This Beastly Salvation
Chapter Twenty-Two: Distress and Desire
October 18, 1996
Remus awoke sweating, breath ragged and vision blurred. There had been a massive black dog chasing him, sending him running full tilt away from its gaping maw—but it had been so hard to run, as if the ground had been roiling and twisting underneath him—and when he'd looked down, he'd realised he was running on the back of a great white serpent, writhing and whipping as it turned its head and tried to strike at Remus's small, helpless frame.
A white light flashed in the corner of the room, and Remus worried that he hadn't really woken at all. He skittered back against the wall, preparing himself to fight. It wasn't until he could feel the cold, hard stone pressed into his back that he realised what was happening.
"Merlin's beard," Remus panted, understanding hitting him all at once. "Did you have to sneak in here like that?"
Lucius raised his brows, looking utterly unimpressed from where he stood near the ever-burning light. "I don't sneak. Were you dreaming?"
"Nightmares," Remus admitted, reaching a hand up to wipe the damp off of his moustached upper lip. He hadn't meant to sleep, but there was only so much exercising, humming, or thinking that a person could do before they fell unconscious—no matter how traumatic the dreams waiting for them were.
"I've always wondered what dogs dream about," Lucius mused in a deadpan tone as he cast his housekeeping charms.
"I'd assume it's not very different from your dreams," Remus muttered, unable to mask the bitterness in his voice as he pulled himself upright. "Frolicking in fields. Watching my loved ones be torn apart."
Lucius grimaced and unlocked the cell door, not deigning Remus's remarks to be worthy of a response. "Put your collar on."
"Another walk?" Remus asked, bending down to pick up the collar from where he'd left it near his bed.
"No," Lucius replied. He stood relaxed by the time Remus turned and approached him. The Death Eater held the leash outstretched in his right hand, wand in his left. "The dinner is tomorrow. We need to get you cleaned up."
The dinner. Remus had already attended it over and over again in his mind, awake and asleep. Most times, Remus found himself walking into a fancy dinner hall where his loved ones had been brought before Voldemort, arranged in a neat line and frozen in place, only their eyes darting around frantically. Their eyes would keep moving while they were ripped apart by Nagini and the Death Eaters, or sometimes by Remus himself, looking down from above as his wolf form pulled their limbs off their bodies and tore out their throats.
"Cleaned up, sir?" Remus asked, donning his collar, trying to feign disinterest.
"Consider it your lucky day," Lucius muttered, jangling the leash out in front of him. Remus clenched his jaw, but said nothing else, closing the space between them and clipping the leash into place without making eye contact.
The Death Eater tensed at their closeness, but it didn't strike Remus as fear. Remus might've read into it more, but Lucius cut into his thoughts, directing the younger wizard out of the cellar. Remus did as he was told, following Lucius out of the house and across the grounds in relative silence. It was a drastically colder day than the others Remus had experienced on the estate, and it seemed to hurry them along toward the outbuildings faster than usual, though Remus seemed to be the only one gritting his teeth and pulling his shoulders up in an effort to protect himself from the cold.
Lucius led them to the stable, opening the doors up for Remus and directing him inside, still silent. Stepping over the threshold caused the hairs on the back of Remus's neck to stand on edge, and he fidgeted inside of his pockets as he watched Lucius lock the entrance behind them and cast protective and silencing wards around the building. There wasn't much to watch, but it was far better for Remus than staring at the washing stalls in front of them, instead. He could feel his chest going red at the memory of what had happened there last time.
"Take off your clothes. You'll need to wash yourself again."
Remus's eyes widened. He hadn't anticipated that he'd get another shower—but then again, he hadn't anticipated Voldemort changing his mind, either. He'd been waiting for death or rescue without any room for any other possibility.
"I—"
"This isn't a discussion, fleabag. Just get undressed."
Remus grimaced, but said nothing else. Instead, he chose to unhook his collar and hand it, still attached to the leash, back to Lucius.
"That'll save us some time," Remus said, trying to explain away Lucius's frown at the collar's removal.
"I—I didn't mind hel—assisting you with that," Lucius snapped, grabbing at the collar despite his evident confusion.
"I'd hate to take advantage of your generosity, sir," Remus grimaced. He could very clearly remember how softly Lucius had used his magic to dry Remus's neck last time, the heat coming from both his wand and his gaze.
The memory made Remus's stomach turn, forcing him to remember the very different kind of nightmare he'd had earlier in his imprisonment.
Lucius grimaced at Remus's attitude, perhaps showed a flash of anger, but he looked away from his prisoner rather than speaking. Remus took the moment of distraction to undress, peeling off his layers and leaving them on the floor outside of the same washing stall he'd used before.
They followed the same routine as the last time, but the tension between them was dulled in comparison. Lucius still watched Remus a little too closely, but there was less frantic searching, now—his eyes were less like laser beams and more like steady searchlights running over Remus's scars and freckles with comparative disinterest. The gaze didn't feel as foreign to Remus, either, which was perhaps the most unsettling part of the experience.
The cold water paired well with the wintery air, so that Remus could feel himself sharpening, becoming more awake and aware as he washed himself with the suds that Lucius summoned for him. It felt good to scrub, to remove the grime and sweat of days of walking and sleeping in squalor—good enough that his dreams started to feel slightly farther away.
"Are you nearly done?"
Remus sputtered, wiped the water from his eyes before looking over his shoulder at Lucius. The other man was standing at attention, arms tucked behind him like a military general waiting for his lessers to follow orders, eyes narrowed.
"Of course, sir," Remus mumbled through numb lips, gargling one last mouthful of water before turning to his captor and asking for the same drying spell that Lucius had used before. The Death Eater did so in silence, eyes cast conspicuously upward as Remus turned his naked body around to dry it off. Even with his captor looking away, this part felt childish enough that Remus opted to shake out his damp hair as he walked back to his clothes, rather than waiting for it to be dried. Lucius had already cleansed and dried the clothes at some point while Remus was showering, and Merlin's beard did it feel good to be warm and dry and in clothes that didn't smell like old sweat anymore. Even his shoes and socks were clean when he pulled them back on.
Remus cleared his throat, and Lucius followed the hint, glancing back to ensure that Remus was fully clothed before lowering his wand.
"Is that it, sir?"
"No," Lucius answered, an inscrutable look on his face. Something close to tentative, but anticipatory, too. Remus felt his hairs stand on end again, wondered if whatever came next was the reason for Lucius's muted behaviour since retrieving Remus from his cell.
"Alright," Remus prompted, leaning his head forward, not eager to stand in the stillness any longer than he'd already had to. "I'm ready when you are."
"Right," Lucius snapped to attention again, straightening himself out and doing his best to look down his nose at Remus despite the younger man's height. "Follow me."
Remus followed a few paces behind as they headed toward the large door on the south end of the space. He'd wondered about it the first time they'd come here, while he'd scrubbed away at himself, trying his best to think about anything other than the way Lucius's eyes kept lingering on parts of his body that he wasn't sure anyone had ever paid that much attention to.
The door creaked when opened, revealing some kind of storage area, empty aside from a few stray papers and tools strewn across a work table. A single window looked out on the long gravel path that Remus now knew led to Abraxas Malfoy's house. Nothing in the room suggested personal grooming, and Remus was about to ask why they were there when Lucius turned sharply to their right, taking a narrow set of rickety stairs up to the building's second floor.
There was no door at the top—just a large, open office, sitting in the same state of abandonment and disrepair as the room below. There was a large office desk, centred and near the back of the room, with several emptied bookshelves and old rugs near it. An empty hearth sat collecting dust closeby, and there was another south facing window showing a slightly higher view of the grounds.
Remus's eyes did not stay on any of those things for long, though. Instead, he focused on the middle of the room, where a small side table had been set up beside a moth-eaten chair that must've sat behind the desk at one time.
There was a full set of barber's tools set out on the table, brush and bowls included, soft leather carrying case resting underneath.
"You're—I'm getting a shave?" Remus baulked, forgetting his manners for a moment as he stopped dead in the room.
"Of course," Lucius replied, voice even and calm. "I know you haven't seen yourself in quite some time, so you'll just have to trust me when I tell you how ridiculous you look."
It didn't require much trust at all. There was a reason Remus had never chosen to grow a beard. His hair grew in thick and even enough, but he'd never thought the look suited his features.
"Come and sit down," Lucius snapped. "I don't have all day."
"Fine, sir," Remus gave in, clenching his jaw for a moment before heading over to sit in the chair.
He looked at the equipment again as he sat, realising that it was far nicer than anything Remus had ever used on himself—the sort of thing he'd expect a Malfoy to own.
"Is this your own kit, sir?" Remus asked as he settled into the chair, unable to help himself.
"Which would be a greater insult to me?" Lucius retorted, pausing to stare at Remus for a moment, hand lingering over the small table. "To use my own kit, and risk it being damaged or poisoned by your blood? Or to spend the money getting you a new one?"
"That's not how it works, sir," Remus sighed, casting his eyes to the window. "You're not going to catch lycanthropy from a blade."
Lucius hmmphed but said nothing more. They were close to each other again. It wasn't uncommon for them to have moments like this, where they were well within arm's reach, and Lucius had certainly taken advantage of that before—but this was the first time there had been an extremely sharp blade within arm's reach, too.
Remus's eyes must've lingered too long on the blade, because Lucius's hand snapped out toward him in a split second, catching on Remus's left shoulder and pushing him further down into the seat. Remus hissed in surprise, flinching away.
"Don't waste your energy on the thought, mutt," Lucius spoke in a low timbre. "You'd lose your hand before you could hurt me."
"Noted," Remus breathed, squirming slightly under his captor's grasp, well aware that no part of him had been even remotely considering wielding the blade. He had been an idiot in his life, but not that much of one. "I'll behave."
Lucius snorted at that, letting Remus go and turning back to the task at hand. "That would be unlike you."
"I've been well-behaved for the last few days, haven't I, sir?" Remus half-joked, doing his best to keep his eyes trained straight ahead. The razor could be a weapon for him, of course, but Remus was more preoccupied with the thought of the man who'd violently attacked him more than once holding the blade up to his throat for any amount of time. Remus felt fairly confident that Lucius wouldn't hurt him now, not with their meeting with Voldemort looming, but that knowledge didn't make the situation any more comfortable.
"A few days without incident does not a trained dog make," Lucius replied in a thoughtful voice. Remus glanced over to find the Death Eater staring down at the table, ensuring that he was ready to begin. The white towel was over his shoulder now, and he was holding the brush, now coated in a thick lather of soap, in his left hand. He seemed ready to turn to Remus just before his mind caught on something. He glanced down at his hands, still gloved.
"I'll have to take them off," the dark wizard realised aloud.
Remus blinked, surprised to hear Lucius think out loud. "I suppose you will, sir."
"You won't…?" Lucius glanced down at his prisoner, eyes narrowing.
"No," Remus answered, a tired smile resting on his lips. "I won't."
For whatever reason, that seemed to be enough for the both of them. Lucius set down the brush just long enough to remove his gloves, and Remus watched carefully as he got his first up-close glimpse of the other man's hands. They were pale, but more worn than he would've expected for a Malfoy. They were clean, too.
Remus stilled himself, tilted his head back, and took a deep breath.
Lucius took a short, deep breath of relief when he saw that his hands weren't shaking. He felt remarkably steady-handed, in fact, as he stepped closer to the werewolf and began lathering his beard. Lupin shut his eyes as soon as the brush made contact, and that set the older wizard even more at ease, knowing that no one would witness it if his face betrayed any of his mixed emotions.
He'd known that he was testing both of their limits with this little exercise, and he'd weighed the pros and cons for some time. The Dark Lord would've likely found it just as amusing to see the werewolf in a dishevelled, stinking state as a gentlemanly one, and it certainly would've left Lucius in a less vulnerable position with the werewolf—but this was a rare opportunity for Lucius to have the upper-hand, and he needed it. So many of his threats were dulled by the werewolf's death wishes or seemingly endless quips. This, however, could not be talked out of. It wasn't as if there was another way of handling it. He wasn't about to magic his prisoner's hair off, and he certainly wasn't going to be giving the werewolf a knife, even if it was enchanted not to cut skin, as this blade was. Lupin had guessed right—it was Malfoy's personal set, charmed to produce the highest quality and least painful shave. It was better if the wolf didn't know that, though.
When he was done with the lather, Lucius picked up the blade. Lupin's ears visibly moved, pricking up at the sound of the blade unfurling and moving toward him. The werewolf's hands clenched on the arms of the worn-out chair, and his lips parted the slightest amount. Lucius paused, a satisfied smile turning his thin lips.
The wait was evidently enough to cause Lupin's anxiety to spike, so that his eyes opened a sliver and he glanced up at his captor.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Watch your tone," Lucius hummed, narrowing his eyes and leaning closer.
The werewolf narrowed his eyes right back, and then Lucius could see his cheeks starting to warm, and he felt a sensation in his chest that he hadn't in the last few days. There had been too much anxiety, too much to ready himself for to let himself be distracted by the ways in which the wolf reacted to Lucius's egging on. But there was time, now, even if it was only the brief moments that they would be alone together in the old office.
The wolf seemed to recognize the look in Lucius's eyes, and he metaphorically skittered away from it, muttering an apology under his breath and closing his eyes again.
Lucius didn't bother giving him the satisfaction of a reply, just reached out to begin his work. He planned to pull gently at the werewolf's face, starting at his temple, tugging the skin along his jaw taut enough that Lucius's left hand could get to work shaving—but he did not account for the sensation of their respective bare skin touching for the first time in… Lucius couldn't remember how long. He did his best not to react to the flash of electricity that snapped up his arm, to clench his jaw and hold fast, but he wouldn't have been surprised if the werewolf had noticed anything. Then again, Lucius caught the dog reacting in turn. He had winced, almost imperceptibly, but it was there—and when Lucius glanced down, he could see gooseflesh on the werewolf's neck.
A shiver ran up Lucius's spine and he smiled again.
The first few cuts were thrilling, a tantalising push and pull between the two of them, Lupin freezing up every time the blade touched him, then relaxing again when Lucius let go of him long enough to clean off the blade. Lucius could feel his body responding to every reaction, eager for more, and so neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Finally, Lucius had to pause. It gave the werewolf a moment to lift one hand to massage his temples and attempt to wrinkle a sneeze out of his nose.
"Uncomfortable?" Lucius muttered, suddenly keenly aware of the silence.
Lupin glanced up, looking a bit ridiculous with his half-shaven jaw.
"Not really."
"Good. It can't be helped, in any case—it would hardly be appropriate for me to bring you before the Dark Lord as mangey as you have been."
"If I've been mangey, sir, it's entirely your fault," Lupin interjected. His heart didn't sound entirely behind the snipe.
"On the contrary," Lucius replied, leaning down now so that he could begin to shave along the werewolf's chin. Lupin bristled and closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. "It seems to me that being here is really only allowing you to return to your natural state."
Being so close to the werewolf's mouth, close enough that he could feel the mutt's breath on his own hand, there was no way Lucius could've missed the smirk that flickered across Lupin's face.
"I suppose so," the wolf said through nearly closed lips, trying not to disturb the shave, and there was actual, if bitter, mirth in his tone.
The unexpected reaction caused Lucius to pause and purse his own lips. Lupin's eyes flickered open and he gazed up at his captor again, but Lucius was quick to busy himself with brushing off his blade.
"Lean back," Lucius ordered, trying to regain control of the situation, and Lupin did so, shutting his eyes again.
They were only quiet for a few more seconds, Lucius working diligently, before Lupin piped up again.
"Have you taught Draco how to shave, yet?"
"What?" Lucius paused, blade pressing into the werewolf's neck, doing his best to keep his breathing even. This was one card he did not enjoy Lupin playing.
"I'm just curious, sir, if you've taught your son how to shave yet," Lupin repeated himself, and when Lucius paused to give him a once over, he noticed that the younger man's body had gone incredibly still.
"What's it to you?" Lucius sneered.
"You're good at it."
Lucius closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, reminding himself that there was no need to have an outburst. The werewolf was cooperating, and for now, they were united against the common enemy of the dinner. He wasn't trying to syphon any important information out of the conversation. Rage would do him no good—not that it had done much good for him up to that point, either.
"No," Lucius spat. "I haven't."
"Surely he's old enough to need it?"
"I wouldn't know."
Both of them were silent for a moment as Lucius moved his blade along Lupin's Adam's Apple.
"Your wife dotes on him, but your relationship with him seems… different."
"Careful, wolf," Lucius spoke in a low voice, pressing his nails a little more sharply into the skin he was pulling taut.
"It's just that I would've assumed you'd be obsessed with continuing your family's legacy, sir."
"My legacy is none of your business, dog. You're being inflammatory."
"Just curious, sir," Lupin corrected, twisting his neck as Lucius's hand wordlessly directed him to. "I have a lot of free time."
"You sit and think about my family's dynamics a lot, do you?"
"When I'm not daydreaming about chocolate or all of my lovers."
Lucius stopped, long enough to cast a withering, deadpan look at his captive. Lupin snorted and let out a short chuckle, seeming to know what was happening without having to open his eyes. There was genuine emotion in his laugh, again, and it was enough to leave Lucius feeling a bit lightheaded. He looked down, swallowed, and tried to centre himself.
"Does it have to do with the Dark Lord?" Lupin pressed. "I imagine it would be difficult to form a bond with a child if you thought it could be taken away from you at any moment."
Lucius came to a full stop, thoughts bouncing around his head as he determined how he could re-establish his dominance. The idea came to him in a flash, and he lowered his right hand all the way down to Lupin's thigh, showing no hesitation when they touched, although inwardly he felt another bolt of electricity rush up his arm. The werewolf swallowed, looked down his nose.
"I have a blade to your throat, mutt, and this is how you're choosing to speak to me?" Lucius said in as even a tone as he could muster, pressing the blade into his captive's skin. The way Lupin clenched his jaw sent a thrill of satisfaction through Lucius. The threat being an empty one seemed to make the wolf's reaction all the sweeter.
"I'm just trying to make conversation, sir," the wolf finally managed. He remained impressively still as he spoke. Lucius tensed his fingers on the other man's thigh, enjoying the slight twitch in the muscles there, and their warmth. "Besides, I don't believe you'd kill me with anything so Muggle as a knife. Not before my big debut."
"Perhaps not," Lucius sniffed, "but I could maim you, couldn't I?"
"This pretty face?" Lupin didn't skip a beat, tilting his head so that he could offer a teasing look at his captor. He might as well have outright winked at him.
The thigh move had not, perhaps, been the most intelligent one.
Lucius hissed, bringing himself back up to a stand by pushing off of Lupin's thigh, letting the flat side of the blade run along the younger man's neck as he went. Lupin turned away, stretching his neck as Lucius moved over to the table and began to clean his blade off again. He was only halfway through the activity; he couldn't let the wolf get to him so soon.
Remus watched Lucius out of the corner of his eye. His thigh was still burning where the other man had touched him. The threat of intimacy had shaken Remus more than the blade.
Remus knew that he could sit with it, wait for the dark wizard to disappear into his own thoughts—or he could keep going. Remus had opened the conversation with an intent of trying to get a better sense of Lucius's current relationship with Voldemort before the dinner, and clearly his last remark had stung to some extent. That reaction meant that Remus could push forward, try to walk through whatever door his words had opened.
"I can't imagine it's easy," he spoke again, summoning his determination as Lucius walked around Remus and began to shave the left side of his face. "Following the man that's taken so much from you."
"You're exhausting me, fleabag," Lucius said in a genuinely fatigued voice, but Remus pushed on, ignoring the tension that noticeably flared in his captor's muscles every time their bare skin touched.
"I do understand what it's like, though—to have things taken by him. I've lost more to him than most. He's tainted every love I've ever had."
This, Lucius did not respond to. He was quiet, scraping his blade along Remus's skin, and when Remus risked a look out of the corner of his eye, he found him looking utterly serious. Almost stricken.
"I just mean that—"
"I know what you mean, mutt," Lucius muttered, narrowing his eyes. "And I'm…"
He might've said it in that moment. Remus could imagine the word sitting on the edge of the Death Eater's tongue, nestled between his lips. Sorry.
"I'm sick of listening to you wax poetic about it. I don't know what has you feeling so comfortable today, but I'm not interested in hearing any more of it."
The correction was unimaginative, in the face of the near apology. Remus looked forward again, closing his eyes as the blade kissed his jaw once more.
"I'm sorry, sir," Remus answered, calculating. "I'll be quiet."
"I wish you would be," Lucius muttered.
And it was quiet for a time. The silence was interrupted only by the occasional instruction from Lucius as he did his work, or Remus asking for a moment to readjust his body. Remus had lied when he'd said he wasn't uncomfortable; the chair was wildly so, even for a man used to sleeping on a dirt floor.
Their exchange had left a weight in the air, something thick and dense that hung over both of their movements, and it was easy for Remus to sink into it, not wanting to push any more than he already had. It wasn't the same kind of almost juvenile awkwardness that had hung between them when Remus had been washing himself. This was something with far more gravity.
It seemed to Remus like his captor might've actually heard the empathy in his words—and rather than provoking rage like it had that day by the lake, this time it had actually sunken in. Some part of Lucius Malfoy did appear to register how much Voldemort had taken from both of them, and how much more was at risk of being taken away. He didn't say it aloud, but the tension in the dark wizard's body and that damned weight in the air was the only admission Remus needed. Lucius's head was in the guillotine, and he knew it. It was a relief for Remus to finally know that much.
Lucius eventually finished the shave and told Remus to run his hands along his face and make sure that he'd gotten everything. It was impeccable, not a hair left behind, and some part of Remus thought that if he ever did escape this place, it would be nigh upon impossible to find a barber that could do a better job.
Lucius passed him a warm, damp towel, let Remus soothe his freshly exposed follicles, and then began to pack up. He didn't give Remus any instructions, but the younger wizard was sick of sitting, so he pulled himself upright and walked over to the window, running an absent-minded finger along his bare jaw as he stared out at the grounds. He did so for only a moment before he was caught off by the flash of his own reflection. It was the first time he'd seen himself since striking out on his self-appointed mission, and he was thin, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than ever before. He could see the ring of red skin around his neck, too, irritated from his collar. It was Remus Lupin, but a shrunken version, something he no longer quite recognized.
"Let me have a look at you," Lucius's voice cut through Remus's thoughts. He looked over his shoulder, nearly jumped at the dark wizard standing so close to him.
"Sir?"
"Turn and let me look at you in this light. I want to make sure I haven't missed anything."
"I felt my face sir, I know you didn't—"
"Turn," Lucius repeated, and Remus knew from the tone that he wasn't in the mood to repeat himself for a third time. Remus grimaced, turning three quarters so that the fading sunlight could catch on his skin and make any hairs stand out.
Lucius took another step closer, looked him over.
"This way," Lucius reached out, touching Remus's shoulder. Touch, again. When had that barrier been crossed? Had Lucius even meant to do it intentionally? But Remus listened, turning to face his captor. He had felt this sensation in front of Lucius before, as if he were a piece of meat on display, being evaluated, and past experience told him that it would be a quick, rough inspection before being led out of the room.
This time was not quick.
They were face to face, or as close as they could be with Remus being a bit taller, close enough that he could hear the unsteadiness in Lucius's breathing and spot the irregularities in his grey irises. There was a dark spot in one of them, like the shadow of a spider lingering in its web, highlighted by the sunlight striking Lucius's face through the window. His lashes were dark, like his eyebrows—Remus might've assumed the other wizard's hair was bleached if they hadn't known each other for most of their lives.
The dark wizard's eyes searched Remus's face in return. They landed one too many times on his jaw, his forehead, his lips.
The air somehow, against all odds, grew even heavier.
Lucius's eyes met Remus's again, his brows knotting the tiniest amount, lips parting as he took a shallow breath in. His face was a storm of distress and desire.
Remus wanted to scream.
Instead, he spoke.
"How do I look?"
His voice sounded groggy, as if he'd just woken up from a long nap.
Lucius blinked. Took a half step back. He looked as if he'd just broken free of the effects of some charm, reorienting himself to the room around him, putting his usual armour back up in a matter of seconds. His free hand, the one not occupied by the now bundled shaving kit, dipped into the pocket where he'd tucked away the collar and leash.
"You won't be winning any ribbons, mutt, but you won't be the worst in show, either."
Remus let out a dry, uncomfortable laugh. Their fingers did not touch when Lucius passed him the collar and leash, and Lucius remained several steps away as they walked back to the house.
They did not speak, not until Remus was back inside of his cage, passing the leash back to his captor, doing everything he could not to broadcast the thunderstorm of thoughts and emotions that had been booming through his head since they'd left the barn.
"Get some sleep. I'll get you shortly before the dinner tomorrow."
Remus straightened up, willing his face to be composed, serious, prepared.
"I'll do my best, sir."
Lucius looked him up and down one last time, as if surveying his work, sniffed, and walked out of the room.
Remus rested his head against the cool metal wall of his cell.
Lucius wondered, standing in the kitchen, breath nearly gone from his lungs, if this might be his last night alive.
Surely he would not survive any length of time in front of the Dark Lord if he was this far gone.
Surely the Dark Lord would look into Lucius's mind and realise just how close the Death Eater had been to kissing the werewolf.
Kissing him.
Lucius wondered if he might be about to wretch right there in the doorway.
