A/N - Welcome to Part Lion, Part Snake. Here are the warnings - this fic is "Mature" for a reason. Expect violence, gore, murder, general evil doings and while this isn't a smut fic, there will be a number of explicit lemons. Hogwarts begins at 14 years of age. Please R&R

Chapter 1 - Resolutions

Highland winds whipped against his face, cold and relentless. The chill stung his watering eyes, though Harry hardly noticed. Tears slid down his cheeks, unbidden, as he stared blankly into the distance. The Black Lake stretched before him, its surface rippling with the same restlessness that churned inside him. He couldn't think clearly; well, if you could call repeated flashbacks for days and an utter feeling of hopelessness and humiliation, thinking.

"Kill the spare."

The words pierced through the howling wind, even though he knew they were only in his mind, just like the image that flashed into it of Cedric's lifeless body, his face frozen in shock as he crumpled to the ground.

The memory twisted, unrelenting.

The utter feeling of powerlessness as he was forced to bow to someone who had stripped everything from him.

The serpent-like face of his parent's killer, red eyes burning with cruel glee, boring into him as his body jerked involuntarily on the floor from the white hot pain of the torture curse.

Amos Diggory's soul-shattering wail of anguish as he realised his son was dead.

Harry was afraid. Although he of course had feared Voldemort's return and had known that it was inevitable, he'd hoped, desperately, that he'd have more time, that maybe once he was ready that Dumbledore might train him specially for the task.

Now he was left with fear, he didn't stand a chance. Fear for himself, fear for his friends, and more that, fear that he would fail the wizarding world.

Deep down, Harry had always known the truth. From that first day in the Leaky Cauldron, when whispers of 'The Boy Who Lived' had followed him, when he'd had all those people crowding, desperate to shake his hand, that it was always going to and with him and Voldemort.

The truth had only grown clearer over the years. The death of Quirrell beneath his mere touch. The diary and his defeat of the shade of Riddle in the Chamber. Learning about the betrayal of his parents to Voldemort by that rat, Pettigrew, the very man who brought Voldemort back. Voldemort saw his existence as an insult, a challenge that couldn't go unanswered, even though it was likely his own mother, not Harry, that had defeated him all those years ago.

Weak.

He hated the word. It had haunted him ever since Harry-hunting had been Dudley and his gangs' favourite sport. Voldemort, though, had done more than that, he hadn't just made him feel that way, he'd proven it. He'd toyed with him, tortured him, and truly outclassed him.

He'd only survived by a stroke of luck, or perhaps fate, the brother wands had saved his life. He was alone, and by the looks in the eyes of Ron and Hermione, those true looks of pity, they understood how Harry felt perfectly. He was small, he was weak, he was alone.

And he was running out of time.

The stress of that night had sent his senses into overdrive ever since. Hermione had called it PTSD, whatever that was. He'd constantly be in a state of fight or flight and have moments of disassociation, strange detached moments like this one. Apparently, this was absolutely normal, but since when had his life ever been normal?

Harry felt the presence of someone walking up behind him. He didn't flinch, didn't turn, but it did somewhat bring him back to reality as he dragged his gaze back to the Black Lake as if the roiling water might offer some sort of answer. He could barely think. No, he didn't want to.

"Harry, mate, we've been looking everywhere for you."

The voice was Neville's - loud, almost a shout to compete with the roaring wind. Of course, Harry recognised it instantly, but he didn't turn. He wouldn't look and see the pity he knew would be in Neville's eyes.

"I'm fine, Neville." Harry called back. He kept his tone flat, matching the wind's intensity. It didn't matter though, he only wanted to be left alone.

"And Lavender just cornered me in the common room and said she wanted to make sweet, sweet love to me."

It took a second to register, but…

'God damn It Neville!', Harry thought as the joke dragged him tooth and nail out of his funk and he turned around to face his friend with a reluctant snort of mirth.

Neville grinned, triumphant. One thing Harry had come to rely on over the years was Neville's knack for using random comedy to break through to him, no matter how low he felt.

"Oh really?" Harry replied, "And what did you tell her?"

"Oh that she couldn't handle me, of course," Neville quipped, puffing his chest out dramatically, "and then I went to come and find you."

"I'm alright."

"Bollocks." Neville said flatly, looking him dead in the eyes. His tie fluttered over his shoulder in the wind. "I've seen that look before. My Uncle Algie gets it from time to time. You're… far away. Almost as far away as my parents."

Harry blinked. The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. "You've never told me about them."

"I don't tell anyone about them." Neville admitted, his voice quieter now, but still loud enough to be heard over the wind.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

"Okay," Harry replied finally.

Neville broke the silence. "Why are you out here? Trying to get blown away? At least it's not too cold."

Harry didn't answer. The wind carried the silence between them. Did Neville know? Could he see it? Harry almost couldn't bear the faces of the people around him anymore. Their looks of fear, their disbelief, the pity, the dwindling hope, the whispering wherever he went. Only one week was left until the end of school but everything was different.

Finally… he spoke.

"I can't do it, Neville," Harry said, his voice rough, "And they can all see it."

A hand rested on his shoulder, but he didn't turn around.

"You can Harry," Neville said gently, "You're not on your own. We can help you feel better."

"That's not what I mean, I don't need to feel better, it's… Voldemort. I'm going to have to defeat him, or he's going to kill me."

"You don't know that."

Harry turned to look his friend in his eyes now. He was fed up with Ron and Hermione's refusal to admit the reality, their refusal to accept that things were going to be different. He didn't need that from Neville as well.

"I do, Nev. And so do you. You know what's happened, I told you everything. And I'm weak. He just… He just toyed with me. I was nothing to him."

Now it was Neville's turn to fall silent.

"For now."

"For now? For now?" Harry snapped, his voice rising despite himself. "There's no way I could ever match him!"

"Why not?" Neville replied.

Harry rolled his eyes, unable to believe the ridiculousness of that question.

"Oh, come off it."

"No, you come off it," Neville shot back, his tone firm. "You're clearly the one destined to fight him, so that means you'll find a way. You've faced him four times now, Harry - four times- and every single time, you've defied him."

Harry stopped. He hadn't thought about it that way. Did that mean he had a chance? Surely not…

"You know Hermione would have your hide if you told her you put any stock in Divination." he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"There's Divination, and there's fate," Neville replied, his voice deadly serious.

"Hmph." Harry replied. Neville had a point, but it only raised more problems. He thought aloud, his voice quieter, but heavy with frustration. "But how long will it take? You know he'll target me. My friends. I'll have no one. In fact…"

A horrible epiphany struck him like a blow.

"I think it wouldn't be safe for you to be friends with me anymore. I guess I'm destined to be alone. I…I can't ask my friends to put themselves in danger for me."

"Ha, like they'll give you a choice, Harry." Neville replied, resolute. His gaze didn't waver, even as the wind whipped around them. "And I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I know what it's like to feel alone."

"I know," Harry sighed, glancing down. His voice softened as he added, "We weren't all great to you in first year. I'm sorry."

"Thanks," Neville said with a shrug. "But… that's not what I mean. Look… you aren't the only one who grew up without parents."

"You said they were far away. Do they work abroad? I know you live with your Gran."

"No, they aren't far away, well, not in the sense you mean."

Neville hesitated, his expression conflicted. Then, with a deep breath, he came to a decision.

"Look, in the last war we were visited… by Death Eaters. Two of them. Barty Crouch Junior and Bellatrix Lestrange. used Crucio to torture them until they…" Neville's voice faltered, "Well... they're alive but… they aren't. Most of the time, they're rarely even there anymore. They spend all their time in a hospital. Occasionally they recognise each other, but that's about it. They can barely move. Can't wash, or feed themselves."

Neville swallowed hard and looked away, his voice growing quieter. "It's why I have to live with my Gran. She took over as Caretaker Head of House after my dad, and she also had to take on the business my mum set up. She's always been so busy . I guess she did her best, but the only one I really talked to growing up was our house-elf Nipsy. And Gran took her away, too - said she was making me soft. not like my perfect father. The summer before Hogwarts I barely saw anyone at all."

Neville looked back at Harry, more than just a flicker of emotion in his eyes, "So yeah, I know what it's like. Feeling alone. Not having parents. Being made to feel weak."

The wind filled the silence between them, carrying the sounds of rustling trees and distant waves on the Scottish highlands. Harry felt a pang of guilt for not asking about Neville's parents before. But that guilt wouldn't change the past.

It was… comforting, Harry admitted to himself. For once, someone else understood.

"Thanks, Neville." Harry said, quietly. If Neville hadn't been standing so close, watching him so intently, he might not have caught his words

But Neville couldn't read Harry's thoughts. He couldn't know that his words had sparked something.

Dumbledore had told him that love was the power Voldemort couldn't understand. And now, as the Dark Lord rose again, Harry found himself clinging to that idea.

If love could truly defeat Voldemort, then maybe… just maybe… with the love of his friends…he might be able to make it so no one would ever suffer the way he had, the way they had, again.

But what if his friends got hurt too?

No. He wouldn't allow it.

At that moment, he made a vow to himself.

No one will die for me.

I will never be beaten again.

"Anytime Harry." Neville smiled, his expression steady as he pulled Harry back to the present. "Your mum was my godmother, you know. And there's been an alliance between House Potter and Longbottom since 1487. I couldn't not stick by you - even if I didn't think you're a great bloke."

"While I have no idea about the House stuff," Harry replied, matching Neville's smile, "I'm grateful you're with me. Even if it kinda sounds like you're forced to."

"You don't?" Neville looked genuinely surprised, "But you're the Head of House Potter - one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. How has no one taught you about this?"

"Taught me what?"

"Your heritage!" Neville said, almost exasperated. "Look, let's get back up to the castle, you're looking for knowledge and power, yeah? I've got a book that might be a start."

They started walking, their pace unhurried as the conversation continued. As they came to the bridge to the courtyard and the Entrance Hall came into view, Harry glanced at the dark towers of Hogwarts rising above them. The castle seemed unshakable, timeless, a symbol of everything he needed to protect. But at that moment, it only felt heavy - a reminder of how far he had to go, how much he had to learn.

"So, this Sacred Twenty-Eight," he began, "that's the Wizengamot, right? I know it has a lot to do with pure-bloods and noble families, like the Malfoys and Bones. I heard Susan talking about House business once. And I've seen bits about House Alliances in the Prophet. We've even touched on notable families in History of Magic, but Binn's is so dull. Everyone else seems so private about it, though."

Neville nodded. "It's just how things have evolved, especially in Gryffindor. If you haven't noticed, there's a disproportionate number of muggle-born students in our house. Most of them are completely oblivious and they don't follow a lot of what we call 'The Old Ways'. And honestly, a lot of traditions don't align with Muggle-born values.

"Take Hermione for example," Neville continued, "She doesn't understand the connection between House-elves and Family Magic at all. Over time, Gryffindor - and some of the other houses, though not Slytherin - have moved away from certain practices. Traditions have been shunned.

"Years ago, we didn't celebrate Halloween, for instance. We observed Samhain. For muggles, it's just a spooky holiday - costumes, sweets, all fun and games. But those raised in the old ways observe it for what it is: a time when the bounty of summer has yielded the harvest and the beginning of winter's darkness. On that night, the veil between our world and the plane of the afterlife is at its thinnest.

"Pure-blood families used to light fires to connect with their ancestors. In the old days, necromancers would even sacrifice goats in blood rituals to call spirits through the veil to seek prophecies or guidance. Can you imagine people like Hermione going along with something like that?

"Ha, no way." Harry laughed, his curiosity piqued despite himself, "That does sound interesting though. I don't see why people should be forced to stop long-standing traditions just because some people don't like them. It's not like they were killing goats for no reason, right?"

Neville hesitated. "I'm not sure I agree - or at least, the current opinion of the 'light' side doesn't. They believe such rituals should be outlawed entirely. Killing goats is still murder."

"But what if I did it," Harry pressed, "and it let me speak to my mum? What if she told me how to defeat Voldemort?"

"Therein lies the argument, Harry. Traditions have their reasons, but I'd be careful who you'd share these thoughts with. Right now, everyone assumes your politics are strictly for the 'light'. You're Dumbledore's man, through and through - or so they believe. Best to keep your cards close to your chest." Neville's expression darkened slightly, his voice more cautious now. "Politics is about timing. You carefully nurture select relationships, bide your time, plan your moves, then follow through. That's why so many families in the Wizengamot have so many members who were in Slytherin - they've mastered cunning over centuries."

Harry shrugged, his tone softening as they crossed the long bridge to the courtyard. "I don't know whether I'm all that fond of Dumbledore, right now."

Neville glanced at him, his expression understanding. "Yeah, I get it, he did nothing to stop Crouch from serving you up to Voldemort. But he's vouching for you now. Maybe keep quiet about how you feel about him - for now. At least with anyone you don't trust completely." trust."

"Thanks, Neville."

"What are allies for?" Neville replied as reached the door that would lead them into the castle.

"You know," he said, "I used to think I was nothing like my dad - never strong enough, never brave enough. But I've realised, just from watching you over the years, bravery isn't about doing things perfectly. It's about standing up, even when you feel broken. And I'll stand by you Harry, no matter what."

Harry couldn't help but smile. He wasn't alone.

Daphne Greengrass gave a hard sigh of exasperation at the hubbub that was going on in the Slytherin common room. She sat at a desk by the window, trying - failing - to concentrate on the last bit of Potions homework Snape had set before the end of term.

It was a report on a project she was to write over the summer - a project on lunar-harvested magical plants and their effects on the brewing of class-two tinctures and unctions. Daphne ran her fingers through her cascading, honey-coloured hair in frustration. Even though Potions was one of her best classes and she'd chosen the topic of the assignment herself, the subject was tricky, and the endless bravado of Draco Malfoy, along with the undivided attention from his sycophants, both interrupted her concentration and made her feel sick.

Worse still, her sister Astoria was one of them, hanging onto his every word.

"So it's true then, the Dark Lord has returned?" Pansy Parkinson simpered, clutching Draco's arm possessively. Shot a pointed, snide look at Daphne's sister, who stood swaying nearby twirling her shoulder-length, curly brown hair between her fingers cross-legged on the spot.

"I find myself unable to confirm or deny it," Draco replied, his tone carrying a theatrical flourish, "However, my father has asked me not to speak on the matter. What I can say is this: recent developments suggest that Potter's famous defeat may not have been quite as permanent as we were led to believe."

Draco finished with a satisfied smirk, basking in the attention as his words were met with a collective gasp of murmurs of excitement.

'Merlin,' Daphne thought, rolling her eyes, 'Draco is as subtle as a punch to the face.' It wasn't cunning that had gotten him into Slytherin - it was his reckless ambition, she was sure of it.

She turned her gaze to Astoria, frowning. She was standing too close to Draco for Daphne's liking, her face lit with admiration. Daphne could see why Astoria might be drawn to him; it wasn't his arrogance or bigoted ideals. It was the ambition that enchanted her, that fiery determination to claim a place of power in a chaotic world. And , inexplicably, Draco seemed to soften around her, regardless of the differences the Malfoys shared with the Greengrasses

Daphne and her sister had been raised as purebloods, but only in terms of understanding and maintaining both their family's and the wizarding world's traditions, but in no way did her family subscribe to any of that blood purity nonsense. Anyone with a brain could see that muggle-borns were in no way lesser and this was the stance of their family, even though they did outwardly show concern at the decline in the old ways. Daphne's best friend Tracey was a half-blood, and Daphne had fought tooth and nail to ensure that even in their own house her friend was respected.

Astoria had told her once, in the confidence of sisters, that she loved him, and that she thought she could change him, turn him away from the poisonous ideals of his father. But Daphne, doubted it. She thought Draco was just putting on a less bigoted view to please Astoria. To Daphne, it felt too much like a performance, a facade for Astoria's sake.

If only Draco knew the truth.

The memory of Astoria's tearful confession flickered in Daphne's mind. She had been so certain she could save him, and for time, it had seemed to work. But in recent months, their dynamic had shifted. After Astoria had rejected Draco's advances, the tension between them had grown palpable.

Daphne clenched her jaw, her chest tightening at the thought of her sister's fate. The rejection hadn't been Astoria's choice - it had been their father's. Their family had long walked a careful tightrope in the Wizengamot, maintaining a neutral stance that was as precarious as it was vital. A public entanglement with the Malfoys, especially with Draco's father so deeply entrenched in dark allegiances, would ruin that balance.

But there was more. Something darker.

The Greengrass family carried a curse, one that had shadowed them for generations. A curse that ensured the second-born witch in their line would never live to see their seventeenth birthday. It was an unspoken truth in their household, a weight that Daphne and Astoria had carried in different ways.

Astoria had always been so full of life, determined to live brightly despite the inevitability that loomed over her. She had even believed, stubbornly, that love—real love—might be enough to break the curse.

But Daphne knew better. Family magic was unyielding, and love alone wasn't enough to rewrite its laws.

Daphne glanced back at the scene by the hearth, her sister's carefree laughter cutting through her like a blade. If only Draco knew the truth. If only he understood why Astoria could never fully commit to him. Perhaps then he wouldn't cling so desperately to his façade of charm and arrogance. Perhaps he'd even leave her alone.

The common room's green-tinged light flickered, shadows dancing on the stone walls. The noise seemed louder now, the laughter sharper, more grating. Daphne pressed her fingers to her temples, willing herself to concentrate on the parchment in front of her.

Her quill hovered over the page, the words blurring together. But her thoughts refused to settle. The old ways. Family traditions. The curse. It all spiralled in her mind, impossible to untangle.

Draco's voice cut through the noise again, sharp and commanding. "And that's why I say the Ministry's denial of the Dark Lord's return is laughable. Fudge's incompetence will cost us all dearly."

More murmurs of agreement followed, but Daphne tuned them out. Her eyes drifted to Astoria once more. So full of hope. So blind to the shadows creeping ever closer.

"Foolish girl," Daphne muttered under her breath, though she wasn't sure if the words were meant for her sister or herself.

She remembered the day her father told her about the curse, the tears streaming down his face. The memory of the day his second-born was born a girl - a day that should have been filled with happiness - had turned to despair.

Since that day, Daphne had resolved to change things, to cure the curse. So far, her efforts had been for naught. She'd tried, multiple times, to save her sister but had been banned from continuing by her father. One of Daphne's biggest fears was that he'd been right all along: that she hadn't just failed to to stop the curse but might have sped up its effects instead

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

"You're so knowledgeable Draco," Pansy was saying, her voice syrupy sweet and cutting through Daphne's thoughts. "I'm sure you will continue to be so valuable to… your family's efforts. You will purify the wizarding world."

Daphne blinked, tuning back into the conversation. It was almost a relief - almost - to focus on something other than her own spiralling thoughts.

"Don't be ridiculous Pansy," Astoria snarked, her tone laced with condescension. She edged closer to Draco, her small hand brushing his arm before she kissed his cheek lightly "Our Draco is a good man. He doesn't need to sully his honour by purifying anything."

Pansy's eyes narrowed, and her grip on Draco's other arm tightened. "Like clearing the world of mud-bloods would affect his honour?" she snapped. "It would be more honourable -it would make him a real man."

Draco didn't respond, but the smug curl of his lips made it clear he was basking in the attention.

"Pfft, everyone knows that a real man doesn't need to resort to violence to resolve his problems. Are you saying Draco isn't a real man, Pansy?." Astoria said gently as she took Draco's other arm.

Daphne was furious. Her father had told Astoria not to lead Draco on and made her promise to stop encouraging him. If he found out that she had disobeyed, Daphne would be in trouble too - she was supposed to be keeping an eye on her.

She picked up her quill, inkpot, scroll and tome, slipped them into her bag and strode over to the group.

"Astoria, sister," Daphne said, her tone measured but firm, "We need to talk, I have received information on family matters from our father. It's urgent."

Astoria rolled her eyes dramatically and cuddled closer to Draco. "It can wait."

"Draco," Daphne said, turning her attention to him instead, "what is more important than House matters?"

Daphne knew what his answer would be before he even gave it.

"Nothing, of course," he replied, puffing out his chest and adopting his usual air of superiority. He loved being the voice of authority.

"Fine," Astoria snapped, stomping her foot like a child denied a treat. "Let's go to your room."

Astoria marched angrily ahead of her sister through the corridor and into Daphne's bedroom. Daphne had only just shut the door behind them - triggering the silencing effect on all Slytherin rooms - when:

"Don't even start." Astoria said, glaring at her with her hands on her hips "It's only a bit of fun. Besides, with the Dark Lord back, I don't want him to turn bad."

"He's already bad, Astoria," Daphne replied, throwing her hands up in frustration and turning

to face the wall. They'd had this conversation time and time again, and it always felt like talking to a brick wall.

"No, he isn't! He's what his father made him." Astoria shot back, her voice rising.

"It doesn't matter regardless! Bad is still bad!" Daphne snapped, whirling around to face her sister again.

"You just don't want me to be happy."

"Of course I do, you're my sister."

"No, you don't," Astoria spat. Her tone softened just a fraction as she added: "I could be with him, just for a short while. I'm going to die Daphne. I just want a bit of fun."

"There's a bit of fun, and there's disobeying our father and making yourself look like a common slut. It's unbecoming of you and our house. It's embarrassing."

"Better a slut than a frigid bitch Ice Queen who pushes everyone away." Astoria retorted, her words cutting like a whip.

But then she froze, her expression shifting from anger, to shock as she saw the hurt flash across her sister's face. The words hung in the hair, heavy and cruel.

Wow, Astoria hated herself now. She knew the real reason why Daphne was called the Ice Queen. It was hard - being the most beautiful girl in their year, constantly viewed as a potential trophy wife by every ambitious Slytherin boy who wanted a ticket to the Greengrass witnessed it all last year when Marcus Flint had tried to force himself onto her sister, attempting to take her virginity so she would be ruined for everyone else. He'd had her pinned down on the grimy floor of a disused classroom in the dungeons, and it had been only sheer luck that Astoria, who'd been looking everywhere for her sister, had distracted him by walking in. That moment of distraction had been enough to give Daphne the chance to grab his wand and cast a hasty but fury-fuelled 'Glacius' at his private parts.

She'd been known as the Ice Queen since then, both in nickname and demeanour and no one would ever dare mess with her in that way again. Flint on the other hand would deservedly never continue his line. It'd taken a lot of politicking from her father to stop a blood feud being declared on their family. 'Ice Queen' was a name that tormented Daphne, bringing her back to that night where'd been powerless, half-naked on the floor, seconds away from being raped. It had also been a self-fulfilling prophecy, because the funny, fun-loving sister that Astoria had had disappeared underneath a cold and calculating shell, her past self rarely coming to light with anyone but Astoria.

"I'm sorry, I said that you know I didn't mean it was just upset because…" she said to her sister quietly, almost unable to meet her tear-stricken gaze, "I just love him."

"I know, but you know our orders. You know who his father is, and who ours is."

"I just want to feel love before I die."

It was Daphne's turn to try and comfort her sister now. She stepped towards her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Astoria's ear. "I love you, I'd do anything for you, Astoria," she said. "I'd take on the curse myself if I could."

"I know, but you know what I mean, and you know you can't."

"I'll stop the curse."

"Just give up Daphne, don't give me hope. Every generation before us has tried, and one was a potions master."

"But they didn't have me," Daphne replied with grim, staunch determination in her eyes.

They stared evenly at each other but were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Yes?" Daphne asked.

Tracey came in, all bounces and smiles, brown ponytail swishing behind her, completely oblivious to the conversation that just occurred.

"Come on Daph, we need to get to the Library," she said, "This stupid Defence project for Dumbledore might take ages, and I ain't starting our holiday homework without some decent notes to go on."

Daphne sighed. She hated DADA, it was her weakest subject. "Fine. It's not like I'll make any less progress than on my potions one."