"Haven't the foggiest." But Charles does not sound very concerned, in part because Severus knew his habits ahead of time and would have said something, but mostly in that he can tell the truth and intention behind Remus' words as clear as the words themselves.

It's nice, if it wasn't also horrible. "Can't keep out."

His laundry will wrinkle and he should cut his hair. Inanity. It's muffled mute, as pain is muffled mute. "You've known it," he says, finally, head lifting to look at Remus properly. "How it robs you of control. My power." His hand lifts, a gesture like he might press hand to head again, but just hovers. Fingers twitch, trying to communicate what he can't describe. "I couldn't keep anything out.

"I was taking medication for it and my back, and it's-- worn off, I suppose." He glances at the vial in Remus' hand, as if just noticing it was taken, an exhale easing out of him. "I have better days and worser days. It's always particularly terrible, when I stop."