Light…

for Lupin

My dear, I would be remiss if I did not first convey a thank you for your note to me. It took me completely by surprise when I woke to find it poking out from beneath my pillow in the early morning when you had already gone to pick flowers. Blue and violet flowers that both made my nose twitch and tingle, as well as made me rather randy and needing of some intimate pleasures before breakfast with you. I can still taste you upon me like my morning meal. As we took so long this morning, you left for class without having a bite, but the grin on your face made me think it did not matter. And I sneaked a bagel into your sack before you left anyway; I hope it found you well. As I read and reread your letter throughout the day, I began to envision you writing it. I could see you curled up with a blanket beneath the blossoming trees on the south side of the grounds, quill in one hand, parchment against the trunk. Then I began to think of you naked on our couch, legs bent and spread slightly, parchment resting on a book balanced on your thighs, quill between your teeth, and you caught in thought. And then I saw you in our bed, pausing between sentiments on the page to gently stroke the empty side of the bed I left you with when I went on my two-day excursion to procure some new flowers for the gardens.

And I must admit that from the first few lines, I could not resist forming a reply to write you back. I am afraid, though, that I have neither the beautiful wording nor the literary skill to make this much of a read, especially as it progresses. Of us two, you are the professor. And of our friends, it was you who we claimed one day would be found on one of those cards in the chocolate frog packages, as you are. I am simply your lover, your mate, your best friend. I am the one who bought three hundred and twenty chocolate frogs just to find one with your picture in it. But as I love you, I will reply- of course I will reply.

But as you concentrated on the seasons, and all the wondrous, romantic details therein, I will shift my focus to include times just as tender, just as loving, but perhaps not as happy.

* * *

You walk with me hand in hand on the rooftops of the castle; I help you keep balance as the roofs slope and dip haphazardly, many times sacrificing my own balance for yours, tumbling down one side to land with a thump on a flatter surface. I must make an odd face because each time, despite yourself, you laugh. Your laughter keeps me strong; it kept me alive. But the sun sets once more, and it hangs low in the sky, threatening to go lower. The orange and red and pink against the strong cheekbones of your face, against the slender worn tenderness of your skin, embellish your personality as well as any word or any kiss. It catches your hair, turns the faint color in the strands to gold and red rather than gray. It is then, in this light, that you look your best. Your healthiest, your liveliest, your handsomest. I take you by the hand and lead you home. Through the doors, down the stairs, across the grounds to the cabin. But first we stop at Severus’. We have visited him a week before at dusk like clockwork; he waits for us to slip. I am strong for you then, at least I like to think I am. I stand tall and firm in front of the man, accepting the bubbling potion and keeping my body between yours and his, answering for you both questions and heckles. But with me there, he has few for you alone. You, the responsible, intelligent werewolf. Me, the ex-convict rouge who tried to kill him. It’s logical he should still hold some resentment, to be sure, even as we are all respectable adults.

When we get home, I can sense your mood has changed. You grow anxious again, anxious but trying like mad to hide it from me, knowing very well you could never hide a thing from me. And I know how well you tried long ago. I lock the doors, bolt the windows, and draw the shades as if it were standard procedure for every home, every night rather than just ours once each month. I sit you down on the couch with the goblet, and you sip gingerly, hesitantly at first, with bigger gulps after you get re-accustomed to the frothy, bitter taste. I’ve read in books how wolfsbane is supposed to taste, and I can smell a hint of something sour in it, but you’ve never complained, and you’ve never told me how it tastes outright as I’ve never asked.

It always happens so fast that I don’t notice how fully it is upon you until you begin to moan or lose consciousness. You are so strong, Remus. Bathed in setting sunlight, you look courageous, soft, gentle yet. Every full moon you survive, coming out weak but stronger. You have never needed me as such, but I give you all I have with open arms in case you do.

The sun sets, and I make the soup, soup we usually never eat anyway. When it’s finished, you’re so out of it that I must spoon feed you. Your forehead burns with fever, and the rest of your body is not far behind. When I stroke your arm, I can feel it growing hairier, and I can feel your body trying to shift, to change, to transform. Sometimes you slip into delusions early on, and startle me with a low, nasty growl into transfiguring into a dog. For safety, of course. I lie a cold washcloth on your head to try to make you more comfortable. I remember when you used to get ill, vomiting up whatever Hogwarts dinner had been, bread and vegetables and other foods not fit for a wolf’s stomach. But now you know enough not to eat anything heavy before, though a little chicken broth has never done you wrong.

The sky grows dark so slowly these nights. And I nearly beg for the sun to go down because the sooner it does, the sooner it will be over. I would spare you every bit of this if I could, and I tell you so under my breath in comforting whispers I know you never remember hearing. When the sun is set, light still streams in from the windows as if there were a lantern outside the window. The moon on the rise is so full and bright that it takes you in. Your pale flesh glows in the light as you twist and turn, wriggling under my grasp in a feverish struggle I will never release you from, but never abandon you during. Never. You must know that by now, don’t you? The moon is so bright that the little room is lit lightly, even when the curtains are drawn closed. If ever I were at ill-ease with your appearance, it is when the full moon light paints your sweaty skin. Uneasy because I know what pain you will soon be in, and what dangers it once brought. I care not for myself, but would that I could spare you even a fraction of the pain.

I try to remain in normal form as long as possible. But I made a promise to you years ago and I won’t come so far just to break it now. As a dog, my abilities are limited but my caring never changes. I bring you water and drip it into your mouth with a sponge. I nuzzle your chin and neck and whine when you convulse and shake. I lick your face to soothe you and stroke my soft fur against your cheek. I can smell you so strongly, my wolf. You have such a familiar smell to me- I think it is your smell that always leads me back to you. I think it is your smell that makes me want you so very much all the time. But when you go through your changes, your sufferings, your smell is so much more canine… and so much stronger. And so much more I want to take you, to take you as a male dog takes his bitch. But I’m not any male dog. And you’re not just any bitch, even as you smell.

The lights are all off in the house, save a small electric light Harry gave us. I hasten to light a candle or fire when you’re in this condition. You could easily catch yourself on fire or the rest of the cabin by mistake. When I look upon you with my canine eyes, I cannot see colors, only shades of gray, black and white. The curves of your body, the pale glow of your skin. I can taste the sweat as I clean your face with my rough tongue lovingly.

You’re so cold, bathed in moonlight. Bathed in sweat. You shake, more from the change than the cold, but I use my teeth and paws to wrap a blanket around you. You claw and chew at it, sometimes shredding it to pieces before the night is out. Other times you twist and turn in it, caught and whimpering and I must pull it from you else you might strangle or suffocate. I sit on your chest sometimes, holding you in place so you can’t hurt yourself when you thrash about. Tail between my legs, I sit and pin you down, nuzzling to give comfort… and make it more bearable.

When the moon is at its highest, the cabin is dim again, for the moon is directly above. It is then, in that darkness, that you feel the worst of it. On good nights, your eyes glow, you bite and growl. You look quite mad, mad and murderous. But you have never tried to hurt me. You’ve made a move at Peter and at James before as a wolf, but never at me. Not even at midnight have you ever made a move to hurt me. In the darkness of midnight, it is just us two. It is rough and terrible, but it is intimate, as it always is with the two of us.

Intimacy, Remus J. Lupin. Intimacy with you is not always romantic and sentimental. But this price I pay to be with you is but a trifle. It is nothing but a few days a month. Nothing but another quirky little characteristic of you, dear. Just like the way we need to trim your hair more frequently than mine. Just like the way you eat your soup with your right hand and your salad with your left. Just like the way you snore when you have the sniffles and you like on your back. Just like the way your eyes light up when you see me, or when you finish grading a sack of papers.

When the moon passes mid-sky, you turn. It happens so quickly that I usually miss it when I close my eyes a moment or two. And respectfully, I do close my eyes most times. You cry in pain when it happens, and whimper afterwards as a wolf.

You make a handsome wolf, Remus. Even as a dog I can say that. When once you looked fierce and terrifying, and would have torn any human to pieces... you are now calm and tender as a wolf. You sniff me in familiarity, and I sniff you back, reassuring you of our canine forms. I guide you with nuzzles off the couch to our bedroom. I slide beneath the covers with you, soothing your whimpers with gentle licks. I know you are in your right mind again, though slightly clouded. I know that when you lie your hairy head on the pillow, looking into my eyes, that you’ll remember this when you wake as a human. I know that you will remember my crooning, my cuddling, my caring. I curl up with you, and we wrap tails. As the moon begins on its path downward, you curl into my chest, using my fur as a pillow and my body as a blanket. We intertwine and you doze off. I always stay awake for as long as I can. I stay awake to make sure you are safe, even when you stir, whimpering in weakness, in pain. I stay awake to make sure you don’t need anything.

It isn’t until late the next day when you transform back. I am usually still awake, holding you close with big paws and comforting you with licks. And I, too, transform to accommodate your form. The morning light of the sun has given way to mid-day sun rays. You nuzzle me back in thank you, though your snout has given way to a nose, and your fur given way to ragged hair and morning stubble. I hug you close to me, squeezing your weak body against mine. “Good Day, Darling.” You nod, shudder with a chill, and bury yourself deeper in the blankets and against my chest. I dig out my wand and wave of breakfast, and you doze, exhausted still in my arms as the pots and pans, spoons and spatulas zip around.

You yawn tiredly and close your eyes, smiling as the sun hits the exposed side of your face. ‘The sun’ I know you think, and I can feel your relief to feel it again as you sigh against my bare skin. Breakfast floats in, and I hold you in my arms, not giving you a chance to do a thing for yourself. I feed you piece by piece, lift glasses to your lips, hold you securely as you nod off between bites. It’s quiet in the cabin, so quiet when once everything about your change was so loud that you scared a whole village. It’s so quiet that I can almost hear the sunlight as it streams in through the colored curtains. It’s a soft hum of ‘you’re welcome’, brining reassurance and strength. You are weak yet. You do not complain, but I can sense it. I let you go at your own pace.

After you have a bite, I force you into another nap with a yawn of my own and a tug of the covers. I lie on my back and you curl against me, more on my body than on the bed. My chest is your pillow, my arms your covers. And as you fall asleep I do, too. But mine is a shallow sleep, and I wake at the smallest movement you make, whether it be a shiver or a deep breath. I hold you close all day, even as the sun begins to set again. I know this night you sometimes get fevers, even as the moon is waning. But nothing so bad as the night of the full moon.

* * *

And yet, I would live this forever if it meant always having you. Every moment of fear is a fair trade for all the moments of pleasure. Every second spent nursing you back to full strength is my trade for all the seconds of romantic sentiment. When the day comes once a month when the sun’s rays die and the light of the full moon falls upon you, I sit by you during every bit of the pain, hoping that it makes you feel safer, more comfortable. And every day after I hold you and hug you and smother you in kisses until you feel as strong physically as you are otherwise.

Of all the changes lights go through, from one afternoon sun to another. Of all the changes you, my dear, go through as well. Of all the changes we have been through together and apart over the years, over the cycles of light and over the seasons, I would go through them all again. And when I’m holding you in my arms, whether sick from being a werewolf or calm after we make love, I know you would make the same choice. In favor of intimacy. My Remus in romance… my Moony by moonlight.