The sound of Albus Dumbledore's body hitting the ground seemed to echo in Severus Snape's head as he returned to his house on Spinner's End. Finally out of sight of both the Order and other Death Eaters, he allowed himself to tremble. And tremble he did, uncontrollably, from head to foot.
The old urge came up suddenly, overwhelmingly. It had been years since he'd felt it this strongly, and tonight, he knew he'd finally succumb. He had been strong enough to fulfill his promise to Dumbledore, but it had used up all of his strength for at least another week. He headed for the bathroom, ready to do the thing he hadn't done since his thirtieth birthday, when Poppy Pomfrey had told him to come and talk with her if he felt like doing it again.
After tonight, no one would care what he did.
He stepped into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, looking for the package of razors he knew was in there. He was grateful that he hadn't replaced the mirror that had broken (under circumstances Severus would rather not discuss); he didn't want to see himself doing this again. As he worked the razors out of their packaging, and out of the safety mechanism, he considered his history with cutting.
He'd started small, at thirteen, scratching his arms and upper thighs with a dull silver knife he'd found in a trunk full of his mother's old school things, and usually after his father had finished laying into him or her, or both. He'd progressed to a Swiss army knife Lily had given him for Christmas when he was fourteen, but he'd still stopped shy of really breaking the skin. Until that day. He'd called her "mudblood," she'd stopped talking to him, and he'd gone numb, so numb that superficial cuts would never be able to make him feel again.
Two weeks after his and Lily's falling out, Severus had locked himself in his bedroom at his parents' house, put on the last vinyl he and Lily had bought and spent hours listening to (Diamond Dogs by David Bowie) and spent the album's playing time cutting his chest. Small cuts, but deep enough to draw blood. As he'd watched the blood running down his torso, he'd felt a sense of relief. For the first time in weeks, he felt, well... Real. Grounded.
After that, it was a matter of keeping the Swiss army knife tucked away in a pocket, easy to grab after Potter and his cronies had harassed him again, or he'd gotten a less-than-perfect mark on his work, or if he was just feeling "off" for whatever reason. He'd lock himself in a stall in the boys bathrooms, or in an unused classroom, or in a medicinal potion storeroom on the fifth floor, that one time. His chest being too inconvenient and time-consuming to get to at those times, he'd started cutting his legs and arms. The slice, the pain, and the sight of fresh blood would ground him, and he could go on with his day as though nothing was wrong.
He'd realized early on that he didn't want to actually slash his wrists; he wasn't suicidal. He just needed the bite from the blade to bring him back to earth every now and again. As strange as it was, and as much as he worked to hide it, he thought there were worse ways of handling things. Like his father's habit of drowning whatever ailed him with Guinness.
He'd stopped cutting quite as often when he joined up with the Death Eaters. By then, he'd found himself advancing through the ranks faster than any of the other recruits from 1978, right in the Dark Lord's inner circle, and spying on Albus Dumbledore. When he looked back on these years and thought of why he'd stopped cutting so much, the only explanation he could come up with was, "I was too busy." He hadn't cut the night the Dark Lord announced his intent to hunt the Potters, to kill Lily. Instead, he'd reached out to Dumbledore, offering his services in exchange for Dumbledore's protection of the Potters.
Then he'd heard the news: Lily was dead. That night, after returning to his quarters, he'd cast a Muffliato on the hallway outside the door, locked the door as securely as possible, and carefully laid out his instruments.
The Swiss army knife was now too dull to make a cut in his skin, so he'd replaced it with a silver dagger, identical to the one he used to brew potions. Essence of dittany. A washcloth and basin of hot water with medicinal herbs in it. Towels. The layout -learned over the last six years and perfected to keep everyone else off his scent and prevent scarring- was perfect; he'd looked at it and thought, briefly, that it was a shame it would be ruined soon. The thought had barely crossed his mind before he picked up the dagger and, like a man possessed, began slicing, scoring, and stabbing every easily-covered inch of himself. His left forearm in particular was a wreck by the time he came out of it, nearly two hours later.
He hadn't done it to ground himself; he knew he'd never feel truly "grounded" again. This time, he'd done it just to try and relieve some of the horrible, crushing guilt and grief he was feeling. To punish himself for relaying that prophecy to the Dark Lord in the first place. Punishment for that day by the lake. For any and all of his sins and shortcomings, inadequacies and insecurities.
From that day, Severus had found himself back in his teenage habit of cutting every day, several times a day. Instead of finding empty classrooms, he'd retreat to his office between classes, where he kept his other silver dagger, and cutting away his sadness and self-disgust.
The only reason he'd stopped for good was that he'd accidentally gone too far, and cut too deep on his leg, hitting a major artery. If Poppy Pomfrey hadn't come down to the dungeon to check on his progress with the new batch of Pepperup Potion, he might well have bled to death in his office. Instead, she had poured dittany in the wound, given him several doses of Blood-Replenishing Potion, and told him to come to her anytime he felt like cutting in the future. When he'd protested, she'd replied, "Severus, I see this all the time. Do you really think you're the only person in this castle who's done it? You're not, and you won't be the last, either." She had refused to leave the dungeon until he'd given his word, really given it, that he would come to her if he was ready to cut again.
That was January 9 th , 1990, and since then Severus had kept his promise to Poppy. At first, it was every day, after the hospital wing was shut for the night and the students were supposed to be asleep. Then once every few days, then once a week, and finally, he would see her once in a blue moon. He'd found that the urge to cut never really went away, but he was able to master it the way he mastered everything else in his life: Compartmentalizing. If he didn't think about cutting, the impulse would pass, lying dormant until his next weak moment.
It had worked until Dumbledore had asked Severus to kill him last June. Until he'd made an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy. For the last year, Severus had felt an overwhelming urge to pull the silver dagger out of his desk drawer and let himself bleed out his anxiety and anger. This wasn't something he could talk to Poppy about; no one was to know of the plan besides him and Dumbledore. He'd become more vicious to students from all but his own house, and become less attentive to the Slytherins. He'd started drinking again, going through a quart of Ogden's Old Firewhisky every two weeks, and smoking cigarettes every moment he wasn't teaching classes or spying. Once in a while he'd pull the dagger out and trace it over his skin, telling himself this was what he needed. Not to cut, not to slice his skin, but just a taste. It had worked... Barely. But tonight, it wasn't worth it to make it keep working. He wanted this.
If he'd been thinking a little more clearly, he'd have grabbed his silver dagger out of his desk. He looked at the razor between his fingers; it seemed pathetically small, and for one moment, he thought that it would get stuck if he cut too deep. He snorted out loud at the thought, but all the same, he'd have preferred his sharp, heavy-handled dagger. He set the blade on the edge of the sink and took off his shirt, and after a moment, he went to his basement potions lab to get a bottle of dittany and a satchel of medicinal herbs, along with a shallow basin for water. If he was going to do this again, he thought as he made his way upstairs again, he might as well do it right.
He lined up his instruments on the toilet tank, the way he'd set them up on his potions bench fifteen years ago. Razor. Dittany. Clean washcloth and basin of hot water with the herbs steeping in it. Towels.
He picked up the razor and made the first, deep cut on his Dark Mark. As he watched the blood run bright red over the ugly black tattoo, he felt the beginnings of release. A second cut, not far from the first; more release. A third, further up his arm; a fourth on his chest. Five, six, seven; he stopped counting, preferring to lose himself in the ever-increasing feeling of relief. The pain was exquisite; he hadn't felt anything apart from tension for a long time. More cuts, more blood, more pain, more sweet relief.
He didn't know how much time had passed by the time he finished, slumped against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, blood running down and congealing on his arms, torso, and legs, and the air hitting his wounds and stinging like a thousand wasps. Tomorrow, this wouldn't matter; tomorrow, he'd probably look back at this and be disgusted with himself. But for now, he would revel in the pain and blood and release. For now, he felt real.