Pairing: Nymphadora Tonks Luipin--> Remus Lupin
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
There are parts of himself that he hides, that he is still ashamed to show me. But late at night, on those rare occasions that he is not undercover and I am not on duty, when we share a bed, his feet press up against me. Whether it is for warmth or the comfort of soft skin, I am not sure. He is ashamed of his feet. Every visible part of him is disguised in one form or another: He can easily heal the cuts and scrapes on his hands and arms; the same can be done for the bruises on his face and chest. But his feet cannot lie; they tell the truth of who and what he is.
My husband is a werewolf. He deliberately transforms himself a fortnight every month to spy for the Order. And for the one week a month during the full moon when the wolf takes completely over, he is locked in the basement at Headquarters, safe from himself and the havoc he would cause if left unchecked.
One week a month I have him all to myself, and we make love and talk and eat and pretend we are normal and not living through a war of horrific proportions. In our little flat north of London we pretend, but his feet cannot lie.
The cuts and abrasions and calluses decimating his feet tell his story. Friends and colleagues alike forget that his bones break and mend with each transformation, and it is only Severus who reminds him to put up his feet and take his shoes off. He cannot walk without limping these days, but it is not from his bad back, or his slowly deteriorating hips; no, it is his feet, his very foundation that is being battered and shaken, so much that on some nights, when he is weeping and howling from pain, he will let me tend to him.
On those nights, I gently clean his feet with a flannel then soak them in dittany. After the dittany heals his wounds, I wrap his fragile feet with a warm comfrey poultice that Severus has prepared for him. The poultice will not only heal his fractured bones, but will also regenerate cells. He falls asleep early and deeply on these nights, weak with relief from his constant pain.
On those nights, when we are curled up in bed and his feet have found comfort next to my skin, I catalogue his feet; my toes follow the curves and arches and learn every new cut, every new scar and callus, every new calcium buildup where his bones have not mended properly after transforming. If I should rub too hard or graze over some new sore spot, he will whimper, and I hold him tighter in my arms and reassure him quietly that he is safe and sound.
For the past few months now, after I’ve tended his feet and we have made mad, desperate love, we will lie in our four-poster, and I will lightly begin tracing his feet with my toes. He sleepily recites his history; “That scar I got when I was ten, it was an awful transformation, and I’d…” or, “The bone never quite healed after getting caught in that wolf’s trap. I was terrified I’d have to start gnawing…” and I will shudder and feel tears welling. He will hold me close and place a hand on my stomach, comforting me; he tells me his feet are a small price to pay to keep his humanity, for if Voldemort wins the war, he would surely give werewolves free reign. He is willing to give more than his feet to keep our unborn child safe from such tyranny.
- Current Mood:accomplished