A Hundred Years from Yesterday

It is only those who are favored by fortune who regret leaving this life; but those who, like me, count their years only by their misfortunes, do not have cause to look upon the moment of annihilation except as the happy occasion of the breaking of their chains.

Letter from the Marquis de Sade to his wife, while in prison - July 27, 1780

Third week September to First week October, 2016

Snape didn't leave his bed on the first day, the second day, the third, or even the three after that.

The potions administered to him were long acting, somnifacient, and thorough. It seemed that as soon as he reached any state resembling consciousness, he would feel the cool glass of a vial being pressed against his lips and the gradual slip into seductive darkness.

The medications, he supposed they were, were varied; some were acrid and seared his throat as they were hastily swallowed. Others were thick and syrupy, clinging to his palate and leaving him disgusted. His one consolation was that these, unlike the ones the Ministry pushed, were brewed correctly. He took some solace in the knowledge that whoever brewed them had more than a rudimentary understanding of medicinal philters.

Had he been stronger, of course, Snape would have doggedly refused them. He despised feeling that he was completely unable to keep a thought in his head. If he wasn't kept unconscious, he drifted between lucid dreams and the harsh light of reality. It was when these two blurred that was the most unbearable.

The fine line that separated what had been with what he knew now, splintered. The drapes, though drawn, fluttered freely in the breeze; the thick folds of fabric bellowed and reached out for him with dark tendrils that seemed to beckon him closer. Reached out to coil around him and drown him in oblivion.

A trick of light and sound and memory that left him clawing at anything in reach - including his own skin - to get away; far, far away from the vile grasp of those soul consuming wretches.

Intellectually Snape knew the Dementors were hundreds of miles away, but the stupor of drugs and anguish, and more years than he could count where he had been afraid, were stronger than any rationalisation he could summon.

It had been half a fortnight before Snape regained a semblance of perspicuity, enough for him to request to sit upright; or rather, grimace and struggle against the bedding until Aberforth walked in on these efforts and lent his assistance. From this position, Snape enjoyed being able to drowse lightly and keep one eye on his surroundings - the door and the window, but mostly the window (somehow, the drapery was less ominous and decidedly more inanimate if he could keep his gaze fixed on it).

His benefactor, as he chose to think of the other Dumbledore, was blessedly silent most of the time. Providing the necessities required for one who was bedridden - or as good as - and medicating him as needed.

Nursemaid to the invalid.

At least he had the sense not to hover about or offer to fluff Snape's pillow.

But he had forgotten Aberforth's twisted sense of humour.

On the eighth day, the first bowl appeared, perched precariously at his bedside. Ostensibly, Aberforth had left it for him to enjoy the contents at his leisure. Enjoy being the operative word. Snape had no intention of enjoying anything of the sort and had spent a goodly amount of his morning glaring it.

But it was just pudding, after all, and there was only so much satisfaction one could get out of quelling it with a look alone. Irritating, certainly, but no more than a trifle and consequently it had been beneath Snape's notice for most of the day.

That much disdain took energy, something of which he had precious little to spare. Snape was always tired, so very tired. A weariness that bordered on exhaustion, far surpassing any that he had experienced before. His body felt weighted down, pinned into place by some unseen force. When he attempted something as trifling as to reach for something, it felt as though he had leaden bars instead of arms.

It took a great force of will to move the shortest distance. Of course, Snape always waited until Aberforth had dosed him and left before exerting himself, guaranteeing him a few hours of privacy. He was loath to think of someone bearing witness to any more indignity than had already transpired. Better to wait, to wait and fight the soporific side-effects of the potions, than to abase himself in front of another.

Soon enough, Snape had progressed to the point where he could sit up entirely unaided. The day the bowl appeared, he had gone so far as to sit on the edge of the mattress and rest his feet on the floor. He moved his toes around and was surprisingly steadied by the feel of aged wood beneath his skin.

Grounded.

Confinement had never suited Snape, whether it had been the bricks of Hogwarts or those of Azkaban. He would prowl and try to exorcise the energy that crawled under his skin and howled to be released. Snape stared down at his feet, firmly pressed against the floor, and craved the solid support it offered. There was none of that restlessness left in him now.

Anchored.

Snape breathed deeply, feeling the latest of the potions come into effect. He set his head in his hands as he fought against an episode of lightheadedness. The blood rushed in his ears as his head swam with images. He had felt adrift for so long, Azkaban having wrought the worst changes in everyone. Snape had been no exception. There had been no protection, no secret Animagus form to assume and escape their influence.

In the beginning, he and Lucius had been housed in adjoining cells, and had leaned against the shared stone wall to talk quietly to one another. Theirs had always been an uneasy friendship, thrown together as children and held there by mutual convenience. Later it had been the camaraderie of the condemned; despite being born to vastly different families, they had joined sides and shared loyalties - idiots that they had been. Their paths had strayed, only to come against the other, face to face, wand to wand, and yet still - still! - they had been dealt the same fate.

Ironic, but that humour had not been enough to see them through a limitless number of years. It had been enough, though; in Azkaban, even a troubled friendship was better than none at all.

Appreciated all the more when it was gone.

He had started to lose Lucius long before he lost himself. Snape supposed Lucius had far more to grieve for than he ever did; there had been no one left for him to miss. He had never felt anything other than avuncular obligation towards Draco, but could only assume that the loss of one's son and wife would rather intensify the loss of liberty.

Assumption more than proved by the number of Dementors that tended to hover near Lucius' cell. There had been more to chew on within.

Conversation, whispered intensely on Snape's part, had been returned with increasingly brief replies. He had still continued to try - as much to fight for his own sanity as to try to salvage Lucius - and spoke to himself. Observation, insults, appeals.

Slytherin knew a futile battle when it saw one, and wishful thinking had never been Snape's forte. A point came when he gave up and retired to his cot, in silence. He had begun to recite potion's recipes in his head, chanting the ingredients and preparations like a mantra.

Even this came to an end as lucidity became hard fought to achieve. Losing Lucius was more difficult than Snape had expected. He would have never admitted to liking the man, but there was something to be said for suffering in solidarity. Silence in any degree, for too long, in a place dark cold and miserable was dangerous. Particularly in their corner of Azkaban. It was never mentioned, but the snapping of one's wand had left them each broken enough, or desperate enough, to be easy fodder for the Dementors.

The Death Eater wing had drawn silent, punctuated at times by the desperate noises of the prisoners. He would never be sure if it had been Lucius who...

His train of thought was cut off as Snape struggled to get air into his lungs. Thrice-damned pneumonia. Once the coughing took hold there seemed to be little chance he would be drawing any oxygen in until it stopped. He hadn't felt this way in some time. His benefactor must be running late with the evening's concoction.

He saw what seemed to be a rather appealing looking potion sitting on the desk at the other side of the room. Not terribly far, just a scant few steps. He was moderately certain he could stumble that far, even in the grips of the grippe. Snape leaned most of his weight on the bedside table and stood. His legs shook - no more so than his hands, really - but he was up. Uplifted, he took a single step only to have his knees buckle underneath him, his elbow clipped the edge of the bowl, and sent him to the ground like a stone.

The bowl followed a moment later and splattered him with an unappetizing shade of what looked to be pink pudding. On instinct, his hand curled around the first long, slender item it found and pointed it at his body with a muttered ‘Evanesco'. He realised only a moment too late that it was a spoon he was holding in his hand, not a wand, and the pudding remained in exactly the same configuration it had been before.

The shock of the fall had cleared, leaving Snape to feel foolish. Foolish, bruised, and as useless as a Squib. At one time he would have gotten a nasty jolt from trying wandless magic of that sort - a warm rush of power in his veins, stinging with the reminder that magic needed to be channeled to be utilizable.

Splayed on the floor with dollops of creamy confections dribbled about, there was none of that inviting sensual heat left in him. He choked down a sob. It would have been a kindness to leave him in prison, where he wouldn't have known the difference between his nightmares and reality; tasted freedom only to be helpless to do anything for it, lying on the floor covered in pudding that could just have well have been filth for all he could do anything about it.

Self pity kept him company until Aberforth returned to rescue him.

The second bowl - appearing the next morning before Snape awoke - met its end with a satisfying crash as it hit the wall. He thought even less favourably of the offering after yesterday's impromptu refamiliarisation with the floor. (It did not help matters that the Dumbledorian fascination with Muggle sweets - which his benefactor had seemingly manifested overnight - had left him in an uncomfortable state of reminiscence and had plagued his dreams with lemon drops.) There was only one possible explanation: the pudding was evil. And, despite the petty pleasure he took in trying to destroy it, cleaning the drips of mush from his pillow had put a damper on that particular joy very quickly.

Definitely evil.

The third appeared the following day, out of reach and on the desk. The childish urge the fling the pudding across the room (this time without the mess on his bedding to dissuade him) was sufficient impetus to get him out of bed to deal with the third bowl.

Snape slowly sat up, feeling his spine pop uncomfortably in places. He winced. Recumbency had never suited him and sciatica was his only legacy from his father's family. He stretched, staring up at the ceiling. He was stalling and he knew it. Remembering the unfortunate position he had found himself in after the previous attempt, he braced himself against the table and levered himself up.

Once he was assured of his continued verticality, he took an unsteady step forward, wobbled, and took another. Another. And another. He made it across the room and reached out to grab the end of the desk. Not one to press his luck, Snape lowered himself tiredly into the hard wood chair and took a breath. He might feel as helpless as a newborn, but at least he was walking.

Toddlers have nothing on me, he thought morosely.

Number three met a neat, tidy death. Snape turned the spoon over, lifting it up to let the milky pudding dribble down. He scowled in disgust and summarily pushed the bowl to the edge of the wood and shut his eyes to linger over his enjoyment of the sound of cracking glass. The pudding oozed onto the floor in front of the door, and mercifully away from his slippers.

Number four followed suit. Snape didn't bother with how yesterday's remains disappeared; he rather thought it a fitting punishment to whoever kept sending the rubbish to begin with. With that out of the way, his attention was free to be pulled over to the other offering on the desk: quill, ink, parchment. They were appealing, compelling his hands to smooth down the parchment, to linger with his fingers dragging across the delicate texture.

Sliding them over, he worked the top off the ink and set it aside. Snape picked up the quill and found he was unable to keep the tremors at bay. He scowled as the shaking kept him from dipping the tip into the narrow neck of the ink jar. He gripped his wrist with his free hand and willed them not to trembled.

He strained to thread the end of the feather into the ink, but each time he failed to keep it from coming close. Angrily, Snape stabbed one last time at the ink and knocked it over, blue seeping into the parchment.

He snarled and shoved everything off his desk. It was pointless. Everything was pointless. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

He couldn't even hold a bloody quill.

Frustration flared and tightened behind his eyes, and Snape slammed his hand flat against the desk. The stinging faded, replaced by an odd sense of moisture that drew his gaze down. Lifting his hands he slowly watched the pattern of blue that began to stained his hands. He let it drip down his wrist before he wiped it on his sleeve.

He returned to his bed and dejectedly stared at the ceiling. Useless was right. He couldn't clean up the ink any more than he could have Scourgified the pudding off the floor.

Useless... worthless... should have left him to rot. Words rang over and over in his ears.

He barely noticed Aberforth come in to check on him.

Snape noticed the box on the fifth bowl day. It was a small cherry wood box with a single feather carved in sunken relief on the top. As he ran a remarkably steady finger over the design he thought it stirred a memory. He furrowed his brow but could recall nothing more than a sense of having seen it before.

Snape lowered himself into the chair and focused his efforts on lifting the lid off the box. His hand froze when the item inside came into view. A wand. - made of a dark wood, long, slender and utterly, utterly perfect - nestled there in the deep purple lining and tucked alongside it was a note.

"Mr. Snape,” it read. "Despite the Ministry's new-found fondness for reparations they often fail to see the irreplaceable value of the item lost. 12 ½ inches, ebony, manticore talon core. What a shame to see its defamation carried out along side your own. A mutual friend informed me you would be in the market for something new. The wand you hold now - cedar, 13 inches, and a new colloidal core - yes, I thought that would catch your eye - essence of mermaid scale. You see, my boy, the scales of a mermaid will help you find your balance even in the most tumultuous of times.”

"A. Ollivander.”

Snape wondered what he would have done to deserve such a boon. He had no recollection of ever doing anything directly for Ollivander. There was no reason for him to have known about Snape's release, let alone send a care package. It made him suspicious of the gift, no matter how welcome it was.

Snape flipped the paper over and saw another hastily scribbled note.

"If this reaches you safely, I will send more.”

It was unsigned.

Ah, he thought, there was that.

One mystery solved, he could turn his attention to the next. A colloidal core? How odd. It made him think, though. He had been working with colloids some time ago, researching ways to stabilize some more volatile potions ingredients without altering their potency. He had found it to be immensely successful too.

He had almost completed an alternate version of the Wolfsbane potion before... before Potter had darkened his classroom. Albus had kept him so busy chasing after the boy to pursue any of his own work after that. Shaking away grim thoughts, Snape turned his attention back to the wand.

He gently plucked it from its velvet nest and curled his finger around the hilt. Perhaps a bit too tightly, because his next thought, unlikely though it was, was that he had somehow broken the seal in his grasp, leaving the core to dribble out the end.

Quickly checking that this was not so, Snape held the tip in front of his face. Frowning as how cold and unreactive it seemed, he twirled his wrist and was rewarded with a gentle pulse of heat up his arm. Snape had to swallow hard at feeling that gentle pulse of magic course through parched system.

The wand clattered against the wood as he spun away from the desk. It was too much, too soon, too fast, that he was likely to drown if it lasted another moment. He took another step and leaned heavily against the wall. It was so close. He had but to reach out and feel that honey sweet perfection. It would be his again... and again... forever.

Snape pressed his palms against his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. His magic. But would it work? He wasn't sure if he could bear the disappointment if his casting failed.

Could he take the chance?

He had such little sanity left to spare. So little that the small blossom of hope that bloomed when he had swirled the wand, if crushed, would be nothing he could recover from.

He barked out a laugh. Recover from? As if life, as he now knew it, would be mourned for more than the briefest of instants.

Snape chose, though any wizard, even the most cowardly of their number, would hardly consider that the situation merited a choice of any kind.

He raised the wand once more and leveled it at the bowl with an unremarked upon steady hand.

"Leviosa,” Snape said, tensed in the long moment that followed.

Time stretched, the power taking its own course in building in the depth of his chest before extending across the bones of his shoulder, spiraling around his arm until it burst through his fingertips and into the wand.

The bowl, and its contents, rattled against the desk before slowly floating into the air.

Snape breathed.

Suspended at eye level, it hovered there. He stared at it, unwilling to blink lest he find himself the victim of yet another hallucination.

Relief.

Gods.

Then the unthinkable.

The bowl dropped several inches, then held.

Panic flooded his veins. He redoubled his concentration, willing the spell to hold, but it a futile waste of energy.

The spell failed, crashing the bowl to the floor and splattering the floorboards with butterscotch. He cast the spell anew, but felt nothing.

The wand fell to the floor.

A strangled noise tore from his throat.

Snape stumbled backwards until he felt the solid comfort of the wall brace him. He moaned helplessly. The fates could not be that cruel; to give him a taste and then wrench it away.

No, no, no...nononono.

He refused to believe it. Tomorrow he would wake up and tomorrow it would return.

And so he did, and so it was.

The next three days were spent in careful moderation as he tested his limits. He could cast multiple spells if they were simple, but a sustained spell would leave him sapped for the day.

So he would temper his casting with rest and practicing his penmanship and absently licking pudding off the spoon.

Temperance had its limits.

Snape hissed as the quill snapped a third time, spilling ink on the parchment. A quietly cast ‘Evanesco' to deal with the mess still came as a relief. Azkaban hadn't taken everything from him. He picked up the next quill and griped it tightly. It would break again, he knew, but anything less and his hand would shake too violently to do much more than splatter ink over the desk. The tip of the quill moved through the arc of each letter:

S... n... a... p...

He was half-way through the last letter this time before breaking off the tip.

Enough of that.

Snape, it said. A forceful reminder of self as much as it was practice. Snape. My name still. He held out hope that when, not if, the Minister ever deigned to return his property (what little he had called his own) there was sure to be a mountain of parchment to scrawl his name to.

His hand twitched again to dribble a puddle of black that blotted out part of his name. Frowning at the less that subtle implications, he set the quill aside and banished the soiled paper.

Draining work, the simplest things were now. A constant reminder of how little was left of him. He was barely a wizard anymore. Bone-dry of magic and stripped of every source of pride he had once had. His hands were crippled, his magic absent. He felt emasculated as surely as if they had gelded him.

Hands of the Aurors held him still. Needed to, to prevent ever fibre of his being from lunging at the Unspeakable who held his wand. To tear and rend and claw at him until he had what was his. Then to be forced to watch it splinter and crack...

Snape flinched. Even the memory drew a visceral reaction.

He looked down at his clenched fists. Slowly uncurling his fingers, he stared at his palms, turning them over to look at the knuckles.

Still my hands.

Pushing up the sleeves, he took time to look at his arms.

My wrists... my skin..

Snape leaned back in his chair, dropping his hand to his lap. He thumbed the fly open, reaching past fabric to cup himself, half-hardened. His eyes fluttered shut.

He could still have this.

His movements were rough and inelegant, moving the tip of his thumb over secret dips and crests with the ease of long remembered familiarity. With a grunt, he reached his free hand lower.

He quickened his pace. This was right. The tension built up, spreading like a fire up his spine. The tightening that intensified as his hands worked insistently to one end.

Yes yes... yes...

And release.

He lay back panting and lifted his hand to look at the traces of proof that lingered. Proof he was alive, and whole, and human.

Snape tipped his head back and filled the room with his laughter. He wasn't broken. Beaten and weakened, surely, but still a man.

He dragged his body out of the chair and collapsed in the bed. The quilt tugged across his shoulders. Snape smiled into the darkness.

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AN: Sorry about the lack of updates. It's due to my reluctance to deal with FA's submission process and not lack of writing.