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𝚇𝚇𝚇𝚅𝙸𝙸 >> 𝚆𝙾𝙻𝙵-𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝙲𝚁𝙴𝙴𝙳

< 3 MONTHS, 1 WEEK, 3 DAYS >

The morning is early and soft. Sun teases the horizon, tiny beams surfacing from the bourn of tenebrosity and into the interior terror of the room. It touches Severus' eyes, his face, his damp robes, and he awakens.

He's upright, he realizes. He's warm and comfortable and afeared as he finds himself sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. Making an attempt to move, he finds his arms and legs fettered to the sides, his wand sitting across the room on top of a dresser with a mirror. Getting a look at his reflection, he sees a fresh bruise on his eye and blood beneath his nose, not to mention the thick fabric of a scarf tied over the bloodied bends of his lips.

He does not remember much of the altercation; his head is still vertiginous and confused from his lack of consciousness, but he decides it must have been hours ago. He recalls being nearly garroted, falling to the floor and shivering, but he does not remember the rest. His face hurts. He can't think through the pain enough to unbury even the lid to a memory's coffin, let alone the body of one itself. He has a graveyard of thoughts, all below the surface, all forgotten, the names washed off the stones.

There is activity to his right, and he turns his head to see Fallacia Peritus fixing herself a cup of tea on the wood-burning stove. He is numb to this discovery. He is past apathy. He merely observes her presence and her role and cannot be confounded or angry or cowed. He hurts too much to be afraid; to be anything. When in pain, he is barely Severus Snape.

'Remus,' he communicates as he watches the old woman. 'Where are you?'

'A good ten minutes away, I'd say. He's been taking detours and trying to confuse me by changing into different forms. Slowly chasing him back to the house. He should be cold by now, I'd think. Cold enough.'

Ten minutes. That isn't so vile. Snape can wait to be freed if it is only ten minutes. 'I apologize if I've been unreachable for the last multiple hours. I've been knocked unconscious or something of the like, and I'm now tied to a chair watching Peritus enjoy a comforting hot beverage.'

'She knocked you out?' Remus asks quickly, anger hidden in his silent tone.

'We're getting along quite well, believe it or not,' Severus replies, dodging the subject, although he's not trying his best to seem buoyant or comfortable. 'Likely due to neither of us saying a thing. My mouth is currently out-of-order.'

It is terrible what love can do to a person. Wonderful and terrible. It is the provenance of so much happiness, such joy and music and light. But this love, when tampered with, engenders the securest hatred in all the world.

Remus Lupin feels this hate now. It starts in his chest and it grows into his lungs, overflowing into every vein and artery and organ, staining his skin like wild indigo. The amount of love he feels for a wounded man has caused a relentless vengeance against that which he has been cut by.

The alert of Severus' apparent injuries makes him slow as he runs after Horace in the hills. His throat tightens, his teeth longing to touch blood. And it is not the wolf speaking within him, no; if lycanthropy had not imprecated his mortal body, this ire still would. The culmination of all that Peritus has ever done to the person he cares for more than even the woods has appeared before him, all her sins and perils, all her blows and cabals against the wellbeing of the goodness of life itself. His heart pounds against his own ribs, and a deep growl escapes his throat. His paws freezing in the snow, he begins to run again, this time a little faster, with a little less mercy. He follows close behind Slughorn, reaching out to snap his teeth at his coat, reminding him that outpacing a wolf is as easy as outpacing karma, although perhaps they are quite the same thing.