A/N: The Inkblot is intended to fit in with the canon characters we see later on, and is meant to be compliant with the HP universe, and subsequently there is triggering material herein. Warnings for child abuse and neglect (both in flashbacks and in reference) as well as domestic violence; very unhealthy children (not just in regards to Severus Snape's home life, but also in that of Lucius' and others); mentions of the war throughout, possibly including discussions of and depictions of violence later on. This fic is centred primarily on class differences and complicated relationships with varied power dynamics, and will cover Lucius' final year/Severus' first year from start to finish. Cheers, hope you enjoy!

Settled neatly on a bench facing the centre of the hall, that he needn't crane his neck quite so much to watch the proceedings, Lucius sits with his back straight, his posture the very image of that which a proper Pureblood boy ought exude. Rattling against the castle roof, the rain is a constant mutter against the talk and laughter in the Great Hall, as they each await the new crop of students to make their appearance. Lucius had seen McGonagall flit out into the hall just a few moments before the rain had started, and he only hopes they'd made it into the safety of the building before the heavens had opened – the children always look so unkempt when they're forced to make their inaugural journey into Hogwarts under the pouring rain, and that is without acknowledging the inevitable one or two that tumble into the lake water and are neatly nudged back into their boats by the great squid within.

On Lucius' chest, shining a proud silver, rests his Head Boy badge.

Before him lies his final year at Hogwarts and the culmination of his N.E.W.T.s, and then to the wider world, to the war that threatens the horizon. Allowing himself a moment to ruminate on this, Lucius reaches for his glass, taking a small sip of his wine: when he leaves the castle's walls, he will have to take his father's place at the Dark Lord's side, kneel at his feet and swear his fealty. He hears the whisper, at times, of Father's robes in the corridor as he leaves for some meeting or other, hears the door click shut, and he recalls—

He recalls being a very young boy, scarce more than a toddler. That was when he had first met the Dark Lord, had witnessed his pale visage with its subtle wrongness, and the image of him is hazy in Lucius' own childhood memory. What might it be like, to meet the man again, now that he is a legend?

Lucius takes another sip of his wine, longer this time.

"Are you alright?" asks a voice across the table, and Lucius' gaze flickers to Orabelle Bulstrode, a heavyset girl with cascades of beautiful, chestnut hair. Her dark eyes rest eagerly on Lucius' face, and as ever, she seems desperately eager to gain his attention. Lucius gives a graceful inclination of his head.

"Quite well, thank you, Orabelle," he murmurs. "Merely an upset stomach, I think. A light meal is in order for me tonight, I think."

"Oh, me too," Orabelle says immediately, and Lucius feels a scepticism make itself known, but he does not allow it to show on his face, instead giving her a pleasant smile. The great double doors of the hall open, and immediately, a hush falls over the room as everybody leans forward, surveying the First Years as they file in, clinging together in a tight formation, as if frightened to show their herd has gaps… And then they rest in the middle of the room, and Lucius watches in amusement as they shift apart, already settling into formed gaggles and pairs – he sees a group of three young girls each with their hair in slightly messy braids, who had likely sat together on the train and worked on each other's hair as they journeyed toward the castle; he sees a pair of boys together, one of whom vaguely recognisable as one of the Blacks by his aristocratic features and his dark hair. Bringing up the rear of the group is a pair of children, a boy and a girl, and Lucius frowns slightly as he studies them, curious. The girl, her hair a beautiful burnished red that hangs long about her shoulders, but is too fine to be that of Weasley blood, is looking at the Great Hall with the wonder most First Years do, her eyes wide and catching the light. The boy beside her, on the other hand, is staring resolutely at the ground, his hair a lank curtain about his face, and for a moment, Lucius thinks that perhaps he was one of the unlucky few to fall into the lake, but his robes are quite dry. His hair's shine, Lucius realises with a distinct distaste, is entirely as a result of the grease in it.

When the boy turns his head, risking a glance toward the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables, Lucius catches a glimpse of a hooked nose and a prominent, dark brow contrasting against extraordinarily pale skin. The boy looks as if he's been in the dark for the past ten years, awaiting his Hogwarts letter, and he has a quality about him that reminds Lucius of Mr Goyle's crup, quick on his feet and with flinching movements, as if expecting a blow to find him at any moment.

Curious.

Dumbledore has been making his speech as Lucius mulls over these new additions to the Hogwarts school body, and as the Sorting Hat sings its song, Lucius thinks again over the children, searching for familiar faces. He returns his attention only when McGonagall takes up her list of names in her hand, beginning to read off the names of the new children.

"Abbot, Alastair," McGonagall calls. This year, Lucius thinks, he should like something to distract him from the stresses of his studies, and the increasingly expectant pressure of his father's gaze – some sort of personal project. Father keeps insisting he find a wife, and then retroactively deciding Lucius need not look, because he will arrange a match instead, and thus that activity is removed from the running – there is hardly any point in searching for a wife if his father will overrule his own arrangements before he can complete them.

"RAVENCLAW!" declares the Sorting Hat. The names ring on as Lucius muses on his thoughts, vaguely noting Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff… And then walks Black, Sirius toward the Hat, and Lucius feels his lips quirk into a smile: the first Slytherin of the year.

Black walks with the royal demeanour of any of his ancestors, his chin raised high, his shoulders back, a little grin on his face. The boy, Lucius would wager, will grow into a handsome young man – there's something in the roguish shift of his lips, in the sparkle of his eyes, the natural mischief of a dandy waiting in the wings. Most of his cousins, after all, are quite charming – Bellatrix's shrill voice and obscene temper aside, Andromeda has a cool beauty (what is she doing, now, Lucius wonders? He hasn't seen her about this summer past), and the youngest one… It's a floral name, he thinks – Narcissa, that's it. She's a quiet thing, preferring her books and her studies to the engagements of her fellow Fifth Years, but he's never heard a bad word about her, nor had to give her a stern word for a misdemeanour.

As Black sits down on the stool, a momentary shadow passes over his face, as if his confidence wavers before the eager crowd, and then the Sorting Hat drops over his head, smoothing down his thick hair. Lucius shifts his hands, his fingers brushing the opposite palm as he poises them, ready to clap—

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat declares, and Lucius stares. A silence rings in the Great Hall as every student with a brain in their head digests this oddity of oddities – that a Black, a Black, should be pronounced a Gryffindor. Turning his head, Lucius glances to Bellatrix, whose mouth is wide open, her eyes horrified; to Narcissa, whose hand is over her mouth.

Black, Sirius shifts the Sorting Hat from his head, gives the wide-eyed McGonagall a beam of fiendishly white teeth, and saunters in the direction of the Gryffindor table. After but a second's pause, they burst into cheers and applause for their new member, and Lucius feels his lips twist into a slight frown.

This school is going to the dogs.

He watches the others as they are sorted – the red-headed lass, who seems very nervous as she steps up to the stage, is named Evans, a name that Lucius certainly doesn't know – likely, he would suspect, a Half-blood, or… A distasteful thought, but perhaps she's a Mudblood. He glances at Lupin, Remus with thought – the boy has one or two little scars on his face, which would point to his being a Mudblood too, given that most wizarding families would heal such things, especially on the face, but Lucius does think he's heard of the Lupins, and then again, the wounds could be magical in nature…

Pettigrew, Peter miserably drips out of the crowd, and with a weary sigh, McGonagall casts a drying charm on his sopping robes. There is always one that falls in the lake. Pettigrew, at least, is a wizarding name, although it is no loss at all when the boy – shivering violently in a way that Lucius presumes is now anxiety rather than the cold – goes to Gryffindor. Then Potter, James, another Gryffindor – hardly a surprise.

"Snape, Severus," McGonagall calls, and Lucius studies the boy's movement as he jerkily rushes up to the stool. He slips in the puddle that Pettigrew had left, and he hisses in pain as he lands hard on his knees on the stair; there is scattered laughter about the room, and Lucius hears a loud whoop from the First Years at the Gryffindor table. Snape. Not a name that Lucius recognizes, and the ugly little thing is undernourished, his robes not fitting him properly, so perhaps he is a Mudblood, and what a shame. There's a curiosity stirring in Lucius, a vague desire to know what exactly makes this one tick.

McGonagall lifts the boy up by a skinny arm, and visibly humiliated, a mottled flush showing on his bony cheeks, he sees him all but snatch up the Hat, jamming it down onto his head. There's a long pause, this time – perhaps two or three minutes pass by, which means some argument is going on between the boy and the Hat, some discussion—

Finally, the Hat rings out – with an air of subtle satisfaction – "SLYTHERIN!"

Lucius feels his lip twitch in satisfaction as he claps, watching the boy come up toward the table, and Lucius can see the tear in the skirt of his robe, the slight bloodiness on one knee. The boy barely seems to notice, he is so desperate to sit himself down and escape the stares of the other tables and, equally it seems, the cheers of his compatriots.

Hm.

He watches the boy throughout dinner. Lucius does not lack for subtlety in his attentions, and he is careful only to glance in the boy's direction and not to stare, or to spy him through the reflection in a silver tureen rather than peering at him directly, but there are curious aspects to him that Lucius feels a need to examine.

The boy cannot be a Mudblood: here, the Sorting Hat has assured them of that.

And yet there is a desperate yearning to the way he looks about the table when their repast appears, to the way that he looks up at the candles hovering high above their heads, as if he has never seen such magic before, as if it is all new to him. His clothes fit him ill, and Lucius sees the sign of a poor family, of ill-fitting robes, but unlike the Weasleys, whose hand-me-downs fit them ill and are threadbare and worn, the boy's robes are quite new… And yet the skirt drags on the floor, its hem clumsily drawn up that it might be let down in future, and he all but swims in the fabric.

Poor.

This theory is only confirmed when Lucius sees the boy eat – he eats in the desperate fashion of a child who has not eaten all day, and yet is ever cognizant of appearing inoffensive to those that might be about him. Lucius can see the ghost of table manners clinging to his bony, grasping fingers: at no point does Snape, Severus rest his elbows upon the table, and yet he holds his fork and knife in transposed hands; he does not chew with his mouth open, but the mouthfuls he takes are too laden with gusto, and leave his cheeks full and his chin messy; he sits still with his back straight, yet his shoulders are hunched up toward his neck, and his head is bowed to face his plate instead of anybody else at the table. Attempts to speak with the boy, either by his fellow First Years or one of the new prefects this year – young Adrian Fordham, a polite and well-mannered young man that looks as if a stiff wind might kill him – are met with silence and an uncertain stare, followed by monosyllabic answers that brook no encouragement as to future interaction.

If anything, the child seems uncomfortable with people speaking with him – it goes beyond, from what Lucius can make of his flinches and his uncertain shudders, mere shyness or social uncertainty.

He expects a blow.

This unsettles Lucius, when the thought finally clicks in his head, when he finally realizes exactly what this might mean. The way that he shifts back from gesturing hands, so plainly does it paint a picture on the air, of a blow against his cheeks or his neck, and Lucius sets his jaw, just slightly. Even Lucius' own father would never be so angry, so taken away with his own temper, as to come to blows—

That, Lucius knows quite implicitly, is the failing of a Muggle.

Lucius is in need of a hobby. Hadn't he just been ruminating on that fact?

And teasing out a few more details about this young man, perhaps improving his bearing somewhat – that idea rather appeals. And this child, all black fabric and lank hair and sallow skin, why, he's like an inkblot amidst the neatly printed letters of his fellow students, in need of refinement, in need of careful cultivation. Such is the work of a proper young gentleman, too, to assist his inferiors in the art of self-improvement… An inspired idea. Truly.

ϟ ~ THE INKBLOT ~ ϟ

Severus keeps hesitating in the corridors as they move down toward the dungeons, distracted and uncertain. He had had to argue with the Sorting Hat, when he'd sat upon the stool, and he somehow feels as if there is a threat that it will call him back, tear him out of Slytherin house and put him into Gryffindor instead, but it can't do that, can it? It can't pull him back, now that he's in Slytherin, it can't, it can't—

You could be wonderful in Gryffindor, you know, it's all right here in your head—

No.

His stomach hurts. He hadn't eaten too much, hadn't wanted to make himself sick, but the food is richer than what he's used to, and he hadn't known what half of it bloody was. All soups and fat meats and that, and no just— Sandwiches. What's wrong with sandwiches? You know what it is: meat and butter between two slices of bread. How hard is that? And the embarrassment of it, arguing with the Hat while everyone stared at him, and the way he'd tripped and fallen on the stairs…

God, that'd hurt. There's a steady ache on one side of his chest where his dad had shoved the kitchen table across the room at him, pinning him back against the wall, and it's still sore now. Bad sore, actually. He hopes it evens out soon.

Swallowing, he realizes he has come to a stop, and rushes after the sound of the other First Years filing down toward the Common Room, but he must take a wrong turn, because he gets stuck in the shadows, shite, and he'll be alone, he'll be stuck, and someone'll come to find him—

"This way," says a quiet voice, warm and with a delicately clipped accent – posh. Everyone at this school sounds so bloody posh, and they all pronounce everything just so, and probably drink their tea with their pinkies out. Severus turns, and he looks at the other boy, who is a lot older than Severus – he looks like he's maybe seventeen or eighteen, and he has his hair right long, right down past his shoulders, like a girl. His face isn't like a girl's, though, not with the hard line of his jaw and his chin: he's handsome, in a pretty boy sort of way, like the kind of man that'd be on one of them dirty romance novels he sees in the library. He holds his wand up to light the darkened corridor, gesturing for Severus to come toward him with a big, clean hand, and Severus rushes to follow him, but trips on his torn robe, bastard thing.

Before he hits the floor, the older boy catches him under one arm, and Severus hisses in pain as he catches the bruising and the soreness on the side of his ribs, from the table. It's turning black, the bruising, but that's good, that it's getting lighter – that means it's getting better, even if the pain is still the same at the moment.

"Ah ah, alright, on your feet," the older boy says delicately, and Severus stumbles back from him, trying to stand straight as his fingers go to his side, touching the bruise. The boy looks down at him critically, his expression full of thought, and Severus doesn't like that look, doesn't like how it feels when it lands on his face. He looks down at the boy's chest instead of at his piercing eyes, and he sees the sheen of the badge on his chest. It says HEAD BOY. "Come," Head Boy says, and he leads the way. "You are Snape, Severus, are you not?"

"Yessir," Severus says. Head Boy turns back to glance at him quizzically, and Severus stiffens for a second, wondering if this lad is gonna hit him – posh lads don't know how to fight, Severus knows, but this guy's nearly six-two and built, and if he clocked Severus one, he knows he'd feel it.

"My name is Lucius Malfoy," Head Boy says, leading Severus back into a more well-lit corridor, and Severus has to rush a little to keep up with his long-legged gait, which is very smooth and fast.

"Lucius," Severus repeats. "Like the saint?"

"Which saint?" Severus hesitates. There's something in the other boy's tone that's kinda expectant, and he doesn't know if it's right to actually answer, or if he's meant to stay quiet, if it's a trap. There's all new rules, here at Hogwarts – Mum'd said there'd be new rules, that it'd be different.

"Of Britain, I s'pose. There's Lucius of Cyrene, too, and there's popes that were called Lucius. Comes from lux – it means bright or shine, in Latin." Severus likes Latin. His mother had always had some Latin books on her shelves, had dictionaries and old textbooks from when she was at school, and he's been reading them and rereading them since he was old enough to read. He likes… He likes dictionaries. Boring, yes, but he likes how clear laid out they are, how there's just right or wrong answers, how everything's in order. It's… It's calming.

"Not like that," Lucius says cleanly. "The C makes a sibilant sound – compare it to serene. Not Kai-reen."

"Oh," Severus says. Humiliation burns in his cheeks.

"Do you know many saints?"

"Dunno. I s'pose."

"Was it a saint you were named for?"

"Why're you asking me so many questions?" Severus snaps, and Lucius turns to glance at him, one of his silvery eyebrows raised: automatically, Severus takes a flinching step back, expecting the sudden swipe of his hand, or even a punch.

"I was not named for a saint, Severus," Lucius says mildly, and he turns back toward the corridor. "Lucius is a family name – the original Lucius Malfoy was perhaps named for some consulate or emperor or other, I expect."

"Oh," Severus says. He isn't sure what else to say.

"What is Severus the saint of?" Lucius asks. At the end of the corridor, Severus can see a patch of wall that is neatly lit by two torch brackets on either side – that's the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. Must be. His mum always said it was just like that.

"Not all saints is of something," Severus says.

"Are of something," Lucius corrects, and Severus frowns slightly, furrowing his brow.

"Are of something," he repeats dutifully. His stomach feels too full and his cheeks are burning and his robes are ripped and he's still so bloody embarrassed from before— "S'not like… You know, like Roman gods, or something."

"Your mother is a Catholic?"

"No, my da." There's a moment's pause, and then Severus asks, deciding to leap into uncertainty, "Are you a Catholic?"

"No," Lucius says.

"Baptist?"

"No."

"You an Anglican, then?"

"No." Severus furrows his brow, twisting his mouth.

"What, are you a Jew?" Lucius laughs softly, and when he chuckles, he put one of his big hands over his mouth, like it's not polite for anyone to see him smiling. When he looks at Severus, Severus feels stupid, as if he's laughing at him. "Don't laugh at me," Severus says. "You don't look like a Jew."

"And what do Jewish men look like, in your mind?" Lucius asks, his lips quirked up into a smile. Severus hesitates for a second, trying to work out the answer to this – he isn't actually sure.

"I dunno," Severus mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "What are you then? Other than a ponce."

"Oh, I should think ponce will do for now," Lucius says casually, and he turns toward the wall. "Spero lucem." Severus watches, spellbound, as the bricks begin to slide apart, shifting just like the ones at the entrance to Diagon Alley had, and revealing a corridor that is hung with silver and green curtains, and is noticeably warm compared to the dank chill of the dungeons. "Would you translate that for me, Severus?"

"Spero lucem?" Lucius inclines his head, his hair shifting on his shoulders and catching the light. It's the sort of hair a doll would have, Severus thinks. It doesn't look right on a man. "I hope for light." Lucius smiles a close-lipped smile.

"Very good," he says approvingly, and he leads the way into the Common Room.

"Lucius!" says a black boy lounging on a couch: all around him, neatly sat on stools and chairs, are the other First Years. "Where were you?" He's got a thick accent on him, like he's French, maybe.

"Severus got lost in one of the corridors," Lucius says, and Severus looks down at his feet. "Because you, Prefect Crowley, weren't performing your duty in bringing up the rear." He turns his gaze on a very pale girl with strawberry blond hair, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

"How am I meant to see him in the dark?" she asks, gesturing to Severus. "He's all in black."

"They're all all in black," points out the black boy.

"Well!" Crowley says. Lucius hand comes toward Severus' shoulder, but doesn't quite touch it: instead, it hovers just over his lower back.

"Sit down with the others, Severus," Lucius says quietly, and Severus sits down on a cushioned stool, his knees pressed together, his elbows in his lap. There's a speech, after that, from the black boy, whose name is Armand Richelieu. He's a Fourth Year, and he is French. He gives some speech about Slytherins and values, all about looking after each other, sticking together… About Slytherins being each other's family, at Hogwarts.

It's a nice thought.

Severus wishes it weren't probably bollocks.

The Slytherin dormitories are small cells down corridors, with two people to each room – according to Richelieu, they have to have small rooms and a lot of supporting walls and columns down in the Slytherin quarters, just because of the lake on top. The Slytherin dormitories span out underneath the lake, and when Severus looks up at the ceiling, he can see it's been enchanted just like the ceiling in the Great Hall, so you can see the water outside, and fish swimming by…

Severus is rooming with a boy called Thadeus Avery, who looks at Severus like he's nothing more than dirt on his shoe.

Like Severus thought before.

Bollocks.

ϟ ~ THE INKBLOT ~ ϟ

Lucius keeps a close eye on Severus in the first week at Hogwarts.

He's a studious young boy – whenever Lucius sees him, seated at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall or settled in the library, he is leaning over a book or over an essay, working very carefully and with a great amount of care beside the red-headed Gryffindor, Evans. His handwriting is neat and spidery, although Lucius notes it's a rather feminine hand. But he is… Filthy. It is plain to Lucius that the boy does not bathe in the mornings, nor in the evenings, and Lucius is absolutely going to lay some ground rules in that regard, but the study habits are a good foundation, at least.

And there is one other thing. Severus distinctly favours his left-hand side, the right side tender and sensitive, as it had been when Lucius had caught him when he had arrived, and it's… Uncertain. Lucius has a suspicion as to what exactly the injury in question is, and, well, it can hardly be allowed to fester.

"With me, please, Severus," Lucius says on Friday afternoon, and Severus looks up from the chair in the Slytherin Common Room, where he is curled in a very tight ball. It reminds Lucius of a cat, the way in which he holds himself, his legs tightly folded beneath his body, huddled in the armchair and in the overlarge fabric of his robes.

"What?" Severus asks, staring up at him.

"I wanted a word with you, Severus," Lucius says quietly, so that none of the other students can hear him: behind him, Severus' fellow First Years are playing Exploding Snap, but from what Lucius can gather, Severus' isolation is entirely self-imposed. "Would you take a walk with me?"

"Alright," Severus mutters, and Lucius watches as he fastidiously marks his place in his book, setting his bookmark exactly two thirds of the way down the page before he closes it. Rushing off, he disappears into the corridor for a moment, and then hurries back to follow Lucius from the room.

"Friendly with that Evans girl, are you?" Lucius asks as they step out into the corridor, and he takes note of Severus' response, at the way he keeps his gaze on the stone floor as they move out into the dungeons.

"I s'pose," Severus says.

"I'm growing rather tired of hearing you say that," Lucius murmurs. "If you cannot be bothered with each syllable of the word, Severus, perhaps you might choose another." Severus stiffens slightly, and Lucius hears him swallow.

"Yessir," he mutters, his tone full of venom.

"You needn't call me sir. My name is more than appropriate." Severus glances at him, furrowing his dark brows, and Lucius can see the way his lank hair hangs in greasy strands, and he can see a little ingrained dirt darkening the skin on his neck to a sallow brown instead of a pasty yellow-white. "Have you a shower at home, or a bath?"

"A bath," Severus says, after a short pause.

"And how often do you use it?"

"Why?"

"Because I am your prefect, and I am asking you a question," Lucius says evenly.

"Dunno," Severus says.

"Dunno," Lucius repeats. "Repeat that for me with the eloquence befitting a young man. I don't know, Lucius."

"What's it bloody matter?"

"Severus," Lucius says, in as smooth and foreboding a voice as he can muster, and he sees Severus flinch slightly.

"I don't know, Lucius," he says, and although it doesn't sound quite right in his accent, which is torn between a cut, Northern sneer and the musical lilt Lucius expects of the Irish. It's a strange, mismatched thing, much like Severus' worn boots in contrast with his robes and his dirty finger nails. It's close enough, for now. "I had a bath when Mum said I could."

"You are eleven years old, Severus," Lucius murmurs, leading the way up a stairwell. "Are you telling me you don't know how to run a bath?"

"I can't reach the tub," Severus mutters. "Even if I stand on a chair. S'on top of the wardrobe, and besides, it's in Mum and Dad's room, and I'm not meant to go in there." Lucius frowns slightly, taking this in. The tub is on top of a wardrobe, meaning it's disconnected the pipes.

"Copper, is it?"

"Tin." Very poor, then. What sort of home must it be, that the bath is not connected to running water – these Muggles, truly full of savagery…

"Well, you can reach the tub now," Lucius says mildly. "There are cells with showers in the bathrooms, and there are cells with bathtubs as well. Which do you think you would prefer?"

"Du—" Severus stops himself, and then says, "I don't know, Lucius." Lucius feels himself smile just slightly, and he looks warmly at the boy, but Severus is looking down at the Hall of Staircases, and not at Lucius himself.

"Well, from now on, Severus, I want you to bathe at least twice a week. Try both the bath and the showers, and see which you prefer." As Lucius steps out from the landing into the corridor, Severus lingers back, and Lucius glances back at him. Severus' cheeks are flushed pink, and he looks a little green about his gills, his ridiculous nose wrinkled.

"You some kind of nonce?" Severus demands, his voice harsh, and Lucius feels a ringing sensation of disgust.

"Where did you learn that word?" Lucius asks delicately.

"Are you?" Severus asks. He's all but shaking in his place, and Lucius feels his lips twist slightly into a frown, and then he shakes his head. "Then why you— Why's it matter when I have a bath and that?"

"Because, child, you are filthy," Lucius replies. "And you will find it much easier to make friends if you are clean and neatly dressed." Severus glances down at himself, and then at the torn hem of his robe. "I'll fix that," Lucius says. Severus' head whips up to look at him, his eyes wide. They aren't, as Lucius had suspected at first, brown – they're a deep obsidian, a shining black, and the distinction between his iris and his pupil is nearly impossible to make at a glance.

"Why?" he demands.

"Because we are both Slytherins, Severus," Lucius says simply. "And Slytherins look after our own." Suspiciously, Severus looks at him, but then he begins to follow after Lucius once more, and Lucius leads him down the corridor.

"Where we going?"

"Where are we going, do you mean?"

"You gonna correct my grammar all the time?"

"Absolutely not, no," Lucius says. "I am going to." Severus makes an exaggerated tutting sound that belongs more to a forty-year-old woman than it does to an eleven-year-old boy, and it makes Lucius' lips twitch in amusement.

"Lucius," Severus says. "Where are we going?"

"We are here," Lucius says, and he lets Severus step in front of him and through the doors. Standing stockstill, Severus stares at the neat rows of crisp-linened beds in the infirmary, and when he tries to scramble back, his back collides with Lucius' chest. "Madam Pomfrey!" Lucius calls into the Hospital Wing, and he closes the doors shut with an absent flick of his wand, putting his hand delicately on Severus' good shoulder.

"Mr Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey says, stepping out into the room from her office, and her gaze flits from Lucius down to Severus' face. "And who is this?"

"This is Severus Snape," Lucius says, nudging Severus to take a few steps forward. "I've brought him in for an examination."

"I don't need one," Severus says, and Lucius tightens his grip on Severus' shoulder, keeping him still in his place. Concern shining on her face, Pomfrey meets Lucius' gaze, and she reads his serious expression.

"My suspicion is a broken rib," Lucius says quietly, and Pomfrey's expression fades from concern to understanding.

"I see," she says quietly. "Thank you, Mr Malfoy. Mr Snape, come over here and sit on this bed for me, would you?" Severus does not move, and Lucius presses his lips together, pushing on Severus' shoulder and forcing him to walk forward and into the infirmary. Severus takes only a few steps on his own, looking with a distinct discomfort at Madam Pomfrey, and then glancing back at Lucius.

"Why's he gotta wait there?" he demands, sharply.

"Severus, Madam Pomfrey is a healer and a respected member of staff at this school, and you will show her the respect she is due," Lucius growls, and Severus crosses his arms over his chest. Lucius can see that Pomfrey notices the way that he sets his arms is slightly lop-sided.

"I don't want some woman looking at me who I don't even know!"

"Lower your voice."

"Would it make you feel better were Mr Malfoy to accompany you?" Madam Pomfrey asks, and Severus looks like a dog backed into a corner, wildly glancing from Pomfrey to Lucius.

"Dunn— I don't know. Yes. I suppose. Please." It is the "please" which gives Lucius pause, tersely delivered and with a sharp intonation, and Lucius sighs quietly. It is… Strange. This is not, from what Lucius can garner, a declaration of trust in Lucius, but instead, an act of desperation, as if he's frightened to be alone with Pomfrey.

"Would you?" Pomfrey asks, and Lucius gives a nod of his head, stepping forward. Slowly and with a great reluctance, Severus moves to sit down on one of the beds, and Lucius watches as Pomfrey draws the screen around the bed. "Is Mr Malfoy right, Mr Snape, have you got a sore side?"

"S'not that sore," Severus says. "The bruises are turning yellow, so it's getting better."

"Is the pain lessening?" Severus bites down hard on one thin, pale lip. "Would you take a big breath for me, Mr Snape? Big inhale, fill your lungs right up—" Severus breathes in, and then lets out a sharp word of profanity as he exhales. Merlin's beard, what sort of vocabulary was used around this boy? "Mr Snape, I will ignore that in the face of your pain, but I should ask you not to curse in my infirmary."

"Sorry, Madam Pomfrey," Severus mutters, and he looks at Pomfrey's wand as she flicks it, murmuring quiet incantations. "That's not Latin." He says this in an accusatory manner, and Pomfrey gracefully ignores it.

"Healing spells are often from the Greek," Lucius explains.

"Why?"

"You will often find that some sorts of spells favour one language over another. Healing spells often come from Greek, or Arabic. Organisational spells, the sort of magic used in libraries, those are commonly from the Hebrew. French lends itself to many modern cosmetic spells."

"Oh," Severus says.

"It does seem like it's broken," Madam Pomfrey murmurs. "Nothing a little Skele-Gro won't fix, but I'd like to have a look at you, Severus, if that's alright. Would you be able to take off your outer robe?"

"What for? Why can't you use magic?" Severus asks.

"There are some things you can't do with magic, Mr Snape," Pomfrey says patiently, giving him a pleasant smile. "If you don't want Mr Malfoy to see, I can ask him to step back?"

"No, no, s'fine," Severus says hurriedly.

"Have you ever met a healer before, Mr Snape?" Pomfrey asks. There's a long pause.

"I'm not stupid," Severus snaps.

"I don't think you're stupid, Mr Snape," Pomfrey says consolingly. "You just seem a little nervous, and it seems as if maybe you've not had a check-up like this before." Severus shrugs his shoulders, and then winces. "Why don't I take you through what I'm looking for as I have a look at you? I can explain everything as we go."

Severus seems to consider this for a long moment.

"Alright," he mutters, and he reaches for the fastening of his outer robe, pulling it off from his shoulders and setting it down. His under robe isn't quite as oversized as his outer one, and he hesitates for a second before undoing that as well, leaving him in a stained vest and some filthy, greying underwear. Severus' skin, which has an unhealthy pallor, is riddled with scars and marks, and through the threadbare fabric of his vest Lucius can see the yellow and green bloom of bruising under his right side.

The boy looks like he's been a punching bag for something, and Lucius feels nauseated at the very sight of it. Lucius reaches up, and he puts his fingers carefully against his mouth, then reaches to pull the screen completely closed.

"Very good," Pomfrey says, keeping her expression neutral, as Lucius is attempting to do himself. "Lucius, would you g—"

"You said he could stay," Severus says immediately, and Pomfrey presses her lips together, but then relents. There's a humiliated flush burning on his cheeks and his chest, and Lucius feels an unexpected burst of genuine pity for the boy, and he exhales.

"I'm right here, Severus, you needn't worry," Lucius murmurs, slightly discomfited. Despite his assurance, through the most of the examination, he averts his eyes, avoids actually looking at the poor boy—

No wonder he keeps flinching.

ϟ ~ THE INKBLOT ~ ϟ

Severus hesitantly rubs his hand over his right-hand side as they move back down toward the great Hall for dinner, tentatively feeling for the expected pain, and finding none. The rib, according to the mediwitch – Madam Pomfrey – had been cracked, and that's why the pain had lingered.

"She asked a lot of questions," Severus mutters.

"And you manfully answered none of them," Lucius replies smoothly. "Am I to believe that you broke a rib by falling in the park?"

"I don't know," Severus replies, enunciating all the syllables like Lucius keeps demanding. "Are you?"

"Very droll, Severus," Lucius murmurs.

"Doesn't matter if you believe it," Severus says. "I told you how I got it."

"Very well," Lucius says. For a few moments, they walk together in silence, and Severus glances at Lucius, wondering if he's going to say something else, but he doesn't. He keeps his gaze forward, just keeps walking, and Severus doesn't know if he's supposed to say something more, if he's meant to—

"Thanks," Severus mutters. And Lucius, Lucius… smiles.

"I think, Severus," Lucius says quietly, his voice soft and pensive, "that you have a great deal of potential. You are very intelligent, with a personal discipline that astounds me in a boy so young, and your command of Latin at this juncture is more than impressive. With that in mind, however, you are… unpolished. You need guidance."

"And you're gonna give me guidance?" Lucius peers down at him for a second, and Severus huffs out a breath before he says, "Going to."

"Yes," Lucius decides.

"Oh," Severus says.

Bollocks.