Potions and Snitches
Snape and Harry Gen Fanfiction Archive

Ch 3 Counting Blessings
Lime green liquid bubbles violently in the cauldron.

The fire under the iron crackles.

At this rate, the anti-cruciatus potion should be bottled-up immediately, or else it's another batch of ingredients to waste. Anyone who has achieved mastery in the arts of potions would know timing and temperature is the heart and soul of their creation, however, that's currently the least of Severus's concerns.

“…Tsk.” The man grimaces as another spasm rises from his spine while trying to shift and bury himself deeper into the sofa, curling up to his knees and bracing the pain, he didn't bother to take off the leather boots when he stumbled back into his lab from Potter’s cell. Looking at the now moss green liquid which is about to spill onto the table, he sits up, tightening his jaw as splitting pain shoots through his sides.

With a swift wave of his hand, the boiling ceases, silvery smoke slowly rises, glimmering like the milky way under the moonlight.

“Accio.” a metal cane floats across the room and stops right where Severus’s arm could reach. Its cool surface is like a stream of water across his burning body. His legs are noodles, threatening to give out as he wobbles towards the steaming cauldron, cringing at the signals his feet keep sending, begging him to stop. He hardens his grip as he pushes open the windows for a breath of fresh midnight air.
“One… two…” He counts the rare ingredients the dark lord bestows upon him, encouraging him to be creative, along with honeyed reminders of consequences if he fails. This has become a routine since he restarted the spying activity, to distract the pain, to remember his purpose. His chest continues to sear no matter how many fortresses lined up in his mind, the dark lord made sure he’d remember to gain the headmaster’s full trust.

“Three… four… five…” moving his sight towards the yet-to-be cleaned distillers, dried residue lining up around the rim. Images of Pettigrew writhing on the floor, as small flames of purple wrapped across old scars flashes across his mind. He was tasked to create “liquid Dolohov '', as Antonin Dolohov would quote it with his nose up in the air. Two drops and half of his back is still marred after their Lord decided to test it on the engineer, violet flames danced merrily across the slashes, showing no signs of pain while surrounded by the others. His master caressed his face after their testing session, words of praise like icicles piercing his ears, pushing his knees hard onto the marble to keep his walls up.

“Six…seven…” landing back in his lab, Severus continues to add up the flasks of Nagini’s venom at the corner of the glass cupboard, charmed to store the most volatile potion ingredients. The dark lord came in to inspect his lab, according to Lucius, “He was gracious to see if your domain is lacking any supplies.” He poured the glistening champagne into stem glasses, swirling and taking in the fragrance of the rose garden. The aristocrat came down to his place at the musty streets of Spinner’s end, “Just catching up with an old friend.” By the time he left, the cramped living room reeked of his father’s violence, Severus spent the rest of his evening between taking emetics and throwing up then pathetically leaning at the porcelain toilet seat like a wounded dog.

“Eight…” The burn at the mark is slowly fading into a dull throb, web-like sable veins slowly retracting back into the empty sockets of the skull, signifying the end to his master’s turbulent temper, or tend to someone else for his sadistic entertainment. The dark lord has been quite animated, a little more unstable ever since Potter’s capture. Announcing his plans to have a grander spectacle to his victory straight after his rebirth. The spy no longer balances on a tight rope, but a shredding thread, one mistake shall earn himself death, albeit a slow and painful one. Floor plans of the current hideout replace the erratic pain that overwhelmed his mind, steady breathing accompanied with phantom lines that could guide them to their freedom.

“Nine…” Severus raises his head, a twisting tower of books on the desk opposite to his work table, merciless curses filled those pages to the brim, brought to him in an acacia box. If he happened upon these dark arts as the imprudent boy he once had the luxury to be, he would have risen above cloud nine in an instant, stacks upon stacks of ammunition to fight off his tormentors. With a thorough exhale, he levitates the books back to its containment, the cramps on his shoulder have considerably subdued. Relying his body weight on the quivering metal cane, he takes small steps towards the cauldron, bottling up the less than potent solution into the conjured vials. He takes a mental note to ask Poppy to brew more of the potion just in case, doubting his hands would listen to his commands when he goes back.

A knock at the door disrupts his drill, he presses the corks back into the vials and stuffs them back into the inner pockets of his cloak. He dare not to take off his hood, thinking and inwardly cursing that the Dark Lord might be trying to “check up on his favorites”. Severus rests the cane next to the table with a “clink”, filling his chest with air, he straightens his regalia and with a bowed head, steadily moves towards the door.

The man, slouching against the wooden frame, strands of bleached gold standing out in the night, shaking and hugging the branded arm close to his chest. His shuddering breath echoes between the two.

“Greetings, Severus,” says Lucius Malfoy. Pained, yet ever so aristocratic.
Severus lets the hood fall back to his shoulders “Am I allowed?” He reaches for the man, halts, and grips the door instead.

Lucius looks away and lets out a snort “Why should I be here then?”

The younger man leads him to the sofa he was in a couple of minutes ago, piling up the heap of cushions and allowing him to rest his head on it. Lucius grunts as his pounding head make contact with the soft fabric. “Here.” Severus hands the freshly brewed concoction to his friend. The struggling man sits up, flicks off the cork with his thumb, leans his head backward, and downs the potion. There is a momentary pause before Lucius grimaces as he licks the acidic aftertaste off his recolored lips, he then proceeds to give the standing man a questioning look.

“What?” Severus snaps.

The Malfoy patriarch chuckles, “ Over boiled.” Settling his hand on the armrest as the brewer snatches the empty vial away. “One would assume after gaining a potion’s mastery you would be able to make them more pleasant to consume?”

Severus once again summons the metal cane, before giving his friend a death glare as he shakily sits down next to him. “I see Draco does not fall far from the tree.”, he taps his fingers between the crossed arms “Is whining hereditary within the Malfoys?”.

“Perfection does,” Lucius replies with his chin up, the air lightens just a little at the mention of their shared ward.

“How is dragon?” The father asks, his words laced with concern and pride.

“The usual,” Severus focuses on the wrinkles on his sleeve, then to the crescent hanging on the upper left corner of the window, finally back to his friend’s arm. “He’s worried.”

Silence engulfs the lab.

Lucius opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t even think about it,” onyx pupils piercing through the silver’s, “you know I won’t let it happen.”

The blonde scoffs, crossing his arms to match his son’s godfather, “I’d rather not have too much faith in you, potions master.” Remarking the last word with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you are going to miss me?”.

“Tempus.” Severus cuts off Lucius glee like a polished knife, a blue mist rises from the tip of his wand, “You shall be hiding under your bed centuries before death befalls you.” he says as he leaves the comfort of the sofa, frowning at the numbness at his feet. “It’s half past one in the morning and I would rather sleep on needles than have you continue gloating. Do you require anything else?”

“Hmph, killjoy.” Lucius buries his head back into the cushions, eyes closed. “Just go back to that old coot, no lemon drops for your tardiness, professor.” he flicks his hand in a shushing motion.

Severus eyed his now silent friend, then twirls head around.

The knowledge that was once out of his arms’ reach, ingredients he can never afford, a quiet place with top-tier equipment, all gifted upon by the dark lord, Severus Snape is truly blessed.

He looked back at his friend’s wrinkled forehead, brows brought tightly together as he continues the restless sleep, his thoughts going back to the boy he swore to protect till death. He casts a silent “Nox”, darkness floods the lab, leaving out the strands of moonlight.

Blessed hell is where he now stands.

“Ten”, too soft to be heard by the sound of apparition, the spy goes to his other master, untrusting members await his arrival, another inferno to tread through.
Chapter End Notes:

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