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Notes: 'I said an older soldier, not a better. / Did I say "better"?' - William Shakespeare, Julius Ceasar (IV.iii)

Points of Departure
by

Rough wool is cold against your neck. Your fingers are numb, curled tightly around the portkey in your palm--shaped like a snitch, wings broken and wet with rain. What fucking irony. If you were able to laugh, you would.

Snape has stopped ahead of you; turns to see you catch up. He looks like a ghost, eyes dull and dark beneath his hood, black hair damp and curled around his neck. His face is even paler in the early morning light, mist softening his harsh features. He looks like he's barely there.

'I trust you've seen what you came to see.' His voice is tired, with just a hint of bitterness to it.

The scent of wet grass surrounds you, and you notice that the white mask in his hands is spattered with blood.

You want to say something. No. Yes. I'm sorry. Come back with me. I won't let--

But his hands are tight on the mask, and he won't meet your eyes.

So all you do is nod, and whisper the portkey's password. As the familiar pull tugs your stomach, you see only two things. His eyes, still turned away from you. And his mouth, twisted in the parody of a smile. The grey mist swirls around you. You don't ask him to come back all right.