A/N:
Prompts: buttons, happy/wholesome/snape centric
For: Happy Snape Week 2022 on Tumblr ( happy-snape-week).
Type of fic: One-Shot
Character[s]: Severus Snape (Makeover!Snape), Narcissa Malfoy (Bestfriend!Narcissa), Lucius Malfoy, Dumbledore, and Monsier/Master Valencourt (OC), Shoemaker (OC)
Hook, Latch, and Clasp
It was the end of October in the year 1982, and as he strode into the Great Hall, Professor Severus Snape could not escape the reminders that surrounded him.
The tables and walls were bedecked in orange and black ornaments and trimmings. A spell had been devised – by Filius, no doubt – to make bats flit and flutter across the charmed ceiling. Even the renowned Albus Dumbledore himself was in costume. The Headmaster, it seemed, had once again joined in the festivities with his usual enthusiasm and good humor. This year, the dotty old wizard was resplendent in the guise of Barnabas the Barmy — the wizard who had famously attempted to train trolls for the ballet — complete with a feathered hat and buckled shoes. Dumbledore seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and was, if possible, still more grandfatherly than usual.
Despite the festive mood and the laughter, and the shrieks of delighted students all around, Snape knew with sudden clarity that he would abhor Halloween for the rest of his life. To be sure, he had always disliked the floating pumpkins and the ridiculous airs put on by the Hogwarts ghosts at this time of year, but this Halloween was different.
He'd dreaded this day for months. The last week of October had loomed over him like a promise, and now the inevitable memories — those memories —were impossible to escape.
Lily. His breath hitched, and it took all of his willpower to force his mind away from it – no, her.
Snape never made it to the Head Table. Stopping in the middle of the banquet hall, he turned on one heel and left, unnoticed.
The next day, Severus woke with a terrible hangover caused by the excess of whiskey and vodka he'd imbibed the night before.
"Hello, Severus," came a musical voice from somewhere above him. "I see you enjoyed yourself last night. How charming. And here I thought you were a social recluse. Do wonders never cease?"
He looked up blearily and scowled. "Kindly desist, Narcissa. I am in no mood to be teased."
"Are you ever?" replied Narcissa Malfoy serenely.
"Accio," he said, ignoring her. A Sober-Up Potion flew into his hand, and he downed it in one go. The effects were near-immediate, and he stood, running his hands through his hair. "My attitude was uncalled for," he said, by way of apology.
"Yes," she nodded. Her ice-grey eyes seemed to warm as she looked on him. "But isn't it always?" she said, her perfect lips quirking up slightly at the corners.
Snape's eyes stung. Blast, he thought. He tightened his Occlumency shields, attempting to prevent any signs of weakness from leaking out — but too late. A far more accomplished Slytherin than he'd ever been, Narcissa had picked up on the whisper of a tear that had threatened to leave his eye.
"Come now, Severus. Grief is an unbecoming shade, it doesn't suit you."
Snape felt her eyes scanning him from head to toe in a way that was almost clinical. He felt himself shrink slightly in an old shame he hadn't felt in years.
"What?" he snapped.
"I was merely thinking of other things that don't suit you," she said simply. "What are you wearing?"
He looked down at himself, then back up. "Robes."
"No. Under the robes," she said, sniffing.
His face burned, and he squashed the impulse to flush. "A Muggle shirt and denim jeans," he said.
"Whose are they?" said Narcissa, staring at the battered shoes for a moment before glancing up at him from under her lashes. She twirled one lock of her long, silky hair. "Surely not your father's?"
He gritted his teeth. "If you have come to mock me, Cissy, I must ask that you leave."
Her face tightened. "Do not call me that."
"Do not take so much pleasure in insulting me, then." He paused. "Yes, they were my father's, and you know it."
She stared at him. "Didn't your grandmother reinstate you in her will after Eileen passed away?"
"She did, as you full well know. You and Lucius both came to the funeral."
"Did we?" she said in a false, chilling, light tone. "I don't recall."
"Take your shields down, Narcissa," he said tiredly, before sitting in a chair.
Narcissa blinked, and after a moment she sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly.
"I am so sorry, Severus."
"Think nothing of it, it happens to the best of us," he said, waving one hand carelessly.
She stared at him, and suddenly her grey-blue eyes gleamed. "Severus."
"What now?"
"Do you remember that favor you owed me?" Narcissa said, picking up her wand.
He stared at her warily. "Which one?"
Her laughter tinkled. "How Slytherin," she said.
"Thank you."
"You are coming with me to Paris," said the Lady of House Malfoy, "And we are going to remedy this."
"Paris? And remedy what, exactly?" he said, peering at her still more cautiously.
"My dear Severus, your fashion sense is abysmal. Tragic, even. You are a wizard, not Muggle garbage," he flinched, even as she continued, "And it is high time that you acted like it. You represent Slytherin House, the House of Prince, and the House of Malfoy. You cannot be caught dead in... that." She pointed gracefully at what he was wearing.
"House Malfoy?" he said, putting most of what she'd just said to one side, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "That is impossible. We are not related by any stretch of the imagination. Comrades, to be sure, but not kin."
She sighed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as though asking the heavens for divine strength. "You remember Draco, my son?" she asked, in a false sweet voice. "Must I remind you that you agreed to be his godfather two years ago?"
He blinked.
"Merciful Nimue," she breathed. "You did forget."
"Narcissa, I —"
"I will pretend you didn't forget," she said, smoothly, "If you promise to never forget it again. You are Draco Malfoy's godfather. Did you think that was merely a title? Did all those days spent in our home mean nothing to you?"
"No, of course not —"
"Well, then," she said, satisfied, grey eyes glinting. "You are my son's – my only son's – godfather. That makes you family." She paused. "You are more than a mere Snape now. Your status as a Prince was returned to you the moment your mother passed beyond the veil. You are one of us," she insisted, stepping forward and reaching for one of his hands.
He clasped her hand — delicate, smooth, unmarred — in his. This was his silent promise to her. They were Slytherins; she understood. He would never again forget Draco — no matter how deep he sunk into the mires of grief.
"You are one of us," she said again, "And you will dress like it," she finished, in a tone that brooked no argument.
He blinked, then sighed. "Yes, Narcissa."
She stepped back, dropped his hand, and stepped into the flames of the fire that had been roaring in his chambers throughout their conversation.
"Rue Girardon," she said in elegant french. She threw down Floo Powder, and disappeared in a cloud of emerald smoke to what Snape knew would be the French equivalent of Diagon Alley located in Paris, called Place Cachée. She was taking him to the most expensive wizarding tailor's shop in all of France.
With dread, Snape went to the fireplace and followed her in a similar explosion of shimmering green ash.
When they arrived at the tailor's, Narcissa requested a coffee in faultless French before taking a seat to watch the expert, whose name was Monsieur Valencourt, at work.
"Non, Monsieur Valencourt," said Narcissa, shaking her head when the Master of Magical Tailoring held up one fabric against Severus's skin, and then another, and then another.
They ignored Severus each time he attempted to speak, and he wisely decided to remain silent, only providing a 'Yes,' or a 'No' when prompted. All three agreed that the only colors which suited him were darkest green and blue, and the lightest acceptable colors were white, and grey.
At last, they selected a fine black wool blend that seemed to make Severus's black eyes look even darker. This was to be used both for his cloak and the garments underneath it. There was a thicker blend for winter, and a breathable, light blend for spring and summer. The lining was silk for the midseason garments, and a comfortable fleece for the colder months.
Next, the fastenings. Monsieur Valencourt showed Severus the options — hook, latch, and clasp — but none appealed to him. Until at last Narcissa came back from one of the glass display cabinets, holding a pair of black fabric-cased buttons in her outstretched palm.
"C'est parfait, Madame Malefoy," said the tailor with approval. It's perfect.
Even Severus couldn't disagree.
They decided on every detail, and spared him not a whit of his dignity, selecting every garment for him — from undershirts, to underwear and socks, to cravat and pocket squares.
Once his measurements had been taken and the tailor had marveled at length at how 'slim and elegant' Severus's figure was, Narcissa turned to Severus.
"Go outside and wait for me, please," she said.
He knew better than to argue.
Madam Malfoy paid for everything (and the cost was nothing to her), before joining him outside.
"The robes will be ready for you in a month," she said, eyes twinkling. "Monsieur Valencourt is making one set for each season. The undergarments will be done in two weeks," she said.
"Ah," said Severus, closing his eyes. "Excellent."
"Do not be clever with me, Severus, it is déclassé when you are being given a gift."
"I will reimburse you," he challenged.
"You will do no such thing. You owe me, and this is how I wish to collect my favors."
"What, by playing dress-up?" he sneered.
"No," she said, simply. "By making you worthy of being seen with my son in public." She raised an imperious brow. "Come."
They went to one more shop that afternoon, which was the renowned shoe shop two doors down from Valencourt's place.
They stepped into the shop, and Severus felt a wave of magic suddenly encasing his feet. He reeled, and looked at Narcissa.
"What is this?" he said.
"The shop takes the measurements of newcomers when they step through the threshold," she replied, "Come."
They entered, and there was a stout brown-leather-clad woman with brown eyes, large spectacles, and short mousy hair waiting for them inside, holding a pair of black dragonhide boots.
"Ceux-ci vous appartiennent, je crois, Monsieur?" said the woman. These belong to you, I think, sir?
Severus stared at the shopkeeper in disbelief, then remembered his manners. "Comment les avez-vous préparés si rapidement?" he asked. How did you prepare these so rapidly?
The woman's brown eyes glittered behind her spectacles. "Je n'ai rien fait, monsieur. C'est juste le caractère du magasin, vous comprenez?" she replied. I didn't do anything, sir. It's just the character of the shop, you understand?
He blinked. "Oui, effectivement, je vois." Yes, indeed, I see.
The lady went on to explain that the boots were safe from all manner of catastrophe and all types of stains; they were Imperviused and protected from both fire and water, they could not be burnt by acid. They were charmed with a Thief-deterrent spell, and they could be tied into his magical signature so that he, and he alone, would be able to wear them. They would perform remarkably in the Potions classroom.
And as soon as Severus put on the boots, he knew that they would be his lifelong companions. They were more comfortable than anything he'd ever worn on his feet before, and fit him perfectly.
He asked the shopkeeper if the boots had been in the stock room in the back. She threw her head back and laughed — a full, belly laugh. No, replied the cobbler, I made these for you many years ago. The shop, apparently, was sentient in some way and would put ideas for designs in the shoe-maker's head, often years before the client passed through the door.
Remarkable, Snape had replied.
This time, Severus paid (using Prince money) — he insisted on that, at least — and also took Narcissa to a meal. Lucius joined them halfway through the dinner and seemed thoroughly amused at his wife's antics.
"Thank Merlin for that," the Lord of Malfoy Manor said after Narcissa told him how smartly Severus would be dressed come one month's time. "You must come to the Manor, Severus, in four weeks."
Severus accepted the invitation with mingled dread and anticipation.
They seemed excited, and that never did bode well.
Four weeks came and passed, and Severus went alone to Paris to fetch his new clothes. He brought the dragonhide boots — unworn, still in their box — with him.
Upon arrival at the place of business, Severus was greeted by the owner himself. Valencourt shook his hands, and with a level of delight Severus had thought impossible in grown men until that moment, the tailor opened the carefully wrapped bundle of clothing.
With the tip of one finger, Severus traced one button on the sleeve of the undercoat. And another button. And another. The buttons seemed never-ending.
It was exactly what he'd envisioned and more.
He asked Valencourt for the use of his private changing rooms, which were reserved for the finest of the tailor's elite clientele. The tailor ushered him into the changing rooms and waited in a seat outside.
Severus stripped himself of every article of clothing that reminded him of his shameful past. His father's undershirt — he tossed it on the ground at his feet. The socks, too. The pristine-white, if worn-out, underpants — on the floor as well. The denim trousers, the old jacket. All were tossed aside.
Then, the new Severus Snape began to dress himself. Silk undergarments. Soft wool socks. Then the black, slim, winter wool trousers. The creamy white wizard's dueling blouse, long-sleeved, tucked into the former.
To his silent, secret delight, when he slipped on the undercoat, it magically buttoned itself – sleeves, waist, torso, breast, and collar.
To this, he added silver serpent cufflinks which had been a gift from the Bullstrode family. He tied a creamy white cravat around his neck and tucked it into the undercoat.
At last, he slid his cloak on over the top of it all and looked at himself in the long, full-body mirror.
His black eyes widened, if only fractionally.
"Ciel, quel changement," said the mirror's male voice in sultry tones. Heavens, what a change.
He silently agreed with the mirror.
The last part, next. Severus removed the dragonhide boots from their box and almost with religious respect, pulled each one on, marveling again at their sturdiness and their comfort.
When he exited the changing rooms, he glared at the pile of old clothes in his arms. After a moment's hesitation, he tipped them onto the floor between himself and Valencourt the tailor.
"Evanesco."
Everything disappeared. He had already burned the rest of it at Hogwarts.
Satisfied, but with a lingering frown, he glanced up to speak to Valencourt. He took one step forward; Valencourt the tailor took one step back.
Monsieur Valencourt stared at him, eyes sparkling.
"Is there a problem, Master Valencourt?" he asked silkily in French.
The Master of Magical Tailoring shook his head, grinning.
"No, Master Snape," replied the tailor. "I am simply thinking that Madame Malefoy will be very pleased. Very pleased indeed!"
Snape stared at the man for the briefest of moments, then nodded.
"My thanks, Master Valencourt. I look forward to doing business with you in the future."
And, after instructing the tailor to send the rest of the order to Hogwarts, Severus Disapparated to Malfoy Manor.
To say that Narcissa Malfoy was pleased upon seeing her old friend was an understatement.
Severus Snape, to her eyes, was unrecognizable.
There he stood, by the fireplace in their best parlor — not that every parlor in the manor wasn't their best parlor — with a glass of elf port in his hand. And he was striking.
Lines in the man's silhouette which had seemed stringy and gangly before now appeared purposefully long and elegant. The tapered sleeves accentuated his hands and wrists, and the boots, with their slight heel, added to his stature and made him stand slightly taller. His shoulders, reinforced by the undercoat — similar to a Victorian frock coat in its hugging cut — were straightened, lending him an aura of confidence that had never been present before.
He was dark, and mysterious, and forbidding, and looked every inch the godfather to the Malfoy scion that he was.
A shame, Narcissa thought, that he was so unapproachable.
Severus had thoughts of his own. He was already thinking of how to improve upon his new ensemble, and how to make it more practical.
But it would be many months before Snape learned how to make his shoes fasten themselves magically, or how he could charm his cloak to shift – as though under the influence of an invisible breeze – as he moved.
Narcissa could not know, at that moment, that she would be responsible, at least in part, for the creation of the mythical bat of the dungeons that would billow through the corridors at Hogwarts in the many years to come.
Finite Incantatem.
A/N: This fic was for Happy Snape Week on Tumblr, which ended on January 16th, 2022. The prompt I used for this was buttons.
