Sinope's Fiction: valley of dry bones (the fever dream cut)

Title: valley of dry bones (the fever dream cut)
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating: R
Pairing: Lupin/Snape
Summary: Four months in which Remus doesn't take Wolfsbane, and one month in which he does.
Author's notes: Remix of The Fever of the Bone, by Ellen Fremedon, for Remix/Redux IV.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.

"You were the closest place I knew," Snape says when he knocks on the door to Remus's cottage, half-dead from blood loss and exhaustion.

What he means, Remus thinks, is that if anyone could find a traitor and murderer on their doorstep and greet him with a glass of water instead of a hex, it would be Remus. Then he opens the door, because he doesn't have the strength to prove Snape wrong.

Snape's even more injured than he looked through the peephole, and his black-haloed form against the blacker night, hair clinging to his forehead with dried blood, would unnerve Remus if he had anything to fear these days. "Come in," he says, and deja vu flashes through his memory: vampires soliciting entrance through verbal permission. The thought's absurd. Remus pushes it away and fetches bandages and healing solution.

They don't speak for the whole time that Remus treats Snape's wounds, save the low clinical murmurs of "there?" and "no, lower," and "I think there's internal -" and "- yes, under the ribs." Remus contemplates telling Snape that it wouldn't be safe to stay here long, but it's both obviously unnecessary and a complete lie. No one comes here any more, now that Harry's abroad, Dumbledore's gone, and Tonks - well. She doesn't visit often, now that she's decided she was only second-hand pickings after her cousin's death.

"Do you need water?" he says instead, once the last gash has been disinfected and stitched, but Snape's already asleep.

Remus levitates Snape to his bed and places a glass of water on a table within arm's reach. Then he walks to the front room armchair and returns to his book, a piece of shamelessly tawdry fiction, so engaging that he'll be able to keep himself awake until he's almost too exhausted to remember his dreams.

When Remus wakes in the armchair, the immediate rush of exquisitely present pain informs him that he's not dead yet. I suppose Severus is still asleep, then, he thinks, but the black-clad form peering into the cellar door across the room proves him wrong. It would be difficult, he supposes, to blame the gouged and splintered door on a particularly vicious cat (the excuse had always worked for his scars while shopping in the village).

"I should think that Black's fortune would pay for a steady supply of Wolfsbane at a minimum, if Potter cared to notice," Snape says in a tone that manages to combine disdain for Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, and all commercial potions brewers in one breath.

Remus quietly straightens the cuff of his shirt, hiding the bandages that begin to show. "Do you need anything to eat or drink?" he asks.

"Don't be ridiculous. You provided me with medical aid, and you don't even appear to have alerted the Order of my presence, though I can't imagine why. Reciprocating the favor is the least I can do for the pleasure of not waking to the sight of the Potter child."

"Reciprocating." The word feels strange in Remus' mouth - almost as strange, he imagines, as it sounded coming from Snape. He imagines Snape healing him, using the hands that killed Dumbledore to bandage his scars, and the thought makes something deep inside him bubble with stifled fury. "All right," Remus says, and his face never changes.

As Snape's hands unravel the sticky bandages and repair the wounds, he speaks in a muted, clinical voice. "This would not normally be my first choice. In the raid last night, Nott had a clear shot at Potter's back. He would not have missed. I stunned him, but I was seen by Quirke; I had to Obliviate him, too. Had I returned to the Dark Lord with these injuries, I would have been discovered."

If he were an Auror, if he were James or Lily or Sirius, Remus would have asked Snape why he saved Harry's life. He would have questioned him about Dumbledore, tried to discover how he could serve two masters when one was dead. Remus does none of this; he rebuttons his shirt, straightens his cuffs, and tells Snape thank-you and goodbye. He's too tired to realize, at that point anyway, that he just saved Dumbledore's murderer's life, and that Harry would never forgive him if he knew.

When Remus was young and new to the moon-cycles, he developed a terror of the waxing moon; the days before the full moon simmered with energy as he cried and clawed at his own skin and tried to put off the inevitable changes of time. Eventually, though, he learned to calm himself through counting, for when the time until the moon-change became quantifiable and calculable, it seemed to lose some of its spectre-like power. Remus thought he'd abandoned that habit many years ago, silenced the voice in his head that counted downward in cycles of one hundred.

These past months, though, have consisted of nothing but counting: the count of days since the full moon, as his injuries heal and his painkiller use decreases, and the count of days until the next full moon, when still-pink scars will be rent anew. Today is the twenty-sixth day since the last full moon, the third day before the next, and Remus is rinsing out a teacup when he hears the knock at the door.

He can smell the Wolfsbane Potion even before he turns the latch, but he assumes that it's Harry or even Tonks or Bill Weasley, struck by a mood of philanthropy. Instead, Snape's on the other side, bearing a small cauldron of potion and an indecipherable expression. His injuries look about as healed as Remus' - which is to say, magically smooth on the outside, but probably still itching under the skin.

Remus invites him in, but does not take his gift. "You don't need to do that," he says, nodding at the Wolfsbane.

"And you don't need to do that," Snape retorts, gesturing at the now-reinforced cellar door. "If you're really so intent on killing yourself, I can provide you with the appropriate potion."

For a moment, Remus almost considers it, but death isn't what he wants; death has already been too cruel to him for him to consider embracing it. "I'm not trying to kill myself. The Change comes more easily when I don't remember it."

A shadow falls over Snape's eyes, and Remus thinks he's struck a chord. "Then for the love of Merlin," Snape says, "get proper medical treatment for your escapes from nostalgia."

"Was that an offer?" Remus smiles slightly.

Instead of answering, Snape sneers, sets the cauldron down on the floor, and turns his back to leave. Remus is almost certain that the gesture's a "yes," so he asks, before Snape can cross the threshold and Apparate, "Why are you doing this, Severus?"

Remus can't see his expression when he answers. "Because Dumbledore would have wanted me to."

Then the man's gone, and only the heady stench of Wolfsbane remains.

Snape's there when the moon sets and the sun rises, healing Remus' wounds with quiet and concentration. He says nothing, not even the rebuke that Remus expected for rejecting the potion, and the silence grows so tangible that Remus finally forces himself to break it. "Did the man you Obliviated ever recover his memory?"

"Not yet. However, only Nott and I were in the area, so the Dark Lord suspects one of the three of us: Nott for missing intentionally and hexing Quirke and himself, Quirke for feigning amnesia, and me."

"Ah." Remus understands what isn't said; between the three alibis, Severus' is the shakiest. Most likely, only the incident with Dumbledore keeps him from disfavor - but that, surely, could not have been the only reason why Dumbledore died? Instead of pursuing that strand of thought, Remus changes the subject. "Wouldn't you be noticed, brewing Wolfsbane and visiting me?"

To that, Snape gives a rough, short laugh. "The Dark Lord does not have the pension or the inclination to give his Death Eaters monetary support. Since losing my teaching salary so abruptly, I've been brewing potions for a selective but less than reputable clientele; this is widely known. House visits are not uncommon."

Remus falls silent again, feeling the analgesic hum of healing charms on his skin, too precise to be tender. He says, finally, "I don't envy your life."

Snape raises a wry eyebrow in the general direction of the cellar door, and he pulls Remus' bandages snug around his chest. "Nor I yours."

After that, there's not much left to say, beyond - whispered, so Snape can ignore it if he chooses - "thank you."

Each month's transformation seems harder than the last, and the next month is no exception. When Remus opens human eyes at sunrise, it's all he can do to fumble open the fiddly locks of his cellar door before collapsing on the stairs. His last thought, less a tangible memory than the recognition of a burden reshouldered, is "Sirius."

When Remus wakes, he realizes that he's dead. The pain's gone, and he's warm, a warmth that glows from his toes and fingers and spine - but more than that, he's loved. It's like when Sirius held him, before Azkaban, in the early hours of the morning when Remus could pretend that he belonged to Sirius and Sirius belonged to him alone. It's more than that, and better. Inexplicably, heaven makes Remus want to weep.

It takes the distant growl of an automobile to nudge Remus' brain onto a logical path, still befuddled with sleep. Automobiles oughtn't be in heaven, but there are automobiles here, which means that - Oh. Remus holds his limbs rigidly still as he realizes that he is very alive, very awake, very naked, and very firmly ensconced in the arms of one Severus Snape.

The subtle tension of muscles seems to be enough to wake the other man, though, because the body around Remus immediately stiffens, and the moment's gone. Not unwelcome, though, as much as Remus wishes he could casually reject the pleasant intimacy of skin against another's skin. "Thank you," he says, more a murmur from one body to another than a verbalized word.

"I apologize for the -" Snape starts to say, but Remus interrupts him.

"Shhhh - listen, you can hear the village church bell. Just listen." And indeed they can hear it, a melody so distant it could almost have been imagined, but mostly Remus (selfishly) doesn't want Severus to move (ever). It's foolish of him to reimagine medical care as emotional caring, Remus knows, but this morning makes the temptation irresistible.

They lie like that for a long time, longer than Remus expected or hoped, until the dawn-light coming through the window turns into a solid mid-morning sun. The quiet gives Remus time to think. He's too old for the false humility that says he doesn't deserve this sort of thing, and he's too weary for the pride that says it's wrong to enjoy things that won't ever be his. Remus can still remember rejecting everything of Sirius's that fell short of Sirius himself, body and soul, but fourteen years of empty blankets taught him that principles made poor bedfellows.

With these thoughts and others similar, Remus lies in Severus' arms until the other man is the first to move, though not to speak.

"Thank you for -" Remus begins. He's silenced by a glare.

"I warmed you because I found you near-dead, and I won't let you finish the job next month. I'll brew you more Wolfsbane, and I want you take it in front of me, or I will tell Potter and the Weasley brood how ill you've been neglected. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Remus says, because although the thought of a day trapped in the wolf's body with all the old memories seems unbearable, Severus is the first person who's wanted him to do anything in a very long time.

Christmas Eve, 1997, three days before the full moon. A knock startles Remus from the lassitude of curling into himself and watching the thin glow veiled by clouds. He opens the door and finds Severus again at this doorstep, bearing two goblets of Wolfsbane; the black-clad man doesn't meet Remus' eyes. "Come in," Remus nods.

Severus steps in, hands the goblets to Remus, and hesitates before turning to leave. "Your - healing has progressed well, I hope?"

It's all Remus can do not to laugh at Severus Snape trying to make small talk, but he supposes it's a good start. "It has. Your healing draughts really have been wonderful; thanks for letting me have them. Would you like to sit? I can make tea."

Severus hesitates before answering to the point that Remus laughs wearily and says, "Is it so believable that I enjoy human company?"

"Yes, when it's mine." Severus shrugs. "But I've nothing better to do. May I first use your facilities?"

"Of course," Remus nods, pointing at the bathroom door. All the internal walls are thin in this cottage, save only the cellar door, and Remus can't help listening. After shutting the door, Severus seems to simply stand there for a moment, breath so harsh and heavy it's audible through the door. Then he turns on the faucet and begins to scrub his hands, washing them for so long that the kettle's near boiling when he finally emerges. Severus' hands look pink to the point of rawness, but Remus holds his tongue and fetches milk and sugar.

"Is everything all right on your end?" he asks.

Severus' effort to bite back a sarcastic reply makes itself plain on his face. Still, all he says is, "Not precisely. The Dark Lord grows ever more suspicious, and Wormtail and Bellatrix have no great fondness for me. Narcissa Malfoy still takes my side, but she used most of her bargaining capital on sparing her son's life."

"What will happen if he turns against you?"

"I'll die. That, or I'll attempt to flee, and die more painfully when I'm found." The matter-of-fact way in which Snape states this makes Remus wonder how many times he's watched it take place.

Remus thinks for a moment. "What about Fidelius to hide you?"

Severus curls his lip. "For that I'd need a Secret-Keeper whom I could trust."

Seventeen years old, and the anger still startles Remus by how much it rankles. Moony the Werewolf, worthy of affection and tolerance but not trust. He doesn't like to revive these thoughts, but neither is he about to volunteer for a position for which he's apparently unqualified.

So instead the conversation shifts: Remus' reading, Severus' potions trade, Bill Weasley's fascinating reaction to Fenrir's bite.

The past (Tonks. Werewolf tribes. Dumbledore.) never enters into the conversation, and Remus thinks they both find it easier that way.

Remus waits until Severus has left before he drinks the Wolfsbane, self-conscious of the way it wracks his body. He drinks the next night's goblet, too, and spends most of Boxing Day seated in his armchair, half reading a novel while he waits for the now-familiar knock.

The knock never comes. Dwindling hours and then minutes remain until moonrise, but Remus holds out his hope for so long that he only has a few minutes of scrambling to secure the cellar door's locks to wonder whether Severus is tardy or forgetful or dead.

Then the Change embraces him, and none of it matters any more.

Remus' consciousness returns at moonset, and of course everything hurts, but the pain is a dull throb of bruised skin and strained muscles, not the breathstealing agony of new wounds. He finds he has enough strength to unlock the locks and crawl up the cellar stairs; the black robes crumpled before his fireplace look familiar enough that Remus doesn't stop to examine them. Severus lies in Remus' bed, half-dressed and dirt-smudged, and as he sleeps he clutches at himself and breathes in adrenaline-quick gasps. While Remus hasn't the energy to speculate what he's undergone, he's filled with a strange gratitude that at least he's here.

Mustering what little strength he still has, Remus begins to drag half the bedcovers to his sofa, but stops when he sees Severus' open eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," Severus mutters, rolling over to allow Remus room.

The bedcovers feel wonderfully soft and giving, and Remus imagines that he can feel Severus' body heat radiating from the cotton. Halfway through wondering whether he ought to touch Severus or not, Remus succumbs to sleep.

The two of them wake at about the same time, and for a few silent moments they lie still, eyes open, lips and noses mere inches apart. The sheets that shrouded them glow white in the morning sun, softening the harsh lines of Severus' face. "Are you all righ-" Remus begins as Severus says "-I'm sorry."

Remus stops, and Severus continues. "I was summoned by the Dark Lord last night. I apologize for failing to keep my word. I won't let it happen next month, even if I have to give you all three doses on the first night."

"But are you all right?" Remus repeats.

Severus shrugs, lightly shifting the blankets. "I'm alive. Quirke is not."

"Is that good or bad for you?"

"Probably the latter."

"You could -" Remus begins, then falls silent again. Outside the window, the faint chug-chug-chug of a lorry rises and fades.

A question keeps circling through Remus' mind, the same question that's been lingering there since last June, and this morning his defenses are too low to keep it in. "Why did you kill Dumbledore?" he asks, at last.

"Because he asked me to," Severus says, and Remus waits for him to continue. It takes a few moments of silence, but Severus begins again. "I will never be a kind man or a pleasant man, and you likely won't believe me when I say I've tried to be a good man. Dumbledore was the only mentor I've had whom I could call 'good,' and though I often wondered at his means, I've never doubted his ends. He refused to let me doubt them, even then."

Eventually, Severus shrugs again, stretches, and withdraws himself from the bedsheets. As he's beginning to leave the room, Remus quickly rolls out of the bed and reaches for Severus. "Wait. Listen. I'm - very grateful for your offer of Wolfsbane. I can't repay you monetarily, but if you want a Secret-Keeper for Fidelius - if I'm acceptable - I would be happy to -"

"Please stop making this more awkward than it is," Snape says, but there's a hint of a smile in his voice. He goes to the other room to fetch his robes, pulls them on, and returns to the bedroom, looking directly at Remus this time. "I accept."

January, 1998: the snow's falling so heavily tonight that Remus doubts the full moon will ever become visible. He's sitting at his kitchen table, sipping tea across from Severus; he's drunk his doses of Wolfsbane, so now all that's left is the waiting. "I'd best go down and lock it now, just in case," he says at last.

"All right," Severus nods. "I'll be here when -"

Remus laughs, sharp and bewildered. "Why are you doing this, Severus? We both know that this isn't just about Dumbledore."

"I have nowhere else to go for Fidelius," Severus says, an answer so quick, it's clearly false.

"Honestly."

Severus shrugs. "Because it's tiring to remember a consistent litany of lies. Because I'm grateful for your aid. Because -"

"Bollocks." Remus smiles, walks around the table, and kisses Severus on the lips - he can always blame it on the moon, after all. The man's body stiffens, arms still against his, but he doesn't pull away.

"I don't want to be a substitute for -"

"- You're not," Remus says, not wanting to hear the name, not now. He kisses Severus again, this time on the cheek, low enough to feel the angled bones of Severus' jaw.

Severus frowns slightly, a slight daze in his eyes. "I don't want you to do this out of -"

"- I'm not." Remus pulls away, and the lingering warmth on his lips is all the more incentive to get this night over with, as painlessly as possible. "I'll see you in the morning."

And he does.

finis.