The Marathon Man

* * *

Snape considered his endeavor successful right until the moment when Remus Lupin was supposed to wake up. Severus diligently decorated the mise-en-scene in which to greet his childhood nightmare: an empty white room, a cot in the middle, on it - sprawled like a chicken on a cutting board - the blasted werewolf; and himself, black-clad, gazing at the body with disdain and haughty superiority. And the wolf... First, under the influence of a vulgar Muggle remedy he lay still as a log. Then its effect wore off, and Lupin behaved in a way that so outrageously undermined all of Snape's plans that it would have earned a considerable amount of unforgivable curses if he hadn't already looked like a victim of Avada Kedavra, Crucio and Imperio combined. Snape was at a loss. Lupin trembled as if he'd caught jungle fever and wheezed like a rotten harpsichord in one of Filch's closets. After a moment's thought, Severus decisively approached the cot and, wincing, slapped the captured beast across the cheek.

"Merlin, he's about to go up in flames. Draco!" The door opened and the boy froze on the threshold in an extremely disapproving posture.

"Can the Professor really be in need of my services?"

"What? Oh. Not your services. I'm in need of cold water, much of it, and vinegar. And don't come in here just in case."

"In case of what?"

"He's ill. Until I deduce the nature of his ailment and make a preventive potion, you will not approach him."

"That's why the victory was so easy and magnificent? Your four-legged friend took the first step on the way to the knackery? And you caught him halfway there? There's a feat of arms indeed!"

"And gauze, too. Quickly!" Draco cursed but Snape's tone left no doubt as to his fighting trim, and the boy had no wish to fall innocent victim to the man's wrath in place of the half-dead werewolf. He idly trudged to the kitchen that also served as a camp laboratory in their temporary asylum, as well as a first aid post, cupboard, and the Professor's bedroom.

Snape gritted his teeth, frowned, and carefully tugged at Lupin's robe. The very edge of it. And nearly brought Remus down to the floor. I'll have to undress him anyway. How is one presumed to treat a beast sick with Merlin knows what, who is vulnerable to human diseases? How degrading and disgusting.

No more doubts. Snape was a man of action and, having once decided to overcome his squeamishness, he saw no reason to waste time. The professor undid the robe fastenings in a flash, divested Remus of his white shirt (once long-sleeved and in possession of a collar, but now, thanks to the tailor's skill and its own respectable age, turned into a satin polo), tossed it into a corner with abhorrence, took up the werewolf's T-shirt and jerked away.

Remus' chest, shoulders and armpits were thickly covered with pink spots the size of a Knut and red dots. Severus shuddered. It was one thing to be touching a beast, comparatively safe although hateful, and quite another - picking up an unknown infection that made his involuntary patient look like a purple skin rot victim. Easy, there isn't anything to be frightened of. If I conjure gloves, my fingers will lose their sensitivity, and that cannot be allowed. I can make an antidote to this strange ailment. As soon as I establish its nature... Strong fingers pulled off the cotton and snatched the belt out of the trousers which clearly hadn't had any association with Lupin prior to his wedding day, having been a few sizes too large. He'll hate me for this. Judging by the holes on the belt, he only ever gets fed at weddings, funerals and birthdays. I should have waited till the end of the festivity. Snape snorted and peeled the rest of the clothing off the unconscious body.

Legs and stomach were spot-free. So was the groin. Still, every bit of skin burned feverishly, as if all of hell's fire that served to frighten gullible Muggles had been set upon one Remus Lupin.

Snape examined the fever-wrought werewolf. Nothing good was found; on the contrary - enlarged lymphatic nodes, swollen joints, and several unhealed scars on the neck. The professor was infuriated. Having read a ton of literature on dark creatures, has he really paid no attention to the books on their treatment? However, Snape soon comforted himself with a thought that none crossed his way. Destruction, reproduction, strategic use - that comprised the list of problems, relevant to the magical society in regards to such beasts. Severus cursed. If Lupin dies in their shelter and Potter defeats the Dark Lord, he'll be better off killing himself and following the werewolf. The Order gang will tear him to peaces - or try to, at least. And what do you know - Lupin's skin is soft. And so thin - all the veins can be seen clear through. If he pulls through and the war ends, mused Snape, I'll make mincemeat of him. Who can boast of immunity at this stage of dystrophy? He is of more use as a skeleton model than he is as an anatomical study.

"Professor, what are you... are you stroking his legs?"

"Draco, I asked for vinegar."

"And I've brought it. Whoa! Do all werewolves have knobs like this one?"

"Draco, you may go."

"Professor, I only meant..."

Snape measured the boy with eyes narrowed with hatred, and hissed, "Something useful, Draco? Perhaps you've found a way out of this foul situation? Or figured out how to inform Potter why werewolf hide looks so good in our living-room? Or you've discovered a way to explain to the Dark Lord that we killed Dumbledore's spy without dragging any secrets worthy of his Darkness' attention out of his filthy mouth? Or you've had an epiphany and remembered the name of the book on werewolf illnesses? No? Has the flagrant notion on cock sizes of sexually mature men reached the limit of your natural intellect?"

Draco bit his lip, injured. He wasn't about to keep quiet, either.

"Don't take your blunders out on me. It wasn't my bright idea to kidnap Potter's nimble - all right, half-nimble friend. And there's a book called "Common illnesses in magical inhuman life forms" at Hogwarts. I read it for that werewolf essay I wrote."

"Go away, Draco. You're irritating me." Snape nearly howled at his own slip-up. Young Malfoy was absolutely correct. He needed the book. If the werewolf's condition did not alter by morning, he'd consider obtaining the folio.

The night was a blast. Draco slept, Lupin wheezed on one heart-wrenching note and kept trying to turn himself inside out, Snape rubbed the werewolf down with vinegar every ten minutes, each time convinced that his patient was better. That slowly, step by step, he was headed towards recovery. And even started pressing back against the potions master's palms. For sure, he was feeling the powerful life force, magically flowing... Blood gushed out of Lupin's ears. For a moment, Snape thought of Black parting the curtain of the shadowy world for his last friend, and felt himself give in to fury once and for all.

***

"Er, sir, what are you doing?" Barely awake, Draco stood on the threshold, rubbing at his eyes, unable to determine whether what he saw was a sequel to the nightmare he had previously had, or Snape really I sitting on the cot in an awfully uncomfortable position, cradling Lupin to his chest.

"He doesn't wheeze so much when held upright," the Professor was quick to dispel his amazement, "almost. And he doesn't shake quite so badly."

"And what medicinal effect does your stroking his, er, lower back have?"

Snape considered this. Several times during the night he discovered his fingers in somewhat unexpected places of Remus' body, but blamed the werewolf's tossing about on the improvised bed. Now, Lupin wasn't moving. He wasn't even sweating. The body gradually tired of battling the disease gnawing at its insides. But Snape's hands remained where they had been during the nighttime research. It must be me, then, the Professor thought grimly, and the hidden forms of depravity that hadn't, until now, found an outlet. This will not do.

"Draco, he is burning up. All of him. And we're out of vinegar. I must away. You'll stay by the door. Do not approach him. Once every half-hour, cast a cooling charm."

"What about magic? You took care of me, remember?" Snape wanted to snarl in answer, but restrained himself.

"You've forgotten that we cannot apply powerful healing magic without the risk of being discovered. Simple charms won't help him."

"What if he dies while you're away? What shall I do? I'm afraid of dead people."

"Are you? Not long ago you thought it your calling to add to their number."

"And you've always dreamed of stealing Madam Pomfrey's thunder? To be one step above her?"

"You forget yourself," said Snape in a dangerous voice. Draco shrank back and kept quiet. The Professor carefully rolled the werewolf onto his side as the man moaned in pain, and approached the boy. "Fear nothing. You shan't be discovered, and I'll try to return as soon as I can."

"Where are you going, sir?"

"That isn't any of your concern. And remember - no magic aside from cooling charms; it's safer that way."

"But what if his friends from the Order find him?"

"Then you've my permission to wreak havoc," a sneer crossed the pale face. "You're quite the experienced wizard, close to becoming the right hand of the Dark Lord himself," Snape glared triumphantly as the boy's lips quivered with humiliation, and departed.

The front door slammed, there was a mosquito-like buzz of the protection shield, and Draco was left alone with a dying werewolf. Every time Snape departed on his mysterious business, the young Malfoy felt fear, feebleness and savage fury at the slippery professor. Since their flight from Hogwarts, they lived together, and the boy thought himself as much a prisoner as Lupin was now. Worse, even - the werewolf was unconscious and unaware of the ordeal he was in. Draco couldn't leave the house since Snape only put up protection wards at night, but the place was surrounded by wildly growing grass and a bushy wasteland, beyond which was a dump. The border between the wasteland and the dump was also the endpoint of his strolls. There was a dome there, unseen to the human eye, which obediently allowed Snape to pass but wouldn't let Draco take a step outside the protected area.

The boy was at the end of his rope. The boulder weighing on his heart was larger than the foundation stones in the Astronomy Tower. Uncertainty was the worst torture. He hadn't a clue as to what happened to his mother. His own location was a mystery. The Dark Lord showered Snape with favors, as Severus so brilliantly corrected his, Draco's, mistake, and the fact that the boy was still alive meant only that the time for vengeance had not yet come. The Lord forgave no one. He only delayed punishment so that Draco would die with maximum use to the cause.

Locked up inside these walls, Malfoy often thought about Potter. These thoughts were frightening and - strangely - most embarrassing. He dreamt of getting to Potter, destroying him, giving him over to the Lord in exchange for forgiveness. Then he pictured the green-eyed four-eyes and felt an inexplicable weakness and a passionate desire to keep him safe. Keep him for himself. But then - certain death would await him and all the Malfoys. And what if Harry won? What would he get? Disdain, hatred and a sentence in Azkaban. But then Narcissa would be left alone and, after all, people come back from prison. He hadn't had a chance to do anything awful! He just...

You poisoned Katie and Ron. You destroyed Hogwarts and deprived me of my home. You brought the Death Eaters there, Dumbledore died because of you! The Gryffindor's voice shouted inside his head.

But I couldn't! They made me do it! I saved Lupin! Draco shuddered and stared, haunted, at the werewolf's immobile form. I saved no one. He's dead! And so am I. Snape'll blame me for everything... Panic bound his hands, inevitability gripped his throat with a nauseatingly-sweet smell, and then Lupin groaned.

He's alive! Don't die, please! Not now! When Snape comes back - then you can do whatever you want.

Hands shaking, Draco drew an ice rune in the air. Remus twitched like a bug caught in a hose spray, and went quiet again. The Slytherin slid down to the floor in the doorway, put his palms over his ears, shut his eyes and, softly, began to whimper.