Snape stalked into the staffroom crossly, taking his usual seat at Dumbledore's left-hand side, sparing a curt nod to McGonagall, who sat across him at Dumbledore's right. He was tired, his nerves were frayed, and he was hardly in the mood for the petty annoyances of a staff meeting. Especially not since he needed all his attention focused on the recent rash of Death Eater activity. He'd been summoned nearly three times this week alone and was thus quite on-edge. Voldemort had most unfortunately kept him informed of only bits and pieces of whatever plan was brewing in that dark mind of his. It was a reminder of just how precarious his position had become among the Death Eaters. Dammit, he needed to know what was going on! His hands curled into fists, twisting the black cloth of his robe in frustration.
Scowling at nothing in particular, hoping that his disagreeable expression would keep idle chatter to a minimum (not that it seemed to have much of an effect on his colleagues – they seemed to have developed a tolerance to it), he reached for the tea kettle and poured himself a cup. The heated liquid eased its way down its throat to pool in his stomach, which cramped slightly, reminding him that he had skipped both breakfast and had barely eaten more than a forkful of lunch. He nibbled absently at a biscuit and then set it aside, his stomach no more happy with this sustenance than with the lack of food. How could he eat when his stomach was tied in knots?
He set down his teacup in resignation, hoping that the beverage would be enough to sustain him until dinnertime. Albus shuffled a few papers in his peripheral vision, a signal that he was preparing to begin. He forced back a sigh. The sooner that they got started, the sooner he could retreat to the dungeons and brace himself for the next Summoning. It was not far off, he was sure.
“Accio teacup!”
Snape jumped in surprise as the cup was snatched from his grasp and flew across the table, into the waiting hands of the thin woman seated at the far end, weighted down with numerous necklaces and bracelets, her spectacles giving her an insect-like appearance. Professor Trelawney peered at the bottom of his teacup, studying the remaining tea leaves intently. “Oh my!” she gasped softly. “How tragic… a most bleak prediction indeed….”
The sallow man allowed his lips to curve into a sinister smile. “I've got a prediction for you, Trelawney,” he purred with a slight hint of malice. He saw McGonagall's lips twitch in a movement suspiciously like a smirk.
The Divination professor took no notice of her colleague's insult. She swirled the cup in circles, studying the new pattern that the tea leaves formed. “Yes, it is quite clear… the signs are unmistakable….” She fixed the Potions Master with a teary gaze. “Severus, you must prepare yourself for the worst.”
He leapt to his face, his features twisted in a snarl of fury. “You old bat! How *dare* you?!” he cried, lunging across the table. It was all Professor Vector could do to hold him back. The assembled teachers seemed astonished at his reaction. They were all quite used to Snape's fits of temper, but this display of rage was extreme, even for him. Snape was even more on edge than usual, and the reason was obvious. Trelawney was provoking him at her own peril.
“Severus! Sybil!” Dumbledore's voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of steel that made them both freeze. “There is no need for such confrontation. Kindly take your seats; we are ready to begin.” They both sat down, looking abashed. Snape stared sullenly at his hands folded in his lap. Why was it, after teaching at the school for ten years, that the Headmaster could still make him feel like a first-year hauled in for a scolding for casting hexes?
He listened with only half an ear as Dumbledore began to speak, his mind awhirl with the events of the past few weeks. Slight revisions to next year's class schedule, possible activities to foster inter-House camaraderie (Snape snorted aloud at that -- nothing short of a strong psychotropic drug would persuade Slytherins and Gryffindors to socialize)…. In a way he was relieved that the meeting was so mundane. His concentration was strained to the max as it was.
His meandering thoughts were yanked viciously back to the present as his left forearm tingled, then burst into a flame of agony. He hissed softly, pressing the Mark against his chest and curling over slightly, cradling the throbbing arm. He pressed his lips together firmly until they turned white, determined to keep from making another sound. Not now! Please, not here!
Professor McGonagall looked up in surprise at the soft sound. Her stern expression smoothed into an odd combination of sympathy and concern. The man across from her was hunched over in obvious pain, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth forming a silent plea of “no”. In that moment he looked eerily like the sullen, awkward yet brilliant student that had skulked around the halls of Hogwarts a generation ago. For a single heartbeat he looked so young and vulnerable, and her heart went out to him, despite her misgivings. She glared accusingly at the rest of the teaching staff, who were all gaping at the suffering man with nervous expressions, the closest moving their chairs back. None wanted to be close to the power of Voldemort which summoned him. A few eyed him with ill-disguised distrust. Hot rage filled her to the throat. Couldn't they see that he was just a pawn in a greater game? They'd never seen him crawl back to Albus after a Summoning. She had borne accidental witness to such a scene only once, but it was enough to put all doubts of his allegiance from her mind.
Severus jumped as a gentle hand touched his arm, pulling it carefully away from his chest where he had kept it pressed to assuage the pain. Albus Dumbledore pierced him with an inscrutable look, his hands unfastening the cufflink and rolling up the sleeve to expose the Dark Mark, which was a blazing black against the porcelain-white skin. Faint gasps of horror reached Snape's ears, but he was past caring. A slightly wrinkled yet firm hand wrapped around the mark, and immediately the pain dimmed as if someone had flipped a switch. He could breathe, he could think… he realized that Dumbledore was eyeing him with concern, and his lips were moving….
“Severus, are you all right?” He frowned, hesitating. “If you feel you cannot—“
Snape leapt to his feet, upsetting his chair onto the floor and forcing the old wizard to release his throbbing arm. His demeanor was once again tense and guarded. “I – I must go,” he stammered slightly. “I dare not be late.” With a brisk flare of black, he stalked through the door and was gone, leaving the rest of the Hogwarts staff to stare after him uneasily.
* * * * *
“And I never really sleep anymore
And I always get those dangerous dreams
And I never get a minute of peace
And I gotta wonder what it means”
-- “It Just Won't Quit -- Meatloaf
Harry pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady slowly, trying to make the least amount of noise possible. He clutched his Invisibility Cloak tightly around him as he made his way silently through the darkened castle corridors. His nights were getting more and more sleepless as the week wore on. His dreams were filled with half-formed horrors that terrified him. He had not had any clear visions, as he'd had in the past, but his nightmares were enough to keep him from feeling properly rested. And the violent storm that raged outside, punctuated by stark bursts of lightning and deafening claps of thunder, assured him a sleepless night.
He didn't need the vision/nightmares to know that Death Eater activity had been sharply accelerated. Snape's repeated absences were enough of a hint for him. The caustic professor had explained them away to the rest of the class as an urgent project presented by the Ministry, but Harry doubted that many were convinced. He couldn't help but wonder just how many people knew of Snape's shady past.
He vigorously quashed a vague feeling of worry for the Potions professor. Madame Pomfrey had to take over his classes for the afternoon, and the man had not made an appearance in the Great Hall for dinner. Not necessarily cause for alarm… certainly someone as ornery as Snape could look after himself… but Harry could not help but feel concerned. He simply couldn't see how Snape could stand to infiltrate that den of snakes time after time… that is, if Snape was really spying in the first place. A tiny part of him whispered that no one was that good.
He crept towards the Astronomy Tower, taking care to avoid some creaky floorboards. Unlike most of his late-night forays, all he really wanted to do tonight was to find a bit of privacy and quiet. Pity that Filch would never see it that way. He'd have a weeks' worth of detention if he were caught. Not to mention what Snape would do to him….
He clapped a hand over his mouth to smother a gasp as the object of his ruminations came into view. Harry pressed himself against the wall, standing at the top of the steps of the Astronomy tower, willing his knees to stop shaking. Seeing Snape so abruptly after having such conflicted thoughts about him was quite disconcerting. What was he doing out at such an awful hour? Surely he wasn't out to strike house points from rebellious students out of bed! The man stood with his back to the door, staring sightlessly across the grounds. Harry could just see his profile, and the contemplative expression took him by surprise. He would have thought that the sneer was permanently stamped on that face. Snape's hair was slicked to his head by the driving rain, and his robes were plastered to a body that was too thin. A goblet was clutched in one long-fingered hand, which was slowly lifted to pale lips. Harry recognized the contents with a start – Dreamless Sleep potion! A small part of him was pleased that *something* had sunk in from Potions class. It seemed that he wasn't the only one having difficulty sleeping these days. If his dreams were bad, he'd shudder to even think about what Snape's were like.
“What are you doing out there?!”
The cross words, spoken from directly next to him, made Harry jump. Filch! He held his breath, realizing after a paralyzing second that the caretaker was not addressing him at all.
The tall man turned around very slowly to fix Filch with an icy stare. “Does it make a difference? I'm not a student any more, Argus. You can't slap me with a detention and order me back to the dorms. I have every right to walk about the castle at night. In fact, I've caught quite a few rule-breakers for you. I'd have expected a small bit of gratitude.”
Harry watched the exchange with fascination, seeing Filch's lip curl. The two usually seemed to work as a team; seeing them trade barbs was definitely a surprise. “Don't flatter yerself. I know why ya walk about at night, and it's not only to catch students out of bed. Yer a fine one to talk about rule-breaking – I caught ya outside yer dorm after hours more than any other student in your class. I'd a' thought that one o' your precious potions” -- he made the word sound like an insult -- “woulda cured yer insomnia at some point. Pity I can't give ya detention anymore. Yer as much of an obnoxious brat as ya ever were.”
“I'm touched.” The words were as cold as his expression.
“Don't give me any of yer lip!” Filch spat. “If I had a Galleon for every time I hauled yer scrawny carcass out of the Restricted Section, I'd be a rich man! Not to mention yer habit of hexing your classmates several times a week! I had to invent new punishments just for you, since I ran out of the traditional ones! Didn't like scrubbing out the hospital bedpans without magic too much, did ya?” His voice was thick with mocking pleasure. Harry's eyes grew wide. That was the punishment that Snape himself had inflicted on Ron in their third year! He muffled a snort of laughter, realizing exactly where Snape had gotten the idea. This was rich! The strictest teacher in Hogwarts, forever stripping points from all houses but his beloved Slytherin, had broken more than his fair share of rules. He wondered if Filch still had a file on Severus Snape in his office. The Weasley twins would give just about anything to get their hands on that!
Snape snorted. “If you're quite finished, Filch….”
Filch huffed crossly. “Anything I say to ya is wasted air. I know you'll do exactly as ya please. So long as ya catch a few students along the way, it's none o' my concern. But I'm warning ya, Snape. This is my domain, one I control as I see fit.” He turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and do try not to drip all over the floors. I've just had them mopped.”
Fathomless black eyes watched the rather rumpled-looking man stalk away. Snape swallowed the last of the contents of his goblet, his throat moving convulsively. Harry strained his ears, just barely making out the words “Sod your rules, you overbearing bastard. You have no control over me.” He swept past Harry, who flattened himself against the wall once more. He paused to deliberately shake himself like a dog, spraying the floor with rain water in defiance, before drifting off in the direction of the dungeons like a black thundercloud. It was not until he had completely disappeared from sight that the boy allowed himself to breathe fully. He was rather surprised to learn that the Potions professor stalked the corridors after dark more out of restlessness than a desire to administer detentions. At this point, it would be a wonder if the man could sleep at all. He certainly didn't look rested. Things seemed to be gearing up, and he had a sickening feeling that it would come to a head all too soon.
* * * * *
The Dreamless Sleep potion seemed to have only granted Snape a marginal amount of relief, judging from the dark circles under his eyes as he strode back and forth like a caged tiger, addressing his class. Harry had not seen him appear for breakfast and had worried that he had been Summoned again. He seemed to have a good amount of energy, despite his obvious signs of fatigue. Perhaps he had ingested a Pepper-Up Potion. Still, he looked as bad as Lupin did after his monthly transformation. From time to time he sneezed and buried his considerable nose in a handkerchief. It seemed that he had managed to catch a cold from lingering in the storm the previous night. The man seemed on the verge of collapse. Harry's conscience pricked at him. It was partially his fault that Snape was so tired. On top of his classes and Death Eater gatherings, he had to conduct their private DADA tutoring as well. Perhaps he could persuade Snape to cancel a class or two, at least until he was stronger, but he doubted that someone as stubborn as the Potions Master would give in to a petty thing as fatigue.
To his surprise and pleasure, the antibiotic potion that he and Ron were concocting seemed to be more or less on target. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malfoy curse and desperately dump something in his cauldron. It was nice to have one up on Draco in this class for once. Snape swept up and down the aisles, offering little barbs of less-than-constructive criticism here and there. Neville's cauldron emitted an ominous-sounding belch, and Snape hastened over to investigate before a major disaster occurred. The look on his face showed that the last incident was all too fresh in his memory.
“Purple.” The word was flat. “Longbottom, your potion is supposed to be *green*. You added the lacewings before the boomslang skin, didn't you? After I *specifically* warned against it! How can I possibly make it any plainer to permeate that thick Gryffindor skull? Imbecile!” The boy cowered under the tirade. “You… you….” Suddenly Snape lurched forward, grasping the desk with white knuckles, his face draining of what little color it had. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground, striking his head against the stone floor.
Absolute silence reigned. Then the room exploded in a confused jumble of screams, shrieks and gasps. Neville sobbed, covering his face. “I didn't do anything! I didn't!” he wept. Hermione shook him. “He's fainted! It wasn't your fault. Hurry and fetch Madame Pomfrey!” Neville took off in a mad dash, relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of yet another of his spectacular failures.
Harry gaped at the prone man, his mind refusing to corroborate the image before him with the one of the usually snarling, stalking Potions Master. It didn't seem to be the same person! “Hermione,” he rasped, “is there anything you can do for him?”
She bent over Snape and carefully turned him face-up. A fine line of blood trickled from his temple where he had struck the stone floor. Harry was eerily reminded of that terrible night in the Shrieking Shack, where Snape had also been sprawled out, unconscious and bleeding. Hermione gingerly felt the pale neck with two fingers, deciding that the Muggle way was best in this case. “He's got a steady pulse,” she breathed in relief. “I could use the Ennervate charm on him but it might be best to wait for Madam Pomfrey to arrive. I don't want to do anything that will make matters worse.”
Draco stormed over, his face twisted in anger. “Get away from him, Mudblood! I won't have you pulling another low-down Gryffindor trick on him!”
“Get a clue, ferret-brain!” Ron raged, his fists clenching instinctively. “We didn't do anything to your precious Head of House. Though I can't complain with the results….” The cocky smile faded very quickly as the Slytherin half of the classroom began advancing on him threateningly.
Hermione stepped in to halt the burgeoning quarrel. “Stop it, both of you!” she scolded. “Professor Snape is ill, and shouting at each other won't solve anything! Malfoy, help me loosen his clothing.” Draco gave her an incredulous look. Hermione met his gaze evenly. “Obviously you haven't been paying attention to the First Aid chapter of our Muggle Studies book. A fainting victim needs to have all restrictive clothing loosened.”
Draco knelt and reached out for the insensate man's high-necked collar, but his hands faltered and fell into his lap. “I – I can't do this!” he cried. He glared at the Gryffindor half of the room as if daring them to taunt him. “It just feels… wrong. Professor Snape hates to be touched. He nearly took off Hagrid's over a pat on the back – I saw it! I won't have him angry at me!”
Hermione sighed loudly, air hissing through clenched teeth. “You won't do this much for him when he needs your help?! Very well, I'll do it myself! Seems I'm the only one in this room with a shred of common sense!” She shoved Malfoy aside roughly and grasped Snape's tight collar.
The door flew open to admit a bustling Madam Pomfrey, tailed by Neville, who was wringing his hands in despair. This scenario was becoming a habit of late, and he was so terrified of what Snape would do when he awoke! Anyone else would have known without a shadow of a doubt that they had not done anything wrong, but for Neville, magic never seemed to work for him the way it should. The most innocuous action of his seemed to end in disaster.
The nurse made disapproving noises under her breath as she approached. “Neglecting his health again… that man is going to be the death of me!” She knelt and briskly examined the prone professor. Satisfied, she produced a small wand and pointed it at him. “Ennervate!” Eyelashes fluttered and lids slowly opened to reveal midnight-black orbs that struggled to focus on their surroundings. Snape sat up, pressing a hand to his head, looking rather dazed. “Uhh… what am I doing on the floor?” he rasped, sending an accusing glare around the classroom. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike shrank away, unwilling to incur his wrath. “If this is someone's idea of a sick joke…!”
“Nonsense, Severus, you've only fainted!” Madame Pomfrey snapped. “Tell me, how much sleep did you get last night?”
He bit back the sharp retort that rose to his lips. He knew better than to talk back to her. The more stubborn he was, the more heavy-handed her treatments would be. “Three hours, I suppose… perhaps four.”
She shook her head in disgust and pressed a bottle to his lips, his own elegant script on the label. After he had drained its contents, she continued her interrogation. “What did you have for breakfast?” He looked at his lap. She continued, “Nothing, I suppose. And what about for dinner last night?” “…half a sandwich.” His voice was almost meek.
“Half a…!” Her voice petered out as she angrily choked on her words. “It's a wonder you were able to get out of bed! I'm restricting you to the hospital wing for the rest of the day.”
“But I'm *fine*!” he growled. “Now if you will stop mollycoddling me, and those blasted students will give me some breathing room, I have a class to teach!” He pushed himself to a standing position, took two determined steps, then wavered. Pomfrey was by his side instantly, supporting him until the wave of dizziness passed. “Hospital wing,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You need food and rest, and you've got a head wound that needs patching up. I will cover your classes for the rest of the day.” She cast a black look across the class. “It seems that the students need a refresher course on basic first-aid potions.”
“If so much as *one cauldron* explodes…!” His angry mutter faded away as Pomfrey escorted him out of the classroom on their way to the hospital wing. Once they had departed, the students looked at each other uncertainly, talking in hushed whispers, as if Snape would overhear if they spoke any louder. None of them had ever seen the forbidding Potions Master so weak and vulnerable. Most of them seemed to think he had gotten what he so richly deserved… but Harry could not find it in him to feel glad. He had found the spectacle frightening. If Snape could not manage to keep himself together in class, how could he ever survive another meeting with the Death Eaters?