Chapter 6: Transforming.
The rain poured down so very heavily, that Remus was beginning to wonder why the windows and ceilings weren't caving in upon themselves. He looked at the lake, now a stormed up, deranged mass of grey, appearing more solid than liquid.

He realised that he looked unnaturally tired but then, most of the students wouldn't notice. Dumbledore, McGonagall and Snape all looked very strained and even Flitwick wasn't his usual red cheeked self.

Tonight was the night. Remus didn't know what had possessed him to even be here.

He wasn't just tired, he felt *cold*. His joints were stiff. He could tell that this transformation would be a particularly nasty one and he also knew, for certain now, that he'd never experienced one this bad, even when in his childhood.

"How's Sirius?" McGonagall leaned to him.

"I don't know," the werewolf admitted. "I haven't heard from him. He's probably recovering from a night with Lira."

"She's a wonderful woman." McGonagall agreed.

"They make a nice couple. It's quite funny how they avoid setting off each other's temper. I'm glad they're back together now, you can tell how much she's missed him, for her to take him back as readily as she did." He smiled absently.

"Not a moments hesitation." The Transfiguration professor smiled wearily.

Remus nodded. "Exactly."

"Hmmm..." she paused, beady eyes still on him. "What about *you* Remus?" She asked quietly. "That's whats really important now. Dumbledore said you were going through a particularly nasty time with it."

"Hah, it's not much... I'm still alive." As much as he wanted to try, he couldn't give his former teacher a reassuring grin.

"I should hope so, too!" She replied, not smiling, but her eyes shining brightly.

They returned to their breakfast for a while before Remus asked, "Have you noticed anything about Severus? He doesn't seem himself."

"Whatever that is," she retorted.

Remus nodded again.

McGonagall sighed. "To tell the truth, yes. I couldn't help noticing how, well, nervous he seems? I know he is being put under a lot of pressure, but he has been before, even more intense now that I come to think of it, yet he seems so much more highly strung."

"He flinches when you go near him." Remus added in an undertone, as Snape raised his head to exchange a few words with Flitwick. He was sure that the black eyes flitted towards him, for the briefest of moments.

"Aye... he just... clams up." She shook her head. "But he's always been like that, really."

"This time seems to be..." he trailed off. Snape was looking sidelong in their direction, his stare intense and seemingly curious.

"I know what you mean. I'm used to him shooting daggers with those eyes of his, but now he doesn't bother with even that." She drained her tea cup. "He keeps quiet and marks those dratted papers or reads huge tomes that aren't in English: it's a ploy to make sure that he can't afford to talk to he rest of us, and so we don't dare even try to talk to him."

"He's like that with everybody now?"

"Yes," she gave a short laugh. "*Everybody*. But he seems to make an exception for Flitwick, as you can see."

Of course. Remus could remember how they - as students - would feel a certain relief whenever they entered Flitwick's lessons. He was such a cheery, paternal character, in the more human way that Dumbledore wasn't, that you couldn't help feeling appreciated in his lessons, even if you failed miserably in everything. For someone like Snape, Flitwick must have provided the closest to a safe haven as someone like Snape could expect.

*

Lucius Malfoy *was* beautiful, there was no denying it.

It wasn't because of his looks either, or his physique or anything like what everyone else fancied him for, though.

It was just *him*.

He was pure. That was the only way to describe it. He wasn't like any other boy in Hogwarts. That was why Severus found him so beautiful.

It was so pathetic that someone like him - soiled goods, a worthless whore, a dirty little boy - could ever hope to be infatuated with a boy like Lucius and expect something in return, that every day, at the mere sight of him, Snape had to stop himself from running into the Forbidden Forest, never to be seen again. The embarrassment was so much and yet, he basked in Lucius' presence.

Every moment he spent with him, he wanted to touch his face. Maybe kiss his cheek, but mainly to touch his hair and face.

When they'd gone round to visit Grandfather Cohen, he, Eleni and Jona had also gone to a photo exhibition. The photos were basically pictures of real life situations, with the muggle artist being something of a peeping tom, but the showcase wasn't just interesting or controversial. It was inspiring.

Severus sighed.

He was beginning to turn into a deranged obssessive.

But they *were* wonderful. He'd overheard some muggle students say the same and it had rung true: the beauty of it all wasn't in the physical contact or its ordinarity, but the fact that it was surreal realism. It was all from a third viewpoint, an onlooker that managed to remain distant but personal as well. It was real life, but who would have though it? The lovely blonde woman who stood at a window, shutters on her windows open, with a grey dressing robe on - open to reveal that she was naked beneath it - speaking on her telephone seemed to be some enigmatic elemental, casually contacting her faerie home, looking down on the mortal realm below.

There was also the picture of the exhausted ballet dancers - three women, two men - sitting on a curb, in their rehearsal clothing, leaning on one another and two of them smoking. Then the photo of the two pregnant women in a cafe, one holding a bunch of flowers, her eyes remaining sad despite the friendly smile on her face.

They were pure as well. All of them. They weren't dirty; didn't let anyone touch them in places they didn't like. Why couldn't he be just like them?

It was all wrong now. *He* was all wrong now.

He could never be clean.

Never.

*

As always, it was dark. He could instinctively tell where he was along the tunnel. Slightly annoyed with himself, for not being able to see (wasn't it absurd?) he growled, "Lumos."

The light seemed to play itself down, as if it knew what his mood was.

A convulsion shook him, so he stopped and inhaled deeply. When the tremors had died down, he continued to make his way to the Shrieking Shack.

Things continued in this trend for around half an hour. The mahagony door in front of him was a symbol of temprorary relief for him: This was one of the many things he looked forward to. It meant he was near the end. Closer than he had been before.

He opened the door and stepped through it, his feet dragging behind him.

The couch was in front of him. Of course, it couldn't take his weight.

"Ah!" He gasped. The convulsion was much stronger. He felt as if his heart had stopped. As if he'd been electrocuted. Another came. Then two. They made him double over. He could feel himself twist and turn. He snarled., trying to gain control over his body.

**Stupid!** He mentally reprimanded himself. **What the hell are you doing? Why are you trying to stop it? Have you learnt nothing? Are you still the little boy you were?**

Visions came whirling in through his head: He could see a grinning, red faced Dumbledore, Crookshanks purring with a twitching Rat in his mouth; Snape lying on the floor, surrounded by black clothing, Flitwick holding a knife above the fallen form, bloody and savage.

The fur was now beginning to creep up; His skin was burning, some bastard had set it on fire.

It retreated when he clenched his teeth together and screwed his eyes tightly. It seemed to stop itself against its own urge. It hurt him. Why couldn't he just let it go? What was wrong with him?

"The flaaaaaaaames...." he murmured.

He collapsed.
*
"Shit!"

How long had this been going on? Since his second year?

"That bastard! He's... he's... ooooooh... and it's all my fault..."

He was lucky he was in the showers. The soapy water and his tears mingled. No one would hear him wail. No one would see the blood. Yes, he was bleeding again. The scratches had seemed to widen. His scars had reopened.

"Get it off..." he murmured. "Get it all off..."

Snape scrubbed and scrubbed at his body until his skin throbbed and even his cuts had stopped bleeding. That was how severely he scrubbed. With a metal scour. And soap.

He was so unclean. So dirty. It would never come off. Everyone would know. Hell, he swore that everyone *did* know.

Especially that James and his gang.

Between his legs, his chest, his neck and ears, everywhere where the bastard had touched him or kissed him or came upon him.

"Ooooooooowww..... Owwwww..... off... off...OFF DAMMIT!"

The water was beginning to turn pink. But only near him. He would scrub until the water was a dirty, grey-brown. Then he'd unplug the shower - bizarre, the plumbing here - and start on his hair.
* * *
TBC (sorry it took so long).