The Hanged Man

Disclaimer: Jo sowed the seeds, I'm just planting a few weeds of my own in her garden.

A/N: I've been a Snapefic reader and writer for a while now (under my old penname Kite on ff.net). After OotP, however, I hit a wall. And, the ending of HBP didn't help, of course. But I'm giving it another go...

Anyway, this fic is about 50 percent immediately post-HBP (1997), 50 percent flashbacks to pre-Philosopher's Stone (1991). It does involve an OFC very heavily, so, if that idea bothers you, please don't read it. And pretty please don't feel the need to post a treatise on Mary Sues in lieu of a review. It's a tired subject, and, if you're a canon purist, just don't bother. OCs, I feel, are needed to make up for a dearth of interesting female Slytherins. I try to develop my original characters, and I certainly don't feel they're super-witches. Messalina Branch is no Hermione Granger.

Also, this fic is a lot of theory and character conversation. If you're looking for a book seven riff, I can't help you. Though, I did enjoy LadyoftheMasque's In Annulo, if a Snape-in-Book-Seven idea appeals to you. This is some Snape theory and (hopefully) an interesting side story with ripples extending into canon.

Needless to say, there are spoilers. So, if you haven't read HBP yet...well, what are you doing reading this?

And, fun facts to know and share: The Hanged Man is the 12th card in the major arcana of the tarot deck.

Please read and review and let me know if this is worth keeping up...

*Now edited for Britpicks. Typos zapped (I hope).*

The Hanged Man

On the ninth day, the Hanged Man climbs a tree and dangles upside down, giving up all that he is, wants, or cares about. The Hanged Man is hanging between two worlds, able to see both. He waits. Connections he never understood are made, mysteries revealed. But, timeless as this moment of clarity may seem, he realizes it will not last. Very soon he must right himself and when he does, things will be different. He will have to act on what he's learned.

We imagine the Hanged Man to be the victim of some dastardly deed: but our projections miss the mark. The Hanged Man is not struggling to right himself. He has surrendered to the situation. He tells us that, whatever is at stake, sacrifices must be made to attain the goal.

The Hanged Man was once seen as a traitor: but, we see now, he has sacrificed himself.

--Aeclectic Tarot, "The Hanged Man"

Chapter One: No Sleep for the Wicked

As he lifted the boy's thin frame onto the bed, adjusting the pillows and folding the soft, cool sheets, he couldn't suppress the briefest pang of envy. His body ached for rest, muscles creaking, shivering near the point of collapse. The mere sight of the bed had filled him with an almost narcotic heaviness, and, for the first time, he became aware of the burning in his eyes, the slow, tympanic rhythm of each tired breath.

But then he looked down at the boy, so sickly and thin. He had melted over the last few months, naturally ice-cut features thawed into the sallow pallor Snape recognized all too well.

Then, of course, he remembered what awaited the boy when he woke, when they were called. No, he couldn't begrudge the boy those last peaceful moments--the purgatory of sleep before his descent.

Their descent, he reminded himself absently, tilting two more amber droplets into Draco's glazed eyes.

Besides, there was more work to be done. No sleep for the wicked, he mocked himself, somehow hearing the words echo back at him in Dumbledore's rasping voice.

The summer air had seeped into the house after them and, not knowing how Muggles went about altering the temperature in their homes, his easiest recourse was to remove a few tattered layers of black. He barely had the energy to make it back down the stairs, let alone to walk through every room casting cooling charms.

Removing his cloak and reclining finally on the sofa, he found the bared skin of his forearms just as beaten as the garments had been, piebald black and blue and streaked with deep gashes of dry brown. Judging from the creeping pain across his back, he could only guess he'd find it in similar condition. Damn hippogriff.

No. He deserved more. Much more. A few cuts, a few bruises, a ruined cloak--that was all he had to show for--

Severus...please...

He shook his head. Not now. This wasn't the time to have it clouding his mind, clogging his thoughts. There would be plenty of time over the next days, months, years for the manic battle of self flagellation and self pity: but not now. Only two days until they would be called: a very narrow stretch of time to finish it--his last contribution to the Order.

The Order.

The Order that was probably, even now, carrying away the body, counting the casualties...

And hating his black, traitorous guts.

He didn't know where the others had run to--Alecto, Amycus, Fenrir. But then, of course, that had been the plan. His plan. To disperse, to hide in case, somehow, the inept Ministry hoards hunting him took their heads from their arses long enough to catch his scent. No one, above all, must endanger the location of their Lord, and, after killing the most beloved wizard of the century, people, he imagined, would be combing the country like goddamned kneazles. Kill some Auror or Ministry official, and they'll look for you. Kill Albus Dumbledore and they'll find you.

Severus...please...

His clenched fist swung out at the quiet, dim lamp beside him. It shattered on the tile with feeling.

That bastard. That bastard.

The same anger swelled through his belly--the same anger he'd felt, that had let him speak those words.

How dare he? How dare he ask that--demand that? Asking him to die was one thing: that was the bargain they had struck. But asking him to--no, it was too much.

He shook his head again, glancing up at the Muggle clock that blinked down from a contraption he couldn't begin to identify. 11:58.

Where in the hell was she? He hadn't expected this...waiting. He'd expected her to be there, asleep. He'd expected to burst in, argue, cajole--force, if necessary. But the waiting: it was inexplicably worse.

What if she didn't return at all? What if she'd gone on holiday or was staying over with some obnoxious Muggle lover? Albus hadn't thought it through. He'd taken too much for granted. The bastard.

He'd tried to warn him: he'd tried to explain what Narcissa was asking. What things would come to if--

Not "if" -not anymore. He suddenly wished he hadn't already smashed the lamp.

The click at the door was followed immediately by the click of his muscles as he jumped up, wand ready. His own alertness surprised him. He'd thought his adrenaline stores all but evaporated by now.

There's always a little more, isn't there, he thought bitterly. Always that cowardly reserve to keep you alive, to help you survive.

The door didn't open. He watched it close, heard the quickened draw of breath behind its wooden face as she too waited, listening. He could hear the steady tattoo of his heart strangling his eardrum. More waiting, waiting, while the slight tinkle of her keys filled the silent house like a tolling bell.

"Who's there?"

His breath caught. He knew better than to speak and risk a forced chase down the Muggle street. He moved slowly, slipping with his requisite stealth further out of view.

A crack of the door exposed pale shadows across her eyes. "Who's there?"

More silence.

She slipped in slow, wand gripped before her more like a knife than anything magical. She gripped something else in her other hand, but he couldn't make it out.

"I'm warning you: I don't know how you found this place, but--" She paused, and he could see her staring at his shadow, grip on her wand growing tighter." Severus, is that you?"

Good, she didn't run. That was a sign that she hadn't heard...

"Close the door."

But she made no move to comply. In fact, she did nothing except expel a ragged breath.

"Yes, I'd recognize that dungeon stench anywhere." A light flicked on, stinging his already sleep-sore eyes, exposing him completely.

"Close the door."

She hadn't changed much in the last six years, not on first glance. She was as unassuming and plain as ever in those oddly-cut clothes Muggle healers wore, and she'd cut her hair shorter, to the shoulders. She'd grown a bit thicker about the waist, but the years, he supposed had been good to her: or at least better than they had been to him.

There was something in her eyes, however, that wasn't the same. They looked tired and cold where once he'd observed an eagerness--or, at times, rage. They were impassive windows now, and looking into them felt like staring out at a dreary day. It was, he recognized, a sure sign of the death of youth.

"I see you and the lamp had a disagreement." Her voice affected a joke, but she hadn't yet moved to lower her wand. Those gray eyes were raking the room, searching, he could only assume, for someone else.

"Close the door, Lina."

"No--I don't think so. Not until you tell me who else is with you." She turned slightly, ensuring that her back wouldn't literally be forced against a wall. "Not that I don't love it when you drop in, Severus. Unannounced. At midnight. For the first time in--"

He watched her inching her way towards the door, threatening flight. He was in no mood--nor physical state--to play these games with anyone. Let alone her. His fingers snagged the bony wrist of her wand hand firmly, wrenching it to his chest and slamming the door hard behind.

And then, pain.

Dancing white and blue pain boring through his already overwrought eyes. Lungs filling with the heavy weight of spice and fire. He was blind, he was blind--He fell, stumbling backwards, already-torn hand landing on shards of broken ceramic.

Somehow, he'd managed to keep hold of his wand, and, before his mind had a chance to register the blinding pain attacking it from all sides, he petrified her. The thud of her wand on the tile assured him the body bind had hit its mark and that he was free, for the moment, to wallow in his sudden, overwhelming incapacitation.

"What the--hell--did you do?" He seethed and swore, palming his face to ensure his eyes were still, in fact, in his head. He found them in their usual place, streaming wet with slime and tears. Marshalling what little control he could, he reached forward, groping across the floor for whatever else might have fallen from his assailant's hands.

It was a small canister, but without his vision he had no idea what it might be. A poison of some sort, he assumed, and that, surely, he could remedy.

He found his wand once more, aimed it at his eyes as best he could and whispered. You couldn't teach potions to inept teenagers for sixteen years without learning a few spells to cure the effects of treacherous exploding liquids.

Slowly, the watering of his eyes ebbed, and his vision came reluctantly back in blinking patches of white and gray. After several long moments, he could make out her motionless form, expression frozen in satisfaction.

He took his time standing, brushing glass from his robes and wiping at his swollen eyes. He retrieved the offending canister from his feet, turning it over, examining. Stay Safe Personal Mace. He was familiar with some of the Muggle chemicals and their wizarding equivalents, and, if his face hadn't felt remarkably like a pincushion, he might have been intrigued.

At length he flicked his wand, releasing only her head, moving close enough to glare down through his reddened eyes into hers. "I ask again: what was that?"

Her gaze turned away, cold. "Muggle magic."

The bestial, sadistic part of him--the part made crueler still by exhaustion and the lingering ache in his lungs--yearned to empty the rest of the canister in the frozen woman's eyes. But he needed, more than anything, her eyes, and, he had, afterall, been sadistic enough for one day. He resigned himself to tucking the offensive liquid into his pockets, filing it away for further study.

"Now, if you're done with your attempts at crude Muggle assault, I'm going to release you. However," his voice dropped to the dangerous silk he'd all but perfected after a long tenure as Slytherin, Death Eater, and teacher, "I will warn you not to try that again. I promise you're in no danger--unfortunately." He stooped down to pick up her wand and toss it aside. Not, of course, that it mattered...

"Who else is here?"

He raised an eyebrow and was immediately met with renewed irritation, both from eyestrain and from the clear mistrust in her tone.

"I noticed the curtains were pulled; I never close them. And, since the location of my residence is somewhat--exclusive--and I gather you closed them to conceal something--you'll understand if I don't offer you some tea and ask how you've been..."

Damn it. He ought to have remembered the obsessive, paranoid attention to detail. It was one of her more charming qualities.

He didn't know how to begin telling her about the boy now sleeping, near comatose, on her beige cotton sheets. It was the first in a long line of difficult questions he hadn't wanted to answer. Somehow, foolishly, he'd hoped it wouldn't come up.

"Is Albus here?"

They punched him, those words, pummeled what was left of the strength and the rage. He sank onto the sofa once more.

There was no sidestepping the difficulty. He would have to tell her everything--about Draco, about Dumbledore, about himself. He felt the exhaustion sneaking up his limbs again, drowning out even the lingering burn in his chest. This day--this damned day--was never going to end.

"Albus...is dead."

The clutching silence returned, rolling between them heavy and solid as stone.

He searched her expression for some discernible emotion but found no shock or grief or anger at all. Just the same weariness, the same quiet chill. Her eyes stayed, searchlight pale, away from his.

Her lips, however, parted slightly, and, he imagined, if it could, her entire body would betray her.

"For Circe's sake, let me go, you git."

He did, and she lowered solemnly onto the armchair across from him. He could see the shadows of thought sliding across her face while she sat, staring at her hands.

He wondered which question she'd ask first: which horrible explanation he'd have to give.

"How--how did it happen?"

Damn. That had to be the one, didn't it? His hand found his wand once more, making certain he could petrify her again if necessary.

"I killed him."

It felt strange to say it. He hadn't said it aloud yet: somehow, it seemed to make it much, much worse. He couldn't blame her if she ran: maybe he'd even let her go. What right did he have to go running again tonight, chasing down someone else, raising his wand...

But the woman made no further movements, either to flee or renew attack. She kept her eyes to her lap, her voice a mere wisp of breath. "So...he made that choice, did he? Hmm."

It was his turn to feel, suddenly, at a loss. "What do you--have you been talking with Albus?"

"We--discussed the matter briefly."

"When? How? He couldn't come here, and you certainly couldn't have--"

"Are you okay?"

The question caught him completely off guard--the effect she doubtlessly hoped for. "What?"

"Are you okay? You look like the backside of a blast-ended skrewt." The annoyance in her voice was the most emotion she'd allowed herself yet.

"I'm wonderful, Lina. Terrific. I'm thinking of getting a Time Turner just so I can relive this joyous day over and over--"

She didn't appear to register any of his remarks, still lost in the clicking lockstep of her thoughts. He felt his eyes fall of their own accord to her lips. She'd pursed them slightly and, for a moment, he found himself lost in a different terrible day altogether.

"Severus--who else is with you?" She was looking at him again, hard, and he knew there was no avoiding the question this time.

"Draco Malfoy."

So there was something that could stir emotion in her...

She was on her feet instantly, transformed and alive.

"Before you do anything stupid: it couldn't be helped. He was with me when--it--happened. I've given him a very large dose of Dreamless Sleep. He'll be unconscious for at least 24 hours."

No effect. She was pacing now, ripping her hands through her hair to a tempo near frantic. "And then? You can't keep him asleep forever--"

"I don't intend to. I have more than enough potion to keep him sleeping until we leave."

Strands of hair slammed back down across her cheeks. "Leave? You're not--"

"No. In fact, we'll only be trespassing on your hospitality long enough to take care of some--business of Albus'. Two days at the most."

"Oh."

She'd returned to her chair, though her hand had found its way to her hair again, pulling it tight from her face. The years had indeed been kind to her, he observed again, noting only a few burgeoning lines near her mouth as she frowned. But she hadn't seen near as many years as he, and he found himself suddenly wondering what she had been doing here, trapped in this Muggle house.

Merlin, he must be tired, to let his mind wander like this...

"I just assumed you'd come to--I mean, after all, with you as the Keeper--"

"No. We've only two days until I expect to be--summoned," he finished with a disgusted snarl.

He'd never seen anyone pale so quickly.

He knew, of course, what she'd assumed. That he'd come here for refuge, to hide out for a while, perhaps indefinitely. And, as loathe as he was to admit it, some part of him wanted it--wanted the rest. Messalina Branch wouldn't be his ideal choice of housemate--but then, he didn't have an ideal choice. And, considering the alternative...

But then it would have been for nothing. He had promises to Dumbledore--and to the other Master. And besides, there was Draco to consider.

"You're--going back? To him?" The fear trickled through her voice, though she was clearly trying to dam it.

"Merlin's teeth, Branch, you know as well as I do that's the whole point of the thing. And stop eyeing me like some nervous rabbit. I wouldn't have dreamed of imposing on your privacy if I didn't have to. I'll be sure your name and whereabouts aren't mentioned. I'm here for Albus--no one else."

He almost regretted saying the words, watching her, her eyes flashing and fading, taking refuge behind a curtain of hair. He knew he'd hurt her, and, for a moment, he considered apologizing, telling her what he'd really meant: that he had no intention of selling her out to Voldemort. That he'd guard her secret with his life. But he held his tongue, merely waiting for her to recover. This was no social call, and no apologies or pleasantries were going to smooth over the hurt he'd caused, now or then.

Or the hurt you're about to force on her again, you bastard.

Yes, he was a bastard. But, after committing murder a mere three hours earlier, he was finding it even easier than usual to play the role.

"What did Albus want?" She didn't look up.

He, too, turned away, unwilling to see her hunched and wounded. "He asked me to do this before--tonight. I was to wait until the summer term and bring you...this."

She looked up in time to see him pull a smallish silver box from his robes. The silver had tarnished slightly, but it still shone in the light, the opal moon set on the lid cracked in half like an egg.

"Oh bugger," she swore, lifting the box from his hand, face drawn in disgust. She didn't open it; merely watched, eyes gleaming with what Snape knew must be the beginning of tears.

"The Headmaster retrieved them from the Ministry's care. They had been confiscated from their owner after he was sent to Azkaban. Apparently the Headmaster informed the Aurors that they had been obtained through illegal means and that it was only fair to return them to their rightful owner."

They were no longer the beginning of tears: they had become two tiny pools of sea, welling, threatening to burst their shores. "And why would Albus ask you to bring them to me?"

It had all the anatomy of a question, but they both knew that for all its interrogatives and rising tones, it was a plea. Please take them back. Please go.

But Snape had no intention of going now. Albus had made him suffer; now it was her turn. At least, when it was done, she could return to her normal life, walk down the streets--look at herself in the mirror.

You really are a bastard, Snape. You really are.

No, by no stretch of the imagination could Lina Branch be said to have a normal life. And she certainly wouldn't be able to walk down any wizarding streets for a while.

He took a deep breath, trying as hard as he could to soften his demeanor. "He wants the same thing he wanted six years ago, Lina. He wants you to use your gift to aid the Order." And that, he growled to himself, sounded very, very familiar. The bastard.

"Oh--is that all?"

She slammed the box onto the table between them, hard and final like a gavel. Her eyes were sparking again, though still overfull with tears. "No, Snape. I remember what happened the last time he sent you to me talking about using my gifts for the side of good..." Before he could register it, she was on her feet, yelling down at him, entire body rigid with a kind of grief-stricken rage that, deep down, Snape completely understood--understood better than anyone else could, perhaps. Albus possessed--no, had possessed--a way of producing that in people with an overgrowth of conscience and glaringly bitter hearts.

"Actually, Snape..." She wasn't crying anymore: it was pure, apoplectic fury. She tore across the room to a cupboard behind him, and, despite his better judgment, he turned to watch her. He wasn't entirely sure she wasn't hiding another one of those damnable canisters somewhere.

Instead, what she produced from the cupboard's innards was a vial. A small vial full of shining silver. "Actually, Severus, I don't remember what happened. But you--you and Albus were good enough to leave me this. Just in case I ever wondered why no one was able to find my house or why I absolutely could never show my face in a wizarding town again--"

And, without warning, she hurled the vial savagely. It struck him in the head and, falling to the tile, exploded, tiny silver beads pooling and congealing at his feet like droplets of mercury.

"You're not going to do it again, Severus. You're not going to waltz in here, ask this of me, and then leave me to wake up the next morning, all alone, with some stupid little vial to remember it all by!"

Her gray eyes darted frantically as if searching for something else to hurl in his direction.

"Lina, sit down and shut up. You're not--"

"No, Snape. The answer is no. I don't owe Dumbledore anything. And whatever I might have owed you--well, you didn't come here for that."

"Lina, I didn't--" But he was too tired, too weak. He couldn't find the words to explain: to explain that he was too tired and too numb to even begin to talk about that.

"No, Snape. You said what you came to say. Now scamper off to your little Dark Lord and get the hell out of my house." She turned on her heels, taking the stairs in a storm of ire. "If you're not gone in half an hour, I'm flooing the Ministry. I may not be able to tell them the address, but they'll sure as hell be waiting on the street corner when you crawl out from under this rock."

Above, a door slammed, and she was gone.

Any other day, he would have followed her. Any other day his own tongue would have stabbed back, asking her how she could so wantonly dismiss the wishes of a man who had put his trust in her, who had helped protect her; how she could hear he was dead, murdered, and not bat so much as a grieved eyelash.

But not today. Today, all those words seemed to reek of hypocrisy. Because, honestly, he wanted nothing more than to slam the door shut himself. To lock it all out.

Perhaps she would calm down. Or perhaps she'd floo the Ministry, and he'd truly be forced to apparate away, Dumbledore's last request as dead as--

He leaned forward, dropping his head in his hands. A large silver pool shivered beside his boot, reflecting his lined face back at him in manic, fractured glimpses.

He didn't need a pensieve to remember the memories he'd given her, the copies of those left in his mind, all clamoring for a chance to torment him further.

He didn't have the luxury of stowing them away in a cupboard.

Groaning, he leaned down to the floor. He repaired and retrieved the empty vial, sliding its mouth through the silver liquid. The memories raced back inside the glass greedily.

More waiting...waiting.

He held the vial up to the light and watched the mock-image of his own black eyes dance across the past.