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Note: I wasn't going to post anything tonight, but this idea came to me, so I wrote it. Please don't whine about the length, it's not becoming.

Chapter 27: On the Choice of Coffee

Severus Snape sat in his quarters drinking his coffee. Strong. Cream. No sugar. His coffee was, however, charmed to appear black. He did have a reputation as a Hardened Bastard to maintain, after all, and everyone knew that Hardened Bastards did not take cream in their coffee. Albus always handed Snape his coffee pre-charmed. Albus could be relied on for things like that. Though that dratted twinkle always sparkled in his eyes as he humored people on such things. Thus was Albus's nature.

Snape knew that he would have to speak to Draco soon. He was deciding what to say. Snape could have healed the boy's arm the night before, though he thought it better to allow the mark to remain: it served as a reminder of sorts. Snape glanced at the pensieve on his coffee table. He had borrowed it from Albus once again. This would not be a pleasant morning, for or for Draco.

There was a knock on Snape's door. "Enter," said the man, a wave of his arm opening the door.

Draco entered, looking a bit frightened. "You wanted to see me, sir," said the elegant blond boy. The boy was a prince, and he knew it well. Not the son of royalty, but a prince nonetheless. The boy was spoiled as one, his every need and whim being seen to by those who served him. He carried himself as a prince, and expected to be treated as such. His expectations were generally fulfilled. Not today.

"Come here, Draco," said Snape, indicating the sofa near the armchair he himself was currently occupying.

Draco sat. Severus chose his words carefully. He could not expose himself as a spy, yet he could not allow the prince who sat before him to sacrifice himself to the Dark Lord, to sacrifice himself for Severus's mistakes. And that is how the potions master saw it. If Severus had not failed so long ago, he would be able to guide this boy with the air of a veela openly. Snape did not adore Draco, not by any means. But he was rather fond of him, in his own way.

"I want to show you something," said Snape, his voice even. "You carved the Dark Mark onto your skin." The boy self-consciously put a hand to his left forearm. Snape put his wand to his temple, extracting the memory of his own Marking. Snape carefully put the memory into the bowl before him. The runes engraved on the bowl were lost to history. What they said was not known, but their power was apparent by the function they helped to serve. Snape had always liked the study of ancient runes as a subject in school. Snape only allowed his thoughts to wander for a moment. This was a difficult morning, and he allowed himself that much.

Snape brought his thoughts back to the present. He looked at the boy sitting in front of him, his face open and earnest. Draco's face was not always cold and harsh. That face was a mask which he wore in public. Snape hoped that that mask did not become permanently affixed to the handsome face beneath it. Draco trusted Snape, and Severus was not about to squander that trust by allowing the boy's misguided thoughts and emotions to draw him to the Dark Lord.

"The memory in this bowl is of my own Marking, Draco. I want you to witness it." The boy seemed a bit confused, and more than a bit hesitant. Snape thought that that was a good sign.

"Look, Draco," said Snape after a moment had passed and Draco had made no move to enter the pensieve.

Draco went over to the coffee table, kneeling in front of it. Draco would soon see Severus in a similar position, only in front of the Dark Lord rather than an inanimate object. Draco put his head into the bowl.

Snape knew what Draco would be seeing, and could replay the memory in his own mind as vividly and accurately as it would play for Draco in the pensieve. Contrary to a common misconception, one did not lose his or her memory of an event by extracting it, only a certain force that maintained the memory: that is why the memory an extracted memory would not be accessible through Legilemency.

Draco would see the kneeling and groveling involved in a meeting of Death Eaters, and the pain associated with joining said group. Snape could only hope that the boy would have second thoughts about joining. At least the elder Malfoys saw it fit to wait for Draco's graduation before proceeding with the ritual. There was, at the least, still time. Snape did not allow himself the luxury of hoping that by then his son would have defeated Voldemort. Dreams are folly, Snape knew. Dreams and hope were as treacherous as the heart. Many would say that Snape did not allow himself the luxury of having a heart, and Snape encouraged such thoughts. It served his Purposes well, and Snape existed to serve his Purposes. Snape was a tool, he knew that well: he did not deserve to exist as more, not since the event which Draco was currently viewing in Dumbledore's pensieve.

Severus knew the memory thoroughly enough to know that it was now drawing to a close. Severus put a hand on Draco's shoulder. The boy was clammy, pale. There was a tremor coursing through his body.

Draco looked at Severus with haunted eyes. The memory wasn't any more terrible than someone opposed to the Dark Lord might expect. The receipt of the Mark was far from pleasant, though there weren't any sadistic rituals associated with it, as some might expect. No. The boy had certainly witnessed worse, Severus had no doubt that Draco had seen Lucius torture Muggles. He was certain that Lucius was one of the Masked Men involved in the tormenting of the Muggle family that maintained the campsite at which the Quidditch World Cup took place. No. The boy was shaken because his notions of what it meant to serve the Dark Lord were fairytale stories that he had grown up with: stories of power and prestige. Stories of serving something Great.

What Draco saw was a madman who inflicted suffering upon his followers. A madman who demanded complete obeisance from those who faced him, a man who branded his followers not simply so that he could Summon them, but to prove his ownership of them. No. The romantic ideas that Draco doubtless had of serving Greatness had just been shattered, his world had been devastated, his beliefs crushed like so many spider legs for use in a Daftness Draught.

Yet Draco was a Slytherin above all else, save perhaps a Malfoy. He would survive. He would do what he must. The question that remained was whether Draco would see joining Voldemort as survival, or whether he would risk everything - his family, his fortune, his very life - to truly survive: to survive with his control over himself intact. Would Draco choose to be a slave? Would he see that as survival? Or would he turn, and take another path, a path he had never previously considered, a path down which many dangers and many uncertainties lay?

"Choose wisely," said Severus, looking Draco in his silver eyes, his gaze never faltering.