Title: Destroy Me (I'd Let You)
Pairing: Severus Snape/Draco Malfoy.
Rating: Mature.
Word Count: 1,720.
Summary: Severus is not in the habit of allowing himself what he wants. Perhaps that is for the best.
Warnings: Underage (Draco is 16 - but the smut is like three lines long and more poetic than anything else). Canon character death (Dumbledore).
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
In the span of your life, there's plenty to avoid;
the wicked, the merciless.
The things you want for no other reason
than wanting them.
A head bent over a book. An expensive quill held in hand - elegant.
How can that be elegant.
Pale blond stands fallen out of place. Across his forehead, in front of clear grey.
Beautiful.
A rustle of paper, a pale hand smacking another away. A hissed piss off.
Arrogant.
A sneer. A curl of his lip, a flash of pearly white. A glimpse of glistening pink.
Like his father.
A swallow, the look of annoyance fading as quick as it comes. Sadness, etched in the lines of his face. Hidden, but there. Yes. Always there.
But not.
"Professor." Soft spoken, hesitant. "You wanted to see me?"
Apprehensive.
"Yes." He dips his head toward the adjacent chair, its frame already pushed back. Waiting. "Sit."
A gentle bang as the door shuts, followed by quiet steps. Draco sits, eyes fixed on the bare desk. Unusual, Severus sees him think. For it to be bare.
No distractions.
"How are you settling?" A kind approach. Somewhat, at least. As kind as he can get without raising suspicion.
Slow, he reminds himself. There's no room for failure.
"Fine." Confusion, seen in the light furrow of his brow. Suspicious, already.
No point in slow, then.
(Taught well, Severus thinks. Distantly.)
"And your task?"
A sharp intake of breath, a body rigid with tension. He didn't know, Severus thinks. Interesting.
"I'm afraid I don't kn—"
Lie. "You know very well what I mean, Draco."
A quiet exhale, grey eyes refusing to meet black. Pale fingers clench around the chair's arms, manicured nails scraping the surface.
Scared. Or perhaps only desperate.
"It's going fine."
Lie again. "You haven't started."
Another furrow, annoyed this time. Almost a glare, but not. "It's not your concern."
Wrong, but he doesn't know it. "If you require assistance—"
A scrape of wood against stone, irritating to the ear. Draco stands, eyes flashing. Anger, maybe. Or poorly veiled desperation.
"I don't need help." Muttered. Hateful. Like his father. "I can do it on my own."
Another lie.
Perhaps not a lie.
Draco is competent. Juvenile, but competent. His attempt had promise, Severus thinks. Even potential for success, had the target been anyone else.
All the more frustrating.
"People will talk," Draco says. "If you keep calling me in here."
Let them, Severus thinks. People - annoying little creatures. Inconvenient, at best. They're likely already talking.
"Sit." Harsh, murmured. No room for arguments or disobedience.
Draco does, as if on reflex. The tone - like his father's.
Conditioned, Severus thinks.
"You need to do better." Because competent, yes, but not good enough. Not when people are suspicious, not when Potter is suspicious.
"If you've called me in to give another speech, you're wasting your time." And then, as an afterthought. "Professor."
His lip curls thinly, exposing yellow teeth. Respect, bred into him. But only for the right people.
Funny, Severus thinks. How he'd made it to the Right People.
"Are you trying to be daft, boy?" Boy - boy. Narcissa's words ring in his ears. Just a boy, too young for this. Any of this. "Do you want to succeed or not?"
Stupid question. He already knows the answer.
"I don't need your help."
A yell, restrained to a muttered sentence. Frustration, pushing at the back of his teeth. Desperation, swimming behind cool grey.
Proving, to Severus, that he means the opposite.
Dust shines in the glow of the candlelight, the sheen almost pretty. The room is cold, uncomfortably so. Unused for decades, empty save the few remaining desks.
No reason to be this close, then.
And yet.
"I made the Unbreakable Vow," Snape is saying. Or rather, hissing. Voice low, serious. Frustrated.
The response is predictable. Meant to hurt.
It doesn't.
They do not have time for this, Severus thinks. For petty arguments and poor attempts. Draco is deteriorating; slowly, steadily. Perhaps only visible to him.
He can see it, now. Close as they are. The slump to his stance, as if anger and spite are the only things keeping him standing. The dark circles below tired eyes, the grey tinge to porcelain skin.
That's the problem with porcelain, Severus thinks. It begs to be broken.
"If you tell me what you are trying to do, I can assist you—"
Futile. Draco is angry, now. Not desperate or frustrated, just angry.
Retreat, Severus thinks. Try again later.
A mention of Lucius and, yes - yes. The desired effect. Draco storms from the room before he can finish, door banging after him.
Juvenile.
Try again later.
An uncomfortable chair; hard back, no cushion. Worn. A bare chest, slightly scarred. Dry, now, but Severus can still see the blood.
Bright red. Beautiful.
His spell. His fault.
He shifts, stares. Staring. He does that a lot, lately. Difficult, not to. He tries not to feel guilty, but - well. His job is to watch Draco, to guide him. Not to stare. Not to imagine.
Vivid imagery, it haunts him. Dreams, spare moments. Not so spare moments.
They don't have the time.
"Are you watching me?"
Mumbled, sleepy. Bordering on playful.
Different, to previous encounters. Interesting.
"Supervising."
"Why?"
Why, indeed. He doesn't have to be here. Poppy had even told him to leave.
"You were injured."
"I was almost killed." Harsher, now. But not directed at him. "Potter should be expelled."
"He won't be."
And, oh. Memories. Funny, he thinks. How things don't change.
At least, some things.
"Typical," says Draco. And then, "Why are you here?"
And he has to ask again, doesn't he? As if pushing Severus to admit the answer to himself. Or rather, to find an answer to admit.
"I vowed to protect you." Not an answer, not really. That's why he was in the bathroom, it isn't why he's here. Now. Where Draco won't be harmed.
"Mmhm." Mumbled, again. Suspicious, somewhat. He doesn't believe him. Taught well. "When can I leave?"
Not going to push it, then.
"Tomorrow."
A quiet groan, frustrated. Inconvenienced. "Can't you do something?"
So now you want my help, Severus thinks.
"No."
It's a lie. He can, if he really wants to. But— well. He can be difficult, too.
"Then go," says Draco. "We can't talk here."
They can. There are spells for privacy, but. No. Best not to.
He stands, long fingers closing around a vial, and passes it to Draco. "Drink," he commands. "Sleep."
You need it goes unsaid.
Another week passes, and another after that. And then—
"I need your help."
Finally, Severus thinks. Just - finally. Like a breath of fresh air.
He looks at Draco. Skewed uniform; loose tie, rumpled shirt. Red rimmed eyes, hair out of place. Like he's been running a hand through it.
Frustration. Desperation. On show, for Severus to see.
Scared.
"Tell me what you need."
Vulnerability is… alluring.
As it turns out, Draco knows this. Can read it on him, probably. He's been slipping, he knows. Subtly - sometimes he wants a break.
"Can't I stay?"
No. "Why?"
A shrug, elegant. How is he always so elegant.
"It's nicer here, than the dorm." Suggestive, almost. A lie, definitely. "I like the quiet."
"I hardly think my office is a suitable sleeping place."
"No," says Draco. Like he's just realised. "Probably not."
A tense silence. Severus stares, watches. Waits. Draco exhales. Stares back. And then, stands.
"Well," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Slow steps, like he's waiting to be called back.
And— Severus wants to. Oh, how he wants. But… no. Wanting things is dangerous. He knows that.
It doesn't stop him from wanting.
"Goodnight, Draco."
Funny, again. How it's always Draco.
A whole room, almost empty. And yet, too close.
Again.
Short breaths, quick puffs of air. He can hear them, can feel them. Warm, like standing over a simmering potion. But, no. Not a potion.
Draco.
A hand, curled in the fabric of his robes. Over the curve of his shoulder. Nails digging into flesh, through the layers. Burning hot.
"Please."
He should say no. He would say no, but. But.
Temptation. Sometimes, it's easier to just give in.
A pause; tension filled, heavy. They do this a lot, lately.
And then, finally: "Come."
Pale flesh, slim body. Like his own, but not.
Too slim, really. But then, that's expected.
(Like his own).
"Please." Again, like once he's started asking he can't stop. "Please."
And, well. He's already crossed the line, hasn't he? No point in turning back now. He may as well give in. Completely.
It is a blending of bodies; a solace found in touch. A momentary peace from the constant chaos.
Draco is soft where he is not, is gentle in a way he is unused to. It is unexpected.
But not unwanted.
His name falls from those lips - full, pink, and so, so soft - and. Fuck it, he thinks. If it sends him to Hell, then he'll be dammed.
The boy - half destroyed, but still beautiful. Still tempting. Still—
"Severus."
A sigh, soft and sweet. Filled with so much emotion.
So much want.
Hell. He'll go gladly.
The night it happens is... tiring.
Kudos to Draco, he thinks. He can admire the effort - the skill - it took to get them all here, now. On the Tower, the wind blowing through hair and robes alike.
He catches Draco's expression when he sees him. Shock, fear, relief. All mixed in one.
He'd known, then. That he wouldn't be able to do it.
He grips his wand and. His palm isn't sweating, it's not.
He wonders, briefly, if he'd still do it. If Albus hadn't asked.
For Draco? Maybe.
Oh, he'll be dammed.
"Severus... please..."
And, how those words haunt him. People begging: to be killed, to not be killed. It's surprisingly similar.
"Avada Kedavra."
He doesn't watch the body topple from the tower, chooses instead to turn back. Back to Draco.
He's greeted with another mix of emotions. Relief, still. Disbelief, too. Something like fear - of him, of what's to happen. Severus can't tell.
And then, gratitude.
He grabs him by the collar; rough, too rough. But then, now isn't the time to be gentle.
"Out of here, quickly!" he barks. And then, quieter, for Draco's ears only: "Go. Hide."
And, Merlin. How he hopes he does.