For Life

a Harry Potter fanfic

by Serenade

Notes: Thanks to Kaoru for betaing.

Spoilers: Prisoner of Azkaban.

Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm J K Rowling and I own these guys. Not.

They say that werewolves mate for life. You've never had a reason to doubt the truth of those words. But you're learning now--not for the first time--that they never tell you the whole truth.

When you were younger, you read every book on werewolves you could find. The legends spoke of animal cunning. Bloodlust. Black hatred of humanity. They didn't mesh with what you knew to be true. The white half-circle scarring Remus's collarbone. The leashed pain in his eyes when the moon swelled to monstrous proportions.

But there was one thing all the books said. What Remus's face said every time he looked at you.

For life.

When you were in Azkaban, you remembered.

But you never asked the obvious question.

Now you're sleeping between clean sheets for the first time in a month. Easy to lie here and silently revel in the little things: the slide of cotton against your bare skin, feather pillows beneath your head. Thin bars of light pierce the blinds and fall across the bed. It's quiet except for your breathing, and Remus's beside you.

He's sleeping with his face towards the window, his body curled into an S. You can see his ribcage rise and fall with each sigh of air. You reach out a hand and trace your way down his spine, feeling the knobs of bone prominent beneath your fingertips.

His hair lies in a careless tumble; you nuzzle into it, breathing in the elixir of his scent. His hair seems silvered by moonlight, but you know it's only illusion. Because you saw the silver, before, and there was no moonlight then.

Impulsively, you lay your head against his shoulder, pressing up against the curve of his back. Remus turns towards you with a sleepy smile. "Still awake?" The edges of his mouth crease into a thousand tiny folds.

You brush a knuckle gently across the corner of his mouth, letting it drift up past his cheekbone. Your fingers uncurl to caress his face, which gazes back at you with infinite tenderness.

"I'm glad you're here," he says softly. "For however long."

Your heart constricts; you make a sound deep in your throat. "I'm not leaving," you say. "Not this time."

Remus lets out a breath like a sigh. "I don't want you to risk yourself for me." He raises his own hand to stroke through the dark tangle of your hair.

"Who else would I risk myself for?" You dip your head beneath his fingers, bending into his touch. Trying not to imagine what it would have been like before--twelve years' instinctive, futile reaching across a solitary bed.

"Sirius," he murmurs, "Sirius." It makes you want to cry, but instead you throw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. You can feel the ridges of his shoulderblades, the lines of his ribs, the painful thinness of his arms. It's not right, not when he's no older than you are.

But you don't have the words--all you can do is hold him, and you already know you'll never ask the question.

They say that werewolves mate for life.

But how long do werewolves live for?

- fin -