Making Do

Cold air is blowing through his Hogsmeade chambers, undeterred by the Sealing Spell. The housing is no different from his London flat — the rooms are gloomy and poorly furnished, only smaller in size. There is a bedroom without windows, a study with an ancient-looking sofa, a half-empty laboratory, and a tiny bathroom; all of it makes Severus feel like a house-elf. Snape enlarges his chest in the laboratory and takes out those meagre remnants of ingredients and potions that he managed to save from Hogwarts before the Battle. His former stores are destroyed — buried beneath the surface of the Great Lake, along with the Slytherin dungeons. A single shelf filled with bottles remains pitifully among several empty racks. How many valuable finds and rare specimens will never be turned into healing and protective potions? How many lives will they now not save? All that potential, gone to waste. Severus turns away from the shelf, stares at his new workplace, then takes out a couple of cauldrons, a ladle, knives, and scales. There is a window in the laboratory, providing much-needed ventilation, but there really isn’t enough free space to feel comfortable. Snape freezes over the open chest, his thoughts wandering from the new Slytherin wing to expensive ingredients in Diagon Alley before returning to the Muggle named Godfrey. He is unsure what to do with the new experience — the warmth of someone else’s skin is still tingling on his palms, a lasting illusion of intimacy. Furious masturbation in the bathroom hasn’t brought a long-awaited release, and the unrealised desire will soon drive Severus up the wall. He hesitates, but nevertheless takes the heavy cup of the Pensieve from the chest carefully and brings his wand to his temple. This memory is bright and fresh, filled with tension, taste, smell; but Snape turns away from the kissing couple on the sofa, unable to look at himself, and shifts his attention to the television. Now, when his eyes are completely focused on the screen, he sees all the nuances of movement — gleaming sweat on the tanned skin of naked men, shiny saliva on their tongues, greedy kisses. Severus hasn’t blushed since adolescence, but he feels the heat of the blood rushing to his face and a suffocating lump in his chest. Thank Merlin that no one sees him. He looks revolting at such moments; on his pale skin, the blush acquires a bright, almost piggy hue. Snape was sure that after so many years in the ranks of the Death Eaters it would be impossible to embarrass him — but no, the shame from the thought that he dares to spy on someone else’s intimate acts is practically paralysing. When one young man slowly takes a hard cock into his throat and rests his nose on neatly trimmed pubic hair, Severus makes a low, desperate moan, unable to stop this visual torture. Then, in Godfrey’s apartment, everything felt different; but here, in the closed solitude of the laboratory, there is no one to disappoint. He is alone with his unnatural desires. Severus strokes his cock with his palm, trying to reach the peak quickly, as he used to do in the past, but the excitement does not increase. Instead, it feels more painful the harder he presses. The television screen shows young men gasping in ecstasy. Right behind him, Godfrey whispers, “I’m going to come,” and Severus emerges from the memory, grabs a dark vial of some tincture from the shelf and throws the potion at the wall in desperation. His hands tremble from a feral desire which cannot find a way out, and it drives him truly mad. He needs it, he has to come, but he can’t. The former Potions master comes to his senses only after a long ice-cold shower, then goes to the bedroom and falls asleep instantly, forgetting his Order of Merlin reception completely. Headmistress McGonagall carefully knocks on his door the following morning. Snape looks grudgingly at her sympathetic face, not fully awake yet. “Severus, how are you?” she asks gently. “I understand, you needed time after… everything.” Snape grows cold inside. Minerva can’t be aware of his intimate encounter with the Muggle. She’s not proficient at Legilimency, and she’s hardly the one to spy. “Minister Kingsley is going to return today to thank you in person. Yesterday it was Harry who accepted the Order for you. He gave such a beautiful and touching speech that some reporters teared up.” Potter! What sort of half-witted tale has he concocted this time? Severus hardly has any reputation left to ruin after Potter’s “assistance,” and the brat never seems to cease his attempts. For Merlin’s sake, Snape himself is the greater fool — succumbing to the temptations of sodomy and then sleeping through the second most pivotal event of his life, the first being earning his Potions Mastery. It would be comical if it weren’t so pathetically tragic. It might even have been worthwhile… if only he had gotten to attend. Yet, why did no one drag him by force to the damned ceremony? Snape recalls that Kingsley is not one to accept refusal lightly — nor is McGonagall, for that matter. “When you failed to appear on time, we sent a house-elf to hasten you,” the Headmistress continues. “It returned stating you were asleep. Poppy, of course, was outraged and nearly took the Minister by the ears for daring to disturb you before you had fully recovered. Lilith Bennett voiced her support rather loudly, then Harry joined in, and together they defended your rest and redirected the reporters’ attention. Truth be told, I believe the wizarding world ought to know its heroes. A few photographs with an Order of Merlin in the papers would have done you no harm.” Potter, Potter — that damned Potter is everywhere! Still, Severus is grateful for the reprieve from the reporters. Skeeter remains in business, after all. Lately, her columns in The Prophet have grown more favorable toward Harry-bless-his-mother-Potter, and instinct tells Snape it has nothing to do with any sudden shift in her worldview. The ubiquitous Potter must have struck some bargain with her. But how? “You were ever ambitious. We ought to have woken you,” says McGonagall. Now, having removed her spectacles, she appears weary and deceptively soft. “They may take their photographs today,” Severus replies tersely. The Headmistress nods before taking her leave. Today, Severus intends to dress the part. He’ll shove it in Potter’s foolish face and give him a piece of his mind. Snape owns no formal robes, but he does possess a Portkey to London. With payment in advance, Madam Malkin will surely procure something impressive and dignified for him. Snape, for Merlin’s sake, served two masters for decades — he has earned respect! He deserves spacious quarters. He is worthy of a proper release, not this frantic, maddening tension coiled within. He has sacrificed enough that the simplest courtesy — to touch and be touched in return — should be granted. What has he done with his own life? Severus dons his Muggle attire, forces down a breakfast of porridge — after frightening a house-elf so thoroughly it nearly drops his bowl — then activates the plastic keychain. Diagon Alley remains as garish and crowded as ever, yet now every passerby turns to stare. Snape curls his lip in a snarl, and the witches and wizards dare not approach. He reaches Madam Malkin’s, shoves the door open, and seals it behind him with a spell. “Professor Snape!” gasps the proprietress, offering no comment on the shimmering seal above the entrance. “Do you require formal robes?” “The finest available,” Severus answers curtly. He feels drained after the magical exertion, but frustration — simmering into quiet rage — keeps him upright. The witch takes his measurements by rote, then flicks her wand to summon a selection of robes. “Green would suit you,” she begins, only to be immediately cut off by Severus’s refusal. “Then the dark grey with silver trim,” Madam Malkin asserts, catching his glare. “Anything but black! You are young — not even eighty! Cease wearing mourning clothes; you buried her long ago. Lily Potter was a remarkable woman, but not the only woman! You have tormented yourself for years!” Severus grinds his teeth. “Grey will suffice.” The witch brightens, even offering a substantial discount and inviting him to return later to refresh his entire wardrobe. Severus sullenly removes the protective seal and activates the Portkey to Hogsmeade without leaving the shop. For Merlin’s sake, it takes only Harry Potter to make him the laughingstock of the entire wizarding world. How can the brat imagine him devoting his life to a woman with whom Severus was never romantically involved? A dead woman! Today, Snape is going to set the idiot straight. Back in his quarters, Severus hastens to the bathroom, washes his hair, and sweeps it back. The lines across the bridge of his nose stand out sharply this way, and he cannot relax his features, the frustration seething within. Uncertain when Kingsley will arrive at Hogwarts, Snape takes his time inventorying the ingredients in his laboratory and listing those needing replenishment first. When a house-elf appears before him, requesting his presence with the Headmistress, he has never felt more prepared. He dons the new robe, squares his shoulders, and walks toward the school like a king, acutely feeling every disdainful glance cast at his scarred throat. Kingsley does not look well. Severus detects the traces of at least two permanent curses upon him, and the burning knot of indignation in Snape’s chest collapses inward. They observe one another, noting scars, burns on hands, until the Minister speaks: “I am glad you helped Harry and survived.” What else is there to say? Kingsley has always been at the forefront; one cannot accuse him of inaction or hypocrisy. “It was my role to play,” Severus replies. “There are — and always will be — partisans in every war,” the Minister shakes his head. “You could never have stood aside.” True. Yet Severus would never have entered the Dark Lord’s inner circle given a choice. Dumbledore did not believe in free will, just as he disbelieved in remorse and tea without sugar. Now, looking at Kingsley, Snape realizes he cannot unleash this seething frustration and tension upon him — and the realization aches like a pain behind his sternum. A young reporter, thoroughly cowed by the Minister, manages a few photographs of Snape’s irritated countenance before scurrying out. “Harry has your Order of Merlin. He is currently dealing with Bulgarian artifact specialists and will arrive shortly. He wished to speak with you,” says Kingsley. “Obnoxious Gryffindor,” Snape hisses. “I shall meet him this evening, and we will discuss whatever it is our dear Hero desires.” For instance, that inexplicable nonsense Potter has been feeding the reporters. Kingsley smirks and shakes his hand firmly before returning to the chair beside Minerva’s desk. Snape departs, feeling absurdly overdressed for a ten-minute audience. He will collect his award from Potter, knock some sense into the brat’s head, and commission a full-length portrait in this new robe — to look suitably dignified among the former Headmasters after his death. Severus strides toward the reconstruction site at his usual brisk clip, the folds of his expensive robe swirling like they did in the old days, when students called him the dungeon bat. He rounds a corner and collides with a man like a ship striking an iceberg, loses his balance, and nearly smashes his nose on the flagstones — but deft hands catch him by the shoulders and across the waist, sparing him a swift return to Poppy. The arms hold him firmly, securely, almost carefully, and Severus’s body — starved for touch — reacts at once. He smells another’s sweat, the scent of a healthy male body; the press of a solid chest against his side and hot breath on his neck draw a ragged groan from his throat. “Professor — are you all right?” a voice asks, concerned, and what little dignity Severus has left is barely enough to keep him from snarling, 'Undress, and I will be,' right there in the empty corridor. The former professor regains his footing, straightens up — and his fleeting, desperate fantasy, fuelled by loneliness and months of frustration, shatters against the sight of Potter’s hideous round spectacles. Bloody Merlin, when did the idiot grow up? The last time Severus saw Potter, he’d been bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack; he certainly hadn’t noted the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the thickness of his neck. Had the brat looked like this in the Forest of Dean? Absolutely not -he’d been gaunt, half-starved, wretched with exhaustion. None of the photographs in The Prophet had captured how thoroughly Potter had filled out after the war. His newly-awakened libido doesn’t care what the boy used to look like, and Snape shivers under the mere weight of that gaze. Only this morning, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the memory of naked male forms; yesterday, he’d done even more. At twenty, he’d brewed an Impotence Potion to stifle his attraction to his own students. Merlin help him — had he ever known a single peer, after the war, who didn’t shy from his company? A lonely young professor trapped in a boarding school, he hadn’t the courage then to seek solace among Muggles. Now he is back at Hogwarts, surrounded by youth, and this time, everything will be different. Potter eyes him with wary suspicion. Snape snaps, “Out of my way!” and flees, feeling the Hero’s bewildered stare burning into his back — and lower. It’s easy to find the nearest lavatory. Severus locks the door, flings open his robe, and shoves his trousers to his knees. His cock is hard and already wet; he smears pre-come over the head, works his foreskin roughly, and lets out low, choked groans, his whole body shuddering. In his mind, it’s Godfrey who holds him the way Potter just did — confident, almost tender — pressing close from behind, grinding against him. Severus fists himself and comes so violently his vision greys at the edges. The mirror shows his face flushed an ugly, vivid red. He doesn’t care. He’s spent, relieved, almost giddy; his limbs feel weak and weightless. He can still come. And he will not make the same mistake again — he will not postpone pleasure for some nebulous later. He will rest. Breathe fresh air. Have the house-elves prepare delicacies. No one will dare ask another sacrifice of him. No — Snape has been awarded the Order of Merlin. He is a hero of the wizarding world, and he demands to be left alone. He will collect his award from Potter tomorrow.