A Rude Awakening (Backdated to June 22)
Date: Thursday, 22 June
Time: Mid-to-late Evening
Place: Spinner's End, starting out in Lupin's room (oh my!)
Characters Involved: Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, anyone else in the house who wants to investigate the noise.
Rating Not more than Pg-13 for language
Severus had long-since taught himself not to dwell on his dreams, even in the muddled soup of unconsciousness which was sleeping state. Muggles might have called it 'lucid dreaming', he just called it a necessary defence mechanism. If he had a Galleon for every time he relived that night on the Astronomy Tower in his dreams, he would be richer than Lucius Malfoy. Dreams, even nightmares, rarely disturbed his sleep - he had been a soldier, used to finding ways to sleep whenever and wherever possible - or, because he was also Potions Master, finding ways to stave off sleep for dangerous periods of time.
He had no idea how he got here. Indeed, in his exhausted state, even when consciousness struggled it's way to the surface enough to turn over or adjust the bedding for warmth, he knew only that he was in bed. He slept on his side, mostly, occasionally rousing enough to alternate which side, the top arm adjusting the pillow to cradle his head, looped across the pillow in a parody of a child holding a plushie. The bottom arm fisted the coverings beneath his chin, like a terrified virgin-bride afraid to reveal the slightest skin.
He didn't even snore - much - even considering the size of his nose. A little, if he ended on his back, jaw hanging open so the back of his tongue rattled softly against his soft-palate.
In short, Severus Snape, asleep, was more 'normal' and 'human' than most people ever saw him.
His body, having been abused for six days, had now slept for almost thirty-six hours, and was slowly struggling to wakefulness. For one thing, he needed to use the loo. Badly. For another, he was famished, his mouth as dry as cotton, and now that sleep had been addressed, his body wanted him to make good on all his promises of 'later' which he had made to it during the intensity of tending Draco's illness on top of the normally not-very-taxing Lycanthrope routine. Had Draco come home a few days earlier or a few days later... but when had Draco ever thought of anyone but himself?
Severus' subconscious chuckled fondly at the thought, and his lips twitched in a slight smile as he groaned and then stretched.
Which was when something amiss began registering with his mind.
First of all, he was missing pillows. Comforts were few and far between for Severus, but those he could indulge in without shame (because no one would know of it), he did, and he slept with lots of pillows. One under his head, one supporting a knee, one held against his chest to support the shoulder joint. In his stretch, his arm reached for the missing pillows, and found none.
The sheets smelled funny. Not bad, per se, just... funny. They lacked the usual lingering scent of spice and cloves and steam and potions. Instead the scent was faintly salt and musk and rather nice, but definitely not him.
He stretched again, scratching an itch on his chest - which was when he realised the other strange thing, and his eyes shot open in shock.
He was not wearing a shirt!
Panic flooded him, and he fell onto his back, eyes staring at the ceiling, round and wide, his breath heaving in his chest as his heart kicked in over-drive.
Not naked, he could feel trousers. No socks. Someone had stripped him out of robes, waistcoat, shirt, belt, socks--all the layers and layers of his subconscious armour, shielding his 'ugliness' from the world.
If one were to be completely objective, one would have to point out that Severus Snape was not hideous. A large nose, yes, but many men had large noses and were considered still quite attractive. His face was sharp and angular and his dark, expressive brows frowned too much over similarly dark, expressive eyes. His lips were thin and his teeth slightly crooked, but honestly, he was not most people's definition of 'handsome' by any means, but he was not ugly. A bit relaxed about follicular hygiene considering his job, but not repulsive.
Severus was never objective. He'd been told he was 'ugly' for so long, he believed it, and told himself he didn't care. Didn't take more caution with his oily hair and the steam, because if he was already arse-ugly, what did it matter?
The scars which told the story of his tumultuous life did not help this belief. Tracks from his father's belt, grandfather's lashings, or Dark Lord's lessons, coupled with the deeper scars from the last battle, too long untreated to heal properly and not important enough, to him, to waste valuable potions to try to fade them now they had healed.
Now, he was in a strange bed, all but naked, with no recollection of how he had gotten there, or where he was. Someone had seen him!!
Bodily needs were utterly forgotten now that adrenaline responded (albeit weakly) to the 'threat'. Slowly, cautiously, he worked himself semi-upright, clutching the sheets tighter than ever under his chin, eyes darting wildly about, looking for wand, people, clues as to his location - the room was coming into familiarity now, though he'd only ever been in here once before - honestly, he'd only just created it for the present occupant a few months before - how was he to recognise it in his sleep-hazed state?
Lupin! The werewolf was sitting placidly in a chair in the corner, reading a book!
"LUPIN!" he said - he was trying to roar, to bellow in outrage, but his dry throat and sleep-constricted voice made it little more than a rough, hoarse scrape of sound.
"Where are my clothes?"
Time: Mid-to-late Evening
Place: Spinner's End, starting out in Lupin's room (oh my!)
Characters Involved: Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, anyone else in the house who wants to investigate the noise.
Rating Not more than Pg-13 for language
Severus had long-since taught himself not to dwell on his dreams, even in the muddled soup of unconsciousness which was sleeping state. Muggles might have called it 'lucid dreaming', he just called it a necessary defence mechanism. If he had a Galleon for every time he relived that night on the Astronomy Tower in his dreams, he would be richer than Lucius Malfoy. Dreams, even nightmares, rarely disturbed his sleep - he had been a soldier, used to finding ways to sleep whenever and wherever possible - or, because he was also Potions Master, finding ways to stave off sleep for dangerous periods of time.
He had no idea how he got here. Indeed, in his exhausted state, even when consciousness struggled it's way to the surface enough to turn over or adjust the bedding for warmth, he knew only that he was in bed. He slept on his side, mostly, occasionally rousing enough to alternate which side, the top arm adjusting the pillow to cradle his head, looped across the pillow in a parody of a child holding a plushie. The bottom arm fisted the coverings beneath his chin, like a terrified virgin-bride afraid to reveal the slightest skin.
He didn't even snore - much - even considering the size of his nose. A little, if he ended on his back, jaw hanging open so the back of his tongue rattled softly against his soft-palate.
In short, Severus Snape, asleep, was more 'normal' and 'human' than most people ever saw him.
His body, having been abused for six days, had now slept for almost thirty-six hours, and was slowly struggling to wakefulness. For one thing, he needed to use the loo. Badly. For another, he was famished, his mouth as dry as cotton, and now that sleep had been addressed, his body wanted him to make good on all his promises of 'later' which he had made to it during the intensity of tending Draco's illness on top of the normally not-very-taxing Lycanthrope routine. Had Draco come home a few days earlier or a few days later... but when had Draco ever thought of anyone but himself?
Severus' subconscious chuckled fondly at the thought, and his lips twitched in a slight smile as he groaned and then stretched.
Which was when something amiss began registering with his mind.
First of all, he was missing pillows. Comforts were few and far between for Severus, but those he could indulge in without shame (because no one would know of it), he did, and he slept with lots of pillows. One under his head, one supporting a knee, one held against his chest to support the shoulder joint. In his stretch, his arm reached for the missing pillows, and found none.
The sheets smelled funny. Not bad, per se, just... funny. They lacked the usual lingering scent of spice and cloves and steam and potions. Instead the scent was faintly salt and musk and rather nice, but definitely not him.
He stretched again, scratching an itch on his chest - which was when he realised the other strange thing, and his eyes shot open in shock.
He was not wearing a shirt!
Panic flooded him, and he fell onto his back, eyes staring at the ceiling, round and wide, his breath heaving in his chest as his heart kicked in over-drive.
Not naked, he could feel trousers. No socks. Someone had stripped him out of robes, waistcoat, shirt, belt, socks--all the layers and layers of his subconscious armour, shielding his 'ugliness' from the world.
If one were to be completely objective, one would have to point out that Severus Snape was not hideous. A large nose, yes, but many men had large noses and were considered still quite attractive. His face was sharp and angular and his dark, expressive brows frowned too much over similarly dark, expressive eyes. His lips were thin and his teeth slightly crooked, but honestly, he was not most people's definition of 'handsome' by any means, but he was not ugly. A bit relaxed about follicular hygiene considering his job, but not repulsive.
Severus was never objective. He'd been told he was 'ugly' for so long, he believed it, and told himself he didn't care. Didn't take more caution with his oily hair and the steam, because if he was already arse-ugly, what did it matter?
The scars which told the story of his tumultuous life did not help this belief. Tracks from his father's belt, grandfather's lashings, or Dark Lord's lessons, coupled with the deeper scars from the last battle, too long untreated to heal properly and not important enough, to him, to waste valuable potions to try to fade them now they had healed.
Now, he was in a strange bed, all but naked, with no recollection of how he had gotten there, or where he was. Someone had seen him!!
Bodily needs were utterly forgotten now that adrenaline responded (albeit weakly) to the 'threat'. Slowly, cautiously, he worked himself semi-upright, clutching the sheets tighter than ever under his chin, eyes darting wildly about, looking for wand, people, clues as to his location - the room was coming into familiarity now, though he'd only ever been in here once before - honestly, he'd only just created it for the present occupant a few months before - how was he to recognise it in his sleep-hazed state?
Lupin! The werewolf was sitting placidly in a chair in the corner, reading a book!
"LUPIN!" he said - he was trying to roar, to bellow in outrage, but his dry throat and sleep-constricted voice made it little more than a rough, hoarse scrape of sound.
"Where are my clothes?"