Making Do

Villeroy Vindictus writes that a daily prostate massage with the balm is required, though the effect will not be instantaneous. Beyond improving the reproductive system, every wizard afflicted by this insidious condition must seek to restore the healthy colour of his aura. According to the text, dark spots within the aura appear after exposure to certain spells - from the Seco curse to the Unforgivables - and can lead to chronic illness. In his time, Severus has experienced them all, and they have undoubtedly torn him apart. The final blow, it seems, was the poison from the Dark Lord's Horcrux, causing the bowl of his health to shatter and drain the former Potions Master dry through the cracks. Blocking one's aura energy seems more detrimental than temporary magical exhaustion, but at least his melancholy and health problems now have an explanation. There is an effective potion for any ailment, yet Severus is uncertain how all the concoctions he is taking might interact. The consequences of such reckless, spur-of-the-moment decisions could finish the job Nagini started. He barely endures a second session of prostate massage. No miracle occurs, though Severus makes an honest effort: he flips through erotic magazines to set the mood and works with his right hand. The pressure on the inflamed gland is excruciating, but the greatest challenge is finding a position that does not cause cramps - a hope he ultimately abandons. Lying on his side, his back and arm flare with pain; on his back, he simply cannot reach. Impotens does not address the issue of positioning at all, and the Muggle book on male health recommends finding a qualified healer... or an understanding and patient lover. There can be no lover for Severus if his penis remains unresponsive to caresses, and the mere idea of consulting Poppy is too humiliating. For years, he has stifled his own vitality; the medi-witch would surely shake her head and lecture him. He detests the very thought of trusting her. It is all profoundly idiotic, more so than the Potter brat, who likely has no intimate issues at all - though it would be priceless if the she-Weasley had left the Hero over a matter of potency; Skeeter would choke on a rumour that sizeable. Instead, the nosy scribbler is now penning her twentieth multi-page opus on Severus's undying love for Lily Evans, thanks to Potter. Potter, Potter, Potter! The former Potions Master would not spare the boy a thought if he had expressed his feelings during their last "meeting," but he had, unfortunately, lacked the strength to break the dunderhead's nose. Each day, it grows harder to leave the flat. He lies on the sofa, staring into emptiness, winding himself into a rage over the scar-headed Hero. He stands by his cauldron and prepares ingredients slowly, as if in a dream. The potion's side effects are known to be unpleasant, so it is typically administered under strict supervision, but Severus does not care; he will never go to St Mungo's. The brewed fluid is flawless: translucent, with a subtle, oil-like film. He pours it into miniature vials, then takes three confident sips directly from the ladle, cleans his workspace, and returns to the small, worn sofa. It begins gradually, as if small waves of an icy tide are encircling his body. The discomforting pressure feels overwhelmingly real, with nothing nearby to serve as a distraction. Severus dislikes his flat - it is too small, empty, grey, and silent. Mrs. Yates’s home has a completely different energy. He never feels cornered there, but his own Muggle dwelling is a deadly trap. He wants to flee immediately, yet knows this impulse is merely a side effect of the potion. In his condition, it is wiser to stay put. He changes his mind the moment the ceiling begins to sag and descend, the walls lurching towards him. He bolts from the flat so quickly he almost forgets his wand, shoes, and coat. He dresses on the stairs, pats his pockets, finds the Portkey, and - guided by the thorny turmoil coiling in his solar plexus - vanishes. Muggles turn their heads, surprised by his dishevelled appearance. He tries to smooth his hair, squeezes the cool metal of the locket in his hand, and walks towards the park. He dislikes the neighbourhood - the children running through the streets grate on his nerves - and he trembles with a desperate, twisting urge to escape this Muggle hell. A stocky, frowning man with a receding hairline sits on a bench, reminding him sharply of Alastor Moody. Severus turns abruptly across the road, trying to calm the frantic pulse hammering in his throat. The dead keep returning to him. Is it finally time to stop running from Death and greet him as an old friend? Snape hasn’t truly lived yet, and his innate stubbornness - inherited from his mother, along with his excessive self-sacrifice - stifles such thoughts before they can take root. He struggles to put distance between himself and the hedge, fighting to steady his breathing, but the vile potion twists his mind, tearing him apart from within. A family passes with a pram - a red-haired woman in a beige coat and a black-haired man in oval glasses - and one glance is enough. The locket he’s been clutching slips from Severus’s hand. The dead call to him across the veil, demanding justice; they are everywhere. His numb fingers fumble, unable to retrieve the carved metal. The air catches in his throat - right where Nagini’s fangs sank - neither exhale nor inhale possible. With a final effort, he presses the Portkey into the ground and wheezes, “Hogsmeade! Hogsmeade!” Magic yanks him by his innards, whirls him through a vortex, and flings him into the bushes beside the Three Broomsticks. Be damned Villeroy Vindictus, if the man is still alive. Luckily, all wizards know the Empty Bladder Charm, or the scent of the cold earth beneath him would be very different. Severus looks up. Instead of the dull ceiling of his Muggle flat, he sees a blue sky traced with wispy clouds. When the cold becomes unbearable, Snape forces himself upright and peers from the bushes; the street is deserted. He snatches the locket, rises to his full height, brushes yellow leaves from his coat, and, moving as if resisting an Imperius, drags his feet towards the school’s main gates. Here, he sees no dead. He sees no one at all. Hogwarts appears to have survived a powerful earthquake. Snape tries to imagine how much worse it must have been before reconstruction began. The stone walls bear gaping wounds; it’s a miracle the Gryffindor Tower still stands. The site of the old Slytherin dungeons is now completely flooded by the lake. A grim satisfaction washes over him that there are no more dungeons - an emotion that swells into a joy so immense and so hollow it threatens to make him weep. He doesn’t care what happens to his aura. Let him remain a disabled Squib forever. He will never drink that damned potion again. He looks around, suppressing an inappropriate urge to jump like a child to expend the frantic energy coursing through him. He doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t understand how he even got here, but the fact remains: the claustrophobic, suffocating hopelessness of Muggle London has vanished. Reaching the main gates, Severus stops to survey what is left of Hogwarts. It reminds him of Albus and the Astronomy Tower, and of his own tenure as Headmaster the previous year, when he was despised by all. Minerva apologised and offered her help in her first letter after the war, but he knows she would have traded his life for Colin Creevey or the Weasley twin without a second thought. He would have, too. If a person’s worth were measured by the number who cherished them sincerely, without seeking to use them, the former Potions Master would be worth zero. Perhaps Mrs. Yates would be upset if new tenants moved into his flat. Perhaps the scar-headed idiot would weep, rushing to clear his name posthumously. Only a truly brainless creature could have orchestrated such a circus in the papers over his supposed love for Lily Evans. How Potter reached that astonishing conclusion remains a mystery. The boy must have seen something in his memories before the former spy activated a Portkey to a certain healer indebted to him. Snape survived, and Potter evidently drew his moronic conclusions and is now tormenting the newspapers with tales of sacrifice and eternal love. Boundless Gryffindor stupidity. Severus is so immersed in these thoughts that he flinches at the sound of a hesitant voice. “Professor?” He turns, striving for neutrality, and sees a group of last year’s sixth-years in dusty work robes. “Professor, we’re so glad you’re alive! The papers said you were alright, but no one had seen you…” blurts a girl. Severus recognises her: Lilith Bennett, Ravenclaw, pure-blood. Snape feels helpless among his former students; he hadn't even noticed them approach. His head is empty, he can't concentrate, he misses details. If anyone wished to get even with him now, he would make an extremely easy target. Severus observes the group attentively, noticing that only a couple of Ravenclaws look hospitable, while the rest - Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors - are silent and tense. The children have many reasons to wish him harm, especially after the atrocities of the past academic year. When they surround him, blocking his only line of retreat, he barely retains a calm exterior. “Miss Bennett,” he nods with dignity. “I am glad to see you in good health.” “Sir, have you come to see the Headmistress? Do you want to accept her offer?” asks the Ravenclaw, barely hiding her enthusiasm. The others wait for an answer too, their hostility plain. Severus wants to bark that it is none of her business, but this is hardly the time to show his temper. “I am here to make suggestions about Hogwarts’ reconstruction”. “All the details of the reconstruction have already been approved”. Severus could recognise this loud and obnoxious tone from among thousands; he had the displeasure of working with Molly Weasley in the Order. The younger she-Weasley is just like her, and these redheaded bitches infuriate him. “Headmistress McGonagall has a different opinion on the matter, Miss Weasley,” Severus turns to her and curls his lips in a terrible semblance of a smile. He had successfully ignored both of them until Molly began giving Dumbledore ultimatums and her daughter started to sabotage his work as Headmaster - when the most important tasks were to prevent the Carrow siblings from hurting the children and to ensure the Gryffindor Golden Boy and his friends didn’t die. “I think many would agree with me if I said that you are not welcome here.” Ginevra’s voice is confident and loud. The Gryffindors near her nod; the Hufflepuffs are silent, not daring to openly go against the former professor; and Miss Bennett and her Ravenclaw friend hush her unhappily. “Why don’t you ask your heroic fiancé if he thinks my presence in the castle is inappropriate,” says Severus. He notes quite clearly how the youngest Weasley’s face changes, and how the rest of the former sixth-years look at her with interest. His ability to exploit an opponent’s weakness has not disappeared with his magic, and the thought is soothing. “Oh, yes. He is no longer your fiancé, is he? You left the poor boy who defeated the Dark Lord in an honest duel. Do his words mean nothing to you now? You should be grateful to me, and Harry James Potter is ready to confirm it to any witch or wizard in this country. I am a war veteran, Miss Weasley, and I have done more for the victory than your entire family.” “Don’t you dare talk about my family!” the redhead screams, pulling out her wand. The potion sends overwhelming fear through his veins - the fear that he won’t be able to defend himself, that the children will not have the sense to stop her. He swallows a couple of insults aimed at her mother and returns to the topic of the abandoned hero. “By the way, why did you leave Potter? Relationships are, of course, a personal matter. But I have been doing my best to keep the Gryffindor Golden Boy safe and sound for so many years; I’m used to worrying about him. He had to become a murderer for the good of the wizarding world, and then he gets rejected by the girl he loves… Was he not good enough for you? Or could you not give him the support he deserved? You didn’t like that he needed time to recover. You wanted to take advantage of his fame immediately, didn’t you?” He speaks with hidden glee, and it always works. It distracts the children from his eccentric Muggle clothes and the reasons behind his presence at Hogwarts. “You don’t know anything, you vile bastard!” the redhead is yelling, her face covered with an ugly blush, as her Gryffindor friends finally drag her away. Severus has no way out but to proceed to the construction site, and he wonders what, for Merlin’s sake, Potter sees in the she-Weasley. He had understood his father, Potter Sr., even without being attracted to the fairer sex; Lily Evans had been charming, with good manners and a gentle temper, but Ginevra is a foolish wench with a boyish figure. Times have changed, and Severus feels an aching yearning for the past. Students used to respect their professors back then. Apparently, only the Hufflepuffs retain some sense of propriety, and they mumble to him apologetically. Lilith Bennett catches up with him, and his anger burns out. “Sorry, Professor! After the funeral, everyone is shaken. I’m lucky I didn’t lose any close relatives or friends, but Ginny…” “Do not apologise for things for which you are not responsible, Miss Bennett. People tend to blame those who are willing to accept blame, and you would do well to avoid that”. Severus realises it sounds too soft, too reminiscent of the late Headmaster, but this time the potion does not send overwhelming irritation through his body. Instead, he enjoys a sudden feeling of calm. “Some of the former sixth-year students have returned to help the school. The rest will be back next year when we finish the Gryffindor tower and Ravenclaw wing. It’s not clear what will happen to the dungeons so far… Come with me, sir, I’ll show you what we’ve already rebuilt!” There will be more people. Severus starts panicking again but nods anyway; it is unacceptable to show fear in front of children. The Bennett girl doesn’t notice his changing mood and chatters faster than the Hogwarts Express. “You are right, sir, about what you said to them. No one really knows why Ginny left Harry; she hasn’t talked to him since she came here. He tried to apologise, and then he just shut himself away. Now he’s running around, helping Headmistress McGonagall with school errands. Why would Ginny leave him like that? He didn’t cheat on her, he didn’t insult her, he gets along with her family… She doesn’t look like she’s in love with somebody else, either”. He definitely liked it better when the children were afraid of him. Now, thanks to Potter, his reputation is ruined to the point that a teenage girl spills this hormonal nonsense to him. “I do not encourage gossip, Miss Bennett,” he answers sternly. “Sorry”. The girl has the conscience to look ashamed. “Sir, there’s the Headmistress!” Minerva is hurrying toward them, and Severus feels incredibly relieved that he will not have to go near a construction site where he would be helpless. “Severus, I am glad to see you!” says the Headmistress but does not try to come closer, respecting his personal space. “I hope you’ve changed your mind about my offer”. He nods. Yesterday, Severus counted the number of Galleons he had left, and Minerva’s proposal suddenly became quite acceptable. “However, I have conditions,” he continues, and the Headmistress nods carefully. “Separate rooms in Hogsmeade, a personal assistant, no physical or magical stress, three days off a week, and a substantial advance payment”. “You shall have it all,” McGonagall replies instantly. Severus feels an acute flash of self-satisfaction, realising the Hogwarts Council will accommodate any of his demands. It is almost an erotic feeling, knowing he is wanted so badly that they are ready to satisfy all his wishes. Severus says his goodbyes to Minerva and turns toward Hogsmeade. The road is deserted again, and he feels warmth in his chest, slowly spreading down his stomach to his limbs, smoothing his ragged nerves like a gentle, attentive lover. His back muscles relax under the soft heat, and for the first time in a long while - perhaps in years - he feels something similar to peace. The former Potions Professor pulls his wand from a special pocket in his trousers, waves it easily to call the Knight Bus, and this time, magic does not make his hand grow numb. It flows freely and warmly through his veins, as if an icy river has finally melted in the sunlight.