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If you go down Knockturn Alley, all the way past the meat market and Grimelda’s, and keep to the right at the curse shop on the corner, you’ll find a small offshoot called Abysm Alley. Continue that way — don’t stop for hags selling homebrewed love potions, or for “lost” children who need your help finding their mummy — keep going, until you see the street labelled Kremin. There, wedged in at the very end, sits an old half-timbered tavern, with as many dormer windows as the madam could fit: one for each crummy bedsit.
Remus Lupin lived there.
The rent was four galleons a fortnight, which was not quite within his range; but more importantly, it was one of the only vacant rooms in all of Knockturn. He applied immediately. Remus had learned the hard way that a roof over your head was hard to come by, among the desperate and the hungry.
An old, rusty bed, and a mattress with no springs. A battered dresser. Three pegs: the fourth one was rotten. One leaky window with a view of the chimneys perpetually spewing out their smog.
Shared bathroom. No kitchen: heating spells would have to do. The madam had sternly informed him that linens and towels had to be procured on his own — too many of hers went missing.
And that was that. The room was his, for as long as he managed to scrape together four galleons on time.
If rooms were hard to come by, jobs were even harder. Wizards and witches in hordes would ravage any flyer within minutes, leaving only paper stubs on every street corner Remus had visited. It wasn’t their fault, of course; they were starving, just like him.
What was left over were the jobs no one wanted; the jobs they were warned off by mates. Temp work, projects, weekly contracts — these jobs fell to the worst of them, the most starving and desperate. Remus, for instance.
He had thought, for a time, that he could live normally, if he never registered. That he could keep his head down and his nose clean. But Knockturn was not Hogwarts: the merchants needed only one look at his scars to know what he was.
Remus comforted himself with the thought that he’d never get hired on the good jobs, anyway; no one wanted broken-down Remus, with his gammy leg and bad back. It had only gotten worse with age.
He had pulled through the first deadline by way of clearing out a dead witch’s flat; everything needed to go in two days so the next family could move in. Eight galleons for carrying chaises and couches and credenzas down five flights of rickety stairs too precarious for any levitation spells that might disrupt what little magic there was still holding them together. Every time he bumped into the banister, all five flights would wobble like they were constructed of string, which would have been just fine if he wasn’t on the receiving end of a sideboard.
Eight galleons halved, then quartered. The wolf was consistently hungry in a way he wished it wasn’t, and a filling meal was the least Remus could do to appease it. But what could he afford on five sickles a day? Bread? Canned soup? He had no kitchen to cook in, and no dishes besides.
He had seen a charity group around, usually at the very mouth of Knockturn where good, upright citizens would still dare to enter; younger witches, dressed in purple, spooning out stew to the needy. There were hags too old to work, crippled men, far too young mothers with dirty babies on their laps. The sunny young witches smiled at them all, handing out bowls. Remus thought about it for a moment, lingering awkwardly at the corner.
One of the mothers — part Veela, Remus thought, and Hogwarts age — broke down crying as her baby refused the stew, fussing and shaking its head. The bowl tipped onto her already stained dress. A volunteer jumped up to help, taking the baby and vanishing the mess. “Shh, there, there,” she soothed, rocking the baby. “What’s your name?” she asked the mother, but it was no use, she didn’t speak English. They brought her a new bowl, full to the brim.
Remus kept walking.
Remus had heard tell of a new potion. It acted as a poison on the wolf, draining it of its strength until the transformation became botched: the wolf would come, but the man would stay. The Prophet was calling it a miracle, and Remus had to agree. What he wouldn’t give to retain his mind during the moon, and never wonder if he was going to wake up the next morning a murderer.
As with everything else, it was a pipe dream — it was a heinously complex potion, volatile, and Remus had always been pants at potions. He could only imagine what could go wrong brewing a potion of that calibre in his unventilated bedroom. (The madam would come knocking if you left a window open for more than five minutes at a time; said it was bad for mold and such.) And Remus didn’t have the money, besides.
But Dreamless Sleep was doable enough, and after the announcement of this new potion, Remus had jury-rigged a sort of imitation: he’d mix aconite in it, to make the wolf so sick it couldn’t get off the floor all moon. Of course, that meant Remus himself got sick as a—ha!—dog, but after some trial and error he’d managed to balance the amount of aconite (and aired out his bedsit).
Nevertheless, Remus was turning the idea of this new potion over in his head as he made his way out of the sprawling tavern for yet another pointless job interview. Like every other building in Knockturn, it was ridiculously unregulated, cramped hallways and winding servant’s stairs one after another and on top of each other. Remus was sure that by the time one reached the ground floor they’d crossed the span of the building twice over.
This latest hallway was surprisingly bright and airy today, seeing as nearly every door was opened for housekeeping to turn the rooms over for the day. Daylight streamed in from full-sized windows one usually had to pay to view. Remus barely noticed, preoccupied as he always was with counting galleons, sickles, knuts; thinking, if only there was a way… If only he could find the solution, which was surely hiding somewhere in plain sight.
Instead, the solution came to him.
"Oh, sorry,” he said, making way for a gangly maid backing out of a room with her trolley. The brief smile he sent her seemed to catch the girl off-guard; until she looked just down to his neck, where a particularly fresh scar peered over his shirt collar.
Before Remus could be afforded the pleasure of seeing yet another face drop, he quickly muttered his excuses, squeezing past her. He caught a glimpse of the room she’d just cleared out, which was practically luxurious compared to his bedsit upstairs; it even had an ensuite. This floor had to be the inn, Remus realized. Two galleons a night. Practically a different class than him.
Well, not so much, if he got this job. Four galleons a week breeding lacewing flies and the like for a potions supplier. Two-week gig while the usual poor sod was off somewhere; eight galleons. Divide that by two, then seven, Remus thought, pushing the hallway door open, then maybe two again if we’re feeling generous...
A fizzle of magic slammed the door shut in his face.
Sorry, was Remus’ instinctive reaction, thinking he’d somehow wronged the maid. Maybe he’d kicked a dust pile in his haste. He turned around without much thought.
It was not the maid.
Before Remus could so much as bug his eyes out, Greyback had a hand around his throat and was forcing him into a vacant room. Remus just barely glimpsed the maid over the werewolf’s shoulder; she was doing a damned good job inspecting the floorboards.
“Lupin,” Greyback purred, in one motion kicking the door shut and throwing Remus bodily onto the bare mattress. “Long time, no see.”
Greyback was a disgusting type — coarse, lewd, and quick to anger. Remus couldn’t decide whether to ragdoll or to chance jumping out the window. These windows were actually big enough.
“Where did you run off to? See, here I thought you wanted to be friends,” he sneered. “And then suddenly — he disappears!”
Remus tried to stay cool, knowing this sort fed off of fear. “It’s been twelve years, Greyback.”
“It has. Look at you.” His eyes raked over Remus, head to toe. “Where are all your high-class friends? They didn’t all die.” He grinned, suddenly. “Where are they, puppy?”
Remus’ fingernails dug crescents into his palm. Fuck you, he wanted to spit in the vile bastard’s face, and in answer his body jerked, reflexively. Any other day he’d be able to take it — but not today. Not two days before the moon.
“What do you want,” he gritted. It practically killed him to bare his belly, but still he forced himself to placate the man: “You know there’s nothing I could give you.”
“Oh, there’s always something. And you denied me before.” Greyback snorted, spitting a wad onto the floor. “Uptight bitch.”
Remus’ priorities very quickly shifted.
He sprang off the mattress, but didn’t even get to standing before Greyback had a fist in his shirt and was slamming him back onto the bed. Remus’ neck snapped back, and his head spun sickly. “There, there,” the coarse man soothed, before raising his arm.
Greyback’s magic wasn’t like any Remus had ever seen before; he guessed it was because the older man was self-taught, as most werewolves were. At the motion of a hand, his magic leapt out of him like the loosing of a beast — frantic, snarling, bewildered — before it eventually directed itself where it was wanted. The lock, in this case. Remus watched it rattle shut with a heavy stomach.
All it would take was an alohomora. But Remus had never had the knack for wandless magic, especially not this close to the full moon — and before he could take a shot at it anyways, hopelessly, Greyback had him on his stomach, face down in the duvet. Rough hands went to his waistband and started tugging.
Remus’ eyes flew open, and he wriggled halfway up the bed, scratching and clawing at the hands, but it seemed like the older man hardly felt it. The hands kept on pulling, dragging him bodily off the bed with the force behind each jerk, and Remus almost wanted to snap, it’s a button, you idiot, you’ll get nowhere—
Then thread snapped, and his trousers flew off. Already Remus was twisting to cover himself, but the werewolf was on him in an instant; a big, strong body laid on top of his, pressing him into the mattress. One coarse hand came up to brush the inside of his thighs.
“Don’t pretend you’ve never taken it up the arse before,” Greyback leered. “Sweet little thing like you. Boarding school brat.”
(That had been part of Greyback’s conspiracy: that Remus must be as useless to the Order as he was to the wolves, and therefore served obviously only as their whore. On his best days, Remus could find it within himself to disagree with him.)
“You’re no wolf,” he sneered. “The wizards don’t want you either. Why did you ever leave the muggle world, puppy? Poor little—”
Remus jabbed an elbow back, catching what sounded like a rib or two, before Greyback’s fist closed in a vice around his wrist and pinned it to the bed. “Careful, cub,” he growled, pressing a knee between Remus’ legs and laying his full weight on what was there, until Remus gasped in pain.
“That’s alright,” the man murmured eventually, weight shifting back and away. “You scared? Yeah?” Hands turned Remus over. “Make it easier on yourself, come on.”
Greyback pulled himself out of his pants and shoved his cock in Remus’ face with clear intention — to which Remus lunged, snapping his teeth inches away from Greyback’s prick. He didn’t even know what he was doing until he had done it. A heavy fist struck him across his temple, but Greyback had clearly gotten the message. “Down, boy,” he grunted, hauling him by his arm up onto the bed.
Greyback spat on his hole and roughly thumbed him open, clearly fed up with the rate of things. He didn’t speak to the man underneath him any further until he was pressing in, laying all his weight on top of him.
Unbearable pain.
“There’s a lad,” Greyback chuckled, his hot breath tickling Remus’ ear.
Remus could only think that he was missing his appointment.
Blunt teeth closed around the nape of his neck, scruffing him like the puppy Greyback claimed he was, and Remus went boneless, melting into the mattress. One half of him thought to the deep, jagged bite wound that this same man had left on his young body, that had grown with age until it covered his entire flank — while the other half felt as if the older man had reached straight into his spine and liquefied it.
Remus didn’t come back to himself until the clink of a belt buckle, and the body leaning down over him, saying, “For your troubles,” placing a crumpled muggle note some inches from his face.
Remus spent a couple of days throwing glances over his shoulder and jumping at every creak. He went to Gringotts and made sure not to catch anyone’s eye, as if they’d somehow see what he had done in his eyes. It was £5 to a galleon — not bad, all in all. He managed this payment too, and celebrated his one-month anniversary.
When the werewolf at last did show up, pulling him into an unused broom closet — which Remus in hindsight associated so closely with the juvenilia of teenage fumblings that he almost couldn’t take it seriously — Remus let out a quite shameful yip, only just muffled by the hot press of Greyback’s coarse hand.
“Shh, puppy,” the older man said, barely visible in the darkness. Only feathery rays of light snuck between the planks of the cupboard door, revealing a veritable snowstorm of dust particles. “There you are. Missed me?”
Remus snorted, but Greyback clearly didn’t care to hear it — he was tugged around and pressed face-first into the splintery planks, rough hands tugging at his trousers. There was a motion of magic in the air, yellow and sick and scrabbling, as Remus had come to associate with Greyback’s self-taught brand of magic. Remus was suddenly very slick down there, and something poked at him, searching blindly, before shoving in in one hard movement.
The comparison came to him all too easily: it was the feeling of flesh splitting open. All the breath whooshed out of him, involuntarily, and his hand tightened on the rotten planks in front of him. Lubrication spells did not stretch, something Greyback both knew and took delight in, going by the raspy chuckle at his back. “So tight for me,” the man grunted, tugging Remus’ hips towards him, only worsening the flash of pain. But Remus was no stranger to gritting his teeth through the agony.
Remus let himself be in Diagon Alley, perusing the items in the shopkeepers’ windows. Maybe his paycheck had just come in, fivefold what it usually contained — or he was a rich man, made, who didn’t worry about things like that at all. Maybe he wore quite a smart jacket. Greyback huffed in his ear, changing his pace, but the Remus he’d like to be didn’t pay him any mind, simply kept shopping. Dress robes, hardcover volumes, pastries; a blue flame flashed in Zonko’s, and the children lined up at the glass ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Next doors there was a new broom model in the window, twice as fast, perfect for Seekers, which didn’t interest him much, of course, but —
“You like that?” Greyback sneered, pulling him back to earth, and Remus realized that while he was out for lunch, as it were, he had loosened. The pain was dulled. Now, the easy glide of Greyback’s cock inside him, combined with that unrelenting rhythm, was stirring something —
No, he was Remus, strolling down cobbled streets, the stones clacking against his brand-new soles. A right twat, with a top hat, and a cane, probably. But secretly, he was quite nice, and especially fond of children. He would—he’d shower orphans in sweets, or some such. If a kid ever ooh-ed at a toy in the window, it was theirs: the cold aristocrat with a heart of gold. People would pretend not to know, but they’d all know he was a big softie — and they’d delight in seeing him stroll down Diagon Alley, patent leather soles clicking on the cobblestones. Remus, of the Great and Noble house of—
Greyback groaned, pulling him close and bottoming out, fingers bruising on Remus’ hipbones. Remus squeezed his eyes shut and waited until he pulled out, the mess running down his thigh, some of it landing on his trousers.
His sharp ears easily caught the crinkle of paper, and then a crumpled note was pressed into his hand. “Pleasure,” the man said, and then the cupboard door slammed open, and he was gone.
Only then did Remus slowly turn, leaning against the wall — easing the door shut — and opening his fist.
£20.
It was like Greyback said — if he was going to be assaulted, he might as well get paid for it.
Remus hadn’t realized how dependent he had come to be on Greyback until the man didn’t show for a whole month. Remus had been doing well, at first — Greyback saw him once or twice a week, which kept him sheltered and fed quite nicely. He had a couple of galleons saved up, even, for a rainy day.
That day had come and gone, and Remus was — to put it mildly — skint.
He’d had to put the aconite remedies he was taking on pause, and the wolf had returned with a ferocity, like it knew it was being poisoned and quelled. Remus half felt bad for the rabbits of Northumberland, who were at this point facing the threat of extinction. But they, at least, had the option of running.
Taking shelter from slick cobblestones and dripping gutters, Remus was just pressing through the miserable throng of people in the hallways to reach the first of many winding staircases to his room, when he passed a bespectacled wizard who was murmuring about ‘their kind, coming in here and spoiling the atmosphere’. Remus paused. That could mean anyone, be it poachers or pissheads or even the prostitutes — but he had a canny feeling.
He quickly went downstairs to the adjoining tavern, casting his gaze around the dim, smoky room. He didn’t have to look long. At a corner table sat a loud, raucous crowd, dressed in rags that were unmistakably caked in mud. Remus could smell the forest off them. One man in particular smelled... well, musky. Strong. Remus knew the word, but he didn’t like to use it.
He sidled over to a corner where he wouldn’t be in the way. Hardly anyone paid him any mind — the barmaids didn’t care as long as you gave them way, their serving trays piled heavy with beer steins both full and empty. A neighbouring table of goblins cast him some suspicious glares, but settled once they realized his eyes were fixed across the room.
It took only a handful of minutes before the broad-backed man turned around to see who was looking so insistently at him. Remus held his gaze, pulling his cardigan tighter around himself. Only once the werewolf slid off his barstool — muttering something to his right-hand man — did Remus dare to turn his back, slipping through the crowd and into the much quieter hallway.
A grip around his elbow stopped him. Greyback held his eye, and inhaled — then started guiding the younger man in a very familiar direction. Remus had half a mind to ask how on earth Greyback knew which room was his, but realized he was being daft: if he concentrated, he could smell himself along the walls, a winding path painted with every repetition. It was only the barest trace in the air, but Greyback seemed to be having no trouble.
Four flights of stairs later — Remus was very miffed that only he was out of breath — Greyback let him take out the key to unlock his own door.
Greyback backed him against the bed, something hungry in his eye. “Desperate for it, ain’t ya?” he sneered, unbuckling his belt in an easy, practiced motion. “The good whore.”
It wasn’t so bad, if Remus closed his eyes and let himself remember the rain on his neck and a sodden coat. Cold through to the bone.
Galleons, this time — Greyback explained that he hadn’t had the time to go and exchange it.
“No, that’s... that’s fine,” Remus said, looking down at four fat, golden coins on his dresser. “They want the rent in galleons, anyway.”
They’d gotten all the way to the bathroom, on this particular occasion, and Greyback lifted Remus onto the counter, plucking at his shirt. “Off,” he growled, calloused hands working at his own belt buckle.
Remus paused. Nudity wasn’t generally a part of these quick fucks they had; not beyond what was necessitated. The closest they had gotten had been that very first time. But Greyback was clearly hellbent on it, tearing off his own tunic and growling at Remus as if to hasten him.
Well. If there ever was anyone who wouldn’t judge Remus for his scars...
He slipped off his shirt, carefully, and in an instant Greyback was on him, pulling him close, practically snarling into his neck. Something had him riled up, but Remus couldn’t fathom what. The man took a deep breath along his artery, as he sometimes did. Remus liked to pretend he didn’t understand why.
Greyback hauled him closer to the edge, practically off the counter, and stepped up to the plate, hand coming to guide himself. A thought sparked in Remus. “Hold on,” he whispered, wedging an arm in between them to reach down — he had figured out that Greyback would sometimes let him stretch himself, if Remus submitted to having the werewolf mark his entire neck purple and blue. Personally, Remus thought a scarf was a fair trade for being able to sit in a chair, so he tried his luck whenever Greyback seemed amenable.
Today, though, the man snarled at him, wrenching the arm away from between his thighs. “Okay,” Remus hurriedly whispered, mentally crossing himself, only for the strangest thing to happen:
Greyback slid his own coarse hand down Remus’ thigh, nudging his sack aside so he could rest a thumb against his hole. With a muttered spell — yellow and frantic — Remus slicked, and Greyback’s thumb slipped inside of him.
Remus didn’t know where to look. Greyback’s solid stomach held his thighs apart, and if he looked up, he knew he would meet the other man’s gaze. So instead he kept his eyes on the strong, furred arm that disappeared down and into him. It was littered with long, thick scars, the shape of which Remus eerily recognized.
Two fingers, now, bigger than his own — he guessed two of Greyback’s fingers must be the equivalent of three of his own. Remus felt breathless, and Greyback had gone all too calm: his pinewood eyes were shamelessly fixed to Remus’ face. It was almost like he was looking for —
Remus gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “There?” Greyback asked, doing it again.
Remus let out a low, involuntary keen and let that be answer enough. This slow, stroking torture continued until the man had fit three large fingers inside him, and only then did the man slip out, leisurely stepping closer and lining his cock up.
It was unbelievable how different it could be; it slid in like a knife through butter, with not even a little burn to accompany it, and Remus was shocked when he felt Greyback’s balls press up against him. The werewolf adjusted his hands around Remus’ thighs, starting a steady rhythm that caught Remus like flint sparks on tinder. Oh, it felt good — the push and pull of Greyback inside of him, filling him up perfectly. He hadn’t felt this good since —
Remus let his head fall back. This angle let Greyback hit his spot with every thrust, and Remus could feel himself letting out these small, breathy sounds each time — he tried to hold them back, but he could only last a couple seconds before he was panting again. Oh, god.
“See, there you go,” Greyback said gruffly, the tips of his fingers pressing bruises into Remus’ thighs and hips. “Isn’t that nice, puppy?”
It is, Remus would never let himself say. Jesus Christ, it really fucking is. The hard countertop wasn’t exactly doing wonders for his hips, but already he could feel the tension of yet another shitty day draining out of him; Greyback’s hand actually came up around his back when he started slumping. Remus could feel the werewolf absentmindedly pressing his fingertips along the bumps of his spine.
His own muscles had capitulated entirely — Remus lolled his head onto Greyback’s bicep, which had gone taut and hard as it bore his weight. His hand fumbled for anything to hold onto and found the counter’s edge. Right there. He was making the most embarrassing whiny sounds, now, which only made Greyback fuck him harder.
The hand abandoned his spine to trail slowly upwards; then a big, coarse palm curled around the nape of Remus’ neck. Greyback pulled him closer, tucking Remus' face into his neck, so all he could see was hot skin. He could smell elderberries, pine, sweat. The hand stayed, holding him firmly in place. Remus’ fevered mind conjured a blurry explanation: All the better to hear you with.
He was so close, balancing on a knife’s edge. As if he sensed it, Greyback sped up. His hips were pistoning like a machine, now, so strong — Remus held on for dear life and let himself be swept away. The older werewolf’s heavy balls swung against him with every thrust, and Remus was whining like the puppy Greyback made him out to be. He couldn’t bring himself to care about keeping the noise down anymore. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t evicted after this.
One particularly well aimed thrust finally tipped him over the edge, and Remus moaned pitifully into Greyback’s neck, clenching around the cock inside him. The werewolf snarled, thrusting once, twice — and then Remus felt it pulsate inside of him, filling him with warmth.
The man sighed, fisting a hand in Remus’ hair and pulling him away — so he could get a good look at him, to Remus’ shock. For one brief, dizzying moment their eyes met, yellow on yellow, before Remus flushed and wrenched his face away.
That rough hand turned to steel around his jaw, locking him in place so Greyback could look his fill. Remus tried in vain to pull away, digging his nails into the other man’s wrist, but he wouldn’t budge.
Pinewood eyes dragged over his face; what he was looking for, Remus couldn’t say. The man didn’t much care if Remus looked elsewhere, eyes flicking all over the bathroom. He just kept looking.
He half-thought this moment would last forever, and that Greyback would never be satisfied — but then the werewolf ducked down, scuffing his beard over Remus’ face, marking him. Remus flinched, but it was already over, and Greyback was buckling his trousers.
He wished he didn’t know what that had meant. He wished he didn’t know creatures would be warily sidestepping him on the street for the next days to come, smelling a claim on him.
Four galleons.
They were saying something awful in the papers.
Remus didn’t leave his room that day; he went back to bed, and tried to choke his screams in his thin old pillow.
He had hoped to never see that face ever again.
A bloke stopped him on the street corner to ask if he’d suck his cock for ten sickles. Remus’ first reaction was to wonder who on earth charged only ten measly sickles for a blowjob; but then he remembered he wasn’t supposed to know the going rate of a blowjob at all.
“Fuck off,” he said sharply, ducking around the pisshead. He reeked of cheap malt.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart… I hear you moan real pretty!” the man jeered after him. “Fine, I’ll give you a galleon!”
Remus kept up his brisk pace, knowing the man was too sloshed to follow. Abysm was thankfully deserted at one o’clock — his only spectator was a lone peddling hag who rasped a laugh as he passed.
A galleon.
A galleon.
A galleon.
No. Of course not, Remus thought with a sudden ferocity, catching himself. What was he thinking? He wasn’t actually a prostitute; this whole situation with Greyback was out of his control. Remus Lupin did not blow sots in back alleys for a galleon.
But did he do it for two? Three?
Remus tucked his head down and kept walking. He was being silly. He hadn’t worried about making his rent in weeks, now that he knew Greyback would inevitably corner him in some corridor and secure him for another fortnight — he had no need to whore himself, and certainly no want.
Sometimes Greyback would come in and it was obvious Remus’ body was just one step above his own hand, but other times, it was like Remus was paying him — he’d take his time with it, make sure to hit all of Remus’ sweet spots, till he was crying damp spots in the bedding and begging, begging Greyback to come.
He hated those times the most.
The thing was, Remus mused, they’d never get him for soliciting. Because he didn’t solicit, was the thing — he was just sort of accosted.
He snorted. That would hold up well in court.
Not that prostitution was in any way illegal in the wizarding world; as with many social issues, wizards did not seem to care a whit. As long as the poor and miserable stayed out of sight where they belonged, it was really much the same. Remus concurred that this sudden rancour might have been due to the fact that he was currently on his knees polishing a chair leg — and not in the fun, accosted sort of way. No, he’d been the only bloke desperate enough to apply as an extra hand at Zielinko’s Thirdhand Furniture during their big bumper sale, and now look at him.
Remus peered around at the give-or-take two hundred chairs that surrounded him on all sides, climbing up the brick walls of the courtyard like ivy. So far, he’d done... fifteen chairs, and already his back was killing him, not to mention his knees on the cobblestone. Fuck him.
He sighed, wringing out the rag. The Frau of the establishment had told him in no uncertain terms that he would only get his pay at the end of each week, to ensure he didn’t bail after a couple days. Now he saw why. If he wanted his five galleons, he’d have to do another five days of this; and if he wanted five more, it was the next week after that. This two-week gig would have been murder even at twenty — at thirty, it very well might be.
Remus could only think that if he was a racehorse, they’d shoot him.
At times like this he wasn’t the slightest bit ashamed of his newfound occupation. Who wouldn’t take four galleons for ten minutes on their back? And he didn’t have to seek it out, either: Greyback came to him. Just Greyback. Just the one.
Honestly. People were in worse relationships than that — for free.
Remus shoved the now shining chair away, hauling another one over to his miserly little corner.
Sixteen. Couple hundred to go.
He’d blame the fucking chairs for not looking where he was walking; he was looking down, trying to pick splinters out of his palm, when he crashed headfirst into someone walking the other way down the corridor. “Sorry,” he yelped quickly, head snapping up, already expecting a yell or a punch — but stopped short.
Fenrir Greyback smiled back at him: that weird, flat smile, with his sepia teeth. “No worries,” he said. “We were just looking for you.”
Only then did Remus’ wearied mind catch onto the fact that there was someone else there with them, standing slightly behind Greyback. Remus recognized him but didn’t actually know his name — he was one of the Slytherins that had been a couple years below him at school.
He looked between them, a frown forming on his face — and a thought forming in his mind. He unconsciously started to shake his head, but Greyback was already nodding. “Oh, yes,” he said, grabbing his upper arm and forcing him into a room.
So he finished the week and got his five galleons, with the eight on top of that. Then he kindly told the Frau to hang, and vanished the flyer on his way out. All in a day’s work, Remus thought idly, looking through a bin of second-hand shoes — the ones on his feet were becoming so threadbare he could count the cobblestones though them.
Of course, it couldn’t last. Nothing good ever did, with Remus.
Remus was standing in the aisle labelled premium ingredients, once again dreading the purchase of the costliest item on his list. How premium the ingredients truly were could not be guaranteed, of course — that was Knockturn’s first edict. Everything at a cheaper cost, given you didn’t ask any question about how that could be.
He looked down at the creased and tattered note in his hand, where he had carefully copied down the ingredients he needed. He didn’t dare to come again if he forgot something — he tried not to show his face in public too often, lest someone recognize the once-proud Remus Lupin who thought he could be something. Who swore never to end up as just another werewolf.
He was interrupted by a slick voice from behind — slick, smug, and very familiar. "My, Lupin, aconite? Quite an expensive ingredient to waste."
Severus Snape hadn’t changed a bit since they last met, back at the very tail end of the war. Not that they knew it at the time, of course — to them it was just another Order meeting. They would go around the circle and all list how their pitiful little resistance movement was doing: no recruitment, no resources, no new information — aside from Snape, of course, who always had Voldemort’s latest strategies at hand, told to him by the man himself.
(Not that it ever helped — Snape wasn’t allowed to tell them all he knew, Dumbledore had instructed, lest their best spy come under scrutiny. Remus bitterly thought their ‘best spy’ had not quite earned his title, if nothing he ever told them was useful information. He might as well be telling them his predictions on the Holyhead Harpies.)
(Then again, everyone knew ‘best spy’ wasn’t a difficult title to earn, once your only competition was Remus Lupin. A little part of him died every time the circle got to him and he had to report yet another week of getting nowhere with the werewolves. Snape would smirk; Dumbledore said nothing, eyes twinkling in the dim lighting, and would clap him on the back.)
A clink of glass jars brought Remus back — to the apothecary, Snape, and the aconite.
Snape made a show of looking at the tag, as if he didn’t already know the price off the top of his head. “Ten sickles. That’s a day’s work for you, isn’t it?”
Remus’ blood ran cold; he almost froze, but fought past it. Snape couldn’t possibly know. “We can’t all spend our days rearing the next generation, Severus,” he said mildly, turning to face him. “They are old enough that they don’t snot all over themselves by the time they get to you, yes?” Severus Snape’s disdain for children wasn’t exactly a secret, and his frustration at working such a lowly post even less so. “I wouldn’t want our Potions Master spending his days wiping noses—”
“Your concern is noted,” Snape said, “but unnecessary. I’d worry about that purchase, if I were you, Lupin — or, rather, if I had your salary. What could a man like you possibly need aconite for?” he said silkily. The implication was clear.
Remus almost rolled his eyes. Eighteen years and counting — if Snape hadn’t told anyone by now, he wasn’t going to. “Go on, Severus, you'll get there,” Remus quipped. “Come on, I won’t subtract any points for a wrong answer.”
“Always the jester,” Snape murmured, dark eyes sweeping over his body. “Always the joke.”
Remus half-blinked. “Right poet, you are,” he said, slightly taken aback by Snape’s sudden change in demeanour. He knew by now that that bode ill. “Do you know, you could make a killing doing — deathbed spoken word poetry,” he continued, limping over to the counter, jar of aconite in hand. “With that lively disposition of yours.”
Snape hummed. “Oh, not so much. I hear bedside manner is more your thing.”
Remus drew in a breath through his nose, deigning not to answer that. Instead he focused on counting out the coins in his hand, ten for the aconite, three for the wormwood, five for eye of newt — only he kept losing count, Snape’s words spinning in his head.
“Problem, Lupin?” Snape said from behind him, next in line. “You aren’t short?”
“Don’t worry about me, Severus,” Remus muttered, finally slapping down eighteen sickles and twenty knuts. “I manage just fine.”
“Oh, yes. I hear you’ll do anything for a tenner,” Snape drawled. “Man or beast.”
Remus had to close his eyes just for a moment to quell the wave of sickness that rose in him, but he caught the look on the shopkeeper’s face. He practically swept the jars off the counter in his haste to get out of there, now, before Severus could spew any more vile truths in earshot of others. “Resorting to schoolyard jibes, I see,” he managed to mumble as he pushed past, hurrying out the door.
Only Snape followed him. Obviously, in hindsight: the man never could leave well enough alone. “Greyback’s bitch, are you?” Severus announced, words even sharper in the cold, damp air of Knockturn Alley. “I do hope he’s human when he mounts you—”
The door of the nearest pawnshop closed behind Remus, and he heard no more.
Greyback could smell that he was upset; he was gentle with him, this time, which only made Remus angrier. When Greyback was done, he drew the sheet up over Remus. He could see that the younger man was cold.
Four galleons.
“See you,” Greyback said, uncharacteristically awkward, and quickly left before Remus could react either way.
That night the letter came.
Remus — how long it has been since I have seen you. How are you, my boy? Have you been well?
Everything is much the same at Hogwarts. Hagrid says hello — were you not close, back in the day? I am sure that he will have plenty of his famous tea cakes ready for you, if ever you were to drop by.
Pomona informs me that a pack of errant pixies have been terrorizing her crops. I wonder if they could be descendants of the Great Pixie Invasion of ‘74 — you’ll recall it well. We never did manage to find the culprits for that particular epidemic. Thankfully, this invasion is much less severe, and the pixies are keeping well away from our most important crops. The greenhouses have started growing their own supply of monkshood — it’s so expensive nowadays, you know. Our Potions Master is overjoyed to have a steady supply at hand.
Minerva is tearing her hair out, as always. There are a couple troublemakers among the new students — as well as a couple accident-prone ones. One particularly unfortunate first-year student managed to get the Sorting Hat stuck on his head — took us fifteen minutes to get it off of him. It slipped my mind to inform the house elves of this, and so they sent the food up in the middle of the sorting. Gryffindor ate through Q–Z.
Forgive me, I’m rambling again in my old age. Remus, I’m writing to you due to a recent vacancy at Hogwarts — Defence Against the Dark Arts, as you have probably already guessed. A strong suit of yours, if I remember correctly. You and James.
Let us meet — how about the old Three Broomsticks? On a quiet evening; Wednesday, the next, I think. Eight o’clock should do.
Your old professor,
Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore