The Courage to Live

Chapter 7

"Sometimes even to live is an act of courage." ~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca

—

A few minutes before eight, Severus stumbled.

Thankfully, he caught himself quickly, before he could pitch face first into a boiling potion, but, in flinging his leg up to do so, he kicked his shin right into an unused cauldron — because of course he did. The way today was going, he'd be an idiot to expect anything less.

Hopping on one foot and biting back a string of obscenities as he rubbed his barked shin, Severus cursed the Auror that had delivered it; the blasted thing had been sitting out since, serving as nothing more than a tripping hazard. It was all well and good, having enough cauldrons, but, with only him and one other man trying to keep up with the potions' requests from the front lines, they'd stacked up far more equipment than they could use. Getting more was hardly helpful when they'd been working at maximum capacity from the get go — not that the blasted Aurors seemed to understand that, with all the requests they kept sending.

"You alright?" Gwydion asked, not looking up as he half-heartedly scraped diced murtlap tentacles into the Wound Cleaning Potion he was brewing. Severus couldn't blame him for the lack of concern; he didn't have the energy to spare on such things, either.

"Fine," he grunted, straightening with a wince, but Gwydion didn't seem to hear him. The Auror had been assigned to Potions support along with Severus after taking a rather obscure curse that made him go completely deaf at irregular intervals, and, while Severus had halted it, preventing it from getting worse, he hadn't had time to fully counter it, what with all of the potions orders pouring in. As it were, neither he nor the large, bearlike man had been making conversation unless it was necessary, which Severus found to be quite a tolerable system.

At least I didn't drop my knife, Severus thought, peering tiredly at his cutting board. The pain and inconvenience of stumbling was inconsequential on its own, but the implications of the incident worried him; if his balance was going, then he must be much more exhausted than he'd realized. Mentally, he could push through most any amount of fatigue, but, once his body started failing . . .

"We got an unknown curse again," said a hollow voice, echoing from the small hand mirror on Gwydion's station. "Send Snape over, will you?"

Severus sighed, checking to make sure the two potions he'd been finishing up were stirring themselves on the right timer, then strode over to the bearded Auror, tapping him on his enormous shoulder.

"What?" Gwydion asked, and he pointed to his ear, shaking his head. Accustomed to their system by now, Severus replied by gesturing to the mirror, then pointed at the door and his two simmering cauldrons in turn, making a questioning motion. "Yeah, sure. I'll watch them. Tell Clio — oh, now it comes back. Of course," he grumbled, setting down his stirring rod in disgust. "Tell Clio we're out of salamander blood, so the Wiggenweld requests are pointless."

"We're almost out of dragon liver, too," Severus reported, drawing a hefty sigh from the burly Auror.

"And, once we are, you and I'll be less than useless," Gwydion muttered, chopping a large pile of Mandrake root as fast as he could manage, though not nearly so quickly as Severus had a few moments ago. "If the fronts keep taking potions every time they get so much as a scratch, we're going to be flat out within the hour. Tell her they've got to rein it in, or soon we'll be sending empty bottles back with a complementary casket."

"I told her that hours ago," Severus said sourly, too irritated to be amused, and Gwydion scowled behind his bushy black beard.

"I know, I know. Tell her again — tell her we mean it this time. Better yet, tell her to get us more salamander blood."