The Overlooked

Eleven

A pounding on his door awakened Snape. He blinked against the darkness for a moment, then said, "Lumos!" The tip of his wand glowed with blue light, and he snatched it up from its resting place on the bedside table.

Minerva McGonagall's voice, sounding uncommonly agitated. "Professor Snape! Are you in there?"

"A moment, if you will!" he snapped. He knew McGonagall would not be intruding on his rest without good reason, and so did not waste time in trying to dress. Instead, he pulled on the shabby dark gray dressing gown that lay across the foot of his bed and then hurried to the door.

The Transfigurations professor showed the same signs of a hurried toilette; a thin gray braid lay across her shoulder, and she wore a truly hideous woolly plaid robe. Her blue eyes, usually sharp and no-nonsense, were now filled with worry. "It's the Headmaster. He's returned, but he's in a bad way -- he needs you -- "

"Where?" cut in Snape.

"Back in his chambers. His hand -- his arm -- "

Snape didn't wait to hear the rest of it; he would find out for himself soon enough. Pushing past McGonagall, he sprinted down the hallway in the direction of the Headmaster's office. He heard her muttering to herself as she hurried after him, but as his legs were much longer than hers, he outpaced her easily.

When he reached the gargoyle Snape snarled, "Treacle tart," and the statue immediately moved out of the way. At least Dumbledore hadn't changed the password during the past few days.

His headlong rush slowed, however, as Snape caught sight of the Headmaster, who appeared to have collapsed on the overstuffed armchair normally reserved for visitors. Dumbledore's face was pale and shone with a thin sheen of sweat, but that wasn't what caught Snape's attention. The Headmaster's right hand, barely visible beneath the enormous swath of cut velvet that made up the sleeve of his robe, had somehow blackened and twisted, looking like a tree scorched by a forest fire.

Then Albus Dumbledore opened his eyes and looked directly at Snape. The bright blue gaze seemed somehow dulled. "Severus," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It appears I have need of your assistance."

Snape went immediately to the Headmaster and knelt down next to the chair, taking the maimed hand in his. The flesh felt as dry and cold as that of a mummy, as if all the blood and fluid had been drained out of it. "What have you done this time, Albus?" he inquired, the coolness of his tone belying the inner shock he felt at observing the alteration in Dumbledore's hand.

"Removed a little evil from the world, Severus," Dumbledore replied, still in that same strained murmur. His glance strayed to his left hand, to a ring Snape had never seen before, a heavy gold thing with an oddly cracked black stone in the center.

"What is it?" Snape asked.

"The ring of Salazar Slytherin -- and one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes, I am certain."

"One of -- " Snape began, mind churning. Of course, he and the Headmaster had discussed this idea before; Dumbledore had thought for quite some time that Tom Riddle's diary had actually been a Horcrux, not simply possessed by an evil memory. "How many are there?"

"As to that, I don't know -- ah, Minerva. Thank you for being so prompt in fetching Severus here."

Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Snape saw a slightly winded McGonagall enter the room and pause a few feet away. "That's what did it?" she asked, her gaze fastened on the Headmaster's withered hand.

Her attention brought Snape back to why he had come here. Time enough later to discuss theories and speculation. For now he had to focus on saving Dumbledore's arm.

Snape pushed the heavy velvet sleeve back and saw with some horror that the blackness which had consumed the hand had begun to move upward along the older man's forearm. If he looked closely enough, he thought he could actually see the progress of the poison or curse or whatever it was; it seemed to flow slowly along under the skin, like a tide of tainted black water.

"A powerful curse," Dumbledore said, each syllable seeming to require more effort to get out. "Of course such a thing as Voldemort's Horcrux would be protected...."

But what kind of curse, and what could possibly counteract such a spell? If it had been protecting the Horcrux contained in Slytherin's ring, then it would be something subtle, something not easily neutralized. The pulsing blackness beneath Dumbledore's skin seemed to mock him.

"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been since the curse first touched you?"

"An hour, no more," the Headmaster replied. His voice sounded even more weak, if possible.

Damn. Judging by the progress of the curse, Snape had less than half that time to come up with some sort of viable antidote or counterspell. He lifted his eyes to the perch where Fawkes made his home and knew immediately that the phoenix could be of no help here. The magical bird was clearly in its last stages of decline before final molting and rebirth; it drooped there looking like a plucked turkey.

"Yes, poor Fawkes cannot help me now," Dumbledore murmured. "Poor thing, he's feeling quite guilty."

Snape said bitterly, "His timing is impeccable."

The Headmaster closed his eyes, and a tremor went through his body.

"Severus!" McGonagall's voice shook.

Ignoring her, Snape returned his attention to Dumbledore's withered hand. Very well, then -- if the Horcrux had truly been contained within Salazar Slytherin's ring, and if Voldemort himself had set the curse, then very probably the Dark Lord had used some sort of snake venom as the catalyst. But which?

The blackness of the hand and arm suggested a venom that was proteotoxic -- flesh-destroying -- rather than neurotoxic. Good thing, or Dumbledore probably would have been dead already. Snake venom was not often used in potions, due to the difficulties involved in obtaining it and the generally dark nature of the magic involved in making such concoctions, but Snape had studied the subject quite thoroughly in his younger days, fascinated by both the slightly illicit nature of the topic and its connection to his own house of Slytherin. If the venom used was indeed proteotoxic, then that narrowed down where it could have come from. Probably some type of pit viper, and an Old World one that -- Snape doubted that Voldemort had bothered to import snake venom from the Americas.

"Stay with him," he told Minerva, then climbed to his feet. "I know what to do."

Disbelief mingled with terrible hope in the Transfigurations professor's face, but she merely nodded and went to Dumbledore's side, even as Snape pushed back her and pounded down the steps. An irrational part of his mind was glad that it was summer term and late at night as well; at least there was no one around to see him running down the corridors like a madman, bare feet slapping on the stone floors and his shabby dressing gown flying out behind him in a poor imitation of his professorial robes.

All the way down to the dungeon his brain kept working furiously, inventorying the contents of his private stores and hoping that what he had on hand would work. He did have a variety of venoms and anti-venins, locked carefully away from prying eyes, but it would need to be more subtle than that. Mixed with the minutest distillation of hellebore -- the plant's purgative abilities would be of use here, and then with a tiny pinch of dittany for purity --

Snape entered his office and went immediately to the small door which led to his storehouse. Moving quickly, he selected the jars of the common ingredients he needed, then went to the apothecary's chest that stood up against the far wall. He murmured the words of the counterspell to open the locked drawers that held the snake venom which he hoped would be the antidote to the poison coursing through Dumbledore's veins.

To make haste without being hasty -- that was the difficulty here. He could not let the fear that had knotted itself in his gut touch his mind, could not give in to the worry that he had pushed back into a dark corner of his soul. The delicate balances must be preserved, the cauldron heated just to the point of simmering but no further, or it would break down the delicate chemical balances that would make the ingredients work as a coherent whole and not a collection of elements that were toxic on their own.

A clock with a grimy face hung on the far wall of the office, but Snape did not dare lift his eyes to note the passage of time. Instinct took over, the sharpening of reflexes that had honed his natural talent into something far greater. At last a beaker of glistening opalescent fluid glimmered from between his anxious fingers, and Snape stoppered it, then pounded his way back up to the Headmaster's office.

Minerva met him at the entrance, her face looking whiter than ever against the plaid of her dressing gown.

"He isn't -- " Snape began. No, that was an impossibility. Dumbledore couldn't be dead. The universe wouldn't allow it.

"Not -- not yet -- "

"Not at all," he said grimly, moving past her to where Dumbledore sat slumped in his armchair. Snape once again knelt beside the chair, then placed the beaker against the Headmaster's lips. "Drink this, Albus."

The older man's eyes never opened, but his mouth parted slightly, allowing Snape to tip the gleaming fluid in. A second passed, then another.

Snape wouldn't have known which prayer to utter, even if he'd known any at all, but he waited grimly, offering an unspoken plea to whatever forces guided the universe that Albus Dumbledore wouldn't be taken from them so soon. Not now, when so many people were depending on him for guidance in these dark times.

The crepey eyelids fluttered. Then Albus opened his eyes, their blue a memory of the days before the gray pall had descended on the country, before the dementors roamed freely. He smiled. "Well done," he whispered.

Looking down, Snape saw that the dull black that had moved under Dumbledore's forearm seemed to be retreating. It gathered back down into the hand, which remained a withered husk. A moment went by in silence, but those blackened digits never regained any semblance of life. Mouth twisting, Snape shook his head. From a few feet away, Minerva McGonagall uttered something that sounded like a stifled "Thank goodness."

"A small price to pay," Dumbledore said, his voice sounding stronger now. "A hand for a piece of Voldemort's soul? I would have given much more."

An incomplete victory felt like no victory at all to Snape. Perhaps he had had too light a hand with the hellebore -- perhaps the dittany should have been added a few seconds later --

"Severus."

Forcing his gaze upward from the Headmaster's withered hand, Snape saw Dumbledore watching him carefully. The older man smiled a little, then said, "No one else could have done what you just did. Such evil magic will always exact its toll -- you would be naïve to think that I could escape completely unscathed."

Snape knew that Dumbledore was probably right, but still the sight of the Headmaster's blackened fingers angered him. Knowing there was no point in arguing the matter further, he asked instead, "Do you think the Dark Lord has any idea of what you've done?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "A Horcrux contains a piece of his soul, but the whole reason for a Horcrux is to enable the dark wizard to live on when other parts of him are destroyed. That is why I feel that Voldemort is still blissfully unaware that yet another portion of his soul is now gone."

How strange that a piece of one's soul could be so unnoticed, like a fingernail paring or a lock of hair that was cut away and discarded. Snape had had ample evidence over the years of how little humanity remained to Voldemort, but somehow Dumbledore's comment made him realize that what they fought could very likely no longer be even called a man -- the Dark Lord was simply that, a being of vast power and utter darkness.

McGonagall stepped forward at last, shaking her head. "Albus, you must rest. You're still white as a sheet -- "

"Ah, wise Minerva. I must confess that I feel somewhat...drained. If you will assist me, Severus?"

And immediately Snape offered the Headmaster his arm, helping the old man to his feet. McGonagall moved swiftly to Dumbledore's other side, and between the two of them they managed to get him through his office and on into the bedchamber that occupied the other side of the tower. Only a few seconds after the Headmaster's head had touched the pillow his eyes shut once more, and Snape and McGonagall moved quietly back into the office. A reassuring snore drifted out of the bechamber.

"I'll stay with him," Snape said immediately.

Minerva McGonagall opened her mouth as if to utter some protest, then shut it tightly and gave a small nod. "But I will come back in the morning, so you can get some rest," she said, in tones that did not invite any argument.

He inclined his head. It would be foolish to exhaust himself by maintaining a round-the-clock watch; by morning, Dumbledore should be out of the worst of danger. "As you wish."

"I do." She hesitated, then said, "That was very good work, Severus."

Luckily she spared him the effort of making a reply by pulling her dressing gown more tightly around herself and then marching, stiff-backed, out of the room. No doubt the effort of giving him a compliment had used up whatever stores of energy she might have had remaining.

He stood for a moment in the center of the office, watching the tiny gilded instruments as they shimmered in the candlelight, all the time making their tiny whirring noises and letting off infinitesimal puffs of smoke. Fawkes let out a long, weary sigh, and tucked his drooping head under one wing. Then Snape went to the armchair Dumbledore had previously occupied, sat down, and prepared himself for a very long night.

The Overlooked --