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The Truth Will Out	By : BunnyBopper Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Snape/Remus Views: 5655 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 6
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- 8
The wine sits in front of Remus untouched; a deep, tempting red, so dark it’s almost purple. And he’s parched. His throat has all but dried up, not so much from the exertion of what they’d just done, but from the ever-building sense of trepidation that started the moment he’d finished coming in his risqué knickers. They were doing this. There could be no turning back now.
But although his throat feels like it’s been inexpertly Scourgified, still Remus doesn’t drink, not even after Severus has slid the glass closer to him across the table. And it’s not because he’s worried Severus has slipped something into it—he’s used to Severus handing him goblets by now. Used to putting that level of trust in him even after Severus betrayed it so hugely that first time.
It’s only after Severus says, “Drink”, that Remus takes a sip, realising as he does—with no small amount of horror—that he was waiting to be told. He really is in deep.
Although Remus is now dressed in much more suitable attire, he still feels strangely exposed. Sitting across from Severus in the privacy of his quarters feels somehow more intimate than anything they’ve done up until now.
Severus says nothing further for the next few moments, merely sits back, crosses one leg casually over the other, and watches him. Remus keeps sipping his wine, the heat of it seeping through him instantly and making the burn of humiliation he’s still feeling that much more intense. Only it’s not unpleasant. In fact—this time—Remus is strangely comforted by the sensation. The fact that he hasn’t been shoved from the room the moment they’re done may have something to do with it.
“I gave you a chance to stop this,” Severus says finally.
At once, Remus knows he’s referring to the biting comment and weeks of being cruelly ignored that followed. “I know,” he replies.
“This isn’t...I’m not...” Severus trails off. Opens his mouth to try again. Closes it. Finally, he gestures down towards himself and says simply, “This is who I am.”
“I know,” Remus repeats.
“So... if we’re going to continue being...involved...this is the way it has to be.”
“I—” Deciding he no longer wishes to sound like a stuck gramophone, Remus swallows his words.
But if Remus were not such a coward—and that was a big if—he would ask Severus the questions still dancing on the tip of his tongue. To begin with, he would ask Severus, why? Why did it have to be this way? And why  is  he like this? Is it because of them? Him, Sirius, Peter and James? Because they humiliated  him  over and over? Because they stripped him of his dignity—along with his clothing—in front of a jeering crowd? Is this the only way Severus knows how to regain some control after that?
And what of Remus himself? Why is  this  the closest thing he’s felt to acceptance since those nights spent running beneath the full moon with his friends all those years ago?
Instead, what he says—mostly because it feels like the thing he’s supposed to say—is, “I want us to be more careful.”
Remus knows for certain, then, that his wine had not been spiked with any kind of truth serum. Because he does not want to be careful. Not at all.

***

The moon hangs in the air before him. Full and bright and terrible. Remus sucks in a breath, tries to quiet the hammer of his heart, and, with all the false confidence he can muster, shouts, “Riddikulus!”
At once, the dreaded moon becomes a mouldy wheel of cheese and falls to the floor with an anticlimactic thud. He turns to the sweat-covered, messy-haired boy and—not for the first time—nearly does a double-take. It really is incredible just how much he looks like James, right down to the lop-sided grin he’s currently sporting.
“Are we done, sir?” Harry asks, panting slightly. Although he’s improving it’s clear the boy is close to his limit. What’s being asked of him—reliving the horrors of his past over and over—is no small task, after all. Yet, his wand still hovers in the air, eager to continue should Remus say the word.
“Yes, I think we’ll leave it there today.” Remus levitates the cheese wheel back into its cabinet, where it becomes a dark creature once again. “I’m afraid our lesson has run on far longer than I’d planned.”
“I don’t mind!” Harry says. “I think I’m actually getting better at this!”
With a flick of his wand, Remus slides the cabinet’s lock into place. It starts shaking almost immediately, but the lock holds fast. “You certainly are,” Remus replies, turning back to Harry, “But don’t forget that this is just a boggart. The real thing will be—”
“Far more difficult, I know, Professor, I know,” Harry finishes, that grin flashing again. He’s also inherited his father’s cheekiness, minus the streak of cruelty that went along with it all too often.
“Of course you do,” Remus smiles and breaks off a large chunk of the chocolate bar he’s just taken out of his pocket, before handing it to Harry. “I’m sorry but we won’t be able to enjoy our usual cup of tea along with our chocolate tonight. I can already feel my illness catching up with me...”
“That’s alright, Professor!” Harry says brightly, eagerly stuffing chocolate into his mouth. “I hope you feel better soon!”
With a final wave, Harry makes his way to the classroom door, still looking very pleased with himself and the progress they’d made.
But if there was one thing Remus certainly didn’t need any practice with, it was compartmentalising. In recent weeks, he’d had no problem keeping Remus the Sympathetic Teacher, Remus the Rabid Werewolf, Remus the Conscientious-Yet-Sickly Colleague, along with the new-found Remus the Sex-Crazed Submissive, entirely separate. This—in Remus’ view—was a very good thing because it allowed him to do things like teach the orphan child of his dead best friends the Patronus charm with the added bonus of being able to look him in the eye while doing so.
Yes. Splitting himself up, watering himself down to a more palatable version—that was something he had mastered long ago. No problem at all.
Before Harry is halfway out the door he stops, doubles back, as though something very important has just occurred to him. “Sir,” he asks hesitantly, “Are you... Is Professor Snape... is he still brewing that potion for you?”
Remus is pretty sure his heart would have preferred having another go at the boggart to this. “He certainly is,” he answers, impressed by the steadiness of his voice. “Without it I would be in a far worse state, believe me.”
“Right. That’s good. Er...night, Professor,” Harry says, and, looking as though he would like to say a lot more on the matter, heads off to his dorm.
Well...almost no problem at all.

***

Later that night, as Remus makes his way down to the dungeons once again, he realises—quite suddenly—that Severus is the only person in the entire world who has met each one of these Remuses. In fact, he has become intimately familiar with each one.
He finds Severus in his quarters, eagerly awaiting his arrival—no pretence this time. Not now all their cards are on the table. Metaphorically speaking, of course. For what really sits on the table between them is a single, silver goblet. Understandably, Remus’ thinks it’s his Wolfsbane at first: Severus getting the necessities out of the way before revealing whatever he has in store this time. But before he’s even picked up the goblet, Remus can already tell it contains a very different potion. He has no idea what, though. Doesn’t recognise its glittering pink sheen, nor does its strange aroma—like the scent of rotten seaweed whipped up by an otherwise pleasant ocean breeze—trigger any memory of what it could be.
“What’s this?” Remus asks, eyeing Severus over the rim.
His lover—for Remus supposes that’s what they are now: lovers—raises his eyebrow invitingly before answering with a question of his own, “Care to find out?”
Remus hesitates. He stares back into Severus’ black eyes, looking for some kind of clue as to what this potion will do to him. Make him crawl around on the floor and bark like a dog? Turn his already-growing erection into a painful, week-long affair?
But Severus’ eyes reveal no clues of any kind. Just stare back, challenging.
Just how much do you trust me?
Now, none of the other Remuses think this is a very good idea, and all of them have rather a lot to say on the subject, but this new Remus—this irresponsible, irrational, hungering Remus—can no longer hear any of them.  This  Remus tips the unknown potion straight down his throat.
It tastes almost exactly like it smells—rancid seawater and bitter nettles and salt. Lots of salt. Merlin, he needs some water.
But, just like that very first time, black cords have twisted around Remus’ arms and legs, binding him to the chair he sits in before he even realises it. And things are getting rather desperate now. His throat feels as though he’s swallowed a mountain of ash. Like he hasn’t had a drop to drink in weeks. He tries to swallow against it, to dredge up the tiniest bit of saliva from his shrivelled-up glands, but it’s almost like his throat is stuck together.
“Is something wrong, Remus?” Severus asks, in a way that tells Remus that he knows fine well that something is wrong and, what’s more, has a rather good idea of what that something might be.
Still, Remus tries to tell him anyway. Tries being the keyword. His throat is too dry to form words and he can’t point due to his tied hands.
“W...wa...” is all the sound he manages to make before descending into an ill-advised coughing fit.
Severus stands up and moves towards him, cocking his head to the side in feigned confusion. “What’s that? Oh—” suddenly Severus is holding a glass of the coolest, most crystal-clear looking water Remus has ever seen “—did you want water? Yes, I seem to remember that potion can make you terribly thirsty...”
Then Severus sits astride him. Normally Remus would enjoy the feeling of their hips pressed together, would relish feeling Severus’ weight on top of him for the first time, if he wasn’t in such incredible torment right now. Eventually, Severus raises the glass above him. A droplet runs down the side and splashes on to Remus’ cheek and he’s so desperate that he stretches his tongue out to try and catch some of it, only to find it’s just out of reach. But instead of showing mercy, Severus brings the glass to his own lips and drinks deeply.
Bastard.
But then—oh but then—Severus tilts Remus chin towards him, brings his mouth in so very close the way he has countless times before. Only this time their lips finally meet. Remus feels the sweet rush of warmth followed strangely by a cool trickle of moisture as Severus slowly lets the water flow from his mouth into Remus’.
And this he does relish. He sucks urgently at Severus’ mouth, and once the water has stopped flowing, prises it open for their tongues to meet, searching his mouth to make sure every last drop has been got at.
They’re both gasping for air when they break apart. Remus is still thirsty—extremely so—but he doesn’t feel as though he’s close to expiring there and then anymore. He watches as Severus dips two fingers into the glass, hovers them just above Remus’ open mouth and lets a few drops roll down into it. Then he offers the fingers up to Remus, smirking at what must be an amusing sight of him fervently sucking on each of them.
Then Severus repeats the earlier process: taking a slow, sip of the water before steadily feeding it into Remus’ mouth. By the time he’s done this a few more times, Remus realises that it’s now less about getting that much-needed hydration and more about Severus’ mouth. The shape and feel of his lips, the taste of his tongue mingling pleasantly with the sharpness of the ice-cold water. And then Remus doesn’t need the water at all anymore, but he does need Severus, needs to keep kissing him. Because that’s what they’re doing now: just kissing for the sake of it. Remus is caught between feeling dizzying with joy and shocked at his own stupidity for only just realising it.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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The Truth Will Out