CHAPTER 14 – Walking these Vicious Circles

The carriage clock ticked away softly, the shiny mechanism rotating relentlessly, back and forth, back and forth, sending small gold reflections twisting across the mantelpiece wall. On the tarnished mahogany dining table, the one and a half glasses of Riesling had been long forgotten.

Pale brown eyes watched enraged black ones, stubborn lips set toward sneering ones.

In one moment the battle of wills had sparked into life. But it was the next few moments that were the most crucial. Lupin knew this, and this was why he was gripping the doorframe so hard.

With any other person it would be a bad approach to block their exit from a room – but with Snape extra force and effort was needed, it would be a furious struggle all the way.

Snape blinked several times, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What?"

The other took a resolute breath. "The Black family library – Siri – it used to be kept locked. Would you like to see it?"

Lupin had to try his hardest to remove all uncertainty from his voice. Oh, if only he could get Snape to trust him! Get that sneer of mistrust to curve into a smile – just once. Once would be enough.

But like too many other wizards - would Snape ever dare to trust someone who grew claws once a month? Especially someone linked with one of the darkest periods of his life. Was it that improbable?

Lupin rallied under the intensity of the wizard's hateful glare - the like of which would have probably petrified an entire potions class several times over – and held it with calm determination, he had neither managed or felt before. Yes, he understood Snape's hatred of him, even admired him for it – it was brave to face a werewolf and tell him so. Too many other wizards had shown their prejudice more subtly, sacked him behind his back, too afraid to do it to his face.

Lupin was used to smelling deceit about people, and Merlin, was he sick of that scent! Meaningless chitchat that always circled the problem, never approached it. The next sly thing up from lies was avoiding the questions altogether. Just like they were afraid to confront the wolf.

He sighed. What he really wanted right now was a half decent conversation that gave him the answers.

After his maddened outburst it took almost all of Snape's willpower to calm him and gain control of his breathing – but he managed it. Though, to his great annoyance the wizard found he hadn't done enough to prevent an adrenaline overload.

Try as he might he just couldn't stop his wand hand from quivering uncontrollably. The resulting "weakness" plain and visible for all to see only made him crazier. And the crazier he looked, the more the Werewolf was likely to pity him.

Once again the Marauders had made him lose hold of the skill he prided in – self control. And once again Lupin watched him calmly. To see the mild- mannered wizard still in control of his made Snape's blood sear with fresh hatred. In all the years he'd known him Snape never once saw Lupin loose his temper, and it was this that Snape couldn't stand.

"How dare you," hissed Snape, his expression a frightening mask. His cold eyes like little black beads, bored through Lupin – as if searching for explanation yet thwarted at finding none. "How dare you?"

A floorboard creaked slightly as Lupin shifted his stance. Dawn was rapidly greying up the dining room windowpanes, the faint trills of London birdsong distinctly audible outside in the street. The carriage clock ticked another minute past.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Snape snarled anew, threatened anew, ordered the grim faced Lupin to step aside. Yet still Lupin stood.

Maybe it was desperation due to losing all the friends he had ever had in his bleak, lonely life. Maybe it was a heroically reckless Gryffindor stint, or maybe it was even that he really was the "loony" classmates always said he was – Lupin had long ceased to care. He hadn't even been bothered to shave since Sirius died, his unkempt sandy hair brushed against his collar, his scruffy beard now half grizzled with white hairs. He had put on the rumpled old grey tunic shirt he was wearing well over a week ago, the two he had worn previous weeks were still crumpled up on the floor upstairs.

What did it matter? It wasn't as if cleanliness mattered for Order duties – which often involved long dull hours playing watchman, spying on lower ministry employees.

It would be Lupin's fortieth birthday this year, but the Werewolf in him made it easily feel like it was his sixtieth.

He had once carried the nagging feeling that he should feel grateful to reach such a landmark age; due to vigilante attacks most werewolves didn't live to be as old as he was. But on the flip side of the coin - what benefits were there really to be got by an aging werewolf in Wizarding society? Forbidden from having children, harried, ousted, marginalized, looked on with a guarded eye wherever he went. Due to his condition and lack of money his clothes growing worn and tatty, causing people to look upon him with disdain. Forever dreading discovery and outcry.

And so it went on – this vicious monthly cycle, with the human trapped and helpless in its centre.

Lupin was no dreamer. He had long accepted there was no cure, and he well knew that even after the defeat of He Who Must Not Be Named, he would still face prejudice - the distrust, and fear of Lycanthropes wouldn't die with one dark wizard. He had accepted this from a young age, and had therefore learned to appreciate what good things came along, with a much greater intensity than usual.

But what he could not bear now was the loss of these good things. When he had had friends Lycanthropy had been tolerable.

Now it was a curse.

The Potions' Professor didn't want to see it as a curse - oh, no - he preferred to keep with his annoyingly old-fashioned notion that Lupin secretly enjoyed it. This bothered Lupin intensely; couldn't Snape see that he was in a similar position to a Werewolf? The Mark was as bad as a curse, a permanent fixture, a brand of service to evil, which would colour the majority of opinions against him for the rest of his life. Snape lived with the Mark like Lupin lived with the wolf, a half-life.

It was a day-by-day test of patience and tolerance, skulking about like this in the shadows. Your past still blotting through your future, unforgettable, unchangeable.

And like Snape, Lupin had undeniably found protection from Dumbledore. But Dumbledore was not really a friend to either of them. He was a good and wise ally, a safe bolthole for the ousted "creatures," but no friend.

True, Snape was a great survivor, a solitary pillar of power. But he had grown far too embittered and rigid the past few years - to survive this new war he would need to change. For this war would be a merciless earthquake that would especially delight in toppling the proud, solitary pillars who refused support.

Lupin didn't want this proud solitary pillar to fall, he wanted him to change. He had accepted this challenge even though it would be long and painful and full of rage.

But would it be full of misunderstandings?

This was this undecided question that Lupin had made his decision on. Lupin had long held a theory that Snape - deep down underneath all his impossible stubborn bastardness understood only too well. He also believed this understanding between them, went both ways, especially when it came to their shared fascination for books.

Maybe Lupin was insane to hope he could be on good terms with Snape one day; but at least he wasn't naïve - he knew that pain and rage would likely come first. And knowing this, Lupin was more than prepared for it, even if he didn't wholly deserve it.

"Right, if this is the way you want it Lupin," muttered Snape quietly, barely concealing his fury behind balanced tones. He straightened his wand arm to full lock, pressed his lips together, and with one glint of malicious eye, took aim at the defiant man's leg.

"If this is the way you want it to be – so be it. Vulnero viscous."

The curse exploded from Snape's wand, splitting into multiple shards of lightning white in midair, before ripping scores of deep gashes down both sides of Lupin's right leg.

Lupin let out a terrible moan and leant into the doorframe. Black spots swam before his eyes, while muscles spasmed in pain. He fought hard to prevent his knees buckling with the shock. In his fierce determination not to black out, he gripped the doorframe so tightly that the very ends of his fingers turned white.

Calming himself, Lupin met the eyes of his injurer once again. Was it simply him, or had Snape's eyes shown a glimmer of remorse just then?

He had to believe it. He was determined to. He would try and fix the past if it killed him.

Lupin appealed to him once again, his voice refusing to weaken, even in his suffering. The dark robed wizard must learn he wasn't the only stubborn git in the room.

Snape's lip curled in mockery at the injured wizard's stubborn look. "Stop this, Lupin. I have no idea what you are trying to do – some vile attempt at Gryffindor bravery, or some exercise in spineless grovelling – either is offensive."

"I'm listening to you," said Lupin.

"Really?" leered Snape in his most mocking tone. "Why me? Your owner not paying you enough attention? Though I am utterly touched that the next available person with a backbone happens to be me, I just can't stand -"

BANG!

Though injured, Lupin was still surprisingly fast. He had broken away from the doorframe and closed the gap between them in a matter of mere seconds.

Snape blinked repeatedly in shock, but couldn't swallow or make more than a small wheezing sound. For Remus Lupin had one hand gripped tightly round his throat.

Though his brownish eyes shone brightly with years of pent up pain and frustration. Lupin's ragged face wore an expression closer to a sneer than it had ever done in his life.

And as Snape staggered drunkenly backwards, trying desperately to claw off the hand with his own, he merely moved Lupin along with him – until finally the back of Snape's legs connected with the dining room table and they could go no further.

Using all his strength and years of bottled frustration, Lupin used the advantage of surprise to force the other man to bend backwards over the table and loom over him. For once, Lupin gave his pent-up frustrations full rein.

"Never," he ground out hoarsely, "have I grovelled to you Severus – you know this. I assure I never will. How is it possible to grovel to an equal? How?!" he croaked.

Severus was visibly shocked to hear his fellow wizard rant in such a hoarse and emotional way. He could hear Lupin's heart too – too close - hammering angrily in his ears.

Lupin let out a frustrated sound. "Now, I will repeat, and you listen this time; if you stay, I WILL show you the library. If you still don't trust me, all you have to do is say, and I WILL chain myself to something. You know when I keep my promises – I keep them!"

Lupin's eyes shone with an intense anger no one had seen in them before. It was not wolfish anger – it was human.

"My word is my word, upon my mother's life I swear it!"

Only when he had growled out the last words did Lupin finally release his grip upon Snape's pallid neck, and draw back to watch the reaction.

And being honest about it, Lupin had no idea what sort of reaction to expect.

The spring dawn was bright and fresh – Harry crept along the mossy paths at the sides of the Hogwarts gardens for well over an hour, walking in no particular direction. He stopped at the edge of a line of trees to contemplate the scene. A delicate white mist was hovering low over the lake, the other side of which jutted the high scaffolding and poles of the Quidditch pitch, beyond these lay more trees, and the faint greyish outline of distant hills.

He sighed bitterly. It was like staring at a postcard; everything was so still and motionless. If only looking at this beautiful scene could make him feel peaceful. There were too many thoughts crammed into his head, all clamouring for a say, taking up great chunks of his sleep time. He was so weary. He could easily lay down and –

No – he wouldn't go down that path again: his friends cared for him. He cared for them too, somehow. It didn't seem so at the moment, but he was sure he would care for them when it mattered. And it would matter soon, probably.

He found his fingers lingering over a bush next to him. Unlike the others in the row it was dead, and without fresh buds. He selected a long twig, it cracked loudly as he snapped it off near the base. He stood there some time, engrossed with scratching off the bark, and twirling the twig absent- mindedly between his fingers.

Once all the bark was gone Harry held the twig up to examine it. It was almost dead straight, tapering at one end – like a wand.

Frowning slightly, Harry drew his own wand out of his pocket, and sat there some time comparing the two pieces of wood.

Questions he had never thought of asking sprang to mind. How did they make wands? Was it only the core that made a wand a wand? Did a wizard really need a wand to cast spells?

Even though he was pretty sure no one was within a quarter of a mile from his spot, Harry still glanced about him and listened intently before sliding his wand back into his pocket. He glanced around again to make doubly sure.

Licking his lips, Harry narrowed his eyes slightly and aimed the pointed twig at the dead bush. "Inflammario."

Nothing happened. Harry's eyes scanned the floor for a stone. "Wingardium leviosa," he whispered. The stone didn't budge a millimetre.

This made him think. Could this happen? Imagine, just imagine if he could suddenly no longer do magic? That would screw up the wizarding world's hopes, wouldn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived Loses Magic Abilities! – the headlines would scream. There would be widescale panic, no doubt. He would be the gossip of the wizarding world – yet again. Like he will be when it comes to his last stand against Voldemort.

Harry scraped the point of the twig against a tree and let his mouth curl into a half sneer. They would talk and gossip like always – call him by his familiar name even though they didn't even know him, like always, just like they don't know what it's like to live his life.

Merlin knows what everyone thought of his failure last year...

Harry leant exhausted against the tree trunk, as he felt the darkness pressing down on him once more. He thought he felt okay a moment ago, but it was back again. The creeping shadows at the edge of his mind – trying to force their way in. Darker and darker...

So...what if he took the stick, and pointed it at his own head, and said Avada -

No.

No.

Never.

NO!!

Horrified with his own thoughts, Harry quickly tried to block out the darkness by visualising the image of the candle flame Lupin had suggested to use when preparing for Occlumency. He had tried visualising a Snitch at first, but this only made him more alert, bringing forth more memories, which had then broken his concentration.

He breathed in deeply, then out again, watching the candle flame flicker slightly in his head, visualising in particular the black heart of the flame, the darkness in the centre of the light – His breath came more and more slowly, his eyes only vaguely noticing the darkness creeping around the edges of the vision. He was so successful with his meditation that it was some time before he noticed a room had materialised around the candle.

A dark, shadowy room. The candle a short, fat cream one in a stand, burning on a low table.

There are hushed voices. There is also the sound of shallow breathing.

The candle flame is still and unflickering, the weak light yellowish. There is a small movement to the right, it is a person almost completely in shadow, sat close by.

Someone begins to whisper. It sounds like a small boy.

"Mother, why did you tell me to blow all the candles out?"

A soft female voice, speaks to reassure, yet sounds tense, "hush, not so loudly. So it looks as if we have gone away."

"But," the boy pauses. "But why so it looks like we've gone away?"

The female voice sighed quietly. "Do you remember I told you your father is poorly at the moment?"

The boy sniffs, his voice raising slightly. "I know you did. But why does father have to be poorly? Why does he -?"

The female voice shushes him for not whispering, before sighing again. "Because he does," she replies sadly. "People can't help being poorly – like father can't help being poorly."

The boy makes a small whine in his throat. "But why do the candles have to go out? You know I don't like the dark."

His mother huffs. "Don't be so silly! What have I told you about the dark?"

"That it's my friend," says the boy in a very small voice.

"That's right," she replies softly. "Your friend. And now it is being both our friends by hiding us. There is nothing sillier than fearing the dark. Don't you ever forget that."

"No, mother," is the quiet reply.

Harry's head jerked up. He blinked dazedly: the bright orange glow of the rising sun was shining full in his face. What sort of trance had he just been in, and for how long?

Bringing his eyes back into focus he looked around – he could see woodsmoke curling up from the other side of the grounds – that meant Hagrid was up in his hut, and cooking himself breakfast, and it also meant it was about six o'clock in the morning. Filch was usually up at quarter to seven, so he had to sneak back to the dormitory before he was caught.

Without thinking any further about it, Harry stuffed the twig he had been playing with in his pocket and set back toward the castle.

Once inside, the quiet, empty entrance hall echoed with his soft footsteps, and once again Harry had the sense of being watched. Whether it was out of curiosity, or irritation, or both he didn't know, but the teenager chose to stop dead.

The last of his footsteps echoed away, leaving only the silence.

Harry felt his eyes wanting to move toward the darkness of the dungeon steps. Snape had never caught him out and about yet – Harry had a sort of smug pride about this. Maybe he could really rub it in and be daring by taking a casually defiant stroll down past the Slytherin quarters and especially Snape's office?

He was halfway down the main dungeon corridor when he distinctly felt someone's breath brush across his neck.

"So, I have caught you at last, Mister Potter," said the cold voice.

Harry swung round sharply to see nothing. He turned back, bewildered.

He heard a rustle and a flap of robes behind him, and swung round again. Nothing.

The voice spoke again – immediately behind him. "No need to be afraid of the dark, Potter."

Harry swallowed. "I'm not."

The voice chuckled low in the throat. "Good. But of course, it is not the dark that needs fearing, is it - ?"

Harry felt something cold touch the back of his neck. He steeled himself before whipping round to face the opposite direction once more.

Nothing.

"Who are you?" demanded Harry, beginning to inch his hand toward his wand pocket.

"Or a slightly more crucial point," mused the voice, "Where are you?"

"And that!" snarled the Teenager.

"Temper, temper," came the cool reply. "The first question should be in the past tense. The second, if you consider the first's answer, is closer than you think."

Harry began to curl his fingers around the end of his wand. "What?!"

"Manners!" came the scathing hiss. "No manners, these young of today! Speak properly child!"

Harry stifled the urge to snap back, and took a deep breath instead.

Past tense –

Ah, now he had it. Who were you?

Was he talking to a painting?

"You are correct, Mister Potter," came the sly tone.

"H-How did you know that – I didn't even say it out loud!" challenged Harry.

But he got no reply.

Intrigued, Harry began to peer through the gloom into all the little alcoves and dingy false archways of the dungeon corridor he was in. There were actually some pictures in them - only dark looking landscapes – but why hadn't he noticed them before? Probably because he had always had more than several reasons to hurry out the dungeons.

Finally, in the far corner. Harry stared, aghast at what was looking back at him.

"Don't mind the idiotic family resemblance," leered the picture dryly. "I disowned the fool of a grandson who lives down these dungeons long ago."

"Snape?" stuttered the teen.

The dark-caped man in the portrait bowed formally, all smarmy grin and glittering eyes. "Desmodus Snape. A great pleasure to speak with the young Mister Potter at last."

Harry blinked.

Snape let out a long, choking wheeze and shuddered, before finally allowing his body to collapse back with shock onto the table. It took several short hacking breaths before he was strong enough to move even slightly. Lupin watched as Snape managed to inch a hand up to feel his throat.

Lupin noticed Snape's wand on the floor. Obviously he had dropped it in the struggle. He moved forward to pick it up, wincing slightly each step. With the adrenalin wearing off, Lupin's leg was beginning to throb more and more painfully.

He picked up the wand, a rather heavy static-feeling one made from ebony wood, and gingerly placed it within easy reach of Snape's hand before limping back a distance.

Dizzy from lack of oxygen, Snape rolled weakly over onto his side, trying not to retch as he did so. He could still smell Lupin's musty scent about him, and it brought back unwanted memories.

And the other smell – well, he would try and ignore that for the moment, even though this meant trying to stifle that old urge to panic. Snape hated this other smell more than any other. Blood.

Smelling blood reminded him of dark rooms and darker voices. Oh Merlin. Why was it always a race to try and bury the past before it buried him? Swallowing apprehensively, Snape opened his eyes to the scene.

As Lupin stared back at him, Snape was thankful that his stare was still human. Well then, the scruffy man may have actually been right about this new approach to the wolf. But hadn't he known that himself already? Hadn't he deliberately challenged the man because he felt like it, just to get a perverse pleasure out of winding him up?

Anyway, even if he had agreed – it would have been the start of a productive and intelligent conversation, and as much as Snape secretly wanted and valued these, his self-pride and bitterness held him back. And why? It was Lupin for blasted sakes!

Gryffindor Lupin. Weak Lupin -

Snape's eyes lingered on Lupin's leg. It was completely stained red and glistening with fresh blood. His gaze then flickered over the footprints on the floor. Footprints of fresh blood were staining the floorboards black. He blinked, averting his eyes.

Human blood. It was especially difficult to scrub off floorboards, it soaked into the wood like dye. And the sound drying blood made when it was walked on.

Oh Gods -

Snape tightened his jaw and rolled over, effectively turning his back on the other wizard.

Lupin watched Snape's reaction with surprise. No wonder Dumbledore defended him – a half-vampire, turning peaky at the mere sight of blood? Bizarre. What must his grandfather have made of him?

Lupin winced as he felt a jolt of pain go through his leg. It felt pretty serious, and being the result of a Vulnero viscous hex, it would have been if he were human.

Snape sat up slowly and grasped his wand. "I think I will return to Hogwarts now, Lupin," he muttered hoarsely.

Lupin looked down at the floor and sighed, before stepping away from the exit.

Snape got up, and strode awkwardly to the door, his eyes completely avoiding the bloody scene. At the doorway however, he paused a moment.

Lupin was convinced Snape was just about to say something half-decent for once, but then another wave of nausea seemed to hit – causing him to turn pale again.

"I have to go," was his abrupt reply. The footsteps were brisk - the front door of Twelve Grimmauld Place slammed -

"BLOOD TRAITORS!" came the hellish shriek. "DISRESPECTING THE PURE BLOOD OF MY FAMILY LINE! BUTCHERING MY LOYAL SERVANTS! OUT – OUT OF MY HOUSE! VILE REVOLTING HALFBLOOD CREATURES – VILE-"

It took all Lupin's strength this time to limp out into the hallway and wrench Mrs Black's curtains shut.