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It was raining again. Had been for days, it felt like.
The shop stank of old blood and dragon bile — a back-alley potions supplier near the edge of Knockturn. Not quite illegal, but not far off either. Severus didn't ask questions. He stirred what he was told, bottled what he was told, and kept his head down. It paid in sickles, but it was enough for bread, tea, and rent whenever he tried to cash it into muggle money at gringots.
His robes were threadbare, sleeves singed from a mismeasured firebreather draft. His fingers were always stained — yellow, green, dark with old ichor — and he smelled like burnt nettles no matter how much he scrubbed.
But he was working.
𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.
Still, it wasn’t easy.
Without a completed education, without a name anyone trusted, the world shut doors in his face left and right. Every job he managed was under the table or in the shadows. No references. No safety net. Just raw instinct and the bitter sort of brilliance that kept him one step above desperation.
Some nights, he lay awake in the sagging bed, lungs aching from the fumes, stomach twisted from eating nothing but crusts and weak broth, and thought of Sirius. Of how warm those arms could be. Of the way he'd say 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 like Severus was treasure instead of possession. How he’d look at him like nothing else mattered, right before the screaming started.
How each and every night like clockwork he’d speak ‘I love you.’ like Severus was ever worth being loved.
Severus turned his face into the pillow, gritted his teeth.
He had chosen this. Chosen 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑚. Even if it hurt like hell.
And every morning, when the sun rose over the broken skyline and his back throbbed and his pride screamed — he still got up. Still brewed. Still lived.
He hadn’t broken. Not yet.
And for Severus Snape, that was enough.