Rating:: PG-13
House:: The Dark Arts
Characters:: Draco Malfoy Remus Lupin
Genres:: Angst Slash
Era:: Multiple Eras
Spoilers:: Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban
Stats:: Published: 04/18/2003

Updated: 04/18/2003

Words: 3,150

Chapters: 1

Hits: 1,076

Le Vice Anglais

Jestabel

Story Summary:: Remus Lupin has a little problem, one that really should prevent him from teaching at Hogwarts, and it's not the obvious one...

Posted:: 04/18/2003

Hits:: 1,076

Author's Note:: This was originally written as a paper for my English class when we were reading Vladimir Nobokov's "Lolita," so that's where the inspiration came from. (Yes, that's right, I handed this in as a paper. And you know what, if the English Department believed in giving out grades, I would have gotten an A on it--God bless the liberal arts education.) As it is, it's just a series of early encounters between Lupin and Draco, but I could expand on it so that it actually mirrors the plot of "Lolita." That's up to you people...

He had told Dumbledore it wouldn't be a good idea--he had told him. The idea that he should teach children, young boys, and girls, was ludicrous, ridiculous, insane. He had told him.

But no. The old man had simply smiled that sparkly-eyed smile and assured him he had nothing to worry about.

"We shall tell no one of your condition, naturally. Snape has perfected the Wolfsbane Potion, and we have put extra locking and concealment spells on your rooms. There is no need to worry, Remus, everything has been taken care of. I need you--you're one of the best students to have come out of Hogwarts in years, and I know you'll be one of the best teachers. And the students need you--they need someone strong and intelligent, after all that has happened."

Everything has been taken care of.

And so he had sighed resignedly, wearily, and agreed to it. Because he'd known, really, all the time he was arguing and refusing, that he would end up agreeing to it, because Dumbledore did not take refusals without good reasons, and of course he couldn't tell the old man the very real and very important reason why he should not teach at Hogwarts--he was enough of a pariah already.

The students need you. Hah, a good joke, that, although one that only he himself could fully appreciate.

So here he was, standing up before a class of nervous thirteen-year-olds and saying, "Hello, I'm Professor Lupin, and I'll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for the year."

It was actually his third group of students, a bunch of eager and apprehensive Slytherins. The first two hadn't been as bad--they'd been advanced classes, with most of the students sixteen or seventeen. But now, now he was in trouble.

The source of that trouble was sitting in the third row, a little off to his right, wearing an expression of disdain and challenge. "I've been learning about the Dark Arts since I was in the cradle," it seemed to say, "what could you possibly have to tell me that I don't already know? Go on. Surprise me."

Draco Malfoy.

The name was really almost enough to do it. The harsh, Latin syllables followed by the soft, rich French--Dray-ko Mal-foi. Draco Draco Draco. It was a name that could be whispered almost silently, no hissing, slithery s's or th's: Draco. Or it could be shouted, abrasive and shattering: DRACO. An interesting name. It mirrored his own, he realized, with an ironic twist of his mouth--the stern Roman first name, the sensually French surname.

So the name really could have been enough.

It helped that he happened to look like some sort of faerie prince who had just stepped out of the Dreamworld with the light of glamour still glimmering through his hair and in his eyes and on his skin. Pale hair, pale eyes, pale skin. Silver and ivory he was, like some sort of delicate statuette, all sharp cheekbones and pointed chin and finely molded lips. He was slender, although the voluminous black robes hid that--you could tell from the long, graceful neck and the small, fine-boned hands. He would have sleek limbs, no residual baby fat, just flat planes and soft angles. He hadn't seen the boy walk in, but he knew he would move smoothly, gliding while his peers stumbled as they got used to overly

large feet and sudden tallness. A fallen angel, he seemed to have retained his wings on earth, and defied anyone who told him to give them back.

That was what finally did it, truly. That defiant, mocking, insolent look--the side of that luscious mouth quirked up, the silvery eyebrows cocked, the head slightly tilted to one side. "Come on," it said, "I dare you."

Careful, O Morning Star. Oh, 'ware. You should know what the challenge is before you make such taunts. You never know what you could be getting into.

He managed to get through the class with what he thought was admirable restraint. And as they filed out, he merely glanced up at the boy's passage, smiling slightly and ducking his head down quickly, so as not to get caught in that icy grey gaze, so as not to answer the challenge in that smirking mouth. But he watched him walk out, and indeed, he floated out the door, the black wings of his robes fluttering behind him.

He didn't speak in class until three days later. At least, he didn't speak up, no answering questions or asking them--he talked with his friends often enough, quiet snide comments and much sniggering. But the first time Remus actually heard his voice was during their third lesson together, when he was giving them a brief overview of Red Caps.

"Excuse me Professor."

There was no question mark at the end--it was not a request for his attention, it was a demand. He turned to the boy, and despite the fact that the sunlight was glinting on his silver hair and casting sharp shadows on his cheeks, giving him a ghostly, ethereal look, he said quite calmly, "Yes, Mr. Malfoy."

"As much as I am enjoying hearing about these various little creatures," he drawled, the tone of his voice and the sideways glance he threw to the giant oaf sitting next to him indicating that his real opinion of the lesson was quite the opposite, "when are we going to get to study anything real and important?"

Remus crossed his arms (to hide the trembling of his hands) and leaned back against his desk (because he truly did not think his legs would support him), and allowed a small, predatory smile to play on his lips. "And what oh-so-important things did you have in mind, Mr. Malfoy?"

The boy smirked back, mirroring Remus' position, leaning back in his chair and crossing his own arms. "Oh, I don't know," he said airily. "After all, I'm just a thirteen-year-old boy, what would I know about this kind of thing?"

Remus felt his blood begin to heat and his heart begin to race. The boy was playing games with him, the challenging look back in his eyes, darkening them. "Surely you have some ideas, Mr. Malfoy," he said, keeping his voice, in which he could sense a disturbing desire to go low and husky, innocently mild.

He shrugged, a graceful and somehow enigmatic rise and fall of his delicate shoulders. "Perhaps some hexes, or curses," he offered carelessly, and made a fluttering, meaningless gesture with one hand. His expression was one of bored amusement, but his eyes still burned darkly, and the faintest flush of rose had appeared high on his cheekbones.

Remus decided to cut the game-playing before it (he) got out of control. He stood up abruptly, wiping the smile off his face. "Curses are studied in the fourth year and beyond," he said with a tone of finality, his eyes locked on Draco's face as a subtle look of disappointment crept in. He instinctively knew the boy was not disappointed that the study of curses was not to be added to the curriculum this year. "Dumbledore has requested that I increase your knowledge of dangerous creatures this year," he added, glancing around the room before once again settling his gaze on Draco. "Is that all right with you, Mr. Malfoy?"

A couple of his classmates sniggered, and the boy's face darkened, the faint blush blanching, replaced by the cold pallor of anger. He sensed he had been beaten, but of course would not let anyone else know that. "Of course," he murmured lazily. "Perfectly fine."

His posture was one of relaxed resignation, but his eyes muttered angrily, "This is not over."

No, it certainly is not.

Weeks passed. He taught his classes, and taught them well, if the pleased murmurs he heard in the hallways were any indication. He talked with young Harry Potter, who looked so painfully like his father that Remus found himself thrown back into time, and he got caught up in memories of James when he was that age, gangly and awkward, and Peter, who had not been evil then, merely a bit overweight and a bit slow, and Sirius, golden Sirius with his laughing eyes and slender arms, who had really been the start and the cause of his obsession. But for the most part he found he had no trouble keeping his mind on the subjects he was teaching, rather than on the children gazing at him with mouths hanging open so endearingly. Well, there was perhaps one child with the power to distract him, but he never sat with his mouth open like some country yokel.

Draco had kept mostly quiet, only speaking up when he was directly addressed, which was rarely. But he seemed to be aware that by simply inclining his head so his hair caught the sunlight, or by making some small, airy gesture with his hands, or by adjusting the sling on his Hippogriff-savaged arm, he could get Remus' attention, if only for a moment. And in those scant moments, when the light or the movement or the rustle of silk drew his gaze to the boy, their eyes would lock and Remus would find that his mouth had continued to speak with no input whatsoever from his conscious brain. The boy's boldness reminded him of Sirius, although he lacked Sirius' cheerfully open manner, and Remus thought that it was probably that self-assured audacity that drew him to Draco. And his wintriness.

He could not be enticed by the brightness and innocence of boys like Harry (who was still innocent, no matter what had happened to him) or that other Gryffindor third-year Seamus Finnigan (who was certainly attractive in a bland, blond sort of way), not after the turns his life had taken. No, that kind of vividness, that particular glow of youth that mean justice and fairness and trust and passion, was overwhelming. In Draco that spark was muted, glimmering under a thick surface of ice, but still there, so that Remus could bathe in that faint light of childhood artlessness and optimism without getting burned.

And so he allowed himself to be caught by those colorless eyes, and watch as emotion was startled into them and he would feel his own emotions rise in response, and for a moment he would bask in the pure visceral pleasure of it.

And the game goes on.

When something finally happened, it was so startling in its suddenness that he very nearly forgot himself. It didn't help that it was the day after the full moon--Snape's potion, while it kept the wolf sated and quiet during the actual transformation, could do nothing for the urges and hypersensitivity he experienced as a man this close to the change. He'd been on edge since coming to himself in the morning, weary and aching, the beast still lurking close to the surface, and was grateful it was a Saturday so he could seclude himself in his rooms, far from the whirling maelstrom of emotions he could sense outside his door. It also happened to be the day of the Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match, for which he was very thankful--he couldn't imagine there would be any students hanging about inside the castle, and if there were, hopefully none with a burning desire to bother him.

The sudden, sharp knocking on his door told him there was one, and the voice that called "Professor Lupin" in a languid, demanding tone identified him.

And it would have to be that one, naturally.

"Come in," he all-but growled. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Come in, Mr. Malfoy."

The door swung open and he walked in. The man in Remus was struck by how the dark blue of his robes brought the faintest trace of icy color into the normal fog-grey of his eyes and seemed to tint the shadow at the hollow of his neck indigo. The beast in him immediately scented the boy's anxiety, as well as other things, but Remus managed to shy away from those other emotions he could sense lurking beneath the surface.

The boy showed no outward signs of such nervousness or agitation of course. He moved with his customary feline grace, and the hand that brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes was perfectly steady. He paused just inside the door, managing to look, not awkward and unsure, but composed and completely at ease.

Remus frowned, irritated by the interruption and the fact that it was making his head swirl dizzily. "Hello, Mr. Malfoy," he said calmly, and then, when the boy just smiled that secretive, one-sided smile and made no response, "Shouldn't you be playing Quidditch?" His voice was rougher than he'd intended, and it made Draco's smile slip just a bit, and a shadow of doubt entered his face.

He raised his be-slinged arm. "I can't play like this," he drawled lazily. The smile came back, full-strength, and Remus had to steel himself against it, refusing to let his mouth quirk in response. "We've switched with Hufflepuff. And a good thing too. The weather's so bad, you can hardly see anyone else up in the air, let alone the Snitch."

"Fascinating," he replied dryly, and, only because he was watching his face so intently, caught Draco's slight flinch at his tone. "Is there something you need?" he asked more pleasantly, trying to find a medium between passionate huskiness and growling anger.

Draco, encouraged by the tone, walked further into the room, saying, "I just had a question about this week's assignment," until he was scarcely two steps away from the desk. Remus could feel his perception of the boy's emotions grow stronger with every step he took, until they pressed close around him, suffocating him, and the beast snarled and begged just under the surface, rolling around in his mind, filling his nose with the particulars of Draco's scent--the mint of his toothpaste, the clean, soapy smell of his skin, and, nestled down below the cleanliness, a whiff of cloves and pine and lavender and vanilla--all combined and intensified, making him feel intoxicated and sick. He stood up quickly and took a step back.

"Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea, or something?" he asked, trying to cover up his hasty movement. "I can get something from the other room..."

Say "yes," please just say yes. I need to get away...

Draco shrugged, his face impassive, but Remus detected a pleased sparkle in his eyes. "Sure," he said idly, taking another step closer.

Remus took a few steps back, until he was practically on the other side of his room, and said, "I'll go get something then. You can just sit there," and he pointed to a chair in front of his desk. The sparkle in his eyes grew as Draco delighted in his discomfort, and it was all rapidly becoming too much. The beast was still growling in his mind, and it was getting louder and bolder, sensing the boy's own desire. "Take him take him take him. Small boy, slender boy. Easy catch. He's asking for it, begging for it. Give it to him. Take him. Take him."

It took all he had to walk calmly out of the classroom and into the personal rooms Dumbledore has installed with a sleeping area and a small kitchenette. He shut the door as he came in, knowing it was probably not a good idea to leave the boy alone in the other room, but not caring, so desperately did he need the privacy. The rooms were soundproofed with the strongest Silencing Charm anyone knew, and so Remus didn't hesitate, once the door had slammed satisfyingly behind him, to let loose a yell that was part anguished human cry and part wolf howl.

"No!" he screamed to the wolf, and it snarled angrily one last time before subsiding, settling itself down back in the far reaches of his mind.

"No!" he screamed to the boy sitting just on the other side of the door, who had come in here with who-knew what intentions and who would leave with none of them realized.

"No!" he screamed to himself, slumping down on the floor against the wall, head in his hands.

The yelling cleared his mind, and the familiar scent of his own kitchen chased the remnants of Draco's smell at least out of his nose, if not out of his mind. Because he was always in his mind, mocking and defiant and insistent, challenging him, begging him, luring him. "I dare you."

But he didn't really know what he was doing, didn't really know what he was playing with. He couldn't know, couldn't understand.

Or could he?

"No," he said aloud. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to play this game, even with a knowing opponent. He would have to put a stop to it, starting now.

Filled with a resolution he knew would dissolve the moment Draco turned his wide, grey eyes on him, he walked into the other room and announced, before the boy could even turn around, "I'm sorry, but something has come up. Perhaps you could ask a classmate for help on the assignment."

Draco stared at him, following his movements as he circled the desk, eyes narrowed suspiciously, mouth pursed in a way that hollowed his cheeks and tightened his smooth jaw. "Something came up while you were in the kitchen?" he said, playing up the skepticism in his tone, rather than trying to hide it.

"Yes," Remus answered shortly, busying himself with some papers on his desk, not looking up. He pretended to gather up the papers, putting them into some kind of order, and sticking them in his briefcase. When he finally glanced up, he saw that Draco had moved, not towards the door, but over near the windows, where as if by some sort of miracle, the sunlight was streaming in--gone were the ominous storm clouds and driving wind. The light shone in brilliantly, and Draco stood directly in front of it, so that it caught on his hair and seemed to surround his head with a halo of pale fire.

Remus felt his breath catch as the sight and almost dropped his briefcase.

"I'll leave then, shall I?" Draco said, his voice seeming to emanate in a disconcerting way from that halo of light.

But Remus straightened his shoulders and said in a firm voice, "Yes, you shall." And he watched as the boy glided to the door, the light following him, twisting itself around every strand of his hair, settling itself in his irises, laying a sheen over his skin.

Oh angel. Oh fallen star.

Only when the door had closed behind him did Remus allow himself to breathe, and he collapsed into his chair and looked as though he would never get up.