Crossposting from Ao3. Adult SSHG. Fat kink / weight gain elements. Glorification of gluttony. Adult themes including suicidal ideation (no attempts), alcoholism, and super-size Fat with a capital F characters. Striving to be more realistic and nuanced than other fics of its ilk, but still intended to be a Kink Fic. You have been warned. Not intended for readers under age 18.
~second-best~
He didn't know how to tell her he loved her. Every time he tried to start, something stopped him. External circumstances, internal circumstances, life imperceptibly coming between.
If they were at leisure, the situation always seemed to conspire against him. Once dropped a fork and awkwardly had to pick it up, trying not to hate himself and his ungainly body as he did so. Another time, he was overcome with an embarrassing stomach-pain and need to rush to the lav for a full thirty minutes. The instance he gave up trying to tell her in a casual context was when he fumbled with lighting a candle to set the mood and caught his sleeve on fire.
And in bed? It was even worse. Several times he'd accidentally kneed her in a sensitive area while stumbling to a more appropriate position for a revelation. Once he got her a box of chocolates full of liquor, and she'd outright laughed at him and asked if he thought it was her birthday. The worst moment of all was when they were simply laying in bed together, talking in the early evening… and by the time he'd warmed up to the topic, she was snoring like a drunken sailor.
No, his life kept on hurting him, no matter which way he tried to manipulate it. And what made it so damn hard was the fact that he was practically obsessed. Every moment he didn't spend with her, he ached to be back at her side. And every moment he did spend with her, he was in agony from the unsaid things sitting in his heart. She was so pretty in her velvet robes, sitting on the floor leaning against his leg as they read. He would allow his long fingers the opportunity to twine in her curls, and maybe he'd pull a little if he was feeling of that mood. She didn't seem to notice the longing in his expressions. The visceral stabs of pain he felt when she told him how absolutely rubbish her life was. The excruciating sadness that seemed to seep out of every one of his pores whenever she cried in his arms.
He wondered if it all was some grand and horrible mistake - but he shook off the feeling with remembering that at least, at the end of the day, she returned to his side.
At least that's how he consoled himself - up until, one day, she didn't come to him after classes ended.
….
He stood in the Great Hall, one hand holding the cane he'd finally allowed himself to start using. His knuckles were white as he tried to maintain his decorum.
Hermione was sitting there at the Head Table with the other teachers, and leaning forward with apparent fascination to listen to another man's riotous story.
That man was Ronald Weasley.
The redhead wasn't the trim young man Severus remembered from years ago, of course. Ronald had, as Hermione mentioned, put on over a hundred pounds in the course of his relationship with Hermione. She wasn't lying one bit about that; Ronald clearly had been fighting to get down to a weight that was more acceptable for his role on the Chudley Cannons, but still boasted an extremely sumptuous pot-belly ahead of his well-muscled burl.
Severus couldn't help but watch with a helpless sense of abandonment as Ronald Weasley pressed a casual kiss on Hermione's cheek as the other man got up from the table. The heat sprang into Severus' cheeks before he could put a pause on his surge of jealousy.
Now he likely wouldn't have reacted with any melodrama had that been all. He didn't like the idea of another man laying lips on his woman, but knew that sometimes social graces required rolling with punches.
No, Ronald Weasley's petite bise wasn't the thing that made him lose control. What made him completely abandon hope was how Hermione reacted. It was just a tiny moment, but it was as if the sun was peeking out from behind a heavy cover of clouds. For a brief second, as Ronald Weasley embraced her, Hermione's eyes seemed to be full of light, laughter, and genuine joy that Severus couldn't remember seeing on the younger professor's face the entire duration of their relationship, such as it were.
It didn't matter that Hermione didn't reciprocate the kiss on Ronald Weasley's cheek. It didn't matter that she responded with a firm handshake and an atta-boy pat on the Quidditch star's shoulder. It didn't matter that she looked across the room and noticed Severus, and waved to him.
No, Severus could tell her whole story in that one glimmer. For all her boyish bravado and jadedness in private, she was still head over heels for her old flame. That's why she drank so heavily. That's why she was so sexually provocative towards Severus, pursuing him with wanton lack of respect for herself and her own dignity.
That's why she didn't love him.
And on some level, Severus knew that she didn't love him. That's why there hadn't been a correct moment to ask. That's why something stuck in his throat every time he began to broach the question. That's why he always knocked over something, spilled something, lost something, or accidentally smashed some body part of hers when he was trying to bare his feelings.
Severus was just the second-best for whom she was settling.
And, well, it was clear that this settling was a temporary thing, based on the way Ronald Weasley looked at Hermione when she wasn't looking. Ronald Weasley's face creased with regret as Hermione gazed across the room at Severus. Ronald Weasley looked down at his shoes bashfully when Hermione returned her attention back to him. Ronald Weasley flushed like a bashful schoolgirl as Hermione's pointer finger jabbed him in the stomach, as she undoubtedly teased him about his belly.
Severus saw the sparks between the two, and knew that it was just a matter of time. The two supporting members of the Golden Trio were destined to be each others' happy endings.
Severus was just the foil in someone else's story. He was the waystation that the heroine spent some time with on her way to reconnecting with her life's true passion. He was deluding himself to imagine he'd ever get a leading role. Particularly in the life of someone so exquisite as Hermione Granger.
Therefore it was with tears in his eyes and a grueling fire in his esophagus that Severus propelled himself out of the Great Hall, the newish limp in his step profoundly worse than it ever had been.
….
"Coo-ee! Severus!"
He tried to ignore her affected Australian accent as she raced after him. It usually made him laugh, but tonight he was too fraught.
"Shall we go and put some shrimp on the barbee?"
"Not tonight, thanks," he murmured, keeping the bitterness out of his voice. He didn't want to make her feel guilted into being with him when she so clearly desired to be elsewhere. "Why don't you find some other company tonight?"
"Excuse me?"
She was affronted, but honestly it was just her ego being bruised. Perhaps before he'd have believed (or, rather, wanted to believe) that she actually cared about being separate from him.
He stopped, and gazed at her with as neutral a stare as he could manage given the circumstances.
"I think we need some time apart."
Why was this so hard? He'd used to be such a brilliant liar. He'd used to create a convincing appearance of fealty to one of the greatest manipulators the wizarding world had ever known. He'd used to stand on the edge of the razor blade of life - nay, dance there. He'd astonished Albus Dumbledore, the man who prided himself on knowing more about anybody than anybody, including themselves.
He was getting soft in his dotage, that was the only reason.
Hermione wasn't convinced. "Lay it on me. What's wrong, Snape?" she asked, giving him a hard stare from behind her glasses.
He gave a neutral shrug. "I don't think I can give you what you need, Granger."
Her eyes widened. "What's that?"
But he didn't expand upon that point. He wasn't Ronald Weasley. That's all she wanted, deserved, and needed. So instead of saying anything, he took a breath and resumed his slow walk down to the dungeons.
When he turned a corner, he paused to listen. But he didn't hear her coming after him.
He sighed with relief, then continued, ignoring the silent tears that were streaming down his face.
…
It was just pain. He knew what to do with that: distract, tolerate, accept, and keep moving forward. He'd been doing this longer than the girl had been alive, after all, he recalled with a rueful chuckle.
Severus settled down in his comfiest chair with a sigh - and for the first time in years, he wasn't even the slightest bit hungry.
The knowledge that he'd set her free from her perceived obligations towards him? It made him feel much better. He wanted her to be happy. It wasn't possible for her to be happy with an ugly wanker like himself.
Who would be?
Somehow, despite the logicalness of it all, the whole episode seemed to take the mick out of him. He found himself moving even slower than usual, barely able to make it to his classes in any semblance of timeliness. He allowed his students to work on their essays in class so he could sit and close his eyes at his desk. He no longer ever appeared in the Great Hall or at staff meetings, no matter how much Minerva harped at him.
What was the point of caring about anything anymore? Caring just got him knee-deep in utter shite.
He just closed his eyes and let all the headmistress' anger rush through him like tea through a sieve. Nothing needed to stick. He was just here passing the time, like Binns still did, like Trelawney once had, and like Madam Pince now did.
He was too old for shite that didn't ultimately matter. Why couldn't the battleax harpy let him be?
"…Severus, I just don't know what to do with you," she whinged, circling him like a bird of prey around carrion. "You've just lost all your spirit. Your vitality. Your students are skipping your classes for Merlin's sake, and you aren't even docking points for it!"
"What does it matter what the little blighters do?" Severus drawled automatically. "It's their education. They can take or leave it as they please."
"Severus, you are testing my patience."
He shrugged at that. "I'm just doing my job, Minerva, with as minimum of fuss. Isn't that what you've always told me? Stop making a fuss of things? Which is best, headmistress? Should I make a fuss, or test your patience?"
She gave him a glare that, in the past, would have incensed him. Now, it was almost amusing.
Almost.
"Don't you think I have enough on my plate, Severus, what with everything I'm going through with Miss Granger?"
He snorted. "What, has she given notice?"
Minerva grimaced, and honestly Severus wondered if the older woman was approaching tears. She certainly was exasperated.
"I only wish," she muttered, removing her spectacles in a telltale manner. "She's gone and put herself in the hospital wing with her recent drinking spree. I haven't seen anything like it," she went on, shaking her head with sober reverence. "Even Sybil never got herself to this state. It's almost as if the poor girl is trying to escape something."
Ah, the favorite girl had fallen from grace, and Severus was only somewhat sympathetic. Minerva only ever was moved to emotion over people who were undeserving of her tears, in Severus' opinion.
"How can I help?" The question fell from his lips like it had in past years, the natural response of a dead man walking to his duties aboard a ghost ship.
Minerva returned her glasses to their perch on her nose, looking extremely dignified despite the puffiness of her eyes. "Go and visit her for me, would you?"
He wanted to argue, he wanted to refuse, and he wanted to desperately scream anyone but me.
But he was too tired to protest.
"I will," he answered, dread draining the color from his face - not that Minerva could tell in the dim lighting.
"That's my boy." In the past ten years, Minerva had taken on a somewhat maternal tone towards Severus, which he didn't mind overmuch. She stood and patted him on the shoulder. "I hope you let Poppy take a look at your knees while you're there, too, dear. I noticed you've been slower than usual, and I can't help but suspect your pain is worse."
He gave a wolfish grin at that. "Always too perceptive, Minerva. You'll be as sharp as a tack the day I'm dead."
She gave him a glare. "Mind that isn't anytime soon, Severus."
"Of course." His smile softened to a bitter one. "You need me too much. Currently, there are no other potions masters in Britain with my corpulence - not since Horace has retired to the Rivera, at any rate. I realize you have to find someone else to fatten up for the position. It wouldn't do to let the tradition die with me."
She clucked her tongue at him. "You are too hard on yourself. I rather think you've lost a stone this month, too."
"Oh, goody." He shook his head and sneered.
She didn't respond; they had agreed to detente on the topic after several years of sparring. Not that Severus let it go, precisely - but at least she didn't stoke the fire of his self-hatred like she once had.
Now it was all little unhelpful tone-deaf comments like this one. But she was an old dog learning new tricks; he had to give her credit for that.
"Go see Granger today," Minerva requested, and she shuffled out of the room.
He sighed, and tried to quell the growing hurricane in his mind.