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: Thanks again for your support, reviews, follows and favs. Your comments are really helping me realise what's wrong with upcoming chapters so I can fix them before publishing them haha. 3 We're now half way through the journey. :3 Also this is a slightly shorter chapter, and then tomorrow's is very long T_T I thought I'd split it up kind of evenly, but apparently not xD (and it's my birthday today, yay) Also warning for extremely brief reference to the horrific fic that was `Severus Snape, Professor and Lover` haha
**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**
A loud rap on his door pulled him from a weird and vaguely horrifying dream about Snape and the Teletubbies. He blinked groggily and managed a grunt. "Uh-huh?"
"Dinner is prepared, if you'd care to join me." Snape said through the door. Harry was surprised he hadn't simply barged in - privacy was one of those things people forgot he was entitled to.
"Yeah. I'll just be a second," he replied, trying to hide the drowsiness in his voice. He'd not planned on letting Snape know that he took afternoon naps like some old man. He got up hurriedly, noticed that his joints were aching. The ones he could feel, anyway. He sprayed some lynx, coughing at the strong chemical smell, and found a dark green Thinsulate beanie hat to cover his greasy hair.
Snape was dishing up when he rolled into the kitchen, and the air smelled like herbs and garlic. Except around him, where it smelled like a spillage in a chemical plant. He resolved never to use the lynx again, and to send Hermione a note about getting a less assaulting alternative. He couldn't be bothered to get the phone back out, but a floo note to her office about this would be fine. It was more likely to be intercepted than a text message, but no one was going to run to Witch Weekly with an expose on the words "Something better than lynx". They'd assume he was talking about the animal, but Hermione would know what he meant.
"No sketchbook this evening?" Snape asked, carrying two steaming bowls to the table.
It was stashed upright between his hip and the arm of his chair, where it usually was when he took it from room to room, though Snape was right to be surprised that Harry hadn't taken it out first thing. He'd not drawn anything since before Hermione arrived, three hours ago. Was that a record?
He took it out, flipping to a clean spread. "Can I draw you now?" he asked.
"While I'm eating?" Snape shook his head and pointed to Harry's bowl with his spoon. "If you finish that first."
Harry eyed the bowl. It was risotto, with small chunks of courgette and a swirl of white cream, topped with a pinch of a green herb he didn't bother trying to identify. It looked like something that'd get served in a restaurant. A nice restaurant at that. Regardless, he doubted he could eat the whole bowl.
He gave it a shot, but only got halfway through before getting distracted by how Snape's clean hair clung to his cheek as if statically charged. The contrast between black strands and sun-deprived skin gave his fingers the itch, and he decided to draw just one quick sketch while it was in front of him. He'd finish the food after... Naturally, he drew a few iterations, then spread the image to include Snape's left eye and forgot the risotto. Snape's eyes had a lot of veins in them, and heavy bags underneath.
There didn't seem to be any part of the man that was handsome or aesthetically appealing, so Harry couldn't understand why he enjoyed drawing the man so much. He wasn't beautiful, not by any means - but he was interesting. He'd drawn the eye twice before realising that it was looking right at him. His hand slowed. Had Snape said something? People usually stared when they were waiting for him to answer them. He should probably just apologise for whatever it was, and was about to open his mouth to do so when Snape shook his head softly and leaned back with half an eye roll.
Oh, right. The risotto.
He was being indulgent, letting Harry draw him even though he'd not followed the one condition for doing so. It was totally unlike the Snape he remembered that it would usually irritate him, but the light was so good in here that he sucked it up and started shading again. No one had told him to stop, after all.
Snape took out his own notebook after a while. Harry could tell that he was writing, not drawing, from the way his pen moved. He was using a muggle biro instead of a quill, which was fascinating in itself. Notes on Harry's health, he guessed. This was confirmed when Snape looked up to ask how he was feeling.
"Not too bad. I was sick around lunchtime. Normal colour and texture, maybe just a palm's worth of uh, vomit. No headaches. My elbows and wrists are aching a bit right now though." There was something different about the way light scattered over Snape's cheek today. "Have you moisturised?" he added, flicking back half a book to compare the Snape of yesterday with the man in front of him.
Snape rubbed his jaw, as if he could rub off whatever cream he had used, and scowled. He'd evidently not expected Harry to notice. Catching himself, he dropped his hand to the notebook. "When did the aching start?"
Harry didn't manage to catch a likeness of the professor's insecurity before it was gone. He'd have to refine it later. "When you knocked on my door this evening," he replied absently. "It's just mild, I only told you 'cause you asked."
"Yes, heaven forbid you volunteer important information related to your treatment all on your own…" Snape grumbled. Before Harry could think of his own sarcastic retort, the man stood and reached out a hand. "May I?"
He held the position very patiently after Harry murmured "Hang on, don't move a second..." and started drawing said hand. He finished outlining the nails on Snape's fingers before putting the pencil down in the crease between pages, and proffered his own arm. The professor took it and rolled up the sleeve past his elbow to inspect the joint. "Flex," he ordered, and Harry straightened his arm as Snape pushed against him lightly. He then moved his attention to the wrist, gently bending it this way or that. Finally, he checked the fingers.
Harry struggled to keep his heart from pounding. It was one thing Hermione giving his hand a squeeze, but something else entirely to have this much care and attention from Severus Snape. As if sensing his anxiety, the man let him go.
He rolled down his sleeve as far as it would go, to get rid of the feeling that Snape's hand was still there. Snape sat again, jotted a few things in his notebook. "That will likely get worse over time. There may not be an ointment I can use without affecting the treatment, but if it becomes difficult to draw then I will mix something up for your right hand at the very least."
Without effort, he had cut straight to the only thing that worried Harry. Not that he'd let the man know, of course. "It'll be fine," he said, letting his mind get distracted by the image that had been their joined hands. They were about the same size, reminding Harry how much older he was now than when they had last tried being in each other's company for an extended period of time. It had started out okay that time too, until Harry had come to realise that the treatment was never going to work and they were just keeping it up as a guise to keep him under supervision. At least, that's what he had always suspected.
He frowned and concentrated harder on drawing their fingers. His were shorter and thinner and his nails were square, while Snape's fingers were longer but still slender. He had knobbly joints that only detracted slightly from their elegance, and his nails were almond shaped with neat cuticles. There was a sharpness to them that belied the tender and careful manner in which they were used.
He drew for over the prescribed hour, he knew, but Snape made no comment about it. He seemed satisfied to drink tea and watch the darkening garden, only disturbing Harry's peace every now and then to remind him to drink some water. Soon, it would be warm enough to sit outside and Harry could draw the shadows of tree leaves playing patterns across Snape's face. Then again, sunlight would ruin the man's moon-pale complexion.
When they were about to head into the lab for the day's potions, a loud rapping on the window announced the arrival of a parcel for Harry. Without having to look, he knew it had to be Hermione's owl, Earhart. The house was unplottable, so she was the only owl in all of Britain who could find it. He offered her a piece of courgette left over from his risotto in lieu of an owl treat, since he usually had no reason to keep any. She refused indignantly with a hoot. "Suit yourself," he muttered, and picked up the parcel she was standing on. An outraged squawk and some jumping up and down resulted in Snape fetching her a piece of ham from the fridge though. He was turning out to be a right old softie.
Harry figured it must have been something from his list, so he waited until Snape had taken the dishes to the sink and had his back turned, before opening it.
As soon as the lid was off, a smart man's voice boomed out in a posh RP accent like some television announcer from the 60s. "Good evening, and thank you for choosing ElfDirect's HELPING HANDS. This new and innovative product will cater to all your needs. Brought to you in conjunction with the Elfish Welfare Committee, HELPING HANDS delivers a cruelty-free alternative to-"
Harry snapped the cardboard lid shut on the thing, eyes wide. Snape hadn't turned or paused in the dishwashing, but the chance of him not having heard was exactly zero. The voice continued its self-advertisement, muffled, through the lid. "-as you get older, no need to worry about reluctant relatives or careless elves dropping you on the toilet-" Harry slowly leaned forward so that is torso covered the lid of the box, head resting on his crossed arms. He breathed in... out... The voice continued for another minute, going through the steps for activating the magical HELPING HANDS, as well as commands for specific tasks including but not limited to hovering over afore-mentioned toilet to take a dump, washing and even medical massage exercises. It went into quite some detail around various bathroom tasks it could help him perform, and he rocked back and forth as he waited for the ordeal to end.
After it was done, with one last reminder that all he need do was say "Help me, helping hands", he sat completely still for a time. Snape carried on puttering about with dishes in the sink, though he couldn't possibly still be washing the single pan and two bowls they'd used.
The professor spoke after a long minute's silence. "You could have asked me for any-"
Harry cut him off with a groan. "I am not talking about this with you," he said.
"I'm here to help, not to judge." Snape argued, footsteps revealing that he was moving closer.
Harry's arms tightened around the box, and he repeated: "I am not talking about this with you."
"There's nothing to be ashamed about," Snape started again, now standing right next to Harry, his voice horribly gentle. "I would not-"
"No."
Harry expected Snape to push the issue further, but he heard the swish of fabric and the lab door being opened. "You may take a moment's privacy if you require it, while I prepare your potions for the day. Do not be later than another seven minutes, or I will have to begin again - and neither of us will get to sleep until four in the morning."
He doubted he was going to sleep tonight, even if he survived the embarrassment and shame that would inevitably flood in on him when he eventually found the courage to raise his head.