• 1-Number One Crush

#1 Crush

Aubretia Lycania

Rating: NC-17

Note: Yes, this is Harry/Remus, non-con, BDS&M SLASH! If
you don’t like male/male relationships, death, blood, obsession, and rape,
don’t friekin’ read it. As for the rest of you Harry/Remus fans, do enjoy, dear
friends.

I would die for you

I would die for you

I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side—

To know that you’re mine…

Most people
experience full-blown, teenage infatuation as early as thirteen years old. The
third year girls swoon, send ridiculous cards, stalk their chosen victims
through the halls in giggling packs; the fifth year boys seduce, tease, act
suave and handsome, seemingly unreachable, in the eyes of the desired female.
But perhaps all that is simply fancy—will-o’-the-wisp, ephemeral appetites that
come and go as willfully as sprites. Infatuation, I have learned, does not
simply come along one day like a breath of wind and disappear just as quickly;
it is, instead, a gnawing, all-consuming hunger which is present, hauntingly,
every moment of every day. I have had my fancies; but I did not experience
infatuation until the age of thirty-seven.

It is a
blasphemous thing, this tale I have for you. You’ll never forgive me. I don’t
want you to. But you have to hear it—maybe even understand it—for only then
will you truly understand me. And don’t say it’s too late to understand one
another; neither dust nor dirt nor interfering grime can stand between us… I am
like you now, you see. I’m so very like you.

The cold
rain of a September day in Scotland is no place for a romance to start. Perhaps
at that moment, looking out the window of the Hogwarts Express at the dreary
mist and fog moving like spirits through the trees, I should have known the
dark turns I would be taking this year. The times were desperate, distrustful;
Dumbledore practically ordered me into the open Defense Against the Dark Arts
position. He didn’t want an opening for anyone dangerous in the castle—so,
reluctantly, I accepted. Over the past year I had proven myself rather useless,
disorganized, unfocused… I had only one thing left fighting for, and, instead
of coming together, he and I drifted apart, unwilling both to face our grief,
or our guilt. I knew Harry would be a seventh year while I was teaching, and
one of my more important pupils, as Defense would be his main focus. He would
need some kind of internship under a teacher to go into Auror training, and
that teacher would most certainly be me. Dread gathered in the pit of my
stomach at the thought of spending the entire year with that walking reminder
of the dead, like some frightening, half-alive parody of James back to haunt
me, with Lily’s eyes staring out, devoid of their brightness and destroyed.

Perhaps I
should have let him run through that veil.

I became so
wrapped up in these terrible thoughts, that I did not notice the door to my
otherwise empty compartment slide open, and shut again with a kind of timidity
that normally would ring a bell in my head. Whomever it was remained near the
door, and I finally caught the strange aroma of excitement, fear, and sorrow,
which had accompanied the newcomer. Before I could turn my head, however, I
heard that voice speak again, the voice of my nightmares, screaming his
godfather’s name, the voice of my dreams, forgiving me, holding me, allowing me
to keep him as my own…

“Professor
Lupin.”

The words
themselves snapped me back into reality with an unpleasant crash; donning my
detached smile like a tattered old cloak, I looked round and saw Harry, as I
expected, still standing next to the door with his trunk—utterly alone. Of
course, Hermione would be busy with being Head Girl, and Ron doing his
prefect’s duties. I felt a pang of pity for him, before looking him up and
down. He hadn’t grown nearly as much as he should have by seventeen, but had
reached about the height of the bottom of my nose; his robes, most likely taken
out by Mrs. Weasley in hopes that he might have growth spurt, were far too
large; his hair, still damp from outside, nevertheless stuck out, untamable, in
all directions. With another pang—this time of fondness—I thought how very like
his hair Harry was—a wild creature, free-spirited, unable to be contained…
Then, at last, I looked to his eyes. There I saw the very embodiment of my
nightmares and dreams, the eyes deadened and alive all at once, carrying wisdom
and disillusionment, yet still more naivete, orbs as frightening as death
itself, mysterious and beckoning and seductive, benevolent and evil all at
once, an angel, an imp, a sprite, and a demon, heaven’s sanctuary light and
hell’s burning flames demanding retribution. He was beautiful.

I will cry for you

I will cry for you

I will wash away your pain with all my tears—

And drown your fears.

“Ah… Harry,”
I managed faintly, gesturing for him to sit down. A burning sensation tingled
under my skin, followed by trembling gooseflesh… the wolf pounded against my
ribcage in tandem with my heart, fighting to be set free. My eyes, without my
consent, followed Harry in every subtle motion, his every contour of skin and
rippling black robes concealing his young form, as he stowed away his trunk,
hung Hedwig’s cage on a hook, and sat down across from me, without a word. We
sat in silence for some time, listening only to the rumble of the train as it
sliced gently through the now sleeting sheets of rain, and the sound of the
soft mist as it grazed the window in little spats. He sat with hands in his
lap, looking out at the gray countryside, rather like a child being
reprimanded. It was me who finally decided to break the tension.

“I’ve never
known you to be quite so awkward around me, Harry. Then again, we haven’t
spoken much since… well, for a while. How’d your summer go?”

Harry
sulked a bit after his fashion, still gazing into the mist pensively, before
turning those beautiful eyes on me again.

“You’re
gonna be our new Defense teacher, right? You’re gonna teach again?”

I smiled,
for the first time really glad I had the position again, if only to see that
young face hungry for knowledge and lighting some spark, albeit dark, of hope
in me once more.

“Yes, and
your N.E.W.T. instructor. I’ve heard you’re the best,” I said, winking. The
corner of his mouth went up in the purest, wickedest little smile as we shared
the joke, and felt, rather uncomfortably, the rush of heat tingle beneath my
skin again. As suddenly as it came, it was gone, and he sighed deeply.
Seemingly coming to a decision, his hand delved into his robes and came forth
again, bearing a small, twinkling object. I leaned forward, unable to believe
it—there, tiny and docile on his palm, gleaming red and gold, was a shining
Head Boy badge. He looked thoroughly miserable.

‘I’m hiding
from Hermione. She’s absolutely over the moon now we’re Head Boy and Girl.
Going on about all the changes for the better we can make around Hogwarts—it’s
just… overwhelming. Ron’s been avoiding us since we got our letters.”

I nodded,
trying to hold in my pride, reminding myself he wasn’t my son to be proud of.
“Well, you shouldn’t let any of that lessen the achievement. I’m not saying you
have to be happy about it… but keep your head up. Wear it.”

He fingered
the badge a bit, and I took it out of his hand, beckoning to him. Harry
hesitated before padding over to my side of the compartment, sitting down next
to me. I held the heavy fabric of his robes in my hand and proceeded to pin the
Head Boy badge on his chest… my hand grazed the resting place of his heart…
it’s gentle beating sent that fiery heat through me again… my heart yearned to
beat in time with his… a rush of sensations flew threw me, shattering my façade
for the barest of moments.

“I’m
sorry,” I heard him say… the only sound in the world was him. Our eyes met, I
gazed up at him now instead of the other way around, sitting on that rocking
train seat, too close together—as close as we had been that night he ran
towards the veil—when I almost lost him.

“Why?” I half-whispered,
drawing, against my good sense, even closer.

“I
shouldn’t be here… I shouldn’t be bothering you—I’m sorry—“ He got to his
feet—quick as lightning my arm shot out and gripped his tighter than I
thought—he spun, taken off guard, and I pulled him back down on the seat. For a
flash of a second I saw him beneath the full moon glowing eerily… I wanted him
there, as close as I could make him, around me and below me and within me,
alighted by the stars and the moon, his scent mingling with all the fantastic
smells of the forest.

I will pray for you

I will pray for you

I will sell my soul for something pure and true—

Someone like you.

“Don’t go.
You can… hide out in here for a while, if you’re nervous about Hermione. I
won’t tell.”

He rubbed
at his arm, and I wondered briefly if I’d bruised it. He nodded, smiled, and
sat back, shoulder against mine. I felt myself smiling. This assured itself to
be quite an interesting year.

For several
weeks after the start of term, we engaged in this little dance—or, rather,
that’s how it seemed to me. I found myself, somehow, always seeing him in the
corridors, subconsciously noting his schedule, where he and his DA friends
frequented, their favorite spots at the Gryffindor table; and also found myself
finding excuse to go to these places. He’d see me out of the corner of his eye,
blush slightly, and avoid my gaze—meanwhile Hermione Granger would throw me
dark looks over her stack of books, and Ron Weasley would hiss lowly, his
sister scowl and look away, Luna Lovegood disappear loftily behind her
magazine, and Neville Longbottom swallow, unwilling to acknowledge my presence.
Thus I would stroll by, unaffected. In truth I could not see them, they were
barren ghosts next to Harry, shadows that danced about the entrancing fire that
was he.

Perhaps it
was that year of loneliness between us that began the fantasies, the dreams,
the following. I could not look at him in class without seeing his lips bruised
from my attentions, the visions of taking him against a wall, restraining him,
his cries of protest softening in surrender. I would make him weep, see his
eyes fill with wonder and fear and understanding, that he was the only one who
could ever understand, that we were meant to be together—that so many others
had died to assure our union. I would see him filled as an empty vessel with
love and warmth once again, take his fire into myself, and make him whole
again. I would show him true magic, true darkness and true light, keep him
forever young and taste the summer mornings all upon that dew-born kiss, trap
him as a sprite and contain him, taste him, upon my lips.

See your face every place that I walk in

Hear your voice every time that I’m talking…

I would
spread satin upon a bed of steel nails, pluck his wings away as from a
butterfly upon the glass, rip his heart out and show it to him, still beating
as it gushed blood upon that lovely white skin. His bonds would burn upon those
slender wrists, my name upon his lips, and only when he’d begged for my love
would I set his heart back inside his chest cavity and kiss him tenderly. I
watched him as he turned his eyes away, red flushing those perfect cheeks, and
heat spread at once through my body, lava frozen and swimming with shards of
ice that threatened to slice through my eyes and consume him where he stood. He
would never avert those eyes again.

You will believe in me—

And I will never be ignored.

The light
breezes of October came, stirring my blood. A meeting was called for the sixth
and seventh year Gryffindors, with the NEWT professors present to answer
questions and give needed advice. This was the moment of decision for the sixth
years—and for Harry and the rest of the seventh years, the point of no return.
Here they would be choosing where to intern and thus, their future careers
deadlocked. A peculiar warmth spread through me as Harry announced his choice:
an Auror. And who better to set him on the right path but his Defense Against
the Dark Arts teacher, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, with whom he has a
wonderful report? He smiled at me across the room, still blushing slightly as
he caught me watching him with… well, rather unnoticeable intensity. I caught
Hermione scowling out of the corner of my eye, sitting beside him, a hand upon
his forearm—exactly where I had bruised it.

A strange
thought came over me at that instant; please hate for this… I knew you rather
approved of Hermione Granger, and so did I, for such a very long time. But at
that moment I wanted to hear her screams halted by the severing of her
brainstem, the smell of her blood hot on my hating hands. See the small vessels
in her eyes burst, her hair writhe with electricity, brown tresses matted with
black, like tar and water, swimming in foulness I could not describe, that
wandered unbidden into my mind like plague. I wanted her coughing up yellow
bile and the lining of her intestines, ash from her lungs as from the fiery
pits of Hell. And above all—above all, I wanted Harry to step over her corpse
without feeling and into my arms, mine and only mine, not belonging to the
little bitch even in death. And in my mind’s eye, I saw not Hermione Granger
upon the ground in a pool of dark sickness, but myself.

I will burn for you

Feel pain for you

I will twist and knife and bleed my aching heart—

And tear it apart.

A loud thump sounded from the doorway, and I was disturbed
from my rather disconcerting thoughts to gaze up, only to see Mad-Eye Moody
standing on the threshold, leaning upon his staff heavily, eye roving insanely
in its socket. He engaged in a whispered conversation with Dumbledore, who then
approached me, Moody in tow.

“Remus,”
the Headmaster said in a low voice, “if you’ve too much on your plate at the
moment, Alastor would also be able to take on Harry as an apprentice. The
students have been a bit alarmed at your—“ he paused momentarily, exchanging
glances with McGonagall across the table “slightly odd behavior as of late.
Stress, no doubt.”

I almost
laughed at him. Stress, yes. Stress at losing my best friend, Voldemort on the
loose and torturing muggles by the handful, recruiting Dark creatures more and
more every day, my obsession with a seventeen-year-old—couldn’t the idiots see
that the only thing keeping me sane was Harry himself? When would he and I be
next? I being a werewolf, he a Parselmouth, as though the Dark Lord would ever
leave us alone? But I would never tell Dumbledore that. Harry needed to be
trained by me; somewhere in the back of my skull, perhaps it occurred to me
that the wolf had stirred, that it was prepared to leap upon him and tear at
his sweet, sugary flesh like a light pastry, make him what I am, change the
world forevermore.

I chuckled,
holding my façade flawlessly. “Stress, Headmaster? Not at all—just a bit
worried about everything with the Dark Lord and all that, you know how it is.
I’d be delighted to take young Harry on.”

I will lie for you

Beg and steal for you

I will crawl on hands and knees until you see—

You’re just like me.

The cold
gusts of November came, beating against the castle walls and howling about the
turrets with the voices of ghosts. I imagined that I heard your voice there,
joining the others that have haunted me for the last sixteen years. For some
inexplicable reason I found comfort in this. I had begun to retreat into the
shadows—my only hold, however intangible or tenuous it may have been, was
Harry. And what a hold he began to be as November faded imperceptibly into
Decem dra drawing closer and closer to Christmas. No—he was a crutch. Every
moment of every day, thoughts of him swum like glittering fish through my mind.
In the evenings, he had taken to coming to my office for a cup of tea, and I
would help him with his NEWT Defense and Study of the Dark Arts work—it began
to b something I not only looked forward to, but depended on deeply.

One evening
he did not come. I waited for several hours, unmoving in my chair, gazing into
the fire, feeling its attempts to heat my cold flesh, patience turning to
annoyance turning to a black anger unlike any I’d experienced before.

I abandoned
my chair for the halls, wandering among the portraits, no less ghostly than
yourself. The suits of armor shrank from my approach, the students, though they
didn’t see me, fled with a chill which they could not describe. Every being
trembled at my nearness—until I came to the abandoned Astronomy Tower, that is.
In an alcove off the stairway, I heard small, whispered voices… I drew nearer,
my heart stopping, ice shimmering through my veins and cutting up my heart.
Careful not to be seen, I peerrounround the corner and into the alcove.

He was
there. I seldom saw him without his glasses, and the singular perfection of
those green eyes nearly shattered me. He leaned against the wall, still in his
robes, hair tousled with that careless, wild ease that so sparked my inner
demons. Then, I believe my heart did stop ticking for that eternal, horrible
moment. Hermione Granger was pressed against him, trapping him against the
wall, arms looped about his neck like a noose, her mouth moving up to meet his
soft lips. My lips, the ones I had brushed and caressed, tasted and worshiped,
drawn in and bruised deliciously, watched as they whispered and pleaded and
screamed--if only in my dreams. Instead she was there, her cheeks being
tentatively explored by those lips, being gazed upon by those bright green eyes
with longing, with tenderness and familiarity, with that magical something I so
long to be directed at me.

I couldn’t
bear to watch any longer, and, as quietly as possible, I fled back to my
office, as fleetingly as I had come, seething with the power of that jealous
wolf deep inside. Until dawn I gazed into the fire, allowing the anger to grow,
to feed and ferment and be nourished by that image, played over and over and
over in my mind, a sweet torture of hate that danced within me. By the time I
had to be at my first class it had swelled to a harmonious ball, allowing me to
think, to plan, to scheme. At last, a design formulated before my mind's eye;
in the darkness of the dying embers, I heard myself laugh. I'm disgusting.
Didn't I say I was, old friend?

stmastmas
vacation dwindled into my life, imperceptible but for the execution of my brain
child. Most every student in the castle suddenly disappeared, and I wouldn't
have noticed had I not always my eyes upon the Gryffindor table, and saw, one
morning, that Harry sat alone with his toast. I don't think I have ever felt
the wolf pull at me so strongly. He appeared wistful at not a little depressed,
but smiled shyly at me nevertheless. I seized the opportunity.

Calmly, I
strode across the near-empty hall towards him--resisted the urge to stroke his
cheek--and clapped him gently on the shoulder.

"Good
morning," I said, feigning my most innocent voice. "Where are Ron and
Hermione? Not home for the holidays?" I, of course, having seen
McGonagall's list of outgoing students, knew full well that they were.

Harry
nodded, now looking and smelling thoroughly miserable. A breath of my old
tenderness came into me--for a moment, a sheer, wonderful moment, I forgot the
plan entirely. I'd have given anything just to play a game of wizard's chess
with him, have a cup of tea, talk about dementors and boggarts as we used to. I
had always thought that I loved him until that second in eternity; it
was not until then that I knew. But I'm not strong enough. I never
was--I pretended to be, I fooled myself and you and James and Lily--but it was
nothing but paper dreams, a flimsy and short-lived thing. The wolf knocked, threw
itself against my heart, and I dove off the cliff into damnation.

"Wh--why
don't you come to my office later on, Harry? Say five. You look lonely, and
goodness knows I am. We can have tea."

A chord of
my inner self ached when he agreed--and as I walked away, the image of myself
dead upon the floor came back before my eyes.

The
firelight was flickering upon the stones, the sun was vanishing from a dismal
gray day, the halls whispering with unseen drafts, when Harry's knock sounded
upon my door. I heard my breathing, sharp and shallow, the rush of my blood
from the adrenaline, the tensing of my muscles--every tightening tendon, the
sound of my firing synapses, the pores as they dripped sweat heavy with
hormones, the magic as it swum in tandem with my pulse, the curse as it
emanated from me in waves so blinding I reeled. My own voice sounded foreign as
I said, with an almost eerie calm,

"Come
in."

With
assured, intent steps I carried myself into the next room, my movements
robotic--I had replayed this entire scenario so very many times in my mind...
the idea that it now played out felt entirely unreal. Harry's awkward shifting,
his uneven pulse, quickened by surprise, the heat that danced its way zealously
to his skin to fight off the cold, reached me as I stood out of sight.

"Professor
Lupin?" he asked my empty office, voice alarmed and bemused. How perfect a
thing he sounded, how very like my dreams and yet completely more and less. At
once I wanted him to run out the door, run into my arms, stay exactly in that
position, suspended like a firefly in amber, a perfect and untouched memory. I
wanted him to call my name to the empty shadows forevermore, the perfect
contours of his body and movements, rippling with everything so uniquely him,
to stand engraved into the stars, like a painting of fire and ice, godly,
heavenly, eternal. But to solely gaze upon him for the rest of my life--that I
could not do. I needed to touch him, assure myself that the contours, the sweet
back and lithe young fingers and warm, musky skin fresh from wind and grass and
chocolate, were all real. I needed to possess them, to damage them, see the
lips bruise, hear his lungs gasp for air and burst forth into frightened
screaming, taste the salt of his tears, the iron and sugar of his blood, smell
the endorphins and seratonin and adrenaline of his fear and pain, the living,
incredible transcendence of his release and surrender.

And for all
those reasons, I wanted him to turn about and run, as fast as his legs could
carry him, in any direction--so long as it was away from me and the demand of
my ever-increasing heartbeat. And yet, as I always do, I stayed right where I
was--a slave to my own bloody weakness, listening to him, knowing that the
moment I heard him turn, I would leave my hiding place and dip a finger into
the undisturbed lake that was him--rippling on into forever.

"Professor?
Um... are you okay?" Harry asked. A floorboard creaked; I knew he had
turned away from my direction, had begun walking towards my desk. I closed my
eyes briefly, leaning against the wall. The wolf howled within, leapt up and
into my heart and mind, fed off of all the longing, all the bitterness, all the
years and sorrow and hatred and frustration that was there--and I left the
wall, as fluidly as that very ghost I had always imagined myself, haunting the
halls of the castle, stalking my prey, running unhindered through the forest...
We were one, and suddenly, I felt nothing but desire and need, an
all-encompassing hunger that could move from sweet caresses to violence without
the slightest hint but a cackle of breaking glass within. My skin quivered and
was smooth again as I felt my anxiety calmed into a kind of sweet
drunkenness--drunk on all the sensations around me--the harsh, cold gravel of
the stones with their many layers of dust, the scratchiness of my robes against
me, Harry's breathing, Harry's heartbeat, the reverberating echo of his voice,
the smell of his blood and his pulse pounding in my ears as though it were my
own, panicking, as though it knew I was there, hunting him, wanting him, behind
him.

I shaped
myself to his body, leaving only a small wall of air and space between us; I
let my hands hover just over his arms; he'd grown stiff, staring fixedly at my
desk, sensing a presence behind him and deliciously scared to confront it. The
jet-black of his hair reflected back the ballet of firelight—two strands
fluttered slightly as I exhaled. He swallowed, left hand shaking. The scent of
his sweat and alarm became as palpable an entity as heat waves, swimming off
the milky white of his skin, intoxicating and youthful and wholly alive, and I
drank it in like sweesweetest champagne.

"P-Professor?"
he asked the shadows again, his voice husky and soft. I passed my lips a
hairs-breadth away from his ear, just so he could feel the heat of my upper
chest near to his shoulder, smiling to myself.

The snow swirled in tiny storms as
Remus Lupin stood up from the trunk of the tree where he's been sitting,
staring into the engraved letters of a tombstone. The ice had nearly concealed
the name, but it could still be made out:

SIRIUS BLACK

b. 1959 d. 1996

BELOVED FRIEND AND
GODFATHER

Remus
caressed each letter tenderly, his teeth chattering slightly. The wind blew a
bit chiller, and the snow on the walks, which had begun to melt, froze again
into black sheets. The world stood still in the gray twilight, holding its
breath, seconds dead and without meaning. Remus fingered something within the
pocket of his cloak, biting his lips so hard it bled; he pulled his hand out,
and with it came the dim shine of a silver dagger, reflecting back the stormy
sky who had forgotten the sun.

He barely
felt the knife as it slide into his cold flesh; the silver poisoning slithered
into his veins, freezing his blood even as it stained the white snow a
crimson-tinged black. His eyes began to grow heavy; the world spun lazily, the
wind grew gentler, forgiving. The snow didn't feel quite so cold as he thought
it might, as he laid his cheeks upon its bosom, near to the marker of Sirius's
grave with no body. He could imagine he was there, still grinning rakishly,
defying death even as the maggots ate away his eyes—and as the snow began to
fall upon his body, Remus smiled too.

There were
always monsters under the bed.

I would die for you.