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Chapter Text

Ten minutes between classes wasn't enough. Maybe enough time to find the lesson plan for the next class, but he prepared instructions for each class’s potion to appear like clockwork on the board in the mornings when he avoided going to breakfast. Maybe it was enough time to use the bathroom. Not that he had had any other liquid besides the vat of coffee large enough to drown a small rat when he woke up this morning. 

But ten minutes isn’t enough time to have a breakdown. A full one anyway. 

Get over it, he thinks. But he knows he’s never been good at that. Getting over things, people, anything at all. Moving without a second thought, he double wards the door to his classroom – the third years can wait in the hall. And manually locks the bathroom door. Out of habit, he jiggles the door knob to make sure it’s locked twice. Satisfied, he unbuttons his robes enough to shrug his arms out of the sleeves, and yanks up the black long sleeve t-shirt and undershirt he’s wearing underneath and holds both layers with his chin. Without making eye contact with the mirror, he mutters the spell as familiar as an exhale, and watches the tip of his wand glow orange. He stares just for a second and without hesitation, searches for a blank spot above his ribs and presses it in. At the pain, he feels his shoulders loosen. Drawing in a deep exhale, he moves his wand further left and presses again. And again.  He has to stop at three burns, if he goes further, he’ll lose himself completely. So he lifts his chin to release his shirt and makes accidental eye contact with the person staring back in the mirror and drops it quickly like an acquaintance you see at the grocery store, both not wanting to engage the other. But he can’t disappear down the cereal aisle, he’s stuck with himself.

Jesus, he thinks briefly before pushing that away with everything else that’s slipped underneath the surface. At least I’m not crying. At least I can’t really cry any more. And then he almost laughs, starts re-buttoning his cloak. 

Really, he shouldn’t be falling apart like this on the first day of school. By his standards, he had a decent summer. For the first six weeks he didn’t speak to anyone. It’s a routine he developed somewhere between his second and third year of teaching and hates that it’s the thing he looks forward to most all year. Once a week, he apparated to the middle of London around 2am to sneak into the library, shrinking whatever book looked interesting into his bag. The first visit took longer than he intended because they replaced the old card catalog with a computer that took longer to update. He hardly had time to make it to Tesco. The one that’s nicer than the corner shop in his neighborhood where all the produce is a day away from expiration always. Not that he buys much of that. Coffee and cigarettes are the only things he cares about running out of, but he’ll throw in cans of something, a bag of potatoes, on weeks where he was feeling more optimistic, the odd apple before calculating what he owes and ringing himself up playing store clerk. Each time fantasizing just a little if this was his only job, if he wasn’t magical — then he never would have hurt all of those people.

He only wound up in the bathroom twice. Once he had a nightmare and woke up shaking. He started smoking in bed and wound up putting a pack out on his arm like he was a fucking teenager. He didn’t really see the point of getting out of bed when he woke up the next morning. Or the next. Or the three after that. But finally drug himself out when he remembered he owed Poppy potions for the start of school year. And now, thanks to his little episode was a week behind. After drinking enough coffee to give himself a heart attack, pissing it out and having to delay again to brew a potion to get rid of whatever infection set in while he was rotting in bed, he finally began. Working in a frenzied state, and staying up the better part of three days to complete everything on time. Letting himself slip up a little here and there with a hot stirring rod, small knick with the knife just to push through, have enough energy to keep going. But everything went downhill when Albus was waiting to let him into the front gate instead of Poppy. In lieu of a summary of his summer, for five excruciating minutes he recited facts about reptiles found in the southwest states of America, because the only other book that came to mind from his reading marathon was The Bell Jar, and if Albus had any knowledge of muggle literature, that would set off too alarm bells. But before they reached the infirmary doors, Albus asked if he had time for a little chat in his office afterwards. And that’s when everything came crashing down. Black, Lupin, all of it. 

He shoves the fragments of memories from the last days of summer behind the walls in his mind and wills himself blank. Finishing the last button on his robe, and strides across the room to start his most dreaded class of the day. Taking a deep breath. Letting it go slowly. Before he can breathe in again, he flings open the door. 

Chapter Text

Every year he thinks, as he stalks to the Great Hall for dinner, the first day must get longer. He should really check that someone’s not messing with the clocks. Maybe he could go run a spell in the clock tower. No, he thinks, Albus will kill him if he’s not at dinner. He’s already late. And after dinner, he knows a prefect will corner him. He can already hear the concerns, “Professor, some hormone riddled fourth year is exploring their body in the bathroom. How should I address is?” or “Professor, there’s a hole in the third armchair from the fire. Do you know which one everyone likes to sit in” God forbid. They try to fix something themselves. But he’s made himself approachable, at least to his prefects. And he’ll listen, or at least give the impression of it. In some deluded part of his brain, if something’s going on in his house, he wants to know about it. Not like it was when he was here. He pushes those memories threatening to spill over far below the surface. Focuses on the unwise first year, and by unwise he means one who has no self-preservation, who will inevitably knock on his door whining about homesickness. As if he knows what it’s like to be sick for anywhere that exists. Jesus, he thinks, I’ll be up until at least two before I can fully relax. Get on with my evening plans.

Evening plans, he scoffs to himself, what would that be like? He feels his hands push open the doors of the Great Hall. And his eyes land on second-year Ravenclaw, Eloise Dungan who is actually quite good in his classes. Just dumb enough to make eye contact. He sneers at her. It’s too early to start taking points just for existing. Except from Potter. He took ten from him in class just to steady his nerves. The effect wore off too quickly so he docked fifteen from Longbottom. But speaking of Potter, he lets his eyes sweep the room out of habit and sees the boy nodding at something Weasley’s saying. The red-headed boy is waving his arms wildly, and Potter bursts out laughing. He drags his eyes away, and shoves whatever’s bubbling up in his chest so far down it hurts. He lets himself float over his body until he finds an empty chair at the head table. Maybe he can dissociate through the rest of the meal.

“Hello, Severus,” Lupin’s mild voice grates over his drums pulling him back to reality, “Good first day?”

Jesus, he thinks. For the second time in two minutes he sneers, “And why,” He pauses to lower his voice, “Barely moving his lips as he reaches for the roast, “Would you ever think that would be a possibility.” He stabs at a piece of roast. Half of the tender meat falls off his fork. It’s not worth the effort to replace it, so he sets the plate down in front of him. Scans the table for something else to place on his plate. Tries not to focus of the sound of Flitwick’s scraping fork to his right. He swallows, eyeing the glazed carrots. Those won’t sit well either.

Flitwick’s fork scrapes again.

“Potatoes?” Lupin offers. Half the dish is hovering over his plate. “They’re quite good.”

Without looking at the wolf, he snatches the plate from him. And in one fluid motion, sets it down as far away as possible.

“Oh Severus,” Flitwick says turning away from his conversation with McGonngall. His fork scrapes again across his plate before he asks, “Pleasant first day?”

“Fine, thank you.” He hears himself say calmly. Turns his attention to his plate. Cuts off a piece of the roast, careful not to scrape his own plate. Eats a bite. Tastes too rich and like nothing. After he swallows, he knows it’s unnaturally late, he turns all the way towards Flitwick, blocking Lupin with his shoulder, and says, “I read the paper Chatsworth wrote on Alarte Ascendare over the summer I disagreed with his second point.”

Fillius turns back to him with surprise, and begins to respond. Half-listening he knows Filius doesn’t really want to have this conversation with him. Why would he want to talk to his unpleasant colleague who used to be an even more unpleasant student? When he finishes two more bites of his roast, he lets his hands move underneath his robes. Pressing his fingers into a thin, barely formed scab. Filius is finishing what he’s saying, recommending a book Severus can borrow.

He watches himself nod, promise to come get it tomorrow.

And then he feels fingers lightly tap his shoulder. He jerks around, and finds Lupin’s smiling face. If he wasn’t up here on this stupid stage if they were anywhere else he would love to feel his fist connect with the cartilage of the wolf’s nose.

“What. Is. It.” He grinds out. Somehow he’s standing. He’s not sure when he got to his feet.

“Sorry to startle you. I wanted to make sure I can come by tomorrow after classes? To retrieve the potion?”

“I said.” He whispers, “I would brew it.” His skin is crawling so he turns on heel. He knows Albus is watching him but he doesn’t care. He strides down the stairs towards his prefects. Since his dinner was interrupted, he’ll ruin theirs.

Chapter Text

“Class is over. Label your flask and line them up on my desk.” He says breaking through the sounds of Seventh Year’s whispering to one another. At least two of the cauldrons are steaming the wrong color. Little sparks are coming out of Ms. Finney’s. Jesus, he thinks, this is supposed to be the best students. “Now.” He hisses in the direction of Mr. Jones who is still adding daisy petals to his potion. One-by-one the students ladle in potions and begin making their way towards him.

The first flask is thrust into his hands and without looking at the student, he tuts, “What is this?” It’s barely the wrong shade of purple, but he doesn’t like the Hufflepuff. During his fifth year, he caught the boy with his tongue down the throat of one of his Slytherins. He’s one of his prefects this year, and he noted yesterday Mr. Hughes still isn’t able to look him in the eye. “Perhaps they made a mistake on your schedule. This is Advanced Potions, Mr. Taylor.”

“I’ll try revise tonight, Professor.” Mr. Taylor unfortunately took the opposite approach to Mr. Hughes and has been extra insufferable. Extra eager to do well.

He ignores him in favor of beginning to critique the next potion. Finally, when ten flasks stand on his desk and the last set of feet vanishes out the door, he lets out a giant exhale finally letting the exhaustion of another day hit him. He stayed up half the night having a one-sided conversation with Lupin. Each time hurting the imaginary wolf a little bit more. The other half, he thought about things he didn’t want to. He blames that on Lupin too. He shudders and glances up at the clock, ten minutes before Lupin’s set to arrive. And before he can help it, he’s grabbing a spare potions knife, and moving towards his bathroom. Warding the door. Checking the manual lock twice. Disposing of his robe. His long sleeve. His undershirt.

Someone’s knocking on his door. Jesus, what does a student want right now? His arm hurts a little too. He glances down, and six gaping cuts stare back at him. Shit.

The knocking hasn’t stopped.

Oh.

Fuck.

He snatches the emerald washcloth and presses it to his arm. Conjures tape and binds it there. Scrambling he pulls back on his undershirt, the long sleeve. Shrugs back on his robe. Doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror. Pulls on the door, nearly wrenching off the knob before he realizes it’s locked. Fuck, he hisses twisting the lock and nearly wrenching the door off the handle. He strides across the room, not even collection himself when he swings open the classroom door to find Lupin standing there.

“I apologize for the knocking,” Lupin says smiling a little, “When you didn’t answer, I thought you might be having a little kip before dinner.”

“I don’t nap,” He hears himself say flatly. “I’m not a child.” Merlin, his arm hurts.

“No of course not.” Lupin says. “May I come in? I rather not discuss this here.”

He jerks his head into the classroom. Lupin enters and he slams the door behind him. That was a mistake. He feels the tape that was securing the towel pop open. So he starts speaking at Lupin’s back. “You’ll come every day after dinner.” He instructs. Shit, he feels something dribble down his arm. He clasps his arms around his back.

“That’s wonderful.” Lupin says.

A black spot dances in front of his vision, so he moves to lean against the classroom wall. He closes his eyes for half a second to focus. To not stare at the goddam werewolf anymore.

“Severus—”

“Do not interrupt. You’ll come by once every evening. After dinner. It, your potion, should be taken with a full stomach. I’ll have the goblet prepared.”

“Severus”

He closes his eyes and wills his blood to go back into his body, “It’s crucial you take it every day at the same time, on a full stomach for the full effects. Do I make myself plain?”

“Yes, I’m very clear on that, Severus.”

“Good, now leave.”

“Severus, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m not.” He takes a small step away from Lupin just in case.

“I can smell it.” Lupin gestures to the floor, “A small puddle is also forming beneath your feet.”

Shit. His brain whites out for a moment. He wants to throw something at a wall. Or slash up his other arm. Instead he settles on hissing, “It’s not any of your concern.”

“I’ll go get Madam Pompfrey?”

“You won’t. You will leave” Black spots dance in front of his eyes. He blinks them away, “And tell no one.” He leans against the wall. Fully preparing to slide down it the second Lupin’s out the door.

“I’ll go get Madam Pompfrey. Or I’ll help you. Pick one, Severus, don’t be a fool.”

He starts to hiss out, “Neither,” but halfway through the word, the room goes completely dark.

Chapter Text

Someone’s calling his name. Where is he? Barty? Has he overslept again? Fuck.

He blinks open his eyes. No, he’s in his quarters. He’s no longer a teenager. Dumbledore then? The old man hasn’t arrived in his quarters for years. Only when he first started teaching and gave him reason to worry.

“Severus?” He can’t see where the voice is coming from. His arms hurt. But they’re cold too, and he realizes he’s in his undershirt.

A scarred hand pushes a potion at him. “Drink this please.” It orders firmly, too deeply to be Poppy.

His eyes travel upwards and before he realizes it, he’s on his feet, screaming, “GET OUT!” But that wasn’t wise, his vision goes spotty again, nearly blacking out, sinks back onto the velvet of the couch.

“Drink this please. It’s yours, you had it sitting on the table.”

He snatches the blood replenisher and downs it in one go. Without looking at Lupin, he says, “Leave.”

“That would be unwise, I think.” Lupin says. “Let me help you. Please.”

Severus closes his eyes briefly. Maybe when he opens them, this will all be a nasty nightmare.

But Lupin is still talking, “Or I will need to tell someone.”

“Oh wouldn’t you love to have this over on me.” He snarls, “Old Snivellous cut up his arms for attention! In his thirties. How — he practically spits the next two words, "Fucking pathetic.” More quietly he hisses, “Wouldn’t that be fun. To bring that to Dumbledore. To let that slip in the staff room tomorrow over coffee.”

“No,” Lupin says simply, “That wouldn’t be. But your arms, they’re a mess.” He sighs and speaks more softly, “I’m actually quite good at cleaning and bandaging wounds.”

He doesn’t respond but can feel Lupin moving closer. He closes his eyes again. Wills himself to pretend none of this is real.

“I’m going to clean them now.” Lupin’s voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel.

He doesn’t respond.

Something cool passes over his arms.

“Do you want to keep the scars?”

“What?”

“The scars? Do you want to keep them?”

“What does it look like?” He snarls. What a stupid question. Without looking he knows Lupin is looking at twenty years of scars of cuts and burns. That’s not entirely accurate. It got better for while before it got bad again. Plus in Hogwarts, in the dorms, he couldn’t do it everyday. Could only blame it on testing a new spell for so long. Perks now, he thinks, of having his own bathroom. Of never undressing in front of anyone. He almost laughs before he remembers what’s happening.

“I won’t heal them. But I’ll need to bandage them.”

Something soft and snug wraps around his arms.

“Happy now? He hisses. “Leave and take your potion with you.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” Lupin says again much too calmly. He wants the man to shout at him. Say something nasty. Instead he says, “I’ll let Dumbledore know we won’t be at dinner. And call the kitchen to order something. I’m feeling quite poorly, but you should eat something.”

“The potion.” Severus grits out remembering why Lupin is here, “Must be taken on a full stomach.”

“That’s right, Severus. Thank you for the reminder. Now, is that the fireplace over here?”

Chapter Text

“Do you have paper and a quill?” He waits a beat then looks at Severus who’s staring at the ceiling, pretending not to acknowledge him. Git, he thinks. Instead he prompts again, “Severus?”

“We’re literally in a classroom.” Severus bites back.

Swearing only to himself, he performs Accio, first for paper, then for a quill, he writes the easier letter first, explaining he and Severus are going over the specifics of the potion. Albus will probably be happy. To see he and Severus collaborating on something. Collaborating on keeping Severus alive probably isn’t what he had in mind, but injuries are something he’s familiar with. Plus, it’s not the first time he’s found someone in a similar position. He pushes away thoughts of more than one night on the floor of the Gryfindor bathroom, pacing back and forth to find the Room of Requirement. He just didn’t think the next person he found would be Snape. It’s not like he’s made a list of things Severus Snape does in his spare time, but cutting himself until he passed out wouldn’t have made the list. He’s a teacher for god’s sake —. Quickly he shuts down that line of thought. He is too, and would prefer not to have any of his more private behaviors examined.

“Severus?” He calls again. “What do you want to eat?

“Nothing.”

Jesus, he thinks to himself.

“Do you have any allergies? Foods you can’t eat?”

He’s met with silence, so he writes down what he considers a normal meal. Roast chicken, honeyed carrots, broccoli, roasted potatoes. He crosses that out and writes down boiled potatoes. The rest could go rather badly. And for good measure, he writes down Shepard’s pie. He saw Severus eating beef last night. He charms the letter and watches it vanish to the kitchens.

Silent minutes tick by until there’s a knock at the classroom door. He walks across the room, opens the door, and picks up the covered silver tray. With every step, the weight of it makes him nauseous.

He walks back into Severus’s quarters and sets the tray on the small kitchen table. One chair is covered in a stack of papers. “Severus?” He calls the man’s name for what feels like the hundredth time. “Dinner is here.”

Surprisingly, he hears the man get up. Light footsteps pad in the opposite direction and he prepares himself to have to drag Severus out of the bathroom. But the footsteps come back, and Severus appears, still only wearing his undershirt. Maybe it hurt too much to try to put back on his long sleeve shirt. One of his thin, bandaged arms clutches a smoking goblet. “I’m only here to make sure you eat. Then you’ll need to drink this.”

“Ok,” He says and smiles at Severus. He lifts the cover off the tray and finds the elves already portioned them out into two plates. “Do you mind if I clear these?” He points to the chair stacked with papers.

Severus reaches into his pant pocket and brandishes his wand. With one flick, the papers vanish. He arches an eyebrow, “Happy?”

“Very.” He sits down and pulls a plate over to himself. Spearing a boiled potato, he wills himself to take a bite. Maybe he can employ the magic of his teenage years and slowly vanish bits off his plate. But Severus is watching too closely for that. With that opportunity closing, he feels his control on himself, on the situation slipping. And if one potato isn’t sitting well. Then neither will the rest of the meal.

“Severus?”

“What?” The man hisses back at him. Apparently, while he was overthinking, Snape dragged a plate over to himself and started eating.

“Your bathroom?’

“My bathroom? What are you going to do? Play hero rounding up everything sharp?” The man continues on his tirade. “While you got me distracted with what? Shepard’s pie?

If he was holding back vomit, he could probably say yes, eventually for your own good, you insufferable man. “No, I need the toilet.”

“Oh very clever,” Snape says disdainfully, “You need the toilet. This has gone too far. I won’t have you snooping through my possessions. You may leave. The charade is up. Go back to your quarters if you absolutely need the toilet.” He hisses the last words.

“No I’m going to be —” He rushes over, and by some small miracle makes it to the small sink in the kitchen. Vomits once. Twice. A third time. Every single potato coming back up. He turns on the tap, scoops water into a cupped hand, gargles, and spits. As he turns around, wiping his mouth, preparing to apologize, make up some excuse, he hears someone else retching.

As it turns out, Severus Snape is a sympathy puker.

Chapter Text

He wipes an acidic string of saliva from his mouth, and points his wand at his own pile of vomit. The three bites of dinner he just managed. Probably the toast he choked down at breakfast. He can’t remember what he had for lunch.

Lupin spits water in the sink again, and turns around to face him. He glances up at Severus and smiles weakly, “I’m so sorry. I think I may have eaten something off—“ He trails off studying his scuffed dress shoe.

“Lupin.”

“Mhhm?” The wolf meets his gazed, “I won’t get too close on the off chance it’s a bug.”

Granted the brief eye contact, Severus can barely hear what he’s saying taking the opportunity to rifle through feelings in the wolf’s mind. No one, not even him is that ashamed for a stomach bug. There’s too much here. Bent over a toilet in a bathroom. Another flash that looks like it’s the wolf’s quarters. Vomiting clear liquid into a gutter in the early morning hours.

“Oh, save it. You’re a fucking bulimic.” And it feels good to hold something over his head for just a second. It would feel even better if he didn’t remember after three seconds that he was standing here in his undershirt with his arms bandaged. Still satisfying, he decides when Lupin gapes at him.

Finally the wolf closes his mouth and opens it again, “I don’t know how you drew that conclusion.” And then he even smiles, “And maybe I should consider myself fortunate to report it’s just not true.”

Severus takes a step towards him, “Do not. Lie to me.” He hisses. “I could care less why you’re doing this, but you have to keep the potion down.”

“I will, really Severus, I promise.”

“And why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s a luxury. And you’re devoting so much of your time to it. I really can’t thank you enough.”

“No,” Severus whispers, “It’s a necessity. To keep everyone safe from you.” Feeling very tired he leans against the wall, “Anti-nausea potion. Would that work? Break you of this habit?”

“Oh I don’t know.” Lupin says suddenly, “Would taking away everything sharp from you work? Break your,” Lupin draws out the next word, “habit for good?”

“Don’t compare us.” Snape snaps. “Your little habit could get everyone killed. Mine could only kill me. And it hasn’t yet.”

“Jesus.” Lupin mutters. “You’re a git.”

He barely registers the insult and presses, “Would it work though?”

“I’ll try it.”

“Good.”

“If—”

“If?” Snape sneers.

“If you answer some questions for me.” He says more quietly, “I used to know someone. Who did the same thing. And it helped. Talking.”

“Oh spare me. I’m not talking about my feelings with you.”

“Then I won’t drink the potion. And I’ll tell Albus. That you need medical attention.”

Even thinking about talking about this with Albus makes him want to be sick all over again, so he snaps, “You won’t know if I answer honestly.” He folds his arms across his chest. Winces internally as one of the cuts tugs.

“So you’ll let me ask then. Five questions.”

“I’ll get five back. About anything. And I’ll know if you tell the truth.” Severus snaps over his shoulder while he sweeps into his store room. Finding the green vial he’s looking for, he walks back to his quarters and pushes it at Lupin. “Drink this. Then eat. You need at least half of what’s on your plate.”

Lupin nods. Grimacing slightly as he swallows the potion. “Ok.” He says softly. “Ok.” He repeats as he pulls his chair out. Before he sits down he asks, “How did you start?”

Chapter Text

“How did you start?” Lupin asks. His expression as neutral as ever. And it makes Severus want to sick up everywhere.

Instead, he bites back as viciously as he can manage with the room still spinning slightly, “Start what?” He has to retain some dignity after all. After the wolf’s just found out — that.

“Severus,” Lupin prompts with a hint of warning. “You know what I’m asking about. How did you start? Cutting?”

“Severus,” He mimics making his voice go higher than he knows Lupin’s is, “How did you start?” He know the wolf is staring at him, but he won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. The emerald paint is peeling slightly where it meets the cream molding. A house elf would love to fix that. Not that he would ever let one in here. He banned them years ago after one was looking through his trash. Nosy little fuckers.

“We can go to Albus.” Lupin reminds him, “Or Poppy.”

That sobers him enough.

Eyes still fixed on the peeling paint he says, “On accident. I started on accident. Happy?” Smirking only to himself, he thinks a pathetic, happy accident. Stepping on a shard of glass. Scaring himself with it, so he couldn’t feel anything else. He kept the shard of glass until he went to Hogwarts convinced he wouldn’t need it here. But he doesn’t want to think about how wrong he was so he focuses on the ceiling. The paint is peeling back probably a centimeter or two.

“With what? Or why—”

“I believe,” Severus snarls, “You got your question. It’s my turn now. Why do you care what I do in my spare time? I’ve managed this long. And don’t give me some bleeding heart reason. Like you’re a good person.”

“I never said I was a good person.” The wolf says quietly.

“Spare me.” He spits. A smoothing charm should work. Fix the paint like nothing happened.

“I knew someone.” The wolf said.

“You knew someone.”

“A friend. Who would, who dealt with things the same way.” Lupin sighs before continuing more quietly, “And I saw how bad, how dangerous it can get. Even on accident. Talking about it seemed to help them.”

“Why don’t you waste your precious energy to check on that friend?” He snaps now looking directly at Lupin. No one had ever checked on him. Not that he wanted anyone to. He suspects Regulus knew about what he was doing. He took an interest in him during his sixth year. Was always waiting when he came out of the bathroom, so he had to move his activities to the Room of Requirement. He snaps, “Go pour your misguided sympathy on them instead.”

“I’m not friends with him anymore.” Lupin says, “In fact, I wish I hadn’t stopped him sometimes. If I knew what would happen.”

No, Severus thinks. Surely not. But before he can help it, he’s sorting through Lupin’s thoughts. Flashes of dark hair. So not pathetic little Pettigrew’s blonde. But it’s not Potter. Not that he thinks it would be. Pale, perfect skin. An expression that was usually taunting him. Laughing. Crumpled. Jesus Fucking Christ. Black?

Then he says the first honest thing all night, “I wish you wouldn’t have stopped him either.”

Chapter Text

It’s the first time he’s said any of that out loud. Maybe if he never started keeping secrets for Sirius then, none, none of this would have happened.

Two nights before the end of second year, he couldn’t sleep, except unlike other nights, a light was glowing faintly underneath the bathroom door. When it stayed on for half an hour, he tiptoed out of bed, unlocked the bathroom door with a charm when he smelled the blood. It took his eyes longer to register Sirius as the source. The same Sirius, who didn’t study for exams but set the curve. Sirius, who charmed Madam Pompfrey into letting him sit with Remus before and after every full moon. Sirius, who took every prank for two years one notch further than the rest of their group would have dared. Sirius, so confident, so loud, so bright, now pale, slumped shoulder in the shower stall.

When Sirius looked up at him, his mouth trying to find its usual easy smile as he stuttered through a poor excuse, “I, I slipped in the shower?”

“On what?” Remus asked.

“Gla, glass.”

“Let’s bandage you up, ok?” At twelve, he didn’t understand what Sirius was doing, but he could recognize shame. He also had enough practice bandaging wounds to stop the thin rivers running down . So he grabbed the kit he kept underneath the sink and tried to ignore the other scars dotting Sirius’s thighs.

At fourteen, he began to understand more. He was finishing coloring in a portion of the map when he couldn’t sleep, and saw Sirius’s dot not moving in a bathroom on the sixth floor. As someone woken up to join Sirius on late night escapades, Remus knew that Sirius usually preferred a companion for mischief. If he was alone, that wasn’t good news. Remus crept out of bed hoping a portrait wouldn’t tell on him, and managed to make it all six floors, and into the bathroom without running into another being. So silently perhaps, that Sirius, didn’t hear him come in and Remus felt the room go fuzzy as he watched him press his potions knife to his thigh and drag. Sirius who yesterday got the highest score on their Transfiguration exam. Sirius, who that morning scored goal after goal in a Quidditch game against Slytherin. Sirius, who just a few hours ago had the whole Gryfinndor common room roaring with laughter.

“Stop,” He managed to croak, “I mean please don’t. You’re hurting yourself/”

“I can’t,” Sirius whispered, “Please don’t make me. I need —.” His thoughts are interrupted when he hears Snape saying something to him.

“Pardon?”

“Does anyone,” Snape pauses, “living. Know about this?”

“No, no one living,” He says, “Or dead.”

“And what is the significance of the dog?”

Remus’s stomach rolls. He hadn’t been thinking about that, not really. He furrows his brow and asks,“Dog?”

“That’s been flashing through your memories all evening.”

“That isn’t fair, you shouldn’t—”

“Life isn’t fair.” Severus snaps back at him. “Tell me about the dog or tell me about the vomiting.”

If he wasn’t so angry, he would almost count the smile on Severus’s face charming.

Chapter Text

While he waits for the wolf to choose, he decides his arm really hurts. More than the usual dull throb, it’s pulsing in time with his heart. If the wolf wasn’t here, he would break his rule and summon a pain potion.

The wolf takes the smallest bite of mashed potatoes, swallows and says, “You’re forgetting.”

“What?”

“That I could go to Albus. Let him know you’re in danger.

He twists his lips into a smile, “He knows.” He fibs. Or at least Poppy does. When he passed out after a meeting the first time. Forgot he was bleeding or he wouldn’t have gone. They probably think he’s stopped. He’s thirty-three for chrissakes.

The wolf opens his mouth. And it’s satisfying. “And he hasn’t?”

“I’m an adult. I’m no longer a student in his care.” He says sharply. Not that it mattered then. All seven years of Hogwarts, he hid his habit from everyone.

“Well I care.”

“Oh, spare me,” He rolls his eyes. Losing his patience, he just wants the wolf out he snaps, “Vomit. Or dog. Pick.”

“I, I, get flashbacks.” The wolf says, “Flashes of the moon, I mean. What I want during it. What I could do.”

“And it makes you sick?”

“No, I mean on some level yes.” The wolf says picking at a loose thread on his robe. “It makes me feel out of control. That there’s this hunger, that I can’t stop.”

“Very well.” He says, “But why,” He pauses and repeats more slowly, “Why are you sicking up everywhere?”

“Probably the same reason you cut yourself to ribbons!” The wolf yells.

He feels his mouth twist into an unpleasant smile at the wolf losing his temper. “I doubt that.” He repeats still smiling faintly, “And don’t pretend to know the first thing about me.”

“Oh come on,” The wolf says, voice returning to a normal volume, but still laced with anger, “Don’t tell me you’re doing this because you’re happy. Like you don’t need some kind of a release.”

“Well, I suggest you try something else. Pick a different habit that lets you keep your potion down. Try cutting, I don’t know.”
“Severus,” The wolf says, managing another bite, “You don’t mean that.”

He grunts in response. He doesn’t mean that, he wouldn’t wish this habit on anyone. This whole interaction, oddly unsatisfying he decides. Not nearly like the fights he constructs in his head staring at the ceiling at night. Taking a sip of water, he pokes the barrier of Lupin’s mind again. As he swallows he focuses hard on the dog. Still flashing through in Surely not? He thinks. Surely it couldn’t be? But there it is again. The dog flashing with Black’s laughing face.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he stands up, and lunges at the wolf, feeling his cuts reopening as he seizes him by his shoulders, forcing him to his feet. With the wolf at wand point he whispers, “You mean to tell me, Black’s been an animagus this whole time?”