Chapter 2
The moment Severus went limp in his arms, Remus’s heart lurched painfully. The boy's weight dragged against him, too slight and too fragile, and for a brief, terrible moment, Remus thought he’d stopped breathing altogether.
“Madam Pomfrey!” he called as he pushed the door to the hospital wing open. His voice cracked with urgency, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed almost immediately.
“What happened?” Pomfrey’s sharp voice demanded as she approached.
“I—I found him like this,” Remus stammered, lowering Severus onto the nearest bed. His hands shook as he tried to explain. “He’s drunk. And bleeding. I think he hit his head when he collapsed.”
Pomfrey’s eyes swept over Severus, her practiced calm quickly taking over. “Stand back,” she instructed, her wand already out as she began assessing the damage.
Remus stepped away, his legs weak as he backed into a chair. He felt frozen, his gaze fixed on Severus’s pale face. The blood on his chest still glistened, stark against his ashen skin.
And then there was the mark.
The soulmark had always been a source of pain for him. A mark meant to signify love and connection, it had been nothing but a cruel joke. Who could ever love a werewolf? Who would want a bond tied to someone cursed, someone who could bring nothing but danger and struggle?
No one deserved that kind of fate. Remus had come to believe that years ago. The idea of a soulmate had always felt more like a punishment than a blessing, an anchor dragging someone else down with him.
But this—this was worse.
Severus hated him. Hated him before he even knew about the curse. Hated him for things that weren’t beyond Remus’s control, but things that had been choices. Decisions. Actions...or inactions. Cowardice. Severus didn’t hate the wolf; he hated the boy. And that was another kind of cruelty entirely.
Remus’s hand instinctively went to his own chest, where the identical mark lay hidden beneath layers of fabric. He could still see it in his mind, slashed and bloody, an agonizing mockery of what was supposed to be a bond of love and comfort.
“Remus?”
He looked up sharply. Pomfrey’s expression softened as she glanced at him. “He’s alive,” she said gently, but her tone carried a weight that made Remus’s stomach twist. “He’s disoriented, yes, but stable for now. You did the right thing bringing him here.”
The words should have been comforting, but they weren’t. They felt hollow, a poor salve against the guilt gnawing at his insides.
Before he could respond, the door to the hospital wing opened again, and Albus Dumbledore swept inside.
The headmaster’s presence filled the room, but there was no warmth in his expression tonight. His usual twinkle was gone, replaced by something somber and deeply troubled. His sharp gaze took in Severus’s prone form, the blood, the faint scent of firewhiskey still clinging to the air.
“Poppy,” he began quietly, “what happened?”
“He’s been drinking,” she said briskly, her hands moving deftly as she cast diagnostic spells. “The cuts are self-inflicted, and some are dangerously deep. He collapsed just before they reached me, and I suspect he may have a concussion.”
Dumbledore nodded gravely and approached the bed, his gaze softening as he took in the unconscious boy. “Can he be safely roused?”
Pomfrey hesitated before nodding. “I believe so. If he has a concussion, I’ll need to do it anyway.”
With a flick of her wand and a murmured spell, Severus stirred. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, and his lips moved soundlessly at first.
“Severus,” Pomfrey said gently, her voice steady. “Can you hear me?”
He blinked slowly, his head lolling to one side. “H-Hurts…” he mumbled, his voice slurred and faint.
“Yes, I imagine it does,” Pomfrey replied, her tone kind but firm. “You’re safe now. You’re in the hospital wing.”
“Safe…” Severus repeated, the word heavy with disbelief. He let out a bitter laugh, barely more than a whisper.
The sound sent a shiver down Remus’s spine.
Severus’s gaze drifted, unfocused, until it landed on Dumbledore. For a moment, his expression shifted—anger, despair, and something heartbreakingly childlike flickered across his face.
“Why… why are you here?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Came to make sure I didn't say anything?”
Dumbledore flinched, and Remus felt his own breath catch.
“I doubt it is because you were worried. No one cares. Not even my father cares,” Severus continued, his voice thin and brittle, like it might shatter under its own weight. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t beat me bloody every chance he gets.”
The room went impossibly still.
“Severus…” Pomfrey began, her voice wavering slightly, but he didn’t seem to hear her.
“I just don't get it,” he murmured, his words slurring together. “It's cruel to have a soulmate who doesn’t care. Who’d rather see me suffer than anything else.”
Remus’s knees gave out, and he sank into the chair behind him. The weight of those words hit him like a physical blow.
In his chest, Moony stirred, the wolf’s emotions rising in a tidal wave of anger and grief. It wasn’t just anger, it was deeper, more primal, a fury at the universe itself for allowing this boy to suffer so much.
But beneath the anger was something even more devastating: sorrow.
Moony’s sadness was all-consuming, more intense than anything Remus had ever felt. It was a grief so profound it left him breathless, a shared pain that pierced through every wall Remus had ever built.
Across the room, Severus’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Maybe my father is right,” he said. “Maybe he should’ve drowned me when I was born. There must be a reason no one loves me… no one cares.”
“Severus,” Dumbledore said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
But Severus didn’t stop. He couldn’t seem to.
“You were right to not gare if they kill me,” he muttered, his words slurring further. “Bad luck they didn’t succeed, huh? Sometimes, I wish they had. Sometimes, I wish dad… or anyone, really… would just do it already.”
The words shattered something inside Remus.
“Because I’m too much of a coward to do it myself,” Severus finished, his voice cracking.
The room was silent, the weight of his confession sinking into the air like lead. Even Pomfrey had paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the blanket around him.
“Severus,” Dumbledore said again, his voice hoarse, but Severus had already drifted back into unconsciousness, the alcohol and exhaustion pulling him under.
Remus slumped further into his chair, his head in his hands. Moony’s emotions swirled violently in his mind, a storm of guilt, anger, and an aching need to protect the boy who lay broken before him.
It wasn’t until Pomfrey pressed a vial into his hands that he realized she was standing in front of him. “Drink this,” she said softly. “It’ll help.”
Remus nodded numbly, uncorking the vial and taking a small sip. The calming draught worked quickly, dulling the edge of his emotions but leaving the guilt intact.
Pomfrey guided him to a nearby bed, urging him to rest. He obeyed without protest, his mind still reeling.
As he lay there, staring at the ceiling, one thought echoed over and over in his mind: How did it come to this?