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Chapter Text

Staring out at the darkened street from the corner of his bedroom window, Harry Potter was lost in thought.

His thoughts lacked insight, lacked the ability to make sense and he, let them wander. These unwanted thoughts were repressed memories and his diligent attempts at keeping them out of his mind were fruitless. He felt lost, alone and almost infuriatingly useless.

The same thoughts crowded his mind with vivid images, clouded his eyes with moisture and sometimes his palms with blood from the mere force of his nails digging into his skin unveiling his anger, guilt and remorse. His shoulders felt heavy, dense with the weight of the responsibilities vested upon him. The responsibilities he was too young and too weak to be expected from. But the future was foretold, awaited and demanded even, and he was never the one to back away from escapades.

The sorting hat wasn't flawed in it's decision, he's a Gryffindor to the core.

Now all he has to do is destroy Voldemort, drain him of his sinister power and most alluringly, pop his bubble about being the greatest sorcerer of all times. At the same time, he acknowledged the unpleasant fact that it was as impossible as it was tempting.

Maybe not impossible, but certainly close enough to fill him with dread and qualm, not for his undeniably ephemeral life but for disappointing the ones who still hope. To disappoint the people who trust him to annihilate their miseries. He knew that he had already defeated You-Know-Who a handful of times, but all those defeats were short lived and not really defeats. Those were escapes. He was blessed with a fair dose of luck and could only hope that it won't run out in the inevitably sticky situations to come.

In the meantime, he'd rather not think about it. But there was little he could when he was locked up in a place as useless as he felt. He's gone through his completed homework more times than he'd like to admit, read and re-read his friends' letters and worked. In all honesty, he'd kept himself busy. Too busy to let the troublesome memories haunt his mornings, too busy to let the guilt sink in and eat him alive, too busy searching for things to keep him busy. But he was running out of excuses. And the guilt was as fresh as a bath after three years in a shithole.

It was a few more weeks to school, and he felt itchy with impatience. He wanted to get out of this room, to be somewhere he belongs and is welcomed. Someplace where guilt won't tag along and do something worth the time of the world.

He wonders if this was how Sirius felt. Stuck in a place with no one but his own thoughts for company when everyone else was working with their lives at risk. But Sirius was far more superior than Harry is, in every aspect. Better at coping with loss and being judged, dealing with uselessness and guilt. Guilt was probably the only thing he could relate with his godfather. To be held responsible for the loss of the people you love, if not by others but yourself.

He has a thing for saving people, Hermione had said. He laughed bitterly at that. He was not very good at it, was he? Sirius indeed was a better man than he was. And the fact the he was and i'snt, is enough to prove his point. He sighed. He was tired. Physically, he felt ready to jump upon anything worthwhile but mentally, he was drained. He gently touched his sensitive eyes and rubbed off the tear stains who seemed to have plans for permanent settlement. He got up from his bed and looked around his room. The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, dirty wares, wasted wrappers and a mass of newspapers sat behind the base of a lamp on his desk. The headlines of one caught his eye:

HARRY POTTER : THE CHOSEN ONE?

He immediately cringed. It was pathetic really. Harry's glorious transition from a 'Liar' to the great and prolific 'Chosen One' was quicker than one could think. The public adored him, now more than ever and all he wanted to do was throw bricks at the Ministry for filling them up with hope. Worthless hope that he, Harry Potter can save the world.

He sighed yet again and walked back to his bed. His eyes again darted towards the darkened alley but this time, halted there. The peaceful brightness of the streetlight was blocked by a figure. On closer inspection he caught the outline of a man.

A man in cloak.

Curious, he headed closer towards the window and tried to map him out. The man had long, dark hair and was moving closer towards him. He came closer and closer until his face came alive in the faint light.

Harry gasped. Surprised and too shocked to move a muscle, he stared at the familiar face as he moved over and was now standing just behind the front door of the house. He blinked a few times and shook his head to clear the vision, but the man still stood at the same spot, waiting patiently. But knowing the man and that it was far too dangerous to test his patience, Harry jumped out of his bed a rushed out. He walked down the stairs carefully to not wake his kind-at-heart relatives from their snooze and opened the door.

"Snape." He blurted out before he could stop himself. "What are you doing here?"

Severus Snape's lips curled lightly as he spoke, "It's lovely to see you too, Mr. Potter." His voice betrayed his words. "Please excuse the late hour, did I disturb your slumber?"

"Umm…No?" He gave himself a mental shove at the pathetic response. "I mean no. I was awake. What do you need?"

Snape gazed over his shoulder, inside the house and again back at him. "Is there someone at the corridor?"

Surprised, Harry shook his head no.

"Are your relatives awake?"

Another shake.

"Is the house unsuitable for visitors?"

Growing annoyed, he shook his head again. "Is it that you're impolite, then?"

Harry blinked and flushed as he realised what the man was implying. "No. I'm sorry. Please come in." He invited him in as politely as he could. But the bastard wasn't done.

"Oh, are you sure? You were rather reluctant. Would you have to scrub the entire house once I leave to get rid of my evil presence?" He said, fluttering his eyes innocently. Harry took a deep breath, swallowing down the urge to kick his Potions Master's shin.

"Actually, yes. I do have to scrub the entire house in the morning, so if you don't mind skimping both of our time, I'd like you to come in and state the reasons of your pleasant visit."

Snape's eyes widened and then narrowed. He gave Harry a curt nod before following him inside. "I have a few things to discuss with you. Is your room fitting?"

Harry gave him a jerky nod before gesturing him to follow him upstairs. He opened the door and realised a little too late that his room really wasn't suitable for visitors. Or one particular visitor, in his case. He quickly brushed his bedsheets to make room for them to seat and tried very hard not to get embarrassed. His visitor however, didn't comment on that and took a seat next to his desk, folding his legs in a rather king-like fashion.

"You have a lovely room." Snape commented somewhat awkwardly. Harry's eyes widened. Why the greasy git trying to be polite? He was pulling off a rather disturbing performance.

Harry searched his eyes for signs of mocking and burst out laughing when he couldn't find any. "Are you serious?" He managed to let out.

Snape's lips settled to form a thin line. "Not really." He said smoothly. "That was merely an unsuccessful attempt at courtesy." He looked around his room and approved; a chiseled lie it was. "Well, that's more like it."

His mind fleeted to find anything polite enough to say that won't question his good breeding, but the very presence of the flat-faced bat was enough to make his mind void of a single good natured syllable. Avoiding such formalities would be a wise decision.

"Why don't we skip the awkward small talk and get to the point?" He suggested carefully, ''Sir." He added as a second thought, not sure he'd like to know what the point was, but curious anyways.

"Sure." Snape offered. Harry exhaled, and waited. Waited. And waited.

"Well?" He said irritatedly when Snape remained silent. He was getting rather frustrated. Neither of them were fans of the the other, so why wouldn't the snob just blurt it out and leave him the fuck alone?

Snape, who was pointedly staring at the floor looked up at that. "Oh. Well, you're not going to like what I'm about to ask from you, so before you start yelling and throwing useful utensils like the ideal teenager you are, you must let me finish first, all right?"

He snorted. As if he expected to be gleeful and all jolly-jolly after their talk.

"Yes. That's understood. No yelling or throwing things. What do you want?" His mind brought him back to the havoc he'd created in his Headmaster's office after the appalling clutter at the Ministry. He winced.

Snape took a deep breath. His usually blank face was pinched in a way that distinctly unmasked his discomfort. "Once your school reopens, I'd like you to try and befriend Mr. Malfoy."

"What?" Harry choked out. That was not even the very last thing on his mind. That ferret hasn't even crossed his mind over the previous weeks, and quite unsurprisingly.

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Shall I repeat it for you?"

Harry shook his head. "As in, Draco Malfoy?"

He asked slowly, aware that his eyebrows have already crossed the boundaries of his forehead. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Oh are there a lot of other Malfoys attending Hogwarts whom your expecting to meet?" Harry ignored him.

"But-why? There's a war on the edge for Merlin's sake, and you want me to associate with the likes of Malfoy! You've got to be kidd-"

"I remember you agreeing to let me finish before throwing your unwanted tantrums." Snape interrupted him.

"I think you've said enough for me to decide that I'm not interested in your offer. I'd like to avoid him if I can help it and you're asking me to befriend hi-"

"May I ask why exactly do you have such strong feelings about your classmate? Snape raised his eyebrows.

Harry snorted. Oh the holy times, Snape was making him snort. "Why do I dislike him?" He huffed. "Maybe because he insults me and my friends in every named occasion? Or maybe because his Death Eater father is out there planning my murder with that maniac? Or maybe because he's prejudiced, snobbish and an absolute arsehole?" He laughed. "I can go on forever, Snape. For all I know, he could be a Death Eater himself."

Something changed in Snape's expression, a blank look overtook his sneer. He remained silent for a few seconds, a few awfully uncomfortable seconds.

"That's the point, Potter." He sighed. He looked tired, eyes heavy with the apparent lack of sleep and amplitude of baggage to worry about. Looking at him, Harry thought he should at least make an effort to hear him out, no matter how ludicrous his request was.

"What's the point?" He asked carefully. Politely even. Snape looked up at him, his expression unreadable.

"Tell me Potter, do you have any friends from other houses?" Surprised at that sudden change of subject, he answered.

"I do. I am on good terms with a handful of people from other houses. Everyone was welcomed in the D.A, you know, where we used to practice defense last year? Some of us are quite close, I'll say."

If Snape was surprised, he didn't show it. The D.A was old news now anyways.

"Everyone?" Snape asked.

He nodded. "Anyone who was interested."

"Anyone from all the houses?" He raised his eyebrows.

Harry frowned. It was clear what Snape was implying, but he really haven't given the chance that any Slytherin would be interested in joining their ranks a second thought. He settled for, "Well. Anyone who didn't worship Umbridge, I suppose."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "And the inverse includes all the students from Slytherin." He said, deadpan. "Even the ones who came to me with complaints about her bunk practices. Even the ones who acknowledged her evident incompetence. And even the ones who genuinely wanted to learn something, isn't that right?"

Harry was astound. He remained silent. "It's people like you Mr. Potter and your ironclad beliefs that such students are suffering." Snape whispered a bit harshly, seemingly satisfied with Harry's reaction.

"But they don't like us. We're not pure enough for them." Harry blurted out defensively.

Snape narrowed his eyes again. "You're aware, that not all purebloods end up in Slytherin, aren't you? And also that they're not all from such a household?"

Well, yes. He did know that. Of course he did. "But what about muggle borns? There isn't a single muggle born witch or wizard there, I bet." He retorted, smug.

Snape's expression didn't switch. "Even that's not unheard of."

That definitely surprised Harry. There were Muggle borns in Slytherin?

"Wha-"

"I'm not here to drench your gruesome unawareness. Why don't you tell me another reason for your tactless judgements."

Harry swallowed audibly. "Alright. It's not only about blood purity. They take pleasure in hurting people. They mock us all the time and are arrogant, selfish -"

Snape's mouth curved into an ugly sneer. "Are you taking about Slytherins as a whole or solely Mr. Malfoy and his pitiful cronies?"

Harry's eyes widened. 'Pitiful' described the idiots perfectly, but never did he thought he'd hear Snape of all people using the word for his snakes. Snape rolled his eyes.

"Oh no need to look all surprised, Potter. I'm not going to overlook the obvious just because I'm privileged to have them in my house. I won't judge on those grounds, unlike some people." He eyed Harry with critical eyes.

Harry was uncomfortable. He wasn't prejudiced, was he? No, he didn't like to think he was. Because he wasn't.

But, facts hold a significant place in the area of observation and it was plain as a bloody day that Harry didn't like Slytherins. Almost as much as the other way around. But his dislike was justified as the only Slytherins he knew were far from being the light of his life. They were known to be arrogant, vile, self-absorbed and overall stinkers and he couldn't find a single incentive for not believing so.

And anyway, a snake wouldn't call himself a devil, now, would he?

"Since we're in the subject, what do you have to say about your moonshine sentiments about Gryffindors?" Harry said pointedly, folding his arms.

Snape's eyes widened meaningfully. "Fat words, Potter. I see that you really were bored if you had time to swallow the dictionary."

Harry smiled sweetly. "Just answer the bloody question."

He sighed. "I've no personal grudge against your house, Potter. It's just that you lot are nincompoops."

Harry snorted. "If I'm judgemental, what do you call yourself then?"

Snape's eyes flared. "A professor. And I'd like to be addressed like one." He glared at him, suddenly furious.

"What? What did I eve-" Harry spluttered indigenously. The elder man's eyes were blazing with an emotion he could only collate as rage. Snape snickered bitterly.

"Well it's no surprise that you've sprouted into a barbarian, you're after all, you're father's child." He spit the last words.

Harry was perplexed. But more so, enraged. Just a few moments ago they were having a moderately polite conversation, even though the subjects in consideration were highly uninvited. Well suck a fucking dildo, if he was to go along with the man's mood swings! And for Merlin's sake, he didn't even make an honourable insult to deserve such a reaction.

"What's your problem? What did I even say to blow up your snotty fuse?"

As it turned out, it wasn't the best thing to say.

Snape's eyes twinkled wickedly. "Oh yes of course, your inapt choice of words. Another acquired trait evidently."

"Will you shut up about my father already! I know he wasn't-" He took a deep breath, as fluttering images of Snape's worst memory rushed through his mind.

He sighed and spoke a bit slower this time. "I know he wasn't perfect or ideal or any of those things you think you are, but he was still my father. And don't even dare to pour scorn about my mother, I won't have any of it." He warned.

He remembers how his mother's face fell as soon as Snape spit the word Mudblood.

The harsh, immaterial word used to shadow down the proficiency of those who weren't privileged enough to be born into a Wizarding family. But the word 'privilege' lost it's value as he countermanded how most of the pure-fucking-blooded ones turned out to be.

Snape fall silent. For a tiny fraction of a tiny second, Harry saw an unusual intensity of pain in his eyes. But he could only guess as it lasted as long as a blink. Was he regretting it?

Harry knew what he did wasn't right as well. The man was a prat, but so was his father. He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry." Snape looked straight up at him, his eyes furrowing.

"I'm sorry for…that I looked through your memories that night. That was - that wasn't right. It was disrespectful, rude and wrong. I of all people know what it's like to be denied privacy, but I still - umm, I'm just really really sorry, I hope you know that." He said firmly, though feeling extremely uneasy.

"And also, I'm sorry that I didn't believe you when you said my dad was a dickhead." He might have flashed a small smile at that.

Snape widened his eyes, clearly not believing his ears. He eyed Harry for three long seconds before looking away, which had Harry fidgeting his hands. "You're sorry." He repeated.

"That's what I said, yes." Harry nodded. "But I really didn't appreciate you calling my mother names. She was helping you, for Merlin's sake."

He murmured. Snape stared at him, without blinking. The creep. He seemed to be at loss of words, for which Harry was surprised. But also, glad. They both needed a few seconds of silence before taking up on their strangely electric conversation. Harry had always wanted to apologize to Snape for his intrusion that night, but the time, place nor the words would have been right.

Snape broke the contact for a few seconds before looking up at him again. "Slytherins are believed to be ambitious, resourceful, proud, cunning. And these traits can be incredibly helpful in the coming War, you've been bragging about. People refuse to acknowledge that. It's evident in the way they're being treated that they're believed to be evil. Some of their parents follow the Dark side. Some of them, marked. And it won't take a bat of an eye for them to compel their children to do the same. That's what I want you to prevent. Make them see, believe, realize that it's no longer about themselves and their petty rivalries. That it's not about the pride of their own and I want you to believe. Believe in them. Include them. And learn to work together. Start with Mr. Malfoy, because most of his housemates follow him. If you both can get over yourselves and form a truce in the least, then others will follow. You don't have to make friends, if the idea repels you. But know this, that they can be strong, idealistic allies. We need them, Potter, do you understand?"

Harry didn't. Half of his mind was still stuck in their previous conversation. But Snape was acting like it didn't even happen. Even a nod of acknowledgement would have been very very pleasant. But he supposed that it was too much ask from his potions master. Harry had surprised him, after all.

The other half of his mind was reeling. And he couldn't help but think that Snape's words made sense. That the Slytherins really were being excluded and that if the same continues, it'll be too late they'll make the wrong decision. That they still had a chance.

"I understand." He said lowly. "But, why me, though? Wouldn't it be better if you talk to them about this?"

Snape curled his lips just a bit. "Aren't you the Chosen One? And it's you lot who have to work together. Trust is hard to earn, even harder with history like yours. But you'd be surprised at the amount of faith they put in you. And before you ask, yes, even a few Slytherins worship you. Your fat eyes have failed to ever notice."

Huh. Harry was out of words. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

Snape sighed. "Look, there's nothing I can say to change your opinion if you don't give them a chance. See for yourself. Look into them, search for goodness, isn't that what you do?"

It sounded like an insult. Or that may have been his imagination.

"So, what do you say?" Snape urged.

'No', he wanted to say. For no good reason, but that he's stubborn. But it's merely an impractical word, isn't it? Though used so frequently and spoken so confidently that you'd think, it works. That saying 'NO' ceases all our problems. But guess what; NO, it doesn't.

'Yes' he wanted to say as well. Because he knew Snape was right. That this was bigger than the petty rivalries teenagers pleasure themselves with. That neglecting it, waiting for others to to do all the work is not going to save anyone's skin, including yours. That this was a matter of life and death.

"Okay." He said. A bit too sadly to be convincing. But this was the right thing to do, he knew. Snape had given him something to think about. He'd almost forgot about-

Fuck.

Sirius. He'd almost forgot about it, about how much he was effected by his death. But it was done, wasn't it? No amount weeping, sulking or depressing himself for it can bring him back. But he could make it worth. He could prove that his God father, his parents, Cedric and numerous others didn't die for nothing. He owed them that. He needed to fight. He had to win. And he'll welcome all the help he could receive to do so. He blinked back tears and took a deep breath.

"Okay." He said again, more confidently this time.

Snape merely nodded. As if he expected nothing less. "Alright, if we're clear about that, can we move to the next matter?"

Chapter Text

Staring out at the stately demesne from the corner of his bedroom window, Draco Malfoy was lost in thought.

The wide sweep of territory spread insolently about the Manor, the lively vineyards charged with the wishful delight of summer; did nothing to settle his nerves. The chirpy cheerfulness instead managed to generously dwindle the sense of unease, that was as alien to him as beggary. 

Draco was shuddering. He replayed his earlier exchange with his mother for what seemed like the thousandth time, which struck him with precisely the same potency as it did at the earliest. Blinking furiously, he closed his eyes and inspired, keen and deep.

It's time. She had said. I hope don't need to repeat myself son, for it'll be terribly inconvenient. And again, I hope I'm right when I say, you won't disappoint me. That you deserve truly and veritably to behold what you are to acquire.

Remember never to forget. Remember where you stand and what you stand for, the dutiful significance of the very name that distinguishes you and the power that comes along with it. Call to mind the numberless lessons you underwent, the ethics, the virtues, the sheer superiority of the blood the flows in our veins and the inept mediocrity of those that lack. Remember, that making choices is a fairly incessant ritual. And that everything; the light, the dark, the very sky that occupies he void of tomorrow depends on those choices. Sixteen is appropriately mature, a ripen age of confusion, doubts, and mistakes. It's far too easy to follow, Draco. To let go of your intelligence and follow the the crowd, do what anyone would. But you're different, son, I know you are. You won't fall into he same trap of dilemma as a no one, you're better than them, you need to prove it. And it's time to prove it. It's all in your hands now, Draco. The shape of things to come, their affinity towards our favour and even our lives are within your hands now. I trust you to understand it's significance, your significance. I'm so very proud of you, and I'll be more so in no time. The Dark Lord isn't forgiving, son. But he's ready to give us a chance, a chance to correct your father's mistakes, to prove us capable of thee Mark. He's ready for you and you shalln"t displease him. I'll send someone to fetch you when he arrives. She rubbed his shoulder affectionately and with that, moved towards the door.

Just by the door, she retreated. Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, son.

He blinked back tears at her last words. The  clavier guise that held her eyes, the aloof air the surrounded her frame, was not something he was used to. He remembers last year, when she had hugged and kissed and embraced him as he grew a year older. How she peppered soft kisses on his forehead and requested him to grow no older as she'll always want him with her, in her arms. He remembers being embarrassed by the display of affection and he remembers cherishing every moment of it.

It's confounding, terrifying really, how much can change in mere months.

His mother was no longer the tender, serene land lady she used to be. A loving parent who wasted no occasion to prove her love for her child, and who in no means would almost forget her son's birthday. 

The prior year has changed her. A change so prominent, patent and hurtful that it rendered Draco lost, frightened and so so alone, he wept. A ringing silence followed his wails and the beat of his heart was loud and harsh and vexing.

He's ready for you.

His breath shortened, arms waned and heart pounded even louder in the provoking silence, as it became clear as a fucking crystal what was about to happen.

He's ready for you.

His hands were shaking. Sticky with sweat  he placed his right palm on his left hand and caressed the clean, pale skin. Soft to touch and strangely innocent, the skin under his palm glowed as he traced irregular patterns with his nails and then in a swift lith motion, turned dull red.

It stung. He didn't even remember applying force, but the vague outline of a snake stood proud and clear as a proof.

He's ready for you.

On casting tempus he was surprised to find it ticking towards midday. It was about nine, when his mother had come to let him know about the later events, and to wish him a happy birthday as well of course. 

Change is a part of life, he knew that. The lavish potential of a wizard lies in his ability to adapt himself to however situation he's been forced into, and to make one's way through it without shedding a complaint. His father's words surrounded him. Along came his mother's, sweet but stern, reminding him of his position, his loyalty, his obligation, his choice. The last one screamed bullshit.

Their words encircled him, engulfing him with reminders, rendering him speechless as a log. Summoning him. Suffocating him.

He wasn't quite sure why he felt that way. He's known it for years now, what his parents were, what had to be done when fate calls for it. But the transparent contrast between the future and the present, between words and actions hit him brutally. 

He's wanted this all along. To trace his father's footsteps, to lead as he did and to follow as he did as well. His presence among the followers of the Dark was fated, and he remembers letting out impatient huffs of desire to join them when he had first heard the stories. 

But it was demanded and right now at that, now when he wasn't sure of himself, of being ready to grow up so soon and paint his hands with dark. 

He took a deep breath. He has to make the right choice, his mother had said. But a choice comes with options, with few contrasting possibilities that outlines the timeline, it comes with hope that one way or other you'll be fine. He couldn't believe his mother would even envision the likelihood of him not doing as he was told, not doing what was right and making his own wrong choices. 

He'd do anything for her. Even the remotely significant word his mother utters cannot be groundless. 

Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, son.

He sighed, heavy and strained. He needed no reminders about what he stood for, what needed to be done to cleanse the world of filth and no-goods. But the reminder came, stern and certain and unexpectedly unwanted. From someone he didn't even know anymore. His mother seemed foreign, aloof and distant and he felt jilted, her usually fond visage screwed up in disguise. Like it hardly mattered what happens to him. Like she didn't care.

I'm so proud of you son.

She was proud of him. She said so. Of course she cares, what was he thinking? He wasn't a child anymore, he didn't need to be pampered with kisses and hugs. Verity doesn't need proof, only lies do. And her love for him is not a lie.

And I'll be more so in no time.

He quirked a smile as it hit him with sudden clarity that he'd do it. He'd do anything to make her proud. And the thought of not doing it was far off and forgotten. Really, what else was there to do? To leave his parents, his whole reason and join the ranks of half bloods, mudbloods and blood traitors? To buddy up with Potter and co. and help in bringing down the Dark Lord?

He let out a laugh at that. Potter. Poor little Potter. He let himself feel a touch of sympathy for the git. His life was marked as well, for what the Dark Lord's fascination with him unveiled. Obsession really. It was however, oddly believable. The way a mere look at the boy made Draco want to rip his head off, was proof enough that Potter is, by all means, a tempting opponent. His confidence disguises as strength and makes him look powerful. And maybe he is, in his own way. Manipulative, disobedient, intimidating, carefree. Carefree, even after being targeted by the Darkest wizard to walk the grounds. 

Whatever it was he did as a child; however way he somewhat defeated the Dark Lord back then, couldn't help him now. Nothing could. His days were scarcely numbered.

He gulped a large heap of air. He didn't let his intellect to wander in that direction and blinked back the previous thoughts.

His bedroom door opened.

"Well well, isn't it my little nephew." He heard a high pitched voice mutter, too loud in the quiet. 

A haughty, tall women dressed in dirty dark robes stood at the head of the door. She wore a strangely electric smile, beaming in a way, one could only describe as unappealing. He turned towards the voice, a certain guess on his lips, "Aunt Bellatrix?"

Her profile left no doubt about her identity. Not because he's seen her pictures a number of times before, but because she looked the very way she was chronicled. 

Mad.

She laughed. "The one and only." She moved closer, parodying a predator. "You're certainly older than I imagined, little boy. Cissy breeds well."

Her eyes followed his frame. He stiffened under her scrutiny, uncomfortable and revolted. He swallowed audibly, struggling with words. "It-It's nice to finally meet you. Did you just arrive?" Her eyes snapped to his, twinkling with evil mischief. "Uh-huh." She said, teetering her  eyes that were transfixed on his bed, pinning and ravenous.

Draco's chest contracted with a fresh jolt of fear. 

Bellatrix snapped her gaze towards him and move closer to the bed, not breaking eye contact. She moved gracelessly, smirking for no good reason and in a sudden, revolting fashion, pounced on his bed. 

She squealed gleefully, sighing in contentment and sweet-mother-of-Merlin, moaning. The way she was ravishing his bed, his soft lovely bed and the sounds she was making was enough to rehash his breakfast to his throat. She seemed lost in bliss, murmuring sosoftsosoftsosoft, like she forgot she had company. Or simply didn't care.

How in hell would he ever fall asleep on this bed again?

She looked so much like his mother, and at the same time so so different that his stomach jolted pitifully. His mother was charming, graceful, elegant and Bellatrix on the other hand was  repellent, repugnant, obscene, putrid, yucky. Oh, so so yucky. He was certain that one couldn't be any more vomitous.   

As if to prove him wrong, he heard an unusual, inhuman growl from the dorsal. His eyes locked with the growler as he turned. 

He knew fear, heard of it at least. Knew how one feels as dread settles your gut, blocking your mind of any coherent thought but to flee as soon as you get your senses back. Knew it, seen it, maybe even experienced a bit of it somewhere out there. He remembers feeling scared that one time he got lost in Knockturn Alley, remembers seeing it making it's way through happiness and perishing it. He remembers screaming at the top of his lungs when his boggart was shown. In fact, he remembers it so clearly, with such an intense clarity that it shook him.

It was a werewolf.

And to know that the very person who saved him from it was a fucking werewolf himself, didn't settle him.

He stared unblinkingly at the horrid man that stood at his door, lips curling in a way that made him look hungry. Famished. Draco couldn't think anymore. Couldn't moved a muscle as he recognised the feeling that charged his stance. This was fear. Having seen his pictures so many times in the Prophet, he needed no clarification of who he was. What he was.

Fernir Greyback. 

"Didn't the Dark Lord send you to fetch the boy, Bella?" He growled at her, glistening eyes fixed on Draco. "Or is your catnap more important than his command?"

She jumped out of the bed and approached him dangerously. "Shut up, you creature! How dare you speak to me like that. You're a no one, a sorry halfblood that follows us around like a meek fucking pup." She smiled wickedly. "Oh, that's exactly what you are, aren't you?"

He saw the werewolf's eyes shift. Still hungry but raged. Draco's stiff legs shook, his senses told him to run away a hide. To scream and scream and scream untill this was all over. And just as Greyback snarled inhumanly and set up to pounce on Bellatrix-

"Stop it!" A voice advanced. "Stop this nuisance right now!" 

He turned towards the voice and allowed himself to relax a tad.

"Oh Lucius!" Bellatrix squealed and attack him with a bear hug. He saw his father stiffen and not quite returning the hug. "How are you doing, Lucius? I believe I haven't seen you since...since you horribly failed in your mission?"

Draco's heard about it. The mission. Bits and pieces of information by eavesdropping on his parent's conversations. No one even bothered to tell him what it was about. What changed, how and why.

His father's eyes flashed angrily. "You too were a part of it Bellatrix, no need to feign innocence."

She laughed. "Innocence? Who wants to be innocent?" She moved in circles are him, taunting him with her words alone. "The only good thing that came out of that night, was the traitor's death, and I am the one who killed him. No, I believe there's another thing that came out right from that. The Dark Lord now knows who to trust, who's to lead his missions and who's to stay back to watch and learn." She eyed him. "Can't blame him for having some trust now, can you? For having expectations? To think one deserves a chance?

Too bad you're a disgrace." She concluded offhandedly. Draco waited for his father to come up with a smart retort, to shut her up and show her who was in charge, who's roof she was splitting under. But Lucius looked resigned, like he accepted her accusations.

Draco heard him sigh. "We shouldn't keep him waiting." He looked over at Draco for the first time since he entered the room. "It's time, son." He echoed his mother's words. "Follow me." This was it, wasn't it? He'll be one on them now. Not unlike Bellatrix or Greyback, dangerous and feared, powerful and devoted. Wicked and hated.

He shivered involuntarily just as his father took hold of his arm. They locked eyes and an unbearable sense of unease filled his veins. Father nodded and Draco nodded back.

The walk towards Him their destination was surprisingly quiet. Lucius leaded, Draco closely behind while Bellatrix and Greyback followed. A look back at them, Draco saw them both smirking, as if they knew something they didn't. Something definitely not good. 
 
The others crossed his wing and descended the stairs with faint steps while Bellatrix jumped two steps at a time. The act was more savage than childish. They halted behind the staircase and Bellatrix asked him haughtily, "Can you apparate, dear boy?" 

"I-I no, I can't. I've side-alonged before though." He quickly answered. Bellatrix looked unhappy, unpleased.

"You haven't even taught your son to apparate, Lucius? How useless can someone ge-" Her words were cut off as he felt the pull of apparation stuffing him. He closed his eyes at the sensation and when opened them, he found himself standing in front of his parent's bedroom. 

"Are you ignoring me, Lucius?" Bellatrix's gleeful voice came from the behind. "How crude." His father didn't answer. Draco looked up at him and saw his eyes looking frail. He shivered again.

This time, the cold caused it.

It wasn't suppose to be this cold this time of the year. The atmosphere around here was a starling contrast to his wing. Dark. He could smell it. 

The Manor had dark areas too, he wasn't allowed there. It's dangerous, his mother had said. And I don't want you any closer to that than you need to be. That was before. 

It's all in your hands now.

You shall'nt displease him.

He took a deep breath. The power around here was nowhere near as mild as the one he had to encounter. It was consuming, absorbing, enthralling.

Alluring.

He felt his legs take him towards it. Anticipation, as strong as dread. He was  scared, he realized and electrified. Feverish and intoxicated. He wanted to turn back and run away, and he also really really wanted to feel the power residing there. He needed to. 

Lucius opened the door. A fresh scent of magic hit his senses. He didn't know if one could smell magic, but he knew he could. And so so strong and delicious.

His eyes fell on his mother, sitting on one side of the apothecary. The other chair was turned east, occupied by that scent. The scent so sweet and at the same time so bitter, he wanted nothing more than to take it all in, consume it, cherish it. He stopped behind it. Waiting. His mother held out a hand. "Come." She whispered sternly. So he went.Small, swift steps brought him towards the scent in seven turns. And then, he saw him.

Red, red eyes. Pale, pale skin. Long, long fingers. Elegant attire, and so so ugly. 

So ugly and so enchanting. So dark and so bright. He could look at the face forever, he'd do anything, anything to please him. To serve him, follow him, guard him. 

"My Lord." The words escaped his tongue, graced with ease. He felt at home. 

"Draco." He was addressed. The sound of his name at the Dark Lord's tongue elated him. "Dear boy. Come sit."

He could do nothing but obey. It felt right. This was where he belonged, he always have. "I believe your heart is as pure as your blood, Malfoy. Furnished with love for the right people and detest for the damned, is it not?" The Dark Lord's voice rang bells on his mind and soul. He could feel the power radiating from him. 

"It is, my Lord."

"Your mind is charged with knowledge, young Malfoy. I sense it. You acknowledge that, do you not?"

"I do, my Lord."

"Your soul is dark. Future, bright. You're able, my boy. Much more than your father. You realise that, don't you?"

He didn't hesitate. "I do, my Lord."

"You feel the power I possess. And you want it too. You need it as much a I did when I was young boy like yourself. You can sense it flowing in my veins, my stance, my soul. And you crave it." It wasn't a question, so he didn't replied. 

"You crave it and I'll give it to you." He words filled Draco with want, desire to feel the magic, the unbelievably serene power inside him. Caressing him, loving him. 

"Thank you, my Lord. You won't be disappointed." He managed to reply, overflowing with emotions. 

"Are you ready for this, Draco? Ready to be taken up by Dark magic, to feel the intensity of the raging  and overwhelming strength I'm about to give you?"

His ming reeled. He felt completely consumed by him. His power. His words. His promises.

"I wish for nothing more, my Lord."

He saw the Dark Lord smile and felt giddy. Felt elated in a way he never felt before. Joyous, excited, happy.

"Give me your hand, you brave man." 

Draco did. He'd have given him his life, if asked.

The Dark Lord's cool fingers touched his arm softly, caressing him with rigid, loving power. The Dark Lord whispered a spell, a foreign one that sounded like a song. He felt heavenly. Not a sign or touch of pain, not even a twitch of skin as He caressed his skin with his elegant, beautiful wand. And the he hissed something, like a call, a command and a large, heavy snake entered  his field of vision and he gasped. The snake was beautiful, just like it's Master. It slithered towards in gracefully and stared right into Draco's eyes. Draco smiled at it, naturally.

It didn't smile back but tilted it's head slightly in acknowledgement. With a nod to it's Master, the snake pressed it's fangs to his arm.
  
Draco's eyes rolled back. The feeling was so strange and so foreign, he stirred. He awaited pain, a sense of unease that didn't come. What he felt was cold, viscous blood flowing his veins. Filling his body with rage, dread and elation. So many emotions surfaced up that he wanted to cry. And he was happy. More than he's ever been. More than he'll ever be. 

And then, it was over.   

A sudden pang of loss was enough of proof. He opened his eyes, maybe he was in heaven? Or wherever one goes where he feels this free? 

In a slow, guarded motion, his eyes travelled down his arm and halted at the Mark. Two tiny pits designed his skin, the marks of fangs. The Mark lay, proud and dark and clear and ugly. Ugly and not enchanting. 
 
It was revolting.

And then came the pain. He had forgotten what it felt like to feel this way, forgotten it among happiness and elation and love.

A mask.

And the elated feeling was washed away like a terror of dark clouds. He snapped his eyes towards the Lord. Red, dirty eyes greeted him. He jolted back so suddenly that he fell. Face towards the ground, he breathed harder, harsher and long. No one came to help him up. And the pain intensified. Ten folds. Twenty. Thirty. 

Unbearably loud screams filled the void as he panted. It was him.

It lasted. The pain, it always does. Long enough to wreck him, but not enough to kill him. Pity. The pain faded to a dull ache and only then, he heard the voice again.

"Well done, young Malfoy. Very well done. I knew you'd take it well." The voice was dirty. Horrid. Cold. He didn't look up. What has he done?

"Now, stand." He did as was told. No one asked him if he was alright. Not even his parents. He sat, shivering. "Do not worry, my dear boy. The pain was necessary. It's always good to know about the consequences. About what a single wrong decision can cause you." 

It wasn't a simple ritual, it was a warning. Or maybe, that was a part of the ritual after all.

"But know this, with pain comes power." He smiled horridly. "With pain, comes relief."

He waved his wand over Draco, a warm feeling embraced him. He sighed. Eyes closed, he could almost pretend it to be a dream. A dream that'll perish as soon as the  first ray of Sun hits the horizon.

He opened his eyes to reality. He realised that he wasn't a child anymore, an ignorant, puny student who didn't have control over anything. He was Marked. A wave of power twitched inside him. He felt it everywhere.

"Forgive me for intruding, my Lord." His mother's voice jerked him to awareness. So bland. "But you said you have a task for my Draco?"

A task?

The Dark Lord smiled again. "Oh yes. And I'm sure I won't be disappointed." He locked his eyes with Draco and he resisted the urge to vomit.

"Albus Dumbledore." He whispered angrily. "The old cunt is still hovering above my head. Behind the mask of goodness, he craves my power. His want is invisible, terribly so, but I see it. I know him."

He looked right at Draco. "And I want him gone." Draco stilled. Not daring to speak, to breathe. "I want you to kill him, boy." 

Time stopped for Draco. Breathe knocked out of his lungs and his heart beat accelerated. It seemed to have the same effect on the other occupants of the room. No one spoke, for seconds that seemed to last forever.

His father broke the uneasy silence. "𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭 Dumbledore? But he's just a-"

"Don't defy the Dark Lord, Lucius." His mother interrupted him. "It'll be an honour." Draco couldn't even look at her, she wasn't the one he'd like to see. Lucius stared at her.

"I'm sure my Draco will not disappoint. I'll guide him." 

"Good, very good. I'm sure you will. And Narcissa, please arrange our rooms. I will be residing here, the exponent of this room gives me comfort." Oh. Merlin. He was staying here. In his parent's room.

"And I'll be taking little Draco room, here. Oh, how I fell for the bed, my Lord. Salazar, it's so comfy! And let it be said that I won't take no for an ans-"

"Alright Bellatrix, I get it. You'll get what you want. Just keep quiet."

His room. Gone.

"But where will Draco stay?" His father acquired, a bit furious. He schooled up his features soon enough, but that didn't go unnoticed by mother. She gave him a stern look.

"Oh, I don't mind sharing, Lucius." Bellatrix skipped in. Horrified, Draco looked at his mother, hoping she'd say something. Something that won't fucking hurt. 

She didn't even bat an eye.

"Tha-that won't be necessary. I'll arrange something for him." Lucius stuttered.

Draco blocked them out. They argued some more, talked in hushed noises but Draco couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't stand another second in this place. He needed to leave. Right. Now.

"I need to go." He blurted out. Everyone startled as he spoke up. 

"You're not the one to decide when to come and go, boy!" Greyback snarled at him.

"Neither are you, Fernir." The Dark Lord flashed him a wicked look. "The boy is tired."

He turned to Draco. "Don't forget my words, young man. Keep them in mind, ready yourself for the task for I'm not fond of failures. You're dismissed."

Draco didn't need to be told twice, he stood up and turned to leave. His mother cleared her throat pointedly. He quickly uttered and 'Thank you, my Lord' and rushed out.

He ran.

He'd have to walk all the way to his wing, well wherever he was to stay. But he didn't care. Maybe his fatigued legs would steal his attention. Maybe this feeling would go away. Maybe he'd be fine. Maybe all will be well. 

Or maybe he'll die.

He stopped in his tracks. Panting heavily, he realised with ghastly, plain clarity that he's going to die. It was so clear, so transparent and stripped of even a single little uncertainty that his chest ached. 
 
His eyes landed on the Mark. Bright and ugly and dark and pained. Blood fell gracefully from the point where the Dark Lord's snake have bitten him. It shone, dark but bright. It felt alive. But it didn't hurt anymore. 

Physically.

He felt dazed. Scared and lonely. Hurt and disturbed. Uncertain and terrified. But along with the dread; a foreign, exotic, new feeling surfaced.

He felt inevitable.

Chapter Text

"If we're clear about that, shall we move to the next matter?"

Harry groaned. The newly found confidence about a possible victory, gracefully slipped into annoyance. What more could Snape possibly want from him? It was when he raised his gorilla eyebrows that Harry realised he's spoken aloud.

Snape narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows came together to form an elegant 'V' and lips thinned dangerously that warned Harry about the tirade he was about to receive. "It's not me who wants anything from you. It's not me who wants you to flare your almighty wings and perish all their fears like drenched kittens." He said somewhat calmly. "It's definitely not me who you've filled with wild hope that there's even the slightest possibility of making through this mess. And I thought it was quite obvious that I don't expect you to win."

Harry stared at him. Snape's words were frank and sure. True and hid no possibilities of his inner motives about safeguarding Harry's modesty. What he didn't expect, was for them to be hurtful. Of course Snape didn't believe in him. No one should. They have no reason to sink their trusts upon a teenager other than that fact that they're desperate. Desperate for someone, anyone to take lead and guide them, to hold their trembling hands and lead them towards victory. For someone, anyone to follow and someone to blame when everything goes down to hell.

It was just his wonderful luck, that the 'someone' happens to be one Harry James Potter.

At the same time, the fact that Snape wasn't relying on him to save everyone, was oddly reassuring. That there was someone in the least, who saw him as he is - a child.

His lack of trust in Harry shouldn't have been as hurtful as it was. To be honest, he didn't trust the man himself. He's seen too much of atrocity in him to call him good. But he was on elder, one among few who Harry should've been able to put his hopes on. To guide him, reassure him. But a little was always too much to ask from him.

But it wasn't Snape who Harry was worried about. His opinions mattered - however less- but it was the realisation that he wasn't alone on the troop. That there were other people who only saw him as a product of desperate hope, as a normal kid whose life was untainted with prophecies that governed his life. And maybe even, as a no-one.

He sighed, suddenly tired. Maybe there were lots of others who regarded him as a liar. Still. As a puppet feigning gracelessly in the long, manipulative hands of the Ministry, spell-lessly imperioused by them. Or Dumbledore, in a truer sense. And last year was proof enough that he could be despised as thoroughly as the inverse.

If a bunch of people worshipped him, among them were ones who saw him as a nobody, an insignificant teenager pinning for spotlight. Even when the spotlight was a result of his parents' murder and an ugly scar on his forehead.

That grouping was of course, excluding the ones that were out there to kill him.

His eyes shuttered close, another sigh escaping his lips. It was silent for a few minutes while which he could feel Snape's eyes on him. The thoughtful silence was broken when Snape spoke aloud. "I don't expect you to win, but I won't resent being proven wrong."

Harry's eyes snapped open. The words were spoke so quickly that Harry had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn't just imagining them. But Snape was no longer looking at him, staring at the floor quite intensely.

It was obvious that it pained his professor to drop his bloated ego and admit what he did, but the fact that he went out of his way to reassure Harry, brought a smile on his face. That yes, the expectations about his win were about as low as it could possibly get, but they weren't at least, non-existent. The group of people he was worrying about a few moments ago, were on his side and they too would be pleasantly surprised to see Harry doing his best to live up to the expectations. And if supposedly Harry won, they won't curse, but bless him.

He quirked another smile at that, for no good reason but that he wasn't considered incompetent. In the very next moment, he furrowed his eyebrows at his own thoughts. What was he thinking? What the actual fuck was a smiling about? That some people were hopeful, or that he was craving for even a teeny-weeny flicker of hope from the ones who weren't?

He was thinking as if he actually had any idea how to fight this war. Any idea how to not fuck things up and shatter all their hopes like bits of chalice. Hope isn't enough. Encouragement isn't enough. He wasn't sure what was.

The clear sound of a throat being cleared brought him back to the present. He looked up to see Snape's eyes on him. Looking almost bored, but a treacherous bit of amusement flickering his eyes. "You have quite the talent, haven't you?"

Dumbfounded, Harry mumbled intelligently, "Huh?"

Shape's face was blank, practiced and fake. "Your facial expressions. You aren't even aware of what your face does when you're deep in thought, the rarity as it is. I've never seen anyone of the human race making so many atypical faces in thrice as much time as you did." He said, tilting his head sideways. "It was bouncing from one emotion to another like a peckish monkey. Like really, how do you do that?"

He was making fun of Harry, he was sure of it. Annoyance made it's way from underneath, heated and uncalculated. He would have snapped, but Snape interrupted him. "I would have mimicked you, of course -just to aware you of your talent- but I'm not sure I'm whippy enough to do that." He said with a straight face. "It's extraordinarily rare, did I mention?"

He couldn't help it, he snapped. "Yes, you did! And point noted; I'm a jungly, twisted, nutty little lunatic whose expressions jump around like bloody monkeys on heat and maybe I even look like one; screeching and jittering and pink arsed, isn't that right?"

Snape remained impassive. "Your words, not mine."

Harry exhaled. The 'pink arsed' comment was rather unnecessary, he'll agree. But annoyance and smart-words never go hand in hand. Snape's comment did lighten the air, though and Harry took a moment to ponder if that's what he was aiming for.

It was strange, to say the least. Talking to Snape and not wanting to throttle him. Not every second, that is. It wasn't quite as unpleasant as he would've thought in regards of experience. Generally, they both seemed to avoid the other on principle, as much as one could under the same roof; and when found in each others' company, it always seemed forced and the air charged with mutual dislike.

Not that he didn't dislike the wet-head anymore. As far as he knew, the given meeting was forced as well.

And a thought hit him. "Dumbledore sent you here, didn't he?"

Snape's almost amused look dropped and he eyed Harry sternly. "What difference does it make if he did or didn't?"

"Uh, no startling difference as you're here anyway. But really, did he?"

Snape seemed to hesitate. The minute stretched on for too long to be comfortable and Harry could feel the sense of unease edging up again. Snape was very unexpected, after all. Very very unexpected, indeed. A single long-lived conversation with the twat- the one that was currently on an awkward pause- was enough to aware Harry of his natural talent for taking a simple non-offensive comment personally.

To Harry's relief, Snape just sighed. "He did want me to tell you something, yes." He blinked much less than required, Harry noticed in mute horror. "But he wouldn't mind of if I add a few more words myself now, would he?"

Harry couldn't comprehend what was that supposed to mean, so he just murmured cautiously, "Uh-huh."

Snape wiggled his eyebrows that suggested his resistance to an eye roll. "And I may add that it'll be very kind of you to not mention the rest to him."

It took him a may moment to sink the words in. When they did, Harry blanched. "You want me to keep secrets from Dumbledore?"

Snape's lips twisted funnily before settling into a thin line. "Every hidden thing is not necessarily a secret."

Huh. Isn't it?

He furrowed his brows, repeating the sentence mentally. "So you want me to keep hidden things from him?" It didn't sound any more meaningful on his tongue than it did on his head. But that's what Snape was implying, wasn't he?

Harry didn't know if it was possible to keep something from Dumbledore. He seemed to know about everything happening inside the walls of the castle.

Snape sighed, exasperated. "I don't want you to keep hidden things from him. That line makes no sense in any attainable way. But I'll appreciate it if you simply don't mention it to him."

Harry tried -Merlin's tits, he did- but he couldn't find a single difference between the two. Snape looked annoyed. "Look Potter, it isn't that complicated. Just 'don't ment-'"

"Yes, I get it. I get it. I'll keep my mouth shut." He said hurriedly. A jolt of excitement burned his insides as he contemplated the situation.

Dumbledore had known about the prophecy, about Harry's goddamned destiny for long enough to be forgotten by some, but did he utter a word? No. Did he mention anything that may have suggested Harry's ill fate so that he could have started up on his bucket list? No? No.

But what he did was keeping Harry in the dark and unaware of something he deserved to know. Something as important as his life, which seemed to be none of his concern.

Harry sighed. He wasn't resentful towards Dumbledore, not really. He understood that Dumbledore couldn't have just called him out to have a chat with an eleven year about his certain death over a cup of tea. Not when the said eleven year old was having the best time of his life.

He was waiting for the right moment, yes, but it was too long a wait. Too long for Harry to not feel a tinge of betrayal and cozen. Because Harry hadn't been a child for a long time now. Not since his past few interactions with the fount. Not since his blood had ignited Voldemort with life and not since he felt himself bestowed with his skin and soul.

He was young enough to be appalled at the thought of quietus, sure, but old enough to except it. Easily enough, after brushing past it more times than he'd like to admit.

Being kept in the dark for so long, Harry wasn't keen of 'knowing' a secret anymore than 'unknowing' it. But the idea of not telling Dumbledore about something, something that seemed important, was alarmingly, wickedly tempting.

"I won't tell him." He said, taking a shaky breath. "Now, what is it I'm not telling him?"

Snape nodded, a hint of satisfaction quirking his face. "I'm taking you somewhere."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He couldn't help feeling a bit testy at the prospect of Snape taking him somewhere. For no reason he could comprehend, it felt like Snape was kidnapping him. "Where?" He aked hurridly. "And when?"

Snape stood up, brushing off his cloak. "Now, if you please."

"Now?" Harry stuttered. He glanced at his clock. "It's half past midnight!"

Snape didn't even turn his way, moving towards the door. "Precisely."

"Wha-where are we going?" He asked, stepping out of the bed as well. Snape turned, eyes half closed in annoyance. "Why don't you let me show you?" He held out his hand.

Snape was asking Harry to hold his greasy hand? Duh, from the looks of it. But, really what the fuck?

At Harry's reluctance, Snape shook his head exasperatedly. "We're apparating." He said in a matter-of-fact voice that Harry decided he didn't like at all. "But of course, you don't know what that is." He continued. "Just come on now and I'll try not to insult you."

Harry turned to speak but Snape interrupted him. "And you ought to be quick, you'll have to pack once you get back. Dumbledore will be collecting you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" He murmured. A little forewarning is always nice, and people always refused him just that.

"Yes. Now here." He raked, pointedly offering his arm.

Harry didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. "Not before you tell me where we're going." He demanded, folding his arms and trying to look stern. And not failing, hopefully.

Snape sighed and took a step towards Harry. His hand reached out to touch Harry's and just as it did and a pitiful jolt of being pulled engulfed him, he heard Snape's soft murmur, "Godric's Hollow."