Severus stared after him with such an infusion of hate and loathing, it was difficult to imagine someone's heart could contain such blackness. He clenched his sickly fists once more, and resolutely marched up and down the corridors, making sure that no students were trying to attempt mid-day trysts or cutting classes.

Of course, this skulking round hallways used to be a sadistic, ill-tempered habit of his, but it had gradually turned itself into a necessity. Hogwarts though well guarded, was not impervious. Too many times before had a servant of Voldemort's been allowed to enter the castle and been able to wreak havoc on those comfortably inhabiting it.

He bit his lip in frustration as the image of Peter Pettigrew settled in his mind. The weak chin and rat-like eyes constantly darting sickened him, as did his high, nerve shredding voice when he triumphantly revealed to Voldemort where the Potters had been stowed. Black should have been the one under the influence of the Fidelus Charm, of course, but how did he know the way history would ironically reveal itself.

He had been there when Pettigrew groveled in front of Voldemort, been there when Black had seemingly blasted dozens into oblivion, and been there as his trial had carried on endlessly. He had been there for the worst, and survived, and was not left wishing he hadn't. And, his only thanks for this was swift removal from the only place which really mattered anymore: Hogwarts.

Because what would he do, once shunted from its walls? He smiled unpleasantly, muggles were hardly ones to use potions. It seemed to be that pills were a universal solution to everything ;he only wished that wizards were that susceptible. He cracked his knuckles, feeling the ache and dull pain of being cramped in his study, furiously grading lethargic, and occasionally cretinous papers. He knew not why he bothered to glance at them. It seemed that each year, the evasively smaller shipment of students became stupider and stupider, their handwriting more careless and their personalities more ruthless. Last year had been hardest to bear, when he had seen nearly all of his seventh years subordinate to the Dark Lord. He cursed himself for hours, not knowing when, where or why he had failed. His attempts at being disdainful for all things dark were pointedly ignored or woefully misunderstood.

His zeal of seeking the position of Defence Against Dark Arts was mistaken as being an actual agent of Dark Arts. He scowled as he thought this, no doubt Potter and his weakly minions were among those to seed these rumors. Severus was mildly amused and offended that a boy whom he had spent countless hours trying to protect still hated him, and always managed to foil his plans. Potter, though he wasn't bright as his father, always found the slightest error, the most overlooked part, the needle in the haystack. He found it, and always managed to use it to his own advantage. That was the part that Severus found sickening, that was the part that he had cursed Potter so endlessly for. Never mind the fact the boy had never thanked him for his saving his miserably misspent life, actually, Potter had the audacity and ego to throw it back in his face. And to be painfully honest, it had stung as much as Dissolvente Potion.


He walked slowly into his dungeons, admiring the sterility of his classroom. Everything was perfectly placed, not even a stray fibre of material out of order. He smiled complacently. Woe betide the new potions master who would have to struggle to disarm the charms and wards that he kept upon his stores and rooms. Although the notion was childish, the reason was not. There were many potently virulent ingredients stored away, as well as those who could induce instantaneous death. He shivered violently as the thought of what the young Deatheaters in Hogwarts could be capable of, if their sullied young hands came into contact.

His quarters were sparse, ironically close to that of a monk's. The only thing that lay in shameful abundance were books; piled, shoved, crammed, hidden, levitated, shelved, stained. He kept them everywhere, both for personal pleasure, as well as a desperate attempt to brew anti-curses and new cures for the petulant diseases the Deatheaters had a nasty habit of cultivating.

And behind these martyristic acts, lay the most despairing of all: Severus was searching to prolong his own life. Although his constant notions of death and suicide seemed depressive and alarming, he knew in his heart of hearts he really didn't want death to claim him just yet. He knew he was cowardly and wicked for these things, but if only he could find the one potion, the one ingredient, the one book....

His musings were short lived, because he was acutely aware of another's presence. He turned around slowly, his eyes still contemplating with a guarded fondness, his classroom. Remus Lupin stood there, regarding his old enemy, and now fellow warrior. Severus' eyes flicked arrogantly over his always shabby clothes, before settling on his neatly kept features.



The tone, however pleasant, was still urgent, and his eyes did nothing to dispel the notion. His hazel eyes looked plaintive, and his nervous fingers gripped his briefcase. Severus nodded curtly, inviting explanation.

I'm in need of Wolfsbane. I'm afraid my attacks are becoming somewhat more intense, and the spells seem to be lasting longer than they should.

He trailed off. Severus nodded, but not in understanding. He had been afraid that the ruthless affliction would worsen with age or stress, and he was correct. Lupin looked half the man he was before, his shrunken eyes and wizened skin should have alerted him before.

It comes with age. As well as the constant stress of battling. I'll brew something more potent, though I'm afraid it will be far more difficult to imbibe.

Lupin nodded, eternally grateful and uncaring as to whether it would have an awful flavor. Severus would grant him that; his totally selfless concern where others were concerned. The only reason he took his potion with such zeal, besides the considerable pain of transformation, was because he desperately wanted the children to remain unscathed. He also wanted to teach them Defence Against Dark Arts, as was his job, but he did this because he knew he could and would recruit powerful allies for the side of good. Or, The Cause.

Severus made a face in disgust, and Lupin eyed him curiously.

It's nothing. A simple spasm.

Lupin nodded, though somewhat suspiciously. Severus pretended to pluck a piece of lint from his robes. When he glanced up again, Lupin was still there, still looking at him mildly. He glared at him, wishing he would leave, he cleared his throat and tapped his foot, but he still did not move.

'Sirius said Friday. Is this true?.

Severus cursed himself for so liberally answering an otherwise entirely personal matter. Lupin seemed to catch this.

Don't worry, it was only me he told. I don't understand why is has to be you, and not someone else.

Severus thought Lupin almost looked angry as he said this, grinding his thin wrist into his other hand. He smiled coldly, and felt an odd twinge of pity for the obviously suffering man in front of him.

It has nothing to do with favoritism, Lupin, so don't flatter yourself. Yes, many of the faculty do believe that this would be an easier war to fight if I would not hinder it so, but the reasons are entirely different. Once stripped of my magic, and thrust into muggle-dom, Voldemort cannot track me, even with the Mark. No one would be able to find me without my wand.

He felt an almost palpable relief as he said this, his thin chest rising in a rapidly inhaling motion. Lupin looked aghast, and utterly horrified. His trembling figure gave away both his emotionally and physically fragile state.

You have no wand? But that's depriving you of all ability to be able to defend yourself, if need be.

Albus is willing to take the risk. I trust him entirely.

Severus said the words calmly, too calmly, for even he did not fully believe him. Powerfully perceptive as the old wizard was, he highly doubted he would be able to predict the often sporadic attacks of the Deatheaters.

What would happen if you remained longer? Or even if they found you?

I would die.

The words which had been so long at ravenously devouring his mind were now released, floating in an empty vessel of a previously exhaled breath. Severus himself felt lighter, but weaker. His future was bleak, and almost without hope. Dumbledore was setting him up to die, and for once, he had no problems with others arranging his fate.

















A/N: I know it's rather depressing and all that, but its for plot points only. I have no idea as to whether our hero actually does die, so I guess you will just have to wait and see. My profuse thanks to Starlight for such great reviews *hugs and bows*.