What have I done?
Date: Thursday, 27 February
Time: Evening into morning of the 28th, Full Moon
Location: Spinner's End
Characters Involved: Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, June can peek in if she wants
Rating: PG ish for angst.
"Remorse is the punishment of crime; repentance, its expiation. The former appertains to a tormented conscience; the latter to a soul changed for the better." -Joseph Joubert
Every moon was different. After two years, Severus understood that more completely than he ever had before. Different rising and setting times, different affects on the temperaments of his household, different positions in the sky.
For a man who liked consistency and control, it was an extraordinary effort to resign himself to being ruled so much by something so inconstant.
Tonight, the difference was in himself.
The article rehashing his most heinous acts was still fresh in his mind. When he had been living in that hell, he had deliberately numbed his conscience to the actions committed by his hand. Like an automaton puppeted by his Master, he had done what was ordered of him without question, without thought.
No, not completely without thought. He retained enough of his cold, icy logic to document everything, just as the paper had surmised. What was the point of letting all that valuable research information go to waste?
After the war, he knew he should feel guilty over what he had done, so he very dutifully did so, but it was a cold, impersonal sort of guilt. Yes, blood on his hands. Yes, it was horrible.
But there was a martyr's pride to his guilt that could not be denied. He'd told June what he'd done in an attempt to frighten her, to impress her with the sort of monster he was. He'd half bitterly, half jokingly bragged to Remus about his skill at harvesting the perfect pelts! He'd even done the same when speaking to Bellatrix only last week!
Tonight, the horror was fresh in his mind in all it's acrid, copper-scented memory. Like long-suppressed grief held at bay by deliberate denial or willful numbness, it was time to face it head on.
Everywhere he looked screamed at him. Monster! Murderer!
The pristine state of his kitchen with the knives neatly housed in their block reminded him of all the knives he'd gone through, the toughness of werewolf skin quickly dulling the blades. He could almost feel the memory of hot blood pouring over his hands.
The sounds of his housemates and his lover enduring the agony of transformation sounded like the bitter, furious ghosts of his victims, a banshee wail of accusation and cries for vengeance.
The transformation room bore no real resemblance to the 'punishment' chamber, yet his mind splashed the walls with blood as he opened the door to allow his family to exit.
His family!
Tonight, his guilt was made real. Personal and alive and dearer than his own wounded and battered soul. No more denial, no more numbness, no more avoidance. The walls came crashing down.
What if it had been Zak Rollins brought before him by Voldemort, accused of some false slight against the cause and sentenced to die . . .
Severus actually staggered as he moved away from the room and toward the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. A quiet, stifled, broken sound escaped him as he ran his hand over his face, trying to pull himself together.
What if it had been June? Beautiful in her blond coat, blind without her eyes yet surefooted and graceful as she all but leapt up the stairs, tufted tail flicking exuberantly. Would he have known her as the bright if cheeky former student? Would he have cared? Would he have slid the knife into the weak spot at the underside of her tail, easy as spreading butter on a crumpet, and ignored her shrieks of agony as he carefully divested her of her hide?
Bile rose in his gullet as he took the stairs two at a time, not to race after his family but to run to the loo in the hall where he fell heavily to his knees in front of the toilet where he was violently sick.
What if it had been Remus? Severus would have recognised Remus in his wolf form, even then. Remus had been his Boggart for years. Would he have butchered his only lifeline? His only link to sanity and normality and what infinitesimal glimmer of hope the infernal werewolf always insisted on trying to give to him?
Again and again his guts heaved until there was nothing but bile and acid and the bitter tang of guilt, true guilt, that would never be assuaged. Shaking too severely to stand, he merely curled in upon himself, arms around his knees and head leaning back against the cool tile wall as he struggled to breathe around the tight, constricting bands of shame and horror and grief and self loathing all threatening to suffocate him slowly, agonisingly - as he deserved.
Time: Evening into morning of the 28th, Full Moon
Location: Spinner's End
Characters Involved: Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, June can peek in if she wants
Rating: PG ish for angst.
"Remorse is the punishment of crime; repentance, its expiation. The former appertains to a tormented conscience; the latter to a soul changed for the better." -Joseph Joubert
Every moon was different. After two years, Severus understood that more completely than he ever had before. Different rising and setting times, different affects on the temperaments of his household, different positions in the sky.
For a man who liked consistency and control, it was an extraordinary effort to resign himself to being ruled so much by something so inconstant.
Tonight, the difference was in himself.
The article rehashing his most heinous acts was still fresh in his mind. When he had been living in that hell, he had deliberately numbed his conscience to the actions committed by his hand. Like an automaton puppeted by his Master, he had done what was ordered of him without question, without thought.
No, not completely without thought. He retained enough of his cold, icy logic to document everything, just as the paper had surmised. What was the point of letting all that valuable research information go to waste?
After the war, he knew he should feel guilty over what he had done, so he very dutifully did so, but it was a cold, impersonal sort of guilt. Yes, blood on his hands. Yes, it was horrible.
But there was a martyr's pride to his guilt that could not be denied. He'd told June what he'd done in an attempt to frighten her, to impress her with the sort of monster he was. He'd half bitterly, half jokingly bragged to Remus about his skill at harvesting the perfect pelts! He'd even done the same when speaking to Bellatrix only last week!
Tonight, the horror was fresh in his mind in all it's acrid, copper-scented memory. Like long-suppressed grief held at bay by deliberate denial or willful numbness, it was time to face it head on.
Everywhere he looked screamed at him. Monster! Murderer!
The pristine state of his kitchen with the knives neatly housed in their block reminded him of all the knives he'd gone through, the toughness of werewolf skin quickly dulling the blades. He could almost feel the memory of hot blood pouring over his hands.
The sounds of his housemates and his lover enduring the agony of transformation sounded like the bitter, furious ghosts of his victims, a banshee wail of accusation and cries for vengeance.
The transformation room bore no real resemblance to the 'punishment' chamber, yet his mind splashed the walls with blood as he opened the door to allow his family to exit.
His family!
Tonight, his guilt was made real. Personal and alive and dearer than his own wounded and battered soul. No more denial, no more numbness, no more avoidance. The walls came crashing down.
What if it had been Zak Rollins brought before him by Voldemort, accused of some false slight against the cause and sentenced to die . . .
Severus actually staggered as he moved away from the room and toward the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall. A quiet, stifled, broken sound escaped him as he ran his hand over his face, trying to pull himself together.
What if it had been June? Beautiful in her blond coat, blind without her eyes yet surefooted and graceful as she all but leapt up the stairs, tufted tail flicking exuberantly. Would he have known her as the bright if cheeky former student? Would he have cared? Would he have slid the knife into the weak spot at the underside of her tail, easy as spreading butter on a crumpet, and ignored her shrieks of agony as he carefully divested her of her hide?
Bile rose in his gullet as he took the stairs two at a time, not to race after his family but to run to the loo in the hall where he fell heavily to his knees in front of the toilet where he was violently sick.
What if it had been Remus? Severus would have recognised Remus in his wolf form, even then. Remus had been his Boggart for years. Would he have butchered his only lifeline? His only link to sanity and normality and what infinitesimal glimmer of hope the infernal werewolf always insisted on trying to give to him?
Again and again his guts heaved until there was nothing but bile and acid and the bitter tang of guilt, true guilt, that would never be assuaged. Shaking too severely to stand, he merely curled in upon himself, arms around his knees and head leaning back against the cool tile wall as he struggled to breathe around the tight, constricting bands of shame and horror and grief and self loathing all threatening to suffocate him slowly, agonisingly - as he deserved.