Who the heck do I think I am?

About three weeks ago I mentioned pouring out some reactionary fic about Remus at the end of OotP.

Well, I've re-read it and it's come back from one of my two editors and it apparently doesn't suck, so I'm posting it in order to get it out there before Friday's event.

I originally called this "Stone Soup," which I thought was a crap title, and a trifle too obscure.

Title:The Fall that Kills You
Rating: PG-13, possibly even PG
Summary: Two perspectives: Remus's reaction in the cleanup of events at the Ministry, and Snape's unusual discovery a couple days later.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Notes: I feel fairly certain that these guys are more mine than JKR's at this point, anyway. The fissure between the books and my private universe grows ever wider....
Archive: Drop me a line first, but be my guest.
Wordcount: 3220


Part One: A Tattered Veil

Carelessness. That’s all it was: carelessness. We were just mopping up. Sirius should have been able to outduel her, on a normal day—none of us realised that his reflexes weren’t back fully after Azkaban. Especially not the way he’d been practising…. But the truth is, he got cocky, damn the man.

Right. Well, anyway, I had just immobilised Mulciber and was about to see to Neville and Harry when it happened. You can’t know how I feel that my back was turned … before I could even do anything, he had fallen through to his ankles … then disappeared altogether. So quickly.

I can’t tell Harry that the only reason I caught him so easily was he was doing exactly what I longed to do. I wanted to rush up to that arch … but I knew it was no use. And with Bellatrix still free, even with Kingsley jumping in, Harry wasn’t safe. Call it pack instinct: protect the young of the pack. Our pack. Sirius would have killed me if I’d let Harry go after him.

But there was more to it, of course. I held on to Harry harder than I had to, just then, to have something to hold on to. To anchor myself to where we were, what we were doing. To ensure that Sirius hadn’t just died in vain.

And after that moment of horror? Instinct again, I suppose: the instinct of a veteran, to do what had to be done, to push the pain to one side for a more opportune moment. Neville needed tending; the other children needed gathering up, and …. Well, that’s utter bollocks, of course. The truth is, I was looking for anything to do so I didn’t have to look at that wretched, terrible veil one moment sooner than necessary.

Then before I knew it, Kingsley went down—God, Bellatrix is a vicious duellist—and Harry tried to go after her. I had missed the chance to kill her myself, dealing with him. My first impulse was to stop him again, but when he wrenched away from my grip, I let go. I could tell myself that I didn’t want to break his arm by hanging on, but that’s not why I let go. God help me, that’s not the reason. I let go because at that moment, the reality hit me. In that instant, I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t know which of them I hated more: Bellatrix or Harry.

She had a head start, but he was up and out after her before I could knock sense back into myself. I could feel my grip on things slipping even as I let Neville lead me back to the others. More Order members arrived to help, and then it really began to get bad.

Why? Because, as long as I had something to do, I could keep myself from thinking about it. But as they learned what had happened, the Order in their sensitivity stripped each task from me: finding the children; conjuring stretchers for them; reversing the hex on Ron Weasley; splinting his sister’s ankle; performing other minor first aid; getting an explanation from them beyond Snape’s reasoned conjectures of earlier that night; everything. Moody conjured Portkeys and several of the others took the lot of our wounded back to Hogwarts or St. Mungo’s for healing. I wandered aimlessly back to the chamber, while people behaved toward me in an embarrassing mix of polite sympathy and apprehensive discretion.

The sight of that damn veil hit me like a Bludger to the stomach. I drifted toward it, sank to my knees before it, reached out for just a parting sense of him, beyond it. I think I beat my fist against the cold stone in rage. I don’t know when I started crying. I don’t remember Dumbledore returning, or how long it was that he knelt beside me, hand on my shoulder, before he told me that he was going to tell Harry the prophecy and that he would return to headquarters afterward. I think I said something rude; I recall Dumbledore nodding at me sadly before giving my shoulder a final squeeze and getting to his feet.

Moody handed me his flask. I drained the contents in one go, without even tasting them.

‘Easy, lad,’ he told me. But it helped. I caught my breath at least, and fumbled for my handkerchief.

‘I’m … I’ll be all right,’ I lied. ‘Are we finished here?’

‘There’s these to be getting on with,’ Moody growled, sweeping a hand toward the Death Eaters. ‘But Dumbledore said…. Ah, here we are,’ he continued. I swung around to look: Several Ministry officials, trailed quickly by Fudge himself, still in pyjamas and slippers, had just arrived. ‘You go on, lad,’ Moody told me. He sent someone along with me—Bill Weasley, I think it might have been. Or possibly Arthur. I’m really not sure.

As we walked up the stairs, Fudge stopped us, or more accurately, me. ‘Mr Lupin, isn’t it? See here, Moody, I don’t think any of your … colleagues … should leave until we’ve—’

‘Let him go, Fudge,’ Moody said, stumping up the steps. ‘He’s with our Order. I’ll vouch for him.’

‘I can’t be too careful, Moody, surely you would approve of that?’ Fudge insisted pretensiously. ‘This fellow—well, considering what he is—’

‘Minister,’ a voice that sounded something like mine said, ‘I’d stop right there if I were you. In fact, I shouldn’t speak to or about me at all right now, if I were you.’ The voice seemed to have been recorded and played back: I could hear it in my ears, but not in my head. It sounded very far away, very low, and very, very dangerous.

Fudge looked at me in surprise, and I’m sure quite accidentally locked eyes with mine. Few men can stare down a werewolf under the best of circumstances. That night was far from the best of circumstances for me, and Fudge was far from the bravest of men. He broke his gaze, eyes drifting to Moody. Had I bared my teeth? I hope not. ‘Well … perhaps you’re right, Moody: We should secure the prisoners first, and if you’re prepared to explain—’

‘I am,’ Moody cut him off. He nodded to me solemnly and Weasley and I left.

I really don’t remember much of the next few days—only a few conversations stand out. People tried to get me to eat, to sleep, to talk—all things I didn’t really have any interest in doing. Dumbledore ordered that I shouldn’t be alone; that led to some interesting developments I’m not sure I’ve sorted out yet. But I knew, all through it, that I wanted to be there to meet Harry off the train. I had to look at him, to remember that it’s not his fault. He needs us now—and Sirius would want me to look after him. So would James and Lily.

But even as I told him to keep in touch, to take care of himself, I wondered if I could ever look at him the same way again. Severus, poor devil, looks at Harry and sees James. So did Sirius in a way, if it comes to that. I don’t see James in Harry. What I see is far, far more difficult to endure.

I wonder: Will I ever look at him without seeing a stone archway, a tattered veil, and the last, insufficient glimpse I’ll ever have on this earth, of Sirius Black?


~*~*~*~


Part Two: An Unorthodox Bedtime Story

Two days after the battle at the Ministry, Snape knocked softly on a door inside Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Charlie Weasley answered it. ‘He fell asleep about an hour ago,’ Charlie told him in hushed tones. Snape nodded, concealing his relief with his customary sneer. His task would be much easier—and infinitely more enjoyable—if Remus Lupin slept right through Snape’s shift. He had brought along a book in that very hope.

Charlie left and Snape sat down at his post, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Ridiculous as he found his current job, he had to admit that the Headmaster had reason to worry. Even in slumber, Lupin looked terrible and thrashed fitfully every few minutes.

It had not been half an hour when Snape became aware that Lupin’s breathing had changed. He looked up and saw the werewolf watching him. His eyes were bright and the lids looked puffy. ‘Still under suicide watch?’ he asked sardonically.

Snape nodded. Lupin sniffed again. ‘You needn’t bother. Dumbledore ought to know I’m stronger than that.’

Snape exhaled loudly. ‘You should sleep, Lupin,’ he said noncommittally.

Lupin grimaced. ‘’Fraid I can’t sleep much these days,’ he answered, ‘much less with someone watching me all night.’

‘Believe me, this was not my idea,’ Snape told him.

‘Then why did you agree?’ Lupin asked with rolled eyes.

‘Everyone has been taking shifts,’ Snape countered haughtily, as if to let Lupin know how inconvenient the arrangement was.

‘Everyone?’ Lupin repeated. His eyebrows shot up a bit. He regarded Snape for a moment, then turned his back to him. ‘Twisted old meddler,’ he muttered as he flipped over.

A few minutes passed in silence. Snape turned the page of his book. Lupin sniffed again. If he was crying, at least he was trying to be quiet about it, Snape admitted to himself, grudgingly grateful, but irritated by it nonetheless. He hadn’t the first idea how to console Lupin, nor the slightest inclination to do so.

Suddenly Lupin said, without turning around, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, go away.’

‘I should like nothing better,’ Snape told him.

‘Then why don’t you?’ Lupin asked. His voice was thick and near to breaking.

Snape sighed again. ‘Dumble—’

‘—dore’s orders,’ Lupin finished with him. He turned back around with a little huff of air to reach for a handkerchief from the nightstand. Snape looked at his book, though he could not quite focus on the page over the sounds of Lupin blowing his nose.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any sleeping po…. Nevermind, I never asked.’ Lupin changed his mind when Snape’s head snapped up in surprise.

‘They don’t work well on werewolves,’ Snape supplied matter-of-factly.

‘I know. Forget I asked.’

‘And you really shouldn’t—’ Snape continued despite himself.

‘I know! I said, forget it.’ He settled back on the pillow. ‘Sorry,’ he said a moment later, rubbing his temple.

Snape was privately pleased to learn that Lupin could be rattled. It was a side he was not used to seeing. He understood anger and frustration far better than grief. Besides, Lupin's outburst reassured him that if he could live through a little werewolf-sitting, he would come away with more ammunition for the future, even if he had promised Dumbledore that he would, to the best of his ability, behave tactfully that night. He only hoped Lupin would appreciate the rare quarter he was willing to give, under the circumstances. He thought they might leave it there, but Lupin kept talking.

‘It’s losing him twice, you see, that makes it…. Oh, nevermind: You don’t care.’ He cut off his previous thought and looked up at the ceiling. Tears ran silently down his cheeks and he wiped his nose again. Snape gave up, placed his bookmark, and shut the book silently while Lupin went on. ‘At least you don’t pretend, Severus, thank you. Everyone else has been trying so blessed hard to console me.’

Snape’s mouth twitched. ‘Maybe he’s not such a twisted old meddler, then,’ he commented drily.

Lupin grunted. ‘I suppose it’s mostly that—’ here his voice did break—‘I always expected to go first. I never imagined….’ He stopped, turned his face away again, and swiped at his eyes with one hand.

‘Because of your metabolism?’ Snape heard himself ask. He mentally berated himself for the insensitivity, even to Lupin, at such a time, but Lupin surprised him. He turned back to face him, sitting up just a bit, looking more animated than he had in days.

‘Yes, or because of the war, or if I … well.’ To Snape’s immense relief, he forbore to explain what they both knew. Under the circumstances, Snape scarcely needed or wanted reminding that most werewolves ceased after a while to try to live like humans, even ones who adjusted and lived almost normally for a long time. Giving up, they surrendered to their wolf-natures, escaped their transformation locations, and usually had to be put down. With any luck, they were detected going ‘Rogue’ and destroyed before they bit someone else, but usually, the damage was done before the Capture Unit could act. Even those who didn’t turn renegade, though, generally died much younger than wizards, younger even than many Muggles. 'Mostly that, though,' Lupin added, as if to assure Snape he had no intention of turning Rogue.

Snape asked the next question without thinking about its appropriateness, driven completely by academic curiosity. ‘How long have you got, then, d’you reckon?’

Lupin frowned, and again Snape thought he might have gone too far, but the other said: ‘Mmmm … it’s hard to tell. We’re nearly forty and my body is acting about ten or twelve years ahead of that. And that’s after 36 years…. If the wolf doesn’t…. If I don’t go mad or Rogue, perhaps another ten, fifteen years? Perhaps a bit longer, I’m not sure. It’s not like I can ask anyone—I’m now, officially, the longest surviving lycanthrope known.’

‘I thought Sorensen had the longest record,’ Snape said quickly, cocking his head. He had forgotten to sneer in his intellectual eagerness.

Lupin shook his head. ‘Sorensen died last year.’

‘I—didn’t know,’ Snape said lamely, cursing himself for saying something so obvious. He hoped the subject of death wouldn’t set Lupin off again.

‘No, well, you wouldn’t, would you?’ was all Lupin said to that. Snape looked up sharply, but there was no malice or accusation in Lupin’s tone. It did, however, seem to exhaust the topic. Another awkward silence stretched between them. Then Snape began:

‘Did Bl—’ and caught himself as Lupin’s eyes brightened.

‘No, I never told him,’ he admitted with a small shake of his head. ‘He may have done his own research—I don’t know. But we never talked about it.’ He flipped onto his back to stare at the ceiling again. ‘Do you know if we’re going to be moving headquarters?’ he asked after a moment.

‘I don’t—the Headmaster hasn’t made any permanent decisions yet,’ Snape told him, a bit perturbed by the sudden change of topic.

Lupin closed his eyes. ‘I can’t sleep. Talk to me about something else,’ he requested in a voice that had gone thick again. ‘What sort of research are you working on currently?’

Snape’s eyes narrowed and he almost dropped his book. ‘Why do you want to know that?’ he asked incredulously.

Lupin shrugged. “Well, Severus, you were always working on something or another at school, in secret. I hardly think that’s changed.’

Snape did drop his book. ‘How did you know...?’ he sputtered while he reflexively picked it up off the floor and checked his bindings and page corners.

‘There was very little we didn’t know about back then, Severus,’ Lupin answered with a snort. He turned to face him again. ‘Why do you think none of your experiments ever worked?’ He smiled faintly.

Snape’s face darkened. ‘I … you … you mean you deliberately….’

‘Well, James did mostly. And Sirius. Sorry,’ he added in what Snape felt was a weak afterthought.

‘Pillocks.’

‘Yes, they were,’ Lupin agreed, but his voice was nostalgic and more fond than anything else. ‘And speaking of James: Harry,’ he began.

Snape scowled, feeling his ire rise at the mere mention of the name. ‘The boy has no sense of—’

‘I know, Severus!’ Lupin sat up a bit more, holding up a hand. ‘I know, and I don’t excuse him for what he did. But it’s not his fault James was a right prat, and it’s all of our faults that Harry wasn’t made to understand better … before….’ He trailed off, then said more forcefully, ‘He’s going to need all of us, now more than ever.’

‘Can you really say that, Lupin?’ Snape asked very seriously. ‘Can you, of all people, really forgive him that easily?’

For a moment, the question charged the air in the room. A muscle in Lupin’s cheek ticked, and he seemed to be fighting for control of his lips. ‘No,’ he admitted finally. He brought his handkerchief up again to blow his nose noisily. Snape looked away until Lupin continued, ‘But I know it’s not Harry’s fault, even if I’m having trouble remembering that just presently. Just … don’t be too harsh with him, please.’

Snape rolled his eyes, but then Lupin went on quickly: ‘But you haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’ Snape asked, eyes narrowing again.

‘What you’re working on,’ Lupin prompted.

‘Ah.’ Snape leaned forward just thinking of his latest endeavours. ‘I’ve been researching certain strains of fluxweed. When combined with hellebore….’ He paused, frowning, and looked at Lupin dubiously.

‘What?’ Lupin asked, blinking. ‘Look, I understand potions, Severus, I just can’t brew them worth a damn.’ At Snape’s raised eyebrow, he added, ‘There’s bloody aconite in everything, I swear.’

Snape began to protest, but Lupin said with a waved hand, ‘Oh, all right—not really. Just seems like it. Look, please? To distract me? Besides, if you don’t mind, I’m not really going to be listening—I just need something to drift off to, I think.’

Snape bristled. ‘Usually, my students have no trouble staying awake for my lectures.’

‘Ah,’ Lupin smiled wryly, ‘but usually, you don’t delve into theory, do you? You leave that for the essays—just like they did in our schooldays. I would do.’

Snape grunted, but did not argue. ‘Rather unorthodox choice for a bedtime story, wouldn’t you say?’

Lupin shrugged and drew a cleansing breath, exhaling deeply. ‘Humour me?’ he requested. He sounded unbelievably weary.

‘Very well,’ Snape conceded, and Lupin tossed himself around once more to face the wall, hugging the pillow a bit. Snape could not resist the smile that came to his lips as he said: ‘Once upon a time, there was a strain of fluxweed—’

But he never got round to how it combined with the hellebore or any other ingredients, for that matter, because at that moment, Lupin did something he had not done for two days: He laughed. Not a half-hearted, self-deprecating, wistful laugh, but a deep, full-bellied, mirthful, if slightly overtired, laugh. He laughed like a child, and though a few more tears leaked from his eyes in his exhaustion, he soon calmed down. Within minutes, he fell asleep.

Snape picked his book up from his lap again, but did not open it. He watched the lines smooth from Lupin’s face, remarking that this was the first joke they had ever shared. It occurred to him sometime later that he was wrong to have defended the Headmaster: he was infuriatingly meddlesome, and undoubtedly, unspeakably twisted. Perhaps, when Lupin awoke, they could plot their revenge.


Fin.