Morning After

3: Morning After

Snape didn't wake up the usual way: asleep one moment, wide awake and alert the other. This time he woke screaming, gripped by pain and panic, wanting to jump up, to flee, without even knowing what scared him so much.

Pain pinned him to his mattress; after some endless moments, he located his right wrist as the main source of it.

He realised that there were tears streaming down his face. "What the fuck is wrong here?" he murmured and was shocked at how weak and hoarse his voice sounded. Slowly, he managed to sit up in his bed, resting his aching back against the headboard. Aggressively, he wiped his left hand across his face, wiping the tears away. It had been decades since he had woken up crying; why now? And why did he hurt so much?

At least this question could be answered easily. He ached because he was injured. His wrist was broken, there were barely healed scratches along his arms, his chest, and very obviously at least partly on his back as well. There was blood on the sheets, mixed with a substance Snape couldn't identify at first. Confused, he touched the stuff, rubbed it between his fingertips, and then smelled it.

A Healing Salve. One of his own, designed to cure severe damages of the skin. Like many other potions, he kept it on the shelf in his living room – he liked to have the products of his work close for further experiments.

Apparently, he had needed the salve last night. The wounds on his chest had been healed with it. The question was who had caused the wounds, and why? Equally interesting was the riddle of who had applied the salve – clearly, it hadn't been himself. He was certain he would remember it if he had.

But then... he didn't remember breaking his wrist, either. A stasis field kept it immobilised, and when he removed it, he cursed nastily at the sight: the joint was swollen, the fingers couldn't be moved, the pain shot up to his neck and he couldn't suppress a low scream. Instantly, he renewed the spell that covered his wrist; he'd need to go to Poppy immediately to sort this out, otherwise the damage might be permanent.

Determined, he swung his legs out of the bed and discovered, stunned, that he was naked. "I never sleep naked!" he said indignantly to the flickering candles. "I can't afford to sleep undressed. If the Dark Lord calls me..."

The Dark Lord. The battle. Last night, there had been a battle, and he had participated. He had fought, he remembered it clearly. He had seen people die; some of them he had taught only the day before. There had been flames and screams; he had killed as many Death Eaters as possible, for the first time in twenty years openly taking a side. He had ignored the burning of the Dark Mark on his arm, had refused to follow the summoning of his master.

Dumbstruck, Snape turned his left arm and stared at the place where the Dark Mark should be, but wasn't. Instead, there was only a deep, red wound on his skin. No wonder he had woken up screaming. Too much pain. Too many changes in just one night.

The Dark Lord was dead – this was the only logical explanation for the fact that the mark was gone. Potter must have won, Snape though distractedly. I should be dead, followed closely after. He had openly chosen a side last night, and it hadn't been the side of his insane master.

His legs were weak, but Snape needed to go to the bathroom, and so he ignored the fact that he had to stabilise himself against the walls. Why he was feeling so lousy? Why was his bed soiled with blood? Why was he naked? These were questions he could try to find the answers to later. First a piss, he decided, then clothes and food.

Good plan. Easy to follow.

Then he reached the bathroom and saw his image in the mirror.

The sight nearly knocked him out.

His face and throat, the shoulders, his chest, and even his hair – covered in a mixture of salve and blood. Faint marks showed that someone had practically slashed the flesh from his bones. His hair was plastered to his skull; there were nasty cuts and bruises on his forehead; and his lips were cracked and raw as if he had bitten them.

Snape couldn't hinder his mouth from sagging open.

Sexual intercourse, a voice suddenly whispered in his mind. I'll make it quick.

Snape paled and had to steady himself at the sink. "Impossible," he croaked and remembered how he had broken his wrist. He had tried to attack someone, someone behind him, someone he was scared of. Flinching at the memory of pain, the Potions master inspected his hands again, more carefully this time, and saw the rope marks on his skin, telling him that he had been bound.

Someone... he vaguely remembered that someone had bound him to the bedposts.

I will do what is necessary, Lupin's gentle voice promised, and Snape jerked his head up and stepped closer to the mirror.

There it was. A silver shimmer in his eyes, barely visible now, hours after the curse had been undone. But it was there; his eyes weren't as immaculately black as they should be.

"Desipentia," Snape stated to his image and felt his stomach clench in panic. Like a waterfall, memories poured down and threatened to drown him, awful memories of madness and pain, and the sensation of loosing himself in an ocean of craziness. No wonder he had tried to dig his soul out of his body, to break his head in order to hammer some sense into his unwilling brain.

Actually, he should be dead. Everyone who had been hit by the curse felt an urge to rape and kill, accompanied by the madness, and therefore, was likely to be killed in turn. Either that, or the madness overtook and the victim hanged themselves, cut their veins, ripped out their windpipe – whatever, if only to get away from the abyss one was falling into because of the curse.

There had been no corpse in his rooms, so he hadn't killed anyone. He himself was neither dead nor mad.

"Lupin." One word, one name. Memories. Emotions. The werewolf had broken the curse, had tied him to the bed, had...

...touched him. Caressed him. Had tried to talk his fear away, had healed his wounds, and bound his wrists before he had done what had been necessary.

And then he had left, just like that.

Snape sunk to his knees and didn't even feel the coldness that seeped from the floor and into his body. Without seeing a thing, he stared at the ground, remembering what had happened last night. He didn't want to remember, but then, he hadn't wanted to get hit by this specific curse, either.

After a while – moments or hours, he didn't know – he decided that now was a good time to mend the broken bone. Going to the infirmary was clearly not an option anymore, so he just removed the spell that kept his wrist still. Pulling, he felt the bone-ends scraping against each other. Maybe he screamed; it didn't matter. All that counted was the fact that whilst his mind was occupied with this fresh, raw, blinding pain, he couldn't think about Lupin's eyes, staring into his. Fixing his broken wrists made it impossible to remember the disgust he had seen in those brown eyes.

At least for a little while.

*****

Shower. Clothes. Living room.

Sitting down.

Candles, light? Unimportant. Food? Unnecessary.

Firewhiskey, though, was mandatory. The heavy glass with golden liquid wasn't easy to hold. He needed both hands, and both hands screamed in protest, but what the hell... It smelled good, and the alcohol promised an easy way into oblivion.

He should be dead! He had expected to die last night. Everyone had expected it, including the Headmaster. The Dark Lord had mistrusted his most devoted follower, as he had never managed to deliver Potter into his hands. In the end, Snape had openly fought on Dumbledore's side during the final battle – it hadn't been necessary anymore to hide who he really was. Snape had been able to kill many Death Eaters simply because they hadn't expected Snape to turn against them.

And now the Potions master wondered why no one had managed to cast a proper Killing Curse at him. "How very unfair to use a Desipentia instead," he murmured and swirled the whiskey in its glass.

Snape sat in the darkness and wondered about the consequences of his survival. And because he didn't like not to know things, he got up around lunch and searched in his library for books which would tell him about the curse and, hopefully, how to deal with it if one survived.

*****

The knock on the door came close to midnight, and again, Snape sat in his chair. Three books lay on the floor, read and abandoned afterwards. A full glass of Firewhiskey stood on the table next to him; no bottle, though, was to be seen.

The knock was repeated. Snape wasn't surprised – Albus had tried to contact him throughout the day, to no avail. He hadn't answered the call through the fire, he had refused to open his Floo, no owl was allowed in his rooms, and he had strengthened his wards against any other form of contact.

He could do nothing about a knock. Therefore, he ignored it.

Only that Albus didn't go away. And it had to be Albus – only the old man was annoying enough to ignore his wish of silence.

"Severus!" the voice called through the door. "You either open up now – if you are alive, that is – or I will enter without your permission. If you are dead... well, I really hope that this isn't the case. Open up, Severus!"

"Come in," Snape said and waved a tired hand. The door opened.

Carefully, hesitantly even, the Headmaster stepped in. Dressed in blue, his white beard carefully combed, he looked as if he didn't know the word 'war', not to mention the fact that he had fought in one less than twenty-four hours ago. His hands were empty, and for that, Snape was grateful – he had feared the old man could carry a tray with food. The simple thought of nourishment made his stomach heave.

"What do you want?" Snape asked, picking up the chilled glass and rolling it between his bandaged hands. "The Dark Lord is dead. Potter won, I presume. Unfortunately, I failed to die. Sorry for that."

"Severus," Dumbledore said calmly and took a step, waving the door behind him close. "Severus, how are you?"

At that question, Snape quirked his lips into a bitter half-smile. "Lousy," he answered, equally calm. "Awful. Terrible. Why do you ask?"

Dumbledore sat on the empty chair. "I ask because I want to know. Because I am concerned about you. You were hit by..."

"I know." Snape sounded nearly bored. "It took me a while to remember, but in the end, my image in the mirror helped a lot to gather at least some memories. Interesting experience, going mad. You should try it sometime. It makes you humble. In fact, it makes you wish you were dead instead." Frowning, he looked at the glass in his hands. "I tried to kill myself last night. I tried to kill Lupin. I suppose I can be glad that I didn't manage the latter whilst being under the influence of Desipentia."

Dumbledore leaned forward and stared at him. "Are you drunk, Severus? You are surprisingly talkative, given the circumstances."

Snape chuckled humourlessly. "I have been trying to drink this one glass of Firewhiskey since lunch time," he mused. "Haven't managed it yet. Whenever it gets too close to my mouth, whenever the smell gets too intense, I can barely keep myself from retching. Pity, though. I would very much have liked to get royally pissed." Absently, he rolled the glass between his slender, strong fingers. "Concerning my willingness to talk about most unpleasant and private matters, this is a side-effect of the curse. I would talk to everyone, telling this someone everything, which is why I didn't go to the infirmary, and why I wanted to be left alone. Don't ask improper questions at the moment, Albus. I would answer them, but I am sure you wouldn't want to know."

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Because of you, Severus, the losses were considerably less than had been expected. With you taking sides... You saved many lives. I am sorry you..."

Snape nodded. "I should have died. I know. Don't worry. It is unlikely that I will survive the curse despite the fact that... Lupin... had been kind enough to break it." At the werewolf's name, his voice hitched involuntarily.

The Headmaster's eyes darted from the Potions master's bruised face to his bandaged hands to the books on the floor. "It's a rare curse," he said and cleared his throat. "Not much is known about it, nor about the after-effects. What did you find out, and where?"

Lazily, Snape pushed one of the books closer to the burning fire. It was a thin, light volume, but for some reason, he sneered at it as if it were a poisonous snake. "It's a dark curse, Albus. I found information in dark books. Not many. The basics, of course. How to cast it, its effects, how to break it. Lupin can be glad he survived the night." A flick, and the contents of the glass splashed into the flames. Brilliantly, the wood flared up before an intense smell wafted through the Potions master's living room. Disgusted, the pale man turned his head away. He looked grey and ill in the dim light.

"What else?" Dumbledore pressed.

Snape grimaced. Both his hands lay in his lap like thin, dead animals, motionless, lifeless. "Few survive the actual curse. The ones who do are usually unable to cope with the memory of being so very close to madness. They lose their appetite, they get depressed, and they shun company. They fear light, sound, and touch. Result: suicide. Nasty spell indeed. Do you know why it isn't commonly used?"

Apparently, Dumbledore hadn't even considered that question.

Leaning his head back against the back of his chair, Snape said, "Because it takes a crazy mind to wield it. A sane wizard, a sane witch, wouldn't be able to pronounce it properly. Which leaves only two possibilities: either the Dark Lord has cursed me or it was his pet, Bella."

Sighing, Dumbledore said," It was Bellatrix. Remus fought by your side, saw you fall, and offered... his help. There was no other possibility." Getting up, he looked at his Potions master with a pained expression on his face. "Don't allow this curse to destroy you, Severus. Despite all odds, despite everything I have asked you to do in the past years, you survived the war. Tom is dead. You won't have to spy anymore. I am certain you can deal with the side effects of Desipentia!"

"Get out, old man," Snape said casually and summoned himself another glass filled to the rim with Firewhiskey. "I'm trying to get drunk. And if you see Lupin, tell him to stay away from me or I will break his neck."

*****

It took Snape the entire night before he managed to persuade his unwilling legs to move. With aching muscles, he got up shortly after sunrise and placed the still full glass he had held for hours on the table next to his chair. Stretching, he winced at the pain that shot through him. His empty stomach growled, demanding food. His mind, though, demanded darkness and silence.

He had no intention to give in to his mind. His mind was unreliable. It had been bathed in madness; it had tried to kill him, convinced that death was better than madness. Since he could not trust himself, he would leave his quarters to go upstairs for breakfast.

Leaving his rooms was nearly impossible. Every step cost him strength, and his legs trembled with the need to carry him back downstairs, into the safety of his own rooms. He had expected it – the books had been clear about that, telling him that company was something a victim of Desipentia simply couldn't stand. Additionally, Snape feared, truly feared, he could see the werewolf somewhere up there, could maybe even bump into him and...

What then? he asked himself. What if I see him? Will I kill him? Will I flee? Will I shout at him, behaving like a child, embarrassing myself?

Step by step the Potions master worked his way upstairs, step by step he ignored his wishes and the demand of his mind to hide. He wouldn't give in to this damnable curse.

Finally upstairs, his eyes grew wide involuntarily, and a few heartbeats later, he began to laugh. Hogwarts, his home, his school, the place he always had felt safe, was destroyed! The big gates hung broken on their hinges, the walls had holes as big as dragons, and there wouldn't be a meal in the Great Hall anytime soon. Fire still licked at the wooden benches. Smoke wafted through the air, and out of instinct and habit, Snape flicked his wand and quenched the flames.

Some students saw him, but didn't take notice. They looked as bad as he felt, and Snape realised that he fitted perfectly amongst them. The battle had taken its toll; now all that could be done was to undo the damage, to bury the dead, and to get to repairing the school. "Pick up our lives," Snape murmured and sneered. He hadn't had a life before the final battle. There was nothing he could pick up.

But he could do his share in repairing Hogwarts. It would take his mind off last night; it would ease the pain that sang in his bones. It would keep him occupied for ages, if he didn't work too fast.

Perfect, he thought and slowly raised his wand to bring the huge gates back into position.

*****

Snape worked without a break until late afternoon. Then his legs gave way, and he sunk to his knees. He hadn't seen that coming; he had not felt the exhaustion creeping up on him and was quite surprised when his body so unceremoniously gave up service.

He was so hungry that it didn't feel like hunger anymore. His stomach was a burning stone inside his ice-cold body, but he knew that if he tried to eat he would throw up even the smallest bite. Sweating and shivering, he leaned against the wall, glad that there was no one else in the corridor he had been working in.

Maybe he had exaggerated a bit, he mused. For hours, he had been undoing damage, had mended holes in the stonewalls as well as dozens of broken windows. Time had flown past with swift wings – the sun would go down soon, and he figured he hadn't eaten a bite for more than forty-eight hours.

With a pained grunt he got to his feet again and stood, head hung low, in the empty corridor. Faintly, he could hear voices in the distance. Magic surrounded him – he wasn't the only one doing repairs, but he was the only one doing it alone. Earlier on, when students had come by, one look had been enough to make them reconsider their offer of help, and they had hurried away as quickly as possible. "Food," Snape murmured and felt sweat breaking on his brow. "Or maybe not."

Slowly, he put one foot in front of the other on his way back to the Great Hall. Not that he had any intention to join the ones who would dine there, but he wanted to be seen at least, wanted to prove to himself that getting close to others was possible, if not something he really wanted to do.

The voices grew louder, and the smell of meat and vegetables tickled his nose. Irritated, he realised that he had halted and now hid in a corner, a few steps away from the entrance of the Great Hall. Too many people, his mind whispered. Too much noise!

Clenching his fists, he took a step and another one with every intention to get in, to sit at his usual place at the High Table. There were still holes in the roof, and the stones were black from the fire that had blasted through Hogwarts; still, a peaceful mood reigned in there, heavy with joy at the fact that Voldemort was dead and the war finally over. He wanted to join them, his colleagues as well as his students, wanted to sit down with them, eat with them. He had taken sides just in time, had made it clear that he had been always Dumbledore's man, never the Dark Lord's.

He couldn't. Albus saw him standing in the doorway and beamed his ridiculously happy smile, some students from his house began to cheer and clap their hands, and...

There was Lupin. Damn, fucking Lupin, sitting between Sybill and Minerva. A moment ago, Snape hadn't seen him; then, the werewolf's head had snapped up as if he had smelled his childhood enemy. For a brief moment, their eyes met; for a heartbeat, time stood still. Then the small, hard stone that was the Potions master's stomach clenched even further and nearly forced a cry out of his lungs.

He turned and fled.

Down, always down and into his dungeons, into his private quarters he ran, not caring if someone saw him or might consider him out of his head. It was unimportant what others thought. The only thing that counted was what he thought and felt and how to come to terms with both.

A slam, and his door closed behind him, leaving the world locked outside. Inside, only darkness greeted him, accompanied by coldness. He didn't mind. Both were more than fine.

Snape sat slowly in his big wingchair by the empty fireplace. The hunger was forgotten; the dizzy feeling subsided. What was left was despair. Despair and the need to face facts he couldn't close his eyes to any longer. He had tried to ignore it all night and all day, to no avail, but now, after he had seen Lupin, it was necessary that he was at least honest to himself, if not to anyone else.

He had been cursed, had been as close to madness as possible. He had injured himself and tried to commit suicide. Lupin, a man he'd known for more than twenty years, had broken the curse simply by shagging him. Which was, of course, precisely the problem.

He had enjoyed it. Damn the gods, damn Merlin, damn every living being, he had enjoyed getting fucked by the wolf!

A low, strangled sound pierced the silence in the Potions master's room. His hands, both burning with pain seeping in from the injuries, clutched at the armrests. Snape really wanted to jump up, to pace, to run away from this fact. But he didn't. He had always mastered his own emotions, sparse as they had been. He had never lied to himself, and he wouldn't start now. Therefore, he opened his eyes wide and remembered.

Memories, crystal clear and brilliant in their colouring, overwhelmed him. Willingly, he gave in; willingly, he remembered the night of the final battle, the curse that had hit him, and the fact that he had fallen unconsciousness on the battlefield and woken up in his own rooms. There was no terror in those memories.

He hadn't dared to remember the actual breaking of the curse so far. Now he did.

Pain, excruciating pain in his broken wrist hindered him from moving. A moment ago, he had been fighting; now, he lay still and awaited... whatever. Something had to be done, and someone was there who would do whatever was necessary to ease his pain. Lupin. Lupin had made a promise, and somewhere in his madness-hazed mind, Snape trusted the werewolf to keep this promise.

Pain on his skin, burning, bleeding pain. Need in his groin. A faint smell of salve in the air and now touch, the touch of a hand, of skin against skin. Surprisingly enough, it didn't hurt, not much, anyway. The salve, he remembered thinking. The salve keeps the pain away.

Snape felt the werewolf freeze again so horribly suddenly. Shocked, he heard Lupin jerk away from him, eager enough to bring distance between them that he even fell off the bed.

Snape's eyes were wide, his teeth clenched. His right wrist throbbed sharply at the pressure it had to endure, pressure caused by to hard a grip around the armrest.

"Damn bastard," Snape whispered. "Damn, lousy bastard."

He had always suspected that the easy, friendly manner Lupin showed in their daily communication had been nothing but mockery. Now he was sure of it. Like Potter and Black, Lupin despised him. Always had and now would even more.

"How much he must have hated it," Snape said coldly to the darkness. "No wonder there was disgust in his eyes when he looked at me afterwards. I can be glad he didn't leave me bound to the bedpost until someone found me."

A dry laugh, and Snape got up, heading for the bedroom. So what? he thought. He's not the only one who's disgusted by me. Albus had been the first to say so two decades ago, and even today, most students think the same. I really should be used to it by now.

Carelessly, he let himself fall onto the bed, his dirty boots leaving ugly stains on the white sheets. The house-elves had cleaned up his rooms whilst he had been gone, but he didn't care. He would sleep, and in the morning, he would go back to work. He had been cursed before. He had been tortured before. He could cope with it.

Maybe, he would even learn how deal with the feeling of loss he had felt when Lupin had run from his rooms.