Outside his classroom the following afternoon, Potter and Malfoy scuffled. Draco, small and thin like his father, glared in Potter's face and spat, "She deserved what she got, filthy mudblood!"
Snape leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, silently watching. The other students, slightly more aware of their surroundings than the dueling children, moved aside, creating a circle around the boys. The more intelligent ones made quiet excuses and left immediately for their common rooms and classes.
Potter was never particularly observant, and Draco seemed to perpetually be in another world entirely. The two continued to shriek petty obscenities and threaten each other with adolescent curses. Perhaps the late Weasley had been correct in his choice of nomenclature for the blonde boy. After all, Lucius had never possessed as many mustelid qualities as his son presented on a regular basis. Snape was pleased in a quiet, caustic way that the boy never reeked of anything except sweat and expensive cologne.
Draco grew more disappointing each year. The fire in Potter's green eyes was slightly more interesting; despite the unnerving tendency for them to turn the precise shade of Avada Kedavra when he became truly enraged.
"Twenty points, Potter. Please attempt to refrain from engaging in your fantastically entertaining arguments on my very doorstep in the future. Malfoy, my office, and do be quick about it."
-
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-
Draco slunk inside and deposited himself in a chair. The boy had a self-satisfied smirk on his face and he laid his chin in his hand with nonchalant triumph.
"I did rather upset him this time, don't you think, Professor?" he enquired, expecting as he always did to be patted on the head and given a treat.
Snape placed the bag of unchecked essays and assorted homework beside his desk and sat down, regarding the boy with a look far too distasteful to be considered fond. "I'm quite certain you did, Mister Malfoy. However, my question remains what purpose, what point you are intending to serve by these incessant attempts at maintaining an idiotic rivalry?"
Draco blinked at him.
"Really," Snape said, "you're far too old to behave this way. Should you not be considering some sort of larger plan, something more than 'I did rather upset him this time, don't you think?'?" He mimicked the youthful sneer well enough to make Draco blush.
Draco had the unfortunate tendency to be unaware of the strengths he held, preferring to attempt the manufacture of those which he would never properly gain. Draco was not meant to rule through fear. Lucius and those who came before managed it easily enough, but Draco was his mother's child and his path diverged sharply from his father's. Snape felt, through his obligation to the boy's father, somewhat forced to point this out, however ineffectually, to the boy time and again. Snape sighed, wondering if he himself had ever been so oblivious. Likely not: those who had the misfortune to spend the vast majority of their childhoods alone often gained more self-knowledge than any child, save a Slytherin, truly needed. Draco spent too much of his time being little more than a pet and not enough holding his own flaws to the light.
"But—" Draco began.
"Mister Malfoy—" Snape countered.
"Why can't you be more like my father?" Draco demanded.
"Get out of my office."
-
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-
"My son tells me interesting things, Severus. I found his owl waiting personally on my desk this morning, making all sorts of messes in my paperwork. Awful things, birds."
"Your son, Lucius, is rapidly becoming a mewling brat. The boy lacks any proper motivation. He can only think of overcoming Potter in some new way or another. There is nothing in him that serves either your ends or our Lord's, and he is hardly creating himself in a fashion that will allow him any future success whatsoever. Had you planned to have him take over where you will leave off with the Ministry? The boy could hardly find his way out of a damp sack, let alone tug the strings and machinations of the entire bloody Ministry. You let her spoil him, Lucius."
"It intrigues me that you care so deeply for my son's future, such as it is."
"He is yours, is he not?"
Lucius glanced at him, grey eyes meeting black.
"Did you believe I thought so little of the things we promised as children?" Severus continued. "Lucius . . ."
Lucius looked away first, back to his desk, and his hands toyed with a quill. Lucius did not believe in promises and kept none of his own.
-
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-
As a child, Severus was often invited to the Manor to spend portions of the school holidays. On Christmas morning, the two boys would often wake tangled together in bed. Despite the fire, it was more pleasant to seek warmth in the flesh of another.
Lucius received precisely what he listed each Christmas, wrapped in silver foil and pale gold ribbons. His parents would give Severus one small gift (typically something the boy could use), leaving it on a table so as not to detract from the display generated specifically for Lucius.
As for his own parents, Severus received a missive by owl post and perhaps another simple thing. His mother, though frequently neglectful of her eldest son in general, would give him a book or something else to further his studies. While she did not understand her son, she respected his love of learning. She hoped that, in so doing, he would make something adequate of himself. His father could not be bothered beyond scrawling his name and an appropriate sentiment in the accompanying letter.
Severus loved most the things Lucius saw fit to give him, on the occasions that it occurred to Lucius to do so. It rarely seemed to relate to any proper holiday, and Lucius did not observe Severus' birthday beyond making a bland notation when they next met.
When he woke on this day—a day of nothing except cold sunshine—beside the bed there was a small white flower, wilting slightly in the chill. Lucius still slept at his side, one arm possessively crossing Severus' stomach.
He found himself crying, the droplets falling in silence to spot the pillows.
"Another nightmare?" Lucius said, hazy and sleep-ridden.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose."
Lucius was soft in the morning, more prone to the sort of affection that he rarely expressed otherwise. He pressed himself close to Severus, his cheek on the thin shoulder, and reached to gather the tears that still spilled on the tips of his fingers.
"How many years has it been?" Lucius asked.
"Twenty-two."
"I love you," Lucius said quietly, nearly unheard.
Severus sighed softly and turned to his side. "And I, you," he said, gathering Lucius into his arms.
-
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-
"There is a plan," Snape insisted. "There is always a plan."
"Certainly, Severus, but we have yet to uncover how far it reaches," McGonagall said gently.
"What do you intend, Minerva? They will force your hand, as they have always done." He frowned; the last quarter inch of his tea was cold and bitter.
Trelawney sat too close to the fire, resting her chin on the hand that emerged from the pile of lace that passed for her clothing. She murmured to herself frequently these days, and more than one staff member was of the opinion that Dumbledore kept her on to avoid breaking her heart. She stirred and turned to Snape, the scent of cheap incense wafting from the folds of fabric. "What do you see in the bottom of your teacup, Severus?"
Snape was one of those. "Nothing, Sybil, save the stains of time," he said patiently, in the sort of voice one uses with the young and the insane.
Trelawney sniffed, pointedly returning her gaze to the fire. "You will be next," she said, pretending to be oblivious to the sneer in his voice and the upraised and wry eyebrow.
"Mm. My Lord has been prophesying my death for over twenty years, Sybil. Still, I do find it somewhat flattering that I've now joined the ranks of our beloved Boy Who Lived and earned my rightful place in the daily death update."
"Severus," Dumbledore said, weary and warning.
Snape paused thoughtfully, tapping his lips with a finger. "What is the purpose of this duplicity on my part if not to provide some sort of advantage? An advantage which you, as of now, do not see fit to make proper use of. Am I wasting my time, Albus? Is all of this for naught?"
"It isn't the time." Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We must wait. I must counsel patience in this."
"For what?" he snapped. "How many more of your precious Gryffindors do you want delivered in pieces?"
"Harry is still young, still too young for the sacrifice he must make. The prophecy—"
"And this—this charlatan is your prophet?" Snape flung one hand at the woman huddled and singing softly to herself by the fire. "You will waste innocent lives for a 'prophecy', and then dare to speak of too great a sacrifice being demanded of one bloody foolish boy?"
"She has the Sight, Severus. It is erratic, yes, but she sees truly when she sees."
"The Sight," Snape repeated quietly. He sat stiffly in his chair now, spine straight and hands moving with the icy calm that came upon him in anger. "Albus, perhaps it is simply that you have little idea truly what you consign your charges to by doing this, by refraining from action here."
"I have never agreed to abandon them to their fates, Severus."
"You may as well have." He stood and turned his back on the room, feeling McGonagall's worried gaze settle on his shoulders. He heard her soft intake of breath, and heard even in the silence her intention to find peace between them.
"This is not the time for apologies, Minerva. There are things none of you understand. You take this too lightly now. You are too secure in your belief in some sort of higher guidance in this matter. Prophecies—what comfort do you think they derived from the belief that Harry would somehow magically make it all better, when they themselves were being stripped flesh from bone by Voldemort and his minions? What are words when they are dying alone and shrieking somewhere deeply underground?
"And you will not save them. You will do nothing to prevent it when it happens again and again, as Voldemort takes your children one by one, because you believe that this is all foretold in the stars, in her pack of cards, in the crystal balls of her 'art.' I can't agree to this course of action, and yet I have little choice but to continue to obey my 'masters.'" His tone was bitter, and he refused to meet their eyes. "I can't promise you, however, that I will not do everything in my power to prevent even one more child for paying for the sins of its birth."
The door did not slam behind him; he was too controlled for such a display.
Dumbledore clasped McGonagall's thin hand in his, rubbing her chill and trembling fingers to warm them. "Is this not also foretold, Sybil, that one should arise in the least likely of places and gather the wayward home?"
But Trelawney only watched the patterns cast on the walls by the last light and did not reply. In time, Dumbledore rose to guide her to her rooms.
-
-
-
The cat sat on the edge of the desk and watched him open and discard tea after tea. He was annoyed, deeply and terribly annoyed, and nothing would suit this mood. The cat said little, and only made a soft nyao when his fingers lingered over an amber jar of oolong.
"This?" he asked, removing the lid and lifting it to his nose. "I've hardly touched this."
The cat tilted its head, regarding him unblinking through autumn eyes.
"These are the days of love and hate," he commented, reaching for the teaspoon.
Snape leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, silently watching. The other students, slightly more aware of their surroundings than the dueling children, moved aside, creating a circle around the boys. The more intelligent ones made quiet excuses and left immediately for their common rooms and classes.
Potter was never particularly observant, and Draco seemed to perpetually be in another world entirely. The two continued to shriek petty obscenities and threaten each other with adolescent curses. Perhaps the late Weasley had been correct in his choice of nomenclature for the blonde boy. After all, Lucius had never possessed as many mustelid qualities as his son presented on a regular basis. Snape was pleased in a quiet, caustic way that the boy never reeked of anything except sweat and expensive cologne.
Draco grew more disappointing each year. The fire in Potter's green eyes was slightly more interesting; despite the unnerving tendency for them to turn the precise shade of Avada Kedavra when he became truly enraged.
"Twenty points, Potter. Please attempt to refrain from engaging in your fantastically entertaining arguments on my very doorstep in the future. Malfoy, my office, and do be quick about it."
-
-
-
Draco slunk inside and deposited himself in a chair. The boy had a self-satisfied smirk on his face and he laid his chin in his hand with nonchalant triumph.
"I did rather upset him this time, don't you think, Professor?" he enquired, expecting as he always did to be patted on the head and given a treat.
Snape placed the bag of unchecked essays and assorted homework beside his desk and sat down, regarding the boy with a look far too distasteful to be considered fond. "I'm quite certain you did, Mister Malfoy. However, my question remains what purpose, what point you are intending to serve by these incessant attempts at maintaining an idiotic rivalry?"
Draco blinked at him.
"Really," Snape said, "you're far too old to behave this way. Should you not be considering some sort of larger plan, something more than 'I did rather upset him this time, don't you think?'?" He mimicked the youthful sneer well enough to make Draco blush.
Draco had the unfortunate tendency to be unaware of the strengths he held, preferring to attempt the manufacture of those which he would never properly gain. Draco was not meant to rule through fear. Lucius and those who came before managed it easily enough, but Draco was his mother's child and his path diverged sharply from his father's. Snape felt, through his obligation to the boy's father, somewhat forced to point this out, however ineffectually, to the boy time and again. Snape sighed, wondering if he himself had ever been so oblivious. Likely not: those who had the misfortune to spend the vast majority of their childhoods alone often gained more self-knowledge than any child, save a Slytherin, truly needed. Draco spent too much of his time being little more than a pet and not enough holding his own flaws to the light.
"But—" Draco began.
"Mister Malfoy—" Snape countered.
"Why can't you be more like my father?" Draco demanded.
"Get out of my office."
-
-
-
"My son tells me interesting things, Severus. I found his owl waiting personally on my desk this morning, making all sorts of messes in my paperwork. Awful things, birds."
"Your son, Lucius, is rapidly becoming a mewling brat. The boy lacks any proper motivation. He can only think of overcoming Potter in some new way or another. There is nothing in him that serves either your ends or our Lord's, and he is hardly creating himself in a fashion that will allow him any future success whatsoever. Had you planned to have him take over where you will leave off with the Ministry? The boy could hardly find his way out of a damp sack, let alone tug the strings and machinations of the entire bloody Ministry. You let her spoil him, Lucius."
"It intrigues me that you care so deeply for my son's future, such as it is."
"He is yours, is he not?"
Lucius glanced at him, grey eyes meeting black.
"Did you believe I thought so little of the things we promised as children?" Severus continued. "Lucius . . ."
Lucius looked away first, back to his desk, and his hands toyed with a quill. Lucius did not believe in promises and kept none of his own.
-
-
-
As a child, Severus was often invited to the Manor to spend portions of the school holidays. On Christmas morning, the two boys would often wake tangled together in bed. Despite the fire, it was more pleasant to seek warmth in the flesh of another.
Lucius received precisely what he listed each Christmas, wrapped in silver foil and pale gold ribbons. His parents would give Severus one small gift (typically something the boy could use), leaving it on a table so as not to detract from the display generated specifically for Lucius.
As for his own parents, Severus received a missive by owl post and perhaps another simple thing. His mother, though frequently neglectful of her eldest son in general, would give him a book or something else to further his studies. While she did not understand her son, she respected his love of learning. She hoped that, in so doing, he would make something adequate of himself. His father could not be bothered beyond scrawling his name and an appropriate sentiment in the accompanying letter.
Severus loved most the things Lucius saw fit to give him, on the occasions that it occurred to Lucius to do so. It rarely seemed to relate to any proper holiday, and Lucius did not observe Severus' birthday beyond making a bland notation when they next met.
When he woke on this day—a day of nothing except cold sunshine—beside the bed there was a small white flower, wilting slightly in the chill. Lucius still slept at his side, one arm possessively crossing Severus' stomach.
He found himself crying, the droplets falling in silence to spot the pillows.
"Another nightmare?" Lucius said, hazy and sleep-ridden.
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose."
Lucius was soft in the morning, more prone to the sort of affection that he rarely expressed otherwise. He pressed himself close to Severus, his cheek on the thin shoulder, and reached to gather the tears that still spilled on the tips of his fingers.
"How many years has it been?" Lucius asked.
"Twenty-two."
"I love you," Lucius said quietly, nearly unheard.
Severus sighed softly and turned to his side. "And I, you," he said, gathering Lucius into his arms.
-
-
-
"There is a plan," Snape insisted. "There is always a plan."
"Certainly, Severus, but we have yet to uncover how far it reaches," McGonagall said gently.
"What do you intend, Minerva? They will force your hand, as they have always done." He frowned; the last quarter inch of his tea was cold and bitter.
Trelawney sat too close to the fire, resting her chin on the hand that emerged from the pile of lace that passed for her clothing. She murmured to herself frequently these days, and more than one staff member was of the opinion that Dumbledore kept her on to avoid breaking her heart. She stirred and turned to Snape, the scent of cheap incense wafting from the folds of fabric. "What do you see in the bottom of your teacup, Severus?"
Snape was one of those. "Nothing, Sybil, save the stains of time," he said patiently, in the sort of voice one uses with the young and the insane.
Trelawney sniffed, pointedly returning her gaze to the fire. "You will be next," she said, pretending to be oblivious to the sneer in his voice and the upraised and wry eyebrow.
"Mm. My Lord has been prophesying my death for over twenty years, Sybil. Still, I do find it somewhat flattering that I've now joined the ranks of our beloved Boy Who Lived and earned my rightful place in the daily death update."
"Severus," Dumbledore said, weary and warning.
Snape paused thoughtfully, tapping his lips with a finger. "What is the purpose of this duplicity on my part if not to provide some sort of advantage? An advantage which you, as of now, do not see fit to make proper use of. Am I wasting my time, Albus? Is all of this for naught?"
"It isn't the time." Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We must wait. I must counsel patience in this."
"For what?" he snapped. "How many more of your precious Gryffindors do you want delivered in pieces?"
"Harry is still young, still too young for the sacrifice he must make. The prophecy—"
"And this—this charlatan is your prophet?" Snape flung one hand at the woman huddled and singing softly to herself by the fire. "You will waste innocent lives for a 'prophecy', and then dare to speak of too great a sacrifice being demanded of one bloody foolish boy?"
"She has the Sight, Severus. It is erratic, yes, but she sees truly when she sees."
"The Sight," Snape repeated quietly. He sat stiffly in his chair now, spine straight and hands moving with the icy calm that came upon him in anger. "Albus, perhaps it is simply that you have little idea truly what you consign your charges to by doing this, by refraining from action here."
"I have never agreed to abandon them to their fates, Severus."
"You may as well have." He stood and turned his back on the room, feeling McGonagall's worried gaze settle on his shoulders. He heard her soft intake of breath, and heard even in the silence her intention to find peace between them.
"This is not the time for apologies, Minerva. There are things none of you understand. You take this too lightly now. You are too secure in your belief in some sort of higher guidance in this matter. Prophecies—what comfort do you think they derived from the belief that Harry would somehow magically make it all better, when they themselves were being stripped flesh from bone by Voldemort and his minions? What are words when they are dying alone and shrieking somewhere deeply underground?
"And you will not save them. You will do nothing to prevent it when it happens again and again, as Voldemort takes your children one by one, because you believe that this is all foretold in the stars, in her pack of cards, in the crystal balls of her 'art.' I can't agree to this course of action, and yet I have little choice but to continue to obey my 'masters.'" His tone was bitter, and he refused to meet their eyes. "I can't promise you, however, that I will not do everything in my power to prevent even one more child for paying for the sins of its birth."
The door did not slam behind him; he was too controlled for such a display.
Dumbledore clasped McGonagall's thin hand in his, rubbing her chill and trembling fingers to warm them. "Is this not also foretold, Sybil, that one should arise in the least likely of places and gather the wayward home?"
But Trelawney only watched the patterns cast on the walls by the last light and did not reply. In time, Dumbledore rose to guide her to her rooms.
-
-
-
The cat sat on the edge of the desk and watched him open and discard tea after tea. He was annoyed, deeply and terribly annoyed, and nothing would suit this mood. The cat said little, and only made a soft nyao when his fingers lingered over an amber jar of oolong.
"This?" he asked, removing the lid and lifting it to his nose. "I've hardly touched this."
The cat tilted its head, regarding him unblinking through autumn eyes.
"These are the days of love and hate," he commented, reaching for the teaspoon.