* * * Boil, Boil, Toil and Trouble * * *
Brewing the poison was rather more labor intensive than Snape had bargained on. His first attempt turned black before the third stage and solidified instantly, fusing the ladle to the side of the cauldron. His second effort was somewhat closer to the mark, at least until it exploded. Potter's startled glance was almost comical, even as oily black smuts rained down upon them both. The noble Gryffindor tried to control the twitching of his lips as he remarked, "I thought that only happened to First Years and Neville."
Snape raised an eyebrow and glared. "This is research, Mr. Potter. When it happens in class, it is mere carelessness." Potter hastily bent over the letter he was writing, but Snape saw the curve of his grin. He sighed and went to get another cauldron.
It was not long afterward, as he was grinding another batch of amethyst to a finer powder than last time, that he felt the first flickers of exhaustion tickling behind his eyes. His hands trembled for a moment and he had to put the pestle down quickly. Had it already been eight hours? He could feel Potter's eyes upon him as he went back for another dose of Perpessio Potion.
When he returned to the workroom, nearly crackling with newfound energy, he found it considerably more crowded than before. Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, Madam Pomfrey and Sirius Black were all clustered around Potter and all talking at the same time. He raised his voice to be heard above the babble. "Perhaps the Potter Fan Club could have its meeting somewhere beside my workroom?"
Black and Weasley turned twin glares on him; Pomfrey and Dumbledore looked tolerant and Potter... his face was buried in his godfather's shoulder. A wizard powerful enough to rival Dumbledore, survivor of a decade of attempts on his life, a hardened battle veteran, and at the moment, Potter looked like nothing more than a sick child craving comfort. This time, no potion would cure the tremble in Snape's hands.
The headmaster herded the crowd out the door, promising them lunch and tea in his study. The last to go was Black, who was still cradling his godson against his side. His eyes met Snape's over the dark head. "Snape...," he began, then stopped. Enmity, hatred, jealousy and grief stretched thick between them, decades strong, fattened with suspicions and lies. The Potions Master could see the struggle in Black's gaze as he fought against years of habit and history. Then he ground out only one word. "Please?"
Snape just nodded. Then he turned back to his work and Black led Potter away.
Brewing the poison was rather more labor intensive than Snape had bargained on. His first attempt turned black before the third stage and solidified instantly, fusing the ladle to the side of the cauldron. His second effort was somewhat closer to the mark, at least until it exploded. Potter's startled glance was almost comical, even as oily black smuts rained down upon them both. The noble Gryffindor tried to control the twitching of his lips as he remarked, "I thought that only happened to First Years and Neville."
Snape raised an eyebrow and glared. "This is research, Mr. Potter. When it happens in class, it is mere carelessness." Potter hastily bent over the letter he was writing, but Snape saw the curve of his grin. He sighed and went to get another cauldron.
It was not long afterward, as he was grinding another batch of amethyst to a finer powder than last time, that he felt the first flickers of exhaustion tickling behind his eyes. His hands trembled for a moment and he had to put the pestle down quickly. Had it already been eight hours? He could feel Potter's eyes upon him as he went back for another dose of Perpessio Potion.
When he returned to the workroom, nearly crackling with newfound energy, he found it considerably more crowded than before. Dumbledore, Ron Weasley, Madam Pomfrey and Sirius Black were all clustered around Potter and all talking at the same time. He raised his voice to be heard above the babble. "Perhaps the Potter Fan Club could have its meeting somewhere beside my workroom?"
Black and Weasley turned twin glares on him; Pomfrey and Dumbledore looked tolerant and Potter... his face was buried in his godfather's shoulder. A wizard powerful enough to rival Dumbledore, survivor of a decade of attempts on his life, a hardened battle veteran, and at the moment, Potter looked like nothing more than a sick child craving comfort. This time, no potion would cure the tremble in Snape's hands.
The headmaster herded the crowd out the door, promising them lunch and tea in his study. The last to go was Black, who was still cradling his godson against his side. His eyes met Snape's over the dark head. "Snape...," he began, then stopped. Enmity, hatred, jealousy and grief stretched thick between them, decades strong, fattened with suspicions and lies. The Potions Master could see the struggle in Black's gaze as he fought against years of habit and history. Then he ground out only one word. "Please?"
Snape just nodded. Then he turned back to his work and Black led Potter away.