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Ready to fly, my heart has been unbuckling
for a long time, waiting. When you finally
arrive, we are given: extra room under the sky,
a thousand days of spring, the ability to read
the wind, what we see tomorrow becoming.
And I know it’s a slippery slope—how things
become other things, digging in our heels
to slow erosion. Our mouths purple, gurgling
goodbyes, still unwritten. Like corn, shuck shuck
shucking, the way we must unglove ourselves, pry
loose what’s under the skin, hoping to like
what we find, learning to love. Naked, bared out
in full color, we make casts of each other
to remember.
—Jesse Holth, “Letter to Us, Younger”
Black sneers, and Snape sneers back, teeth bared, lip curled in disgust. She isn’t sure how she ended up here, against the wall of Grimmauld Place’s drawing room, robes hitched up around her waist, Black’s hands gripping her hips, his cock plunging into her arse, her cunt for once entirely ignored. She can’t help a profound relief, and further relief at the fact that he’s ignoring her tits. Most men are obsessed with them, and have no idea what feels good.
They don’t talk, her and Black, at least not for a good long while; they just echo each other, his cock tight and huge inside her, her hips moving with his thrusts, and eventually he grunts and sighs. “How do you get off?”
“What?”
“How do I make you come?”
“I don’t come,” Snape says, and Black meets her eyes, his startlement obvious. “You can’t make me. Don’t bother trying.”
“What if I, er—what if I—”
“Believe me, I’ve already tried it,” Snape says, and Black gives her a look that somehow conveys both grief and respect. It’s not what she’s expecting, and she grips his shoulders and rolls her eyes. “Come whenever you want. I don’t care.”
“I’m gay,” Black blurts, and Snape blinks. Suddenly, instead of being half-bored, she’s achingly turned on; she fumbles her grip on his neck, and he catches her and pins her more firmly to the wall. “Sorry. I just, er—fuck, but you’re fit.”
“Thanks,” Snape says, her mouth dry. “Do you have sex with a lot of women?”
“No. Never.”
“I see.”
“Sorry,” Black says again. “I, er—if you can’t come, I’m not sure I feel right about—”
“Oh, please. You’re many things, but a gentleman is most certainly not one of them.”
“Oi!”
Snape squeezes hard around Black, who gasps. “Fuck me already,” Snape says harshly. “Stop fucking around.”
“Yes, sir,” Black says, and Snape feels her toes curl. He starts pounding into her again, his orgasm coming perhaps five minutes into this, and they pull apart, and he turns her over and licks her clean, his tongue wet and hot inside her. She gasps and arches into him, and he kisses the cleft of her arse, then slaps her cheeks playfully. “You’re a bad boy, huh?” Black says, and Snape feels her toes curl again. He turns her back over and kisses her hard, right on the mouth, and she kisses back, wrestling him onto his back and pinning him there.
When Snape pulls away, Black grins up at her. “Tell me you’ll come back.”
“Thought you were gay.”
“I am.”
“I’m not a man, Black.”
“Right,” Black says. “Well, I had fun anyway.”
“Right.” Snape scowls, and Black’s grin widens. She pins his neck to the floor with her forearm, baring her teeth, and he raises an eyebrow. “What kind of game are you playing, huh? Fucking with my head? Trying to make me feel bad?”
“No! No. I wouldn’t do that. I swear I wouldn’t do that.”
She meets his eyes, delving into his unprotected mind. —Jesus fuck I have never been this attracted to a woman in my life what if he—she, he’s a woman, she, she—what if she fucked me with a strap-on what if she slapped my face and left scratches on my back what if—
Ah, Snape thinks, and says, “I believe you.” Black looks relieved. She shoves him one more time, then scrambles up, retrieves her discarded wand, and spells her clothes on. “I’ll think about it.”
“Brilliant,” Black says, leaking sincerity. “Anytime you want, okay? I know you know I’m here.”
“Yeah,” Snape says. “I know.”
Snape keeps thinking about Black’s voice, over and over, drawling: Right. About his thoughts: He’s a woman. Who exactly does Black think he is? How dare he make wild accusations? How dare he sound so skeptical about one of the most basic and intrinsic aspects of Snape’s existence? She’s not a man. She’s not.
It’s like an addiction, she reflects, as she stares down the potion she’s been telling herself not to take for the past five days. What will it accomplish to take it? What will it do but make her sick with oily, vertiginous grief?
Snape thinks it again, in Black’s pompous, skeptical drawl: Right. She wants to stay furious, but mostly she feels hot and cold all over, and she shoves the potion in her pocket and stomps out to the living room, locking her door as many ways as she knows how.
She situates herself in front of the ornate wall-length mirror, takes a measured sip, and watches as her body transforms. Her jaw squares; her hips narrow; her chest flattens; her hair stays shoulder-length, but grows coarser. The rest of her body hair grows thicker, and the down on her face turns to stubble, sketching out a five o’clock shadow.
“There we are, love,” the mirror says. “Feel better?”
“Oh, shut up.” Snape examines herself, wishing her hair weren’t quite so long. What if she cut it even shorter? Hooch’s is as short as Flitwick’s.
But, as always, she dismisses the notion, frowning, staring into her own eyes, which, of course, are exactly the same: too dark to read, or they ought to be. But she can see her own pain, her own desperation, her own brutal longing, shining through like lumos.
“You look good,” the mirror says. “Handsome.”
“I look like a woman. Look at that hair. Look at the way I’m standing.” She can hear a whine in her voice, adjusting her posture until she doesn’t feel quite as obvious, though of course she still screams woman anyway. She runs a hand through her hair and scowls. “God. Listen to my voice. You can hear in my inflection that I fucking—”
“That’s your own insecurity talking,” the mirror says firmly. “No one in their right mind would read you as a woman right now. They might read you as bent, but—”
Snape lets out a short, bitter laugh, and the mirror sighs. “You look like a man. If you weren’t so wrapped up in dysphoria and dysmorphia you would be able to see that.”
“I’m not dysmorphic. Or dysphoric.”
The mirror laughs in her face.
She goes back to Grimmauld Place three days after that, finding Black and Kreacher screaming obscenities at each other in the hallway, Walburga shrieking along in defense of Kreacher’s honor. Or perhaps just her family’s. Snape leans against the wall and watches, until at last Black lunges.
“Not so fast,” Snape says, drawing her wand, clucking her tongue. “Kreacher, run along.”
“You heard the shit he was—”
“You own him,” Snape says coldly, and Black deflates. He mutters under his breath, and Kreacher scampers away, or as close as such an elderly being can manage, which isn’t very. Black lets out a long sigh and shoots a silencing charm at his mother, who still bursts out with the occasional curse, unable to be contained. “Come on. Your room.”
“What?”
“You’re fucking me again,” Snape says, and Black lights up.
She lets Black at her arse again, lets him lube up his fingers and fuck her with them, trying not to examine her relief at his complete and utter disinterest in her cunt. It’s functional enough, but she doesn’t enjoy using it, at least not with other people. But Black’s fascination with her arse is oddly thrilling, though she can’t pinpoint why. Or at least she doesn’t want to.
He fucks her with long, hard strokes, and bites her shoulder when he comes. She finds herself bringing Black’s head to her own chest after he collapses and gives her a blissed-out look, laden with obvious neediness; she doesn’t want to be nurturing, but reflects glumly that she doesn’t have much of a choice. They lie together in silence for a long time, Snape stroking Black’s shoulder, Black humming vaguely, until Black whispers, “You’re really not a man?”
“I have a vagina, Black.”
“So?”
Snape finds herself at a loss for words, so she says nothing. “Men don’t have vaginas,” she says at last, and it feels weak even to her. “I have tits. I can’t even grow a beard.”
“Neither can Remus.”
“Black.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I’m not a man, Black,” Snape whispers, and Black makes a noise that somehow conveys temporization. “I’m not.”
“You’re the expert,” Black says lightly. “How would you feel about fucking me with a strap-on?”
“I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Gonna give you a personalized detention,” Snape grunts, and Black squeaks as she rolls over on top of him and kisses him.
It only takes her one day to use the sex-changing potion after that; the next day, she does it again. The day after that, she has to hide her floo powder from herself to stop from going to Black’s, just to discern his reaction; instead, she goes to her room and closes the door and lies down under the covers, pulling them over her head and breathing in deep. Then she shoves her hand in her pants, running a light hand along her cock.
She shudders as it begins to come to attention, hardening beneath her fingers, the sensation almost too much to bear. But at the same time, there’s an odd sense of recognition, of oneness with her body unlike anything she’s ever experienced, except on this potion. She imagines Black’s hands on her, Black’s body bearing down on her own, and now she’s fully hard, her prick dripping precome beneath her fingers. She strokes, slowly, then faster, her hands large and rough and hers, and feels tears well in her eyes, and blinks them away. All that exists is sensation: hand, and prick, and pinpricks of some deep cavern of yearning that she can’t focus on without going mad.
Her orgasm, as always, takes her by surprise. She’s so used to skirting the edge, never surpassing it, that to do so is bewildering; that sustained instant of transcendental pleasure takes her outside of herself, beyond herself, and yet taps into a primal, innate sense of oneness with herself, like nothing else she’s ever experienced, except perhaps the heights of creative inspiration. But this—
She lies there, panting, until the potion wears off, and then turns over on her side and cries.
When Snape arrives at Grimmauld Place, there’s upbeat salsa streaming down the halls. She follows her ears to the drawing room, where she finds Black dancing, wild, free, utterly comfortable in his body in a way she’s never been. She watches, then, after a moment of deliberation, wolf-whistles; he stumbles, then whirls around to face her, a grin overtaking his face. “Sunny!”
Snape winces, and Black nods to himself. “Sorry,” he says. “Snape! Good to see you.”
Snape relaxes, though she resents him noticing, too, the way she hates her name, hates everything there is to hate about herself. “Well?” she drawls. “Do you want to fuck or not?”
Black nods rapidly. Snape smirks, turns around, and starts for his bedroom.
He, of course, follows, and she throws him down onto the bed and reaches into her robes, pulling out a strap-on and a harness. He lights up when she casts stripping charms on both of them, shuddering a little as she brackets his hips with her knees and snarls, “Well, mutt? Do you think you deserve to be fucked?”
“I don’t know, Daddy,” Black says, and Snape shivers. “I’ve been an awfully bad boy.”
“You were born a bad boy,” Snape says, and Black grins. “Let’s see if we can fuck it out of you.”
“Worth a shot,” Black agrees, and laughs in delight as Snape lunges for him and kisses him.
Afterwards, they lie together, Snape curled into Black’s side. “You ever thought about it?” Black asks. “What name you’d choose?”
“Severus,” Snape says, staring up at the ceiling, feeling Black’s hand caress her chest, stopping short at her tits and traveling up to her collarbone. “Severus Tobias.”
“Tobias?”
“My father. My middle name’s Eileen. For my mum.”
Black hums. “It’s a pain to get it changed legally,” Snape says. “Access to the necessary potions is highly restricted. And they subject you to an extensive interrogation under Veritaserum, and five years’ worth of psychological examinations from a healer at St. Mungo’s. It’s almost impossible to accomplish in the muggle world.”
“Couldn’t you just confund them?”
“It’s illegal. Anyway, it would never fly with the Dark Lord. He’d probably kill me. And I have no idea how—I can’t imagine any of the students—the school board would probably fire me over it, even if the faculty was okay with it. Which I doubt.” She buries her face in her hands. “Fuck.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought, huh?”
“Yeah,” Snape moans. “All the time. Fuck. I take a temporary sex-changing potion at least once a month. Fuck.”
“I see.”
“Fuck,” Snape says again, with feeling, and Black sighs and draws her head into his lap, though she’s still covering her own face. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck—God damn it—I—Black, I—I can’t be a man, you understand? I can’t. I can’t. I’m not a man. I am—I am a—I’m not a—I’m not a woman. I’m not, am I? I’m not a woman. I’m not. I’m not.” Snape feels himself shaking, and feels Black holding him, and he finds himself clinging to him instead of himself, letting out harsh, wet, wracking sobs, and suddenly he can’t breathe, or maybe he can, maybe it’s that this is the first breath he’s ever taken—
“Severus?”
“Fuck,” Snape moans, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Oh, fuck. Oh, God. I’m not a woman, am I?”
“What do you think?”
“Oh, God!”
“It’s okay,” Black says, his voice soothing. “It’s better to know, isn’t it?”
“Not really!”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I really do!”
Black sighs, and Snape forces himself to pull away. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and wipes his face and wandlessly summons his shirt and slides it on. “I can’t do anything about it.”
“What? Of course you can.”
“No,” Snape says. “I can’t. Tomorrow isn’t going to be any different from yesterday. Nothing has changed. Except that now I can’t fucking—” he shoves Black’s chest hard, sneering at his wide eyes “—ignore the fact that my body makes me miserable anymore! That every time anyone uses my name or calls me ‘she’ I want to fucking kill myself! I don’t get to pretend it isn’t real anymore! Thanks a whole fucking lot for that!”
“Severus, I’m sorry, I—”
Snape feels himself deflate, all at once. “I guess there’s one upside,” he admits. “I can take the potion when we fuck now.”
Black grins, though it’s rueful and a little lopsided. “Well, hey. That’s something.”
“I can come when I have a prick,” Snape informs him, and now Black’s grin is lighting up the whole of his beautiful, infuriating little face.
He assumes that’s the end of it until the next morning, when Flitwick gives him an odd look at breakfast. It’s so odd, in fact, that he tilts his head back, trying to look nonchalant. “Filius?”
“There’s something different about you today,” Flitwick says, and Snape feels his eyes widen. “Something—you seem—lighter, somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like this giant weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Did something happen?”
“I had a moment of personal clarity,” Snape says dryly, and doesn’t elaborate. “It’s not important.”
“It must have been a pretty big epiphany.”
“Yeah,” Snape admits. “Yeah, it really was.”
His students, of course, don’t comment, but when he makes his way to the faculty lounge, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea and his ankles crossed, it doesn’t take long for Filch to approach. “You seem happier,” he says, a little accusingly. Snape shrugs, struggling not to smile into his saucer. Filch softens, and says, “You seem more confident. Like you’re comfortable in your own skin. It suits you.”
“Thanks,” Snape manages. “I, er—that’s—how are you, Argus?”
It continues all day, much to his bewilderment, people commenting over and over that he seems happier, lighter, open, free. He’s about ready to lose his mind by the end of it, and escapes to his rooms and downs the potion and stares at himself for a long moment.
“There he is,” the mirror says, and Severus bursts into completely undignified tears.
He hugs himself, laughing and crying, collapsing onto the couch, holding on tight. “I’ve got you,” he says aloud, to himself, and squeezes hard, feeling his fingers sink into his shoulders, both shoulder and finger registering the sensation of the hug, bouncing off of each other in a symphony of self-love unlike anything he’s ever experienced. “I’ve got you.” He opens his eyes and looks in the mirror again, seeing, for the first time, the man who’s been there all along.
He laughs again, and stands and twirls around until he’s dizzy, then holds out his arms to steady himself, tumbles over to the mirror, and kisses himself right on the lips.
“There we go, dear,” the mirror says, and Severus laughs and hugs himself one more time and steps through the floo.
Black’s there in the kitchen eating dinner when he arrives, and he stands up and raises his wand, then lowers it just as fast. “Severus?”
“Hi,” Severus says giddily, knowing he’s grinning ear to ear. Black gives him a look that’s impossible to interpret as anything other than awe. “’Sup?”
“Hello,” Black breathes. “Kiss me.”
Severus kisses him. The way Black kisses back—
Dinner lies forgotten. Black doesn’t seem to mind.
Severus looks down at the vial of bubbling blue potion, turning it over in his hands. He’d never labeled it; he’s always known what it’s for. It had taken six months of laborious, painstaking brewing, half of his twenty-sixth year, and he’d buried it in the back of his sock drawer, taking it out to contemplate it every month or so. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how deep and fierce and wild the longing was; how total and utter and pure the desire that overwhelmed him every time.
Should I? he thinks. It would be stupid; almost catastrophically so. There are legal consequences, and social ones, and—
He can’t make himself care. Enough is enough, Severus thinks, and downs the permanent sex-changing potion in one gulp, feeling his body change for the very last time.
When he calms, he goes to Grimmauld Place. Black is there, and lights up at the sight of him; unfortunately, Lupin is there too, and leaps up and brandishes his wand at once. “Who are you? How’d you get in here?”
“Moony! Calm down. It’s Snape.”
“What?”
“He’s Snape! Put that fucking thing away.”
“Sunny Snape?”
“It’s Severus, actually,” Severus says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hi.”
Lupin sits down hard, glancing between them. “I—I didn’t know. What are you doing here?”
“Well, I, erm—” He glances at Black, sure it’s helpless, unsure what he wants Lupin to know. “Would you believe that I happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“We’re lovers,” Black says firmly, and Severus feels himself relax. “Come here, handsome.”
Severus goes to him, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. Then he pulls away, sits down, and pours himself a glass of firewhiskey. Lupin gives him a wry, hesitant look. “Is it rude to say congratulations?”
Severus shakes his head, feeling emotion rise in his throat. “No,” he manages. “No, it’s not rude.”
“Congratulations, Severus,” Lupin says firmly. Severus swallows. He wants to cry, suddenly; he’d thought he’d never get to hear anybody use his real name, not even once before he died. But he’s already lost count; he had after the first five. “How did you know?”
“Somebody kept yammering on about how he was gay,” Severus sniffs. “And I, well—there’s only so far you can take things before it becomes ridiculous. I thought about it all the time.” He laughs and runs a hand over his face. “God. All the fucking time. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I was—I must have had a conversation with myself about whether or not I was a man at least once a month.”
“How have people been reacting? All good, I hope?”
“Oh, I haven’t told anyone.”
“They didn’t notice?”
“I just took the potion. Just now. I’m going to—there’s another one you can take hourly. So it’ll change me back during the day. And during Order meetings. And around the Dark Lord. I guess—hm. I might be able to be myself when I’m living at home next summer, I guess. At the grocer’s or whatever.”
Black and Lupin both look horrified. “What?”
“That’s—” Lupin shakes his head. “Well, I won’t out you.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Another head shake. “You want to live like that? Always in hiding? Constantly concealing yourself?”
Severus throws his head back and laughs. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years?”
The next night, Potter has Occlumency. Severus does what he can to prod his mind into defending itself, and as always, Potter responds offensively, delving into Severus’s mind. He battles him off, but not before he’s caught glimpses of a dozen repressed memories, a dozen recent ones, him kissing himself in the mirror, weeping for joy.
Severus evicts him, and Potter sits back, panting.
“Professor,” he begins, and Severus feels himself grow even more exhausted. “Can I ask—is whatever’s got you acting so different—I didn’t want to see those memories, but I—sir—”
Severus freezes. “Sorry, sir—blast—”
“It’s quite alright,” Severus forces out, and Potter relaxes. “Or at least it’s not—inaccurate.”
“Right,” Potter says, relieved. “It’s—I don’t think I feel comfortable calling you ‘ma’am’ to your face. I’m sorry.”
“Believe me,” Severus says. “In that scenario, neither of us is comfortable.”
Potter’s mouth twitches, and Severus scowls. “Go on,” he says. “Get. Not a word to anyone.”
“Yes, sir,” Potter says, and Severus does his best to tamp down on a smile, to absolutely no avail.
When Severus stands in front of his classes, he’s got a newfound clarity of purpose and thinking that surprises even him. His thoughts feel focused, directed, crystalline in their shape and aims; he finds himself delivering a short lecture before each class, explaining why each thing must be done just so, and in that particular order. The students seem bewildered, but he can see an immediate improvement in their performances across the board.
On day three, Dumbledore approaches him after dinner. “Sunny,” he says, and Severus flinches. There’s steel in his voice, a tone of command he daren’t disobey. It’s his master’s voice, at its least forgiving. “Come with me to my office.”
“Of course, Headmaster,” Severus says, and lets the man trail him. He makes his way up the long, winding staircase, sitting down across from Dumbledore’s desk and trying for a smile. “How may I help you, Albus?”
Albus gives him an odd, mild, utterly penetrating gaze. “You can tell me who you really are.”
“What?”
Dumbledore stands, lightning-fast, ropes binding Severus to his chair, his flask flying into Dumbledore’s waiting hand. He unscrews it, smells it, and frowns. “It’s not polyjuice.”
Oh, Severus thinks. Shite. Duh. He wants to hold up his hands, but he’s tied down. “It’s—it’s gender-changing potion,” he explains, hating himself all the while. “It has to be taken every hour.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I took a permanent potion,” Severus says. “Last week. I’m a man. The potion you’re holding is so I look like a woman when I’m in public. But I—I wanted to be able to at least feel comfortable in my own skin when I’m alone.”
“Oh,” Dumbledore says, and sits down. He meets Severus’s eyes, prodding gently at his Occlumency, and Severus sighs and lets him in. He feels Dumbledore sort through the past week, taking in sex and breakdowns and a thousand tiny repressed memories adding up to a greater whole, and then feels him retreat. Albus releases the bindings, giving Severus a kind look. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Severus.”
Severus feels his lip wobble. “I—I’m still the same person.”
“I know,” Dumbledore says, and his voice is impossibly gentle. “You may want to be more subtle about when and where you take that. Or maybe you could take the permanent potion twice a day. This school remembers what happened last year. I may not be able to prevent a greater suspicion or confrontation.”
“It takes six months to brew one dose. The temporary potion takes two hours for a cauldronful that lasts two weeks.”
“Ah.” Dumbledore sighs. “I’m happy for you. But I need you to be careful, too. Can you do that for me? Because I’ve heard everyone talking about how different you seem, and no one knows what happened. And if they connect that with frequent doses of a mysterious potion, I may not be able to protect you from the fallout.”
“I understand.”
“If you want to just register with the Ministry—”
“No!”
Dumbledore’s face is tired, wry, and all-too-knowing. “I won’t pretend not to understand,” he says, and hands the flask back. Severus checks his watch, takes a sip, and tucks it back into his robes. “But if you do change your mind, please know you have my full support. And I think you’ll find more allies than you might expect. Everyone’s happy for you, even if they don’t know exactly what happened.”
“Oh,” Severus says. “Er, thanks.” He looks away, feeling himself smile against his will. “I, er—it’s somewhat obvious. In retrospect. My mum told me she’d have named me Severus when I was little, and I used to—God. I’d lie there every night before bed fantasizing about having been born a boy.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “I used to—when I was in my twenties I would go to gay bars just to breathe the same air as those men. I—fuck. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding? I’m the first to finally get the inside scoop on this particular piece of hot gossip?”
Severus laughs wetly, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry I made you think I’d been—”
“Think nothing of it, my dear boy.”
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle at him, and his master is gone, his mentor in his place. This is the Albus Severus can’t help but love, for all that he hates himself for it, and he soaks up his presence, wiping his eyes again. “I can’t stop crying,” he says, laughing a little. Dumbledore’s eyes are still unbearably kind. “I’ve been crying twice a day for a week now.”
“I’m glad you’re getting some catharsis.”
“Yeah.” Severus shakes his head. “I—thanks. For not—I thought I would get fired.”
“You think that little of me?”
“I just didn’t know.”
“Yeah.” Dumbledore sighs. “Well, I’m happy for you. It’s not always easy to be honest with yourself about who you are.”
“No,” Severus agrees, and stands. “It really isn’t. Thank you, Headmaster.”
Dumbledore smiles at him. “Always.”
He attempts to be more circumspect after that, but it only takes McGonagall two days to approach him in his office. She enters, locks the door, and gives him a hard look. “Okay,” she says flatly. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Severus attempts innocence. “Minerva?”
“Don’t get cute, Sunny.”
Severus flinches, and McGonagall jabs a finger in his face. “What. The fuck. Is going on. With you? You started acting different, and you’ve been drinking from that flask every hour on the hour, and when I talked to Dumbledore, he refused to say anything except that he had personally looked into the matter, and that it was something you would share in your own time. And he wouldn’t crack no matter what I said. What on Earth is going on, Sunny?”
Severus flinches again, unable to help it, and Minerva crosses her arms over her chest and taps an impatient foot. “Tell me.”
He considers her. “Will you promise not to tell anyone else?”
“Why?”
“It’s nobody’s business.”
“Right.” McGonagall glares. “Filius said you told him you had some kind of epiphany.”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone can tell that whatever you realized, it was—weighing you down. To such a degree that—I’ve known you since you were eleven, and I’ve never once seen the kind of genuine happiness on your face I’ve seen since last week. Not even around Lily.”
“Oh.” Severus rubs the back of his neck. “I, er—I’m a man.”
“What?”
“Hi,” Severus says, and holds out a joking hand to shake. “I’m Severus. He and him, please. In your head, at least. And with the Headmaster, I guess.”
Minerva still looks dumbfounded. “What?”
“Sorry.” Severus looks away, panic rising. “I, er—anyway, that’s what’s been going on with me.”
Minerva sits down hard in his chair, looking him over. “What does that have to do with your flask?”
“It’s a temporary sex-changing potion. I took the permanent one last week.”
“Oh.”
“Are you gonna tell everybody?”
“No.”
Severus feels himself slump in relief. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” Minerva shakes her head. “You’re a man.”
“Yeah.”
“You were in love with her, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Severus sighs. “It’s not gonna last long, is it?”
“No,” McGonagall agrees, and looks at him with unmistakable pity. “I don’t think so. Sorry.”
Severus flinches again, and wrings his hands together. “What’s everyone saying?”
“Flitwick thinks you stopped doing drugs,” McGonagall says, and Severus chokes on air. “Pomona thinks you started. But Vector says you don’t seem high to her. Babbling swears up and down it’s a sex thing. I guess she’s right.”
“Well, erm—”
“I’m happy for you, er—what was it?”
“Severus.”
“I’m happy for you, Severus. And I won’t tell anyone. But I think you should think about it. Everyone’s concerned. They don’t have any idea what’s going on with you, except that it’s big.”
“I’ll think about it,” Severus lies, and watches as Minerva rises, nods at him, and leaves. When the door swings shut, he shakes himself and turns to his grading, doing his best not to obsess over whether or not she intends to keep her word.
He goes to Black that night, as he has been every night; Lupin is there too, and gives him a broad smile in greeting. “Hey, Sev.”
Severus smiles back. “Lupin.”
Lupin rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to start calling me Remus.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Severus sits next to Black, accepting both a kiss and his hand, squeezing the latter hard. “How were your days?”
“How was yours?”
“Came out to McGonagall,” Severus says, and they both make interested noises. “She kind of forced my hand.”
Lupin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Well, she confronted me, anyway.” Severus sighs. “I don’t think this is going to last long. I think—everyone knows something’s up, and there’s no way to make taking the potion subtle. I think—I may not have a choice about telling people.”
“I’m sorry,” Black murmurs, and Severus shrugs. “I know you didn’t want—”
“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Severus says, though he can’t make himself believe it. “I don’t—the problem is Umbridge. There’s no way she isn’t transphobic.”
Black makes a face. “Yeah.”
Lupin frowns. “Is there any legal recourse?”
Severus laughs. “The law treats transsexuals about the same way it treats werewolves. It’s—not good. To put it mildly.”
“Yeah.” Lupin’s face grows tight with grim lines. “She’ll force a legal confrontation, you think?”
“The permanent potion is tightly controlled,” Severus says. “It’s not technically against the law to brew it yourself, but it is to use it.”
“Jail time?”
“Psychiatric confinement. Sometimes indefinitely.”
“Merlin,” Black says. “I didn’t know that.”
“It was stupid to think I could conceal it,” Severus reflects glumly. “I just—I brewed the permanent potion when I was twenty-five. Just in case. And once I—God. I just couldn’t fucking take it anymore.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Lupin says firmly. “I don’t know what we can do, but, well—”
“If you need to live here,” Black says, “you can live here.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Of course.” Black squeezes his hand. “What are you going to do?”
“Try and stay ahead of it, I guess.”
“How?”
“I have no fucking clue.” Severus rubs his face and groans. “Fuck. Everyone could tell. Immediately. God damn it.”
“It’s gonna be okay, baby.” Black releases his hand to rub his back instead. “Dumbledore would get you out of St. Mungo’s.”
“He’s not in the same position he once was.”
“Surely he could do something about that.”
“I just don’t—I don’t think I should count on that.”
“Yeah.” Lupin sighs. “I’m sorry you’re dealing with this, Severus. You shouldn’t have to fend off a hostile government just to be who you are.”
Severus raises a pointed eyebrow, and Lupin gives him a crooked smile. “Well, it’s not getting sorted out today,” Severus says briskly, and reaches for the firewhiskey set out on the table. “I ask again. How were your days?”
He has Occlumency with Potter the next day, and finds himself explaining more than he usually does, expounding on theory, startled by Potter’s deadly attentiveness. The boy does end up in his mind, of course; he happens to catch two unfortunate memories, one of him and Black in bed, and another of him explaining the scheme behind his potions to Lupin and Black. Severus recoils internally, batting him back, and Potter collapses into his seat, panting. “Convoluted, sir.”
“Do shut up, Potter.”
“I didn’t know you and Padfoot were shagging.”
“What about ‘shut up’ was unclear?”
Potter laughs. “I didn’t know he was gay, either.”
Severus feels his mind screech to a halt. It’s impossible to imagine such a statement leaving James Potter’s mouth, and he feels something inside him crumble to dust, an old, festering injury abruptly scar over. He sits back, letting out a breath, and shakes his head tiredly. “You… are not your father. Are you?”
“I’m myself, sir.”
“Quite.” Severus runs an exhausted hand over his face. “Why do you think you continue to make no progress, Mr. Potter?”
“Maybe I’m just not capable of it.”
“Everyone’s capable of it.” Severus sighs. “The magic to do this exists inside you.”
“So does Voldemort,” Potter mutters, and Severus flinches. “Sorry, sir.”
“No. You’re quite right. Perhaps that’s part of the problem.” Severus heaves another sigh. “I need to do some reading. I am going to teach you Occlumency, Potter, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Severus claps his legs and stands. “Go on. That’s enough for today.”
Potter slumps, nods, and leans down to gather his things. “Sir?”
“Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“Can you—how is he? Sirius?”
Severus feels himself stiffen, and then relax just as quickly. “He’s fine.”
“Is he—does he miss me?”
Severus laughs. Potter blinks, then gives him a very shy smile. Severus looks into his eyes, and finally sees his mother shining through, with the blinding emerald intensity of late spring. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
The next professor to approach him in his office is Flitwick. “Sunny,” Flitwick says, and Severus winces. “Minerva said you’re not an impostor.”
“Quite,” Severus says tiredly. “Do sit down, Filius. I think you might need to.”
Flitwick sits, his face eager. “Are you going to tell me about your epiphany now?”
“I’m a man,” Severus says, the words somehow easier to say than they were a few days ago. Flitwick’s mouth falls open. “That’s what I realized. My name is Severus. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss it with anyone other than Albus and Minerva.”
“Oh,” Flitwick says, and then, “Oh!”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just—a lot of things suddenly make sense now.”
“Oh,” Severus manages, blinking rapidly. “I, erm—”
“You took a permanent potion,” Flitwick says, and Severus blinks some more. “That’s what the hourly one is about?”
“I—yes.”
Flitwick shakes his head. “Ballsy.”
Severus feels warmth rise in his chest. “Thanks.”
“When Umbridge finds out, she’ll give you hell. The Ministry—”
“I’m aware.”
“I’m sure you are.” Flitwick sighs, a bit wistfully. “Don’t you wish you could just confund her?”
“It’s no use,” Severus says. “There’s still a dozen parents on the school board. Someone’s bound to write home about it if I show up to class looking like myself.”
“Yeah.” Flitwick shakes his head again. “What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think—I’m not sure this is going to be able to stay a secret for long. I’ve been trying to figure out what I can do to direct the fallout, and to avoid getting locked up.”
“That’s the punishment?”
“Unauthorized use of the permanent potion can result in involuntary, indefinite psychiatric detention.”
“Oh,” Flitwick says, and pales a little. “When the hell did they decide that?”
“1934. The Germans inspired them.”
“Oh.” Flitwick barks out a laugh. “They took their cues from the Nazis. That really is about what I’d expect from the Ministry.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m behind you, okay, Severus? Whatever happens.”
“Okay. Thank you.” The warmth in his chest burns bright and radiant, like a star buried in his body. “That means a lot. Thank you, Filius.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Trusting me.”
“Oh. You’re welcome.”
Flitwick smiles and stands, then comes to him and puts a hand on his elbow. “It’ll be okay, son. I promise.”
“Thanks,” Severus manages, choked. “I—thanks.”
“Of course.” Flitwick pats him once, then hustles away. Severus stares at the closed door for a long moment, locks it, and lets himself burst into tears.
They approach him one after another, the faculty, and every single one vows to keep his secret, though by the end of it they’re promising not to keep it amongst a specified group so much as from the students and Umbridge. But it’s a large faculty, and most of them aren’t even half as paranoid as he is, and when Umbridge summons him to her office at the end of the third week of this, he isn’t surprised to see not just malice but victory in her eyes.
“Hello, Sunny,” Umbridge says. Severus grits his teeth. “I’ve overheard the most interesting rumor.”
“Have you?”
“I’d like to hear it from you,” Umbridge says. “It’s just us girls, after all.”
“Right,” Severus says. He leans back in his chair, runs a hand back through the hair he’d finally let Black cut last week, and meets her eyes cooly. “Just us girls.”
“I’m sure a clever woman such as yourself is well aware of the Ministry’s regulations on unauthorized use of permanent sex-changing potions,” Umbridge says brightly. “I’d hate for you to see an impulsive decision cost you your career, or your freedom. And that’s why I’ve been granted special permission to offer you a reprieve.”
Severus’s heart jumps into his throat. “What?”
Umbridge reaches into her desk and pulls out a phial full of bubbling blue potion. “One-time offer,” she says, pushing the phial towards him. “You can go back to the way you were made, and the Ministry will be happy to forget this whole unpleasantness ever happened.”
Now his throat is full of bile. He pushes the wretched potion away, and her eyes alight with fury. “I will not,” Severus says coldly, “be told who I am by the likes of you.”
Umbridge is silent for a long moment. Then she breaks out into a large smile. “I’ll be honest, Sunny. I was hoping you’d say that.” She waves her wand, and two burly men in St. Mungo’s robes appear from the shadows behind her desk.
Severus rises in panic, but when he turns around, there are two more of them; he fights back, but even he isn’t a match for four orderlies, and after a brief struggle, he succumbs with dark humor to encroaching blackness.
He wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in unfamiliar clothes, with an unfamiliar woman sleeping in the next bunk over. He stands and looks down at unfamiliar blue robes, sighing in relief at his flat chest, then searching for his wand, knowing deep down it’s long gone. He pads into the hall, where he sees two nurses encased in a glass booth, and debates whether to approach.
“Miss Snape,” one of them calls, a dead-eyed blonde woman with a mean look on her face. Severus approaches, smiling slightly as he catches sight of himself in the glass. “Good. You’re awake. It’s time for you to take your potion.”
“Sorry?”
“The first step to healing is to revert those horrible changes you made to yourself,” the nurse says brightly, and Severus takes a step back. “You already know it isn’t painful.”
“Being a woman is painful for me,” Severus says flatly. The nurse’s face sours. “No. I refuse. No.”
She tuts and shakes her head. “Sunny, dear—”
“My name is Severus.”
“Not according to this intake form.”
“Bugger the intake form! I’m here against my will!”
“Calm down, Miss Snape.”
Severus takes several deep breaths. “This isn’t over.”
“I should say not! You haven’t even taken your potion!”
Severus reaches for the deepest wells of magic inside himself, bolts to his room, and casts the strongest shield charm he can manage, huddling against the wall, running his hands through his hair, trying not to hyperventilate. “Fuck,” he says. His roommate doesn’t stir. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”
What had he been thinking, taking the permanent potion? He had known he would end up here. He’d known it would end this way. Why hadn’t he started the process of registering with the Ministry? But for all he’d known the war could’ve been over by the time he’d been allowed to legally transition. Why had he thrown away his entire future over an impulsive decision to take a potion he’d known was tightly controlled? But if he’d died as a woman—if the Dark Lord had decided to kill him, over the spying or over his gender—
How could anybody be expected to just keep living like that? How—
“Miss Snape, you’re going to have to drop that shield.”
Why had he done that? He hadn’t been able to breathe—
“Miss Snape!”
He feels magic battering against his own, and strengthens his shield as much as he can, wondering if he can remember the Dark ritual that’ll extend it for a week, then reflecting darkly that that’s just enough time to die of hunger and thirst. He doesn’t have anywhere to shit, either.
“Miss Snape, you don’t want this going on your disciplinary record. If you don’t drop that shield this instant—”
Severus, defeated, drops his shield. He finds himself unsurprised when he’s strong-armed to an infirmary by two burly orderlies, force-fed the permanent potion, and briskly escorted back to his room to choke to death on his own tears.
“You’ve got mail, Miss Snape.”
Severus looks up in surprise, then makes his way to the nurses’ booth, where a thick stack of parchment is shoved at him. He takes it without asking why it’s all been opened, retreats to his room, and settles back into bed, using the day’s dull gray light streaming in through the tiny window and the duller yellow light from the bedside lamp to read.
He picks up the first one, and feels his heart jump into his throat as he recognizes the headmaster’s loopy handwriting.
Dear Severus,
Hang tight, my dear boy. I’m doing everything in my power to free you, or at least to get you transferred to the men’s ward and given the appropriate potions and allowed to begin working with a healer towards legal transition. I’m so very sorry this happened under my watch, and proud of you for being who you are. Stay strong and steadfast in your convictions, and know that everyone with a soul here at Hogwarts is rooting for you. Even the students are riled up about it. You’re not alone, Severus. I promise.
Warmly,
Albus
Severus blinks a few times, wipes tears off his face, and flips to the next page.
Dear Severus,
Everyone here at Hogwarts was so sorry to hear about what happened. Is there anything you need that we can bring you? Anything from your rooms or your house, or that we can buy? Please do let us know, and know that we’re all pitching a royal fit over this with the Ministry. The students have staged multiple walkouts of Umbridge’s classes, too. The entire Inquisitorial Squad resigned in protest. Someone spiked her tea with gender-changing potion, too, and she had a complete meltdown until it wore off. That poor man!
Ha.
In any case, please do know we’re all rooting for you, and doing what we can. Let us know if you think of anything in particular that would help.
Your friends,
Minerva, Filius, Argus, Sybill, Charity, Bathsheda, Septima, Pomona, Aurora, Rolanda, Poppy, Irma, Cuthbert, and Wilhelmena
He has to wipe his eyes after that one, too. He flips through the signatures, curious; most of the rest of the letters are individual missives of support from the faculty, but halfway through he comes to one signed Moony and Snuffles, and almost rips the parchment in his haste to pull it out of the pile.
Dear Severus,
This letter is from both Moony and Snuffles, because Moony wants to make sure it doesn’t get screened due to Snuffles making death threats, so sorry about that. How are you? How are you holding up? Is there anything at all we can do for you? Please do let us know, and keep us updated, and write absolutely anytime at all. And for the love of Merlin, take care of yourself. Lord knows those bloody doctors won’t.
We’re going to do everything we can to try to free you, but in the meantime—keep your head up. Know you’re loved. And know that those of us on the outside will never, ever stop fighting.
All our love,
Moony and Snuffles
P. S. Snuffles says: Just say the word.
He lets himself cry without restraint at that one, hugging it to his hideous deformed chest, and when he calms he tucks it carefully into his nightstand and turns back to the pile. There are letters of support from most of the Order, too; and there are five from students, including a joint letter from Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter; one from Luna Lovegood; and—to his profound surprise—one from Draco Malfoy.
Dear Professor Snape,
Nobody knows exactly what happened to you. I don’t know if you can even get mail wherever you are. All Dumbledore said was that you’d been called away. Everyone thinks Umbridge had something to do with it, but nobody knows what. There are rumours going around that you’re actually a man, and that you got arrested for unauthorized use of sex-changing potions. It’s just a rumour, right? Are you okay? Alive? I know I’m probably disrupting you on some very important business I’m not supposed to know about, but I had to ask. I hope you’re safe and to hear back from you when you get the chance.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Huh, Severus thinks, and sits back and shakes his head a few times. He makes his way out to the main holding area and scours the old, ruined art supplies until he finds a thick stack of blank parchment and a quill, then retreats back to his room to start writing letters.
On day six, he’s manhandled into a small, windowless room and left alone for half an hour. When the door opens, he looks up with a curled lip, then sits bolt upright. “Albus!”
“My dear boy.” Albus comes to him and squeezes his shoulder, then sits down across the table. “How are you holding up?”
Severus shrugs, looking away. “Fine. I feel pretty stupid.”
“I understand why you did it. And what’s important is what we can do moving forwards. Is there anything else you need?”
He’d received a great many of his things two days before, after he’d written back to the faculty with a list of what he needed. Severus sighs and says, “Is it awful to ask for—for more books? And maybe some kind of journal that—I know they make ones that are only legible to the owner.”
“It’s not awful. You’re bored?”
“I do have a lot of correspondence,” Severus says. “But there are too many hours in the day here. I still haven’t even met this therapist they want me to talk to.”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’ll see if I can’t do something about that. Are they treating you okay? Aside from the obvious? Feeding you? Have they hurt you?”
“No,” Severus says. “And yes, they’re feeding me. It’s—the nurses are all dead inside, but—the worst thing they’ve done to me is forcing me to take that potion again.”
“Quite,” Dumbledore says, tight lines forming around his eyes. “I’m so very sorry for that.”
“It’s alright. I don’t—I knew I was going to end up here eventually. All along. I knew deep down I would snap someday. I’m only sorry I didn’t wait. It happened at the expense of the war. I’m sorry for that.”
“Don’t you dare apologize.” Dumbledore reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “No matter how illegal it is, I don’t see how any man in your position could be expected to resist temptation.” He looks deep into Severus’s eyes. “The thing about being at war is that it makes you all too aware of your own mortality. Of course you couldn’t wait.”
“I could have—”
“It’s okay that you couldn’t,” Dumbledore says, and squeezes his hand again. “I promise you that you will be allowed to leave this place as yourself, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Albus—”
“I saw how you were,” Dumbledore says. “Before and after. Nobody should be forced to wait three years after that. It’s inhumane. You were sure.”
Severus sits back. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I was.”
“I know.” Dumbledore pulls away and stands. “I’m going to go get to work on getting you the hell out of here. Keep your head up, alright, Severus?”
“Okay.”
“Good man.” And Dumbledore comes to him, kisses his head, and leaves.
Day 8
I finally met the shrink. Dr Renfield. She’s easily over six feet, gray-haired, strict and stern, but in a way that I quite like. She called me Severus after I corrected her, which I wasn’t expecting, and let me take the temporary potion after half an hour of interrogation. Which I wasn’t expecting either. She said she wanted to observe the effects of the potion on my psyche, which made me feel like a zoo animal. But not enough to care. Then she told me it seemed likely to her that I would eventually be allowed to take the permanent potion. Which I was ALSO not expecting. I was expecting—the worst. But I can almost bring myself to believe that she really does want to help me. Or maybe I’d be able to believe it if it hadn’t taken her eight days to introduce herself. But I—Merlin, it felt good to feel like I was actually inhabiting my body for a few minutes.
Day 11
A visitor: Lupin. He brought me gifts from everyone in the Order: a magical razor for my hair (thank Merlin), a blanket that smells like Black, an ergonomic pillow and a mattress pad for my bed (how did they know?), five different games (some of which were repeats from the faculty care package—bartering chips!), a radio, and a basket of food. Remus said Molly Weasley made it.
Also amongst the gifts: books! There were even three Muggle novels—one of which, Stone Butch Blues, I’m going to have to save for when I have the energy to cry for a week—and, tucked into Blindness, a letter from Black. (!) He said—well, it was three very thin pages, front and back. But one of the things he said was that he was sorry to lay this on me now, but on the off-chance it helped: he loves me.
He loves me. He loves me. I can’t help but wonder if it’s just pity making him say that now, but he went on to say I was the bravest man he’d ever met and that—he went on about it for a page and a half. I wept when I read it. It feels like all I do is weep nowadays.
Day 15
Merlin, I hope Albus gets someone else to teach Potter Occlumency. I’d better write to him about it.
Day 19
Malfoy wrote me back. Again. He seems to be struggling with the idea that anyone could be forced to live as the wrong gender; but he’s also shown an unusual curiosity and open-mindedness that I wasn’t expecting, especially not from him. It’s odd—jarring—I think part of why I never let myself think about all this—my gender—was that I assumed everyone would hate me for it, without reservation or apology. But they don’t. What do I do with that?
Day 33
A new inmate—patient—ha! Geraldine. She’s pretty much catatonic. One of these days we’ll get some excitement around here.
[drawing of Geraldine, an elderly white woman with a beehive hairdo, smoking a cigarette]
Day 50
Mtg. w/Renfield
—Possibility of deep regression therapy w/supplemental Pensieve memories as proof?
—They’re going to force me to do shock therapy too
—What if I just fucking killed myself?
Day 61
Shock therapy day 1. I can’t think. At least they only put you thru a week of it b4 moving on.
Day 78
The blanket situation is becoming ridiculous. I’m going to have to start giving them away. I asked Remus for another one that smelled like Black after they washed the first one, and so far he’s brought me five of them.
I suppose I should just keep them in my trunk for later. God knows how long I’ll be here.
Day 84
A letter from Malfoy:
Dear Professor Snape,
I hope you liked the chocolates. Or that someone there did. And I hope they’re still treating you okay, aside from the obvious. Dumbledore’s been reinstated as Headmaster after Umbridge went crazy, which I can’t say I feel bad about.
I guess I still don’t understand why the Ministry would punish transsexuals just for being alive. If people want to exist as the other gender for a while—try it on, so to speak—what exactly is the big deal? Why should they even care? Who on Earth does it harm? You’re obviously still the same person. Why should the government be that involved in someone’s personal decisions, their individual autonomy? I don’t understand how it even got that way. I’ve been reading some older histories—Gender Variance in Magical Societies 1060-1500 has proved particularly fruitful—but it seems like everything post-1934 is a giant question mark. I couldn’t find a single book in the library about transsexuality after that date. Do you have any you recommend? I really do want to learn more about this. It’s unfair that they’d take away the best professor at Hogwarts over something as silly as his gender. Who cares?
Well, we’re going to continue to raise hell over it until something happens. I never thought I’d find myself allying with Gryffindors, let alone Potter, but, well—the enemy of my enemy, eh?
Take care, and write back when you can—
Your student,
Draco Malfoy
Day 99
Dysphoria Log
—looking in the mirror when I brush my teeth—intense feeling of disconnection from my body
—when I contemplate wearing a bra—revulsion
—when someone calls me ‘Sunny’—feeling of disconnection, lack of recognition, out-of-body discomfort
—I’ve begun to pick at the skin of my breast tissue (symptomatic of larger distress?)
—longing for the ‘right’ body
—when someone calls me ‘she’—confusion, disorientation, lack of recognition
—when I contemplate living the rest of my life as a woman—strong, persistent suicidal ideation
Day 115
A letter from Black, tucked into a book via Lupin—he’s so sweet—tender. I never knew what tenderness felt like before him. It’s stupid—I don’t think I should miss him so much. We were only together for a few weeks. But he obviously misses me too. I guess when you know, you know. And with him—well, I do.
Day 128
A visit from Albus. He brought me lemon bars. I don’t even like sweets. I suppose they’ll make decent enough bartering chips.
Day 134
I’m beginning to run out of space for all my books.
Day 142
Renfield has a LIST of things she has to eliminate before she can identify me as a ‘true’ transsexual:
—BPD
—autism
—sexual trauma
—‘self-hatred’ (???)
—PTSD
—‘difficulty accepting homosexual feelings’
—‘misogyny’ (???!)
—‘bullied for being too butch’ (I’m going to kill whoever came up with this list)
—‘desire to please a parent’
—ADHD
—‘immersion in transgender culture & propaganda’
and on & on & what if I killed every last employee at the Ministry
Day 153
Finally reading Stone Butch Blues. In very short doses. It’s really all I can handle.
Day 161
A letter from Minerva:
Dear Severus,
We’re all thinking of you here as school starts up again. Albus has replaced you with Sluggy, of all people—how he convinced him to return during wartime I have frankly no idea, though I do suspect he involved Mr Potter. For DADA, we’ve got the real Moody—evidently the curse differentiates between him and Barty Crouch Jr. I can’t tell you how much it reassures us all that they’re getting competent educations on two fronts. You left behind some big shoes to fill! Not just anyone can teach Potions as well as Severus Snape.
We’re grateful to have Slughorn here, but we miss you—the students don’t seem to know quite what to do about your absence without an enemy with a face. Umbridge was a villain, and now that there’s no villains to point to, they’re quieting down a bit, though a core group is still focused on getting you back. The old DA kids, plus the old Inquisitorial Squad and several other Slytherins—they’ve all started working on a letter-writing campaign together in a spare classroom, and then practicing dueling. It’s an odd thing to witness—half of them probably have Dark Marks, and the other half have scars from fights with Death Eaters. But they all come together to fight for you. It gives me hope—helps me see a world after the war. Because it’s obvious they don’t want to have to fight it.
Take care, and keep your chin up, and as always, let us know if you need absolutely anything at all.
Your friend,
Minerva
Day 175
Release party for Dulcie today, the lucky bitch. At this point I think—part of me thinks I’d be happy to live as a woman if they’d just let me the hell out of here. Though of course I’d probably kill myself.
Day 191
Renfield’s newest gambit: a spell that makes me physically ill every time I think about being a man. She says if I still identify as a man at the end of a month they’ll lift it and move on. I thought torture was supposed to be illegal.
Day 203
I feel like I may never stop throwing up again. And I’m on my period. Is she trying to get me to kill myself? If I knew how I would have tried months ago. Alas…
Day 212
WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS??????????
Day 221
They finally lifted the illness-inducing spell. It’s going to take weeks to recover physically. Unsurprisingly, I’m still a fucking man.
Day 233
My latest session: Renfield asks: do they have my consent to confund and obliviate me, implanting memories of being and the desire to be a woman? Why the FUCK would I say yes to that? The woman really is my enemy, for all that she skillfully ingratiated herself with me at first. I don’t—they’ve got to either kill me or let me go eventually, right? They can’t just keep me here and torture me indefinitely, right? This has to end someday, RIGHT????????
Day 245
I’ve stopped talking to Renfield entirely. I don’t think she’s happy about it, but I can’t throw any more fuel on the fire. Enough is enough. I may live here the rest of my life, but at least I’ll do it as myself. Or as close as I can come in this fucking body.
Day 258
They moved me to the men’s ward. And gave me a supply of the temporary potion to take on the hour. I know why—look at this!:
HOGWARTS TEACHER TURNED ST MUNGO’S CAPTIVE
r. skeeter
For the past eight months, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been in turmoil. Professor Sunny Snape, long the most unpopular teacher at the school, abruptly departed in March of 1996. Rumour abounded amongst the student body as to its cause; it is only recently that the most popular theory was confirmed to be true. Sunny Snape is known to her friends as Severus Snape—because she claims she’s a man.
Though there’s no law against identifying with the wrong gender, use of permanent sex-changing potions is tightly controlled and strictly prohibited without a thorough authentication process. This process generally takes between three and five years, and approximately forty percent of those who undertake it—five to ten individuals in a ten-year period—are rejected. Program head Thalia Thurgood asserts the necessity of such rigorous standards.
‘People will make rash decisions and not think things through and come begging us to change their gender back,’ Thurgood said. ‘It happens at least once per decade. They think they’ll be happier, but then they discover that they’ve ruined the lives of everyone around them.’
Students at Hogwarts, however, don’t care about the law—they care about their professor. Students have united across House lines in support of Sunny Snape, and in outrage over the resignation of another beloved professor—Rolanda Hooch, who formerly taught flying and oversaw Quidditch at the school. She accuses former Headmistress Dolores Umbridge of having Snape arrested when she learned of her gender issues.
‘Severus is a good person,’ Hooch said. ‘He didn’t deserve to have some busybody government goon sniffing around in his business. He didn’t deserve the punitive, barbarian laws that put him in this position, either.’
Perhaps inspired by Hooch’s firebrand rhetoric, students at Hogwarts have spent the past nine months engaged in a campaign to their parents, professors and peers to overturn what they see as draconian laws regarding gender transition. Ministry officials state that they have received no fewer than fifty letters on the topic, and that they intend to address it at the next session of the Wizengamot.
‘It’s about time we had a look at the laws around this,’ said Wizengamot voting member Augusta Longbottom. ‘They’re out of date. They’re cruel. And they serve no function other than to punish transsexuals for existing.’
At Hogwarts, students remain hopeful that they will see their old professor again, even if she looks like a man. Slytherin prefect Draco Malfoy claims he has been corresponding with Professor Snape over the past nine months, and that he believes her story.
‘He has the right to be who he is,’ Malfoy said. ‘It’s stupid not to let him live his life because it might make someone else uncomfortable. How does it even affect anybody else anyway? What’s wrong with being authentically yourself? I think we all deserve that.’
St Mungo’s could not be reached for comment.
Day 260
God, men are disgusting. I miss the women’s ward.
Day 261
A clandestine visit from an… enterprising young woman. I told her everything she wanted to know.
Day 262
:)
GENDER CRIMINAL: THE SCANDALOUS TALE OF SUNNY SNAPE
r. skeeter
From her earliest memories, former Hogwarts Potions Master Sunny Snape knew there was something wrong with her body. She describes it as a sense of innate disconnection, of disassociation from reality—she was there, but not there, unable to fully apprehend the world around her.
‘I knew I was different, but I didn’t know how,’ Snape said. ‘I didn’t figure it out until [March 1996]. All I knew was that I didn’t feel alive.’ She laughed. ‘And I knew… deep down, I think I did know all along that I was a man. I fantasized about it. I took sex-changing potions all the time. Once a month at least. And I would look at myself, and I would think: “Could that be me?” And I dismissed it, because it was too difficult, too painful. But if there hadn’t been any social stigma attached, I would have transitioned the second I hit puberty.’
To her doctors, charged with her care after her involuntary commitment to St Mungo's following illegal usage of a permanent sex-changing potion, this has proved an intractable problem. The Mediwitch handling Snape’s case, Dr Rachel Renfield, is an expert in the suppression of Gender Identity Disorder, and has talked fully twelve transsexuals down from transitioning. But Sunny Snape has proven stubborn and sure of herself over the past nine months.
‘Pt resistant, recalcitrant, & determined to assert incorrect identity,’ Renfield wrote of Snape in her notes. ‘Continues to operate under delusion that she is a man + must exist as one despite numerous corrective measures.’
These corrective measures included approaches as mild as talk therapy and as extreme as a spell that made Sunny sick every time she thought about her gender for an entire month. She turned down the drastic option of Obliviation, and expressed her disgust at it even having been offered.
‘If they can’t prove that I’m not who I say I am, they’ll brainwash me into being someone else,’ Snape said. ‘Can you imagine if they treated [non-trans] people this way? There would be riots in the streets. No one has the right to take my identity or my lived experience away from me, no matter how uncomfortable it makes them. St Mungo’s has been torturing me over this. It’s not right.’
Renfield attributes Snape’s gender issues to childhood trauma, writing about it at length; Snape, however, isn’t so sure.
‘Most people’s childhoods are awful,’ Snape said. ‘Most people don’t want to kill themselves when they think about having to have their own secondary sex characteristics for the rest of their lives. These potions already exist. I’m not the only one. But we’ve created an environment of fear and prejudice. Of course nobody’s honest about this unless it overwhelms them. Everyone’s heard the horror stories. Why would anybody willingly subject themselves to being demeaned, harassed, bullied and abused by the very institutions they’ve been taught to trust?’
Said institutions could not be reached for comment. Hogwarts student Draco Malfoy, however, was once again happy to weigh in: he and his friends won’t rest until their professor is allowed to be who ‘he’ is.
‘This can’t go on,’ Malfoy said. ‘We won’t let it. A grave miscarriage of justice is being enacted. And it’s our duty to stop it.’ He looked to his unlikely ally, Harry Potter, who nodded gravely. ‘I don’t care what it takes. We’ll free Severus Snape or die trying.’
Will Snape ever be allowed to live as ‘him’self? The future remains unclear. But ‘he’ has allies all over Wizarding Britain, and their voices have joined in an unstoppable chorus. Should transsexuals be subjected to extreme punitive measures, or should they be allowed to exist as themselves free of legal barriers? Make your own voice heard as soon as this evening by writing to the Daily Prophet’s editorial desk.
Day 264
They gave me the permanent potion. I’m getting out tomorrow at noon. It still doesn’t feel real.
Black isn’t able to be there when he’s finally released, of course, but when he steps out into the hall, Lupin is waiting. He’s got a shit-eating grin and a bundle of blue balloons reading IT’S A BOY, and he thinks anybody on Earth could probably forgive him for bawling.
Lupin blinks, then laughs and hurries forward and hugs him, patting his shoulder as he weeps. “His idea,” he says. “Sorry.”
“Get me the fuck out of here,” Severus manages, and Lupin obliges him. They apparate straight into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, where Black rushes to him and hugs him so tightly he can barely breathe.
He only registers the presence of most of the Order after Black pulls away; he isn’t sure who starts it, but suddenly everyone is clapping and whistling and stomping their feet and congratulating him, and he wipes tears out of his eyes over and over, for as long as they keep coming. “Thanks,” he manages, and the cheers continue. “Thanks for—thank you all.”
He looks up and into the sea of faces, Lupin and Albus and Molly and Arthur and Potter and Podmore and everyone, just about everyone who’s ever even begun to matter to him. Black is by his side, holding on to his elbow, and he laughs and whispers into Snape’s ear, “You wanna get out of here?”
“God, yes.”
And they wave and exit upstairs. There’s widespread laughter, and Lupin’s voice: “Give them a few minutes. They’ll be back.”
More laughter. “Alright,” Albus says. “Obviously we have to wait on the cake, but Molly has been kind enough to provide us with—”
The voices fade, and they retreat to Black’s room, where Snape does a double take. The tacky posters of half-naked women have been replaced by a tangled map of literature about—he goes to examine it—laws on transsexuality. There are muggle advocacy pamphlets, and some obviously made by wizards in the past eight months. There’s a map of St. Mungo’s, too, and various ideas on said map for breaking Severus out.
“Dumbledore and Remus had to stop me at wandpoint, those first few days,” Black says, and Severus reaches out to touch the marked points of egress. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you being a prisoner.”
“Oh.”
“I wanted to get you. Bring you back here.”
“I’d have—I wouldn’t have said no.” Severus sits down on the bed. “But I—it is all legal now. Which is—” He laughs. “I probably will want to live here over the summer. I can’t imagine the Dark Lord—I think that part of my life is probably over. Until he’s dead, the only places I’m safe are here and Hogwarts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I can’t say I’ll miss it.”
“I can’t imagine you would.”
“No.” Severus heaves a sigh. “I feel—it seems as though we ought to fuck, but I don’t—will you just hold me for a minute?”
He immediately regrets it, but Black says, “Of course.” He takes Severus in his arms and tugs him down onto the bed, and Severus feels himself weep for the third time in an hour, though this time it’s a steady, constant crawl. “It would be ridiculous if you wanted sex right now. Merlin. I’ll hold you as much as you want.”
“Okay.” Severus buries his face in Black’s chest. “They got me a cake.”
“I know.”
“We should go back down there.”
“We can when you’re ready. You don’t have to be ready yet.”
“Okay.” Severus closes his eyes, breathing in Black’s scent: maleness, and light, clean sweat, and bland, utilitarian soap, and the faintest hint of wet dog. He doesn’t know exactly when he fell in love with him back, but part of him thinks maybe it was from the first time Black ever asked him: You’re really not a man?
Black holds him, and doesn’t say a word, and Severus breathes, with his own lungs, with a body that belongs to him and nobody else, except maybe, in some small way, Black. It’s not that Black owns him; it’s that Severus wants to give of himself. He wants to give and give, because there’s an infinite amount of himself, ready to be shared. He isn’t stretched thin over every part of himself he has to hide anymore. There are people who find the hidden things beautiful. And Black, undeniably, is one of them.
“I love you,” Snape whispers, and Black jolts. “I thought you probably ought to know.”
“I love you too,” Black whispers back. “Merlin, Severus, you have no idea.”
“Trust me. I think I do.”
“You will. In any case. Because I’ll show you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Black kisses the top of his head hard, and for a while, they lie in silence, the sound of joy trickling up the stairs and into the room, swelling Severus’s heart until he thinks it might burst from all the love in the world, concentrated into a single point, given unto him without anything asked in return except that he be himself, without reservation or apology or anything but a mutual understanding of the essential, overwhelming power of human truth. And it’s a truth he’ll get to live now.
Thank God, Snape thinks, and weeps into a chest as flat as his own, not worrying one bit about when the tears will finally run dry.