Snape worked on the Headmaster's hand for hours, perhaps even days. He really didn't know how long it had been, so absorbed was he in trying to still the course of the evil magic that was even now spreading death along its dreadful path. He used a combination of spells and potions far more advanced than the average wizard's ability or knowledge. He could all but see the spectre of death that hovered just beyond Dumbledore's laboured breathing, but he refused to be cowed by it. Any lesser wizard would have given up the ghost, so to speak, hours ago and let the old man go. But he was Severus Snape... and he was no lesser wizard. So he continued, pouring every ounce of energy he had into the magic that surged from his wand, until his brow moistened with the beads of his labour and his eyes lost their ability to focus.

Snape worked at it longer than he perhaps should have, refusing to believe he was unable to do more even after the proof presented itself to him. He could not believe a man as great and wise as Dumbledore could be undone by such an obvious snare, would not believe a life so long and critical to others was to end by such foolish circumstance. Snape felt he'd worked too hard toward their common goal to see it all wasted this way. By the end the old man lived by sheer will alone, both his own and Snape's - but it was merely a temporary stemming of the tide. Snape knew it would, in time, take him.

Halfway through his toil, Snape had felt the Mark begin to burn. He'd ignored it. It was not a wise choice but the only one available to him under present circumstances. He knew the Dark Lord was already in as foul a mood as Snape should safely press him, after the failed battle at the Ministry and his own failure to show up there. Snape had so recently been the focus of his master's displeasure, he had no wish to give Voldemort more reason to test his wand hand on him... but Dumbledore's life hung by a thread. The Dark Lord would have to wait, and Snape would have to face whatever punishments that earned him.

Snape had done all he could for now. He settled the old wizard to rest, then turned to collect his supplies, and his nerve, in order to face his next challenge. "Severus," came the weak, breathy voice behind him. Snape had not expected the Headmaster to awaken again this soon, but the old wizard's strength had surprised nearly everyone who'd known him over the years.

He turned to look down at Dumbledore, then knelt. He read the question in the old, blue eyes, but the discussion would have to wait. Instead he answered,"The Mark has been burning for some time. I must go to him." Dumbledore looked about to rise, so he quickly added, with no small bit of frustration evident in his voice, "You must rest, Albus. I did not add more hexes to my regime tonight just for you to waste all my efforts here!"

Snape was snappish by nature, as nearly everyone he'd ever met could attest to, but he rarely directed that trait toward the Headmaster as he'd just done. Dumbledore paused his movement and stared at Snape in response. Snape, feeling as transparent as ever under the intense blue stare, knew the Headmaster was no fool. He must realize the extent of the damage the ring had caused him.

Dumbledore realized just how hurried the Potions master had to be in order to snap at him so. He was not foolish enough to believe that all was now well. His hand was obviously still affected and he could feel the magical poisons still in his system. He also realized how worried Snape must have been, to react with common anger once the immediate crisis had passed. But a further discussion about it with Severus would have to wait. For now he nodded at his dark servant and settled deeper into his bed. Snape took that as his dismissal and rushed from the room, his cloak billowing behind him as he blended into the night.

Clouds rolled across the sky, as they seemed ever to do above Voldemort's chosen camp, as if even the purity of the moonlight was unwelcome or unwilling to brighten the path of such an evil. Snape arrived at the Dark Lord's base adorned in his black cape and his dual masks, one the mark of a Death Eater and the other his usual one of flesh and hidden secrets. He pulled his eyes from the sky as he stepped from the shadows toward the rickety building, wondering as he did so, as ever, if this sky would be the last he witnessed.

Once through the doorway, the structure looked immensely different than its outward appearance had indicated. It was vast, with vaulted ceiling and circling balconies, many of which were partially hidden in shadow. Voldemort liked to shroud himself in darkness, which Snape found fitting. Snape quickly scanned at least a dozen other Death Eaters as he entered, noting as they, in turn, counted him. He pretended to ignore them, as was customary, while he approached their common master.

Snape had prepared for Voldemort's wrath as best he could. His robes' pockets were stashed with the usual regeneration and healing potions he had learned to always have on hand. It was in this mindset of controlled foreboding that he entered the vile den. So he was completely unprepared for the scene that awaited him.

Voldemort stood at the heart of the room, his back still to Snape, upon a raised platform. With proper supplicating demeanour and bowed head, Snape swept forward, easing his way among the throng until he reached the common area before the Dark Lord's dais. At his approach, the red eyes turned to find him, and Voldemort turned, giving Snape a clear view of what had previously occupied his attention.