A/N: Hi all! It's been a while - I'm so sorry! I've just handed in my last piece of uni work for the year and now I'm freeee! And (hopefully) this means I'll be able to stick to a more regular uploading schedule. It's a rather short one today just to get back into the swing of things, but I hope you like it! Thanks for all of your kind reviews on the last chapter as well - they really make my day to read; it's so nice that you're all enjoying it, and it just feels so nice to have your work appreciated, you know :)). Before we begin: !Emetophobia Warning! (I myself am emetophobic, so I know some people might want a warning beforehand as I know I sometimes struggle to read about it (I don't know why I wrote it because even that made me feel... Not Right... but I think it's just a natural reaction to some emotions)) Anyway! I've waffled on for long enough: please enjoy this chapter! I'll be back soon! Love, CrazyAsACupcake

At the back of the classroom, next to an asleep Theodore Nott, Malfoy is lost in thought. His cheek is propped up by his left hand as he draws lazy swirls across his parchment with a stunning red ink his mother sent him as a gift. As his quill moves, his mind (and his eyes) are on Hermione, who is, of course, feverishly jotting down notes as Snape continues his with his bored drawl at the front of the classroom. Her hand shoots up numerous times, either in question or answer, and Malfoy smirks when he sees Snape's eyes roll after the fourth time. Snape continues on with his lecture, and Malfoy finds himself completely focused on the pattern he's etching into the corner of the parchment – watching intently as it travels, engulfing half of the page, his mind completely tuned into the quiet, calming scratch of the quill against the parchment. He doesn't notice Snape stop talking, eyes narrowed and pointed straight at him. When Snape begins a slow, methodical walk through the tables towards him, his head is still bent, his tongue slightly peeking from between his lips as he concentrates on the squiggles and loops that he has now completely covered the page with. He doesn't notice the hushed giggles and whispers as Snape stands beside the table and stares down at him.

"Mister Malfoy." Snape's voice, so close to him, makes Malfoy jump (although jump might be an understatement: perhaps it was more of a lurch).

"Hello, Professor," he smiles easily, placing down his quill gently and sitting up a tiny bit straighter. "Can I help you?"

Snape sneers, and Malfoy resists the urge to sneer back. Remember your place, Draco, he tells himself, swallowing as he sees a dark, cold fire in Snape's eyes.

"Is my lesson boring you?"

"No, Professor."

"So why, may I ask, haven't you taken any notes? I was under the impression that you wish to become an Auror once you leave Hogwarts, do you not?"

Malfoy feels goosebumps rising on his arms, feels his skin going hot and cold at once as he's put on the spot, as everyone's eyes are on him without him wanting them to be (which was a first, for him). "Well, yes, Professor. But-"

"Or are you more intent on becoming an artist instead?" Snape interrupts, pinching the parchment between his index finger and thumb, lifting it off the table to show the class the design Malfoy had been more interested in drawing. "How much would this sell for, Mister Malfoy, do you think?"

Malfoy swallows again, but he doesn't take his eyes away from Snape's. His already-short fuse has been lit, but he doesn't even blink. He doesn't rise to the challenge, he doesn't speak back, he doesn't argue – even though every single nerve in his body is screaming at him. Telling him to snap, telling him to be the evil little snark he's known for, telling him to push all of Snape's buttons – and he did know all of them – telling him to stand up for himself, dammit!

But he doesn't.

Instead he just sits there and takes it, his muscles tense, his jaw set. He can't afford to argue, he can't afford to get kicked out when he is so close to finishing his task. He can't afford to put himself in the bad books of the one person who's looking out for him. So he takes it. He bites his pretty pink tongue with his pretty white teeth until he can taste pretty red blood in his mouth.

Snape turns the parchment so he's looking at it, one dark brow raised as he assesses Malfoy'sdaydream doodle. Malfoy can feel his heart pounding inside his head as Snape looks back at him. "If I am not mistaken, Mister Malfoy, this would sell for a rather large sum in a Muggle art gallery."

He sees the slight twitch of Snape's lip as he stops himself from smirking. His blood pounds through his veins, echoing though his head, not quite muting the giggles from the oh-so-perfect Gryffindors across the room. His vision blurs as he clenches his jaw harder, not worried about breaking his teeth.

Finally, his fuse runs out.

"How dare you suggest that my work is horrid enough to hang in a Muggle gallery," he spits, the words like venom in his mouth. He sneers up at his professor – his guardian – his eyes narrowed.

Snape leans in close, his lank hair falling in front of his eyes as he glares at Malfoy. He can feel his hot breath on his skin – the stale smell making his stomach swirl like the design on the parchment. "Have I touched a nerve, Mister Malfoy? I just think you might have better things to do than scribble pretty nonsense on your parchment." And he knows – he knows that Snape knows that he hasn't completed his task, that he isn't even close to completing it. He knows that Snape knows that he's distracted and he's afraid and he's angry and he's frustrated and he's tired – oh, Merlin, he's so tired.

But he doesn't care. Why would he? As far as Malfoy is concerned Snape only cares about keeping him safe in relation to his task. He doesn't care about how Malfoy is feeling. No, Snape only cares about finishing the job.

Malfoy scrapes the chair back, suddenly feeling very hot, his forehead slick with sweat. He grabs his bag from the floor and crosses the room in four strides, yanking the door open.

He hesitates, and in that hesitation, Snape's calm drawl washes over him. He doesn't turn around – not yet, anyway – but he can hear the smirk in his voice.

"Mister Malfoy, is it really the best thing for you to be leaving class? You still have so much work to do."

There it is again. The double meaning. You still have so much work to do.

He whirls back towards the classroom, barely glancing at Hermione (who is discretely pulling her bag into her lap, never once taking her eyes from the rage-filled blond boy stood in the doorway) as he glares at Snape. A hungry fire licks through his veins, his hands clenching into fists as he lets it all out.

"Just fuck off, why don't you! Get off my fucking back for once! Do you know how tired I am of all of this? I know how much work I have left but if you just left me to fucking do it then maybe it wouldn't be so difficult - so just fuck off and let me do what I need to fucking do! For once, just get fucked!"

His cheeks burn as he screams at his guardian from across the room, sees his eyes darken in (Anger? Hatred? Disgust?) pity as he hurls these words at him, drawing them from the pit of his stomach. He tries to mush every emotion he's felt in the past few weeks into these words, and he hopes that Snape can feel their weight.

The door doesn't so much slam behind him as it does thud, and he marches quickly down the corridor, his tie feeling too tight around his throat as he pushes into a bathroom. He tugs it loose, just making it into the closest cubicle as his stomach heaves. He collapses onto his knees as he vomits into the toilet, his warm cheek pressed against the cool porcelain as he flushes it. He struggles to catch his breath, his eyes fluttering closed as he kneels there for Merlin knows how long.

The bathroom door opens, and he flushes the toilet again, in hopes it gets rid of any lingering smell.

He hears soft footsteps come towards the cubicle, but he doesn't move. He doesn't even kick the door shut. He's too tired.

"Malfoy?"