There once was a shithead named Remus John Lupin.
Yes, ‘shithead’ may seem like a rather strong word to use, but he called himself that all the time, so he probably wouldn't mind.
As I was saying, Remus was a shithead.
He was a lovely man, of course. Very friendly. Very nice. Even a little funny if you enjoy the whole ‘dry British humor’ thing. He was the type of man you couldn't help but like.
Except for when he was being a shithead.
Which he was, on the day our story takes place.
*
Elaine Braverman waved goodbye to the receptionist in the Ministry-run therapy office where she worked. She hurried down the echoing stairwell, twisting her hair into a bun. She was beyond ready to go home.
It was hotter than Merlin's balls when she stepped onto the city pavement, immediately wincing at the heavy smog that assaulted her nose.
She squinted against the sun, which hung low and bright in the sky as she trudged to the back alley where she could apparate home, safe from curious eyes.
It had been a long day. Tuesdays usually were. Through some cruel trick of fate - or, rather, scheduling - she had ended up with all of her most difficult clients on the same day. Marissa with her frequent flashbacks to torture from the Carrows. Alaric, who she feared would never recover from seeing his family murdered before his eyes. And Neville - well, he was still trying to untangle himself from the war.
And, of course, Remus. Remus, who she wanted to strangle as much as she wanted to help. Remus, who, despite his efforts, seemed incapable of fully opening up. Remus, who lied and dodged and redirected at every opportunity. Remus, who left her feeling drained every week.
She looked up and down the alley, confirming she was alone before turning on her heel. With a dizzying twist, she felt herself tear away from the dingy alley, only to appear a moment later in a nearly identical one. The faded brick facade of the building was marred by an illegible bit of bright blue graffiti. It was a welcome sight - she was home.
*
The climb up the stairs to her flat felt longer than usual, the summer heat filling the stairwell with stale, humid air.
She sighed in relief as she threw open the door to the flat, cool air blasting her in the face, chilling the sweat on her skin.
“You look like hell.” Elaine smiled at the comment as she dropped her bag by the door. She gave Louise a smirk before planting a small kiss on her lips.
“Long day,” she sighed, sinking into the couch. Louise eyed her knowingly.
“Be right back,” she announced before slipping into the kitchen. Elaine closed her eyes for a moment, trying to pull her mind away from work.
Louise reappeared, holding out an overly full glass of red wine.
“Medicine for the good doctor,” she said in a posh voice. Elaine rolled her eyes, but she accepted the glass eagerly before patting the spot next to her, inviting Louise for a cuddle.
She took an appreciative sip from her glass, looking up at Louise through her lashes (yes I know everyone hates this phrase, but bear with me).
Sighing with satisfaction, she set the glass on the table, smiling gratefully.
“Thanks, I needed that,” she said, reaching out a hand. Louise shook her head.
“You always do on Tuesdays,” she smirked knowingly. Elaine snorted and rolled her eyes.
“I tell you, I think my last client might actually be the death of me,” she laughed tiredly, shaking her head. “I swear, some days I just want to smack him!”
Louise chuckled, taking a sip from Elaine's glass. “I keep telling you, you need to consider dumping him as a client - he's making you miserable.”
Elaine couldn't pretend she hadn't considered it. Dreamed of it, even (just once, but it was still weird). It would make her job significantly easier. She'd probably sleep better. She would definitely spend less time wanting to rip her hair out.
Still, she shook her head.
“I can't do that. I just know that if I give up on him now, he'll never agree to see anyone else.”
She realized it wasn't a lie, but it wouldn't matter either way. She wished she could say the real reason why she couldn't pass him off to a colleague.
“He's a werewolf - I was the only one willing to see him.”
“Okay, but that would be his decision,” Louise pointed out. Normally, Elaine would agree, but Remus Lupin wasn't a normal case.
“He needs to stay in therapy,” she said plainly, ready to drop the subject. Louise raised her eyebrows, her mouth slanting distastefully.
“Why do you keep putting yourself through this? If he won’t be honest with you, if he won’t actually let you help him, then what’s the point?”
Elaine sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Because he does try. In his own stubborn, infuriating way, he does try. And if I let him go, I don’t think he’ll try with anyone else.”
Louise looked like she had something nasty to say, but she merely tilted her head, clearly growing weary of the subject. “It's up to you. I just don't see why you're so worried about him staying in therapy if he refuses to talk.”
Elaine shook her head, holding her hands open as if the words she sought might plop into her palm. She gave Louise a meaningful look.
“Because he's the most fucked up person I've ever met.”
*
The wine was certainly doing its job by the time Elaine flopped into bed with all the grace of a merperson on land (which, if you have never seen it, is a rather pathetic sight).
She groaned tiredly, kicking the duvet from the bed so she could crawl under the thin, cool sheets, eager to rest. Louise was still puttering around the flat, the distant clatter of activity somehow soothing to Elaine as she found herself slipping off to sleep, cradled by her pillow and the gentle sway from the wine.
*
She opened her eyes, feeling rather fuzzy as she tried to find her bearings. She was vaguely aware that she was dreaming, but she was still surprised to find herself standing in the drab little sitting room of Remus’ cottage, surrounded by a large crowd of people.
No one seemed to be particularly happy, but there was a buzz of something close to excitement in the air, as if everyone in the room had been awaiting this moment for a long time.
Elaine looked around, trying to figure out what was going on, when her eyes fell on Remus, seated in a chair by the fire, looking wholly unconcerned by the people milling about his house.
She realized that everyone around her seemed to be forming a queue and, seeing as Elaine was British, she immediately followed suit.
She stood behind a familiar figure, complete with her tight bun and stately witch's hat, though she couldn't understand why her old Transfiguration teacher was in this particular dream. As she peered down the line, she realized she recognized a fair number of people ahead of her. Molly Weasley. Madam Pomfrey. The Minister.
She jumped as a sharp crack sounded over the hum of voices. She could hear that whoever was at the front of the line was shouting, but she couldn't make out the words.
She craned her neck further and saw that Remus was still seated, his hands braced on his knees, cheek flaring red from where the stranger's hand had struck him. He seemed completely unaffected by the hit or the angry words flying at him, mixed with spittle that peppered his face.
Elaine straightened, trying not to get too excited. She was a professional. She shouldn't want to take advantage of the opportunity to slap her worst client. Shouldn't be planning what she'd say to him when she reached the front of the line. But this was a dream, so she reasoned it wouldn't count. She was in the clear.
The line continued to move forward slowly, the sounds of hands meeting Remus’ cheek punctuating the hum of angry mutterings and frustrated shouts.
She recognized a man who looked remarkably like Remus, albeit thirty years older, rolling up his sleeves. He stepped up to his son, his eyes filled with pain, before smacking him hard across the face. Remus’ expression remained infuriatingly calm, even as a second strike landed on his red cheek.
Elaine swallowed hard, suddenly less sure of herself.
She glanced around, watching the others in the queue. Some of them looked grim and determined. Others looked satisfied, as if each slap brought them some sort of justice. A few even looked guilty, their hands shaking after they delivered their strike. Molly Weasley planted a soothing kiss on his swollen cheek after beating him around the head a few times.
Remus, however, did not react. He sat still, eyes forward, expression passive. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t protest. Didn’t wipe away the spit on his face.
He just took it.
The line moved forward and, suddenly, McGonagall was stepping up. Elaine expected her to hesitate, to scold the others, but instead, she drew back her hand and struck Remus with a sharp, practiced slap. Her lips curled with disapproval, but she said nothing as she stepped away.
Elaine’s stomach twisted.
It was her turn.
She stepped forward. The firelight flickered in Remus’ eyes as he looked up at her.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t plead. Didn’t ask why she was there. He just waited.
Elaine's fingers twitched. It was wrong, she told herself. He was her patient. He was damaged. He needed patience. Care. Understanding.
He needs a fucking smack upside the head.
“How are you, Remus?” she asked in her therapist voice (you know the one - deep, soft, soothing). She watched his eyes as they swiveled in search of a reply.
I swear to Circe, if he lies -
“I'm fine,” he said pleasantly, smiling despite the bruise spreading across his face.
SMACK!
Elaine’s hand stung with the force of the strike, the echo of her palm meeting his cheek reverberating in her mind as much as it did through the room. Time seemed to slow and, for a moment, the world outside of Remus and his weary, accepting gaze disappeared.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. He just stared at her, his expression eerily calm. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t surprised. He simply accepted it.
Elaine’s breath came shallow, her fingers still tingling. She had wanted to do that for so long. But now that she had, the satisfaction she expected didn’t come. Instead, an awful weight settled in her chest.
She looked around, suddenly aware of how surreal the scene was. Of the way the queue stretched endlessly behind her. Of the way people stepped forward, delivered their strike, and then simply left, as if their business was done.
And of the way Remus sat through it all, neither resisting nor defending himself.
Just taking it.
Her stomach churned.
"This isn't right," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Remus tilted his head, studying her with quiet curiosity. “Why not?” he asked mildly, as if they discussing the weather.
Elaine opened her mouth, but no words came.
Because he thinks he deserves it.
Her fists clenched.
The queue behind her murmured with impatience, shifting and rustling like a restless tide, waiting for their turn. But Elaine didn’t move.
Remus was still watching her, that same eerily placid expression on his face, like a man resigned to his fate. Like a man who had decided, long ago, that this was simply the way of things.
That pain was a currency he owed.
Elaine wanted to shake him. To shout at him. To demand he fight back, argue, do something.
Instead, she took a slow step closer, lowering her voice.
"Remus," she said, forcing him to look at her. "What do you think happens when the line runs out?"
Something flickered in his expression. "I suppose," he said after a beat, voice mild. "I get up and go on with my day."
Elaine’s nails bit into her palm.
"Like nothing happened?"
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter. "Like nothing happened."
The crowd shifted, impatient.
Elaine exhaled sharply, stepping even closer, close enough to see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes.
"You want this, don't you?" she accused in a low, furious whisper. "You think you deserve this."
Remus didn't answer. He simply stared into her eyes, giving nothing away.
The dream twisted. The walls of the cottage stretched, darkened. The fire at his back flickered ominously. The line of people blurred into shadowy figures, their murmurs morphing into an eerie, wordless hum.
Elaine's stomach lurched.
She turned to the crowd and - in the way of dreams - she suddenly knew.
This wasn't just a line of people angry with Remus. This was every grudge he had ever held against himself, every mistake, every failing, every sin he believed he had committed, come to exact their due.
What does it mean that I'm here?
She turned back to Remus, shaking her head. "You stupid, stubborn, impossible man," she hissed, pointing to the queue behind her. “You're addicted to this, aren't you?”
Remus gave a small, humorless chuckle. "Wouldn't be the worst thing I've been addicted to," he smirked.
Elaine's jaw tightened. "That's not funny."
His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Isn't it?”
The fire flared higher. The figures in the queue wavered, flickering between familiar faces and faceless shapes.
Elaine swallowed hard. "You can't punish yourself into being a better person, Remus," she said, her voice quieter, pleading. "It doesn't work that way."
Remus, for the first time, looked uncertain, seeming to deflate slightly. His smile faltered and something in his eyes shifted. He opened his mouth, about to speak -
The dream shattered.
Elaine gasped awake, heart hammering, breath caught in her throat.
The room was dark. The sheets tangled around her legs. Her head ached, and her hand still stung, like she'd really struck him.
A groggy voice murmured beside her. "'Nother nightmare?"
Elaine pressed a shaking hand over her face. "No, just weird," she muttered.
Louise shifted, blinking blearily at her. "S'it about work?"
Elaine let out a quiet, exhausted laugh.
"Yeah," she admitted. "Yeah."
Louise grumbled something unintelligible before flopping an arm over Elaine's waist, pulling her close.
"You need drop that patient."
Elaine huffed a tired sigh, settling back against the pillow.
"I can’t," she whispered into the dark.
Heneeds me.