Nothing Hidden

They stood in deathly silent infirmary, afraid to break the stillness.

His chest rose weakly.

As if a body-binding spell had been broken, they rushed forward.

Snape was first to reach him, but stood over him helplessly. It was Sirius who carried Harry to a bed, and lay him down as gently as possible.

"Where is the nurse!" Lupin looked around, his eyes darting to the dimly lit corner of the room.

Madam Pomfrey lay in a crumpled heap behind a medicine cabinet. There was no need to check; she was lifeless.

Dumbledore seemed to regain use of his faculties first.

"Carry him to Severus' office," he told Sirius, and led the way himself.

They went in silence, each struggling to regain control. What could any of them say? It was over, and yet, the worst could be yet to come.

Finally, Harry was laid down on a bed Dumbledore had conjured up in Snape's office. They looked down at his motionless form, searching for reassurance that he still lived.

"Severus, quickly, prepare the potion," Dumbledore took his eyes off Harry for a second and looked at Snape.

Snape's pupils were dilated, he had a wild, out-of-control look.

"Quickly!" Dumbledore repeated, reaching out to touch Snape's shoulder.

Snape jerked at the touch, coming out of the stupor. He began to rummage through the cabinets.

"What potion?" Sirius caught Dumbledore's arm. Was there hope? Harry had been hit with only a rebound of the intended spell, perhaps that made some difference.

"A restorative. Very powerful." Dumbledore wiped his brow. "Severus?"

"Set a cauldron to boil," Snape threw over his shoulder. "One quart water."

"You did put it where you could find it . . .?" Lupin demanded as he watched Snape move from one cabinet to the next.

Snape waved him off. Of course he had put it where he could find it. When did Snape ever misplace potions ingredients? In truth, he wasn't seeing anything in front of him. He was stalling for time. But his thoughts raced in a circle, and no answers came. He felt Dumbledore's eyes on him. Time had run out.

There. In the last cabinet, by the wall. A small leather flask that Dumbledore had entrusted to him many years ago. His heart gave a painful thud at the sight of it.

He turned around, the container in his hand. Dumbledore seemed to sigh with relief, not seeing how all the remaining color had drained out of Snape's face.

They watched as Snape prepared the potion. It was simple in design, containing only a few common plant oils, diced fireweed root, and a pinch of ground up Unicorn horn. It took only a few minutes to mix, and the potion was set to cool. There was only one more ingredient, to be added last, just before the potion was ingested.

"What is it?" Sirius was watching the potion swirl, turning from orange to light blue as it cooled.

"Priores Cruor," Dumbledore explained. "If you are hovering between life and death, it is often the only thing that will save you. It restores life energy."

"It's nothing I ever heard of," Lupin murmured, almost to himself.

"No." Dumbledore paused for a long time before continuing. "It is not commonly used. The most vital part is rarely available. It is blood. Blood of the father. We were fortunate to have been able to preserve a small amount of James' blood."

Dumbledore saw that the potion had cooled sufficiently, and poured it into a goblet.

Snape made a barely audible choking sound as Dumbledore poured pale red powder from the flask into the goblet. The potion turned dark violet and foamed.

Lupin and Sirius leaned forward as Dumbledore placed a hand under Harry's limp neck and raised his head. He parted Harry's lips with the goblet's rim, and began to tip it upward.

"Stop," behind him, Snape could watch no longer. "Stop. It will not work."

Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him.

He stood at the foot of the bed, apart from them, looking down at the boy. He raised his eyes to meet theirs.

"The potion will not work," he repeated.

The silence that followed his words was deafening. Dumbledore looked down at the goblet in his hand. It looked right. The perfect consistency, the right color. And yet he was saying . . .

"I don't understand, Severus," he finally said softly. "Is something wrong with the potion?"

Snape drew in a breath. How could he explain?

"Not the potion," he began slowly, "the blood. James Potter's blood will . . ."

Before he could continue, Sirius bent down over Harry, listening in panic for a heartbeat. It was still there, but so slow and so weak that he knew the boy would not live more than a few minutes longer. He turned on Snape.

"It's your potion! What's wrong with it? He's dying, and you stand there telling us not to give him the one thing that might save him?"

"Time is running out, Severus," Dumbledore's usually rational voice was losing its steadiness.

Snape didn't answer them. Moving as if in a dream, he poured the remaining potion into another goblet. He approached the bed, his eyes intent on the boy's face.

In his left hand, Snape held the small knife he had used to slice the fireweed roots. Numb to the pain, he squeezed his fist around the sharp blade.

Blood poured down his fingers, the ruby droplets falling into the goblet, where the potion sizzled and foamed, and after a moment turned violet.

His hand shook, but he managed to get the goblet up to the boy's mouth. Tipped it, and watched the potion flow down his throat.

The goblet was empty. The bloody knife had fallen to the floor.

They leaned close, waiting, watching, hardly allowing themselves to breathe. There was no change, nothing to give them a sign.

Suddenly Harry drew a strong breath. Some color began to come back into his bluish lips and ashen face. Blood, rushing faster through him, made the veins on his neck pulse.

Dumbledore, Lupin, and Sirius looked up just as Snape deserted the room, his billowing robes swishing around the corner after him.