A knock on his door brought Severus' head up, and he called a curt command. "Enter!"

The door opened and Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter exchanged glances, as though entertaining a silent battle as to which would go first. Apparently, Weasley lost the battle, as he took the first step into Severus' office. "We're... uh... here to serve our detention, sir."

"Very well, then, put your things in the corner. There's a cauldron set up in the classroom, and the ingredients you will need are in the cupboard. And no foolishness." His eyes narrowed as he said this last, just daring the two boys to try anything. Potter and Weasley obeyed, dropping their book bags by the wall and then walking, subdued, into the classroom. The door was open and Severus could see into the class from where he sat in his office. He hadn't the time to babysit them.

He watched them for a moment, and when he was satisfied that they were working quietly, he turned his attention back to the project in front of him. There were three Muggle-looking pills on a small dish, and, taking a deep breath, Severus put all three in his mouth at once and then swallowed them. He looked at the clock on his mantle and made note of the time on the parchment in front of his desk, and then busied himself reading over more of his notes again.

Minutes ticked by, and suddenly, he gasped as a sharp pain wrenched at his stomach, twisting his gut until he thought he would either break in half or die of the pain. When the cramp eased, he took a steadying breath and made a careful note of the time with a shaky hand. Six minutes. Six minutes from the time he put the pill in his mouth until it seemed to activate itself in his stomach. Another pain wrenched at him, and he gripped the arm of his chair to keep from crying out. A glance into the classroom told him that Potter and Weasley were busily chopping Alihotsy leaves and utterly oblivious to the suffering of their professor. Which was as he wanted—Severus had no desire for any of his students to see him in such a state, least of all those two.

Another agonizing pain seared through his body, but this one was replaced slowly by a numbness; the body, he had learned long ago, had an amazing ability to turn off pain receptors after a certain amount of exposure. It was a lesson anyone who used torture had to learn—if one did not alternate soothing, comforting sensations with the pain, then the pain would all too quickly render a victim immune to it. Severus had never been particularly adept at physical torture, praise whatever deities controlled such things. He'd been quite skilled at wringing information from unlikely sources, and he still was, but his methods had more to do with an ability to incite fear than anything he actually did. And, he could rationalize that no matter how intense his gaze and no matter how deadly his voice, he did not hurt anyone to get what he wanted.

For several minutes more, he rode wave after wave of excruciating pain—he had chosen this particular potion as one to test with because of the pain it induced. It was difficult to ignore, and difficult to develop an immunity to it, and it was extraordinarily easy to identify the onset of the symptoms. After thirteen minutes of ever-more excruciating bouts with the pain, he suddenly felt a wave of numbness sweep over him, and the world seemed to lurch alarmingly. As he made note of the time, he had a distant awareness that his notation of the time was lopsided, but he hoped it would be legible later when he set about deciphering it. The light-headed, world-spinning, dizzy, almost giddy feeling left him slumping in his chair; the Felicious Draught had roughly the same effect as half a bottle of Firewhiskey, but without the misery the next morning. As dangerous a potion as they came, really, for there were few who would not want this dizzying high on a permanent basis.

As suddenly as the first pang had begun, his head cleared and the world abruptly stopped its spinning. He made a final note of the time. It had been a total of 27 minutes since he'd taken the pills, and he'd proven to himself that something was, indeed, possible here. Now he simply had to figure out precisely how to use it. He shuffled his notes and looked through them again, reading carefully, his quill making idle notations. He needed something powerful, of course. And something that would not be rendered ineffective by the method of delivery. The Draught of Living Death was not an option as the antidote was too finicky, had to be administered at precisely the right levels, and was fatal if overdosed.

Maybe... he stood suddenly and stalked to one of the book shelves, his hand moving confidently to the fourth shelf, halfway along the length, and he thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. The Soporis Serum. A sleeping draught that was stronger than Dreamless Sleep, yet not so potent as Living Death. It had been developed to give relief to those who were hit with the Cruciatus Curse, before the more effective potions were developed. And, the antidote was another potion of simple potency. The Incedus Infusion could be administered at extraordinarily high levels without danger of anything more serious than a headache.

Severus sat at his desk again, looking at the two potions, tapping his forefinger gently against his lower lip. Might work. It was risky, and he wished—how he wished—he had more time to test it, but there was no shooting star nearby to wish on, and he'd little faith in such fairytales without Aislinn there to make them come true.

He moved to his private stores, checking ingredients for the four potions he needed to brew. His mind was heavy with doubt as he pulled the ingredients from the cupboards and jars, and he did not even notice the pale blue shimmer of vapor rising from the boys' cauldron in the classroom. It was, perhaps, an injustice to Potter and Weasley that he hadn't more attention to focus on their success, as their potion was rivaling anything that Padma Patil and Lisa Turpin had done in his classes. As it was, he was only vaguely aware when the boys placed their flask on his desk and left, their detention served.

It was just after noon when Severus took himself to the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office. After murmuring the password (toffee crunch) to the statue, the Potions Master stepped onto the spiraling staircase and waited as it coiled and spun upwards, lifting him into the tower. When he emerged into the antechamber of Dumbledore's office, Severus found himself unsure if he hoped the Headmaster would or would not be there. It was fairly likely he would not be, of course, given that it was lunchtime, but there was always a chance with Dumbledore that he would turn up where and when he was least expected.

It was no particular surprise, though, to find the office empty. Severus crossed the room slowly and withdrew a vial of crimson liquid—his own blood—from his robes, and was glancing around for a place to put it when he heard the gargoyle moving once more. Turning, he watched in silence as Dumbledore's head emerged, followed in short order by the rest of him.

"Ah, Severus. I had rather expected you would be at Headquarters," the Headmaster observed as he stepped into the room.

"I will be momentarily," Severus replied. "But first I needed to bring you this," he held up the vial. "I'd meant to bring it sooner, but it seems I've been distracted."

"Of course." Dumbledore took the vial and placed it in a lacquer box on his desk. "I didn't see you at lunch today," he commented, almost casually. Dumbledore was never casual, though, in his observations or his comments.

"I was busy," Severus replied vaguely. He doubted that would satisfy the Headmaster's curiosity, but he'd learned long ago not to offer more information than was requested.

"I didn't see you at breakfast either. Nor at dinner yesterday."

With a slight snort, Severus replied, "I've been busy, and not particularly hungry."

"You are worried about this evening."

What was your first clue? "I believe I have ample reason to be concerned."

"You have a plan, though." This was said with a confident certainty that reminded Severus once more why he so respected and admired the Headmaster. And how important it was to him that the respect and admiration was returned. That Dumbledore was so confident in his abilities to develop a plan touched Severus on a certain level.

"I have half a plan. A plan I do not know will work." And a plan I've no intention of sharing with you, because I will not put you in the position I'm putting myself in. Severus had brewed four cauldrons of potion today, and one of those potions could be quite deadly. If his calculations were off by so much as a tenth of a percent, he would be killing innocent people tonight, he knew without a doubt. Innocents who would be dying anyway, he reminded himself firmly. You are taking a chance with their lives in the hopes that you can save their lives, and the price of success far outweighs the price of failure.

"Few plans survive the transition from plan to action," Dumbledore said, sounding infinitely wise. Was it age that made him so wise? Years of observations, years to learn and see and do and experience? Severus doubted he would ever live long enough to be so wise, and he respected that wisdom a great deal.

"Well, I hope at least some aspects of this one do," Severus murmured.

For a long moment, neither wizard said a word, but the silence was heavy with unspoken sentiments. Dumbledore trusted him implicitly, but Severus knew that the Headmaster was aware of how high the stakes were tonight. Suddenly, Severus felt exhausted.

"You need sleep, my boy. You were up all night last night, working, weren't you? And the night before as well." How does he know that?

Severus sighed. "I'm fine," he insisted.

"You need to be in full control of your mental capacities when you face Voldemort this evening," Dumbledore chided gently, laying a hand on Severus' shoulder. "Really, Severus, why don't you get some sleep?"

Crossing his arms in front of his chest and taking a step back, he shook his head obstinately. "I don't think I could sleep just now if my life depended on it, Headmaster."

Dumbledore looked at him critically for a moment. "It very well might. Perhaps a touch of Dreamless Sleep is in order?"

"You know how I feel about sleeping potions."

"And there are always exceptions."

Severus scowled. "Is this an order?" he asked quietly.

"If that's what it requires, then I suppose it is. But I'd rather call it a suggestion from a friend."

"I'll go lie down," he conceded after a moment. "But that is all I will promise. I'm not taking a potion, though." Not this late in the day, at least.

Dumbledore watched him carefully for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."

Albus watched until Severus had disappeared into the spiraling staircase again, and then settled himself into a chair, absently stroking his beard. He wished he knew what Severus was planning. He trusted the younger wizard, and was sure that the plan, whatever it was, was well-formed and would be well-executed, but he wished he knew what it was. Perhaps he could have wheedled the information from him, or perhaps not, but it had been a risk Albus wasn't interested in taking, really. Besides, anyone with eyes could see that Severus needed sleep.

I wish I could afford to merely worry about you and your healing from the wounds you've sustained in the past years, but I haven't that luxury. I want you to be happy, Severus, because you are like a son to me, but I need you to be in possession of all your considerable skills when you meet with Voldemort next.

Albus had meant every word he'd said to Severus when the dour Potions Master had consented to a brief respite from his work at Hogwarts. On some level, Dumbledore thought that perhaps Severus had healed a bit in those five days he'd spent at Number Twelve, but it was going to take much more than a week for three decades worth of wounds to heal. Particularly if every time he turned around, more were being inflicted.

There was little he could do about it now, though. He had tried—god knew he'd tried—to give Severus a reason not to fall under Voldemort's shadow when he was a child. He'd tried to keep him safe, to keep all the students safe, but this was a war that had claimed many victims. One of the most regrettable victims was the innocence of an entire generation of witches and wizards, stripped of their youth when they were still children, and landed in the middle of a battle that should not have been theirs.

And the same thing had happened again now. Severus could not see it, but the world had come full circle in the past twenty-five years, and Voldemort's growing power was only a symptom of the unrest. That was a detail that seemed to slip the minds of everyone from time to time—Voldemort was, indeed, a powerful wizard, and his name struck fear in hearts for good reason, but he was not the problem. He was a face and a name to attach to the problem, a tangible manifestation of an abstract idea that was old as the Order of Merlin. And who was right? Albus couldn't say he was wise enough to know all the answers. He could admit, at least to himself, that he might be wrong. Perhaps it was as had been said for so long—the weakening of the blood would spell the end of the wizarding world. Albus hoped that Severus would live another hundred years, and someday see the world with the clarity of vision that comes only with experience.

Standing, Albus crossed his office and paused at a photograph of himself and his long-time friend and colleague, Nicholas Flamel. "How I wish you were still here, my old friend," he murmured to the photograph. "I've many thoughts that the pensieve won't hold."

It was no use wishing for the past, of course, but, perhaps it was an indication of an old man's follies that he stood there for several long minutes doing just that. He ached for one of his old conversations with Nicholas, a pairing in which he was, for perhaps the only times in the last fifty years, the younger wizard, emptying his soul to one who was older and wiser and had seen more. There were times when it weighed heavily on his soul, providing his counsel. After all, he was a man, like any other, and as prone to lapses in judgement, and as prone to being caught up in the minutiae of day to day life until he forgot to step back and look at the overall pattern of the emerging masterpiece. And he would be fooling no one if he tried to pretend that he hadn't a blind spot when it came to Voldemort, Severus Snape, Harry Potter, the Order of the Phoenix and the questions that drove them all.

He hadn't the luxury of time for doubt, though, and with a sigh, he took the vial of blood from the lacquer box on his desk and then took the map Fred and George had created from another box. On the map key, he placed a single drop of blood by Severus' name, and watched as the liquid formed a bead, then suddenly absorbed into the page, tendrils of crimson scrawling out like vericose veins over the parchment. A moment later, there was a notation by Severus' name. Hogsmeade. Dumbledore sighed softly. The map was not perfect, but it was the best they had.

Tucking the parchment into his robes, Albus stepped over to his fireplace, and took a handful of glittering Floo powder from the bowl atop his mantle. "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," he said, stepping into the emerald flames as they roared to life. A moment later, he was in the kitchen at headquarters.

"Ah, Professor Dumbledore," Lupin greeted him. Albus smiled.

"Remus," he responded with a nod.

"How is Severus?"

"Exhausted, I believe. Unless I am mistaken, he has been up all night doing research for the last two nights."

"Oh," Remus murmured. "That would explain it then."

"Explain what?"

"He'd told Autumn he would be back yesterday, and she's been worrying herself into a state of panic since then."

"Ahh." Albus paused and considered the two Muggle women for a moment. "Do they know about Voldemort?" he asked softly, and Remus shook his head.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Perhaps I had better explain things to them, then. Where are they?"

It was a little past six when Severus woke. As it happened, he'd not had need of Dreamless Sleep potion to coax him into the arms of morpheus; two nights of scant sleep with his head on his desk seemed to have been enough to lull him over the threshold from consciousness. Groaning as he pulled himself from the comfort of his bed, he hauled himself to his feet and yawned, and then forced his feet to move and to carry him to have a shower.

The blast of cold water was a rude awakening, but an effective one, and after a moment, the icy arctic flow became a cascade of cool water that was soothing on many accounts. He gave his hair no more than a cursory scrub under the water, and the rest of his body little more effort, and then stepped out of the stream and took up a towel. Scrubbing himself furiously dry, and then dressed, making a careful inventory of everything he needed and assuring himself that his pockets were full of everything he intended to take with him.

As he was tucking away a last vial of potion, Severus' eye landed on a neatly folded and sealed sheet of parchment. He reached for it and flicked it open, his obsidian eyes skimming quickly over the letter.

Severus,

Willow had a vision this afternoon, and the Order has decided to take her advice. The children will be stationed at Stonehenge, as that seems the most logically safe place for them (and it is also where Willow saw them.) Molly and Arthur will be at Bath. Tonks and Bill will be in London. Minerva and I will be in Glasgow. Shacklebolt and Mundungus will be in Manchester. Lupin and Jones will be in Liverpool...

The letter went on to list the locations of each of the members of the Order, and Severus read it three times, committing all of their locations to memory. He was not sure what good it would do him to know where everyone was, as there was simply no possibility of Apparating away from the Death Eaters to warn anyone, but he could... Well, it seemed a good idea to memorize them anyway.

The children will be at Stonehenge. "Can't they be as effective at Number Twelve?" he asked the letter irritably, but sighed. Someone probably did need to be at Stonehenge, he supposed, on the off chance that something did happen there. And surely, those kids would have been told to simply... what? The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. "Not even old enough to Apparate yet," he murmured. "At least they should be safe there, and maybe they'll think they're an active part of the Order. Let them watch those rocks all night, I suppose."

He tossed the letter into his fire, and watched the parchment curl and turn black. When there was nothing left but ashes, he extinguished the flames, picked up his black cloak and mask, and stepped out of his office, heading away from Hogwarts.