A/N: I suppose I should tell you all that I'm truly sorry for the delay...but I can't. I failed two modules, had to repeat, and my relationship is on the rocks over my increasing attention to the laptop. My girlfriend was right...abit of sun and exercise, abit of life really does change your perspective. I still love writing, but I WILL limit myself to time frames. It will affect my writing, have no doubts about it.
Next up, this story is NOT abandoned. I will note however that TBOAD is on a long term hiatus. I just lost the motivation for it. I've been reading Jim Butcher's LIveJournal lately, and I realized that the lack of planning actually affects 80 PERCENT of writers out there, who end up either
Putting their fics on hiatus...or
Giving up their stories.
Which was essentially what happened with TBOAD. I just went in, head on, all bluster no plans and screwed up everything. I'm stuck between planning and re-writing. Not to mention that fucking drama queen Swim calling down a bunch of fan-boys insisting I plagiarized him on a FANFICTION website.
Fuck, seriously?
Moving on.
I want all budding writers to know these – plan, plan, plan. Check for loopholes every 3 chapters. Check for mistakes every paragraph, and then spam f7 to find spelling mistakes. I get so damn irritated when I see generally enjoyable fics(not grammatically or whatever the hell you'd call it sound, but plot-wise, enjoyable) like the Harry Potter and the Veela Bond by DrgnMstr.
The general idea is fine. Hell, the plot moves along ok. (Albeit with a few giant clichés in your face...but everything is made well by erotica..even if its sub-par.) But the writing...just KILLS everything.
The word Prophet is spelled 'profit' apparently.
Wtf? PROOF-CHECK DAMNIT!
Finally, most important of all, I wish to thank the reviewers, the alert adders, the story favourite trackers, the encouragement people have sent via pm(s) and emails.
Credits to Sythe for his amazing story, Tis Femina, and any and all influences that it has in my story. And last but not least, Lori Foster, Steven Erikson, and many others will always have my gratitude.
About Timeframes:
I'm not entirely too sure about the dates and times of what happened at what time and date in HBP, but while I'm at it, this story will be entirely non-HBP compliant with the changing and recasting of events, times, places, and happenings.
Please bear in mind all given dates are done on purpose.
Mind the rating.
Chapter 1 – Rolling the dice
5th July, 1996
Diagon Alley, at a quarter past twelve was not unlike a ghost town. Bereft of its usual lights and displays of magic, torn from its envisioned safety previously enforced by the now largely ineffective Ministry, the shopping district – once popular – felt as if it was devoid of life and magic. It was as if she was walking through the aftermath of an apocalypse, through the skeleton remains of a town that had been left to rot for millennia.
Yet, here and there, everywhere she turned her eyes on, small signs of magic and evidence of life stared back in defiance; a shop sign that spun without so much as a gentle breeze, forgotten mugs of ale and Firewhisky on the lids of barrels, and the soft imprints of boots on what soft dirt there was to be found between the cracked, cobbled floor under her feet.
Yes, Magical Britain was still very much alive.
Alive.
The word jarred for a moment, and she took the chance to consolidate her thoughts. There was joy - a rare occurrence - its presence leaping around her insides like an overexcited child high on sugar. There was also life. And that was good. Life meant hope, and with the Dark Lord's reign of terror just begun anew – hope, was fast becoming a rare commodity.
Pulling her hood down further, Narcissa reached into the seams of her robes and fingered the warm length of her wand, relishing the gentle thrill of its reply, then further down, the hilt of the first of her rune-engraved throwing knives. There was no need to tempt fate. The night was never truly safe. Its shadows hid the denizens of darkness: thieves, murderers, rapists.
The world of the purebloods, for all of its vaunted values, remained as dangerous and as street-safe as the early 1800's of Muggle Britain. Steeling herself, Narcissa made her way down the alley and towards the monolithic, ivory white gate that marked Gringotts entrance.
She had tasks at hand.
They could not be delayed.
10th July, 1978
Violet eyes flared open, and her mouth opened in a silent, gasping start.
Silence; because she'd long learned to void all sounds with her magic, and then to push all her fears into the deep dark chasms that spanned across her mind like spider-cracks. No fear, no sound. There was only anger, and a raw burning hatred that gripped her by the very souls and rattled her till she shook with the urge to do something.
Yet…
The night was as black, cold and empty as ever. What had awakened her?
Curtains of snow fell like so much like ash outside of her bedroom window, and fingers of frost seeped in around the warped frame, but it wasn't the deep dark of the night that made her skin crawl with uneasiness and her hands clammy. It wasn't the weather that left chills and goose bumps rising along her arms.
Put the dumbest animal into a field of slaughtered kin, then watch its mind tear itself apart and reconstruct itself into a survivor. Out of necessity, Bellatrix had learned to read the future of things. Clues were dropped all the time…body language, moods, unvoiced motivations…even the dumbest animal would adapt to survive.
Heart beating a staccato impact against her ribs, she strained to listen.
Nothing; there was hardly anything to disturb the night beyond the furious pounding of blood in her ears. Keen eyes surveyed only shifting darkness, molded and moved by the shadows cast off her bedside lamp.
She dismissed her abrupt return to consciousness, ready to turn in for the-
Thump.
She froze.
Thump.
A footstep.
The floorboards groaned.
And just that easily, the carefully placed shield holding back the fear deep within her mind fractured, shattering outwards. The roar of a thousand nightmares flooding into her mind assaulted her fractured nerves like spell fire, twisting her stomach into painful knots. Her father was coming to her bedroom. A sob crawled up her throat, but she ruthlessly gulped it back down.
She'd known it would happen, and she'd already decided to do something about it. She had to take control of her life. She was eighteen now, a grown woman. And that presented both a problem and a solution. Her body drew unsolicited attention, and her looks sent teenagers into lust. She was blessed with generous endowments as were her sisters. Yet, unlike them, she had no one to shield her, no one to protect her from someone who held a firm position of power over her.
As if in slow motion, she turned her head to watch the doorknob turn, tightening her panic and calming it at the same time. She'd reached her resolution. There would be no victims this night. Her wand had long been confiscated early in the night. And without it, she was left with nothing but the oil lamp at her bed side table.
It wasn't much compared to a full-grown man's strength, and the power of a wizard's wand over a melee weapon…yet surprise had always held a distinct advantage. Resolve weighed heavily in her chest, forming an agonizing lump. She'd planned for this many times. The oil lamp would but have to connect…and he'd be inundated long enough for her to run…
With a bang, the door was thrown open, a jet read beam of light blasting through and wrenching the lamp out of her grasp. There was a harsh bark of laughter, and then he was on her, oily hands sliding under her night clothes and tearing them apart in his haste. His breath, rancid, and stinking of alcohol came in hot, short pants as he struggled atop of her.
"Stop struggling, you little whore!"
He punctuated the insult with a harsh backhand that left her stunned, drained. Starbursts did their best to black her out as pain scorched through her body. She could feel herself starting to lose consciousness, but she wouldn't let that happen – couldn't let that happen.
Find the deepest, darkest hole you can find in your mind sister, and crawl into it. And pray, hope, that he doesn't drag you out by the hair…
Never!
He was cackling now, short little rasps of laughter that bellied forth as he undressed her and himself. She bid her time, waiting. The feel of his rough hands scraping against her skin made disgust well up deep inside of her, but she couldn't give away her hand yet.
Not. Just. Yet.
For a minute or so, Bellatrix lay on her side, taking short, sharp breaths, pretending to be the damaged slip of a girl who could barely defend herself…yet you are, sweet daughter of mine, and I will have a taste of you before I whore you out!
Her eyes snapped wide open, and into the rheumy gray of her Black senior's as his thoughts flooded her mind.
Fuck.
You.
Shock shot through his features, and then a terrible rage as he dragged her up by the hair and threw her into the window, slamming her head against the glass panels, once, twice, three times before he shoved her onto the bed and bent over her. Her skin was soft, supple, and so alike her dear mother's that he could feel himself harden at the thought of entering her.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip, slid down the middle of his back, and his breath came fast and low. With one hand, he held back the thread bare material of her negligee, and with the other, he stroked himself against her sex between her legs, luxuriating in the soft feel of her flesh.
Merlin, Morgana, and Maeve, she was sexier than ever, a woman made to be fucked hard and long. By him. Her breasts were big and round, more than twice a handful as he cupped one in his palm, feeling the soft weight of her. Her legs were long, so long they'd be able to wrap around him and squeeze him tight.
This was heaven.
Ha!
This was fucking fantastic.
The potion he'd taken earlier had long kicked into his system, and he relished the buzzing high in his head that seemed to make him invincible. But he was no fool. His daughter inherited his own cunning, and her mother's sharp mind.
He wasn't one to taunt, but this time, he couldn't resist. Not when the little bitch had dared to defy him. He stared hard at her face and concentrated, taking in the pout of her perfect ruby red lips, those slanted eyes and the sharp jaw that defined her as the most sought after bride-to-be.
She was not to be wed yet. But soon…she would be. Not however, before he could have her.
And her thoughts wereoh so open…
'Yet you are, sweet daughter of mine, and I will have a taste of you before I whore you out!'
Her answer was not altogether expected.
Fuck.
You.
And then she jerked her carefully positioned knee hard against his open groin, her hands wrapping around his thick neck to pull his face down as she slammed her forehead into his nose. He coughed, spluttered, and gasped as the acute pain took hold then slumped to the side, cradling his injury with one hand and reaching for his wand with the other.
She didn't spare him a glance. Eyes fixed on the small oil-lamp, her body pivoted as her legs started to move towards it. Muffled swear words came from behind her. But that didn't matter, the lamp did. If he was fast enough….she'd soon know.
Her palm slapped down onto the lamp as if swatting a fly, and then she was spinning on her heels, gathering momentum as that terrible rage brought her off the floor with a surge of incredible power. Pushing up, he lurched back and banged into the bed's headboard. His face didn't register fear, or surprise as she closed in, just anger as he raised his wand, an incantation on his lips.
Her eyes remained fixed on his face as she swung the heavy lamp downward, making contact above his cheekbone. His skin folded over just below his eye, then split open just before he toppled off her bed with a scream, corpulent body scraping against her bare legs on the way down. Satisfaction roared through her. For once, Bellatrix didn't feel helpless. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, giving her awesome strength.
She was in charge.
She was almighty.
Bellatrix eyed the hunched figure of her father scrambling on the floor, groaning and swearing – and screamed. Not even bothering to position herself properly, she lashed out wildly; once, twice, three times. The lamp struck against his skull for the first two strikes, both with such force that that her arm jarred to a halt as she made contact, on the third strike, the lamp struck his face and shattered, sending razor sharp glass shards into his flesh and around the room.
For once, Bellatrix savored the raw shriek of stunned pain that gurgled from deep in his throat. He held up his hands, face turned half away from her as if to protect it. Using the base of the now broken lamp, she landed a solid blow against his temple. His hands batted at her, but she ignored it, unable to stop herself as she struck him again, then once more before his hands fell and he fell back, hands falling limply to the side.
Panting, crying silently, she stood just out of his reach, gulping air. Her negligee was twisted around her body, her curly hair long and tangled, half hanging in her eyes. The now broken lamp was held aloft with both fists, ready. Bellatrix waited for his curses, his fists, for anything…but the man never stirred.
Her throat burned, and the repulsive aftertaste of stomach acid burned in her mouth.
Oh, Merlin.
Her legs shook, and her lungs hurt. The lamp dropped from shaky hands as she went pressed her father's wand against the notch by the doors. There was a light whine, but the lamps lit nonetheless, allowing her to survey the damage. Stripped clean of emotion, she took in his mangled, unrecognizable face. There was too much blood, too much swelling and bruising to properly make out his features.
Had she killed him?
Strangely, there was no remorse as she examined the body - only a profound sense of loneliness. Knuckling aside the tears, she forced herself to think. She knew nothing of first aid and it didn't take a genius to see he was no longer breathing. There was so much blood – on him, on the floor, on her. Using the bare toes of her left foot, Bellatrix nudged him.
He didn't budge.
There was no response from him. Not a sound nor movement to indicate life.
She'd killed him.
Pity became an acrid taste in her mouth – pity for herself, for what she'd been forced to become; a murderer. It worked its way up her throat until she sobbed, but she immediately stuck her fist against her quivering mouth to silence herself. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, pouring another drink, singing to herself in her drunken slut, as oblivious and as uncaring of her daughters' welfare as ever.
Merline, but she hated her.
At least, that was what Bellatrix tried to tell herself as her heart shattered into tiny little pieces. It hurt so bad…
In her mind, Bellatrix Black was dead, dead and buried. After tonight the pain would go away.
She'd make it go away. She drew a deep breath to calm herself. Pushing aside the revulsion, she dropped to her knees and dug in his pockets until she located his pouch. It was swollen and heavy with the winnings from the weekly betting rounds. It appeared Black Sr. had won much tonight. It was hers now.
Thanks to her recent coming-of-age, there were no restrictions, and no Familial laws to keep her in check. In a matter of minutes, she was dressed and ready to go. She had her clothes, enough coin to last her for months, and the family tomes. Nothing else was needed.
She liberated her wand with a quick summon and then snapped his into before tossing them into the grate. As she climbed out her bedroom window into the damp cold spring night, she glanced back at the fallen form of her father. He was dead, and good riddance. As far as she was concerned, Bellatrix Black had died with him. The scared young woman was gone, and a new, free woman had emerged. A better life awaited her.
It might not be great, but in no way could it be worse.
5th July, 1996
As the vivid dream faded, Bellatrix stretched awake on the narrow, lumpy mattress.
She had been wrong.
It had been worse…and yet, it was all so far in the past now…
Or was it?
She could still remember the trashing, frenzied limbs of a dying man; the faint aroma of feces from where she'd been imprisoned down in the dungeons, feel the warm piss of a man who'd been choked to death by the very irons he'd slapped on his whore…
Shaking her head and brushing aside her morbid thoughts, Bellatrix rose from her bed and padded over to the window, shoving it all the way open, delighting in the soft vapors of rain that caressed her body, washing away the scent of stale sex. Summer rain - a rare occurrence - pattered against the window, and for a brief moment, a sense of déjà vu settled over her.
With bated breath, she waited. It was as if the world, the rain, the raw smell of sex, saliva and semen that lingered in the room had just been obscured and a giant blindfold pulled over her senses….yet there was no sense of danger, no threat, and her heart swelled with relief, with honest happiness.
Her cousin's Portkey had been timely, and his conditions; acceptable, considering the vast gulf that now separated her from the Dark Lord.
As of last night, she'd turned her last trick, and knowing that sent a bounty of energy rippling through her. Perched on the window sill, she flipped her head forward and gathered her impossibly long hair in her hands. With the cloth-covered band from her nightstand, she secured the unruly mass into a high ponytail then left the window to take a proper shower.
Lingering under the spray of hot water and steam, Bellatrix washed away every trace of the man who'd paid for her body, and at the same time, she washed away the past. She would not rue the things she'd done, because she'd survived. Besides…with Sirius's proposal…the past month wouldn't matter either way.
Wrapped in a terry cloth robe, she left the bath-room and made coffee, a Muggle drink she'd come to enjoy. Her home for the past month was an efficiency apartment with a miniscule bathroom, a double bed, and a hotplate for cooking. It was small, and she had barely enough room to turn, but it was cozy – and most importantly, under the Fidelius charm.
The flat was Spartan in the way of furnishings. Bellatrix saw no need for the normally requisite couches and chairs. Instead, bookshelves lined the walls from top to bottom and column to column. They'd saved her, and they were like her trusted friends. When she needed comfort, she revisited them. When she'd been idle, the books had alleviated the boredom. When she'd been alone, the books provided a world she could lose herself in.
With a grin and a swish of her wand, the books piled into her trunk along with her other belongings before she set about getting ready.
The Pearl provided secrecy, security, and privacy. That said, it would have been but a fool's choice to meet elsewhere. Elsewhere; where husbands searched, hunters tailed, and the unholy wrath of a slighted dark lord loomed ever present.
Sat across her sister, Narcissa merely observed the startling changes wrought by a near month of healthy living, breathing…freedom.
To conceal the natural pale pallor of her cheeks, Bella had smothered them beneath a layer ivory face powder. Her lips were painted rouge scarlet, and the dark graceful arches of her brows were that much striking against it. Her hair was sleeked up and away from her face with a pair of mother-of-pearl combs, then to allow the glossy ringlets to tumble freely down her back.
The style revealed a hint of a widow's peak and sculpted cheekbones that were normally hidden by a soft fringe of curls, making her look both older and more worldly –yet no less beautiful. The startling whiteness of her face and powdered bosom only made the glossy black satin of her gown seemd more decadent. It's artfully ruched bodice was cut deep and off the shoulder, imbuing her neck with a swanlike grace accentuated by her black velvet choker.
A fevered excitement glittered in her eyes. Narcissa smiled.
"How are you, sister?"
Narcissa Malfoy – or Black, now that she came to think of it – sat at one end of the table, and she at the other. Ten years in absence of communications, yet, her sister was as simple to read as she was when they'd both been but mere children.
It's good to see you, sister.
Tonight, the child had grown into a woman. And a beautiful woman indeed.
For this night, she wore emerald green silks, the short coat tight-fitting, collarless to expose her unadorned, powdered throat and low-cut to reveal her scented breasts. Her hair was tied up, speared through with silver pins. Rouge blushed her cheeks. Kohl thickened her lashes. Earrings depended from her ears in a tumbling, glittering array, emerald green and sapphire blue. The coat's short sleeves revealed her bare arms, the skin smooth, toned, unstained by the stun.
Leggings of brushed kid leather covered her lower limbs and on her feet were the latest styles of sandals, the ones with a high, peg-like heel. Amber wine glimmered in crystal goblets. Candlelight painted soft and gold every detail in a pool that faded beyond the gloom between the two at the table. The servants moved in shadows, appearing only to clear dishes, rearrange settings, and deliver yet more food.
Naricissa spoke first.
"How are you, sister?"
Bright smiles lit on the faces of both women, before the long lost sisters reunited, and awaited the arrival of The-Boy-Who-Lived.
1st July, 1996, 4 days before activation of Portkeys by Narcissa and Bellatrix.
Midnight poured shadows into the cramped room. The dull monotony of the restless night and the heavy taint of rancid malevolence, hung thick in the air. It'd been this way ever since Voldemort had assumed human form. The nights seemed to stretch on forever and the threat of death and sudden violence seemed to perpetuate everything the shadows touched.
With the large caliber pistol he'd liberated from his uncle's hunting gun cabinet resting against the flat of his palm and his finger curved around the trigger, Harry lay unmoving, turning the small golden knut over and over again in his hand.
Nothing.
Harry frowned before turning over the portkey in his hands. The coin was in perfect condition. There were no marks or burrs, nor were there any scratches to even imply the slightest damage been done to the transportation device. Goblin made Portkeys were notoriously hardy…yet it didn't work.
Had the letter been a hoax?
No…not possible…
He knew his Godfather's writing. He could smell the distinctive scent of ink. Yet, niggling suspicions continued to gnaw at his mind as he bounced questions back and forth. A new sense of unease rippled through him as he turned the golden knut over in his hand, and leaned back against the wall, contemplative.
Was it the wards? Or had he overestimated the capability of Goblin magic? Despite the lack of owls this summer, Gringott's package had still been delivered, their customer's last wishes served.
He didn't know, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.
His control over Occlumency was rudimentary, but practice had reduced the load and stress that the Mind Arts had induced over time. Pushing the questions into a corner of his, he covered them with a metaphorical dust jacket, and moved on.
Everyone had a sixth sense. Even if someone was asleep, a person's subconscious would likely detect the change in air pressure and ambient noise when a closed door is opened and make something of it in a dream, giving him a sort of feeling that something was wrong.
The niggling suspicions grew with every passing second and the steady thrum of his own heartbeat.
Harry knew it better than most: he had awoken more times to the simple click of his Uncle's door opening in the dead of the night than he remembered, curling up into a ball terrified of another beating…
The room was silent, and a buzzing ring keened in his ear for every second that he laid still.
There has to be a reason…think, Harry, think!
Suspicions aroused, he traced the arrival of the mail backwards – and arrived at the answer.
Just because the letter had come didn't mean an owl had delivered it…and then an image of his uncle raving and ranting, spittle flying all over the place over a letter filled to the brim with stamps swam to his mind's eye…
The letter had come from a mailman. It had to be.
Mail-man.
He slapped his forehead with his open palm, than quickly dressed. He was tired, hungry, and smelled from a day's worth of manual labor, but he'd long learned to ignore it with practiced ease.
Personal discomfort melted away at the presence of more important matters. A pair of well-worn jeans and a faded grey sweat-shirt made up his ensemble. He might have been feeling particularly sticky, but the new clothes weren't bogged down with perspiration, soil, and a day's worth of stale teenager.
His wand, his pouch, Sirius's old knife, and a new switch-blade he'd so graciously procuredfrom Dudley's old room went with him. All of his scholl paraphernalia was tucked into Hagrid's Bottomless Mokes-skin Pouch. The gun into the waistband of his jeans and the spare magazines into his back pockets, he stood, than padded over to the window. He would leave here tonight.
The house was most likely warded, which would explain why the Portkey hadn't worked. Anti-Portkey/Apparition wards were the standard measures of protections the old man would've placed.
Order members most likely would be keyed into the wards to start off with…that would be potentially troublesome.
It meant he most likely had to deal with at least a single Order member on the outskirts of his wards. Quietly, Harry parted the curtains to look out into the street and the garden of his Uncle's house. There were no visible imprints of leather boots on grass, nor the faint tingling of his senses when someone stood within proximity.
Yet…he felt a pair of eyes trailing his every move. It irritated him. It frustrated him. Worse yet, it made him want to jam the new switch-blade he'd managed to get his hands on into whoever owned that pair of eyeballs. He could feel their eyes, drinking in every motion, licking at him the way tongues worked at ice-cream with single-minded tenacity.
The mere thought of Dumbledore, a Headmaster of a school, locking him down, tracking his every move with a whole roster of 'Yes' men and women backing his every move as if the man wrote the modern bible made him sick…
It didn't matter now.
What mattered was getting to Sirius's will reading.
What mattered was honoring the last wishes of a man who wanted to give a second chance at life to his dearest cousins: even if one of them had an undeniable hand in his death.
And then for the first time, Harry smiled.
Second chances, eh? The old man would be right pleased…pity it isn't good ol'Snivellus.
The second floor window of his uncle's house was flimsy; flimsy enough, one might say, for him to run full tilt towards it and ram it open with his shoulders, landing on the well-maintained lawn below shoulders first, than rolling to his feet. A sharp flare of pain let him know – as he'd suspected – that his landing had been none too gentle. Timberlands – a gift from Hermione – were the only things that protected skin from razor sharp glass shards.
There was no turning back.
Back in the house, the lights in his uncle's bedroom was coming on, and he could hear the faint shouts and echos of his uncle's insults as they rode the open breeze.
Pointless, he told himself, quenching the urge to head back inside the house and pump two bullets into the head of every single one of them shit-stains that'd made his childhood a living hell, but he cut himself off, forcing himself to focus on the job at hand.
Just as he'd reached the rough estimates of where the wards ended – he estimated sixteen symmetrical houses away should do it, and if not, he'd hail a fucking cab – and activated the portkey, everything went wrong.
There was the sharp report of a stunner slashing past his ear, trailing red showers of sparks and smoke as the familiar sensation of a hook behind his navel settled then lifted-
-and he was suddenly back on the ground again, golden knut flailing away in the air, the faint echoes of metal on metal ringing clear across the night. Pain flared across his shins and knees as he landed, and Harry caught a second streak of white light trailing away into the gloom.
Patronus.
Growling, Harry lifted off with his hands and knees before launching himself into the dead ground sandwiched between two opposing alley walls. Anger served as the driving force behind his vicious retaliation.
Blood pounded hot and fast in his ears. His vision narrowed. The world slowed. Three steps, six and then his shoulder made contact with the diaphragm of his assailant, knocking the breath out of him as they both scrambled heartbeats upon hitting the ground. Harry didn't let up. He brought his head back, glasses long gone, and grasped the man by the neck with both hands, jerking his face hard towards the top of his crown. Contact.
It hurt. It made him dizzy. But the order member he'd so unceremoniously head-butted was in more of a shit-state than him.
Jet black robes and greasy hair filled his vision as Harry zeroed in and shoved the man backwards, using his shoulders to ram and push. At the same time, his left hand pulled back his shirt while he jammed his right hand down onto the pistol, released the safety catch and brought it up to bear. It was Snape, both hands covering his nose, blood running through his fingers.
Snape.
Harry barked a laugh.
Snape's lips curled.
"Going somewhere, Potter?"
Harry cocked his head.
Fuck him. He was the one in control. It didn't matter how fast or how effectively Snape could cast a spell. Harry's trigger finger was a lot faster.
"Back off, Snape. Just back off."
The Potions master sneered instead, taking another step forward.
"Or what, you impudent little brat? What would you do with that muggle toy? Give me a good hard hit across the head? Put down your little play-thing and go back into the house. More Order members are on their way here. You have no idea of the severity of your actions tonight-"
He cut off Snape's diatribe with a slash of his hand.
He needed the Portkey. He needed to get away before the Order members arrived. He needed control. And if Snape kept mouthing off…his grip on the trigger might just tighten that tad bit more…
"On your knees, Snape."
Surprise flickered across the man's sallow face. Good.
"On your knees. You heard me! Get down!" He punctuated that command with a kick to the man's legs. Merlin, it felt good. He'd given over control too long. He'd been content to sit back and watch; content to let the world run roughshod over his life while he'd coasted by like a sack of shit.
And now he'd lost the one remaining link to his parents.
"Turn around, on your knees, back straight and summon my portkey. Do it now."
The man's lips curled into a wry grin of defiance.
"And if I do not?"
He'd never fired a gun before. Not with the intent to kill. Not before tonight. Yet, the overwhelming surge of fear, anger and guilt at the hands of this man before him had never made it seem easier to just put a bullet between his eyes. His breathing labored. His eyes grew sharp, cold, emotionless.
And then he pulled the trigger.
It's shorter than I'd like. But it's better than letting my readers think I've abandoned it. The next update will come as soon as it's done. (ard 3 weeks…?)
You might notice that I'm stretching out the stories. That's because I feel there are plenty of potential situations and changes a different, changed Harry would make to his situation. Reviews, regards, appreciated.
Hope you had fun reading.