A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews, and I'm so sorry for the month-and-a-half gap(!) between chapters. The next one will come far sooner!
Also, just a reminder- this story does contain corporal punishment. It's mild, not especially described, and really only exists as a relic of the time and place in which this story takes place. Besides, it's Snape- he's snarky, often short-tempered, and not exactly interested in modern teaching techniques (especially given this takes place thirty years ago).
Chapter Five: Draco
Draco sat on his folded cloak, staring down the vast sloping lawn that led down to the Forbidden Forest. He didn't much care if his trousers ended up covered in grass stains, but he knew there'd be a lecture from Professor Snape if he showed up to dinner with an appearance anything less than immaculate, and he had plenty of clean cloaks in his dorm.
Exhaling a frustrated burst of air at nothing in particular, Draco turned his gaze to Hagrid's hut. He didn't even know why he'd followed Potter and Crabbe here, or at least that was what he'd told himself. Through the large open window of the oaf's excuse for a house, he could catch glimpses every now and then of what was happening. Potter sat in an enormous armchair, nibbling carefully at the edges of what appeared to be a rock cake of some kind, while Crabbe dunked his enthusiastically in a mug of tea, all but inhaling the entire shared plate over the course of several minutes.
If Draco tilted his neck just right, he could see Hagrid watching the whole thing with an air of uncertainty, but as more time went on he could see Hagrid relax and even clap Crabbe on the back at one point, nearly sending him flying out of his chair. Draco's stomach tightened.
This wasn't right. What was wrong with Vincent? Hobnobbing around with the enemy just because they had sweets? It made Draco sick.
A week before boarding the Hogwarts Express, Draco had been invited to tea in his father's study. This was an unusual and, in fact, unprecedented invitation. His father occasionally joined Draco and his mother for afternoon tea, but during the week this was impossible, as he was at the Ministry. Even when the weekend did come, his father often stayed in his study, accepting a platter of tea and biscuits from Dobby with a wave of his hand before shutting the door once more.
On the rare occasions Lucius did join Draco and his mother, Draco always found himself brightened by an inexplicable conviction that the rest of the day was going to be a wonderful one, even if his father inevitably retreated to his study once the last crumbs were gone. He always found himself sitting up straighter in his father's presence, incredibly aware of all the ways he might one day measure up to the man across from him. Although nothing had ever been said on the subject, Draco couldn't help but feel his father was somehow disappointed in him, no matter how precisely he strove to emulate the kind of son his father would love the most.
But none of that mattered on that day just two weeks before when his father hadn't come down to the parlor to enjoy raspberry scones and instead sent Dobby to escort him upstairs. For a moment Draco thought he must be in trouble; he'd only been in his father's study once or twice (one memorable occasion having been the time he accidentally set fire to an ancient family tapestry having 'borrowed' his mother's wand), and those had been exclusively unpleasant occasions. However, it was clear that he was in no trouble at all when Draco's mother nodded at him with a smile, having clearly been expecting this. And so he followed that depressing creature Dobby upstairs, where his father greeted him with a clasp on the shoulder and a curt nod.
They'd eaten their raspberry scones and drank their tea while Draco's father regaled him with stories of his time at Hogwarts. They mainly centered around all the organizations and clubs his father had either led or provided valuable wisdom to, as well as some of the 'pranks' they'd played on Mudblood students.
"Of course, it was a different time," Lucius had said, with a tightening of his lips. "Yes, Dumbledore was in charge then, but the war was in full swing, and he was... distracted, and often unaware of what his students were up to. From what I hear from my colleagues with children already at Hogwarts, you will need to be more subtle. Honestly, if your mother would just accept that Durmstrang is close enough..."
His father trailed off and instead chose to finish his thought by taking a sip of tea. Draco didn't focus on the Durmstrang part of what his father had said (deep down he was relieved to be staying somewhat close to home), instead zeroing in on the reference to the old days.
"Tell me about then," he said eagerly. "Tell me more."
And so his father had, telling him tales of when the Malfoy name meant something. Of course, it still meant a great deal, but the war had changed everything. His father had escaped a potentially lifelong stint Azkaban through his own cunning, but according to him the rest of the country had been taken over by the Mudbloods and their lovers, and while the Malfoy way of thinking was still the right way they had to be careful about what they said, and to whom.
"Harry Potter is your age," his father said simply, once that topic had run dry and they'd moved back to the topic at hand. "You saw him yourself this summer at Diagon Alley. He'll most likely be sorted into Gryffindor, but I hope you do realize there is a possibility, no matter how slim, that he is sorted into Slytherin alongside yourself. Have you considered this, Draco?"
Draco nodded. He wasn't lying. Of course he had thought about the fact that he and the Boy Who Lived might wind up in the same house together, but at the same time the idea seemed impossible. The Boy Who Lived? Who'd destroyed the great wizard binding the entire nation together? Of course he'd end up like his parents, in bloody Gryffindor where they did whatever they wanted, then after the fact invented reasons it had been 'good'. That was another thing his father had taught him.
"What do I do if he is sorted into Slytherin, Father?"
Here, Lucius smiled, carefully chewing his bite of scone before washing it down with a sip of tea. He paused, added a bit more sugar, then said, "You befriend him. You befriend him no matter where he is sorted, because right now that child is at his most pliable state, and the last thing we need is that elderly fool headmaster turning him into a clone of himself."
And Draco had tried. He really had. The very moment he realized who the boy next to him in Madam Malkin's robe shop was he'd immediately tried to form a connection, but Potter was distant and barely said anything. His father had been extremely excited by this, however, and even mentioned it as they had their tea.
"He knows who you are already," Lucius said, his voice silky smooth. "And aside from you, he knows no one. God knows where Dumbledore's been hiding him all these years, but no one's seen him but you, and apparently that half-breed groundskeeper. If you're lucky, he won't know a single soul on the Hogwarts Express except you." He paused then, and corrected himself. "If we're lucky."
Draco sat up even straighter at this, electrified at the idea of being trusted to work alongside his father on something this important. "I will. I promise I will."
"I'll be counting on you," his father said with another smile, a genuine one that Draco rarely saw. "You're very important to me, Draco."
Draco's heart had nearly burst with pride at these words, and as he thought of them now his heart twinged slightly in the same place, but more overwhelming was the knowledge that he'd failed. There was still time; after all, it had barely been a week, but each day Draco found himself despising the Scarhead more and more, even if he occasionally showed glimmers of hope. It wasn't his fault he'd failed, he knew that, but he didn't know how to tell his father that Potter was an insufferable twat and it would be impossible to be friends with him, even if he was just pretending.
The door to Hagrid's hut opened, and Draco scrambled to his feet. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted. But Hagrid, Potter, and that arseface traitor Crabbe barely glanced in his direction as they said their goodbyes. Crabbe, grinning like a four-year-old at Christmas, beamed even more widely as he bent down to pet Fang. Draco knew why; the creature looked just like the boarhounds Vincent's father raised. He'd been moaning all week about how much he missed them, and now he buried his face into Fang's side while Potter patted the top of the dog's head.
Draco sighed as he made his way back to the castle, trying his best to brush off the grass stains off the cloak he now carried over his arm. Traitor. Bloody, stupid traitor, and just for some sweets. They were all traitors- Vincent, Greg, Blaise, Theo, the entire lot. Draco knew they'd probably gotten the same speeches from their fathers, but it was obvious their geniality toward the Potter boy was more genuine than was really needed.
"What's the matter with you?" he'd hissed one evening in the common room when Tracey Davis complimented Potter's steadily-improving handwriting with a quill and ink, something Draco only saw Mudblood students struggle with.
Tracey had just rolled her eyes at him, and later, when Potter was out of earshot, she'd whispered, "Just because your family likes You-Know-Who doesn't mean every Slytherin family does."
Draco just pursed his lips at this, reminding himself that Tracey was a half-blood and prone to lapses in judgment fully-blooded wizards would never fall prey to. But the boys in their dorm had no excuse. They were all pure-bloods, just like himself. And here they were, acting like Potter was just like them.
"What do you want me to do?" Theo had said one morning when Draco cornered him by the sinks. They'd been sent back to their dorm to brush their teeth properly by a snarlier than usual Professor Snape (Draco had brushed his teeth, but he wasn't about to argue), and it was just the two of them. Theo lowered his toothbrush, a white glob stuck to the corner of his mouth. "We have to live with him."
"It doesn't mean you have to like him," Draco shot back. "I swear, Nott, one would think you're a Muggle lover."
"He's not a Muggle," Theo reminded him, rinsing out his mouth but missing the glob of toothpaste, which Draco chose not to point out. "Or even Muggle-born."
"Traitor," Draco said. "What would your father say?"
"My father would congratulate me for allying with what may be the most powerful wizard of all time." Theo shrugged. "But what do I know?"
"He is not the most powerful wizard of all time!" Draco found his voice rising despite himself. "Don't say that! The Dark Lord is!"
"Shut up, will you? D'you want Snape to hear and murder us? Besides, the Dark Lord was the most powerful wizard of all time." Theo emphasized the word 'was' with a tilt of his head. "And who killed him? The new most powerful wizard of all time, except maybe Dumbledore."
"Don't say that." Draco's stomach tightened at the thought, and he found an often repeated phrase of his father's on his lips. "The Dark Lord isn't really dead. He'll be back."
"Grow up." Theo rolled his eyes with an air of someone far older than his eleven years and leaned against the sink; they were long finished with what they'd come to do, but it didn't occur to either of them to leave just yet. "He's been gone nearly our entire lives. It's been forever. My dad said it's possible he'll come back and to keep up hope, but my mum thinks he's really dead."
"They never found his body," Draco pointed out. "Why? Unless he's still out there somewhere?"
Theo shrugged, looking far more tired than Draco had ever seen him, despite it being only seven-thirty in the morning. "I really don't know. And none of this matters. What matters is that we have to live with him, and it's easier to treat him like one of us. Do you really want Snape kicking your arse again?"
"That's not why you're nice to him." Draco left off the part where he and Potter hadn't actually been walloped beyond a single whack, but even he couldn't deny that single whack had stung like hell. "You actually want to be."
"Is that the worst thing in the world?" Theo asked, and he hadn't said anything more as they walked back to the common room, not even when Draco said, "I don't think your father would agree."
Theo's expression darkened, but he didn't reply, and before long they were in the common room and Theo was being bollocked by Professor Snape for taking so long, along with the toothpaste on his cheek, and Draco for not having pointed it out. By lunchtime Draco wasn't quite so angry at his friend, and asked if he could teach him how to tie a half-Windsor that evening as a way of declaring the peace. Now, two days later, Draco frowned as he made his way back to the castle, disturbed by what he'd witnessed while spying on Potter and Vincent, and wondering if there was any way to salvage what was supposed to be a magical seven years at Hogwarts.
So absorbed in his own thoughts, Draco didn't notice the figure emerge from the door to the dungeons until he fully collided with it. He glanced up to see one of the professors he didn't have a class with peering down at him with startled but genuine smile. He grunted something unintelligible intended to serve as an apology and made to continue storming past her, but a hand shot out, grabbed his shoulder gently but firmly, and spun him around.
"I believe the more common phrase is 'Pardon me'." The professor's small smile was still there, and though she seemed distracted, she gazed at Draco with genuine interest, not the way other professors who never really looked at you did.
"Sorry," Draco muttered. "Excuse me."
"Are you all right?" she asked as he started toward the door to the dungeons again. "You're one of Severus's new ones, aren't you?"
"Yes," he said shortly, then remembered himself. "Yes, Professor."
"Playing outside?" She motioned at the grass stains covering the cloak over his arm. "It's lovely weather for September."
"Just sitting," he said, then added, "Professor."
The professor just nodded at this, and Draco got the strange sense from her expression that she understood. What she understood, he wasn't quite sure- but she understood something, and he wasn't a fan of it.
"It was nice meeting you, Professor... Burbage, isn't it?" he asked, forcing himself to be polite. "You teach Arithmancy, don't you?"
"I'm impressed. Most of the younger students have no idea who I am." Professor Burbage let out a small laugh. "And it's Muggle Studies, not Arithmancy. Perhaps I'll see you in my class in a couple of years."
Draco couldn't stop his expression from changing in time, but Professor Burbage didn't seem especially offended or even surprised. Her smile turned slightly sad, but remained on her face all the same, and she lightly patted his back before standing aside to let him go downstairs.
"Give it time," she said. "You might change your mind."
Draco wasn't quite sure what he said in reply, but it was polite and generic enough, or at least not rude enough to be called out, and before he knew it he was hurrying down the stairs to the dungeons.
Give it time? Absolutely not. Draco found his stomach twisting up in knots at the thought of it. Every single value he knew was under attack at Hogwarts; suddenly he understood why his father had pushed Durmstrang so heavily. And so what if he was closer to home at Hogwarts? It wasn't as though he could pop over to see his parents. And even Professor Snape, the man who was all but his godfather, was a liar. He wasn't a pure-blood at all, but a half-blood.
Draco stormed through the corridors toward the Slytherin common room. Maybe Professor Snape hadn't lied directly (Draco wasn't quite sure if he'd ever actually claimed in front of him that he was a pure-blood), but it was a lie by omission. And his father knew about this, and hadn't told him? If anything, Professor Snape seemed far more like one of Dumbledore's lackeys than the upstanding Death Eater he'd been raised to know.
After all, he was treating Potter like he was one of them, and talk of the Dark Lord was expressly forbidden. Who was the man who came to visit and reminisce about the old days with his father, the one who brought Draco gifts every time he visited (though, to be fair, they were usually books)? Had it all been an act? Did his father know about this?
Once again consumed in his own thoughts, it took Draco several moments to realize that the subject of his anger had just turned a corner and was walking down the corridor in his direction.
Professor Snape slowed, as did Draco, until they came to a stop in front of one another. The housemaster had changed from his usual, more academic robes into less formal but still clearly expensive ones, and he eyed Draco's stained cloak with a raised eyebrow but nothing more.
"Enjoying your weekend, then?" he said. His tone wasn't exactly nice, but it wasn't sarcastic either. Draco had come to realize that however Professor Snape's default tone sounded, it didn't necessarily mean he was cross.
Draco felt emboldened. Whenever he was angry with his parents- well, with his mother- he showed it, and before long things were just the way he wanted them. Something in the pit of his stomach told him Professor Snape was very different from his mother, but eleven years of results had to prove there was something to it. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to shout at his housemaster the same way he did his mum, and instead he just grunted as he had at Professor Burbage and started to walk towards the common room once more.
Professor Snape's hand shot out and yanked him back, far more sharply than Professor Burbage had. Draco looked up, directly into the nearly-black eyes staring back at him with a mixture of surprise and sudden anger.
"Would you like to try that again?" he asked quietly, his voice taking a tone Draco had never heard, not even when he and Potter had fought in the common room.
Every alarm bell in Draco's head was ringing- but he couldn't back down now, not when he'd just started. He'd be weak if he did. Besides, this always worked at home.
"No," he said, his voice cracking slightly on the single-syllable word, deliberately leaving off 'sir'. "I don't."
"I see." Professor Snape leaned down slowly, so that their faces were barely inches away. Draco was surprised to see, mixed in with the quiet fury, the same vague sense of understanding that bloody Mudblood Studies professor had. "Mr. Malfoy, I'm giving you one last chance. Would you like to try that again?"
Draco hesitated, wanting nothing more than to apologize and accept whatever punishment Professor Snape levied on him. Professor Snape didn't give chances, not like these. He was being given an extraordinary opportunity. The housemaster had known Draco all his life; he knew about his tantrums when things didn't go his way. He was giving him a chance to back out now before it was too late- and somehow this angered Draco even more.
"You're a liar!" he burst out. "And the way you treat Harry Potter- it's not right! You treat him like he's one of us! You're a- a blood traitor! You're nothing but a half-blood!"
Professor Snape just stared at him, his expression unchanging, and Draco kept going, the words tumbling out furiously. He didn't know what they would be until after they'd left his mouth, but they needed to be as horrible as possible; he'd learned that much when pulling the same trick with his mother. "You're a Mudblood lover! Your father was a Muggle! You're just as much filth as they are!"
It was too far. But then, Draco's tantrums always went too far. He was always aware of this after the fact, once his mother was crying, but never during. He'd feel terrible and comfort her, but then once she calmed down and gave him what he wanted, it was forgotten once again. The face staring down at him now certainly wasn't crying, however, and before Draco could contemplate just how much trouble he was in, a hand gripped his upper arm and he was marched down the corridor in the same direction he'd originally been headed.
They didn't make it to the common room, or even Snape's study. Instead, Draco found himself propelled through the nearest open door, into the empty Potions classroom, and before he knew it he'd been bent over the nearest desk. A pause, then a loud echoing thwack, then another, and then another.
"Ow! Sir! I'm sorry!" he cried out. Snape was not moved, and he continued to furiously swat away. "Ow! Please, stop!"
It continued on, then Draco found himself yanked up and spun around.
Sodding hell! Draco blinked back his tears and wiped furiously at the ones that had fallen with the cuff of his sleeve. He'd been swatted once or twice before (the aforementioned tapestry burning incident one of them), but never by Snape, and never for so long. Granted, the entire thing had lasted barely twenty seconds, and yet his face was bright red as his housemaster gazed down at him.
"Now, Mr. Malfoy. Would you like to try that again?" he asked in a low voice.
"Sorry," Draco whispered, dropping his gaze to his feet and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the intense glow radiating from his behind. "Sorry. I'm sorry, sir."
"You had that coming," Professor Snape said severely. He marched Draco to the front of the classroom and took a seat behind his desk. Mercifully, he did not insist Draco do the same. "You've had that coming for a week now."
Draco continued to stare at his feet. "Sorry. Sorry, sir."
"How dare you speak to me that way? Who do you think you are?" Professor Snape's tone was sharp, and Draco squirmed slightly. "Did you really think one of your tantrums would work on me? You're eleven years old. I'm embarrassed by your utter childishness."
Draco blushed harder. Had he actually thought a tantrum would work on Snape? The same Snape who'd sent a boy to bed early on their first night at school for having food smeared on his face? Snape was right. What had he been thinking?
"I'm waiting for a response, Mr. Malfoy," his housemaster hissed.
"I'm sorry, sir," he murmured again.
"That is not a response to my question. And look at me when you say something."
Reluctantly, Draco tilted his gaze upward. Professor Snape... well, he was furious, there was no doubt about that. But he didn't seem as furious as Draco thought he would be. And honestly, although it had hurt like hell, the walloping itself hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. Of course, Draco wouldn't have that second realization until much later, long after the sting had faded. Right now, all he knew was he'd just had the worst walloping of his life, and he never wanted to repeat it.
"I'm sorry, sir," he repeated yet again, then said, "I don't know what I was thinking. I don't, sir."
Professor Snape inhaled, then exhaled deeply. "Every Wednesday after supper, until further notice, you will report to this classroom for an hour."
Draco nodded slowly; he hadn't expected detention on top of everything, but it was fair enough, he supposed.
"It's not detention," Snape said, as though he could read his mind. "I'd like to speak with you. A conversation of sorts. Though you will be cleaning cauldrons throughout."
That sounded a lot like detention to Draco, but he just nodded and said, "Yes, sir."
"Then you may go to your dorm, and stay there until dinner," Professor Snape said with a nod of his own. "Use the time to think about the life you wish to lead."
The life you wish to lead? Draco didn't know what exactly Snape was getting at with this, but he knew it had to do with his father and the Dark Lord. His stomach tightened, and as he turned to leave, he paused.
"Sir," he said, forcing his voice to be as respectful as it possibly could be. "Please. Whose side are you on?"
Professor Snape just stared back at him, and after a very long moment he finally said, "I'm on your side, Draco."
Draco wasn't quite sure what that meant, unless it meant that Snape supported the Dark Lord just as much as he did. But everything from the past week indicated the opposite. He paused a moment longer, then nodded, and said, "I see. Thank you, sir."
Even if he didn't quite know what Snape being on his side meant, it was still nice for someone to be there.
Harry returned to his dorm carrying a bundle of Hagrid's rock cakes, ones he hadn't been able to force down and had instead been split between him and Vincent as a gift from Hagrid. He wasn't quite sure what he was going to do with them, but perhaps Hedwig would be able to peck her way through them. He paused in the doorway, expecting to see an empty room, but instead found Malfoy lying face down on his bed.
"You all right?" he asked, only half-caring about the response.
"Sod off, scar boy." Malfoy's voice was muffled by his pillow, but it was audible. "You're not welcome here."
Harry opened his mouth to fire something back, but Malfoy had raised his head just the slightest bit, and it looked very much like he'd been crying. He hesitated, then started to turn back the way he'd come, then thought better of it. He didn't know what got into him, but it wasn't as though he was going to eat the borderline inedible rock cakes, and he doubted Hedwig would either.
"Here," he muttered, tossing the half-opened package onto the bed next to him. "I wasn't going to eat them anyway."
Malfoy turned his head slightly more, and yes, it was clear that he'd most certainly been crying. He stared down at the rock cakes for several long moments, then with a single motion hurled them against the wall.
Anger ripped through Harry (bloody hell, he was trying, more than he wanted to), but he just headed back to the corridor and said, "Fine. You can't say I didn't try."
Malfoy didn't respond, and as Harry walked away he had no idea that, for the first time since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, a kernel of something resembling guilt had lodged itself in Draco's stomach.
