In Which Severus Makes a Choice
Severus’s involvement in the aftermath of the ‘Phoenix’ attack, as it had already been dubbed, kept him occupied well into the early hours of November. Between the steadfast efforts of the mediwitch on site—Vance, he thought? there hadn’t been time for a proper introduction—and his own skills and knowledge, those pulled from the rubble had been quickly triaged and stabilized to wait for backups to descend upon them from St. Mungos. Even then, there’d been too many more minor cases to count; cuts and bruises and bumps that didn’t warrant a trip to Mungo’s but kept the makeshift treatment center that popped up in the atrium bustling. He had made for Narcissa and Lucius as soon as he could, as much because they were his friends and he did care as to get them out of there as soon as possible. The last thing the injured needed was Lucius squawking his indignant outrage. The relative quiet after the man’s departure made the rest of the work a little easier.
It was only when the activity of the healers started to settle down, patients removed from the rubble, that the Aurors properly started their work, the scene largely cleared of the danger posed by the deadly snap of a mediwix interfered with. He was drawn into an extended interview with the investigators, apparently one of the few with enough wits about them to recall what they had seen; then he exacerbated it when he started to explain his theories on the resonance with the layers of magic around the Ministry that had caused such a large explosion the perpetrator hadn’t anticipated. Severus had been carefully on edge for a little while until he realised that as Lucius’s friend, not a lick of suspicion was falling on him. He had even been thanked for his assistance when they finally told him to go home; in turn, he’d wished them luck and a helpful warning to brace themselves for the wrath of Lucius that was bound to break around their heads sooner rather than later.
The sun was already rising when Severus staggered home, mentally and physically spent. He collapsed onto his bed and slipped into such depths of unconsciousness that only complete exhaustion can bring.
He awoke to the sounds of squabbling on his windowsill; the two owls waiting there had apparently burnt through their patience with him and each other, as they’d left off pecking at the glass in favour of battering each other. Swearing under his breath, he dragged himself up and made sure he was well armed with the tin of owl treats before he opened the window. The birds gave a few final pecks at each other before jostling to deliver their letters. The first was from his boss, curtly telling him that being late for work was unacceptable, but he no longer had to concern himself with that since he was fired. More swears as he resisted the urge to send the owl back with a hex for the nasty bastard. The second owl resolved that choice rather easily; all conciliatory apologies, he was assured that the former missive was a mistake and of course he ought to take the day to rest after the ‘heroic exertions of the previous evening’. From what Severus could gather, the Aurors or Lucius—or both—had come by and filled his boss in on what had happened and what he’d done. Shoving both letters in the trash and tipping the tin of treats over, Severus returned to his bed and didn’t stir even when Lucius’s eagle owl came and nestled up next to him.
Said creature was dispatched the next morning with a note to the Malfoys that he would come by and check on Narcissa that evening and a bit of bacon to apologize for his long evening of waiting (not that the bird seemed too fuss; Severus had to wonder if he knew he’d been spared a busy night of work with the rest of the Malfoy owls, carrying furious letters to anyone Lucius could think to complain to) before Severus dispatched himself off to work. If he had wanted, he likely could have stretched his unexpected leave another day, but he didn’t want to and Dolohov was due to pick up a batch of his special brews. If he missed that, he risked having a pissed Dolohov come crashing into his flat with even less patience than owls that waited all night to berate you over a letter.
More grateful than ever that he got in before his boss, Severus pulled his apron over his head and tied it around his waist. There was something blissfully peaceful about his workroom in these early hours, the light barely filtering down into the basement from the street-level window, the noise out on the alley minimal. He quickly fell into the rhythm of chopping, distilling, stirring and bottling he had to do that morning, moving methodically while his mind churned over the events of the masquerade. He barely looked up when the door opened and Dolohov came striding in. It was only when the man leaned against his work table and asked, “Are you alright,” that he glanced up.
“I’m fine.” Which Dolohov knew better than to press him on; learning to take Severus at his word was a good step to getting along with him. Instead, he dropped the Daily Prophet on the table between them.
“Seen the latest the Ministry is doing in response to last evening’s festivities? Pulling in some Mudblood for questioning. Just questioning, probably. Fucking waste of time,” the man snarled as Severus paused long enough to reach out and turn the paper so he could better read the headline. Unfolding it, he skimmed the article, testing his mental shields as he did even though reason said there wasn’t a need. Severus didn’t need the risk of having his thoughts exposed in the moment as he read that Lily Evans had been taken in by the Ministry to answer some questions in regards to the Ministry attack. “They should cut the bullshit and just let us kill the pests. Obviously she’s involved somehow—why the fuck would a Mudblood have even been there otherwise?—but the idiots at the Ministry won’t act on it even if they can prove it. Gutless bastards.”
“Lucius will make them do something,” Severus pointed out smoothly, returning to crushing beetle carapaces. “The only reason he wasn’t screaming the place down night of masquerade was because he was focused on Narcissa.”
“But they won’t do enough, will they? Just enough to get Luci to shut up. The bitch will be cut loose soon enough, just you see.” The man sneered, reaching out for one of the other knives Severus had laid out. “...Maybe we should take care of it ourselves.”
“The Dark Lord said to keep a low profile while the Ministry works itself up over this ‘Phoenix’ group.” Dolohov scowled and scoffed, but also wasn’t about to go against those high of orders. “That won’t last forever,” he settled on saying. “Anyway. You’ve got my stuff?”
Severus didn’t respond, only taking a moment to pour the crushed beetle carapaces into the cauldron before he turned to fetch the potions from where he’d hidden them. “The purple vials are something new for you,” he explained. “Try them, tell me what you think.” He blinked as the man uncorked one of them and tossed it back on the spot; he hadn’t meant right now, but then, Dolohov’s sense of boundary and timing had been eroding. Nor did Severus point out that it wasn’t even nine in the morning yet; he knew the man simply didn’t care. “Might take a while for the effects to kick in. Avoid being around Muggles when they do.” He wasn’t entirely positive what the reaction would be, and if his friend was open to being a guinea pig, who was he to say no?
Packing up the rest of the vials into a little bag for the man, he said, “I’m going over to the Malfoys to check on Narcissa this evening. Do you wan—” The dismissive scoff from the man cut him off. The two yearmates had had some sort of falling out, and Severus wasn’t going to press it. That was the key to how he got along with his peers.
“I’ll get you that shipment of lobalug venom soon,” Dolohov said instead as he turned to leave. “Take care of yourself Severus.”
“And you, Antonin,” Severus murmured, adding as the door closed behing him, “Don’t kill yourself too quickly.”
Severus didn’t allow himself to stop until he’d finished the current potion he was brewing; only when it was bottled, corked, and labeled did he pull the newspaper back towards himself, lips pursing tight as he read and reread the article. Finally he straightened, fed the paper into the flame under the cauldron and returned to work. Still the headline lingered in his mind and twisted his gut. Clearly, something would have to be done.
