Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended, for entertainment purposes only.

Note: See, I have this theory . . . I think deep down, Draco Malfoy hasn't been made completely evil . . .

Enjoy!

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Serpent's Son

A hitch caught in his chest as he tried to sigh. The pain lingered in his right side, and he knew from experience it would worsen if he attempted another deep inhalation. Habitually he forced himself to take patient, slow breaths until the feeling passed.

Only then did Draco Malfoy allow himself to sigh.

Sitting by himself in a windowseat, he looked down on his classmates near the lake. Dumbledore had warned him to not act suspicious, to continue as he had, but at this moment he could not. He had lost his dim-witted companions easily enough and took his opportunity to try to sort out his own swirling thoughts.

~Snape seems the only one who can even remotely sympathize with me,~ Draco mused. ~He's been side-by-side with the Dark Lord—-and my father—-and is now helping Dumbledore. Just like me. And he's been beaten.~

~Just like me.~

It was learning that fact that made Draco begin to doubt the path his father was leading him down. An embarrassing mishap in Potions' with that inept Longbottom forced a majority of the class to hurriedly strip—-mindless of sex, no one wanted to be in their clothing when it started to smoke and drip acid—-and Draco had had a look at his Professor's pale shoulders.

Snape's back was crossed with thin welting scars. Some oozed red.

The Head of his House had been whipped with an instrument enchanted to cause non-healing wounds.

Draco knew, because Draco bore a few of the same type himself.

~Not too many, though,~ Draco thought bitterly. ~Daddy never likes to see lingering physical effects.~

The Potion's Master had seen the expression on his favorite pupil's face at the time. He had immediately turned his back from the class and glared at the blond boy. A subtle, questioning look flitted across his face too, and Draco understood its meaning.

Later that evening after dinner, when the rest of his House was in their common room, Draco had left and made his way back to Snape's office.

The door to the office was closed but unlocked. Draco lifted the latch with little hesitation. The sight inside, however, had given him pause in the doorway. His potion's Professor was again shirtless, his back to a mirror. The marks crossing his back were bleeding freely now. Snape gave Draco a slow appraising glance, then continued twisting to clean the lacerations.

"Come in and shut the door, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape barked.

Hurriedly Draco stepped inside and closed the heavy door.

Watching the adult in a surprisingly intimate situation made Draco's mouth dry. He tried unsuccessfully to avert his eyes. He had seen Snape frequently outside the school's walls, but never before looking quite so . . . human.

Snape swabbed the blood from the thin gashes. From the swiftness of this ungraceful act, it was obvious he'd been administering to these for years. He flinched as he applied a thick ointment to them, then visibly relaxed as the balm was absorbed.

Draco found his tongue.

"Why don't you see Madam Pomfrey about your back?" he asked. The characteristic arrogance was missing from his tone, and his voice was more polished without it.

"Why don't you, Mr. Malfoy? Those bandages must feel burdensome under your clothing," his Professor countered.

By drawing his attention to it, the cotton gauze did feel itchy and unwieldy on his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably under Snape's black gaze. He shrugged carefully, causing the bandaging to rub.

"I'm waiting, Mr. Malfoy."

"I . . . can't," he finally whispered, after the silence stretched. "My father . . . he told me not to tell anyone. And . . . if she healed them, then . . . then he would know. And then he'd be more brutal the next time."

~And it embarrasses me,~ he added silently. Unexpectedly, tears welled in his eyes.

Snape's expression didn't soften, but he made a quick gesture with his hand toward a chair. "Sit," he ordered.

Quickly wiping the wet from his eyes, Draco complied and took the seat in front of him. When Draco looked up at him with questions clouding his face, Snape gave him a impatient nod. Carefully the boy unbuttoned his shirt.

Once unbuttoned, Snape assisted him. His hands were soft and cool. More gently than Draco anticipated, the few pieces of tape and gauze were removed from his back.

"Do you cover these yourself?" he asked.

"Yes, Professor."

"For such an awkward place, you do a good job."

~I've had lots of practice,~ he almost spit, but caught himself. Snape had had practice too.

Draco did not see the expression on Snape's face as his back was bared. He did not see the worry it contained. He did feel his Professor's fingers jump away for a moment.

"Well," Snape said briskly. "You don't have as many as . . . as other people, Draco. That doesn't mean they don't hurt, of course. But they are thinner and should be easier to close. The ointment will hold them from bleeding longer, too."

He nodded, even though he hadn't known such a healing ointment existed. His father was quick to teach and do harm; he was not so eager to enlighten his only son about the opposite.

Draco tensed as he felt the cool fingers on his back again, cleaning the lacerations with warmed water. As the balm was smeared over them, he winced, mimicking Snape's reaction. Soon the pain disappeared and was replaced with a numbing cool. His muscles loosened.

"Thank you, Professor Snape," he said humbly.

"The salve is one I brew myself, Mr. Malfoy," Snape informed him. "When you need more, please tell me. It is more efficient and less cumbersome than traditional bandaging."

The blonde boy nodded again, and readjusted his shirt. The fabric did not hurt as it slid over the raw flesh.

"Professor Snape, sir? May I ask . . . where did you get . . .." As much as he wanted to complete the question, Draco could not.

"Where did I get my wounds?" Snape finished. "Quite a personal inquiry, Mr. Malfoy."

He paused, and Draco thought he would not receive an answer.

His Professor surprised him as he continued. "Most of my whippings came from my own father. He would occasionally use a non-healing riding crop. Lucius, however, prefers the cane. And I know he does not usually like to leave permanent marks."

Startled, Draco turned at looked up. A wild thought ran through his head, ~Maybe fathers have the right to beat their own children, but not other people!~

The Head of his House met his gaze with an unreadable expression.

Draco could only nod in reply.

"Listen to me, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, turning away from the boy to pull on his own shirt. He watched himself in the mirror as he buttoned. "I cannot and will not tell you how to live your life. But I do know there are dark times ahead, and the sooner your path is lit, the less self-loathing you'll suffer.

"Only you can make that choice."

Finished with his dressing, Snape turned back. His eyes were not quite as hard as normal. Thinking back on it, Draco realized he looked a bit sad.

"Good night, Mr. Malfoy," he dismissed.

"G-good night, Professor," stammered the blond. Quickly he took his exit.

The conversation had watered the seed of doubt already in his mind. Draco pondered his lot in life—-heir to the Malfoy legacy—-and wondered more seriously if it could truly be changed. Many nights in the following weeks were sleepless.

Professor Snape did not speak to him again regarding this dilemma, even when Draco returned to his office for more ointment. Even when Draco approached him and asked quietly to be taken to Dumbledore's office, the Potion's Master only nodded curtly.

Hogwart's Headmaster was more kind. He held several discussions with Draco, and on occasion, when Draco could barely talk for fear he would begin sobbing uncontrollably, Dumbledore was sympathetic and allowed him time to recompose himself. Eventually all his mortifying family history was told: the humiliating forced participation in unnamable spells; the secret and horrifying meetings held at Malfoy Manor; the ritualized beatings, the odd, dreamy look of pleasure on his father's face as he physically abused both his wife and child.

Draco fully expected to be sent away, for surely the apple does not fall far from the tree!

But Dumbledore did not dismiss him. He offered an alternative, not to further his own cause, he explained, but for Draco's own sanity and life.

By this time, Draco could do nothing less than agree. His father never knew his only son was a betrayer of the Dark Lord.

Now his personal situation had become more perilous. He had, so far, been able to dissuade his father from forcing him to join the ranks of Death Eaters. It was not something he could hold out against much longer. Even at his age, the beatings at home had not ceased and, due to his reluctance to join Voldemort as a Death Eater, had become more brutal. They were, in fact, the reason his bruised ribs shortened his breath today.

Draco, however, continued to play his part well.

He only hoped it would come to some good in the end. He sighed again and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the window, still watching his fellow students. As much as he might want to, he could never sit fully comfortably in the sun as they did. Professor Snape had been correct, however; his self-hatred slowly drained and he was able to fully look himself in the mirror again.