Title: Sweet Dreams
Author: Draconn Malfoy
Feedback: lionora@hotmail.com
Summary: We've both lived long life, love. And now's time for it to end. Sweet dreams, love.
Rating: PG-13, although only for the implied death and suicide.
Challenge: #23) There are so many stories where Remus dies because he's a werewolf and his body is too damaged and tired. So, what if it is quite opposed? Werewolves are supposed to be indestructible expect for silver. What if a mate of a werewolf shares the extremely lengthened lifespan of the wolf?
A/N: Don't really know where this came from. *shakes head* Don't really know.
Anyways... This began growing up around the part where Remus says "Good night," because that's the first part I wrote. How comes it that when describing an extremely long life, I write about the death? I'm too obsessed with angst. Really.
Feedback, please... *puppy eyes*
Sweet Dreams

Two hundred and forty-seven years.

It's the age of the particular magical artefact placed on my desk - an ancient sickle, full of Dark magic.

It's the lifespan of an ancient curse called Carvetasa Solirum, invented by Cleopatra.

It's the time your name will stay in the stone before it wears unidentifiable if you carve your name on the floor in the middle of Great Hall of Hogwarts with letters half an inch deep.

It's a bit more than 90214 days.

It's about 2165143 hours.

It's an eternity, it seems.

It's also the age of yours.

You're old, love. We're both old - and we know that.

Werewolves do live long. Far longer than even normal wizards and witches, who reach their end somewhere around two hundred years - compared to a Muggle's average seventy or eighty years it's an eternity - but werewolves live even longer. And, for some thoughtless play of fate, their mates live longer as well - and that's a curse worse than anything, because now you're dying, and I'll be left alone.

Werewolves maybe live long, and heal fast, but no one's body can stand everything. Lengthening the lifespan of the mate is almost as cruel as leaving them normal, since without the burden of Lycanthropy, the mate can easily reach the age of four hundred years - while no lycanthropic is known to have survived more than two hundred and seventy years.

Now, in the age of 247 years, you've at last reached the end of your strength.

You have no friends around to support you during your last fight, to mourn for you after you lose. They're all dead - Potters so long, long time ago; Black behind the Veil; Pettigrew first a traitor, then killed by Aurors in the Battle of Fate; Dumbledore, gone as well... Even the Trio, like some called them, Potter, Weasley boy, and Granger, and their whole generation is gone now, gone by the wind with not too much signs left of them.

There's only I, I and our family.

During these years we have adopted and raised as our own the total of twenty-seven orphans. None of our biological heritance but all our own by heart, twenty-seven youngs under our name have attended to Hogwarts. Seven in Slytherin, nine in Ravenclaw, six in Gryffindor and five in Hufflepuff. We've been equally proud of everyone and loved everyone equally much, no matter what House they are in. They've all come here. Our whole clan, like one might say, have come to say goodbye to the heart of our family.

You kept us together, love - when Judith and Sean got involved in that interhouse fight, forced to face each other; when Mary lost her four kids in an accident; when Thomas died, the first one of our children to do so - every time, every occasion, you were the glue keeping us together.

Now you're dying, and we can only hope they will go on. They will, for I won't - I'm not going to live after you've died. You know that, I said that to you long time ago. You just smiled, and nodded. You hadn't waited anything else from me, not from me.

Now the dreaded moment has arrived. You lay on your bed, looking so pale and fragile, nearly transparent - like the slightest glint of light could shine through your skin and bones, like the faintest breath of wind could blow you away. I'm holding your hand, or rather grasping on it desperately, not wanting to let go yet. It's so short time together we had, only little more than two hundred years - maybe a lifetime for most of the people, but never enough to be with you.

The children are in the next room, leaving us alone. They promised to check on us later. None of them held any illusions about my planned course of action. They know me too well, I think. They know I couldn't bring myself to live on without you.

I know you're growing weaker on every moment that goes by. Soon you will be too weak to fight off the approaching darkness.

I'm not sure, after all these years, if you even want to.

You've been hurt so much. We've both been hurt so much, but you more, since you've lost more.

First, one of your friends thought to be a betrayer, the others lost for forever - then, after getting the betrayer back to you, losing him again. Losing Moody and Kingsley, in the battles they went, as well as the Tonks girl - she died on your arms, didn't she? - and so many, many others. The battles took a lot of lives, none of which can ever be compensated. And then, the others, gone by their age - Dumbledore at first, then Figg, and McGonagall. And, eventually, the Weasley children - those who weren't lost in the battles - and Granger and Potter and Longbottom and Lovegood, even a couple of their children have already died, all of them with no other illness but old age.

After seeing this much death, with majority of your loved ones already gone - excluding our children, you love each one just as much as I do, if not more - after seeing the people you cradled on your arms being carried to the grave... I don't think you're going to fight the death anymore.

It's like you saw my thoughts, considering the next words you say - and probably you saw, who knows, your eyes are the most incredible amber after all, I wouldn't be surprised if they saw through my thick skull as well. "I'm only sleeping now, Severus," you whisper, squeezing slightly my hand. "You know that."

And I know. I haven't forgotten your words - nor have I forgot the occasion you said them at.

I remember that one night, so long ago - or is it only a year? - when we talked about this. About your death, which would eventually follow.

"Death is just another adventure," you said, and your eyes twinkled a bit - a habit you took on after Dumbledore's death, to bring on the line of twinkle-eyed Headmasters as you were chosen to be the next one after him. "That's what some people believe - people like Sirius. But I believe that death is nice, long night - a night without pain, without suffering, without the moon - and we can sleep on each other's arms."

"I hope so," I murmured, my throat dry and my voice raspy. "For no one deserves rest more than you do, love." I took your hand and placed a kiss on your palm - even on that age, your skin was still soft, still nice and clean like an angel's.

"I will wait for you over there," you mumbled, and chuckled tiredly. "But if I know you as well as I think, I don't have to wait for long."

I didn't say anything, just nodded. And we both knew you were right, didn't we? We both knew, and yet we didn't care - we just enjoyed the feeling of being near each other, both lost in our own thoughts, taking comfort of the thought we'd die together as well.

And now the time has come. You're here, laying in front of me, and I'm with you here as well. And, oddly enough, I'm relieved.

I don't have to act anymore, don't have to hide behind masks from even my own family. I don't have to be who people want me to be anymore. I can be just myself.

I can just rest.

You let out the one last breath. "Good night, Severus," you say, and your amber eyes twinkle for the one last time, gently, so warmly, like they've always done.

Then, without another word, you close your eyes and speak no more.

"Good night, Remus," I whisper, tears rolling down my face the first time for more than two hundred years. "Good night, and sweet dreams." Then I lay down next to you, clinging on your moveless body, point my wand at myself and whisper, "Avada Kedarva."

When they come to check up on us, they find us both laying on the bed, on each other's arms, like we always planned.

We're not dead. We're only sleeping.

And in the darkness I feel your arms, clutching around me, I feel your thin frame against mine, hear the beat of your heart, taste the tears on your cheeks, and for a moment, I don't care if I'm going to Heaven or Hell, as long as you're there with me.

Then I fall asleep, and never wake up from the endless night that falls around us.

During the night, I dream of you.


Well? If you stood it enough and had enough time to read this far, you surely have time to drop me an e-mail... I love feedback, really.