The American Assistant (Y/N x Severus Snape)

Chapter 50 - Wistful Withdrawal, Restless Reunion

Trigger Warning: depressing thoughts, attempted self harm, smut😈

This chapter is quite long - the majority is the three days of withdrawal Y/N faces. Skip to the end of the smut if you aren't interested in reading that.

Wistful - full of yearning or desire tinged with melancholy, regret, yearning.

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You heave over the toilet, emptying your stomach contents - it hasn't even been twelve hours since your last drink, yet your hands are so shaky you cannot grab anything and your stomach is churning every second possible. After you finish, you wipe your mouth and force yourself to stand.

The school is empty - every single student and Professor has gone home for the holiday, save Severus. Even the ghosts seem scarce. You're relieved the Carrows aren't here - it seems they've gone home to play family with Flora and Hestia Carrow, twins in their fifth year at Hogwarts. They can't stick their little noses up your ass - yet. The halls and corridors are abnormally dark and sinister. Even the castle itself knows things aren't right in the Wizard World.

Gods, you need a drink. Just one. You begin to wonder if you can really do this by yourself? Hell, you're almost 35 years old, you shouldn't have to rely on anyone to help you withdraw. It's your fault your in this situation. This time next week, it'll be over with - the pain and nausea and tremors and the feeling of agonizing discomfort. You will be yourself again.

When you step back into your unlit chambers from the bathroom, you stare at the bed, debating. You can sleep through it all, perhaps take sleeping draughts to force you to. You're already in your bedclothes - a large faded shirt and baggy shorts. But, you also have a bottle of firewhisky in the bottom drawer of your desk. You squeeze the threshold of the door, bobbing back and forth on your heels, biting your lip to try to resist the urge.

Before you can realize, you're kneeling beside the desk, opening the bottom drawer. You fish the firewhisky out and stare down at it. It's so good. Your body almost relaxes at the mere sight of the alcohol.

"Dump it."

You tense, looking up and around your chambers. Maybe you're hallucinating now, but you've just heard the voice of your mother. You wet your lips with your tongue, then glance down to the bottle on your hand.

"Dump it!"

You jump up and shriek.

"Yes ma'am!" you obey.

You shiver - she sounds so close. You hurry to the small kitchen sink, looking around skeptically, and begin to open the bottle. The glass bottle shakes in your hand as you tilt it over the drain. You begin to lean forward, then backward, over and over, glaring at the bottle, almost willing it to dump itself. Your eyes squeeze shut and you begin to murmur to yourself not to drink it. You have willpower over it. You are stronger than it. Listen to your mother.

Then, you remember the students won't return until the second week of January. You'll be alone at the castle, no Death Eaters or Dark Lord to nuisance you. You will detox.

Tomorrow.

You bring the bottle to your lips and begin to drink. The burn as it slides over your tongue and down your throat feels good. The instant relief it provides is astounding. It's better than any potion or medicine. Your body immediately responds to it - your tremors slow and nausea fades. You feel whole.

Then your door gets knocked on.

You drop the bottle and it clatters into the sink, spilling the little alcohol that remained inside. You quickly run the water and splash some into your mouth, rinsing the smell away. More knocks come on the door.