Work Text:
Twenty-three buttons.
Buttons.Twenty-three small horn buttons down the front of his thick, woollen frock coat. A vestment worn for so long it feels like a second skin. A daily routine, always done by hand, not by magic. Twenty-three deft movements of his fingers against the fabric, each one securing him under this suit of armour. Once buttoned-up he no longer was that poor northern boy that cowered from his father’s fists. Once buttoned-up he no longer was that gangly teenager bullied by his classmates. Twenty-three small objects warding a scared, tired, lonely man from reality. Twenty-three buttons allowing him to become the Death Eater, the spy, the professor, the pawn.
Twenty-two buttons.
Regrets. A wasted life. Bad decisions made in anger. Bad decisions made because of circumstances. Bad decisions he was masterfully manipulated into. Two decades under not one but two heavy yokes. Gruelling years hard on the body, harder on the mind. Dark mark on his arm and just as indelible stains on his soul. Deeds committed under orders from one master or the other, but also deeds to sate his own anger, jealousy and callousness.
Twenty-one buttons.
Occlumency. Mental shields akin to the wall of a mediaeval fortress, thick, solid, impregnable. Doing it once to survive the night while a madman rifled through his thoughts. Doing it again to be able to say the words while pointing the wand. Hiding behind the mental shields to run away from the guilt threatening to eat him alive. Watching a man cry and beg for his life and occluding til it felt like watching a silent movie.
Twenty buttons.
Physical pain. So familiar, some days it was the only thing reminding him he was still alive. From the first open-handed slap on a small clumsy child that he spilled his glass of milk at the dinner table to rounds after rounds of Cruciatus. Scars marking his body, a road map of his sins. Nights thinking he wouldn’t wake up as his vision turned dark. Dragging himself back to the castle with fractured bones, broken teeth, flayed skin. Mornings with a pounding skull after chasing oblivion the only way Snape men knew how.
Nineteen buttons.
Teaching. The soul-sucking job. Long hours, exacting schedule for half the pay of the other professors. “Consider yourself lucky I even allow you in the castle" he had been told by the man pulling his strings. Long evenings marking insipid papers and grieving the dreams of solitary research he once thought he would pursue. Children screaming, being disorderly. Teenagers not paying attention and being disrespectful. Having to teach him . Six long years staring at the embodiment of his first enemy, of his first love, of his choices, of his guilt, of his grief. And a know-it-all bushy hair young girl dangerously fraying the last of his patience.
Eighteen buttons.
Humiliation. Kids calling him names and throwing rocks at him because he wore threadbare hand-me-downs. Staying quiet in the common room listening to pompous purebloods with their silver spoons, manors and fucking peacocks. Learning to emulate them, the way they spoke, dressed, held their cutlery all the while knowing he would never really belong. Being one of the most powerful wizards in Britain and kneeling at the feet of a snake-like creature as if he was less than. Having to work with—and brew potions in his spare time— for one of the four men who made his schooling hell. Listening to runny-nose children calling him a bat or a greasy git day in and out and still having to protect three of them from a fucking werewolf.
Seventeen buttons.
Dark Mark. The accursed skull on his skin getting darker. The pointed looks by the Bulgarian headmaster who used to stand to his left under a mask similar to his own. Abject terror as it burned again in a way he hadn’t felt in a decade. The kind of terror that made men cower and wet themselves. Wanting to plead and beg for the old wizard to not make him go back. Not again. Throwing up being the stands filled with students as his skin burned and burned. Watching the boy who looked just like his father confirm his worst fears. Barely hearing himself say “As you wish. Headmaster’” before black aether brought him back to his living nightmare.
Sixteen buttons.
Weariness. Bone-deep weariness. Days gone in a blur, too tired to remember any of them. Falling into bed fully dressed only to be awoken by nightmares. Teaching first years after a night of revel followed by an hour of emptying his stomach and scrubbing his skin raw in a scalding shower trying to wash away the blood from his hands or drown the screams of women he stood by and watched getting defiled. Dragging his too-thin, malnourished body into the Great Hall because he was ordered to be present for breakfast. Downing gallons of black coffee with Pepper-up chasers to be able to function. Too many thoughts of his mum in that bathtub and that razor blade on the tiles. Too many thoughts of how easy it would be.
Fifteen buttons:
Anger. Permeating him. A slick, oily coat on his skin, his hair, in his eyes and coating his tongue. Anger, he let himself feel. Let it bleed through his shields. Anger at the world for its unfairness. At his parents for the neglect. At his first love and friend for never forgiving him. At his schoolmates for ostracising him and then recruiting him. At the Dark Lord and the Headmaster for using him. At his colleagues, always complaining about their trivial lives. Anger towards The-boy-who-lived for daring to invade his private memories, for being reckless, for getting the girl injured. But most of all, anger towards himself.
Fourteen buttons:
Torment. Pacing back and forth in his DADA classroom trying to come to terms with the Headmaster’s revelation and demands. Forcing himself to eat, knowing full well he would not keep it down. Waking up drenched in sweat from a nightmare, only to remember that the nightmare was all too real. The headmaster would die. The boy would die. Waking up drenched in sweat from dreams that left him wanting and aching, his head filled with curly hair, amber eyes and a girl he shouldn’t want. A girl not meant for the likes of him.
Thirteen buttons.
Jealousy. Feelings long forgotten curling up in his chest, wrapping their tendrils around his ribs and constricting his lungs. Acrid taste in his mouth at those hormonal teenage boys all around her. None of them worthy of her goodness, her intellect, her beauty.Of their filthy hands touching her, hugging her. He coveted and craved. Vivid fantasies of taking her away. Away from war, death, and pain. Vivid fantasies of taking her away. Bind her to him, hide her from everyone, keep her all to himself. Never let her go.
Twelve buttons:
Self-loathing. For making her cry when he screamed at her and that pompous boy trying to shove his tongue down her throat at a Christmas dinner. Reflection of a man too thin, too tired, too scared, too old, too poor, too tainted. Bleeding hand from punching a mirror. Lecherous, disgusting old man. Rapid wrist movement under a hot shower. Blinding pleasure followed by deep shame. His mentor, his puppet master, lit up in green. Murderous, traitorous man. Insane witch cackles and the dark mark floating above the castle. Not enough good liquor in the ostentatious manor to drown the voices telling him he should have been the one dying in the astronomy tower.
Eleven buttons:
Loneliness. The age-old conundrum of not being alone, yet being lonely. Sleepless nights in the office of the man he usurped and murdered. Reviled by people he once respected. His name, now tinged with ignominy for the people he fought for and revered by those he fought against. Dusty portraits as his only companions. Taking to sleeping on the sofa in his office for a few hours at the time because the bed wasn’t his, was too big, was too empty.
Ten buttons
Worry. For the students forced into this grotesque facsimile of what their education should have been. The ones in the hospital wing victims of Unforgivables by their professors and classmates. For his Slytherins, who he was watching going down the same dark path that ruined his own life. For the Order, left in shambles without a leader. For the boy who was prophesied to be their saviour. For himself, and his ability to handle the pressure. For her, for the girl cold, lost and starving in the forest.
Nine Buttons
Dying. Spending so many years wishing for peace and oblivion and yet, as he faced it all he could think was that it happened all too fast. Feeling his magic ebb from his injured body along with his lifeblood. Regrets. So many regrets. His cheeks becoming wet as his occlumency shield failed. He couldn't tell if it was tears or blood but he didn’t think it mattered. No light at the end of a tunnel. No family members back to guide him. Only the green eyes of his first love, the amber ones of his last.
Eight buttons:
Weakness. He should have died. She should have left him for dead. Not this fucking half-life, stuck in a hospital bed with healers in and out of the room, pawing at his body. No peace, no dignity. Magic-suppressing cuffs, as if he could even lift a wand. No voice, no strength. The constant stream of visitors. The aurors came first wanting to interrogate him, eyeing him with disdain and suspicion, then his former colleagues and some students. He wished he could have screamed at them to leave, he did not need their pity and apologies. And her. For weeks on end, always her. She sat by his side quietly or read to him. He refused to acknowledge her presence; doing so would have meant looking at her and he couldn't bear to look in her eyes.
Seven buttons
Trial. Sitting in a cage on the floor of the tribunal, longing for his frock coat. They had paraded him in front of cameras and the wizarding world in a beige jumpsuit and that large wound dressing that still covered his neck. She had bribed the healers to let her give him a shave. He had stared at the wall, trying to ignore her nimble fingers against his jaw. He silently stared at the wall once again as she and the boy testified on his behalf. As if the list of his crimes and failings didn’t warrant a life sentence or ten. A free man. He wanted to laugh but he did not trust himself not to cry.
Six buttons:
Intimacy. Scarier than the Dark Lord. He did not know how. All too much. All too soon. So many fucking feelings, wants,and needs. Terrified. Out of control. He didn’t deserve anything good and soon she would realise it too. Attack before getting hurt. He defaulted to the only thing that he knew inside and out. “I’m not an elf. You can’t save me.” So many words he did not mean. A familiar blank mask as he watched her cry leaving Spinner’s End. Good riddance. Don’t come back. Please come back.
Five buttons:
Hope. A little flame deep in his chest. Small but constant. Radiating its heat in a body that had never known anything but cold. A rufous-coloured owl carrying a response he did not deserve and did not believe he would receive. A muggle coffee shop, a hesitant but genuine smile. Words of apologies he had never said to anyone. Her fingers intertwined with his across the table. A chaste kiss on the side of his mouth. “Only you can save yourself, but I’ll wait for you. For a time, not forever.” Words not of forgiveness or absolution but of hope.
Four buttons:
Healing. Five months to regain full control of his body and magic.Biweekly visits to St.Mungos. Speech Therapy. Magic Core Therapy. Physiotherapy. Hydrotherapy. So many doctors. So many nights exhausted and wondering if it was worth it. Eighteen more months with a mind healer. An entire month of sitting in silence just waiting for the session to be over. Four visits cut short. He wouldn’t talk about his mother. Four more to do just that. Seven months before he admitted to the guilt eating at him over his former colleague fed to a snake as he did not even bat an eyelash. Another three months examining his feelings for his student. Not his student anymore. For her. Only her.
Three buttons:
Learning. Everything he’d never been taught. How to accept kindness. How to trust. How to ask for help. How to not stiffen at the touch of a witch. How to talk without screaming or shutting down. How to let himself feel without his shields. How to be a man with free will. How to let himself dream. How to pursue his dreams. Learning to accept. Accept that compassion isn’t pity. That empathy isn’t something worth getting angry at. To forgive others, to forgive himself. To love himself so that he could love others.
Two Buttons:
Joy. A new feeling, one he never wanted to occlude from. Sharing a home. A glow basking all things. Lazy afternoons reading. Mornings where he’d wake up at the break of dawn just to watch her sleep. Her support as he gave his letter of resignation. Her encouragement as he set up his own apothecary. Her willingness to help him with the shop so he could finally spend time on his research. Arguments she would defuse with a kiss. Arguments he would defuse with one as well. Meeting of the minds. Not waking up alone after a nightmare. Having a good meal with friends. Spending nights of bliss between her thighs. Finding magic in the small things he had never been allowed to have.
One Button:
Hermione. Her nimble little fingers, unfastening the last button. By hand, not by magic. Taking off his heavy armour. No more costumes. No more hiding. No more masters. Acceptance of his past, his bad decisions, his temper. No buttons needed to be her friend, her lover, her confidant. Pride. Love. Support. His witch, his hope, his love and his dreams.