Rating: PG-13 just to be safe.

Disclaimers: The Harry Potter series, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended on her, Bloomsbury, Scholastic, Warner Bros., or anyone else. I'm not making a penny off this and would never presume to do so.

Archive: At the SB/RL FQF site for now. After it's over, Red Moon Rising and Azkaban's Lair. Anyone else who wants it, just please ask first. Thanks!

Feedback: Always appreciated; iron_magnolia@yahoo.com

Notes: Set sometime post-MWPP Hogwarts era, but before Harry's birth.

Warning: Well, you're probably at a slash list/site anyway, but just in case: this is slash, i.e., two men in a more-than-just-friends relationship. If that's not your bag, bail now.

Footfalls.

He woke to the sound of muffled steps and the stench of bile and, more faintly, urine. The wolf had been strong, then, if he'd marked his territory. Whose were the footsteps?

He closed his eyes against the light. Too much of it, and the scent of the room bothered him as well. His head throbbed.

Go back to sleep, then.

His urge was to roll onto his side. Still stiff. No matter. He could sleep on his stomach.

If whoever was in the house would let him.

The steps echoed on the floorboards above him – two sets, back and forth, and too loud, echoing. Couldn't they stay in one place? He hunched his shoulders over his ears – no, he couldn't stay like that. His shoulders ached.

Then voices.

"Found a quill!" called one. "You know where the owlery is – "

"Thanks, mate." More echoes. Stop talking, you. "I'll just dash off a quick note to let her know I got back all right."

"Take your time, I'll go upstairs and check on Remus."

Am I upstairs, then? He opened his eyes – no, the cellar – But someone was ascending the stairs to the upper storey nonetheless –

Nausea. Blood and bile. He mustn't have eaten much. His arms gave out and he collapsed onto the floor again. He was vaguely aware of the bile congealing against his face.

It was quieter now. He drifted into sleep.

Woke to more echoes. His eye stung as the regurgitated blood came into contact with it.

Coming down the upper staircase, coming closer, louder, the echoes heavier, growing more intense as voices joined the footsteps. "Remus?"

Let me alone.

"He's not upstairs, then?"

Clearly not. Now shut it, I'm tired.

"No, bit odd. Not in the study either, I take it?"

"No, just a loose owl. Perhaps he's up and about, didn't you say something about a new potion?"

Why couldn't they let him sleep?

"I suppose that's it, then. Check the cellar, then, will you, I'll see if he's not out weeding already."

Were there weeds? He couldn't see any, could smell nothing but the ever more acrid smell of bile and piss.

"Right, then."

Diverging footsteps, going in opposite directions across the floor. Doors opening, one distant, one nearby, and then feet on the stairs. Sharp steps, loud and coming closer. The echo was faster now.

The cellar wanted cleaning. Where was his wand? He cast about with his hand. Nothing. Was it upstairs? That was probably where he had left it. There was no time to get it, now.

Steps no longer on the stairs, padding across the stone-and-packed-earth floor, approaching. Almost on him now, and then they stopped. Shallow breathing. Then, quietly: "Oh, God."

More steps on the stairs, another voice, louder: "James?"

Walking across the floor, away from him. Fifteen paces to the foot of the stairs. "He'll be all right, Padfoot, but I reckon you ought to fetch Madam Pomfrey." Calm and measured.

Another voice, louder and quicker. "What do you mean? Where is he, what's – ?"

"Just go and get her, Siri." The first voice was low and set now.

"What's wrong?"

"Sirius, you can't – "

"Remus?"

Running now, footfalls heavy, following one another rapidly.

He'll step on me.

Roll aside, then.

A sudden stop, and cloth rustling. He felt the breath near him. "Remus?" Cool fingers on the side of his neck, and hands on his shoulders.

"Don't move him, you git – "

"Shut it, James – "

"You'll hurt him more – "

Sleep.

***

Cool, crisp sheets, and the scent of lavender. Breeze through the curtains.

He opened his eyes. Pale sunlight on the beige-painted walls, on the light blanket under which he lay.

"He's waking."

Minerva McGonagall, in a chair by the bedside. And Madam Pomfrey– "Experimental potions – how the Ministry ever managed – don't know what you were thinking, Remus – " Cool fingers against his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

An attempt at a smile, and a painful sort of stretching in his lips. "As though I'm in a hundred pieces."

A raised eyebrow. "Close enough to accurate, I suppose. Best I draw you a cool bath."

"What happened?"

Pomfrey pausing, bending in toward McGonagall. "Minerva, do you suppose he ought – ?"

"Please – " his voice was quiet – "just tell me what's happened."

"He'll have to find out eventually, Poppy," McGonagall said to a still skeptical-looking Pomfrey. "Sooner rather than later, in all likelihood."

A sigh. "Very well then, I'll draw a bath while you start with that."

Another sigh, now McGonagall. "The Register seems to have translated Tessa Lotteringhi's recipe rather badly. In Italy the potion was somewhat ineffective, but here – " She left off.

"It seems to have been counterproductive."

Raised eyebrows. "That's an understatement, Mr Lupin. I daresay you would be dead if you had been found much later. Poppy's been through the lot of her remedies."

How long have I been here? What has Poppy poured down my throat?

An echo over tile. "Bath's ready, Minerva. Shall I give you a hand helping him over?"

"It's all right, Poppy." She eased back the bedsheets. "There – one arm across my shoulder –"

"Where's Sirius?

"I sent him home with James – " she helped him up – "rather against his wishes. I thought it best that he, er – calm himself, shall we say, before seeing you."

Didn't he see me in the cellar? How long has it been since then? And Madam Pomfrey's hands unbuttoning his pyjamas – "I think I can manage – "

"No," she said grimly, "you can't, Remus. Now best you fix your eyes on a spot of the wall, or else keep them closed."

The women half-hoisted, half-levitated, him into the clawed bathtub. A brief, illicit glance over his own body as they did so. More scratches than skin. Dental ridges along his feet and genitals, that same painful stretching as the muscles in his back and chest shifted.

He groaned involuntarily as he came into contact with the water, tasted blood on his tongue. A sympathetic grimace from Pomfrey: "I can't give you a pain-relief potion, too much risk putting anything else in your system, you had a few nasty reactions to the antidotes as it is."

"What was in the potion?"

Another shared, drawn look; then, it seemed, silent consensus. McGonagall closed her eyes momentarily. "Not much that was supposed to be there, and a great deal that wasn't. "

"Silver instead of silverweed, for one, and quicksilver rather than silver birch. The Ministry managed to substitute ordinary carrots for moon carrots. Not to mention omitting hazel and rowan berries entirely and some rather foolish experimentation with yew bark. I'm quite surprised you survived the first few hours. See if you can't lift your other arm for me."

McGonagall's voice was stiff. "You should be up and about in a week or so."

"And able to resume all your usual magical and sexual activity within a month or so." Pomfrey's tone suggested something they had often discussed casually.

He felt what was missing from her words sensed the gap away from which she was trying to ward him. He drew a slightly shaky breath. "When do you expect I'll be recovered?" Silence. "Back to my – ordinary state, you know?"

McGonagall closed her eyes and cast her head down. When she collected herself to look at Remus her face and her voice held a deliberate, forced resolve. "It's difficult to say, Remus." Her hands worried soap onto a cloth, eyes fixed on the work. "The poisons have seeped into the bite scar. By the time your system has absorbed them it's likely the effects will be permanent." She dipped the cloth in the water and ran it over shoulders.

Which will heal and which will scar? He remembered how Sirius had drawn in a tight breath when he'd first seen the bite scar. Would he want to see this?

Another glimpse of himself, stolen from a mirror as they lifted him. Grey in his hair now, more than the handful of silver threads that had been scattered a week before. That's a sight, old man.

More silence, welcome, as the women helped him back to the bed in a clean set of pyjamas. He felt a sudden rage at the crinkling of fresh sheets. His stomach turned at the scent of the tea McGonagall conjured.

"I expect tea will be a bit much for a while yet." Madam Pomfrey's voice was kind. "You'll do best with broths and perhaps soda bread until you've recovered more. I've left a scroll of instructions for you by the bedside; you can look it over once you're better rested."

A short nod, and throbbing in his head. "Thank you."

"I'll go over it with Sirius as well once he's here, I don't expect he'll stay with Lily and James all day."

"Right." And a feeding schedule for the new baby as well.

Make a show of fighting sleep, then. "I think I'll catch a spot of a nap if you don't mind."

McGonagall smoothed the bedsheets unnecessarily. He closed his eyes as the two bustled about and whispered. Then a kind of real sleep, light and coursed with fragments of dreams. Eyes closed against the glare of day in the waking bouts.

Eventually a faint snap; eyes closed, he knew that Sirius was there. Whispers as McGonagall and Pomfrey greeted him, pointed out the parchment by the bedside, and questions and answers and short, heavy silences. Sirius' voice quieted as he promised to keep a close watch, and there followed two more snaps as the women left.

Uncomfortable shifting in the chair previously McGonagall's, then loud crinkles, Sirius shuffling the parchments between his hands. A creaking sound as he got up to pace, pound a fist against the windowsill. "Remus, I know you're awake."

He gave no response. "Right, then." More pacing.

Slower footfalls, then none, and quiet for some minutes. More fingers worrying the parchment; pacing. Fist against the windowsill, harder this time, and swearing. "Damn it, Moony, would you leave off pretending you're asleep!"

New scabs broke as his eyes opened. "Right then. I'm awake. What of it?"

A softening in the set face, and he rushed to clasp hands. "God, Remus, I was so afraid." Joined hands pressed to his forehead.

He pulled his hand free. "No need for it."

An incredulous look. "No need for it?"

"A few more scars to the lot. What is it to you?"

"You nearly died!" Quiet for the force in the words. "Madam Pomfrey scarcely managed to bring you round, that's what it is to me! God, Remus, it was awful – "

"Going to sum it up for me, are you?"

"Sum it – "

"Come back from a horrid mission to clean up some lovely puddles of congealed vomit, seeing all those nasty scratches that will surely turn to ugly scars – "

"Sod the scars – "

"Did it turn your stomach? Did you ask Madam Pomfrey when I'd be back to the nice, healthy Remus you knew?"

"She said within a few months you'll be back – "

"To merely pitiable? Poor Remus, such a shame about his affliction, what a brave boy, can't imagine what he goes through – "

"I'll take care of you, Moony."

"I'll not be kept." His words sounded like the potion. He rolled onto his side, away from those kind pale eyes. "Just – just go away, Sirius, let me be."

"No, there's got to be someone here – "

Agony in his lungs as he sat, quick as a shot. "Shut it, Sirius!" Louder than he had thought. "All I ask is a moment's peace! I don't care where you go, just leave!"

Sirius' gaze level as he backed from the room. Slam of a door. He willed himself to sleep.

***

Cold.

Rows of teeth snapping together. Limbs stiff and quivering.

Where am I?

Darkness greeting open eyes, and a damp breeze through the open window. Too cold for March, and the blankets too heavy, refusing to let go.

No – let go my leg – please, I need you to –

Weighing down on him, and he needed to breathe. Wet salt on his face. Where's Mother?

Legs ached as he freed them from the blankets. The carpet was a poor cushion to the floor.

He knew better than to stand. Crawl, then. A strange cry as his weight rested on his knees. Was the voice his?

His hands were better. Every other beat was tolerable. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three.

He shivered. Should he close the window? No, toilet first, the sick burning rising from his stomach to his throat… Going about like what you are now, beasts are filthy, turn your stomach more, ought to have let them put him down when he was bit.

He allowed himself tears.

Feeling sorry for yourself now, are we?

Don't stop.

Hands on the hard tile, just a bit more, but the burning was higher, keep your mouth closed, then and grinding in his wrists not going to be there in time and he caught the scent of bile before the burning reached his tongue, too late –

Tears falling of their own volition, no reference to emotion, and he gave in to them, more in your eye ducts than your stomach. Too tired. Defeat was as costly, and he let the tears take what they would from him, no energy to stop them, and they took more…

His spasms quieted as he returned to sleep, cool tile welcoming.

***

The bed felt lower than he'd remembered. What's there? Hadn't he been in the bathroom?

A familiar somnolent little groan. He lifted an arm and twined his fingers in the long, thick fur, pulled himself closer to the night-hidden form. His arms ached as he wrapped them around it. He didn't care.

Soft ears tickled his nose as he pressed himself in tightly, and a few more tears escaped; he wondered why. A different reason now. "Thanks," he whispered – but it didn't seem enough…

A glint told him the dog had opened his eyes, and it began to nuzzle about softly. It looked at him for a long moment; he could feel its gaze even if he could not see it "Love you, Padfoot."

Hot breath as the dog licked his face, and then a furry head resting on his chest, paw on his shoulder. The dog sighed as it returned to sleep.

As his own eyelids lowered he felt himself smile.