The boomslang skin was balanced precariously on the scales. Severus Snape knew that this was the most delicate stage in proceedings. He brushed his long black hair from his face and carefully added a single shred of boomslang to the scales so that they were balanced perfectly. He needed the slow, mindful work of potion making. He did not dare allow himself to think too much. He distrusted the practise of worrying, but now, with all his - with all of Dumbledore's - carefully placed pieces balancing on the edge of a knife, he found that his mind wandered. Endless scenarios, endless questions, wondering who or what would disrupt the precarious balance he tried so desperately to maintain in Hogwarts.

So many years ago, it felt, Dumbledore had told him to do all he could to protect the students of Hogwarts. Now, here, even as headmaster, he seemed to fail at every turn. The Carrows felt like constant watch dogs for the Dark Lord, questioning his every move. They were utterly unpredictable, insane and he was at least grateful to the other teachers who protected the students far better than he ever could. He couldn't even protect his Slytherin students as entranced with the Dark Lord's ideals as they were. He was grateful to those students who just kept their heads down and tried to not raise the slightest notice, toeing the line but never going overboard. Severus thought perhaps that Hufflepuff would become his new favourite house. If all the students were like that, he would be able to rein in the Carrows. But the Gryffindors, especially, insisted on constantly being noticed by the Carrows. They wrecked as much havoc as they could. Severus didn't know how they expected to be protected if they were so often in trouble. Sometimes, it was all he could do to not snap. Tell them to be quiet for once, to just not goad the Carrows. Half the time he was scared they would garner the attention of the Dark Lord, that they would finally cross the line where he would deem it necessary to be personally involved. If that happened, Severus knew there would be little chance of protecting the students. After all, it was easy for them to argue that the attempted stealing of the Sword of Gryffindor should be cause for death. That the three students should be made an example of. That the Dark Lord himself should be summoned. The latter, at least, was easy for Severus to argue against, the Carrows had always fancied themselves for undeserving glory. But he feared a day when Hogwarts, filled with children, would have to face the Dark Lord. Severus knew the three had only narrowly escaped, though they seemed blind to his careful maneuvering as he manipulated the Carrows into a far lesser sentence. In fact, rather than serving as a lesson to not push things too far, the students of Dumbledore's Army came out more reckless than ever.

His Slytherins were, in many ways, just as much of a problem. Young, and many had heard nothing but the ideals the Dark Lord taught from their parents. They took to the curses with glee. It did not bare thinking of, the hatred in a child for them to cast the Cruciatus on another. Severus did not know if they truly understood what they supported. If this went on longer than a year, he knew that many of them would live the rest of their lives baring the dark mark. Though he did not like to admit it, he also knew that a few could well end up having murdered before their seventeenth birthday.

He had the strongest feeling the end was approaching rapidly. Brewing a few potions for Madam Pomfrey to have on hand had always been such a simple, routine task. Bit now he wasn't sure if even that would be done. Far sooner than he would have ever liked, the dark mark, branded into his left forearm, gave a slight twinge. He was grateful that it, at least, was not from the Dark Lord. The was always a far stronger pain. Death Eaters could send each other small pulses when they were close enough. The only senders could be the Carrows. There was only one reason they would contact him. They thought Harry Potter was in Hogwarts. Somehow, he knew instinctively that they were not mistaken.

He sighed and tried to gather himself. He ensured that his face was blank, spared one last look at his potions, around at the small stone room that had been his home for seventeen years. He swept out of the room.

The boomslang skin sat on its scale in the cool air of the dungeon. Balanced perfectly, just as Severus had left it. Somewhere behind it, an unfinished potion began to bubble over.