A/N- I was told to continue this story, my source will remain anonymous, but I was still told, and I haven't forgotten about my other stories, per say, it's just, well, we'll say I'm at a permanent stand still- but I'm actually doing my own writings again, not a whole lot of Fanfic stuff, but actual stuff, my stuff. I'm proud of myself for that, especially for We Were Pirates and A Girl Named Jack. But, yeah, I know I have these Fanfics to continue as well and it would be a sort of blasphemy if I continued my original stuff and stopped my FFs altogether. Maybe when I actually complete them all I'll just write my stuff, but till then, let the Fanfic reign supreme.

-Chapter One: The Scene Proceeds with Nostalgic Envy-

Mac came around to the dull throb of her head and the low chatter of someone talking, maybe laughing.

She groaned loudly, rolled over, and fell face first onto what could only be the floor; "Mother fucker!" she cursed brashly, bringing the conversation in the next room to an abrupt halt.

She didn't know where she was, she didn't much care, she couldn't quite remember why she was there, but she knew she was there, if that made a lick of sense, which Mac highly doubted. She also couldn't remember how she had gotten there; all she remembered of that distant ache was a pair of fierce emerald eyes.

Once again she cursed violently, "Mother Fucker!" that said, she flopped back to the floor and into darkness, emeralds swimming through her nightmares like angels through dreams.

Harry had been arguing furtively with Remus Lupin through the flames of his fireplace, when something Remus had said had struck him as funny, his laughter had died short when he heard the solid thud behind him, followed shortly with:"Mother Fucker." Maybe he shouldn't laugh at that, after all she hadn't come willingly, but all the same…

He grinned harshly and turned fully to face his "prisoner".

She had fallen off the couch Harry called his bed and onto the floor. He went swiftly to her and pulled her listlessly into his arms.

She was soft.

So soft.

So innocent and pure.

Holding her, Harry remembered a younger Mackenny, with wide pink eyes and large black curls. A more innocent Mac; a Mac untouched by the world, untouched by the realities of death and destruction. A Mac who knew nothing of chaos or heartbreak; who had yet to experience boys, parties, and faux-true love.

Where had that Mackenny gone?

Why had she run away from everyone, from everything at thirteen? Had the shock of discovering that Sirius was in fact her father been too much? Harry didn't think so. He believed, though he had kept all his scrutiny's to himself, that Mac had left because she had no longer felt loved, no longer needed. Had she stayed, he knew without a doubt that Miles' unique philosophy on life would have crushed her. But maybe not, she had survived through the death of her mother without ever shedding a tear, in public at least.

But here she was now, in his arms, and holding her felt too damn good to be any good at all. He felt a wave of longing wash over him.

Nostalgia. Personally, Harry reflected grimly, he called it Hell.

He wondered why looking at her now would bring about thoughts of things he could never have, and with them an ache that weighed heavy on his heart. He had never felt this way before, he had never truly wanted the things holding Mac evoked; if she had been anyone else, Harry would've taken his reaction as pure lust, but it was her, and Christ, she was so damn young.

Mac woke to the feel of a body pressed against hers. She stretched gingerly, working out all the kinks and cranks that had worked their way into her joints; then she felt her way along the body against hers and knew it to be male.

Reaching up with a tentative hand Mac felt along a stubble covered chin and then began to trace the contrastingly soft lips when a whispered moan that sounded very much like Kenny, brushed her fingers.

She pulled her hand back with startled speed, she was about to topple over the edge of the tiny couch, when very male arms wrapped around her waist. "Good mornin'," the sleepy male voice uttered in her ear.

"Morning…" Mac whispered cautiously back, the voice sounded strangely familiar, but she wasn't going to trust it, not yet. "Where am I?" the strangely male voice began to chuckle, his voice sounded hoarse, world-weary, and just plain tired.

"Welcome to Hell, love," he muttered, his breath tickling her ear and his voice sending procreating-nerve-endings throughout her body, "Did you think it could be any place else?"

Mac frowned, "Are you the Devil, then?" she felt him smile.

"Some have thought so," was his one response.

"And you?" she murmured, "What do you think?" her voice sounded just a little too breathy for her liking and her body was reacting to him with a little too much lust; she hadn't even seen his face and her body was screaming for him! She hoped he hadn't noticed.

"Me…" he held on that one word as if no one had ever asked him what he thought of himself, "Me, I think it's time to get up, Mackenny." With that he sat up, forcing Mac out of the curve of his body, placing her feet firmly on the floor. She turned to stare at him in question.

He was handsome. No, not handsome, he was too weathered to be truly handsome; he was more rakish, rougher. But his eyes, they were truly remarkable. Green fire encased by shadows from sleepless nights and fringed with lines made from both laughter and tears. She remembered those eyes, remembered them as if from some long forgotten dream, or nightmare. Then one memory became clearer, she'd been eleven, maybe a little older, and he'd come to her house; no, not her house, but he'd been there, he'd been there to help find…to help find her mother.

"Harry Potter?" she half whispered, half croaked.

"Mackenny Snape or is it Black?" he reiterated with a calm Mac didn't feel.

"Mackenny Turner, my father doesn't exist."

"Well that's too bad, because you have a man, two men who have claimed you thusly and one man is in dire need of your help."

Mac scoffed, her reaction highly Snape-like, "I have Five other siblings who can help him-"

"No."

"What?"

"I said no, you don't have siblings that can help. They're all dead, Mac, the ones that would be willing to help, anyways; and then there's the bloody reason we need you."

Mac stared at him in open-faced horror, "Why do you need me? Why come to me?"

Harry sighed, "You know that answer, Kenny, don't make me say it out loud."

"I need to hear it!" she hissed vehemently.

He stared into her eyes quietly a moment before quietly stating, "Miles." Mackenny felt her world careen violently out of control before Harry was holding her, shushing her and telling her everything would be alright; and of course it would, but to get there she might just have to kill her brother in the process.

A/N- Done, the next won't be so long, I promise, I just haven't had much drive to write, my source has hence become my muse- so enjoy and please review.