Chapter Six

Frantic fingers felt for a pulse. Beneath those trembling digits, she found a weak but steady flutter. It had been several hours since he had collapsed in front of her, dragging her down and clutching at her as if she could somehow stave off death, but her dread had not diminished. Using healing spells that she had only ever read about, she had managed to seal the wound, but she had seen the discolouration spreading across his neck as blood still seeped beneath his taut skin.

Driven by panic and desperation, she had left him on the kitchen floor and raced upstairs to grab the Blood-replenishing Potions that he had thoughtfully prepared after the initial opening of the wound. Returning, she had stared at him, a horrifically ironic Snow White: hair black as ebony, face pale as snow and lips and neck as red as blood. She had unstoppered the flask and poured the viscous, dark green potion past his flaccid lips and down his motionless throat.

Those few moments had been a lifetime of agony for her.

Please don't die! Please don't die! Please ...

Now, she sat by the spare bed in what she had grown to consider as his room and darted out a hand to repeatedly check his breathing and heart rate. The potion had done its job, but her healing spells had not been as successful as she had hoped, and shortly afterwards, the wound had opened up again. Two small apertures had appeared; from these, blood slipped out as freely as water from a spring, her only grace being that it was a mere trickle. Suspecting that he was in no immediate danger, she had returned to the attic and made her own preparations. Thin strips of linen had been soaked in the Manuka honey, and she had carefully wound them around his throat.

I'll help... this has to help! Stay with me... please! After all that you've done, you can't die now! Sobs echoed in the disturbing silence, interrupted by shuddering sighs and the susurrus of her whispering in his ear, begging him to wake up.

To aid the potion in its task, she had taken to tilting his head back slightly and carefully pouring small mouthfuls of water down his gullet. The water would prevent dehydration and allow his blood volume to increase. And that was all she could do; give him water, check that he was still living and sit by his side, staring at him and hoping.

There was this desperate energy buzzing through her; it sang under her skin and strummed her nerves...but despite that, she felt fatigue crushing her. It was almost an unbearable struggle: her need to watch over him against her need to sleep. Sleep won out a few times, and she woke in a flurry of panic, grasping at him as he lay still in the sheets.

All that blood! His eyes... how he had clung to me... so terrifying. What happened? What happened? What happened? The question circled her head; its ponderous plodding squeezed out all other thoughts, and she found the answer impossible to discern. Instead, she rocked in her chair, her wide and stinging eyes fixed upon the fluttering skin on his throat and her heart leaping wildly in her chest.

Why had the wound opened up? Mr Weasley had made a slow but sure recovery.

Why did you just stand there and let that snake bite you? Why didn't you just run when you had the chance?

She looked down upon his smooth and peaceful features, his long nose, high and harsh cheekbones and his relaxed pale lips, and some answer wormed its way past her confusion. The duty that had held him for sixteen years had no rival; the bonds that had tied him to his purpose could not be cut, and the desire that fuelled him was unquenchable. Reaching out a trembling hand, she stroked the soft, black hair, pushing it gently aside away from his face, and she smiled down on him. Just as she had been compelled to remain by Harry's side, so he had remained by Lily's. The same force that had made her face Bellatrix's Cruciatus, made her Obliviate her parents and made her suffer the last year flowed through him. They had endured because of love, and they had done so willingly and without hesitation... and now, due to love, they would endure their recovery.

After several hours of watching him and of the looming exhaustion threatening her, she made her way into the kitchen and made coffee. The mug that Snape had repaired nestled in her hand, and she stared at the corrected spelling; a lifetime ago, it had somehow been so much more important. Her sore and weary eyes followed the pale blue lettering and tears prickled; he had done so much, and she knew that without him, she would have become lost. A few fat tears slid down her cheeks, and she traced her fingertip over the words. She just knew that the cure should have worked; there was no reason that it shouldn't have...Oh my! What if Mr Weasley will face the same thing? She stuffed a hand against her mouth to stopper the shuddering gasps. But that makes no sense! Professor Snape's wound opened up the day after he had taken it... and is still opening up; Mr Weasley has never had any relapses!

Frustrated and confused, she let out a growl and thumped the worktop; she had never felt this useless and powerless. The logic dictated that the potion should work, and yet it was failing catastrophically... and despite that, he had taken the time to look after her. Loud sobs escaped, and she held her wet face in her hands; he had been right! While he was suffering, she had looked only to herself!

Stop it!

She straightened at the sudden imperative; it sounded so much like Professor Snape.

Stop being such a brat! You have helped; without you he may have bled to death before now, and without your continuing help, he may not have found a place to study the deficiencies of his potion. Perhaps it has not been the most balanced trade-off, but you have the chance now to reset the balance.

Sniffling and bent under the pressure of her responsibility, she felt a much-needed wave surging up, and as it came, she felt infused with energy and purpose. Upstairs lay a man who was as good as any Master, and she wasn't exactly an idiot; between them there was no reason as to why this conundrum couldn't be solved. Armed with coffee, she located Snape's notes and returned to the bedroom.

oooXooo

"So, we can eliminate the Leopard's Bane... that doesn't seem to have any impact on the other ingredients." She scratched at the paper as she thought out aloud. On the bed, alongside his supine form, she had laid out her notes, even at one point...around his left knee...using his leg as a makeshift stand to study her hasty scribblings all the better. Stuffing the pencil in her bundled-up chignon, she sipped her tepid coffee and glared at the collection of notes.

"I doubt that the honey has any nasty surprises either," she said thoughtfully, nibbling her lower lip. "And lemon juice...I'll be astounded if that had anything to do with it!" She clucked her tongue and ran a finger down the list of ingredients. "It has all of eight ingredients, and the method is simple enough...even Ron could make it without panicking!" Letting out a chagrined huff, she settled back in the chair and rubbed the back of her aching neck, but her ministrations and mood were nullified by her recollections of him, and a smile curved her lips.

"He was brilliant, you know," she said breathlessly. "I always knew that there was something great deep within him, and he proved it. Did you know that he opened up the Chamber?" She glanced across at Snape and sighed. "I was so... so... thrilled!"

Nervous fingers played with the edge of a sheet of paper, and she felt a stab of regret. "I never thought that I would ever forgive him for leaving us, but I missed him so much and I just wanted him back." She inhaled shakily. "I never told him... and he left, and I felt that he'd abandoned me; after everything that we'd done and been through, and he left...it hurt!" Her voice descended into a strained whisper. "It was so hard in that forest; I thought that it would never end. I looked after that horcrux for Harry...it really hurt him, you see...but it was a vile thing." She grimaced at the memories swirling unpleasantly in her head as she recalled that troubled time. "I hated wearing it; even having it my pocket was enough for it to get at me." Bent under the weight of it, she silently wept onto the duvet, purging herself of the pain that had plagued her. "The things that I saw and thought while wearing it... horrible! It seemed to know what I feared and wanted, and it mixed them together until there were times when I feared being near to Harry. I can't blame Ron for leaving; I was so angry that he did, but I can't blame him. It was that horrid horcrux!"

Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she rested her head on the mattress. "It made me feel awful; I had to keep thinking of Harry, always Harry, and I got to the point where I wondered if it was worth it, and if it wouldn't be easier if we just gave up. I... I think that... I figured out what had to happen, and," she said between hitching breaths, "I...oh my!...wondered if it would be better to just end it there and then. I couldn't stand it! But Harry was so strong and determined, and I couldn't quite believe what I was thinking; I felt that I had betrayed him." Lifting her head, she studied the sleeping man through tear-filled eyes, and she wondered if he could understand that some of her sense of duty stemmed from a wish to ease her guilt and regrets. Puzzled by her reactions to the last year, she rested her head upon her forearms on the bed and closed her eyes.

After what had seemed like months, she had panicked about meeting up with her friends; frenzied butterflies had played havoc in her gut, but as soon as she had arrived at the Burrow, she had fallen into step as though she had never left the dance. It had been easy to become the last side to their perfect triangle, and she had settled well, all thanks to the potion made by Professor Snape. Her eyes snapped open, and she cast Snape a guilty glance before picking up the temporarily discarded notes and focusing her mind once more.

The late night had shifted into an early morning, and from outside she could hear the first drivers making headway with their day. Coffee had not sustained her; she had found the new sense of purpose an undeniable taskmaster. Under its whip, she had ousted her feelings of guilt and shifted her anger from a raging, unfocused thing into a dedicated predator, and she worked with it to track down the cause of Snape's pathology.

"There has to be some factor that we're not considering, but what's left? What difference can there be between this and the potion that was given to Mr Weasley? We've looked at the concentration differences...your notes on that were very useful, thank you...and determined that nothing would have come of that." The pencil scratched over the surface of his notes, and she felt some of the tension disperse as she firmly crossed out one of the remaining hypotheses. "This would be so much easier if you were awake," she said with mock asperity. "I touched upon Pemberton-Smythe's Second Law...that two contraindicated agents will nullify the desired effect...when studying Felix Felicis, but that just doesn't seem to be applicable here; nothing fights against anything else...it's beautiful."

The answer haunted and taunted her; she knew that it lurked just beyond her reach, and every time she moved to grasp it, it danced away. The soothing grace was that Snape was responding well to the potions and now seemed to be in some deep exhaustion, but recovering nonetheless. The honey-soaked bandages had slowed the blood loss beneath the skin, and she knew that its other properties would protect the open wound from infection.

"That just leaves the Bushmaster venom and the Stagshorn." She plucked the pencil from her bun and drew a circle around the two suspects. "But they seem fine," she said with a sigh. "I thought that I had some skill with potions, but I think that all I had skill with was following directions; the philosophy and theory behind it all is just so immense and... hard! I can't see why it isn't working; in comparison, brewing Polyjuice was a doddle!"

"But more likely to cause you to spit up fur balls."

Listening to her discussing the potion had soothed him immeasurably; it had pulled him back to wakefulness like light would draw a moth, but it had been nothing...nothing!...compared to the look of bewildered delight on her face. Her wide, shimmering eyes and trembling, parted lips had been a balm to his exhaustion and a cure to his pains.

"Sir!" she exclaimed happily, and then her expression slipped into agitated concern, her eyes darting over his face and neck, and Snape felt the moment shatter. "Are you alright, sir?"

A quick catalogue indicated that aside from some mild irritation in his neck, an uncomfortable pressure in his lower abdomen and the feeling of his contentment ebbing away, he was in good spirits, considering just how close he had come to becoming one.

"There are a few niggling things, but otherwise, I am fine. Thank you, Miss Granger."

He would have expected a smile, a nod of the head or maybe a 'you are welcome', so the tears and the shuddering gasps came as quite a surprise.

"I thought you were going to die!" she whispered between great, gulping breaths. "I didn't know what to do... you were still bleeding and... and..."

"And you did everything that was needed," he said firmly, hoping to forestall more weeping. "Aurors, Harry Potter, The Order of the Phoenix and the Dark Lord himself have all failed to kill me; it would have been shamefully ironic if you had somehow managed to succeed while trying to save me."

Despite having being unconscious for almost ten hours, he was exhausted, and judging by Hermione's red-rimmed eyes and grey pallor, she was just as tired, so after a few minutes of arguing, she finally relented and slunk off to her bed, leaving Snape to ponder her ramblings while she had studied furiously at his side. That elusive disparity had plagued him since he had found the potion to be flawed, and after eliminating the idea that Arthur would relapse, he had decided that the flaw rested with him rather than with the potion. It was not unheard of for a potion to have differing efficacies based upon varying users, but generally, the difference was not as extreme as what was demonstrated in this drama. The only thing that he could see as being different was that in this instance, the brewer had drunk their own potion. The perplexing thought followed him into sleep and pestered his dreams into violent and terrifying abusers.

oooXooo

The drone of the neighbour's lawnmower finally broke through her fatigue and heralded both the afternoon and the weekend. Blinking uncomprehendingly at the patch of sky in her window, she tried to gather her wits. A glance at the bedside clock gave her a jolt, and she surged up and out of bed...it was two in the afternoon! Rushing across the landing, pulling on her dressing gown, she then hesitated and steadied her breathing before knocking on the spare bedroom door. No answer! She tried again... no answer. Should she just go in? She pressed her ear to the door and tried the door handle which turned smoothly, and with the sigh of wood against carpet, the door opened.

"Professor Snape, sir?"

The room was empty. Relief and fear flickered as she considered his absence; was he okay and pottering around or had he pushed too hard and lay somewhere suffering? She turned on her heel, pulled the door closed and padded off to the stairs up to the attic. It took just a second to see that the makeshift potions lab was deserted, and then she was rushing off towards the kitchen.

On the threshold, she saw him making coffee, and her mouth closed off before she could let out her automatic greeting. A pair of her father's jeans had been altered to fit him, and he wore one of her dad's cream jumpers that had been a present Christmases ago and stuffed away in a drawer never to see the light of day again. The sleeves had been rolled up while he tipped in spoonfuls of coffee and sugar into two mugs, and he seemed almost... unfamiliar. She frowned and suddenly felt awkward in her fleece pyjamas and dressing gown, even though they had crossed on the landing several times since he had been in her home, and he'd seen her nightwear before. She quietly slipped away to wash and dress.

"The Deadly Nightshade roots will need to be macerated, and as that is the potion-limiting step, then I suggest we prepare the other tinctures while that takes place."

Hermione nodded and grabbed the thick, fleshy root, placing it on the chopping board and selecting the large, heavy knife. The section of root was cut into thin, oval slivers and dropped into a mix of water and alcohol. A weariness had descended upon her; it seemed that her intense vigil had sapped much of her vim, and despite her efforts, she felt lethargic. If Snape noticed her silences or her lack of energy, he made no mention of it, but she suspected that he was talking to her more carefully and making more comments about the potion than he would have normally.

"There is little point in rushing, the potion is simple and I find that the brewing in itself to be quite therapeutic; certainly not as time-consuming or draining as say... Polyjuice." His tone had been light and conversational, but his gaze had been fixed upon her face, and he smirked at the flush creeping across her cheeks.

"Uhm... It was hard work, sir." She concentrated intently on pouring the exact amount of alcohol onto the bowl of water and sliced root and tried to pretend that they were equals, discussing some shared problem or observation.

"You brewed that in your second year, Miss Granger. How easily you forget to equate accomplishment with skill," he said rather snidely, watching her pause and then frown as she thought over his words. The way she held the flask and focused on the last shimmering drop clinging to the glass lip was quite enthralling in its own right, and he wondered what he now found more compelling...his desire to tease her over her past actions or watching her face as she struggled with his twisted compliment. Personally, he felt awkward about complimenting people directly, and it was his habit, when he felt inclined to do so, to compliment in a convoluted manner sometimes wrapped up within an insult.

It was so difficult to discern his meaning; he said one thing while implying something else and sometimes made you ponder the subtleties when he had been obvious; it was a game of strategy with him. A wonderful game of feints and thrusts with delicate footwork and dazzling lunges, but it was such hard work, and since when had Hermione Granger backed down from a challenge!

The last drop dangled precariously and then fell from its mooring; a perfect sphere as it plummeted into the waiting bowl of soaking roots. Carefully placing the conical flask away from the flickering flame beneath the cauldron, she wiped her hands on a cloth and turned to face him, or rather, study his profile as he had turned his attention back to the small amber phial held between his long fingers. She had noticed it earlier, but refrained from commenting, contenting herself to follow Snape's directions.

"What is that, sir?"

"The key to the potion! It is the Bushmaster Venom." He turned the dark crystal, watching the light glint off its smooth surface. "I needed this particular ingredient; its properties very neatly covered every aspect of the potion's requirements. I sacrificed the use of arsenic so that I could have it; not that it was a great loss as this... this is the key. It degrades quickly in the light therefore we dilute it quickly and add it at the very end."

"I still don't understand: why add a venom to combat a venom?"

Snape placed the phial back in its stand and turned to her; his eyes narrowed at her question, and she moved back as though the heat of his stare scorched her. For a while, she thought that he wouldn't answer her, and she scrambled for her own, searching her repository of knowledge, but then he inhaled slowly.

"The roots will need a good few hours to soak and the other ingredients are prepared and waiting; let's get a hot drink, and we will discuss it."

He watched her take a small sip of tea and noted how her brows slowly pulled together. It was an alluring precursor to intense thought, and he wondered if anyone else had seen the way her eyes slipped out of focus with her surroundings as all her powers of thought shifted inwards. The poor lower lip bore the brunt of her thinking as her teeth worried the supple flesh, and there was something so fascinating about the intensity of her intention. Problem-solving had never been so pleasant.

"The venom in the potion, along with its own property and the other ingredients, helps the wizard's magic to heal the wound?" she asked, turning her contemplative gaze towards him.

"Nagini is no ordinary snake...at one time, she may have been, but the Dark Lord altered her in subtle ways...and I realised that something existed within her poison which had to affect the way magic worked within the body." He gulped down a mouthful of tea to moisten his throat, and he felt a flicker of pleasure as she leant closer, eager for his words. This was how he had dreamt teaching to be, not the tedious attempt to drum knowledge into empty heads, but the delight of sharing a passion with keen students...even hardened Death Eaters could be naïve. "Mr Weasley should have responded positively to the potions and spells recommended for snake bites, yet he failed to respond; the wound failed to close. The alterations made to Nagini and her venom must adversely affect the harmony between flesh and magic."

"Her venom was inhibiting the action of the spells and potions?" she asked thoughtfully, not really requiring an answer as her mind darted off down new alleys and paths.

"In essence; yes," he replied animatedly. "Her venom has magical properties in its own right, and it seems to focus on the hindering of healing either by magical or natural processes, just as injuries by Dark Curses cannot be completely healed." He took another sip of tea and let the comfort of the evening seep into his bones; it had felt a lifetime since he had enjoyed sweet and simple companionship. "The final clue came when one of the healers tried stitching the wound closed."

"You know about that?" she asked with a bemused smile.

"I have found that when something bothers Mrs Weasley, she has this remarkable ability to ensure that everyone knows about it," he said with a mock grimace, "whether they want to or not...the Daily Prophet must envy her reaching power!"

Hermione snickered and then smiled ruefully, "She does, doesn't she."

"She was our finest propagandist. Hidden in her simple ways and approachable sociability was a woman capable of great subtlety and intrigue. Through her skill, we were able to secure allies and sources of information that would otherwise have been left to wither. I speak, of course, of that stuff which others would call gossip."

There was an awkward moment, as their thoughts lingered over Mrs Weasley and the heavy loss that she and her family had to face. Both let their minds swirl down to the edges of sympathetic despair.

The silence was broken by an irritated gasp from Snape.

"Blasted neck!"

Her eyes flew to his throat; sure enough, she could see a narrow, red streak seeping along the weft threads of the bandage as he flung back his head and extended his neck in response to the discomfort, but her tolerance had been shifted, and she merely frowned and wondered, with increasing frustration, what caused the wound to open.

"What's wrong with your neck, sir?"

"It itches!"

She licked her lips and noticed how one of his hands gripped the mug while the other pummelled his thigh, the nails occasionally moving to scratch, as if the action would generate some sympathetic resonance in his throat and soothe the damnable itching.

"You scratch at it a lot," she said slowly; her mind replaying the many past instances where she had seen him idly scratch or rub at his throat.

"It itches a lot," he replied testily.

Hermione stretched and placed her mug on the coffee table and then turned on Snape, interest charged and loaded.

"It wasn't itching a few moments ago, though," she said encouragingly. "We've been talking for a few hours now and you haven't so much as touched your neck."

Chocolate-hued eyes studied his face; watched as that pained grimace with pulled back lips and tightly closed eyes relaxed as her observation sank into his own consciousness. Fingers which had scratched madly at his thigh ceased their futile torment, and he slowly moved to look her in her twinkling eyes.

"That's quite true, Miss Granger," he said softly, engrossed in the way her eyes shimmered from her epiphany.

"Why should it suddenly start itching? What prompted it?"

Momentarily lost in her animated gaze, he had failed to recognise his rising dread at her questions and line of reasoning, and his stomach twisted at his belated recognition; if she persisted, then she may discover his deepest regrets and woes. Not even Dumbledore or the Dark Lord had peeled back his mind enough to expose those memories and nightmares that she was delicately unearthing. A flash of irritation made him recoil from her; he had been remarkably short-sighted while considering a way to lengthen his future. At her prompt, his thinking over the last three days refined down into one pure concept; he knew why the potion had failed in its intended task. It was because he had never created a potion to prophylactively protect him against Nagini's venom. He needed that potion; the one that he had dismissed as flawed had worked perfectly, but not for what he had intended... and it never would.

"That first time, we were talking about..." she frowned and bit down upon her lip as her mind trawled through those disjointed memories.

Next to her, he stiffened and stared at her, a mix of horror and dismay churning deep in his bowels. Stop! he silently begged. I can't cope with you even suspecting...

"I can't quite recall what we had talked about, but you were very upset. The next time..." she said, her thoughts marching on mercilessly.

"Enough!" he said firmly, shocking her out of her musings. He licked his lips, and while his insides burned he softened his stern expression and gave her a quick smile. "The causes of the itch are irrelevant," he said gently. But they aren't, are they? Why lie to the girl? She could help you... you just don't want to deal with it all... just like your mother... hide your head in the sand and hope that the bad things go away. "We should concentrate on trying to solve the potion's inadequacies."

From behind a sip of tea, he watched her perplexed frown, and he silently hoped that she would drop her line of inquiry. His own suppositions were blooming like puffball mushrooms, exploding and spewing out their black spores into the recesses of his mind, corrupting his long-erected defences, and their mycelium burrowing from one decayed aspect to another, drawing sustenance from those black pools.

Even her breathing had stopped at his sharp imperative, and she felt the trapped air escape in a muted sigh at his explanation; perhaps her curiosity was extending the problem rather than solving it. Something about his demeanour worried her, however, and she remembered how Harry would suddenly erect a wall between them whenever they approached topics that he just didn't want to think about. She shuddered at what thoughts existed within Professor Snape after all that he had witnessed and suffered whilst spying for the Order; her heart clenched painfully at her insensitivity.

"Of course. I'm sorry."

With her head bowed, he gave in and raked his fingernails down the rough bandage, but the gentle pressure did nothing to alleviate that burn of an itch. But at least she had stopped thinking!

"Don't apologise, Miss Granger: curiosity tempered with patience can be the greatest asset anyone could hope for." He let his hand fall back to his lap, and he sighed softly. "The roots should be soft enough by now; we should complete the potion."

The procedure was indeed very simple, and they worked quietly to complete it; both were thankful for the busy silence as they pondered their own thoughts on the matter. Snape felt a peculiar vulnerability around her, as if she had some skill at decoding his thinking which rendered his evasiveness moot; it left him feeling raw and open. The fact that her ability was nascent and naïve only enhanced his wariness; what could she do if she turned her mind to the task of solving him? Yet, he knew that he had been remarkably indiscreet; he had disclosed things that he would have taken to the grave had she not had that novel insight into his spirit...were his deepest secrets being prised from him or revealed freely?

As she pressed the soggy roots against the muslin cloth with the back of a spoon, she wondered what had made Snape suddenly shut himself off. Everything about him had become stone, from his face to his tone. The transition had alarmed her, so sudden and sharp, and then she had wondered if her words had struck some long hidden nerve. Working quietly by his side, she noticed that he relaxed into the potion, treating each step as some soothing routine, and as the evening wore on, he bore the same expression that he had when they talked...contentment. How odd it was that she had formed such a sweet rapport with a man that she had once feared and for some time reviled as a betrayer. Perhaps not, she mused. Perhaps they were more alike than she had thought possible, each sharing similar burdens and through that trial, understanding each other all the better.

The tincture from the Deadly Nightshade was a dark green, and it had a cloudy appearance which made her think of stagnant water; the smell alone had been enough to make her ill at the thought of drinking it. Measuring out one ladle of the noxious liquid into a large flask, she wrinkled her nose and tried not to inhale as she slowly poured it over the Manuka honey glistening sweetly in the lamplight. At her side, Snape used his ladle to scoop up amounts from the tinctures of the Leopard's Bane and the Stagshorn, adding the ladlefuls to the green liquid in her flask. More of the water alcohol mix was added, and she watched as the dense green liquid swirled and shifted in value as it was slowly, reluctantly, diluted. It still looked unappetising. As if preparing some dubious cocktail, Snape squeezed in the juice of two lemons, stirring the potion carefully as the juice gushed down his hand and into the waiting concoction.

"Please continue stirring," he said efficiently as he stepped away, his arm extending to still stir the potion while allowing her to step closer to the bench.

Moving swiftly, she stepped into his vacated place, and in a move that must have been practised a thousand times by hundreds of potion brewers, she took hold of the stirring rod just beneath his fingers and mimicked his motion before he released it into her care. It must be a common thing for fingers to brush against each other and for rapidly retreating fingertips to graze the back of hands; a perfectly frequent thing for a momentary embrace as the previous brewer moves to step around the new recruit to retrieve the next ingredient in the brewing process, and that puff of escaping breath on the back of necks must be an expected consequence of the tricky manoeuvre that is changing brewers mid-potion. Hermione convinced herself of that and quickly stomped on the rising blush and gathering thoughts. Honestly! she scolded. It's worse than having a schoolgirl crush; just completely silly!

Damn hair! he thought bitterly as he stepped behind her to get the venom only to have his face netted in errant and untamed strands of hair. Reigning in his frustration, he blew away the grasping strands and moved to grab the amber phial from its stand and a thin glass tube. Unstoppering the delicate phial, he dipped the tube in and carefully extracted one drop of the precious toxin before hastily resealing the vessel. It clung to the thin tube, a glittering jewel of a drop, and he watched it fastidiously as he carefully orientated it towards the potion. Tilting his hand, the drop slid down, formed into a hesitant orb and then fell, to turn a mix of plant extracts into a potion.

There was no observable difference; it still looked and smelt like stagnant water and Hermione felt a small sense of disillusionment; other potions had sparkled or fizzed, sputtered out sparks or changed colours at the last moment...this looked as magical as pond water. Snape, however, seemed deeply satisfied, and he smiled vaguely at the murky cocktail.

Fatigue had pestered her for some time before the potion was completed, and it took little effort on his part to convince her to go to sleep. Left alone in the attic, he divided the potion into twenty-eight phials and cast a Preservation charm upon all but one. He had been blind, and although his eyes had been opened, he now saw a future as terrible as the one that would have been had he not solved the problem of the potion's failure. Holding up the uncharmed phial, he studied the dark fluid within and inhaled slowly before swallowing the duplicitous potion.

The bitter drink warmed its way to his stomach and he despised it. A loathing rose up just as that life-saving elixir slithered down. Hurling the empty container across the room, he heard it shatter before vicious laughter erupted from his trembling chest. The potion designed to spare him had condemned him. In his ironic bid to survive the war, he had created a potion that he was now bound to; without it, he would die, and with it, he would never be able to heal the other wounds sustained through his life. Recovery would be his killer... and bitter, pained laughter echoed in the attic.