Chapter Twenty-three

A/N: Tremendous thanks to excessivelyperky for helping to make this chapter readable and for keeping me focused on the plot-line.

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Chapter Twenty-three

The cell was dark again.

Moody's decided to bore me to death. Samuel closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Checkmate, indeed. Moody finally had him over a barrel, arresting him for a murder committed in January of '98. He could hardly expect the Wizengamot to believe that Albus' direction transcended the grave.

The Clearwater situation had been worse than any scenario even he could have dreamed up. It had left him with a terrible choice of whom to protect. John might know the whole truth of it. Potter and Ron Weasley would likely give him some benefit of the doubt, if only for Amanda's sake, but it would surely divide the remaining Weasleys. Undoubtedly, some of them still felt an attachment to Percy's girlfriend, and speaking ill of the dead was a risky defense. Stupid girl. His next thought was so dangerous, he buried it in the deepest cavern of his consciousness as he turned his entire mind to Occlumency. His life currently depended upon its holding.

The cell was bright again.

He definitely needed a hobby. Something in which to lose himself. Robert had offered repeatedly to take him fly-fishing. On rainy winter days the man would sit in front of a magnifying glass for hours on end, using bits of feather and fur to disguise the barbed hooks as insects. Lacking hooks as well as feathers, Samuel decided that fly-tying would not work as a distraction. John would be planning a month's worth of meals, including the proper use of leftovers. That would not suit, either. He thought of Amanda's hands, as she crafted lengths of yarn into items of warmth and comfort. Maybe he would have a knot-work scarf to warm his ears in the North Atlantic. I wonder how Black slipped out.

Dark again.

Samuel let himself drift for a time. He thought of John -- John reading in the study, weeding in the garden, chopping vegetables, slicing potions ingredients. Potions, Samuel. Begin by adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood... When he lost himself in the intricate dance of brewing, time and light became irrelevant.

Wump. The pain was sharp against the back of his head, dull and throbbing against his forehead. His eyelids felt heavy as Samuel came back to himself. The cell was bright except for the bent and blurry form of Moody, with fingers still wrapped around Samuel's throat, pinning him to the wall.

"I said, explain the significance of the Clearwater girl," Moody snarled in a tone that Samuel himself enjoyed using on Potter.

Blinding pain in his head was paling beside his new awareness of a deep ache inside his ribs. "I don't know what you're talking about. You clearly believed you knew enough in ninety-eight."

"Snape, your friends taught me many things about the value of pain and persuasion. Shall I teach you what I've learned?" Samuel tried not to look at the prosthetic leg and eye.

Fingers tightened around his larynx, limiting Samuel to a raspy whisper. "Mad-eye, this is not my first rodeo."

"And that will make it more satisfying when I bring you to your knees." Moody's own eye was glazed in a way that hinted at insanity.

With no one to help him, and nothing left to lose, Samuel opened the floodgate of his mind. "Truly ironic that you arrest me for your own handiwork. And I thought you had a stronger stomach than Remus... Is this your own delayed guilt over killing a mole?" He had no way to protect his throat as the pain flared again. Now you've done it...

"You used me, Snape, to kill that girl, get back at Weasley. Last chance to tell me why... Fine. Crucio." Moody's voice was flat, emotionless as he cast the Unforgivable, and Samuel felt a chill of horror as he sensed his own mind slipping away.

Give me something to fight for, John, and I'll move heaven and earth to return. Alastor Moody was proving impossible to move. He tried to remember his basement lab, but the pain was too bright and sharp. Forget proving his innocence; he was going to die right here. John, you do know that man is psychotic, right? Psychotic, loss of rational thought... Loss Mum? Lily? Albus? No... John! Even the pain was slipping away.

Unexpectedly the world came back. "...Moody, you fool... Not allowed to torture prisoners..." Why did Weasley sound so concerned?

Another familiar voice was very close, and dark fingers were prying his eyelids open. "Severus, look at me." Kingsley was crouching in front of him, holding his head up. Samuel blinked, and then Kingsley kept talking. "Severus, this is very important. Do you have any allergies to potions or ingredients?"

The world was coming back faster, and the rushing in his ears was fading. Still, it hurt to rasp, "No allergies." He felt too vulnerable on the floor, so he used Kingsley for leverage as he pushed himself up to 'stand' against the wall. He could see Moody, reluctantly handing his wand to Ron Weasley, Moody whinging to Weasley that he hadn't harmed anyone important.

"Not important!" the boy raged. Samuel felt his breath catch in his throat. He didn't want to crave anyone's respect, but listening to Weasley defend him... "Not important," Weasley continued. "You're hurting Harry, you idiot."

You're hurting Harry... Well played, Remus... Concrete assurance of protection... That was enlightening. Samuel pushed his bruised ego aside and allowed Kingsley's aid as he took a step toward the door. Five feet, three feet, he grabbed hold of the bars and slammed his bare foot into the steel brace. Hard. How do you like that, Potter? He welcomed the bloom of agony from his toes and the satisfaction of striking back, even as Kingsley pinned him solidly against the outside wall.

"For Merlin's sake, Severus, going to bite your tongue, now?" Kingsley's sarcasm stung in a way Samuel hadn't expected.

"No, I'm done."

"Let's hope so. It will be harder to move you to Hogwarts in a full Body-Bind. Do you still trust Poppy for care?" They were moving again, but it seemed very slowly.

"'s fine." The hall was dimmer than he'd remembered, and he felt as though he was leaning heavily on someone with every step.

"Definitely concussed. Keep your eyes open and lean on me," said Kingsley, erm, Minister Shacklebolt. "Severus, weren't you in Maine when Penelope died?"

"Used an alias, hard to prove it was actually me."

"Remus knew..."

"John's biased. Or hadn't you guessed? It hardly matters. I'm responsible for her death. I gave away her name."

"You gave her name to the Death Eaters?" They stopped, mid-stride. Kingsley's fingers bit into his shoulder.

Samuel could barely keep his eyes open to meet Kingsley's challenge. "I gave her name to Remus."

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"Severus, sit up." The touch was surprisingly gentle as his Head of House urged him up against the pillows, pressing a warm vial into his hand. It was hard to focus through the blinding pain as he raised the vial to his lips. "That's still hot." Slughorn's hand stopped his own. "Sip it slowly."

The first sip tasted of tree bark and old socks and made his stomach clench painfully. As the spasms eased, he was encouraged to sip again. This time the pain in his head subsided and the room came into focus. The infirmary. The Shrieking Shack. The Marauders. "Thanks, Professor."

Slughorn chortled, then stared at him with growing alarm. "You're welcome, Professor Snape."

"Professor? No, that's not right, either... Crane, Samuel Crane."

"You do remember. That's a good sign. Tell me, how did you pick that name? From Stephen Crane, the novelist?"

"Ichabod." Tired of camaraderie, Samuel turned to face the wall.