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Severus nearly missed the step as he apparated to the front door of Grimmauld Place. His knees buckled, and for one heart-stopping instant, he thought he was going to collapse in a heap on the filthy stoop. He caught himself against the door frame, fingers clawing and slipping against the knob. He all but fell into the front hall.
The house was silent — the first thing that had gone right for him tonight. He had no patience left in him for Mrs. Black’s screeching, nor for her son’s quieter sniping. His nerves were already frayed and raw; one more voice, one more obstacle, and he might actually shatter.
The Dark Lord had been displeased, to say the least. The Order’s sabotage of his latest plans — a supposedly petty victory for the Light that Snape claimed not to have known about — had left Voldemort in the mood to make examples. Lucius was lucky to crawl away alive after losing Strathmore and Ketterley to the aurors. Severus knew he had been just as lucky himself after failing to warn the Death Eaters of the Order’s trap, but it was hard to be grateful for anything in his current state. Every inch of his skin screamed. Every joint felt carved open and shattered. He gritted his teeth and forced one foot in front of the other, down the hall, past the sleeping portrait and its heavy velvet curtains.
The cellar. He had only to reach the cellar. The tonic would be there. Then he could collapse for a few hours before he had to give his report. No one had to see him like this.
Down through the kitchen lit only by the banked fire at the end, and down another, longer staircase. He hit an uneven stone harder than he meant to and his right knee buckled. He slid the last half-dozen steps before landing in a heap at the bottom. For several long moments he simply lay there, cheek pressed against the cold floor, willing his lungs to work, willing the panic to ebb. His back and side were on fire. His legs — Merlin, his legs — felt flayed to the bone.
But lying here was not an option. Not if he wanted relief before someone found him.
He dragged himself upright and lurched toward the cabinet at the back wall. The latch fought him, his hands shaking so violently that it took three tries before it gave way. He leaned his forehead against the wood for a moment, breathing shallowly, before forcing himself to focus on the rows of bottles inside. Salvation was at hand. He'd made it.
It should have been there.
He stared stupidly until the labels blurred before his eyes. He could not seem to make the thought land. No tonic. No relief. Nothing. He’d forgotten nerve tonic in his last restock of the Order’s stores. The absurdity of it pinned him in place longer than the pain did.
Part of him wanted to sink to the floor, let the stone take his weight, close his eyes and be done with all of it. It would be easier — so much easier — to simply give up. To stop. His eyes burned. Tears slipped free, searing trails of fire down his face, and he hated himself for every single one.
But the part of his mind that never quite stopped calculating was already turning over alternatives. Hogwarts was impossible — he’d collapse long before he reached the dungeons. Spinner’s End was likewise useless — he’d moved the last of his stores to Headquarters a week before, so they’d be more easily accessible.
Stupid.
He was so stupid.
What else could he do? Summon Dumbledore? No. He could already feel the pitying weight of that gaze, hear the silent reproach. He’d made his choice all those years ago; how unfortunate that he couldn’t handle the consequences today. Mad Eye’s outright disgust would be worse, even if he did deserve it. He shook his head. He hadn’t the strength of mind for a patronus message, anyway.
Which left brewing a fresh batch of nerve tonic. He had ingredients enough here, but not the strength to handle one of the great cauldrons he used for restocking the Order, and he knew his abused voice would betray him if he tried the levitation charm. The kitchen, then. The fire was lit, unless he’d imagined it. Molly’s pans, always spotless. He could brew a small batch, just a dose or two. It would be an hour stewing, but he could sit. The idea of a chair was pathetically alluring. He just wanted to sit.
Decision made, he fumbled jars and vials and packets of herbs into the makeshift cradle of his shirt. Two errant bottles shattered against the flagstones, and the sound of glass breaking felt like the shards had been shoved into his ears. He bit back a howl and ignored the mess. He couldn't stop to deal with it now.
He staggered back to the stairs, his precious cargo clutched against his chest. His palm slipped on the railing. Wet. Sticky. He looked down. Blood slicked his hand, dripping to the floor. His hand didn’t feel any worse than the rest of him, though. A hallucination, most likely. Just another of the tricks his treacherous mind played when the pain went too deep. An attempt to rationalize the agony. It wasn’t helpful, so he ignored it.
One step. Two. On the sixth, he tripped on the same uneven stone that had brought him down before. He crashed to his knees and nearly blacked out. The flare of agony from his kneecaps convinced him his legs had been severed. He sat, gasping, spots swarming in his vision, not daring to look.
One breath. Then another. Stone steps this worn-down could not sever his lower legs, and he knew logically that he had not even fallen hard enough to have broken them. He was overreacting. His nerves were overtaxed from the curse. That was all.
His legs were still there. Still attached.
He didn’t look, just in case.
He tried to rise, but his body flat refused. Twice he pitched forward, hand and elbows skidding across the rough stone. The third time, his chin took the blow on the steps above him as he tried desperately to protect the potion ingredients in his arms. He stopped trying to stand. His knees throbbed in time with his pulse. He could not feel his feet, and his free hand was on fire. He could taste blood, but his only hope of remedying any of that was above, in the kitchen, so he crawled.
The kitchen fire was lit, and brighter than he remembered. Its heat washed over him as he nearly collapsed over the threshold. The flames were too hot, too sharp against his raw nerves, but blessedly real. Not a hallucination. A chair sat squarely before it like a lighthouse in a storm-tossed sea. Salvation. If he could reach that chair he could sit. If he could sit, then he could stand again. He could brew his potion. He could end this.
He fixed his eyes on it, gritting his teeth as his knees and free hand protested every lurch forward. He was too intent on his goal to notice the faint scrape of a spoon in a mixing bowl, the shadow of feet beneath the table.
He was halfway upright, one arm braced on the scarred wood of the tabletop, gathering what little strength remained to lever himself onto the chair, when a shriek split the air.
The sound knifed straight through his skull. His grip slipped. Glass clattered against glass, and he fell, vials scattering in every direction across the stone floor.
He came to a moment later sprawled awkwardly, half on the floor, half on the unforgiving edge of the chair. Hands were on him, moving him, trying to be careful — he knew they were trying to be careful — though every touch set a swarm of hornets loose beneath his skin.
Molly Weasley’s face swam into view, pale and intent, her breath quick with alarm. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Severus,” she said, though her voice was more exasperated than shrill. Not panicking, then. “What have you gone and done to yourself?”
She got him turned properly, her hands surprisingly firm for all their gentleness, and settled him flat on the floor. “Hold still now,” she said, as if he had any real choice in the matter. Her fingers brushed his temple, swept damp hair back from his face, checked the pulse at his throat, the cut on his chin. “Merlin’s beard! You’re cold as ice! What were you thinking, hauling yourself about like this? You should have called for help…”
The pain of her shriek had faded, thank Merlin, and the sound that filled the kitchen now was softer: running water, a brush of cloth, her muttered tirade. He could almost focus. Almost. Except his teeth were chattering so hard he worried they might crack, and the shuddering in his limbs made every bone feel like shattering glass.
He’d missed something, somehow.
Molly was intent on his left hand, and the careful brush of a damp cloth felt like etching acid. He flinched away, but she held his wrist with a grip like molten iron. The cloth came away streaked red.
Not a hallucination, then.
“Oh, Severus,” she sighed, clucking her tongue as she bent closer to inspect whatever was making his hand bleed. “Splinched. You’re lucky it’s only a few fingernails this time. What could have possessed you to apparate in such a state? You might have left half of yourself behind on the pavement." She conjured snowy white bandages that made it feel as though the last three fingers on his hand were clamped in a vise. "Where else?”
Severus shook his head. He had no earthly idea. Even his apparently splinched fingers didn’t feel any worse than the rest of him at the moment. If there was anywhere else, she’d have to find it at some point by the blood, he supposed.
There was something chewing on his chin though. He was sure of it. He reached up and felt another bandage there, before Molly pushed his hand firmly aside. "Leave it, dear. You cut yourself. What happened? What did he do?”
He tried to speak, but all he managed was a coughing fit.
She reached for his face again, surely meaning to soothe him, but he had to speak. He had to stop her. He couldn't bear more contact, not when he could see it coming. Her hand was a bare inch from his cheek when he managed to rasp out something that resembled words. “Cru-cruciatus… p-please…”
She understood at once and recoiled as though burned, the cloth dropping from her fingers. The relief of her hands leaving him was almost enough to undo him. He lay there panting for a moment, but he had work to do.
He rolled clumsily onto his side, glass clinking beneath his arm, and began pawing at the mess on the floor. Vials, jars, packets of herbs… His hands shook too badly to close on anything, but he kept trying. The tonic. He needed to brew the tonic. He had made it this far — he would not stop now he was so close.
“Severus Snape!”
Molly’s voice cracked over him like a whip, sharp enough to make him flinch. A hard-won jar slipped from his grasp and rolled away beneath the table.
“Tell me you weren’t thinking of brewing something in your condition!” she hissed, fury coiled tight in every syllable. "As if apparating like this wasn't bad enough!
He pressed his palms flat to the floor, forcing his head up inch by inch, his breath rasping out of him like torn parchment. Her figure loomed above him, hands planted on her hips, eyes blazing with the authority that could bring even the incorrigible Weasley boys to heel.
Anger stiffened his spine. Pride did the rest. He was not some ill-behaved brat. He forced himself upright until he was swaying on his knees. He tilted his head back to glare at her from beneath his tangled hair, as though he still had the advantage of height. His hands trembled against his thighs, but the look in his eyes was steel.
“I h-have to brew,” he rasped, each word punched out staccato between his chattering teeth. “H-had to apparate.”
She did not look impressed.
Of course she wouldn’t understand. How could she? Molly Weasley, safe in her kitchen with her endless flock of children, sitting in on Order meetings only after all the danger had passed, could have no notion of the immediacy of the choices forced on him day in and day out. There was no time to dither, no luxury of comfortable options. Apparate or die. Brew or suffer.
Fury rose up, choking him. He tried to form the anger into words, tried to ask her whether she would rather he had lingered with the Dark Lord, then? Begged his master for aid in the aftermath like a dog crawling back for scraps? He tried to demand whether she had any idea where he had just come from, but his tongue tangled on the words, clashed with his teeth, and all that emerged was a jumbled snarl that tasted of blood.
Her eyes narrowed anyway. “Don’t you take that tone with me!” she snapped. “I am not stupid, Severus, and you know it! Of course you did what you had to do to get out of there, but you are out of there now, you fool!” She stooped, quick as a striking hawk, and scooped up a handful of vials from the floor. Her gaze flicked across the labels, her frown deepening with every second. “What in Merlin’s name were you trying to brew?”
The breath hitched in his throat.
Not at the question, but at the loss. The sight of those precious vials in her hands, instead of his. His chest went tight, panic rising sharp and fast. The cool, calculating little voice in the back of his mind tried to make itself heard, but it drowned before the cresting wave of urgency filling his lungs. He needed those vials. He needed the tonic. He couldn’t keep going like this —
Molly’s voice softened. She lowered herself to her knees again, but she set the vials just out of his reach. “Severus… if you tell me what you need, I will brew it for you. But I don’t recognize these ingredients together.”
A laugh scraped its way out of his throat — hoarse, broken, too near a cough to carry the sound properly. It became a fit, the hacking scouring his chest raw. When he could breathe again, she was watching him with her eyebrows raised. Offended.
“N-not you,” he wheezed, but that only made her expression turn thunderous. He tried to explain, lips shaping words that refused to come. "S-stupid..." He had to explain, to soothe her if she was to help him. He was laughing at himself. At the voice he could finally hear. Of course Molly Weasley could brew, excellent cook that she was. He should have woken her at once. Simply knocking into the curtains hiding Mrs. Black’s portrait when he'd arrived would have done the trick. He was stupid.
“What were you trying to brew?” she asked again, her tone of voice reminding him of the howler the youngest Weasley boy had received in his second year. He hoped she didn’t mean to start shouting again… The thought scattered like dandelion seeds as he tipped sideways with a muscle spasm along his side. Molly caught him, arms bracing his weight as she eased him to lie flat on the floor again. He shuddered under her touch, nerves screaming in protest.
"So s-stupid..."
“Severus Snape,” she growled, low and fierce. She cupped his cheek to make him look at her, and he could not stop the whine that escaped him at the fiery pain of it. “You will tell me what you were trying to brew, right now, or so help me, I will march straight into Malfoy Manor and get the answers I need from V-Voldemort himself!”
“N-nerve…tonic.” The words tore themselves out of him, rough and rasping.
Molly frowned. “Wasn’t there any downstairs?”
He shook his head. “S-stupid...”
"Didn't you restock it after Arthur's injury?" she asked, aghast.
He shook his head again, a little crookedly.
Her gaze lit with understanding, the anger fading at last. She understood. Then she looked to the scattered ingredients all over the floor. “And you were going to use this?” she asked, clearly doubtful.
Severus didn’t like her tone. A nerve tonic was simple. Basic third year curriculum. Hardly beyond the capabilities of any qualified witch. If she couldn’t manage this, though, then perhaps he had misjudged her entirely. If she didn't at least try for him —
Her hand brushed his cheek to regain his attention. He jerked back at once with a ragged groan, and she retreated just as quickly, but her voice stayed firm. “Severus. What are the ingredients for your nerve tonic?”
He closed his eyes as frustration and panic threatened to swamp him. Couldn’t she even see the labels? It was all right there. “V-valerian root,” he gritted out, battling for every syllable. “Dit-dittany leaves…d-dried asphodel… s-s-salamander b-blood… essence of h-heliotrope….knot…knotgrass… m-mandrake juice.”
Molly set the bottles and packets on the table one by one, steady as a metronome, clearly thinking hard. “Heliotrope? Not hellebore?”
He choked at the suggestion. “P-poison,” he managed, shaking his head violently.
Molly nodded and picked up another jar. “And ashwinder eggs?” she asked softly.
“Are y-you mad?” he demanded, groaning a little as his throat protested the sudden increase in volume. “That w-would —“
The words died. His pulse spiked.
That would have blown the kitchen apart.
He lurched, rolling onto his side, forcing himself onto his knees despite the lightning tearing through his joints. The herbs, the vials… he forced himself to read the labels. Actually read them. Hellebore, not heliotrope. And the asphodel was missing, replaced by a jar of ashwinder eggs. His own hand had chosen wrong. Confused the labels like a bumbling first year. The walls of the kitchen pressed in. His chest seized. Had he even given her the right list? There was no air in the kitchen. No certainty. She was so confused by his list… What if he’d gotten all of it wrong? The self-doubt hit harder than the Cruciatus, and he collapsed over his knees, unable to breathe. Even with help at hand —
“Severus,” Molly said softly. She knelt before him again, her hand on his shoulder a burning brand, but grounding nonetheless. “Breathe, dear. I know you’re scared. I will help you. Where are your notes?”
He blinked, confused.
“I can read your notes for the recipe,” she explained calmly. “Where are they?”
He was so stupid.
His mouth worked, dry and useless, before he managed to croak, “Cellar. B-bottom drawer. L-left.”
“Good. Let's get you off the floor, at least.” She hooked an arm under his and half-dragged, half-pushed him toward the kitchen chair. He slumped into it and let his forehead drop heavily onto the scarred tabletop. The wood was smoother than stone, at least.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Molly promised, and then her footsteps retreated down the cellar stairs.
Time stretched like taffy as he stared at a scorch mark on the tabletop, and the sharp heat of the fire behind him was surely roasting him alive. Each unexpected crack and pop of the logs was like a hammer-blow inside his skull. Still, Molly did not return. Surely she should be back by now. Any second. Unless she was still angry with him. Unless she’d forgotten him.
Unless she’d never been there at all.
A hallucination.
He’d been so desperate for help he’d conjured the scolding specter of Molly Weasley.
He snarled in disgust at his own weakness and pushed against the table, trying to rise. He had brewing to do. His right leg betrayed him at once, and he crashed heavily to the floor, black spots flaring in from the edges of his vision.
When he came back to himself, he was no longer on the floor. Softer, this surface. A cot. Molly was bent over him, dabbing a cool cloth against his brow. Too cold. It bit like ice, but at least it wasn’t fire. At least it meant she was real.
Not a hallucination.
He tried to sit, but Molly’s hands pressed his shoulders down again, firm as iron. The cry tore from his throat before he could stop it, high and thin.
“Merlin save me from pigheaded fools,” she muttered. “Stay. There.” Her voice was pitiless and sharp enough to cut. “You are going to lie there on that cot, Severus, or I am going to put a sticking charm on you, and you’ll lie there anyway. Do you understand me?”
He understood. He had to keep her happy. She was the only one who could save him.
He laid on the cot.
After a moment’s stern look to make sure he stayed, Molly bustled to the stove and jabbed her wand to light a fire beneath the pot she’d chosen for her brewing. Her hands moved with efficient certainty, arranging jars and powders, setting spoons to stir. Severus let himself drift, comforted by the familiar motions. Every pop of a stopper, every clink of spoon on glass was agony, but he didn’t have energy enough to flinch anymore. The tonic was coming. It was only a matter of time now.
Sleep dragged at him, restless and jagged.
A voice followed him down.
“I confess I am disappointed in you, Severus.”
The voice was cold. Silken. Dripping venom in his ears as pitiless red eyes stared down at him, disgusted with his weakness.
“M-my lord—“ He folded his trembling body lower over his knees, pressing his forehead to ghostly-pale feet. “I—“
“Crucio.”
White fire burned him hollow.
His breath rasped, wet and broken in the aftermath.
“I wonder at the value of keeping you in Dumbledore’s back pocket, when it is clear he does not trust you…”
“He does not trust anyone these days, my lord.”
The curse again. Again. Again.
“It is your job to be trusted, Severus. Is it not?”
Again.
“Yes, m-my lord.” He didn’t know what he was agreeing to, but agreeing was instinct. Agreeing meant survival.
Again.
“Good. Then perhaps you need only a small reminder of what is at stake—“
Again.
He woke with a scream that was surely tearing his throat. He tried to rise, to flee, but every nerve flared lightning-hot, a cage of agony that he would never escape.
“Severus. Severus? Look at me, dear.”
Not the Dark Lord’s voice. Softer. Warmer. He clung to it, dragged his eyes open and found hers. Not red. Not red at all.
Molly smiled, tired but kind. “That’s it. Breathe. You’re alright. The nerve tonic is nearly done. Just a few more minutes, and you’ll feel better. You can make it a few more minutes, can’t you?”
The tonic was coming. Relief was coming. His throat felt like it was still tearing around the words, but he rasped them anyway, grim and certain. “Always do.”
“You always do,” she agreed. “You’re doing so well, dear. Just a few more minutes. I promise.”
The scene floated in and out of focus as he watched Molly move about the kitchen. Not just brewing — puttering. There was no other word for it. Sweeping up glass he’d broken at some point in all his fumbling, washing vials and setting them to dry in neat, straight rows. Putting jars back in their places. Wiping the table and countertops again and again and again. She worked as though chaos offended her, and Severus — against all reason — found himself grateful for her fussiness.
A world being put back in order.
He ached to sleep again, but he could not let go. Not yet. He had to hold on for a few more minutes, stay present, clinging to Molly's movements to structure the passing time. If he slipped again, he might not come back. Giving up was too tempting in the face of all this pain. He could not afford the risk.
Finally.
Finally —
She reached for a cup from the hook above the sink, fumbling a little bit as the hooks were clearly set for someone taller than the plump little witch, and Severus couldn’t breathe with the anxiety of watching her. Cup finally in hand, she dipped a ladle into the pot and drew it up brimming with ruby-red liquid. He nearly sobbed with relief. She had done it.
She set the cup aside to cool, infuriatingly careful, bottling extra doses into the dried vials, wiping the counter again, as though she had all the time in the world, as though he wasn’t being burned to a cinder while she cleaned the blasted kitchen. He wanted to scream at her to hurry, but the sound wouldn’t come. His hands twitched uselessly against the cot, and he remembered her threat about the sticking charm. A few more minutes. He would lay on the cot. Keep her happy. She would help him.
Then, at last, she was there, kneeling at his side, the cup in her hand. “I’m sorry for this dear,” she murmured as she slid an arm behind his back and levered him upright.
The groan wrenched from his chest was raw, involuntary. Her grip only tightened as his muscles spasmed in protest at both the contact and the movement.
The rim of the cup pressed to his lips, and he drank greedily, half-gasping, the liquid burning down his abused throat. Too fast. He nearly choked, sputtering around the mouthful, his breath catching in his chest.
“Easy now.” Molly pulled the cup back, holding it away as if afraid he might lunge for it. As if he had the energy anymore. He tried reaching for it anyway, but Molly lifted her chin. “No," she said firmly, and he stifled a sob, but then she continued. "Breathe first. Then more.”
He caught his breath — he had to keep her happy — and she offered him the cup again, tipping it slowly this time.
The potion worked its way through his body quickly, smothering the fire down to bare embers, and the relief hit him harder than the pain had. His pride — what little remained of it at this point — crumbled. He wept, ugly and unguarded, his face pressed into Molly’s shoulder. She said nothing of it, though he could hardly bring himself to care either way.
When at last he sagged against her, finally, mercifully out of emotions, she eased him down to lie on the cot once more. A conjured blanket settled over him, tucked close. He thought of thanking her, but he was already falling, and whether or not the words escaped, he never knew.
He woke somewhere cooler, dimmer, the cot still beneath him, the blanket still tucked on top. He tried and failed to sit up. His body ached as though he had been beaten, but that was preferable to the lingering torment of the Cruciatus Curse.
He caught sight of his store cupboard.
The cellar. She had moved him down to the cellar. Pathetically grateful for the privacy, he drifted again.
The next waking brought determination. He lifted his head, flexed his arms and legs beneath the blanket, but his torso might as well have been weighted with stone.
Molly’s ridiculous sticking charm.
She’d used it on him after all. Snarling under his breath and shoving the blanket aside, he rolled, first one way, then the other, back and forth until the cot tipped, and he was left with the cot attached to his back like some ridiculous turtle.
His hands — both bandaged now, along with his right knee beneath his trousers — protested as he started to crawl, but there was nothing else for it. He needed his wand if he was going to free himself. He crawled to his work table but could not work out how to stand to accommodate the length of the cot. He knocked down a set of scales, three stools, and his best cauldron before he gave that up as a lost cause. Molly probably had the wand anyway, he realized, the meddlesome mother hen.
Fine. He’d drag himself upstairs, cot and all, and demand release. If he was lucky, he’d get to do a bit of damage to her pristine kitchen, too, before she freed him.
The stairs loomed before him like a mountain, but for all the care she'd given him earlier, Molly Weasley was not his mother, and he was not about to shout for her like a toddler after a nightmare.
It was slow going. The cot grew heavier and heavier with every stair he climbed. As his energy faded, his nerves began to fire randomly, little static prickles at first, but then they turned sharper. One particularly sharp jolt in his abdomen nearly cost him all his hard-earned progress, but he clung to the stair above him and waited out the accompanying muscle spasm.
He had made it halfway to the top before the door opened above.
A gasp. Then a man's quickly muffled chuckle. Arthur Weasley descended quickly, muttering a countercharm, and the cot clattered to the cellar floor. Arthur caught him as he sagged sideways.
“Easy there,” Arthur said mildly as he settled Severus on the steps. “Molly told me you were an awful patient, but I have to say — I thought she was exaggerating.” He choked back another chuckle.
Sarcasm was the only shield Severus had left. “How thrilling to exceed your expectations,” he panted.
Arthur laughed outright at that. “She sent me to see if you were ready to eat something. Nearly time for lunch.”
Severus stiffened. If Arthur was here with his wife, there was no telling how many others might have come to join the meal and hear his report. “Who is up there?” His mind catalogued possibilities — Dumbledore, Mad-Eye, Potter — each worse than the last.
“The others won’t be here until later tonight. It’s just me, Molly, and Sirius. Just lunch.”
“I’d rather starve.” Severus began sliding down the steps on his rear, pride be damned. He was not about to fall down these blasted steps a third time.
He could hear the shock in Arthur’s voice. “You want me to tell Molly that?” Silence stretched, and Severus continued easing his way down the steps. Arthur rose. “Fine. We’ll see how that goes for you. But if you aren’t coming up right away, I’m to tell you she’s put away all the Floo Powder, hidden your wand, and put up anti-apparition jinxes on the cellar, kitchen, and ground floor.”
Damn her.
Arthur was nearly to the door before Severus gave in. “Arthur,” he rasped, barely audible. “Wait.”
Arthur turned back.
“Help me up,” Severus growled, thrusting out an arm.
Arthur ducked under it, hoisting him carefully to his feet. Step by agonizing step, they made their way up and into the kitchen. Molly was tending a great pot that filled the air with the smell of soup so rich it made Severus’s stomach twist painfully.
“Look who’s up,” said Arthur cheerily.
Sirius turned from where he was setting out silverware and let out a great, booming bark of a laugh at the sight of Severus leaning heavily on Arthur and panting from the effort of climbing a single flight of stairs. “Merlin’s beard, Snivelly! What happened to you? You piss on Voldemort’s rug again?”
Severus opened his mouth, but Molly was faster. She seized Sirius by the ear, and he yelped as she hauled him out into the corridor, slamming the door behind her. It rebounded slightly, but the shrieking of Mrs. Black’s portrait upstairs drowned out whatever argument followed.
Arthur guided Severus to the chair nearest the fire, then went to fish bay leaves from the soup for his wife. A few minutes later, Molly stalked back in, Sirius’s silverware basket in hand. She dropped it onto the table with a clatter but smiled with determined cheer as she crossed back to the stove. “Thank you, Arthur, dear. Will you see to the pumpkin juice?”
She ladled soup — four bowls, Severus noted grimly, so the mutt would return — and Arthur poured chilled pumpkin juice, setting the bottle down alongside a loaf of crusty bread.
“How are you feeling?” Molly asked briskly, setting not only a thick slice of buttered bread alongside his bowl, but also two stoppered vials. One shimmered ruby red; the other gleamed a dull, medicinal green.
Severus sighed. He uncorked the pain potion first, tipped it back, and forced it down without so much as a twitch of his face, though it was revolting as ever. The nerve tonic followed, bitter and metallic — though he certainly hadn’t let that bother him the night before. He swallowed the foul concoction, pushed the empty vials away from his bowl, and drew in a thin breath.
“Better,” he said shortly. “Thank you.”
He lifted a spoonful of soup. The smell was heavenly — rich stock, herbs, vegetables simmered until tender. The taste, however, was metallic, as though he had a mouthful of tin. He had forgotten. Blank-faced, he took another bite anyway. He would need the strength, and even through the asphodel’s echo, Molly’s cooking far surpassed anything he’d ever contrived for himself in the wake of one of the Dark Lord’s temper tantrums.
Molly hummed in satisfaction at seeing him eat, and she buttered another piece of bread for her husband. “Have you been awake long?”
“Not long,” Severus replied.
Arthur chuckled. “Long enough to half-destroy the cellar with that cot of yours stuck to his back.”
Severus froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth.
Molly sighed, clucking her tongue as though he’d disappointed her somehow. “I did warn you, dear.”
“I did lay on the cot,” Severus hissed, fury sparking in spite of his exhaustion. He remembered that much clearly. He had done as she’d asked. Everything she'd asked.
“And you did try getting up around midmorning, screaming and carrying on like a man possessed, and you did nearly turn the dish cabinet over on yourself in your panic,” Molly snapped right back, eyes blazing.
Before he could retort, the kitchen door opened, and Black sidled back in. He looked suitably chastened, and Severus was pleased to note that if he’d had a tail at that particular moment, it would most certainly have been between his legs.
“Severus,” he said stiffly, setting a tumbler of faintly smoking liquor at his elbow.
Molly’s lips thinned, and she let out a huff. “Sirius, now is hardly the time to —“
“It’ll burn like hellfire going down,” Black interrupted, ignoring Molly entirely and speaking only to Severus. Not so chastened, then. “But it’ll cut the taste of the asphodel.”
Severus just blinked at him. He had never heard of such a thing.
“Or maybe you enjoy licking rusty cauldrons — I wouldn’t know what you get up to in your free time, Severus.” Black flopped into his chair across from Severus, folding his arms like a petulant teenager.
Severus was tempted in spite of himself. But he could already see the trap: drink it, and Black would be smug that he’d caved. Refuse, and Black would be smug he’d been afraid to drink it. Worse, if he’d done something to the drink, and Severus did drink it, Black would be smug that he’d been desperate enough to drink it in spite of the risk.
Furious with Black for even existing, he ignored both the man and the drink and ate instead.
The meal went on. Black sniped in his direction from time to time. Severus ignored him, too tired to fight. The barbs were halfhearted at best, anyway, their sharpness clearly dulled by whatever Molly had said to him in the hall. She and Arthur chatted with ease, and Molly topped up the other men’s soup bowls any time they looked to be making progress toward emptying them.
Severus forced down another few bites, each unpleasantly metallic but tolerable, and Molly began to fret about his lack of appetite.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, drink the damn Firewhisky, you stubborn git!” Black burst out suddenly. “I can’t do much in the grand scheme, but I can do this!” He lunged across the table, snatched up the glass, and drained half of it in one swallow. His face pinched at the burn, but he set the tumbler down hard in front of Severus again. “There. See? Didn’t even poison it. Happy?”
Severus stared at him, weighing his options, then took the glass and downed the rest in a single swallow. The liquid scorched his throat, lit every nerve raw again, and for a heartbeat it was the curse — white-hot agony, tearing him apart. A ragged, animal sound broke from him before he could strangle it.
Molly was already there, pulling him upright and pressing a glass of water to his lips. He drank greedily, gulp after gulp, until a tattered scrap of pride returned and he shoved her hand aside.
He wiped his tear-streaked face with a shaking hand and turned, ready with a vicious remark — only to find Black staring at him, wide-eyed and pale, all his smirking arrogance burned away.
Severus looked away, unable to stomach the look on Black's face. For a lack of anything else to do in the lengthening silence, he took another bite of soup. The flavor was clean, the metallic tang gone without a trace.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, to the table, to the air. To anyone but Black.
"Reg used to need the nerve tonic sometimes," Black murmured, clearly speaking to no one as well.
Severus nodded at his soup and took another bite.
The silence returned, though it was softer, punctuated by the scrape of spoons and the crackle of the fire. Then Molly cleared her throat.
“Dumbledore will be by this afternoon,” she said, setting her bowl aside. “I was hoping you’d feel up to giving a report by then.”
“Of course,” Severus said with forced calm. He was not in the mood to do any such thing, but at least Dumbledore hadn’t had to see him at his very worst.
On the other side of the table, Sirius pushed aside his own bowl. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed again. “What’s the point? You’ll talk. Dumbledore’ll nod, all grim and pitying for your noble plight, and nothing will change. Old Moldy Shorts nearly killed you last night, and for what? What do we know now that we didn’t before? He liked Strathmore? Had a soft spot for Ketterley?”
“Strathmore and Ketterley are spineless swine,” Severus rasped.
“Kingsley tells me they’ve already rolled over on a handful of low-level Death Eaters,” Arthur confirmed.
“The Dark Lord’s cause will likely only be strengthened by our removing such weaknesses from his ranks,” Severus continued. He set his spoon down. “But something we did last night made him very angry indeed. That’s information we didn’t have yesterday. Something useful will come of it. And in the meantime, that's a handful of low-level Death Eaters who are no longer on the streets.”
Molly nodded approvingly. “My mother always said one gnome at a time clears the garden. We’ll keep at it.”
She buttered another piece of bread and topped up Severus’s bowl, giving him a look that said quite plainly she was not above the use of another sticking charm.