Chapter 4: Solicitation

A/N: This chapter occurs after Chapter 29, and partially overlaps Chapter 30 in For Tomorrow We May Die.

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He groaned as he rolled over, and his first thought was, God, I'm getting too old for this. He was stiff and sore, every muscle in his body screaming in protest as he moved. He opened his eyes slowly, fully expecting to be blinded by a bright afternoon light, but he was not. Instead, his eyes were caressed by welcome darkness broken only by a softly glowing lamp on the bedside table. There was a glass of water there as well, beads of condensation glimmering faintly on the outside of the tumbler.

Slowly, he shifted into a seating position. He didn't want to get out of bed, but it had ceased to be a matter of what he wanted—his bladder was going to explode if he didn't do something about it soon. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he grimaced as a pungent odor assaulted his nostrils and he examined his palm. Utterly filthy. He was used to being exhausted after a full moon, but usually someone coaxed him into a shower before they let him crawl into bed to sleep until afternoon. Glancing at the soiled pillowslip and sheet, he frowned slightly, then shoved the half-formed memories aside as he stood and stumbled his way to the bathroom. He could ponder the details of his transformations after he took a piss.

As he emptied his bladder, his head filled with disjointed images and memories, and as he washed his hands, staring at the filth that blackened the sink as he scrubbed, the full memory crashed against him, like a wave breaking on a rocky shore. He drew in his breath sharply and clutched the side of the sink, closing his eyes against the recollection of four and a half days in a cold cell that was barely suitable as an animal pen and certainly not appropriate for human occupancy, and he knew precisely where the filth had come from. With a grunt of disgust, he flung off his robe and tossed it to the floor, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror as he cut on the water in the shower. He thrust a hand into the stream and barely waited for the chill to cease before stepping into it and closing his eyes.

As the grime and dirt and other things he didn't even want to think about washed away from his body, he felt the rising anger again at the entire situation. The Ministry's new law to 'protect' werewolves by imprisoning them. The inhuman conditions that he and nearly two dozen others—many children—had suffered for four days. The humiliation and degradation of the entire situation. He thrust his head under the water and scrubbed furiously at his hair, trying to ignore an unsolicited voice that reminded him that as often as he and Sirius and James had made fun of Severus for being greasy, the scrawny Slytherin had never even approached the level he was at the moment.

Severus. Remus groaned again and turned his face towards the shower head, wishing it would drown him. Severus had been the one to come retrieve him from the Ministry. Dumbledore had been 'occupied' he'd said. A polite way of saying that the man whom Remus so respected and admired had better things to do than pick up werewolves after their imprisonment in the Department of the Care and Regulation of Magical Creatures. So he had sent Severus Snape, of all the damn people, to pick him up, and Severus had done so with no more sympathy than he would have had for a dog he was retrieving from a kennel. Which probably explained why he had been allowed to crawl into bed in such a state.

"Greasy git probably didn't even notice," Remus muttered, reaching for a bottle of shampoo. He scrubbed it vigorously into his hair scowling at the water.

But it hurt. It hurt to know that Dumbledore was so insensitive that he would send Severus Snape of all the people in the goddamned world. Why couldn't he have sent Molly? Actually, upon contemplation, Remus was glad it hadn't been Molly. He didn't think he could have withstood the Weasley matriarch's mothering. And he knew that Arthur had been at work, as had Bill and Charlie, and Tonks and Shacklebolt and everyone else… and Remus was glad that none of them had been there either. He almost wished no one had been there to see him like that.

Three different people tried to get you to wash up, didn't they? came an annoying voice of reason within his head. He hadn't cared, though, as he'd told Severus quite pointedly. Severus had told him he'd care 'tomorrow'. Damn him for being right. Remus held his head under the water again and ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging the suds.

Face it, Remus. You're just plain angry and looking for someone to focus your anger on.

He sighed as he picked up the shampoo again—he knew he wasn't likely to find anyone who would suit his purpose. He needed to just calm down and get over it. As he lathered up his hair again, he forced his thoughts away from who had seen him and what they'd seen. There was nothing but humiliation down that path, he knew, and facing the others was going to be hard enough without supplementing his discomfort with thoughts of what was already over with and done. He rinsed his hair again and picked up the shampoo once more, telling himself firmly that this was the last time he was washing his hair today—it was one thing to want it clean, something else entirely to try to wash away the disgrace and horror that lingered in his mind. Three shampoos would be more than enough to get his hair clean.

He left the suds in his hair as he stepped out of the shower for a moment. In his haste, he'd not even bothered to bring a flannel into the shower with him, but now he needed it. He opened the door a crack and peered into the hall; no one was around so he darted out to the linen closet, retrieved towels and two flannels and skittered back into the bathroom before anyone came upon him unwittingly. That would be a perfect end to this story—to permanently scar Hermione or Ginny with the vision of him in all his naked glory in the middle of the upstairs hallway.

He stepped back into the shower, draping one of the flannels over the door and holding the other in his hand. He reached for the bar of soap, worked it into a lather and let his thoughts drift again. No point in rehashing the humiliations, but that didn't mean he intended to ignore the situation. No, there were a number of things he wanted to bring up with Miss Lara Berkeley, and she had, after all, invited him to make suggestions. Reasonable suggestions.

"Reasonable," he muttered to himself as he scrubbed at his chest with unnecessary vigor. "Is it reasonable to expect to be treated like a human? Why don't you spend four fucking days in one of those cells and then let's talk about reasonable." He scrubbed at one leg, a malevolent smile darkening his face as he pictured the plump and friendly Lara Berkeley huddled in a corner with nothing but a blanket. As he scrubbed the bottom of his foot, he lost himself in the fantasy momentarily. Let her try to find a comfortable way to lie down and sleep on the damn floor. Let her sit there and wonder how long she'd been there, and if there was any end in sight. Let her spend four days without human contact. With nothing but her own increasingly angry and devastated thoughts to keep her company.

I'd take great pleasure in walking into her cell after three days and patting her on the head and telling her everything was fine, he thought bitterly, then paused in his bathing, the flannel hanging limply in his hand at his shoulder. No, he wouldn't take pleasure in that, on second thought. He'd probably sit there and cry with her. No one should be treated like that. He finished bathing and then tossed the flannel to the floor and picked up the clean one and set about bathing a second time, his thoughts sinking towards self pity once more as he wondered if he would ever feel clean again.

After bathing three times, the water was beginning to run cold, so he stuck his head under the spray once more and rinsed a final time, shutting off the water just as it finally gave up all pretenses at warmth. He stepped out of the shower and jerked up one of the towels, which he applied to his body with a ferocity that belied the fatigue threatening to thwart his determination to finish cleaning up. He slammed open the cabinet and took out his shaving things, then swiped at the mirror with a corner of his towel as he began ridding himself of the almost week's growth of beard.

When he finally finished shaving, he looked around the bathroom and made a face, then exited into the hall, towel wrapped around his waist. He'd worry about cleaning later. He moved quickly to his room, then shut the door behind him as he rummaged for clothes. Once dressed, he stripped the sheets off his bed and tossed them into the corner, then hesitated, faltering between crawling back into bed and going downstairs to see if he could find something to eat. At length, hunger won out over fatigue, and he headed down to the kitchen.

The house was darker than he'd anticipated, and as he passed the drawing room, he poked his head into the door to look at the clock on the mantle. It was a little after nine. He'd been asleep for about eight hours, then. Odd, he normally slept longer than that after a transformation. But then, there was nothing normal about this month anyway, so why should he expect his sleep pattern not to be affected? He descended the stairs into the basement and paused at the kitchen door, listening. He could hear perhaps four distinct voices inside. As he opened the door, his nose was greeted by the savory aroma of stew, and his eyes shot wistfully towards the stove, hoping there was some left. He didn't have much time to ponder the possibility, however, before Molly pulled him into a firm embrace.

"Well," she said with a smile as she hugged him close. "Look who finally decided to join the land of the living." She tightened her arms around him until it was almost painful, but he was too grateful for her tenderness to protest. She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. "How are you feeling?" she asked, finally letting him go and ushering him to a chair.

"Tired," he replied truthfully. "And stiff."

"And hungry?" she suggested. He smiled sheepishly and she patted his shoulder. "I'll get you some stew. You just sit tight for a minute." She kissed his cheek again and he squeezed her hand.

"Glad to see you're up and around again, Remus," Arthur said, looking over the top of his paper. "We were beginning to be a bit worried about you."

"It's not even ten yet," Remus protested. "I usually sleep at least a full day."

"It's past nine on Thursday," Dumbledore replied softly, and Remus grimaced.

"I guess I was tired." He was beginning to get defensive. Why should he have to explain his need for sleep?

"Of course," Arthur replied amiably. "I heard about the condition of those cells. Scandalous. You'll be happy to know, though, that Lara Berkeley has been making a right nuisance of herself all day. The whole ministry is talking about it—she's demanding everything from plumbing to better menus, and she wants it all by the next full moon. I told her she was going to have to be a little more reasonable than that, but she wouldn't listen. Good woman, Lara Berkeley, if a little idealistic at times."

Idealistic? Plumbing and food was idealistic? Remus felt a bubble of anger rising in his gut again, but he forced it back down. That's Arthur, for crying out loud, he chastised himself. He's on your side.

"They should have had those things this month," Molly replied to Arthur's assertions. "When she starts demanding lace curtains, then you can say she's being unreasonable."

"I'm not implying that the requests are unreasonable," Arthur said defensively. "I'm saying that the time frame is. Do you know how long it takes to install toilets and sinks in a cell block? It's going to take more than magic to get that done in a month—it's going to take a miracle."

"Here you are, dear. This is a start until I finish heating up your stew." Molly placed a plate of rolls in front of him, then added a dish of butter and a jar of jam, then a cup of tea. "It'll be just a few more minutes on that stew."

"How was it, Remus?" Dumbledore asked, and Remus shot him a disbelieving look. How was it? "Other than the obvious fact that you had to endure it at all, that is."

And how am I supposed to answer that? Remus thought. It was a fucking prison cell for four days and the only thing he'd done was have the audacity to get attacked by a werewolf when he was a child. "Let's say it wasn't an experience I want to repeat in any of my next three lifetimes," he muttered.

Dumbledore moved to sit beside him and placed an arm about his shoulders. "They didn't mistreat you?" he asked, and Remus scowled at the roll he was buttering.

Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of mistreatment, he thought sourly. "Everyone was quite accommodating," he replied aloud, using Lara's own word. It was an excuse, of course—he was treated as humanely as he'd been able to lower himself to request.

"That's good at least," Arthur said, offering another smile. "I knew Lara when she started at the Ministry. She was in the Muggle-Worthy Excuses Department for three years, you know. She did an outstanding job about five years ago when there was a series of werewolf attacks on Muggles up in Devonshire, and she really caught everyone's eye then. And then she transferred to the Registry, and she's been overhauling that for about two years. She has just the kind of personality that makes her perfect for the job she's doing now. You can be sure, Remus, that she will do everything in her power to make things better."

Though marginally interested in just who this Lara Berkeley was, Remus was still too tired, too hungry and too irritated in general to be particularly concerned about it.

"Well, I for one would like to make Severus Snape see that place," Molly announced. "Then see what he has to say about refusing to make the Wolfsbane for you. Here you go. Do you want anything else?"

She'd placed a bowl of steaming stew in front of him, a spoon balanced on the plate beneath it. "No, thank you, Molly, that smells delicious."

"Severus did not refuse to make the potion," Dumbledore said quietly, and Molly's eyes widened. "He was not asked to do it."

"REMUS LUPIN!" Molly shrieked. "YOU MEAN YOU DID THIS VOLUNTARILY?"

"Hush, Molly, you're going to wake the whole house," Arthur muttered.

"I haven't asked for the potion in three years," Remus replied stiffly. "And the thought of begging him for it didn't particularly appeal to me."

"Well, you're going to beg for it this month if you have to, aren't you?" she asked pointedly, her hands on her hips.

Remus grimaced and shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth. He was rather hoping to not have to think about begging Severus for anything for at least another week.

"If you're going to ask him, you should really be about it," Dumbledore said conversationally, as though he didn't realize he was answering Remus' thoughts.

"I'll ask him next time I see him," Remus muttered, his head lowered over his bowl. "Of course, given how often he comes around here, that might be a few years. Unless you want to tell me where he is?" He looked at Dumbledore now, who shook his head.

"I'm afraid I gave him my word that I would not tell anyone where he was. It was one of the conditions of his not leaving again."

"Wonderful," Remus muttered.

"I will be more than happy to convey your request to him, if you like, though."

"No," Remus replied, then at the look of horror on Molly's face, amended, "not yet. I'd rather ask him myself. Though if it comes to it, I might ask you to intervene this time."

"You might?" Molly asked. "Remus, you don't want to go through this again next month, do you?"

"Of course not!" Remus snapped. He finished his stew in silence, and Molly stood.

"Do you want some more stew?" she asked, and he came very close to telling her no out of pure spite. He was still famished, however.

"Please."

She bustled back to the stove with his bowl and he lowered his head into his hand, closing his eyes. Dumbledore gave his shoulders a brief squeeze and for a moment, Remus was tempted to lean against the older wizard. Only for a moment, though. He still remembered far too vividly that Dumbledore had not seen fit to come to the Ministry for him. He suddenly wished he were anywhere but in this kitchen surrounded by people who meant well enough but…

But what? he asked himself. But nothing. They were his friends, and he knew they cared about him. He was an adult and he could accept that at times Dumbledore had more important things to do than see to his welfare—if it came to it, the Headmaster would be there defending him and supporting him, but there was no reason to be so upset over the fact that he hadn't been at the Ministry on Wednesday morning.

Molly placed another bowl of stew in front of him.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Of course," she replied, kissing his cheek again. He smiled a bit at her, and she hugged him once again. "Are you all right, Remus?" she asked, sinking into the empty chair beside him.

"I'm tired," he replied. "And weak and hungry and all the things I always am after a full moon."

She placed her hand on his cheek, turning his face to hers. "There's something more," she said quietly. "Something about your eyes. You have the same look you had when Sirius died."

He ducked away from her. "I'm fine, Molly," he insisted, picking up his spoon again.

Sirius would have understood without Remus having to explain it to him. So would James. And so would Peter, come to think of it, though Remus preferred not to think about Peter Pettigrew unless he had to. They'd been the only ones who'd ever seen him for who he was, even when he wasn't himself. He did wish Sirius were here.

"Well," Dumbledore said, standing. "I need to get back to Hogwarts. Staff meeting at nine tomorrow, you know, and I need to do some more preparation for it."

"Good night, Albus," Molly said, standing as well. She gave Dumbledore a hug, and Arthur stood as well, extending a hand.

"Good night, Molly, Arthur. Good night, Remus." Dumbledore placed a hand on his shoulder again, and Remus turned, offering his hand.

"Give everyone my best," he said. "And tell Minerva… hang on. Staff meeting tomorrow? Will Severus be there?"

"He usually is," Dumbledore answered, his eyes twinkling. "He is part of the staff, you know. Why don't you drop by and give Minerva your message yourself. The meeting usually lasts an hour and a half or so." He winked, and Remus grinned.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Dumbledore patted his shoulder. "Good night, my boy." He disappeared into the fireplace, and Remus finished his stew in silence, turning over what he needed to say to get Severus to agree to making the potion again.

A little after ten the next morning, Remus was pacing outside the staff room at Hogwarts, rehearsing in his mind. I've come to ask you a favor, Severus. I know we've had our differences, but I would appreciate it if you would brew the Wolfsbane for me again this month. If you like, I'm willing to discuss ways to repay you, though you know my financial situation and… And it was always at that point that Remus' thoughts trailed off. Severus knew his financial situation all right, and would know that Remus was essentially asking for charity. He would be fooling no one—there was nothing he could offer in payment. He might be able to repay the cost of a month's supply of the potion, but it would take him two months to do it, by which point he'd have more debt accumulated.

Bloody git. If you hadn't announced to the world that I'm a werewolf, I might still have this job and I'd be able to pay you for your services, he thought bitterly. Bitter thoughts did him no good though.

He was so absorbed in his rehearsal that he nearly missed the door opening and Snape emerging from the room. He was halfway down the corridor before Remus spurred himself to action.

"Severus!"

Severus turned abruptly and looked at him expectantly. "What are you doing here?"

This was already going badly. Remus summoned his courage and dismissed the vague hope he'd been clinging to that Severus would be open to making amends to their friendship, which would be preferable to groveling. "I'd like a word, if you don't mind. Privately."

Severus glanced back at the staff room, then pointed down the corridor with his wand. "I presume you know the way to my office?"

"Of course."

It was a quiet journey to the dungeons. Awkwardly silent. Severus exuded the same cold detachment that he always did, and it only made it increasingly obvious to Remus that he was going to have a struggle ahead. He went back to his rehearsal. I've come to ask you a favor, Severus…

Once they reached the dungeons, Severus gestured towards a chair and dropped the folder he'd been making notes in. "Are you going to be here long? I can have the house elves bring up tea or… something."

"No," Remus replied tightly, the hesitation not escaping his attention. Something a little less civilized than tea perhaps? A bowl of water perhaps? "I don't expect to be here long at all."

Severus nodded and settled into his chair on the other side of the desk. "What did you want to discuss?" he asked, sounding disinterested. Which Remus supposed was better than sounding irritated.

Remus took a deep breath. "The Wolfsbane Potion," he replied.

"Now?" Severus asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I've come to ask you to brew it for me again. I'll pay you." You idiot, that wasn't part of the script.

"You can't afford my fees."

Remus almost wished he was in his wolf form so he could rip Severus' throat out. That was bloody uncalled for. He kept his temper, though and took a deep breath, making an effort to recover lost ground. "I know I haven't the money, and I know you know that, but I'll find a way…"

"Stop," Severus held up a hand. "I'll brew the potion. Don't insult me by saying you will find a way to repay me. I already told you that you can't afford my fees."

"Please, Severus, I… excuse me?"

A look of something akin to amusement crossed Severus' face as he picked up a quill. "I presume you don't need it for a couple of weeks. Around the…" he paused, looking at a calendar. "The next full moon is the eighteenth, so the eleventh or so?" Remus nodded slowly, and Severus scrawled something on his calendar. "The regular doses?" he asked.

"Yes, please," Remus said quietly, and Severus nodded, putting his quill down again.

"Don't look so shocked, Lupin. You know I brew potions on request. And that I do not sell my services cheaply."

Remus could barely believe his luck. He'd come expecting a battle, and he hadn't even had to beg. Well, not exactly. He wondered if he would have been able to just ask for it and if Severus would have agreed.

"Thank you," Remus whispered, and Severus nodded impatiently.

"Not at all. Was there anything else?"

"Er… no." Remus stood, and Severus stood as well. For a moment, Remus faltered, torn between leaving while he had the chance and staying to try and make amends. His pride, or perhaps sense of decency, prevented him from truly considering staying. After all, he was the one who'd told Severus that true friendship didn't have a price on it; and after this request, it would look precisely like he was attempting to pay for the potion with the dubious gift of friendship. Besides, he wasn't sure how Severus would respond, and he hadn't the stomach for Snape's brand of rejection today

"You may pick it up on the tenth, any time after five," Severus told him, walking towards the door. Remus hesitated, then nodded.

"Thank you," he said again, more briskly this time, then hurried from Severus' office before any more words passed between them.