Remus Lupin had never expected to end up here. If anything, he'd hoped, foolishly, that things might get better after the years of isolation, ridicule, and secret suffering. But this place—the cold, sterile building that loomed ahead of him, like a tomb waiting to swallow him whole—was nothing like he imagined.
The carriages that had brought him here had long since left, their distant clatter of hooves fading into the thick woods surrounding the facility. He had been quiet for most of the ride, barely acknowledging the faceless figures that had accompanied him, watching him with eyes that never blinked. Remus had heard rumors of such places—institutions for "problem children"—but he hadn’t truly believed them until now. The structure before him was oppressive, too tall and too close, its high, iron gates casting long shadows over the gravel driveway that led to the entrance.
There was no welcome, no warm assurances. Just a cold stare from the staff as they guided him through the doors, past the silent halls, and into a small, unfurnished room. Remus knew, deep down, that this was his new reality. Here, in this place that wasn’t home, wasn’t anything close to safety, he would have to survive. He wasn't sure if he would, but the thought of trying to leave—or worse, attempting something more final—was as much of a betrayal to himself as it was to the only person who might have cared: Sirius.
His throat tightened at the thought of his best friend. No one knew what Remus was, not really. Not even Sirius. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in Sirius’s eyes, to watch him walk away as Remus had done with every other person in his life. No. It was better to hide away here, far from everyone, hidden behind the walls they had erected to "help" people like him. But it wouldn’t help. Nothing ever helped.
The room they placed him in was small—barely larger than a broom closet—and smelled of antiseptic and old wood. A single bed sat against one wall, its thin mattress stretched tight beneath a faded wool blanket. No window. No escape. A table, a chair, and a small cabinet that likely held more of the same cheap, bland clothes they had provided. Everything about the room felt like an afterthought, like nothing was meant to last. It was as if they expected him to break, just like everything else here.
Remus sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers curling into the rough fabric of his jeans, and tried to breathe through the rising panic. He couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten here. One minute, he was at Hogwarts, making his way to the Shrieking Shack, trying to escape the suffocating truth of his existence, and the next, he was here—dragged away by the very people he had once trusted. He had heard Dumbledore’s gentle voice telling him that this was the right thing to do, that he would be “better” here, that the treatment they provided would help him “manage” his condition. Dumbledore had looked at him with pity, and Remus hated him for it. He hadn’t asked for this.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway—slow, deliberate. He tensed instinctively, watching the door as though it would open at any moment, but it didn’t. Instead, he heard voices, muffled but distinct, speaking in the hallway just outside.
The first voice was unfamiliar, harsh. “You can’t keep them in isolation like this. They need interaction, support, something beyond what you’re doing.”
The second voice, calmer, older, had an air of authority. Remus knew it immediately. It was the head of the facility, the one they had all heard about but never seen. A woman with a long, sharp face who seemed to have no real empathy for anyone.
“The system works,” she replied simply. “There are rules. We have the methods. There’s no room for feelings in a place like this.”
“You can’t keep breaking them like this,” the first voice snapped. “If you do, it’ll be on your conscience.”
There was a pause, a long stretch of silence. Then the first voice—slightly quieter—spoke again. “This is a prison, not a healing facility.”
Remus’s stomach lurched. He felt the dread settle in his bones. He didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t asked for this. He had only wanted to be left alone, to be left to figure out how to survive. But it seemed that wasn’t an option. It never was.
The door opened suddenly, and a man in a grey uniform stepped inside. His face was as flat as his expression, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "Your schedule has been set," he said without preamble, holding out a folded piece of paper. "You’ll meet with the therapist this afternoon. Your first treatment will be tomorrow."
Remus took the paper without looking at it. He could already guess what it said. Medication. Therapy. Isolation. The same cycle he had been through before, over and over again. None of it had ever helped. Remus hated himself for it. For needing help. For being broken.
The man turned to leave, then paused, as though remembering something. "Dinner is at six," he added, voice flat. "Be on time."
Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t care. Dinner was a formality. Just another thing to endure.
As the man left, Remus lay back on the bed, staring up at the bare ceiling. His heart ached in his chest, and his thoughts twisted like a knot in his gut. The quiet despair that had always been there, a constant companion, surged within him.
Everything was wrong. Nothing was right. And there was no way out.
Just when he thought he might sink further into the abyss, he heard something that made his pulse spike—a voice. A voice that he recognized. Cold and sharp, yet somehow familiar.
"Well, this is rich," said Severus Snape from the doorway, his dark eyes glinting with something like amusement, though it was hard to tell. His pale face was framed by greasy, lank hair, but there was something about his presence that immediately made Remus feel less alone. "They really do put you in the crappiest rooms, don’t they?"
Remus blinked, his heart stuttering in his chest. He hadn’t expected to see Severus. Not here. Not like this.
"What are you doing here?" Remus asked hoarsely, though part of him had expected it. Of course, Severus would be here, too. He was a troublemaker, wasn’t he? Or, at least, that’s how the world had always seen him.
Severus raised an eyebrow, his lip curling into a sneer. "Same as you, I suppose. Trying to escape whatever mess they’ve made of us." His voice was low, dangerous, but there was an undercurrent of something else in it—something darker. Something familiar.
Remus didn’t know what to say. There was a rawness in Severus’s eyes, a vulnerability that made Remus feel more exposed than he had in years. Severus wasn’t the type to show weakness, but here, in this place, it was impossible to hide.
"You shouldn’t have come here," Remus whispered. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Severus or to himself.
Severus didn’t answer. He just stepped into the room, his movements fluid, almost graceful despite the weight of everything they both carried.
For the first time since his arrival, Remus felt the tiniest flicker of hope. Maybe this place wasn’t as empty as he thought. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to go through this alone.
But as Severus turned to face him, the doors of the facility slammed shut with a finality that echoed through Remus’s mind.
It was too late for them both.
And yet, he couldn’t help but feel a strange pull, a connection to the boy standing before him, a pull that could lead to something deeper, something more fragile, but possibly more real than anything they had ever known.
Remus couldn’t sleep. The thin mattress creaked beneath him, but it wasn’t the discomfort that kept him awake. No, it was the weight of the room—the walls that seemed to press closer the longer he lay there. Every small noise seemed magnified, every shadow felt threatening, and the silence was deafening. A silence that had followed him for years, one that he had come to expect but never grow accustomed to.
He hadn’t heard from Severus since he’d walked into the room. Remus had thought about calling out, about asking if Snape would stay with him, but the words caught in his throat. They had no connection anymore—not since Hogwarts. Not since everything had changed. Severus had been a distant figure in Remus’s life, their interactions few and far between, often punctuated with snide remarks and bitter glares. But now, in this place, where everything was twisted and wrong, there was something different. Something raw.
A sharp knock broke through his spiraling thoughts, making him jump. The door opened slowly, and the same silent man in grey from earlier stepped inside, his eyes flicking to Remus before he spoke.
“It’s time for your therapy session,” the man said, his voice as cold and methodical as everything else in this place. “Follow me.”
Remus didn’t move immediately. He stared at the floor, at the cracks in the linoleum that seemed to mirror the fractures in his own mind. He didn’t want to go. Therapy was nothing but a formality here, another mask to wear. But if he refused, there would be consequences. The rules were clear: compliance or punishment. He didn’t want to find out what the latter meant.
With a quiet sigh, he stood, his legs shaky as though his body, too, was hesitant to leave the safe (if suffocating) confines of his room. The man turned and walked away, and Remus followed, his mind still reeling from the abruptness of his forced routine.
The corridors were cold and uninviting, lined with locked doors and flickering fluorescent lights. Each step Remus took seemed to echo, a reminder of how alone he was. There was a gnawing emptiness inside him, a growing sense of hopelessness that he couldn’t shake. He knew it was probably a side effect of being here, of being told time and time again that he wasn’t enough, that he needed to be fixed. The people here didn’t understand—none of them did.
As they reached the end of the hall, the man stopped in front of a door and motioned for Remus to enter. It was a sterile, clinical room, a sharp contrast to the darkness that churned inside him. A large leather chair sat at the center of the room, and across from it, a woman in her mid-forties sat behind a desk, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her expression was soft, too soft, like a mask she wore to disguise whatever cruelty lay beneath.
“Mr. Lupin,” she said in a voice that was too calm, too rehearsed. “Please, have a seat.”
Remus took a deep breath and sat down, trying not to let the overwhelming sense of dread consume him. He couldn’t afford to break here—not in front of her. He had already broken too many times before.
The woman flipped through a folder on her desk, her eyes scanning the page. “I see you’ve had some difficulty adjusting to the facility. Is there anything you’d like to share?”
Remus’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “Nothing to share,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The woman didn’t seem bothered by his response. She continued her probing. “I understand you’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety. Have you experienced any recent episodes?”
Remus’s heart raced in his chest. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to open that door. But she was relentless. Her questions came one after the other, each one more personal, more invasive than the last. He could feel the pressure mounting, the suffocating weight of their expectations.
“I’m fine,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’m just—just tired.”
“Of course,” she said, nodding, but her eyes were too sharp, too knowing. “That’s a common reaction. But we need to address these feelings, Remus. You can’t keep ignoring them. It’s important for your treatment.”
Remus looked away, staring at the blank wall in front of him. His heart pounded in his chest. How could he explain it? How could he explain the constant ache, the crushing weight of his own thoughts, the sense that no matter how hard he tried, he would never escape? He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t—he was just... tired. Tired of pretending that everything could be fixed with a few words, a few magic spells. Tired of being a problem.
The woman’s voice cut through his thoughts again, softer now. “Remus, if you’re not honest with me, I can’t help you. I need to know what’s really going on inside your head.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? No one had ever really asked what was going on inside his head. They only ever saw the surface, the lies he told to keep everyone at a distance. It was easier that way. Easier to hide the monster inside.
But he couldn’t hide it anymore. Not here.
Before he could say anything, the door creaked open, and a tall, lean figure stepped inside. Severus. His dark eyes met Remus’s, and for a split second, something unspoken passed between them. The tension in the room thickened. Severus’s presence was like a shadow—a cold, comforting weight. Without a word, Severus took a seat in the chair next to Remus, his expression unreadable.
The therapist didn’t seem phased. She merely nodded. “Ah, Severus. I see you’ve arrived for your session as well.”
Severus didn’t respond. He simply sat, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the floor. There was something unsettling in the way he looked at the room—like he could see through it, see the truth behind the walls.
Remus couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. It was as though Severus’s presence, the quiet intensity with which he filled the space, somehow calmed the storm inside Remus. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because Severus understood, in a way no one else did. They were both broken, but at least they were broken together.
The therapist cleared her throat, and both of them snapped their attention back to her. “We’re here to talk, Severus, Remus. To address what’s troubling you both.”
Severus’s lip curled slightly. “I have nothing to say.”
Remus’s heart thudded in his chest. It wasn’t that Severus didn’t have anything to say—it was that he didn’t trust her, just as Remus didn’t. They were both too broken for this place to fix. But Severus didn’t need to speak for Remus to understand.
The therapist pressed on. “I think it’s important we address the issue of self-harm. Remus, have you been experiencing thoughts of ending your life?”
The words hit Remus like a slap, the sharp sting of truth lancing through his chest. He clenched his fists, but he didn’t say anything. Not out loud. He couldn’t. He had never spoken those words, never let them leave his mouth. But they were there, lingering in the back of his mind, like a shadow that had followed him for years.
The therapist waited, her eyes never leaving his face. He could feel her watching him, prodding him, waiting for him to break. But Remus wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. Not here. Not in front of Severus.
Severus, however, shifted in his seat, his voice a low rasp. “The problem isn’t the thoughts, it’s the belief that they’ll go away if you just sit quietly enough. You wait and wait, but they never leave.”
Remus turned to Severus, their eyes meeting in a silent understanding. It was all too clear now—Severus felt the same way. They were both waiting for the storm to end, for the pain to stop. But it never did.
The therapist, sensing that she was losing control, tried to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Let’s focus on how we can work through these thoughts, Remus. Severus, how are you managing your anxiety?”
Severus leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. “I don’t manage it. I survive it.”
Remus couldn’t help but feel a strange kinship with him. It was the same for him, too. Survival was all they had left.
The therapist, frustrated by their silence, pushed forward once more, but Remus couldn’t hear her anymore. All he could hear was the quiet echo of Severus’s words, the heavy weight of truth in them.
They were both broken. And the only thing they could do now was survive.
The days blurred together in the sterile, oppressive atmosphere of the facility. The clocks on the walls, constantly ticking away, were as much a reminder of time lost as of time still to come. Remus hated the clocks. They were like the ticking of a countdown, each second reminding him that the minutes of his life here were slipping away, far too fast. And the more time he spent here, the more he felt that he was losing pieces of himself, slowly and quietly, as though he were fading away.
It had been two days since Severus had entered the therapy session with him. Two days of silence between them, yet Remus could still feel the weight of Severus's presence in the room, like an anchor keeping him tethered to something solid. It wasn’t much—just the occasional glance, the fleeting brush of their eyes meeting when neither of them could hold back. But it was something. Something that made this suffocating place seem just a little less unbearable.
On the third day after their therapy session, Remus found himself alone in the courtyard for the first time in what felt like weeks. It was a small, enclosed space, a high stone wall surrounding it, and the air smelled faintly of dust and antiseptic. There was nothing natural about it, nothing that could make him feel at ease. The grass was a dead shade of brown, the flowerbeds neglected, and the bench he sat on was uncomfortable, the metal bars pressing into his skin.
But it was quiet here, away from the prying eyes of the staff, away from the endless schedules and rules that governed every minute of his life. Here, he could pretend for a moment that he wasn’t just a broken machine, stuck in a place designed to fix what was never broken in the first place.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, counting each inhale and exhale, letting the rhythm calm him. But just as he began to feel the tension in his chest loosen, he heard footsteps approaching. They were heavy, deliberate. Remus’s eyes snapped open, and he looked up to see Severus standing at the edge of the courtyard, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn-out jacket. His dark eyes scanned the space before settling on Remus.
There was no surprise in Severus's gaze, no hint of uncertainty. As if he had been drawn here by something unseen, something beyond their control. A part of Remus wanted to stand up, to leave before Severus could speak to him, before this moment became more than just an accident. But he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed rooted to the bench, as though it were the only thing holding him together.
Severus didn’t speak right away. He just stood there, his eyes never leaving Remus’s face. There was something about the way Severus watched him—intensely, like he was searching for something beneath the surface. Remus felt the urge to shrink back, to pull away from that gaze. But instead, he met it, his heart beating a little faster.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Severus said, his voice a low murmur that carried across the empty space between them.
Remus’s breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t realized he had been avoiding Severus, not consciously. But now that the words had been spoken, it was painfully clear that he had been. He had been avoiding everyone, really—tuning them out, shutting them out, even Severus, despite the strange comfort he found in his presence. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to connect with Severus; it was that every time he thought about it, the weight of his own emotions became unbearable.
“I’m not avoiding you,” Remus said, his voice quieter than he intended. “I just... don’t know what to say.”
Severus stepped closer, his expression unreadable, but there was something vulnerable in the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared burden. “You don’t have to say anything, Remus,” he replied, his words soft yet sharp, like a knife hidden beneath silk. “But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
Remus swallowed hard, trying to suppress the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Severus. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”
Severus stopped a few feet away, his eyes never leaving Remus’s. “You’re surviving,” he said, as if it were a simple truth. “That’s what we all do here.”
Remus felt a strange comfort in Severus’s words, even though he knew they were painfully true. They weren’t here to get better. They weren’t here to be fixed. They were here to survive, to endure whatever the staff threw at them, to outlast the weight of their own pain.
But as Remus looked at Severus, he realized there was more than survival between them. There was something else. Something that had been quietly building, something fragile, yet potent. And it terrified him.
“What if survival isn’t enough?” Remus asked, his voice breaking as he finally allowed himself to say the words that had been festering in his mind for so long. “What if surviving just means staying alive but never really living?”
Severus’s gaze softened ever so slightly. He stepped closer, sitting down on the bench next to Remus. The space between them seemed to shrink, though they still sat in silence for a moment. Remus couldn’t look at him, not yet. His heart was beating so fast that it was hard to focus on anything other than the pounding in his chest.
“We don’t have to have the answers right now,” Severus said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in the air. “We just have to keep going. And if that means not giving up, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Remus’s throat tightened. He wanted to believe those words. He wanted to believe that surviving was enough. But the part of him that felt so lost, so broken, couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t meant to be here—not in this facility, not in this life.
“There’s nothing left in me,” Remus whispered, almost too quietly to hear. “Not anymore.”
Severus’s eyes softened, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that might have been compassion—or maybe it was simply understanding. “That’s not true. You’re still here, aren’t you?”
Remus finally turned to face Severus, his eyes meeting his in the dim light. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel entirely alone.
“I don’t know how much longer I can last, Severus,” Remus said, his voice shaking.
For a moment, Severus didn’t say anything. He just looked at Remus, as though weighing his words carefully. Then, in a tone that seemed to carry more than just the weight of his usual sharpness, Severus spoke.
“You’re not alone,” he said softly, his words almost lost in the quiet hum of the facility. “Not anymore. Not as long as I’m here.”
Remus blinked, his breath caught in his chest. He had heard those words before, from others, from people who had promised him everything and delivered nothing. But this... this felt different. This felt like a promise he could actually hold onto.
Severus wasn’t offering him a cure. He wasn’t promising him that everything would be okay. But in that moment, Remus realized that sometimes, all you needed was someone who was willing to sit with you in the silence, who understood that surviving together was all you could ask for.
And as they sat there, side by side, the weight of their shared experience pulling them closer, Remus felt something shift within him. It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t an answer. But it was a connection. And for now, that was enough.
The days that followed felt like they were dragging on in a slow, agonizing crawl. Remus couldn’t tell if the passage of time was moving forward or if he was just stuck in some limbo. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered beyond the heavy weight of his thoughts and the silent void that hung between him and the world.
The staff, with their hollow smiles and cold eyes, went through the motions of trying to fix him—fix all of them—but Remus knew better. There was no fixing this. There was only survival. And each day, as the sessions grew longer and the rules more suffocating, he felt more and more like he was being erased. Like he was vanishing from the world, bit by bit.
It was during one of these oppressive therapy sessions that Remus found himself staring at the floor, barely listening to the words of the therapist. The man was saying something about coping mechanisms, about progress, about hope. But all Remus could focus on was the dull ache in his chest, the relentless pulse of anxiety that wouldn’t stop.
“Remus?” The therapist’s voice broke through the fog, sharp and insistent. “Remus, I’m speaking to you. Would you like to share something?”
Remus’s breath hitched, but he remained silent, unwilling to respond. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain himself, to defend the broken mess he was. It wasn’t worth it.
The therapist’s gaze softened, but there was no sympathy there. Only the same tired look of pity that Remus had grown used to. “You need to make progress, Remus. You’re here to get better, to overcome your challenges. This silence... this is not helping you.”
“I’m not getting better,” Remus muttered, barely audible. “You can’t fix me.”
The therapist sighed, clicking his pen, his patience worn thin. “No one’s trying to fix you, Remus. We’re trying to help you live. There’s a difference.”
But there wasn’t. Not for Remus. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to live anymore—not like this. His thoughts were a tangle of confusion, the pressure of being here too much to bear. He wanted to scream, to tear it all apart, but he stayed still, pretending that the pressure of the room wasn’t crushing him. Pretending that he wasn’t already broken.
The session ended without another word from him. The therapist, as usual, had said enough to make it clear that Remus was a problem—an uncooperative patient who refused to participate in his own healing. He had been called stubborn. Self-destructive. And he couldn’t argue with them. He was. But that didn’t make their words sting any less.
After the session, Remus stumbled out into the hallway, his heart hammering, his hands trembling. He needed to get out of there, needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the facility. His skin felt too tight, his body too fragile. Every step he took felt like a mistake, like the weight of the world was pushing him down, dragging him under.
He didn’t notice the figure standing by the door until he was nearly upon him. Severus. His face was a mask, unreadable as usual, but his presence was unmistakable. Severus was always there, just lurking on the edge of Remus’s vision, never truly leaving.
“Remus,” Severus said, his voice low but steady. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
The words hit Remus like a wave. His breath caught in his throat, his heart suddenly racing as he tried to push past the knot in his chest. But Severus stepped forward, blocking his path, his dark eyes locking onto Remus’s.
“I didn’t ask for help,” Remus replied, his voice shaking despite himself. “I didn’t ask for any of this. And I sure as hell didn’t ask for you.”
The words were out before he could stop them, and as soon as he said them, the regret hit him like a wave. But Severus didn’t flinch. He didn’t take a step back. He simply stood there, unwavering, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
“You don’t have to ask for it,” Severus said quietly, his tone softer than usual. “I’m here, whether you want me here or not.”
Remus swallowed hard, trying to push past the tightness in his chest. He didn’t want to break down, not in front of Severus, not in front of anyone. But everything felt too much, the weight of it all pressing down on him until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
“You don’t understand,” Remus whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m not worth it. I’m not worth anything. I’m just... just a burden.”
Severus’s face softened, and for the first time, Remus saw something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make Remus’s heart skip a beat.
“You’re not a burden,” Severus said, his voice steady, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to Remus. “None of us are. We’re just... lost. But we don’t have to stay that way.”
Remus shook his head, closing his eyes to block out the tears threatening to spill. “I can’t do this anymore, Severus. I don’t know how much longer I can last. I don’t know if I even want to.”
Severus reached out, his hand brushing lightly against Remus’s arm, the contact enough to send a shock of warmth through his body. Remus stiffened, but Severus didn’t pull away.
“You’re stronger than you think,” Severus murmured, his voice low and steady. “And you don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”
Remus didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to process the sudden flood of emotions. He didn’t want to lean on Severus, didn’t want to depend on anyone—but in that moment, the idea of not being alone, of having someone to share this with, made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Remus muttered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You don’t know what it’s like to be me. To feel like you’re disappearing.”
“I do know,” Severus said, his voice quieter now. “I know exactly what it’s like.”
Remus’s eyes shot up to meet Severus’s, searching for something in his gaze. He didn’t know what he expected to see—anger, bitterness, maybe even contempt. But all he saw was raw honesty, a look of shared pain that mirrored his own.
For the first time, Remus felt something stir deep inside him—a flicker of hope, however small. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way out of this. Maybe, for once, he wasn’t as alone as he had always believed.
Severus’s hand didn’t leave his arm. “You’re not invisible, Remus. Not to me.”
It was enough. For that moment, it was enough. Remus let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his emotions crashing over him in waves. He didn’t know if he could trust Severus completely, but the way Severus looked at him—without judgment, without fear—made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, he could learn to trust again.
“You don’t have to save me,” Remus whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve it.”
Severus’s grip tightened slightly, but not painfully. Just enough to remind Remus that he wasn’t alone in this. “I’m not trying to save you,” he said softly. “I’m just here. And I’m not leaving.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Remus allowed himself to believe those words. And it was enough to make him feel something other than despair.
Remus had been sitting in the small room for hours. The ticking of the clock seemed to echo louder than his own breathing. The walls were closing in again, the silence almost suffocating. He couldn’t think straight. His mind was a fog, tangled with the memories of the past, the sharp sting of old wounds, and the overwhelming weight of everything he couldn’t escape.
Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The dim light from the crack under the door was the only sign of time moving forward. He hadn’t seen Severus for hours. It wasn’t uncommon. They were often separated, placed into different groups, isolated like the broken fragments they were. But today had been different. Today, Remus felt as though he was being pulled further and further into a place from which he could never return.
The door opened with a soft creak, and Remus’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. He could feel it—the tension in the air, the heavy silence that wrapped around them both. Severus had always had that presence, that feeling of being more than just a person.
“What are you doing here?” Remus asked without turning to face him. His voice sounded hollow, distant. He didn’t care anymore. It didn’t matter.
Severus’s footsteps were slow, measured, each one an echo of his own hesitations. “What do you think I’m doing here?” Severus replied, his voice low but sharp. “I came to find you.”
“You didn’t have to,” Remus muttered, a bitter laugh bubbling up from deep within him. “I’m not worth finding.”
The words sounded too real, too painful, even to his own ears. He had thought them a thousand times before, but to say them out loud was like ripping the scab off a wound he wasn’t ready to face. He felt something shift in the room—Severus standing there, watching him, waiting. He could almost hear the words unsaid between them, like a lingering melody neither one of them could ignore.
Severus didn’t respond right away. Instead, there was only the sound of him approaching slowly, the soft swish of fabric as he took a step closer. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost hesitant.
“Why do you keep doing this?” Severus asked, his words carrying the weight of something far deeper than just simple curiosity. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”
Remus didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. The words felt trapped in his throat, caught between the desire to be understood and the fear of being seen. “Because I’m not... I’m not good enough for you,” Remus finally whispered, his voice shaking. “I’m broken, Severus. And no one... no one can fix me.”
“That’s not true,” Severus countered, his voice firm, but there was an undercurrent of something else there. Something more vulnerable than Remus had ever heard from him before. “You don’t need to be fixed. You just need to be understood.”
Remus could feel the heat of his words, like a spark threatening to ignite something inside him. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he wasn’t just a shattered piece of glass, waiting to be swept away and forgotten.
“I don’t need your pity,” Remus spat, the bitterness clawing at his throat. “You don’t have to save me, Severus. I’m not some... charity case.”
“I’m not trying to save you,” Severus said, his tone still soft but unwavering. “I’m trying to be with you. There’s a difference.”
Remus finally turned to face him, his eyes wide with disbelief. For the first time in days, he saw something in Severus’s expression that stopped him cold. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t disgust. It was something raw and genuine—vulnerability, yes, but also something more. It was care.
“But I don’t deserve that,” Remus said, the words coming out more like a plea than a statement. “I’m not good enough for you. You don’t deserve to be stuck with someone like me.”
Severus’s face softened for a moment, and in the flickering light of the room, Remus could see the shadows that lived there, too. The things Severus had been hiding from the world, the parts of himself he kept locked away. Remus wasn’t the only one who had been broken. Severus had been through his own hell—something unspeakable that left its mark on him just as deeply as any wound Remus had ever felt.
“I don’t care about what you think you deserve,” Severus said quietly, his gaze never leaving Remus. “I care about you. And I don’t care what you’ve been through, what mistakes you think you’ve made. You’re still here. And that’s enough.”
Remus couldn’t breathe. The words—Severus’s words—cut through the thick wall around his heart like a knife. For the first time in months, he felt something close to hope. It was fleeting, delicate, but it was there, dancing like a flicker of light in the darkness.
“I don’t know how to let anyone in,” Remus admitted, his voice trembling. “I’ve never known how. Every time I try... I push them away. I hurt them. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
Severus stepped closer, his hand reaching out slowly, as though testing the waters, waiting for Remus’s permission. When Remus didn’t pull back, Severus’s fingers brushed lightly against his arm, sending a jolt of warmth through his body.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” Severus said softly. “And if you do... I’ll still be here. We’ll figure it out together.”
The simplicity of the statement hit Remus like a tidal wave. Together. They would figure it out. Maybe it wasn’t all hopeless. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to heal.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t oppressive anymore. It was comfortable—gentle, even. And in that silence, Remus could feel the weight of his own pain, but it didn’t feel as suffocating anymore. Severus was there, steady and unshaken, a quiet strength that Remus had never known he needed until now.
Finally, Remus spoke, his voice low and barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this... how to move forward.”
Severus gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Then we’ll learn together.”
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Remus allowed himself to believe it. They would learn together. Slowly, step by step, they would pick up the pieces, no matter how small they were, and build something new.
Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. Both of them turned to look, but Severus didn’t flinch. He didn’t step away. He stayed right there, his presence an anchor in the storm that had once felt impossible to navigate.
“Come in,” Severus said, his voice steady.
The door opened, and one of the staff members entered. Remus’s stomach twisted with dread, but Severus didn’t move, didn’t flinch at the intrusion. He didn’t need to. He had something now that he hadn’t had before: someone who was there for him. Someone who wasn’t leaving.
The staff member looked at them, his eyes flickering between them as if he expected some kind of reaction. “It’s time for the evening check-in. You’re needed in the common room.”
Remus nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving Severus. Severus’s hand remained where it was, on his arm, his fingers still lightly brushing against his skin.
“Are you coming?” Severus asked, his voice quiet but unshaken.
Remus looked up at him, meeting his dark gaze. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he didn’t feel alone. He didn’t feel invisible. He was seen. He was heard.
“Yes,” Remus said, his voice steady. “I’m coming.”
And together, they walked out of the room, side by side.