The Way I Am
"Damn that blasted Flitwick," Draco muttered to Crabbe and Goyle. "He made those lessons harder today so we won't have time to practice and his house can win on Saturday." The goons grunted in agreement. "If I didn't have detention with Snape, I'd call my father and ." He trailed off. They weren't really listening, and not even he believed his own words. What would Lucius do, after all, besides tell him he was whining? Draco sighed and turned down the stairs to Snape's classroom in the dungeons. "Well, where are you going?" he snapped at the thugs. "Go see Flitwick. It's the only way you're going to get through those lessons without me ."
The dungeons were particularly cold this autumn afternoon. Per usual, they were dark, with an eerie green glow from the torches. Draco was comfortable here, though, in the silence amongst the spiders and darkness. What others considered "creepy" was to him familiar, like a family dog or fireplace. After several minutes, he noticed how slowly he was moving; he started walking more quickly, throwing in the cocky bounce as he drew close enough to hear Snape rattling about. He could feel his cloak fill the doorway as he entered the classroom.
"Malfoy." Snape's voice was harsh and disinterested. He didn't even turn to look at him. Had it been anyone else, Draco would have protested, but a professor - a Death Eater, and one of his father's friends - was not someone to question. He was, after all, already here for a detention. "What would happen if I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"A sleeping potion?" Draco offered. "But it sounds too complicated to be -"
"Draught of the Living Death," Snape corrected, stirring a dark blue potion. "That was an easy one, Malfoy: I expect better. What is the purpose of erumpent fluid?"
"Explosions, of course," Draco replied, a self-important smile overtaking his face.
"Of course. You'll be peeling Abyssinian shrivelfig for me, Malfoy. Over there." Snape waved vaguely at a burlap bag on a table. He handed the boy a knife and went back to whatever he was doing at his laboratory counter.
Draco took a seat at the table, purposely turning his own back to Snape. It would be easier to let his mind wander if there was no one to distract him. The knife Snape had given him had a wooden handle. Simple, almost Muggle- like it was, and curiously comfortable to hold. Snape must have enchanted it to relieve the drudgery of shrivelfig peeling: Draco was surprised that he had forgotten to remove such an enchantment before using it as a punishment. He chose a fig from the bag, a dark purple one that must have been a very handsome date, and began his work.
"Carefully now," Snape growled. "Any bit of peel will ruin the potion."
"What a shame that would be," Draco said, under his breath.
"I heard that, Malfoy."
Draco sighed. Even if he was one of his father's friends . if you could say Lucius had friends. The old man was viciously cruel to everyone around him, and his only son was no exception. I remember watching him beat one of the house elves. The little monster deserved it - serving us cold tea! - but Lucius was unrelenting. Growing up in the Malfoy household was a lesson in obedience and irrational coldness, and Draco had learned well. If he hadn't . well, he simply wouldn't be alive. There was no question about that.
The knife slipped and cut his finger. What'll that do to Snape's precious potion? was his first thought. The wound was bleeding, dripping crimson down his finger, past his knuckle, pooling in his palm, running between the mounts of Venus and the Moon to his wrist. I've done quite a good job with it, he thought, peering at the cut itself, which was rather more like an opening of flesh. With his right hand he found his wand within his robes.
"Abracadabra," he muttered. A gentle glow illuminated the parted skin and reconnected the flaps. He walked himself over to the sink and washed his hands, rinsing the pinkish water away. What a nonevent. You'd think a knife charmed to be easy to hold would also be charmed not to cut skin. Then again, maybe Snape never slips. It still stung, though, despite his healing charm.
"I have a potion of phoenix tears that's much more thorough," Snape said, his back still turned. "Next time that happens."
Choosing not to acknowledge that comment, Draco returned to his work. The figs were remarkably cooperative, much more so that he remembered, and it was relatively quick work. He wondered how Crabbe and Goyle were making out with Flitwick: then again, he didn't really care.
There was a swish and a tapping of heels that didn't much sound like Snape. Draco looked up: standing in the doorway was the girl he'd nearly knocked down the nigh before. He wondered if she recognized him.
"Severus," she said, entering. Snape set down the phials he was mixing and met her in the middle of the room.
"Ophelia." Snape took her proffered hand and pressed it. She looked around the dungeon-like classroom, her eyes narrowing when they fell upon Draco. She recognized him.
"I mean, Professor." She returned her full attention to Snape. "I've been trying to find a unique disarming charm for days. Do you have a moment?"
"Of course," Snape said. "I know just the one to teach you." His voice was so much gentler with her, this Ophelia, than Draco had ever heard it before. He took the girl's cloak and hung it on an iron hook in the wall. "We'll go to my office. Draco, you are excused."
Draco? How often did he get called that? Without another word, he gathered up his things and left the particularly suspicious pair alone. Fortunately, he too had the chance to be alone: Crabbe and Goyle still had another two hours left with Flitwick.
"Damn that blasted Flitwick," Draco muttered to Crabbe and Goyle. "He made those lessons harder today so we won't have time to practice and his house can win on Saturday." The goons grunted in agreement. "If I didn't have detention with Snape, I'd call my father and ." He trailed off. They weren't really listening, and not even he believed his own words. What would Lucius do, after all, besides tell him he was whining? Draco sighed and turned down the stairs to Snape's classroom in the dungeons. "Well, where are you going?" he snapped at the thugs. "Go see Flitwick. It's the only way you're going to get through those lessons without me ."
The dungeons were particularly cold this autumn afternoon. Per usual, they were dark, with an eerie green glow from the torches. Draco was comfortable here, though, in the silence amongst the spiders and darkness. What others considered "creepy" was to him familiar, like a family dog or fireplace. After several minutes, he noticed how slowly he was moving; he started walking more quickly, throwing in the cocky bounce as he drew close enough to hear Snape rattling about. He could feel his cloak fill the doorway as he entered the classroom.
"Malfoy." Snape's voice was harsh and disinterested. He didn't even turn to look at him. Had it been anyone else, Draco would have protested, but a professor - a Death Eater, and one of his father's friends - was not someone to question. He was, after all, already here for a detention. "What would happen if I added asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"A sleeping potion?" Draco offered. "But it sounds too complicated to be -"
"Draught of the Living Death," Snape corrected, stirring a dark blue potion. "That was an easy one, Malfoy: I expect better. What is the purpose of erumpent fluid?"
"Explosions, of course," Draco replied, a self-important smile overtaking his face.
"Of course. You'll be peeling Abyssinian shrivelfig for me, Malfoy. Over there." Snape waved vaguely at a burlap bag on a table. He handed the boy a knife and went back to whatever he was doing at his laboratory counter.
Draco took a seat at the table, purposely turning his own back to Snape. It would be easier to let his mind wander if there was no one to distract him. The knife Snape had given him had a wooden handle. Simple, almost Muggle- like it was, and curiously comfortable to hold. Snape must have enchanted it to relieve the drudgery of shrivelfig peeling: Draco was surprised that he had forgotten to remove such an enchantment before using it as a punishment. He chose a fig from the bag, a dark purple one that must have been a very handsome date, and began his work.
"Carefully now," Snape growled. "Any bit of peel will ruin the potion."
"What a shame that would be," Draco said, under his breath.
"I heard that, Malfoy."
Draco sighed. Even if he was one of his father's friends . if you could say Lucius had friends. The old man was viciously cruel to everyone around him, and his only son was no exception. I remember watching him beat one of the house elves. The little monster deserved it - serving us cold tea! - but Lucius was unrelenting. Growing up in the Malfoy household was a lesson in obedience and irrational coldness, and Draco had learned well. If he hadn't . well, he simply wouldn't be alive. There was no question about that.
The knife slipped and cut his finger. What'll that do to Snape's precious potion? was his first thought. The wound was bleeding, dripping crimson down his finger, past his knuckle, pooling in his palm, running between the mounts of Venus and the Moon to his wrist. I've done quite a good job with it, he thought, peering at the cut itself, which was rather more like an opening of flesh. With his right hand he found his wand within his robes.
"Abracadabra," he muttered. A gentle glow illuminated the parted skin and reconnected the flaps. He walked himself over to the sink and washed his hands, rinsing the pinkish water away. What a nonevent. You'd think a knife charmed to be easy to hold would also be charmed not to cut skin. Then again, maybe Snape never slips. It still stung, though, despite his healing charm.
"I have a potion of phoenix tears that's much more thorough," Snape said, his back still turned. "Next time that happens."
Choosing not to acknowledge that comment, Draco returned to his work. The figs were remarkably cooperative, much more so that he remembered, and it was relatively quick work. He wondered how Crabbe and Goyle were making out with Flitwick: then again, he didn't really care.
There was a swish and a tapping of heels that didn't much sound like Snape. Draco looked up: standing in the doorway was the girl he'd nearly knocked down the nigh before. He wondered if she recognized him.
"Severus," she said, entering. Snape set down the phials he was mixing and met her in the middle of the room.
"Ophelia." Snape took her proffered hand and pressed it. She looked around the dungeon-like classroom, her eyes narrowing when they fell upon Draco. She recognized him.
"I mean, Professor." She returned her full attention to Snape. "I've been trying to find a unique disarming charm for days. Do you have a moment?"
"Of course," Snape said. "I know just the one to teach you." His voice was so much gentler with her, this Ophelia, than Draco had ever heard it before. He took the girl's cloak and hung it on an iron hook in the wall. "We'll go to my office. Draco, you are excused."
Draco? How often did he get called that? Without another word, he gathered up his things and left the particularly suspicious pair alone. Fortunately, he too had the chance to be alone: Crabbe and Goyle still had another two hours left with Flitwick.