(May 5th evening)

That very evening Snape stood in his basement looking at the ingredients Pomona gave him. He'd have to thank her somehow. Perhaps he'd tell her how his date went, if it went well, or make her a fertilizer potion. He shook his head. These ingredients were top notch, and she surely endured a stinging hex when she went into his private ingredients cupboard without asking. Still, not devouring her yesterday was also a 'nice gesture'.

Would she even expect a thank you? Purebloods and Slythrins were so much…. Simpler wasn't the right word, but he knew how to work with them. There were expectations and rules. The brash friendship of people like Pomona and Minerva, even Lily, was astounding and confusing. For a pureblood whether or not he sent a thank you gift, and what that gift was, would be determined by what the relationship was and what each wanted out of it.

A business relationship, if he wanted it to be continued, would require a gift of less worth than the one he received, an acknowledgement. If he wanted to grow that relationship he would send a gift worth equal to what he received, more than would mean he was done with them as he had outgrown them. Sending nothing would also end the relationship, but would end the possibility of other relationships as well.

With friends it was similar, but sending a gift of equal or greater worth was often a sign that you needed assistance, or were willing to work together on something. Sending something of much greater worth was an insult. Sending nothing meant you needed to talk.

And of course this didn't even get into types of gifts, food versus academic papers versus money or donations. No, it was very complicated but also clear and laid out.

With everyone else it was just… dependent on the person, on the situation. Dear Merlin, was it always this awkward when it came to acquaintances? With Lily he knew what she liked and even if he got her something odd she would appreciate it because he got it for her with his money and she knew he had basically none when he was younger. Pomona however… Did she expect a gift? Most likely not. Would she appreciate one? Maybe. Although it might remind her how much he owed her. However she likely wouldn't think he owed her anything. She was helping a colleague in need, that's what you did if you weren't a Slytherin or a pureblood. There was no expectation of eventual repayment, but there was an expectation that he would do the same for them, but not really, because you didn't expect that of your friends if you were a friend except for the fact that you did but couldn't say it and damn it made his head hurt.

He sighed. He'd tackle that later.

He picked up the recipe and went over it, again. It wasn't a complicated or difficult potion. There were just a few expensive ingredients in this refined version. Things that would make it spread faster throughout the body. Ingredients that would better utilize the magic in the blood, or the core if necessary. The potion was a 'user' potion, one that used the magic in the person's body to work. The normal blood replenisher was the opposite of that, a generator, which used the magic in the ingredients to activate. It pushed the magic into the body to force the wizard to make more blood. The new potion pulled magic from the body, or blood, to force osmosis in the blood itself. Similar results, wildly different ways of getting there.

He spent the next half hour prepping ingredients, making sure to double check the instructions frequently. He added none of his own improvements, but did make notes. He needed a base to go off of to see if his improvements did anything after all. He was very lucky indeed St Mungo's had finished this as quickly as they had, this iteration wasn't even in the top fifty he would have tried. The student truly had messed up the potion he was supposed to be creating, it was rather far from the original.

He went over the instructions again. This would take at least two hours to brew, and then it needed to sit for another one. Quite a lot faster than the other blood replenisher. Another bonus. The potion the potioneers had perfected was also far less stable during creation than the one the child had made by accident, it needed time to rest and stabilize.

Snape looked at his workstation and nodded. Everything was in its place and ready. He set to work.

The lab was a symphony of bubbling, crackling fire, and the sound of knives. He felt himself relax. He was in his element here, he knew what to do, every variable was accounted for. There were no children or idiots there to interrupt him. It was peaceful, controlled. He added the bat wings slowly, stirring five counter clockwise times and looked at the instructions again. The potion should be a near translucent blue at this stage. He checked his; it was, of course.

He spent the next hour and a half calmly brewing. At the end he looked at the instructions. A consistency similar to syrup, smell like copper and iron that would fade as it cooled, a color should be a deep red, just slightly more orange than blood would be. Snape looked at his potion, consistency was correct, the smell was correct, the color… was not. It was a pale red. He frowned. That was not possible. Why hadn't it worked? He'd followed the instructions impeccably! He knew he had. He re-read them. Yes, every step was perfect. He flipped the paper over and then back, and froze. He flipped it over once more and saw a small note.

Activation of the potion requires that the brewer think joyous thoughts during the last stage of stirring. The incantation for activation is sanguadii. It should turn a deeper red after incanting and deepen further over the resting period.

Snape fumed. Whoever wrote this had failed to indicate there were more instructions on the back with even an arrow or a 'cont'. That was common practice amongst brewers and they had just-just decided not to. Any entry level brewer, hell even his sixth years, knew that practice. It was common courtesy! Even Poppy did it! He cursed the unknown annoyance that had nearly caused a catastrophe. He might be able to salvage this. Maybe.

He hurried upstairs and grabbed some of his chocolate. If that wasn't a simple joy he didn't know what was. He took a bowl down and set it aside, and stirred. Thoughts of the dish waiting when he was done filled him with anticipation, but not joy. Thoughts of eating it, no, not joy. He'd take a bite but risking contamination, the mere idea of eating while making a potion, the idea of eating while over a potion! No. No, he couldn't even fathom it. He scowled. He hadn't thought 'joyous thoughts' that often. At least he didn't think he had. He scowled. All his older 'joyous memories' just filled him with sadness and guilt now unless he truly concentrated.

What brought him joy these days? Well, he supposed that was different for each person, it didn't say they had to be 'nice' joyous thoughts. He refused to think of frolicking in a field or puppy dogs. Neither elicited joy for him anyway. Nausea perhaps, fear of being immolated in the sunlight, definitely. Not joy. So… what did?

Meating out detentions to students on the other hand, seeing their fear and respect. Knowing that he had such a reputation that made students behave… He watched as the potion changed into a slightly cadmium red color and sighed. Thank merlin. He took his wand and waved it over the cauldron, incanting as instructed. The potion stopped moving and slowly started to turn a deeper red. He took a breath and stood back.

Why the child had felt joy in his class was beyond him, or maybe that was an addition from the potioneers. He hated emotionaly charged potions. Hated. Still, this one was not too bad. He sighed. He had to wait for an hour. He very much did not want to.

He turned off the heat below the cauldron with a wave and went to get the bowl. Sitting in the cold basement he slowly ate the dessert, pausing on occasion to check the wards. He refused to be interrupted again. He closed his eyes as he ate, the summer storm returned, and brought words with it. He mused for a moment or so, the taste of oranges on his mind. When had he last wrote a poem? He thought for a bit, casting his mind back through time.

His seventh year. He had planned on one last attempt at rekindling his friendship with Lily. He had painstakingly written it, checked the cadence, the upbeats and downs, the heavy words against the soft ones, the meter and rhymes. It had been an acceptable poem for someone his age. He had gone to the owlery, and saw her and James sitting outside, and then immolated it. Yes, that was the last time he remembered writing something. His heart in twain.

It had been long enough that he no longer felt so strongly, it was mainly regret now. He of course still loved her, but it was the love of the past, of possibilities lost. Rose colored glasses tinted with the blue shade of sorrow and failure. Grief and self loathing followed nearly every memory of her, there was little room left for the intensity of full fresh love. Or perhaps he was just telling himself that, pushing his emotions aways with the practiced ease of years of occlumency. Either way now that love was tempered with aching loss. The fact that her absence was his fault had only magnified it. He always felt drained when he cast his patronus, as if using the memory made the grief that trailed behind it grow.

He sighed. He had thought to never write poetry for her again, and he hadn't. But he had had little else to write on that seemed worthy. Perhaps he could try again. He should probably be examining that dream, or thinking about his epiphany, but honestly today had been exhausting. He could do with some pleasant mental exercise.

He summoned a piece of parchment and set his bowl down. He tapped the parchment with his wand, mumbling words. He would not waste ink on such frivolities. Ink was for important things, finished poems that had great importance, grand ideas, notes on potions and spells. Not musings such as this. Burning words appeared and vanished on the paper as he nodded or shook his head. Finally twenty minutes later he had something he was at least somewhat satisfied with.

Wind drunk and worn you sit, aged core unbending.

Mawed terminus will flit, storms' blessing impending.

Children must be tended, rot horrid or divine.

Potential not ended, but a feast sybiline.

Propagation, your goal, one I cannot assist.

Your hard work I stole, with each and every …kiss.

A riddle, purely his own. It was a subpar creation, but one couldn't expect perfection in twenty minutes, or expect, after years of disuse, to be proficient in a skill. The answer was obvious really, too obvious for a riddle. Maybe he'd work on it more later, or immolate it. He nodded a bit as he finished the desert and the flavor of cocoa and oranges filled his mouth.

He had been rather… indulgent these past two weeks. Eating quite a bit, making chocolate, not to mention the sex. If he didn't know any better he'd say he was living the life of one of those story book vampires some of the muggleborns in the school seemed to gush over. He supposed he should thank Anne Rice and those of her ilk, but he had yet to encounter someone who was so infatuated with vampires that they had practically leapt into his mouth. He would sooner or later he supposed. Of course, maybe he had already, he certainly didn't broadcast his state enough for them to act on it. He made it seem like he was merely rough with his mouth, muddled their minds with blood and magic. It was safer.

He had no clue what made these vampires so attractive. The aphrodisiacal aspect certainly, but the way they were romanticized and humanized was truly foolish. It'd get the chits killed, well, eaten. He set the empty bowl down and smirked. He had confiscated one of the books once and skimmed it. Stereotypes were always amusing, they came from facts, archetypes, truth, repeated events.

Yes he was conflicted, but over something as convoluted and murky as morals? Over right and wrong? He should be, was, but he honestly did not have time. His entire existence was defined by the fact that he had done horrible things, and now he did horrible things 'in the name of good' in the name of a goal, in the name of 'regret or redemption'. He did horrible things so other people wouldn't have to. He did what he had to and he would always do so, whether each act was good or evil was not for him alone to decide. He was rotten, monstrous, twisted against his will because he had given it to another. Twice. He was man enough to admit that he even enjoyed those horrible acts sometimes. Honestly, he did horrible things, full stop. He had never been a nice person and the persona he developed for the school fit nicely, like a glove.

Sullen, conflicted, cruel, mostly isolated, and possibly still quite evil. Enigma. The fact that it was a side step from the 'tall dark stranger' that was romanticized, and a hop skip and a jump from numerous vampire archetypes was amusing. If it weren't for his teeth, lotion greased hair, nose, complexion, and near permanent scowl, and of course, the fact that he terrified nearly every single one of them, he might have numerous school girls, maybe a few boys, swooning. Thank Merlin he didn't, he shuddered at the thought.

That was the other reason he didn't have anyone interested in him, he purposefully was off putting so it wouldn't happen. Well, purposefully was perhaps too generous, he was off putting without actually trying, whether he wanted to be or not usually. Fortunately he generally wanted to be. He could not afford a relationship with anyone in the wizarding world right now, he could not afford a relationship right now, he did not want a relationship right now. Certainly not with the foolish children still trying to figure out what it meant to be a sexually active adult, let alone in love. Too many hormones and too little self control. Not to mention the fact that they were students, underage, and tasteless. In more than one way too.

The fact that there were very few people his age who were willing to start a relationship based on something other than physical attraction was another deterrent. Mutual attraction was important, as were looks, he certainly had a type, but for him the ability to hold an intelligent conversation was rather more important. If someone couldn't look past his hair into his eyes and just talk to him he had no interest. He had had a few brief years before he died after adolescence where his hair hadn't been greasy, then he died and had needed lotions to not ignite daily. So if they couldn't deal with greasy hair that only got greasier the longer he stood over a cauldron, they most definitely were not intelligent enough to discuss the theory behind elementally charged alchemical reagents in potions and how they could react to their elemental opposite outside potions via spells or dark artifacts.

And again, it was just plain stupid to get in a relationship right now. If he did it would have to be with someone neither side of the war would object to or could use against him, and he could think of precious few who fit the description. None of the purebloods who fit it were of interest to him let alone interested in him. Any halfbloods who would be accepted by the Death Eaters would be fanatics or coerced and he was not interested in dealing with the situations either of those would foist upon him. The light, or the dark, would have serious doubts about him if the relationship or his lover's true allegiances came out. Muggles and muggleborns would be brought before the Dark Lord as soon as he returned and he would most likely have to eat his lover in front of an audience. The relationship would have to be hidden and under a veneer of 'it amuses me to fool them' which was most likely not healthy.

Muggle was most likely still the safest since he could hide his intentions and the relationship from both sides. Besides, since when could anything he did, or continued to do, be considered healthy for any party involved? Still, while he had gotten over his hatred of muggles he still had a strong general dislike for many of them, they seemed to jump to violence and fear as a reaction even more quickly than wizards.

And then of course was the biggest problem. The fact that any partner he had would most likely be… well… edible. And of course there was his blood. He didn't want to build a relationship off the fact that he could get his partner high. He sighed. No. Now was not the time for a relationship. It might never be time for a serious relationship, considering he was still… he didn't really know what. He wasn't pining. He didn't pine. Of course not. The hole in his heart was from lack of blood and nothing else.

He would most likely die before he got the chance anyway, and considering how many others' relationships he had most likely cut short with his actions and hunger it was no less than he deserved. His upcoming date was most definitely not in pursuit of that type of relationship. He had a specific goal there. A safe haven, perhaps an ally. He doubted anything else would come of it.

He stood and went to look at the potion. It had been 45 minutes and the copper smell was almost gone. He stirred it once to confirm that the consistency had not changed and nodded when he confirmed it hadn't. He set about cleaning a few vials to put the potion in. Normally he did this beforehand but seeing as he had an hour to kill after he figured he'd put it off till he got the anxious energy that always came at the end of brewing a potion for the first time. He set out ten thin vials, far thinner than the ones students used. They would hold about one half pint of liquid. He was rather eager to test the potion. The last test had been with potion infused blood, he had a feeling this might make more than that little experiment had. However, if it left flavor, magic, anything of the person in the blood, remained to be seen. One drop of potion infused blood and one drop of blood had made three pints that had been rather satisfying at the time considering he hadn't eaten frequently for years, had just broken his fast. Now he'd probably find such fare rather unpalatable.

He scourgified the vials and double checked the stoppers, making sure each cork was solid and not prone to crumbling. He replaced two of the corks and threw out one vial when he saw a hairline fracture. He grabbed another and checked and cleaned it as well. He then went upstairs and grabbed the half empty vial of blood from the hidden compartment in the library.

Once back downstairs he scourgified the dish the dessert had been in and cast a quick engorgio on it. He carefully poured one knut sized drop of Dumbledore's blood into the dish and then checked the potion. He exhaled. It was perfect, it was ready. Confident this potion wouldn't react negatively to magic, a flick and a swish sent it twirling through the air into the vials, and another flick capped them. He then picked up a ladle and carefully scooped the last bit of potion out of the bottom and took it over to the bowl. He tipped a single drop into the bowl and watched as it mixed with the blood. It fizzed briefly, then that haunting tune filled the air once more as the potion expanded. It continued past the expected three pints up to five. He nodded, satisfied, and dipped a finger in, and brought it to his mouth.

Thick, it was thick. Far thicker and richer than the first time. Lemon obliterated every other flavor. He frowned. There was no ozone, none. He summoned and quickly cleaned a bottle, siphoning the blood into it. The potion had used up all the magic in the blood to do its work.

That was the problem with this type of potion, the main problem. If someone was suffering from magical exhaustion, it would be likely that the potion wouldn't do a damn thing for them, or it would kill them. Unlikely, but possible, a drained magical core had erratic consequences.

The potion most definitely wouldn't work for muggles, they had little to no magic in their blood. It most definitely wouldn't help him detox if it used up all the magic either, he needed some or he'd go through rather bad withdrawal effects. His thoughts had become decidedly… more wantonly vampiric when it happened with McGonagall. He was feeling more in control now and he really didn't want to have to build up his shields again if this weakened them. It could also be completely different this time now that he had had his 'epiphany' and he was in no mood to find out how that might affect the symptoms.

He scourgified the bowl and poured another drop of blood in, this time followed by two drops of potion. Same result, except the blood was thinner, much thinner as it was spread out over 10 pints. He bottled that as well. He had expected as much, but going through the motions was part of the experiment.

He poured two drops of blood into the bowl and followed that with one drop of potion. Seven pints, thick, rich, and more than a hint of ozone amongst the lemon. He breathed in the scent and relaxed. He could most definitely use this to detox, changing the ratio of blood to potion slowly. For now, he needed a bit more, especially after all the tasting and testing, his veins were itching incessantly. He bottled the manufactured blood and poured the remaining blood, four drops, into the bowl along with two drops of potion. He watched as it filled up to 10 pints. It seemed there were diminishing returns eventually, the potion could get used up before it used up the magic in the blood.

Of course, Dumbledore rather had a surplus of magic, he couldn't expect this much from everyone. He was sorely tempted to see if he could get twelve pints, a full meal. He tried to push the thought away. He had already been rather lenient with himself this week. …Of course if he didn't do it now he'd have to wait for years, till he had built up a tolerance to the magic and there wasn't a chance of addiction, and then he'd have to ration and save to get this much at once. He was a patient man, but he was also aware that each day could be the one the Dark Lord returned, the end of his false freedom, and the possible end of his false life.

He tasted the blood in the bowl first and closed his eyes. Perfect. Yes, he most definitely wanted a full twelve. Just once, and then he would do a rather harsh detox. He needed to be back for the OWLS and NEWTS. He needed to do this in one and a half weeks at the most so he could be back to make SURE students that weren't qualified to get into his NEWT level classes did not get in. He didn't trust the testers to be harsh enough.

He ran upstairs and grabbed another vial of blood. He added one more drop of blood followed by half a drop of the potion. He set the vial down and bottled the remaining bit of potion as he watched the blood inflate again. Thirteen. His veins ached and itched painfully, his stomach echoed the sentiment. He might actually feel full tonight. The sips he had taken from vials had done that briefly. His brief meal from the man himself had been unpleasantly marred by the circumstances. This though. This. He summoned a beaker and directed the flow with his wand till it was full. This would be glorious, a dream he never wanted to achieve in real life, it would be a blissful nightmare followed by hell in almost every situation he could think of. This, this was safe.

He took a sip, closed his eyes, and sat down in his chair. Glorious. It was rich and filled with magic that thrummed in his veins and core. He took his time, a half hour, filling and draining the cup over and over. Warmth falling down his throat. Filling his stomach, impossibly, perfectly. Soon the beaker was empty, so was the bowl. He, however, was not.

Gorged. Turgid. Slightly tumescent if one wished to be descriptively vulgar; which considering what he had just done, why not?

The red mist was silent, his veins didn't itch, he didn't feel hungry. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

He could almost pretend he was human. He could almost pretend he was alive.