Snapetober day 17 - Dessert
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‘Eat'.
'My Lord...'
'Eat'.
Severus lowered his gaze. His arms and hands were shaking too much, he tried to steady them - it was too late. With a grin, the Dark Lord extended his bony hand towards the plate and retrieved whatever awful substance had been placed on it. He brutally shoved it down Severus' throat, making sure to choke him in the process, placing his hand on both his mouth and nose to make sure he swallowed. The taste was vile. Severus could tell he has been fed a potion, a poison certainly; it was only minutes before he fell on his knees, gritting his teeth under sudden combined waves of nausea and stomach cramps.
The Dark Lord grinned once more, retrieving a chair from the table and placing it right in front of the fallen man. He sat there serenely, crossing his legs.
'Don't you dare vomit, Severus.'
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'Albus, the boy is starving himself.'
'Poppy -'
'I don't mean this only as a figure of speech this time, headmaster.'
The old man sighed.
'I know. I promise you I am doing everything I can to make Severus feel better. But I cannot make him forget... Unpleasant experiences. His body won’t let him either.’
It had been a week, and the boy could not even look at food. He had not said much. There had only been the usual terrible, haunting smile on his face when he had woken up - and then, when Poppy had brought him dinner, he had been violently sick. Albus had asked him to speak to him; Severus had simply turned his back on him, staring absently at the floor.
'I have told you every bit of useful information', he had told him flatly, 'as for the rest, it is my business and my business only'.
Some would have said that refusing to talk about what had happened was not healthy, that he needed to confide in someone, to let it out. But Albus knew what was at stake here. Control. He was no fool: he was aware Severus' agency wasn't his own, and it never really had been. The man was always made to talk in one way or another - his privacy was all he had left.
So Albus had left the room, leaving the boy to rest.
But a week later he had not eaten anything besides strengthening potions, and the headmaster was worried the boy would injure himself while brewing, or worse.
But what could he do?
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'Really, Minerva, if it were so urgent, I am sure the headmaster would have come down to see me directly.'
'Come on, Severus. I did not interrupt anything, did I? So there is no reason not to come'.
'I am busy'.
'You were sitting in an armchair with neither light nor heat'.
'We all meditate in different ways'.
The Gryffindor rolled her eyes.
'After you'.
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'Merlin, Albus, that is a disaster'.
There was no question the scene was hilarious. The headmaster was standing in the middle of what must have been a kitchen - both Minerva and Severus of course knew it was his kitchen, but we'll hold on to uncertainty for the sake of emphasis - a kitchen that looked like a proper shipwreck. There were piles of plates and casseroles, dirty bowls here and there, food packages half empty; as for the actual cooking, it looked like sugar and flour had been used to paint the walls and headmaster's robes in a white, uneven colour. Albus looked mortified.
'The biscuit is flat', he said, opening the oven with an air of absolute defeat.
Severus advanced and hurriedly closed the oven, almost startling Minerva.
'You do not open an oven while baking a cake, Albus!' he said, increasing the temperature. 'And what is this? Headmaster - you must never stop to whip the pastry cream! That is basic chemistry!'
Minerva chuckled. 'Albus, you once burnt pasta in front of me. This all seems very advanced for you.'
'It was for a good cause', Albus replied apologetically (and with a hint of malice), smiling as he watched Severus putting every dirty dish in the sink and washing them with a flicker of his wand. His own lab was always immaculate.
'I know exactly what you are doing, Albus' Severus said, his back still turned on them. He was whipping the pastry cream vigorously.
'I never said you didn't', the headmaster replied innocently. 'The coconut cream is on your left.'
Minerva sat down beside the kitchen table, folding her arms with an air of absolute delight. This was better than muggle comedies, without a shadow of a doubt. A Louis de Funès kind of comedy.
'Pass the spoon - the spoon, Albus'.
'This is terrible. This is an outrage. I don't even know what I am doing here.'
'There is flour all over your shoes.'
'Didn't I tell you to put it back on the shelf?'
'It is back on the shelf.'
'Ah yes. Some of it happens to be on the floor as well.'
'My wrist hurts.'
'And yet two years ago you asked me to make one batch of wolfsbane a week. Pass the cream.'
'I told you, my wrist hurts.'
'That cream is at room temperature, Albus. Your crème diplomate will never rise'.
Severus cut the cake open.
'What is it you attempted to do, Albus?' Minerva finally asked, looking doubtful as both men filled the cake with cream.
'I trust this was supposed to be a tropézienne pie, wasn't it?' said Severus, sitting down beside her, looking drained. 'I need a drink'.
'Not on an empty stomach' Albus said joyfully, putting the cake before them and decorating it with sugar pearls.
The cake looked miserable. It was flat, but Severus had succeeded in cutting it evenly; however the crème diplomate, which had not risen, was escaping on all sides of the cake, almost making it look like an enormous dish of floating island. There was a long silence between the three of them.
'All I can say is that the cream will taste good' Severus finally said, aware that Minerva was trying hard not to burst into laughter.
It was indeed hard not to be amused, for the headmaster, far from sharing his colleagues' open scepticism, was looking proudly at his cake, definitely convinced that things could have been much worse.
Minerva cut out three pieces - well, there was biscuit, and then a few spoonfuls of cream on top of it, and then the pearl sugar that had fallen on the table in the process.
Albus watched anxiously as Severus looked down at his plate while Minerva, putting down the platter, pretended to busy herself with the soggy biscuit.
Severus frowned, considering the cake critically. It was indeed a disaster: it looked childish, almost a work of abstract art, the plate was of course excessively colourful, the silver spoon had an eccentric handle, the whole thing was yellow and beige.
What was certain, though, was that this looked nothing like the Dark Lord's meal of choice.
He took a small mouthful, and did not get paler.
Then, slowly, quite enjoying the power he held over the room at this very moment, he declared: 'it is actually not bad at all'.
Albus smiled brightly. The cream was, indeed, a delight.
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