Snape was feverishly at work again two weeks later, attempting to mix the Draig Galon with a combination of the dark Russian wizard Rasputin's Mesmer Potion, and Merlin's Nobilius Potion. The Nobilius Potion stipulated only those with good and pure intent could gain the ability to accomplish a nearly impossible task, such as the boy-king Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. It would cancel out the dangerous dark side effects of the hypnotizing Mesmer, leaving perhaps a potion that could, with good intent, cast an enhanced image of Draig Galon's invulnerability to the Death Eaters and waver their willingness to attack. Cripple an enemy within his own mind and you have him, far more than if you merely wound him. Snape grimaced, unconsciously rubbing the Dark Mark as he thought that. That was Voldemort's game. Two can play at it.

By now, of course, he was dabbling far into forbidden potions in desperation, and the Ministry was effectively ready to cancel his research if he didn't produce something. To have a man dealing with all the powers of Hell itself, stoppered in a bottle, was too big a risk for no gain. He was worried that the Nobilius and the Mesmer might completely cancel each other out, mind manipulation generally being an evil intent, leaving him with no more than a simple Draig Galon that any Potions Master could brew.

Hermione Granger was suddenly standing there in front of him. "Sir?"

"Miss Granger, I believe I told you not to disturb me at my work! Fifteen points from--"

"Professor, Potions started fifteen minutes ago, and we--well, I--was wondering if class was canceled, and if you were all right?" She looked at him hopefully, brown eyes guileless.

"Go back and tell them that class has been canceled," he said shortly. Dealing with the lackwits and teaching them the Merriment Potion was far less important than this potion that might save their hides when they were out in the world and fighting Voldemort. "Well?" he said impatiently, when he saw her still standing in fascination.

"Yes, sir. But are you all right?" She looked at him, obviously worried. He knew he had lost weight from his already slender frame over the past two weeks, and that his normally cantankerous personality had taken a turn for the even more vicious. Everything had him jumping, and he was even taking points from Slytherin for the most minor infractions. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat: not with the dark cloud of the Ministry ready to chop his only reason for existence unless he justified himself, and soon. And too, Voldemort had kept the Dark Mark burning for all of four days last week. He was a wreck. He knew it.

The concern hurt. Child, don't care for me--never. It'll only hurt you. He thought how she had looked at him after he had found her crying in the alcove, as though he had just handed her the world. That was dangerous. He had to keep her away.

"I'm quite fine," he said shortly. "Is that all?" With her typical Gryffindor nosiness, she turned to look at his project. Can't Gryffindors let anything alone? he thought.

"Nobilius and M--Mesmer?" she stammered, looking at the ingredients he had laid out on the worktable. "But sir, Mesmer is highly illegal!"

"Brilliant, Miss Granger," he snapped. "However, in circumstances like these, one does not scruple too much over legality--I tend to doubt that Voldemort would halt at you saying, 'Excuse me, sir, but don't you know that the curse you used to kill that wizard was illegal?'" he mimicked. "Go back to your work and leave me to mine!" She left in haste, almost slamming the door behind her.

He viciously chopped Saguaro cactus for the Mesmer, throwing it in the cauldron with less than his usual caution. Her tone at his use of Mesmer--it was the disapproval he always heard from people. Oh, back with the Dark Arts, Severus? Tsk, tsk--always knew you couldn't be trusted! Once tainted, never clean. The folly of his youth had left him forever marked: why was he bothering to chase the chance to redeem himself? He never could; they would never let him. He would always be an outsider: he always had been, set apart for various reasons.

Almost twenty years, he thought angrily, almost twenty years with nary a blemish and still it's 'Severus Snape, Death Eater'. What a fool I was. He didn't know if he was a fool for joining the Death Eaters, a fool for leaving and hoping he could earn forgiveness, or a fool for still hoping he could come clean again after seventeen years of fruitless trying.

He reached for the jar of powdered basilisk fang for the Mesmer, not even noticing that he instead picked up the powdered lion's claw for Nobilius. His normally meticulous organization had been shot to hell these past weeks as he frantically worked. Two pinches of the powder into the purple potion, and he automatically went to pick up the spoon to stir.

It was with horror he noticed the potion turning to a vibrant blood red, bubbling violently, rather than the emerald it should have become. Stupidly he grabbed the jar and saw what he had put in, and had only time to think, Lion's claw when added to Welsh Red scale without the counteraction of the basilisk fang means it's going to--

The solution swelled abruptly. He finished the thought, --explode. It did just that, as he felt the searing pain of the potion on his bare hands and face, felt it eating through his robes and burning the skin underneath. He had just enough time to think, Well, the Dark Mark doesn't compare to this… before he mercifully blacked out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione went and told the Potions class that they had the day off, amidst cheers and a general rush for the door. She stood in the empty classroom for a moment, thinking about how Snape had looked: like a man on the edge. He was normally snappish and sarcastic, but he'd start at anything now. Every class actually lived in fear of him since Valentine's Day. They weren't sure he wouldn't feed them some sort of poison in class in punishment for an infraction. That was how serious the situation was.

She had also noticed that he couldn't hide the trembling of his hands while he worked. Had the Ministry authorized him to use Mesmer? They must have. From his comments, he was likely working on potions for the fight against Voldemort.

Now that would be a wonderful senior project! To actually contribute something to the war, to not let Harry be the only teenager the wizarding world thought could do anything against the Dark Lord! She grinned at the thought. Better than an Arithmancy project, indeed, and with a very good reason. I'd just have to get Snape to agree with it.

That would be the difficult part. With how he was these days, she wasn't sure he'd be sane come fall, let alone agreeable to let a "nosy Gryffindor" work with him on secret potions. Still, perhaps, if she started small…offering to help prepare ingredients and such? He obviously needed help; that was for certain. Of what sort? she thought in a bit of amusement. He knew she had a genuine interest in Potions, though, and she certainly wasn't doing this to be close to him!

Well, perhaps she'd go ask if he'd like a little basic help in fetching ingredients, cleaning things, and the like. It was somewhat denigrating that she imply the very idea of that being all she was capable of, but if it got her foot in the door to helping fight Voldemort, a little bruised ego she could handle.

After all, if she helped Snape create a truly helpful potion, it would certainly prove she was no mere Muggle upstart to anyone who would oppose her. She resolved to talk to Professor McGonagall later that day, after she spoke to Snape, and tell her Head of House her idea for research. She could almost hear that soft Edinburgh burr saying in surprise, "Potions? Well, that would be of use, if you can get Professor Snape to agree. All the luck in the world, Miss Granger…you'll need it."

Still, Snape and McGonagall had a friendly rivalry, and she could have sworn Snape had actually teased McGonagall a few times when he thought nobody was looking. Although with the match for the Quidditch Cup next week (Gryffindor versus Slytherin, naturally), both wanted that victory. Gryffindor had won the House Cup again last year, and she could tell Snape was tired of losing. McGonagall would likely approve of her desire and way to help the cause, though.

She headed back for the laboratory, humming softly to herself. Perhaps a potion to counteract one of the Unforgivables? Is that possible?

Ten steps from the laboratory door, she literally felt the walls shake with a violent explosion within. She raced the last few steps, flinging the door open, hollering,"Professor!" The laboratory was dripping with a bright red, sulfur-smelling potion. She stepped carefully into the room, inadvertently putting her feet right into a puddle of the stuff, hearing it hiss against the sole of her shoes as they began to melt.

Oh my God, oh my God, was her only thought as she saw the crumpled form in tatters of black robes lying half-under the table. He didn't move, made no sound. Was he unconscious? Was he…dead?

Turning on her heel, she positively sprinted for the hospital wing, losing her way more than once on a moving staircase, but finally arriving. Catching herself in the doorway, she gasped out from burning lungs, "Madame Pomfrey!" The mediwitch looked up at her, and her eyebrows shot up.

"Miss Granger--are you all right?" Professor Dumbledore was there as well, having the wrist he had sprained yesterday examined for thoroughness of healing.

She tried to catch her breath, finally managing, "Snape--dungeons--explosion. He's hurt…"

Madame Pomfrey grabbed her medic's bag and her wand, as well as the tin of Floo powder, and in a blink of an eye had transported down to the dungeon laboratory. Professor Dumbledore was behind her in a twinkling.

Hermione stood there, feeling lightheaded and nauseous from her efforts. She collapsed into a chair. Three minutes later, Pomfrey and Dumbledore reappeared from the fireplace, each bearing an end of a stretcher, upon which was Professor Snape. She instinctively moved to get up. Pomfrey shook her head grimly and said, "Child, it's not pretty. Leave it to us."

"Will he live?" she was barely aware of her lips forming the words.

Dumbledore gave her a look full of sympathy. "Most likely. Not very long has elapsed since it happened."

"I--when he wakes up, please tell him I hope he gets well soon," she said hesitatingly. After all, it was only courtesy to tell anyone to get well soon, and she felt badly for him. Injured while working to fight Voldemort, in an indirect sort of way.

"I'll do that," Pomfrey nodded, drawing a curtain around the cot where Snape now lay. Professor Dumbledore reached into his pocket and handed her a small bag of Honeyduke's Chocolate Drops.

"Have a few--they'll help," he said quietly. "Thank you, Miss Granger." With that, he turned back to where Madame Pomfrey was already hard at work upon Professor Snape. She turned and left, but slowly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tell him I hope he gets well soon. He drifted through the pain-filled darkness, barely hearing. Had he been able to, though, he might have smiled and wept for joy at the kind words, given freely. Nobody had ever said as such before…

"Severus?" It was Madame Pomfrey now that he dimly heard. "I'm going to give you a potion now, so you'll sleep. There's quite a bit I need to repair, and I can do it just fine if you're still…"

I know what a Dreamless Sleep Potion does, he thought testily. Who's the Potions Master here, anyhow? But he willingly lay still while she injected the potion, not wanting to risk him choking in trying to drink it, and gratefully let blissfully painless unconsciousness claim him again.