RETRO FEST FIC: Recovery Position, NC-17, 1-2/12
Title: “Recovery Position” Author: undun Rating: NC-17 Pairing(s): Severus/Remus, Severus/other Challenge: lupin_snape Retrofest Summary: Retro Fest Prompt 44. OotP era- "Moony, you alright? I heard you groaning and--CHRIST! Shit, Moony, sorry, I didn't rea--wait...is that SNAPE?!" Disclaimer: This is a non-profit creative work and is not intended to infringe on any copyrights held by Harry Potter creator/s. This work constitutes transformative, non-profit use of copyrighted material. Warnings: Drug use in Chapter 2, self-medicating drunkenness, and general thick-headedness throughout.
Notes: I owe a huge debt of gratitude to some awesome betas, who have helped me whip this story into something coherent. Starting with Resonant about 4 years ago, and in recent weeks _lore (of awe-inspiring awesomeness); she very gently bullied me into finishing this story in time to submit for Retro Fest. You will notice the story is not the neatest fit for the prompt, but the opportunity to participate was too seductive! Last minute hand holding and critical appraisal was provided by psyfic, who I want to be like when I grow up. Any further furfies you see are my own and no one elses. A huge thank you to our Fest organiser, scribbulus_ink for this event!
Word count: About twenty-six and a half thousand all up.
“Recovery Position”
1. “Spectacle”
I am teaching in a demountable.
What else is there to do?
I teach, and I devise suitable potions to treat juvenile Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hogwarts lies in ruins, as does Lord Voldemort. As does Albus Dumbledore, and – though we never found his remains – Harry Potter.
I have been unable to devise a suitable potion to treat my own condition. It reminds me of that Muggle saying: Physician, heal thyself. Would that I could. Perhaps knowing exactly what my condition is would aid me in my task.
*** *** ***
It is lunchtime in this hazily bright world – how I long for my dungeons! We have fashioned a large tent into an adequate dining hall. It is almost as big as the original, and, with the illusion of stone walls on the canvas, it is easy to lull one’s senses into believing one is back at the castle.
The children are slowly losing their peaky, silent demeanours, and their chatter is filling the confined space in an annoying, but nonetheless satisfying, manner. He arrives, an unwelcome addition to my immediate environment, as my eyes are gazing fondly into the depths of my wine glass. He looks simultaneously stretched and condensed through the lens of the glass – a sideshow figure. He walks with a bone weary stride up to the Head Table and addresses McGonagall.
“Headmistress, could I trouble you for a meal?”
“Of course, Sirius! We’d be honoured. Do sit down, here–” She busies herself with transfiguring her spare glass into a chair for him and places it beside hers. On my side, actually – he’s going to sit next to me. Bugger.
I chew slowly on my food – I can’t remember what it is; tastes like Filch’s socks – and am aware of him pausing to stare at me before he sits down. The back of my neck feels burnt from his gaze.
“Snape.”
“Black.”
We acknowledge each other’s existence. And that is enough to be going on with. Albus is gone and we don’t have to play nice anymore.
“So, Sirius, any interesting news for us today?”
He heaves a heavy sigh before replying to Minerva’s question. Such bloody theatrics! Anyone would think he had lost more than anyone else in the final battle. He did lose his bloody godson, but I’m sure that was inevitable given the man’s utter incompetence. Idiot.
“We did find something in a section of the ruins, actually.”
Well, at least he’s not blustering.
“Oh, really?” Minerva’s fork makes a slight clatter as she abandons her lunch to peer closely at Black. “What was it?”
I am watching out of the corner of my eye as he slides a hand into his robe pocket and pulls out… something. He places it on the table near Minerva – his shoulder blocks my view and I can’t see what it is. I will not lean and stare, I will not lean and stare, I will not–
Minerva makes a gasping noise. I lean forward to stare.
It is a small twisted metal frame.
It’s Potter’s glasses. Or what’s left of them.
I have the sudden urge to leave, and, before I produce a good rationalisation, I am pushing my chair back hastily to escape the room, and the table, and the item everyone is now chattering about. My attempt to depart does not go unnoticed.
“Severus! Is everything alright?” Minerva asks in a tremulous tone. I nod quickly and turn to go.
“What’s wrong, Snape? Is your guilt making you sick?”
I can’t believe he said that. On some level I am aware of the whispering around me, but all I can really see is his snide, blue-eyed Gryffindor face.
“You utter imbecile! I wasn’t the one who let him get killed!” I vaguely notice someone nearby protesting.
His eyes narrow and I watch every breath he takes in. His face is growing steadily redder – with any luck he’ll keel over with a heart attack, and I’m sure I’ll never be able to find the right potion in time to treat him.
“You were supposed to give us reliable information, if you remember, Snape? You were responsible for the early warning that never came!”
Someone’s hand is pulling on his arm, stopping his advance. His chair lies overturned behind him. No one tries to hold me back as I move closer to the enraged idiot. They know better than to touch me.
“Oh, that is rather simplistic, even for you, Black. Voldemort knew I was a bloody spy! He deliberately gave me false information, you fool!”
“How convenient for you that we will never be able to verify that claim! Is it coincidence that this information has only appeared after the event? After everyone who might have corroborated your story is dead?”
I am now so angry that I feel cold all over. I am officially out of control. I’m aware of it, but there is simply nothing I can do. Once I get this far —
I take another step forward. “Exactly what,” I begin, “are you accusing me of?”
He wheels around. I think he’s leaving the field of conflict, and I am torn between relief and frustration – I want to hammer the prick, but instead he gropes on the table and whirls back to me holding…
“You! You fucking killed him, you bastard!”
I stare at the mangled mess of wire in his hand. No. No–
“No.”
“Yes!”
He waves them in my face. I put up my hand to shield my eyes. It’s like looking into the sun, into all possible futures, and I’ve chosen the wrong one to live in.
“You fool. I loved him.”
There is a silence. Maybe there was before, but I wasn’t aware of it. Now I can’t hear anybody, just the ragged beating inside my chest, and the hoarse, winded sound of Black’s breathing.
“What?”
“I said I loved him. I loved Harry Potter. He’s gone, I can’t have him, I can’t take him to bed and hold him, I can’t get him drunk on firewhisky until his eyes cross, I can’t teach him the finer points of anonymous hexing, I can’t do any of it. Nothing. I wanted…” My eyes rest on his face; it is curiously blank.
“I was waiting – I would have waited years, for as long as it took, to spend what time I have on this Earth with him, in whatever way I could.” I look back down at his hand, which has dropped to his side, holding the glasses loosely.
“Please?” I move my hand out. Black brings the pathetic things up to look at them again – he seems surprised to see them there in his hand. He looks at me and I meet his eyes for what feels like an eternity. He suddenly breaks the thin metal in half. Holds one piece out in my direction.
“You’re a fucking freak, Snape,” he says as I take the piece gingerly off his palm.
“Yes, I am.” I confirm as I make my way to the door. This time nothing holds me back.
*** *** ***
2. “Chemistry”
I place my artefact on the table next to my armchair and open the case I have been nursing on my lap. My latest treatment for my condition: a Muggle device known as a hypodermic, and small ampules of something called Morphine. Nectar of Morpheus. Wickedly effective. My own personal chemistry set – the best that Knockturn Alley could supply.
I aim a soft spell at the vein in my left arm; it engorges nicely and I slide the loaded needle into it gently. The sweat is gathering on my forehead as I slowly depress the syringe. I murmur a stasis charm to hold the chemical until I place the syringe back in the case and lock it. Must cover my tracks while I still have my wits about me. Soon nothing will matter, not a single thing will bother me. Nothing will weigh down my soul, and I will have no regrets – about the fate of teenaged boys, about my cursed predilection for one particular dead one, about my own inability to express my longing… my…
I get to the bed before the drug takes the use of my limbs from me.
Everything is… fine. I feel fine. I feel that I am beautiful, that anyone would want to love me, that I don’t really need it anyway. I just am. It’s enough to exist.
*** *** ***
I wake up with the bent, burnt remains of his glasses in a twisted unrecognisable lump on the duvet. I must have picked them up unknowing last night – tripped with my fist squeezed around them.
I don’t feel any particular grief about it. Nothing matters much. I am glad that the drug’s effects have not entirely worn off as my memory reminds me of what exactly took place in the canvas expanse of the banquet hall yesterday. Shite.
Oh well; I was always the freak amongst the Hogwarts staff, now I am the queer, student-molesting freak amongst the Hogwarts staff. Perhaps I will have an enhanced ability to terrify small boys on the back of yesterday’s revelations.
It’s about the only bright side I can think of.
I drag myself into the shower to try to shock some lucidity into my brain. I can’t afford to be off my stride when I teach the remaining Slytherin and Gryffindor seventh-years this afternoon. They will both hate me. My clan, for the way I have betrayed them by confessing my regard for the student who most symbolised Gryffindor and all it stood for -- and the Gryffindor students will hate me for sullying the memory of their dear departed friend and hero. They will probably count him much better off in martyrdom than here at school, running the risk of my groping him in an empty classroom one dark, stormy evening.
I am unprepared for the sheer number of students at breakfast. I can only surmise that for some reason there are more present at this breakfast than at any other I have attended. I wonder why that would be? Some of the early birds should have flown off by now, as I am not particularly prompt in reaching my seat. Shouldn’t they be off flying broomsticks or snogging under the Quidditch stands before the first class?
There seems to be a lot of whispering. Excited whispering. And… they are looking at me. I sigh to myself. I suppose it was to be expected. They are hanging back to gawk at the queer freak.
“Severus, have you seen the paper yet?”
I look to see what Minerva is prattling about. I hadn’t picked up my copy of the Daily Prophet this morning. I had other things on my mind. It is no doubt still folded neatly on my sitting-room table.
‘Boy Who Lived Living In Tibet’
My fingers grasp the edges of the newspaper. It feels dry and smooth. The paper stock is quite fine for a daily paper, but then the proprietors have always had the delusion that theirs was a quality publication. Still, I suppose it makes for a smoother arse-wipe.
Strange headline… nonsensical, actually. No punctuation to speak of. Typical. I hand the paper back to Minerva wordlessly. Merlin knows what the devil she’s on about. I turn back to my breakfast and bite down on some buttered crumpet.
“Severus?”
What now? She’s looking at me strangely, it’s conceivable that her eyes are protruding even more than usual. I raise my eyebrow in question, my mouth too busy chewing to voice the query.
“He’s alive!” she whispers emphatically.
Alive? Who the fuck is alive then?
Oh. Right. The headline: Boy Who Lived… Lives. Harry Potter is living in Tibet.
He’s alive.
*** *** ***
I’m in the staff bathroom. I have no idea how I came to be here. I am bent low over a toilet bowl and I am looking down at the meagre remains of my crumpet, and whatever it was I ate yesterday – it’s not in very good shape; sort of green.
Potter’s alive. How can this seem simultaneously like the worst and best possible news? I am glad that he’s alive, but… fuck! Couldn’t he have been discovered a day earlier? Just one day and my reputation and sanity would have remained somewhat intact.
Someone is knocking on the door.
“Piss off. I’m busy.”
“Severus, let me in.”
It’s the werewolf. Now, class, we will see what depths of humiliation the day has in store for us. I clamber upwards and aim roughly for the door. I get the latch on the second try. Damn fool could have saved me the bother with an Alohamora, couldn’t he? But no, he has to be polite. I lean against the wall to watch him warily, waiting for the gloat to show on his normally impassive face. Poker face like that – he really should have gone to Slytherin.
“How are you managing, Severus?”
“Well enough.”
He takes a step closer, clearing the door’s path and locking it shut behind him. I shouldn’t be afraid of him, should I? I blame my sudden paranoia on my recent chemical indulgences.
“You stink.” He sniffs the air in front of me with a disturbingly animalistic air.
“Eau de Vomit, Lupin. If you don’t like my cologne, do feel free to leave. Now.”
I hate the weakness I can detect in my own voice.
“No. There’s something… it’s in your skin,” he sniffs again.
“Will you fucking stop!”
He freezes at my shout. His eyes are large and glinting, surrounded by fine lines – worry lines. He has plenty to worry about, of course, but I never saw it show in his face until now.
“What?”
He sighs softly, “Classes have been suspended. Minerva has just received official confirmation. Harry’s alive and he’s on the way home.”
He smiles when he finishes. I simply pant, trying to catch my breath. I have the sudden urge to fall over.
*** *** ***
I blink, surprised to see the canopy of my own bed above me. That was the most vivid hallucination I have yet experienced. I can still smell traces of vomit.
“Severus? Are you awake?”
Right then, not a dream. I really do have vomit on my robe. I make a move to sit up.
“Not so fast. You need to recuperate.”
Lupin has taken my shoulder in a firm grip, stopping my ascent halfway and placing another pillow behind me before lowering me back down. He is surprisingly strong for someone so slight. I should have guessed as much – he did survive a childhood of monthly self-mutilation, after all.
“You’ve been a right idiot, Severus, haven’t you?” Lupin is holding the case for my Muggle chemistry set. It is open and exposing my secret. “Do you know what this stuff will do to you with long-term use?”
I content myself with glaring at him. He had no business snooping through my belongings and I will not engage in this conversation on principle. How does he know about Muggle drugs, anyway?
“I’ve used it myself.” He drags a chair up to the bedside and sits wearily, his hands toying with the case. “It works for a while, the pain recedes, the memory blurs, and you feel… good. It’s the only time you do after a while.”
I can’t stop staring at him. Despite everything, I’ve always thought of Remus Lupin as a survivor, someone who never gave in to despair. I find myself angry that he has dispelled my long held perception of constancy in Gryffindors. Deluded they may be, but never desperate.
Discounting Sirius Black, of course, who would have been a brainless ponce in any house.
“Lupin.” His gaze travels up to meet mine, “How did…” No, I will not be that pathetic in front of anybody. Albus is dead and he has taken my worst moments on this earth with him. No one else needs to plumb the depths of my murky soul, thank you. I pause to wonder about his pensieve. It couldn’t possibly have survived the razing of Hogwarts. Thank Merlin.
“I ran out of money. I lost my job, and with no income I couldn’t keep up my supply. Cold turkey. I thought I was dying.”
He has answered me regardless. Cold turkey. And what a cheery proposition that is. No real need to kick the habit, is there?
“You have to make some plans to stop, before it gets more of a hold on you.” His eyes are shining in the dim light of my bedchamber. “Before it changes you,” he adds in a whisper.
“Did it change you?” I don’t really want to know. Do I? His eyes drop to his hands again.
“Yes. I killed someone.”
Shite. Not Lupin. I have lived my life since the age of sixteen trying to convince myself that the werewolf wouldn’t have really killed me in that tunnel – that my fear was irrational. It appears that I was right all along.
“You,” I begin and then find my throat closing in fear and disgust. Swallowing, I manage to get the question out. “You mauled them as, as the wolf?”
“Merlin, no!” he exclaims, standing up in agitation. “How could you think–” And then he stops with his back to me. “Of course, you of all people would think just that.” He turns back with shoulders slumped. He looks very tired.
“I was attacked. It was just a boy looking to roll me for some money. I don’t know why he thought I would have any,” he adds quietly. “I killed him because I didn’t have enough control not to,” he finishes. “You’re the only other person alive who knows. I didn’t tell anyone else but Albus.”
So many dark bloody secrets that man kept. How did he hold them all in? And look at his legacy – a threadbare werewolf and a drugged-out Potions Master running loose in his school, or what’s left of it.
“You’ll need to have a fair amount of chocolate handy. I’ll talk to Poppy.”
He lurches towards the door while I am still reeling over the implication that I am going to kick my nasty habit under his watchful eye. And shite again! Who died and made him Dumbledore?