Not here. Not anywhere in the house; you lead him through the kitchens, and out to the stables. The wintry air sobers you up, a little. It's not an improvement.

Your family is famous for its winged horses. Snape betrays no sign of awe, but he lingers beside the only Thestral, his long fingers brushing the black coat and silvery feathers.

"They say these are unlucky," he says.

"They are. My aunt broke her neck when this one threw her off."

He runs his fingers through the mane, and smiles. "I like it."

"You would."

You favour the swift, graceful Aethonans; you wonder whether he prefers the Thestral just to be contrary.

"Now," he says with a thin smile, "for the third time. What happened to your brother?"

"My father killed him when I was eight."

"Ah."

You drink, and hand the brandy to him. It must be one of the bottomless bottles. Perhaps your father won't notice that you've been at it.

"His name..." You haven't thought of him in years, haven't spoken his name since he died. "His name was Harry. He was four."

"Was he a Squib, then?"

"Worse." You laugh. "He was autistic. Not much, but ... he wasn't what Dad wanted. He, uh ... he disappeared."

Snape understands. After all, his family was like yours, once.

"We never discussed him," you say, examining the pattern on the Thestral's wings. "It was like he'd never existed, except that my mother ... she never looked at my father the same way. And the night before I went to Hogwarts, she ... she came into my room. It must have been midnight ... she came into my room and set up wards, the most powerful wards I'd ever seen. And she told me about him." You pluck a feather from the horse's wing and hold it up to the light. "I think I need more of that brandy," you say.

"Do you hate him?"

"A little."

You would hate him if you could, but he is your father: he made you, he formed you, he loved you.

Loves you.

Even if you wanted to hate him, you're not certain that you're capable.

"I take it, then," says Snape, "that he doesn't know about your Mudblood girlfriend?"

You hiss. "You can fucking well leave Lily out of this, Snape."

He smirks, and you know that he counts your anger as a victory for him.

Slytherins. You'll never understand them.

"Well?"

"No. He doesn’t know about Lily."

"Impressive. Keeping it from him." He snatches the feather from your hands. "I presume that he doesn’t know about other things, then."

"Such as the fact that you owe me your life?" Now you've scored a hit. "No. He doesn't know about that."

"Good."

"I don't know. He'd probably approve."

"I have no desire to make him happy."

"Neither do I."

Snape snorts and walks away. For a second, you think of letting him go, but then you remember that he's drunk, and so are you, but at least you know the grounds, even in darkness. You follow.

"Still think I'm planning to make off with the family fortune, Potter?"

"Just don't want you to get lost in the snow. We have enough ghosts on the property already."

"Touching."

The house wards would probably prevent anyone from dying, but it would be small compensation for the embarrassment caused by the misplacement of a guest.

You pass through the greenhouses, where Lucius and Narcissa are oblivious to your presence. You and Snape pause, side by side, listening to their grunting, heavy breath.

You suppress a drunken urge to hoot and throw things, and leave in silence, telling yourself that you're not aroused.

"Her father will be so disappointed," you sigh.

"No, he won't. A Malfoy's as good as a Potter. And Lucius is a Slytherin, like her."  >> next chapter >>