Chapter 31.
Thanks all, as ever. . . This has way too many chapters now. . . ! Thanks especially to Clare, not only for being nice and helping me with this fic, but for being truly wonderful to me in general! Thank you, very much!
*note from disgruntled editor: humph*
Hey, Naomi! You're a wonderful person too! But in different ways to Clare. . . And it's not like I've never said nice stuff about you one this, is it? look back a couple of chapters, and you'll see. . . Although, I admit that you have done an awful lot to help me with this, and I would be lost without you. . .* g *
Oh, the Sickness!
Draco woke up. He had been sent back up to his dorm after he had left the hospital wing, and told to keep quiet. Most of the Slytherins were steering well clear of him, due to his rabid outburst earlier that day. Yesterday, even. It was now three o'clock, according to his bedside clock. Draco didn't mind the isolation, for the moment; it gave him time to think without inane questions being shot at him from his companions. He had told Crabbe and Goyle to leave him alone until he told them to come back. They had duly wandered off, looking lost. Well, tough, Draco thought nastily. He felt pretty much lost, too, and he couldn't baby them forever. . . What had woken him, now? . . .oh, yes, the vision. The same as last time, in the hospital wing. His face changing into his father's and then finally into Snape's, which looked away, and then he had woken up. . . What did it mean? He had spent a long time thinking of this whilst his fellow Slytherins were in their classes. He could see no reasoning in it! He changed into his father. . .because he was his father's son, after all. . .this much he had worked out. Simple. Snape though? Why did his father turn into Snape? It had to be something more than just the fact that they had been good friends in the past. . . It would have made more sense to have seen his father turning into him, turning into Snape, what with all that had been going on. . . Where had all this started? It seemed so surreal, disjointed from the real world now. . . He recapped. It had started when he had received the letter telling him about his father's death. He had gone to Snape, who had been uncharacteristically nice and comforted him. He had . . .spent the night with Snape. He got his father's letter from Snape. He had meet up with Snape at the funeral, where he said that they need to talk, before disappearing. They had talked in the classroom, at night, when he had got back to Hogwarts. He had spent more 'time' with Snape. Snape acted as though nothing had happened, making him feel suicidal. Snape had stopped him from actually committing suicide. He had yelled at Snape in a corridor, telling him how he felt. . . (Draco shuddered with embarrassment at the memory. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.) Dumbledore had taken the pair of them up to his office to sort things out. Snape had told Draco that his mother had murdered his father. He hadn't told him whether he loved him or not. He had fainted and had the weird vision. He had just had the weird vision for the second time, proving it to be important. . .
Draco sat up in bed, considering the list. Did Snape love him or not? He had paused on the answer to Draco's direct questioning of this. . . so probably, yes, he did. Draco grinned into the darkness. Was he being too optimistic? Probably. Ah, well, it's a nice dream, he thought. What had started it in the first place? Did Snape fuck everyone who went to him in tears? Not likely. . . there had to be something else. . . like with the vision. . . So what did he have that no-one else did? He smirked at a perverted, fleeting thought, before taking it seriously. So he was attractive, but no more than some of the other Slytherin males. . . Snape had known his father, but what had that got to do with anything? He thought of the vision again, and then his father's letter. . ."of mine". . . it all meant something! WHAT? What did it mean?! He thought of Dillemand, the book his father had left to Snape. . ..why? Why was he thinking of this now? What was he trying to tell himself? Snape had said that it was just his father's way of showing him that he knew that he was gay. . .Snape said? Snape lied. Frowning, Draco thought of him again. He was so unemotional! Or was he? Did he just hide it? He shook his head in frustration. The room was silent save the heavy breathing of Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise in the other beds. So. There was some other connection between Snape and his father. What was it? Snape and his father. . . they had been good friends. They had been Death Eaters together. That was it, wasn't it? Good friends. . .just good friends. . . WHAT?! What was he going ON about? Of course they were just good friends! Of course they were! Of course. . . Oh, shit. . . Surely not. He ran through the facts again. His father had called Snape, "mine," in his letter. In his vision, his father changed into Snape Dillemand of Atlantis. Snape had, quite willingly, slept with him on hearing about Lucius's death. Draco looked so very much like his father. . . OH, SICK! Draco was repulsed. Ewwww! His FATHER and SNAPE! SICK! Oh, The Sickness. . . he shuddered. Feeling physically nauseous, he clambered out of bed, past his curtains and through to the bathroom. He reached it, and pulled the door open. There was one light dimly illuminating the room. He staggered in, and stood in front of the mirror, looking at the ghostly and disgusted image of himself. He was pale, much paler than normal. His hair was tousled, his fair skin clammy. He turned the tap on, and splashed the cold gushing water over his face. He felt a little better, though his head no clearer, his rage still intact. Wiping his face dry, his thoughts turned, irrepressibly, to his father and Snape. It was. . . sick. No other words presented themselves to replace it. Except maybe perverted. Or twisted. Unnatural? Warped? Wanton? SICK, SICK, SICK! He shuddered. The bastard! How dare he?! How dare he use him as a replacement for his father! Draco felt bitter, twisted, used. . . How DARE he?! Oh, the sickness of it. . . what had he been thinking that first time? Just of Lucius? So Snape had no feelings for him after all. . . Draco remembered what he had forgotten previously. He had murmured "Lucius," when Draco had asked him whether he loved him! HE HAD USED HIM!!! SO angry. . . He remembered in the classroom, the second time: "In this letter, he told me to watch over you, look after you. If we carry on like this. . . would I be betraying his last request of me?" And then, after: " You shouldn't care so much! It was right. Father's gone now, he won't know," he whispered. "Won't he? Who says he's not watching us now? There's no guarantee, Draco. It was wrong of us to start this,"
He had wondered then why it had mattered to Snape so much. . . well, now he knew. He was telling Dumbledore. . .he was telling EVERYONE. . .in the morning. . .EVERYONE! And he had the audacity to accuse his mother of murdering his father! His anger reached a point beyond words, as he padded, bare foot, from the bathroom, back to his now-cold bed. Hate for Snape filled every nook, every cranny of his mind, taking him over, the very thought of him making his skin crawl, his blood boil. . . THE EVIL. . .evil, evil, evil. . . words failed him. Nothing could possible describe how he felt. Draco was not unfamiliar with the feeling of dislike; he had had felt it towards Potter ever since that first train journey. But hate. . . It was like nothing else in the world. . . Adrenaline pounded through him, making him clench his fists, longing for Snape to be somewhere near so he could pound the living HELL out of the git. . . what made it worse was the knowledge that before this, he would have done anything for Snape, absolutely anything. . . Draco narrowed his eyes and glowered. He tossed and turned till morning, unable to sleep, mental images of him and Snape, Snape and his father, surging into his minds eyes, revolting him at every turn. He had used him. . . Oh, the sheer sickness of it!
~*~
He must have slept, as he woke late that morning. Looking sleepily at the clock, he realised that he had already missed breakfast and ten minutes of his first lesson. . they hadn't bothered to wake him, obviously. He felt a stab of annoyance. He wasn't infectious, for god's sake. . . He thought back to the previous night as he dressed. The adrenaline had left him now, and he was just left with a dull, thudding hate for Snape, and a hollow empty, weak feeling inside. . . Oh, the sickness. . .
Thanks all, as ever. . . This has way too many chapters now. . . ! Thanks especially to Clare, not only for being nice and helping me with this fic, but for being truly wonderful to me in general! Thank you, very much!
*note from disgruntled editor: humph*
Hey, Naomi! You're a wonderful person too! But in different ways to Clare. . . And it's not like I've never said nice stuff about you one this, is it? look back a couple of chapters, and you'll see. . . Although, I admit that you have done an awful lot to help me with this, and I would be lost without you. . .* g *
Oh, the Sickness!
Draco woke up. He had been sent back up to his dorm after he had left the hospital wing, and told to keep quiet. Most of the Slytherins were steering well clear of him, due to his rabid outburst earlier that day. Yesterday, even. It was now three o'clock, according to his bedside clock. Draco didn't mind the isolation, for the moment; it gave him time to think without inane questions being shot at him from his companions. He had told Crabbe and Goyle to leave him alone until he told them to come back. They had duly wandered off, looking lost. Well, tough, Draco thought nastily. He felt pretty much lost, too, and he couldn't baby them forever. . . What had woken him, now? . . .oh, yes, the vision. The same as last time, in the hospital wing. His face changing into his father's and then finally into Snape's, which looked away, and then he had woken up. . . What did it mean? He had spent a long time thinking of this whilst his fellow Slytherins were in their classes. He could see no reasoning in it! He changed into his father. . .because he was his father's son, after all. . .this much he had worked out. Simple. Snape though? Why did his father turn into Snape? It had to be something more than just the fact that they had been good friends in the past. . . It would have made more sense to have seen his father turning into him, turning into Snape, what with all that had been going on. . . Where had all this started? It seemed so surreal, disjointed from the real world now. . . He recapped. It had started when he had received the letter telling him about his father's death. He had gone to Snape, who had been uncharacteristically nice and comforted him. He had . . .spent the night with Snape. He got his father's letter from Snape. He had meet up with Snape at the funeral, where he said that they need to talk, before disappearing. They had talked in the classroom, at night, when he had got back to Hogwarts. He had spent more 'time' with Snape. Snape acted as though nothing had happened, making him feel suicidal. Snape had stopped him from actually committing suicide. He had yelled at Snape in a corridor, telling him how he felt. . . (Draco shuddered with embarrassment at the memory. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.) Dumbledore had taken the pair of them up to his office to sort things out. Snape had told Draco that his mother had murdered his father. He hadn't told him whether he loved him or not. He had fainted and had the weird vision. He had just had the weird vision for the second time, proving it to be important. . .
Draco sat up in bed, considering the list. Did Snape love him or not? He had paused on the answer to Draco's direct questioning of this. . . so probably, yes, he did. Draco grinned into the darkness. Was he being too optimistic? Probably. Ah, well, it's a nice dream, he thought. What had started it in the first place? Did Snape fuck everyone who went to him in tears? Not likely. . . there had to be something else. . . like with the vision. . . So what did he have that no-one else did? He smirked at a perverted, fleeting thought, before taking it seriously. So he was attractive, but no more than some of the other Slytherin males. . . Snape had known his father, but what had that got to do with anything? He thought of the vision again, and then his father's letter. . ."of mine". . . it all meant something! WHAT? What did it mean?! He thought of Dillemand, the book his father had left to Snape. . ..why? Why was he thinking of this now? What was he trying to tell himself? Snape had said that it was just his father's way of showing him that he knew that he was gay. . .Snape said? Snape lied. Frowning, Draco thought of him again. He was so unemotional! Or was he? Did he just hide it? He shook his head in frustration. The room was silent save the heavy breathing of Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise in the other beds. So. There was some other connection between Snape and his father. What was it? Snape and his father. . . they had been good friends. They had been Death Eaters together. That was it, wasn't it? Good friends. . .just good friends. . . WHAT?! What was he going ON about? Of course they were just good friends! Of course they were! Of course. . . Oh, shit. . . Surely not. He ran through the facts again. His father had called Snape, "mine," in his letter. In his vision, his father changed into Snape Dillemand of Atlantis. Snape had, quite willingly, slept with him on hearing about Lucius's death. Draco looked so very much like his father. . . OH, SICK! Draco was repulsed. Ewwww! His FATHER and SNAPE! SICK! Oh, The Sickness. . . he shuddered. Feeling physically nauseous, he clambered out of bed, past his curtains and through to the bathroom. He reached it, and pulled the door open. There was one light dimly illuminating the room. He staggered in, and stood in front of the mirror, looking at the ghostly and disgusted image of himself. He was pale, much paler than normal. His hair was tousled, his fair skin clammy. He turned the tap on, and splashed the cold gushing water over his face. He felt a little better, though his head no clearer, his rage still intact. Wiping his face dry, his thoughts turned, irrepressibly, to his father and Snape. It was. . . sick. No other words presented themselves to replace it. Except maybe perverted. Or twisted. Unnatural? Warped? Wanton? SICK, SICK, SICK! He shuddered. The bastard! How dare he?! How dare he use him as a replacement for his father! Draco felt bitter, twisted, used. . . How DARE he?! Oh, the sickness of it. . . what had he been thinking that first time? Just of Lucius? So Snape had no feelings for him after all. . . Draco remembered what he had forgotten previously. He had murmured "Lucius," when Draco had asked him whether he loved him! HE HAD USED HIM!!! SO angry. . . He remembered in the classroom, the second time: "In this letter, he told me to watch over you, look after you. If we carry on like this. . . would I be betraying his last request of me?" And then, after: " You shouldn't care so much! It was right. Father's gone now, he won't know," he whispered. "Won't he? Who says he's not watching us now? There's no guarantee, Draco. It was wrong of us to start this,"
He had wondered then why it had mattered to Snape so much. . . well, now he knew. He was telling Dumbledore. . .he was telling EVERYONE. . .in the morning. . .EVERYONE! And he had the audacity to accuse his mother of murdering his father! His anger reached a point beyond words, as he padded, bare foot, from the bathroom, back to his now-cold bed. Hate for Snape filled every nook, every cranny of his mind, taking him over, the very thought of him making his skin crawl, his blood boil. . . THE EVIL. . .evil, evil, evil. . . words failed him. Nothing could possible describe how he felt. Draco was not unfamiliar with the feeling of dislike; he had had felt it towards Potter ever since that first train journey. But hate. . . It was like nothing else in the world. . . Adrenaline pounded through him, making him clench his fists, longing for Snape to be somewhere near so he could pound the living HELL out of the git. . . what made it worse was the knowledge that before this, he would have done anything for Snape, absolutely anything. . . Draco narrowed his eyes and glowered. He tossed and turned till morning, unable to sleep, mental images of him and Snape, Snape and his father, surging into his minds eyes, revolting him at every turn. He had used him. . . Oh, the sheer sickness of it!
~*~
He must have slept, as he woke late that morning. Looking sleepily at the clock, he realised that he had already missed breakfast and ten minutes of his first lesson. . they hadn't bothered to wake him, obviously. He felt a stab of annoyance. He wasn't infectious, for god's sake. . . He thought back to the previous night as he dressed. The adrenaline had left him now, and he was just left with a dull, thudding hate for Snape, and a hollow empty, weak feeling inside. . . Oh, the sickness. . .