"Young Malfoy," the Dark Lord hissed a week later.

Draco resisted the urge to give him a casual salute as he sat in his chair between his mother and father at the opposite end of the long dinner table. Mostly out of self-preservation, of course, but he told himself it was because he'd botch it if he tried it left-handed. It'd just look silly instead of cavalier, and death wasn't worth it if he wasn't going to be able to do it right and go out in style.

Instead, he nodded solemnly and tried not to look directly at it - er, him. Other Death Eaters were watching him expectantly. Draco tried to ignore the attention and waited for conversation to resume. He didn't see what the big deal was - he'd been at dinner every night for the last week, eating left-handed and keeping his right hand in his lap. Snape'd let him have the cast off earlier in the day, and he'd spent the entire afternoon holding things. It was all very novel at the time, but felt silly upon reflection. And even after all of that arduous holding things practice, he still didn't feel confident in his ability to manipulate a spoon.

Still, he was proud. He displayed his cast-less hand on the table next to his plate even as he stabbed at his veal with a fork in his left hand. Even sitting next to his father, he was cheerful. He made sparkling conversation with his mother, despite her trying to cut parts of his dinner up for him, and good-naturedly tried to pass things when someone asked for them, even though they got passed over him instead.

Take that, he told his rebellious stomach. He was cheerful, and nothing could dampen his mood. Vaguely, he wondered whether someone had dosed his wine - again - with some sort of cheering up potion. He glanced at Snape, smiled by reflex, then remembered he was still vexed at him for some reason and glared.

Snape glowered, and Draco grinned after all, flexing the fingers of his right hand gingerly. Snape's frown lifted a little, and he arched a brow. Didn't matter. Dinner was a breeze. How had he ever thought it was difficult?

Oh right, he discovered moments later, after Mouldy Voldy announced dinner was over - an honour his father should have had, internal family issues bedamned! Damn, snakey-kins noticed his dissenting attitude, or else he was just looking at him for fun. Shit shit -

Draco schooled his face as he stood along with everyone else. He'd been showing off too much, acting too cheerful. He looked down at his half-eaten veal - take that, his stomach said triumphantly, that'll teach you to be so confident- and tried to look sour and annoyed and fearful. It wasn't a stretch.

"A bit of a treat for you all," the Dark Lord was saying at the head of the table. "Dessert, if you will..."

The details escaped him, mostly because that horrible huge snake had taken up his attention and like a horrible floo mishap, he couldn't look away. When his mother nudged him, Draco looked up to see a line of what could only be Muggles, a family. Mother in a polka-dotted skirt that flared at the knee, father in jeans and a jumper, daughter staring around the room with wide interested, terrified eyes.

Fine, whatever. He found the idea of tormenting Muggles at dinner to be distasteful, himself, but he was off the active list until he could hold a wand again, so--

"As I understand it," Voldilocks continued, "Young Master Malfoy has healed up admirably from his unfortunate accident. Shall we have us a test?"

Draco felt his face drain of all colour. I can't was on his tongue, but he flicked his glance at Snape, who sighed and turned away. Shit! "I left my..." he mumbled, having used up all of his bravado in calling the Dark Lord "Voldilocks" in his head.

"Wand?" Lucius said from next to him. He brought it out, looking far too comfortable with it in his hand.

Draco lowered his brows, incensed. He held out his hand abruptly and was angry enough that he didn't even flinch when the movement quirked as yet unhealed whatevers in his wrist.

Lucius raised a brow. "Careful now," he teased, almost slipping the wand handle-end into Draco's hand. He jerked it away at the last moment, and Draco snatched at it by reflex. He succeeded, but bit back a cry at the sudden movement. Shouldn't have whinged on so much about getting the cast off. Shouldn't have been so obviously proud to be whole again. Shouldn't have shouldn't have - dammit. He composed himself quickly and turned back to the Muggle family. The Dark Lord gestured at him, and he woodenly obeyed, stepping out from around the table to stand in front of them.

"Go on, Young Malfoy," the hideous uber-powerful wizard encouraged.

"I can't..." he mumbled, unable to look at any of the Muggles straight on.

"Of course you can, dear boy..."

It was obscene, the Dark Lord saying "dear boy" like that, like... like he was Dumbledore or something. The Dark Lord wasn't some naive old goat with grand delusions of forgiveness and solace and whatever other overly idealistic thing the old, dead headmaster had stood for. It rankled, and not because Draco had any lingering sentiments over the way Dumbledore had died or anything. Just because. And he hated being told what to do, by the way. Hated it.

Draco held out his wand, disappointed to find the tip of it shaking. He didn't have the control to hold it still, he thought. With an exhalation of breath, he dropped his arm and cupped his wrist with his other hand. "I can't," he said then, trying to look apologetic.

"Yes you can!" piped the daughter, maybe six years old. Good lord, she had pigtails. She had no idea what she was encouraging him to do, of course. Her parents looked like they had a better idea, though they still couldn't possibly know. Draco blinked quickly, then shook his head, staring at the ground.

"I can't," he repeated.

"Come now, Draco..." the Dark Lord hissed, sounding like he was having fun. "You're just a little squeamish. We're not asking you to kill anyone. This time. Just have a little fun, hm? Would it help if I went first?"

Draco looked up. It might help, actually. He hated Muggles. He wasn't squeamish about a little Crucio. It's just... the little girl kept looking at him. Draco frowned. "Uh..." he began, and he wasn't sure quite what he'd been meaning to say, but when he looked up at the Dark Lord to start saying it anyway, he saw old Voldy's wand pointed straight at him and realised with a start what was about to--

Drive him to his knees in agony? It was over in half a second, but since he'd pitched forward on his hands by reflex, his right wrist had buckled and spilled him onto his shoulder awkwardly. He unwound himself and sat back up on his knees, feeling the bile rise in the back of his throat. The feeling was unlike any other, and necessarily invoked memories of every other instance of the curse he'd ever felt, three of which instances were less than two weeks old in his memory, and vivid. He tried to catch his breath.

"Come now, Draco," purred his father in his ear. Draco tensed. "Wouldn't want to embarrass us again, would you?"

"No," Draco breathed, allowing his father to pull him back to his feet. He shook, not from the residual trauma from the Dark Lord's understandably more excruciating curse, and not from fear and not from reluctance to curse these cowish Muggles, but from anger. It was one thing to have a Dark Lord toy with you in front of company - that was kinda what Dark Lords were known for. He was hardly the first Death Eater to've been driven to his knees; better than him had been, and for less.

No. What truly quirked him was his father thinking that threatening him was the way to go. Hadn't he proved that the man couldn't kill him, couldn't cow him, and couldn't even hurt him now? Lucius had no power over him.

None.

None, none, none -

Draco raised his wand again, wavering dangerously. There was a chance the curse'd go wild. Wouldn't it be spectacular if it misfired and hit the Dark Lord, lurking eagerly over at the table?

"You have to mean it," reminded Lucius.

"Oh," assured Draco, "I do." And he let loose, aiming for the father, imagining him with longer, lighter hair, dressed in robes and smirking that hideous smug smirk, holding a wand that wasn't his and even then - even then, he knew he was pale and shaking and not quite committed. The flash of red seared into his vision and was present, he thought, until long after the man had stopped jerking uncontrollably.

It wasn't a very good curse. It wasn't well cast, which was embarrassing even if everyone knew why he wasn't quite in form. It wasn't as committed as it might have been a year ago, and if it had been cast at Potter, whom he truly did hate. Because really, just because he thought cockroaches were lower lifeforms didn't mean he enjoyed pulling their legs off and watching them run around in circles.

Okay, so maybe he did. Or had, once. He'd grown out of it somewhat earlier than, say, Crabbe or Goyle. But of course, neither of them had been forcibly stepped up on the ladder of evil acts quite the same way he had been.

Now, though, he didn't relish the notion of plucking the legs off these Muggles, so to speak. He believed they were lesser beings – it was obvious they were less powerful. But he was finding that he also believed in the notion of some kind of balance. Muggles populated the world, came up with clever contraptions, and were entertaining in the way that monkeys in the zoo were entertaining. He certainly didn't want to wipe out the entire monkey species. It seemed a waste of time and effort.

Only, Mouldy-Wart said they'd multiply and find out about Wizard kind and set about destroying them all if they'd had half a chance, and that striking first was the way to go, and frankly, it was terrifying to think it might be true. There were a lot more of them than there were Wizards, especially pure-blooded, ancient families like his.

When the locusts came, you didn't think about whether or not they had families or feelings or the right to live. You thought about paving the way to your own survival, and then you burned the fuckers down.

Of course, locusts didn't look just like you, and their daughters didn't look at you with tears in their eyes because you'd just hurt their daddy. The sentiment wasn't lost on him; he'd been serious about taking his vengeance on Potter after he'd sent his own father to Azkaban, even if he had got side-tracked before he could carry it out. No, the sentiment wasn't lost, just... didn't mean much.

"Stop it!" The little girl stamped her foot and shrieked at him. "You're mean! Stop it!"

Malfoys is mean in their blood. Malfoys can't help it.

"Shut up! Shut your filthy mouth!" he cried, and cursed her too, for thinking she could stop anything at all. He couldn't, and he was a Wizard, was a Malfoy, was far more powerful. She crumpled, because she was only six after all. His clumsy Crucio didn't have to pack much of a punch in order to get her to shut up.

And then he hugged his arm to his chest and doubled over it, the burning of torn whatevers and splintered other-things spreading up his arm. He felt hands on him and congratulatory back-slapping from happy Death Eaters, and more horribly, his father looking so proud - again - and he almost threw up right then and there from the pain in his wrist and the revulsion of having earned his father's love.

Or, if not love, admiration.

##

"You've always been hard on him, Lucius," Snape said later that night, over brandies.

"Yes," Lucius sighed. "But on my own terms. I hate seeing him struggle. I thought I'd worked all of that weakness out of him."

Snape narrowed his eyes briefly. "Indeed," he murmured. "What you did was fill his empty little head with the notion that he is better than absolutely everyone else and answers to no one. Did you really think that sort of attitude would serve him well in this company?" Snape knew what Lucius thought. Everyone had thought it, when their little babies had started talking and looking like tiny people, worming their ways into Death Eater families and bringing happiness and joy and all of the things Voldemort had promised but could never, ever deliver.

Voldemort was through, they thought. It's a shame, because power's really great to have, but it's time to move on, they thought.

"It has served him well, Severus," Lucius insisted. "He's got nearly the top marks in his year, and he's a Malfoy," he reminded, smiling charmingly. "Doors are meant to swing open for him." He gestured widely with his brandy glass.

Snape sighed and sipped from his own drink. He'd be doing no favours to Draco by pointing out that the witch who'd bested him most often through his entire academic career was the Muggle-born best-friend-to-Potter, Granger. There was no changing Lucius' mind, after all. "He's going to be wrecked for at least another week after that stunt tonight, you know," Snape replied, changing the subject slightly.

Lucius raised a brow.

"Or did you know?" Snape continued slyly.

Lucius gestured vaguely. "It'll keep him out of trouble, at any rate."

Snape was impressed. And disgusted. And decided right on the spot that Lucius was far more dangerous as a sane-appearing lunatic than he'd ever been as a cold, calculating man of evil.

"I'll just go check on him, then, shall I?" Lucius said, slurring just a bit. A year off drink and the man was flimsy as a school boy.

"I don't think so, Lucius," Snape said mildly. "I think he's still quite upset with you."

"What? For that?" Lucius said indignantly. "I did that boy a favour." He took another pull of brandy and rolled it around his mouth thoughtfully. "If he manages to embarrass this family any further, I'll have to kill him myself."

"Remind me not to let you do me any favours," Snape said without humour. Unfortunately for Lucius and Draco alike, the elder Malfoy probably wasn't wrong, even if it'd be accidental. Of course that assumed he didn't drive Draco spare first and get himself killed.

##

"You summoned me, my Lord?" Snape said half an hour later. It was late. The events of the evening had worn him out. Draco had been so cheerful before the Muggle family – and how had he not found out about that ahead of time? Was he slipping? Was affection for the Malfoy boy causing him to slip? How revolting. He watched the Dark Lord carefully, blanking his mind.

Voldemort wasn't even paying attention to him. He glided around the room majestically. "Severus," he rasped breathily. "I have need of you."

"Of course, my Lord," Snape replied.

"Hogwarts needs a new headmaster. You're long overdue for a promotion."

Snape's face didn't so much as flicker, and although the press of disgust and rage seethed under the surface, the part of his mind accessible to the skimming stones of the Dark Lord was smooth as glass-water. He allowed the ripples to spread, and otherwise easily kept his cool.

"Narcissa has persuaded me to allow her son to attend his seventh year." Voldemort tilted his head and smiled thinly. "But what good is a boy who can't even charm a teacup?"

Snape frowned slightly and immediately regretted it. "It will keep him from being underfoot here at the Manor," he reasoned disinterestedly.

The Dark Lord's wan smile went leering. "There are better uses for him. Target practice? Entertainment..."

Snape frowned again. Lucius' plan to keep Draco out of the action was backfiring spectacularly, being teased apart even as he watched. "My Lord," he entreated, "whatever pleases you to do. But the boy has a head for planning and will be healed up within weeks-" He stopped short when the Dark Lord's gaze snapped to him in triumph. Snape cleared his mind, but of course it was already too late. Damn.

"Send for young Malfoy," he commanded.

##

Draco batted away the hands tugging him out of bed sleepily, and then the pain of his re-cast wrist caught up with him and he sat up, curling over his arm held to his chest. "What!" he snapped irritably. "I was sleeping!"

Fenrir Greyback sneered greedily at him and grabbed him by the neck. Draco froze in the werewolf's grip as he leaned in to snuffle at his ear. "Dark Lord wants you," he murmured.

Draco choked a little, on Greyback's breath and from the long nailed fingers digging into his windpipe. He clawed at the werewolf's arm with his left hand, staring at him in terror and trying to breathe.

"That's enough, Mister Greyback." Snape's oily voice was only slightly unwelcome. Draco fell back into his pillows with his hand at his neck, drawing huge breaths and taking turns giving the Potions master and the werewolf his most baleful look.

"It's the middle of the night," he ventured, coughing a little. He frowned at Snape genuinely then, worried. "What's he want with me?" Honestly, he was a little surprised to hear he'd stayed after supper. Voldilocks was away more than he was around, of late.

"I'm sure I do not know," Snape replied coolly, and Draco glared at him as he flipped the coverlet aside and slipped into a robe and slippers.

As usual, Mouldy Voldy kept his company in a dark room in front of a blazing fireplace. It was late, though, and Draco suddenly realised no one else was awake, not even his parents. It was just him, Snape, Greyback, and -

"Bring him in, then leave us."

Shit, oh- shit. Draco blanked his mind. He was a good Occlumens; he could keep it together. Possibly.

Greyback dragged a big blond Death Eater into the room, already looking worse for the wear. He shook, and Draco's eyes widened as he recognised the tremors from experience. Oh no. No no no-

"A nice night, isn't it!" the Dark Lord shrieked, enraged. He whirled around the room cloaked in living black smoke which seemed to embody his anger. Wherever it touched Draco, his skin felt cool and hot at once. It was so much easier to make mental jokes at the Dark Lord's expense when he wasn't exuding threat and crazed hostility in such very close quarters, alone with him in the middle of the night.

"Time to work out some of that squeamishness," the Dark Lord said then to Draco, turning to him without bothering to cover up the fervent glee he obviously felt. "He needs punishing."

Draco's brows knitted together. But even Snape couldn't get him out of this. Dammit - He didn't need rescuing! He was a Malfoy. He was – was a Death Eater. Mark and all. He pulled out his wand and bit back a cry of agony. Oh God, he was going to die right here, in the middle of the night in his own house, without his parents or Snape or anyone at all –

He flicked a glance at the Dark Lord and swallowed roughly. Fine, all right. He switched his wand to his left hand and sent up a prayer to a God he didn't believe in. Don't go wild, he prayed. Don't fizzle out. He held out his wand and was pleased to see the point of it didn't shake.

"Do it!"

"Crucio!" The word was out before the Dark Lord had even finished the command. Rowle writhed on the flagstone floor, calling out through gritted teeth a name that agony had mangled beyond recognition. Draco froze there, wand outstretched, certain he was committing his last acts. That certainly hadn't been good enough, and he felt tears threatening, embarrassing and hot on his bottom lids. He couldn't do it again. He didn't have the practice, he didn't have the control in his non-dominant hand for such serious magic. Fear built up pressure in his chest. He stomach rolled painfully.

The Dark Lord stalked around his prey. "More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not sure that he will forgive this time..."

Draco shuddered, though he tried to repress it. Last time he'd watched someone fed to Nagini, he'd passed out. But his options were let Rowle get eaten, or try another Crucio and probably fail, and then be killed himself. He silently prayed for Rowle to choose death.

"You called me back for this, to tell me that Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure ... Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!"

Draco froze, staring at Rowle. Crucio Rowle or get it again himself? No question. He couldn't take it again. Not after his father, not after the Dark Lord earlier that day. He couldn't handle it again. But still he stood there, frozen in fear and a reluctance which tasted bitter and foul in his mouth; he knew what it felt like, and he realised with a sickening lurch that he didn't want to be its cause. A log fell on the fire, lighting up the room in sharp angles for half a moment. The tears in his eyes sparked like diamonds, momentarily whiting out his vision, and he pulled back his hand to dash them away, only to fall crashing to the ground a moment later as every nerve in his body screamed bloody murder at him.

The Dark Lord bent over him, to get face to face. "Do you think I'm messing about?" he breathed angrily.

"N-no, my Lord," Draco whispered.

"Then get up, young Malfoy. And show us how obedient you are."

Draco collected himself as quickly as possible, gracelessly jerking his robe over one shoulder and letting his far-flung slipper lay where it fell feet away. He stretched out his wand in his left hand again. "C-Crucio," he murmured shakily.

"You have to mean it..."

"Crucio," he said again, a little louder.

"Mean it!"

"Crucio!" Draco shrieked, then fell backward into the armchair, watching Rowle twitch and jerk uncontrollably. He didn't remember getting back to his rooms, but when he woke up there the next morning, he threw up in the toilet bowl and laughed giddily at his amazingly charmed life.

Didn't die, again.

##

"Mister Malfoy," Snape said from the library doors.

Draco jumped, then spun around from his desk and scowled. "I'm sorry," he seethed. "Don't they teach lying bastards to knock?"

"Excuse me?" Snape growled silkily.

Draco ignored the flare of warning in his stomach. "Oh, did I touch a nerve?" He blinked wide innocent eyes. "You aren't really a bastard, are you?" He dropped the act and scowled again before turning pointedly back to his books.

He heard Snape sigh heavily, and he didn't feel a single drop of remorse. By now, the popular rumour that the Potions professor was only a half-blood had reached even the Malfoy compound, where information was often exchanged, but never shared. And he was still pissed at Snape, even if he did only barely remember why.

Oh right. Because he'd drugged him.

Snape sat in the chair his father'd sat in when he'd come in proposing that stupid party. The chair Draco'd stared at the legs of for however long until he'd mostly passed out, that night Snape had... Oh fine. Saved him, if one wanted to be technical about it. He sighed and turned to the professor.

"Did you want something?" he asked wearily.

"No," Snape said. "I just come here for the verbal abuse."

"Do you want me to apologise?" Draco asked.

"Believe it or not," Snape murmured, "I expect you to be a horrible wretch of a boy, so an apology will not be necessary."

Draco frowned. That wasn't what he'd expected. And he was a bit taken aback. He wasn't horrible! "I'm still angry with you," he explained testily.

"I can see that. Because of last night?"

Draco frowned. "No. I know you didn't have a choice."

Snape tilted his head slightly. "Mind telling me why, then?"

Draco toyed with saying If you don't know, it's not worth telling you, but decided it was a bad risk. Instead, he frowned and turned slightly back to his work. "I've got revisions..." he murmured.

"Don't tell me the brilliant Mister Malfoy forgot why he was angry at someone," Snape sniped silkily.

Draco huffed. "Did you come here to taunt me, or was there some sort of purpose to this visit?"

Snape frowned and watched him a moment, consideringly. "You're even more foul than you usually are," he observed, looking almost entertained by it.

Draco shot him a look, laced with every foul thought he could think up. Then his brows raised when Snape plucked the quill from his lax fingers. The reflex to keep hold of it shot agony up his arm. Still, he tried to grab for it even as Snape leaned back to read what was engraved along the side of it out of Draco's reach.

"Dicta-quill?" Snape read, raising a brow.

Draco fumed.

Snape did that thing where he looked almost concerned, almost human. "I'll give you something-"

"I don't want anything!" Draco snapped. "I don't want you to give me anything."

"Oh, I see," Snape said, sounding very much like he did see. "I'm not going to beg for a 17 year old boy to trust me, Mister Malfoy. I am not in the habit of poisoning students. If I had wanted you dead-"

"You didn't want me dead. You wanted me weak."

"Is that what this is about? I wanted to have power over you?" Snape sighed a long-suffering sigh. "I have power over you. Perhaps you've been mistaking teacher's robes for pyjamas?"

Draco turned back to his parchment, even though he didn't have a pen any more with which to write. Snape was right, of course, but that was different. This was his home.

"If you want to suffer alone, I won't stop you," Snape continued. "But you may find yourself in a considerably better mood if you will at least take something for the pain. I designed the curse that snapped your wrist like a twig-"

"I know. You've mentioned," Draco said sourly. Horrible bastard.

"So I know what it does." He rummaged in his sleeve and produced a small vial of something blood red and sluggish.

Draco gave it a cursory look, then went back to pouting at his schoolwork. "I don't want-" he began, then stopped, unsure about the finish. "Is that all you came here for," he said wearily, holding out his hand for his quill back. He ignored the stabbing pain.

"No," Snape said, sounding similarly fatigued. He pressed the quill into Draco's waiting palm. "I've come on a different errand altogether-"

"And you happen to carry that-" Draco spat, gesturing with his eyebrows at the vial on his desk. "-with you at all times?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "I happen to occasionally find use for it," he replied mildly, then changed the subject. "I've come to talk with you about a rather delicate matter."

Draco swallowed. Delicate matters were rarely full of sunshine and joy. "What's happened?" he murmured, feeling himself go white.

"Nothing," Snape said, brightening a little. Pleased to see Draco on edge, Draco thought darkly. The entire world was out to see his stomach turn him inside out. "I've taken an interest in seeing you survive this war, Draco."

Draco frowned in distrust. "Why?"

The professor raised a brow. "I need a reason to wish to see children survive?"

"Yes." Draco refused to budge. "And I'm not a child."

Snape sighed. "Clearly I have a reason. I've made an Oath, remember?"

Draco's enthusiastic pessimism deflated a bit, even though his suspicions had been vindicated. It was a confusing reality. "I knew it," he said sharply. "I'm going back to school next month. I'll be safe enough there."

Snape frowned slightly. "The school won't be nearly so safe as you might think. Consider your situation."

Draco did, and it only took moments for it to dawn on him that instead of being hated by three quarters of the school and idolised - and protected - by the other fourth, he was instead walking into a building where three quarters of the population reviled him vehemently, and the other fourth were under delusions, possibly based upon fact, that their parents' Dark Lord wanted him dead.

"Oh," he said listlessly.

"That's right. 'Oh.' But in point of fact, what I am referring specifically to in this case is your safety while you are still at home."

"Father-" Draco started, caught halfway between being incensed that Snape thought he had a right to meddle in family affairs and the uncomfortable notion that he welcomed the professor's concern.

Snape didn't let him go on. "Your father, for all of his faults, has your best interests at heart."

"Of course he does," Draco spat.

"This isn't about him," Snape continued smoothly, ignoring him, which put Draco's back up. "It is in fact about your continued service to our Lord, who may or may not wish you to suffer."

Draco sighed. "Haven't I suffered enough?" he said exasperated. "I'm not a fool. I know well enough to know he doesn't consider me anything other than a plaything. None of this is to groom me for missions or further service. I've succeeded. I've made up for Luci-- Father's mistakes. I've paid! Can't he just get over-"

Snape's hand was clapped over his mouth in less than a moment, and Draco froze. The professor was on his feet and had his other hand fast around the back of Draco's neck. His nails dug into his cheeks painfully as Snape forced him to look up into his face.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" the professor snarled at him, sotto voce.

Draco blinked rapidly up at Snape, breathing through his nose. No, he shook his head vehemently, as well as he could with it seized between two vise grips the way it was. He winced.

"You'll keep your mouth shut or I will kill you myself!"

Draco nodded fearfully.

"I don't have time to play at being delicate with your sensibilities, Mister Malfoy," Snape hissed.

Draco swallowed, eyes wide. Okay, Snape's completely terrifying, his brain said, but he's not going to kill you, because he's supposedly come here to tell you how to stay alive. And remind me, again, why you had to be a smartarse about that? Shut the hell up, brain. I didn't see you holding me back.

Snape continued, thankfully oblivious to Draco's impending pants-wetting extravaganza. "So I will say this once, and you will heed it. Do not wave around your wand or anyone else's in sight of our Lord. Even if you're fighting at his side. Do not have a wand in your hand. Do not."

He waited for Draco to nod, which meant they stayed in the position of clampee and clamper for a few seconds before Draco gathered the wherewithall to nod again. Only then did Snape release him, and Draco massaged his jaw with his left hand while he stared in shock at the desktop. He didn't even have the nerve to ask why.

When he heard the library doors close after the professor's exit, Draco allowed himself to breathe, and breathe he did. Hard. Shit. Shit! God he wasn't going to survive this, never in a million years, not if even Snape, the only person who had a vested interest in his continued existence, could threaten to kill him with such uncharacteristic passion.

Damn it. Draco stared at his books for a moment, then moaned softly and laid his head on his arms, shoulders shaking. Shit, shit, shit. He didn't want to die. He couldn't figure out how to stay alive. He couldn't figure out who wanted him dead, or why those who wanted him alive apparently had no problems with killing him themselves. It briefly occurred to him that his brain might have been right, that he was a complete arsehole, that mistrusting Snape, the man whom had been referred to at least three times in his internal dialogue as the only person actively helping him to survive, was probably the least effective way to get what he wanted. So why couldn't he just be civil? It seemed so easy to say it. So why-

Because every time he thought of smiling nicely and saying thank you, his stomach rolled and his face got warm and his mouth curled into a snarl and instead of being charming, he found reasons to be annoyed or pissed off.

Draco stopped sniffling a few minutes later and started his essay where he'd left off.

##

Snape stayed just outside the library door until he heard Draco's voice dictating in an essay-like cadence, dull and hoarse. Of course, it wasn't pleasant, making a boy cry, least of all at Draco's age. It was more horrible when one was expected to be a man about everything, but he hadn't lied; Snape didn't have time to make Malfoy feel cheerful about everything. When it all came out - if it all came out - the boy might find solace in knowing that Snape had tried to protect him. But Gods he was unpleasant. A right little snot about absolutely everything.

You were the same way, and still are.

Snape sighed.