She had punctured something within herself; her stamina suddenly deflated. Her face crumpled, chin moving up and down, frantically swallowing the salty trickle trying to gather in her eyes.


I never touched your sister.


It was his only defense, his only weapon against the blantantly horrific thing of which she had accused him. And he hadn't, Severus knew, in the abyssmall secrets which he kept so covertly concealed, that he had never harmed her kindred.


Nadyae gazed at him soberly, traces of heat and moisture blown away. All that was left was the hardened, rancorous resin of the unfairness of the life that she had been leading.


Prove it.


She crossed her arms, request mockingly implausible and nakedly simple. She was radiating some other kind of heat, a brand of injustice only a murder can alight.

You know perfectly well I cannot.


His voice found its pitch of monotony, the place between the velvet and the blade. His intelligence, scholastic conquests and all the irony in the world could not have helped him. Only his word would save him, and he knew well it was worth nothing to her.


You swear it?.


Severus had armed himself against more guiltless claims. Her ready acceptance of something that she had no doubt been searching for, was almost blasphemous. It made her cause seem lost.


I swear it. On my soul, even, if it's still redeemable.


He had tried to inject humor, no matter how black, and found that it only shed extraneous light on the truth.


Is there a way to hold you to your word? A bond?.


She gripped her shirt, the material pucking around her heart


I have no wand, therefore I have no way in which to perform or administer this kind of seal.


His reply was blank and concise, and her reaction was impassive. Obviously, she hadn't been considering something with magic.


What about blood?.


She offered up her wrist, the milky green of her pulse twitching softly in the light. He noted with what naturalistic accuracy all the arteries met, with what godly precision the columns of her tendons conjoined.


Severus knew that blood was by far the most volatile of the humors. His own blood was tainted, rotted underneath his skin. The brand which had been used to mark him contained slight, but traceble amount of blackest, most vile and malignant magic.


You can't bond with me. Not with this.


He tapped his arm, feeling her marbled gaze settle heavily onto his forearm.


Then trust isn't an option. Why shouldn't I just leave you out to fend for yourself?.


He was trapped against a wall, and she was dangling the strings which kept his whole façade from being toppled. She was tasting power, a thing which she had never considered an option. Severus knew only too well how devastatingly sweet the temptation could be.


You would never be able to make a pact in blood with me anyway. My blood would be adverse to yours. You would go into shock and most likely die. Magic can't be solved by pills or needles, especially the Darkness. You meddle in thing's you shouldn't, fair warrior.


She looke indifferent, perhaps not understanding, but most likely not caring as to what his blood would do to yours.


I don't care. I have to trust you; I can't just take your word.


My blood would attack and mingle with yours. You would die in a matter of minutes; it's like a virus, the way it attaches and leeches. Haven't I enough scars already?.


He snarled this, feeling a twinge below his left nipple, where he had first been run through with a sword. The ecstatic feeling of glacial metal on overexerted muscle was exquisite.


Blood is blood. I need to know the truth, I haven't had a day's rest because I've been trying to find them and kill them. If you stand here and lie to me, I swear I'll kill you.


Her chosen words were simple, and her wish was absolute. He had little doubt that she would indeed kill him, but to run after Malfoy and Voldemort, that was running headlong off the cliff with the noose still attached.


You haven't any idea who you're looking for. The men that you seek are among the earth's most vile creations. Voldemort is unrecognizable as human, and his followers have no souls. You're trying to kill a leader who employs giants, vampires, dragons and the walking dead. It's a losing battle, Nadyae. Please, listen to me.


He stepped forward, and she stepped back; a quick, spritely and automatic dance. She looked confused, lost and so childlike, it was like witnessing a metamorphasis.


Do this. Please, for me.


She was whispering, staring with widened and imploring eyes at her wrists and his hand.


Severus took a deep breath, steadying his heart, and slowing the trickle of poison in his heart. He felt his own arm flinch suddenly, an imginary, but poignant knife cutting his own arm cleanly.


Get me a blade.












A/N: Made the language simpler, and put less metaphors. Blood is an inherent part of magic around the world, but it would make sense that those who have been affected by great evil, that their blood would contain something a shade less human than the rest. Almost like missing a chromosome or something. Anyway, thanks to everyone who reads. Title roughly translates: blood of my blood