Making Do

In the monotonous grey of his life, some days are harder than others. When Severus waves his wand to make a cup of tea, the glass explodes with a deafening sound, as if from a Bombarda. Stunned, he watches as droplets of blood slowly soak through the small tears in his white shirt. He shakes off his clothes and tries to pull the small shards from his skin with the special tweezers he usually uses for granular ingredients. “Samuel? Are you all right? I heard a terrible noise,” asks his neighbour through the door. Severus feels like a naughty schoolboy. “My tea service crashed, Mrs. Yates! I hope it didn’t bother you too much,” he shouts in response. “Oh, it’s all right, dear! Mind the shards!” Severus doesn’t hear her answer; he drops to the floor, unable to overcome the dizziness. His magic meets no obstacles, pouring out without a chance to keep even a single drop inside. He is falling apart, his thoughts crumbling like the biscuits from his compassionate neighbour, and every minute threatens to complete what Nagini failed to do. The potion for removing energy blocks from the aura must be taken under the strict supervision of healers, because the reaction to a change in one’s energy field is always unpredictable and purely individual. Some days are much, much harder for him — more painful and hopeless than those from the memories given to Harry Potter during the Final Battle. They are as dreadful as accepting that a young, seventeen-year-old boy, full of life, whom he had protected for many years, must voluntarily meet death for everyone else to survive, and knowing that he would do it. The thought of Potter makes him wish he could forget everything: be rid of the constant pain, the shameful weaknesses, and the debts he could never repay, and start over. He could move to some distant village, break his wand, and drink an Obliviation Potion. But Snape hasn’t been tainted by somebody else. It is all his own inner rot that makes his life so abominable, and no one can run away from themselves. Severus wishes he had someone to talk to. He used to play chess with Regulus Black, drink calvados with Phineas, and help Poppy Pomfrey with healing potions. But Regulus is long dead, and Hogwarts is out of reach. He is alone with himself in his Muggle flat, and it is the most abysmal company. Mechanically, Severus cleans the numerous small glass cuts on his skin, applies a potion from a dark vial, and winces at the sting. He takes another vial from his wooden chest, opens it, and takes a sip. His throat closes involuntarily; his tongue sticks to the soft palate, preventing him from taking a dangerous dose of the Sleeping Draught. Such a shame. The former professor puts the vial back with a sigh, reaches the tiny, creaking sofa, falls onto it, and blacks out. The following morning repels all bad ideas, pushing them into the background, just as the sea draws rubbish from the shore into its cold, deep waters. The side effects of the poorly brewed Sleeping Draught, ordered by owl post, make his head and body feel slow and alien. Severus prepares fresh porridge, then, moving as if knee-deep in water, goes to Tesco. He buys a fresh loaf, a new mug — a simple, white thing without decoration — and pushes himself back to his flat. His body hurts constantly; Severus hasn’t been free of pain since the moment he neutralised the painkillers. The muscles of his back cramp as he removes his coat, clumsily trying to pull his arm from a sleeve. He falls onto the sofa, looks at the Muggle books on the table with dazed eyes, and considers his life. He thinks of everything happening to his ageing bones: the slow agony of a doomed man. When Severus was a petty, snivelling boy, he often imagined he would die suddenly — painlessly and quickly — and his mother would weep at his coffin, cursing herself for doing nothing to get away from her alcoholic husband, for not protecting and loving him enough. Now, lying on the sofa in his Muggle flat, the former professor thinks that death could never be painless or quick, and his mother, by all accounts, had been cursed by the Princes to a life of servitude to her husband. She had cared for Severus in her own way, diverting Tobias’s cruel attention from her son to herself. Severus has been just as protective of many generations of Hogwarts students, but they, like him in his youth, feel no gratitude. They are resentful. They cannot, or will not, see the whole picture. The road to understanding seems endless; perhaps the fools will realise something in ten or twenty years, but there will be nothing left of Snape by then. Even Potter Jr., having peered into his most painful memories, never fully understood. Perhaps that unfortunate desire to meet and ask for forgiveness, mentioned by McGonagall in her early letters, is sincere. But the blunt-headed Gryffindor is convinced everything in Snape’s life was done for the sake of Lily Evans. Severus refuses to accept any apology based on such short-sighted conclusions. He shifts his gaze to the shameless book about male health and thinks that he does, in fact, need another session of prostate massage. He used to think of anal stimulation as a pleasant, intimate practice between two lovers, not a painful medical procedure. The process itself would be more comfortable with a partner, who could soothe the burning and distract him with a hand on his cock, or even with fellatio… Severus sighs at the thought of oral sex and pulls his pants down. His penis looks slightly swollen but still soft. Snape takes it in his hand, shifting the skin carefully. He is impatient, and the touch is pleasant, but nothing more. If only he could use something for stimulation, to avoid the cramps and reach his prostate more comfortably. Literature wasn’t the only type of goods in the sex shop, and the realisation lights up in his head like a Lumos Maxima. Severus rises from the sofa with a grunt, pulls his pants up, straightens his shirt, takes his coat from the hook, and goes out to the stairwell. He heads into the Muggle stronghold of sin and dirty fantasies, and only his iron self-control prevents a shameful retreat when Severus notices the other customers in the shop. He hopes his subconscious will not confront him with the dead this time. It would be too much. Severus glances at a familiar shop assistant and waits patiently for her to finish speaking with a quiet woman at the cash register. He is surrounded by penises and vaginas — black, transparent, pink, beige, so bright they hurt his eyes — and by shameless Muggles who use them. It feels like the culmination of his moral collapse; he is willingly lowering himself into the abyss. Paranoia is a loyal friend, one Snape has gone through thick and thin with, and it burns inside him now, whispering that someone is watching. So when a girl in a purple polo shirt approaches, he leans closer and murmurs, “I require a device to facilitate prostate massage. Small size. No latex, no mechanisms. Do not show it; simply pack it and state the price.” The shop assistant nods and vanishes wordlessly into the depths of the sex shop. Snape looks around with an indifferent expression, noticing a short, brown-haired man of roughly his age observing him openly. Aurors are here. He has been found. Severus staggers back, his hand seeking his wand in his coat pocket. If he takes hostages, the Auror will hesitate, giving Snape time to activate the Portkey to Hogsmeade. He feels his pulse hammering in the scars on his throat as he watches the man slowly approach. Every other customer could be an impostor, the building could be under an Anti-Apparition Charm, the Portkey’s binding nets could have been severed remotely. Severus pales, his gaze darting around. The shop assistant reappears silently before him and gestures towards the till. He pays without looking, avoiding direct eye contact with the Auror, his focus absolute. He grips his wand so tightly he loses all feeling in his fingers. The pitiful remnants of his magic strain, ready to spiral out of control at any second. What arrogance, to have imagined a happy ending. The Auror stops a metre away and says, “If you’re interested in that sort of pornography, I could make a suggestion”. “Excuse me?” Snape wheezes. “You’ve been examining the display here, so I thought you might value a male opinion,” replies the Auror, offering the shop assistant a polite smile. “In addition to this lady’s professional advice, of course”. “Thank you, but I am in a hurry”. Severus snatches the opaque package and heads for the door, every sense straining alertly. No curse strikes him as he leaves the shop, nor on the street, nor on the stairs. Snape’s hands are shaking. He feels like a Muggle balloon, weakly deflating. He feels senile, and shrivelled, fragile, pathetic; he does not understand what has just happened. The man from the sex shop had not been handsome, but he had looked at Snape as if he wanted something from him, and that look had burned right through him. 'Male opinion' — hadn’t he phrased it just so? Severus has never been flirted with, but his knowledge of the art of seduction suggests he failed to detect a hint of intimacy lying plainly beneath his large, paranoid nose. His body stirs again, and Severus feels almost excited for the second time that day. He shakes the purchase from its bag, opens the box, and inspects a slightly curved appliance less than an inch in diameter. Instructions are included, and Snape studies them with even greater attention, one hand touching his crotch so as not to miss the beginning of an erection. The prostate massager is silicone, a material that should not react with the antibacterial ointment. Severus retrieves the correct vial from the chest, smears a generous amount along the length of the stimulator, and pulls off his trousers. He tries to make himself comfortable on the sofa, then exhales in annoyance, gets up, and goes to the bedroom. A shooting pain makes him wince as he climbs onto the mattress, positioning his lone pillow near the headboard. His anus is accustomed to regular stretching, yet his body tenses involuntarily, anticipating the painful tingles in his prostate. When Severus pushes the very tip inside, his slight arousal vanishes, and vague thoughts of male broad shoulders fail to spark any excitement. Snape sinks into the sheets, trying to relax. He does not need to bend to work the massager inside, and Severus spreads his legs wider, guiding the stimulator to the right place. It is a miracle that deeper penetration ceases to be unpleasant, becoming almost bearable. Perhaps he could even enjoy anal sex, if not for the way his hands and back cramped and the need for vigorous movement. Severus imagines himself splayed on a bed in a starfish pose, taking a hard cock, and his penis swells treacherously. It is a pity that Snape, with his old, jaded body, can only lie back and think of England. If he were twenty again, he would never have chosen the Impotence Potion. He would look at the seventh-year students, at their strong Quidditch-trained hands and shoulders, and arrange exhaustingly long, sweet sessions of masturbation in the evening, savouring every moment. Perhaps he would free his weekends for London. If his rough, exhausted features could pique the interest of a Muggle like that brown-haired man he mistook for an Auror, Snape would have had success with men seventeen years ago. Severus moves the massager gently and caresses his penis, but he cannot achieve a full erection. He is impatient; his body is unsatisfied, and yet he is almost happy, for the fear that he would remain impotent forever, having never tried anything, had been so profound. Now there is clear progress in his intimate health, and soon, very soon, he will be able to come. The former Potions master has not achieved orgasm for many years — is that why his temper has grown so rotten? Severus finishes the massage and, with a squeamish expression, pulls out the stimulator and heads to the bathroom. He rinses the silicone and takes a short shower, moving his shoulders and hands carefully, then cracks his back. Afterwards, he considers, he ought to tend to his joints; even ancient Dumbledore’s bones did not make such a noise. Although it is also possible the late Headmaster cast local Muffling Charms upon his robes. When Severus returns to the living room, he checks his wallet and decides it is precisely the time to remind Minerva of her promised advance payment. Financial issues, unfortunately, cannot be solved via owl, so Severus suppresses the feeling of acute anxiety at the prospect of meeting teenage Gryffindors thirsting for revenge. He puts on his best — and only — suit, brushes his hair carefully, and activates the Portkey to Hogsmeade. The bushes Severus stumbles into seem familiar, but this time the road is deserted, so no one witnesses his undignified plunge into the depths of the magical flora. Everyone is occupied at the construction site, and Snape finds himself making his way to the headmistress’s office by the long route. He feels like a spy again, as though he is doing something shameful yet necessary, and Severus tries to shake off the sensation by squaring his shoulders deliberately. “Severus,” Minerva greets him as though he were the Head of Slytherin once more, and his charges have just brawled with her own house students. “I’ve been expecting you”. “Headmistress,” he nods. “I wish to discuss the advance payment”. She answers with a sudden smile. “Your distaste for small talk has always appealed to me”. An elf brings them milky tea, and Minerva expands upon the burden that the Hogwarts Board of Governors — and she herself — are so eager to place upon his shoulders. As anticipated, they require him to perform the ritual to seal the flooded dungeons, manage the Slytherins, and oversee the construction of a new wing for his house. “As for an assistant,” the Headmistress continues, “I am considering George Weasley. He is familiar with the castle plans and could assist with the layouts-” “Unacceptable,” Snape cuts in. “He-” “Out of the question. I will not work with him.” Weasley is unlikely to agree to such cooperation, either. Severus could have used another curse to push the boy out of the Expulso’s trajectory, but the words had already been spoken, and he had only needed to direct his wand. He’d had too little time to devise an alternative. Severus has always considered himself the lesser evil — but evil nonetheless. “Very well. Whom would you prefer?” Minerva chooses not to press him. “Harry has offered his help-” “No,” Snape barks. “The boy sincerely wishes to speak with you.” Severus, however, sincerely does not. He can talk about the boy, rake him over the coals, but meet him face to face — good Merlin, no. The Moor has done his duty; the Moor may go — and Snape has nothing left to say to the last living Potter. The Saviour wishes to apologise, to clear his conscience, but if Severus accepted that apology, he would then owe one himself. Snape sent the boy to his death, and the boy wants to say sorry. What a joke. “Harry has not been himself since the battle. He tries to be everywhere at once, he does not sleep, he scarcely speaks to his friends. I believe he truly needs to unburden himself,” says the Headmistress. 'Isn’t that just what I need,' Severus thinks, and recalls his Muggle books on psychology. “An assistant, then. What of Miss Bennett?” “I have heard that young Lilith is quite competent for her age,” replies the wall behind him, and if Snape could physically turn his head any faster, he would have broken his neck. The late Headmaster gazes down at him from a portrait, and Severus shudders inwardly.