Five Scars That Identify Remus Lupin
by Am-Chau Yarkona (amchau@popullus.net)

Thanks to Hal for the beta. Written for 15th Feb. 2004, Lupercalia.

 

"Yes, I can help you identify him," Sirius would say to the nervous Auror—told how to find him, probably, by Dumbledore, who would know that Sirius could help. "He has some distinctive scars."

He would sit up straight in the patch of sunlight at the front of his remote cave—as he does now—and run through the list that he knows so well. Just for practise, he recites it to himself: it's the closest he's going to get to Remus for a long while.

* * *

First, there are the tooth-mark scars on his right leg, the scar from the bite that made him what he was. It wasn't that obvious a scar, really; Sirius hadn't noticed it until fifth year, when he'd really started watching Remus carefully.

Since then, he'd kept noticing it—and noticing how Remus hid it, how he could dry off after a shower and pull his clothes on without even glancing at it. Sirius thought that remembering it must upset Remus, and so he only touched it when he was sure Remus was asleep. He liked to kiss its rounded ridges, stretched out of shape with time.

* * *

The Auror would nod, making notes. Sirius goes on with his description, his eyes closed to summon the clearest picture, although dropping his guard is always a risk.

* * *

Next there's the scar on the back of his right wrist, where acid once splashed from a potions cauldron. It was Sirius' fault; the first-year class had been full, almost overfull, and they were working together—officially to avoid setting up two cauldrons, but really because Remus was much better than Sirius, who'd just had his first growth spurt and wanted to hide how clumsy he was.

He can, with his eyes shut, see the round patch of hairless skin as clearly as he'd seen the splash from the cauldron. The mixture was bluey-green, slightly viscous, bubbling; they'd been warned not to let it touch their skin at this stage. Sirius dropped an over-large chunk of newt tail in as Remus reached to adjust the flame. There was no time to warn him.

Remus cried out sharply—close enough to his ear to hurt. "I'm sorry!" Sirius gasped, the first sincere apology Sirius ever gave.

"I'm okay," Remus told their teacher, taking the handkerchief Sirius passed him and wrapping it around his wrist.

The handkerchief, Sirius recalls, was one of the monogrammed ones his mother have given him for his eleventh birthday. He let Remus keep it: a sign of their friendship.

* * *

Tipping his head back in the sunlight, Sirius pulls the next scar from his memory, imagining the way the Auror's quill would scratch as he described it.

* * *

This one is under Remus' hairline, or was last time they met. It occurs to Sirius that it's that sort of detail which might have changed.

Sirius is not really to blame for this one, although he was there when the accident happened, and if he was James he'd feel guilty. He remembers it with a sickening clarity despite the darkness that wrapped the events.

They'd run together through the Forbidden Forest, enjoying their freedom and the strength of their animal bodies; but they had forgotten that there were worse things in the Forest than a bunch of teenage Animagi or even a werewolf. The centaur they met—a wise old creature who knew them for what they were—was angry with them for invading his space, and for taunting the hippogryffs. He fired a warning arrow at them just as the moon left the sky, when Remus was suddenly struggling to escape.

Next month, they'll keep a wider eye open for the beasts who make their home in the Forest, and will be back in the Shrieking Shack before moonset.

A pale white line, about three inches long, under Remus' hair will make sure of that.

* * *

"Just one more," Sirius would reply when the Auror asks if there were any others. He'd be glad that the physical description was all he needed to give, and all that the Auror would write down.

* * *

This scar is on Remus' chest, slightly to the left of centre, a finger's width below his collarbone and four fingers above his heart. It is newer than the others, a little less faded.

It is Sirius'; not merely his fault, but there by his intention. By his hand.

It was in the dark days, the days before Voldemort's last defeat, when James seemed so happy with Lily and Sirius was so jealous of that happiness—which was not only real, but could be enjoyed in public—that he was bitter and possessive and secretly glad to hand the secret-keeping over to Peter Pettigrew because he didn't quite trust himself.

"I'm yours," Remus whispered in the dark. "Really, Sirius. Mark me if you like."

Sirius liked. He'd cut—half an inch, an inch—while Remus tangled his hands in the bed sheets and looked so fucking hot, even if he was throwing his head back and trying not to scream for all the wrong reasons. It was screwed up.

He liked it.

He stopped cutting before he'd intended to, and handed the knife to Remus. "Mark me," he said, but without the conviction Remus' words had carried.

Remus cleaned the knife and the wound, wrapped them carefully, and then slipped back to bed. "Here," he muttered, kissing Sirius' arm where there were the scars of a claw mark from one of those early days at Hogwarts when wolf-Remus hadn't wanted company. "You're mine already."

* * *

Sirius opens his eyes in the sunlight, leans back against the rocky wall, and lifts his arm, pushing the ragged sleeve back to reveal that scar.

"Yours," he whispers, to the fantasy Remus who was now more solid than the Auror had ever been. "Yours forever."

He starts to count all the times he and Remus have kissed in public places, even if nobody else was around at the time.

 

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