NINETEEN: Experiment

George Weasley rocked back and forth on his heels.

It was odd being in the Shrieking Shack in late afternoon. He could hear people moving about outside, now and again, which made it feel different from creeping around at night.

He sat at the piano and tickled the ivories a little. The piano wasn't just out of tune – some of the notes he hit didn't even sound, as if the strings inside had been snapped. He played Chopsticks: off-key, missed notes and all. It sounded like something written by Rachmaninoff while Confunded.

Then, he had to check on Ron again.

He'd laid Ron out in the center of the room, transfiguring a bit of torn cloth into a pillow and a detached wooden plank from the floor into a throw. It did not do anything to help conjure the image that his brother was only asleep. Ron still looked all-the-way dead. George could only just see his chest rise and fall if he focussed hard, which made him think that he was really just imagining it, which made him cast a diagnostic spell. Again.

Snape was late.

George didn't know if Snape was late because Snape had been killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, because he'd seen George and turned around straightaway, or because he was still fixing his hair so it looked its greasiest. All George knew was that it was doing his head in.

He'd started counting the number of slats in the boarded-up windows when he heard the telltale crack of Apparition.

Severus Snape stood before him, in all his bat-like glory. "Charlie Weasley," he snapped, bringing his own wand to bear with a snap of robes that George tried to find totally lame and unintimidating. "Where is Draco Malfoy?"

"It's George. And he's safe; but Mad-Eye's got him, so he couldn't come, himself."

"Safe, but Mad-Eye's got him?" Snape echoed nastily. "Mutually exclusive, in my experience…"

It hadn't occurred to George that he was going to have to account for Draco's whereabouts without actually telling Snape where anyone was. These, too, seemed mutually exclusive. "Er…"

"Am I meant to believe that Draco Malfoy entrusted you to go in his place?" Snape said. "Incarcerus."

George felt invisible chains snake around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. "Hey!"

"Far more likely someone intercepted my messages… someone from the Order perhaps… and decided to send one of my old students… in hopes I should be more… forgiving…"

"No one would ever make that mistake!" George squeaked. "I'm just here because of my brother!" And he eyed the bundle behind Snape significantly.

Snape turned, but slowly, as though he feared some trick. "I see that," he murmured, tilting his head to the left. It gave George the impression that Snape hadn't addressed him at all, but some other, invisible someone at the Potions Master's side. Snape continued muttering to himself as he approached Ron.

George squirmed as much as the Incarcerus would allow, which was to say that all his squirming was on the inside. Any moment now, and Snape would look down that long, greasy nose and laugh at the very idea of helping a Weasley. Followed by turning that wand on George, Ron, or both. He hazarded the guess that something had gone very wrongs with the man since he'd last prowled before a Potions class, and it wasn't as though Snape had been Professor Self-Possession before.

But it was his little brother lying there. So what choice did he have?

"Mr Weasley! Are you even listening?" Snape snapped, whirling impressively given the confined space.

George blinked. "Sorry, sir, just thought you were talking to yourself some more. How long has that been going on? Because there are potions –"

"I should have known even your brother's life would be a joke to you," Snape said, raising his wand high in the air to cast –

…Diagnotic charms. Or at least, the first was a diagnostic charm. George didn't recognize any of the rest as Snape tried spell after spell on Ronald.

"Not a joke, sir, not at all, sir, wouldn't want you to think so, not for a moment," George babbled, relief loosening his tongue. "I'll tell you whatever you need to know, I swear, and not one joke about your nose or your robes, or your hair, sir, not even a little one."

Snape stood, slowly, then whirled to face him. It made George a little dizzy.

"My brother –" George said.

"Is under a stasis spell," Snape said, pocketing his wand. "I shall have to do some investigation before I can be confident in any diagnosis. Therefore, I shall need to know more from you." He crossed his arms over his thin chest, the sleeves of his robes folding neatly against his torso.

George tried to rid his mind of bat-imagery, metaphors, and associated vocabulary. Just in case any of them popped out without him meaning to say them.

Snape snorted and cancelled the Incarcerus. "Describe the hex in detail. Do you know who cast it? How long did it take before the spell visibly took hold of Mr Weasley? Has it been getting noticeably worse? Has anyone else had a look at him? Don't look so flummoxed, Fred Weasley; I doubt a known Death Eater and murderer was your first choice."

"Uh," George fumbled, rubbing at his wrists, but luckily Ginny, who had seen the spell, had coached him. "AK green, maybe a shade or two lighter? It hit him like a bolt. A Death Eater, cast it, no one recognized her with her mask, but her hair was long and dark blonde or light brown." George tried to recall the other questions. "Um… it seemed like he was like this since he was hit, no better or worse. And Madame Pomfrey saw him, but she couldn't figure it out."

"Did she say anything at all, or are such details beyond your ability to recollect? I seem to remember quite a few erroneous details on your exams over the years…"

George bristled. "Yes, but nothing helpful, or I would've said, professor. She said it was either a very new spell or a very old one, because she didn't recognize it." Suddenly, he remembered something else. "She said it seemed more like a poison than a curse. Dad said it was like Draught of the Living Death."

"Nothing helpful," Snape imitated. "Perhaps you will allow the Potions Master to decide what is helpful in this case," he went on, eyeing George up and down, "as your brother's condition is not the result of a Puking Pastille."

George felt his cheeks grow hot. "Fred invented those, actually. And it's George. You can't be a spy and have that bad a memory." He gaped, an idea blossoming suddenly in his mind. "You've known all along how to tell us apart. Every time you called me Fred in Advanced Potions…"

Snape's expression remained exactly the same.

"You did it to twit me!" George accused.

"Petty revenge is better than none," Snape replied. "Now you are mobile, help me with my bag."

George turned to the door to see that Snape had left an old carpetbag at the entrance to the Shack. He ran to fetch it and brought it to Snape, extending it slowly with one hand, rather like he used to feed good old Hagrid's pet skrewts in sixth-year.

"Don't do that, it –" Snape began.

The handle on the old bag twisted and slipped off; luckily, George still had his Quidditch reflexes.

"Merlin's sake," Snape said.

"Here," George said, feeling weirdly young and stupid.

"Make yourself useful," Snape said. "Locate the shrivelfigs and slice them according to page sixty-four of…" Snape paused, blinked. "Fuck," he said, drawing his hand down his face. "You don't have your textbook. What am I thinking?"

George wasn't sure if there was a safe answer, so he didn't say a word. Instead, he opened the carpetbag and peered inside, then felt a grin tug at his cheeks. "Wow," he said, setting the bag cautiously down.

The inside of the bag held an entire Potions laboratory. The rungs of a rolling ladder, barely a foot wide, lent access to shelves and shelves of Potions ingredients. A rough worktable could also be found within, made of what George thought was probably slate, given the material in their Potions classrooms and its dark, opaque surface. To the table's left was a large, cast-iron rack on which cauldrons of many sizes and materials swung. George could make out the usual pewter of all sizes, but also a size-two silver and a tiny gold that was probably used to brew Felix felicis itself. "Merlin's arse," George swore, then looked up to find his professor looking at him expectantly.

George had an idea, then. It played out very clearly in his mind's eye, the way all of his and Fred's pranks did. He would climb down into the carpetbag. He would claim not to be able to locate the shrivelfigs. Snape would descend the ladder in frustration. George would hit him with a Stunner, scramble back up the ladder, close the bag. Carry it, and Ronald, back to Shell Cottage.

He'd be a hero.

George's gaze swung over to where Ronald lay. It wasn't as though Malfoy were wrong. The boy wasn't Ron, exactly: he still had his own, true brother at home. And besides, maybe the Order could actually force Snape to help them fix Ronald, even if he didn't want to, after he'd been interrogated: no harm, no foul.

But he knew that wasn't how it would play out. Moody would hex Snape on sight, maybe kill him. Maybe everyone'd dump Snape in Azkaban, quick-like, and forget about him. No one would ever help Ronald then, and George could tell himself all he liked that the boy in a heap on the floor wasn't the boy he'd played pick-up Quidditch with, twitted about his crushes, and felt proud and jealous and protective of, angry and comfortable with all his life.

He could tell himself that. But it would feel like a lie.

George looked up to find that Snape's eyes had never left him. But he didn't say, well, Mr Weasley, or sometime today, Mr Weasley. There was something in him of the rabbit scenting the fox. Written in every muscle was the conviction that, if he stayed perfectly still, he might not be noticed; and a readiness, too, to hare off in the safest direction the instant that freezing no longer did the trick.

George realized in a flash of insight that Snape knew everything, everything he'd been thinking, and even Snape wasn't but so clever. "You're a Legilimens," he said, feeling like ants were crawling up and down his spine.

Snape's expression didn't change.

"I'm not going to," George said. "I'm not, I only thought it a minute. You can't blame a bloke for his thoughts."

"I can do as I please," Snape said, in a strangled, quiet voice. "However. It is not unexpected. You have a lot of questions, still, about who I am and what I have done. And you could hardly have been Sorted to Gryffindor if it did not occur to you, at the very least, that this meeting presents you with a unique opportunity for heroism. I wonder, though, if the Hat considered you for Slytherin. It's awfully… ambitious… to imagine that a Hogwarts dropout such as yourself could capture a known Death Eater and murderer so easily."

A known Death Eater and murderer. It was the second time he'd said it, just that way.

Wasn't that just what Mad-Eye'd said?

Exactly how long had Snape been listening in on George's thoughts?

Merlin's arse – every time he's met my eyes, I'll bet.

"The Hat almost did place you in my House, didn't it?" Snape said with relish. "Did you have to beg to be placed with your brothers? Well, Mr Weasley. I admit I am much relieved to have the aid of a fellow Slytherin in this endeavour. Perhaps I can trust you to be more sensible than your execrable twin brother, or your headstrong youngest. Now. Get the shrivelfigs."

George scrambled to obey.

It was mad, brewing next to Severus Snape. Then again, thought George, a bit wild, which part of this business wasn't completely mad? He knew if he tried to tell his family about any of this, they'd think he'd gone barmier than a crate of Chocolate Frogs.

"Slice them thinner," Snape said, leaning over his work – just like in class.

Mad, he thought. "You slice them if I keep doing it wrong," George grumbled, but under his breath so that the other man could ignore it if he wanted to.

It seemed like Snape preferred to spoil for a fight. "Mister Weasley," he said in the very tone that made George want to piss himself as a firstie, "if you are interested in helping your brother, you will obey me. I am no longer your professor, and losing points are no longer the stakes here!"

George pressed his lips together.

"No, go on," Snape said. "I'd love to hear it."

"Fine," George said, slapping the knife down and scattering perfectly sliced shrivelfig everywhere. "You're right, Mr Snape, you're not my professor anymore. Fred and I started our own business, our own Potions business, so you can stop teaching your grandmother to suck eggs! If I slice the shrivelfigs any thinner, they'll dissolve too fast into the base, and the entire thing'll explode, but maybe that's what you want, maybe you don't give a toss about my brother or my family or anybody but yourself…"

George felt horror creep up on him as his fit of temper wound down, and then sick to his stomach. Of course Snape cared about Ron, or he wouldn't be helping at all. Ignore what he says, and focus on what he does, Malfoy had said, but George couldn't seem to remember that one moment to the next. Not when Snape wasn't just pushing his buttons, but leaning against them and refusing to let up.

"That's right," Snape said. "I'm a very selfish man. Now add the shrivelfig to the base, one pinch at a time."

George added it without any further argument.

"Since you're the expert, perhaps you can instruct me as to what I ought to do, next?"

George flicked his gaze up to Snape's face. He was wearing that expressionless look of his, so that it was impossible to tell if he were serious or sniping. "This is a healing-potions base," he tried.

"As any first-year could tell me," Snape said.

George held himself back from commenting that the average fifth-year probably wouldn't have known as much, but he'd learned a lot about Healing Potionry as a precautionary measure when he and Fred were experimenting. "If Ron was hit with anything like Draught of the Living Death, then you need something with stimulant properties," George said.

"Something even a Muggle could deduce."

George felt like he was exerting more self-control in this hour than in the rest of his life combined. He would not react. "Ginseng root," he said. "Coffee bean. Cocoa. Toadspittle. Coca. Guarana. Eleuthero."

Snape's brows lifted. "Pick one, Mister Weasley."

"Just pick one?" George stared. "My brother –"

"Isn't getting any better no matter how many ingredients you name," Snape said.

"Why can't you pick one?" George said. "I mean… I know what I just said, but…"

"Mister Weasley," Snape interrupted. "I have invented seven potions in my career as a Potions Master. The first was Wolfsbane, and it is what earned me my Mastery."

George goggled. "That's yours, sir?"

"And how many have you and your brother invented?"

George stared. "Uh… t-thirteen?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Thirteen," George said. "I mean, a lot of them were the two of us just tweaking the recipes of some pretty familiar stuff," he went on. "I mean, none of them were Wolfsbane. They were joke shop items."

Snape sighed. "Perhaps you see now why Ronald would fare better if you were to pick. You… are a natural experimenter. Most Potions Masters are content to make their living by brewing, as it is less hazardous to their health. For example, I am unaware that Professor Slughorn has invented more than three potions in his entire, illustrious career." He eyed George up and down again, but this time the look was more assessing than dismissive. "It is beyond my understanding how you have managed to keep all ten of your fingers. So perhaps you have some… instinct… that I do not."

George shrugged. "We came close to losing 'em a few times."

"My already high estimation of Mrs Weasley soars higher yet," Snape said. "Now. Choose."

It was too important to pick blindly. George went to the swinging ladder and fetched each of the ingredients he had mentioned, and lined them up in a row, so he could look at them at the same time as the base.

"Ginseng works slowly. Maybe too slowly," George said, setting it aside. "Eleuthero, too." He walked to the shelf to put the Eleuthero back, and saw Ephedera sitting beside it. "This one," he said.

"If you're sure," Snape replied.

George swallowed. "Yeah," he said. He scooped some out with a sterile, ceramic spoon and placed it in a mortar and pestle to crush. He rotated his wrist the way Professor Snape had taught him, back when he was a firstie, until the thin, pine-like herb was a true powder. Then, he added it to the potion-base, pinch by pinch, until the entire quantity was swallowed by the liquid.

The potion turned a brilliant, midnight blue and belched a cloud of grey smoke. Snape took one look and yanked George away by the back of his robes; at the same time, George cast a hasty Shield Charm.

The cauldron exploded, its contents splattering against an invisible surface a foot in front of the pair. "Did you know that was going to –"

"Of course not," Snape snapped. "I'm not playing a game with you, Mister Weasley. Well?" Snape said when George sadly regarded the mid-air splatter. "Begin again. I shall get the water."

After the third try, George conjured a blackboard in one corner of the room. He created a table of everything they'd attempted to add first and then crossed each one out. Then, he created new branches for new ideas, things they hadn't tried, yet. "Maybe it needs a stabilizer first." He withdrew talc, goldenrod, and boiling chips from the shelves, then drew a new chart for each permutation.

Snape moved to the rack of cauldrons and retrieved two more pewter cauldrons of precisely the same size. He set them up side-by-side and lit a low flame beneath each. "We have a limited amount of time before the Order realizes Ronald is missing, and when they do, it's not going to take them long to discern where he must've gone and with whom. If this endeavor is to have any chance of success, we must test multiple concoctions at once."

George set water to the same level in each cauldron with a wave of his wand – water, the only ingredient that could ever be magicked into a cauldron without bollixing a potion all to Hades – his mind whirring. "Chop the shrivelfigs, would you?" he asked, handing the bottle off.

The jar of shrivelfigs left his hands, and it was only five minutes later when he was looking for them chopped that he realized it wasn't Fred he'd just ordered around. "Cheers," he said, feeling his face glow bright red.

Snape handed him a weighing dish of prepped shrivelfigs with a raised brow. "So long as they are chopped to standard," he said, and George realized Snape had made a joke and barely knew what to do with that, so he added the shrivelfigs to each cauldron, one after the other.

"And if one of these explodes, ruining the others?" Snape asked.

George swore, then quickly cast a shield spell between each cauldron – and then above each cauldron as well, just in case.

He crushed the talc while Snape crushed the goldenrod, and then they placed their boiling chips, talc, and goldenrod in the three separate cauldrons and stepped back.

None of them exploded.

"Well. Merlin's hairy left testicle," said George. "Uh, divide each of the three into smaller test batches?"

Snape sighed.

Two hours later and they didn't seem any closer. The blackboard was full of scribbles in George's and Snape's hand, with item after item crossed off. So far, they'd managed a basic healing base with goldenrod or talc, plus ginseng, chopped, not powdered, plus eleuthero… but then, no matter what they put in next, it ruined the potion. Twice, the potion had exploded; four times, it had done the opposite, what George thought of as sludging: the concoctions coagulated to form a useless, gelatinous ooze.

"The stirring," George realized. "We probably have to stir widdershins."

Snape looked on the verge of passing out, but he nodded, rose off of the chair he'd conjured, and fetched more water. And shrivelfigs.

"I never want to see another shrivelfig again," George said, watching his own arms raise to take the jar from Snape with a sense of weary betrayal. Et tu, hands, he thought, then shook his head free of cobwebs. Merlin, he was getting silly with exhaustion.

Still, he chopped them, and powdered the goldenrod – he had a feeling it was going to be the goldenrod stabilizer that made it, he really did – and, once he added the eleuthero, he divvied the mixture into experimental mini-batches, and added coca leaf, quickly stirring counterclockwise. The potion changed to a midnight blue.

George had a gut instinct that he could make the potion stay stable, through sheer force of will if by no other means. He kept stirring, watching as the grey steam began to gather at the potion's surface, rising off of its unnatural color, but gently, and he thought if I stop stirring, now, it's going to explode.

"Weasley –" Snape began.

"No. No, it's fine," George said. "Really. Just… next ingredient. Your turn. I can't reach for anything, I can't even think anymore. Just do it."

Snape placed – something into his outstretched hand. George dropped it into the cauldron.

The cauldron's contents began to crystallize. George changed his stirring direction again, a pleading litany threading through his thoughts: this time, let it be this time…

The liquid within bubbled, hissed, and emitted a faint, golden steam.

"Remove it from the flame!" Snape ordered.

George did, nearly fumbling the cauldron in his haste. George looked at Snape, then peered inside.

The potion was a pale green, now, like seafoam. It emitted one more, golden bubble and lay quiescent.

"What do you reckon?" George said.

Snape's lips twitched. "It is a new potion," he allowed. "It is a new, stimulant, healing potion. Of this we are certain. But whether or not it will work on your brother…"

"What did you put in?" George said.

"A beozar," Snape replied. "They do not work on curses; they are meant to counteract poisons. But as a potion ingredient…" He raised an eyebrow. "Instinct tells me that perhaps parallelism has its place. If it works, this will be the second time this year that a beozar will have saved the life of Ronald Weasley."

"Brilliant," George said. He rotated both shoulders. "How long have we been here?"

Snape replied immediately. "Six hours and twelve minutes."

George didn't know whether to be impressed or kind of weirded out at that degree of specificity without a Charm.

"There is no telling when Arthur and Molly will notice you missing," Snape added in the face of his silence.

"Mum'll notice us missing at bedtime," George said. "Dad wanted her out of the room where Ronald was… sleeping… but she'll check on him before she goes to bed. It's what mums do."

"Then when does Molly typically retire?"

"Nowish," George said. "Nine, ten. If she's plotting with the Order, it could be later."

"I will return," Snape said, standing and stretching out his back muscles.

"Where are you going?"

"To strengthen the wards I established when I arrived. I'll Apparate out if they go off, and you can take all the credit for your brother's recovery."

"And where will I say I've managed to get a mobile Potions laboratory?" George said, brows raised.

"Previous experience says you'll think of something," Snape shot back at him, rather irritably, and climbed the ladder out of the carpetbag.

George huffed a bit for appearance's sake. He cleared up a bunch of spilled potion, scrubbed out the cauldrons by hand so his magic wouldn't interfere with whatever was brewed there next, but left the ingredients out. There was no telling if the potion they'd created would help Ronald, and they might need them again. He Scourgified a probably-already-clean glass phial and decanted some of the potion inside, then fumbled around until he found a box of corks and located one to match the mouth of the container.

George climbed up, then, after Snape, but he must've been quieter than he'd thought.

"…I'll admit it, then, if it please you: he's skilled," George heard the older man say. A pause. "Isn't that going a little far?" he added.

George hunched back into the carpetbag a bit, but stayed high enough on the ladder to peer out.

"If you say so," said Snape, low. "I know that." Snape stopped speaking, but his attitude of thoughtful listening remained. Then, Snape's shoulders slumped, and his head shook side-to-side.

"It is too late for that," he said, finally, and crossed his arms. It was clear the conversation, such as it was, was over.

George waited a beat, just to be sure, then clambered noisily out of the carpetbag.

"Took you long enough," Snape growled when he emerged, "or did you forget that your brother was lying here, standing with one foot on the firmament and the other through the Veil? Perhaps you have so many brothers you do not count the loss of one as a tragedy?"

George's brain seemed to sludge to a stop, just like all their failed experiments.

Snape pulled a hand down his face. "Forgive me. I… spoke injudiciously."

"It's habit, isn't it?" George said, cautious. He sidled forward, holding the phial of potion tightly in his right fist.

"Habit? Perhaps," Snape said. His voice sounded like a wrung-out rag.

"Don't lose the plot, sir," George said. "We're so close, aren't we?"

Snape blinked at him. "Yes. Close," he said, "but to what, I wonder."

"After this you should take a vacation," George said. "To Barbados. Someplace warm."

"Should I?" Snape said. George got the feeling the man was amused, even though there was nothing in the dour man's features that seemed to alter. Maybe it was just a decrease in the feeling of ambient danger, as though George were a smidgen less likely to be hexed than before.

"You know," George said. "After Voldie's kicked it." He frowned. "But that makes it sound like he's going to a dance party, which just isn't right."

Snape stared at him, blinked. Something must have struck him – maybe he saw the image of Voldemort in heels doing the can-can, because that was just what George was picturing in his mind's eye. Intently. While looking at Snape. But for whatever reason, Snape snorted in unmistakable amusement.

And then looked very surprised.

"That never happened," George said swiftly. "Potion." He handed it off to Snape.

Snape's lips quirked, but he said nothing. Instead, he knelt beside Ronald and tipped the boy's chin up, forcing his lips to part by squeezing his cheeks together between thumb and forefinger; with his other hand, he popped the cork to the phial and tipped the potion down Ron's throat. It all seemed very practiced; George figured he'd probably done the same thing over and over again to students in the Hospital Wing.

They watched Ron's face for reaction. Snape stroked Ronald's throat with the flat of his hand to encourage swallowing.

Nothing happened.

The breath flew out of George like he'd been kicked. "Maybe it takes a mo' before it really…" George said. Then he shook his head.

"Do not scrap the potion," Snape replied. "Just because it does not work here does not mean it will not work for any purpose. You may have created an alternative to Pepper-Up –"

Ron took in a deep, rattling breath, then rolled onto his side and began to cough.

"He's choking!" George whacked his little brother on the back. "Come on, baby brother," he said. "Get it out!"

"Stop it! That does not help," Snape said. He yanked Ronald into his lap, reached into Ron's mouth with a crooked finger – fearless, thought George in helpless admiration – and yanked.

Ronald immediately rolled again onto his side and vomited noisily. Snape Vanished the vomit while Ron coughed, tears rolling down his face. He gagged a few more times without bringing anything up, then subsided, taking in thready, shaky breaths.

George hauled Ron to a seated position. Ron kept coughing, doubling over and then trying to speak before beginning the entire process again. George couldn't stop himself from pressing a hand to the side of Ron's face, into his hair, onto his shoulder, the same way he'd kept casting Diagnostic charms, to make sure Ron was still there, to feel the warmth of his brother under his hand, his realness.

Snape examined what he had yanked from Ronald's throat. It was a black, tar-like globule that looked like Dark Arts made manifest. It must have liked Snape's scrutiny about as much as George did, because it began to inch away under its own power. Snape dropped it, disgusted, then set it on fire.

It screamed.

"What in Merlin's name was that?" George squeaked.

"The work of an experimenter such as yourself, Mister Weasley," Snape said darkly. "This was a Spiritus negrum hex. But the substance that Mr Weasley – Ronald – just released bears all the marks of Draught of the Living Death. I don't know what to make of it," he said.

"Ash, and I thank you for that," George said, maneuvering Ronald so he could lean up against George's side, so George could take his weight.

"If one of the Death Eaters has learned to weave potions into their hexes somehow…" Snape looked weary again, as though another dark thought could tip him sideways.

"Could a potion be stored in a wand? Like Vanished, and then Cast to make it reappear?"

"In that case it would have to be brewed the old-fashioned way, first," Snape said. "Although casting any potion would likewise be a new technique, never mind weaving a potion into a hex. Charmwork often undoes the subtle balance between the ingredients of…" He paused. "Not going to tell me to teach my grandmother to suck eggs again, Mister Weasley?"

"Teach me anything you like, you're my favorite professor ever," George said, absently rubbing Ron's back with one hand.

Snape ducked his head.

George tried to gauge the man's expression out of the corner of his eye. Embarrassed? Only that didn't translate well onto Snape's sallow features. "Well, I hate to brew and run, but…" George said.

Snape's expression darkened. "Be cautious, Mr Weasley. I fear we have unraveled the work of some Dark genius tonight; and, perhaps, not for the last time." He stood, then wavered, shooting one arm out to balance himself against the piano.

"What are you…?" George began. When did you last eat? Do you even have a safe place to sleep? What are you doing in the war, now? Are you still serving Voldemort? He frowned. "Malfoy – uh, the, quiet one – he told me to give you this, but only once we'd done what we came to do." George handed Snape the letter – which he hadn't looked at before handing over, thank you very much, despite insinuations from certain people.

But Snape was staring at him, blinking uncertainly. Then, he scoffed, yanking the letter free of George's outstretched hand. "It doesn't take you long to shift your loyalties, does it?" he snapped. "I'm a grown wizard, Mister Weasley, and I've been at this longer than you have."

"I didn't mean –" George said, but Snape was gone in a clap of Apparition. "Balls," he said.

"Hullo," Ronald said simply, leaning into George's chest. His throat sounded like it'd been scraped with knives.

"Hi, Ronniekins," George said cheerfully. "How're you feeling?"

Ronald took a shaky breath. "Numb," he said. "Can't… move. Much at all."

The smile flew off of George's face. "Fingers?"

"Fingers. Toes. Mouth," Ron said. "Eyes. All okay. But… hard to…. breathe."

George's gaze flew to Snape's carpetbag. Snape'd left it there by mistake when he'd gotten upset…

George shook his head. Snape was a spy in the age of Voldemort. Snape didn't make casual mistakes. "No worries, Ronniekins," he said. "We're going to figure it out. We've got everything we need."

And Ron's laugh sounded a bit breathless, but warm all the same.

A/N: The Spiritus negrum hex is not canon, but it's personal canon: it's from Hermione's and Draco's conversation about the ends justifying the means in Secret of Slytherin. Hermione supposes the hex is evil, and Draco says it's all in what the spell is used to do. It's the first quasi-civil conversation they have, after Draco is ordered to 'be nice'.

For funtimes, re-read the chapter to look for Snape's reactions to George, knowing that Snape is Legilimizing him constantly.

This week's rec is Come Once Again and Love Me, by laventadorn, here on ff-dot-net. It's an odd duck of a fic for me to like. It has neither Draco Malfoy nor Ron Weasley... nor Harry Potter in it. It is a time travel story and fix-it-fic and is all-around extremely weird. It is also one of the better romances I've read lately, even if it does have one or two stick-out issues. I really would like to NOT go into greater detail on this one. It suffices to say that if you've enjoyed my other recs, you'll probably enjoy this one as well. It certainly was a surprise, and prompted a lot of thoughtful reviews on my part. Hope you enjoy!

Reviews - I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback on this one. How did George 'feel'? Snape? What did you think of the brewing process? I probably could have gone on and brought them back to the Cottage in this chapter, but I felt like here was a decent place to end it and I wanted to fulfill my promise of updating 'next week'. Well, it's been almost exactly a week since I posted the last chapter, so here you go!

I'd love to hear any/all speculations. Even if I don't 'use' any ideas, it always gets the creative juices flowing. ;)