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As Planned
The impossibility of remaining safe in battle where everyone wants you dead is a given. Throwing oneself deliberately in the middle is a suicidal gesture of bravery or plain insanity. Not being a Gryffindor though, it is neither.
Any justice would see it posthumously termed a meticulously planned unveiling of true alliances to aid the light in the battle against darkness.
But not being a Gryffindor also means not being idiot enough to believe the world a just place.
As his world fades to black, Severus falls with wearied satisfaction.
Now there will be no more masters, no more debts.
Interim
“…would have taken him to Azkaban, need your help Poppy, please..,” the low, fervent voice flickers in and out of his hazy consciousness like a persistent firefly in the darkness.
“He can’t stay here, Remus. He simply can’t.”
“It’s alright. Albus left me provided for. For this very purpose, I now can’t help thinking.”
Small, brisk hands and searing magic sends blackness spiralling down on him again before his tired mind can surface enough to object this unwanted aid.
The tug of the portkey on his wounded body is nearly fatal and whispered apologies and gentle, calloused touches goes unnoticed.
Contradictions
He slowly wakes to a series of contradictions, the first of which for him to be alive.
Birds are singing in the darkness.
He is imprisoned, unable to move, unable to grasp anything with his hands and yet, there is softness beneath him unlike any prison floor.
Despite the faint howling of the wind, he is warm, uncomfortably so.
Floorboards creaks and he can hear the hiss of a kettle somewhere in this vast, unknown black void.
He flinches at cool fingers against his cheek.
“It’s alright. You’re safe.” The voice is a ragged attempt at its usual annoying pleasantness.
State of Things
Severus’ firm belief is that one must exercise complete control whatever the circumstances.
Even, when one would rather have been dead.
So the news of his mangled, slowly healing hands didn’t throw him.
In comparison, the various other cuts and bruises are negligible.
The loss of sight on the other hand, maybe permanently, is nearly unbearable as it leaves him utterly defenceless.
However, what does leave him shattered in all its cosmic perfidity, is knowledge of having been rescued to Albus’ remote cabin by insufferable Lupin.
Thus, for all his previous trials, this is when Severus decides, life isn’t fair.
Motivations
“I didn’t want your help OR your pity! You should have left me!”
“Is that why you think you are here? Out of pity?” The wolf has the gall to sound incredulous.
“Naturally. Keep the poor pathetic creature from persecution no matter what he is guilty of. It is just the sort of maudlin sentiment, only you are capable of,” Severus snarls, feeling trapped and vulnerable to his everlasting disgust.
The laugh is quiet and uncharacteristically bitter. “Has it really not even occurred to you Severus, that if that were the case, I’d have to pity myself equally as well?”
The Indignity of Healing
A cool wet rag chases the fever away from every inch of his battered body. At least the wolf doesn’t exacerbate the intrusion by talking.
A light nudge angles his chin to meet the spoon with fragrant, steaming broth.
Even the fingers deftly turning to him onto his side, gently kneading a sore thigh while positioning his member for relief of his painfully filled bladder has to be borne.
He is too tired to fight it. Too tired even to deny that the gentle, unfamiliar ministrations brings him comfort and…even pleasure.
Strangely, his acquiescence keeps Lupin blessedly quiet in turn.
The Space of One Bed
“There is only one bed and I can’t risk being traced by using magic to transfigure another”
The explanation has been offered rather apologetically. Lupin could have saved his breath. By the time Severus is coherent enough to even voice a protest at another presence next to him, the arrangement has been firmly established.
Besides, Severus has discovered, he doesn’t need his eye sight to detect the slight hitch in the other man’s breath whenever he rises or carries weight.
Whatever the nature of Lupin’s own injuries, as far as excuses goes, they would do well enough for Snape’s pride.
Taking Turns
The method of banishing nightmares becomes a matter of routine by unspoken agreement.
A shake to the shoulder to restore coherence and then letting one’s hand slide reassuringly down the other man’s back a few times usually does the trick.
Words would have only spoilt the effect and brought back remembered slights and differences.
Especially on those nights where a mere light touch is not enough and only the shared warmth of the other’s body heat in a tight embrace dispels the nightly demons.
For once in his life, not even an embittered mind can quell the need in Severus
Measured Progress
Once his hands are healed sufficiently for the bandages to come off, the world expands within the ever present darkness.
The confines of the bed instead become that of four walls and one annoyingly encouraging werewolf.
The fireplace is six paces away and the cool window panes of what Lupin tells him is a scenic mountain vista is merely five since it is preceded by the blunt edges of a small table and chairs.
Just as he has it meticulously measured out, one day he looks towards those windows by chance and is able to distinguish a mist of light.
The Moon
The moon makes its presence known days before its cycle is complete. Lupin becomes first edgy and irritable, then silent as he huddles in the farthest corner of their bed.
There is no Wolfsbane potion, only the food cellar with newly installed fortifications on the door.
Snape lets him go down there in silence, fumbles with the barricade and then spends the night listening to the furious howls.
When sunshine becomes a lighter shade of darkness against his eyes, he listens to the ominous silence and slowly makes his way down into the cellar for the unconscious, barely breathing man.
Turn-about
This time it is Severus who bathes the self-inflicted wounds and this time it is he who blindly pours soup rather messily down Remus’ cheek.
Not that he receives any complaints. Merely an embarrassed wince when the tip of his fingers can’t seem to help themselves tracking marks of older scars.
“Why did you rescue me?”
The question startles them both despite the calm tone of voice.
The answer comes with hesitant thoughtfulness:
“Because anything else would have been a waste and…because I wanted to”
Which, thinks Severus, is strangely enough an answer he can accept and now also understand.
Interlude
A bitter, ill-tempered potionsmaster with an added grievance of near blindness and a normally self-effacing dark creature for whom this last war has been the final shattering insult to his peacemaking ways is the perfect combination for outright mayhem, especially combined with close quarters and none of the comforts and conveniences of magic.
One sharp-edged insult too many out of habit and Severus finds himself pressed down by a lean, muscular body before he can react to the preceding growl as Remus’ control snaps.
The sudden flare of desire cools their tempers instantly and has them both retreating in contemplation.
The Opposite of Impulsiveness
Every decision has tentacles of consequences stretching into the future.
Consequently every action must first be contemplated and the possible advantages and potential ill effects taken into account.
In an area holding only experiences of rejection and occasional degradation and pain this must naturally all the more be the case.
Then again, in some cases, realizing the potential disaster and ridicule in commencing takes very little intellect.
This is obviously such a case, Severus decides, and yet he still leans down, presses a kiss against lips softly parted with sleep and hungrily slips his thigh against a burgeoning morning erection.
Inevitability at Last
He can’t see the doubt in startled, sleepy eyes. He can only feel the needy moan reverberating through the man who is used to nothing but scorn from him.
So he doesn’t draw back and after that tiny hesitation, arms reach out and pull him down until there is nothing but slick, heated bodies rocking desperately against each other until the world shatters into red and golden sparks beneath the Potionsmasters eyelids.
Afterwards, a contented Lupin kisses his collarbone gently and curls up in his arms, falling asleep in a matter of seconds leaving Severus wide awake and utterly confounded.
Layers of Sanctuary
The state of the wizarding world in general and the future in particular is never spoken of.
Secluded in the cabin they maintain a carefully nurtured truce, tucking away all past differences and disagreements.
Outside bed, the topics confine themselves to suitable seasonings for dinner and speculation on the anthropology of Merpeople.
Only in bed is it safe to discuss the relative merits of Muggle economist Milton versus the early teachings of Salazar Slytherin with physical intimacy as the ultimate ceasefire.
In bed Lupin is both playful and affectionate while Severus is discovered to be a passionate and meticulous lover.
Reality Intrudes
What perfect irony. Realizing that for the first time in his life, he has… shelter, for lack of better word and then simultaneously realizing that he has to forfeit it.
Remus, to no one’s surprise, objects.
Why risk his freedom on shaky post-war justice? Why not France instead?
Why not at least wait a few more days until his healing eye-sight has improved beyond blurry shades?
In the end Severus has to call him a coward in order to make Lupin take him back.
And having had to do that, all things considered, being nearly blind is merely an advantage.
Return to Normal
The eye improvement is measured daily by the number of granite blocks he can discern by pale, almost vertical rays of daylight from narrow slits in his Azkaban cell as he awaits trial.
New memories fade as older ones become increasingly crystal clear while the cold seeps through his bones as if remnants of the dementor’s spirits linger in the walls.
Bitterness is once again a two-edged sword as he receives none of the visitors he is determined not to welcome.
When the Wizengamot finally summons him to the vault of torch-lit black marble, frankly, Severus doesn’t give a damn.
Clarity
The defence he never requested is a motley crew of bloody Potter, the damned wolf and Mad-Eye Moody of all people.
Lupin stuns him by the calm, collected ferocity of his defence. A part of him admires the utter magnificence of his lover while hiding behind his own impassive, haughty demeanour.
He waits indecisively for Lupin to turn so their eyes will meet. But the man’s shoulders slump and he sits down with weariness in every line of his body while Potter stumbles on earnestly despite himself.
Severus stares at Remus, finally realizing the terrifying, unavoidable depth of his emotions.
Consequence
Afterwards he can’t remember the acquitting verdict.
He can’t even remember how he ends up in the Ministry entrance hall with too many wizards milling about, intruding on his personal space.
He can however remember the first up-close look at Remus Lupin’s tired, lined face and stubborn locks of greying hair curling against a shabby collar.
He’s alternately furious that Remus has risked his own precarious standing in the wizarding world to defend him and more grateful than even Albus ever made him.
“Imbecilic wolf” he says gruffly and as Remus finally looks up: “Get me out of here, please.”
Window to the Soul
The bed is narrow, too short and rather lumpy but nevertheless the only redeeming feature of a completely decrepit flat which Remus is only lucky to be evicted from next week.
It wasn’t what Severus had intended to say just then, but somehow it gets the message across.
The sated, mischievous smile on Remus face as he burrows closer and replies with only a hint of lingering insecurity: “I love you too.”
And damn, if the wolf didn’t get the last word there. Tongue-tied, Severus has to resort to eye contact and the shared intimacy of legilimency to even reciprocate.
Perfect Vision
The future suddenly opens up as a kaleidoscope of bewildering choices and opportunities.
France is definite possibility.
There is no rush however. Forty is suddenly no longer old, nor discarded.
After all, that’s virtually young for a wizard. One has merely to look at Albus’ example…except that is still slightly too painful.
And a werewolf’s life expectancy will soon be no shorter than a wizard’s…if he has anything to say about it…and he will have…especially without the dulling effects of year’s worth of dunderheaded children and Voldemort’s cruatius hobby.
As far as Severus can see, the future looks almost tolerable.