If My Gentle Love Be Not Raised Up

Harry sat at the small table in his room and laid his hands flat on its surface, feeling the raised pattern that decorated the top of it. He knew he hadn't used it since Ron died, but when he stopped to consider it, he realized he hadn't played chess at all in that time. He was never very good at it. He was impulsive and impatient, had a hard time playing the long game, was truly abysmal at foreseeing any consequence that was not immediate. But then, Ron had been equally terrible, and so the games were relatively evenly matched. If Harry were to ever challenge Severus or Remus, though, he knew he'd be completely out of his depth.

He also knew this was a truth that extended far beyond the chessboard; and he realized, as well, it was probably his exaggerated and tumultuous emotions that were to blame for this particular reflection; but Harry suddenly couldn't fathom how he'd won such a deep and tenacious love from each of these men. He felt unworthy of it.

How many times had Harry overheard Severus, unbeknownst to the man, criticise Dumbledore for clinging to a belief in Harry's dubious exceptionalism? How many times had the man enumerated examples of Harry's ineptitude to his face before they became lovers? What did he see in Harry beyond a youthful body and willingness?

And Remus...did the man really see more in him than his mother's eyes, his father's face, and their mutual loss? How was any of it enough for the two of them that they would go to such lengths for the boy?

And he felt like a boy; scared and selfish and unseasoned. He felt like he was finally old enough to recognize his youth; to recognize true maturity and know he did not possess it. And yet here were these men, each remarkable in their own way, who fought over him and sacrificed for him. Surely their devotion was better spent elsewhere? Perhaps, even, on each other.

Harry knew they were far more compatible than they realized or wanted to admit. All Harry knew about dealing with Severus' difficult moods he'd learned from Remus' example. And who could better appreciate the burdens Severus carried than Remus? Who better to check Remus' fatalistic pride with blunt realism than Severus?

Remus hadn't shared Harry's bed last night, and waking up without him had been depressing, had undoubtedly triggered these insecurities that his rising madness could not contain. Harry knew it was his irrational mood swings, the particularly self-deprecating frame of mind he'd woken up in, that made him wonder if they both wouldn't be better off if Harry just disappeared. But knowing it was irrational and convincing his emotions of the fact were two very different things. His feelings didn't care what his brain was telling him. They seemed determined to smother him, to drown him in their shifting tides.

Surely Severus and Remus would seek succor in each other, Harry reasoned, if he were suddenly absent. Their progress the night before was heartening. There had to be a way to bring them closer together. And then, if Harry didn't make it through this after all, if he chose not to, they wouldn't be alone after he'd gone.

"Darling, you're up," Remus said brightly from the doorway, waking Harry from his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed the man's approach. But now that he was present, Harry heard his heartbeat like a subliminal summons and, for the first time, detected the faintest hint of his blood on the air, despite that the man's skin was unbroken. Harry's hunger stirred. He wondered if his eyes had darkened, wondered if his mild arousal was as evident in his expression as it was elsewhere, out of sight.

Harry didn't answer him right away. He simply regarded Remus, remarking to himself on the inexplicable sureness that infused his every movement in quiet, unobtrusive ways; the easy self-possession with which he carried himself. His eyes were gentle and kind, but if one looked closer it was impossible not to see the fire behind them. And Harry knew he loved Remus for reasons that had nothing to do with the Full; knew he was tied to him in a fashion that didn't involve magic...desired him in ways that went beyond the thirst which made his position in his chair suddenly uncomfortable.

"Darling, are you alright?" Remus asked, concerned by Harry's silence and his sad, serious stare. He took a seat at the table across from him and draped a hand over the one Harry had left lying on its surface. But Harry shied from his touch. Remus looked down at the reticent hand and the crease in his brow deepened. Despite Harry's reluctance, he took it up in both of his.

"Harry, you're hurt," he remarked with concern, examining the angry red stripe that colored the top of Harry's hand, highlighting the scar there that reminded him he mustn't tell lies. It wasn't the reason Harry had shied, but the young man allowed Remus to believe it anyway.

"There was a gap in the curtains," Harry explained quietly. The soft sunlight of dawn had found its way through Harry's window that morning and fallen on him as he slept, and he'd woken to a blistering pain, accompanied by a sense of futility. He felt so fragile to be such a fearsome thing.

Remus retrieved the balm that stayed now on Harry's bedside table and carefully applied it to the burn, gently massaging away the pain and redness. While Remus concentrated on his task, Harry concentrated on Remus.

"Severus was here last night," Harry whispered, surprising the man into meeting his eye.

"Yes. He came to visit as he promised," Remus assured him, perhaps assuming Harry's melancholy was to do with Severus' absence. And he wasn't entirely wrong. "But he didn't want to disturb you. And he had more work to do, what with end of term and your serum. He's very busy, but he promised to return again for our feeding, at the very latest." Remus smiled at him reassuringly.

"You like him." Harry'd said it plainly, with no jealousy or condemnation, no teasing or judgement. Remus actually blushed subtly. He gave a short laugh, grinning self-consciously.

"Despite myself," he admitted.

"Despite him," Harry corrected, with a small smile of his own. Remus laughed outright. Harry loved the sound.

"I think you bring out the best in him," Remus said, still holding Harry's hand. The young man scoffed.

"I bring out the worst in him for the best reasons," he clarified.

"You make him a better man," Remus whispered in agreement, smiling fondly at Harry. But Harry shook his head.

"He's always been that man," he said softly. "I'm just the lens that allows you to see it."

Remus looked at the young man thoughtfully, considering either Harry's words or his philosophical mood, or both. "You seem to be feeling stronger," he said finally. "Would you like to go downstairs? I imagine you're tired of this room." Harry shook his head again.

"Come to bed with me," he sighed, squeezing Remus' hand. The man's own eyes dilated. His breathing did not change but suddenly required careful control. "The thirst..." Harry began shakily, his eyes darting away; wanting to explain but not really knowing how, not wanting to offend the man. But Remus seemed to understand and was not bothered. He rose and drew Harry gently to his feet, leading him by the hand back to the bed.

He required some assistance, but Harry still enjoyed undressing Remus; enjoyed being allowed to try. It was thrilling, like unwrapping an unexpected gift. There was still a newness to the sight that was revealed as the fabric was peeled away. Werewolves healed quickly, and Remus' bandages were gone, as were Harry's. Though, his most recent scars were still pink, looking raw and sensitive. Harry kissed them each softly, apologizing for their infliction, paying special attention to the particular one which Severus was not yet allowed to see.

Remus handled Harry gently as well, coaxing him to stretch out atop the man instead of dragging him there. For the longest while, they simply kissed. It was deep but unhurried. They fit together so comfortably, and the hour was young; their only obligations for the day were to each other. Their kisses evolved slowly. Remus wrapped his legs around Harry one at a time, simply to draw him closer, but eventually urged the young man to position himself. Harry had feared that their hierarchy would mean the man would refuse to bottom again. But this was not an act of dominance or control, only of love and desire.

Remus required no preparation. Harry applied no force, simply rested against the man, the weight of his body finally pressing him inside as Remus relaxed to allow it. It was almost undetectable to Harry. And it was sweet, until it was more; and Harry slowly began rocking his hips. The thirst stirred, and his fangs emerged, but he had no trouble resisting the urge to use them. Their movements quickened by degrees but not by much, and their climax was understated and unimportant in the scope of things. Harry's lust was gently sated and all that really mattered was this closeness.

Harry drew back and gazed down at Remus. "Severus could love you," he told him softly, wondering how much it might bother him that the other man intruded so often on Harry's thoughts when the two were together.

But Remus seemed to have no complaints. He smiled, clearly humouring the young man. "You think so?" he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow. But Harry nodded seriously.

"I've conditioned him to dealing with Gryffindors," he added with a slow grin. Remus tilted his head and regarded Harry, brushing at his forehead in his seemly endless war with Harry's unruly hair.

"You'd like that?" he asked, searching Harry's strange new eyes.

The young man nodded. "Yeah," he said honestly "I would." Remus sighed and wrapped his arms around Harry, drawing him close.

"I think I would, too, Darling," he said softly, sincerely.

And Harry smiled.