Author's Notes:
1. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers. It makes such a fantastic difference to know one's not just broadcasting into the ozone. (Or what's left of it...)
2. Interesting Things about Writing About Harry Potter from Snape's PoV #137: You discover new and hitherto unsuspected synonyms for the word "idiot."
3. This chapter is for Leviathan. You know why.
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Once in his lab – the newly-punched hole in the door made it that much less private, but who cared – he shoved the Lacrimus Potion at Potter. The flask contained enough for three grown men. "Drink it all down," he barked, and Potter obeyed. If that didn't get a damned waterfall of tears going, he'd eat his goblin-made cauldron, he fumed. His fingers searched through some of his lesser-used potions, and he shoved another vial at the boy. "This will lower your inhibitions. Drink!" The dunce obediently upended the container before Severus could tell him about the disorientation that came as a side-effect, apparently ready to swallow anything if it would help his friends. Well, he'd just have to deal with the side-effects, then. Stupid and obedient, he thought scathingly. I could poison him and he'd never know it –
…Grow up.
Siphoning off the tears was the easy part: the magical properties of tears were well known, although most potions required them from werewolves and virgins rather than swelled-headed teenagers. Pointing his wand at Potter, Severus incanted the Lacrimae Transfaersus, the standard spell for potion-use lachrymal capture. "Now try."
The nincompoop just sat there, shaking. A single tear welled at the corner of his eye; Severus watched as the spell automatically Disapparated it into his stone basin. It sat placidly at the bottom of the half-metre deep, half-metre round stone bowl, taunting Severus with its minuteness.
"Potter, you are not trying!"
"I am!" the boy shouted, looking frustrated. "The potion's not working!"
"Don't depend on the benighted potion, boy!" Snape roared. "Do it for your friends!"
The halfwit screwed up his face, trembling – whether with fear or effort Severus could not tell, but he hoped, for Granger's sake, that it was the latter. Another tear appeared at the bottom of the bowl. But there was no time for this! Snape knew he could probably taunt the dunderhead until he cried, but unless the tears were shed out of love for his friends, they would be useless. That was how the ancient magic worked.
A commotion sounded from the hallway and he moved towards the door. "Wait here," he commanded and left the room. Potter bolted to his feet – Merlin, he was too much like his detestable father to – grow up – and stared at Severus as he turned back to him. "What is it?" he asked, his voice raw.
"You'd better go to them," Severus said grimly. "Weasley's awake. He's calling for you." He took a deep breath. "It could happen any minute now."
Wild-eyed, Potter bolted. Severus sighed, steeled himself and Apparated to the makeshift ward ahead of him.
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"RO-ON!" He could hear the yell all the way down the corridor as he stood at the door of the operating theatre. Why did Gryffindors always have to announce their presence by all this unsubtle racket? Although this one had the right, he reflected sombrely, given the potions inside him, and what he, Severus, had to tell him.
Potter skidded into him, not even seeming surprised that Snape was there ahead of him. "Let me in," he gasped.
Despite his dislike for the boy, Snape forced himself to grasp his shoulders firmly, blocking the entrance with his body; he forced himself to look into Potter's eyes – Lily's eyes – and sound sincerely regretful. "I'm sorry, Potter. It's too late. For both of them."
Those wild eyes bored into his, and he saw no arrogance there, not pride, just a terrible loss, clawing and screaming and tearing through the boy such as he had felt, many times. Yet he forced himself to go on. "We did all we could." It was a lie, yet he had to add, for the boy's benefit, "Granger said to tell you she loved you. Weasley spoke your name as he died…"
With an anguished howl that would have done his werewolf godfather proud, Potter shouldered past him, with an animal, bestial kind of abandon. Still yelling his friends' names, he burst into the room, flinging himself over Weasley's levitating body and wailing in a thoroughly undignified manner, kissing his face and hair, grabbing his body close to his and rocking him, turning to the Granger girl, sobbing over her, raining frantic, desperate kisses all over her face and eyes and burnt, clawlike hands, turning back to nuzzle the stupid Weasley's body and lift him into his embrace, weeping over him and rocking him like a babe – and what was Weasley to Potter that he should mourn him so, Severus asked himself? – then back to the Granger girl, gathering her into his arms and babbling incoherent words of affection to her as though she could hear him, and finally rushing to the wall and pounding his head and fists against it, still screaming.
Trying to ignore the raw pain he saw there, Severus raised a sardonic eyebrow. That potion certainly did a good job of removing inhibitions – not, he supposed, that the pampered nitwit had had that many to begin with.
He closed his eyes and Disapparated back to the lab. Time to see if the other potion had done as good a job.
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He was extremely gratified to find a couple of goblets' worth in the bottom of the basin. The great thing about this potion was that it stimulated the lachrymal glands, making them produce several tears where normally they would have produced just one. Hardly as romantic as that batty old Squib Hans Andersen's tall tales, he thought wryly, sticking a ruler in to check the steadily rising balance, but necessary, if one was to tap old magic. The trouble was, he next time he Apparated back into the operating theatre, he had to have the entire quantity ready – he couldn't hinge his plan on the off-chance of the cretin shedding tears of relief. Always provided, he thought darkly, that Weasley and Granger held on; it hadn't been a lie when he said it could happen at any minute.
Watching the level rise in the basin, he realized he was chewing his nails.
Finally, the precious fluid reached the minimum level he needed. He murmured a quick spell and it increased to almost fill the stone sink, lapping against its sides. Having engorged it as much as he could – any more would risk cross-spell contamination – he then diluted it with regular water the tiniest little bit, enough to increase the amount without affecting the potency. He debated adding powdered unicorn horn, but decided against it; the ancient magic was risky enough without experimenting while people's lives were at stake. Great Merlin's ghost, Severus wondered, how did St. Mungo's ever manage without a master brewer on staff? He levitated the basin and ran for the theatre.
