Chapter Text
1982
Remus meets his Dad for lunch on a Sunday.
Lyall Lupin has wrinkled and aged since he last saw him, hair and skin thinning. He sits opposite Remus on a plastic café chair in a plaid shirt. There’s a steaming mug of coffee in front of him, mirroring Remus’ own.
They had yet to say anything but greeting and telling the staff their orders.
Remus sighs and slouches in his seat. The mere presence of his father makes him feel like a teenager again. Lyall scrutinises him as he sips away at his drink, slow and concerned. His moustache is downturned and Remus wants to stand up and leave. Much like he used to.
They’d argue over breakfast in the morning. His mother would intervene, Hope always on her son’s defence. His Ta’s ire would turn to her instead and Remus would swallow the last of his toast in one big gulp before leaving, slamming the door dramatically as he did.
But this is a quiet, public place, Remus isn’t about to cause a scene. There’s an elderly man in the corner reading his newspaper. The girls behind the till are talking to each other gently. A mother is eating her breakfast and rocking her pram.
Eventually, Lyall breaks the silence. “I think you should move back home,” he says.
Remus scoffs, runs a hand through his hair. “I’m twenty-two,” he defends, “I can take care of myself.”
Lyall raises his eyebrow, looks pointedly at the bags under Remus’ eyes, the patches sewn haphazardly on his jumper. Hidden beneath the table, Remus’ trainers are falling apart.
Lyall sighs and shakes his head. “The past few years have been difficult for you-“
“Difficult?” Remus’ voice raises and he turns his nose up. “I fought in a war. My friends died.”
The old man in the corner squints at him through round glasses.
“I know,” Lyall says, “that’s why you need to come home. You need space away from this.”
The waitress is hovering behind him, unsure whether or not to intervene on such a miserable conversation. She gives Remus an overly fake sickly smile.
“Two full English breakfasts!” She places a full plate in front of each of them.
Remus does his best to smile back before turning his irritation back to his father.
“I have a girlfriend, Dad. I’m not going to leave her in London to go sit on my ass in Wales.”
Lyall rolls his eyes, cuts into his sausage. Remus eats a spoonful of baked beans.
“You can bring Dorcas too,” Lyall says after swallowing. “I like her, she’s nice.”
“This is ridiculous,” Remus laughs humourlessly. “I’m not upending my life-“
“What life?” Lyall waves his fork around as he speaks. “What life have you got here?”
Remus’ face is void as he looks Lyall in the eyes. “I gave my life to the war,” he says quietly. “I devoted myself to it.” It’s the most honest he has been to his father in years.
He supposes they haven’t spoken much since Hope died.
“Come home,” Lyall says. “If your mother were here, she would’ve had you home in an instant. But I wanted to give you time.”
Remus is adamantly staring at his plate of food as he eats, but it all feels blurred and hollow compared to his dad’s voice.
“But I want to take care of you, Remus. I want my son back. I want to help you, and for God’s sake it’s what your mother would have wanted. You can bring Dorcas- you can bring whoever the hell you want so long as it means you’re home.”
Remus looks up and into Lyall’s eyes. They’re the same colour as his. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll come home.”
He realises that he acquiesces too quickly, didn’t put up a fight. Remus from a year ago would have. He would have been dragged home kicking and screaming. But the idea of his dad taking care of him, coming home to cooked meals, sleeping in a house with heating, was far too appealing.
The Lupins were strained, but they didn’t lack love. Even as a child, when Lyall’s resentment overtook his paternal instincts, Remus knew his mother and father loved him. In that sense, he was lucky.
That kind of care he doesn’t have in London anymore. Anyone who had cared for him was gone. Dead or otherwise. There’s Dorcas, who may love him, but can barely take care of herself.
Lyall doesn’t quite smile, but he nods and settles into his seat a little more surely. His gruff voice is comforting as he prattles on about the sheep and the garden. The Welsh accent is something Remus easily mirrors, despite his own having faded over his time spent in London and at Hogwarts.
“Dorcas grew up in the countryside,” Remus says, “she might like it there.”
When Remus returns to his flat an hour later, Lyall having paid for his breakfast, Dorcas is sullen and moody. She sits on the sofa glaring at the telly, wrapped in his jumper and her fluffy dressing down. Her eyes are bleary and she shivers slightly.
Remus’ mood flattens at the sight of her. Neither of them cry anymore, but Dorcas does little instead. She appears empty most of the time. She showers and sleeps and talks, but it's mechanic. It’s hollow and Remus doesn’t know how to help.
He toes off his trainers and locks the door, moves further into the living room. He watches her for a moment, saying nothing. He takes the dirty plates off the table and puts them in the sink. He steps past her and opens the curtains. She sees straight through him, gaze never wandering from the game show playing on the telly.
“It was nice seeing my dad today,” he says as he stands behind her with a cup of tea.
“Yeah?”
Remus smiles even though she can’t see it. Lyall is the first piece of hope Remus has had in a long time.
Dorcas has been going downhill, her positivity diminishing by the day. He needs to figure out how to help her and maybe moving away would. She sees Mary every week and that wouldn’t stop. Mary’s visits seem to help a little each time, she perks up afterwards. But that small peak dips by Mary’s next visit.
“Yeah,” Remus echoes. He wishes he had a friend to talk to. Brushing his hand over the top of her head, he asks, “have you done anything this morning?”
“Not really,” she answers. “Mary is stopping by later.”
Inwardly, Remus is relieved.
He rounds the couch and sits next to her, pulls her cold feet into his lap. One hand resting on her ankle, the other moves to pull her body closer. She leans against his shoulder and closers her eyes.
“We’re moving in with my dad,” Remus says quietly.
She stiffens against him. “I hate the rain,” she says. “I don’t want to.”
“We can’t stay here.” He runs his thumb across her cheekbone. Even in sadness, she is beautiful.
“I don’t have the energy to argue with you,” she says, her voice is flat and uncaring.
Remus tips his head back against the couch. They linger in silence for a few moments. “I don’t want to argue with you,” he says to the ceiling, reminded of days in a past relationship filled with shouting and speculation and half truths. “I just want us to have a go at happiness.”
She pulls away from him as if she’s been burnt. “How can you even think about being happy. Marlene is dead. Lily and James are dead. Peter is dead.”
Her chapped lips move quickly and her eyes are narrowed. It is daytime but their flat is dark.
“I can’t move on from that. But I’m glad you have.”
Remus wants to scream at her. He doesn’t. Mary will be here soon, he reassures himself.
•••
Mary is cold, cold, and aching. Her body feels heavy as she walks, her heeled boots dragging against the cobbled street. Her ankles are prepared to give out on her as she stumbles. She stops against a lamppost, resting against it, wrapping her left arm around it to keep her upright. Swiping her other arm against her forehead, the thin lace of her cloak sweeps around her. She sighs and looks up.
There is a potions shop in front of her. The lights are dead, and a ‘closed for business’ sign was nailed on the front door. Upstairs, there is a warm, golden glow in the window.
She is exactly where she wanted to be.
Mary huffs, scuffing her boots against the floor. Using the lamppost as a pole she slowly lowers herself to a crouch, and picks up three large stones from the ground. She closes her fingers around them as if they are important.
Back on her feet, Mary’s brow furrows, and her eyes draw together as she looks up at the window above the storefront. Her lips are pouted. After detaching herself from the lamppost, she steadies herself, focusing her weight on the soles of her feet, and with the look of a concentrated witch, she throws a stone toward the window.
It lands with a dull thud on the small ledge. Not quite, she thinks.
Narrowing her eyes, Mary throws the second pebble. This time, it taps the window perfectly. She thinks it makes just enough noise.
There’s a dark blur of movement in the yellow glow. She grins.
Just to be safe, she throws the third stone. But her throw is too hard and she hears the window shatter into hundreds of little glass pieces.
“Crap,” she mutters to herself, biting her lip with anxiety. She can feel her headache worsening.
There’s a shout from the window and Mary looks back up at the mess she’s made. “What the fuck MacDonald?!”
His head is poking out the empty window, glaring fiercely. His arms are crossed around his chest and his hair is pulled back in what Mary thinks is a ponytail, but she can’t see well enough to be completely sure. What she is certain of though, is his fury. She can see it in every inch of his body as she moves closer until she’s standing directly below the window and his face is mirrored above her as he leans dangerously out the empty window.
She cringes, before trying for a smile. It’s wobbly and does nothing to appease him. “Aren’t you going to let me in?” She shouts up.
“What the fuck MacDonald?” He repeats. The swearing feels wrong coming from lips as elegant as his. There’s a twinge of an accent to his voice, something far from the posh pure-blood dialect he usually spoke with.
“Come on!” Mary hollers.
She can’t see but rather feels him roll his eyes, before disappearing from the window. While he’s gone, Mary checks herself. She pulls her top down and her skirt up, runs a hand through her hair, and organises the cacophony of lace that is her cloak.
By the time she’s done, the shop door with the closed sign is opening. He says nothing but raises an eyebrow at her, before stepping back. Mary takes this as an invitation and follows him into the shop.
He ignores her once she’s inside in favour of looking left and right down the street, searching, checking, looking in the shadows for ghosts. When he inevitably finds none, he slams the door shut and locks all three bolts. Then, he pulls out his wand and spells it secure.
Mary watches. Distantly, she thinks she should be worried, about being so trapped in a house with a death eater. But there are bigger things on her mind than the war. Bigger cravings. Bigger fish to fry, as Gid would have said.
When he’s done, Mary steps towards him. She is much shorter than him, even in her tall heels. He looks down his nose at her and shakes his head. He sneers.
Mary should be intimidated, his face is frightening and ghoulish. He is pale and has sharp teeth and black eyes that glare at her like a vampire’s. He reminds her of the villains she would read in books as a teenager. Mary feels nothing but craving and the beating of her heart.
“It’s been a week,” he states.
Mary shakes her head and forces herself closer into his space. “No, Snape, please- please you can’t say no-“
He laughs humorlessly and her eyes go wide. Bulging. “I think you’ll find I can.”
Mary’s head is pounding and her bones ache and she needs. She tries again. “Snape, please.”
His eyes are boring into her face. She wonders what he can see; does he think she’s desperate? Does he pity her or merely think of her as an inconvenience? She doesn't know if she cares either away. She merely wants what he has to offer.
She shudders beneath his face, her dress, her makeup, the wanton feeling in her body, does nothing to quell withdrawal. His shirt is rough beneath her fingers when he grabs it.
He does not move.
She begs, “Please, Snape.”
Her nails tighten on the silk of his shirt, soft in her hands, luxurious. It felt better than anything she had ever owned - it looked better than anything she had ever seen him in. She knew she was staring at it, rolling the material beneath her fingers in awe. She didn’t know what had come over, but her head hurt and her ankles were prepared to give out on her and it was beautiful.
He was looking down at her with an odd expression, somewhere between disgust and pity.
Mary inhaled through her nose, deep and heaving. And as she exhaled, she lost her pride. On trembling legs she lowered herself to the floor, her hands moved to her thighs.
And then there she was. On her knees, in a position of worship, for Severus Snape of all people - for drugs. Mary had never bowed to anyone or anything. She was a Gryffindor, she was brave and loyal and courageous and indignant. She was independent. She had fought in battles against history's greatest dark lord, she had bled and killed, she had watched her friends be killed. She had looked Lord Voldemort in the eyes and defied him so effortlessly.
If only Gideon could see her now.
Sometimes she thought she saw him; stood in the corner of a room, still as a statue, watching over her; a flash of red hair in her peripheral…
Mary had to believe in the afterlife. She had to. For everyone she loved was gone. Snape’s potions were her ticket to join them.
There was a scoff and she looked up from his feet.
His expression was clear as day. “Get up, Macdonald,” and he walked away, leaving her knelt to no one but an empty room.
She heard the open and close of his door upstairs she heard the whispered spell as he fixed his window. She heard her heaving breaths as her fingernails traced the grooves in the wooden floor.
Gideon was laughing at her from the afterlife.
Mary stands and disappears from the room with a quiet pop.
Dorcas was waiting outside Remus’ flat, shivering in her dressing gown. Mary softens at the sight of her, acidic guilt rising in her stomach.
She shakes her head softly and the anger visibly rises in Dorcas.
“Fuck,” she mumbles, cheeks flushing and eyebrows drawn in.
The roads are quiet but not like the ones by Snape’s apothecary. London fills Mary with fear, with every car that drives past, every shadow on the pavement, every friendly face appears menacing.
She despises it.
“Let’s go inside,” Mary suggests quietly. She places her palm on Dorcas’ back and ushers her in gently.
“We’re moving,” Dorcas says as they begin to climb the stairs. “Remus has decided we’re going to live with his dad in Wales.”
Mary smiles at her. “That’s amazing. You could do with a break.”
Dorcas laughs fondly. “That’s what he said too. I’m not looking forward to it.” She shrugs and they turn the corner to Remus’ flat.
•••
1979
Remus is being shaken awake.
He blinks, there’s muffled shouting in his ears. He blinks again. Sirius’ face is hovering above him, his lips are moving - fast - and it takes Remus a second to catch up.
“There’s a mission!” He was shouting, “Moony, we need to go.”
Remus is up in a matter of seconds at that. He has little time to think or prepare as Sirius throws his clothes at him. He stands in his boxers, messing with a white shirt he had been given, watching Sirius wave his wand and summon something black and padded.
“Padded vest,” Sirius explains, watching Remus fiddle with it and his shirt. He steps forward and pushes Remus’ hands out of the way, forcing his arms through the holes of the clothing. Remus had never seen it before in his life, but it reminded him of muggle police officer uniform.
His mother would watch police shows and the bullets would be absorbed within the material, with any hope, spells would be absorbed or refracted too.
“-introduced at the last meeting, ‘twas a full moon-“
Sirius is dressing him for some unknown reason, but Remus allows it to happen. He lets Sirius’ fingers work quickly on his buttons, pull black leather gloves on his arms, roll up the sleeves of his shirts. He doesn’t think about what any of it means. It happens in a matter of three or four minutes, quick, hasty. But Remus takes this time to breathe, in and out, ten times, taking account of his body.
“-don’t know what’s wrong with a good shield spell, would’ve thought a protego would do the trick, but Moody’s insisting-“
He rids himself of his groggy, sleepy feeling by the time Sirius is pulling his trousers up.
Remus bats him away and pulls them up his legs, makes quick work of the zip and button, before shoving his wand in the holster on his thigh.
There’s a second once Remus is dressed, where they stand there awkwardly in the darkness of his room. Sirius’ silver eyes are looking at him, questioning, but his body is still and broad. Remus recognises this look, he used to get it before a prank at Hogwarts, a look of adrenaline and determination mixed with, are you ready?
Remus nods at him and Sirius moves into motion, pulling a scrap piece of paper out of his pocket, reading it, tossing it on the floor. “Side-along,” is all he says before Remus is being catapulted into darkness.
He comes back to his senses crouched behind a hedge. Sirius is at his side, squinting through the leaves. It is dark and there are huge canopies of trees in the area. Soft mud beneath his black boots. Branches skimming the side of his arms. Sirius’ silent breathing. Cramping in his stomach.
Remus follows Sirius’ gaze to see a cabin in front of them. It’s made of thick trunks of wood, a thatched roof, windows that look like something out of a sixties horror movie. Squinting, Remus can see two figures hidden on each side of the house. Crouched.
They’re wearing padded vests the same as him and Sirius.
“Shacklebolt and Diggle,” Sirius murmurs against Remus’ ear, pointing to the left of the house. “Dorcas and Moody,” his finger moves to the right.
And Remus fears for his friends.
“Dumbledore had the tip that Rosier and Lestrange are about to arrive on the scene.”
Rosier and Lestrange. Remus only hopes it’s the younger Lestrange brother. But Evan Rosier? Well, that was a name that inspired fear.
He had been in the year below them at Hogwarts and yet, somehow, had pushed through the Death Eater ranks faster than anybody else. Voldemort’s right hand man, Dumbledore said. General, Moody said. He’s not the same, Dorcas said.
Remus didn’t know him personally and what he did know, he knew little. But he knew enough to be scared.
“What are we doing here?” He whispered to Sirius. Their faces were so close.
Sirius grinned, teeth shining. “Kidnapping them.”
The air in Remus’ lungs sinks to his stomach.
A crack reverberates in the forest.
Two figures appear at the end of the garden path leading to the cabin, barely three feet in front of Remus. He holds his breath as they move. They’re walking slowly in silence, their cloaks casting a fearsome silhouette. They wear hoods and thick black boots. The only piece of skin Remus can see is their hands and wrists. They have wands in their hands which are lit with a dim lumos.
The figure on the right stops. He inhales, he is smelling the air.
“Ev-“ he starts but is silenced as, what is now definitely, Evan Rosier’s head snaps towards him.
Rosier hisses, it’s a sharp sound from between his teeth. It chills Remus to his core.
The trees are rustling, the Order members are still. Sirius is clearly agitated besides him.
“We’re being watched,” not-Rosier says, “I can sense it.”
Rosier does not reply but continues walking. Time seems to move in slow motion and Remus feels oddly frozen. He catalogues little of the scene around him but his wand clenched in his fisted hand and the comforting presence of Sirius next to him.
Rosier and unknown do not speak again until they reach the door. There, they are too far away for Remus to hear but he watches their faces move. Rosier places a finger against the other’s lips and then-
There’s a bang, a low growl, the sound of struggling and backfired spells. Unknown was being manhandled by Shackelbolt, Diggle at his back casting spell after spell. Half of which, Remus didn’t recognise. Meanwhile, Rosier is stood tall and careless, casting with elegant flicks of his wrists. It’s a dance between Moody and Rosier. Remus is enthralled. They move with ease, Moody is old and experienced, this is his life. Every moment prepares him for his next fight. But Rosier is young and agile, his lean body works in his favour, and his cruelty is unmatched.
Remus knows the vibrant purple and nauseous yellow flying from his wand isn’t defensive.
But Dorcas seems to have withdrawn quickly. She appears in pain, her face an awful mixture of emotions. There’s a cut on her arm, non-fatal but bleeding rapidly and she hisses. She presses the tip of her wand to it and slowly the blood clots. Vaguely, Remus remembers that once she and Rosier had been friends.
Sirius is practically vibrating with energy.
“”What are we doing here?” Remus asks, no longer too bothered about keeping his voice down, the sounds of the fight seemed to echo off the trees.
Shackelbolt yells and Sirius does not answer. Dorcas rushes to his side and takes up his stream of firing as Shackelbolt hinges forward at his hips, his mouth is red and foaming. Remus thinks now is a good time to intervene. His heart is racing in his chest and every bone in his body screams the need to leave leave leave.
But Sirius is warm beside him and his friends are injured. And there is popping.
Dorcas screams. Rosier has his wand against his forearm, a dreadful smirk across his pink lips. There is a snake on his arm, slithering through the eye sockets of a skull.
“Oh god,” Remus feels his mouth move as he leaps into action.
He is sprinting across the field towards Moody and Rosier and the new onslaught of Death Eaters appearing on the scene. Sirius, with his proficiency at healing, is headed for Shackelbolt.
The Death Eaters wear masks made of metal and long black coats. They wear their hoods up. Part of Remus thinks that if the situation were different, if this were merely a horror film and not a terrorist organisation, they would almost look cool. Rosier and the man he had initially appeared with are the only unmasked black figures.
There are three behind Rosier, all in an offensive stance. One speaks in a feminine voice and Remus leaps to the side. Another, clearly broad and muscled, casts bubble shields stronger than anything Remus had ever seen. The spells refract off his shield and back off Remus’ vest, bouncing between them like a tennis ball.
There’s more popping and Remus gravely hopes its Order members. Or he feels for sure that this is a losing battle and he will come out the end in a casket.
Rosier is focused, clearly the leader as the other three react to his body language. His eyes are steel and they pierce through the night, they feel as if they go into through Remus’ head.
Remus doesn’t know how long he fights. He doesn’t know what’s happening on the other side of the garden. He doesn’t know if Sirius healed Kingsley. He doesn’t know if Sirius is injured. He doesn’t know who else is on the scene, until a shoulder bumps into his.
Something about having James Potter next to him fills him with relief. It shouldn’t, he should want James far away from the fight, safe at home with Lily - who is probably also somewhere on the turned battlefield. But, James is one of their best. He is incredible.
Remus grins at him, taking his eyes away for a split second.
“I’ve got your back,” James says.
And he’s right.
They seem to have the upper hand with James on their team and soon enough Rosier, in all his power, is ordering the Death Eaters to retreat.
The Order has come out victorious.
Yet, Remus feels something wilting within him. It’s not done. He watches Rosier, who seems to be watching him too. That angled face tilts its head, almost in thought. It bares his teeth in a sneer and then is gone.
Remus deflates into the muddy earth as all that remains is the Order.
They return to one of Dumbledore’s safe houses afterwards. Everyone is tense, adrenaline on come-down. Dumdledore and Moody stand at the head of the room, Dorcas is close on Moody’s other side. Next to Dorcas is Shackelbolt, forever stoic. The rest, less important members of the Order, crowd around them. Remus stands next to Lily, their arms are looped together and if Remus was shorter he would hide himself in her body.
Remus is all too aware that Sirius stands opposite him with James and Peter. The three of them are close, touching, supportive. James is focused on Moody’s summary of the outcome. He lists the names of the injured, of the identifiable Death Eaters. But Sirius is whispering in Pete’s ear, head tilted down as he is slightly taller. Peter, as always, listens with rapt attention.
Sirius’ gaze flickers to Remus, who continues watching him. Lily says something to Marlene McKinnon.
Dumbledore clears his throat and all attention snaps towards him.
”Now…” he says, “We need someone to keep a close eye on our guest upstairs.” His blue eyes scan his men before him. Remus knows before his mouth opens.
”It won’t be for long,” Dumbledore says, “you’ll be off active duty, consider this your first official mission.”
Remus wants to tell him he’s been serving the Order for over a year now. He doesn’t; he wouldn’t be able to hold a wand without Dumbledore’s kindness. This is just one of the ways to repay him.
Remus nods stiffly and pulls away from Lily as he’s guided out of the room and up a narrow, winding set of stone stairs. It’s cold and dingy and clearly not used anymore. The steps feel bumpy beneath Remus’ feet.
Halfway up, the silencing spell clearly wears out as he hears a yell.
“LET ME OUT!!”
At the top, a fierce and angry body is crouched, bellowing at the top of his lungs. His face is flushed and his eyes, which immediately land on Remus and Dumbledore, are set in a hard scowl.
Barry Crouch Junior has been taken captive by the Order.
Remus feels faint.
•••
They move to Wales two weeks later. Remus and Dorcas taking over his old attic room. They change nothing about it, keep the vinyls and Bowie posters, the magazine pile under the bed. Dorcas hangs her clothes in the wardrobe and Remus folds his jumpers.
They have dinner around a round table with Lyall. He asks Dorcas about her hobbies and her life. He invites her on a walk the next morning. Remus holds her hand under the table and they stand hip to hip whilst washing up.
They squeeze into Remus’ childhood bed and it’s the closest he has felt to her in ages.