“My Lord, let me go to the boy,” Severus’ hand reaches for the phial. I can’t drink, not while the Dark Lord’s watching.
Luck fails him, as always. Fangs rip into his throat.
Ennervate! Someone shakes him. He coughs blood.
Darkness. Bright eyes. Harry yelling commands at the glowing stag. Harry’s hands, pressing warmth into Severus’ neck wounds. “You’re alive. Please. Live! Don’t you dare die now! D’you know just how lucky you are,” Harry whispers, and Severus remembers the unused phial of Felix Felicis in his potions belt.
Severus breathes, gazes up into green eyes. His luck’s finally changed.