Two days later, Albus Dumbledore eyed the letter on official pale blue Ministry parchment, then lifted his gaze to the three professors standing there before him expectantly. "Minerva, Persephone, Athol," he began wearily, "I know that I place a great burden upon you. We are all tried and spread too thin these days--trying to keep our pupils from the darkness, putting in what efforts we can towards the war. But I must ask you to help me." He indicated the parchment, and Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick looked keen with interest. "This," he said, "is the Ministry's official act to rescind Severus' research--"

"But that's all he has!" Sprout burst out fiercely. "He can't go out there, and now--"

"I know," Dumbledore said wearily, suddenly feeling every one of his one hundred and forty-three years. He indicated the cot where Snape still slept, heavily drugged, while his wounds were finishing healing. If he fidgeted or moved, it would damage the fragile, healing skin and bone. He would wake up soon, though--he had visited this morning and heard Snape restlessly mumbling delusions, in a language he hadn't spoken since he was a child. "I just wanted to forewarn you. You four are a kinship; a family of sorts--the embodiment of the four houses that are the cornerstones of Hogwarts. So I ask you to help your brother," this was difficult to say, "by keeping an eye on him. When he finds out, he may become…" he voice failed. "Try not to leave him unattended until we know he is--recovered." He didn't refer to physical healing. He knew that the young man, with his purpose taken away, would find no reason to live, and perhaps attempt something drastic.

All three voiced their agreement, turning eyes towards the still form on the cot behind the hospital curtains and silently departing. That was enough for Dumbledore. He had failed Severus Snape before--he would not do it now. He moved to put the letter in his pocket, intending to speak with Snape later about it, forgetting the hole that the Acid Sweets he had confiscated earlier in the day had eaten through the pocket. The letter dropped to the floor as he left.

Madame Pomfrey came in just then with the fresh batch of topical Regenerio Potion for Snape. Her sharp eyes noticed the letter on the floor, addressed to him. She picked it up, thinking, Another thing out of his pockets. She shrugged, and put it with the rest of the items they had found in the ruins of Snape's robes on the table beside his bed. She pulled back the curtain, noting he was still unconscious. The skin and hair had grown back well, and the underlying bones had knit quite nicely. The eyes, ears, nose, and mouth looked quite well after being carefully reconstructed. A few more days for it to finish and he'd be good as new.

~~~~~~~~~~

Snape wearily opened his eyes. Every part of him was tingling with something not quite pain--more like a persistent itch. His senses and knowledge told him it was Regenerio--to heal the damage from the exploded potion.

He lifted a hand, wincing to feel tender, hypersensitive skin stretched tight as he did so. The skin was pink with the indication of new healing. It would fade in another few days to its natural coloration. Carefully he rolled onto his side, hoping to see someone of whom he could ask the date, the details of what had happened, anything.

Nobody was there. But sitting on the bedside table were a few things he had been carrying in his robes when it had happened, his pockets being largely guarded from the blast by being below the edge of the table. His wand, a few potion-stained notes for a new research project, some spare Knuts and Sickles, and a few of Tosca's cast-off white feathers that could be substituted in a pinch in the Sanguinus Potion for eagle feathers, which he was short of. He had been supposed to teach that potion to the fourth years the day it happened…how long had it been? And had somebody cared for Tosca?

He also noticed a letter written on official Ministry parchment that had certainly not been in his robes. Stretching out carefully, he grasped it, and rolled onto his back, noting his name on it and opening it.

He gave a hoarse cry. They actually did it… "In light of your failure to produce any significant assistance to the Ministry, and your overuse of restricted ingredients to no measurable gain, it has been decreed that your research shall be terminated immediately."

Useless. Now he was completely useless. They had taken away the only thing giving him any meaning. Almost of its own accord, his hand rose to grasp his wand, clenching it tightly in his fist, ignoring the ripple of pain as the fragile new skin over his knuckles tore under the stress.

He studied the wand for a moment, staring. It was ebony with dragon heartstring. Almost of their own accord, memories played through his mind as he felt a hot tear rolling down his cheek for the worthlessness of his life.

He stood in the shop, gazing in wonder. All day long there had been so many new experiences for him. The old man handed him a wand, and he felt a surge through him as though a bolt of lightning had just hit him. He felt powerful for once in his life. "That's the one, young man," Ollivander said happily. "Ebony and dragon heartstring…unusual. Dragons, you know, embody the best of good and bad. Why, look at our own island! The Welsh have them as their symbol and see them as pure and good, while the English," he shrugged, "have slayers of the evil dragons and all that. They are powerful creatures--make powerful wands. I find those with dragon heartstring wands either create strong magic of the purest good or purest evil." Power…

"I know what you are," Lucius Malfoy hissed in his ear. "Don't think I don't see right through you. Be careful, Mudblood, because Slytherin doesn't take kindly to your sort." Fear rising within him, everything he had built about to crash down, as he turned, pulled out his wand, and hexed Lucius. Lucius merely laughed, knowing that Snape had just proved his suspicions right…

The power running through him as he heard the Auror begin babbling all his secrets rather than be subjected to Cruciatus again, as he raised his wand warningly. He was one of the best: Voldemort said so. He killed the enemy, sometimes tortured for valuable information, but this was war. He wasn't a pervert who raped, or killed innocents…

Handing his wand to Albus Dumbledore that night, standing there in his Death Eater robes after having confessed all. Not meeting the old wizard's eyes, not wanting to see the disgust and betrayal in them. He expected him to break the wand to signal his exile from the wizarding world, a symbol of his disgrace, and to call the Aurors to take him to Azkaban. Instead, the wand was handed back to his numb fingers. He looked up, stunned. "I think there is better use for this, and for you, Severus..."

All that and more he remembered, thinking with a dry, heaving shudder that he had chosen the dark side of his wand's power, and it had come to nothing. Well, one last act, and there would be no more. He'd slip away quietly, with no fuss, and no ceremony. Nobody would really even notice. They could say he had died of his injuries, of his own foolishness in the laboratory. How the students would laugh at that--menacing Professor Severus Snape felled by his own hand.

He turned the wand around in his hand, raising his arm trembling from weakness. His stiff lips shaped the words, his raw, barely-healed vocal chords managed to rasp the first syllable. "Av--"

"Expelliarmus!" came a cry from one, no, two throats across the room. His wand flew from his grasp to Hermione Granger's hand.

Minerva gave him one of the stern, disapproving looks he remembered from his own school days, while Hermione looked on in horror. Haven't you seen a man with no will to live before? he thought sarcastically.

"Miss Granger has informed me," Minerva said pleasantly, taking his wand from Miss Granger's grasp and tucking it into her own robes as though nothing untoward had just occurred, "that she would like to do a research project with you in the fall on Potions."

He laughed bitterly, not caring how it hurt. "Minerva," he choked painfully, "I've lost my research."

Minerva leaned down close, giving another of those fierce terrier-of-a-Scotswoman glowers. "You can still teach, Severus," she murmured. "That's something, isn't it? Give it time and they'll reinstate you…"

Teach a bunch of brats who have no interest or inclination towards my subject? were the words coming to his tongue. He looked past Minerva's set countenance to see Miss Granger standing hopefully in the doorway. She certainly did seem interested.

"I'll consider it," he said.

Minerva stepped tactfully in. "Miss Granger, perhaps it's not the best time to ask. Give him time to make a decision and recover…perhaps you should ask again in April?" Miss Granger nodded, and taking the hint, quietly slipped away.

He found himself under Minerva's gaze again. It reminded him of the Transfiguration class his first year when he had come in late and found a cat sitting on his desk, with the same unwavering, unnerving stare. First I had ever heard of Animagi, he thought reminiscently. It seemed ages ago. I was too busy learning the Dark curses from the older boys to recall much. Now stop being maudlin already.

The thought took root and blossomed in his mind. It was risky, of course, but if it succeeded, he would have purpose again. He would be worthy of the trust Dumbledore had placed in him. Unaccountably he smiled, grateful that Minerva had given him an idea. "Oh, yes. Miss Granger's project? I think I just might do that." He did owe her for helping save him, after all.

"I think it'd be good for you," Minerva said. "She wants to learn. Perhaps she can help you find something. She's quite brilliant you know, and I don't say that only because she's a Gryffindor! Brilliant as you were, I recall."

She looked relieved that suddenly he seemed to give up the idea of self-destruction, though she seemed to look at him a bit oddly, obviously not knowing why. She couldn't know how much she had inadvertently just helped him. "Well, you think on it. Poppy says you can leave tomorrow, though she wants you to take another week before resuming classes." She looked at him, adding, "It's been three days, by the way."

"Tomorrow?" Excellent: once he was free, and with a week to himself, apparently, he had quite a bit of research to do. After all, he had to be right in this task. Failure, as he had learned rather painfully, was not an option.