Making Do

Three Weeks After the Final Battle: Minerva McGonagall The barn owl is one of many arriving at Hogwarts at such an hour, and Minerva, hurriedly finishing a letter to Kingsley, pays no mind to the envelope it carries — not until a feathered wing sends her inkwell crashing to the floor. “If that’s not from the artefactologists, you shall be very sorry,” grumbles the Headmistress, but the persistent owl extends its taloned leg, indifferent to her glower. Minerva freezes, recognising the handwriting on the envelope. With a trembling hand, she conjures her Patronus. When flustered Filius, Pomona, and Poppy burst into her office, the witch silently holds out the unopened letter. They gasp and freeze. Finally, Pomona decisively takes the envelope from Minerva’s unresisting grip, unfurls the parchment, and her eyes scan the neat, cramped lines. “He’s alive,” she whispers, looking at her colleagues. Poppy buries her face in her hands and sways — the chair, conjured in haste by Filius, protests under her sudden weight. She had begun weeping long before Pomona reached the final word. “Well now,” says a bewildered Flitwick. “How about some Calvados? I owe Severus Snape a considerable debt, and I am glad the chance for a personal apology still exists.” Poppy sobs as she never did at the funeral. Filius excuses himself for a moment to fetch the liquor. Pomona — ever the kind-hearted Hufflepuff — embraces the matron, patting her back soothingly. And Minerva is struck by the sudden realisation that she’s forgotten to summon one more person who absolutely must hear of Snape without delay. A frantic Harry Potter bursts into her office half an hour later and freezes, dumbstruck by the bottles on the table. A full glass leaps into his hand of its own accord. “To Severus Snape,” Filius intones solemnly. “The Professor Who Survived.” They all raise their glasses, and Harry’s lips begin to tremble. 'Dear Merlin', thinks Minerva, 'we’ve only just calmed Poppy down'.

* * *

Severus Snape belongs to the “lucky ones” whose life has always been completely in the gutter. Now, having surrounded himself with muggle books on psychology, he surmises that he has spent many pounds in vain — he already knows that his problems come from childhood. People who had the misfortune of being acquainted with Tobias Snape could agree without a doubt that this man’s child was doomed. Joining the ranks of nazi-wizards, immersing himself in dark magic, contributing to the murder of the last person who was kind to him, spying and almost dying from the bite of a giant snake — Severus grunts unhappily, thinking that he has lived up to the expectations. While Potter is whitewashing the name of his former professor — and the boy cannot be accused of a lack of enthusiasm — he is hiding in a distant Muggle area of London. Snape’s life is a routine burden nowadays: he takes potions on Tuesdays and Fridays and rubs salve into the scars on his neck. He brews only for himself: there is no strength left for orders, and the magical exhaustion has not yet passed. He spends the Galleons and pounds left by Albus on porridge, milk, required ingredients, owl post, and those books on Muggle psychology that turned out to be a waste of time, money, and paper. It’s not that Severus was counting on any revelations when he went to the bookshop nearby, but the elderly Muggle from the flat across the hall — the half-deaf Mrs. Yates, who has a weakness for poking her nose into other people’s affairs — is firmly convinced that he has depression and suggests he see a psychologist. After so many years, he feels attached to her gentle manners and South Welsh accent, but he never paid much attention to her concerns — he had returned to this flat only when the pressure from the Dark Lord and Dumbledore became unbearable. He reads about what depression is — and Mrs. Yates’s worries now seem reasonable to him. Severus doubts he looked healthy in May. Mrs. Yates, who knocks on his door every night at eight, calls, “Samuel! Are you home?” and knocks again. At the very beginning, she misheard his name, and Severus was in no hurry to correct her — he did not care back then. He also doesn’t care now about what’s happening with his name in the magical community: Potter made up a tearful love story about him and Lily Evans, and the nonsense has since snowballed into a giant pile of absolute rubbish — Severus questions the sanity of anyone who reads it, let alone supports it. He is subscribed to The Sunday Prophet to catch up with the most important news but habitually ignores the scandalous interviews from former classmates, colleagues, and students about him. He would have gladly cancelled the subscription if it had not been for the deep-rooted paranoia that Potter would soon come to his senses, accuse him of all mortal sins, forcing Severus to flee to America — some time ago the American Potions Association had invited him to an exclusive Wolfsbane project, and the Aurors would not dare to pursue him across the ocean. In the worst case, he could get lost in Europe; he has a collection of hairs and a stock of Polyjuice Potion sufficient for two years. He buys his shopping at the Tesco down the road, walks along a narrow street to the park, passes a small theatre, turns back, walks along the opposite side of the park, past a small bookshop, past a sex shop flashing its vulgar violet sign, and finally arrives at his flat. Severus is not bothered by the receipt — the sum is always acceptable — but he does not like the park, he is not interested in Muggle performances, the only books he bought turned out to be useless, and the sex shop bewildered him at first, but now this feeling is gone too. Salve, breakfast, a walk to Tesco, lunch, brewing, rest, dinner, a chat with Mrs. Yates, sleep. Somewhere in there, within those simple routine things, Severus should be happy, but apparently, the Dark Lord wasn’t the only problem. The problem is in your childhood’, Muggle books insist. Severus makes tea and adds milk, recalling poverty, insults and beatings, constant distrust, and the expectation of the worst… He is used to constant vigilance, and it is hard to abandon such a useful habit — the moment Severus lets his guard down, he might be hit by an Avada Kedavra. The war may be over for Potter, but the former spy must live with a Marked forearm for the rest of his life. He reads the chapter on depression and sees nothing terrible in it. Self-loathing, irritability, decreased libido, change in appetite — dear Merlin, that’s nothing. Insomnia and unexplained pains seem unpleasant, but there are potions for these that Severus has been taking for more than a dozen years. He has no idea how Muggles make do without special brews. Then he reads about post-traumatic stress disorder, puts down the book, and pours his cold tea into the sink. He prefers not to use magic — it will take a long time to restore it. An owl sits on the windowsill and taps on the glass with its beak. This is the only bird that can bypass the anti-owl barrier protecting his flat that has sheltered him in London so far. Minerva McGonagall knows of his whereabouts, and she is under the Fidelius Charm, so Severus uses the lightest of scanning spells to confirm the absence of Dark magic, curses, or artefacts. His hand instantly grows numb, and he rubs the muscles before opening the window to let the owl fly in. The owl hoots softly, perches on the table, and extends a clawed foot with a letter. The bird takes its time, stealing a half-eaten sandwich from the plate while Severus deals with the envelope. Apparently, it was instructed to wait for a reply and is disturbing his peace with tenacity. Hogwarts’ stamped parchment is covered in the Headmistress’s wide handwriting. Severus automatically skips the greetings and two paragraphs of polite questions about his life and health, only to stumble upon ‘the school needs you’. It seems the reconstruction is in full swing, and, as is extensively stated in another paragraph, there are enough workers, but they can’t do anything about the dungeons without the Head of Slytherin House, and Horace Slughorn is unavailable. The owl scratches the table impatiently, and Severus ponders the reasons he is going to list after the words ‘forget about the dungeons’. He was locked there for seven years in his youth, then another sixteen in adulthood, protecting his students from the prejudices of other Houses. He sincerely wants the dungeons to remain flooded. Severus writes, ‘Dear Minerva, unfortunately, I am also unavailable. As for the dungeons, I am firmly convinced that living in damp, dark, and cold rooms is harmful to children. If my opinion is of any importance, consider relocating the Slytherin dormitories elsewhere.’ He folds the parchment, ties it to the owl’s leg, puts several Knuts in the pouch, and lets the bird out into the street. The Slytherins needed him, the Order of the Phoenix needed him, the school needed him — the innumerable people saying ‘you should’ or ‘you must’ still make Severus nauseous. He looks at the torn sandwich with an air of melancholy and throws it in the bin, then sighs and decides to postpone the trip to Tesco until the evening. Or tomorrow. He has lost his appetite. He lies on the small sofa and puts his legs on the armrest. Severus will soon be forty. He has survived two wars, become a killer, almost been killed, and all he has to show for it is a Muggle den on the outskirts of London, next to a bookshop and a sex shop. According to The Sunday Prophet, he has been awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class. A half-empty, tiny flat and an Order of Merlin — somehow, that sounds better. Severus contemplates Muggle depression and psychology books, but only superficially, thinking thoughts like ‘Mrs. Yates is still worried’ or ‘The shop assistant insisted on these.’ His memories of childhood, the mistakes and betrayals, seem to drain his energy and freeze him from the inside with a non-verbal Stupefy. That is why Severus prefers not to remember at all, focusing on potions and survival — and after the victory, all that remained was Tesco, a salve for his neck, and two Restorative Potions. He skips lunch again, just looking at the ceiling, then a mechanical alarm clock shakes him out of his trance. It is kept in a small cauldron, polished to a shine, and its ringing pierces the flat so sharply that Severus winces and lifts himself off the sofa with great effort. Brewing the salve for his throat is just as entertaining as staring at the ceiling; all his movements are reduced to senseless automatism, lulling him back into indifference. Occasionally, Severus is jolted from this state by dread — the delivery of The Sunday Prophet, a knock at his door… or the glimpse of a grey-haired old man with a white beard in the park’s shadow, or a Weasley twin by the red telephone box. It often seems to him that the dead are near — those who did not survive the war. Nymphadora Tonks is reflected in any teenage girl with brightly dyed hair; a cashier at Tesco looks like the Creevey brother; a dark-haired postwoman with long curls and wide eyes makes him shudder. There is probably an explanation for this in one of the Muggle books on psychology. When Severus finally leaves the flat to buy groceries, he still feels no hunger, though it is already eight in the evening and the streets are gloomy. The bookshop is closed when he walks past, wrapped in his black coat. The shop is not crowded; Severus pays for potatoes, deciding it is worth diversifying his poor menu: swallowing solid food is still painful, but he cannot stand soup anymore. The walk down the street to the park is grey; the park paths are grey among the dirty green lawns; the theatre is grey — everything is grey. Even the glass of the red telephone box has a grey film. The only colour comes from a young man’s blue jacket on the other side of the street and the vulgar purple sign of a 24-hour sex shop. Snape turns his head abruptly, the scars on his neck tightening, and peers across at the man, trying to get a better look — then retreats at once, shouldering through the door of the nearest shop. Severus gasps, trying to pull himself together, but the panic is paralysing. His encounter with Nagini may have injured him, but, fortunately, his reflexes remain sharp. Did Potter notice him? Was that even Potter? They should not be looking for a former spy, and if they are, it is certainly not to present him with the Order of Merlin — Minerva would have contacted him. Time for Plan B? Has he recovered enough magic to Apparate home? They could be waiting for him there; his wards have not been renewed for a long time. Where to now? No one was going to forgive him for Dumbledore’s death — it was a trap, and he, an old fool, grew careless, believed the articles in The Prophet. They lulled him, made him feel safe. A polite cough sounds behind him, and Severus flinches. “Hello!” says a young woman in a purple polo shirt. “The shop is empty now, so you don’t have to worry about privacy. I can close the door if you like.” He nods and rasps, “Yes, please.” Potter wouldn’t break down the door in a Muggle area, though only Merlin knows what the boy is truly capable of. The woman steps over, turns the key, and says, “Our assortment caters to customers with a wide variety of tastes! Are you interested in essentials like condoms and lubricants, or toys and accessories? We also have videos, literature, and periodicals.” Snape tears his eyes from the door and focuses on the word that makes the most sense to him. “Literature.” The woman turns left and he follows, making sure to stand behind a rack so he is not visible from the entrance. “Typically, our clients prefer erotic novels, but we also have literature on sexology and health. This book about men’s health is very popular…” Severus does not listen, simply hands her the money. “I’ll take it. Now I should like to look around on my own. Thank you for your help.” When it is necessary to avoid attention, he knows how to behave, though it is difficult to keep his composure — for Merlin’s sake, what novels was the woman prattling on about? The Aurors are waiting for him in his flat with a one-way ticket to Azkaban! They have found him. They must have tracked the owl. Severus senses the girl watching him from the corner of his eye. He forces himself to walk past the racks, rustling the small plastic bag from Tesco and feigning interest. It is only then he notices the shelves and realises he is surrounded by artificial vaginas and that — oh, Merlin — he has managed to hide in the neighbouring 24-hour sex shop. He spends another five minutes of acute discomfort near the lady parts, then moves to the opposite wall and is met with colourful, erect penises. Shooing away thoughts of Dark magic rituals that might require genuine human bits, he glances at the door and whispers a simple spell to see through the wall. The street is empty, and a prickling numbness rolls through his arm — he had better forget about Apparition altogether. “Anything else?” the girl asks. Severus shakes his head and moves towards the door. “Don’t forget your change and the book!” The assistant presses a dark, opaque bag into his hands along with a few notes, unlocks the door, and Severus steps outside. The street is still empty; the entrance and the stairwell are empty too. The wards are undisturbed, proving he must be a mad, paranoid old man. He barely unclenches the hand that has been gripping his wand behind the bags. He places the groceries on the table, looks at the new book with its cover illustration of a cock, and sighs wearily.