Making Do

Being deprived of a magical gift, Muggles have adapted using technology, welcoming exhausted wizards with half-useless wands. Back then, when Severus had managed to control his paranoia enough to handle large crowds, he headed down to Tesco and scoured the place up and down, finally deciding to buy only a cheap electric kettle. From that point on, he has avoided all sections of the supermarket other than the grocery aisles. The kettle breaks down regularly, and the former professor has to use the exhausting Reparo spell to bring the piece of plastic back to life. It seems Muggles buy new household appliances every month, which is an inexplicable waste. Snape doesn’t like spending money. It might be an echo of his poor childhood, or it could be the fact that all he has in his wallet was given to him by Albus. The late Headmaster knew that after his death, Severus Snape would become the number two villain of magical Britain, so he handed him several heavy bags of Galleons and Muggle money for a rainy day. The ex-professor has never had any savings of his own: special amulets, rare ingredients, and payments for his Muggle flat used to exhaust every last Knut of his salary. Now, when wizards may not be looking for him anymore, selling his parental home in Spinner’s End could be a solution to his financial problems, but Severus is not able to squash his paranoia and expose himself to the wizarding world yet. He also can’t spend Dumbledore’s money without a soul-sucking feeling of guilt, which is why his Muggle wardrobe is extremely sparse: blue-striped pyjamas, an old three-piece suit, several shirts, and one black T-shirt. All of those used to belong to his father, and only one piece of clothing he bought for himself several years ago — a coat. At that time, Severus doubted he would actually survive the war, so spending on clothes seemed like a waste; there were many more pressing things to buy. Fortunately, nowadays hardly anyone on the streets pays attention to the way he is dressed; Muggles are surprisingly unobservant, and he rarely catches the puzzled looks thrown at him, or the whispers of, “Does that guy know he’s not in the eighties?” Using the Reparo spell to fix his kettle once again, Severus gets so tired that he curls up on the sofa and only comes round when an owl knocks on his window. It is to be expected — the hallmark of all the wizards occupying the post of Hogwarts’ Headmaster is that they ignore rejection until a person finally agrees. The owl stubbornly awaits an answer, observing him with its clever eyes as Severus reads the letter from Minerva. ‘I will address your proposal for the relocation of the Slytherin dorms at the Hogwarts Council. We need a person who would have a personal interest in creating the most favourable conditions for students of this House, and you are the best candidate’. The postscript says, ‘Please meet me today at any convenient place. Please send the time and the coordinates for the Apparition point in your reply’. Severus grimaces in displeasure when the owl begins to nibble insistently at his hand, but takes out some parchment and a ballpoint pen — a Muggle invention he came to appreciate as a student before Hogwarts — and writes down the coordinates, adding, ‘7 pm’. He eats watery porridge, drinks tea with milk, brews a foul-smelling salve for his neck, and slumps onto the sofa. Energy seems to flow out of him, and it grows more difficult to move. Perhaps the Dark Lord cursed him with something unknown, or Nagini’s venom eventually darkens the aura once it enters the bloodstream, or maybe Muggle depression also affects wizards. Severus wonders how Arthur Weasley is doing these days, as he is also intimately acquainted with the toothy beast. Severus turns his head slightly and looks at the useless Muggle books still lying on the bedside table. He reaches out and takes the top one, with its huge, golden, erect penis on the dark grey cover, and it makes him wonder just how shameless the Muggle world is. Not a single wizarding publishing house would ever stoop to such vulgarity. Magical books, on the contrary, have the most unassuming titles possible; it is often difficult to guess the content from the name alone. Back in his schooldays, Severus’s curiosity knew no bounds, and he secretly read Everything About Your Magic Wand, Knizzles and Runespoors* and Homework of a Young Wizard, suppressing untimely erections and memorising Contraception Charms. Later, he read everything about anal sex, learned how to brew high-quality lubricants, and spent many nights behind the bed-curtains, studying pictures of naked men from the chapters on puberty and physical development. Now his youth seems so distant as if it were from a different life, and Severus’s libido has faded away, having never fully emerged during adolescence. In truth, the next wave of hormones consumed him in his first year of teaching at Hogwarts because of precocious seven-year students, but it terrified the young professor so much that he used an Impotence Potion. After that humiliating spring, the spells of acute desire no longer bothered him, morning erections disappeared by themselves, and masturbation was required only once every one or two months and brought little pleasure. Severus is so accustomed to his condition that seeing a mere drawing of a penis makes him wonder about the last time he had an erection. He looks at his pyjama trousers in bewilderment, puts his hand under the elastic, and gently touches himself, but his body does not respond. ‘Oh, Merlin,’ Severus says weakly. The realisation that he hasn’t had an erection for several years hits him with the force of an avalanche. In his chest of books, he keeps expensive collector’s editions bound in dragon-hide. There are multi-volume works on potions, the Dark Arts, and magical theory; there are even potion recipes for purifying the blood and restoring limbs, but there is absolutely nothing about what to put in a cauldron to help a man regain erectile function. None of his private clients has ever placed such an order — they have always come to Severus with more serious problems. The school infirmary has also never needed that kind of potion, and Snape himself would hardly dare to experiment with a brew upon which his own potency might depend. He needs to visit Diagon Alley. Severus has no intention of revealing himself; he is so worried about possible surveillance that Polyjuice is the only solution — he is going to meet McGonagall under the guise of someone else, too. If he had the strength, he would change his appearance every time he went out, but he is exhausted and becomes more so with each passing day. Severus looks at the cover with the golden penis, opens the table of contents, and finds the entry ‘Erectile Dysfunction’. He reads quickly, noting depression among the list of possible causes. ‘Stress’ is printed on the next page — an incredible understatement of what he felt throughout his years of espionage. He sees ‘Prostatitis (Chapter 18)’ and flips to the page. He carefully examines the diagram, reads the symptoms, frowns, and then reviews the causes and risk factors, noting ‘prolonged sexual abstinence’. ‘Hypothermia’ is written below, and Severus shudders with memories of writhing on icy floors and praying for mercy under another Cruciatus Curse. He might not have noticed pain during urination; he has been drinking potions with strong painkilling effects for several years. At first, they helped him cope with the after-effects of the Cruciatus and fulfil his duties as a Hogwarts professor directly after Death Eater meetings. More recently, the pain medication has helped him get at least something past his barely healed throat — Nagini really did her worst. He knows by heart the potion that neutralises analgesics — the infirmary used to require several cauldrons of it every year. Poppy preferred to give it to children after Skele-Gro, as restless teenagers could injure themselves again and not even notice. Severus brews the base, counts the minutes intently, then adds the spores and salamander blood. He points his wand at the cauldron and finishes the potion using all his willpower. His arm has grown numb once again. This is definitely not one of his best performances. He knows some seventh-year students could have brewed it better, but now he has no choice. There isn’t even enough magic left for a proper Stasis Charm. After the first sip, a sharp pain shoots through his left knee with such force that Severus collapses to the floor. Then a deeper ache in his lower back steals his breath, and finally, his throat begins to burn. Oh, Merlin. Damn it all. Severus makes several unsuccessful attempts to rise and then stretches out on the floor, defeated. He has a salve for joints somewhere in stock, but what about his back? Probably some kind of impingement, so he will need rowan-berry tincture. He is thirty-seven years old, but he feels as if he were Nicolas Flamel when he lost the magic of the Philosopher’s Stone and felt the weight of every century. Severus crawls to the potion chest, barely opens the lid, and reaches for the tincture. It tastes bitter but helps his back, relieving some of the pain. The salve for his joints follows: he pulls down his pyjama trousers to his ankles, carefully examines the aching knee, and covers it with a thin, oily film of medicine, which must be reapplied every twelve hours. There is nothing to be done about his throat; he can only use a local anaesthetic, which he does after cleaning his hands with a rag and a solution. At that moment, he finally and blissfully gets some relief from the pain. Snape turns his attention to his bony legs, lowers his underpants, and examines his cock. Once again, he squeezes the flaccid organ with his palm, shifts the foreskin several times, trying to provoke at least some reaction, then irritably pulls his underwear back up and, limping, goes to make some tea. It’s not that Severus used to have any specific, far-reaching plans of an intimate nature, but after the war, he vaguely wanted to find an acceptable Muggle and have a good time with him — as a reward for all the horrors he had experienced. Snape thought his paranoia wouldn’t be so overwhelming around Muggles; he was reassured by the thought of using superficial Legilimency to discover their hidden intentions. The former professor had even thought of many escape plans, but it never occurred to him that his own body could fail. Severus puts on his father’s old suit at half-past six, habitually covers the scars on his neck with a scarf, grabs the Polyjuice Potion with a hair from a man who, as noted on the label in his own angular handwriting, is the same size as him, and swallows it without wincing. He endures a minute of intense burning and twisting stoically, then looks in the mirror. He clearly remembers this unassuming, red-haired Muggle with deep bald patches, whose hair he stole at a barber’s. The usual Snape facial expression looks strange on this man, as if he is suffering from heartburn. Severus takes a few steps around the flat and decides his left knee has finally stopped aching enough to go outside, but it still feels as if his leg could buckle at any moment. Severus puts on his coat, goes into the hall, closes the door, and limps down the stairs, trying to put his weight on his healthy leg. He walks past the bookshop and the sex shop towards the park, passes the small theatre, turns towards a primary school, and enters a narrow alley covered with Muggle-Repelling Charms. The Headmistress appears at seven sharp, straightens her black coat — which looks very much like wizarding robes — and glances around searchingly. He approaches and nods. ‘Greetings, Minerva’. She raises her eyebrows in surprise and smiles as though she is glad to see him. ‘Severus! Old habits die hard, I see’. ‘They turned out to be very useful a few months ago,’ Snape replies and gestures towards the park. ‘There is a café nearby where we could talk. How is the reconstruction going?’ ‘Not as fast as we hoped, but that is to be expected. We are doing everything we can. The Hufflepuff wing is almost undamaged, so some of the workers live there, and the others are in Hogsmeade.’ They walk slowly, but Severus clearly remembers Minerva’s usual swift pace, so she must be humouring him. He can barely drag his legs, and only Merlin knows what is happening with his left knee now that all the potions he has taken or applied are reacting with one another. Snape winces, turns towards the café next to the theatre, holds the door open for the Headmistress, and allows the hostess to seat them in the farthest corner. ‘You look bad, Severus,’ McGonagall notes. ‘Bold of you to assume I collect hair samples for Polyjuice based on appearance. Muffliato and Diversion Charms, Minerva’. ‘Let me order first; I haven’t had any Muggle food for a long time’. She smiles at the waiter, asks for a slice of berry pie and some tea. Severus does not order anything, just looks at the back of the retreating young man, then repeats insistently, ‘Muffliato. Now.’ ‘It is a shame that the youth don’t feel safe nowadays,’ the Headmistress says and waves her wand. ‘It’s done, Severus.’ She is thirty years older than Snape and has every right to call him ‘the youth’, but he has been feeling like a crumbling old man. ‘Is it? I don’t trust the plans the Ministry has for me.’ ‘You are acquitted. Harry has made sure of it. All charges have been dropped. I don’t know if you read the newspaper, but… they are giving you the Order of Merlin, Second Class, Severus.’ The waiter reappears; the Headmistress cancels Muffliato. While McGonagall exchanges pleasantries with the young man, the former professor takes his time to consider whether the Ministry’s promises can be trusted. When the waiter leaves, Severus reminds her once again, ‘The Charms, Minerva.’ She obliges. The Headmistress looks tired in the yellow light, and the silver in her hair is especially striking. To tell the truth, Severus is surprised he hasn’t turned grey after spying and wiping Potter’s heroic arse. He used to think he would have a heart attack the next time the Chosen One found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Indeed, if Severus Snape were a little weaker, it would not have cost him just a torn throat, an aching back, a sore knee, and impotence. He must be grateful to the genes of the impervious bastard Tobias Snape for his ability to survive. The man would have happily outlived his wizard son, if not for a drunken brawl in a pub one Christmas morning. And if that wasn’t the best holiday gift, what was? Severus looks around the café, making sure once again that there is no visible danger, and the Headmistress purses her lips sadly. ‘How is Arthur Weasley doing?’ he asks. ‘Acceptable, given the circumstances,’ Minerva responds and takes a sip from her cup. ‘He received a promotion at the Ministry’. Severus nods thoughtfully. ‘Come back, Severus,’ the Headmistress pleads. ‘You look bad, and I’m not talking about your choice of appearance. I’m saying you can barely drag your legs and are unable to cast the necessary spells on your own’. Snape winces as if his tooth aches, but says nothing. ‘We need help,’ she continues. ‘The position is well paid. Separate accommodation, meals, medical care, an assistant — anything you want. Severus, we do need you’. She needs him too much, he would say. ‘Why me?’ ‘There is a certain prejudice against Slytherins in the wizarding world these days. We need a strong Slytherin leader, a good example. We can’t let the Slytherin children suffer for the sins of their parents’. ‘I’m unwell,’ he shakes his head. ‘It’s dangerous at Hogwarts’. ‘Almost all of the Death Eaters are caught, and the rest are hiding abroad. Aurors are there round-the-clock; Hogwarts is as safe as-’ ‘What are you talking about, woman?’ interrupts Snape bitterly. ‘I can’t warm my tea without the help of a Muggle kettle; I can’t magically make water pour from a tap. If a chunk the size of the Astronomy Tower fell on my head, I wouldn’t even have time to say, “Oh, Merlin!” It is getting worse, and soon my reaction will be so slow a Flobberworm could bite me and hide away!’ Severus falls silent and turns his head to inspect the room once more. ‘Poppy can help, if you’re not ready for St Mungo’s. You know she is a good healer. Forget your damned pride; we have already lost too many people’. Minerva hands him a silver locket. ‘This is a reusable Portkey, triggered by touch and the word “Hogsmeade”. It will take you to the Three Broomsticks. I hope you’ll change your mind’. Severus hides the locket in his coat and thinks it is a very good backup plan if he needs to escape quickly. He felt helpless yesterday when he saw Potter, and it unsettled him. He says his goodbyes to the Headmistress and exits the café, leaving her alone with her berry pie. Severus walks slowly, trying to avoid putting too much weight on his leg, but the journey up the stairs still seems endless and is painful. When Snape leans against the wall, trying to find his keys, the door behind him opens with a click. Mrs Yates looks out and asks, ‘Are you looking for Samuel? I think he’s left. I tried knocking, but no one answered’. ‘I have a key,’ Severus answers awkwardly and tries to open the lock more quickly. ‘Are you his friend? I’ve never seen you before,’ the elderly neighbour asks. Dear Merlin, isn’t this just what he needs right now. ‘We rarely see each other,’ Snape says through gritted teeth. ‘Sorry, I’m tired,’ he adds and closes the door. He’s not going to change back for at least another hour, and the feeling that something is very wrong makes him shift uneasily. The fragile balance between all the potions he has taken is about to be disturbed, and it will hit him hard; he knows it. Severus collapses on the sofa, counts the minutes, tosses and turns, then grabs the book about men’s health and reads until he turns back into himself, then desperately wishes he hadn’t. The pain returns in full force. When Severus gets up and goes to the lavatory, it burns like nothing else, and he knows he definitely won’t go to Poppy with this shameful problem. He reads the chapter on prostatitis again, considers that it might be better to massage the prostate with an anti-inflammatory balm, writes a letter ordering the ingredients, and sets it aside until the owl returns. The Muggle book insists on the importance of regular sexual release, and Severus winces. The Dark Lord has ruined his imagination so much that any primitive erotic story turns into a bloody nightmare in his head, so when — if — his potency returns to normal, he’d better purchase some… stimulating materials. He saw those in the sex shop the other day. The streets are dark, and he decides to study the range in advance, hoping there will not be any other customers. He covers his scars with a scarf, remembers to grab his wallet, and goes out. As Severus enters, he is greeted by a completely different woman in a purple polo shirt who asks dutifully, ‘Are you looking for essentials like condoms and lubricants, or toys and accessories? ’ Snape looks around with such a strained expression that the shop assistant tries another approach. ‘Do you prefer women or men?’ ‘Men,’ Severus answers hoarsely and coughs a couple of times; his throat is beginning to hurt. ‘We have anal sex toys,’ she points towards the nearest racks. ‘Specialised lubricants, condoms, BDSM and fetish paraphernalia, intimate hygiene products, and a large selection of pornographic tapes, literature, and periodicals,’ she waves a hand towards the other corner. The shamelessness of the erect penis on his book’s cover pales in comparison to what is displayed here. Muggle photos don’t move, and that is the only reason Snape hasn’t bolted out the door yet, forever swearing off such establishments. He maintains a relatively calm expression through sheer force of will and asks, ‘Have you got anything less… vulgar?’ The woman looks stunned by such a question. Severus has surely lost his mind; what else did he expect to find in a sex shop? Scales and cauldrons? ‘Then you’d better start with erotica,’ says the woman and points to the top shelf.