Chapter 2

The first thing he noticed as he made the slow trek back to consciousness was the pain. It was not so strong as it had been, but his neck still burned and ached where Nagini's fangs had sunk into his flesh. He felt sluggish, drained. He supposed he had lost a lot of blood, no wonder. No, the wonder was that he was alive. He didn't entertain the notion that he was dead, his memory was intact and he remembered well what had happened. Strange that he had been saved. None of the Death Eaters would have spared him a second glance if the Dark Lord had killed him, and he hardly thought the Order would go to much trouble over Dumbledore's murderer. Oh how that task had haunted him, it had brought him so much pain and trouble. Dumbledore had probably foreseen it all too, used him, like he used everyone else. Snape tried to laugh at the thought, but stabbing pains wracked his chest and only a coughing wheeze emerged.

Footsteps across a wooden floor approached him. He managed to crack open his eyes, and was amazed at the sheer energy it took to achieve this.

At first, he was blinded by the candlelight and fire warming the room. He hadn't anticipated their presence, and he couldn't feel their heat. His body seemed to be ice and lead, cold and immovable. After a few moments, his vision settled. He looked into a face he knew and yet it wasn't quite the face he thought it to be. He managed to scrounge the energy to speak.

'Dumbledore …?' He wheezed, confused.

Aberforth looked down at him, comprehension dawning.

'Ah. Another one to fall foul of my brother's plotting.' He grunted, obviously not impressed. Snape nodded slightly, understanding now. 'Well. It seems you were lucky, in your own way.' He indicated the bandaged wound on Snape's neck. It felt raw and painful beneath the bandage. 'We got to you before that killed you.'

'We …?' The word came out like a cough rather than speech.

Madam Rosmerta's pretty face approached, replacing Aberforth's withered visage. 'Yes. Aberforth and I saw You-Know-Who leaving the Shrieking Shack. We thought we'd better investigate.' She patted his arm in a vague attempt at sympathy or comfort. 'Good thing too. You'd lost a lot of blood. Lucky I had some potions set by from after my accident, otherwise you'd have never pulled through.' She smiled weakly, and Snape knew there was some bad news approaching. 'We can't seem to get the wounds to close though, there must be something in them, some venom from that horrid snake.' She shuddered, obviously remembering. When she didn't continue, Snape made another attempt at speech.

'Let … me … try …'

Rosmerta looked up, shocked.

'No!' She said, scandalised. 'You shouldn't even be talking. You probably can't even stand a cauldron the right way up in your condition.'

Snape ignored her, forcing himself into a sitting position. His neck screamed agony, but he ignored it. He hadn't been the Potions Master for nothing. He knew more than a little about venoms and anti-venoms.

Rosmerta made a move as if to stop him, but never carried it through. She just watched owlishly as he swung his legs off the bed, grimacing all the way, and tried to stand. He managed it, for a moment or two, before he had to grip the wooden bedstead for support. His head spun, his vision with it, but this soon faded as before.

'Cauldron.' he said shortly, finding his voice more easily now.

Rosmerta complied, hurrying away and returning with a small, pewter model. He didn't thank her, simply took it and hung it in its place over the fire. Aberforth watched from the doorway, something akin to amusement on his face, as Snape waved his wand over the cauldron, thinking Aguamenti. Water poured from the wand-tip, slopping onto the already hot metal.

'Dittany, aconite, murtlap essence…' he muttered, Rosmerta brought all that he asked for, the list was not beyond what could be found in most ingredients cupboards. It was the combination and the skill of the brewer that held importance in this potion.

Finally, when the sweet, sickly odour of the golden mixture had suffused the air of the room, making the atmosphere thick and sticky with the heady fumes, the potion was near done. One more ingredient. With care, Snape removed the bandage from his neck, ignoring Rosmerta's gasp. He pointed his wand at the wound, directing some of his own blood into the steaming cauldron. The mixture hissed and fizzed, turning a vibrant green colour. The Potions Master conjured a goblet from the air, his face pallid and slick with sweat. He was obviously in great pain, and the wound in his neck was once more weeping gouts of blood. He drank deeply from the cup, grimacing at the inherent difficulty and discomfort caused by swallowing.

The room, filled with swirling, golden fumes, wavered before his eyes once more. He seemed to be falling, but he couldn't feel himself or the air around him. All the sounds had gone from the world. He hit the ground with a dull thud.

As he fell to unconsciousness once more, he thought how pathetic he must seem, fainting all the time. It was the sort of thing Potter would do.