Fic: A Soft Place to Sleep (1/?)
Now appearing on LJ! (Cause I said I would. Yeah. Takes me awhile to do anything. I'm like the government. Except with a little porn.)


FIC: A Soft Place to Sleep (1/?)
AUTHOR: Calligraphy (Caligryphy@yahoo.com)
RATING: The light edge of Mature. Not graphic yet.
PAIRING: Lupin/Snape.
SUMMARY: Our favorite werewolf gets help in the unlikeliest of places... but is his savior really on his side?
DISCLAIMER: Don't own it, making bits up. Yay!
WARNINGS: AU, half was written pre-HBP, will continue in this vein.

Also posted to Skyehawke.




He dreamt of a warm, soft place.

It wasn't a place he'd ever been. The place was like—

"You. Wake up!"

It was—

"Wolf!"

It reminded him of being in a shop on a crisp day. Of buying sandwich fixings, milk, tea—and seeing a postcard on a rack near the cash register—a picture of some sunny, kind place, where someone might put down roots for more than a few months at a time. A place with wide lawns and trees between the houses, where the neighbors believed in keeping to themselves, where past acquaintances wouldn't unexpectedly pop up and recognize an old, scarred face.

"Come along, now. Don't make me do something rude in front of this nice gentleman."

The soft place—

It was also like being very young, in the days when his mother hadn't been afraid to hold him, and his parents would put a blanket over their laps during cold nights when they were snug inside the house. They'd listen to music, or she would read aloud—

Remus Lupin woke to the familiar sting of a sharp slap.

"There we are, he's coming around, you see?" the gruff voice said. His keeper smelled like filth, like the cell, like Remus did. Fingers like cold sausages prodded at his back, his neck, his face.

He bit back a scream.

"You haven't dosed him?"

"Oh, Merlin, no. We know about bad reactions, only took one Sugheim's Sleep Elixir to kill an ogre we spent two months tracking. I don't have to tell you how many Galleons we lost on that bad piece of business."

He swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper, the dry flesh cracking and rubbing painfully. But that was his own fault, Remus thought, for being stupid enough to risk rushing the door while he was too dizzy to do more than stand.

Food and water, his keeper explained, were privileges, not rights.

I'm going to die, Remus thought.

He wanted his Mum. He wanted Sirius and James to come charging through the door. Anyone. Someone from Wizarding Wireless with a bunch of balloons and noisemakers, who would tell him that it'd all been a practical joke, thanks for being a good sport, and that he could go home.

"Don't you worry, though. He's in no shape to give you a fright."

"He's been beaten?"

Remus flinched as knuckles ghosted over his face. It was easier to keep his eyes closed. It kept the lurching feeling down.

"Not overly so. Not so as he'd be damaged. But—you understand the need for a bit of discipline."

"Quite."

Hands touched him gently—not the hands of his keeper, these were warmer—but as they explored the wolf's body, they drew out the symphony of aches along his lower back and legs. Remus bit down a cry (they didn't like him to call out) and forced himself to consider his company in the small, dank cell.

"Now this one is a genuine, honest to goodness werewolf. Early forties. A little older than ideal, maybe, but he's as full-blooded as they come. Not likely to die on you under a bit of strain."

"Quite a lot of scarring."

"Proof he's hardy. And, sir, if you don't mind my saying—a pretty face is all well and good. But I wouldn't overlook the other—amenities, so to speak."

Remus hardly felt the slap on his rump. He bit back a groan and focused on breathing in and out. His left ankle throbbed painfully; he suspected it wouldn't hold him. His hands were bound in cuffs that fastened to a loop of steel driven into the wall at the head of the cot.

"I prefer my partners willing."

"Oh, he'll be willing, all right, with a bit of training. And you know they're only virulent through the saliva while they're changed."

A snort. "Clearly, when I said that I would like to procure a werewolf, it could only be to satisfy my deviant sexual desires."

"Oh, sir, it takes all kinds. I don't judge. If you've got the coin, this one's all yours. For whatever you might get up to."

"Kindly cease winking at me."

He felt breath on his face and jerked as a fingertip pulled up one of his eyelids. Remus locked his gaze on the filthy sheet below him.

"So? What'll it be, sir?"

Sir made a non-committal noise. "I don't know. ...He's wounded. Older than I'd like. …Knock two hundred off the price."

"I don't mean to seem inflexible, sir, but the stated price is the stated price."

"That thing could be dead tomorrow. And don't try to tell me there aren't glamour charms on it."

"…We'll take off fifty."

"One hundred fifty."

"Seventy-five."

"One hundred."

"Done."

The clink of coins sounded above him.

The werewolf dimly absorbed the knowledge that he'd just been sold. He wasn't particularly surprised by it. All his infected life he'd heard horror stories about the fates that awaited wolves: disappearances, madness, Azkaban.

He willed himself to think of the soft place. It didn't work—not when his brutish keeper was gurgling over coins like a delighted, twisted child.

I've been sold, Remus thought. Merlin, I've been sold.

There would be no rescue, no escape. Not this time.

"Need a box? Gift wrapping extra, of course."

"Will the trunk do?" the buyer asked.

"Absolutely, sir. All right, sweetheart," the sweaty wizard said, pausing to give Remus another smack on the bottom, "looks like you're going home with your new owner." His captor bent over him with a key and unfastened the metal cuffs. "Aww—I do believe he might be shaking. No reason to be scared, there, love. Of course, no telling what he's got planned for you, is there?" The man's breath reeked of beef and onions.

The soft place, Remus thought, steeling himself against the roar of laughter and the roaming hand. The soft place—

"That will be quite enough," barked the buyer. "I believe it now falls to me to provide the creature with sufficient mental anguish."

The laughter stopped.

"Put him in the trunk. I don't have all day."

Remus was hauled off the cot by the back of his collar. The world tilted crazily for a moment as he took his feet for the first time in—he didn't know how long.

Overhead, the lamp sputtered, sending the shadows in the cell dancing.

On the floor opposite, the maw of a small, brown trunk stood open and ready to swallow him.

"No," he managed to whimper. "No—oh, g—no," Remus croaked, and dug his heels into the unforgiving stone floor. A bolt of pain shot through his left ankle. "You c—no—please," he begged, shaking his head.

Anything but a box—spells, chains—but not a box—

He couldn't help it. He looked up, ready to beg his new owner for mercy.

The werewolf's plea caught in his throat.

"Eyes down!"

The blow landed on the back of his head.

*****

"Have to go home," he cried. It was dark and hot—

"I'm afraid not."

"I want to go home," said Remus. Something kept pushing him onto his back. "Mum is waiting for me. We're having chicken pies for supper." He felt very hot, suddenly, burning up, and flailed at what held him down—blankets—or was it hands—

"Lupin. Stop—calm down."

"I have to get home. She'll worry if I'm late."

"No, you don't. There's no home to—Lupin! You're delirious."

"Please—I just want to go home. If I get into trouble, they'll make us move again. I need to go home—"

"Cease your blubbering! …Lupin. I spoke to your mother by floo. She says it's fine."

He knitted his brows. "She's not mad I stayed out?"

"No, she says it's fine. Here. Drink this. It's chocolate milk."

A glass was pressed to his lips. Remus gulped down the offered liquid. It tasted faintly of mint. "…Doesn't taste like chocolate milk."

"That's because it's a new kind; the kind you give stupid bloody werewolves intent on making your life even more absurd than it already is."

"…As long as Mum says it's okay," Remus mumbled, and settled into a Dreamless Sleep.

*****

Soft.

Warm.

"What?" Remus gasped.

"Do. Not. Struggle. Drink this."

A hand cupped the back of his head. Another pressed a vial to his lips. The liquid inside was warm; it spread a fuzzy feeling down his throat and soothed his knotted stomach.

Remus kept his eyes closed tightly, in case this was all a trick, or a dream. But perhaps he could risk a request. "Please," he rasped, "may I have some water?"

"One hates to think what would've happened if you'd been captured during the war." There was the trickle of water. A glass pressed to Remus' lips. "A sip at a time. I'd rather you not vomit on the duvet." The glass tilted forward and back. "I've just dosed you. Your ankle is broken in three places. As sadistic as I am commonly regarded, I have no wish to subject you to the pain of repair."

The werewolf braced himself—or tried to brace himself, except that his body was rebelling against any and all movement. Even his eyelids were heavy.

Maybe he was dead. Yes, that had to be it. He was finally dead, and that was why he was warm, comfortable, and smelled fabric softener instead of filth.

He opened his eyes.

He was in heaven. It had to be. "So much… white," he gasped, his throat still raw. The light was so bright…

Remus' chest tightened as his eyes began to adjust. In the light—a presence.

"It is rather like drowning in a vat of marshmallow fluff," replied the angel. "But, I imagine, a marked improvement upon your previous circumstances."

The werewolf blinked. This angel was very strange. Very dark—with oily hair—

Recognition hit Remus Lupin like an angry Ridgeback.

"…Snape?" He squinted.

The wizard peered down his great, beaky nose and sneered. "So good of you to recall."

"Snape?" He stared. Of all the people—and he hadn't even heard that Snape was dead.

"I'll turn down the lights, shall I?" The silky voice murmured a spell.

Heaven dimmed.

Remus discovered he wasn't dead.

He was disappointed.

"Keep still, Lupin. You're in a delicate state," sneered Snape.

The werewolf's eyes adjusted enough to see the Great Snake leaning over him, face flushed with the rosy hue of what he presumed was hatred.

Remus had never been so glad to see anyone.

Snape looked well, despite his years. As well as Remus had ever seen Snape look—the man's fastidiousness had never applied to his personal appearance. His hair was a bit longer, though just as black and oily. The lines around his eyes might've been a bit deeper. But it was really him—Snape.

"Snape… you… what happened?" His vision swam for a moment. The glass at his lips tilted again—Remus drank deeply, watching the man above the rim.

"Enough. You're far too greedy, Lupin." The glass thunked against a table nearby. The warm hand kneaded his neck for a moment before it lowered him back onto soft, clean pillows.

Remus smelled fabric softener and cloves. "Snape," he said again, letting his eyes fall shut. "Snape," he whispered. It felt good to be allowed to speak, even if the rest of him felt terrible. "What happened?" His ankle throbbed faintly, almost as if it were hurting someone else.

"If I had more faith in the intelligence of the criminal community, Lupin, I would be waiting for a ransom demand. A friend of Harry Potter and Hero of he Wizarding World might've fetched quite a high price. More than I paid for you, certainly. Fortunately for my accounts, your kidnappers didn't know what they had."

"You paid for me..?" Bits of his jumbled memory snapped together. "You bought me. …You rescued me." His brows creased. "You haggled over me."

"Surely they didn't expect me to pay the full amount for a wounded werewolf. I could've talked them down much further, but I felt generous."

"Lucky me," Remus rasped, and received another sip of water for his trouble.

"You've no idea how lucky. You were poached, Lupin. They might've passed you to anyone, and under anyone else's care, you would already be dead. You were held for a total of seventeen days, during which you appear to have broken utterly—thereby confirming my already dizzyingly low opinion of you."

"Sorry to disappoint," he murmured, as sarcastically as was possible while lying on soft, warm clouds…

Blankets rustled. The air stirred goosebumps on his skin.

Remus realized he was naked.

Strangely enough, he didn't mind.

"Did you try to escape? Even a token attempt?" Snape demanded.

It was hard to listen. He felt—odd. Warm hands held his ankle. He felt the warmth, the pulse of the throbbing—but not the pain.

He looked beyond Snape.

This room was everything his cell hadn't been—the ceiling stretched nearly fifteen feet above the bed. Lamps blazed merrily away in holders along the walls. The cream-colored rug complemented the ivory duvet and the crisp, white sheets.

Remus' hands were white. His body was leached of color, save a lattice of blue veins, the dark pink scars tracing his torso, and the livid bruises on his legs, fascinating in their variation between purple, brown, and yellow. The edge of a sheet preserved his modesty.

Snape perched in a chair beside the bed. He wore high-collared black robes, much like his usual Hogwarts uniform—only these seemed to be of a higher quality. The material looked soft and sleek. Remus wanted to touch it.

The flicker of lamplight cast the hollows of Severus' face in shadow. "Well?" he sneered. "Did you even consider the idea?"

"Harry comes," Remus said. 'Sometimes,' he did not add.

"Sentences longer than two words, Lupin, if you can manage it."

"Harry checks on me. He writes. Or comes over for tea. The day after the day after. I knew someone would know," he mumbled, "would come for me." His brows furrowed as he said it. Someone had come for him—Snape. But how—why? Maybe Harry got the Order involved—and they'd sent Snape, the only one who knew something about caring for a werewolf. Probably had to threaten him into it, Remus thought.

Snape arched a brow and bent to examine Remus' injury. "Because obviously one should react to being kidnapped and imprisoned in the same way as one stranded in a winter storm."

The werewolf watched his ankle as long, spidery fingers prodded it. "Since when are you a mediwizard?"

"If you'd prefer hospital—and the induction into the Dark Creature Registry that accompanies the visit—by all means; we'll leave at once."

He lay his head back on the bed, watching the play of light on the ceiling tiles. "No. This is fine. I trust you."

"Ever the fool," Snape muttered.

Remus heard the spells. His ankle was numb. It tingled as if his foot had fallen asleep. He let the potion and the crackle of the fireplace lull him. He was warm. Soft. Safe. He'd been rescued. They hadn't forgotten him.

It was almost too much relief to bear.

"I must ask a question. …Were you assaulted, Lupin? Sexually," Snape clarified softly.

The werewolf's brows creased. "No. Not that I can remember—oh, god, Severus—did something—" He tried to lever himself up on his arms, but his hands seemed unable to gain purchase on the mattress.

"Calm yourself. I saw no evidence of any—violation. …But I wanted to be sure."

Remus sank back into the pillows and took a deep breath. "Didn't want to damage their goods," he guessed, chuckling mirthlessly. "Not the important parts, at least." From the foot of the bed, there came a sickening crack. "What was that?"

"A bone." Before Remus could protest, Snape went on. "Your seller appeared to be a squib, but I would imagine the ones who took you were not. The Order is looking into the matter. I imagine they will eventually discover the identities of your captors, if they are indeed capable of pulling their heads out of each other's arses long enough to do more than have tea and send the Ministry a strongly-worded memorandum." Another cracking—this time an alarming series.

"And that, what was that?" Remus asked, peering up.

"My knuckles." Snape pointed a slim, ebony wand at him. "Avert your eyes, Lupin. Having you watch is like having you read a book over my shoulder."

With a bit more worry, but no pain at all, Remus relaxed back into the bed. "Where am I?"

"My home."

He looked at the blazing lamps, the high ceiling, and the white linens. "…This isn't how I imagined your house would look like."

"I prefer to sleep in the cellar," Snape said.

*****

Snape was there—in the soft place. He wore a bathrobe and slippers.

"You've never been in my dream before," Remus told him.

The dark-haired wizard did not answer, only continued to wash the prone man. He did not use a cleaning spell, but a damp flannel and a bowl of warm water.

Remus was naked. The sheet rode low on his hips. Snape ran the flannel gently over the hills and valleys of his scars. No one touched him there. It made Remus shiver.

The back of a hand touched his forehead. "…Fever?" He shook his head.

The flannel moved lower, bathing his stomach. Under the sheet, Remus' cock gave an interested twitch. "Oh. …Is this that kind of dream…?" he asked.

Snape ducked his head behind a curtain of oily hair. "I'm afraid not."

*****

Chapter Two.