I was yanked from a dreamless sleep into a nightmare. My throbbing head sent stabbing pains through my consciousness with each pulse. The hazy, blended colours of my surroundings swirled before my eyes as I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings without my glasses. The unfamiliar grey walls and ghostly silhouettes flitting through my vision left me disoriented and unable to grasp my location or the situation. I felt groggy and incapacitated, as if drugged by some potion that had weakened me.
A chill swept across my skin, leaving me to wonder if the air had truly grown cold or if my senses were playing tricks on me. The faint, musty aroma of damp stone and aged parchment filled my nostrils, triggering memories that ran deeper than my present bewilderment. Where exactly was I?
Disjointed voices surrounded me, their words blending into an indecipherable din. Hands—numerous hands—gripped my arm with crushing force. I whimpered and struggled to break free, but their unyielding hold kept me trapped, like iron shackles binding me to a nightmare. Summoning my resolve, I tried again to escape, only for them to tighten their grip even further. The agonised cry that tore from my throat echoed harshly through the oppressive silence.
As the world around me began to unravel, flashes of memory surged. Laughter shifted into something darker, with taunting voices echoing through the night. These morphed into images of a looming, shadowy figure. Voldemort's pale, merciless face surged in my mind, filling me with dread. Panic gripped me, and I struggled against the force holding me down.
“Ready… Dark Mark,” someone muttered, a voice low and sinister. “Call him.”
Call who? A sense of dread overwhelmed me as my muddled mind fought against the confusion. My heart raced as I struggled against the crushing grip that only tightened.
Searing agony erupted from my scar, a blinding wave of raw, excruciating pain that tore a scream from my throat, my voice lost in the grip of anguish. Desperate, I strained against those restraining me, but to no avail as my senses were overwhelmed by the chaos and torment, each frantic heartbeat echoing my terror.
“He’s ready… lord… ready… receive… Mark,” the voice continued, filled with an excitement that curled my stomach into knots.
Dark Mark? Who was ready to receive it? Panic consumed me again. In my disoriented state, I couldn't register the situation. They weren’t trying to brand me, were they? I desperately grappled for clarity amidst the fog permeating my mind. The faces surrounding me wavered in and out of focus like a painting cloaked in mist.
A chilling voice commanded, "Bring… potion… witness… occasion… must not miss..."
Potion? A heavy unease had settled in my chest, impossible to shake. Shadows flickered against the stone walls, malformed shapes dancing unsettlingly. The air throbbed with tension. I glanced around, noting the whispered conversations and furtive glances thrown my way. It felt like I was being watched, excluded from some hidden plot.
Hands suddenly pried open my mouth, catching me off guard. A sweet, sickening liquid rushed in, causing me to choke as I desperately tried to push it back. My palms clawed at the air, fighting against their iron grip, but to no avail. Panic gripped my chest, constricting my breath.
Suddenly, a shift occurred. A fog obscured my thoughts, then gradually cleared, sharpening my senses with startling vividness. Every faint rustle and whisper now rang out clearly. The crackling fire and scent of stone walls assaulted my heightened perceptions.
Yet when I blinked and strained to focus, my vision remained blurred, distorted like reflections in broken glass. Instinctively, I tried to rise from where I lay, but an unseen force held me down, undeniably binding me in place. Then, a towering, ominous shadow emerged.
A gloved hand suddenly cast a spell that sealed my lips. As I registered the masked figure in a billowing dark cloak, my heart pounded—it was a Death Eater. Immobilised, I lay on the cold stone table of the Slytherin common room, every fibre of my being desperate for freedom. Nearby, a crackling fire cast long shadows across the familiar walls. My heart raced, pounding against my ribs with relentless force.
“Welcome back, Harry.” Voldemort's smooth, terrifying voice slithered through the air like smoke, wrapping around me and suffocating my thoughts with his twisted, taunting greeting. His crimson eyes glowed with malicious delight that made my stomach churn with dread.
Malfoy's mocking smirk, Crabbe's brutish laughter, Goyle's vacant gaze, and Pansy Parkinson's lip-biting excitement—the familiar Slytherin faces encircled me. They were spectators in this grand, horrific spectacle, and I was the unfortunate centrepiece.
“You have rested well, I trust?” Voldemort continued, tilting his skull-like head as if genuinely concerned. But it was all merely a game to him—a twisted chess match where I was merely a pawn caught between the darker pieces of his design. “I want you to fully grasp and appreciate what is about to happen,” he said, his words dripping with malice.
A sense of dread consumed me as I frantically searched the room for a means of escape, but I was hopelessly restrained. Struggling only caused the unyielding bonds to tighten further around me.
“You see,” Voldemort said with a cruel smile. “I have long awaited this moment. While I've carried out this act countless times before, none have mattered to me as much as this one does now.”
A shudder ran down my spine as the Death Eaters bared their arms, the Dark Mark seared into their flesh. Voldemort leaned in, his raspy breath igniting nausea within me. I knew with dread certainty what he intended—to mark me, to turn me, to ensnare me in his malevolent world.
“Yes, Harry,” he replied, his voice thick with saccharine certainty. "Your assumption is entirely accurate."
Overcome by terror, a muffled scream escaped my lips. Desperate to break free, I thrashed against my restraints, every movement driven by sheer panic. I refused to be marked as his, determined not to let him take me.
The tales of the Dark Mark had etched themselves in my memory—how it bound a person to Voldemort, like a sinister vine ensnaring one's very soul. The thought alone made my stomach churn. This was no mere symbol, but a sentence, a shackle that tethered the bearer to darkness itself.
The Slytherins' laughter grew increasingly raucous, their sadistic glee fuelling Voldemort's twisted delight in my torment. Cornered like a trapped animal, each futile attempt to break free only tightened the invisible noose around me. The walls closed in mercilessly as the crackling fire seemed to taunt my desperate struggle.
“Do you want to know how the Dark Mark would feel?” Voldemort asked, his eerily cool voice sliced through the thick tension. Towering before me in black robes that seemed to absorb the dim light, he loomed over his captivated audience. The surrounding Slytherins leaned in, enraptured, their eyes glinting with ambition and malice.
Overwhelmed by his penetrating gaze, I yearned to fade into the shadows, but my body remained paralysed. "This highest honour is reserved only for my innermost circle of followers," he declared. "You should consider yourself special, Harry." The group erupted in a sickly sweet chuckle, echoing the fear pulsing through me. Special? As if being marked was a privilege. I swallowed hard, only further amusing him.
“But unlike you, Harry, my followers willingly accepted my gift. It granted them immense power, you see. They are now immune to many things.” Voldemort's words oozed with a honeyed venom as the crowd nodded eagerly, like a pack of wolves catching the scent of a fresh kill. The rapt attention of the crowd was a deafening roar, making Harry's heart pound ever louder.
“I wouldn't expect the same to happen to you,” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed as he spoke. “You may experience intermittent discomfort, perhaps more. It all depends on your feelings toward me." He paused, then added, "And we both know how you feel about me, Harry."
Their mocking laughter pierced me like daggers as I felt their penetrating gaze. A surge of unacknowledged emotions—fear, loathing, and a rising anger—overwhelmed me. The way they looked upon me, the way Voldemort had twisted my feelings, stirred a darker force within.
"From this moment on, you are bound to me for eternity. There is no way for you to change this, not until your dying day." His voice was icy and resolute. "I will always be intimately aware of your emotions, your vulnerabilities, your capabilities—your very essence. Harry, you can never break free of me, now or ever."
The wizard's words coiled around my throat, choking me until I could scarcely draw breath. I was caught in a desperate struggle—a dark future bound to the Wizarding World's most infamous dark sorcerer on one side and my own unyielding resolve to defy him on the other.
Overwhelming panic consumed me, heavy and desperate. I frantically scanned the crowd, desperately seeking allies, but the faces I encountered were twisted with ambition and cruelty, submerged in a dark, approving tide. They were eager to embrace Voldemort's power, willing to sacrifice their very souls for a fleeting taste of strength.
Then it happened. Voldemort materialised inches from me in a flash, his icy, bony fingers clamping down on my arm. A jolt of pain and panic shot through me as the invisible bindings tightened around my body, sapping my strength like a constricting serpent. I knew I was no match for his power and could not break free from the vice-like grip that crushed my spirit.
The cruel, mocking laughter of the Death Eaters surrounded us, predatory and filled with sadistic glee as they eagerly anticipated the unfolding spectacle. Their eyes glinted with excitement, like glimmers of delight at my helplessness. I felt exposed and vulnerable, a mere puppet bound to the strings of an inescapable master, doomed to be their prey.
Voldemort's voice slithered through the air as he began to chant, preparing to cast the spell that would brand me and make the bond between us inescapable. I could only stare in horror, a whimper of fear escaping my muffled, bound lips. I cursed the choking terror that prevented me from screaming or pleading, my cries reduced to a soft whine of despair.
As the Dark Mark was burnt into my flesh, an agonising pain erupted. It was more than just a mark—it felt like knives stabbing me from all sides, as the very essence of anguish manifested in my arm. The torment was overwhelming, and I screamed out in agony, tears streaming down my helpless, burning cheeks.
With every heartbeat, the darkness seeped deeper, intertwining with my very being and branding me as Voldemort's rightful servant. I was now tethered to the Dark Lord, the connection more pronounced, more defined, and more powerful than the lightning bolt scar upon my forehead.
Time lost its meaning as the agony intensified, consuming me, merging with despair, spreading like a poison through my veins. I willed it to stop; I willed everything to end. But in that moment, all I could feel was a raw pain unlike anything I had ever known, overshadowing my thoughts and my dreams, until finally, mercifully, the darkness finally took me.
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I was jolted awake by a searing pain radiating through my arm. Weak light crept in from the horizon, casting feeble shadows across the room and complicating my attempt to piece together the remnants of my memory.
Where were my glasses? I fumbled on the bedside table, my fingers grazing cool wood but finding nothing. Panic surged as I struggled to recall the last twenty-four hours—the chaos in the courtyard, the echo of spells, the clash of wills, and then… darkness.
As the fragmented memories fell into place—Dumbledore’s death, Voldemort and his Death Eaters at Hogwarts, my glasses breaking beneath his feet, being bound inside the Slytherin common room—a sharp intake of breath fluttered in my chest. It couldn’t be real. It had to be just a nightmare. But the knot twisting in my stomach told me otherwise.
No, no, no. My heart raced. This was no dream—it was all too real.
My gaze drifted to my left arm, resting on the bed, where a dark shape emerged from the shadows. Gritting my teeth against rising fear, I blinked, hoping to briefly clear my blurred vision and make sense of the dark shape. There it was—the snake, unmistakably alive, slithering around the skull, throbbing in pain and pulsing with an eerie, unnatural rhythm, as if echoing the heartbeat of darkness. The sight of it had haunted me before, its oppressive presence lingering in the shadows of my nightmares. But to confront it on my own flesh was overwhelming, stealing my very breath away. It had become an inescapable torment.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
The damned symbol seemed to mock me, coiling around my forearm. Its presence was more vivid than any scar, its insidious pull evident with each breath. Desperate, I dug my nails into the skin surrounding the mark, scratching and clawing as if I could peel it off. My fingers slipped and slid across the surface, finding the familiar pain that sounded like a scream—my scream—echoing against the stone walls.
My raw, exposed skin was a stark pink against the dark ink. No matter how much I hurt myself, the mark remained. I shook my head, fighting the urge to break down as my breath escaped in shudders. Blood dripped sluggishly from my compulsive scratching, pooling on the bed and on the floor.
Voldemort's cruel, cackling laughter suddenly echoed in the depths of my mind, twisting my stomach into knots. Anger erupted like a hot fire through my veins as his haunting, mocking refrain taunted my growing frustration—as if he had been waiting for this moment, the moment I finally allowed myself to break.
"No matter how much you try, Harry, you won't be able to get rid of the Dark Mark," he said, his voice slithering through my thoughts. Each bitter, twisted word echoed the dark magic that had branded my skin.
The curse pulsed through my clenched fist, its mark throbbing incessantly, impossible to ignore no matter how hard I tried to suppress it. Exposed and vulnerable, I felt as if a spotlight was mercilessly illuminating every secret I harboured, leaving me with nowhere to hide and no way to pretend I was truly free.
And then, as if mocking wasn’t enough for him, he inflicted pain on my arm like a brand being seared into my flesh over and over. The sudden, agonising jolt caught me off guard, overwhelming my defences, and I let out a raw, desperate scream that echoed through the empty room. I crumpled to the floor, clutching my arm where the Dark Mark burnt with relentless intensity, the mocking torment more than I could bear.
Each wave of pain felt like shards of glass cutting through me—so personal, so intimate. He was peeling away the layers of hope I had wrapped around myself, deliberately leaving my soul bare and exposed before him. I wanted to scream for help; I wanted someone, anyone, to hear me. But we were alone in this struggle—he and I. Just as I reached my breaking point, the darkness flooded over me, his laughter mixing with my cries and drowning me in despair.
Lying on the floor, I clutched my profusely bleeding arm, unsure of how much time had passed. Though I risked bleeding out, I no longer cared. Death would be a welcome escape from the hell surrounding me.
But those thoughts all seemed like a dream when suddenly, impossibly, the blood ceased. Glancing down, I saw my skin, once a canvas of crimson anguish, now glistening softly in the dim light, as if polished by the most delicate touch. To my astonishment, the wound had sealed itself, the skin seamlessly weaving back together, as if the very universe had paused to undo my suffering.
I blinked in disbelief. An illusion? No, I could feel the throbbing pain still. I pushed myself up, sliding against the wall until I was seated. My arm felt tender, strangely alive, pulsing with something I couldn’t comprehend.
Was this Voldemort's twisted method of torture—to inflict pain and then heal it, leaving me unable to escape the haunting thoughts? That unsettling idea echoed endlessly in my mind. In my sixteen years, I had witnessed much, but nothing could rival the all-consuming darkness that now shrouded me, each agonising moment stretching on infinitely.
The residual power of his strikes still crackled through me like electricity. He had penetrated beyond the surface, burrowing deep into my soul, where pain twisted into bewilderment and the crushing weight of my terrors enveloped me. With each act of torment, I slipped further from my true self, becoming a mere vessel for his malevolence.
How many times would I feel the scorching fire of agony, only to be pulled back and mended together again? How many times would I close my eyes, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, only to find him still there?
“This is just the beginning,” Voldemort had said. And now I wondered when it would all end.
It was all becoming painfully real. The dark mark, the loss of Dumbledore and Sirius, Snape's betrayal. And Voldemort's presence at Hogwarts sent a chill through me that no warmth could dispel.
I closed my eyes, seeking refuge in the depths of my mind. But all I could see were the faces of my friends—Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore’s Army. Where were they now? Were they fighting? Were they safe? Or worse—were they being tortured, as I was?
As I glanced around, the dark green walls were draped in an eerie silence. The Slytherin emblem—a serpent coiled around a silver and green crest—stared back at me with a sly, unsettling grin, causing my heart to race. Raising my fingertips to my forehead, a sticky warmth met my skin, and I winced at the sensation. Blood. I was bleeding.
Confusion washed over me, and I couldn't recall how I had ended up here. Slowly, I sat up, the creaking bed sounding like the old bones of a caged beast. Though lavishly decorated in Slytherin elegance, the room felt like a prison. Panic clawed at my throat as I scrambled to my feet, stumbling slightly from dizziness and growing disorientation.
Adrenaline surged as I frantically rushed to the door, yanking the handle in a desperate but futile attempt to escape. Locked—of course. A heavy, magically fortified door barred my way, trapping me like a caged animal pacing its enclosure.
Consumed by desperation, I pressed my ear against the frigid wood, straining to detect any sound beyond the confines of this unknown room. But there was nothing, just an oppressive, eerie silence.
Dazed, I surveyed the room. My Gryffindor robes had been replaced by their Slytherin counterparts. The once vibrant red and gold ties now shimmered in variegated green and silver on the bed beside me, mocking my transformation. My belongings, now adorned with serpentine motifs, lay strewn about—the books I recognised as my own, the quills transformed to resemble slithering snakes across the pages. This twisted dream refused to release me; the magic that imprisoned me here would not let me wake.
Collapsing onto the bed, I was overcome by a flood of unwelcome tears. Anger simmered within, fuelling a sense of helplessness.
“I’m not meant to be here,” I whispered into the silence, my voice barely loud enough to flinch the shadows that crowded around me. My throat tightened, the bitter taste of despair staining my words as I continued, “Not in this place, among these people. I don’t belong in this dungeon.”
The truth weighed heavily on me as the words left my lips. I was trapped among those who embraced the darkness, willing to betray anyone to seize power. The mere thought chilled me to the bone. Subsumed by their hatred, I felt every remaining thread of hope being consumed by the shadows of despair.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to block out the haughty laughter of the Death Eaters, the crushing weight of my own fear, and the deafening silence that gripped my heart. All I wanted was to disappear, to curl up and become invisible.
“What now?” I muttered, staring at the ceiling as though it would provide me with an answer. “What am I supposed to do?”
The dark corners of the room whispered mockingly as the cold air gripped tighter, but there was no response. In that moment, an urgent need to scream ripped through me, leaving me more isolated than ever before.
The creaking door snapped me back to the present moment. I leapt to my feet, heart racing as dread surged through me. Frantically, I scanned the room for my wand, but it was nowhere to be found. There had to be something—anything—I could use to defend myself. My Defence Against the Dark Arts training flashed through my mind. Would I have to fight? I couldn't let fear take over.
As Draco Malfoy entered the room, the cold, stone walls—now a prison of memories—seemed to close in around me. A sinister grin stretched across his pale face. His presence ignited a raw, explosive hatred within me. It was as if the shadows of the past whispered my most bitter regrets directly into my ear.
“Potter,” he said, his voice dripping with malice as he closed the door behind him. Just like that, he was there standing right before me, an embodiment of everything that had gone wrong.
I remembered the screams of the students echoed through the courtyard of Hogwarts, the darkness that crawled into every crevice, and the haunting silence that followed Dumbledore’s death. Every time I felt that sorrow clawing at my throat, there was Malfoy with the Death Eaters, grinning like a maniac at his successful betrayal.
How could he act as if nothing worse had happened?
Rage consumed me, tightening its grip with each derisive chuckle that fell from his lips. I yearned to assault him, to pummelled him, to unleash a devastating spell that would reduce him to a trembling, helpless heap. If only I could just have my wand…
The moment I lunged at him, intent on unleashing my anguish, a searing pain shot through my arm. I reeled back, clutching my forearm as if to tear away the agony. "What...?" I gasped, bewildered, unable to fathom why I had suddenly been rendered immobile.
Malfoy's cruel laughter echoed through the room. "What's the matter, Potter? Can't you bring yourself to harm someone like me?" He thrust his arm forward, displaying the black tattoo coiled around his skin like a snake. "Someone who bears the Dark Mark?" Malfoy sneered. "You could never hurt a fellow Slytherin, not when you're already one of us. The dark mark binds us together."
The pain radiated through my arm, an ache that pulsed with each heartbeat. The taunt cut deeper than any spell, its cruel words carving into me. It wasn't simply the words themselves, but the heavy implication that hung in the air, suffocating me. That familiar rage bubbled up within, mingling dangerously with a creeping sense of despair. This was more than mere anger—it was a strangling frustration that left me feeling utterly impotent, shackled not just physically but mentally as well.
“By touching the Dark Mark, Potter, and I can call the Dark Lord himself,” Malfoy continued with a malignant grin, showcasing the tattoo etched into his forearm as though it were a rare trophy. "He said I could do it—just for you. Imagine that, you being punished by the Dark Lord. Quite poetic, don’t you think? He can inflict pain on you now, whenever and wherever he pleases."
Malfoy was right—the Dark Mark had forged an unwanted bond between them—one I never wished to be a part of. Though I could hear the whispers of Malfoy's grim satisfaction, his words chilled me. The gleam in Malfoy's eyes was chillingly pleased, as if this knowledge were a weapon he wielded.
His words hit me like a sucker punch, sending my mind reeling. The prospect of aligning with those who had inflicted so much harm, of being powerless to oppose them, felt like a cage more confining than any physical prison. Paralysed, I could no longer fight back, shield the vulnerable, or defend myself against those bent on causing me harm. I stood there, my own inaction weighing me down, leaving me gasping for air.
“I—” I started, but the words caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to break free from the mental chains binding me. Malfoy laughed, an unsettling sound that lingered in the tepid air.
“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. “You should be. I've secured a direct connection to the Dark Lord. I never imagined breaking you would be this effortless."
Anger surged through me, its edges raw and jagged. "Why are you doing this?" I spat, my voice dripping with resentment. My heart pounded in a frenzied rhythm of disbelief and fury. "Didn't you feel any regret for what you've done? Because of you, Dumbledore is dead. And now, you take pleasure in seeing me tortured for fighting for what's right?"
Malfoy's face hardened, his expression an icy mask of indifference. "Shut up," he spat, his voice low and dripping with venom. "You have no idea what I endured just to survive. I did what I had to!" His hands clenched into fists, and for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of pain flickered in his steely grey eyes before vanishing.
"Do you really believe that rationalising your cowardice makes it acceptable?" I retorted, suppressing the impulse to withdraw. "You've allowed fear to guide your decisions, Malfoy. You're nothing more than a pawn for those craving power!"
Breathing heavily, he stepped towards me. Despite my anger, a twinge of pity stirred within as I took in the toll his life had taken, etched into the lines of his weary face and the slump of his shoulders. Yet the fire of my indignation compelled me to confront him.
My voice quivered as I spoke, heavy with the gravity of my words. "You had a choice, Malfoy. You could have chosen differently." I had witnessed his struggles, yet never anticipated they would culminate in such betrayal, cruelty, and a total moral breakdown.
He shook his head, his features etched with a tumultuous mix of anger and regret. "Do you really think you understand the immense pressure I was under? You have no idea! I had no choice—they would have killed my family if I didn't comply."
“Then fight back!” I urged, my frustration spilling over. “Why would you join them and turn against the ideals Dumbledore stood for? This is not about survival, Malfoy—it's about surrender."
A flicker of something—something like understanding—passed across his face. For a moment, I thought I had finally gotten through to him, but then his defensive walls slammed back into place. Turning away, he said quietly, almost to himself, "You don't know what it's like to have everything taken from you. Maybe I did what I had to. Maybe I did what I thought would protect me."
“Protecting you at the cost of innocence?” I countered, my voice rising. “Look around you! This is the world you’ve chosen to perpetuate—a world where fear reigns and power is all that matters. Can't you see how empty and meaningless it is?"
He faced me again, and there was something raw in his gaze. It was vulnerability—perhaps an unfamiliar feeling for him, but one that I recognised.
“You think you’re so noble, standing there judging me?” he hissed, frustration lacing his words. "You can't begin to fathom the struggle of playing a part, donning a façade, or surviving.”
"Perhaps we've both been hiding behind masks," I replied in a hushed tone, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we're just trying to survive, but in our own unique ways."
For a moment, the air between us shifted, crackling with tension. His desperate eyes sought mine, yearning for connection or understanding, but the moment was fleeting as the darkness reasserted itself.
“I’m tired of this,” Malfoy snarled suddenly, recoiling as if burned. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Potter! Unlike you, I have duties to fulfil." Briefly glancing at my belongings, he returned his gaze to me. "The Dark Lord demands your presence in the Great Hall."
“Why?” It was the only question I could muster, but it slipped away the moment it reached my lips. Surely Voldemort had no intention of having breakfast with me, and yet the mere notion sent a shudder of discomfort rippling through me.
Malfoy shrugged. He had always been secretive, but this felt different. There was a certain urgency to his voice, a cold edge that suggested dire consequences if I didn’t comply. My cramping stomach dropped further at the thought.
I wasn’t afraid of Malfoy, despite his position or his parentage. In that moment, however, it struck me how swiftly the tides had turned—how perilously I was caught between worlds I never sought to be part of.
“I’m not going,” I declared, the sound of my own voice startling me for a brief moment. A surge of stubborn determination coursed through me. If Malfoy refused to reveal the truth, then I would steadfastly hold my ground, come what may.
"You have no choice," he retorted, exhaling a frustrated sigh. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. The Dark Lord is granting you mercy, so you should be grateful."
“Mercy?” I repeated incredulously, biting back the anger that threatened to erupt. The mere suggestion of Voldemort offering mercy sent my heart racing. His twisted notion of benevolence was of no concern to me.
Malfoy's patience visibly waned as he glared at me, his silver-blond hair gleaming in the dim light. With exasperation etched on his face, he snapped, "Fine! Defy his orders. Be uncooperative and see where it gets you." Having delivered this ultimatum, he pivoted on his heel and strode away, leaving me alone to wrestle with my conflicted emotions.