Redemption - Part 23 - Reformation

[innerslytherin]

Reformation

Prompt: 65 - Full Moon
Pairing: Remus/Severus
Slash
WC: 2,197
Redemption - PG to R (WIP) - After Voldemort's defeat, Remus--crippled in his last battle--and Severus--pardoned but a pariah--manage to forge a connection, despite the expectations of the world around them.
Series so far:
1. Reconciliation 2. Rehabilitation 3. Recovery 4. Reply 5. Rediscovery 6. Receiving
7. Repartee 8. Relapse 9. Requisite 10. Retreat 11. Refining 12. Repose 13. Reconsidering
14. Renaissance 15. Retribution 16. Return 17.Rematch 18. Redefining 19. Relishing
20. Recognition 21. Remembering 22. Refrain 23. Reformation 24. Recrimination 25. Reliance
26. Reverting 27. Repercussion 28. Reminder

Thanks as always to thesnapelyone and astraea36 for beta.



Severus used to begrudge Damocles Belby his Order of Merlin.  It should have been his, after all.  He’d begun experimenting with potions to control werewolves during his sixth year at Hogwarts.  Furious with the ineffectualness of his own spells in the face of a fully-grown werewolf, Severus had been the one who’d thought of using Monkshood—though admittedly, his idea had been to put powdered aconite in Lupin’s porridge the week after the attack.  (That had landed him a month’s detention with McGonagall and ten feet of writing I will not poison my fellow students regardless of my personal prejudices and ignorance.  It had also had the incredibly satisfying effect of making Lupin turn greenish-white and fall over, wheezing, and the memory of that sight had sustained Severus through all ten feet of lines.)

Severus is ashamed of these memories now.  He smoothes his fingertips over the long white scar on Remus’ chest—the lasting reminder of a boy who tried to use Sectumsempra on a werewolf.  Remus is lying still, his gaze on Severus’ face.  They are both silent; what use are words at this moment?

He can feel tremors go through Remus’ body; each time a wave of pain hits him, he tenses in Severus’ arms.  In his mind, Severus has gone a dozen times through a list of potions for relaxing muscles, easing pain, bringing sleep.  Remus will take none of them, has already said as much, but it eases Severus’ mind to think of them.  Afterwards, when Remus’ body as well as his mind is human again, he will allow himself the luxury of narcotics.  But until then, Severus is powerless to ease Remus’ suffering.

He is brimming with impotent anger, his body tense with it.  He wants to pace, to rant, to break something.  Remus’ calm acceptance does nothing to allay his anger; rather, it inflames it.  Remus shouldn’t have to simply accept this!  They are wizards!  They should be able to cure lycanthropy.  Instead all they have is a potion invented by Damocles Belby—a wizard Severus taught, by Merlin!—and a door with silver hinges and locks.

“You should wait outside,” Remus whispers.  His eyes are closed now, but Severus hasn’t forgotten the weariness in them.

“I’m staying here.”

“It’s ugly,” Remus says.  Severus wonders if his eyes are closed because he is ashamed.

“I told you, I’m staying here.”

“As you wish.”

Severus can’t tell what Remus wishes, and Remus doesn’t seem inclined to inform him, unless his advice to wait outside for his own good is actually a request for Severus to go.  Unsure, and unwilling to ask, Severus clings to his stubbornness.

The first spasm is not gentle.  It frightens Severus with its intensity as he watches it crawl up Remus’ spine and make him curl double, clutching at his abdomen.  Severus shifts away slightly, giving Remus room to flail, but he doesn’t leave the bed.  He has shared this bed with Remus for nearly a month now, and he is unwilling to have it taken away by this curse.  Remus is gasping and groaning, and Severus wants nothing more than to cast a silencing spell so he won’t have to listen—but he is not a coward, and he refuses to run from the truth.

Remus relaxes, panting, and his hand is reaching, seeking.  Severus grasps it in his own and Remus sighs.  “I don’t want you to go,” he whispers, his voice sounding odd—deeper, perhaps.  “You should, but I don’t want you to.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.  I’m not going,” Severus insists.

Remus’ golden eyes open wide and find his.  “I love you.”

“Just don’t eat me.”  Severus’ voice is dry.

Amazingly, Remus smiles.



Severus can’t sleep, even when the wolf’s head is resting on his chest and tucked under his chin (which gave Severus chills and made him threaten to have Remus neutered if he doesn’t behave.  He hadn’t known until now that wolves could laugh.)  The wolf’s breathing is heavy and deep and even, and Severus’ fingers are buried in his fur.  He can feel paws twitching against his side as Remus dreams, and it makes him smile at the lack of dignity, so odd in Remus.

He remembers the confident way he entered the tunnel all those years ago, convinced that he could handle a werewolf.  He remembers the blood-chilling moans and howls that had echoed along the earthen passage, urging him on even as it set his heart racing.  He remembers the way his spells had barely slowed the wolf’s charge.  He remembers Potter’s voice shouting at him, and then a very large shape darting between them.  He remembers Dumbledore’s quiet displeasure, McGonagall’s shrill fury, Potter’s unwonted humility.

He curls his fingers into Remus’ ruff and breathes in the smell, slightly earthy but not unpleasant, of his lover’s fur.  He spent years hating them, all of them—Potter, for taking the blame and saving his life and making Severus beholden to him; Dumbledore, for caring about the well-being of a werewolf over that of a Slytherin; McGonagall, for demanding Slughorn assign him detention for being out of bounds; Black, for luring him in; himself for falling for it.  Remus, for daring to be horrified when he’d learned, later, what had happened.

The wolf twitches again in his sleep, cold nose poking into Severus’ skin.

Severus sleeps fitfully, dreaming of unpleasant things, but his nightmares are not haunted by werewolves.  He wakes before the moon sets.  When he gets out of bed, the wolf raises his head and whines.  Struck by sudden inspiration, Severus beckons the wolf to him, a sudden hope making him feel as though he has eaten too much treacle.

The wolf drops awkwardly off the bed and limps towards him, one hind leg taking less weight than the others.  Appalled, Severus drops to his knees and wraps his arms around the wolf’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”  He doesn’t know if Remus understands.

Cursing himself a thousand times for a fool, Severus leaves Remus stretched out on the rug and goes downstairs.  He had hoped that somehow the wolf would be stronger, would be uninjured, even.  He had hoped that perhaps it would lend him some insight into the nature of Remus’ disability.  Instead he has accomplished nothing more than giving discomfort to the man he loves.

He makes tea and toast and places them on a tray alongside several potions, then returns upstairs.  He can hear Remus’ whimpers and hopes the transformation hasn’t taken place yet, because noises like that should not come from a human.

The wolf jerks when Severus sets the tray down, but when he sinks to his knees and begins stroking the furry side, Remus puts his head back down and heaves a great sigh.  “I love you,” Severus says.  “I wish I could make this better.”

The transformation back ought to be ugly, watching this great monster become his lover.  Instead, Severus finds himself loving Remus even more, admiring the courage Remus must have, to live with this horrible pain every month.  He watches the thick pelt turn into skin, the claws retract into fingers, the muzzle flatten and broaden into Remus’ familiar face.  He strokes Remus’ face and lets Remus cling tightly to his hand, and when it is over and his sweat-soaked lover is lying naked on the floor, Severus gathers him into his arms and lifts him, staggering, to the bed.

After Remus has managed to consume both tea and toast without sicking them back up, Severus strokes a hand down his back, eliciting a groan.

“Sore?” Severus asks softly, knowing he must be.

Remus nods.

“I want to try something,” Severus says, his voice hesitant.  “I want to rub a decoction made with Monkshood on your joints.”

”Monkshood?” Remus mutters, his voice hoarse.  “Allergic.”

“It might hurt,” Severus agrees.  “But it might banish the pain faster; it’s what I use in the potion, you know.”  I’m poisoning you every month, is what he doesn’t say, though they both know it.

Remus’ eyes are closing.  “Go ahead, if you think.  Trust you.”

Severus hopes that this is not a horribly misguided idea.  He places a small amount in one palm, keeping an eye on Wolfsbane, who has decided this is a good time to investigate Remus.  The kitten climbs on Remus’ back and walks delicately along it, making Remus chuckle tiredly.  Severus holds out the oil-coated hand to be sniffed, ready to jerk his hand away and force a bezoar down the little monster’s throat, should it get the idea to lick his poisonous fingers; the kitten gets one whiff of its namesake and backs away, sneezing.

“Shoo,” Severus says, and the kitten sits down in the middle of Remus’ back.

Rolling his eyes, Severus shifts.  “I’ll try this on your shoulder.  Tell me if it hurts you.”

Remus hums in what Severus takes to be agreement, and Severus drips some of the oil onto his skin.  Remus hisses.  “Cold.  But it doesn’t hurt.”

Severus begins rubbing it in, massaging the joint carefully and wondering how long before it takes effect—or before it poisons Remus.  After five minutes he stops and settles back against the headboard, watching him.

Remus opens an eye.  “You didn’t have to stop,” he murmurs plaintively.

“Let’s see first if it helps.”

“The way you were rubbing me helped,” Remus retorts.  “You can do that all day if you like.”

“And if I don’t like?” Severus asks idly.  He doesn’t mind, actually.

“Mmph.  You can at least do the other shoulder,” Remus says finally.

Severus laughs and obeys, since there is no rash popping up where the poison has touched Remus’ skin.  “You’ll have to bathe very thoroughly later,” he warns.  “I’d poison myself if I kissed your shoulder.”

“I may have been pants at Potions, but I did take a NEWT in Herbology.  I am well aware that Monkshood is poisonous to humans as well as werewolves,” Remus says, his voice full of warmth.  Severus leans down and places a kiss on the back of Remus’ neck.  Wolfsbane, affronted, leaps from Remus’ back and stalks away, tail in the air.

Remus chuckles, low in his chest, and Severus has to struggle against a very strong desire to ravish him.  “I’m making your cat jealous again.”

“When did he become my cat?” Severus asks, his voice mild.  He wonders if Potter would be scandalized to see them together like this.  His hands work their way down to Remus’ hips.

“When you named him Wolfsbane,” Remus replies, his voice contented.

“I love you,” Severus murmurs.  It occurs to him that he says this more often, in fact, than Remus does.  He wonders if it is his attempt to tie Remus to him and shies away from the thought even as he wonders if it will work.

“You’re very good at showing it.”  Remus’ voice is languid; Severus can tell he is nearly asleep.  “I love you, too.”

Severus’ hands have reached the bad leg, the knee joint that doesn’t bend quite properly, the ropy scar tissue, the ankle that is slightly fatter than the other.  Remus makes a noise in his throat but doesn’t open his eyes.  Severus coats his hands with more oil and works at the knee a bit more firmly.  He knows it will likely have no lasting effect, but he cannot help hoping that perhaps this will ease Remus’ difficulties somewhat.

Remus’ breathing is deep and even.  “Werewolves are quick healers,” Severus whispers.  “A simple curse shouldn’t have done this.”

Remus lets out a slow sigh, proving he isn’t yet asleep.  “I don’t know why it upsets you so,” he murmurs.  “I’ll get used to it.  I’ve got used to everything else life has handed me.”

“I don’t like that you’re in pain,” Severus snaps, frowning.  “I don’t want you to get used to it!”

Remus sighs softly and shifts over on his side, then lifts a hand to cup Severus’ cheek in his palm.  “I like how fierce you are when you want to protect me,” he murmurs.

Severus bites back a sigh at what Remus leaves unspoken: that there are some things from which Severus can’t protect him—things like Potter’s stupidity and the full moon and chronic pain.  “Don’t you dare give up,” he bites out, glaring at Remus.  It doesn’t escape him how ironic it is for him to be the one urging optimism, but then it is also unusual for Remus to be the one who is giving up, so perhaps this is as it is meant to be.

Remus’ hand slides around to curl behind his head and drew him near for a kiss.  “I won’t,” he says softly.  “Not as long as I have you.”

Only slightly mollified, Severus nevertheless allows Remus to kiss him into silence.  He won’t speak of this hope again, but he will cling to it, guard it, protect it, as if it were a precious jewel.  And when Severus has honed it, cut it, and polished it, he will bring it back out into the light for Remus to see.