Severus sat in his dungeon, staring miserably at the obscure Celtic grimoire Hud Cymreig, barely noticing the section on the Draig Galon potion that he had been trying to study--one of the few potions using ingredients from a dragon. Dragon was a very potent ingredient, as the creatures themselves were fraught with magic from head to toe, inside and out. The Draig Galon potion conferred "the stowt hart and hyde of a draygen" poetically, or more plainly, courage and a temporary shielding to most common curses and hexes, and therefore had been very popular during wizard battles. Since it required scales and heartstring from the Welsh Red, cousin to the Common Welsh Green, the species had been hunted almost to extinction during the Anglo-Celt Magician's Wars of the thirteenth century. Due to the rarity of the ingredients and its effects bordering upon the Dark Arts, the potion was of course highly regulated by the Ministry of Magic.

This was his role now in the war against Voldemort: working always behind the front lines. Ever since the disaster at the Tri-Wizard tournament and Voldemort's return, he had been cooped up in Hogwarts like a broken-winged bird.

Harry Potter had returned from seeing the Dark Lord rise anew, telling of a Death Eater who had left Voldemort's service forever, and of whom Voldemort had said casually, "He will be killed." Dumbledore had given him a warning look across the Potter boy's bed, both of them frozen to the core to realize the implications of that statement.

The jig was up. He was exposed. He had tried to go that night disguised as Barty Crouch, Jr., aided by Polyjuice Potion, and he had indeed heard his own death warrant authorized. But he had forgotten how long-winded Voldemort could be at these gatherings. He had felt the first stirrings of himself returning as he had hastily Apparated to the edge of the Forbidden Forest once the Death Eaters were released. Only an hour the potion gave him, and Voldemort would suspect "Crouch" taking nips from a flask at Death Eater meetings. He may have had a soul black as ink, but he was nobody's fool and knew a Polyjuice Potion as well as any other: he hadn't been Head Boy in his day for nothing. Burning with sick frustration, Snape had reported to Dumbledore with a heavy heart that he could not return as a spy: not as himself, nor as Crouch.

Almost two years. Two years of never venturing beyond the protection of Hogwarts' grounds, since Dumbledore insisted upon his retaining his value because of his Potions knowledge and that he could not be risked. Two years of the Dark Mark burning on his forearm as Voldemort called him, toyed with him, dulled to the barest edge of tolerance by the strongest potions he possessed. Two years of dancing on the brink of madness. Two years of enclosing himself in his dungeons, determined to lend some aid to the cause, feverishly researching, experimenting, smoldering in helpless rage. Uselessness frightened him--all he ever knew was being useful. If he had no use, what purpose did he have? He was not liked at all for himself; so usefulness was the last shred of dignity he had to cling to.

Truthfully, he wasn't that convinced Voldemort would risk a loyal Death Eater to kill him: he could pass no more Dark secrets to Dumbledore, after all. He was in effect a toothless wolf, and sending a Death Eater to Azkaban for killing him would be foolish. The Dark Lord would have lost a follower to eliminate a very minor threat. Very minor indeed: in two years he had come up with several slightly helpful potions, but not the big breakthrough that was truly needed. But if he were wrong, to sacrifice himself and whatever small assistance he could render would be a betrayal of the second chance Dumbledore had given him. That he could not permit--he had his own sense of honor, and a debt still to work off for the sins of his younger years.

The Ministry had reluctantly granted him carte blanche to work on any potions he felt helpful without censure, at Dumbledore's urging. They were naturally reluctant to trust a Death Eater whose only salvation had been the old wizard's word. He pondered for a moment. Perhaps a hybrid of the Draig Galon and a simple Strengthening Potion to prolong the duration of the shield would be of use?

No--it was Avada Kedavra that he would truly need to find prevention for. Any shielding potion he could come up with would repel the curses that Death Eaters used when they had time to toy with their victims before the coup de grace. But wizards more powerful than he had tried and failed in eons of wizardry to counteract the Killing Curse. The only known cause for backfire, which he certainly could not work with, was an innocent life willingly given in prevention of another person's death--as Lily Evans Potter had done for her son.

He turned his thoughts from the lively red-haired young woman he had been schoolmates with, allowing a small slip of grief at her death due to Potter's arrogant refusal to believe Snape's warning that Voldemort was coming for them that very evening. He had tried to discharge his debt to Potter that day so long ago, and Potter had prevented it (damn him!), and took his wife down with him. He saw the same arrogance in Potter's son, unfortunately.

Forcing himself back to the task at hand, he thought with a sigh, Any advance is better than none. He wrote furiously on a scroll, then rolling and sealing it so none but Lyanne Kierwood, in charge of distribution of restricted potions ingredients, could open and read it--it would burn to ashes for anyone else. He pulled on a black leather gauntlet, reached into the closet he had converted to a large mews by various charms and spells, and gently withdrew his messenger bird, Tosca. The white gyrfalcon tightened her talons slightly on Snape's wrist, sensing in excitement that her master wanted something, eager to stretch her wings after yesterday's hunting.

"Sorry to send you out in this weather," Snape muttered. "But you know how it is--desperate times leave us all without our comforts." He removed the falcon's hood, and held up the scroll for Tosca to see. "Ministry of Magic," he said. "Lyanne Kierwood, do you hear me?" The falcon eyed him with bored black eyes. She had made the flight to Kierwood countless times for her master. She could find the way hooded, practically. She grabbed the scroll in one foot, hopping impatiently, waiting to be freed, and giving a soft squawk of acknowledgment.

Going to the window, Snape unhooked Tosca's jesses from her anklets, loosing the bird. Like a shot, she was out the window, flying with a gyrfalcon's rapid speed towards the Ministry of Magic to hand over Snape's request for a delivery of generally illegal ingredients for his research. Snape smiled grimly: she had never once been deterred. After all, who would suspect Severus Snape of having a white bird as a messenger? He had chosen Tosca for the innocuousness it afforded her, gyrfalcons also being native to northern Britain and thus hardly being noticed to Muggle and wizard alike.

His mind turned to Hermione Granger for a moment. She would be all right, he was certain. She was a truly bull-headed Gryffindor. Couldn't she have had one wizard parent, or even a grandparent? Then she might have been in Slytherin: she had the thirst to prove herself as a witch and the ambition to carry her far, so long as she could stop convincing herself she had to not rain on Harry Potter's glory. Then again, not all Slytherins were wizard-born--he knew that. Even the blood might not have been enough. It still rankled that the house of the most promising Potions student currently at Hogwarts was the house of those who had taken delight in tormenting him in his youth. He didn't know if he could ever forgive her that. He shook his head. He had discharged his duty to her, rectified his error made in class. He had no further concern with her. He turned back to his work.

Will the dragon ingredients negate the effects of the harpy feather in the Strengthening?, he wondered. He frowned thoughtfully. Dragon canceled out many effects by its sheer power. He headed back to his bookshelves, pulling out a slim black volume published in the sixteenth century discussing the various effects and counters of the more obscure potions ingredients, settled down into the armchair before the fire and began to study intently: a Potions Master in his element.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione listened in the Gryffindor common room to Lavender giggle, "You told off old Snake but good today." She nodded idly, still confused as to why a man who had never shown the slightest bit of interest in her but to crush her ego underfoot, sneering at her as "Potter's little pet", would suddenly turn and say something as he had.

"Well, I mean, I'd react that way if Draco said he loved me too and Snape announced it in front of everybody," Ron said gleefully. "Whew, Mione, I'm surprised you weren't screaming in terror."

She remembered the article Rita Skeeter had written about her as Harry's girlfriend back in fourth year, and how much malicious pleasure he had taken in reading it aloud to the class, with his own commentary. What had changed that he'd suddenly be so sympathetic? He didn't like her, did he?

The thought of it was faintly appalling. Still, not even Harry had ever said she was worth anything just as herself. He and Ron would have been her friend if she was a boy, girl, or Siamese cat. The only man who's ever told me I'm worth a damn as a woman I can't stand. Granger, your luck is going down.

She resolved to get to the bottom of things and discover what on Earth Snape's motives were. An action that odd had to be explored. But first, she wanted to bask in the warmth of the humiliation Draco Malfoy was suffering around the school for his "crush" on her. This was Hogwarts, after all: a secret lasted all of an hour before even the paintings knew it. She grinned at that, sipping at a mug of hot apple cider and actually enjoying Valentine's Day for once in her life.