The nightmare was the same every time. It never had anything to do with Voldemort, though it probably should have. It would have made more sense then, instead of the sad, sweating state he awoke to. Not a scream when faced with the Cruciatus or Avada Kedavra... Just a pathetic whimper, quaking in his bed stained with sweat. It had been years since it had made him urinate in his terror.
In the end, he knew he simply had to endure it because he had no one to turn to. Not with this nightmare. Under other circumstances he might had gone to Dumbledore, if only for a way to rid himself of the terrible dream without having to resort to the unreliable, addictive, and side effect-laden dreamless sleep potion.
There had to be some way. To endure it for 20 years... Hadn't he paid his due? Certainly he could never make peace with it, but... A second whimper escaped.
Would he ever sleep unhaunted by his past?
A week later, with the nightmares worse each time sleep claimed him, he had to dispose of his bedding and magic the smell of urine from his rooms. The mounting threat of Voldemort was eating away at his self-control, which had been thin to start. It was a small blessing that he didn't have to deal with Black; Lupin had nearly driven him to madness. That other, and suicide would be the only escape.
He used the floo to contact the headmaster and let him know that he was incapable of teaching. It was an infrequent happenstance, but he waited for the day Dumbledore would inform him that if he could not fulfill his duty to the school then he was not wanted. In his own filth, he dreaded it, but knew it was no less than what he deserved, as he would throw the floo powder into the flames that failed to warm him. Nothing less than stepping into the flames while orange and red and yellow would warm him he was sure, and when Dumbledore told him to leave he figured he just might.
But no. Dumbledore just nodded, saying how he understood, that these things happened and it was a difficult month for everyone. Then the headmaster disappeared from the flames, leaving him to sit there in his mess for the entire day because that was what he deserved. Filth for filth. Of course no one would want anything to do with him, ever respect him...
To think they had believed him capable of killing Black. He was scared shitless of the man, and Black was fully aware of that fact. His hate was not enough to overcome his fear, only allowed him to put on a convincing mask. They thought him capable of murder and that was that was necessary.
It was a dangerous dream, to want to drop the mask so that someone might understand him. To actually hope for sympathy was too much, too big a weakness. Besides, if he had allowed himself to do so, hope would have died after 20 years of scorn and rejection because no one wanted to understand or give him sympathy. And that he could not allow to happen, couldn't allow the one thing he had that was his and his alone to die. He couldn't let that simple idea go.
He hoped one day things would get better, though not for himself. That wouldn't happen. He hoped that he was doing some good at Hogwarts for the students, but often had to balance it with the intense loathing for himself and everything around him. And he even hoped once in a great while that he might be able to live a normal life. Not a good life, but a normal one.
Hope. The only thing he had, and it was a rare beast.
The voice that had kept quiet for a week suddenly began whispering. No one would ever have to know. How could it hurt? How could it get worse than this? Everyone know the kinds of abuse that go on in boarding schools, even as prestigious as Hogwarts It's acceptable to seek help. Help over self-destruction.
Or would seeking help finally lead him to self-destruction on his own terms? Perhaps.
They'd never know. The details are less important than the effect; it would be easy enough to just--
NO.
The whispering went silent.
The whispering did not remain silent. It became more insistent as another week of sleep plagued with nightmares passed.
Do it, coward. Stand up for yourself for once because you want to. Not because you're afraid or want revenge, but because you want to.
He could almost hear Tom Riddle, not Voldemort, speak the words in his head.
Stand up for yourself; don't let them get away with this by wasting away, cowering in a dark hole. Rotting here while the one who helped them rape you sits in his high tower and smiles at you, down on you, because he knows he has you in a position you can never escape from.
Rape?
That "kindly" old man who only cares about you for as long as you give him what he wants. You're not irreplaceable to him, you know. If you die, he'll toss you aside with the other dead Slytherins he didn't care to save. He doesn't respect you, and certainly doesn't love you. If he did, he would have apologized by now.
It wasn't rape though. They never touched him like that. No one did.
Don't be so literal, you fool. What about your childhood? Rape isn't about the physical act, but the stripping away of your humanity. They held power over you and what did you have? Nothing.
No. No, it's not rape. I wasn't raped.
And when you tried to fight back the continued, getting even worse. And when you tried to tell someone, he rejected you completely. Don't you see? This entire school owes you for what a mess your life is, and yet here you stay, slaving away in it. Tell that old fool you won't let him use you anymore. Leave, find a job somewhere else. Go far away from the things that have all this power over you.
I... can't.
Then get help. Get the help you should have been given, and tell Hogwarts and the Ministry and England you've had enough of taking the blame. You've been raped and abused enough, and now it's time for you to start a healthy life. Get help. Get help, Severus. Be whole and human again.
"Whole and human..." If he could even remember what those things were.
END/?