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𝙸𝚇 >> 𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙴'𝚂 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴

< 1 MONTH, 5 DAYS >

Their bodies swirling into vision like torn fabric in a bowl of boiling water, the imperishable cotton of their vests blending in better with the cold night street than an artist could be with brushes and an easel in a local conservatory, two figures warp themselves onto the darkly-lit exurban avenue.

One, presumably, is Remus Lupin, his eyes glazed over with the slight disorienting pain of stretching bones, his young physiognomy aglow in the frozen lamplight. In this environment, even his scars look silken as they lay vertically on his cheeks and across his softened nose. Or perhaps it's his own figure — his stance, his attitude under the grilling face of fate — that makes it seem safer; less malignant. Because he himself is velvet, from the top of his strong shoulders to the tips of his leather-shoed toes, and this softness is contagious, even to pain. Even to scars he put there himself.

The second man, clutching his shoulder with a starveling, malnourished hand and watching his expression with guarded eyes, is Professor Severus Snape, who has no idea where he is or what exactly to do now that he's here. He stands unmoving, convalescing from the exhausting trip to where they stand, his muscles feeling stretched and out-of-place (not unlike how the rest of him always tends to be). Contrasting from the arm he's clinging so absentmindedly to, he's not velvety at all. There isn't a single aspect of his form that bears a curve or a rounded edge. Everything about his person is thin, acute and apical, all of his physical attributes and the clothes covering them coming to some sort of eventual point.

It's a wonder that, with all the knifelike traits he bears on his breakable, visible bones, the only injuries on the man he's clasping so tightly to have been put there by his own benign fingernails. It's a miracle that Snape hasn't yet hurt him so deeply as to plant another mark on the bridge of his nose that he hasn't put there himself.

In fact, Severus hasn't even come close. Though his fingers themselves are daggers, there exists a sort of tenderness to them, at least, when they're resting on the shoulder of Remus Lupin, a man he almost feels is safe to trust. There's a bond of respect rooted there, entwining with the seeds of mutual understanding until the two form a whole new breed of fern, unfurling from its sleeping position in the frozen earth and surrounding them in a silent dome of peaceful, relenting coexistence.

In all the growth and change they've experienced in the last month alone, this fact of finally being able to tolerate one another, let alone be even a bit friendlier than usual, is one of the biggest steps in their acquaintanceship either of them feels they've yet taken. And out of all the outcomes so far that they've been the reason for, this one is easily the most significant.

It's difficult to live with a man of your regretted past. It's near impossible to let yourself heal enough to grow accustomed to his constant presence.

The two young men come to realize they've just accomplished both.

Snape's hand is slow and calculated as it leaves Lupin's shoulder, falling gently to his side as he looks out on the dim December street. The chilled air reaching even the deepest marrow of his skeleton, he folds his arms together and keeps his robes draped theatrically over them, stiffening his posture as he evaluates the street around where they stand.

"Seems Slughorn's salary was exponentially more significant than that of my own," he remarks passively at the large gated homes on either side of them. "Curious, considering I now hold his exact same position."

"Curious indeed," Lupin replies airily, his breath fogging up in the cold, gentle wind. "Perhaps you're just bad at your job." He gives a sideways smirk to his company, who brushes it off with a quick remark.