Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my "With A Little Help from my Friends." A number of readers have agreed that it belongs in a separate story, so here it is. And yes, it is a trio thing, and no, don't ask me what Snape's doing in here. I swear, he muscled his way into what used to be an innocent chapter, grabbed my shoulders and swiveled me round to look at the ending – which I'd always planned without his help, thank you very much – from his PoV. It's official: Fan fiction can change your perception of a character. Reading it, that is, not writing it.
That said, the rest of this story is not about Snape. I'm still just finishing my story as planned, even though you may have wormed your way into my perception of it, Severus.
If you like this story, you have Padfoot 2304 to thank - it never occurred to me until s/he suggested it in a review.
And finally, no, this is not a oneshot, I seem to have confused some people. I estimate it'll be finished in about a week.
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"Can it be true?"
"They saw his body!"
"No, they didn't, they saw the house fall in on them all, the Boy-Who-Lived and…!"
"You-Know-Who's dead for good, I tell you! It's just a matter of time until they dig his body out of the rubble!"
Severus Snape jogged through the halls of St. Mungo's, still unable to quite shake the feeling of unreality that had been a constant companion ever since he had heard of the Dark Lord's demise. Once he believed it, the ex-spy thought, opening the door to his makeshift potions lab, shaking his head as usual at the flimsy lock, then he would work out what to do with the rest of his life.
As he levitated vials of Blood-Replenishing Potion out of the shelves – there were so many casualties from the battle that there was never enough – he reflected that there was a time when such news would have sent him soaring into the air and whooping like a schoolboy. His mouth quirked at that – even as a schoolboy, he had never whooped. And now, with Albus gone – gone at his own insistence, yes, gone for the greater good, yes, but still, Severus' best friend and only mentor, gone forever – there was no room for the kind of unbridled joy this news could bring, even assuming he still had the capacity to feel it.
He strode swiftly back to the operating theatre. And 'theatre' was the word – St. Mungo's, like every other Wizarding hospital in Great Britain, was so hopelessly overcrowded that even the operating theatres had been transformed into makeshift inpatient wards. Thanks to a judicious Enlargement Spell, over five hundred people lay alongside the walls, the patients currently under the wand and the surgeons operating on them protected from infection by rather ingenious germ barriers invented by those infuriating Weasley twins.
Infuriating, but, he caught himself automatically, worthy of respect. They'd invented many life-saving devices and were good at what they did, he had to remind himself. He had to try to 'grow up' – to get rid of irrational dislikes; it was one of the promises he'd made when he took this job…
Offhand, he'd never have put "being cleared and proved a hero" as the foremost reason for his life going down the drain. And yet, when Dumbledore's will had come out, proving his innocence with a thrice-confirmed Truth Charm of his own invention, the side of the Light – stupid name, he thought irritably, pounding on the lift door. It takes forever to get here. Have to see about renewing the Levitation Charm on that when things settle down – where was he? …oh yes, the Light Side had been quite at a loss what to do with him. No return to spying for him: trust the idiot Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs at the Daily Prophet to blazon the news across the front pages, guaranteeing that he could never afford to so much as look at a Death Eater again, never mind pretend to be spying for the Dark Lord. "Hello, I'm a spy! Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" Not.
So the necessity had arisen, this late in life, to find not so much an occupation as a way to be useful. It was strange to move from a maligned creature of the darkness who didn't expect to survive the year to a man suddenly alone, at something of a loose end, trying to find some purpose to his life. It wasn't as though he had to worry too much, beyond basic precautions, about the Dark Lord's vengeance; the tide of the battle was turning, and Riddle had too much to worry about with blasted Potter and his idiot brigade to be settling old grievances.
But ironically, what was saving his life was the very thing taking away his chances for living. The arrogant, stupid Boy-Who-Lived hated his guts, and it was perfectly mutual, thank you very much. And since the Wizarding World had insisted on placing their hopes on a barely-of-age wizard, said wizard's opinion held a great deal of clout. Thus, he found himself not unlike a schoolboy whom nobody wanted on his team. Though he had spent the better part of his adult life fighting the Dark Lord, he couldn't join the Aurors due to 'security clearance issues' – at least he respected Kingsley Shacklebolt for taking him aside and saying, "What it really boils down to, Snape, is that no-one on the squad trusts you. Sorry." A Ministry job was out of the question for the same reason. And even though his name was officially cleared, he couldn't quite seem to get anyone to actually sign his Hogwarts reinstatement papers. The betrayal in Minerva's eyes, even as she welcomed him back and said she forgave him, had hurt more than he could have imagined. Severus knew enough of the world to know that one might forgive out of duty, but forgetting – forgetting was another matter.
Walking out of Hogwarts, Severus had been seriously starting to wonder whether he would have to end up selling Spinner's End and disappearing back into the Muggle world, when he had run into Madam Pomfrey. Pomfrey was one of the few people he could say he genuinely respected; he'd told her many times over the years that he thought she was wasted at Hogwarts. They hadn't talked: he had greeted her and she had responded, not with wariness, but with a kind of sympathetic, resigned sadness.
It was as he'd turned to go that she'd called him back.
"Yes, Poppy?" he had looked at her questioningly.
"Severus," she appeared to think better of whatever she had been going to say, "oh, never mind."
"If you have something to say, Poppy, just say it!" he said with his usual brusque demeanour, then added belatedly, "Please?"
A smile played around her lips. "Nice to know some things never change."
"Please do tell me if there is anything I can do. I would like to help you, Poppy," he found himself saying, emphasis on the "you."
"Well…" It was odd how hesitant his old friend seemed, then the words came tumbling out of her in a rush. "I don't suppose.. you'd be free some afternoon to come up and help us out at the hospital potions lab at St. Mungo's?"
Severus just stared at her, mystified, trying to work out if this was a job offer out of pity – not that he'd mind – or whether she really needed help. Then the 'us' registered. "So you're at St. Mungo's now," he said slowly. He couldn't help smiling.
She blushed. "Well, with Hogwarts practically deserted, I only Floo here when I'm needed. The hospital needs me. It's in a bad way, Severus," she went on, her face taking on the passionate glow she had when speaking of her work. "So many good mediwitchards have been killed or Obliviated, we're really understaffed. And You-Know-Who has killed every one of our master potions brewers. The last raid was a catastrophe, I don't know if you've heard? He got Tristram and Ismania and Abernathy and Taliesen, murdered them all when they refused to come over to his side…"
"Taliesen?" Severus lowered his head, shocked. Named after Merlin himself, the old potions brewer had been legendary. For a moment, he wondered how the Daily Prophet idiots hadn't mentioned his passing – but nooo, what the Boy-Who-Lived ate for dinner was more important to them. Then the other name registered. "Abernathy? I'm sorry, Poppy, truly sorry." He took her hand in sympathy. Severus was one of the few who knew that the middle-aged mediwitch and the old potions brewer had become lovers late in life, rekindling a school crush for which Severus had, in his reckless days, once provided the Contraceptive Potion. He looked into her bright hazel eyes and saw the resignation there.
"It's all right, Severus," she said. "Thank you."
But then it sank in. Abernathy and Taliesen – and Tristram and Ismania? All of them? Involuntarily, a chill went though him.
"Poppy," he blurted, jaw dropping, "are you trying to tell me that there is not one competent master potions brewer currently at St. Mungo's?"
Her face showed relief. "That's about the shape of it, yes," she nodded ruefully.
"I'm coming with you. Just give me a moment to pack my ingredients."
He turned to rush down to the dungeons – damn the Dark Lord, murder all the competent brewers, what a – a cheek – well, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction, he'd brew the hospital potions if it was the last thing he did… But then he turned back, hesitating. "Poppy," he said slowly, "you know I am not too… popular."
"Pooh," she snorted. "You're the best potions brewer I know. They need you." At his hesitant expression, she stepped closer to him, her beautiful eyes softening, smiling a motherly, reassuring smile. "They'll accept you in time. It will pass, Severus."
Why did he suddenly feel vulnerable? "I don't – the Aurors don't trust me, the students hate me, the Ministry is giving me the cold shoulder, the thrice-damned Boy-Who-Lived is up in arms against me…"
But Poppy just smiled that gentle smile again. "This is war. They'll just have to grow up, shan't they?" Her eyes twinkled slightly. "And so shall the rest of us. Even you and I, Severus."
Which explained why he was standing here stocking shelves with Blood-Replenisher, trying to think charitable thoughts about the two students who had been the bane of his life. Actually, he thought, walking out into the corridor, they were always brilliant wizards in their own way, even back then.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Severus' stride picked up as he saw dozens of patients Apparating in from the so-called 'Final Battle' – stupid, melodramatic reporters, calling it that like something out of a novel, he fumed. He broke into a run, in a hurry to get back and get started, automatically taking stock of his ingredients and looking at the emergency patients' injuries to determine the potions he'd need, all the while keeping his promise to Poppy by dutifully acknowledging that the Weasley twins weren't all bad; it was just their association with that disgusting Potter brat…
CRACK!
The object of his thoughts Apparated a meter into his path, wailing like a banshee. Severus skidded to a halt, but not soon enough. He crashed into the damned nuisance, skidding several metres down the corridor along with the screaming boy until they crashed into a wall.
"It's the Boy-Who-Lived!" someone shouted.
"It's Harry Potter!" yelled another silly, excitable nurse
It's a bird! It's a plane! Severus thought disgustedly, wanting to hex them all as he crawled out from under the noisy whelp. Disentangling himself from the teenager and pulling away, the potions master looked into Potter's face, head thrown back, every facial muscle contorted, lips drawn back from teeth, eyes squeezed shut.
Cruciatus? he thought briefly before he realized in disgust: No, teenage histrionics. His patience running out, Severus slapped him.
The boy stopped screaming immediately, his eyes snapping open to hold Snape's. But they were wild, bereft, half-crazed, as his had been when he'd lost Lily. What? Where did that thought come from? His face was drawn, deathly white except for the marks of Severus' fingers, half the hair on his scalp taken off by a horrific burn. He was weeping, and as his desperate eyes locked on Snape's, he saw the flash of recognition instantly give way to an abject pleading.
Potter was begging… him?
"Help them," he choked out, rough voice breaking into a sob. "Please. Help them."
His eyes fell to the bundles in each of Potter's arms. How had he not noticed them before? Granger and Weasley, charred to a crisp.
"By all that has magic." He swallowed bile. They were barely recognizable as human, arms and legs twisted and blackened, the hands stick-like claws, fingers partly fused together, the feet toeless black stumps. They seemed to have been caught from behind by some sort of fire curse, as their faces and the fronts of their torsos seemed intact; their backs, from crown to toe, and all their limbs, were coal-black, charred to the bone.
"Please," Potter, gasped, sounding drained and exhausted, beginning to sob over their bodies. It was impossible to tell just by looking at them whether they were dead or alive; for a moment, he suspected that Potter had gone to all this trouble just to bring home their corpses, but as he waved his wand for a diagnostic spell, the words "Barely Alive" formed in the air above them. They still lived, then.
"Not even sure those can be saved," he muttered to himself. "Have to see what kind of curse…" Nurses and orderlies were already coming, levitating them into the operating theatre. "Get Pomfrey," he shouted to someone.
"But she's at the…"
He whipped around, fixing steely eyes on the imbecile who'd protested. "I don't care if she's beyond the veil, these two were her patients and they've been cursed by the Dark Lord himself, now MOVE!" That tone had intimidated Death Eaters. The mediwizard never had a chance. He Disapparated on the spot.