Casualties of War

There were certain personality traits that Sirius Black and Padfoot had always shared. A love of mud, for example; neither had ever been known to pass up a good roll or fight in goopy mud, the fouler the better, and neither minded being dirty for days afterwards. Even before the birth of Padfoot, Sirius had loved the slow confinement of drying mud over as much of his body as possible. Becoming utterly filthy - within reason, of course (he'd hardly enjoyed a twelve year lapse in bathing), was simply one of the things that Sirius could enjoy in both forms.

Nevertheless, neither Sirius nor Padfoot were enjoying themselves at the moment. He spent most of his time transformed, for safety's sake, but a dog was still quite capable of misery. He didn't exactly resent Dumbledore for sending him on this little spying mission, but it was becoming quite difficult to keep a stiff upper lip, especially when giving his reports. He could be lying in bed with Remus, giving his friend some long overdue pampering; he could be trading stories with Harry, being the godfather he was supposed to be. For Merlin's sake, he could even be keeping an eye on that damned Malfoy kid, making sure he didn't die or make off with anything valuable.

Instead he was in Blackpool. He remembered the area, vaguely; if this mission had been worth anything so far, it was restoring a lot of the memories that he had thought were lost to the Dementors. He had been here before. Some fifteen years ago, it had been a Death Eater gathering place, and that was why he was here.

It wasn't entirely safe for him to be snooping about as Padfoot - who knew what that lying, filthy, traitorous bastard had squealed to his master - but it was a damn sight safer than, say, Moody or Arthur wandering around the countryside. A big black dog was not inherently suspicious, but a cloaked wizard with a mismatched set of peepers and a tendency to shout unexpectedly would have drawn the attention of far more than just Muggle law enforcement. As Padfoot, he could also sniff around, see if anybody had been using the various areas he'd been looking over for the past two weeks, and he'd be able to sense things that, as a human, could easily be missed.

So far all he had found was a whole lot of animal shite. And spiders. A few rabbits, here and there, that he'd been sorely tempted to chase around a bit. But no Death Eaters. No Dark Magic. No damn Voldemort sticking his head out from behind a pile of rat turds and giving a hearty "Here I am! Come get me!" At the moment, he was in a barn, a barn of all places, watching dust motes in the air as he nosed through a pile of hay, knowing full well that no human had been within miles of this place for months.

Padfoot flopped over onto the ground, letting out a doggy sigh. He rolled a bit, figuring that a dust bath would do him almost as much good as a regular one, and wondered what Harry was doing. He supposed Remus or Dumbledore would have mentioned it if Harry had finally gotten fed up and killed that Malfoy kid. Next time he talked to Remus, he'd have to ask him to put Harry on for a bit. Teach him some hexes that would have made James proud - just in case.

He and Remus had been using an old two-way mirror set that he and James had used to communicate during detentions. Dumbledore, surprisingly, had given the pair of mirrors back to them; apparently he had ended up with quite a few of James and Lily's things after - well, after they were murdered, including James' invisibility cloak, which had been passed on to Harry. It wasn't the best method of communication, but at least he could communicate, and not only with Dumbledore, whose disembodied head would simply pop out of thin air when he came to hear Sirius' report.

Merlin, but he missed Remus.

He hadn't wanted to leave his Moony. He really hadn't. He had nearly died when they had received the news, that his family's house and - that Remus was -

He shook his head violently, ashamed that even now, even after Remus had come back to him, he couldn't even think the words.

Harry had been the only reason he hadn't wished that he had been at Grimmauld Place that night. It was the sheerest of chance that he hadn't been. He had snuck out as Padfoot a few hours before the attack after a particularly vitriolic fight between Remus and himself. He had been sick of being held captive in that miserable house, especially when his friend seemed to resent him so utterly. For weeks, hiding in the Forbidden Forest by Hogsmeade and sneaking close only to visit Hagrid for meals, he had lived in agony, knowing that the last thing Remus had known was what a coward he really was.

Of course it was hard for them to trust one another. Remus' defence of him the summer before notwithstanding, just being around one another felt like navigating around a dragon's nest, and once sex had been brought into the equation - Merlin, look out!

It was odd, how it happened. When Remus had embraced him in the Shrieking Shack, it was as if all those years had been stripped away. To be forgiven - even if he had yet to forgive himself - it was beyond his ability to understand. And to be touched! It was the first time he had been touched in nearly thirteen years. The two weeks he had spent lying low at Remus' after Voldemort's return, it had seemed as if they could not stop touching each other. Holding each other until the shock of the boy Diggoy's death, the anger at the danger that Harry had been put through, and the horror of the rebirth of Voldemort had passed. Soft touches on arms, legs, casually leaning against each other. Once Sirius had stroked Remus' hair for hours, running his fingers through the shorter hairs at the base of Remus' skull, marvelling at the strength in Remus' neck and shoulders. Those two weeks had existed outside of time.

Moving into the Blacks' ancestral home had been the beginning of the end, of course. That house was poison, and a part of Sirius was glad that it was gone. They had cleaned Sirius' old room first; it was probably the dirtiest, having been in disuse the longest, but at least there weren't quite so many lethal objects hidden around. Anything of value had been stolen by Regulus or that foul house elf - whom, Sirius had been quite shocked to discover, had somehow managed to outlive his mother - long ago. What was left, hidden under decades of dust, had nearly broken Sirius' heart. Quidditch banners, mementos of events long forgotten, all of the things that a sixteen year old boy would treasure. They had slept in the yard that night, and clung to each other as tightly as they could, living on each other's breath.

Padfoot let out another heavy sigh, stirring his feet aimlessly in the dust. He climbed up into the hayloft and looked out through the open doors. He dropped heavily onto his belly, his head resting on his paws. His eyelids drooped. Merlin, his paws ached. The sunlight that warmed his great furry body made him sleepy. It was hours yet before Remus would contact him, and he wasn't expecting to hear from Dumbledore for another few days. Just a quick kip, he thought. Just a quick kip. He hoped that he'd be able to go home soon, and be with Harry, and Remus, be there to protect them. He'd make sure that nothing ever happened to Remus again. With that thought, he dropped off to a restless sleep.

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Harry Potter was far more comfortable hating Draco than feeling sorry for him, and Draco was more than happy to oblige. He'd never liked pity very much, in any case, and although he could count breaking through Potter's stone heart and getting some compassion, thank you very much, as a personal victory, he was far more inclined to be a brat than a sympathy case.

Draco made it his mission to find something new to tease Harry about every single day. The day after they had their little breakthrough by the pond, he had taught all of the paintings in Lupin's house to sing a charming little ditty that he had composed, entitled "Potty Wee Potter," first in unison and then in rounds. It wasn't his most original work, he'd be the first one to admit, but the fury on Potter's face had almost seemed like relief. Living with your enemy was one thing, but getting along with him was an entirely different matter.

The day after that, he had picked on Potter's flying ability - not that there was much to tease about, but it was nearly a guarantee to push Potter's buttons. There was always something new ... usually something silly that Potter would say, and the Gryffindor was more clumsy and more dense than just about anybody Draco had ever met - well, not more dense than Weasley, but it was near enough for Ministry work.

Draco tucked his left fist against his cheek and studied Potter in his sleep. Potter sprawled - his hands and feet stuck out from under the blankets at odd angles, and his mouth gaped open. His hair stuck up in a truly appalling way, and Draco knew that Potter wouldn't even try to brush it when he awoke. Absolutely disgusting.

Draco was annoyed. The trouble with baiting Potter, he decided, was that nowadays there were simply too many taboo subjects. Parents had not been brought up once during the three weeks that they had been in Lupin's care. Or Voldemort. Or Diggory. It was impossible for either of them to do magic - Draco didn't have a wand anymore and Potter had no idea that a few of the various wards around the Farmhouse made it impossible to detect who was doing magic inside and what sort of magic was being performed, and so believed that the Restriction on Underage Wizardry still applied to them. Malfoy Manor had similar defences, which was why Draco knew differently, although they were mainly restrained to different areas on the sprawling grounds of his ancestral home, making them more difficult for the Ministry to detect.

Nevertheless, Draco was more than comfortable being the antagonist ... he had come to like it, actually. Reading and talking with Lupin was grand, but there were few things quite like a knock-down, drag-out fight with Potter. Perfect marks in Potions, maybe. Spending a day with Fath -

He shook his head, frowning. Would it kill Potter to comb his hair once in a while?

He shifted onto his back, resting his burned hand on the pillow above his head. Being awake this early was an absolute crime, Draco decided. He wasn't normally a late sleeper, but he was accustomed to having a house elf or Zabini, during the school term, come and wake him up. Left unattended, he'd sleep until noon and be quite happy about it. A crash from downstairs had awakened him some time ago, and for a few minutes he wondered if perhaps Lupin had injured himself, but eventually he could hear Lupin bustling around in the kitchen, and didn't care to get up and investigate the noise any further, in case something was broken and Lupin wanted help cleaning it up.

He couldn't fall back to sleep, however. He stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to Lupin move around downstairs. He listened to Potter snuffle in his sleep. He wondered if he himself snored, and how one went about finding such a thing out. He flexed the fingers of his burned hand, or at least, he tried without much success. Eventually his mind turned, as it was prone to doing, to devising new things to taunt Potter about.

He turned back onto his side to regard Potter again. Perfect Potter. Perfectly irritating Potter, perhaps. Maybe he could make up another song. Hagrid. Hagrid was always a good target - Merlin, Draco hated that man.

Draco rolled out of bed. He contemplated giving Potter a good poke in the face (spot on the scar, perhaps. Take that, Potter) but after a moment of internal debate, left his nemesis alone. Draco might not have been blessed with very much self-control, but he was easily distracted. And right now, he wanted a shower more than he wanted to fight with Harry Potter.

He padded softly down the hallway. Nearly all the pictures on the wall were still asleep ... another sign that Draco should not be up this bloody early. For a moment, he thought he heard voices drifting up from downstairs; he stood at the doorway to the bathroom, head cocked, but blessed hot water was calling. He shut the door behind him with a smile, avoiding his own eye in the mirror as he stepped forward to turn the water on.

He pressed one heel to the side of his foot, peeling off first one sock and then the other while he waited for the water to heat. His shirt and pyjama bottoms followed, and, naked, he finally looked to the mirror. Lupin was half-Muggle, and his house was full of magical odds and ends and strange Muggle implements that Draco had never seen before. It was certainly odd to have a mirror that didn't advise you on your appearance, but Draco was grateful.

Of course, he looked much better than he had when he first arrived at Lupin's home, he thought critically, tilting his head to the side. After three weeks, the bruising that had decorated his face, torso and legs had disappeared, and the only worthwhile thing Black had done before disappearing off on his grand spy adventure was to heal the lingering wounds that had remained on his back. Whatever spell his - well, whatever spell had been cast on him didn't seem to have any obvious physical effect; he was constantly exhausted, but that was likely as not to simply be an aftereffect of all that had happened ... or, he thought with a smirk, a sign of the pronounced suffering that he had been forced to endure in this hovel.

Draco was seldom honest, but even he was willing to admit that he liked Lupin quite a bit. Always had, even when the man had taught at Hogwarts ... he had dressed like his family's old house elf, but he had treated the Slytherins, even Draco, just like everyone else. That wasn't something that many teachers did. Besides that, he was a better conversationalist than any Gryffindor Draco had ever met, and he understood about keeping secrets. Draco had a fair idea that Lupin understood a lot more than he let on, but you'd never catch him prying.

Draco frowned, and pushed his fists into his eyes and rubbed hard. The water was hot already, what was he doing standing around looking at himself with no clothes on? He turned away from the mirror, flipping it one last smirk out of habit, and stepped into the hot spray of water.

The first week in Lupin's home, he had cried in the shower every single day. It felt as though he could never make the water hot enough, as if there wasn't enough soap in the world to make him feel like himself again. He wanted to rub his skin raw, but he hadn't. Even then, even after everything, he wasn't able to punish himself, even in the smallest way. He was a Malfoy, after all. Malfoys didn't do things like scour their skin off. He had cried, knowing that he was no longer protected by his parents, his friends, his name. He had cried, knowing that he was not strong enough to live through this. He had cried until strangely, he no longer felt the need to. It was as if every tear had been soaked up inside his stomach, and he had climbed out of the bath one day and been able to look Lupin in the eye.

He had never cried for Pansy, though, and this knowledge, his selfishness, left a scar more deep than any inflicted by the Death Eaters.

He rarely thought about that night. For all of his bravado and clowning, Draco was a very young boy, and although he had known for quite some time the things his father did and to whom, he had always enjoyed protection from anything physically harmful, whether the threat came from inside his family or out. He had never been beaten or abused; his father had hit him across the face once and only once when Draco was twelve, and the memory of that had been nearly unparalleled in Draco's mind for its shame ... for the disappointment that he had seen in his father's eyes. Lucius probably wouldn't even remember the incident, but it still caused an uncomfortable squirm in Draco's heart whenever he thought of it.

Draco suspected that a lot of the events of that night had been blocked from his memory. It had begun to happen even before it was over; his brain had simply shut down. He had the idea that his memories might have been further tampered with by Professor Snape or Dumbledore while he was in St. Mungos. His body and his professors had already made an obvious effort to keep the full event from him, so Draco felt that he shouldn't need to bother to think about it. He thought about Pansy instead. Crabbe and Goyle, Millicent and Theodore. He wondered if Crabbe's father had told him anything that had happened to his housemates, whether Goyle had realized that Pansy hadn't returned his summer homework to him yet, spell checked and proofread. The Parkinsons hadn't been at the Forbidden Forest that night; neither were Death Eaters. Did they know what had been done to their eldest daughter?

He hoped that Dumbledore would have at least sent Professor Snape to contact them, tell them what had happened, instead of going himself.

Draco shut the tap off slowly. He stood still for a long moment, bringing his right hand up to his face instead of reaching for his towel to dry off. It was growing, he thought, frowning at his hand. Burns weren't supposed to grow. When he had woken up at St. Mungo's, the burn stopped about halfway up his forearm. Now it was nearly to his elbow.

Professor Lupin knew about it; Draco watched his face every day as Lupin vanished the bandages and studied how much further the damage had crept. He glanced towards the mirror as he climbed out of the tub, reaching for the towel that was still faintly damp from his shower last night. Savages, he thought. I'm the only one here who has any idea of proper hygiene. He dried himself off quickly, impatient to be out of the steam that filled the cramped bathroom, combing through his hair quickly with his fingers. What did Potter do with that hairbrush? Bloody savage, he thought again. He glanced up at his reflection, as if it had done something without his permission, and was startled to find a small, private smile playing across his lips. He puckered his mouth, but it refused to go away. He and his reflection glared at each other for a long moment, facing each other down. Draco blinked first. He shook his head and turned away, stepping into his clothing without hurry. Another glance into the mirror confirmed that the bizarre expression was gone, and his hair looked decent enough ... at least until he got back to their - no, not their bedroom, the room that he shared unwillingly with Potter, and gave Scarhead a hard poke on the mark that made him famous, to demand to know where Potty had stashed the hairbrush.

Draco frowned as he stepped out of the bathroom. There were voices coming from downstairs. Lupin hadn't said anything about visitors. He didn't think it was Lupin on that mirror with Black; he definitely heard two voices, and he was almost positive that he recognized the other. His stomach flip-flopped in excitement, and as he skidded down the hallway to the foot of the stairs and two pairs of eyes turned in his direction, not even Malfoy breeding could keep a huge grin from breaking out on his face.

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Harry was not and never had been a morning person. Of course he had always gotten up as early as the Dursleys needed him to, but he had always preferred staying up late and a bit of lounging in the morning. But when he opened his eyes and saw that Malfoy was out of bed, he thought he might as well get it over with and find out where that prat had gone to.

It was always a bad sign, when the Slytherin was awake before him; it usually meant some sort of planned prank, one that was more involved than simple insults or a good laugh when Harry made some sort of clumsy mistake. Living with Draco Malfoy, Harry had been dismayed to discover, was not actually all that bad. Of course there were fights - Malfoy never lost an opportunity to tease, and could get Harry's hackles up as easily as he'd always been able to - but the weird thing was that their fights had taken on a rather - ugh - friendly edge. Harry was not observant enough to notice that Malfoy had vamped up his Slytherin Prat persona to an almost laughable degree in the past two weeks, keeping any sort of sympathy or understanding far away from their encounters, but he had noticed that the blond boy was actually respecting a few of his boundaries, which had convinced Harry that either the world was about to end, or that there was quite a bit more to Malfoy than he had ever imagined.

Part of that was that Malfoy was actually ... funny. He needed to be constantly entertained, and would prattle on about nearly anything until you begged him to please, please shut up, which he would accept surprisingly well. Harry guessed that his Housemates had gotten fed up with babbling years ago, and that "shut it" was a phrase that Malfoy was simply quite used to hearing. He never mentioned his father anymore, however, and that was something even Harry could notice. It was easy to ignore, however; when Malfoy wasn't blatantly provoking Harry, he was telling him that he absolutely had to see what the Gins could do, or badgering Harry into a flying competition that absolutely had to be started, right now. They explored the surrounding forests on their brooms, flying high above the trees down to the coast, which lay at the bottom of a steep cliff on the other end of the forest. Out of the Farmhouse's protective environmental bubble, the air was chill and when Malfoy had stretched his arms out and lifted his face up to the sky, Harry had felt ... content. It wasn't like being with Ron, or Hermione. Harry thought it was like being with a combination of Dudley, Dean, and Colin Creevy. A spoiled brat who was constantly remarking on Harry's fame and yet at times, a surprisingly quiet, comfortable presence. Harry was quite confused.

He swung his legs out of bed, fumbling for his glasses on the table between their beds. He might as well get it over with. He wouldn't have admitted it, but he was sort of looking forward to whatever Malfoy had planned for him. He shrugged on a jumper and a pair of trousers, patting at his hair to see what sort of state it was in this morning. Didn't feel too bad, though he doubted he'd be able to get a comb through it, even if he could find wherever Malfoy had hidden the only hairbrush.

He stepped carefully out into the hall, looking both ways before shutting the door behind him. There didn't seem to be any obvious traps, but for a wizard who didn't have access to magic, Malfoy could be fairly inventive - it was best to be cautious. Harry grinned as he tiptoed down the hallway. He'd had a few ideas of his own lately to get Malfoy back, pranks that would make his father proud. He had gotten to the head of the stairwell when a noise from below made him hesitate, frowning, one hand on the banister. A rather ... oily noise. An oily voice, actually. An oily voice that had just said "You're in check, Lupin."

Harry took the stairs slowly, as reluctant to see the owner of that voice as Draco had been eager barely an hour earlier, and just as sure who that voice belonged to. Black eyes met green eyes as Harry stepped into the living room, hatred boiling in his chest.

"Good morning, Potter," said Snape.

"Good morning, Harry," Remus said cautiously. Harry looked toward him. As he had come down the stairs, Snape had captured his full attention. Now, he looked around the room and saw Lupin and Malfoy staring at him as well. They were gathered around the end of Remus' desk, now devoid of the stacks of books that usually cluttered its surface, a chess board set up between Snape and Remus, their pieces grumbling about the distraction at such a crucial point in the game. Malfoy had dragged over one of Lupin's high backed armchairs and was sitting quietly next to Snape. As Harry looked over at him, Malfoy gifted him with a brilliant grin - a real grin. Harry's stomach clenched. He'd never seen Malfoy smile like that before.

Snape's voice broke through his thoughts. "We're thrilled that you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Potter." He swore softly as Lupin moved out of check and promptly bagged his queen. Lupin turned to Harry, smiling.

"Come, have a seat, Harry. Would you like to play the next round?"

Harry's eyes followed Malfoy as he leaned close to Snape, speaking quietly as he gestured at the chess board, that smile still on his face. "Er ..." Harry said. "No thanks, Profe - Remus. I think I'll - go flying, or something."

"All right," Remus replied, studying Harry's face for a long moment. "Come back if you change your mind. I'll be making lunch in a bit." Harry nodded, and backed towards the door. He wasn't even out of the house before Lupin had turned back to his chess game, he noted. He stomped towards the shed where his Firebolt was.

Remus looked back towards Severus, his eyebrows raised. "I suppose it was too much to hope for a lack of open hostilities," he said mildly. Severus only 'hmm'ed in response, tapping his long fingers on the table before ordering his pieces forward. His eyes flicked over to Draco; the boy was frowning, twisted around in his seat as he stared in the direction of Harry's retreat. He looked back to Remus as his pieces closed around Remus' king, a slight quirk to his mouth.

"Checkmate," Severus said softly, but he held Remus' eyes with a very serious gaze, questioning. Remus gave a slight shrug as Draco turned back around, his lower lip jutting out in what Remus supposed was a thoughtful expression.

"Excellent game, Severus," Remus said, smiling. He stood up, his eyes on his deposed king, lying in pieces on the board. "I'll make some tea, shall I?" He rose carefully, bracing himself on the edge of the table. He felt Severus' eyes on him as he walked to the kitchen, scrutinizing Remus as thoroughly as he had Draco, moments ago, leaving the two to themselves.

Snape turned to Draco as soon as Remus had left the room, putting aside his suspicions. "Let's see it, then," he said briskly. Draco extended with arm without hesitation. Snape tapped the bandages above Draco's wrist with his wand, and the wrappings vanished. Draco flinched; it was much worse. New, shiny skin had started to grow on his fingertips, but his wrist and arm remained a mass of discoloured muscles, harsh scarring disfiguring his knuckles and palm. What used to be his fingers had begun to fuse together in the webbing between them, where the bandages had not kept them separate. The burn now reached nearly to his elbow, where the skin looked like it had been freshly burned: the black, flaking sores had not yet begun to peel away their dead layers yet. Snape's breath caught, but his expression remained stony. "You've been soaking this in murtlap once a day?" Draco nodded. "Does it cause any ... discomfort?"

Draco shrugged. "If I'm careless, sir. Or if ... if Potter jars it." He looked up at his professor and smiled. Snape said nothing, but returned just a hint of a smile, his attention still on Draco's arm. He turned it over and back, studying Draco's palm and the inside of his forearm closely.

"And have you been keeping Potter in his place?" he asked, running his wand over the surface of Draco's skin, frowning. Lupin had swore up and down in his reports that the brand, if that was what it was, simply oozed with the stench of Dark Magic, but Snape could see no sign of it. His eyes flicked up to Draco's face; the boy was prattling on, listing the offenses he'd committed against the Potter boy, and wondered if he was looking in the wrong place. The spell had been cast around the boy's face, after all. He nodded in the appropriate places as he turned this idea over, conjuring bandages around Draco's arm again, and came to the conclusion that he was unwilling to put his favourite student through the necessary examination around the same time that Draco ran out of words.

The boy sat still for a long moment, searching Snape's face anxiously. Snape waited patiently, knowing that the question would come. Draco had been a bizarrely curious child; neither Lucius nor Narcissa had ever shown that much willingness to ask, to define the world around them, and although he had been shamelessly spoiled, Draco's questions were often a bit too bold for social niceties, and had as a matter of course been tampered down over the years. Few of his classmates would ever believe it, but when he wasn't being an insufferable brat, Draco had excellent manners. Snape knew though, that this was a question that the boy needed to ask.

"Who spoke to Pansy's parents?" Draco burst out at last. Snape raised an eyebrow. That wasn't what he'd expected; he had assumed as a matter of course that Draco would ask about his parents.

"I did, of course. It was my duty, as your head of House," he answered slowly. Draco's features relaxed, almost imperceptibly, but his anxious look didn't go away. He stared steadily at Snape, grey eyes fixed upon Snape's own, clearly waiting to hear more. Snape blinked. "Well. They wanted to see ... her body, which was impossible, of course," he continued slowly. "They asked about the circumstances of their daughter's death. They asked of you, but I was not at liberty to discuss your whereabouts, merely to tell them that you were ... safe."

Draco nodded, his eyes shifting down and to the side. Snape held himself in tight restraint, keeping his arms still at his side rather than allowing them to circle around the boy's thin shoulders. Instead, he asked lightly, "And how has life in the werewolf's den been treating you?" Draco smiled, his discomfort easily banished.

"Potter's stolen the hairbrush, but Professor Lupin is brilliant," he said easily. "We talk for hours, he knows all sorts of things." Snape raised an eyebrow, slightly shocked.

"I wouldn't get too attached."

There came a cough from the kitchen. Lupin stood in the doorway, carrying a tea tray, a highly amused smile on his face. Draco smiled back, to Snape's further shock. "I'm sorry to hear you say that, Severus," he said mildly as he set the tray down on the table, nudging the chess board aside. "Although it does make me quite curious as to what you have in store for me."

Snape grunted, reaching down at his feet and opening his satchel with a snap. "Your potion, for one." He withdrew the shrunken goblet and with a wave of his wand, restored it to its former size. Lupin eyed it distastefully. "And a few other ... treats, if you take it like a tame werewolf."

Draco took that as his cue. "I think I'll go see where Potter's run off to," he said as he stood.

"Alright," Lupin said. "I'll be making lunch soon, I'll call you in when it's ready." Draco nodded and made his exit. The two adults regarded each other in silence, and after a long moment, Remus sat down in Draco's recently vacated chair.

"He's certainly happy to see you," he said. "He speaks of you constantly."

Snape shifted in his chair. "I'm ... glad to see him doing so well, under your care."

Remus fixed the smoking goblet between them with a steely glare. He picked it up and swallowed its contents in two long swallows, pulling a face as he set it down. "My ulterior motive for making tea," he explained as he popped a sugar cube in his mouth after throughly rinsing it with a gulp of tea.

"I've brought you three doses more," Snape answered dryly. Lupin's mouth twisted.

"Oh goody," he said, and then held up a hand as Snape opened his mouth to speak further. "I hope you wouldn't mind taking our tea outside. I've been loathe to stay inside recently, after my ... captivity. I have the feeling that this is going to be a serious conversation, and I'd like to receive whatever bad news you have to give in the sunshine."

Snape stood, fingering his wand within his sleeve. A serious conversation indeed, but all he said was, "However you prefer, Lupin."