A/N: This is the first full-length fanfiction I've written. I tried to stay a bit true to their characters, but I think you'll see that there are not your average, day-to-day Severus and Remus. This story is set in Harry's 3rd year and is meant to fit into the cannon as part of what goes on in Hogwarts that we don't see, as the narrative of the stories follows Harry.

Cheers, and expect chapter two next week.

Chapter One: Eleventh Nettle

Professor Snape was having a much more terrible day than usual. His pale face was even more pallid, and his expression was more cold than previous "bad days" - enough to send first years, even his Slytherins, scurrying away in a panic. Sweeping into the Potions classroom, he sent the door flying open on its hinges with a swipe of hand. The banging made several Hufflepuffs jump.

Ah, his second year Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw mix. If it weren't for the generous and, admittedly, genius Ravenclaws passing notes or whispering instructions to the dimwitted Hufflepuffs, he was certain half of Hogwarts' dungeons would have long since been destroyed by the lot of them.

Dunderheads, he thought, settling into the rigid chair behind his desk. He shot them all a glare, his jaw set and an expression of disdain on his face. With another wave of his hand, directions for a moderate pain-relieving potion appeared on the board.

"You'll all brew this potion - exactly to the instructions - and leave a vial of the completed product on the table." He gestured to the empty table with a vial rack big enough for all the students' samples. His voice was strained and he massaged the bridge of his nose. He heard the small sound of a Hufflepuff opening their pestering little mouth to inquire as to his health and he cut the little dolt short before they even had the chance. "Before you open your mouths and distract yourselves, I remind you that my health is none of your concern. What is, however, of your concern, is how disappointed I will be when you hand in the drivel you all dare call a 'potion'."

At the end of the class, after the last Hufflepuff had turned in their vial and scurried away with a worried glance at his Professor, Severus let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It wasn't his usual sigh of relief or contempt. It was ragged, pained and short. Severus gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up from his chair, where he had remained throughout the class, barely moving except to deduct points from the occasional would-be pyrotechnician.

It wasn't pain that kept him rooted to his place - pain he could handle. No, the entire class he'd been fighting something that had only recently started to plague him.

Panic.

Barely able to contain himself, he had kept a panic attack at bay for the last bit of the class, only just managing to keep himself still, gripping the edge of his chair and forcing himself to breathe normally.

But now that the room was empty, the full force of it hit him. He felt his chest clench as he stood and he grabbed his desk fast, holding on as tightly as he could as he felt the ground slide around beneath him.

Oh, god... His breath came in torn, ragged gasps as his vision swam. Oh, god, I'm going die... He sank to the floor, still grasping at the edge of his desk in a struggle to stay upright. Every part of him screamed to flee the dungeons, to get out from the dark and get somewhere bright, warm and safe. But he fought it - it wasn't true, it was only all just in his head.

And while he told himself that, his mind reeled over everything bad that had ever or would ever happen to him. Voldemort, a ridiculous set of half-lives, torture sessions barely disguised as Death Eater rallies; Black, all the memories that would bring, not to mention the fact that the man who betrayed Lily would undoubtedly attempt the life of her son, whom he was sworn to protect; add to all this a werewolf - the werewolf who'd tried to kill him as as child - was back in the castle and it was up to him to brew a complex Wolfsbane to stop him from killing or infecting anyone.

Pressure... His chest felt like someone was tightening a belt around it. So much pressure...

Severus stayed there, crumpled on the floor, one hand gripping at the edge of his desk in a failing bid to stay upright, the other clutching at his chest as though he could wrench breath out of it. He shook as he forced himself to draw a breath - it was shaky, laboured and it hurt his throat to even try.

After twenty minutes, he felt the floor stop pitching back and forth beneath him and his breath returned to normal.

Oh, thank Merlin... Severus sat back, leaning his back against the desk, sweat making his hair cling to his face, his breathing finally back to normal - if a little shallow. Oh, thank Merlin it's over.

It took him a few minutes to work up the strength to stand, but a glance at the calendar on his classroom wall - erected to scare students with how closely exams loomed - made Severus groan and force himself up faster, through his weakened legs and the persistent feeling of dizziness and nausea.

He had two weeks before the next full moon.

Wolfsbane took a week to brew, and had to be taken for a solid week before the full moon to ensure its protection held fast.

He hadn't the time to rest, even if he desperately needed it.

"Powdered Cat's Horn, two turns clockwise..." Severus muttered under his breath, adding the ingredient to the thick, bubbling mixture in his cauldron. His materials had all been laid out, his ladles and vials all neatly lined up.

He was in the final day of brewing, in the last steps. While the potion was complex, he had brewed it enough for it to have become habit. He didn't have to keep so concentrated around it.

That would have been a good thing, but at the moment, it was terrible.

"Two toad's eyes, three hairs of a dire wolf, eight turns counterclockwise."

Oh, no... Not again...

Severus stilled as he felt the chill run up his spine. No. NO! He finished the turns in the potion, allowing himself fifteen minutes to rest. Hopefully, it would be enough.

Almost as soon as he finished the last turn of the ladle, he felt his knees give out. Barely yanking his chin back to stop himself from smashing his face against the cauldron's lip, Severus crashed down to the floor. His knuckles white from the force of his grip on the cauldron, he clawed at the ground with the other.

He gasped, pulling in vain for breath. Even with his eyes wide open, he swore the room turned circles around him, pressing around him and making him feel like he couldn't even force a single ounce of oxygen into his lungs.

Severus groaned as the vertigo hit him. His brow knitted together, trying to keep himself controlled, but it failed. He leaned over to one side, hanging off the cauldron, and wretched. The action made his body convulse with its force, and, for a moment, it took all Severus had in him not to release his grip on his anchor and pass out.

Severus... Get a grip, you stupid bastard... He swore at himself, willing his anger and self-disgust to triumph out over his panic attack. Come on... A sharp exhale escaped him as he forced himself to stand, pulling himself up using his cauldron. Thank Merlin this thing weighs a ton.

His relief quickly vanished as two things happened at once: he registered that he had precisely twenty seconds to pour in exactly eleven Silver Stinging nettles, and nausea set in with renewed vigor.

"Nnghn, fuck me..." He groaned, one eye screwed shut in an attempt to fight off the nausea as best he could. His other hand shook violently as he grabbed the nettles off the table beside him.

Steady... ste- His thoughts were disrupted by another wave of vertigo and he forced himself to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. The pain distracted him long enough to add the final ingredients.

Quickly, he counted them out, feeling his conscience slipping dangerously far away. Eight, nine, ten, elev...ele...

Severus Snape hit the ground as the nettle integrated into the potion, turning it a smooth and creamy white from its previously thick, gray state. A faint blue smoke rose from its surface, hanging languidly above the mixture.

The Wolfsbane was complete, barely. All that remained was to let it mature in its vials for the week and deliver it to the werewolf seven days before the full moon.

As Severus lay on the ground, curling himself into a ball and fighting back sobs of fear and distress as he felt every side of his room press in on him, the eleventh nettle rolled away from him quietly.