Snape was very thankful that Order work was so secret. By Saturday suppertime, his life was back to normal with no one but Dumbledore, Hagrid and the hound aware of the accident. To his even greater relief, a simple accio had brought his wand flying into Dumbledore's hand, miraculously intact and buried in snow only a few feet away, so once his sprained wrist had been healed nothing remained to remind him of the episode. Or so he thought.
On Sunday morning, however, there appeared to be a small hangover of emotion from those anxious hours of imprisonment. Returning to the dungeon after breakfast, Snape was assailed by a most unusual sense of claustrophobia. His personal rooms, home and precious refuge for many years, now appeared too small, too dark and too deeply buried under the weight of the castle for his liking. Certain that the feeling would pass after some time in the fresh air, he bundled up a quill, red ink and a stack of fourth-year essays and made his way outside to the Quidditch pitch.
If the Slytherin team and reserves were surprised that he was supervising their practice session, they didn't show it and quietly carried on with their hands-free balance exercises while he stabbed away at the usual disheartening affirmations of ignorance. After twenty minutes of pouring forth red vitriol, he noticed that the fliers had finished their practice and decided to close proceedings with a "group hug." They were laughing and affectionately manhandling each other as Quidditch teams often did, yet on this occasion something about the action cut Snape right to the heart.
The surge of jealousy taking his breath away must have been Hagrid's fault.
The blasted cuddle of the previous day, the delicious, protective, perfect cuddle he had experienced on the mountain had obviously aroused some deeply-buried yearning for physical contact and a sort of affection-seeking urge was suggesting he fly over to join in the mass bonding. It was out of the question, of course. The horrible adolescents were not creatures any sane adult would wish to fondle, (irrespective of any actual laws against that sort of thing,) not to mention the likelihood of their dying of shock or horror at being so treated by their stern head of house.
Yet as he watched the casual, innocent touches, a great hollow feeling began to form in his stomach at the thought of not joining in. The incident with Hagrid had been a one-off, product of very singular circumstances unlikely to ever be repeated, which meant that Snape would never again be able to feel the amazing sensation of being hugged, no matter how much he might long for the experience. It was not to be borne! He had managed thus far in life without such nonsense, how could it be that just one taste of the unknown pleasure had apparently turned him into an addict?
Eyes stinging with furious disappointment, he packed up his ink and essays and stomped away from the pitch before he hexed his own team out of envy or frustration.
Unfortunately, his route back to the castle took him past the source of his distress. Hagrid was working in the pumpkin patch next to his hut, chatting to a disinterested Fang as he manoeuvred his huge wheelbarrow between the plants. The day was not particularly warm, but some kind of heavy physical activity had made him strip to his vest and the sheen of sweat on his skin was visible even from the distance where Snape stood. Without warning, Hagrid said, "hup!" and heaved the largest pumpkin up from the ground.
For a second, the muscles in his arms tensed into shapes Snape had only seen in paintings or sculptures of the classical gods. Though his belly was large and flabby and his overall size was surely too great to be described as attractive, Rubeus Hagrid's arms were a vision of power, a glorious sight of perfection upon which no mortal creature had any right to gaze. Not twenty-four hours previously, those heavenly limbs had been wrapped around Severus Snape and had briefly transformed his habitual misery into divine contentment. He could no longer wonder at the sense of loss eating away inside him. Anyone with the vaguest grasp of classical legend knew what happened to the poor humans who messed around with the gods.
Unable to bear any more torture, Snape slunk back down to the dark solitude of his dungeon.
xxx
That day and the night which followed were agony. Neither thought nor action deliberately undertaken as distraction were capable of dislodging Snape's obsession with the feel of those magnificent arms around him; only a clear sense of how pathetically he was behaving could keep pace. It was shaming to be brought so low by his body's newfound frailty.
The only comfort to be drawn from the abominable situation was that his skill at hiding his feelings had not been affected. He watched carefully for any unusual behaviour among his pupils or colleagues, any nudges or puzzled stares. Even the sharp eyes of Dumbledore and McGonagall who flanked him at lunch appeared not to mark anything out of the ordinary in his conduct, despite his failure to do more than prod at the excellent roast pork and apple sauce they were relishing.
By Monday evening, when even a full day of teaching plus an hour of watching miscreants undergo a particularly nasty detention session involving dried bundimun dung failed to shake off his affliction, Snape decided that he had to act.
His own schooldays had taught him how harshly the world judged boys who became too attached to other boys - not personally, thank Merlin! That particular lesson he had learned second-hand from what befell poor Adonis Clack in the year above him. From what he read in the newspaper, attitudes had changed a little since that time, but he knew that most men were very touchy about the idea of touching other men, and with Hogwarts being such a small community, he dare not risk his reputation by being open. Simply walking up to Hagrid and demanding regular affection was out of the question. Besides, even if the unlikely deity-made-flesh failed to take mortal offence, he might well simply refuse for reasons of personal taste.
So much for the honest option. He was therefore left with no alternative but to be dishonest.
xxx
"Oh, Hagrid! Don't be so silly! I insist!"
Snape, in stealthy devious mode since his decision to acquire what he craved by foul means rather than fair, slipped behind a wall-tapestry on hearing Sprout pronounce the wonderful name.
"Ah no, Professor," protested Hagrid, good-naturedly. "There was no need ter do that!"
"Your help with the devil's snare was invaluable, Hagrid, and it took up so much of your time," she protested. "This is just a very small token of thanks. I hope you won't offend me by refusing?"
"Well, if you put it like that," he conceded.
"Wonderful!" She exclaimed. Some sort of packaging crackled. "Miss Honeyduke told me they were a brand new variety she had developed herself, especially good for floating in cocoa!"
"I do like a cuppa cocoa last thing at night, that's for sure."
"So, will you take the mushmallows?"
"I'd love to. Thanks, ma'am," said Hagrid jovially. Crackle.
Behind the hanging, Snape groaned silently. One could hear the warmth of cuddly affection in the groundskeeper's voice. At the sound, his own skinny arms had tightened around him in some pathetic imitation of a hug without any direction from his brain, only serving to fuel his determination to taste the real thing once again.
Painful though it was to be so near to what he could not have, at least those moments of eavesdropping had proved useful. His quarry, it seemed, regularly drank cocoa before bed. Snape filed away the fact as being potentially very handy for his plans.
xxx
A quick dash to the hut after Hagrid had led his third year Care of Magical Creatures students off into the forest (for what would doubtless prove to be a highly dangerous encounter with nature) rewarded Snape with Hagrid's cocoa stash.
He had not been fooled by the lettering on the battered metal tin which declared its contents to be worming tablets. Only a few seconds of searching had revealed that the caddy labelled "Tea" contained salt, the can of "Podkiss's Perfect Plimpy Paste" (best before: Dec '74) was actually teabags with a few humbugs thrown in for good measure and the "Cocoa" jar was lying on its side in a dark corner of the kitchen. When Snape approached it, a little furry snout stuck out of the end and sniffed at him.
Dreamless Sleep potion had only 35% efficiency when powdered, so the potions master had whipped up a large measure of Out-Cold that morning and now desiccated it carefully, stirring it in with the chocolate powder once it had cooled. Any difference in taste would likely be attributed to the ridiculous marshmallows which Hagrid would be sure to add to his nightly brew. Out-Cold was not a potion in common use these days, except by those allergic to the octurvice extract in Dreamless Sleep. Unlike its more popular rival, it positively encouraged crazy dreams so that anyone taking it would awaken the following morning perfectly refreshed, but alarmed at having imagined in vivid detail that doughnuts were vampirical or that their granny was actually a horse.
For Snape's plan to succeed, Hagrid had to be very deeply asleep. The occasional strange dream might confuse him, but would do no real harm, he reasoned. Better to introduce the potion this way than by uncharacteristic gestures such as presenting Hagrid with gifts like Sprout had, or worse, leaving anonymous bottles of wine on the doorstep. Hagrid's routine was to make his cocoa from hot milk and powder, so if he did begin to wonder about the sudden change in his overnight imaginings, he would never suspect the reason lay inside his trusty old tin.
Snape checked the clock. There was plenty of time to replace the doctored cocoa before the class and their teacher returned from the forest. He did so and walked calmly back to the dungeons, struggling to hide his triumph and anticipation. This was all so easy! He would soon have achieved his goal, with the minimum of effort.
xxx