Not All Scars are Visible

Chapter Three: In Which There is Pondering on Scars and Nightmares, and Remus Borrows a Potion.

"No, stop...no..." the sound of the tortured moans cut into Remus' slumber. Deep inside him, the wolf reared its head, protective instincts aroused. His packmate was hurting. No one was allowed to hurt his packmates; they were his, his to defend...

The low, threatening growl that emerged from Remus' throat startled him fully awake. He lifted his head from the pillow, turning automatically toward the couch where Sirius was sleeping. The other wizard was twitching and writhing in his sleep, face contorted into an expression of terror, breath coming in protesting gasps. "Please, no..."

"Sirius." Remus was out of his bed and beside the couch in two bounds. "Wake up." He shook Sirius's shoulder gently.

Blue eyes popped open and stared wildly around, unfocused and filled with fear.

"It's okay, Padfoot; it was only a dream."

Sirius was shaking, face white and eyes ringed with shadows, their pupils huge and dilated. Slowly, he focused on Remus, and sense began to seep back into those haunted eyes.

"You were having a nightmare," Remus said. "Screaming bloody murder. I woke up and thought someone was attacking us."

Sirius drew a shuddering breath, sitting up and putting his head in his hands. "Bloody sodding dreams," he muttered into his hands. "I don't know which are the worst: the ones where Harry is dead, the ones where the dementors are coming for me, or the ones where Lily and James..." his voice trailed off.

Remus laid a hand on Sirius's arm, feeling muscles quivering uncontrollably under his palm, and skin cold as ice and covered with goosebumps. Not good.

"Come on, Sirius, it's okay. Harry is safe is Gryffindor tower and the dementors are all penned up in Azkaban."

"No they're not." Sirius pulled his hands away from his face and glanced up at Remus through tangles of hair pulled loose from its ponytail by his tossing and turning. "They're out. You didn't hear it from Ron? It was all over the Gryffindor common room when I went to check on Harry. They left. The Death Eaters came last night and they all left." His voice sounded odd, distant and far too calm. "They could be anywhere." He looked down again, still shivering and rubbing absentmindedly at his scarred wrists.

Remus felt the hairs on the back of his own neck rising at the news, but managed to conceal the reaction. He reached over and turned Sirius's face toward his, forcing his friend to meet his eyes. "Calm down. You're being irrational. Nothing can hurt you inside Hogwarts, you know that."

Sirius sighed and leaned his face into Remus's hand, like a dog seeking reassurance. "Yeah, I know that, but apparently my unconscious doesn't."

Remus settled himself down onto the couch next to his friend, one arm around the bony shoulders. Too bony, definitely thinner than they had been even last week. He didn't think Sirius had gotten so much as one decent night's sleep since the boggart incident a week ago, and the nightmares were getting more and more frequent. And this new defection of the dementors to Voldemort couldn't possibly have helped.

"You really are a mess, Padfoot," he said gently. "I thought we agreed I was supposed to be the unstable one in this relationship."

That got him a faint attempt at a smile. "You are unstable. You get worse PMS than my sister used to." The attempted smile crumbled away again. "It's not your fault I turned out to be neurotic."

"You're not neurotic. Look, do you think you can handle it if I leave for a few minutes? I'm going to go down to the kitchen to get you some hot chocolate."

"Moony, you don't have to do that."

"Listen to the DaDA professor: you need chocolate. I'll bring back two cups. Spiked with Bailey's." Remus pulled himself to his feet and headed for the door, but not for the kitchen, at last, not immediately. Sirius's chocolate was going to be spiked alright, but judging by the fact that his friend still had not stopped shaking, he was going to need something stronger than Bailey's.

Remus didn't relish going to Snape's quarters, but there was no other way to get what he wanted at this time of night, and, really, no other person he could afford to obtain it from. Poppy Pomfrey would see through his lies in a moment, would know the potion wasn't meant for him, and he couldn't afford to have her wondering whom it was really intended for.

Miraculously, not only did he make it all the way down to the dungeons without encountering Peeves, but when he paused outside Snape's office, he found the door open a crack, a thin line of light seeping out from underneath it. Apparently, he wasn't the only one up late.

Tentatively, he knocked on the door.

"Who in Merlin's name is it?" Snape's voice snarled. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Some hours after midnight, I would guess," Remus answered, nudging the massive wooden door open slightly and stepping into the doorway. It was surprisingly deep for all it's low height and narrow width—the doors in the dungeon were built for strength.

The glow from the twin pair of candlesticks on Snape's desk danced eerily across the score of glass jars lining the room's stone walls, the flicking illumination giving a grotesque appearance of movement to the largely unidentifiable objects floating therein, and refracting a hypnotic pattern of liquid ripples onto the ceiling. The candlelight also illuminated Snape's scowling face as he sat behind the desk, bent, quill in hand, over a pile of scolls.

"It looks like I'm not the only one having trouble sleeping."

"Lupin. Is it not enough for you to wreak havoc on the nights of the full moon? Must you extend your nocturnal depredations to the rest of the month as well?"

Lupin, trying to muster a suitably polite and nonconfrontational answer, was interrupted in mid-thought as what he had assumed to be a stuffed crow perching on a corner on Snape's desk suddenly moved, turning its head and regarding him with a glittering, unblinking stare unnervingly reminiscent of its master's.

"Wolf," it announced in an odd, croaking voice. "Wolf. Ten points from Grif-in-dor." It let out a cackle disturbingly similar to Snape's own malicious laughter.

"Excellent observation," Snape said silkily, lips twitching in a thin, amused smile.

"Sev-a-rus," the bird croaked, hopping sideways and cocking its head hopefully. "Raat?"

"You may as well cease that now, Caius. I assure you, it is not the slightest bit endearing."

"Rat? Raat?"

"No. And you can't have any of those pickled newts' eyes either; they're for the third-years' class tomorrow."

"Is that Caius?" Remus asked, mildly surprised. "I didn't know you still had him."

"Great Ravens live for an exceedingly long time," Snape said in a slightly snappish tone, clearly embarrassed to have been caught showing affection toward anything. "Sometimes they even outlive their owners. You of all people ought to know that"

"That wasn't exactly what I meant."

"I know. He came back after I started teaching here." His expression discouraged further comment.

Aside from their unusually long lifespans, Great Ravens were known for two things: their high intelligence, and their unwillingness to serve any wizard they judged unworthy. It was a rare dark wizard who managed to hold on to a Great Raven as a familiar, though they often kept other members of the corvidae family. Of course, there had been some speculation back in their student days as to whether the unusually small Caius was actually a Great Raven at all—Sirius had always opined that he was simply a rather moth-eaten crow with social pretensions.

"I assume you didn't come poking your nose into my dungeon merely to discuss my familiar, Lupin," Snape said, changing the subject. "What are you after?"

This was going to be awkward.

"Well, ah, there was a certain kind of potion I needed, and I would prefer not to go to Poppy about it."

"And so you thought you'd come whining to me?" Snape's voice was sneering. "What do you want; you won't need the wolfsbane for at least another five days."

How was he going to ask this without giving too much away?

"I was wondering if you would mind mixing up a dreamless sleep potion for me," Remus said, feeling his face heat slightly as he anticipated the blast of sarcasm he was surely about to receive.

He was not disappointed.

"Oh, is the poor werewolf having trouble sleeping? We can't have our esteemed Dark Arts professor performing under par because he's tired—not that anyone would notice a difference anyway."

Nevertheless, Snape got to his feet and crossed the room to open a wooden cabinet on the far wall, withdrawing a small blue bottle. He pulled out the stopper and decanted a small amount into a glass vial from a stack on one shelf, then thrust it ungraciously into Remus' hand.

"Here," he snapped. "Put two drops into something liquid and drink it. Be careful; it's very powerful and I don't know if it's ever been tested on werewolves."

"What is it?" Remus regarded the liquid in the vial gingerly. He wouldn't put it past Snape to try and poison Sirius (or at least, subject him to some rather unpleasant side effects), but the Potions Master could have no way of knowing who the potion was actually intended for, so it should presumably be safe. Still...

"Wormwood and asphodel, among other things. It can be highly addictive if overused, so don't come asking me to give you more when that runs out. And don't try to brew up more on your own; you'll get the proportions wrong and end up poisoning someone." Seeing Remus' raised eyebrows, he added: "I happened to have it on hand, and I'm not sure that something weaker would work properly on you anyway. I could mix you up some animal tranquilizers, if you'd prefer."

"No, this will be fine, thank you," Remus assured him, refusing to rise to the bait.

As he left Snape's office, he inspected the vial in his hands thoughtfully, a stray tendril of curiosity prickling in the back of his mind. If the Draught of Living Death (he had never been a potions expert, but he remembered what potion wormwood and asphodel went into) was "very powerful" and "highly addictive", how was it that Snape "just happened" to have a bottle—a half empty bottle—of it in his office cabinet? And why had he given any of it to Remus at all?

^_~

Snape glowered at the door viciously as it thudded shut softly behind Lupin's departing form. Already, he was regretting having given the DaDA professor any aid whatsoever, let alone that particular little mixture. Oh, it would work, he had no doubt of that; experience would have told him so even if professional pride did not. But now the werewolf would be curious, would wonder why he would have such a thing in his office, would, perhaps, pinpoint some vulnerability in his offer of help, however ungracious it had been.

It had been an impulsive act, an abrupt decision with no forethought involved, prompted by a moment of sympathy that he had no intention of ever revealing to the other man and was even now regretting. Nightmares...no wonder Lupin always looked like hell. If the werewolf were desperate enough to come to him, and to come in the middle of the night, red-eyed and obviously sleep deprived, it would not be over a mere handful of bad dreams. No, it would take the kind of dreams that jolted you awake screaming and sweating, the kind that ripped open all the scars on your soul and left the wounds of memory fresh and bleeding, the kind that came again and again, until the haunting specter of them drove away even the thought of sleep. The kind of dreams that led you to discover that the quiet hours of the night were an ideal time to grade essays, and to remember that many potions worked best when brewed between midnight and four a.m.

Firmly, Snape returned his attention to tonight's stack of essays, making an involuntary sound of disgust when he saw the name printed timidly atop the next one.

"Longbottom."

Caius twitched his feathers slightly at the sound of the name and cackled softly. "Boom. Ten points from Grif-in-dor."

^_~

Next up, Chapter Four: In Which Neville Longbottom Melts a Cauldron and Snape and McGonagall Argue.

There will be snark, insults, collateral damage, and Unresolved Sexual Tension.

^_~

Chapter Four: In Which Neville Longbottom Melts a Cauldron and Snape and McGonagall Argue.

The fifth-years' Potions lesson had started off unusually well. Snape had pointed to the list of potions ingredients on the board and snapped off the instructions for making a Binding Potion, then had returned to the front of the classroom to stand there vulture-like and glower at the students, as if daring them to so much as put a foot wrong. For Snape, this was comparatively pleasant behavior—Snape in a bad mood would already have made at least one sneering remark about Hermione, snarled three or more about Harry, who had been rather jumpy since the news of the dementors' defection had gotten out and thus presented an even easier target than usual, and would have taken at least two points from one of the Gryffindors for some awesome transgression such as taking notes with a scratchy quill, or stirring his cauldron in the wrong direction.

Everyone should have known that it was too good to last.

Snape had begun making his round of the classroom, peering into cauldrons to inspect the color and viscosity of potions, criticizing Gryffindors and praising Slytherins ("excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," "too much ground convolvulus vine, Mr. Finnigan,"). Somehow, he could be more threatening just standing behind you and watching than most teacher could be when bending over one's final exam with a red-inked quill in hand. Dean Thomas had once remarked that "He could give looming lessons to Bela Lugosi."

It was when Snape swept over to critique Neville's potion (wearing the self-satisfied smile of a predator scenting prey) that disaster struck.

"Mr. Longbottom," he purred silkily, seemingly materializing out of nowhere to appear at Neville's elbow. "Just what do you think you are doing?"

Neville jumped involuntarily and let out a squeak of startled fight. As he did so, the empty beaker he had been holding in one hand (having obviously just emptied the contents into his potion) fell into his cauldron with a resounding splash, sending liquid flying.

All of the students near Neville jumped hastily away, but a few were not quick enough. Pansy Parkington let out an agonized shriek as the substance—which bore very little resemblance to a Binding Potion—drenched the arm of her robe. Blaise Zabini echoed her cry with a howl of pain, and Lavender and Parvati, though barely sprinkled, began whimpering. Neville, miraculously, was untouched.

Snape stood, face white with rage and a vein in his temple throbbing. Caustic steam was rising off his black robes.

"Thirty points from Gryffindor! I said add one drop of sundew gel, not the entire bottle. Congratulations, Longbottom, you've managed to produce an astonishing facsimile of pure lye. OUT! Get out of my classroom! Don't come back! Everyone within a ten-foot radius of Mr. Longbottom, report to the infirmary."

The class fled.

^_~

"Severus," Minerva McGonagall demanded, her voice harsh and angry, "What's this about you throwing Neville Longbottom out of your potions class? What have you done to the poor child now?"

"That talent-less little brat has damaged my classroom for the last time, Minerva. He's a danger to himself and everyone around him, totally spineless and unable to concoct even the most elementary first-year potion unless Hermione Granger is hissing directions in his ear." Snape's voice was vindictive, and his face set in a contemptuous sneer. "He's not coming back down to my dungeon again, except to serve out his week of detention."

It was so completely and blatantly unfair that Minerva could maintain civility no longer. "If ability was required to let a student remain in a class, I would have thrown you out of Transfiguration in your fourth year. You can't kick him out of potions; it's a required course. And if you fail him, I'll take it directly to Dumbledore. I've had enough of your outrageous partisan favoritism, Snape! Or is it just coincidence that none of the Slytherins ever fail Potions, when Crabbe and Goyle could only scrape up a C through divine intervention? For God's sake, Neville is absolutely terrified of you. Of course he can't learn in that environment, not when you start each class automatically assuming he will fail."

"He's terrified of me?" The exclamation fairly dripped with sarcasm. "The child is a positive menace! I could have been blinded, Minerva! I had to send five students to the infirmary with second-degree burns as it is."

There was an odd, strained tone in his voice. For the first time, she noticed the pink patches of healing skin on his face, remnants of second and third degree burns. One of them was a quarter-inch away from his eye.

"Oh my god, Severus, have you been to Madam Pomfrey about those?"

"No. I've had ample experience patching myself up."

Minerva felt an instant and unwelcome surge of guilt. Severus had to be under a fair amount of emotional strain; he'd always been pale and thin, but lately he'd been looking even more consumptive than usual, and his temper had gotten even shorter. Under the circumstances, his explosion at Neville was perfectly understandable—No! No damnit, it was not! It was cruel and biased and... And considering that he had been drenched in caustic slime and really had been a quarter-inch away from being blinded...

"He actually frightened you, didn't he?" she blurted out in surprise. "That's why you over reacted."

"I did not over react," he snapped. "And I am not letting that child back into my class. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life looking like a younger, slightly less paranoid version of Mad-Eye Moody!"

"You have to let him back in, Severus," Minerva said, softening her voice to a more persuasive tone. "As I said, Potions is a required course. Dumbledore won't let you kick him out. And you can't expel him either, only a student's Head of House can do that, and I won't."

He didn't respond, merely glared at her in sullen silence.

"Neville's not really such a bad student," she continued. "Sometimes you just need to spend a little more time explaining things to him."

"The prospect of getting extra attention from me would probably make Longbottom faint from fear, and I doubt either one of us would survive the experience. At least, not intact."

"Your main objection to him seems to be his lack of skill at potions, and nothing is going to remedy that but attention and work. Perhaps you could assign another student to tutor him."

"Among those few students who are good enough to qualify as a tutor, there are none whom I would wish to inflict Longbottom on." He sneered faintly. "Draco Malfoy is at the top of the class, but if I assign Longbottom to him and the child causes some sort of disaster—which he inevitably will—and injures him, then Lucius Malfoy will either hire someone to assassinate me or file a lawsuit."

Minerva's lips twitched in spite of herself. Never in a million years would she admit that Snape's impossibly snide commentary was, occasionally, amusing—but the mental image of Lucius Malfoy trying to decide who to owl first, the lawyer or the hit man, was so perfectly on target that she couldn't quite conceal her response. Still, the continued disparaging of Neville was needlessly cruel.

"How do you know that Neville will 'cause some sort of disaster?' Perhaps he might perform better when not in a state of constant terror. The only thing more distracting for a student than being afraid of your teacher is fancying them." Snape's eyes narrowed at her abrupt segue, but she pressed on. "Students can do the most endearing things then. Drop their wands when you speak to them. Forget the answers to questions. Accidentally transfigure an orange into a set of woman's lingerie..." Minerva let a small, triumphant smile linger around her lips. She was not above a spot of blackmail for a good cause. Pale people blushed so easily, she mused inwardly. Though maybe it was a flush of anger—Snape usually looked angry anyway, so it was difficult to tell the difference.

"Tell Longbottom he is to report to the Potions classroom at two o' clock Saturday afternoon for a tutoring session with Miss Granger—in addition to his detention, which still stands. Miss Granger can consider it an extra credit project; she's been badgering me about assigning one all semester."

Minerva's smile broadened, though she was careful to keep it from turning into a smirk. One mustn't appear too proud in victory; Severus was a terrible loser.

"You see, Severus. It's much easier to work these things out if one discusses them in a reasonable fashion."

Snape glared at her viciously from behind his curtain of greasy hair, seething at both the reminder of past humiliations and at being forced to back down. She smiled calmly back, pleased to have wrung the concession from him, avoiding what would have been a no doubt unpleasant scene in front of Dumbledore. He was tall enough that she actually had to look up at him, though not very far up—a rare experience for a woman of her height. With anyone else it would have made her feel feminine. With Snape, she ruthlessly squashed all such sensations and merely concentrated on not feeling loomed over. Her younger sister Vesta, for some reason known only to God and female Slytherins, had always thought of him as rather cute. She had actually dated the man briefly during her seventh year and his fourth, mainly as a means of annoying Lucius Malfoy. Minerva rarely got on well with Vesta.

Snape chose not to respond to her cheerful statement, turning and sweeping toward the door, cape billowing dramatically. He had practiced that in the mirror, she would bet a Galleon.

He paused a moment at the door to toss off one last comment. Typical of Snape, always wanting to have the last word.

"I'll leave the directions on the board and the two of them can start without me. I don't have time to baby-sit them every minute. And the next cauldron Longbottom melts, he pays for. I don't care what that grandmother of his says."

And with that, he swept out into the hallway and was gone.

^_~