Author's note: I don't actually know if the floor plan I'm laying out here is realistic for a tenement of this era or in this location, but I reached a point in cursory research where I really didn't care. If you are a scholar of tenements and slums of the 1960s to 1990s midlands UK, I absolutely invite you to correct me about what I've got wrong but I'm not one of those so I'm going to have some things wrong and I'm at ease with that.
Author's edit: After making this comment, some very kind folks dropped a whole lot of knowledge in the reviews! I've tweaked this chapter slightly to make it more historically / architecturally accurate.
Severus doesn't like his childhood home in dull Muggle Cokeworth. It's too far from everything, too shameful and too attached to his own filthy Muggle heritage. He had grown to appreciate how secret it was over the years since he had graduated Hogwarts, though. He paid for a postbox for Muggle affairs and took on an owl-receiving service in London which forwarded to the postbox, rendering the address completely unconnected to anything the Ministry could find easily. If he did not like the place, he did like its anonymity.
The factory had left Cokeworth shortly before Tobias had left life, both during Severus' fifth year at school. With the factory gone, more and more of the shabby little two-up-two-downs had gone unoccupied, and when the landlord had offered purchase of the house to Eileen for cheap enough, she had scraped together what she could-the last of her meager inheritance, what she had saved from being on the the Muggle dole, and what galleons she had kept aside to be converted in emergency. Eileen had spent the next few thin and bitter years alone in the home she had bought while Severus finished Hogwarts, took on his Potions Mastery, and began the Dark Lord's work.
Eileen Snape was found dead by a neighbor on Christmas Day, 1979. Heart trouble, the Muggles had said. He had shed some private, sloppy tears and thought that would be the end of the whole thing, the beginning of his freedom from Cokeworth.
And then a letter had found its way to him saying that the house was, by rights, his.
His first instinct was to burn the place to the ground and have done. But it did have value, and he was loath to discard it so callously. It could be a useful headquarters for the Dark Lord's work, more spacious than the flats others took on, and it came free of charge. Much as he might loathe it, he wasn't a fool or so proud to turn that down.
He moved in. Severus wouldn't bring Avery or Mulciber here, to be sure, but Narcissa has smiled thinly and called it charming when she came, as if it were a getaway cabin in the woods or some kind of novelty dollhouse.
Lucius hadn't said anything about it when he had come across the threshold, being somewhat seriously injured at the time from an operation that had become an attempted sting; the pair of Aurors had faired the worse of it, barely. But no one would come looking in Muggle Cokeworth for someone bearing curse wounds that would prove out their participation on the fight.
That has been almost a year ago and the Malfoys hadn't come back since, and hadn't publicized the location. It was still secret enough. But Narcissa had discreetly sent a gift or two there: a thick soft bathrobe for Christmas, a basket of fragrant roses in summer, a bottle of wine for a favor, a card for Draco's baby shower. Every time she sent something, he was reminded that it was secret enough, that it could be useful-but in its current state, a decaying Muggle wreck, it was not enough. It was too Muggle, too small, too old, and not suited for the new life he wished to forge.
The walls were what he changed first, patching the dents of life and Tobias Snape. The paper became something less faded, something that didn't spark bad memories, something that looked not entirely unlike the paper in Lucius' study, though it lacked the gamboling pixies etched in gilt. Then Severus became practical; if he was to use the house for anything, it must be sufficiently modern. He couldn't change the neighborhood or too much of its size, but he could add amenities: a tiny water closet with shower into the larger bedroom, installed without extension charms and draining into the Muggle sewer system in a mostly-Muggle fashion. His own old, cramped bedroom became a kind of a guest room and miniature hospital, with cheap but sturdy laminate floor that could be easily sanitized-the kind of thing he wished for as a teenager whilst dissecting worms and frogs, or when Lucius had been there last February bleeding out on the carpet. Then he took the larger bedroom for himself and replaced the skinny bed that Eileen Snape had died in with something a bit nicer. And then, that summer, he had begun the true work: the laboratory in the cellar.
Eileen Snape had never been certified as a brewer by the Potions Master's Guild. She had gotten by brewing illicitly; Severus had known that for as long as he could remember and still sometimes took the practice on when things became too lean. Tobias Snape's cheque evaporated the moment it crossed his palm, and so Eileen had done what needed to be done to feed a hungry young boy and herself and, on occasion, her husband. Tobias would rage that the whole house belonged to him, as if he were proud of the shabby little two-bedroom, the cramped kitchen, the living room with its worn floorboards and no indoor plumbing. But the cellar, a dirt-floored chamber reached from a narrow stair-that belonged to Eileen. Like everything else in the house, it was shabby. But in Severus' memory, it was the only place that was magical.
The vials were cobwebbed when he opened it. Residue dried in the bottom of some beakers; he knew his mother's systems well enough to put on dragonhide gloves for the ingredients that could still be active. A mouse had gotten into the feverfew. Spiders had taken up residence along the door. Doxies had made riotous nests in the smaller cauldrons. A malformed skeleton of something dead and mammalian laid in the largest cauldron, fur matted to the bones. Between brewing to survive and brewing for the Dark Lord and feeding information to Dumbledore through an intermediary, there hadn't been time to do much more than clear a cramped station for one, enough space to brew the money-making potions that he survived on.
If he is to work with Lily, Severus knows, that will have to change. There would have to be space for two cauldrons; three, if he is being honest, and four is not out of the question. Lily would despise the mess; she would sneeze and wrinkle her nose and scoff at the filth and the very image of such an enraging thing sends him cleaning with such fury that smoke plumes from every scrubbing charm he casts.
Which is how Dumbledore finds him, the day after his conversation with Lily: covered in years of cobwebby dust and soot, sluicing water through the largest and most stubborn cauldrons for the third time. The man hadn't even bothered to knock at the front door or send an owl. The charms don't even trip; the only thing that alerts him to the man's presence is the creak of a floorboard, and Severus is twitching with nerves and ready to curse anyone out of his way at the bottom of the stair when Dumbledore opens the door.
"Good afternoon, Severus," Dumbledore says, descending the stair without hesitation, like a king.
And Severus knows then why he's come. He curses under his breath, stuffs his wand back into his pocket, and returns to the sink. "Lily Potter," Severus snarls into the cauldron. "You want me to work with Lily Potter."
"I do."
"I refuse."
"I very much doubt that."
Severus lets the cauldrons clatter into the sink so that he can face the man, who even now looks as though he is withholding his amusement. "She is meant to be protected!"
"I thought you would appreciate that I did not trust her protection to anyone else."
Severus gestures widely, furiously, at the space around him. "This work is not safe. If this conspiracy to restrict supply and poison blood-replenisher goes as far as you think seem to think it does-"
"It goes much further than that," Dumbledore says, and he moves closer, stirring the dirt with his robes. "Do you know why blood replenisher is in such high demand of late, Severus?"
Severus makes a slashing motion, batting aside the question. "I will not work with her. I would work with-anyone. Anyone else. Not her."
Dumbledore's face goes stern, for a moment. "Sirius Black, then? Or the werewolf Remus Lupin? Or perhaps the Auror, Alastor Moody? You would prefer one of those?"
"Anyone."
Dumbledore watches Severus' face, and the sternness goes out of him with a sigh. "I rather thought you would be pleased. No-" He can see Severus itching to interrupt, indignant as he is, and Dumbledore lifts a palm to forestall him. "You have been diligent and honest with me. You have passed vital information these past months, information that has saved lives. You have played your part as a double-agent well thus far. I merely thought to show you the reason for all of your efforts, to allow you to rekindle the friendship you hold so dear."
"We will accomplish nothing together," Severus spits. "She despises me."
"And what do you feel for her, I wonder?"
Severus looks away, to the dust settling around Dumbledore's shoes, the cobweb caught on his hem, to the scuffed and patched leather on his own feet.
"Ah," Dumbledore says. "Still?"
Severus turns from the old man, crouching to lift the cauldrons again and set them scrubbing themselves once more in the sink. It will take at least one more round to truly get them clean enough to brew in. The plume of smoke from the charm he casts is so violent that it has flames at its center.
"It is not a failing to love someone, Severus," Dumbledore says, gentle as a friend, which he most certainly isn't. "It is perhaps the best thing you have done. Does she know?"
Severus lets his silence answer. He moves further back into the darkness of the cellar, beginning to pluck sticky vials from the disused shelves.
Dumbledore follows, lighting his wand and holding it aloft-fooling himself into believing he is helping. "Do you intend to tell her?"
"No." The word comes out ugly, uneven, and more than a little desperate.
"Very well." Dumbledore nods along, as though he is being gracious. "You have not considered my question. Do you know why blood replenisher is in such high demand as of late?"
Severus vanishes a rack of cracked vials that could have taken repair, and the rack goes with them. He curses under his breath. "You know very well I don't. You've had me scrounging for scraps at Lucius Malfoy's table instead."
"So I have. And not to no end, I would have you know. But-very well, then," Dumbledore says. His brusque, professional tone is at least better than the kindness. The kindness makes Severus want to vomit. "There is a new curse very much in vogue with your Death Eater colleagues. I believe you are familiar with it. Sectumsempra?"
Severus starts so violently that the fragile blown glass distillation sphere shatters in his hand. Blood wells on his fingertip. "How did you know about that?"
"You were developing it while you were at school," Dumbledore chides, sounding indulgent. "You were a Death Eater in waiting, and you were unusually talented, and you developed a powerful curse that proved quite difficult to heal. I would be a poor headmaster indeed if I had not made note of it when it entered the Hospital Wing on James Potter's face, that May when you cast it against him." Dumbledore looks at Severus appraisingly. "Without a wand, even, it is an impressive curse."
"I only showed it to a few," Severus protests, pressing his thumb against his sliced finger and vanishing the rest of the shattered sphere. "Mulciber, Avery, Malfoy-"
And the Dark Lord. It was Dark, and impressive, and entirely his. Or it had been.
Of course the Dark Lord hadn't merely been impressed by it. Of course it had been another tool for his use.
Dumbledore watches the comprehension dawn across his face. "It is quite the favorite, I'm afraid. Quick, efficient, not enough to kill but enough to maim. If the victim does not receive immediate attention, they are likely to die." Dumbledore watches him, lit by his wand. "It causes severe bleeding, and the wound does not close of its own accord."
The logic of it snaps into place. It's elegant, really. Implementing a spell that caused uncontrollable bleeding would make blood replenisher in high demand. Then, throttling supply and poisoning the rest created pressure from the other end. Severus could see the irony all the way back to the Dark Lord himself. It always came down to blood with him. Why not make it come down to blood for everyone else as well? "The Dark Lord doesn't spill magical blood without reason," Severus says numbly.
"I'm sure that is what he's told everyone. And thus far only a few have died of it. It has simply stoked fear and consumed viable supply, which I believe to be at least a portion of his real purpose in this tactic. Attacking Muggles this way, in particular, makes more work for the Obliviators and St Mungos, both of which have quite a lot to handle already with the giant uprisings and the werewolves on the offensive. I have suspicions of the other reasons he has employed this gambit, but they are only suspicions." Dumbledore searches Severus' face again, and then adds. "I'm sure the Dark Lord and his devotees will find another curse to overuse once blood replenisher is abundant once more. Curses fall in and out of favor, Severus."
"I do not need to be consoled," Severus says, scowling. "I don't mourn Muggles or Aurors."
"We should still regret the things our weapons do, whether we intended the use or not." Dumbledore plucks a roll of parchment from his robes. "I would like you to work on a countercurse, if you have the time, but it is of smaller consequence than the other task I have set you. How much time will you require to be ready for your work with Lily Potter?"
Severus looks around the room. It will take some time to make it clean enough to experiment in, and more to acquire enough samples to meaningfully experiment upon. He still wants to say never. "Two weeks. And more galleons-prices are on the rise. I wouldn't be surprised if they double before the month is out."
"You shall have both. The latter delivered to you by Lily Potter, courtesy of the Potter family vaults. He is aware of his wife's work with you and wishes to help any way he can." Dumbledore offers the sheaf of parchment. "This is some measure of research, as well, which may assist you in tracing the brewer who is poisoning their product. I must admit I do suspect a Dark wizard with links to the Ministry, which points to your Death Eater friends."
"It's not us," Severus mutters sulkily, taking the roll of parchment. "Death Eaters have been poisoned as well. The Dark Lord blames one of your lot."
"Severus," Dumbledore admonishes. "You are one of my lot."
Peter Pettigrew feels as though he's been sitting here for a hundred years even though it can't have been more than an hour in this waiting room. Somehow his heart is still hammering in his throat even though his nerves should have passed well into boredom by now.
The waiting room is sterile, clean and empty and white, and it feels like even jiggling his leg in the chair is a giveaway. Instead, he leans his elbows on his knees and inspects the carpet inch by methodical inch. Peter figures he knows that stretch of carpet pretty well by now. Could probably ace a test at this rate. Twenty minutes ago the last of his compatriots-an elderly dark-skinned woman-had been called back, leaving him alone to speculate all the ways in which Aurors could bust in and haul him to Azkaban.
"Jeffrey Milton?"
The name takes a moment to sink in. He's wearing glasses-Jeffrey Milton's glasses, which he'd borrowed right off the Muggle's face but allowed to slide down his own Transfigured nose so he could inspect the carpet. The Muggle was about Peter's height, a little heavier around the middle, and wouldn't miss the glasses since the real Jeffrey Milton was sleeping peacefully in his armchair in front of the television.
Peter pushes the glasses up his nose even though they make the world wobbly. It's part of the disguise. He has to keep the disguise up even though Peter feels like he's going to vomit all over his carpet. He knows every inch of the carpet so it must be his now, and he's going to sick up the cold fish and chips he'd nicked from Jeffrey Milton's fridge all over it. He's going to sick up Jeffrey Milton's fish and chips through Jeffrey Milton's mouth and probably get some on Jeffrey Milton's rumpled shirt in Jeffrey Milton's doctor's office and then get found out for a fraud and get murdered.
-No. That's the one thing he isn't going to do, get murdered. It might be the only thing he isn't going to do. Peter swallows heavily and, finally, looks up and offers a weak little wave.
"And what brings you in this afternoon?" the nurse asks, not looking up from her clipboard.
"Uh," Peter squeaks, or tries to, standing and pulling his shirt nervously down over Jeffrey Milton's paunch as he does. Peter gestures weakly to his-Jeffrey Milton's-sagging throat.
The nurse looks up. "Ah. No voice?"
Peter nods vigorously.
"So sorry to hear that," she says in a tone that tells Peter she's seen people who are doing worse today and ready to go off her shift. "Well, follow me."
What follows is a simple series of Muggle medical machinations, ones Peter remembered from his Muggle childhood with his Muggle mother. The nurse prods him like a side of beef when he's in the examination room, clucking half to herself and securing the cuff around his arm: blood pressure's gone a bit too high, but you are getting older, it's to be expected-he steps on the scale and thrusts a hand in his pocket to grab his wand-weight's down a bit though so that's good-he steps off the scale and tries to hide the motion of removing his wand from his pocket-deep breath now-she's behind his back and the spell comes to his mouth almost unbidden.
"Imperio."
Her hand is still in his shirt, and the cold of the stethoscope just barely kisses his skin, but she's gone perfectly still.
"Stand-stand up straight," Peter says, clearing his throat. He still does sound like himself, damn it all. If only he'd managed to lay hands on some Polyjuice. But he was rubbish at Potions and it was done now, and done well enough so far. He digs into his jacket pocket. "Take this."
From his hand, the nurse plucks the parcel. Wrapped in newsprint, the little round stoppered bottle doesn't look like much. Based on what the Dark Lord had said, though-
Peter doesn't want to think about the Dark Lord or what he said or what's beyond that cork. Peter wants to get the hell out of here and never think about this place or what he's doing ever again. Peter wants to this to be over with.
"One drop," he says dully, stuffing his hands back into his pockets once more and picking out a piece of linoleum tile to inspect. "In every bag of blood you can find, until the vial is empty. You-be careful. Don't get caught." He waits for a moment, and then hurriedly adds, "And I-I was never here. I missed my appointment. Jeffrey Milton, he canceled his appointment, said he felt better." He looks up again. "You got that?"
She nods mechanically and places the bottle in her own pocket.
"Good. That's-that's good." Peter nods vigorously. "I'll see myself out."
Warn mum goes on Peter's list as he walks out of the doors, out of the hospital, back to the train station that will take him back to Jeffrey Milton's home. Warn mum to stay away from the hospitals for now. And Gran, too. Dad and his family would go to St Mungos, but mum-no, Peter resolves, if his mother were in a car wreck or something, if she needed blood, Peter would handle it himself, the right way, with magic.
Muggle medicine wasn't safe even at the best of times, Peter told himself. He wasn't doing much of anything at all, then, just-making the odds a little worse. He removes Jeffrey Milton's glasses from his face and tucks them in his pocket. No, he decides. He hadn't done anything at all.