Title: Vertigo (9/13)

Author: Icicle

Pairing(s): Severus/Draco, past Severus/Lily

Summary: I thought that I would never feel again, not after losing her. But something about him, about this insane yet beautiful boy, has awakened feelings deep within me that I thought were long dead.

Word Count: ~23K total

Rating: T for now but will be M in future chapters

Warnings: refer to chapter 1 for all warnings.

Author's Notes: This is the last chapter where the rating will stay T. Next chapter, I will change the rating to MA since smut is finally coming up in chapter 10. You have been warned.

Enjoy!


. 9 .

The next few days pass uneventfully. The Dark Lord's new plan is nowhere near as extreme or violent as I imagined. I thought he would want to seize the Ministry, especially now that he has several high-seated Ministry officials in his control. I am relieved that he is not ready to go down that route just yet. The violent deaths of the last Muggle raid still cause me to shudder. I'm not ready to think about taking more lives. Luckily, all he wants is to discuss is Potter.

As usual, the Dark Lord is hopelessly obsessed with the boy. He wants to know when the boy will be moved—if I've heard of any plans as to where he will go once he turns of age in the coming weeks. I know exactly what will become of the boy. Dumbledore and the Order have had the plan in place for months.

After recent events, they might change the details, but Potter will be moved seconds after he turns seventeen. I do not divulge these details to the Dark Lord. The Potter boy may not be my concern any longer, but I promised Albus that I will do everything in my power to keep him alive. I do not take my promises lightly.

Lying to the Dark Lord is no longer a chore. I have done it for so many years that it's almost second nature. The words just slip off my tongue.

Thankfully, Voldemort is content with my answer. He believes that I am not certain of the exact plan, but that Potter will be shipped to the Weasleys' home. I make a scornful remark about their hovel of a home and the Dark Lord tilts that absurdly long neck of his and laughs.

I'm not sure why I mock the Weasleys for their lack of wealth. I certainly do not come from money and neither does the Dark Lord. We're both half-bloods who champion pureblood ideals. The similarities between us are uncanny. Sometimes, I fear that I'm becoming too much like him—that one morning I'll wake up and be a soulless fiend. Having Draco in my bed is not easing my doubts.

We've been sleeping in steely silence for a week now. Each night I crawl into bed, stare longingly at my reading material, and then turn out the lights. Draco goes into the bathroom for an extraordinarily long period of time and then climbs into bed next to me, so carefully and quietly that I almost fail to notice him. The bed in my chambers is large, a Queen mattress, and the two of us make sure to use up every inch. I stay on my side of the bed and he stays on his.

The middle of the bed remains empty. Every morning, when I wake, I find that he has inched his way closer to me, still far enough away that we don't touch, but his long limbs and fair hair have crossed over the invisible line that separates us. I doubt the brat does it on purpose, but the closer he is when I wake, the faster I have to excuse myself to the bathroom. If he reached out and touched me in my sleep, I don't know what I'd do. It would probably be something insanely inappropriate like smack him, or worse yet, caress him back.

The Dark Lord is still speaking. He rambles on and on about Potter, purebloods, and filthy Muggles. I have heard this speech so many times before that I could recite it in my sleep. I nod along at the proper times and he seems content. Eventually, he dismisses me.

"You're excused, Severus," he says, waving his bony hand at the door. "Good night."

I bow my head, holding it in that position for several seconds and then excuse myself.

"Sleep well, My Lord." The words fall from my lips like thinly veiled shards of glass. They are only half-true. For once, I am too preoccupied to worry about the Dark Lord and his devious plans.

The walk back to my room feels eternal. Of course, the halls of Malfoy Manor are long and extravagant, but my room has never felt this far away from the Dark Lord's quarters.

My heart is doing that absurd fluttering thing again, which I cannot explain. It's all his fault. I know this. It's irrational and natural all at the same time. It does not make me hate him any less. He's such an arrogant brat. An insufferable pain in the arse. If only my cock understood.

:::::

Draco is waiting for me on the bed, his long legs dangling off and hair wet and freshly bathed. I want to make a joke, tell him he looks like a drowned rat, but I cannot. The truth is that even with his fair hair plastered to his forehead and dripping down his neck and the sides of his face, he's beautiful. The most beautiful boy I have seen in ages, if not ever, and certainly the most beautiful creature that has ever graced my bed.

Lucius was handsome at his age, Narcissa turned heads wherever she went. But Draco possesses a beauty that is uniquely his own, softer than his father's and fiercer than his mother's. He does not possess their effortless grace and elegance; he still seems uncomfortable in his own skin and has not mastered control of his emotions like his parents, yet he's striking and alluring in his own way.

I can't take my eyes off him. I want to reach out and brush those wet strands from his face, towel away the droplets on his neck. I don't know what's wrong with me. I should not be having these thoughts. Yet, I can't control them.

Uncomfortable heat stirs deep within my groin. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I cannot get a hard on right now, not before going to bed and lying inches away from him. Thank Salazar that he's wearing pyjamas. I don't think I could be responsible for my actions if I would have found him half naked on my bed.

I clear my throat and try to break the heavy silence that looms in the room. He's staring at me all wide-eyed and innocent, like he used to do when he was a child and wanted something. His eyes take on a silvery glow in the moonlight, which pierces in through the windows. The curtains are pushed back. He must have been star gazing, imagining what it's like to be outside, away from this prison, away from me.

The poor boy has not seen the light of day since we left Hogwarts on that dreadful night. I don't get out that often, but at least every couple of days, the Dark Lord has some sort of task for me, some sort of quest that although horrifying allows me to breathe in some fresh air and rejuvenate my lungs. Why did I not consider this before? He must have cabin fever.

"Draco," I finally say, avoiding his gaze and instead look out the windows. I want to call him Mr Malfoy, like I always do, like I always did, but the words cannot find my mouth, especially not when he's sitting on my bed in such a dishevelled state, and I'm only thinking of further dishevelling him and pounding him into that mattress.

"Spit it out. I don't have all night." My tone is harsher than I intend—cold and cutting. The same tone I usually reserve for my least favourite students.

He opens his mouth and gawks at me, his eyes opening even wider at my hard tone. A brief flicker of emotion flashes behind his eyes. For a moment, I find pain, longing, and want all rolled up into one in those bright grey eyes, but within a blink of the eye, the emotion is gone. He's once again regarding me with cool, hard eyes and a sneer on his face, his Malfoy mask. Oh, how familiar that looks is—the same one that Lucius has hidden behind for years. A strange pain forms in my chest at the thought of him regarding me like that.

"Where were you?"

His tone is accusatory and I meet his hard glare with a glower of my own. He should know better than to try to wear me down with one of his petty glares. That's child's play. I have reduced students into quivering blubbering messes for years now. He's only a seventeen-year-old boy.

"Out." My tone is clipped and I lift my chin and scrunch my nose in disapproval. How dare he question me? He is but a boy, a guest in my room. He was gifted to me. Clearly, Draco has forgotten his place. I have let him become too comfortable. He doesn't respect me.

But hasn't that always been the case, a traitorous voice reminds me in the back of my mind. Haven't you always allowed him to get away with a bit more than your average student, even your Slytherins? I sniff disapprovingly at my conscious and pretend to direct it to Draco.

"Doing what?

The brat doesn't back down. Obviously, he doesn't know what's good for him. I know at least a hundred different ways to murder him in his sleep, ten different ways to dismember him silently without lifting my wand. Yet, somehow he thinks he can talk back to me. Draco is either colossally brave or colossally stupid. I never would have pegged him for a Gryffindor.

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh and take a seat on the bed as far away from him as possible. "If you must know, I was with the Dark Lord."

He bites down on the corner of his lip, a nervous habit he seems to have picked up in the last few weeks. "Oh."

I snort and roll my eyes, keeping my gaze glued towards the ceiling. "Yes, oh, indeed, Mr Malfoy," I say, trying to hide my satisfaction of regaining the upper hand I should have always had in the conversation.

He lowers his head, staring down at his hands, which are shuffling with his shirt sleeves. "What did he? Am I? Is Fath-?"

The words cannot leave his lips. He hides his face underneath his hair and pulls on the sleeves roughly, picking apart a loose thread and wrapping it around his long, slim fingers.

"There is no news on your father." I no longer use my hard tone. "My meeting with him did not concern you."

"Oh." He lets out a heavy sigh, a breath he probably didn't realise he was holding.

The air is awkward between us. Again. This is the longest conversation we have had in weeks. We used to be able to talk for hours, but now holding a conversation is as painful as pulling teeth, or worse yet, spending time with a Gryffindor.

Draco continues to hang his head; his pale hands are shaking now ever so slightly. He tries to hide them within his sleeves, so I won't notice. But nothing ever slips by me. If I did not notice everything around me, even the trivial details, I would not have survived this long as a double agent.

I take pity on him. I'm not exactly sure why. I've never been this soft before. In my lifetime, I've seen more than my fair share of students fall apart in front of me, but something about him, about this annoying boy has intoxicated me, stumped me—and I fear to think where this stupid infatuation will lead.

"Is there anything else?" I say, trying to keep my voice even. I want to reach out and touch him, to put a hand on his shoulder and comfort him. I have never been good at that type of thing. However, I remember calling Draco into my office and telling him about Lucius' arrest, about how Potter and his gang of idiots were involved, and how it looked unlikely that he would be released anytime soon. Draco tried to be strong. He attempted to put on a brave face and walk out of my office after thanking me.

As he turned the handle to leave, I called out to him. All I said was his name, but it was enough. He collapsed on the floor, right in front of my door and buried his head in his arms. Silent tears pooled down his face, and the overwhelming urge to comfort overtook me. I could not rest until he was calm. Nothing else was important.

The same urge is taking me over now. Perhaps I've grown soft in my old age. Or perhaps it's just him, this idiot boy, who even then, almost a year ago, I already held unnatural and harboured feelings for without even realising it.

Draco raises his head and meets my eyes; his eyes are glassy, unshed tears threatening the corners of his thick lashes. I cannot bear to see him cry again. "When..." He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

His hands are still shaking and he buries them within the comforter, strangling it. I pretend not to notice. "When," he tries again, his voice is still wavering. "When-are-you-going-to-take-what's-yours?"

I raise an eyebrow. What is he talking about? He cannot be implying what I think he is. Does he really think that I would do that? I thought we surpassed this stupid idea the first night, that he no longer feared me. Has he really been living in terror all these nights, frightened that I would attempt to molest him in his sleep?

My undigested dinner protests in my gut, sour bile ramming its way up my oesophagus. How can he think such thoughts of me? As if I were some kind of crazed monster, no better than Greyback or Bellatrix, no better than the Dark Lord himself.

"What?"

He takes another breath, shallower this time, and opens his mouth. "I'm not daft." His voice is stronger, much closer to his usual drawl. "I know why I'm here, that the Dark Lord gave me to you."

My eyes widen in horror, my stomach flip-flopping into my throat.

"It's been more than a week now and you haven't collected yet."

I glower at him, my entire face contorting with malice. "What. Exactly. Are. You. Implying. Mr. Malfoy?" My voice drips with venom, so cold that Draco shudders and shuffles away from me on the bed.

He's biting on the corner of his mouth again. All the colour has drained from his face. He hunches his shoulders and recoils away from me; that same uncomfortable pang burns in my chest at seeing that pained look on his face, knowing that I'm responsible. Draco doesn't trust me. He thinks I plan on raping him. I'm certain that I'll have to excuse myself to vomit.

"You-you know what I mean." His face takes on a greyish tinge. "What Greyback wanted to do with me."

I close my eyes and bite down on my tongue, hard, so hard that I draw blood and don't even wince as the coppery-metallic taste spreads through my mouth.

"I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I molest my students, Mr Malfoy, but I can assure you that your honour," I spit the word out as if it gives me an unpleasant taste in my mouth, "is perfectly safe." I curl my lip into a sneer and scoff. "You know about the vow I made to your mother. Once again, I was trying to protect you. It's not my fault that you're too bloody thick to see it."

I turn away from him and rise from the bed, quickly heading into the adjoining bathroom. I hear Draco start to protest and quickly silence him with a firm, "Goodnight." The discussion is over. Yes, I wanted to make a dramatic exit, but my stomach really is revolting. As soon as I lock the bathroom door behind me, I lose the entire contents of my dinner into the sink.

:::::

When I find my way into the bedroom again, the room is completely dark and Draco is already asleep; light snores echo around the room. I have never been more thankful to hear that grating sound. As quietly as possible, I make my way over to my side of the bed and lie down, tucking the blankets over myself and placing a pillow in between us.

How absurd, I think. It's not as if a stupid pillow is going to act like any kind of shield. The Queen bed that used to seem so vast when I first inhabited this room, feels cramped. I notice that he's sleeping on the edge of the bed, as far away from my half of the bed as possible. This notion should bring me comfort; instead, it shoots another sharp pang to my chest.

What the bloody hell has this boy done to me?

TBC…


A/N: Don't hate me for this chapter. Draco didn't mean to make Severus feel sick. It's more about Severus' own shame and emotional issues than Draco. I promise that next chapter will remedy the situation and there will be smut. Yes, finally Smut is coming.

Thanks for reading and feedback is always appreciated good or bad.