Mark; Remus looked away from it immediately, but Snape had caught the glance, of course. The man's thin lips tightened almost into invisibility. "I will need to work undisturbed."

"I understand," Remus said, and marked his place with a long forefinger in the book before he rose to his feet. "Do you need anything?"

"Silence," Snape said. "And your absence."

Remus nodded and removed himself to the kitchen, where he busied himself with a cold dinner of the last of the canned ham and some buttery cheese; he wished for honey, but that was an indulgence he hadn't been able to afford for years now. Weak hot tea, a little milk, and up to bed.

The room was cold, and outside the window the moon rode high and nearly full; he put his hand on the glass to feel the chill glow of it. Not quite enough to bring on any physical changes, but he could feel himself growing restless, anxious, nervous.

The thought of Snape downstairs, brewing up death, might have had something to do with it, of course.

He bathed with deliberate luxury -- a full tub of hot water, an hour spent in the slow-cooling water reading by the light of flickering lamps. Over the cool, clean scent of the soaps he began to smell something else, something with a dark and rotting core. If Snape expected incense to counter that, he had a foolishly high opinion of patchouli.

The smell became chokingly strong. Remus drained the tub, dried himself with his single, rough towel and fluffed his hair to dry it, and walked naked into the bedroom.

To find Severus Snape standing there, in white shirt and black trousers, looking pale and oddly vulnerable. "I need the use of your bath," he said, and didn't even have the decency to turn his back. "Now."

He sounded shaken. Badly so. Remus grabbed his threadbare robe from its hook on the door and shrugged it on, belted it closed with fast, angry movements. "Oh, by all means, be my -- " guest, he was to say, when Snape suddenly collapsed to his knees on the wooden floor.

Snape looked up as Remus crouched down. For once, Snape looked utterly defenseless. Pale as moonlight, eyes like wells of darkness. "Water," he whispered, and held up his hands.

They were horribly disfigured. Reddened, blisters already bubbling in thick layers. The burn -- if it was a burn -- was coiling up the pale ivory skin of his forearms like smoke. Moving under the skin.

Remus grabbed him and dragged him bodily into the bath, threw him into the tub and turned the taps on. Full cold. Snape, shuddering, held his hands under the icy flow.

"What happened?" Remus demanded. Snape shook his head. "What can I do?"

"S-scrub," he stammered. "Get it off."

Remus grabbed a cloth and began to rub, gently at first, then harder. He winced in sympathy as Snape flinched, but continued. The swirling discoloration faded on his arms, as if sinking heavily back into his hands.

"Harder," Snape insisted. Remus set his teeth and scrubbed. The blisters began to pop -- grotesquely -- the poison drained away under the relentless flow of water.
It took half an hour before Snape indicated, with a shuddering nod, that the thing was done, and Remus shut off the tap.

"What happened?" he asked. Snape's eyes were shut tight, and his whole body was trembling. Cold or agony, Remus couldn't tell. "Don't tell me you made a mistake, Severus. You may not have to brew up a potion to kill me, that revelation alone might just do the trick."

Snape's pale lips attempted a smile, and failed miserably. "Inadequate ... venting," he whispered. "Had to ... skim off a layer."

"Might've used gloves."

"Did," Snape said, and opened his eyes. "I did warn you. A dangerous potion."

"This dangerous? Do you mean to tell me that you risk this every month when you -- "

"Shut up."

" -- when you brew this for me?" Remus continued relentless, fueled by shock and no small amount of anger. "You stupid, arrogant -- it doesn't even stop the transformation! Don't you understand? It's not a cure! It's not worth the risk!"

"I know exactly what it is, Lupin!" Snape yelled back, eyes blazing. "I've seen what you're like when you turn, don't forget that! And if I can spare -- if I can protect even one innocent from you -- "

That wasn't what he'd been intending to say. Remus saw the split-second hesitation, the flash of panic in his face.

If I can spare ...

"Spare who?" Remus asked, very quietly. "Spare me?"

Snape fumbled his way to a standing position, shedding water; his clothes clung to him miserably from mid-chest to booted feet. "My wand is downstairs," he said, and gestured at his clothes. "If you don't mind ..."

Remus waved his hand in a precisely calculated pattern, formed the proper incantation in his mind -- easily done, as he must have performed it a thousand times on himself over the years -- and the moisture cascaded away from Snape in a single, convulsive wave, neck to waist. Snape frowned down at his dried clothes, touched them tentatively with a still-reddened hand, and said, "Impressive. But then wandless magic always was your strong suit. You have the hands for it."

Remus steadied him as he stepped out of the tub, for which Snape failed to thank him, and for an instant the pressure of a warm body against his was overwhelming. So long since ... That single, convulsive embrace in the Shrieking Shack with Sirius had triggered something inside of him. It was as if every nerve ending had come maddeningly alive, after a long, cold winter of torpor.

He moved back, jerked the ties of his robe hard to cinch it tighter, and walked out, leaving Snape to follow. "Try not to fall down again," he said. "You'll shatter my illusions completely. First altruism, then -- "

"Remus."

He could not recall, at any time ever, Severus Snape calling him by his first name. It had always been Lupin, delivered with that rich, drawling contempt of a Pureblood for a mongrel. More, it wasn't only the name, it was the tone. Dark, quiet, almost gentle.

He turned and looked. Snape was standing in the bathroom doorway, clutching the frame in one hand as if it was all that was keeping him on his feet. Which it might well have been.

"If I can spare you pain, I will," Snape said. "Do you understand that?"

He nodded, unable to speak. There was something new in the room between them, something fragile and easily broken.

He did not move as Snape walked slowly past him to the bedroom door. He listened to the footsteps that proceeded very carefully down the narrow treads.

I never knew, he thought. I never even suspected it.

He wasn't sure whether he was horrified or fascinated.

Or both.

By the morning, the apartment reeked of patchouli and an undertone of sweet, white-hot rotten things, and Remus made breakfast in the kitchen in utter silence. Tea and toast and eggs, which was all he had. The last bit of blackberry jam. It looked pitiful, and he supposed that it was; if it had just been him, he'd have eaten half a slice of bread and forgotten supper, been unable to eat at all before moonrise ...

I'm treating him like a guest. How strange.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and saw Snape looking into the kitchen. He was back in his robe again, buttoned and fully armored, but he looked deathly tired.

"It's finished," Snape said, and lowered himself into one of the battered kitchen chairs with a sigh. He looked around, judging the neat but painfully cheap room without his usual sneer. Perhaps he's too weary to feel superior. "No use in trying it quite yet. We'll need to arrange for some reliable witnesses to your unfortunate demise. Tonks would do, for a start. She can certify the death and have your remains delivered to the Ministry. After that ... if this works properly, someone will be able to claim your pallid corpse after three days. From there it's simply a matter of paperwork."

Remus poured tea and levitated a cup across the table; Snape retrieved it gracefully from the air but set it down quickly, to disguise the trembling of his hands. They looked better this morning, though still seriously painful. "I hate to insult you by asking, but how exactly do I come back from the dead?"

"The potion isn't powerful enough to kill a werewolf, not alone. It will simulate death very effectively, even to inducing rigor mortis. It will also keep you from changing for the duration of the full moon. But its effectiveness will wear off thereafter, and you'll -- " Snape sipped tea and smirked. "-- wake up."

"Why do I think it won't be quite as simple as that?"

"Because, unlike your idiot Marauder friends, you're not altogether a fool."

Remus offered toast. Snape took two. They chewed and swallowed in weary silence for a while, and then Remus said, without looking up from his rather runny eggs, "I never changed my will. Sirius is my executor. I presume you can act on my behalf."

"You trust me to do so?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." The low sound Snape made was intimate, almost indecently so. "I don't suppose it will be too much of a bother. It doesn't seem as if you have assets to dispose of. One decent rubbish bin should take care of the lot."

Remus looked up and caught the glitter of humor in dark eyes before they were hooded again, silent and unreadable.

"Save the albums," he said. "And I'll kill you if you touch my books."

I'm trusting Severus Snape with my life, Remus thought, with a kind of strengthless desperation. The afternoon was wearing toward evening, and he could feel moonrise spinning toward him, relentless and cold. He watched Snape pour off a milk-white potion from his cauldron. It was just enough for half a glass.

"Is that enough?" he asked, as Snape held it up to the light.

"Enough to kill several hundred men," Snape said. "Or one of you, temporarily. You really are fiendishly difficult to dispatch properly."

The instant Remus's fingers brushed cool glass, a kind of stillness took hold of him, even though he could feel moonrise pulling at him, body and mind. Something inside relaxed and ceased to scream. Had he really been thinking about this for so long? Had there always been some part of him craving this ... release?

Snape didn't speak for a few, long seconds, and then dropped his hand back to his side. "Drink it in one gulp. Try not to taste it. It's -- unpleasant."

Remus nodded. The smell of the potion -- floral and thick and somehow oddly soothing -- cut like a clean blade.

"Remus," Snape said. Even the second time, the sound of his first name was startling, coming from that mouth. "It ... isn't painless."

"That's all right," Remus said gently. It was, really. "Just tell me it's fast."

"Yes. It is fast."

Remus nodded, managed a smile that probably looked as dreadful as it felt, and raised the glass to his lips.

"Wait," Snape said, at the last instant, and grabbed his arm. Took the goblet and set it aside carefully on the table, next to the cauldron. "One last thing."

And Snape kissed him. It was not a gentle kiss -- it was a demanding, arrogant kiss, dark with need, and it completely overran Remus's defenses. His lips parted, damp and needing more, desperately craving touch and taste and sensation, and the taste, ah God, the taste of the man was sharp and bitter and went straight to his head and straight to his groin, and between the panicked babble of his mind screaming stop this, stop it now! and the urgent sudden rigidity of his cock, he was frozen in place, content to kiss and be kissed, as thoroughly as he ever had been in his life.

Poison-sweet, those lips, and how he could have ever thought of them as cold ...

Snape moaned, deep in his throat, and sucked on his tongue with a fury that shocked Remus, left him weak-kneed and utterly primal, God, and then he had Snape against the wall and his hands were on those buttons, a thousand of them, a maddening confusion of buttons that he ripped away in handfuls. Snape was gasping now, breath hot against Remus's throat, tongue and teeth brushing lines of fire on his skin, and Remus found the cool blessing of skin under all the heavy layers of cloth.

Oh God. Oh God, yes.

"Lupin," Snape murmured, and it was half a curse, half a prayer, sacred and profane together. "You mongrel bastard ..."

Remus wrapped his long, sensitive fingers over the thick velvet heat of Snape's cock, and insults died to whimpers.

"On me or in me." Remus kissed him again, ruthlessly, as he stroked, up and down, slow tight slides of fingers and cock and fist. "On me or in me, Severus. You choose."

"God. On," Snape whispered shakily. His hands -- sore as they were -- were busy at the buttons of Remus's trousers, shoving away obstructions.

Remus put his hands flat against the wall, to either side of Snape's head, and leaned body to body with him, hard planes and flat angles, neither of them padded, neither of them meant for comfort. Scars and pain and fury. Poison and fire.
It was not love, this fast and desperate friction, their cocks rubbing each other into frenzy, their mouths devouring. It was not love, and it was a kind of sweat-hot despair.

God, the friction ... sweet hard hot flesh, stroking to madness, over and over, he felt Snape's breath catch and tremble and then the explosion, hot and wet, and his followed in a fiery fast burst. His knees sagged and trembled. They were pressed so hard on each other that there would be bruises later, evidence of something that was not, and would never be, love. Only need.

"I always wanted you," Snape said, and it was so naked, so vulnerable that it made Remus flinch.

He caught his breath and leaned his forehead against Snape's, felt the other man shaking, and whispered, "I'm sorry." Sorry that this was all he had. All he could ever give. Sorry that even now, he couldn't bring himself to

Snape turned his face away, and when Remus pushed back, he walked away, up the stairs to the bath.

Mongrel. Remus tasted that bitter in his mouth, and looked down at the wet glitter of their mixed seed on his flat scarred stomach.

It should have meant something more. Anything more.

He felt nothing but a kind of vague regret.

He wiped himself clean with a damp cloth in the kitchen and buttoned decently, and went back into the living room to wait.

When Snape returned, he was in shirt and trousers again, no sign of the torn black robe. They were back to that chilled, strict distance, and if anything, Snape's distaste for him was even more pronounced.

And Remus held himself back, as he'd held back his heart and given only his body.

The polite lie of it was heartbreaking.

"Severus -- " he began.

Snape had the goblet in his hand and was offering it. No words. His stare was fierce and unforgiving.

But what they had done was pain enough for both of them, and there was no mercy in this at all.

Remus threw back the potion in one smooth motion.

It was like swallowing a Killing Curse, and he felt it combust inside of him, building strength, eating away tissue and bone and dissolving him into screaming red ruin and oh God it hurt, Merlin, please, no ... he collapsed and felt his lungs working faster, gasping for air. Sirius? A dream-brush against his skin, a cool pressure of lips. Sirius, help me, I can't do this alone.

And just as if Sirius had spoken softly in his ear: You're not alone, you daft bastard. Open your eyes.

Snape was holding him – despised, greasy, self-interested Snape. Whose black eyes – no longer cold – were watching him with so much anguish that it was hard to understand ... understand ...

If I can spare you pain, I will.

"I'm sorry," Snape told him, and held him in his arms as Remus's body spasmed and fought and died, inch by inch, the wolf inside howling to the last. "I won't fail you."

Like crawling out of a grave, in the cold rain.

Like the taste of rot and dirt in his mouth.

Like dying.

"Remus."

Moonlight, shredding him into white bone and red flesh.

"Remus!"

Knowing everything, everything, oh God, every moment of death, every wormtail whisper of evil.

Someone was weeping, and the tears were hot enough to raise sores on his skin. Hands stroked him, trailing fire, God, he was so cold ...

"Remus, you bastard, WAKE UP!"

A hot wind inside of him, pure with purpose and rich with desire. Someone was breathing into him, lips urgent on his, not a kiss, no, this was life, life ...

He coughed it out and breathed it in, the rich warm smell of skin, of tears and bitterness and scars and stains, and heard someone weeping again, felt hands all over him, felt lips fastening to his but not to breathe, to give thanks and hope and love.

He knew that kiss. Knew the taste.

"Sirius," he whispered, and felt himself held fast and tight in shaking arms, rocked like a child. Cold as clay, and warm as a star.

"Shut up, you bastard, oh God, Remus, God ..." That beard, scratchy against his face. Sirius's burning lips warming him. "You bloody fucking fool!"

Sirius. Older, scarred by time, gray threaded here and there in the thick black hair that still flowed too long, down to his shoulders. Tired, anguished eyes.
Holding him in his arms.

"Alive," Remus said. The one word meant everything, somehow. "Where -- " But he knew, from the arid dusty smell of the place, the aura of ancient wood and old pain. Shrieking Shack. Of course. Where else would they go, two dead men running from hell?

"You let that fucking bastard poison you!" Sirius was shouting at him with tears in his eyes. "How stupid are you? How could you -- "

"Shut up," Remus said wearily, and leaned against Sirius's shoulder. Warm flesh, the slightly ripe odor of a Sirius gone without bathing facilities in a few days; he was certainly no better. The sight of his hands lying limp and still in his lap made him lightheaded. They looked blue. Blue and cold and dead. "Worked, didn't it?"

Sirius was unashamedly weeping again, holding him, hot tears scalding his collarbone. Remus, with infinite patience and concentration, got one cold hand to move, to lay itself on the sun-hot flesh of Sirius's cheek. His fingers curled in the thick, heavy mat of Sirius's hair.

"You thought I was dead."

"You bloody well were dead!" Sirius curled around him protectively. His hands and eyes were fierce.

Remus's fingers tangled in warmth. "Scare you?"

Sirius kissed him, and yes, that was the taste, that was the thing that he couldn't find anywhere else, the perfect whisper in his soul. Stupid, maybe. Wrong-headed and perverted and disastrous, and dear Merlin, loving Sirius Black was a one-way ticket to hell, but he didn't care.

From somewhere in the shadows, a dry velvet voice drawled, "Forgive me for interrupting, but if I don't leave now I'll gag to death."

Remus turned his head and saw Snape, standing quietly in the shadows, face pale and composed and utterly unreadable. If there was pain, it was well hidden. He hides things from Voldemort. It's no challenge to hide them from us.

"Severus," he said, and managed to sit up. Cold and clumsy and stiff with death. "I -- " He wanted to say, I'm sorry I can't be who you want me to be. I'm sorry I tried, because that's just made it worse. I'm sorry I can't feel something for you ... But he did feel something after all, seeing the blank glittering mask that Snape used to hide from him.

Against all odds, he felt a surge of anguish and loss for Severus bloody Snape.

I always wanted you.

I'm sorry.

"If you thank me, I shall certainly vomit," Snape said carefully. "Tonks brought word yesterday. The Ministry has officially listed you as a suicide, and she saw the tracking charm deactivated herself. You are now as free as you will ever be, Lupin. Which is, all things considered, about as free as him." A poisonous glare at Sirius, whose arms tightened around Remus's chest. "Take care not to make too much of it. I doubt even a werewolf could afford to cheat death twice."

He turned and left the room in a swirl of dust and black, and Remus thought that surely he would look back.

He didn't.

Sirius settled Remus more comfortably in his arms. They were sitting on a bare mattress, an ancient thing that dated from their Marauder days, and in the corner Remus's old piano gathered dust and bird's nests, and sunlight striped warmth and golden haze across their bodies.

"Bastard," Sirius said. Whether he meant Snape or Remus was unclear.

Remus closed his eyes and let himself relax into the warmth. "We have a lot to talk about," he said.

"About a dozen years' worth of talking," Sirius's voice rumbled against his skin. "And why by Merlin's hairy arse you let that snake feed you poison is discussion topic number one."

Impossible not to hear the hate in Sirius's voice. He'll never forgive Snape. Mi>Or me, for loving Snape just a little. He'd forgive me for anything else ... It was dishonest not to tell him, but the words stuck hard in Remus's throat.

"You could do with a bath," he heard himself say, in a light, careless voice. And knew he'd made the choice to lie, even by omission.

Sirius's lips touched his ear and woke a spark of heat somewhere deep. "Not so daisy-fresh yourself, dead man."

"Don't suppose there's a working tub." Sirius, for an answer, produced a familiar-looking black wand. Remus blinked. "Isn't that Snape's?"

"Yeah. Think he'll come asking for it back?"

The tub, the hot water, the soap and dinner all proved to be as simple as wishes.

And afterward they lay spent, tangled together in hearts and flesh and swallowed moans. Remus stroked Sirius's wild, sweat-damp hair and thought, all that isn't ended can be mended. He'd heard a wise man say that, once. Maybe, with effort, even the gap between Sirius and Snape might be lessened, if not closed.

"Don't leave me, Moony," Sirius whispered, and Remus felt his lips burn on scars left by the past. There would be more, he knew. More scars, more pain.

"I won't," he promised. "Don't you leave me."

"Never happen."

I'll hold you to it.

Remus shut his eyes on moonlight, and slept as the Shack sighed and groaned its lullaby.

-end-

Email:  juliefortune@comcast.net