Reviewers! EAV: I'm so glad you liked it! BTW, I got off my lazy ass, found my book 3 and discovered, much to my amusement, that I'd dug my own grave. Snape says specifically that you can't "apparate or disapparate INSIDE this castle." Dang it, this is going to take some fancy footwork to fix. Thanks for calling it to my attention in the first place. Also, your comments about some of the details got me to go back and put in a couple more things in the last chapter. Nothing mind-blowing or story altering, but now it's more complete. Thank you! Stahchild: Oh yes, SO many things can go wrong. That's half the fun! You can rest assured, though, that Ron and Hermione will do everything in their power to save their friend. So glad you're enjoying. Kiwi: This is not a romance, much less an R/H. Have no fear! Thanks for your other comments. I'm glad I write a passable Snape. And while I do concede that he's pondering Potter in his off-hours, it's not as though he does this all the time. He's just baffled because Harry is acting so weird. Shiba and Infall: THANK YOU! Have I mentioned you guys are the bomb? Angel: Yeah, juuuuust a bit more than a nightcap. Hee hee! Glad you liked it. ggffi: Thanks for the support. How do you pronounce your name? "Jiffy?" :D

CHAPTER EIGHT: Brews

Harry Potter came to consciousness gasping for breath. His heart was racing. He was shaking like a leaf. A nightmare? No, that wasn't it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a nightmare. In fact, he realized with a touch of alarm, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a dream.

He reached under his bed where he'd tucked his hip flask, uncapped it, and drank until he finished the lot. The shakes faded. His heart slowed down. He breathed a little easier and looked at his bedside clock. Four in the morning. He jiggled his now empty flask and swore under his breath. He'd have to make some more in about an hour.

Four in the morning, and he'd woken out of a dead sleep because he needed a fix. Was that bad? He shook his head to rid himself of the question. All right, so he needed his elixir more than before. So he needed it all the time, now. It had no adverse effects, as far as he could tell.

Besides, Harry thought. It's not like I'm an addict. I can quit using this any time I want to.

His right hand quivered and he grabbed his wrist to still it. He looked around the dormitory, still and silent except for the breathing of the other boys, and gulped.

Yep. Any time at all.

Severus Snape came to consciousness with his left cheek smashed against something cold, a pounding headache, a horrible ringing in his ears, and a taste in his mouth that was beyond foul. His dark eyes fluttered open, only to meet piercingly painful light. He clapped them shut again and turned his focus inward. His spine was stiff and twisted into an odd position. Not being quite so young and bendy anymore, it announced its displeasure. Little tendrils of pain crept out from the center of his back and snaked into his ribcage. His left shoulder was one giant cramp, and the arm squashed underneath it was completely numb. His pajamas were damp and chilly. His legs ached. His feet were cold.

Snape moaned in misery and realized two things very quickly: one, he never wanted to wake up like this again. Ever. And two, he was not in his bed, but on the floor. Admittedly, how he had arrived at this destination was something of a mystery.

He struggled again to look around and managed to crack his eyelids open a hair, twisting his face towards his armpit to block out most of the blinding light above him. Finally he got his eyes to open a little wider. He blearily took in the floor on which he lay.

It was not the heated parquet floor of his bedroom. It was the cold stone floor of his Potions classroom. So it seemed that he had not rolled out of bed and kept on sleeping, as he had first assumed.

Wait a minute. What was he doing sleeping on the floor of his classroom? And why did his head hurt so much? Merlin, it felt like a brass band was stomping around in there. He blinked once and tried to raise his head. Big mistake. A wave of terrible vertigo swept over him and he groaned as his face flopped down onto his arm again.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that his right hand was touching something cool and smooth. He clutched whatever it was and brought to his face, his arm shaking the whole way. Bringing it very close and squinting very hard, he realized he was holding an empty glass bottle. He made out a label … and on that label, a word.

Ogden's.

Snape felt as though a stone had dropped into his stomach. However, even through his mortification, his diagnostic sense had begun to kick in. He had a horrible taste in his mouth, pounding headache, sensitivity to light … all the classic symptoms of a hangover. His mind began to race. Had he poured himself a nightcap and overdone it? Perhaps one shot had become two, and two had become seven, and somehow he'd ended up in here.

But that didn't feel like the right explanation. First of all, as miserable as he felt physically, his mind was miraculously clear. There was none of the usual muzziness and miasma that accompanied something like this. And, to add to his concern, he realized that he didn't have that last element of the waking-up-after-a-night-of-drinking scenario: a pressing urge to use the little wizards' room.

Something was very off about this whole thing, and it wasn't just his equilibrium.

But he didn't have any more time to ponder this. A door opened beyond him. There was a gasp of alarm and a slap of slippers in his direction. Then he heard Albus Dumbledore's voice, very close by.

"Severus? Severus!"

Snape felt someone lift his head and gently slap his cheek.

"Albus? What are you doing here? What happened?" Snape asked. Or so he thought.

What he actually produced was …

"Aggh duuhhh. Whaaa?"

Both of Dumbledore's eyebrows shot for his hairline. From where he squatted next to Snape, he looked at Pearly, the house-elf. She was watching nervously from the door, tugging at her tea towel with spindly fingers and blinking her huge eyes.

"Pearly, be a dear and get Madame Pomfrey, will you?" Dumbledore said. "I know it's very early. Tell her it's an emergency, she's needed in Professor Snape's classroom."

"Yes, Mister Dumbledore, sir!" Pearly squeaked. Then she surveyed the room and put both of her hands to her face in embarrassment. She gasped. "And when Pearly comes back she will get the dirty linen! Winky always forgets, she does." She smoothed out her tea towel, curtseyed, and vanished.

Dumbledore took a moment to sit down cross-legged and run a hand through his uncombed hair and beard. He gathered his dressing gown closer over his extravagantly patterned blue pajamas, and surveyed the potions classroom for a moment. It was immaculate, as usual. The work stations were clean, the floors were spotless, and the house-elves had set out fresh towels beside the sinks. His eyes roamed over the barrel of dirty linen Pearly mentioned. Some student had carelessly tossed in a final towel on top of the heap and it was hanging over the lip. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, though.

So Dumbledore returned his attention to the Potions Master. He gently turned Snape on his back (this caused a moan) and pulled Snape's head and shoulders into his lap. Looking down, he couldn't help but sigh. It was pitiful, really.

Snape clutched a nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey. He was incoherent and disoriented. And he absolutely reeked of alcohol. Dumbledore had no idea what had driven one of his teachers to drink nearly a whole bottle of Ogden's, but that question could wait. Dumbledore had seen people hammered, but Snape was so drunk he was practically catatonic. In fact, he looked so out of it that Dumbledore was afraid to move him. He just hoped Poppy would be along soon.

"Severus, try to open your eyes. Can you?"

"Hurzz," said Snape.

"Yes, I know," Dumbledore replied kindly. "But please attempt it, if you would. Here, let me dim the lights."

With a flick of his wand, the harsh lights of the classroom faded halfway. Snape licked his lips, made a slight face at the taste, and managed to open his eyes wider.

"Albus?" he croaked. The word was clear … a good sign.

"Yes, Severus, it's me. Just stay calm, I want Madame Pomfrey to have a look at you."

Madame Pomfrey? What?

It then occurred to Snape how drunk he must appear to his employer.

Tch. Well, there goes my Christmas bonus.

And the old man's comment made sense, Snape realized. Calling for the nurse would be the natural reaction to finding one of your staff passed out on the floor of his classroom. What didn't make sense was, well, everything else. It was just like he had thought before Dumbledore had come in. This situation felt completely wrong.

And that was when the last fact fell into place. Snape realized that he had no memory of actually opening the bottle clutched in his hand. He was no stranger to imbibing, but his excellent memory, equal parts gift and burden, had always managed to salvage at least the beginning of the drinking.

This time, however, he couldn't remember anything. It was rather terrifying. He blinked twice and saw two Dumbledores twinkling over him, both upside-down. He idly wondered if Dumbledore had cast Multiplicory on himself.

"Something bothering you, Severus?" the Dumbledores asked conversationally.

Snape blinked again, trying in vain to clear his vision. His head continued to pound. "Albus?" he asked softly. "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning," was the reply. "I couldn't sleep. I was on my way to the restroom when a house-elf passed me and informed me that the light was on in your classroom, for some reason. I went to investigate. Apparently, I made the right call."

Both of the Dumbledores sighed in tandem.

"Severus," they asked, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, actually," said Snape. The two Dumbledores were making him horribly dizzy, so he shut his eyes. "I am quite disturbed by the fact that I have no idea how I got here."

There was a snort, and Dumbledore said, "I am not half as confused about that as you. You came in here and got ridiculously drunk, Severus, simple as that. And I would like to know why."

"No, that's the thing," Snape said, his head aching worse than ever.

The pain was centralizing into a single spot at the back of his skull. Odd, that. All of his hangover headaches had been at the front, just behind his temples. His back was aching worse than ever. At least Albus' lap was warm under his shoulders.

"I can't remember opening this bottle, Albus," he finished, his voice raspy and foreboding. "Something is very wrong here."

"Yes, something is indeed very wrong here!" said Dumbledore. "I have found my Potions Master passed out on the floor of his classroom, a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand, and enough liquor on his breath to cause the retreat of a small army!"

Snape, annoyed at this description, snapped his eyes open, glared up at the Dumbledores, and attempted to sit up. "Albus, I tell you, I did not get druh- oh!" The world slid over to the left and Snape slid with it. Two old bony hands caught him before he'd gone six inches and settled him down again.

"Severus, it's all right. We all overdo it once in a while."

Snape was about to protest this but Madame Pomfrey picked that moment to bustle in, her hair undone and her long white nightgown flapping out behind her. Pearly ran in at her side and went straight to the barrel of dirty linen. Catching hold of it, she took it and both she and the barrel disappeared.

"Severus …?" asked Poppy. "Oh, pew! You smell like a brewery! Albus, what happened?"

"Professor Snape got drunk and passed out," Dumbledore volunteered cheerfully.

"I was not drinking, I tell you!" Snape snapped.

The outburst had no effect. He was, after all, lying prone on the floor with his head in the headmaster's lap. So he was annoyed, but not surprised, that Poppy snorted as she pulled out her wand. It was time to do some serious convincing. Snape didn't remember drinking, but he certainly remembered a lot of other things, which could only help his case.

"I was in my classroom until ten marking essays," he explained, lying quietly with his neck on Dumbledore's crossed shins. Two Poppys shined lights in his eyes. "Then I went to bed. Around midnight, an alarm went off in my apartments. I used my emergency apparition code. … Albus, you remember."

Dumbledore nodded soberly. Apparating inside Hogwarts was technically impossible. Technically. There were ways around everything. Snape, after the Gillyweed disaster a couple of years back, had successfully lobbied for a personal apparition code, in order to get straight from his quarters to his classroom and thwart would-be thieves and intruders.

"Anyway, I used that to get in here and see what the disturbance was, and after that…" Snape stopped and realized, now feeling a bit sick and panicky, that he didn't quite know what had happened after that. "Damn it, it's all a blur!" he finished, his face ashen.

The Dumbledores and the Poppys looked skeptical.

"Severus, are you experiencing double vision? Loss of balance? Localized headache?" Poppy asked suddenly. She had cast a quick charm and was analyzing some sparkles hanging in the air.

"Yes," Snape growled. "And don't tell me it's a hangover."

"I wasn't going to," Poppy replied. "It's a concussion." Turning his face slightly to examine him, she announced, "You have a very large lump back here."

"Oh my," Dumbledore mumbled.

"Tell me if this hurts," said the nurse. She poked the back of Snape's head.

"OW!" said Snape.

"What say you, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked above him. "Did he fall?"

Poppy sighed. "I don't know. It's a nasty blow, though. Either he fell very hard, or someone who hates him got the jump on him."

"Someone who hates me?" Snape repeated, turning to face her. "You're joking, right? I'm the Potions Master, woman! I teach the most hated subject in school. I'm head of Slytherin, the most hated house in school. 'Someone who hates me,' honestly! Everybody hates me!"

Poppy scoffed. "Now Severus, that's not true," she said. "Here, let me tend you. This will sting a bit."

That was all the warning Snape got. She turned his face again, whacked him smartly on the back of the head with her wand, and he yelped. The smack did the trick, though. Something warm and soothing was penetrating the bruising, dulling the pain, seeping in through his skull and meandering through his head. He looked up to see that the two Poppys and the two Dumbledores were merging into single images. The clarity was marvelous, even though he felt himself getting very sleepy from Poppy's spell.

"I also repre – resin –… resent, there we go, I resent the implication that I allowed some idiot to waltz up behind me and … and brain me with a shovel, or something," he said.

"Oh shut up, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly. "Just go to sleep, there's a good lad. I'll take your classes for today. Poppy, is it safe to move him?"

"Safe as houses," she said.

Snape's eyes slid shut and he felt every strand of his body go limp.

Hermione Granger came to consciousness somewhere between the portrait hole of Gryffindor Tower and the girls' restroom inhabited by Moaning Myrtle. Running on four-and-a-half hours of sleep, the bleary-eyed brunette had somehow managed to dress and pack up all her supplies without waking her dorm mates. Then she crept out of the Tower to start the brew which would be instrumental in Operation: Save Harry.

She went over the events of a few hours ago one more time to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything. She'd put Snape's wand back. Check. Ron threw the towel in with the other dirty linen. Check. She wrested the golden shovel from Ron, cast a straightening charm on it to remove the Snape-felling kink, and put it back with the other tools near the fireplace. Double Check.

Yawning and pulling her cloak around her to ward off the early morning chill, she looked at her watch. 4:45 am. Truly a beastly time to be awake, but the antidote took 15 hours, beginning to end. If she started brewing it now, it would be ready by 8 o'clock tonight and phase two of the operation could commence.

She stumbled into the bathroom and let herself into a battered stall. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was perfect for stuff like this, because nobody ever came in here. And predictably, as soon as she had set up her cauldron and lit one of her portable fires under it, the reason for this absence of people came floating by.

"Oh, hello," said Myrtle. "What are you doing in here so early?"

"Working," Hermione said tersely.

She pulled out the recipe for the antidote from her pocket, magically tacked it to the stall wall, and began to organize her ingredients on a cutting board, which she levitated to waist height.

"Oh," said Myrtle. "You know who else has been working in here?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, barely looking up. The water was beginning to boil. It was nearly time to add the Kelpie Scales.

"Harry Potter."

Hermione met Myrtle's eyes. "Pardon?"

"Oh, yes, didn't you know? He's been in here almost every other day for the last three weeks," Myrtle said. She looked supremely satisfied at knowing something Hermione didn't.

Hermione pretended to be surprised at Myrtle's information. Fizz, after all, had an amazingly short shelf life. She knew that. And Myrtle's bathroom was the perfect place to brew anything illegal, so it made perfect sense for Harry to come here.

"Yes," Myrtle went on, "he's been coming in late at night, sometimes early in the morning, and it's been so nice! His visits have made me so very happy. Harry loves me, you see."

Hermione carefully added the Kelpie Scales. It took everything in her not to laugh. She waited three seconds and then added one tablespoon of the Knurfle Paste. The potion turned bright orange.

"Does he really?" she asked conversationally, and began chopping up her monkshod roots.

"Of course!" said Myrtle. She proceeded to blather on about every single subject she and Harry had discussed in the past three weeks.

Hermione just let the words wash over her as she added ingredient after ingredient. This thing was very complicated to brew and she didn't want to screw it up, so she kept nervously checking and re-checking every line of the instructions as she followed them. After twenty minutes of painstaking labor, the potion was at its final stage before she could begin simmering. According to the instructions, it was supposed to be a murky, silvery blue color, and very thick. She braved a glance at her cauldron.

Perfect.

She turned her portable fire down to a simmer, vanished any refuse from all the cutting and measuring she did, and packed up her ingredients.

"You know," said Myrtle, "I never found out what he's been brewing. Do you know?"

Hermione blinked at her, carefully keeping her face neutral. "No. I have no idea."

"That's too bad. He wouldn't tell me, either. I mean you'd think, as his girl, I'd have a right to know, but no, he hasn't told me anything!" Myrtle said, her entire mood starting to change. "Dear me, do you think it's possible he's angry with me? I mean, he's hardly spoken to me at all since Sunday, and I … I … Oooooh! What if he h-hates m-me?"

She started sobbing and floated away miserably, probably to find a comfortable U-bend. Hermione silently thanked whatever higher power was in control of Myrtle's hormones. With the ghost out of her hair, she was free to smile proudly at her little cauldron.

And then the bathroom door swung open. There was only one other person who Myrtle had mentioned as a visitor. Hermione stopped smiling immediately.

Footsteps. A distinctive tuneless whistle. The unmistakable squeak of a cauldron. It was Harry. At six in the morning, it couldn't possibly be anyone else. And if he caught her, it was all over. Hermione thought fast and pointed her wand at herself. She quietly cast a levitation charm, so he wouldn't see her feet.

Unfortunately, she slightly overdid it out of nerves and began to rise upwards too far for her liking. She had to press hard against the sides of the stall with two feet and one hand to keep from floating out. It was a nerve-wracking maneuver to stuff her wand down her shirt so she could put her other hand on the wall, but she made it.

Myrtle, fortunately, was busy sobbing in her U-bend. The ghost hadn't noticed Harry's arrival, and her noisy crying covered up all the quiet bubbling of Hermione's cauldron.

Hermione held herself still and listened again. There was a yawn in the stall right next to hers. A clink. A muttered spell. Her eyes went wide. Harry was standing less than two feet from her, brewing up a pot of Fizz. Her heart started hammering. Her jaw was locked. After a few agonizing moments, her arms and legs were quivering.

Hold tight, she thought in a panic. Don't move. Don't even breathe.

She held it together for a whole two minutes, feeling beads of sweat form on the back of her neck and listening to Harry clank around next to her. After an eternity, it sounded like he was nearly done brewing. Her heart had calmed down and her limbs were just finding their second wind when suddenly she scrunched her nose.

She felt a sneeze coming on.

TBC