“Whenever these urges to hurt yourself arise, I need you to seek out a professor. Preferably either myself or Madam Pomfrey.”
That’s what Snape had said at some point during his first year at Hogwarts.
Looking down at his bleeding arms, Dazai didn’t think Snape would appreciate seeing what he’s done to himself this time.
He didn’t even know what caused it. There was no trigger, nothing in particular that stuck out. One moment he was waving goodbyes to the smiling twins after leaving the library, and the next he was sitting on the floor of a bathroom he didn’t recognize.
The blood was slowly forming a small puddle on the tiles below him, flowing down his arm and hitting the ground with a quiet sound.
Dazai watched as it grew larger by the second, frozen in place yet wanting to move, to clean up, to do something.
…
Nothing.
There was nothing in his head. It was empty, and it felt like whatever was in it had abandoned him a long time ago. He willed himself to move, only to be disappointed when nothing happened. His limbs felt disconnected, as though they didn’t belong to him, sprawled out in front of him as they were.
What would Mori think if he saw you right now?
The thought made him pause.
What would Mori think?
Dazai, small and cold, sitting slumped over on the ground. Surrendered to his own habits.
Pathetic.
Dazai could be doing something productive right now. And yet, he was still here, unmoving.
He could be doing research in the library, digging up information on things long forgotten. Or planning out his next steps. He could be practicing spells, and getting better at casting.
Instead, he was sitting on the cold, hard floor of one of the bathrooms with his arms crying blood for no apparent reason.
Useless.
He needed to get up. Do something. Be productive.
He hadn’t been sent to Hogwarts to wallow in the dark confines of his mind, or to pity himself.
Taking a deep breath, Dazai heaved himself up, using the wall as support when his legs briefly trembled under him.
His bones protested the movement, sore from being in the same position for what must have been a while.
How long has he been here for, anyway?
A quick glance to the window answered his question.
Dark.
It was dark outside, with the moon as his only companion. The stars provided little light, obscured by the clouds that stretched across the sky.
The slight amount of light that was visible, however, cast eerie shadows through the windows of the desolate bathroom.
The view was quite pretty, Dazai thought, as his eyes traced along each shadow, and he almost forgot what he was meant to be doing until his eyes once again landed on the red puddle on the floor.
He needed to clean up. Right.
Casting a look around the bathroom, Dazai’s eye landed on one of the stalls in the corner.
He gathered up some toilet paper and shuffled back to the spot, wiping away the evidence of what had occurred.
Throwing that away into a trashcan, Dazai’s attention was brought back to his arms with a numb, yet simultaneously stinging feeling.
The bandages he had on his arms were loose and soaked through with blood; there was no saving them.
Sighing to himself, Dazai turned on the tap and put his arm under the water, prickling at the uncomfortable feeling on his bare skin. He was adamant in keeping his eyes away from his arms.
He didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see what he’s made of himself. What he’d seen during his first visit at the infirmary had been enough. Too much, actually.
With his eyes straying away from the sink, Dazai found himself meeting his own reflection in the mirror. A fleeting feeling passed by at the view before he could identify it.
He looked… tired? No, that wasn’t the right word. Dead, perhaps. Empty, or hollowed out, even. His face was pale, the one eye visible sunken in, somehow.
Inhuman, his mind supplied.
Shaking away the thought, Dazai pulled his arms out from under the tap. They were clean, but it wouldn’t be long before they were red with blood again.
He patted them down with paper towels, wiping away the water tinged with pink, only for his hands to freeze mid-air as a sudden realization hit him:
He had no spare bandages to wrap his arms with.
Shit.
It’s fine, he reasoned with himself, trying to keep his suddenly irregular breathing at bay.
It was late, most likely after curfew, if the heavy silence around him said anything. There would be no one but Filch and his cat wandering the halls, and they were fairly easy to avoid.
Dazai would simply wrap his arms again in the bloody bandages. It was going to be uncomfortable, and certainly less than ideal, but still miles better than leaving them bare. Then, he’d sneak back into the gang office and finish patching himself up there.
Resolute in his plan of action, Dazai wrapped himself back up and slipped out through the door, quickly glancing both ways to make sure the hall was empty. The darkness of the hallway confirmed his suspicions of curfew having passed; all of the torches had been blown out, leaving shadows to stretch over the expanse of the ground.
Upon seeing the empty hallway, Dazai was faced with another problem:
He didn’t know where he was, as per usual.
The last place he could recognize and remember being in was the spot where he and twins had split up. Dazai had waved them goodbye with a smile and headed in the direction of the Slytherin dorms. They didn’t know he had moved to the office, after all, and he didn’t know how to explain it without inadvertently making them fuss over him. It was simpler this way.
Surely he couldn’t have wandered off too far, especially when stuck in his own head.
Deciding to head right, Dazai ambled quietly down the hallway, his steps inaudible, like those of a cat’s. Reaching the nearest corner did nothing more than provide him with a vague sense of familiarity he associated with just about every hallway in the castle.
The absence of sound presented a perfect opportunity for his spiraling thoughts.
The blood he had washed away earlier was already starting to come back. Dazai could feel the way it made his bandages uncomfortably stick to his sleeves. He was aware they would get dirty, knew that even before the cuts started bleeding again, but he refused to roll them up even if it was in favor of his robes.
Doing that meant that someone could see.
It’s very unlikely, he told himself. There was no one around at this hour.
And yet…
He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even the slightest possibility had his hands shaking at his sides.
Thankfully the sleeves of his uniform were long, coming up to his palms.
Pulling the fabric away from his wrappings did nothing but make him grimace at the sticky feeling, the bandages clinging like a second skin.
This entire situation reminded him far too much of Yokohama. Sneaking around with bleeding arms, avoiding Father and Mori… it was all too similar.
As Dazai turned the next corner, he found himself stumbling slightly, his head spinning at the sudden movement. A quiet chuckle sounded from somewhere on his left. Startled, he spun around into a defensive position, head protesting, only to be faced with a painting.
The woman, framed in gold and composed of oily brushstrokes, was looking at him with derision. When she noticed his staring, her expression soured, as though he was nothing more than dirt under her shoe. She turned away.
That’s how a lot of people have been looking at him recently. Either that, or recoiling in fear, faces betraying pure terror even in broad daylight.
Dazai ought to think that’s a good thing. It’s what Mori wanted.
Fear is a wonderful motivator, isn’t that right, Shuuji?
The echoing words in his head sent a shiver through Dazai, his first name even more so.
Get out of my head.
…
Satisfied with the lack of response, Dazai glared back at the woman on the painting and continued walking.
Subconsciously, one of his hands wandered to his wrist, like a fork in want of a light socket, to scratch at the bandages there, only to pause at the feeling of blood.
He really needed those bandages now.
Dazai had been so stupid earlier, letting himself dissociate when danger lurked at every corner, where there were prying eyes ready to accuse him of anything and everything.
The Demon Student
What a stupid title.
At some point, Mori had said that Dazai would never be pure, that he was corrupted from the inside out since the very beginning. Dazai had hoped that at Hogwarts, in spite of the clear mission he was sent here to complete, he would get a blank slate. He wouldn’t be ‘The Demon Prodigy’, or Tsushima Shuuji… he would just be himself.
Funny where thinking that got him.
Now, his hands were stained with more blood than before. Even the new name he had fully claimed as his own during his time here was tarnished.
The Demon Student…
Maybe the ‘Demon’ title was bound to follow him everywhere.
—
After walking down a long hallway for a few minutes, Dazai was finally approaching another corner.
The darkness of the corridors made it hard for him to see, especially now that he only had half of his vision. The reminder made Dazai shiver tensely, bringing him back to that day. Father had raised his arm, holding Mori’s forgotten scalpel, and—
—and then his face met dark cloth.
Stumbling back, Dazai almost fell to the ground before a warm hand steadied him by the shoulder.
Snape’s face greeted him with a frown.
“Mr. Dazai. May I ask what you think you are doing roaming the halls at this hour?” Snape’s eyes glared at him from above, making him shuffle back subtly, hand slipping from his shoulder. They had an odd look to them, an emotion he couldn’t quite put a name to.
Shit!
This was not supposed to happen! Dazai was meant to sneak back silently to the gang office and not be caught by anyone. How did Dazai not hear him approach? Screw that, how did he not see him? There were torches lit around them all the way to the other end of the corridor.
Your behavior is unbecoming of a mafioso. A proper executive is always vigilant, never letting themselves slip—
Snape cleared his throat.
“Professor!” Dazai exclaimed cheerfully, hoping he sounded better than he felt. “To what do I owe you the pleasure this wonderful evening?” If he managed to distract Snape now, maybe he could still head back—
Dazai heard Snape click his tongue in annoyance.
“Do not play games with me, boy. Surely you are aware—“
A drop of blood fell to the floor, scarlet in the moonlight.
Snape sucked in a sharp breath.
Dazai froze. He hid his arms behind his back in realization, but he knew it was too late. Snape’s eyes, wide as they were, zeroed in on the movement anyway.
A few seconds passed in silent anticipation before anything was said.
“I— My office. Come.” said Snape, tone unreadable. He put his hand on Dazai’s shoulder to guide him.
Dazai’s feet moved thoughtlessly.
He’s gotten caught.
What was Snape going to do? Was he angry? Somewhere distant in his mind he thought that sounded irrational but it was quickly drowned out by his racing heartbeat. The possibilities were endless, and he found himself getting lost in their sea before he could stop to consider anything.
Their steps echoed down the hallway as they walked in the direction where Snape’s office presumably was.
Plan. He needs a plan.
Snape already knew about his habits, and has known about them for a while already, but what if he started asking questions?
In his current state, Dazai didn’t know whether he could successfully navigate the situation.
Dazai felt unstable, as if he were a glass teetering on the edge of a table in an earthquake. His balance was precarious, and his only options were surrendering or falling into the abyss of his mind.
He didn’t know what to do. His head was blank and racing with endless thoughts at the same time. Despite the constant pain, the bleeding arms at his sides felt foreign, as if they belonged to someone else entirely. His blood looked black, blending in with his dark sleeves as it was. Red didn't suit him; his blood wasn't meant to be red. It was supposed to be black, just like Mori said.
Dazai was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t notice any of the concerned looks Snape kept shooting his way.
He surfaced at the sound of a heavy door opening.
Oh.
They had arrived at Snape’s office.
When did they get here? He couldn’t recall. It felt as though awareness kept eluding him, like a camera sliding out of focus.
Snape gently led him to the plush chair he usually sat in during their remedial lessons on Saturdays. It was pulled away from the desk, slightly turned to the side. Dazai sat down, hands nervously in his lap.
He waited for Snape to sit down in the other chair across the desk.
Instead, Dazai blinked, confused, as his professor kneeled down in front of him, bringing them to eye level.
“Can I… May I touch you?” asked Snape, breaking the silence.
Dazai startled at the question. His uncovered eye briefly met Snape’s before quickly straying to one of the bookshelves behind him.
“Dazai, look at me.”
Dazai’s eye stayed firmly fixed to one of the books on the shelf. Somehow, even that meager request felt overwhelming.
“Problem Child.”
The nickname caught him off guard. Snape had used it many times before, yet this time it managed to surprise him enough to look back.
A single chocolate eye met a pair of black ones.
Snape had an odd look on his face. Concern? It made Dazai prickle uncomfortably, so he decided it didn’t mean anything at all.
“I… Show me your arm, please.”
He didn’t want to. Somehow, Dazai found himself acquiescing regardless.
Slowly lifting his left arm, Dazai hesitantly placed his wrist in Snape’s waiting hand. His professor released a breath and started carefully unwrapping the bandages.
Dazai looked away.
With each second, more and more bandages slipped off and down onto the ground. Dazai waited with bated breath for… for something to happen.
Maybe for a hit to come, or for screaming to start.
A few moments of calm silence passed.
Dazai unwound slightly.
Snape’s eyes didn’t linger for long on his scars. In a moment unnoticed by Dazai, his professor had grabbed a cloth he was now using to clean the blood. The fabric was being dragged over the skin of his arm delicately, absorbing the red liquid. After a moment, Snape turned to reach for something before facing him again.
“This might sting a bit,” he warned, voice steady. “Hold still.” A second later, the familiar burn of antiseptic washed over Dazai. He barely felt it.
Dazai thought he did a good job staying still, but the lack of reaction only caused Snape’s brows to furrow in worry.
He didn’t even notice his hands were shaking until Snape put his own on top. Warm fingers wrapped around his, squeezing once.
By the time Dazai realized the feeling wasn’t actually all that terrible, and that he actually liked it, the warmth was fading as Snape reached for a roll of bandages.
Dazai spoke up, leaning forward, “I can do that myself, you don’t have to—“
“Let me,” Snape cut him off.
Dazai’s mouth clicked shut softly.
He watched as Snape wound the bandages around one arm, then the other, carefully moving as he went. With each motion, more of his pale skin was being covered in sterile white.
In the end, Dazai’s arms were neatly wrapped in soft bandages. They were a little crooked in some places, but he found that he didn’t mind.
As he ran his fingers over them, a feeling unfurled in his chest, somewhere behind every other ugly thing that made up his being. He thought it felt warm, but couldn’t be sure.
Snape stood up, and Dazai fought back the instinctive flinch within him in response. Judging by the sudden twist in Snape’s expression, he didn’t think he had been too successful at hiding it.
The potions professor walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down. With a slight flick of his wand, a tea kettle settled on its surface and started heating up. Before Dazai knew it, a porcelain teacup had also been placed in its usual spot.
It was the dark green one with a snake-skin pattern. The one he’s come to recognize in particular.
Dazai turned to face the desk, eyes straying across the office, focused on every detail but the worried eyes in front of him.
This wasn’t meant to happen. He was supposed to sneak back into the gang office, patch himself up, and go to sleep. Instead, he was sitting in Snape’s office, arms patched up by someone that wasn’t himself. Snape had unraveled his bandages, had seen his arms, lined with scars, so many scars—
And yet, there was no shouting. No prying eyes staring him down, dissecting every minute detail. Just the comforting silence of the office.
The delicate sound of pouring water snapped his attention back to the present moment. The liquid swirled in the cup, circling as it hit its fragile sides, darkening in color with each passing second.
Despite having drunk this tea several times now, its type remained a mystery to him. It was nothing Dazai recognized, and he briefly considered the idea that maybe they didn’t have this kind in Yokohama at all.
A few seconds later, a golden trickle of honey landed in the water, sending delicate ripples across the surface.
“May I… ask what triggered this to happen?”
“Huh?” Dazai looked up from the tea, surprised. This was not what he had expected. This wasn’t something anyone had ever asked before.
Snape observed him from across the desk patiently. There was a crease in between his brows.
After recovering from his initial shock, Dazai considered his answer. To be honest, he wasn’t entirely certain himself. Sometimes he just got like this; disconnected, far away from the real world, stuck in a dark corner of his mind. A corner where his nightmares haunted him even while wide awake, and then followed him into sleep.
Dissociation, Mori had called it.
“I don’t know.” he responded, uncharacteristically unsure.
It was the truth. Well, mostly, but Snape didn’t need to know the details. Dazai shouldn’t have run into him in the first place. If he had made it to the gang office without getting caught, all of this fussing wouldn’t have been necessary. Given a few hours, he would’ve gotten over himself.
Stupid emotions. Always hindering him wherever he went. The mafia was right to teach him he shouldn’t let them control him.
Thank god Mori or Father weren’t here. Dazai didn’t know what they would do if they saw him like this, weakly letting himself tag along like a stray dog.
He was stronger than that. He was the Demon Prodigy, after all.
Dazai had been thinking for a bit when the silence suddenly dawned on him. He looked up from the spot he was staring at.
From the other side of the desk, Snape was looking at him strangely.
“…what?” asked Dazai, quietly.
Snape’s unreadable expression frowned “Nothing,” he said. “Drink your tea. I’m thinking.”
Oh right, the tea! Dazai had already forgotten about it, busy getting lost in his thoughts. He leaned forward to take it.
The cup was warm, but not too warm. With a hint of sweetness, just the way he liked it. He held it with both hands, savoring the feeling.
Suddenly, he realized something was missing.
His gloves!
His hands were bare, bony fingers on display. His cuticles, once torn and irritated, were now healed since he’s started wearing the gloves more frequently. Strangely, being without them now left him feeling off-kilter.
“Where are my—”
“—Gloves?” finished Snape, shooting them a pointed look. They were folded nicely on the side of the desk.
Oh. He hadn’t even noticed them.
Carefully, he set down the now half-empty cup of tea and reached out for them. He frowned at his still slightly trembling hands. Traitorous things.
As Dazai was putting on the gloves he noticed a few spots where blood had stained and dried. He made a mental note to wash them later.
“Why do you wear those?” Snape asked, glancing at them, and then met Dazai’s eye once more.
How does he answer this question?
Because otherwise my ability might reveal everything I’ve spent nearly two years hiding.
“They were a gift.” Dazai lied. It sounded more or less believable, and wouldn’t prompt any more questions. Snape would come off as nosy otherwise.
His professor hummed in response, taking a sip of his tea. A moment of silence lapsed between them.
Dazai could still feel his arms hurting, but the sensation was so muted that he pushed it to the back of his mind. The familiar bandages hugged them securely, neither too tight nor too loose.
Putting his tea down, Snape clasped his hands and spoke. “I’ll make sure to inform your other professors you won’t be coming into class tomorrow.”
“Huh—?” Dazai perked up, confused. “There’s no need, Sir, I can attend classes just fine.” He assured. Surely Snape didn’t think an injury as minor and inconsequential as this would hinder his ability to work—or, well, to attend classes.
Snape shook his head, dismissive. “I insist. Go visit Poppy tomorrow as well,” he paused before continuing. “On second thought, I’ll accompany you. Merlin knows you wouldn’t go by yourself.”
Dazai made a face. “That’s mean, Sir.”
His professor raised a brow. “It’s the truth. Need I remind you of what happened last year?” At this, Dazai turned away, embarrassed, knowing he had nothing to say in defense. He saw Snape smirk out of the corner of his eye anyway.
With the soft scent of honey tea lingering in the air and the delicate buzz of various magic potions, Dazai found himself unwittingly drifting off in the plush chair.
(Right before succumbing to sleep, a warm hand carded through his hair.)