I Dream Of Remus

I DREAM OF REMUS

CHAPTER II: A DATE WITH FATE


Severus stared out of the infirmary window gloomily, and tried to chase all thoughts of broomsheds and broom-rides from his mind. It was a difficult task. The herb garden outside looked hazy and unreal in the dawn light, while the scene he had just witnessed had been so vivid and lifelike that some stupid part of him could not accept that it had been an ordinary dream.

He'd never had a dream like that before, so dramatic, so full of sharp dialogue; no, his sleeping mind preferred to surprise him with dry allegories based on his Potions work. Most often, he would find himself pounding herbs in a mortar with a very large pestle, and wake invigorated and oddly satisfied. At other times, a set of scales would appear before him, and he would spend hours weighing ingredients against each other and fighting to keep the scales balanced. Those nights left him rather drained, but never as depressed as he felt right now.

But why should the broomshed dream bother him so? Certainly, watching Sirius Black triumph where he himself had failed was not one of his favourite activities, but that disgusting sight had never made him feel so blank and unhappy before. Usually, it filled him with a powerful desire to fetch his large pestle and grind Black into a fine powder. He'd even thought of twelve uses for Black powder, from Dementor cosmetic to Troll suppository, but even this imaginative list failed to cheer him now.

Well, perhaps it was just the concussion, made worse by his current inhospitable surroundings. Severus glanced around the ward. It was a hideous room, large and anonymous, framed by dull green walls and furnished with row upon row of empty hospital beds. Empty like... oh, what was the point of similes. Reality was depressing enough. Even Madame Pomfrey, visible off at the other end of the room, looked vaguely sinister as she bent over the only other occupied bed.

"Does it still hurt?" she was asking.

It was an apt question, made even more apt by her business-like voice; because, after all, wasn't pain the very business of life? Severus' head, for one, was definitely aching. He seemed to be sinking into a sort of grey mist -- until a familiar voice came out of nowhere, and cut across all the mist and the ache.

"No, it's fine now," Remus replied, sounding quite weak but undeniably present.

"Right," Madame Pomfrey announced briskly "I'll fetch the pain medicine then, shall I? Really, child," she continued, exasperated, "how am I supposed to help you if you won't tell me the truth?"

A moment later, she was walking past Severus' bed, muttering something about "Gryffindor courage, Gryffindor stupidity." His headache forgotten, he leapt up after her, and followed her into a nearby storage room.

"What's wrong with Re... with Lupin?" he asked the moment was past the door.

Madame Pomfrey turned around, a dusty round bottle in her hand. "Good morning, Mr. Snape," she replied. "How's your concussion? You look feverish," she said accusingly, laying a hand on his forehead.

Severus gave her his darkest stare. "I am just fine. What's wrong with Lupin?"

"No fever," Madame Pomfrey replied. "Now give me your hand and let me feel your pulse."

"Do you know how Lupin got injured?" Severus persisted. "Because I am certain -- certain -- that Black had something to do with it."

"Your pulse is a bit high," Madame Pomfrey commented, "and Mr. Lupin's illness is none of your business. Go back to bed, Mr. Snape," she finished, returning to her medicines.

But Severus would not be dismissed so easily. "Well, when did Black bring him in?" he asked desperately. "At night? Or this morning?"

Two bottles clinked together, and Madame Pomfrey spun back towards him. "This morning?" she laughed feebly. "What gave you that idea? Mr. Snape, I must assure you that Mr. Lupin has been under my care since before sunset."

"Since before sunset? Really? He's been sick that long?" Severus fought the urge to smile. "That's... that's very sad," he finished.

Madame Pomfrey regarded him suspiciously. "Back to bed, Mr. Snape!" she ordered. "Your concussion seems worse than I thought."

This time, Severus was happy to obey her. He all but skipped out into the ward, which, he now realized, was a well-organized, clean and cheerful place. Even the green paint on the walls seemed much brighter; the sun must have risen quite a bit during his brief absence. He glanced at the window to confirm this hypothesis, and was immediately distracted by a dark shape looming against the sky. It might have been a tree, except that it rapidly drew out of sight beneath the windowsill. Trees seldom did that.

Curious, Severus walked over to the window and threw it open. At first, he saw nothing unusual, but then the bushes below him rustled, and Sirius Black's face peered out fetchingly from among the branches, disarming grin at the ready.

Severus stared down, scowling, and watched Sirius' grin fade, and his eyes flicker uneasily. He would have rejoiced at that, if the sense of unease hadn't been so completely mutual. Something urged him to embarrass Black by mentioning the last time he had seen him down on his knees, but, then, what memory might that idiot retaliate with: something about the hot wax, perhaps, or even the quill? No, it really was best not to dwell on these things too deeply. Action was called for.

"What are YOU doing here?" Severus jumped as he realized they'd both asked the same question at the exact same time, in much the same tone of voice. Well, at least he was the only one with a good excuse.

"I," he announced smugly, "have a concussion. And, what about you, Black?" he asked with mock concern. "Another attack of leprosy?"

"No, I'm out for my morning constitutional," Sirius replied, "which always takes me right past the hospital wing and always, always involves the transportation of fruit." Here, he lifted up his right hand, dangling a fat bunch of purple grapes.

"Grapes? For me?" Severus smirked. "You must be getting quite desperate: did last night not go as planned?" he queried, ever solicitous.

"What are you talking about, Snape?" Sirius asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Nothing," Severus smiled down at him.

"Then shut up," Sirius suggested. "And move over. I'm climbing in."

"Oooh, you're so masterful, Black," Severus sighed. "Here, I'll help you come in; hey, I'll even call Madame Pomfrey. She'd love to see you."

"She's there?" Sirius frowned, pausing with his hand inches from the windowsill.

"Of course," Severus nodded, and glanced back over his shoulder. "She's hovering over your friend right now. He looks very sick," he continued cheerfully. "Not likely to get up for days and days, I'd say. Oh, don't try to peer in, she'll see you... What's that, Madame Pomfrey?" he yelled suddenly, half-turning into the room. "Oh, nothing, I'm just talking to a friend..."

"Damn," Sirius swore. "I'd better get away. Here," he addressed Severus abruptly, "could you give Remus these grapes? If you poison them, I'll... I'll tell everyone about your perverted taste in underwear."

"Such a creative threat." Severus took the grapes, and weighed them in his hand. "Is that the best a Gryffindor can do?"

But Sirius was already gone, the bushes swaying in his wake.

Severus closed the window, and leaned against it, facing the empty ward. Empty, that is, except for that one far-off bed. Tossing the fruit up and down in one hand -- and losing a few grapes in the process -- he strode off towards it.

Once by the bed, he paused. Remus' eyes were closed, and he looked a bit strange. Older, perhaps: his face was a bit drawn. Or perhaps younger: only very young children ever looked that tired. Severus sighed, and tried to summon up all his malice, all of his sense of undeserved rejection.

"Good morning, Remus," he said, roughly and loudly.

Remus' eyes blinked open. "Morning, Severus," he mumbled with unenthusiastic politeness. "What brings you here?"

"Concussion," Severus explained, smugly.

"Oh? Whose?" Remus whispered, frowning a little, and then deliberately relaxing his forehead as if the frown had pained him.

"Mine," Severus replied, and squinted in an attempt to manufacture an appropriate painful grimace. He didn't really think it had worked -- certainly not half as well as Remus' subtle little gesture -- so he settled for collapsing into a nearby chair with the clatter of heavy falling limbs.

Remus looked concerned for a moment, but was soon forced to repeat his deliberate relaxation trick in what must have been a very courageous attempt to fight a truly terrible headache. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"I'm fine," Severus reassured him. "And... " he continued, unwillingly, "I'm the sorry one. I've been a... a prat." He plonked the grapes down on the bedside table. "Peace-offering," he offered, noticing that Remus' tired, terse speaking style was, apparently, as contagious as it was attractive.

"Thanks," Remus gave him a little smile, and sat up slightly. "I'm sorry, too," he explained. "I've been unfair. I know you had Sirius' enthusiastic cooperation, and if you wanted to sleep with him -- well, I can't really blame you for that, can I?"

Severus frowned at that. "Yes you can," he said abruptly. "Sleeping with Black was a big mistake," he elaborated, waving his hands around for emphasis, "a mistake no-one else should ever make."

Remus just stared at him, blinking very slowly.

"Trust me on this," Severus continued. "You don't want to go there. He's... er... he behaves as if... he tries to... he's crap, just trust me!" he concluded.

"I'm sorry," Remus said with care, "that you had such a bad experience." These long sentences seemed to take a lot out of him, and he sank back down.

Severus watched the tired face, pale even against the white pillows. "You should rest now," he found himself suggesting. Well, it was a good idea; resting would give Remus a chance to dwell on warning he had just delivered. So, he left him to it.

As he walked back to his own bed, he scoured his mind for some examples of Black's sexual inadequacy that could be used to strengthen the message on some future occasion. It was a very difficult task, but everything seemed possible in his current optimistic mood. The mere thought of that canceled broomshed date filled him with a deep, singing joy.

His high lasted for hours. It was still there when he was discharged from the infirmary, and it stayed with him all the way through Charms, and even through History Of Magic. The Slytherins noticed it at lunch: Rumble announced that it was a common symptom of concussion, and Avery claimed that it was the warm after-glow of a successful anti-Gryffindor curse. Much as he hated to, Severus had to give Avery partial credit for his latest deduction, for he did feel as if he had cursed Sirius Black, just a little. It was a very good feeling.

And then came Potions.

The Potions bench he shared with Avery was right in front of the main Gryffindor bench. This was no accident; Potions classes were an eavesdropper's paradise. Talking to one's partner was, after all, a necessity, and accidents were so common that Professor Toedlicher Schnapps was usually far too busy to notice how little the conversations had to do with the current project.

On that day, explosions were particularly frequent, permitting Black and Pettigrew to be particularly talkative. Severus was thus forced to listen to a a long description of some game Black had played with Hagrid's new puppy. He was just about to yawn for the third or fourth time when he heard Black say:

"And after that, I pulled several wine bottles out of Hagrid's stash, and ran. So, you see, it's all ready for tonight."

"Do you think it's really necessary?" Peter asked uncertainly. "The wine, the flowers, the chocolates? Making sure the moss in the clearing is springy?"

"It can't hurt, can it?" Sirius replied. "I've also enchanted the shrubbery to sing like a nightingale. In all, it should be quite a date."

At the word "date", Severus' heart sank along with the frog liver he had just dropped into his potion. He should have known that Black would not give up easily! Still, he listened.

"You're being very nice about this," Peter was saying, wonder in his voice. "Really going out of your way, I mean."

"Ah," Sirius gave an embarrassed laugh. "I'm just trying to treat a friend right. That's what adults do, don't they?" he asked vaguely. "I'm trying to act like an adult these days."

"Oh, I see." Peter stated. "Is that why you're trying to grow a mustache?"

Even though his emotions were otherwise occupied, Severus' curiosity would not let him ignore that. He turned back, and looked Sirius Black straight in the face. And stared.

Sirius quickly noticed his grim expression. "What are you staring at, Snape?" he asked. "Is it my mustache?" One of his hands rose up uncertainly to cover his top lip. "Well, if you don't like it, that's your problem," he announced feebly. "Go away."

Severus did turn back to his cauldron then, not because he liked obeying Sirius in any context that did not involve hot wax, but because the mustache, pathetic as it was, had given him hope. He knew that, if he really concentrated, he could convince himself that no sensible person could fall for the sickeningly romantic advances of a man with such pathetic facial hair. And then everything would be all right.

He was just about to begin deluding himself when his potion exploded with a burst of red light. This could only mean one thing: some moron had added in an unnecessary frog liver, and so Severus was forced to spend the rest of the afternoon berating Avery for this amateurish mistake. This made Avery rather sulky, and poor company at dinner.

"Severus, can I have your Necronomicon when you're dead?" he asked innocently over the lamb chops. "I don't know if you heard, but Trelawney said today that you should be kicking the bucket any time now."

Severus just grunted. He'd been trying to concentrate on maintaining his new, cheerful attitude. It was a delicate task, a sort of meditation centered on Sirius' daft mustache, and the interruption was most unwelcome.

Rumble patted him on the arm. "Don't worry, Severus," he said, completely misinterpreting Severus' grunt. "I don't think Professor Trelawney's predictions are completely accurate. After all, didn't she tell Avery that his life would be full of pain?"

"Oh, yes," Avery nodded. "She didn't say the pain would be my own, though, did she? Professor Trelawney's all right."

The thought of pain reminded Severus of Remus Lupin, and pushed the mustache right out of his mind. He cursed inwardly, and then outwardly. "Bollocks!" he snarled at Avery. "Trelawney is an old fraud. Her whole subject is a steaming pile of dragon dung."

"Oh really?" Avery asked. "Is that why you were reading up on it last night? Don't forget," he added, "that we were there. We found you under a pile of dream dictionaries."

"Dream dictionaries?" Severus asked stupidly, while his mind made lightning-quick logical leaps. His dream, so vivid, so unusual -- his concussion -- the dream-related books that had caused it. No, not books -- he could clearly remember being knocked out by one specific book, the purple-covered Prophetic Dreams.

Prophetic Dreams. Oh, no. Severus slumped back in his chair, his mind's fragile balance shattered. One could not, after all, fight Fate. One could, of course, try. One could stand up right now, run towards the Gryffindor table, and club Sirius Black over the head with a leg of mutton. One could then run out and set fire to the broomshed, and then to every other shed within flying distance. Finally, one could kidnap Remus Lupin and hide him in a small sealed box in one's closet. But, even then, Fate would assuredly still find a way, and, meanwhile, one would be known as a mad, closet-obsessed pyromaniac.

Severus had no wish to cultivate that particular public image. He wanted to keep his dignity; at that moment, he felt as if dignity was the only thing he had left in the world. And, so, he pulled himself together, finished his dinner, and spent the rest of the evening reading. Or, more precisely, he distractedly ate his napkin, and then went off to the Slytherin Common Room to stare into an open book and wonder why the printed letters looked so lonely. He was quite relieved when the clock struck eleven, and he could finally climb into bed, hoping for a peaceful, dreamless night.

But sleep, dreamless or not, was long in coming. Frantic thoughts raced through his too-active mind; not thoughts of dream-dates and wine and nightingales -- he had enough self-control to keep those out, at least -- but memories of his own past seduction attempts, and of Sirius Black, who rode a mean broom, and who had always beaten him at Quidditch. Who had always beaten him at most things. It was so unfair... Self-pity crept into his soul, and he curled himself around it in his lonely bed.

He must have drifted off, eventually, for he suddenly discovered that the bed had dissolved around him, leaving only a patch of soft moss. He felt its springiness, and looked up at the scene before him. There was a hedge there, its leaves turned heavy and grey by the moonlight's peculiar alchemy. The hedge was singing an aria, and, beneath it, two boys sat side by side, listening. In the light, they seemed to be made of grey metal, two silent, motionless statues of silver, lead, and pewter.

At last, the song ended. One of the boys, the one with silvery hair, bent down slightly to pick up a dark bottle. As he lifted it to his mouth, moon-beams slid through it until the liquid inside glowed a deep, ruby red; and a red shadow bathed his face as he drank, so that he looked like a statue no more, but like the living Remus Lupin.

"Thanks, Sirius," Remus said at last, as he lowered the bottle. "That song was lovely, and this wine... it's very good."

"Yes. It's Chateau Lafite," Sirius nodded. "I'm very surprised that Hagrid had some, actually. Another chocolate, Remus?" he added, picking up an open box.

"Well, perhaps just one more," Remus reached over, and popped a truffle into his mouth.

Sirius watched him eat it, and his eyes glinted with mischief. He reached into the box, pulled out a truffle of his own, and immediately started licking it in a very suggestive way. His tongue moved all around it as he sent Remus a smoldering look. "Mmm," he murmured, shoving the chocolate into his mouth, accompanied by three fingers. "I just love that."

Remus' face was blank as watched the little performance. "You might choke, you know," he said at last.

"Oh, I never choke," Sirius replied with a wink. When Remus failed to wink back, he sighed with exasperation and picked up his friend's hand.

"Sirius," Remus began, watching as Sirius raised the hand up to his lips, tickling the palm with his mustache. "Sirius, what are you doing?"

"What, you don't like it?" Sirius asked, looking over at him. "You know, Remus," he said suavely, "the moonlight really brings out your eyes."

"You know, Sirius," Remus replied, withdrawing his hand, "that kind of seductive rubbish doesn't do all that much for me."

"Well, what kind of seductive rubbish does?"

"Perhaps something that doesn't involve the moonlight?" Remus suggested.

"Ah. Sorry. Well then," Sirius grinned, "has anyone ever told you that you're really cute when you're angsty?"

"What?" Remus blinked a few times. "ER, no. And I hope that you don't plan to make a habit of it. It's a little disturbing."

"Fine, fine." Sirius sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "I guess I'll have to forget all my usual seductive rubbish, then." He looked away for a few seconds, before turning back towards Remus quite abruptly. "No, wait a moment!" he exclaimed. "It's not rubbish at all, actually! Okay, perhaps it's a little contrived, or cliché, but so what? Clichés are often true. That's what makes them clichés."

"Yes, I suppose," Remus murmured. "But when you talk in clichés, you are in danger of sounding like a character from a cheap novel."

"How would you know?" Sirius asked. "Have you ever read a cheap novel?"

"Not all the way through," Remus shrugged. "But I've seen them around. Professor Toedlicher-Schnapps reads them during detention. The covers," he added with a smirk, "often feature seductive men with mustaches."

"Oh, right. She likes German Cavalry bodice-rippers," Sirius murmured, fingering his own mustache nervously. "You know, I do believe she was eyeing me strangely, today. She even gave me an A for my potion, and it was all lumpy. Hey," he sat up suddenly, "I'll get rid of the mustache, if you like. Don't just shrug -- you prefer me without it, right?"

"Well, yes," Remus admitted. "But what about your Potions grade?" he asked innocently.

Sirius placed one hand over his heart. "For a friend like you, Remus," he announced, "I am willing to sacrifice even my hypothetical Potions grade." He waved his wand once, and the mustache was gone. He then turned his clean-shaven face towards Remus and smiled slowly.

"I don't have to sound like a cheap novel, you know," he said at last. "I could try using my own words, instead. So, would you like to hear some true cliches, as phrased by an incoherent English schoolboy?" he asked.

"Well..." Remus started.

"Don't worry, I won't talk about you," Sirius grinned. "Or even about my feelings, ugh. Just about general things that are generally true."

"Like what?" Remus asked. "Like that the dawn light is rosy?"

"Well, it is," Sirius nodded. "And it is also true that morning dewdrops sparkle like diamonds, and that the wind sometimes howls like a lost dog. But, more importantly, it is true that simple human touch can feel good," he added, touching Remus' arm. "Especially with someone you... like." He slid his arm around his friend's back, drawing them closer together.

They sat there for a moment, until Remus relaxed into his friend's shoulder. "That IS true..." he admitted, at last, "but..."

"But other things," Sirius interrupted quickly, "feel better yet." And he leaned in, and kissed him.

Remus responded briefly, but then pulled away. "I know all that already," he said quietly, looking off into the darkness.

"There are other things you don't know," Sirius promised. "I could tell you about those. Or show them to you." He leaned in again, and softly kissed Remus on the ear.

Remus pulled away, again. "Even the men on cheap novel covers know about that one," he commented.

"There are many more things. Hell, there are probably things even I don't know," Sirius admitted. "In fact," he added, suddenly inspired, "I hereby challenge you to find one."

"Oh, do you?" Remus gave him a sidelong glance. "I don't know, Sirius. Based on what I know about you, it sounds like quite a difficult task. Or, at least, a task with some rather hard aspects," he added solemnly.

"Very hard, I'd say," a poker-faced Sirius agreed. "Does that scare you? Oh, come on, Remus," he continued, leaning eagerly towards his silent friend. "What are you, chicken?"

Remus grinned. "Well, if you put it that way..." he muttered, before turning towards Sirius and taking his face in his hands. They looked at each other for a moment, grins fading. And then they kissed, again.

Behind them, the hedge burst into song once more.

The song must have been too loud. Severus woke, immediately aware of where he was and what he had to do. Even before his eyes were fully open, he was slipping out of his bed and gathering his clothes.

His impulse would not be denied. He would go forth and wage war on Fate itself; didn't that have a noble ring to it? A noble ring that only a Gryffindor could appreciate.

"Snape?" Avery's sleepy voice reached him as he was pulling on his boots. "What are you doing?"

Severus was about to reply quite rudely when a sudden thought seized him. "Avery," he asked, "do you know what a nightingale sounds like, when it sings? Does it sound anything like a Verdi aria?"

"Huh?" Avery sounded rather confused. "I don't know... I think I dissected a nightingale once, though," he added helpfully. "It sort of shrieked. Unless maybe that was a canary, I can't really tell the difference."

Severus couldn't think of a suitable reply to that, so he simply slipped through the door and headed for the gardens. He made it out without any trouble, but his luck left him there. The nighttime air was quiet and cold against his ears. He heard no arias, no birdlike warblings, and definitely no shrieks.

There was only one thing he could do. So, he set out out across the grounds, trying to put together a mental map of all the shrubberies of Hogwarts. There were thousands: but, even though he was on a foolish Gryffindor errand, he still had a Slytherin's will and ambition, and he was determined to visit them all.

Within a couple of hours, he was trying to recall Anti-Blister Charms, and cursing his new snake skin boots. That was when he finally glimpsed a walking Gryffindor. His heart pounded with excitement; but it was only Pettigrew, walking some short Hufflepuff female back towards the castle. And, so, he was off again, walking from hedge to hedge, and occasionally leaping into them in an attempt to avoid Hagrid.

The dawn, when it came, found him searching still, so muddy and leafy that he resembled a hedge himself -- although no Charm, no matter how powerful, could have forced him to burst into joyous song.

He had fought Fate, and Fate had, apparently, won.

At least for now.