Making Do

Minerva purses her lips and passes the key to a Gringotts vault into his cold hands. Severus feels the pallor of his face as he weakly accepts a Portkey to the Apparition point closest to his flat. He activates the plastic keychain in such a rush that for him the Headmistress’s speech concludes mid-introduction. Of course, the portrait of Dumbledore hangs in the headmaster’s office — where else would it be? However, seeing and hearing Albus, both dead and so alive on the canvas, is acutely difficult, causing the old spring in Severus’s stomach to coil again. He feels sick. For Merlin’s sake, he is sick all the time, as if he, a dirty worm, has risen too high, and the soil is now beckoning him back into the dirt, pulling him down by the guts. His good old friend, his mentor, the hero of wizarding Britain, who lied to him for the common good and nearly seized the last thing preventing Severus from falling into the abyss of hopelessness. He had thought, 'At least the Potter brat is alive', and was absolved of all the sins committed during the Death Eaters’ raids. Potter is still alive and well, albeit a bit out of sorts since getting involved with the youngest Weasley. Severus is out of sorts too — profoundly so. The front door closes with a loud bang, the sofa creaks thinly under the weight of the former Potions professor. For a year and a half, he was certain Potter was doomed, yet it turned out the boy’s chances of survival were quite large. For a year and a half, Severus hardly slept, trying to find a loophole, over and over facing the headmaster’s refusals to show him some of the most important grimoires. Albus knew everything, but kept silent; and Potter is alive. What did he expect from the portrait? Tearful apologies? Albus never knew any regrets. On the other hand, the phrase “Forgive me, my boy” would have been even more empty and cheap than the silence of the past. Dumbledore wouldn’t admit his mistakes in front of Minerva, the damned knight in shining armour. Snape turns over, brushing aside the heavy thoughts, and tries to position his leg so his knee doesn’t ache. When he returns to Hogwarts, the hungry press will either make a saint of him or a devil; then Severus will become the prime target of the post-war period. No, he cannot relinquish this tiny London flat. It will remain his quiet, heavily armed corner of paranoia — his contingency plan. He needs to remove the blocks from his aura if he wants to survive this. He rises from the sofa with a grunt and swallows two drops from a vial. The thin, oily film of the potion coats his mouth and throat, settles on his teeth, and fills his nose with a faint aniseed smell. Severus cowardly reaches for the Sleeping Draught; one humiliating moment in front of his former students was more than enough, and let the consequences be damned. The unmade bed in the dark bedroom creaks as he tumbles upon it fully clothed. Severus’s trousers and shirt have probably begun to smell, but he is so used to it he wouldn’t notice. The old rags he’s wearing are as vile as their former owner — Tobias. Let all of it be cursed thrice over. All but Potter; the boy has suffered too much in his short life. Potter has had enough. A throbbing pain is twisting his calves from the inside, but the cloudy feeling of the Sleeping Draught has already enveloped his consciousness. Severus is aching, and he has lost track of which potions he needs to soothe his sore body. This is an old man’s feeling. He is fully confident it is only going to get worse and nothing can stop the launched mechanism of destruction. His hopes for a sexual partner, even a Muggle, seem frankly ridiculous. In such agony of body and soul, his torn throat and fading scars do not bother him in the slightest. It’s the little things, they say. Severus falls asleep in pain, and wakes in anguish. He cannot move, his muscles are so cramped. For about an hour Snape tries to wait it out, then, finally, he manages to get to the chest, take the Relaxing Draught, and curl on the floor. He knew it was inadvisable to combine yesterday’s potions, he knew the consequences, but underestimated their force. He withstands the beginning of the day, his daily routine — bathroom, ointment, breakfast — but finds no strength to walk to Tesco. His knees tremble, and the very idea that he will need to come to Hogwarts later to move his things fills him with cold horror. No one must see Severus Snape in such a state. Such thoughts cease when it gets worse; everything floats as if in a fog, his mental shields bursting like a soap bubble. The painfully familiar ceiling over the sofa tells him that his life is not going anywhere. He is stuck at the very bottom — a miserable old man among the youngsters, who drank all his blood and threw him away empty. There is a knock on the door, and Severus reaches the hallway on unbending legs. He has nothing more to give; he’ll say that. “Samuel? Are you home? Samuel!” calls his neighbour, Mrs. Yates. She enters his apartment without invitation, pushing him aside effortlessly as if it’s nothing. Dear Merlin, he’s so weak. “Oh goodness, not again. You look terrible! You need a doctor.” The boat of his mortal body lurches to the left, and Mrs. Yates catches him by the elbow. “Good Lord, go to bed immediately!” Severus slowly circles the hallway and living room, ensuring all the cauldrons are securely hidden, and obediently collapses onto the sofa. The neighbour runs off to her apartment and returns with rags to brush away the dust. The air is poisoned as she opens the windows wide. Severus is poisoned; sooner or later what Nagini failed to finish he will complete by self-medication. The only thing Snape fears at the moment is becoming a ghost after death. Potter would not be pleased to find the restless shadow of his former professor on his heels. The snivelling brat has had enough for this life; the scales of justice should have been balanced. Not by She-Weasley, of course, but… The apartment is cold, and Severus huddles up involuntarily. Mrs. Yates pulls the bedspread from the back of the sofa and covers him like a small child. Severus feels like a flobberworm, but he has no strength to resist the brisk neighbour. She reminds him of his own mother, and for a second he even sees an aged Eileen Prince with a guilty, sad smile, but the illusion subsides quickly. The neighbour gasps, and he vaguely realises that perhaps his living conditions don’t appear acceptable, but neither does he — resembling an Inferius more than an average thirty-seven-year-old man. When Mrs. Yates enters the kitchen and grunts approvingly, Snape smiles, because the kitchen is the heated heart of his apartment. Let everything else burn. He himself has already burned and is now suffering from phantom pains. “Samuel, look at me,” the neighbour demands, returning to the living room. “What’s going on? Have you a fever? Is your condition worsening?” Severus covers his eyes with his hand and replies, “Yes, it’s like that. I just need to wait it out.” He does not say, 'All my muscles ache because I’m an old fool and took two incompatible potions. My head feels hollow from a poorly brewed Sleeping Draught, and my professional pride stings, because most likely the brewer was my own student. I hardly notice the discomfort in my throat amid this agony. He also does not say, I have erectile dysfunction, and I’m a damned half-wizard who cannot use his wand for its intended purpose'. Moreover, he does not say that he lives by inertia and waits for an end. Instead, Severus admits, “I believe you were right, Mrs. Yates. I’m depressed.” “Samuel, please remember that you are not alone. You can always turn to your old neighbour, and I will gladly help,” the woman smiles at him almost maternally. “You also have your young men, the ones I saw not long ago.” He does not have them; he is them. Isn’t it ironic? In the end, he only has himself. “I’ll leave painkillers on the table, and here’s the phone number of a nice therapist. Don’t refuse, but contact her when you are ready. Perhaps you should call one of your young men?” Severus recalls the misunderstanding with the Polyjuice Potion and grunts in acknowledgement. He thanks the compassionate neighbour for her help, promises to think about the therapist and, finally, says that he is tired. Mrs. Yates clearly does not wish to leave him alone in this state, but she understands that Severus needs peace. She accepts his promise to call a doctor if it gets worse, and leaves, muttering something about foolish male pride. Severus is ashamed that the elderly Muggle saw him in such a deplorable state. As it worsens, his consciousness clouds, leaving him no choice but to ask Poppy for help. Snape climbs from the sofa, swallows Restorative and Painkiller potions, and refreshes his clothes and hair with a spell. His hand doesn’t go numb this time; he only feels weaker. He puts on his coat and activates the Portkey to Hogsmeade. The first young witch who sees him pales under his stare and points a finger towards a nearby house, not daring to open her mouth when he wheezes, “Where is Pomfrey?” Severus drags his body to the wooden door and knocks loudly. “Pepperup will be ready in an hour, just wait a bit!” shouts the matron, and she gasps when she sees the state he’s in. “Severus!” Mobilicorpus catches him as he slides into unconsciousness, and when he comes around, he is unsure whether it is morning or evening. The signal spell buzzes, and Poppy enters, crossing her arms. “It wasn’t that bad,” denies Severus when her silence stretches too long. “The risk was justifiable. You think I wouldn’t have noticed if it were serious?” “Not serious,” she mutters under her breath. “You have been unconscious for two days, and I still have no idea what potions you took! Severus, I won’t let you out of this room for at least five more days.” He would be outraged if, at this moment, Poppy weren’t stronger than him in every sense — and he has always respected strength. She might as well bind him to the bed, feed him with a spoon, and use very unpleasant sanitary charms to her heart’s content. “Your knee is healed now, your back and neck, too,” continues Pomfrey. “No more potions for you, I mean it. Complete bed rest, and proper, regular meals. When you are on your feet, do physical therapy exercises or Eastern practices. No broomstick, no draining magical spells, no heroism; there are people to do everything for you. Lilith Bennett has already been to see me. Do you remember her? As your assistant, she is to ensure you won’t do anything foolish.” Severus counts the seconds until the end of the five-day torture. “Harry’s been here several times. Apparently, someone told him you were at death’s door.” Snape twitches involuntarily. “Do not let Potter in here!” “Severus, the boy is worried about you,” Poppy sounds deeply concerned, but the former Potions professor stands his ground. Snape might be worried about the idiot, too, but that doesn’t mean they should see each other. It is perfectly possible to worry about one another remotely. “Oh, and here is Miss Bennett. Come in, he’s awake,” calls Pomfrey, and Severus sighs, gathering his strength to meet the outside world. The girl reminds him of Granger. She has the same indefatigable energy and a hypertrophied sense of justice. “Professor Snape!” she greets him excitedly, and Severus’s headache begins immediately. “I am not a professor anymore, Miss Bennett,” he replies. “Please, call me Lilith, otherwise I feel as if I’m in Potions class!” the girl smiles, but immediately cuts herself short. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think — of course, if it’s more convenient for you, I don’t insist at all…” “What on earth are you talking about?” Snape interrupts the flow of her excuses, irritated. “Well, Lilith is so similar to Lily, I would not wish to remind you… Everyone knows about your love. I’m sorry.” Severus grinds his teeth. Great Merlin, out of all the foul things he did in the past, what exactly deserves such karmic retribution? The Cruciatus was less humiliating. “Lilith, ask the Headmistress to come to me when she has a free moment.” “Yes, of course, I’ll tell her now!” the girl jumps to her feet and nearly runs to the door. “Bed rest!” Poppy reminds him from the hall, and Snape takes a deep breath. He has time to eat and read The Prophet before Minerva honours him with her presence. “You gave us a scare, Severus. One of our assistants came running in a panic, saying she had seen you dying.” “A rather faint-hearted witch, prone to exaggeration. I cannot imagine what such impressionable individuals are doing in a place where, just a few months ago, there was a real massacre,” says Snape. “Nevertheless, word travels fast. Kingsley is already aware you have returned to Hogwarts. They intend to organise a reception and a ceremony to award you an Order of Merlin. Poppy had to fight for your five-day recovery.” Minerva studies his expression carefully, then adds, “You cannot refuse.” He really can’t. He can do nothing at the moment. He can only go with the flow, hoping he will not be dashed upon the rocks around the bend. He anticipates being torn to pieces with a kind of grim satisfaction. His third visitor is Potter. Severus hears the boy’s quiet conversation with Pomfrey, rolls his eyes, muttering unprintable things about stubborn idiots, and pretends to be asleep. The door opens, and Potter halts on the threshold, uncertain. Thank Merlin, he does not seek to confess his thoughts to the former professor’s unconscious body in a way he would never dare face to face; he merely shifts on the spot for a few moments, then leaves quietly, probably on tiptoe. Severus exhales in relief. He learns Potter’s approximate daily routine from Lilith and schedules his therapeutic naps for the times when the Hero might be free from construction duties. Miss Bennett has likely concocted a story that the very sight of Potter’s face reminds Severus of his heart’s loss, and she zealously hinders the boy’s attempts to make contact. Perfect. On the fourth day of forced idleness, Severus feels fat, well-rested and relatively healthy. His trips to the lavatory are no longer accompanied by full-body pain, and his throat does not ache. A treacherous thought lingers that he should have sought help earlier, but it only twists the knife in the remains of his pride. He tries not to think about past events. He is almost calm, surrounded by the magical atmosphere and familiar people. Perhaps this is precisely what Severus has been missing all this time. Lilith says, “Harry Potter was being terribly persistent! I simply couldn’t stand it and told him that if a person constantly found excuses, perhaps it was time to take the hint. He looked at me as if I were mad! I truly tried to explain that you, sir, had already lost too much in that war, and you deserved the choice to be left alone — especially by her son.” She swings her legs, sitting on the chair beside his bed, chattering about the restoration of Hogwarts and, again, about Potter. “Harry is working with the artefactologists now; there are problems with the protective wards. They can’t manage something, but he has asked the Bulgarian Association to assist, so soon everything will be even better than before.” Lilith mentions Potter almost constantly, and Severus begins to think she may harbour tender feelings for him. The girl is undoubtedly preferable to Ginevra. She is cleverer, more restrained, more feminine. The Weasley who grew up with six elder brothers is no match for a pure-blood like Bennett. “We are glad you are with us again, sir,” Lilith admits. This is, of course, utter nonsense, but Snape keeps his opinion to himself. He merely says, “Someone must ensure you do not level the school completely. I recall some students did make attempts at such a task.” Lilith smiles as if sincerely delighted he has returned to the wizarding world, further proving his private belief that the younger generation is not of sound mind. On the evening of the fifth day, Poppy examines him, strictly forbids any further potions, and releases him with a promise to check in every week. Severus steps out into the dark street, looking around carefully. He needs to stay; he feels better here. Hogwarts has always been his home, and a mere glimpse of the stone walls heals him. Of course, it will not be easy with aggressive former students, but he is accustomed to hatred. It surrounds Severus like a black cocoon, much like his robes. It helped him survive — honed his vigilance and reflexes. One week of bed rest at Hogwarts has given Severus more than all his potions combined, and a sense of being needed envelops him. After all, there is Poppy, and there is Filius — even if their friendship is no more — and that is enough to feel attached to the ruined walls of the school. Snape presses the Portkey keychain, and the moment he draws a breath of London air, the heavy feeling in his chest returns. The gloomy alleys whisper of death, as does the cold greeting of his squalid flat. The windows are still open, Severus having forgotten them entirely. He needs one evening to pack his things, and he will leave this place. If he is cursed at Hogwarts, Pomfrey — and perhaps Flitwick — will help, and if he cannot be saved, Severus will die surrounded by good wizards. The thought is oddly calming. Autumn has crept into the living room, and Snape does not remove his coat once inside. He carefully arranges the ingredients and potions, casts a Shrinking Charm, and magic runs through his veins freely, as in his youth. He goes to the table, sweeps his Muggle mug aside, and flicks his wand: “Reparo! Wingardium Leviosa.” Magic obeys without discomfort, and a bubble of contentment fills his chest. He’ll return now. He won’t wait for morning. Severus conceals the chest in an enchanted pocket of his coat, slams the door, and practically flies down the stairs, feeling the smooth bend of his knee joint and a blissful absence of pain. He must thank Poppy properly; the usual Joint-Regenerating and Anti-Inflammatory potions had never worked when he tried them. Streetlamps are lit, the nearby bookshop is already closed, and the sex-shop sign still beckons with its shamelessness. He is gazing at it, captivated, reflecting on gigantic phalluses and clean-shaven scrotums, when he hears a quiet cough and twitches in surprise. 'Umbridge', pops involuntarily into Snape’s head. “Godfrey Baker,” a man introduces himself, smiling openly. Severus remembers him, as he remembers all lost opportunities in his life; this is the brown-haired man from the sex-shop, who offered to share his thoughts on pornography. “We met at-” Godfrey nods toward the garish sign, “the shop. You seem very thoughtful. Planning how to spend a free evening?” Snape looks into the man’s light brown eyes and reads his superficial thoughts with ease: definite intimate interest, no trace of aggression. Second chances are rare in his life, and he frantically considers how to hold the Muggle’s attention. Severus is well-read enough to understand that some erotic signal is expected, so he says carefully, “Indeed, it is difficult to truly unwind in London. I am considering it.” Severus speaks in a low voice, staring intently to gauge the reaction. The man smiles, glances around, and offers openly, “I’ve got a rather extensive videotape collection at my place. Fancy having a look?” Oh, Merlin. If Severus hadn’t delved into the Muggle’s mind, he might have missed the veiled hint, but Godfrey thinks so loudly the invitation cannot be mistaken. Is it really that simple — just to approach and proposition a man? Isn’t the Muggle afraid of rejection, of homophobic disgust, or of encountering someone with sadistic inclinations? No, Godfrey isn’t considering possible consequences, only joyful excitement and a fleeting fantasy of Severus’s expression when he comes. Snape is not sure he is even capable of such a look. If it is all that simple, then he has been a fool all his life, suppressing inappropriate desires, trying to ignore a perfectly normal part of any mature man’s life, instead of simply enjoying each minute with ease and sensuality. He says, “Yes, that would be interesting. My name is Severus,” and shakes the proffered hand. The man leads him towards the park, talking about the weather and the bloody Tories, and Snape feels surprisingly at ease, politely agreeing in the right places. He is afraid of doing something wrong, or of failing to do something important — he wants to crawl into the Muggle’s head to meet every expectation and avoid disappointment. “Here we are. Please, come in, Severus.” Godfrey’s flat is small and poorly furnished, and the man does not waste time. He hands Snape a glass of whisky and leads him to the shelves. “It’s a rather strange hobby for a thirty-year-old man, I know,” he chuckles, tracing a hand over several shelves filled with obscene videotapes and static images of naked men on the covers, “but sometimes it’s the only way to relieve stress when there’s no suitable partner.” Godfrey runs his fingers along the top row of his collection, as if admiring it and awaiting a reaction, but Severus, unable to maintain eye contact, does not fully understand how to proceed. Is it time to move closer? “I should like to watch something to your taste,” he finally replies. The Muggle raises his eyebrows in surprise, as if he had not expected this answer, but obediently reaches for one of the top cassettes, inserts it into the player, and switches on the television. “Sit on the sofa, make yourself comfortable,” he says, then shows the tape’s box. “Beautifully shot, very artistic. Just right for the mood.” Godfrey gives him an open smile, turns off the lights, and sits very close — so close that his thigh presses firmly against Snape’s leg. The intimate proximity of a man is a pleasure Severus has never known, and he savours every moment, barely breathing. A narrator begins to speak about the perfection of the male body, yet all Severus feels is the body beside him — the rigid muscles, the strength — and still he does not quite believe this is happening. On the screen, two young men in their twenties lie on a table, kissing each other hungrily, and Severus stops breathing. He has never seen such a thing in his life; pictures did not show movement and passion, and the hairs on his neck stand on end. When Godfrey’s hand comes to rest on his knee, Snape draws a sharp breath, almost choking. It is too sudden, too fast. His pulse hammers in his neck like a furious, enchanted Bludger — the kind that broke Potter’s bones in the boy’s second year. He is unaccustomed to this. Severus can withstand the Cruciatus, but sensual pleasure is alien to him. He has no defences against it. Paranoia returns threefold; he met Godfrey half an hour ago, and an accomplished Occlumens is capable of projecting false emotions. Yet, if he does not compel himself to act now, he may never again have the chance to touch a mature, strong male body. The choice is agonising, but Severus should not be afraid to live after having nearly died, so he turns and, awkwardly, almost chastely, kisses the Muggle on the lips. There is no Avada, but it feels fatal when Godfrey opens his mouth and draws Severus closer with a quiet sigh. His arms are large, knocking the air from Snape’s lungs with their ardour. Snape allows himself to be led, repeats movements, explores another’s mouth and body like a new potion phenomenon — with care and delight. Godfrey pulls his own shirt over his head and tosses it onto the sofa, then reaches for the high collar of Severus’s button-down. But Snape frantically seizes his wrists and whispers, “Leave it.” The man freezes, and Severus curses himself for ruining the moment, but he physically cannot bear to be undressed. He is paralysed by the thought of revealing himself to anyone, and Snape makes a desperate attempt to distract Godfrey, unfastening the man’s flies and touching his semi-erect cock. The manoeuvre works; the Muggle surrenders to his mercy, leaning back against the sofa. Severus desires him; he wants his cock so badly he is choking on saliva, but he prevents any attempt to be touched in return with a tight grip on his own wrists. It is a genuine sensual pleasure to see and feel how the owner of such strength and persistence yields beneath his hands, breathing heavily, moving his hips to thrust faster into his stroking palm. Compared to him, Snape is worthless, abnormal, and his proximity discredits the unspoilt Muggle, who has likely never witnessed real violence or inhuman cruelty in his life. Severus does not want Godfrey to regret this evening, so he makes an effort, carefully squeezing his testicles, caressing his torso, never ceasing to stroke his flushed cock. He wants to take it into his mouth, but he is afraid of choking, so he merely drags his lips to Godfrey’s lower abdomen, kisses it fervently, and inhales the scent of an aroused man. “I’m going to come,” Godfrey breathes out, eyes closed, his seed spilling onto Snape’s palm. On the television screen, two passionate athletes are deep-throating each other. Severus cannot even look at them. “I must go,” he says hoarsely, snatching his coat and almost running out the door. Male seed cools on the skin of his hand. It is hopeless.