Making Do

When Severus flips through the magazines, cautiously extracted from an opaque plastic bag, his lips tighten with humiliation; this was hardly the purchase Dumbledore had in mind when he left him that money. The headmaster had said, “For a rainy day. It’s always better to have one more way out”. It would have been more embarrassing if Snape had spent it all on call boys, but the fact that things could be worse does not actually make this better. He had acquired several erotic periodicals on the advice of a sex-shop assistant, and only now, on the following morning, with embarrassment having receded, does Severus realise he needed something more salacious to awaken his libido. He looks at the covers with embracing topless models and recalls the periodicals displayed on the other shelf, right under his nose: photos of men with uncovered groins, smoothly shaven crotches, shamelessly parted legs, aroused cocks and assholes on display. Severus cannot think of them without a shiver, the images flashing relentlessly through his mind. The former Potions Master had never seen such debauchery; all the magical books on intimate practices were limited to verbal descriptions and the occasional drawn illustration. He would have got an erection right there in the shop if it weren’t for his affliction. Who would have thought such open indecency could be so exciting? For so many years, Severus was convinced carnal needs were disgusting, and now he grows feverish at the mere thought that some people go about their normal lives and then do that behind closed doors. If a Muggle had asked Snape to show himself in such a way, he would have done so, aching with desire. In fact, no — it was absolutely impossible — but the fantasy burned him without mercy. Muggles were dirty; he had seen all the disgusting things that excited them: body suspension, a fist in the rectum, a metal rod in the urethra. Snape had looked at video covers featuring men with false breasts and women with their mammary glands removed, so his own thin, pale, scarred body could probably become someone else’s perverse weakness, too. He relishes his defectiveness with an almost masochistic pleasure. It has protected him from the world like an impenetrable wall; it never let anyone come closer, but never allowed Severus to cross it, either. He used to cherish the idea that there were men with a far more repulsive appearance, but then, their faults were compensated for by pure blood, wealth, or connections, whereas Snape was a poor half-blood Hogwarts professor — not the most attractive candidate in any sense. He feels a long-forgotten, humiliating fire of hope for an intimate relationship, and it is all because of those liberated and vulgar Muggles who like all sorts of crap. Severus glances at the tanned, unblemished young men on the covers and throws the magazines atop the pile of Muggle books on his bedside table. He puts on his father’s old suit and then, following his routine, opens the front door to go for another walk to Tesco; he prefers fresh bread, as yesterday’s sticks in his throat. The opposite door opens so quickly it seems his elderly neighbour has been waiting at the peephole. “Hello, Samuel! A man came to your flat yesterday — he had the keys,” reports Mrs. Yates. Severus tenses for a moment, then remembers meeting Minerva under Polyjuice and nods. “Yes, he lives here”. “I’ve never seen that young man before! You might have warned your old neighbour you had someone. I do worry about you, you know”. Snape doesn’t argue, just as he never argued about his name. He only says, “I don’t like talking about it”. “Oh, don’t you fret, Samuel,” Mrs. Yates steps into the hall and shuts the door behind her. “People are much more tolerant nowadays than they were in my time. You mustn’t be ashamed of your beloved. That sort of attitude never leads to anything good”. Severus has only ever read the word beloved in old novels. He clings to the sound of it, trying to ignore the content of his neighbour’s kindly speech. “My late husband always knew I was shy about being seen with him in town. He was a country man with country habits,” Mrs. Yates recalls. Severus shifts awkwardly; his knee has begun to ache. He feels the corner of his mouth twitch downward. “If I’d worried less about what my relatives might say, perhaps he wouldn’t have drunk himself to death. And I couldn’t run the farm alone, so I had to move first to my sister’s in Bristol, and then to London… Do show your young man you appreciate him! He looked very tired — just like you. By the way, would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?” He looks at his neighbour and involuntarily compares her to Albus; she does share a fondness for lengthy tales of her youth. Mrs. Yates is stubborn beyond her years, and her maniacal love of home baking is unsurpassed — she always smells of ginger. She is kind to him, too. Now, after all that has happened since the Dark Lord’s return, he realises she has been kinder than Albus ever was. At least she has never asked him to kill her over dessert. Snape mutters that, unfortunately, he is in a hurry, and makes his way down the stairs, careful not to strain his unstable, aching leg. He walks the familiar route to Tesco and back, curses each flight up to his floor, and quickly shuts himself inside the flat, hoping his neighbour will not come to continue the conversation. Her cordiality is unbearable — Severus does not deserve even a little of her mercy. He deserves to be treated as Albus treated him, paying for every scrap of kindness. He deserves Azkaban, not a gold-hearted neighbour, an ordinary Muggle life, or a promised Order of Merlin. He loathes himself. He takes a hair from his collection — belonging to some curly-haired young man — swallows the Polyjuice Potion, endures the transformation, and glances at his new, unremarkable face in the mirror before stepping into the hall. Severus thinks he hears the rustle of Mrs. Yates’s housedress at her door, and wonders what his neighbour must think of him now, having seen two unfamiliar men coming from his flat. The former Potions Master takes the Underground to the station nearest Diagon Alley, passes through the Leaky Cauldron without incident, and goes straight to Flourish and Blotts. He tries not to notice the garish signs and the bright, post-war facades. The street is crowded, and the only thing that keeps Severus from a paralytic panic is the small Portkey locket Minerva gave him, which he squeezes between his fingers until it hurts. He does not like the way fashion has changed during his months of isolation; robes have become garishly colourful. His Muggle clothing draws attention, and wizards stare openly. Severus hadn’t thought this through. Life among Muggles is threatening to make him duller than Neville Longbottom. He ignores the manager and goes directly to the potions section, but it is nearly impossible to find anything among the thousands of books without magical aid. He is doomed to turn to an elderly wizard wearing the Flourish and Blotts emblem. “Where might I find books on potions for men’s… intimate health?” The wizard gives him a long, sceptical look, as if baffled by his reluctance to use magic, then waves his wand, summoning several volumes from the shelves. Severus feels heat in his cheeks and curses this youthful body for blushing so easily. “What precisely interests you — erectile dysfunction, or sexually transmitted diseases?” “Dysfunction,” Snape replies, straining to keep his tone level. “We have Potions for a Listless Runespoor by Oxium Huckaby. There is also Impotens by Villeroy Vindictus, though that text is intended for advanced potioneers”. “Vindictus,” Severus says instantly, extending his hand in a demanding gesture. The elderly manager shakes his head disapprovingly but passes him the book and returns to his counter to accept payment. Impotens costs an outrageous one hundred and seventy Galleons. Defeated, Snape empties his wallet. He once paid five hundred for a book on family curses in Knockturn Alley, but that price had included a substantial discount in exchange for a half-legal potion. That book had been worth every coin; he is less certain about this one. His face still feels heated as he heads back towards the Leaky Cauldron. His leg is trembling, but he forces himself another two hundred metres, taps the correct brick, passes through the wall, pulls open the door, and collapses onto a chair directly in front of the barman. “Bad day, mate?” Tom asks. “Pork roast and a couple of glasses of our crackling rum will set you right!” Severus cannot remember the last time he felt hungry, but his stomach growls painfully, and he finds himself nodding. “Is there anything… tender?” “Our pork chops are more tender than your girl’s kiss!” Tom signals the kitchen and turns back to Severus. “Heard our heroic lovebirds have parted ways? Not talking about Ron Weasley and his curly-haired girlfriend, of course, but Harry Potter and the youngest Weasley girl. Who’d have thought! I shouldn’t have bet ten Galleons on their wedding”. Severus could not care less. He is finished with Potter and can now observe the little brat ruining his own life. If McGonagall does not rush to set the Gryffindor idiot’s head straight, nothing good will come of James and Lily’s offspring. The boy is a weak, short-sighted fool who inherited not a drop of his mother’s generosity but more than enough of his father’s narrow-mindedness. Tom sets a glass of rum before him. “You look peaky, mate. Break-ups a soft spot? Girl trouble?” Snape wonders what Tom sees in his face, but takes the rum and swallows it all. He starts coughing, trying to wait out the terrible burn in his throat. Alcohol was a bad idea. “It’ll be alright,” Tom continues, winking. “Plenty more fish in the sea — chin up! Might even catch the Weasley girl’s eye, now she’s single. Gingers are the most temperamental, you know.” The barman sets the chops on the table. Severus pierces one carefully with his fork. It is tender and delicious, he realises with surprise after a few bites. He had forgotten the taste of spices, grown accustomed to bland mashed potatoes and porridge. His throat will ache for days from the pepper, but such suffering seems insignificant now against the taste of the meat. Severus closes his eyes and tries to distance himself from the sensation of his throat being slowly torn to pieces. The exchange of pleasure for pain feels so natural he does not even consider the pain potion he always carries in his pocket. “Although, frankly speaking, it’s a shame the Weasley girl left him. They say he’d proposed before the Battle,” the barman says, and Severus chokes. The pain explodes in his throat like hellfire. “Respirato,” Tom intones, waving his wand. Severus can finally breathe. His throat still feels consumed by hellish flames. He pushes the plate away, tosses two Galleons for the rum and chops onto the table, and leaves the bar without a word. Muggles on the Underground stare suspiciously when he coughs, stepping away to the far end of the carriage as if he were contagious. He doesn’t care. He feels claustrophobic, trapped by metal and glass. Damn Potter, who manages to ruin his day from across the country. Who proposes in their final year of school? Only a Potter, apparently — a family tradition of stupidity. Most pure-blood wizards get engaged after Hogwarts, with an engagement lasting a year or more — plenty of time to change one’s mind. What was the Gryffindor dunderhead thinking? Ginevra is the very image of her mother: stubborn, controlling, and prone to an explosive temper. There were plenty of rumours at school; the girl threw Bat-Bogey Hexes like they were nothing. And now it turns out the redhead has dumped him. A foolish move, of course. For a girl from a family of blood traitors, she couldn’t hope for a better match than the Boy Who Lived. Severus reaches his flat, collapses onto the sofa, and waits for the transformation to fade. The burning has subsided to a dull throb. He feels no discomfort in his knee, which seems to prove the old saying: step on a cat’s tail, and its teeth will stop hurting. An owl scratches at the windowsill, laden with several bags of ingredients. Severus has to get up to let it in and then rummage at the bottom of a chest for Galleons; he has spent nearly everything at the bookshop. The outrageously expensive Impotens confirms his suspicions about the treatment: an anti-inflammatory balm, prostate massage, and regular masturbation. The recipe is somewhat different from what he’d imagined, but modifications in such an intimate sphere were to be expected. He arranges knives, a burner, and a cauldron on the table and wonders what will happen if it doesn’t work. What if the impotence is the result of some dark-magic curse, and his body is shutting down gradually, starting with his penis and his left knee? Severus makes a sharp slash with his wand over the potion, and the accumulated magic deserts him, leaving a tingling numbness in his hand. The balm is translucent; it looks and feels like semen. The whole situation strikes Snape as bitterly ironic. He consults Impotens: the patient should be as relaxed and positive as possible. But how is a man supposed to be positive with a problem like this? He removes his trousers and pants, drapes them over the armrest, and lies back on the sofa, legs spread. His right hand feels dead to the shoulder, so he will have to manage with his left. He coats his fingers in the balm and pushes them into his rectum. The balm is effective; the modified composition makes penetration easy and painless, but the position is so awkward his back muscles cramp almost immediately. Severus curses Merlin, tries to locate the promised swell of the prostate, finds something with his fingertip, and as soon as he applies pressure, a shuddering wave of burning pain radiates through him. All those years chasing Potter, pulling the brat from danger as a spy — was it worth falling apart at thirty-seven? Snape clenches his jaw, tries to stretch his back, and prods the prostate several times. It hurts about half as much as a Cruciatus, and a few cloudy drops leak from his limp penis. His left hand begins to cramp, and the chilling thought creeps in that the Dark Mark could be active again. Severus cannot endure any more of this torturous healing. He pulls out his fingers, straightens up on the sofa, and looks involuntarily at his forearm. The ugly tattoo remains pale and lifeless. He boils with a contemptuous anger — at himself, at his own body, and, of course, at Potter. The stupid boy hasn’t an ounce of common sense if he was entertaining the idea of tying himself to a miniature Molly Weasley. Snape gets up, seizes Impotens, and hurls it at the wall with all his strength. His back muscles scream in protest. Severus grinds his teeth, powerless and livid.