Chapter Text
The air inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was thick with the scent of aged parchment, brass instruments, and the lingering dampness of the Highlands. Professor Remus Lupin stood near the front of the room, his worn, patchwork robes hanging loosely over his thin frame as his light brown eyes scanned the parchment roll in his hands. He tapped his quill against the wooden podium, his eyebrows drawing together in mild perplexity as he cross-referenced the names of the Slytherin and Gryffindor students gathered before him.
“I appear to be one student short,” Lupin observed, his tone light yet observant as he adjusted his gaze to address the split-house class.
A brief silence washed over the room before a rustle of heavy robes broke the quiet.
“Oh yeah! Dazai is still in the dungeons!” Ron Weasley piped up eagerly, sitting near the front with his posture practically bouncing in his chair, thrilled to offer assistance to their soft-spoken new teacher.
Professor Lupin turned his head toward the red-haired boy, a faintly amused wrinkle forming at the corner of his eye. “Might I inquire as to why Mr. Dazai is still down in the dungeons?” the professor asked, his voice carrying a warm, rustic chuckle that showed he was genuinely entertained by Ron’s bursting enthusiasm.
From the middle row among the Slytherin desks, Blaise Zabini leaned back in his chair, folding his arms nonchalantly over his chest as he took it upon himself to deliver the official message. “He fell fast asleep during Potions class, Professor,” Blaise explained coolly. “Professor Snape explicitly ordered us to leave him undisturbed when the bell rang, and asked that you kindly excuse his absence from your lesson today.”
Lupin paused, his quill hovering in mid-air above the parchment register. A hand moved up to rest lightly on his hip as he absorbed the information, his brow furrowing in genuine astonishment. Having known Severus Snape during their own school years, the concept of the ruthless, exacting Potions Master allowing a student—much less a muggle-raised boy—to sleep through a double period and subsequently pardoning them from another class was borderline absurd.
“That sounds... remarkably out of character for Severus,” Lupin noted aloud, his quiet voice carrying a mix of intrigue and suspicion.
From the Slytherin side of the room, Pansy Parkinson huffed loudly, tossing her dark bobbed hair over her shoulder and crossing her arms with an exaggerated scowl. “That’s because Professor Snape displays the most ridiculous, unfair favoritism toward that stupid muggle!” she sneered, her lip curling into a venomous pout as she aired her long-festering grievance.
“Language, Ms. Parkinson,” Lupin scolded gently, his voice devoid of anger but firm with absolute authority. He tilted his head slightly, peering over his faint scars at the young witch. “And favoritism? Are we entirely certain we are speaking of the same Severus Snape?”
“Yes, sir! She’s actually telling the truth for once,” Hermione Granger jumped in from the Gryffindor side, raising her chin with crisp conviction. She leaned forward over her neatly organized notes, her bushy hair swinging as she eagerly added her own observations. “Professor Snape treats Dazai completely differently than anyone else. He tolerates things from him that would get the rest of us grounded or given detention for a month. It’s possibly because he recognizes Dazai is far, far smarter than he lets on, even if Dazai tries to act completely clueless.”
Ron blinked, turning his head slowly toward Hermione with a look of utter, blank bewilderment. “Who? Snape?” he asked, tilting his head dumbly.
Draco Malfoy, sitting two seats down from Pansy, let out an exasperated scoff and glared across the aisle. “No, Dazai, you idiot,” Draco spat under his breath, clicking his tongue with contempt. “Stupid Weasley.”
Lupin held up a single hand to gently nip the burgeoning house squabble in the bud. He glanced toward the heavy wardrobe rattling ominously in the corner of the room—the closet that held the subject of today’s practical lesson.
“Well then,” Lupin decided smoothly, placing his quill back into its inkwell. “I suppose I shall excuse Mr. Dazai’s absence just this once. Now, if everyone would please clear your desks and step toward the center of the room, we shall begin today’s practical exercise... regarding Boggarts.”
Deep down in the subterranean chill of the dungeons, a starkly different atmosphere reigned.
The Potions classroom was wrapped in cold, shadowed silence, broken only by the steady scratching of a dragon-leather quill against parchment. Shadows danced lazily across stone walls lined with glass jars containing pickled ingredients and floating specimens. At his grand oak desk, Severus Snape sat upright, methodically grading a stack of mediocre second-year essays while simultaneously maintaining a watchful, vigilant eye on the small, slumping figure seated at a work table in the back row.
Dazai Osamu had been sound asleep for nearly an hour and a half. His dark brown hair was messily spread against his folded arms, his frame so terrifyingly still that, had it not been for the faint, barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest, one might have mistaken him for a corpse. He hadn't shifted an inch despite the harsh scraping of wooden chairs when class ended, nor when Snape had dismissed the rest of the students in low tones.
Problem child... Snape thought bitterly, pausing his quill mid-stroke and pinching the bridge of his long nose as a headache throbbed behind his temples.
This strange, bandaged child from Yokohama would truly be the death of him. Snape had spent months attempting to unravel the enigma that was Dazai Osamu—a boy who wore suicide jokes like a shield, whose body was crisscrossed with surgical-grade bandages, and whose dark, vacant eyes carried the weight of a seasoned executioner rather than an eleven-year-old schoolboy.
“Mn...”
A small, strained groan escaped Dazai’s lips, breaking the dead quiet of the dungeon room. He wasn’t fully awake, but the heavy, exhausted trance he had fallen into was dissolving into a lighter, far more turbulent stage of sleep. His fingers twitched against the smooth wood of the desk, curling into tight, trembling fists.
“Mr. Dazai?” Snape spoke, instantly placing his hands flat on his desk and standing up. His dark eyes locked onto the boy’s restless movements.
Dazai groached a second time, a low, pained sound that vibrated with raw distress. His bandaged hands scrambled upward, desperately clutching at his head as if trying to shield himself from an invisible strike.
“Oka-san,” he mumbled frantically under his breath, his voice thin, young, and utterly stripped of its usual playful cadence. “Dete konaide kudasai...”
Snape frowned deeply, taking a slow step around his desk. He had no idea what the foreign words meant; he didn't speak a single syllable of Japanese. But the sheer terror woven into the boy's tone needed no translation.
“Dazai, wake up,” Severus urged calmly, his long strides making minimal sound across the flagstone floor as he approached the kid. “You are at Hogwarts. You are in the Potions classroom.”
Reaching the side of the desk, the Potions Master extended a hand and placed it gently on Dazai’s slender, bandage-wrapped shoulder. “Dazai.”
The physical contact snapped the wire.
Dazai bolted upward with a violent start, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he recoiled backward. Instinct honed in blood and underground basements took over before his eyes could even focus. In a flash of terrifying, martial fluidity, he threw both arms up in front of his face, ducking his head into a defensive guard to protect his vital organs.
“Watashi o kizutsukenaide kudasai, Daijobu desu!” Dazai whimpered, his breath hitching wildly as he cowered against the bench, his single visible burgundy eye wide, blown out, and trembling with unadulterated horror.
“Pardon?” Snape immediately pulled his hand back, raising both palms open in the air in a clear, deliberate gesture of disarm and surrender. He held his ground without advancing further. “I do not understand Japanese, Mr. Dazai. Look at me. You are safe.”
Dazai blinked rapidly, the foggy terror in his vision slowly clearing. The dark stone basements of Yokohama, the scent of antiseptic, and the looming shadows of his past melted away, replaced by the damp stone archways of Hogwarts and the towering, dark-clad figure of Severus Snape.
In a fraction of a second, the terrified child vanished. The heavy, suffocating mask of Osamu Dazai clicked flawlessly back into place. His shoulders relaxed with unnerving speed, his hands dropping to his sides.
“Ah, sorry, sir,” Dazai said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and offering a light, hollow laugh that didn't reach his dark, hollow eye. “Must have had a bit of a silly nightmare. How embarrassing for me!”
Snape did not laugh. He slowly lowered his arms and crossed them tightly over his chest, towering over the boy with an intensity that could shatter steel. His dark eyes bored into Dazai's facade, cutting straight through the fragile porcelain of his smile.
“Clearly,” Snape answered, his voice smooth, low, and devoid of humor. “Dazai, I will ask you once again... Are you safe at home?”
The cheerful expression on Dazai’s face stiffened slightly, a shadow passing over his features. He dropped his hand and frowned, leaning back against the edge of the table. “Why do you always ask that question?” Dazai grumbled, his tone turning flat and irritated. “Yes, Professor, I am perfectly safe at home.”
“I am not inclined to believe you,” Snape stated bluntly, his keen eyes observing the subtle tension in the young mafioso’s posture, the faint tremor in his fingers, and the hyper-vigilance vibrating through his frame. “You have suffered a panic attack, fallen dead asleep in the middle of a lecture, and flinched violently at a gentle touch—all in a single day.”
“That doesn’t mean anything!” Osamu snapped, his chin lifting stubbornly. His carefully constructed mask slipped entirely, his single burgundy eye flashing with genuine, unbridled venom as frustration boiled over.
“I am sure it means a great deal more than you care to admit,” Snape countered smoothly, refusing to back down an inch beneath the boy's sharp gaze.
“Why do you want to know so badly anyway?!” Dazai spat, taking a sudden step forward. His voice cracked with a rare, unmasked fury that shocked the quiet air of the classroom. “Why do you care?! What does it matter to you what I do, where I go, or what happens to me?!”
Snape didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice, nor did he use his formidable presence to intimidate the boy. Instead, the dark-haired teacher stepped closer, his voice carrying a quiet, heavy sincerity that shattered the space between them.
“Because no child should have to go through even half the amount of pain you clearly have been through,” Severus answered softly.
No child should have to go through what I have? Dazai scoffed bitterly to himself, a cold, hollow emptiness washing over his chest. How utterly, laughably naive.
He looked up at Snape—at the man's burning, quiet resolve to protect him—and felt a sickening knot tie itself tight in his stomach. The Potions Master truly didn't understand. Snape was trying to rescue a ghost, trying to extend a hand to someone who had long since discarded his own humanity. Dazai couldn't be saved, no matter how fiercely the professor steeled his mind.
If Severus only knew the truth—the dark basements, the Port Mafia, Mori's sickening grin, and the mountain of blood on Dazai's hands—he would realize just how ridiculous his sympathy truly was.