Poison
He had often wondered what the Dark Lord would use to poison him. Wondered if it would be by blade or potion, and if the latter, if it should be with one of his own.
There was little doubt it would be.
The wine was smooth and sweet, pleasing to the palate, and most people wouldn’t realize something was amiss. But Severus knew the moment he tasted it, knew when it hit the back of his throat. It was a little too sweet, there was a slight chill left behind after he swallowed.
Would he have enough time to get to the guest room, to the variety of antidotes he kept there? Or would he fall to the floor soon, here among the crowd of Death Eaters, his demise a public spectacle?
He looked up from his glass, met the gaze of the Dark Lord and arched a brow as he felt the poison start to work, felt the tendrils of it wrapping around his veins. The other wizard raised his own goblet in a silent toast, took a long drink, and turned to Bellatrix.
He had his answer then. There was time, if he chose to act, to save himself.
By the time he reached the hall at the top of the stairs he wondered if it was worth it to continue or if he should stop now, let them find him dead. But too much rode on him for that; there was too much left to be done.
He tried to keep going, tried to take another step, but his limbs wouldn’t work. There was a sound from the stairs behind him but it was muffled - was that the poison or by design? He couldn’t turn to look.
More noises, a hot hand on his cheek. Blurs of color, sound slipping into something indistinct.
Narcissa? He wanted to ask, wanted to feel her name on his lips one more time.
And then there was nothing.
Dumbledore asked him what poison it was - why that one was chosen.
I don’t know.
It was all he could say, the only answer he could give. He’d brewed so, so many over the years.
And Dumbeldore had gone on, then, about how lucky they were that he was alive. That maybe the Dark Lord had not put enough into the wine, had miscalculated the dosage necessary. That it was a good thing Severus carried antidotes with him, never left unprepared.
But the Dark Lord hadn’t miscalculated.
Severus had not had anything on him, couldn’t have used just anything.
He wanted to tell the headmaster it was Narcissa. But to tell him of her now would be a mistake, would be giving up information to use against him, and he refused to do that again.
“Tell me again how it reacted in your system. We must figure out which it was, in case he uses it again.” Dumbledore was saying, staring out the window.
And so he did, shivering as he recalled the story, thinking the entire time of the witch who’d saved him time and time again.