What Might Be Done

What might be done if men were wise——

What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,

Would they unite in love and right,

And cease their scorn of one another?

Charles Mackay: What Might Be Done

Chapter 1: Get Drunk Today

In which our hero gets drunk and gets bad news.

If you have wine today, get drunk today; worry about tomorrow's worries tomorrow (Chinese proverb)

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On the evening of his 37th birthday, Severus Snape sat thinking in his favourite armchair He had a drink close to hand, his seventh actually. He had no idea what it was, it didn't really matter at this point. It was wet. It was basically golden in colour. It burned slightly going down. Just what the medi-witch ordered. Yes, well, just what the nurse -- meddling old bizom -- ordered him not to do. Not that he would ever deign to take her advice anyway. Really, the old witch... Snape pulled himself rather blearily back to the matter at hand.

The matter at hand. What was the matter at hand? Snape gave an interrogative look at the glass curled comfortably in his fingers as if the answer could be found there. He took a sip. What was this shite, anyway? He tried to remember where he had put the bottle. Perhaps the label would provide some clue. He gazed rather absently around the room until his eyes were caught by something glittering on the hearth. Glass. Green glass. Ah yes. That's where he had put the bottle. He hadn't intended to drop it on the hearth. He had been attempting to place it carefully on the mantel, when he was startled by the brusque voice of Madame Pomfrey -- the aforementioned meddling old bizom -- the one who had instructed him to abstain from alcohol for at least 48 hours after his release from the infirmary. After his two-week stay in the infirmary, during which time he had had quite enough, thank you very much, of the old bat.

Oh! The matter at hand. According to Madame Pomfrey, Albus was in the infirmary. Quite ill, not sure if he would make it through the night, very old by anybody's standards, the war was taking a lot out of him, we're really all quite worried. Severus snorted. Albus Dumbledore would live forever. The mad twinkly bastard was probably at that very moment, lying comfortably in his hospital bed, eating a chocolate frog and hatching some plot that involved magically drawing a bulls-eye on Snape's back.

Still, it did give one pause. Snape paused and looked at his glass. Empty. Completely unsatisfactory. He stood and staggered over to the cupboard where he kept his liquor. There must be something else. Something vaguely golden. Something that would completely burn out his train of thought. Something that would obliterate the knowledge that Albus was old and infirm and quite possibly going to die, regardless of how impossible that seemed. Green. Green. Red. Green. How had he managed to acquire so many bottles of Creme de Menthe? He despised the stuff. Oh yes. Albus. The man would insist that everybody needed something sweet in their life, even Severus. Mad bastard.

Shit! Albus. Infirmary. Ill. Possibly dying. What was Snape going to do? Get a drink. That was it. Green. Green. Red. Green. How had he managed to acquire...? Right. Albus. Mad. Infirmary. Bulls-eye.

"Creme de Menthe is vile stuff," Snape carefully announced to the empty room. Nobody responded. Right then. We're agreed. For forty years -- no, that wasn't right -- twenty years. Well, eighteen actually, but that wasn't the point. The point was... Albus. Ill. Target. Fuck. If Albus died who was going to take care of Severus?

The wizarding world didn't much care for Death Eaters, ex or otherwise. Stupid prejudice, really. So we gathered together in silly robes and masks and killed people. We were young. We were foolish. Spring was in the air. Where is my drink? Snape bent over and peered in the cupboard. Green. Red. He snorted. Red as the Dark Lord's eyes. Perhaps I'll have some of that. A toast. To Lord Voldemort, another dead old queen. Snape had a momentary image of Albus joining the Dark Lord in heaven, or wherever they sent mad wizards when they died, dressed to the nines in purple robes with pink and green patterned flowers, and comparing notes on how best to manipulate Potions masters.

Fuck. Albus. Dying. Matter at hand. Snape dropped the bottle of red stuff, which shattered on impact with the ancient Persian carpet and the stone floor beneath. He steadfastly ignored the spreading red stain saturating the priceless heirloom. Well, it wasn't his, was it? Belonged to the school, or maybe Albus himself. Never mind that Snape had lusted after it the moment he first laid eyes on it and had practically begged Albus to let him have it. Served the old sod right. No business leaving something that should be hanging in a museum to moulder in a dank dungeon. Really, you'd think the barmy old codger would take better care of things he owned. Things like his own personal Snape. And now, now the old fart was planning on dying. The nerve. Snape wouldn't stand for it.

Snape staggered over to the fireplace and reached for the jar of Floo powder. He took a handful and dropped the can. Shit! Another mess. The house-elves were going to be a bit peevish in the morning. Peevish. Excellent. He'd just blame it on Peeves. Clearly there was an answer to every problem if one only applied rational thought to it. Snape looked at his handful of Floo powder. What...? Albus. Infirmary. Right. He threw the handful of powder into the fireplace and shouted, "Infirmary!" The fire flared and blazed green but nothing happened. Snape was still in his quarters. He looked blankly around his rooms, momentarily confused. Ah, yes, one has to step into the fire and damn it all, the rest of the Floo powder was a black streak across the hearth. He could just speak to Albus later about... whatever it was. Snape had more important things to think about, to wit; the matter at hand. What was the matter at hand?

Perhaps it was time to sober up.

TBC