Becoming, part 1
Professor Snape's room was no different than on any other day and yet everything seemed new - the dark corners darker, the comfortable spaces more welcoming, the unknown objects more mysterious, and Snape more hostile and yet more accessible.
Closing his book, Snape gestured for Draco to take a seat opposite the desk.
"I trust it's been made clear to you that you must follow my instructions precisely?"
Draco nodded.
"And that if I even suspect you of plotting against the Order you will be summarily sent to Azkaban, for which we have already made arrangements in case it becomes necessary?"
"Yes, Professor."
Snape's mouth set in a thin line. "I do not trust this course of action, Mr Malfoy, and I will not treat it with anything but suspicion. I would be a fool to do so."
Draco looked at the Professor's cold expression - the eyes were not more interested, the body language as tightly closed as ever. "I understand, Professor."
Drumming his fingers briefly on the desk, Snape overtly looked him over. "I doubt that very much," he said after a long minute.
"Do you know what I would have said, Draco," he continued, "if you'd come to me with this plan?" The boy didn't reply, but he clearly wasn't expected to. "I would have told you to go back to your room and plot Quidditch manoeuvres with your friends."
"Which is why I went to the Headmaster," Draco said evenly. At the Professor's deepening scowl, he added, "I know this is not a game."
"Do you?"
"I've had years to consider this - what I want, what is planned for me, how I can escape it, what it means to my family to do this or to do something else." And suddenly he felt both tired and angry with Snape's response. "Should I just line up for the branding iron and relinquish my soul without a struggle because some mad old wizard tells me to? Is that what you expected?"
Snape leant up over the desk. "I would expect you not to walk into traps you aren't prepared for. If a few minutes of unsupportive questioning breaks your self-control, you have no hope of deceiving your father, and still less the 'mad old wizard'."
"I've been deceiving Lucius for years, Professor, and I wager I know him even better than you do." Snape held his eye, but Draco fancied he might have been just a little impressed. "And as for Voldemort, I'm not underestimating him - that's what I'm here for you to teach me."
Snape shot to his feet. He stalked over to the study area with a dark look of concentration. Draco watched him tap a hand impatiently on a shelf, draw out a book, and pace a brief circuit of the room, flipping through the pages.
Draco waited. He watched. Snape glanced up at him twice, as if checking he was still there. After a long silence broken only by the ruffling of pages and the occasional sub-audible mutter, Snape strode back to the desk, and thudded the open book down in front of Draco.
"You will let me cast Alio Clarescet on you."
"All right."
"What are you, a Gryffindor? Read it."
About three paragraphs in Draco took in a breath, glanced up at Snape, and read on with his mouth open. He couldn't help saying, "You wouldn't, I mean, you wouldn't want to."
"It will be cast on you, Mr Malfoy, not on us. Do finish the page before commenting."
Draco did, closing the book silently, and running his hand over the carmine binding.
"Well?" Snape said. "Shall I summon the Dementors?"
"I don't really have a choice, do I?"
"You made your choice, Malfoy. Now you have consequences."
"Yes," Draco said, keeping his eyes on the book. "But it's only fair to say," he took a breath and looked up to meet Snape's still angry eyes, "I'm not sure you want to know what's in my head, Professor."
* * *
Their first five afternoons of training had passed in an exhausting and conflict-ridden blur.
They began every session with a trying question and answer session, which wrung him and never satisfied Snape. Draco really did try to give the exhaustive and concise answers Snape was after, but it actually seemed impossible to please him. There were of course things Draco didn't want to say, and though he was only putting off the inevitable now. Still, the looming astrological crux for the casting of the complex telepathic spell did relieve him of the burden of deciding which if any of the things Draco didn't want to talk about were relevant to Snape's cause.
In his head, it was Snape's cause.
After the interrogation they moved on to mental training, at which Draco felt he already had quite a lot of experience, but none of it seemed to measure up to Snape's exacting standards. And they closed with physical training, where he knew he should surpass the older man, but where there was always some trap or skill that prevented him making the most of his more agile body and more rapid responses.
In addition, Snape was continually angry. Everything Draco did infuriated Snape, and nothing he did was done well enough. He resented the imposition, and he seemed to despise Draco's skills as much as his inadequacies.
Between that and the mounting suspicions of his housemates about where he went every afternoon and why he'd withdrawn from the Quidditch team and the duelling club, as the day drew nearer Draco found the prospect of being completely open to Snape's observation almost a relief. It didn't seem likely that he could be more hostile or demanding once he knew.
He pulled off his invisibility cloak just inside his room. A light flared up at Zabini's quiet "Lumos." Draco closed his eyes and said "I'm going to bed, Blaise, turn it off."
The light went out with an even quieter "Nox," and Draco removed his boots, remembering Snape's frustrated growl when he couldn't recall whether it was Nott or Macnair at Voldemort's side. He slipped off his outer robe and felt in the dark for the hook, remembering Snape's harsh dismissal of his inability to focus on a grounding crystal while Snape stood almost pressed against his back holding it before him. Feeling the warmth build in his groin he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, shaking them loose and tossing them towards his chest, recalling the dramatic extension of Snape's arms as he sent Draco flying across the room into a thinly cushioned wall yet again. His prick was heavy now - Snape's voice, Snape's body, Snape's presence - and he slid naked between the sheets instead of summoning a nightshirt, his hand sliding down, tangling through the hair and circling his prick softly.
There was a weight on the bed, at which Draco didn't need to tense, although he should have heard him coming in the dark.
"Blaise, not now," he said, turning away.
"Draco," Blaise's voice puffed into his ear and across his neck, "it's been ages."
"You sound like a desperate girlfriend."
"Well," Blaise said, untroubled as always, "a little of the first part, and I can probably manage the second if you really want me to."
Though he should have shaken him off, the smallest possibility blossomed in the corner of Draco's mind, and he couldn't stop himself turning towards Blaise's dark head.
"Knew I could interest you," Blaise said, sliding off the bed and fumbling in the darkness - Draco didn't have to watch the barely visible figure to know what he was doing.
"Blaise, piss off," he said, not very convincingly even to his own ear. "I'm tired."
"I know," Blaise said, lifting the blanket and sliding inside, his naked thigh brushing down Draco's hip. "Off holed up with Snape, doing your new 'private tutoring' - no wonder you're all worn out."
"Shut up, Zabini, you don't have a clue."
"Hmm, bet he doesn't let you top though," Blaise smirked, running a warm hand across Draco's chest.
He should push him away, but then who knew when he could next have enough privacy to. . . "Fuck off, Blaise."
"Trying, dear," he replied. Draco hated endearments, everyone knew that, and Blaise laughed quietly when Draco thrust him hard back into the bed, looming over him. "See, I knew it, you're all frustrated."
Blaise ran a hand along Draco's neck, down his torso and stroked gently at the base of his thickening penis. "Want to fuck me, Draco? Or shall I be Snape and do you?"
"What?"
"Polyjuice in the second drawer."
Draco wondered for a heady moment how many ethical trials one could be expected to undertake in a single week.
* * *
Professor Snape's room was no different than on any other day and yet everything seemed new - the dark corners darker, the comfortable spaces more welcoming, the unknown objects more mysterious, and Snape more hostile and yet more accessible.
Closing his book, Snape gestured for Draco to take a seat opposite the desk.
"I trust it's been made clear to you that you must follow my instructions precisely?"
Draco nodded.
"And that if I even suspect you of plotting against the Order you will be summarily sent to Azkaban, for which we have already made arrangements in case it becomes necessary?"
"Yes, Professor."
Snape's mouth set in a thin line. "I do not trust this course of action, Mr Malfoy, and I will not treat it with anything but suspicion. I would be a fool to do so."
Draco looked at the Professor's cold expression - the eyes were not more interested, the body language as tightly closed as ever. "I understand, Professor."
Drumming his fingers briefly on the desk, Snape overtly looked him over. "I doubt that very much," he said after a long minute.
"Do you know what I would have said, Draco," he continued, "if you'd come to me with this plan?" The boy didn't reply, but he clearly wasn't expected to. "I would have told you to go back to your room and plot Quidditch manoeuvres with your friends."
"Which is why I went to the Headmaster," Draco said evenly. At the Professor's deepening scowl, he added, "I know this is not a game."
"Do you?"
"I've had years to consider this - what I want, what is planned for me, how I can escape it, what it means to my family to do this or to do something else." And suddenly he felt both tired and angry with Snape's response. "Should I just line up for the branding iron and relinquish my soul without a struggle because some mad old wizard tells me to? Is that what you expected?"
Snape leant up over the desk. "I would expect you not to walk into traps you aren't prepared for. If a few minutes of unsupportive questioning breaks your self-control, you have no hope of deceiving your father, and still less the 'mad old wizard'."
"I've been deceiving Lucius for years, Professor, and I wager I know him even better than you do." Snape held his eye, but Draco fancied he might have been just a little impressed. "And as for Voldemort, I'm not underestimating him - that's what I'm here for you to teach me."
Snape shot to his feet. He stalked over to the study area with a dark look of concentration. Draco watched him tap a hand impatiently on a shelf, draw out a book, and pace a brief circuit of the room, flipping through the pages.
Draco waited. He watched. Snape glanced up at him twice, as if checking he was still there. After a long silence broken only by the ruffling of pages and the occasional sub-audible mutter, Snape strode back to the desk, and thudded the open book down in front of Draco.
"You will let me cast Alio Clarescet on you."
"All right."
"What are you, a Gryffindor? Read it."
About three paragraphs in Draco took in a breath, glanced up at Snape, and read on with his mouth open. He couldn't help saying, "You wouldn't, I mean, you wouldn't want to."
"It will be cast on you, Mr Malfoy, not on us. Do finish the page before commenting."
Draco did, closing the book silently, and running his hand over the carmine binding.
"Well?" Snape said. "Shall I summon the Dementors?"
"I don't really have a choice, do I?"
"You made your choice, Malfoy. Now you have consequences."
"Yes," Draco said, keeping his eyes on the book. "But it's only fair to say," he took a breath and looked up to meet Snape's still angry eyes, "I'm not sure you want to know what's in my head, Professor."
* * *
Their first five afternoons of training had passed in an exhausting and conflict-ridden blur.
They began every session with a trying question and answer session, which wrung him and never satisfied Snape. Draco really did try to give the exhaustive and concise answers Snape was after, but it actually seemed impossible to please him. There were of course things Draco didn't want to say, and though he was only putting off the inevitable now. Still, the looming astrological crux for the casting of the complex telepathic spell did relieve him of the burden of deciding which if any of the things Draco didn't want to talk about were relevant to Snape's cause.
In his head, it was Snape's cause.
After the interrogation they moved on to mental training, at which Draco felt he already had quite a lot of experience, but none of it seemed to measure up to Snape's exacting standards. And they closed with physical training, where he knew he should surpass the older man, but where there was always some trap or skill that prevented him making the most of his more agile body and more rapid responses.
In addition, Snape was continually angry. Everything Draco did infuriated Snape, and nothing he did was done well enough. He resented the imposition, and he seemed to despise Draco's skills as much as his inadequacies.
Between that and the mounting suspicions of his housemates about where he went every afternoon and why he'd withdrawn from the Quidditch team and the duelling club, as the day drew nearer Draco found the prospect of being completely open to Snape's observation almost a relief. It didn't seem likely that he could be more hostile or demanding once he knew.
He pulled off his invisibility cloak just inside his room. A light flared up at Zabini's quiet "Lumos." Draco closed his eyes and said "I'm going to bed, Blaise, turn it off."
The light went out with an even quieter "Nox," and Draco removed his boots, remembering Snape's frustrated growl when he couldn't recall whether it was Nott or Macnair at Voldemort's side. He slipped off his outer robe and felt in the dark for the hook, remembering Snape's harsh dismissal of his inability to focus on a grounding crystal while Snape stood almost pressed against his back holding it before him. Feeling the warmth build in his groin he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and trousers, shaking them loose and tossing them towards his chest, recalling the dramatic extension of Snape's arms as he sent Draco flying across the room into a thinly cushioned wall yet again. His prick was heavy now - Snape's voice, Snape's body, Snape's presence - and he slid naked between the sheets instead of summoning a nightshirt, his hand sliding down, tangling through the hair and circling his prick softly.
There was a weight on the bed, at which Draco didn't need to tense, although he should have heard him coming in the dark.
"Blaise, not now," he said, turning away.
"Draco," Blaise's voice puffed into his ear and across his neck, "it's been ages."
"You sound like a desperate girlfriend."
"Well," Blaise said, untroubled as always, "a little of the first part, and I can probably manage the second if you really want me to."
Though he should have shaken him off, the smallest possibility blossomed in the corner of Draco's mind, and he couldn't stop himself turning towards Blaise's dark head.
"Knew I could interest you," Blaise said, sliding off the bed and fumbling in the darkness - Draco didn't have to watch the barely visible figure to know what he was doing.
"Blaise, piss off," he said, not very convincingly even to his own ear. "I'm tired."
"I know," Blaise said, lifting the blanket and sliding inside, his naked thigh brushing down Draco's hip. "Off holed up with Snape, doing your new 'private tutoring' - no wonder you're all worn out."
"Shut up, Zabini, you don't have a clue."
"Hmm, bet he doesn't let you top though," Blaise smirked, running a warm hand across Draco's chest.
He should push him away, but then who knew when he could next have enough privacy to. . . "Fuck off, Blaise."
"Trying, dear," he replied. Draco hated endearments, everyone knew that, and Blaise laughed quietly when Draco thrust him hard back into the bed, looming over him. "See, I knew it, you're all frustrated."
Blaise ran a hand along Draco's neck, down his torso and stroked gently at the base of his thickening penis. "Want to fuck me, Draco? Or shall I be Snape and do you?"
"What?"
"Polyjuice in the second drawer."
Draco wondered for a heady moment how many ethical trials one could be expected to undertake in a single week.
* * *
