Title: In Memory's Wake
Author: Cocoa-Snape (aka CocoaSnape)
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Disclaimer: No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
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PLEASE READ:
I feel it necessary to remind everyone that this story deals with sensitive themes going forward and throughout the story. I don't want to warn for these things before every chapter because a) it's annoying and b) it detracts from the chapter's impact.
So let me remind everyone of the themes of my story because apparently some are still not clear: Slash content, potentially disturbing content (such as references to pedophilia amongst other things), non-con/rape (not excessively graphic), violence, and mental illness/mental instability (this includes suicidal thoughts, self-harm, and all that not so nice stuff).
Please DO NOT read any further if you may be offended or tempted to flame.
Thank you.
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In Memory's Wake by CocoaSnape
Chapter 10: Darker and darker still
The Dark Lord was next to him, his dank, putrid breath against his ear as he whispered instructions, each more gruesome than the next. The last request rang in his ears, 'Make him bleed, Severus.'
The boy was whimpering below him, bright green eyes leaking tears as he moved closer to comply with the request.
Snape awoke with a scream. His body was heaving and he struggled to control his breathing. He stumbled towards his desk, his legs trembling so forcefully he had to crawl for part of the way. Reaching inside the top drawer, he retrieved his potions box. Searching through it frantically, he found the correct vial and downed it without preamble. Had anyone else done such a thing, he would have balked. These were powerful, addictive sleeping and anti-anxiety draughts that needed to be taken in small measured doses. But as his heartbeat began to slow and his mind began to clear, Snape welcomed the momentary relief without apology.
His liberal usage of potions over the past few days was causing him to build up a tolerance to many of them, and where once he might have worried about such things, he found he didn't give a second thought to the consequences. In his mind, he heard what Albus would say to him if he were standing there now, the words, 'post-traumatic stress disorder,' 'chronic,' and 'therapy,' ringing in his brain. How had he gotten to this place?
Oddly, he could barely remember what it felt like to be happy. He'd been deliriously happy only a week ago, and had been for the two months he and Harry had been together. Now, he was the further thing from it.
It was as though a light switch had been turned on – or perhaps off – in his brain. All the happiness was gone, and in its wake, he had returned to that terrible place he'd resided in months ago. Except far worse; things seemed to be getting darker and darker still with every passing moment. He felt himself losing everything, losing himself to this madness.
Over the past few days, whenever he'd laid eyes upon something in his quarters that reminded him of Harry, he'd reacted irrationally. Two days ago, when he'd found Harry's robe, he'd hid it out of sight behind his dresser. Last night, although he'd taken far too much Dreamless Sleep, he'd not been able to sleep in his own bed. Now, he could barely go into the bedroom – memories of him and Harry together there would flood him and leave him gasping on the floor. It had gotten to the point where he only ventured there to use the bathroom.
This morning, while trying to steal some sleep on the sofa, the wool rug in front of the hearth caught his eye. He and Harry had made love there many times. The thought caused his chest to tighten and he'd broken out into a cold sweat, a panic attack descending on him without warning. And so he'd rolled up the rug with a wave of his wand and levitated it to his corner closet, out of sight.
But it didn't matter how many of Harry's things he'd hidden, his traitorous mind kept bringing those horrible memories to the surface. He was using all his strength to hold his mental wards, but he was slowly becoming convinced that he was losing his mind – if one could know such a thing, that is. He kept re-experiencing that dreadful night – in dreams and flashbacks – and even though he knew intellectually that he wasn't in that place anymore, he couldn't rationalize his way to that conclusion. His mind made it real, and every moment of it was agony.
Snape really had thought things would be getting better by now, that the time away from Harry would slowly begin to set his mind straight. But the truth of the matter was, he was only getting worse. He'd already missed two days of classes on the pretext of being ill with the flu. And where that once might have troubled him, he found he didn't care in the least.
He was exhausted from the lack of sleep and the last few nights had been nothing short of torment, lying awake for hours in the darkness, his mind conjuring one disturbing memory after another. Where once these moments of distress were brief and infrequent, it was now the moments of clarity that were becoming increasingly rare. He was lucky to find enough of them so he could sometimes eat and maybe even catch some fitful minutes of sleep.
Nothing made sense to him anymore. All of the questions he'd been struggling with a few months ago were resurfacing, with greater intensity and urgency. Was he going to get through this? Could he be around Harry without losing his mind? Would he ever be able to? And ringing in his brain, the main question: why, oh why had he subjected Harry to his life? How could he have been so heartless, so cruel to the one person he loved above all others?
A chime sounded and broke Snape from his reverie. Glancing at the clock, he realized it was noon and remembered that Dumbledore had asked him up for lunch. Somehow he managed to get dressed, half surprised at his desire to go. These days, it was these distractions, however miniscule, that delivered those precious moments of lucidity.
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Dumbledore knew his friend needed help, and soon at that. The mere suggestion the other day that Severus should seek the advice of a therapist had caused the younger wizard to erupt in anger and usher him out of the room. Although Severus had dismissed the idea out of hand, it was needless to say that Dumbledore had not been persuaded.
In fact, he'd spent much of the last day carefully considering this problem. There were a few trained specialists on staff at St. Mungo's, but seeing one would require going through official channels. That would be too public and complicated, if not impossible, to conceal.
The other matter, of course, was confidentiality. Could any of them be trusted absolutely – either by oath or by charm? The Headmaster highly doubted it. He knew that without a safe and secure space, Severus would never agree to speak with anyone.
A knock on the door interrupted Dumbledore's thoughts, and a moment later, the subject of them entered. Dumbledore was glad to see that Severus had come as he'd promised to, but was distressed to see the dark circles under his friend's eyes.
"How are you, Severus?"
Snape ignored the question, asking one of his own instead. "Did you speak with…" Snape paused, unable or unwilling to finish.
"Harry?" Dumbledore finished. "Yes, I spoke with him yesterday morning. Although I can't say I had much choice in the matter since you locked him out of your wards."
"Thank you, Albus."
Dumbledore could discern the relief on Severus's face; evidently he hadn't been sure that he was going to grant him this favor. Thinking that now was perhaps the best time to press his advantage, Dumbledore began lightly, "I asked you here, Severus, because I wanted to continue our discussion."
"Concerning?"
"Concerning you speaking with someone."
Dumbledore could see Severus's expression chill at once. "What is there left to talk about? I thought I made it clear that it's ridiculous and there's no need," Snape said flatly.
"No need?" Dumbledore asked in disbelief. "I found you yesterday morning having nearly drunk yourself to death."
"Stop being so dramatic, Albus. I had a few glasses of scotch and fell asleep."
"You think I'm being dramatic?" Dumbledore paused thoughtfully for a moment, then added, "Yesterday, when I suggested you seek help, you all but threw me out of your quarters. Why do you think that is?"
"It's not a complicated question, Albus," Snape replied mildly. "I don't want to see anyone. I don't need to."
"Do you honestly believe that?"
"I don't think anyone can help me."
Ah, Dumbledore thought, a rare moment of honesty. Or perhaps it had just been an accidental admission, but it was progress nevertheless.
"It wouldn't hurt to try, Severus." Dumbledore leaned forward in his chair and suggested gently, "I think you are not doing as well as you say you are, my boy." He could see Severus preparing to interrupt, so he put up his hand. "Just listen for a moment. I can sense… and no, Severus, not by Legilimency, but I can sense that you are rapidly retreating back to that place you were in before the Holidays."
Snape snorted at that, doing his best to convey his skepticism. But the truth was, he knew he was not only in that place, he was beyond it in more ways than one. The thought prompted him to re-intensify his mental walls. The last thing he needed now was for Albus to deduce how fragile his state of mind was.
"Severus, it seems to me that you're relapsing."
"You make it sound like I have a disease," Snape mocked.
"It is a disease; make no mistake about it. And at the moment you're medicating it with alcohol, and from the look of your pupils, an assortment of potions as well."
Snape studied the floor.
"Severus, given all you've been through, I am very concerned you may be in danger of a psychotic break." Severus's head snapped up sharply at that statement, and he studied the elder wizard with something akin to shock. Dumbledore continued softly, "You've suffered more than anyone should, Severus, and I am very worried for you and what might happen to you if you don't get some help. And so I'm taking every measure in my power to bring you that help whether you want it or not."
Dumbledore diverted his gaze to the door of his private study. It didn't take long for Snape to understand.
"You have someone in there?"
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed, nodding slightly.
"Now?" Snape asked incredulously.
"Yes."
"Damn you, Albus. What did you tell him?" he asked, anger edging into his voice.
"I didn't tell her anything."
Dumbledore was aware that Severus was about ready to explode. He tried to mitigate Severus's outrage as best he could. "Please believe me, Severus, I said not a single word about your situation, just that you were a close friend who needed to see someone about an important matter. That's all."
"I can't believe this!" Snape snapped. "I can't believe you."
"I've already cast a secrecy charm on her. Once you shake hands, it will be binding. Everything you say will be completely confidential."
"Spells can be broken," Snape asserted.
"This is as secure a spell as I can manage."
Snape said nothing to that. If Dumbledore thought the spell was secure, it probably was. He tried a different tact. "Who the hell is this quack?"
"Her name is Felicia and she's a skilled therapist. She was on staff at St. Mungo's a few years ago. She has her own private practice now."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"She's my cousin Victor's fiancé – that's how I got her here on such short notice."
"So you two are friends?" Snape asked suspiciously.
"More like acquaintances. And in case you're wondering," Dumbledore added, well aware of what Severus's next argument was going to be, "the secrecy charm extends to me as well."
"As if you can't break your own charm," Snape accused.
"Severus, are you telling me that the remote possibility of me learning about your conversation is the real reason for your hesitation?"
Silence.
"I've been told she's very good." A long pause. "Please, Severus, do this for me. I'll wait for you here."
Dumbledore was more than a little bit shocked that Severus assented to speaking with Felicia without much more argument – he'd been sure that he was in for a long battle. He'd been waiting in the sitting room for nearly an hour now, filled with nervous anticipation and curiosity about Severus's conversation. He'd told Severus the truth about not being able to get any details from Felicia, but he could at the very least express his concerns about Severus to her and perhaps get a sense about how their conversation generally went.
Apparently that wouldn't happen, however, as at that moment Felicia stormed out of the study, muttering something Dumbledore was sure was a curse under her breath. She grabbed her coat and headed for the Floo.
"Felicia, is everything alright?"
"No it is not, Albus. I really must be going."
"Things didn't go so well I take it?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Felicia, will you please reconsider leaving? I can offer you―"
The tall witch interrupted, "I came only as a favor to you, Albus – you've always been very kind to me, but I cannot come back. I can't tell you what he said, of course, but what I can tell you is that if you paid me my weight in galleons, it would not be worth putting up with his debasing contemptuous shit."
Dumbledore's eyes bulged, completely taken aback by her harsh words. "I understand Severus can be difficult, insensitive even, but if you could put aside those feelings for the―"
"Give me some credit, Albus," she interrupted. "I spent over an hour with him. His personality I can tolerate, or at least try to, but not him wasting my time." At Dumbledore's questioning glance, she continued, "I can't tell you specifics of course, but he spent the past hour spinning a lie about his reason for seeing me."
"So he told you nothing?"
"He told me plenty. And be glad you put up that secrecy charm; you don't want to know the cockamamie story he told me."
Dumbledore was dismayed. He had really hoped Felicia might help Severus. "Will you come back?"
"There's no point, Albus. I can tell you that he's already made up his mind that I'm the last person on earth he'd ever speak candidly with."
"I see. Perhaps someone else then?"
"A long shot at best," Felicia replied. "He has no interest in therapy whatsoever, Albus. I wish you luck."
After Felicia vanished in the Floo, Dumbledore entered his private study to find a very smug Severus Snape sitting comfortably behind his desk. He looked more like himself than he had in days.
"What on earth did you say to her?" Dumbledore asked, with more curiosity than vexation.
"Quite a bit, but I don't think you really want to know."
"Perhaps I can talk to Victor and convince her to come back."
"Hmm, I highly doubt that. I don't think she'll want to see you again… not after I told her about all those sexual fantasies you've been harboring for her."
Dumbledore paled slightly. "Tell me you didn't."
Snape was really in his element now. He couldn't remember the last time his mind had had something so innocuous to focus on. He held onto it as a small child would their blanket. "Think of how your cousin will feel when he finds out that that's why you've been so 'kind' to his fiancée. Poor Victor," Snape mocked.
Dumbledore took a seat, exhaled deeply and asked, "Are you trying to make me angry, Severus?"
"Is it working?" Snape asked with a smirk.
"Just tell me, did you really tell Felicia that I was attracted to her, or are you just making that up?"
"No, I told her you lusted after her… and with vivid detail."
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and studied his friend for a moment before asking with complete calm, "And why did you do that?"
"Why not?"
"Do you really think she believed you?"
"She stormed out of here, didn't she?"
"I envision you said a great many insensitive things to her. I can't even imagine the extent of them, to be honest."
"Yes, but I think this one rather hit home," Severus said.
"If she did by some chance believe you, Severus, I imagine Victor would set her right immediately. Tell me, what is it you're really trying to accomplish here, besides sabotaging your therapy?"
Dumbledore could see that Severus was rapidly losing interest in speaking with him. And it became apparent that he'd been hoping to pick a fight with Dumbledore about this, to prompt some form angry reaction regarding his comments to Felicia. An altercation of any kind would give him focus, focus on something other than the disaster that was his mind. Severus was now staring intently at the floor.
"What is it, Severus?"
No response.
"Talk to me… what are you thinking, my boy?"
"I've had enough of this. Goodnight." Snape was down the stairs and out of the Headmaster's quarters in a flash.
Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, sunk deeper in his chair and summoned a glass and a bottle of brandy.
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Snape couldn't quite remember the last time he'd felt so in control of his mind, so able to focus on something other than his deteriorating mental state than he had in that meeting with that woman. But the answer was a simple one. One week ago he'd been that well. Before.
And now, just a few hours after he'd met with Felicia in Dumbledore's office, he found himself half-drunk and lying on the bare stone floor in front of the hearth. The unexpected meeting had given him purpose and focus, if only for a limited amount of time. He'd been incensed with Albus's covert effort to involve him with such a person; so much so that he'd been determined to make sure the elder wizard didn't try such a tactic again. Perhaps he'd gone a bit overboard, but he felt certain that the message was delivered with explicit clarity. He didn't want to see anyone or talk to them about what was going on. In fact, what he wanted above all else, was for everyone to just go away and leave him alone.
Staring at the fire the elves had lit for him against his instructions, Snape's mind began to race and his frenzied thoughts crept to the surface. He'd had two days off from teaching. Dumbledore expected him back to work tomorrow – how on earth was he going to do that?
How many more days could he pretend to have the flu, he wondered. Two more perhaps; that would at least get him to the weekend. And then what? He knew he had a very thin grip on sanity as it was, and stepping into that classroom would only cause him to let go.
The thought caused Harry's image to float into the forefront of his mind. For not the first time that evening, the resulting onslaught of other, much darker images followed.
The Dark Lord's sick laughter.
The flashbacks had been growing steadily worse, invading his mind like never before, every second seemingly lasting for an eternity. He was completely exhausted, mentally and physically, yet his mind would not grant him the respite he needed to rest.
Tears streaming down that all too familiar face.
He almost started to cry then himself, whether it was from that horrible mental image, his exhaustion, or lack of control over himself, he did not know. His mind had betrayed him, dredging up the awful moments of that night one after another, not letting him forget for a moment. Snape summoned another bottle of Scotch and poured himself a refill.
'I'm begging you, please don't do this.'
Why had he rejected Dumbledore's help? Because he resented the offer? In part. Because,as he had said, he didn't think anyone could help him? In part. But the best answer was that he didn't want help. Perhaps part of him wanted to lose himself to insanity. After all, given what he'd done, did he deserve anything else?
The Dark Lord's nostrils flaring with excitement as he stepped off his throne, moving swiftly toward the figure trembling at his feet.
Recognizing that he was hyperventilating, Snape downed the amber liquid in his glass with a single gulp. Angry at his weakness, he slammed the glass down on the floor, causing the crystal to shatter into tiny pieces in his hand. The pain was sharp and immediate. And after the initial shock of it, Snape found himself mesmerized by the feeling. Whether it was the distraction from his thoughts or the endorphins, he wasn't sure, but it felt good.
He avoided looking at his hand. He didn't want to see the blood, didn't want another painful reminder, but he could feel how wet his hand was. Very slowly, Snape started to make a fist. At the first stab of pain, he winced and opened his hand again.
Oddly enough, his breathing was slowing, becoming more regular for perhaps the first time that evening since the flashbacks had started. Propelled by those brief seconds of lucidity, he shut his eyes tightly, and made a fist once more, groaning aloud as the tiny crystalline shards imbedded deeper into his flesh. He squeezed harder, forcing the glass beneath his flesh.
Snape sighed at the pain and fell into a much-needed sleep as the crimson rivulets seeped onto the stone floor.
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Author's note: Thank you to everyone for your reviews of the last chapter. So I lied about Snape meeting Harry this chapter. Not deliberately… I had intended it to happen, but found I had rather too much to cover regarding Snape's mental breakdown. I'm already well into the next chapter, so the wait shouldn't be so long.
In the next chapter, Snape's mental decline continues. Dumbledore makes some suggestions to no avail. Severus and Harry finally meet face to face.
Thank you Molvanian Queen-In-Exile and Ketsurui (my awesome betas) for their help, advice and encouragement.
Also, for all you Unexpected Grace fans, I just updated that story as well this past weekend, so go check it out!
Feedback is always appreciated.