Title: The Sketchbook, the grump and the wheelchair
Written for: meeee
Ratings and Warnings: Mentions of genitalia, also strong language at times
Word Count: Around 33k all together
Summary: The Boy Who Lived had grown up to be The Man Who Lived in a Wheelchair, and although he's quite happy with a life of solitude and sketching - everyone else seem to think they know better. Will the reappearance of Professor Severus Snape in his life change things for the better, or will it end in aggravation like always?
Author notes: Day three. Warnings for stupid decisions. Another canister of midnight oil burnt trying to add a reason for them, since apparently when I wrote this three years ago I didn't think anyone needed reasons to make stupid choices. xD I think after this it gets better because I got to a point where I actually knew where the story was going while writing it. Again, thanks for reading, and for favs/follows and comments.
**THIS WORLD AND ITS CHARACTERS ARE NOT MY PROPERTY AND I MAKE NO MONEY FROM THEM. I JUST LOVE THEM AND ALSO WANT THEM TO LOVE EACH OTHER**
He didn't expect for them to meet again for another couple of days, but Snape was back that very evening. "I'll have you know that I shan't be cooking every meal for you. You have arms for yourself." The man informed him, as a bowl of reddish soup clacked down in front of him.
Not having noticed until that moment that he wasn't alone, he was too slow in covering the page. "What-" Snape began, then deftly snatched the book from Harry's lap. "When... You have quite the imagination, Potter."
Harry tried to grab the book back. "It wasn't my imagination!" He sputtered indignantly. "You burnt your finger on the pan this morning, I saw it."
Snape held the book just out of reach and flicked back through the pages. Oh Merlin, how many times had he tried to get it right? He couldn't bear to watch as Snape looked through pages and pages of his own mouth, tongue darting out to meet his hand. Now that he could think about it objectively, they probably looked quite lewd.
He had too much pride to sink his head into his hands, so he tried for uncaring instead. Turning away, he picked up the shiny silver spoon. "I just draw what I see." He scooped up a spoonful of soup and began to eat. It tasted great, unsurprising for a potions master, but his thoughts were on the sketchbook in Snape's hands.
Snape moved around the table to sit on the other side. He picked up a piece of parchment that was curled and torn around the edges. An early sketch, probably. "Your technique has greatly improved, but your likeness has diminished somewhat." Snape turned the parchment round for Harry to see.
He didn't grimace, but it was a close thing. It was an early depiction, more caricature than anything else. The nose was overly large, the hair a dark block, and the fingers were pointed like needles. He looked decidedly evil, and nothing at all like the Snape of reality.
"I draw what I see," he said again.
Snape humphed. "So you used to see this, and now you see this." He tilted each image in turn, then shook his head slowly. He used the parchment as a bookmark, and set them both aside. "You're more ill than I had previously thought."
Harry tried to take another spoonful of soup, but the missing sketchbook made him feel exposed and uncomfortable. He wasn't about to ask Snape to give him back what was his, so he accio'd it into his lap, almost knocking over the bowl in front of him. He thumbed the cover carefully and sipped from the edge of his spoon, watching the other man from behind the curtain of his fringe.
"You could..." He began, then cleared his throat. "If you're worried about accuracy, then you could sit for me." Harry said quietly. He almost hoped that Snape wouldn't hear.
For a minute, he was certain that he hadn't. Then, almost as quietly: "Alright."
Harry looked up sharply. "Really?"
Snape sat back, irritated. "Your treatment will be unpleasant, perhaps more-so than before, but I can't have you running off before it is done. Perhaps this should serve as incentive, though I have no idea what could possibly fascinate you so much about-"
"You'll do what I say, right?" Harry found himself leaning over the table as far as his chair would allow.
Snape frowned. "I concoct your treatment and cook your meals, what more could you want me to do? I am neither slave nor house elf."
"No. I mean... Just, like, sitting a certain way or- or holding your wand or something..."
"Holding... my wand?"
Harry felt the blush run over his skin. "Nothing like that!" he squawked. "I'd only tell you how to sit, where to look. And you have to keep still, until I say."
"For one hour only."
A whole hour? Great! He could get a lot of quick figure sketches done in that time, and flesh them out later... "Am I still allowed to draw you outside of that time, like when you're brewing?"
Snape picked up their bowls, giving the food left in Harry's a disapproving look. "You were never 'allowed' to draw me in the first place."
"Yeah, but can I now?"
"I'd rather you didn't spend your entire day staring at me."
"Can I, though?"
Snape all but threw the bowls into the sink. "It's your house, Potter. I think we both know that no words of mine will bind you. Do as you like."
Harry smiled. "Then I'll wash the dishes." He reversed out from under the table and wheeled over to Snape's angry form. "I'm not totally invalid, you know." He raised a hand to levitate the chair – a bit more impressive than cleaning charms – but Snape stopped him.
"Wait."
He looked uncomfortable. More specifically, the kind of uncomfortable that preceded bad news. "I'm sorry, but due to the particular magical nature of the curse... You won't be able to use most magic for the duration of the treatment. You needn't worry however, as I will take care of the daily running of the household, and you may use simple charms such as nox, provided that you do not cast wandlessly."
Harry stared, aghast.
Needn't worry? He needn't worry?
A knot tightened in his stomach. "What about other charms? For fetching things, I mean."
"I understand that it will be inevitably required, and an accio every now and then will do no harm. You may call me, should you ever require assistance."
"How many is every now and then?" Harry persisted, though his mind was on the myriad other magics he used every day just to get by.
Snape made a vague gesture. "No more than two or three verbal spells per day in total, and no wordless or wandless magic. Ah, and no persistent charms."
No-? Did Snape have any idea just how much he relied on wandless magic for even the simplest things? He couldn't say it. He didn't want Snape to know that he had to cast warming charms over his legs to stop them turning blue, or that he levitated over the toilet just to wipe his bum - and in the bath prevent himself from drowning while washing his hair. And to get in and out of his chair... He didn't want Snape to see any of this. And he most certainly didn't want any person, but particularly this one, helping him go to the toilet!
That was it. No matter how desperately he wanted to draw the man, the price was too high. His hands itched for it, but he couldn't. He couldn't do it, but he also couldn't shake off the feeling that all that restless energy he felt flowing down his arm, it was for this. "For how long?" he asked, trying not to let his worry show through. If it was only a few weeks, he could surely manage, the way muggles did. However that was - he'd never actually needed to find out before.
"I don't know. As long as it takes."
"How long is as long as it takes?"
"How long is a piece of- Harry, there's no need for anger. I cannot tell you what I don't know." Snape was evidently holding back his own anger, trying to sound calm. Harry hated it. Couldn't he see how much of a problem this was going to be? And all he could say was it could take a year, but don't worry I can do the dishes for you. It was so-
Tell him, he thought angrily. Now was not the time for pride. He just had to open his mouth and say that he couldn't do without magic, because he'd never actually learned any of the tricks or skills necessary for living with his condition, because magic did all that for him. He couldn't go through with it because he'd never bothered finding out what sort of modifications the house would ordinarily need, or what he could do to face any of the myriad tiny obstacles he could safely ignore with a spell or two. High cupboards? No problem, magic. Low cupboards? Magic. Wheel caught behind a rock? Magic. Getting in the bathtub? Magic. Washing the dishes? Magic. Even bloody bladder control! Magic, magic, magic. He might have been in the wheelchair for five years now, but those were five years as a wizard. He couldn't be disabled like a muggle now, after all this time. It would be stupid - and more importantly, it would be dangerous.
He looked at Snape. Got the words he had to say together in his mind, the words any person in their right mind would say. He took a breath, and-
"Argh!" he threw his hands in the air, then twirled his chair around to face the window and opened his sketchbook. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
He picked a bold pencil and started scribbling. Just a cube, a dark cube he could fill with the blackest graphite.
Snape approached slowly, as if he were some wild animal in need of taming. Before the man could dare open his mouth the tell Harry how childishly he was behaving - how childishly he knew he was being - he gave in. "Fine," he said without looking up from his furious scribbling. He was aware that Snape must think he was angry at him, at the situation, but he wasn't. The only person he could possibly be angry with was himself, and his stupid cocky independence. "You cook, and clean stuff up, and make this stupid potion, but nothing else. I can look after myself." The lie flew word by word between them, and Harry wasn't sure what he hoped – that Snape would believe it, or that he would not.
Snape straightened abruptly, nostrils flaring. "It is not a 'stupid potion', Potter. It is a long and complex medical treatment for which I have given up my own time to live here, so that I might spend five hours per day brewing incredibly difficult concoctions, for an indefinite period, to change your life with no benefit to myself." He snapped.
Harry clenched his fists and pressed his lips together. It was so like Snape to think about how it inconvenienced him, and to throw it in Harry's face what a bloody martyr he was being, helping out the poor invalid. What a great fucking guy. He let the anger boil up inside, but kept his mouth shut. An argument here wasn't worth the effort. He waited until Snape's stomping footsteps had reached the door, then in a further moment of childishness he whispered "Dickhead."
He couldn't be sure if he was heard, but the door slammed shut with a bang.
As soon as Snape was gone, Harry slouched in his chair. He pressed his hands against his face, nails digging into his forehead. He'd been a total idiot to think that Severus Snape of all people could understand him. He understood nothing but anger, malice and... And he'd been so pleasant until now. So bloody good. And Harry wanted to draw him again, which was so stupid a reason to attempt this that it wasn't a reason at all. It was barely an excuse.
His wheelchair charms would run out this afternoon. He'd smell like an old man on a bus, and there wouldn't be a vase, glass or shelf left unbroken from him knocking into things. It was totally unfeasible. Absolutely impossible. He couldn't just carry on and hope for the best, because there wasn't a 'best' without magic. He clearly had to come clean about everything.
Snape didn't reappear and Harry didn't have the courage to knock on the door, so he had all afternoon to think about it. Unfortunately, Harry was not one of those people who came up with better plans with time - he was the kind of person who could convince himself that whatever course of action he wanted was the correct one.
He took his wallet, his wand and all of his muggle money, along what little time he had left with the maintenance charms - and took a trip into the village. He wouldn't ordinarily take so many notes outside, but who knew what he'd find he needed once he was there, and it wasn't like anyone was going to mug a disabled guy. Not in this judgemental curtain-twitching town, anyway.
The friction charm was the first to go, when he was halfway to Boots. It failed by increments, making it harder to propel himself until all of a sudden it wasn't there at all. He huffed with the effort, refusing to turn back. Muggles did this every day, and he was basically one of them now so he'd just have to get used to it. The inherent weakness of his left arm, which had been as useless and dead as his legs until Snape had treated it way back at Hogwarts, caused the chair to turn slightly with every push. This meant he had to stop every few feet to straighten up, which was perhaps even more frustrating than the effort itself.
Needless to say, he was already in a foul mood when he rolled up to Boots, only to find a step in his way. There was a square silver button next to the door, with a wheelchair user painted on in blue. "Press for assistance," it read. He gulped, prepared to take this small hit to his pride to spare him a larger one later.
When he pressed it, the door hissed open so that he could see properly inside, but the step remained a step. Harry stared, waiting for something else. Maybe a ramp, or an elevator hidden under the pavement.
The door slid closed again.
The disbelief was so strong that he couldn't move for a moment. He glanced at the button which, yes he hadn't been mistaken, clearly depicted a person in a wheelchair. Then he looked at the door. He pressed the button again, this time more forcefully. When the door opened, he pressed it a second time, then hit it over and over with his palm. No ramp, nothing. Just an open door taunting him with the bright shelves he couldn't peruse. He looked around to see if there was anyone nearby who might spot a levitating chair. There was a man crossing the road with his dog. Fuck sake.
After a minute, a woman in her thirties peered round a shelf from wherever she had been hiding. She wore thick make-up and a white smock with the shop logo on her chest. "Do you want to come in?" she asked.
He took several calming breaths. It was a good thing he wasn't allowed to use magic, or she would have been absolutely fried. "Yes please," he said as politely as he could. Inside, he raged. What the fuck else had she thought he wanted?
"Right. I'll have to go get the ramp, then. Be with you in a minute."
The door closed between them, and Harry backed off. He watched the quiet road in order to stop thinking about how he was surrounded by inconsiderate arseholes, and got more annoyed as he noticed more pedestrians crossing the road to avoid him.
To her credit, the woman - Janine, her name tag said - jammed the door open and put down the ramp efficiently, and even asked his permission before pushing him up the steep incline. It definitely wasn't designed for independent users, so he had assented through his teeth.
Once inside he encountered the next problems, because apparently he hadn't had enough of them yet – narrow isles and high shelves. He managed not to knock anything down thanks to the surviving charms, but he had to ask the shop lady to help him reach some things. She took them straight to the counter instead of handing them to him, which rankled. What if he wanted to check the labels, or compare brands? It was quite literally out of his hands.
He kept telling himself that it was worth a million indignities in front of strangers to save him just the one of Snape knowing that he had pissed himself. Then again, he couldn't let her know that this was going to be a problem, either. Some things were just too embarrassing. He decided that it was the lesser of two evils to buy a few packs of women's pads instead of incontinence pants. She smiled at him, maybe thinking what a lovely boyfriend he was - or what a weird creep, and then glanced down to his legs, probably wondering what he did with them during sex. If people in wheelchairs could have sex.
Without speaking for others, Harry could say that it was definitely out of the question for him. His penis sat as limp and devoid of sensation as the legs to either side of it. It was possibly the one part of the curse he didn't think he would ever be content with, and the one part he would never ever talk to anyone about, ever. Not being able to walk was one thing, but not being able to, er - procreate - was... It was something he didn't like to think about. The one way in which he truly felt less human than those around him.
"Is there anything else?" Janine asked, packing the pads and muggle painkillers into a bag for him. Thankfully, she didn't try to stop him from buying six packs of paracetamol at once, ringing them up as three separate purchases for him. She clearly understood that it was a long journey into the village, and not one he wanted to make every time his two legally-obtained boxes ran out.
He looked about for a moment, then realised that he'd need more soap and things now that he couldn't use cleaning charms. He bought two bars of soap and a flannel, then added a shaving razor and foam, and a can of Lynx. If all else failed, he would cover up the old man smell, or at least make it so unbearable for Snape to be in the same room that he kept away. "Do you sell cigarettes?" he asked, finally.
She frowned, but covered it up quickly. It was none of her business if the young man in a wheelchair wanted to smoke. "Sorry, no. You'll have to go down the Spar. It's at the bottom of the hill."
He grimaced.
"Don't worry, they have a ramp," she assured him. "A proper one, I mean. Concrete. It's very good." She added, as if from personal experience.
After paying, he was helped back out of the shop and directed down the street to a Spar he could see in the distance. He thanked the lady. After all, she'd done her best.
His arms ached from the effort of not letting the chair roll out of control down the hill. It wasn't particularly steep, but it was enough to worry him. He'd have to get back up afterwards, somehow. He passed a Peacocks on the way down, and decided he needed a rest. The automatic door was wide and opened right onto the pavement, no need for a ramp.
He bought two new packs of pants in shades of grey, then decided to treat himself to a jumper as well. He was going to need it, now that he wouldn't have spells to regulate his body temperature. He'd need a blanket for his legs as well, but the shop employee couldn't think of anywhere that would sell something suitable, apart from the super expensive tourist shop that sold locally made, organic woollen blankets for £200 a go. Ah well, he probably had something at home. While thinking about it, he leaned down to feel the skin of his ankle. Still warm. He admonished himself for not checking earlier.
The assistant put his bag with the other hanging from one of the push handles behind.
The ramp at Spar was indeed a lot better than Boot's pitiful offering. When he got to the top though, the door frame was one of those plastic ones with a bump at the bottom. He got the front wheels over by holding the frame and leaning back in his chair, then it took two attempts to get his back wheels in. Once inside, there was hardly room to turn in the main avenue, let alone get down the isles. At least he didn't need milk, which he could see standing in a humming refrigerator unit down the far end. He went straight to the till and asked for a potential lifetime supply of cigarettes.
"You can't get that many," the disinterested man said in a drone. "They're bad for your health."
Harry'd had enough. "Fuck my health," he snapped. "I'm in a fucking wheelchair, in case you didn't notice mate. It's taken me over half an hour to get here, and God knows how long it'll take me to get home, so I'm not doing it every other bloody day. I don't give a shit if you think I can smoke or not, because I have bigger things to fucking worry about. Like whether or not I'm going to piss myself, or how to wipe my own bloody arse when I've done one, so just give me the fucking fags so I can pay and fuck off."
The man opened his mouth like a fish, reminding Harry of Dudders that first night when Hagrid had broken down the door. How could a guy in a wheelchair possibly know how to swear? Disabled people didn't swear. Harry would have punched him if he could reach, but thankfully the man hurriedly pulled down a few packs and stuffed them in a thin carrier bag.
"I need twenty." Harry said, just to push it.
The man looked at the contents of the bag, then back up at the wall of fags behind the counter doubtfully. "You'll have to get a different brand, then. Unless you don't mind menthols."
Harry shrugged. "Whatever."
He handed over the money – a staggering amount, cash. "You know, it'd be worth you getting them from the duty-free, if you want this many. It'd save you an arm and a- uh."
Harry turned the chair with difficulty, knocking a packet of crisps from its holder on his way out.
"I don't travel."