Chapter Six: First You Have To Die
June, 1997
For once, Lina Branch had drawn the curtains. He could tell even before he'd opened his eyes; the blackness had a quality of strain. It was fighting to hold the daylight—the bustling, inevitable signs of a world continuing to turn on its pitiless axis—to hold it back from the still, dark moment unfolding within.
It gave the room a weary feel, a familiar feel. For a brief second, he thought himself waking at Spinner's End, in all its accustomed if dreary comfort. But memory slammed back; memory always pounced without concern for the value of a minute's untainted peace.
Spinner's End was gone. Overrun. No doubt a heavily surveyed Ministry watch post. The strained curtains pushed indelicately against his mind.
In the murky half-dark, Lina Branch's white skin seemed a strange source of light. She was curled several feet away, on a rocking chair, book cracked open across her lap. Memories jumbled for a moment, and he half-expected her to reach for a glass of wine.
But a far humbler ceramic mug sat beside her now, doubtlessly couching that disgusting tea she drank. She had not noticed him wake and continued running gray eyes across the page, free fingers first shuffling absently through the folds of her clothing, then running across the contours of the chair.
She was worried; she was afraid. And, judging from the sluggish progress of her eyes, she was likewise distracted. Whether by what he'd shown her or by what he'd asked of her, he couldn't guess. Either way, it was because of him.
You have that effect on people, Severus.
He pushed an arm beneath himself, straightening from the crunched, tortuous position he'd adopted at some point during slumber. His back and arm wailed in pain, drawing a brisk breath through clenched teeth. The natural painkillers and numbness of the moment had given way, leaving the full bite of reality square across his shoulders.
Lina snapped back into the present, fingers still, eyes sharp. As she looked at him, he saw something new in her gaze. Pity.
Disgusting.
His stores of patience—in fact, his stores of everything other than fatigue and restlessness—were remarkably low, even relative to their normally depressed levels. He couldn't accept pity now. The girl had seen him crack more often than any other person, with the exception of—Albus. And even the Headmaster had given up the pity. She should have known better.
He ran a hand across the protuberance of a shoulder blade. His skin revolted in tattered shrieks of pain. "We need to proceed immediately."
The growl of his voice managed to erase those slight signs of pity from her face. "I would love to oblige you, Severus, but I'm afraid this is going to take a bit of preparation. If I'm going to give you the best possible reading—and you're going to need it, it seems—then I have to be adequately prepared. For once, I'm afraid you'll have work on my timetable."
"I don't remember so much preparation last time," he grumbled, sitting up and wiping a thick layer of sweat from his face. It was bloody hot, but he knew better than to open a window, even slightly. He couldn't handle the daylight—not now.
"Fortunately, I did not have you looking over my shoulder the last time," she sighed, closing her book and using it to fan herself. "This is the Veritaserum of divination, Professor. It takes as long as it takes." Her gaze caught on his torn back. "Besides, you need to wash up and heal your wounds." It took her only two strides before she reached him, fingers winding past his robes to examine the swollen skin beneath. "They're looking a bit grotty, if you ask me. Have a shower and heal them while I fix something to eat."
Her touch felt hot and discomforting, and he separated from it almost instantly. "I'm not hungry, damn it, nor do I feel the short time I have free should be spent attending to matters of personal hygiene. I'm going to check Draco; you keep 'preparing' so we can get this over with."
She blocked his path, doing her best to appear intimidating with her eyes no higher than his chin. "Severus Snape, don't you dare play the prickly Potions Bastard with me. You're in my house; you need me. I just checked Draco not five minutes ago. He's sleeping like the—like a baby. I won't force-feed you, but I also won't be able to do anything useful with you hovering over me reeking of sweat and pus. The shower is through there." She pointed a very firm finger down the corridor behind the stairs. "Towels and everything. Now let's, as you say, get this over with."
She did not linger to ensure his compliance, instead grabbing her book firmly and storming past him into the adjoining room. The force of her exit left his robes billowing in her wake.
He searched himself for anger—unsuccessfully. Odd though it seemed, he almost felt relief. It was nice to have the burden of control lifted, if only briefly. He could allow himself to behave how he felt: empty, numb, and automatic.
The cold water was bracing, especially spraying across the feverish tears of his back. He enjoyed showering, contrary, certainly, to what many had surmised. And now, at this moment, the ritual was welcome—a lovely distraction from what lay ahead. He scoured each inch of skin almost raw in a meticulous, single-minded obsession to scrub every bit of Hogwarts dirt from his pores. He emerged from the shower as wet and scrubbed-pink as a newborn. Another comforting illusion, he mused, running his wand across his robes, repairing the rips and removing the grime and stench with matching attention.
He met his own dark eyes in the mirror, watching his reborn self with repulsion.
But it is an illusion, Severus. To be born again, first you have to die.
With a growl, he decided to leave the wounds on his back. One step closer in that direction, after all.
She was waiting at the dining table, book open but unread before her. Her hands were wrapped about the ceramic mug, her eyes turned to the drawn curtains, legs tucked beneath her, crossed at the ankles. As he neared, she didn't turn to meet him, instead closing her eyes and taking a long breath through her nose.
She smirked. "Much better. No more stink of Potions cupboard and Quidditch locker room." Her pursed lips met that of the mug, careful and deliberate. It was several long minutes before she opened her eyes and returned his gaze.
"Busily 'preparing'?" he muttered, lifting the abandoned book up to her face before slamming it closed and flinging it to the far end of the table. The harsh water might not have revitalized him, but it had certainly washed a layer of nostalgic distraction away. He was no longer in any mood to linger or play at her stalling games.
He was no fool. He knew she did not want to do what he'd asked. Not only was the act itself repulsive and, as he'd previously witnessed, extremely draining physically; but she knew, just as he did, that as soon as the cards were read, they would disappear. They would leave and return to him, the source of it all.
He was not accustomed to the feeling of being—kept. Most people skirted his presence, disposed themselves amiably but quickly. But he knew—for she was not trying to hide it—that she was not anxious to be rid of him. After all, it would be unnerving to fill his mind with all the Dark Lord's secrets just before packing him off to Death Eater Central. Nor could she be eager to relive the stark coldness of their last parting, to be used and tossed aside. No, worse. Locked away and forgotten. She was trying desperately to hold back the inevitable result of fear and uncertainty that came along with everything the situation demanded of her.
Come now, Severus. There's more than that. You know it; you both do. There is no Occlumency strong enough to shield those thoughts from yourself
She was hoping for something before he went. A sign, an acknowledgment, some resolution—there'd been no time for that before.
And he could not offer her any of that.
"Lina." He said this simply, pulling out the seat beside her with the same purposeful precision she'd shown sipping at her tea. "We truly have very little time. I have no way of knowing when Draco and I will be called. And we must go when that happens. It's vital that you have completed the reading before that. Regardless of—whatever else you might—"
He trailed off as his forced-soft voice drowned in the incongruous clang of her laughter.
"Oh, Severus," her words rippled out only when her chuckles allowed. Her eyes, so dull before, were shining despite the muddy light surrounding them. She pulled the book back towards herself, tucking her smile, with difficulty, into her face. "As I was attempting to explain to you, this lovely task requires a good deal of preparation; not all of it involves pouring over pages and diagrams." She mocked him, shaking the book as he had, smirking wide. "Part of that preparation involves some attempt to center my mind—to clear it and ready my inner sight. So, please, don't trouble yourself. No need to worry that I'm pining." She stood, walking around the wall and into the kitchen. "But I do truly appreciate your gallant and sincere words of comfort." Even out of sight he could hear her voice ruffle with laughter.
Despite himself and the twinge of hurt pride her words stirred, he couldn't help but smirk right back. It was a perfect response; in fact, he could hear himself responding in precisely the same tone. The offer of sensitivity was never genuine to one of his ilk. It was merely a way of saying, You're weaker than I. And so, of course, any acknowledgement of such sentiments was unthinkable.
Lina Branch might never have attended Hogwarts, but it was subtle, familiar reactions like that which told him precisely where the Sorting Hat would have put her.
She'd settled back down to a demure smile when she reemerged, mug steaming afresh. "I promise, Severus, I will be prepared in a few hours. All that's left is to prepare myself physically and mentally," she sighed, retaking her seat. "Which I'm sure you can understand is a bit of a feat at the present moment."
He grunted in assent. In truth, it was precisely what he should be doing himself. Centering, preparing. But reining in his mind was proving more difficult than ever before. And, in the circumstances he'd found himself stuck in before, that was saying quite a lot.
"Then I'll read the cards, and you and young Malfoy can be on your merry." Each syllable was flat—a testament for him, proof of her detached dedication. "Until then, perhaps you should rest and heal those damned wounds."
This earned her a fresh scowl and quirked eyebrow. He was used to her production of strange, unsaid knowledge, but he refused to believe the scratches on his back were something the Cosmos felt she should divine.
"I'm a doctor, Severus. I can smell it from a mile off." Her breath drew tiny waves across the surface of her tea. "Besides, I know you well enough."
"I don't wish to heal them," he said, taking a moment to dwell upon the stretched-fresh pain as he inhaled. "Battle scars can only work in my favor when I return."
She shifted, watching him with unmasked disgust.
"Besides, a little external pain keeps me awake and aware. And it's only just," he grumbled, shifting himself as well, desperately wishing he had something more to do. He hated this waiting. He'd always hated it. Stretches of unoccupied time only encouraged the sort of introspection and intense worry that could get him killed.
Perhaps, his mind chirped with almost morbid hopefulness. Perhaps. To be born again, Severus—
"Oh, your gloom is magnificent," she sighed at him, mid-thought. "I wouldn't want to rob you of the strain of martyrdom, of course. But may I suggest a little Muggle solution? Just to keep nasty infections at bay. It's a bit difficult to be a sacrificial lamb if you perish of Septicaemia first."
He glared at her, but she did not quail.
"I promise, just a bit of peroxide. Undetectable to your Death Eater pals. And there'll be plenty of soul-humbling pain."
She grinned, apparently taking his silence as assent. Before he realized it, she'd brought in a strange brown bottle and several gauze swabs. He felt her fingers sweep aside his damp hair, strands tickling at his cheeks. Her hand rested a moment on his shoulder before he understood.
"You know, this probably would be a bit more effective on the actual wounds."
Though he had not thought it possible, he felt his skin grow warmer. Outmaneuvered again, Snape. How would he last even ten minutes in the Circle if his mind couldn't even see through the machination of a Squib?
"Come on, Severus. Doctor, remember?" She shook the bottle as if somehow it confirmed this statement. "I promise. I'll try to control myself. Besides, it will help me relax. Feels a bit more clinical, more routine."
The Squib in question would have been Slytherin, that's the difference. And she had strategies he never worried about in the Circle.
With the requisite amount of grumbling, he loosened the top several buttons of his robes, allowing them to collapse to the bottom of his shoulders. The air razed his flesh delicately.
He'd expected some reaction from her as she slowly unveiled the raked black and brown of his back, but she merely proceeded, fingers dexterous and soft as the corded muscles tensed beneath her touch.
"How--?" she asked, rolling open the lid of the bottle with a snap.
"Hippogriff."
"Ahh."
The heat of the wounds clashed suddenly with the cool of the Muggle liquid. He could hear a very slight sizzling followed by a less than slight crackle of renewed pain. It was as if she'd sprayed more of that fire and spice concoction directly into his veins. He jerked away and hissed.
"It's supposed to do that," she replied flatly, drawing him back roughly. "Penitence, after all."
He gritted his teeth and surrendered to the sizzling track of her hands down his spine. She was clearly skilled with the art, never letting the sting peak without the numbing cool of cotton close behind. Minutes passed in peaks of pain and numbness—as they always did, he supposed. He could feel her relaxing, growing still with each dab at the flesh. He imagined her face, bent on her work, damp and delicate fingertips brushing open layers of skin, lip half-bitten in concentration. She did that when concentrating, he remembered. Her pale eyes grew unwavering and fierce, and her bottom lip curled under the grip of teeth. It was one of the few looks that he'd never seen in her Malfoy predecessor. It was too sincere.
"The last few years have been—hard on you," she said quietly, and he felt a bare finger trace an uncut section of flesh on his neck. He couldn't suppress a slight quiver. "More scars, I see."
He said nothing, shaking the ticklish sensation away gruffly.
"I—I saw that Black died. I can only guess at the circumstances." Her tone was matter-of-fact, but he could smell the concern lingering beneath. "I saw—when you returned to him. The—Dark Lord."
"You've been reading my cards?" he snapped suddenly, wrenching from beneath her. "You—"
She pulled him back again just as harshly, seemingly unfazed by his irritation. "Of course I did. Seemed a hell of a lot easier than popping round for a friendly chat."
As a fresh eruption of sting bloomed across his back, something clicked. "Is that—how you knew? About Albus and—"
"Yes."
"So you did not speak to him—"
"I did. But the details of the conversation were a bit, er, sketchy at the time." Cool water on a damp cloth blended with the heat of pain.
"How did he contact you? Even he didn't know the address here, and he never mentioned—"
"What are you going to do now, Severus?" The interruption was jarring, especially coupled with the retreat of her touch from his skin. His mind—like his back—hummed with the overwhelming sensation of emptiness.
She pulled the cloth up over his shoulders and rounded his numb back to gaze directly into his tensed face. "What are you going to do now that you've left the Order and have no one but the Dark Lord to turn to?"
Suddenly the healing heat of his back was nothing compared to the fiery rage expanding through his gut. He concentrated very closely on fastening the buttons beneath his chin. "Funny, I thought what I was going to do was your area of expertise."
"The future is a path worn by the footsteps of choice," she answered, quiet. "The choice you make when you cross my thresholdcould change the course of everything I see today. I—need to know."
Somehow, inexplicably, the solemnity of her smooth-cut features ignited that rage, and it burst the dam of his gut, spreading like fire in his blood. It was a memory, again. Remembered rage, as he'd parried curse after curse, running, exhausted, hateful thoughts open wide on their hinges, close at his heels.
Even she didn't know. Even the woman whose damnable Malfoy eyes could pierce the expanse of Time. Even she can't help but fear…
Sometimes it felt easier to be a Death Eater. On that side of the line lay certainty.
"Prepare yourself, Miss Branch," he spat, standing and allowing the full weight of his anger to slide down his hooked nose. "For once in my life, my choices are my own damned business."
And make of that, he added mentally, whatever you like. There's nothing more frightening, after all, than Severus Snape making his own choice.
Face still stoic, she merely retook her seat, hands finding their cradled position about the curved white of her mug. "I know, Severus. I just thought perhaps you ought to be reminded. It's the same choice all over again."
Words crackled at the heated root of his tongue but refused to meet the strained, gray air. It was too much of Albus to countenance. He didn't want to be reminded of anything. He wanted a few hours in this murky limbo, disconnected from past and future. He didn't want to be reminded.
He turned away, pushing distance from her, pummeling the thoughts at their source. But they had broken free, a thousand reminders of his past choice, sharp and hot as iron on his skin.
It was bloody hot. His whole body burned, flaming inside like a phoenix ablaze, melting into ash. Rebirth, resurrection, the Headmaster had said over Fawkes' pyre. Perhaps that was what she'd meant too, damn her.
Tut, Severus. To be born again—
He braced himself firmly against the arm of the sofa.
To be born again, first you have to die.
It might be the only choice left, one way or another.
He lay down, praying for that chance, as the pall of his past, broken free, dragged heavy across his overwrought mind.
A/N: I must first note that the line "to be born again, first you have to die" is not mine and has been shamelessly lifted from one of my favorite novels, The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. I admit to my literary theft and justify it only by saying that I couldn't help myself here.
I've also somehow managed to hoodwink the lovely Ms. Whitehound into betaing for me. A hearty "thank you" to her for her help. We can all thank her for the remarkable absence of typos and Americanisms in the following chapters. I accept full responsibility for any and all lingering errors and inconsistencies…
Hopefully the updating will be more frequent for the rest of the fic, as things have quieted down for me in the wake of the holidays. Please r/r if you're still around…