the one less traveled

It's been raining ever since they left on foot from South Farthing two hours ago, and Draco wants very much to ask Snape if they can stop, at least long enough for him to cast a drying charm on his boots. Instead he says nothing, tightening his already fierce grip on his wand, mindful that anyone could be following behind.

"Hurry," barks Snape, grasping hold of his elbow, and the sharp edge in Snape's voice makes Draco forget all about his sodden boots. He also forgets his churning stomach from when he got colorfully and spectacularly sick over someone's rose garden an hour ago, and again an hour before that. Four times in all since they left Hogwarts. (The only times Snape ever stopped moving).

Six hours ago Draco did the unthinkable and let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Even more unthinkable, he failed. He pointed his wand and did nothing. This he does not forget. Nor does he forget the sight of Dumbledore tumbling over the ramparts in a flash of green light, or the hard, broken look on Snape's face in the furious seconds afterward.

Draco has successfully avoided Snape's eyes since.

They are moving slower now, picking their way through an overgrown thicket, and Draco can see the first hint of morning in the Eastern sky. Snape lets go of his elbow and tilts his head, and Draco can just make out a small cottage behind him in the growing light.

"Get inside," Snape hisses, pushing Draco across the worn threshold.

Draco is momentarily elated - they are finally able to rest -- until his eyes adjust to his pitiful surroundings. His lips curl, years of schooled distaste for anything cruder than his lavish upbringing still too hard to overcome despite the circumstances. "What is this place?" he sneers. Surely Snape didn't expect him to hide here. This is no more inhabitable than something a loathsome Muggle would call home.

Snape's lips twitch as if he were in on an elaborate joke. "Why Draco, surely you recognize the Heir of Slytherin's ancestral estate?" he asks, spreading his arms wide.

Draco scowls. "This revolting place? You can't be serious. This is filthier than that mongrel Hagrid's hut."

"Sit down," Snape barks, grasping hold of Draco's elbow and shoving him into a filthy armchair sitting beside the hearth.

Draco opens his mouth to protest when a rat crawls out of the stuffing beneath the chair, and he can only take a deep breath and try not to heave. "Why did you bring me here?" Draco asks, wishing very much that he could just go home.

"Unlike others, I don't believe in hiding the truth," Snape replies simply.

Draco glares down at the festering rug lying in the middle of the floor. "Yeah, so what? As if any of that matters now."

Snape's fingers grasp Draco's collar. "You stupid boy. Do you realize how much trouble you are in? You would be better off if you had killed him."

Draco pales. "But I tried," he stammers. "I just couldn't..."

"Shut up!" shouts Snape, and Draco looks away unable to meet his furious eyes.

The steady drip of rainwater trickles through the holes in the ceiling, their ping, ping, ping against the floor competing with the sound of his own ragged breathing. He tries not to panic, but it's no use, and he breaks down anyway. He's a failure. He's worse than a failure. He can't even save his own family.

"What about my mother?" Draco suddenly cries, between choking sobs. "Will I see her again?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Snape cries dismissively. "Scourgify." Draco's face prickles, and the hot tears streaming down his cheeks suddenly disappear. "Now, are you quite finished?" he asks, and Draco lets out one last sob and nods. "Your mother is an adult. She made her own choices and no longer need be your concern."

"But-"

"You will wait here, while I-- Draco, look at me."

Draco looks up, reluctantly meeting his eyes. Snape's eyes are unusually bright all of the sudden, and Draco gets the distinct feeling that he is missing something important.

"You are a Slytherin. Start acting like one." With an irritated flick of his wrist, a white mask again shrouds Snape's face. His eyes are blank. Empty. "The Dark Lord is demanding my attention. I will return after we are done."

In a swirl of black robes, Snape is gone, and it takes Draco a moment to realize that the door to the cottage has been left ajar. He slowly gets up, his body still weary from his flight the night before, and he almost desperately wants to find the bed that likely lies in one of the other rooms so that he hide beneath its filthy covers.

Instead he walks over to the open doorway and sees the sun peering through the breaking rain clouds and beyond the overgrown garden, a little-used country road leading to somewhere.

Somewhere else.

It's not until an hour has passed by, after the June sun has dried his hair and wet robes, that he remembers that it's his seventeenth birthday.