Disclaimer: Premise and characters are JKR's. The plot and universe are mine, but sadly, that's it.

A/N: This follows 'Shield of David' and resides in that universe, some time after 'Shield of David' and during the fourth year at Hogwarts.

Summary: "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones. So let it be. . .." Mark Antony, in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.

INTERRED WITH THEIR BONES

Seven minutes at a simmer, then remove from heat and allow to cool, slowly, to room temperature. The color change occurred. . . right after adding the hemlock.

He wasn't going to admit, even to an empty dungeon, that he wasn't entirely sure.

A flick of his wand, and the hourglass turned once more. Severus sat back, looking over the tables. Brewing potions from scratch was something of a hobby. Exciting and soothing as it was to oversee the bubbling of cauldrons, the real challenge lay in creating. Not pounding an education into thick skulls.

A few of his students had talent. But teaching was – something good, to him. Something worthwhile, to counteract the things he'd done . . . .

He lifted the clear vial once more, examining the bright red fluid within. I have never seen anything like it. And to his irritation, he hadn't been able to recreate it, not since the accident which had tipped a medley of ingredients and contaminants into his bubbling cauldron two weeks ago.

Now, he was finally caught up on grading and there were no students stealing his time in detention – though Potter and Weasley had come close yesterday, with their talentless bumbling and annoying, though satisfyingly frantic, whispers.

He couldn't be sure of what had actually happened; he'd been brewing an experimental potion to counter the effects of the Cruciatus. Good thing I won't need that for awhile. A moment's inattention, and the flask had boiled over. Who could have predicted what a simple slip would yield?

Snape sifted in a half-ounce of powdered hemlock, and smiled as the acrid odor mellowed.

He'd been, admittedly, curious. Not the best of ideas when it comes to information. Especially not balanced as he was between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Keeping on his toes became more interesting every day. In contrast to the wild tightrope walk that was his life, potions were safe. Comforting. Predictable. Add the certain ingredients, and stir or simmer or strain as necessary – and the result was soothingly inevitable. Not so Dark wizards bent on world dominion, or their opposition among the Wizarding world. Even so, he trusted Dumbledore with his life.

Mostly predictable. Except this. But this surprise was a pleasant challenge, not a deadly intrigue. A swirl of his wand set the potion to stirring itself above a cool orange flame. Have to try altering temperatures next.

Red liquid, thin and almost juice-like, sloshed in the vial. Pale fingers tilted glass against the light, black eyes fascinated by the play of color.

But the ingredients absently tipped into the potion had sizzled and spat, which they had most certainly not been supposed to do. And as he'd tried to compensate for his error – a little tricky when he couldn't swear to all the ingredients and contaminants, never mind the proportions – he'd gotten this.

A thin red liquid that could do things he'd never expected.

A mere drop had the power to truly heal injuries and maladies. Fully, unlike most potions. And generically – which was almost impossible. Potions were tailored to the specific problem; what would cure in one instance might in another surely kill. One that will heal anything – he was still wary, still testing. But the results so far were staggering.

He'd retained a large sample from the original batch, which he'd spent, drop by irreplaceable drop, testing its properties and proportion of contents in various scans and separation methods.

So now, bubbling merrily away beside this month's batch of Wolfsbane Potion was what he could resurrect from meticulous notes and memory.

Leaning carefully over the steaming cauldron, he sniffed. Rosemary, ginger root. Asphodel and – the wormwood wasn't infused, but – Snape frowned, leaning closer. Anything that mixed the major components of the Draught of Living Death was nothing to take lightly. Devil's Claw, and a touch of mastic resin. Lemongrass.

The pattern hit him. Plants, only. No remnant of any living being – a purely botanical potion? It wasn't unheard-of. But still . . .

The rest of the ingredients – a modest twenty-seven all told – were similarly derived from plants.

Completely accidental. Yet its properties are amazing.

It was an incredible breakthrough; he'd never seen the like before. And never would again, unless he could recreate it.

He siphoned a careful drop from the vial, recapping and quickly charming it. Wouldn't do to lose a potion dropped through haste or carelessness; he'd failed students for less. Or tried, at any rate. Dumbledore had stepped in for Potter –

Seven minutes were up. Immediately, he slid the cauldron from the fire, settling it on a wooden block and wrapping hot metal in old rags, to slow the cooling. Too swift a drop in temperature, and he ran the risk of disrupting the delicate cooling necessary for his end potion. Which would render his previous work useless.

But as he turned to the other cauldron, Severus felt a smile spread over his face. He could work backward from the potion he already had, and attempt to isolate the anomaly that had created this potion. What he'd produced today, while possibly a viable combination, wasn't what he was looking for – the sprinkling of powdered hemlock had prompted no change from the vibrant blue of the too-viscous substance.

But he still had the full day ahead of him.

More than enough opportunity to at least find out what the contaminant is. For that was what he thought it must be – an unaccounted-for variable, a substance not fully scrubbed from the cauldron or mortar and pestle. Remnant flecks slipped in among other ingredients, altering the chemistry of the potion.

Now, it's only to find out what.

There had been a few ingredients he'd wanted to try that had disappeared out of his locked closet. He had a feeling a few of the students were experimenting, and warded the dungeons more strongly. The thefts had stopped, and even though he'd reported it to the Headmaster, the ingredients that had been taken weren't dangerous of themselves. So there was little to worry about except for the tests he wouldn't be able to perform on this potion. Need to stock up again, soon.

A thrill rose up within; and he urged it on. Time to go to work.

"Watch it!"

Draco dodged the stupid Gryffindor as he slammed around the corner and sprinted down the hall. Fifteen minutes, three corridors, and two floors. Whether or not he would make it was anyone's guess – but he was going to be on time, no matter how many people he had to run down to do it. He had to be.

It was finally ready.

It had taken the first few weeks of school, because the ingredients had to be slipped out from under Snape's nose, and while not anywhere near the level of Father's wards, he'd had to learn how to reset the magics before he could remove anything. And once he'd started, the potion needed to be checked every seven hours – which had led to his sneaking out of the Slytherin dorms at odd hours. Pure skill had stood him in good stead; he'd only been caught twice, and only coming back both times.

No one's crazy enough to sneak out of the dorms to go to Myrtle's loo, at any rate. He couldn't brew this potion in the Slytherin dorms, and it was the perfect place. He never had to worry about anyone coming in and finding out what he was up to.

But he'd been practicing the spell as he'd brewed the potion. Neither of the two components were especially difficult, but each was finicky and precise. So if it doesn't kill me right off, that means its worked. I hope.

He was too close to his goal to even think about stopping now. A cauldron-full of potion for twelve drops. No chances.

The hallway was empty. Good. No one to see him slip through the doors, and remark on it. Draco shut the door behind him, and added a vicious locking charm for good measure.

The potion bubbled over a carefully contained flame, and as he approached to watch, the slow boil disappeared, and the surface of the liquid turned smooth as glass. Time!

He didn't even bother with a cup; just ladled the requisite number of drops straight onto his tongue. Hot! Damn, it's hothothothothot! But it still tingled in his mouth as he swallowed. Which was a good sign indeed.

Two hours before he would know if it worked or not. Two hours for it to sink into muscle and bone, and seep into every organ. In the meantime, Potions class stood him in good stead. The remainder of the liquid, poured into charmed vials, was slipped into a pocket. The cauldron came with him – and now . . .

Outside.

To the edge of the Forbidden Forest – the one place he could go and wait to see if the work of the last six years was worth anything after all. Skipping History of Magic and Herbology was a minor price to pay for it.

Slinking out of the castle, Draco took care to cast concealment spells to hide his presence. He kept as far away from the half-giant's hut as possible. Potter and his friends like to hang out there from time to time. The absolute last thing he needed was that self-righteous bunch of do-gooders fouling this up. They might be smart enough to oppose Lord Voldemort, but they didn't get any credit for that in Draco's book. Weasley and Granger had never truly encountered evil; they had no real idea of exactly what they were going to face. As for Potter – well, scar or no scar, he'd had an Unforgivable bounce off his thick skull. Knocked something loose for certain.

No Pevensies around, either. Good. Draco felt a twinge at that. If there was anyone he could confide in without fear, it was Edmund. And he might, yet. He wasn't sure. I just want to see that it works, first. Want to know if I did it, if Nothos would be proud of me . . . He so wished his brother was alive for this moment, even if it failed.

He slipped into the bushes and the midnight darkness waiting just beyond the farthest outskirts of the Forest. The four Pevensies – and having another one show up at the beginning of this year had been a shock – were magic-resistant. So they could see through whatever enchantments he chose to cast. Useful for them. Irritating for me. Aegis Sanguinis indeed . . .

Draco checked his watch. Minutes ticked by, counting off the first hour since he'd taken the potion. It had taken at least that long to sneak unseen from the castle and off the grounds. Now all he had to do was avoid being eaten for awhile. And think.

The potion was the most complex thing he'd ever brewed. Over three-score ingredients, all required in different amounts at different times. Some had to be pulverized, chopped or shredded, dropped in whole or by weight. And he checked them each off, in his head, going over his exact method in brewing the potion and comparing it to the standard procedure. I doubt I was supposed to take so many shortcuts.

And he'd been willing to stake his life on each one. But Potions had always been his best class, the one that made the most sense and had been intuitively easy.

And if he'd made a mistake, it would be his life that was forfeit. He shrugged a thin shoulder. I think I'm used to that by now.

Draco checked his watch, and adrenaline pumped through him. He hadn't really been paying attention before, but now . . . Time. Next, the spell. It wasn't spoken, and it couldn't be standardized; Animagus transformation was different for each wizard, after all. It required talent, and a certain flexing of will and magic –

And in the place of a blond-haired boy was a sleek little fox, its fur a ghostly white in the blackness of the Forest. Pale blue eyes over a short muzzle were bright with cunning and wit. The small creature turned, sniffing its tail and inspecting itself as best it could. Paws fumbled as a newborn kit's would; the fox was barely more than that, no matter the soft, indignant bark it loosed at its own feet. Limbs were eventually righted; it gave a short jump, before slipping back into the boy's form once more.

It worked.

Fin