Chapter 13
The two late November days before Lupin was due to return from his wolf-coma were very strange for Severus. He had never been an especially good sleeper, even when not in the grip of bad insomnia. There had been anxieties, and flashback dreams, and many nights when he'd chosen to sit up late reading rather than face the agony of trying to sleep.
And now – now, he only had to lay a hand on his bed and that feeling of gorgeous weariness would rise up in him. And he only had to lie down on the bed, and within a single minute he would be asleep, and all he knew about it was that he regained consciousness at the appointed time (which he set every night using the supplementary charm Flitwick had taught him), clear-headed and completely unaware of anything that might have passed during the night. Flitwick had assured him he would awaken if anyone knocked at the door or entered the room, or if there was a loud noise; Severus had to take it on good trust that none of these things had happened when he found his eyes opening after eight or nine hours of miraculous oblivion.
'It's extraordinary, isn't it?' Flitwick agreed when Severus remarked on this at breakfast. 'How are you feeling?'
'Better,' Severus said succinctly – by which he meant – oh, so many things: calmer, sharp-minded, more cheerful, more optimistic. He wanted to pour a little coconut oil into a dish tonight and begin exploring its properties. He wanted his students to produce creditable work and was reasonably willing to help them do it.
And he wanted more. He began to think again of future plans. He was only thirty-seven, he was blessed with a good memory and a fierce brain and an ambition to do things. Life had to hold more for him than this.
On the other hand, there was still his guilt to deal with – which he could feel like a light press on his chest – and the fallout from his idiocy in Lupin's classroom. Now it was Wednesday, and Lupin would be back at work tomorrow. Severus had checked the timetable: tomorrow afternoon Lupin would see his third-years and be told, by twenty voices no doubt all talking at once, that their substitute teacher had taught them in precise detail how to recognise a werewolf.
Well. Perhaps nineteen voices. If Hermione Granger had caught his drift, as he'd suspected, then perhaps even she, relentlessly talkative as she was, might have the sense to sit quietly and watch Lupin's reaction when they told him.
His apprehension took a sudden spike upwards when Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder at dinner and said, 'How would Friday evening suit for our meeting with Remus? I wasn't sure if you might be away for some of this weekend since it's immediately after the full moon?'
Severus shook his head. Yes, he had calculated his best and wondered if he could get away that weekend to visit Lucius – but even as he'd counted the days until the December full moon he'd known it wouldn't work. He had to start the Wolfsbane on Friday, and add several things on Saturday, if the rest of the brewing was to work. 'Friday is all right,' he said. 'If we could make it straight after dinner?'
'Of course!' Dumbledore smiled at him. 'You look more like yourself again, Severus. I'm glad you took Filius up on his offer.'
Severus rolled his eyes. 'I should have known he would scuttle straight to you to report.'
'Don't be too hard on him,' Dumbledore said, squeezing Severus's shoulder again. 'Several of our other colleagues have asked me recently if you're all right. You may not care to know it, but we do feel a lot of concern for your welfare.'
'How unnecessary,' Severus muttered. As Dumbledore went off chuckling, he wondered if it would be the last truly affectionate conversation they would ever have.
That night he made his first potion with the coconut oil. It was a simple skin salve, one he made regularly to help with the sore, dry hands he had had for most of his twenty years of chopping and grinding and stirring over a smoking or billowing cauldron. Normally he used rose or lavender oil, and it was a simple enough formula that it would allow him to test how the coconut oil changes things.
He worked without notes or a book, improvising a few different versions of the salve, some with added drops of the rose or lavender, others with things chosen almost at random: one with lily-of-the-valley, one with almonds, and, on a whim, one version with a single mermaid scale ground very fine. The coconut oil was good, he realised quickly. It went with most things, and it went easily, and it smelled extremely nice: his dungeon would soon resemble a perfumery more than a potions laboratory if he carried on working with it. After two hours of work, he bottled the two best salves and small samples of the rest, and sat down to write up his notes.
It was just after ten o'clock when he closed his ledger. So, tomorrow. Tomorrow morning Lupin would be back, tired and rather weak, but no doubt cheerful. Lunchtime he would still be oblivious. It would be dinnertime – or possibly just before – when the trouble would start, after his third-year class. Lupin would go and see Dumbledore, and maybe they would wait until their meeting on Friday to confront him, but then, then it was inevitable, he would have to offer some kind of explanation, or apology, and he still had no clear plan for what he would say.
To cut through his brooding he took a sheet of parchment and, somewhat against his own better judgment, wrote a very short letter.
Lucius,
Some while ago you suggested arranging a meeting in Hogsmeade. Friday night – that is, tomorrow – may be possible for me, though only from ten or eleven. Saturday similarly. Daytime busy. Let me know by return owl.
S.
He signed his initial with a reckless little curl at the bottom of the S: something he'd largely trained himself out of, but which still crept in on occasions. At least he didn't thicken the top into a head and add a forked tongue, as he'd done in the old days.
And maybe it would add to the letter's persuasiveness – after all, come Friday night, there was little doubt that he would need some serious cheering up.
The next day, things began much as he had predicted. Here was Lupin back at breakfast, pale and moving rather stiffly to his seat – but smiling at Hagrid as he sat down and keeping the smile even when Hagrid knocked a jug of orange juice across the table; Lupin merely siphoned it up with his wand, and majicked clean his spattered trousers.
At lunch it was the same story. This time Lupin was only two seats away, on the other side of Rolanda Hooch. Severus not only had the embarrassment of hearing his potion-making praised by Lupin, but Hooch suddenly turned to him and said, 'Severus, I am so very sorry about my stupid flying accident. Thank you so much for stepping in.'
He shook his head mutely, mortified, and went on buttering his bread roll. Soon they would find out that apologies and thanks were entirely inappropriate.
He was alarmed at first to see that when the seat on Lupin's other side was vacated, Flitwick came hurrying over and launched into a murmured conversation with him. Surely – not now – not in front of everyone –
Then he caught the phrase "groggy head" and realised, of course, Flitwick was offering Lupin the benefit of the Somnaclara charm, and Lupin was accepting with a little bow of gratitude. Perhaps one of these days the charm would come as standard with a job at Hogwarts. God knew most of them could do with it.
When he finished teaching for the day, Severus took care to set up his brewing equipment before he went up for dinner. Lupin would know now – the thought made him go slightly weak – Lupin would know what had happened, and now, now would be the moment of reckoning. And it was too early to hear back from Lucius Malfoy, the owl would barely have arrived in London, so he intended to come back down after dinner and plunge straight into work – regardless of what happened, whatever Lupin said or however he behaved.
He took a quick look in the mirror – hair clumping in greasy strands from the day's cauldron-vapours, robes singed and stained – and muttered, 'Not inapt.' No point looking good if he was about to be exposed as the vengeful teenager he really was.
He started to climb the stairs, his heart beginning to pound. Who knew but this might be the last dinner he ever ate at Hogwarts. He could almost hear Dumbledore's quiet voice: Perhaps it is time for a change, Severus. You aren't happy here – I'm not sure you ever really have been. And it would be true. His only regret – or, no, his most pressing regret – was that he would miss out on flirting with Lucius at the Yule Feast. The small glamour of putting his dress robes on and combing his hair back into a ponytail – to allow himself to be vain, just this once – and then standing with Lucius, desire shimmering between them unnoticed by everyone else in the room – to see Lucius's approving gaze, that hard stare of –
Oh.
He stopped dead halfway up the stairs, students' voices echoing down to him.
That was it.
Suddenly he knew what it was, the look in Lupin's eyes just after he had drunk the Wolfsbane, that shining golden, slightly amused, oddly intense look. It was desire.
He began to climb the stairs again, his mind white-hot with thought. Yes, it made perfect sense. The poppyseed and the – yes, and his addition of rosewater would actually exacerbate – and of course, Lupin's embarrassment. Not impossible it was giving him an erection right there in the dungeon.
Just before Severus entered the Great Hall he paused, to carefully banish the thought of a werewolf standing in his classroom trying to conceal a hard-on. He felt again the triumph of the realisation. He reminded himself to be nervous. He went in.
And then, of course, Lupin wasn't at dinner after all, and Severus had to spend forty-five grinding minutes eating food he wasn't hungry for, wondering why his doom hadn't yet come to claim him.
A/N: Thank you very much for the new follows and reviews, and sorry for the delay in finishing this chapter! –SS–
