Remus Lupin rarely drank, on principle. Alcoholism, he held, was a nasty habit far too difficult to kick than to evade entirely. And he'd known it first-hand, too. In life with a certain Sirius Black, there was never a dull moment.
He leaves his principles in the dust tonight, nursing a now half-empty (yes, empty) bottle of whiskey. He hates the way it tastes–a certain bitterness trickling down his throat, glittering bile returning to its rightful place in his stomach. He figures it would be the ultimate punishment, to drown in something so foul. A punishment for what, exactly? He doesn't quite know.
The musky liquid he's consumed does little to fill an exhausting emptiness. He hasn't felt this way in two years, at least, and oh, how he's forgotten loneliness' spiteful caress. He hasn't missed it, that's for sure; he realizes this as it massages his wandering mind. His eyes stare blankly ahead into the dark, disregarding his body's fatigue. It's four in the morning at Grimmauld place, and he hasn't slept in at least two days. He won't sleep for another week come the full moon. If there were any time he wished he weren't plagued by his "furry little problem"–and on all others, he took it with great propriety and aplomb –it is now. He doesn't know how much more of this he could handle.
No clink of glasses welcomes the dark man as he walks into the darker kitchen. Remus doesn't even flinch, nor does he turn to acknowledge the man's presence. He holds his straightforward stare steadfast, contemplating the acerbity of the new addiction traversing his esophagus.
"Lumos," he bellows mercilessly, and Remus squints his eyes against the failing light. He takes a seat next to the broken man, who, in turn, says nothing.
"It appears to me that–"
"Spare me, Severus," Remus barks, too obviously jaded. "There's no need to pretend you were ever the conversationalist."
If it weren't so dark, Snape would hide the derisive expression that becomes the strained contours of his face. "As you wish," he spits venomously.
"Drink?" Lupin grunts.
"I see you've yet to lose all sense of etiquette," he snorts.
"I see you've yet to learn to take a hint, Snape."
The potions master exhales a strained sigh. "It's far too late to partake, anyhow." An excruciating silence ensues.
"So, what keeps you awake this morning, Severus?"
"I would ask you the same question, but your response would be identical."
"I see."
Silence.
"You know what, on second thought–"
"I fear, Lupin, that I must now accept your offer. Pass the Firewhiskey, if you will."
Remus does so with the greatest circumspection he can muster under his drunken stupor, and Severus busies himself with the pouring of a glass in order to pass off his comment as nonchalant: "I realize too well I was never... particularly amiable toward Black."
This evokes a grunt from Remus, who finds hilarity in his old schoolmate's comment.
"Do you mock me?"
Lupin grins dubiously, insanely. "No, Severus, I believe you mock me. But please, say what you will."
"I had intended," Snape hisses, "to express my deepest sympathies. As I see they are not to be accepted, I suppose I shall refrain."
Lupin shakes his head vigorously, realizing his error. "Severus. I won't pretend you were ever a friend. Nonetheless, I do appreciate your concern."
He's the least likely person to offer any measure of comfort, and he's doing a poor job. But Snape is the only one awake now, and thus, the only one capable of saving him from himself. Remus wonders whether his childhood nemesis is drinking to assuage his own guilt, or if he's doing it so that Remus won't. God knows this bottle is his last, and, God also knows that Snape has the legilimency ability of, well, some frivolous muggle deity. But it doesn't take even a failure of a legilimens to realize that another five shots of liquor isn't going to do Remus Lupin any good.
But why should Severus care? When had Severus ever cared? The man was abrasive as salt to a wound; he cared little for others, and had a definite bone to pick with any marauder, even the pacifist of the bunch. There's no reason to his outreach, no rhyme to his condolences. Aside from the fact that perhaps, he can empathize.
Yes, if anyone knows what it is like to lose everything, it is Severus. Severus knows that everything–in some sick, reversal of the Midas touch–to which he becomes even mildly attached will be risked, soiled, endangered. The difference is that the spy doesn't become attached to anything for that reason. He's a coward, he's terrified. He doesn't know what Remus knows, and that is that the risk he took in loving those he did, and still does, is worth the pain he experiences now. In a moment of absurd antithesis, Remus pities Severus.
Severus never knew Sirius. Not like Remus did, anyway, and not in the way which Severus probably would have liked, if merely for the sake of avoiding his constant bullying throughout all of grade school. Certainly childhood taboos and grudges prevented their friendship, but it's still regrettable. Remus feels sorry for everyone who never knew Sirius. He was the light in a dark place, a diamond in the rough. His laugh, that deep, hearty sound on wings, could rid the world of its problems. You could never be angry with Sirius, but he could hold a grudge for years. And that damned dogged loyalty, too; it was his one flaw. Sirius would die for a mere acquaintance who'd shown him any measure of kindness. But he wouldn't think twice about killing one who'd done unto him a single, even possibly negligible wrong. There was a dark side, too, to Sirius Black, but it was worth all his light and glory. And Severus never knew that, and now he never will. Remus feels sorry for Severus.
"Very well," Severus continues, "it was meant genuinely."
The two don't speak for a while, but Remus finally slices the silence. "Severus?"
"Yes, Remus?"
"I'm sorry. For the things he did."
"Childhood disputes can be forgotten in adulthood," Snape says coldly.
"I'm sorry, too, that you never knew him the way we all did."
"I suppose," Snape says carefully, "things would have been vastly different had the opposite occurred."
"Quite."
"Remus, you cannot change the past," he says in a brief epiphanic light.
"I know. I know, Severus, I know."
They don't speak as they welcome the dawn. The sun mocks their condition, in its regularity. It rises and falls in the morning and night skies without fail, whereas, any day now, both men could die. If they don't, they will certainly take many losses; they have already lost so much. They sit together, desolate, yet somehow bound by their misfortune, and they know the transience of human existence. They know they've lost much, and they'll lose much more, but they hold a glimmer of hope in the dark, and that is this: they haven't lost everything. And sometimes, something–anything–is worth it.