The servants gave me quizzical looks as they passed by my almost prostrate form. In return, I gave them weak smiles, wishing the whole world would disappear, save for myself and for the professor.

The door was humming with low, masculine voices; I considered implications briefly, before resting my head upon the cool, varnished wood. Lucius was standing, I could tell, for he was pacing. The professor must have remained seated, for there was no indication of another presence.

Well, where did you find this one, Lucius? She's quite young, the professor's baritone pierced something in me, and my mouth slackened. Lucius laughed, and it was to my surprise that my stomach turned at the sound. Though love is hardly the word one would use to describe our relationship, I contained somewhat of a soft spot for him.

Ah, my Lourdes. She's beautiful, ne c'est pas, Severus?, Lucius said, and I could imagine him running his hands over the crystal wand again. The professor said nothing, and it felt as though he were carefully contemplating a response.

Don't speak French, Lucius, you merely butcher the language. She must be half your age. Is she serving as some kind of replacement for Narcissa til you tire of her also?, the professor asked coldly. I cringed, for I knew this was true. I had met Narcissa Malfoy once more before this, when she was starting to age and her legendary beauty was beginning to fail her.

Severus, I must tell you that your tongue is besting you once more. It will one day precede you, Lucius replied cooly. His voice was beginning to grow colder as the conversation continued.

Your wife was only a few years ahead of your own son, Lucius. She needn't be included in all this, the professor responded, almost pleadingly. I wondered at what he was alluding to.

Professor, that's all been attended to, Lourdes has received the mark early on in our marriage, Lucius said. I glanced at my arm, indifferent to something that was once such an enormous difficulty for me. Though the Mark was something I would have rather done without, it bothered me no longer. Of course, I understood fully that if I wished to retain this most comfortable existance, the Mark would inevietably be branded.

Ah. And what did our Lord say?, the professor sounded as though the words were coming out with great difficulty.

I could picture Lucius smiling in a malevolently serene way.

He was very pleased with her.

The professor rose up from his seat, and crossed to the fire, for it was near the door. I could hear his black footfalls patter against the wood.

Why am I here, Lucius? You have no need of me. I'm a professor, not some enormously powerful wizard. Did you simply bring me here to brew potions for amusment, or are there other devious forces at work?, the professor sounded weary and almost desolate. The mother in me wanted to put my arms around him and hug him to my breast.

Always to the point, are we not, Severus? Yes, I have a reason for bringing you here, but we must discuss it later. I fear that the servants have most indiscreet tongues when it comes to the manorside gossip, Lucius said, almost laughingly.

I rose from my spot, and silently fled down the hall, into my own sitting room. I sat in the chair, opposite the fire, pretending to be resting, but shivering beneath the down coverlet that was spread out over me. There was a rapping at the door, someone dragging their knuckles across it.

, I called out, struggling to make my voice both level and sleepy. There was no answer; I kicked off the blanket and rose up, instinctively patting my hair to make sure that it was presentable.

It opened slowly, the china knob deliberately turned in a way that made it squeak agains the metal. I pulled itopen, thinking it was one of the servants sent to deliver tea or something.

Instead, I found the professor standing on the other side, his arm propped up against one of the frames, giving me a very scrutinizing look. I waved my hands behind me, and bade him to come in.

I shut the door, firmly locking it, even though I knew that Lucius possesed the master key. Suddenly, he grabbed my wrist and bore his face down to mine, his malicious eyes straight into my own.

What the hell do you think you're doing?, I asked raggedly, trying to wriggle from beneath his tightened grip. For a man of little else but skin and bone, he was immensley strong. He gave a laugh, a snort almost, and I was humiliatingly reminded of myself as a child, struggling to understand his classes.

, he asked, almost causally, save a for a bitter lilt of tone at the end of his question. I hesistated, not knowing whether it was fright or shock. I nodded my head slowly, eyes never unlocking from his. His fingers were still laced around my wrist, and I felt my whole hand pulsate, desperately attempting to circulate.

I don't like it when others listen in upon conversations, he whispered into my ear, bringing his face closer to mine. I swallowed, but this time not out of fright.

He loosened his hand from mine, very slowly, each finger slowly relaxing, one by one. I wrenched away from him, his face still very amused. His hair seemed to swallow the firelight, and his presence made my otherwise pleasant room very dark. I liked it.

He pulled his robes about him, and sat in a chair, throwing his feet upon my ottoman, indifferently kicking away both my book and teaset. I glanced at the mess on the floor, the brown liquid being swallowed by the rug, pages of my book ruined, and gave him a hard stare of my own.

I wasn't listening, I said, glaring at his boots. He laughed, and threw one foot off the ottoman, inviting me to sit. I did, carefully perching myself so I did not touch him.

I could hear you rustling about. Very fortunate, Miss Bavarde, that I did not tell your husband, he remarked. I wondered why he was using my schoolname, for it bore unpleasant memories.

My name is Malfoy, not Bavarde, professor, and if you would be so kind as to not thrash about these rooms. I was particularly fond of that tea kettle, I said calmly. He pulled the other foot off, and sat up straight, staring pointetdly into my eyes.

You don't belong here, he said urgently, still looking at me, you're not one of them. His head was swaying slightly, the fire making lazy circles about his face. He looked very much like a vexed cobra, and I felt like I was doing some odd, ritualistic dance of death.

You have nothing to compare it to, I answered firmly, trying to retain dignity and wits. He said nothing, only reached for my hand. I thought he would softly take it, but later foolishly cursed myself for forgetting the man that my former potions master really was. He tore away the stiff materal that encased my forearm. He twisted it to a painfully visible angle, the dormant mark still ugly and white fleshed. I flinched at him and closed my eyes.

You cannot even look upon it, he snarled, you never wanted it, you were coerced into recieving it. You were never a true Slytherin. I snatched my arm back from his limpid fingers, his eyes watching me with oblique fascination.

That's because I was no Slytherin, you fool, I hissed, I was a Gryiffindor.








A/N: Thanks to those who responded so quickly! And yes, Draco's dubious fate will be further explained!