Blood Lines

The Potion Master was wearing one of the white infirmary outfits and was sitting in the middle of his bed with his back to Neville. The greasy black hair that was not covered by the crisp white bandage was the only bit of color in the room.

'Well he doesn't look too murderously enraged, right now.' "Sir?" It was taking all of his Gryffindor courage, but he knew he had to do this. "Sir, I need to speak with you. If that's alright."

"Mister Longbottom, there is a small closet in the wall to your left." He did not turn around. 'It would probably make him faint out of fear if I did.' "Would you get the handkerchief from my right robe pocket? Pomfrey has charmed the bed. If I get up, a siren follows me until I get back on the bed."

Neville obediently began searching for the requested handkerchief. Opening the closet door, he was surrounded by the scent that clung to the Potion Master's clothes. 'It reminds me of the greenhouse, all of those herbs and roots. I never thought about it but I guess Professor Sprout was right, Professor Snape would have to be up on Herbology to be able to do his work.'

Neville had to walk around the bed to hand him the black silk handkerchief.

"What did you want to see me about?" Severus asked quietly. He held out his hand for the large square of cloth, but the boy froze. 'He doesn't need me to mess with him,' he snarled to himself and snatched the fabric away from Neville's trembling, outstretched hand. 'What did I expect? He doesn't have enough of the blood in him to overcome it. I knew that. What am I, a flagellant?' As he slowly unraveled the bandage, he motioned to the chair that Dumbledore had vacated. "Sit- on second thought," Neville stopped half way down. "You don't get squeamish do you? She told me it's ugly." He indicated his right side with a flick of his wrist.

"Not as a rule, sir," Neville sat.

He couldn't stop it in time and a slight smile pulled at his lips, causing the skin around his eye to stretch and the pain came back. Closing his good eye, he took a moment to school his expression back to its usual neutral foreboding.

Neville watched silently. "Sir," he swallowed then continued, "It was my fault. I did it on purpose." There wasn't anything to look at. The room was bare and the injured professor was directly in front of him.

Watching Neville cast about for something to look at, he had a truly evil idea. "How do you think it looks?" He leaned forward and turned so that only the huge bruise and swollen eye could be seen. He was very surprised to feel Neville draw closer rather than further away but he didn't move.

"What did she give you?" the boy asked with out realizing that he had spoken aloud.

"Uh, about three meters of gauze and orders not to get up." 'What did the Headmaster tell him?'

"No, I mean what did she dope you up with? You're not yelling at me or taking house points or anything."

'Oh.' Tying the silk around his head so that the mar was covered, he took a minute to think up the least out-of-character Snape-ish answer he could. Then he decided to answer for his own actions the way Neville had just done. "I saw you tipping your cauldron. That's why I looked away from Potter. This was my fault. I could blame you," he shrugged. "But what would that get me?"

Neville blinked and sat back. An answer jumped out at him. "What was in the syringe that Draco injected you with?"

"Get my clothes." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the closet.

Disappointed, Neville began to take out and place Snape's clothes on the bed in a neat pile.

"Your mother, Ruth, her maiden name was Chamberlain." The statement was completely out of the blue. "Your grandmother is rather harsh. She lost her father and younger sister in the Second World War."

Neville had heard something about it before, many years ago when everyone had thought he was asleep in bed, and his grandmother had left the room for a few minutes. 'But how would professor Snape hear about my family's personal business?' He set down the black vest and resumed his seat to hear more.

"The Muggles joined the war after the Magi were attacked." His voice became a hypnotic drone. "The first strike was against a Magi village, it is what brought England into the war." He began to change into his/Snape's clothes, careful to stay on the bed. "Because of the Joint Ministries' official policy of non-involvement, Atlanta lost half of her family. You were named after your great uncle, Neville Chamberlain, a Squib who took to Muggle politics and became Prime Minister of England."

The rough velvet of that voice was drawing Neville deeper and deeper into its spell, and he lost track of everything else.

"When her son married a Chamberlain, Atlanta was heartbroken. She felt that Frank had betrayed her and she became bitter. When Ruth named you after her father's favorite brother, she had a knife driven through her heart. She has had to re-learn how to forgive and love." He closed his eye and looked away. The spell was broken.

Dropping his eyes to his clenched fists, Neville drew a breath to speak.

Madame Pomfrey stormed in. "Albus sent word, you're to get back to your classes as soon as you're dressed. " Realizing that he was nearly dressed, she clipped out the release to the alarm and left in a huff.

Neville had never seen Madame Pomfrey angry, ever.

"Shouldn't you be in class?" he asked, trying to stop the questions Neville was sure to ask next.

"No, the Headmaster gave us the day off," Neville looked back down at his hands again. "Some of the other kids were really upset."

He slid from the edge of the bed and pulled on his frock coat. "I think you would probably consider it an unrefined form of Heroin. You have Advanced Potions Theory tomorrow, you might want to work on that if you don't have anything else to do." Pulling on his robe, he swept into the hall. The impression was of a great black bird soaring through the halls and down the stairs to the Dungeons.

~

Slapping the Tele-orb into its cradle, Albus snapped, "Alastor Moody." He tried sitting but stood and began pacing. He darted back to his desk and took his seat as Alastor's head appeared in the globe's depths.

"What in the world is so important?" the retired Auror groused from under a fluffy white towel.

Leaning his elbows on his blotter, Albus knew that he was going to have a very bad headache soon. "Things are progressing faster than we anticipated. I need to speak with you."

Moody stopped drying his unruly dark hair and put down his towel. "I'll be two minutes. You caught me in the shower." He signed off and rushed to get dressed.

The fire turned jade green for a moment and then a damp Alastor Moody stepped into the room. "Which one was it?" he barked.

"Ours," Albus did not bother to offer tea. (He didn't even get up).

Alastor began pacing in front of his friend's desk. "What was the damage?"

"He fell." Alastor stopped pacing, incredulity on his face. Albus sighed. "Yes I know it was on purpose. Though I have no idea what he thinks he is doing."

"You moved Lupin down?"

"And Black when he arrived. They have not been in the dungeon more than a week, but as I told you, he seems to be accepting them." Albus was hoping that Moody could make sense of it.

Alastor, for his part, was wondering what all the fuss was about. "So he looks pretty bad... He heals quick enough right, Snape can't be too upset about it."

Dumbledore let his head rest against the back of his chair and closed his eyes. "He doesn't know yet, and that is not the problem."

Moody took one of the plush seats on the other side of the desk and waited for the other shoe to drop.

Mouthing a mild pain reliever charm, Albus sat up. "He broke his cheek bone, it and a minor cut in his lip healed before he even reached the hospital wing. Snape will be rather angry about the bruise, but we have dealt with that before. What I called you here for is what he said to me when I arrived in the hospital wing."

Raising one bristly brow Alastor inclined his head.

"His exact words were, 'I don't care what he does now. I can't take the darkness any longer. He's turned. There's no softness in his heart anymore.' I asked him what he meant. He looked me right in the eye and said 'You must kill him'."

"Shit."

Albus nearly laughed, "Oh believe me I have already thought it through that far. It's getting past that that seems to be the problem."

Moody shook his head. "I thought the self destructive tendency had been eliminated."

"It was," Albus affirmed. "I think this is something else."

"Such as?"

"I haven't a clue."

"Severa wrote," Alastor offered. "She's pulling some kind of trick too."

Forgetting his headache, Albus jerked upright. "She is?"

"Nothing like," he waved a hand to indicate the entire day's events. "She's being much more subtle. Which reminds me of that fiasco at Mungo's. The records are still missing, but I have a lead."

"Yes," Albus lazily steepled his fingers and leaned into the chair back. He looked relaxed, but Alastor could see the glint in his eyes.

Moody conjured himself a cup of tea. "They are still missing, and from what I hear Fudge is very hot under the collar about it. One of my people says that a Doctor Ignatius requested the records of a mister Snape Severus."

"A simple substitution charm to reverse the order of the name and no red flags are tripped when he asks for the file," Albus suggested and Alastor nodded. "Smooth, but do you have a lead on this Ignatius?"

Moody sighed. "No. He seems to fall off the face of the planet at that point. All I do know is that he isn't from the Ministry and he isn't a Death Eater."

"And Severa?"

"She has managed to procure a Parramorph's egg."

"So," Albus dropped his hands to his chair's padded armrests, "they have independently managed to get a week of uncensored action. The same week?!"

Alastor nodded wearily. "Should we alter our time table?"

"No," Albus spoke firmly now. "They are doing this for a reason. I don't think we should interfere. Lets just leave the interviews for the new staff positions for this Saturday as scheduled."

Moody rose to take his leave. "And the Order will be meeting as scheduled, on Sunday." He vanished his teacup. "See you Friday." Floo powder again jaded the flames and Alastor Moody returned to his own study.

Advanced Potion Theory Fifth-year really started today and Snape had refused to come out of his room; shouting that he wouldn't submit to going around like a one-eyed-jack just because he had made a clumsy misstep. So for the second day in a row he had to cover for the real Snape.

The students filed in slowly, and placed their scrolls on the corner of his/Snape's desk. Spirits were low and no one talked or pushed to get to their seats.

"One comment about the scarf and your house won't even dream of seeing positive point numbers until long after you're dead," he announced, then began to look over their work and quietly took his own seat. 'He couldn't come up with that? No! He has to throw a tantrum instead.'

His annoyance with Snape was forgotten as he flipped from one paper to another. He chuckled. The cold rattle of his mirthful contempt was unnerving. Time dragged on. He occasionally had to stop to shake his head and compose himself. After skimming the last of the reports he stood, came around to the front of his/their desk and began to sort the papers as he called out names.

Holding up the five papers whose owners' names he had called, he motioned for them to stand. "Gather your things. You are dismissed." He dropped their scrolls into the waste paper basket to the right of his desk.

Jaws dropped, Hermione's one of the first. The three Ravenclaws and two Gryffindors, who were standing, dazedly picked up their bags and supplies and left, closing the door behind them.

Hermione and Neville watched as the only other Gryffindors filed out with heads bowed. Slytherins now dominated the room with a large percentage of Ravenclaws a few Hufflepuffs and the two forlorn Gryffindors rounding out the class.

He started to recite another list of names and their papers were also held apart from the others. "You seven I think at least deserve some sort of explanation. You were wrong," he said, dropping their work into the trash as well. He waited for them to leave, and seemed almost to relish throwing them out.

There were fewer Ravenclaws and Slytherins, but amazingly none of the three Hufflepuffs had been eliminated. Walking among the desks he handed back the scrolls to the remaining students, keeping the longest and shortest for last.

"It should come as no surprise to anyone that Miss Granger found time to write a veritable encyclopedia on her research results," he sneered, handing her work to her. There were a few uneasy snickers from the Slytherins. "Equally unsurprising was Mister Longbottom's single sheet's worth." He handed over the last essay and resumed his place at the head of the class. They didn't bother to laugh, Neville was blushing enough to satisfy them. Again he leaned back against his desk and loosely crossed his arms. "Miss Granger, would you please read to the class the end result of all your labors?"

Hermione's eyes went round as she tried to convince herself that she had heard wrong. "Sir?" she squeaked. He just raised a black brow and waited. Feeling sick and quite certain that she would vomit she read her concluding statement. "As witnessed by the above list of sources that I examined I have done a thorough investigation, and have been unable to successfully identify the potion in question." Ashen and flustered she sank heavily to her seat and hid her face.

"At this point I believe it would be most instructive, Mister Longbottom, if you would read your entire essay. Now." He could practically hear the walls falling from around their minds' preconceptions.

Taking several breaths and without looking up, Neville jerked to his feet and blurted, "I was unable to identify the potion." He sat and tried not to look as sick as he felt.

"That would be because," he drug out the words and all eyes turned from the disgraced Gryffindors to the black clad figure of the Potion Master, "I have yet to publish it." 'Crash! And the walls came tumbling down.'

Hermione's head came up slowly. "What?!"

He favored her with a lopsided smirk. "In fact, I am not sure that I will ever be able to publish it. It has, however, provided you with a wonderful introduction to the world of potions," he stepped away from his desk. "I do not expect that any of you will become Potion Masters, which incidentally is a title applied to both male and female alike. I myself have taught three students in my sixteen years here who have achieved that rank. Most who do become Potion Masters would sort into either Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Tenacity," he inclined his head to indicate the Hufflepuffs, "and daring," he looked to the Gryffindors, "are required. Drive, though, is the most important ingredient. It is also something that Slytherins and Ravenclaws have in abundance. I can not explain to you what it is that drives me to do this, but I can teach you to at least see the music, hear the scents, and feel the colors that exist for every Potion Master."

Not sure how to interpret what had been said, no one made a sound. Most were reconsidering their estimation of his sanity.

Neville though, leaned forward excitedly. 'Where is he going with this?'

"Your assignment is to take the three primary colors; red, yellow, and blue as well as the three secondary colors; orange, green, and purple and describe them as tactile sensations. I will expect you to turn in your papers when you have finished, regardless of the time or day. The deadline is next Wednesday at the start of class. You may begin now."

~

'I can't believe they insisted on walking three abreast,' he stepped in and held the lab door for the other two. "Robe over there," he waved in the direction of a cluttered table to the right, "and get on the slab." He started to rummage through the contents of a cabinet, gathering supplies.

Remus and Sirius cautiously approached the door. The tropical steam that rushed out to meet them was a surprise to Black. "Whuh," he gasped.

The tables that had last time been cluttered with a few simmering containers of multicolored fluids and tilting haphazard piles of paper were now nearly cleared. Every table and counter had been moved to make room on the floor for the huge cauldrons that were cooking up who knew what. The bright yellow and orange flames looked strange and very Muggle.

"Oh," Remus glanced back at his friend, and began to unfasten his robe. "Yah, it gets hot in here when he's brewing potions," he shrugged. "If he isn't working on anything it's cold."

Sirius looked around for a bit, then walked over to lean against the cabinet beside the one It was looking through. "So," there was an edge to his casual tone, "what am I supposed to call you then?"

"Call me?" he thought for a moment. "I don't exactly have a name," he shrugged and returned to his task. "I guess you could just call me Snape. You always have."

"Snape?" Sirius couldn't believe it and made sure everyone knew.

"Does it really matter?" He stood and placed the needles, lines, bag, and other things that are needed to draw a pint of blood, on a tray beside the slab.

"Uh," Sirius couldn't bring himself to call it Snape, "why do you call the table a slab?"

He looked up, snapping on a glove. "Do I? Well I guess that would be because that's what I was taught to call it. Would you get the music?" On went the other glove.

This time Sirius asked if he could adjust the volume, before pushing the play button.

"No. I'm not comfortable working on it with it making so much noise." Alcohol was swabbed on Lupin's arm as he lay back on the slab/table. "I try to make things as familiar for me as possible, so I can concentrate on the task at hand."

"Why. Do. You. Call. Him. An. It?" Sirius demanded with forced calm.

Lupin, already sweating, shot him a panicked look. "Would you stop pushing him while he's holding a needle!"

The counterfeit Snape put on an exaggeratedly wounded pout. "I've been doing this for two years now and you still don't trust me?"

"You almost killed me last time!" Lupin snapped back. "And I didn't even know you existed then."

"That was your fault, not mine," he reasoned, ignoring the controversy over his not being or being.

"How's that?!" Lupin shouted.

"That drug has a very low reaction rate. I was greatly inconvenienced because you chose not to inform me that you were allergic to it," he sounded serenely placid.

"It's not as though I knew I was allergic!"

"Ignorance is no excuse."

"What kind of logic is that?!" Remus' mind boggled at the sheer bizarreness of the conversation.

"I'm done, the bag should be full in about an hour. Lay still and-" he turned to Black, "if you had granted my simple request, I would not have had to get him so worked up to distract him enough to get the needle in," he started clearing away the wrappers and other trash. "I was wondering if-" he hesitated. "Nah, never mind." Before he could leave, though, he changed his mind and decided to ask anyway. "I have to get the results, I usually just meet Nick, he's a sort of go-between, at the Raven. I can't keep you under my protection from Toronto so... would you like to come?" He looked from Remus to Sirius and back.

Remus and Sirius spoke at the same time. "You were able to get the blood sent off then?" "What is The Raven?"

"It's a- Well it's a sort of nightclub. They cater mostly to Vamps, but they don't close the door to Thumpers." The answer was not very enlightening. "And no, I was not able to send the samples. Fenny saw to it."

Sirius held up a hand. "You had a House Elf take care of our blood work, and now you're asking us to come with you to a Vampire nightclub in Toronto?"

"Aye."

Remus called from the slab, "When are you going?"

"Friday after dinner."

"We're coming then," he silenced Sirius' objection with a glare.

"I'll be back in an hour. Don't get up and keep the bag moving so it doesn't coagulate," he slipped out leaving Remus and Sirius to their own devices.

"What did you mean 'We're coming then'? Do you know what you just volunteered us for?" Sirius flung his hands up and let them fall back down.

"Albus said we were here to help him," slowly tipping the bag from side to side, he tried not to think about the tube in his arm. "For some reason his being 'bonded' with Snape is bad, and we need to spend time with him to change it."

"Yah, I was there when he said all that," Sirius absently ran one finger along the grove cut into one side of the slab. "This doesn't add up. Why has he been having that 'thing' work on you? I mean it's a coroner or something."

"A coroner? Where did you get that?"

Sirius boosted himself onto the edge of the steel table. "A 'slab' is what they call the autopsy platform. He insisted on calling you an 'it', but only while he's working on you. You make too much noise. It just makes sense."

"You've watched too many episodes of Quincy," Remus half-joked.

"Yah, maybe," he chuckled. "So what's with the pirate look?"

"Oh you missed a very interesting day," Remus groaned.