Severus awoke feeling rather stiff. This annoyed him for a moment until he remembered why.
It was over. The whole hideous mess which had stolen his youth, ruined his adulthood and almost destroyed the wizarding world on far too many occasions had finally come to an end, and Severus had no idea how he was supposed to feel.
He rose slowly, readjusting the long, cotton nightshirt which always twisted itself up around his waist during the night and padded across the stone floor to the bathroom.
"Ooh, you've finally had your hair cut!" his mirror whistled approvingly.
"Quiet," he told it, automatically running his hand across his newly-naked neck. He felt cold and exposed after thirty years of hiding beneath long hair. "Keep still, I need to see myself."
The mirror made a tutting noise but did as it was told.
Even by his own low standards, Snape was not looking good. The sticky burn salve on the side of his face had collected bits of fluff and even a feather from his pillow as he slept, which when combined with his usual jaundiced complexion and two day's worth of black stubble made him look like an unusually sinister vagrant. Blinking experimentally, he found his right eye was opening further than it had the previous day, but snapped shut more often than normal, independently of the left eye's rhythm. Really, he thought, he had been lucky the eyelids had not been fused together permanently.
The skin of his right arm was sore and different shades of pink and red. He stretched it out carefully, wincing as the movement pulled the burnt tissues. Another few days of the sticky salve should ease the pain, but he doubted the skin would heal without scarring. The left side of his face broke into a humourless smirk.
Perhaps the disfigurement of this forearm would go some way towards negating the aberration on the other.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and held it until he began to feel dizzy. It was over. The struggle which had lasted for more than half his life was done. What on earth would he do now?
…….
Six hundred miles South, Kingsley had awoken in St Mungo's to find himself feeling better, but still very confused. Moody had arrived right after breakfast, filling him in on more details of the battle, as well as relishing the delivery of a shock revelation.
"What!" gaped Kingsley, staring incredulously at his boss.
"Yup," Mad-eye crossed his arms over his chest and grinned lewdly.
"Me and Snape!" he boggled. Moody nodded, enjoying himself thoroughly. Before they could discuss it any further, Saffron bustled in with a pile of magazines, a basket of fruit and a scowling teenage boy in a ridiculously baggy t-shirt and ill-fitting jeans.
"Hello, Joseph," Kingsley smiled at his nephew. Joseph glared at Moody. Unabashed, Moody glared back, his magical eye apparently very interested in the complicated muggle trainers the boy was wearing. Joseph took in the mutilated face, wild hair, wooden leg and crazy eyeball and took a horrified step back, all his youthful attitude deserting him.
Moody cackled and stood up to gave Saffron his seat, looking almost gentlemanly for an alarming moment. She twinkled charmingly at him, while Joseph threw himself down into the spare visitor's chair and began a good sulk. Whether he was sulking because his mother was flirting with a grizzled old policeman or simply because he was thirteen and the world was cruel, Kingsley could not tell.
"You two have met, I suppose?" Kingsley sighed. They both nodded.
"Yes, Alastor was here while you were still unconscious," his sister said, still smiling broadly at Mad-eye, the bright red beads on the end of each vertical braid clicking every time she moved. Apparently, the two of them had been getting along very well over his prone body, which made perfect sense to the patient, having long experience of both of their wicked temperaments.
"Saffron was telling me how she used to pour apple juice over your trousers and tell your mother that you wet yourself," Moody teased with unashamed admiration in his voice. Joseph stopped sulking for long enough to shoot his uncle a wide grin. Kingsley rolled his eyes and leaned over towards the boy.
"Your mother," he stage-whispered, "used to be evil." Joseph nodded knowingly as he whispered back;
"She still is. Ow!"
Visitors came and went until lunchtime, when over a bowl of what was supposed to be Cream of Leek soup he finally had a moment alone to take stock of his new information.
He was now able to remember a few events, though there was still a disjointed feel about the memories, as though he had watched a different Kingsley play-acting instead of living through the experiences himself.
When Moody had told him about arriving in Diagon Alley to find a Death Eater attack in full swing, he got a blurry picture of himself taking charge of about one third of the Light fighters while Dumbledore and Moody pitched the main attack. Then he remembered the screams of the living as an army of Inferi pushed the others back, back, away and out of the picture, leaving the depleted force alone.
Tonks' account of the last stages of the battle had triggered a scene of the Other Kingsley on the burnt-out terrace of the ice-cream parlour trying to keep a ferociously angry Harry Potter away from the epicentre of the fight. He could not recall his own words, but the boy seemed to be shouting 'It's me he wants, he'll just keep killing until he gets to me! You may as well let me go!' Then it was raining spells and Voldemort was there and the Other Kingsley's wand was knocked out of his hand by a laughing Death Eater, then Voldemort was casting 'Blitzschlag' right at him but before the spell hit something black materialised in front of him like a shield and was blown sideways in a ball of flames.
Snape, he realised with a jolt.
Snape had bought him an extra three seconds in which he was able to snatch the spare wand from inside his robe and block the deadly volley of curses streaming at him from Malfoy as Voldemort's attention turned to Potter. Then, things faded again.
Unable to stomach any more disgusting hospital food, he pushed his bowl away and leaned back against his pillows to brood. He thought more about Snape. Certainly, he found the man attractive, but had he really formed so close an attachment that he would risk his life to save Kingsley? It appeared to be the case. As if in confirmation, an image of Snape in a dressing gown, eating melon and ham next to him on a sofa flickered into his mind. His eyebrows rose of their own accord on seeing the stern teacher so relaxed. Then he was blushing, as he watched Other Kingsley copulating violently with Snape on the floor of his chambers, ripping at clothing and flesh as the coffee table flew across the room, scattering its contents everywhere.
Well, that put paid to any doubts he may have nurtured about the existence of their relationship. Judging by the wanton snarling and begging, both men were rather attracted to each other.
He was still deep in thought when a soft tap sounded at the door. He jerked back to reality to find Snape standing half in the room and half out, as though unsure of his welcome. Kingsley swallowed.
"Severus,"
he said, with no particular emotion. "Would you like to come in?"
The
potions master entered, and stood hovering a little way back from the
bed.
"Have
a seat?" Kingsley suggested, wishing this was not so difficult.
Snape slithered into a chair and sat perfectly rigid for a moment
before managing to speak.
"Are
you feeling any better?" he asked politely.
"Much
better, thank you, Severus," he managed a smile. "And you? Your
face looks like it healed OK."
"Yes,"
he said.
There was a long silence.
"Alastor
told me that you and I were…involved before my accident,"
Kingsley volunteered at last, desperate to ease some of the tension.
"I
can imagine," said Snape, and broke into a shy smile. For a second,
Kingsley was taken aback at the change the gesture brought to the
other man's face. The harsh bone structure lost its flinty chill
the same way that early spring could soften a long-frozen winter
landscape. Kingsley caught himself committing poetry and shook his
head lightly to focus his mind on the present challenge.
"I'm sorry I was short with you yesterday. I couldn't remember a thing. It was frustrating," he confessed, rubbing his hands over his forehead as though to soothe his whirling consciousness. "Things are still messed up but I know how you saved my life."
The beginning of a flush swept up Snape's neck and chin but did not reach his face. When he didn't speak, Kingsley continued. "And I can remember a little of the time we spent together." The Slytherin's head snapped up at that.
"Indeed?" he asked hopefully, peering at him with such intensity that Kingsley's breath faltered.
Something swelled inside the auror's chest on seeing strands of silky black hair tumble into Snape's eyes. The sensation felt unfamiliar for a moment, until Kingsley recognised it as a surge of lust. It had been a long time since he had desired someone so strongly, or at least, he thought so. Perhaps the feeling had been triggered by his earlier recollection of wild sex.
"Yes, you in a green bathrobe, scoffing pieces of melon," they both smiled at that. Severus assumed a faintly martyred air.
"Of course, you would keep the memories of me sprawling like a slattern in the precious weeks while the brats are away," he smirked ruefully.
"I also remember…" it was Kingsley's turn to flush, and not just on his face, either. "On the floor in your living room. Are we always so, erm, vigorous?"
Severus gave a snort of laughter, looking so amused and content that Shacklebolt suddenly wanted to touch him, to ravage him as thoroughly as the Other Kingsley in his memory had. He wondered if his damaged body was capable of it.
"Not often like that," Snape smiled, his weakened right eyelid dropping an unbidden wink. "However, we have had our moments."
Kingsley was reaching out to take Snape's hand when a mediwitch arrived pushing a trolley of assorted potions and unsavoury contraptions.
"Hello Auror Shacklebolt," she greeted him like a buxom auntie bending over her spoiled two-year-old nephew. "How are we this afternoon? Have we had our bowels open yet?"
To his chagrin, the floor failed to open up and swallow Kingsley whole. Glancing over at Severus, he saw the Slytherin's impenetrable mask had reappeared, probably an automatic reaction when trying hard not to laugh.
"Well?" demanded the mediwitch.
"Er," said Kingsley.
Severus stood, bowed formally to the witch and to Kingsley, and bade them good afternoon. Turning back as he reached the door, he threw the auror a tiny smirk. Kingsley sighed.
Progress, he thought.
…….
Severus apparated outside the school gates and began striding up the path to the castle, heading for his dungeons. After a few steps he realised that he was in no hurry, so slowed his pace to an unaccustomed stroll before stopping altogether.
There was no reason to go back to the castle. He had no urgent potions to brew, no Dark Arts research to do and no need to retreat there for safety's sake. Suddenly intimidated by boundless amounts of leisure time, he stood for several slow minutes in the middle of the path, frozen in horror at the idea of having nothing to do for more than two weeks until September rolled around.
How was he supposed to pass the days now? Even on his holidays in New York years ago, he had followed vague plans. Going to galleries with Anthony. Concerts, opera, the ballet, special nights at certain bars. He gave an uncouth snort of laughter as he remembered a salsa night in a tacky but friendly club where Anthony had bruised his toes again and again as he gamely tried to conquer the dance. The instructor, a Brazilian transsexual with Dame Edna specs had enjoyed watching them struggle all night, before presenting Severus with the booby-prize - a voucher for a foot massage – and howling to the laughing crowd that hopefully Brits had better rhythm in bed than on the dancefloor. It should have been embarrassing, but five or six years later it still made him laugh. Bless Anthony's awkwardness.
He turned on his heel and strode back towards the gates. He seemed to be in the mood for contemplation, so there was only one obvious place to go.
Spelling his robes into something muggle and unobtrusive, he apparated into a cramped space between a set of dustbins and a fence, brushed himself off and walked nonchalantly across the church car park until he reached the cemetery gates.
The grass had just been cut and the air smelt wonderful, its freshness belying the purpose of the field where it grew. The newer graves were buried under riots of summer flowers, the birds were singing in the yew trees over the melodious droning of insects; out beyond the iron railings of the graveyard a muggle cricket match was in progress, the white-clad figures trotting around while spectators applauded underneath their sunhats.
Though the dead lay decaying here in rows of cold marble, to Severus Snape, the world had never seemed so alive.
He strolled through the gravestones, skirting the untidy Victorian section, where the Verger used the excuse of having once seen an endangered species of vole to make sure he no longer had to manoeuvre the electric mower through the uneven mounds and fallen statues. The overgrown mountain of bindweed and brambles seemed to get bigger every time Severus visited. Never mind voles, he thought, there were probably dragons living in there by now.
Another row to the left and he reached his destination.
Anthony Frederick Leonard.
Aged 39 years.
He saw beauty in all he saw.
Severus wondered who had been responsible for the inscription, so apt to his late lover's outlook on life. More than any other detail of his memories of Anthony, those seven words pierced him right through his soul. Anthony had bought and sold works of art for a living, studying at Oxford and later at the Courtauld Institute exactly what made an object attractive, he had grown up in an immaculately tasteful Georgian house surrounded by fine things, yet, implausibly, he had seen beauty in Severus Snape.
Severus held onto that thought like a talisman, as less pleasant memories slunk through his barriers, triggered by the sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt lying helpless on a hospital bed.
Anthony had taken a long time to die. It had not been graceful, moving or elegant, like the dewy-eyed classical heroes of Art. He had ranted at his mother, thrown things at Severus, pulled out his intravenous needles in frustration and sobbed like a sulky child. He did not swoon back calmly on silken sheets with a becoming pallor. He coughed and hacked and wheezed for breath, sunken eyes rolling in hollow cheeks as saliva dribbled down his chin, soiling the bed and begging for life or for death, anything, anything at all to end his suffering.
Severus had been able to provide a few pain-relieving potions, but as he found out to his despair, magical potions never worked to their full potential on muggles. The corporal differences between muggles and wizards were few but significant, and Anthony and Severus' personal tragedy showed the contrast in black and white. The virus they had both caught had given the wizard a head-cold of three days duration. It had sucked the life from the muggle slowly and agonisingly over eighteen months of useless struggling.
Anthony had told his mother that he had contracted a nasty strain of pneumonia. Muggles were just like wizards in that respect – some things were considered just too awful to be spoken of, at least in the conservative circles of upper-class suburban Oxford.
Snape mentally shook himself. How utterly typical of him to be thinking of death now that the Peace had been restored and the world was shimmering with the promise of fresh starts and new life. He ought to be thrilled that Kingsley had not only remembered their affair, but also seemed keen to renew it. Somehow the sense of relief he knew he should be feeling had failed to materialise. Last night he had imagined joyfully throwing himself into Kingsley's arms and telling him how much he loved him, yet at the appropriate moment he had restrained himself and walked away. Why did his own mind make so little sense?
Picking up an empty chocolate bar wrapper from the edge of Anthony's plot, he strolled over to the churchyard bin and dropped it in, before heading back to the castle.
aaaaaa
AN: 'Blitzschlag' - German for Thunderbolt. I figured that not all spells would have a Latin or French origin.
Cream of Leek instant powdered soup out of a packet was the first non-intravenous food they gave me after my surgery last year, refusing to let me onto solids until I'd eaten the stuff. It took considerable argument to convince them that I did actually have my appetite back, but the stuff was just too foul to contemplate. Ugh.
Anthony is named after two amazingly talented people, one of whom was a gay artist, inventor and out-and-out genius, the other a wonderful musician who died of the same virus as Anthony. The epitaph I made up myself, if I have stolen it from anywhere it was done subconsciously, but apologies anyway, just in case.
Yes, in my world, wizards can fight it off. Hope that does not offend.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for lovely reviews of the last chapter, which I agree was a bit dodgy. Love SN x
