Disclaimer: I don't own Hogwarts or other aspects of J.K. Rowling's masterpiece; I do own Hades and the new twisted plot. I changed things, too. Draco killed Dumbledore in 6th year and because he's amazing he never got caught. Don't sue.

A/N: Happy holidays, people. This is how Draco and Hades met, which I felt like writing, the prequel, if you will. It's 26 pages so don't tell me I never give you anything. I don't know whether to like this or not. Help me decide and tell me what you think.


Graduation. Seven years of Hogwarts, completed. Seven years of education, of fights with Potter, of death, and of living up to this infamous Malfoy name. Since my arrival at Hogwarts, nearly five years of avoiding the Dark Mark, too, which, and I don't care if I'm bragging, is a rather large feat.

The speeches were over. The new Headmistress, McGonagall, gave a heavy one about all the deaths that we've faced and those we have yet to face, our past and future. Very inspiring, I'm sure. Ronald Weasley and his family, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, some students, a few people over at the Ministry of Magic, and so on, have all been killed. There was a long list. The only one I would have taken back was Severus, because he was my godfather and the only one I had some semblance of a connection with at this school, unless you want to count Potter over there.

Potter had this expression on his face that the Daily Prophet snapped tons of photos over, and it'll probably be everywhere by tomorrow. It's a real hero's expression, apparently. He's staring up at the podium in his pitch black robes, dress robes, but those of mourning, I suppose. His face seems more lined, harder, than only years ago, even though he's only seventeen, and he's got some solemn, determined look on his face, 100 Gryffindor. My eyes are starting to twitch from the damn flashes of the Daily Prophet's photos. How many images do you need of a single expression? His eyes aren't shiny with tears, though, and he just looks like he's concentrating on mastering a spell to me, like so many other times. I suppose the people need the symbol of their hero more than his actual actions now. Morale and order seems to be more important than actually defeating the cause of these problems.

Usually graduation is a "joyous occasion", but we are an ocean of formal, black robes and faces with tears that aren't of anything resembling happiness.

It's a beautiful day, though. Rather, it was. The sun was annoyingly bright with a cloudless blue sky, and it was warm with a slight, refreshing breeze. The Whomping Willow had such pretty green leaves, swaying in the breeze, with birds cooing and chirping to each other. We're gathered by the lake, which was shimmering almost painfully bright under the sun, because inside all of our things are being magically transported elsewhere, and Hogwarts cleaned and doubly warded with strong spells. Everyone wants to get out as quickly as possible.

It was a perfect, golden day, but I think someone decided it wasn't appropriate for the mood, because a haze of gray dulled the sun to a tiny ball of wan light and smothered the once indigo sky. The lake was no longer a cheery, bright blue, but black and sinister looking. The only birds sounding were occasional crows and ravens, and once, the mournful cry of Fawkes, whose feathers were duller and ratty looking, as the bird pined for its master. It looked pathetic.

I suppose the somber mood would have been a little off if it had stayed so picture perfect, so I know the weather had been worked, magically. It seemed superficial and a little ridiculous, but it was fine with me. Damn sun was blinding me.

A scattering of parents, those not dead, lined the edges of the forests. My father was there, to make the appearance, I think, because the Death Eaters were attacking today and it would have looked bad if he wasn't seen by those that were the "good" witches and wizards.

Hagrid's bulk seemed larger than usual, next to the tiny Professor Flitwick. The half giant was dragging a huge hand across his red face as he tried to keep himself together. Man's been a mess without Dumbledore. There were quite a few spaces between teachers that despite their efforts to stay together were very obvious. Dumbledore, Snape, and Madame Pomfrey's absence were the most noticeable.

Most of the students had had to abandon their former dreams of what they would do after graduating. This was war, after all, and the pretense of being neutral or having a regular job was a luxury.

As for myself, I was expected, naturally, to become a Death Eater, and had done just that in my fifth year. As son of his right hand man, Lucius Malfoy, I was expected to be a great asset to them. Apparently I was, too, having killed Dumbledore last year, and yet miraculously escaping discovery through a deep weaving of memory charms, assassinations, and bribery.

I didn't really mind. At least I could have a purpose then. I had learned everything I could, and that was my chief pleasure, but I had no interest in women or material, or anything, really. My ambitious nature had grown dull with something like boredom. My life was planned out already for me, and it always had been. Get sorted into Slytherin, make the right friends, become Daddy's little prodigy and Voldemort's pawn, and graduate from Hogwarts.

The opposite of Potter, but the same idea, I mused. He was predestined to be the hero, and I as the "villain". How nice. I always knew we had loads in common.

They would probably mistake my expression for a serious one, but I was just uninterested. Yes, I know who died, I know how, and I know what my future will be, thanks. I know we have to stay closer together than ever now and all, and I also know that's only a pretty thought. Potter's supposed to be the only one who can kill Voldemort, anyway. I'd let him, too, I'd even help him, but then I'd have nothing to do. At least killing people is more interesting than a regular life, if nothing else.

When it at last ended, and crying students with white faces or eyes red from tears, with somber, pensive expressions, or crumbling faces, were all saying their monotonous goodbyes, it had started to rain. How incredibly cliché. I would bet anything someone, or some people, were manipulating the weather.

I gave a cheerful wave to Potter, who frowned at me, and a grin. Well, alright, there was my interest. Taunting Potter. He was so bloody serious, and it made him an easy target. I found it funny that he was so obviously unhappy but no one seemed to notice. I would laugh until my stomach hurt if he committed suicide.

I wiped the grin off of my face as I turned into my father's range of view, looking serious and blank again.

Black umbrellas were popping up in places. Where had people gotten them? Maybe those were the graduation gifts. How nice.

My father didn't have one though, and didn't look like he cared. Well, not that he ever did.

"Congratulations, Draco," he said, nodding to me like I was a distant acquaintance or a business partner. "There's been a change in plans. I need for you to wait in the Forbidden Forest until I come for you."

That's my father. Not one to waste words, is Lucius Malfoy.

"Where in the Forbidden Forest, Father?" I asked.

"There's an old, broken down Muggle car in the heart of the forest," He told me, and to another, it would have looked like we were discussing graduation or plans for dinner. "It's in a small clearing, in which you will wait until I or another appears. If a centaur gets in your way, kill it."

As I thought. What else. A Death Eater's meeting.


I was in the heart of the forest, or rather, I was, except no one was there, so I decided to explore.

I don't hold my personal safety as a priority of any sort, odd as that may sound, because I can't stand nothing. No, that isn't bad grammar, that's the truth. The monotony of a daily job for an ordinary and simple cause would kill me. Being nothing, doing nothing, kills me.

At some point in my life, my emotions started shutting down. With more duties, more punishments, and more knowledge, and time, came the need for less of them, I suppose. So I can give you whatever facial expressions I want to, and I can give a professor a charming smile and witty words when really I want to hurl a chair at them. Most importantly, my expression is permanently, blankly, semi-pleasant but empty, out of necessity. The problem with all of these advantages and lie came the fact that now when I ought to feel emotions, I don't, even if I wanted to.

That's why I explored the rogue and dangerous Forbidden Forest on my own, in the rain that day. Because I'd rather be killed, rather be in mortal danger, than be uninterested. Extremes are the only way I feel anything now, and I enjoy "feeling", so I even hope for things most people spend their lives trying to avoid. I'm a little odd, I admit, but I couldn't care less, especially since otherwise I would never have met him. If I hadn't met him, I would have become just another mindless drone, shut down and empty. I would have nothing. I would be nothing. Allow me to explain.


I was already soaked, and hadn't even attempted a small charm to repel the rain. It was chilling my skin and plastering my pale hair to my forehead, getting in my eyes, but that was alright with me.

The leaves of the Forest squelched softly beneath my feet, too soft to hear unless you were listening for it. I wove my in and out of the tall, thick trees, no longer heeding where I was going. I would feel the Death Eater's presence and Apparate to them when I needed to.

Then I hear something that definitely sounds worthy of my attention. I pause and change direction, following the rises and falls of a student's frantic voice.

"You only have three strikes," an amused voice was saying. "Why don't you make them count instead of giving me that panicked babble? Come on, two to go."

"I—I just graduated!" sobbed the voice, hopeless with fear. "I was going to, I'm going to work for the Ministry, I'm so young…God, I don't even know what you are! Please, please let me go, let me down, I'll never tell, I'll never say anything, just—just let me go, please!"

"What the Hell was that? I swear, you aren't even trying," the voice laughed. There was a thick, tearing sound, with small squelches of something liquid and very much part of a living thing. A piercing scream immediately swelled and reached a high, haunting note, only to be swallowed by the canopy of trees and the Forest's strange acoustics. The sobbing became louder, and not just because I was getting closer.

"One strike left. Come on, convince me. I'll listen. Why do you deserve to live? What purpose, what impact could you possibly have on this world? Are you a writer? A nurse? A professional Quiditch player? Or are you going to be a Death Eater, rise through the ranks, and become the next Voldemort? Tell me."

I was now mere yards away, the two voices hidden from me by several well places trees. The voice gave a hopeless and terrified shriek, sobbing hysterically. "I told you, I'm going to work in the M-Ministry! I'm on the side of the L-light! I'm a good person! I'll save lives!"

"Nah, anyone can do that," the voice said cheerfully. "Strike three, little girl. Maybe you'll be important in the Afterlife, who knows?"

There was a choking sob of disbelief, a shaking breath, and then a full, wet sound of ripping flesh, sounding as if it were happening simultaneously in more than one place. There was an agonized scream that changed pitch, volume, and ended in small, half sobbing whimpers broken once by a wrenching shriek that would have given Dumbledore goose-bumps.

"You were pretty weak, weren't you?" the voice continued, almost happily, but not very different from a normal conversational tone. "I bet that wasn't how you planned on dying, either." The voice paused, and the only answer it received was silence, so it said. "Oh, well. I need your vertebrae and some other choice bones, so you served your purpose."

Intrigued beyond belief, it never occurred to me once that this was not a good person to approach. I was walking towards the sound of the voice and the faded shrieks and there was no decision needed.

Usually when there is a corpse, and a gory one at that, hanging strung between trees, that's what you notice first. That came second. First, my attention was called to the god sitting on a log, happily prodding the body with a slender metal pole that narrowed to a point. Beside him, on the log he was sitting on, was something that looked like a garden rake a muggle might use, but with rather large shreds of flesh caught in its three metal lengths and the silver of it glinting a wet, shining crimson that the rain, strangely, was not touching.

He looked at me, and his eyes were an ethereal, metallic, silver; solid and real, with a liquid black circular pupil. The silver iris ended in a thin ring of pale gray that was half silver, half the color of clouds on a day much like today, or smoke, which melted into a thin circle of deepest black. Those eyes, frighteningly intelligent and alive, were rimmed with long black lashes. They were the most incredible eyes I'd ever seen in my life.

The skin surrounding was an untouched and pure white, if white could be added to with a dash of silver and something less solid, and far more real than an ugly, bright white paste. As if something akin to moonlight had been added to perfect the color. The black, silken cloak of hair fell around him, seeming to shine in the absence of light, straight yet far from rigid, molding and falling in stray strands where it pleased. Down to the full, sensual lips the color of pale roses, the strong, defined but somehow almost delicate contours of his bone structure, he was perfect. But perfect means unreal; perfect means something fake and all too often plastic or illusionary. For nothing can really be perfect. He was, though, just in a living, warm, and somehow utterly beautiful and believable way.

He didn't stand, and I say he because I had no doubts as to his gender whatsoever (despite some people thinking long hair automatically means you're a woman), but the log he sat upon, several feet off of the ground and thick, didn't hinder the fact that I could see that the perfection did not stop with what I'd so far observed.

Long legs encased in jeans—not exactly faded, but certainly not new― bent at the knee, bare, pale feet on the ground, relaxed in stance. There were several tears and cuts in the jeans, revealing smooth flesh, but they didn't look like fashion had created them. His torso was clad in a pale, stormy gray T-shirt, tight enough to reveal toned, beautiful glimpses when he moved.

The funny thing was it was clear he wasn't trying. He'd done nothing with that waterfall of black hair, letting it fall where it would, and his clothes could have been bought anywhere and didn't look even vaguely new, nor were they fitted. He wasn't even wearing shoes. And yet it was unthinkable that anything could ever compare to him.

I realize to another I would have been sounding quite obsessive, and perhaps I am. But if you ever have the honor of looking upon him, you'll know. No detail can be left out, and no amount of details does him justice. For that reason alone, I'll let you attempt to envision what I mistook for a god all by yourself.

He turned to me, and there were red dots on his face, like someone had flicked bits of paint at him. His clothes had some, too, with splashes of crimson only seeming to enhance his appearance. It's difficult to explain, other than blood simply suits him.

"Well, hello," he said to me, looking at me full in the face. "Do you know her?" He gave the body a poke, and it moved a little in its nest of vines, her head lolling from side to side as he jabbed her with a little more force.

I studied the body, to answer his question, though it was very difficult to look away from him. I had to concentrate very hard to simply keep my eyes on her. If she had been any less interesting I would have just said the first answer that had come to mind and gazed upon him for Someone only knows how long. I came very close to doing just that.

The girl's body, now a lifeless, bloodied, mess of flesh, hung suspended near a small scattering of trees that surrounded her. From the trees, vines had snaked around her wrists, her ankles, her fingers, tightly and efficiently, so that she was held there, body displayed in a limp sort of X , arms held out from her. The vines were tight enough that her flesh was discolored where they gripped her, and would bruise, provided there was enough blood in her body left and her body could lie flat enough for the blood to pool where it would. Hanging, that would not happen.

The student, for she had been at graduation, she had been in one class with me, a Ravenclaw, I remembered. Her intelligence must have been limited to books, because her last words had lacked common sense and intelligence altogether. One look at the god should have been enough for anyone to know he did not work for the Light, and deserved better.

Her brown hair, lank and imperfect in its ponytail, or her pale, blood spattered face, was not what caught the eye when looking at her. It was her body, the graduating clothes, once proper and smooth, were ruined. She hadn't been violated, though her cloak was in a heap on the forest ground, and her uniformed skirt in strips. It was in strips because something had raked down her body, from her collarbone to her groin, in deep, crude lines, three of them in total. It was as if a giant claw had ripped through her, leaving her body as meat for the crows, in great, peeling divisions of still-bleeding flesh. I could see a fair amount of her ribcage, and her pelvis, too. Her heart has been torn from its safe nest and hung lower, pierced by a jagged rib, bleeding out heart blood, darker than the rest by a shade or two. Her innards lessened the beauty, the uniqueness of this sight, beginning to reek. Once you cut some one up, cut up their stomach only if you get to leave the body fairly quickly after that. It doesn't smell very enticing, to say the least.

Blood was trickling not out of one corner of her mouth, all nice and together like in the movies, but staining her slightly parted lips and her chin, and dribbling down the curve of her throat. This was, obviously, to be expected. She'd had more than enough done to warrant internal bleeding. Hell, you could see the internal bleeding for yourself.

Do you know her? He'd asked.

"Yes, though I didn't know her well. She was in one of my classes." I didn't care. I didn't mind. I feel exhilarated, feeling like I'd discovered something amazing. And I had, there was no doubt as to that.

"You don't mind if I work while we talk, do you?" he asked me, and the rain fell, the damp smell of the Earth when it rains masked by the stench of the girl. "She's beginning to smell, as you've noticed, I'm sure."

"Not at all," I said, a rush of energy and adrenaline reawakening my dead body. I even felt the rain, the cold, and it had lost the dream-like quality my life almost always had nowadays. Real, very real.

"Lovely," he said, rising effortlessly and snatching up the bloodied tool, the wicked, thick-bladed—though they weren't blades, they were like small, silvery, metal poles until the ends, where they were curved to a deadly point—weapon that had been used to steal the breath from her corpse. He set down the pole and approached her, walking with grace, looking vaguely cheerful. He was very friendly for a murderer. He hadn't even attempted to kill me yet, nor had he seemed at all worried that I'd witnessed his "sin".

"I thought I recognized your scent. Your looks, too, of course. I know your father," he said by way of explanation, hooking the tool around an intestine, piercing it like a thick worm impaled upon a hook, and pulling. "Lucius Malfoy is quite well known in the undergrounds of society. You're rather alike, in some ways."

"Are we?" I asked, interested. People always told me I was just like my father. I looked like him, and I followed in his footsteps, too. It sounded different coming from him. I wanted to know why, coming from him.

"Indeed. You're also different, though. Hold a moment, I'm going to get rid of this stench," he said, sliding a hand inside of her. The body shook in its chains of vine, almost convulsing, though his hand was still. His hand came out with more of her innards, casting them to the side uninterestedly with a shake of his hand. "That's better, is it not? Now we can begin. There's a bag behind that log. Get me the tool that looks like a small shovel, will you?"

The smell was gone, replaced with the faint scent of carnage, blood and death, quietly accompanied with the smell of rain and moist forest soil. A beautiful scent, this, unmarred by the flaws of a human's last humiliation. Death is not often as romantic as it is portrayed.

I did this, riffling through a plain leather satchel and holding up a carved out, flat but curved, metal tool with a solid woodened handle. There were a thousand questions to ask, an endless number of conversations to be had, a life to be lived. I could feel it, and that I could feel at all only confirmed this.

I approached him, running my eyes over him in wonder. He took the tool from me. "Thanks."

"What are you?" I asked, and I didn't try to be polite.

He smiled at me, not at all bothered by the question. "I'm a demon. An incubus of the first order and more besides. If you've ever met one I shall be very surprised."

Demons. I tried to flip through the pages of my mind, searching to recall all I had learned of them. There were very few books on demons, too few, and what existed was not the most helpful of writings. More like zealots of some forgotten age ranting and raving. Not a lot of help at all.

The one book I'd ever found on them that was truly helpful flipped to three separate pages for me, closed, and never opened again. For anyone. It was a beautiful book, with watercolor illustrations and black inked, hand written calligraphy for words. I had seen a colored depiction of a succubus, the female version of his kind, extraordinarily beautiful and enticing; the kind of beauty that entranced and tempted and drove those who saw them mad with lust. She had had wings, however, great feathered wings and some sort of animal crossing in her feet, giving them something between talons and claws.

I wasn't going to deny it. "I thought you weren't allowed on Earth."

He uncorked a small vial from his pocket, pouring some pearly liquid into his palm and flinging it at her. Her flesh began to melt, blood hissing and bubbling. "I am one of few exceptions. It's nice to hear from someone who isn't completely in the dark, so to speak."

"So it does exist. Hell exists, then? It isn't just a human myth?" I inquired, fascinated. Her features were crumbling, flinching as though eaten alive by acid. The bone beneath was white and untouched.

"Yes. The zealots occasionally get something right, or partially anyway," he said, scraping off the remaining shreds of corroded flesh carefully.

Hell. The zealots had gotten that one right, although the human's idea of Hell is more born of fear and discipline and threats to humanity to stay in line rather than fact. There is a Lucifer, Lucifer Morningstar, the most beautiful of all, and yes, the devil does exist. The demons are his children, of sorts. Some are fallen, from a realm that we can only guess towards; some are high in the ranks, carnivores with an insatiable lust for violence or death; some are beautiful beyond compare, exotic, unique; some cannot be placed in one category alone.

Bits I remembered from the book, but that's what he told me.

"So you serve the devil? Does that make you evil?" I questioned. "You don't seem that much like a stereotypical idea of a demon."

"Well, the problem being, no one ever defines evil," he explained, studying the white skeleton before him. "I do seem to fit most descriptions, though. But the villains in the human movies and books? That kind of evil? No, because no one does that. I never laugh maniacally for ten straight minutes, after coming up with some petty plan that is soon to be spoiled by the obvious and dashing heroes. No, if it's found at all it's usually by unattractive old men in uniform and they never solve it, anyway." With a sharp snap, a rib was broken.

I was startled into a smile, cracking through the concrete of my skin. "Define evil for me."

"I'm not the one to give advice on such matters. You should have asked Dumbledore, he would have known."

"I suppose." He snapped off bones, carefully, setting them in a neat pile on the ground. "It doesn't matter to me enough to worry over it, in any case. I'm not in any rush."

I watch in silence, even as I feel the almost angry pulsing that says my father and our friends have all arrived. Even Voldemort is there. The Dark Mark on my arm is burning, and silently, I will the spell that will quench it. I'm not going. I'm not ever going back.

"You, who can watch this without so much as blinking, would you call yourself evil? Or does it bother you?" he asked me, tilting the jaw of the skull, to give eye contact to its hollow sockets. He looked seriously into it, as though he were giving it solemn advice.

"I don't think in terms of the word," I told him, "and I literally can't feel guilt, so I am anything but upset by this. I am fascinated. I am intrigued. Amazed, entranced; but not upset."

He smiled at me, and with a twist of his hands, severed the skull from it's confinements of bone, and began working on the vertebrae. "Here is where you differ from Lucius Malfoy. He simply doesn't feel, at this point, unless carefully manipulated, and harshly. He is addicted to rules and ways and beliefs and rigidity, absolutely sure of so much he does. You resist the call of the Mark as we speak, and have not yet reached his stage of slumber."

"Do you know him?" I asked, and felt something I hadn't felt for years. My heart beat. The kind of beat that is irregular in what should be a steady rhythm, standing still, and like it's skipping several pulses. I had forgotten.

He smiled at me, beginning the pile the bones into another sack. "Oh, yes. You see, there are a few exceptions to his numbness. I am one of them."

"He saw you then?" I asked, stilling.

My father always looked at people like they were inanimate objects, like he couldn't see them. When I was younger, he was different. He had expressions. He looked at me. He spoke with me, paid attention to me. Around two or three years ago, however, he gradually stopped. By the time I'd reached my fifth year, I was doing ridiculous, dangerous things, just to get him to look at me. It's become habit, looking at where I am right now.

I realized it must have sounded somewhat nonsensical, but he nodded. Then he paused in his work, and looked at me, shaking his head. "Let me tell you a story, Draco Malfoy.

"There was once an arranged, loveless marriage between two aristocrats of purest blood and birth. This marriage produced a son that the pureblood father began to obsess over, his only object of affection and pride. This son in turn idolized this father in a less than ordinary way, and the two spent perhaps a little more time than was usual together, though society never knew. For to the rest of the world, they were father and son of a dark family and had little to no affection whatsoever between them, and certainly nothing more than was expected. The father's affections, as his son reached early adolescence, turned darker, being a high ranking Death Eater and feeling nothing but animosity or neutrality for anyone else, anyone at all. This father, perhaps without even consciously thinking it, was convinced that such a thing would only end in disaster and that his son felt nothing more than what a son normally felt for his father.

"So the father's affections turned to darker, bloodier things, and yet the son never lost his respect for his father, and he never hated him, as his father likely wished him to. The father began ignoring him, barely looking at him, and shutting down his every emotion to control himself. The son, left alone and confused, did all that he could do to win back his father's attention and approval, taking on the most dangerous missions of the Death Eater's at the fairly young age of around fifteen years old. Both father and son still had eyes only for the other, and yet, neither realized this. To this day, the son obeys his father out of loyalty, habit, and something far stronger than affection, and the father has slipped into non-existence."

"Who told you that one?" I asked dully, my heart beat regular and muted, face stone again.

"Why are humans so stupid? Satan," he said in half-exasperation. "Just go fuck the man. This is not even complex, you just think it is."

"And do demons generally try and give advice? Do you often play the matchmaker?"

"Absolutely. It's a little known fact about demons. Deep down we enjoy fixing peoples love lives and knitting, right before we harvest their bones," he said solemnly, and my face reluctantly twitched, the corners of my mouth seeming to curve the wrong way, but moving nonetheless.

"This time, though, let's look at the facts. You and your father are hot. Incest is hot. All male sex with violence is hot. Incestuous, attractive men fucking with a taste for violence is, then, amazing. You understand now?"

I laughed, short, incredulous burst of sound, before I knew what I was doing. Just at him. Maybe it was his voice, his words, but also, he was just so…unique and obscene, having a conversation with someone he's just met, that walked in on him brutally murdering a student, and then watched him harvest her bones, asking you for tools along the way. Then he digs into the deepest dregs of your life, and tells you what few would ever admit to anyone at all in their entire lives.

I shook my head. "Where are you going?"

"My house, of course," he replied. "I'm not just being creepy. I needed fresh bones to make some new potions. I left someone waiting, too, and he's very insecure."

"Who's 'he'?"

"Well, he was walking out in the city last night at 2: 00 a.m., so what's he expect? Flowers? If he doesn't want to be kidnapped, he should have carried a gun with more bullets."

"Let me come with you."

"You're really asking the demon of whom you don't even know his name, that you just witnessed murder a girl and take her bones, to go to his house?" he arched a perfect eyebrow at me, amused.

"What is your name?"

"Hades. Just Hades, and I'm leaving out titles."

"Then I know your name and I don't care about the rest. Take me with you." I was seized by this compulsion that would allow nothing else. I had to go with him. I had to be near him. I'd always thought being numb and alone was alright, because you couldn't be sad over it, right? Because I hadn't known anything else and I'd given up. But now that I knew what it was like to smile again, even if my smile was still lopsided and felt strange, and that there was the possibility of so much more, of a life, I was going with him. I was either dying, if he killed me, or I was going with him, but there wasn't a third option. Drastic? Dramatic? I won't deny it.

"Please," I said, and felt something like fear, which I hadn't felt in what seemed like forever, clutch at my stomach. Fear that he would leave me here, with a dead father and a pointless life and nothing. Fear that I'd always be left chasing after a man that talks to his son as if they've only just met, strangers, and left beginning to turn cold even towards him, hating him just a little for it.

"You don't even want to say goodbye?" The words should have been kind, but his voice was mocking.

"No," I said firmly, walking up to him. He was taller than me by obvious inches, but I didn't care. "I need to go with you."

One corner of his lips curved up into a smirk.

"Go get the bones."


A/N: My apologies for any mistakes, and I think I definitely made some, but I'm out of it right now. Please review and give me your thoughts. And your steak. Gods, I want steak. Gimme.