Severus Snape: Between Wind and Water

Severus Snape

October arrived in a furious rainstorm in the early hours of the morning. It was truly tanking down, rain lashing the windows until a grey film streamed down the panes. The wind rattled the shutters and made the house groan. Severus was reminded of a house blowing away in that old muggle film with its bizarre depiction of witches.

It was fortunate that in real life, a bit of water wouldn't melt him into a puddle. The roof leaked, and he'd always found it simpler to use water-repelling spells on his books and papers than to bother climbing on the roof and fixing the source of the problem. He hadn't realized how bad things had gotten until that day's deluge. By the afternoon, the upstairs floor held a collection of pots and pails he'd transfigured from old socks. The stray drips landing on the stairs were caught by a pair of his mam's green wellies. And from his seat at the writing desk, he could still hear the soft patter of water hitting wood somewhere in the house.

On the sparse bit of floor not already occupied by bookcases and other furniture, Potter circled. It was his ninety-eighth circuit of the day. On this round, he stopped by the front door, and Severus tensed, ready for another escape attempt. Potter rose up on his knees to peer at the corner table. Small but sturdy legged, it was a dumping ground for items found in hands and pockets after a day out. He rifled through the assortment, ignoring random change and shop receipts, and picked up the bag Severus used for his regular trip to the grocer's. Unfolding it, he dipped a hand inside and closed his eyes.

Wizarding space, Severus recalled. Just enough to make his shopping trips more convenient, but not so much as to rouse suspicion with the local shopkeepers. Not to mention an impervious charm and strengthening spells on the corners and seams.

Carefully refolding the bag, Potter held it tightly to his chest, gaze darting to Severus.

He reconsidered the wisdom, for the ninety-eighth time, of letting Potter handle magical objects. How much free rein was too much? After the night the guard Arlo Boyce died, Severus allowed Potter to be unrestrained, as long as he was there to keep watch. A reward, he supposed, or a sign of trust.

He'd even made space for him this morning by shrinking the transfigured bed and unused armchair. It was for Potter's comfort as well as his own, as Potter had a tendency to crawl under the bed as part of his circuit. He disliked Potter hiding under furniture, even for a second. Part of his regular occlumency practice now included reviewing a carefully shielded collection of memories. Eventually they'd become habit, and he hoped he'd never forget Potter again. But such practice took time, and visual reminders were essential to not being taken off-guard.

All the more reason to strengthen the truce between them. "Keep it." Potter looked triumphant, which made him uneasy. "For now," he amended.

The bag went atop a pile of books, string, and bits of paper. Severus had taken back the flatware and anything else that could give him something more severe than a papercut. Potter had tried to go for a quill that morning, which Severus had adamantly refused. He'd learnt his lesson there.

Potter resumed his creep across the room, stopping to tap the bookcases lining the walls as if searching for secret passages. Testing the wards over the house, even as the wailing wind threatened to flatten it all from the outside.

A droplet dinged as it hit something metallic, and Severus turned, ready to do battle with another leak. But it was only the Queen Elizabeth tray hovering at his elbow. One empty and overturned cup, and another still full, the sleeping potion trickling from a chip on the rim. He toyed with the overturned cup, catching the scent of myrtle and jasmine. It had taken the better part of the morning to convince Potter to drink that healing potion. Explaining every ingredient, then imbibing a bit himself to prove its harmlessness. You first, as Potter now always insisted. And Severus obliged.

But sleeping potions were out of the question. Potter refused them categorically. If Severus tried to slide one in under false pretenses, you first brought him up short. He was hardly going to dose himself with a sleeping potion in Potter's company. Whilst he could use forty winks, it was that curse-riddled body that needed a deep sleep.

Potter veered around the writing desk, giving him a wide berth. Severus glanced at an open book on the desk, an old gift from Poppy: The Healing Power of Touch. So brilliantly useful when Potter wouldn't allow him within arm's reach, let alone touching him. Where was The Healing Power of Spells Cast from Five Meters Away? They hadn't written that bloody book yet.

Potions and generalized spells cast from afar—it wasn't enough, after what Potter had been through. Several of the Death Eaters enjoyed creating elaborate curses that had no cure—until he created one. He needed to study each curse, noting its symptoms and progression. It was delicate work. Hands-on work.

Potter stopped at an outer wall where two bookcases met, cocking his head. His breathing slowed, and his hand hovered over the bookcases, a fingertip sliding over the tiny gap between them.

Severus couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, but he knew his mam had knitted the wards together there. She'd shown him how to detect the weakness one evening, when his father was away at the pub. And with the right spells, he could strengthen what his mother had embedded in the foundations. Layered spells, cast and reinforced over the decades. Potter shouldn't be able to transform them the way he had the bed wards. But he shouldn't be able to see them, either.

Just when he was ready to get up and run a check on those wards, Potter thumped onto his hands and knees and made another circuit. He stopped at the point where he normally veered around the desk.

Severus held himself still, his index finger tapping the air in the absence of a wand. Potter hadn't attacked him again, and he was determined not to initiate the defense spell that his instincts told him to cast. It would only antagonize Potter, and that would be a step back in what little progress they'd made. Sometimes the best defense was to appear nonthreatening and observe. But he could still feel a ghost of pain in his ankle and a low throbbing in his mind as the fog of forgetfulness threatened to overtake him.

Lightning flashed, and the thunder followed like a cannon shot. The muscles in Potter's shoulders jumped, but he kept his face steady, only glancing once at the water-blurred window. An improvement over the early hours of the morning when Severus had descended and caught him with his hands over his ears as another clap of thunder struck. He'd offered a muffling spell which Potter had, of course, refused. He thought back to the year of the Triwizard Tournament and when Potter would've last heard a thunderstorm. He couldn't recall. Still, it boded well that he adjusted quickly and wouldn't startle at every loud noise. Both of their nerves were frayed enough as it was.

Relaxing a bit more as the thunder settled into a rumble, Potter studied the bookcase nearest to the desk and grabbed a book from the bottom shelf. He rifled through it, eyes scanning the text centimeters from the page.

Severus noted the title of each book Potter chose, but it didn't enlighten him. His dullest books occupied the bottom shelves, and he wondered what possessed Potter to greedily grab A Complete History of Notable Squibs and Index of Medicinal Herbs by Leaf Length. Perhaps a confinement of six years made any book interesting.

His matted hair swung in chunks against his back and a sour odor was noticeable. Potter was beginning to stink again. The dust from the bookshelves intermingled with the soot from the stove to leave a grey film on his hands and down the front of his nightshirt.

He could do with a smartening up himself, he realized, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together and smearing a remaining bead on his thumb. Idly pushing about correspondence to politicians and fellow ministers, he found an article triumphantly announcing the end of the rebellion. He'd searched for truths within the propaganda and listened to boasting stories from his colleagues, sliding in to observe their unfiltered memories when he could. Leaning into his role as a dangerous but irritatingly bureaucratic minister, he requested reports from Azkaban and other prison camps that covered new arrivals. And he looked out on his stoop every morning, hoping to hear a demanding yowl and feel a familiar tickle in his nose.

It was reported in the Daily Prophet that all rebels had been captured or killed, but his subtle inquiries had found no sign of Miss Granger or the Weasleys. Her wand had not appeared in the throne room's mosaic, nor shipped to storage from the morgue. There was still a chance she was alive. He had a flash of Miss Granger coming to Hogwarts, eleven years old and already so sure of herself. Holding her head up high as the Sorting Hat swallowed her. Eleven going on thirty.

Potter paged through a book, leaving behind black fingerprints. He nibbled at a splinter that was stuck in the callus of his thumb.

The entire house was in a right state. He'd let things get out of hand. We may not have the brass so as to impress the neighbors, his mam had said, but at least we keep ourselves tidy. She'd shake her head at the look of things now, when all that was required was a simple cleaning spell. He moved to retrieve his wand.

Potter's gaze snapped directly to the pocket of Severus's robes. He dropped the book and crouched, fingers twitching.

Severus dropped his hand. No wand, then. It was like one of his old detention assignments. Clean one feral wizard and one house. No magic.

The only way to get running water without magic was through the kitchen sink or the lavatory out back. Potter hadn't seen the lavatory yet, making do with bedpans and now, thankfully, a self-cleaning chamber pot. Severus could transfigure a bath out of sight in the garden, magically heated. Then take Potter outside once the rain let up. He eyed Potter. No, decidedly not. Not until he'd extended the wards to the edge of the garden walls.

There was still the traditional way of doing things. He went into the kitchen and rolled out a round tin tub from behind the stove. The Snape family bath in all its glory. Rust stained the crevices inside, but otherwise it was serviceable. They'd never bothered with the public baths the other families had used.

Sometimes, when his father hadn't been watching, his mam would draw her wand and fill the tub with hot water in seconds. But mostly she'd splashed in potful after potful. He remembered the calluses on her hands, the sweat breaking out in spots on the back of her housedress. How her shoulder blades had moved up and down as she filled the bucket, like ripples on the river.

As the water had splashed in, the steam rose and spread, settling like dew on his face and clothes. It could get quite hot in the summers, but he liked to stay in the kitchen, his feet kicking the air and his hand moving through the steam, the mist trailing behind his fingers. It wasn't quite the magic his mam promised he would have one day, but it felt close.

And later, a visit to the new doctor, fresh out of medical school with his polished black shoes and Brylcreemed hair, lecturing his mam on how unhealthy it was, how unhygienic. How she should draw new water for each of their baths. How he said you, and it seemed to mean another word entirely. You and your family, you need to, I've seen the type of cleanliness you often have. And his mam watching him, her throat working, not saying a word.

Afterwards, she took him home and whispered stories of the Princes and their magic until she almost managed a smile. Severus thought that he might take baths in an old tub, but he had magic, and that would keep him healthier than any stupid doctor.

He rolled the tub back and forth on the kitchen tiles, thinking. Not magic, but it was like a cauldron in some respects. Heat and water released the natural properties of the ingredients. Magic released the magical properties. There were potions that targeted dark magic, and could be absorbed through the skin. He selected an armful of potion ingredients from his cupboards and set them on the table. Then he lit a fire in the stove and put four pots of water on the stovetop. Once the water was boiling, he poured it into the tub. After he added each ingredient, he set the jars on the floor.

Potter watched from the kitchen doorway. As the jars collected on the floor, he took each one and sniffed it, touching the rim and rubbing the residue between his fingers.

Filling a tub was tedious, backbreaking work. More so than he'd anticipated. The water took an absurdly long time to heat, and four potfuls didn't even fill the tub one third of the way. He had a newfound respect for the times his mother had done it by hand.

Once the tub was halfway full, he added the remaining potions ingredients. They dispersed, turning the water a pale green and releasing the scent of citrus. It felt good to do something with his hands. He supposed that was something he inherited from his muggle side. And yet, it was probably why he enjoyed potions as much as he did. The act of chopping and slicing and physically handling an ingredient to determine how best to release its properties—it was pleasurable in itself, beyond any magic created. So different from the time spent in his head. And in other people's heads.

He placed his hands against the tub, concentrating. He knew several wandless spells for potions—and could manage them without the largely decorative arm-waving—but preferred his wand for precision. Still, all he needed now was a simple spell every bright potions student learnt by their fifth year. One that released the inherent magical properties of the ingredients. Solvo. He concentrated, imagining the same magic flowing through him as if he were using his wand.

A wary gaze followed his every movement. He wondered if Potter could see this magic as well. He took a deep breath and felt it: the magic working just right. The green water gradually paled until it was nearly colorless, threaded with alabaster whirls and crowned with a light mist.

He waved Potter over. "Get in."

Potter peered over the side of the tub, sniffing.

"It's a bath with healing herbs." He pointed to the jars on the floor. Potter uncorked each bottle and sniffed the ingredients again, then sniffed the steaming water. He stuck his tongue out and touched the tip to the water's surface.

Severus shoved his head away. "It's not for drinking, idiot." He'd spent over an hour filling the tub, and was now sweaty and irritable. "Immersion offers different benefits. Do I have to throw you in?"

Reeling back, Potter dug at his face, as though removing the imprint of Severus's touch. He narrowed his eyes and pointed.

Severus was familiar with the gesture now. You first. "The healing properties are for you."

Potter clenched his jaw and stayed where he was.

To absorb the healing properties, one had to be injured. Severus could bathe first and Potter would still get the benefits. If he could ever get him in the tub. He recalled the pecking order in his family on bath night: his father went first, then his mother. If his father was feeling particularly courteous, he would let his mam go first. Severus was always last. He glanced at Potter. You've officially designated me man of the house. Truly an honor.

He unbuttoned his robe as Potter stared. Severus's fingers stilled. A deep reluctance settled on him. It took a moment to understand why: James Potter, stripping his clothes on the Hogwarts grounds. He'd made a lot of angry promises to himself that day, one being that Potter would never put him in such a position again.

He glanced at Potter, who was nibbling at the splinter in his thumb. With the long hair and scarring, the resemblance to James Potter had disappeared. And in truth, it didn't matter. Potter was not his father, and he couldn't afford to block his own attempts to heal by conflating the two. It had been an indulgence, the petty revenge fantasies he'd had as potions master at Hogwarts. Imagining that Potter was his father, reveling in the reversal of roles: Potter seething with impotent rage and humiliation as Severus coolly mocked him.

If he wanted to get anywhere with Potter, he had to set all that aside. But still. The idea of Potter watching him undress…

"Best if you go first," he said. "The water will be lukewarm by the time I finish."

Potter drew further back, lines of suspicion deepening on his face.

It was a twenty-minute bath. Just bloody well get in. Severus took a deep breath and refused to look at Potter. He shook off his shoes and stripped off his robe and underclothes.

The water was deliciously hot. He drew up his knees so that he could slide his upper back below the surface, letting his shoulders relax as the heat penetrated. His knees stuck up, but the soles of his feet rested against the bottom of the tub, and their perpetual ache dimmed. The Dark Mark stung when it touched the water—too much dark magic in it that the potion was vainly trying to remove—so he kept his arm on the rim. He splashed water over his head and rolled his shoulders.

Wary green eyes appeared at the rim, peering into the water. The broken nose sniffed cautiously.

Severus scowled, but found that he couldn't tense. All he could manage was a slow sitting-up. He had the foggy laziness of too many firewhiskeys. So he sank back into the water and waved expansively. "See anything interesting?"

Potter jerked away from his hand and scurried off.

"That's right," Severus muttered as he closed his eyes. "Leave me to my bath time."

After twenty minutes, he got out, stumbling like a town drunk. No wonder his father had insisted on going first. He nearly laughed, thinking of his father wallowing in his hot bath like a posh lady getting her spa treatment. He pulled a towel from a cupboard and nodded at Potter. "Your turn."

Potter stripped off his nightshirt and leaned over the rim to sniff the water again. Several minutes passed as he stared at the surface.

"I swear to every god in the Western canon," Severus growled. "If you don't get in…"

But Potter had a look of frustration. He turned sideways, awkwardly grabbing the handle. He couldn't raise himself high enough to step over the edge.

Severus grunted. Get a wizard into the tub without touching him. No magic. He rummaged through his shelves and dropped a few out-of-print textbooks in a stack next to the tub.

Using the books as a step stool, Potter cautiously worked his way over the rim and splashed into the water. His body was so rail-thin that he could have curled up on the bottom. He huddled in the center, as though he expected tiny fish to attack.

"Dunk your head. Although I don't suppose it'll cure your addled brain. That was inherited." Severus finished dressing and searched for a mop. Surely his mam had kept one somewhere. His father had roared whenever Severus's unintentional magic had caused soup to boil over or a glass to break. She was always ready with a mop or scrub brush, quickly removing the evidence. Placate an angry drunk twice your size. No magic.

One hot summer afternoon, when the rot from the river rose and seeped through the town, his father had coughed instead of roared. Blood leaked out of his mouth. He was dead within the month. Then, peace. Blessed peace. It fell in line with his thinking at the time, that the world was better off without some people in it.

The mop stood in a pail in the back of a closet. The already-grey yarn was black by the time Severus finished. He dunked it clean and dumped the dirty water outside. He set the mop against the doorframe to the front room and dropped the pail next to it. It landed with a loud clank but didn't seem to bother Potter. His eyes were fluttering closed. Finally.

"Time to dry off," Severus said. "Don't fall asleep yet."

That shook Potter awake. He stumbled out, sloshing water onto the tiles. Swaying on his hands and knees, head hanging close to the floor, he looked like a beast shot with a tranquilizer dart. Slowly, he sat up, rubbing his face and pinching the tender places on his neck.

"No use fighting it." Severus mopped up the trail of water. "The brew works with your own energy. Primes it to focus on healing you. It might feel like your energy's gone, but it's merely been diverted." Severus leaned on the mop, watching Potter. "You'll rest for a while. Sleep."

Potter shook his head, chunks of matted wet hair flapping. He pointed at Severus.

"Yes, I went first. But I don't have any curses to heal. You absorbed most of the magic."

Potter had been unwilling to take sleeping potions. Severus had assumed it was because he wouldn't test them first. Their little truce didn't extend to Potter taking potions without proof they weren't poison. But that wasn't the real issue, he realized. Potter didn't want to be forced into a deep sleep with Severus present.

Moaning low in his throat, Potter scrambled forwards. He slammed himself against the wall, hard enough to bruise.

Severus grimaced but kept his voice firm. "Pain won't keep you awake. Nothing will."

Potter grabbed the nearest potions jar, smashing it against the floor. He picked up a shard and jabbed it into his palm, twisting it viciously. The shard sank into the skin, and thick runners of blood spread down his arm.

Shite. Severus gripped the mop and struck Potter's arm, knocking the shard away.

Potter grabbed the handle and shoved backwards, throwing Severus off balance. He yanked the mop away and struck Severus against the side of the head.

Fortunately, it was a glancing blow. Potter was struggling with his injury. But that didn't stop him from searching the floor for another shard, still gripping the mop in one hand.

Enough of this. Potter needed to be restrained until he succumbed to the potion, for his own safety. Severus fished in his pocket for his wand.

The next thing he knew, the end of the mop was jabbed sharply into his gut. He clutched the handle defensively, dropping his wand. Potter tried for another jab, and it turned into a brief tug of war, Severus winning easily and dragging Potter towards him across the slick floor. He reached out a hand to grab him by the arm.

Potter's eyes widened, and he screeched, dropping the mop and scrambling away.

He couldn't go far. The small kitchen was warded and Severus blocked the door to the front room. Potter looked around frantically, his gaze landing on the handle of a boning knife on the edge of the counter.

"Oh no, you don't." Severus launched at him but Potter swerved, ducking behind the tub.

Both on their knees, they stared at each other across the tub, the only sounds the slosh of the water and their heavy breaths.

"Let's be reasonable," Severus said, smoothing his voice. "I know you… dislike the idea of a deep sleep. But there's nothing for it if you're going to heal."

Potter gripped the edge of the tub, fingertips touching the water, his eyes squeezed shut.

Severus wasn't sure his words were getting through. Potter wasn't attacking, which was a slight improvement. He continued in his most calming voice. "I'll get you something to dry off, and another nightshirt. Once I resize the bed, you can—"

The humidity hanging in the air crackled, and Severus's exposed skin was bombarded with pins and needles. The water splashed angrily until the tub itself was shuddering with each wave. Potter gave the tub a shove, and it tipped over, the water rushing out with force.

Severus threw up his hands, but it was no use. The water hit him like a tidal wave, knocking him back and filling his mouth and nose. He coughed and sputtered, covering his face as best he could.

When the water abated, he was alone in the kitchen, the door to the front room swinging.

He coughed again to clear his throat. "Accio wand." He expected it to fly through the swinging door, out of Potter's hand. But the wand flew to him from under the kitchen table. Severus barreled through the door.

In the far corner of the room, Potter rummaged through his pile of random objects, frantically searching for something.

Another weapon, no doubt, and Severus wouldn't give him the opportunity. Grabbing Potter by the shoulders, he pulled him from behind into a waist lock. He dragged him to the center of the sitting room, far from any hard or sharp objects. His drenched robes squelched as he squeezed Potter against him.

This close, the wet warmth of Potter's skin penetrated the small space between them. The water dripping down the back of his neck exuded a sweet citrus scent and the biting taste of fresh sweat. New rivulets divided between the ropy muscles as Potter tensed his shoulders.

Severus turned his head just before Potter knocked back his own, trying to slam into his face.

Potter tried to grab the arms trapping him, but Severus had locked around his elbows and he couldn't reach. His legs flailed, but he didn't have the muscle control to kick. He locked his hands on Severus's hips and yanked, pulling himself down. Growling, he bit hard on Severus's thumb.

Severus flinched but didn't let go. A dull nub bruised his knuckle. Potter didn't have much left in the way of teeth. He dropped to the floor with Potter and locked his grip around his elbows again. "Calm yourself," he ground out, which was a perfectly useless thing to say. Potter had no reason to be calm when he thought… "I won't hurt you." This is different from all those times in the past, when you were brought to the throne room and the Dark Lord was watching. Go completely against the evidence of your own eyes and trust me.

As his muscles absorbed the potion and began to relax, his frantic scrabbling turned to slow, heavy shoves.

"This'll go easier if you'd stop fighting," he bit out, trying to keep them both upright.

His mam had said those words once as she tried to soothe him after his father's belt. And him crying, nearly screaming, the burn of the lashes igniting something he couldn't control and didn't understand. Struggling as she locked her arms around him, one over his elbows and the other over his mouth. "Quiet, do you hear me? Your father's still in the house."

Still, she'd tried, and Severus tried now, trying to avoid his mam's tone of distracted impatience. "It'll be all right. Shh. There, now." Meaningless promises that didn't sound any more convincing than when his mam had said them.

Potter groaned and slumped forwards. His body seemed to shrink in on itself, but somehow became heavier.

Severus remained where he was, listening to his rapid breaths and the rattling rain. Calm yourself. Another favorite phrase of his mam's. It didn't last long, those quiet moments when he'd finally calmed and she'd relaxed, her hold on him feeling more like an embrace. He'd learnt not to cling to her when she pried him off, knowing she needed to get up and get on with her work. For her, there was always more to be done, cooking and mending and, after his accidental magic, mopping up the evidence of who he was.

Smoothing down Potter's wet hair as best he could, he pressed his nose into it, surrounding himself with the comforting scent of healing herbs. Gently, he laid him on the floor. Potter's head lolled to one side, his breath slow and rasping.

The front room looked worse than it had an hour ago. Trails of water ran across the room, and the items from Potter's precious pile were strewn everywhere.

The Healing Power of Touch had fallen into a small puddle, its pages rippling. He picked it up. The ink slipped from the words and ran into the creases. He set it carefully on the desk. It could be restored, with the proper spells.

Severus touched the spots where the curses were centered, noted the places of weakness where he could begin to unravel them. Potter groaned, but didn't wake.

He remembered the times he'd worked to remove curses for Albus. How he'd worked for hours, learning to fight the sly magic, sweat running into his eyes. The headmaster's reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. Severus hesitated, then put his hand on Potter's shoulder. The only response was a shiver.

"I'll make things better," he whispered. "I just need a chance to do it." He closed his eyes, making his words a promise to those who could no longer hear him.

xx

Notes

Between wind and water = a vulnerable point
Wellies = rain boots
Brass = money
Smarten (yourself) up = clean up; make yourself presentable