Disclaimer- I don't own it.
Written for Round 3 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition as Chaser 2 for the Falmouth Falcons. Wow, is that a mouthful. My prompts were Dialogue: Pretend that didn't happen, Open book, and "Life is an awful, ugly place to not have a best friend." - Sarah Dessen."
I hope you like it! :)
"You know," said Rabastan. They were lounging on his bed, silk covers wrapped around their legs as Rabastan indulged in an after-sex cigarette. Although, in Remus's opinion, it wasn't indulging if you could readily afford such things. "Everything you think is written all over your face. That's why I like you. Can't even get that with my own friends."
For a Death Eater, Rabastan Lestrange was deliciously stupid. Remus affected an expression of sincere hurt while he really thought, 'The phrase you're looking for is open book, idiot.'
If Rabastan had an ounce of talent in him, he would have seen through Remus's pouting lips and gotten through to the contempt in his eyes. The again, if Remus honest with himself, he'd see through the contempt to the real feelings beneath. Remus didn't hate Rabastan any more than he hated himself.
"I don't know if that's such a good thing," Remus replied. He wasn't sure what to say. Dumbledore had wanted Sirius for this; he would have been a natural, sleeping his way into people's hearts. Sirius, however, wasn't bent, and had taken Dumbledore's quiet suggestion quite the wrong way. And because it was obvious how James felt by the way James looked at Lily, Dumbledore had chosen Remus, and Remus worked hard as only the second-best could.
It was the story of his life. Even Sirius and James were like that. They were more than best friends, they would say of each other. They were brothers. And then, almost as an afterthought, one of them would add, "Marauders forever!" as if Remus couldn't see through it, as if Remus didn't know that he was the third friend and Peter was the fourth. It hurt to know he didn't have a best friend.
Remus watched Rabastan blow smoke out his nose and wondered why he and Peter didn't become bosom friends.
Ah, that's right. Because Peter was an unlikable little snot and Remus was a werewolf.
While Remus watched, Rabastan took too deep of a drag on his cigarette and ended up inhaling ashes, much to Remus's amusement.
"Pretend that didn't happen," muttered Rabastan, his pale skin flushing. Remus grinned rakishly (or what he hoped was rakishly) at Rabastan, his fingers toying with the sheets. He wondered what his parents would think of him. Would they be proud that their sons was so bravely fighting Voldemort? Or would they see it like he did, that he gathered information while his friends fought and died with wands out and spells flying? In truth, he doubted it would be either. They would see his life as dangerous, and their little boy had had enough danger for a lifetime.
Remus, overcome with grief at his parents' deaths and bitterness that he was sitting on a Death Eater's moth-eaten linens and anger that Dumbledore had raised him to be a pet werewolf just like the Death Eaters said and even sadness, sadness that Rabastan Lestrange didn't really know how to smoke and was deliciously stupid and actually had quite a nice smile under that hooked nose, kissed Rabastan. He tasted like smoke, but Remus had known he would.
Rabastan, clearly not expecting the languid werewolf to be so passionate, made a sound of muffled surprise. He dropped the cigarette onto the bed-sheets, where it burned down to the wood before Remus had the sense to put it out with a flick of his wrist. A mistake to show Rabastan Lestrange his full magical capabilities, but, as he would later admit to Dumbledore, he had been caught up in the heat of the moment. And he had. For when he closed his eyes and kissed Rabastan, he could forget lycanthropy and pure-bloods and even Voldemort. Kissing could do that to a fellow.
Of course, Rabastan didn't notice. He only noticed that Remus tasted like tea and coffee and Lily Potter's homemade cookies, although he didn't know how to express it, only that if he'd been asked he would have said Remus Lupin tasted warm and soft and a little bit like freedom. Rabastan deepened the kiss that felt more like love than lust.
That was why, when they parted, Rabastan pushed Remus away, his eyes down. "I can't," he mumbled. "I can't do this again."
Remus, bewildered, wondering what gave him away, said, with complete honesty, "Why? What did I do wrong?"
"My Lord...I'm not allowed..."
"Yes?"
"I'm not allowed to get attached," mumbled Rabastan. Remus felt a surge of satisfaction that someone would want to be attached to him. "Not to half-blood whor-not to half-bloods."
If Remus was louder and angrier (if Remus was Sirius or James), he would have demanded to know what Rabastan almost called him. But he knew. It was true. He was a whore. A whore in the line of fire.
"I understand," he said dully, averting his eyes. "I understand."
He always understood. It was his duty to understand why he wasn't wanted, as a werewolf, as a third friend, as a man.
But when Remus stood up to put his clothes back on, Rabastan gripped his arm.
"I change my mind," said Rabastan hoarsely. "I want you to stay."
Good, Remus wanted to say. You're easy to read. Your emotions are in every line of your face. You fall asleep afterwards, and I can look into your mind then. You give away what I need to know.
But what Remus really meant was what he said.
"Good."
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