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schemingreader (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} schemingreader) wrote,@ 2007-11-15 23:04:00 |
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Fic: "A Close Shave" (Snape/Lupin, PG-13) for almostlifesized
This wasn't for a fic exchange. One of my flisters asked me to write a story, so I did.
Title: A Close Shave
Author:schemingreader
Pairing: Snape/Lupin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: about 3,000
Warnings: Off-screen sex.
Author's Note:almostlifesized requested: "You can write a story for me! xD About Snape. Who is a bit sad. And Lupin, who's gone a bit silly and has an unattractive beard. Aw." I had beta-reading help from scrtkpr, rexluscus, and a quick check for Australian authenticity by gaycrow, none of whom are at fault if I got anything wrong.
A Close Shave
It is a popular misconception that werewolves are hirsute in their human form. When he was transformed into a wolf during the full moon, Remus Lupin had beautiful silky fur, but the rest of the month, his chest was graced by a few lonely hairs, his calves were almost glabrous, his armpit hair sparse. This didn't bother Severus in the slightest. He was relieved that at least one of them didn't have to perform depilatory charms on his back.
Every morning in the house they shared outside of Sydney, Severus stropped the straight razors he used to scrape off his dark, stubborn facial hair. If they were going out for dinner, he would do it again around five in the evening. He'd tried both shaving charms and electric razors, but one made his face break out in strange, magical blemishes and the other left him with a dark shadow. In any case, he enjoyed the ritual of shaving, liked the sharpening.
Indeed, he enjoyed everything in his life since the day he'd persuaded Remus to shave off his ridiculous beard.
Why no one in Wizarding Europe seemed to care about Australia, Severus had no idea. He knew from Phineas Nigellus that Hermione Granger had wiped her parents' memories and sent them to live Down Under. This seemed like his own best option, should he survive his year as Headmaster. He was doing everything he could to bring it to a close early--chasing down Potter in the woods to leave him the Sword, allowing the Carrows to spread their filth and pollution in his beloved school, hiding in the Headmaster's office and enduring the taunting of the portraits.
Thoughts of death dominated most of his waking moments. It was the lowest he'd been since the year Lily died. Only his desire for revenge on Voldemort kept him going, and only feelings of spite toward Dumbledore inspired in him a weak desire to live. He was torn between his desire not to be, and his desire to show the old bastard that he was redeemable, that he could make a good life for himself.
Except that he couldn't. His whole adult life had been shaped by regret and loss. He was worthless. He was brilliant and a genius and an amazing wizard who could fly. He was tricking Voldemort, and was at the pinnacle of his powers. His life was shit. He had squandered his one chance to love and he would never love again. He was going to watch Voldemort kill Harry Potter, betraying the love of his life yet again, and he was supposed to let it happen.
It was all he could do to shave without cutting his throat, most days, all he could do to resist slitting his wrists. He wanted to bleed and bleed and bleed.
His death was satisfying in that way. He didn't merely open his veins in a bath alone-- he bled on the boy. "Let me sacrifice myself for him," he thought, "the little wretch. Let him live, again, and I will get away from all of this."
When the teenagers left with his memories, Severus felt light, as though he was going to leave his body, and it was a happy feeling, clean and good. He was happy to die--but if he lived, could he wreak more revenge? Perhaps he was wrong to surrender. Confusion clouded his perfect calm, and he tried to reason out which decision made more sense.
He was trying to decide whether to accio the mixed anti-venin and blood replenishing potion he'd put in his pocket, and his internal debate was so strong that he inadvertently Summoned the bottle.
So he drank the potion.
His ears rang with the suddenness of the healing, and he felt the pain of the wounds, which he hadn't felt before then. There was no one else in the Shack. He still felt lighter, but it was an emotional lightness. He kept breathing. His heart was beating, but it wasn't pumping blood out of the holes in his neck.
He Summoned his wand--his real wand, not the teaching wand that he'd used to cast the Killing Curse on Dumbledore. It came.
"Because he didn't defeat me," he said. "I'm still alive, therefore I've won." His wand was silver birch, with an Ashwinder core. In his hand it felt like an extension of his arm. He pushed magic through it and wove circles of light around himself. They buoyed him up, and he was able to stand. His body was too weak, but his magic would sustain him.
"Light, you see? Light," he said to the invisible Dumbledore in his head. He would have his revenge on both of them. He Apparated.
Without splinching himself, without difficulty, he rematerialized at the Aberdeen train station. He cast Alohamora on the locker where he had stashed his suitcase and money. Somehow he'd lost the key.
In the train station loo, he put a plaster over the gash on his neck, and splashed his face with water. It was still only the healing magic he'd cast that was keeping him upright. He knew he looked like a junkie, gaunt, terrible, but that was all to the good. No one would speak to him the whole journey, and he could sleep.
He bought a ticket south to Heathrow, boarded the train, and found a sleeping compartment. He bought a horrid cheese and pickle sandwich from the trolley, ate it standing, drank a bottle of water, took more potion, and then climbed into the berth.
The wheels clacked, "You got away, you got away, you got away," and he slept until the sun came up outside of London.
He had a passport in his bag, and an open ticket to Sydney. When he got to Heathrow, he realized that the next flight wasn't for twenty-four hours, so he used one of his credit cards to buy a room for the night in an airport hotel. He had a hot shower and put on clean clothing, and then slept on the hotel bed.
He ordered up breakfast and ate it alone, with no one watching him. It was quiet. Another reason to be glad--no more eating in public. It had always made him dyspeptic. No more Hogwarts. He was finally leaving school.
Harry Potter would be dead soon, if he wasn't already. He breathed, and a tear ran down his face, and another. He didn't even like the boy, but how hard he'd worked, how long, to keep him alive.
He was feeling sorry for himself again, but he could afford to do that now. What a luxury. He rubbed his jaw--needed a shave. There was shaving cream and a new safety razor by the sink in the bath. He pulled his hair back, shaved as close as he could, and put a new plaster on his neck. Better--he looked nearly ordinary.
He would go. He had done his part, his murderous, child-torturing part. Voldemort's dreams were surprisingly small: he'd planned to become immortal and then to take over Hogwarts. It was as though he wanted only to win the house cup again and again through eternity. He was not merely evil, he was vile, being more concerned with inflicting harm on the children of his own country than with acquiring territory or gaining power. If Voldemort lived, if he won--Severus saw blackness before his eyes--
He breathed, his neck throbbing, and cleared his head. If Voldemort won, he would go on destroying the only home Severus had ever had, the place to which he would never return.
He repacked his bag, took the elevator downstairs, and paid the bill.
The rest of the trip was a blur. He had hours in the airplane to doze and dream. He woke at one point to the stewardess shaking his shoulder. "Sir--sir!" she said.
"What is it?"
"You were having a bad dream. You were groaning in your sleep."
He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the shocked face of the witch--no, Mug--no, the woman sitting next to him. "Please forgive me, Madam."
His seatmate swallowed. "Were you in a war?" She had a strong American accent. "That's all right, that's all right, I'm sure you don't want to talk about it."
He nodded with as much civility as he could muster.
"I'm sure being English you don't want to discuss it--" she cut herself off. "Oh what the hell. I won't forgive myself if I don't at least tell you about this." She pulled out a notebook and tore off a sheet of paper, and wrote on it with a biro. "EMDR--Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing."
Severus nodded again. Bloody Americans. She'd be advising him to take vitamins, next. He uncorked the bottle of potion and took a swallow--he was worried he'd opened the wound in his neck with his thrashing.
"It's a therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. When you're ready to think about it, this is one avenue to feeling better," she said, with the careful smugness of someone who knows she is dispensing the correct advice to someone who doesn't want to hear it.
He shut his eyes, and began to try to clear his mind, but was too exhausted. Could he be any more exposed, sleeping in a public place? What was next, for God's sake, public nudity? His body shuddered in disgust before he lost consciousness again.
When he arrived in Sydney, Severus took a taxi to the apartment he'd rented. He had everything set up. The phone was in his name--well, his new name, S. Prince. The place was furnished.
He'd have to buy some food. He ate the remains of a sandwich from the plane, and saved himself a banana.
He collapsed on the unmade bed, and slept for another two days.
It was a week since he'd fled Hogwarts, a week of travelling and running. His beard had grown in thick and black, and he had to trim it with scissors before he could shave it off. He showered and ate his rather mushy banana, and put on some clothing. He had Australian dollars in his escape bag, and there was a supermarket not far from his new home.
The sun was blinding, considering that it was winter. There were store displays for people who wanted to buy a roast to celebrate Christmas in July. He couldn't believe he'd done it. People greeted him--they sounded like fake Australians on the telly from when he was a little boy.
He bought some familiar groceries, thanked the cashier and enjoyed her absurd friendliness, and headed home in the wintry sunshine.
When he got to his door, he found Remus Lupin.
He had his wand out of his sleeve in about three seconds, but of course Lupin was already armed.
"How did you find me?"
"Magic," Lupin said, and grimaced. He held up a copy of The Daily Prophet, and then rerolled it and tossed it to Severus.
Severus put his groceries down. The headline read, "Voldemort defeated, again." There was a subheading, "Martyrs to the Resistance" and both his and Lupin's photographs appeared under it. Severus hated his appearance in photographs, but at least here he was merely sneering. Sometimes his photographs would hide their heads in their hands. Underneath, the caption read, "Double agent sacrificed himself for love and loyalty, 'the bravest man I ever knew,' says the Boy Who Lived."
Lupin's photo gave him a shy grin. He could feel the real Lupin's eyes on him as he read.
"Shit," Severus said. "He went to the press with my memories?"
Lupin stiffened. "So it's true?"
Severus laughed. "You idiot. I was a double agent between two of the century's greatest Legilimens. Just ask me point blank whether I'm telling the truth, that's sure to work."
Lupin relaxed perceptibly. "May I come in, Severus?"
Severus folded his arms over his chest. "Why?"
"Because I just flew around the world to find you, and I'm tired. What is so funny?"
Severus leaned against the doorframe and caught his breath. "All right."
Lupin picked up his shopping bags for him, and they went inside. Severus put the food into the cupboards and the fridge, and put the kettle on. When he turned around, Lupin was folding his shopping bags.
"How charmingly domestic," Severus sneered. "What the bloody hell are you even doing here?"
"I came to find you," Lupin said.
"Why?"
"I had to know whether you--I had to know the real story."
"You," Severus explained, "are an idiot. Everyone thinks you are dead and you came to find me, not knowing whether I was on your side. Why wouldn't I just kill you?"
"I'm faster than you are."
"What, because of the lycanthropy?"
Without any advance movement, Lupin whipped his wand back and cast something, and suddenly Severus' loaf of bread was out of the cupboard and in neat slices on a plate in front of him. "No, because I practiced a lot," he said. "I wish lycanthropy made me faster."
"Why did you let people think you were dead?"
"Why did you?"
Severus snorted in disgust. Lupin passed him the butter in the usual way, and Severus spread it with a knife he'd bought at the supermarket.
"I didn't have a wife and child. Though I must admit that surprised me about you. I'd always thought you were queer."
"I am queer, mostly," Lupin said. He wiped his eyes, and composed himself. "I did love Tonks. She died. My in-laws would have the entire Wizarding world on their side if they tried to prevent me from raising my boy." He swallowed. "I'm sorry, I'm a little shaky still."
"I still don't understand why you're here. Do you want revenge on me for killing Dumbledore? Do you have a grudge against me for telling the world about your condition."
"No--Harry told everyone that you were working for him, and that hadn't been true, the wand magic that Harry did never could have worked. And the other bit--" Lupin waved his hand dismissively, and opened the cupboard. "Shall I make the tea?" He turned to look at Severus. "You're all upset."
"I am not upset. You make me sound like somebody's high strung maiden auntie."
Lupin smiled. "I'm here to hear your story. You're very mysterious. I want to know about how you did it. Everyone thinks I'm dead, and I have nowhere to go." He leaned forward, looking at Severus through his sandy lashes. "We have all the time in the world."
At this, Severus began to laugh, again. He leaned back against the cabinets in the sunny kitchen and laughed hard.
Lupin leaned forward and grasped his elbow with one hand. He pushed the hair out of Severus' eyes, and without the slightest hesitation, kissed him on the mouth. His mustache was soft against Severus' lips, and then his tongue poked tentatively into Severus' mouth for a moment. He broke the kiss with a sigh.
When he had done, Severus nodded, thinking. Lupin could not have chased him all the way to Australia for a little slap and tickle. This must have been an impulse, typical Gryffindor House behaviour. Unless he was making fun of Severus? But there was no one else around, and in fact the others were all dead. Perhaps he meant it. It was pleasant to be kissed that way.
"Severus?"
Lupin was quite an attractive person, even with that ridiculous, scruffy beard--Severus had always thought so, whenever he had had the time to think about whether people were attractive. He'd been so busy for the last seven years, and before that, so damnably sad, he'd barely even fantasized about having sex with anyone. Did Severus even like men? Lupin had a nice smile. He was sure to show Severus a good time, and anyway, what did Albus Dumbledore know about Severus' capacity to care for other people? He could do this. Stupid old man.
"Severus? Are you all right?"
He swooped, though out of his school robes he knew he was considerably less fearsome, and, pulling Lupin's waist in close with one arm and supporting his shoulders with the other, bent him backward as in ballroom dancing. Lupin looked up at him, eyes wide. "Never better," Severus said, and kissed him back.
After a few minutes of tasting the other man's tongue, Severus pulled him upright. Lupin staggered a little, blinked, and adjusted himself in his trousers.
"Let's have some tea," Severus said. "As you say, we have all the time in the world."
Severus spent several days learning about different things he could do in bed with a man. For example, cuddling. Once Remus had unshrunk his belongings, Severus found that he had a most luxurious duvet with a dark blue satin cover, and that Severus could get much warmer under the covers with someone else.
He waited until he'd got the hang of a few new sexual acts and used up most of the groceries before he told Lupin that his beard was dreadful.
"Tonks liked it."
"My dear Lupin," Severus said. "I am terribly sorry for the loss of Mrs. Lupin, a lovely young witch of considerable talent and ability."
"Thank you."
"Whatever her other virtues, however she managed to persuade a confirmed poofter like you to marry her, she was no judge of hairstyles."
"Fair point, but Severus--" Lupin had a smile in his voice.
"Please note that my own hair has improved, now that I no longer live in a cold, unpleasant dungeon and can shower whenever I like --"
Lupin hummed appreciatively. They had made good use of the shower.
"I want to get out of this bed, Lupin, for a few hours at least, and treat you to some of the superior international cuisine I understand Sydney has on offer."
"I can pay--"
"I was a Death Eater. I have considerable financial reserves in the bank through my ill-gotten gains, and I would like to spend them on my paramour."
"Lovely," Lupin said. He kissed Severus' face. "So formal, like being in bed with a 19th century gentleman."
"But more vigorous, surely."
"And more cuddly."
Lupin looked significantly more handsome clean-shaven, to the extent that Severus didn't mind taking him to Chinta Ria Temple of Love. "In Darling Park," Lupin pointed out. Severus was almost sure that he'd picked the place for its name, as a tease, but it was pure pleasure to have someone to feed him the prawns from his curry and laugh at all his jokes. He doubted anyone else knew that he could tell jokes.
It took a long time to tell Lupin his story. He was still telling it, a year later. He didn't tell it in order, because he didn't want to seem like he was whinging.
Lupin could listen, he'd give him that. Well, he'd give him anything, but Lupin didn't need to know that. He was going to spin out the narrative of his past like a hairy Scheherezade. He would keep Lupin with him. He would have his happiness; he would have his revenge.
almostlifesizedThis wasn't for a fic exchange. One of my flisters asked me to write a story, so I did.
Title: A Close Shave
Author:
schemingreaderPairing: Snape/Lupin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: about 3,000
Warnings: Off-screen sex.
Author's Note:
almostlifesized requested: "You can write a story for me! xD About Snape. Who is a bit sad. And Lupin, who's gone a bit silly and has an unattractive beard. Aw." I had beta-reading help from scrtkpr, rexluscus, and a quick check for Australian authenticity by gaycrow, none of whom are at fault if I got anything wrong. It is a popular misconception that werewolves are hirsute in their human form. When he was transformed into a wolf during the full moon, Remus Lupin had beautiful silky fur, but the rest of the month, his chest was graced by a few lonely hairs, his calves were almost glabrous, his armpit hair sparse. This didn't bother Severus in the slightest. He was relieved that at least one of them didn't have to perform depilatory charms on his back.
Every morning in the house they shared outside of Sydney, Severus stropped the straight razors he used to scrape off his dark, stubborn facial hair. If they were going out for dinner, he would do it again around five in the evening. He'd tried both shaving charms and electric razors, but one made his face break out in strange, magical blemishes and the other left him with a dark shadow. In any case, he enjoyed the ritual of shaving, liked the sharpening.
Indeed, he enjoyed everything in his life since the day he'd persuaded Remus to shave off his ridiculous beard.
Why no one in Wizarding Europe seemed to care about Australia, Severus had no idea. He knew from Phineas Nigellus that Hermione Granger had wiped her parents' memories and sent them to live Down Under. This seemed like his own best option, should he survive his year as Headmaster. He was doing everything he could to bring it to a close early--chasing down Potter in the woods to leave him the Sword, allowing the Carrows to spread their filth and pollution in his beloved school, hiding in the Headmaster's office and enduring the taunting of the portraits.
Thoughts of death dominated most of his waking moments. It was the lowest he'd been since the year Lily died. Only his desire for revenge on Voldemort kept him going, and only feelings of spite toward Dumbledore inspired in him a weak desire to live. He was torn between his desire not to be, and his desire to show the old bastard that he was redeemable, that he could make a good life for himself.
Except that he couldn't. His whole adult life had been shaped by regret and loss. He was worthless. He was brilliant and a genius and an amazing wizard who could fly. He was tricking Voldemort, and was at the pinnacle of his powers. His life was shit. He had squandered his one chance to love and he would never love again. He was going to watch Voldemort kill Harry Potter, betraying the love of his life yet again, and he was supposed to let it happen.
It was all he could do to shave without cutting his throat, most days, all he could do to resist slitting his wrists. He wanted to bleed and bleed and bleed.
His death was satisfying in that way. He didn't merely open his veins in a bath alone-- he bled on the boy. "Let me sacrifice myself for him," he thought, "the little wretch. Let him live, again, and I will get away from all of this."
When the teenagers left with his memories, Severus felt light, as though he was going to leave his body, and it was a happy feeling, clean and good. He was happy to die--but if he lived, could he wreak more revenge? Perhaps he was wrong to surrender. Confusion clouded his perfect calm, and he tried to reason out which decision made more sense.
He was trying to decide whether to accio the mixed anti-venin and blood replenishing potion he'd put in his pocket, and his internal debate was so strong that he inadvertently Summoned the bottle.
So he drank the potion.
His ears rang with the suddenness of the healing, and he felt the pain of the wounds, which he hadn't felt before then. There was no one else in the Shack. He still felt lighter, but it was an emotional lightness. He kept breathing. His heart was beating, but it wasn't pumping blood out of the holes in his neck.
He Summoned his wand--his real wand, not the teaching wand that he'd used to cast the Killing Curse on Dumbledore. It came.
"Because he didn't defeat me," he said. "I'm still alive, therefore I've won." His wand was silver birch, with an Ashwinder core. In his hand it felt like an extension of his arm. He pushed magic through it and wove circles of light around himself. They buoyed him up, and he was able to stand. His body was too weak, but his magic would sustain him.
"Light, you see? Light," he said to the invisible Dumbledore in his head. He would have his revenge on both of them. He Apparated.
Without splinching himself, without difficulty, he rematerialized at the Aberdeen train station. He cast Alohamora on the locker where he had stashed his suitcase and money. Somehow he'd lost the key.
In the train station loo, he put a plaster over the gash on his neck, and splashed his face with water. It was still only the healing magic he'd cast that was keeping him upright. He knew he looked like a junkie, gaunt, terrible, but that was all to the good. No one would speak to him the whole journey, and he could sleep.
He bought a ticket south to Heathrow, boarded the train, and found a sleeping compartment. He bought a horrid cheese and pickle sandwich from the trolley, ate it standing, drank a bottle of water, took more potion, and then climbed into the berth.
The wheels clacked, "You got away, you got away, you got away," and he slept until the sun came up outside of London.
He had a passport in his bag, and an open ticket to Sydney. When he got to Heathrow, he realized that the next flight wasn't for twenty-four hours, so he used one of his credit cards to buy a room for the night in an airport hotel. He had a hot shower and put on clean clothing, and then slept on the hotel bed.
He ordered up breakfast and ate it alone, with no one watching him. It was quiet. Another reason to be glad--no more eating in public. It had always made him dyspeptic. No more Hogwarts. He was finally leaving school.
Harry Potter would be dead soon, if he wasn't already. He breathed, and a tear ran down his face, and another. He didn't even like the boy, but how hard he'd worked, how long, to keep him alive.
He was feeling sorry for himself again, but he could afford to do that now. What a luxury. He rubbed his jaw--needed a shave. There was shaving cream and a new safety razor by the sink in the bath. He pulled his hair back, shaved as close as he could, and put a new plaster on his neck. Better--he looked nearly ordinary.
He would go. He had done his part, his murderous, child-torturing part. Voldemort's dreams were surprisingly small: he'd planned to become immortal and then to take over Hogwarts. It was as though he wanted only to win the house cup again and again through eternity. He was not merely evil, he was vile, being more concerned with inflicting harm on the children of his own country than with acquiring territory or gaining power. If Voldemort lived, if he won--Severus saw blackness before his eyes--
He breathed, his neck throbbing, and cleared his head. If Voldemort won, he would go on destroying the only home Severus had ever had, the place to which he would never return.
He repacked his bag, took the elevator downstairs, and paid the bill.
The rest of the trip was a blur. He had hours in the airplane to doze and dream. He woke at one point to the stewardess shaking his shoulder. "Sir--sir!" she said.
"What is it?"
"You were having a bad dream. You were groaning in your sleep."
He rubbed his eyes, and looked at the shocked face of the witch--no, Mug--no, the woman sitting next to him. "Please forgive me, Madam."
His seatmate swallowed. "Were you in a war?" She had a strong American accent. "That's all right, that's all right, I'm sure you don't want to talk about it."
He nodded with as much civility as he could muster.
"I'm sure being English you don't want to discuss it--" she cut herself off. "Oh what the hell. I won't forgive myself if I don't at least tell you about this." She pulled out a notebook and tore off a sheet of paper, and wrote on it with a biro. "EMDR--Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing."
Severus nodded again. Bloody Americans. She'd be advising him to take vitamins, next. He uncorked the bottle of potion and took a swallow--he was worried he'd opened the wound in his neck with his thrashing.
"It's a therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. When you're ready to think about it, this is one avenue to feeling better," she said, with the careful smugness of someone who knows she is dispensing the correct advice to someone who doesn't want to hear it.
He shut his eyes, and began to try to clear his mind, but was too exhausted. Could he be any more exposed, sleeping in a public place? What was next, for God's sake, public nudity? His body shuddered in disgust before he lost consciousness again.
When he arrived in Sydney, Severus took a taxi to the apartment he'd rented. He had everything set up. The phone was in his name--well, his new name, S. Prince. The place was furnished.
He'd have to buy some food. He ate the remains of a sandwich from the plane, and saved himself a banana.
He collapsed on the unmade bed, and slept for another two days.
It was a week since he'd fled Hogwarts, a week of travelling and running. His beard had grown in thick and black, and he had to trim it with scissors before he could shave it off. He showered and ate his rather mushy banana, and put on some clothing. He had Australian dollars in his escape bag, and there was a supermarket not far from his new home.
The sun was blinding, considering that it was winter. There were store displays for people who wanted to buy a roast to celebrate Christmas in July. He couldn't believe he'd done it. People greeted him--they sounded like fake Australians on the telly from when he was a little boy.
He bought some familiar groceries, thanked the cashier and enjoyed her absurd friendliness, and headed home in the wintry sunshine.
When he got to his door, he found Remus Lupin.
He had his wand out of his sleeve in about three seconds, but of course Lupin was already armed.
"How did you find me?"
"Magic," Lupin said, and grimaced. He held up a copy of The Daily Prophet, and then rerolled it and tossed it to Severus.
Severus put his groceries down. The headline read, "Voldemort defeated, again." There was a subheading, "Martyrs to the Resistance" and both his and Lupin's photographs appeared under it. Severus hated his appearance in photographs, but at least here he was merely sneering. Sometimes his photographs would hide their heads in their hands. Underneath, the caption read, "Double agent sacrificed himself for love and loyalty, 'the bravest man I ever knew,' says the Boy Who Lived."
Lupin's photo gave him a shy grin. He could feel the real Lupin's eyes on him as he read.
"Shit," Severus said. "He went to the press with my memories?"
Lupin stiffened. "So it's true?"
Severus laughed. "You idiot. I was a double agent between two of the century's greatest Legilimens. Just ask me point blank whether I'm telling the truth, that's sure to work."
Lupin relaxed perceptibly. "May I come in, Severus?"
Severus folded his arms over his chest. "Why?"
"Because I just flew around the world to find you, and I'm tired. What is so funny?"
Severus leaned against the doorframe and caught his breath. "All right."
Lupin picked up his shopping bags for him, and they went inside. Severus put the food into the cupboards and the fridge, and put the kettle on. When he turned around, Lupin was folding his shopping bags.
"How charmingly domestic," Severus sneered. "What the bloody hell are you even doing here?"
"I came to find you," Lupin said.
"Why?"
"I had to know whether you--I had to know the real story."
"You," Severus explained, "are an idiot. Everyone thinks you are dead and you came to find me, not knowing whether I was on your side. Why wouldn't I just kill you?"
"I'm faster than you are."
"What, because of the lycanthropy?"
Without any advance movement, Lupin whipped his wand back and cast something, and suddenly Severus' loaf of bread was out of the cupboard and in neat slices on a plate in front of him. "No, because I practiced a lot," he said. "I wish lycanthropy made me faster."
"Why did you let people think you were dead?"
"Why did you?"
Severus snorted in disgust. Lupin passed him the butter in the usual way, and Severus spread it with a knife he'd bought at the supermarket.
"I didn't have a wife and child. Though I must admit that surprised me about you. I'd always thought you were queer."
"I am queer, mostly," Lupin said. He wiped his eyes, and composed himself. "I did love Tonks. She died. My in-laws would have the entire Wizarding world on their side if they tried to prevent me from raising my boy." He swallowed. "I'm sorry, I'm a little shaky still."
"I still don't understand why you're here. Do you want revenge on me for killing Dumbledore? Do you have a grudge against me for telling the world about your condition."
"No--Harry told everyone that you were working for him, and that hadn't been true, the wand magic that Harry did never could have worked. And the other bit--" Lupin waved his hand dismissively, and opened the cupboard. "Shall I make the tea?" He turned to look at Severus. "You're all upset."
"I am not upset. You make me sound like somebody's high strung maiden auntie."
Lupin smiled. "I'm here to hear your story. You're very mysterious. I want to know about how you did it. Everyone thinks I'm dead, and I have nowhere to go." He leaned forward, looking at Severus through his sandy lashes. "We have all the time in the world."
At this, Severus began to laugh, again. He leaned back against the cabinets in the sunny kitchen and laughed hard.
Lupin leaned forward and grasped his elbow with one hand. He pushed the hair out of Severus' eyes, and without the slightest hesitation, kissed him on the mouth. His mustache was soft against Severus' lips, and then his tongue poked tentatively into Severus' mouth for a moment. He broke the kiss with a sigh.
When he had done, Severus nodded, thinking. Lupin could not have chased him all the way to Australia for a little slap and tickle. This must have been an impulse, typical Gryffindor House behaviour. Unless he was making fun of Severus? But there was no one else around, and in fact the others were all dead. Perhaps he meant it. It was pleasant to be kissed that way.
"Severus?"
Lupin was quite an attractive person, even with that ridiculous, scruffy beard--Severus had always thought so, whenever he had had the time to think about whether people were attractive. He'd been so busy for the last seven years, and before that, so damnably sad, he'd barely even fantasized about having sex with anyone. Did Severus even like men? Lupin had a nice smile. He was sure to show Severus a good time, and anyway, what did Albus Dumbledore know about Severus' capacity to care for other people? He could do this. Stupid old man.
"Severus? Are you all right?"
He swooped, though out of his school robes he knew he was considerably less fearsome, and, pulling Lupin's waist in close with one arm and supporting his shoulders with the other, bent him backward as in ballroom dancing. Lupin looked up at him, eyes wide. "Never better," Severus said, and kissed him back.
After a few minutes of tasting the other man's tongue, Severus pulled him upright. Lupin staggered a little, blinked, and adjusted himself in his trousers.
"Let's have some tea," Severus said. "As you say, we have all the time in the world."
Severus spent several days learning about different things he could do in bed with a man. For example, cuddling. Once Remus had unshrunk his belongings, Severus found that he had a most luxurious duvet with a dark blue satin cover, and that Severus could get much warmer under the covers with someone else.
He waited until he'd got the hang of a few new sexual acts and used up most of the groceries before he told Lupin that his beard was dreadful.
"Tonks liked it."
"My dear Lupin," Severus said. "I am terribly sorry for the loss of Mrs. Lupin, a lovely young witch of considerable talent and ability."
"Thank you."
"Whatever her other virtues, however she managed to persuade a confirmed poofter like you to marry her, she was no judge of hairstyles."
"Fair point, but Severus--" Lupin had a smile in his voice.
"Please note that my own hair has improved, now that I no longer live in a cold, unpleasant dungeon and can shower whenever I like --"
Lupin hummed appreciatively. They had made good use of the shower.
"I want to get out of this bed, Lupin, for a few hours at least, and treat you to some of the superior international cuisine I understand Sydney has on offer."
"I can pay--"
"I was a Death Eater. I have considerable financial reserves in the bank through my ill-gotten gains, and I would like to spend them on my paramour."
"Lovely," Lupin said. He kissed Severus' face. "So formal, like being in bed with a 19th century gentleman."
"But more vigorous, surely."
"And more cuddly."
Lupin looked significantly more handsome clean-shaven, to the extent that Severus didn't mind taking him to Chinta Ria Temple of Love. "In Darling Park," Lupin pointed out. Severus was almost sure that he'd picked the place for its name, as a tease, but it was pure pleasure to have someone to feed him the prawns from his curry and laugh at all his jokes. He doubted anyone else knew that he could tell jokes.
It took a long time to tell Lupin his story. He was still telling it, a year later. He didn't tell it in order, because he didn't want to seem like he was whinging.
Lupin could listen, he'd give him that. Well, he'd give him anything, but Lupin didn't need to know that. He was going to spin out the narrative of his past like a hairy Scheherezade. He would keep Lupin with him. He would have his happiness; he would have his revenge.
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