Draco Malfoy always hated Severus Snape's office.
It was punishment enough that Draco was forced to live in a bloody dungeon with the other Slytherins. He already felt like a prisoner. To spend any amount of time cooped up in Snape's haggard old office was a death sentence.
As a matter of fact, the office reminded Draco of death. Musty, forgotten, and dilapidated were some of the adjectives he would use to describe the room. The office was dimly lit, an unfortunate reminder of its dreary location in the most bottom pit of the castle. Bookcases covered each and every inch of the four stone walls, each jam-packed with books possessing strange titles and various jars filled with even stranger contents. A layer of decades-old dusk accumulated on the shelves and the small particles shifted throughout the air whenever anyone moved. It reeked of mothballs and old lady smell as though Minerva McGonagall had recently taken up residence.
On several occasions, Draco suggested to Snape that he might find a new location for his office. Perhaps someplace with natural lighting or without the permanent smell of decaying corpses. However, Draco was fairly certain that the latter emanated from Snape himself.
Even a makeover to Snape's current arrangement might be an improvement. But the Grim Reaper would only grunt his disapproval at such recommendations.
Once, Draco attempted to hire a Cleaning Witch to work in Snape's office. To show his appreciation, Snape granted Draco a month's worth of detention. Served Draco from for trying to be helpful. He certainly learned his lesson after that.
Simply put, the office was weird as shit. Draco suspected Snape preferred it that way. Weird bloke, weird office. It suited him in his own creepy way.
The moment that Snape appeared in Draco's Transfiguration lesson that afternoon, Draco knew why he was there. A horrible feeling of dread instantly settled in the pit of his stomach. Snape requested Draco meet him after class and Draco knew better than to believe Snape had suddenly taken an interest in his coursework.
Standing behind the desk, Snape clasped his hands over his stomach and glowered down at Draco with clouded eyes. Greasy black hair hung in heavy sheets before his equally dark eyes, adding a particularly unfortunate contrast to his nearly translucent skin.
Draco, in turn, shifted slightly in his chair. He tried to conceal his discomfort by appearing aloof. There was no way he was going to let on that Snape's show of power was actually affecting him.
This was a game that Draco and Snape were playing. And Draco refused to lose.
Draco was used to authoritarianism. One didn't live through sixteen years with Lucius Malfoy without growing a relatively thick skin. But Snape was different. Though he didn't instill quite as much fear in Draco as the patriarchal Malfoy, Snape was the closest link between Voldemort and Draco at Hogwarts. The thought of that connection made Draco's skin crawl.
Things were worsening. There was a palpable tension in the air that hadn't been there before. A war was brewing. Somehow, Draco knew that he would be at the centre of it.
"What is that you've called me here for, professor?" Draco snarled, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He leaned back in his chair, a calculated attempt at appearing casual. As an added bonus, he flashed a wicked grin at his teacher. "You know how I adore our little chats. But my heart breaks at the thought of the crucial experiences I'm missing out on as we speak. Spending time socializing with your housemates is just as important as classwork, haven't you heard?"
Letting his arms fall down to his sides, Snape tilted his chin skyward in annoyance. "Enough," the older man sneered. He pivoted on his heel and began to slowly pace the room as he spoke. "As you have been made aware, your mother enlisted my help in protecting you as you carry out the Dark Lord's task."
The words sent a chill down Draco's spine. The Dark Lord's task. Draco marvelled at Snape's ability to make it sound like a children's game, as thought it were a scavenger hunt. Follow the clues. X marks the spot. Dig up the treasure, kill the headmaster, and you might just save yourself and your family from certain death.
Unfortunately, Draco had been made very aware of the circumstances at hand. It was made abundantly clear to him in his family's manor. Most rooms had been shuttered away, crippled beneath layers of dust after the departure of his father that spring. The summer had been long and depressing, as his mother floated through the corridors like a ghost. One night, his mother sat him down on the only sofa that wasn't covered with a white sheet and spelled it out to him. He would kill Dumbledore and Snape would ensure he was able to complete the task.
The very thought of the task was something Draco tried to erase from his mind all summer. He puttered around his family home, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. His attempts, unfortunately, were futile. It sat looming over him like the Sword of Damocles.
He would be the one to murder Albus Dumbledore. Whether he liked it or not was of no importance.
"In order for me to be successful in aiding you," Snape continued. "I must know your plan."
Draco blinked. "My… plan?"
"Yes," Snape replied impatiently. "You cannot be naive enough to believe that this will be an easy assignment. It requires careful planning and execution."
Execution. Draco tried to ignore the unmistakable pun, but the word was ringing in his ears.
Of course he hadn't thought about it. When he was first informed that Voldemort chose him, Draco hadn't been able to think about anything else. Day and night, we plagued with questions. Most importantly: Why me?
Frankly, he hadn't anticipated needing a sophisticated plan.
It wasn't as though Draco assumed he could waltz up into the old bastard's office and Avada Kedavra him into oblivion. It was just that, up until this point, he secretly hoped that the whole thing would sort itself out. Dumbledore was well over a hundred years old, wasn't he? Time had to be catching up to him. Perhaps Dumbledore might do Draco a favour and keel over. Make his way to the great beyond on his own accord. It would save a lot of people a lot of trouble.
Did thinking that way make him a coward? If it did, then so be it. He would never admit it out loud but he would carry the burden of being a coward before being a murderer.
Evidently, Snape did not share the same qualms against murder.
"Malfoy," Snape snapped. His drawling voice drew Draco's surname out in several syllables. Once, the professor might have preceded Draco's name with an honorific but those were the days when his name commanded any respect. Now, the Malfoy tree was destroyed. Draco always knew his father was scum. Now, the world did, too.
Snape pressed his palms flat agains the old wooden desk and leaned forward so that his pointy nose rested only inches from Draco's face. Draco fought the urge to pull away, remaining strong against Snape's power move. The professor's thin, purplish lips scowled. "You will speak when spoken to."
"Fuck. Alright, you caught me. I haven't got a plan." Draco ran a hand through his hair—a newly acquired nervous habit—and exhaled loudly. "It's fine. I'll figure something out. Obviously, I won't be needing any of your help. So, you can just bugger off and… well, do whatever it is that you do in your free time."
Draco struggled to imagine Snape doing anything aside from teaching Potions and skulking around the castle in eternal misery.
Snape's lips curled up into a hideous smile, his teeth bared like a villain. An eyebrow cocked high on his pasty white forehead. "You don't need my help? Let me guess, you think that you are capable of executing one of the most high-profile assassinations in modern wizarding history on your own. You. A spoiled and incompetent child."
That's it, Draco said. His blood began to boil. The anxiety that coursed through Draco's veins was replaced by fury. His hands balled up into fists under the desk, even though he had never hit anyone in his life. "How dare you speak to me that way."
"That Dark Lord chose you to complete this task, for reasons that I have yet to comprehend—"
"Exactly," Draco interrupted. He slammed his fist down on the desk, ignoring the shock of pain. "That's correct. The Dark Lord did, in fact, choose me to kill Dumbledore. Not you. Me. I'm not sure who you think you are but you clearly aren't aware who I am. I am a Malfoy. I come from one of the most highly respected, powerful families, not only in the wizarding community but in the eyes of the Dark Lord. I could crush you. Do you understand me?"
Even as he spoke, Draco could hear how hollow his words sounded. How meaningless these once-facts were now. None of it was true. The wicked look in Snape's eye confirmed Draco's suspicions.
"It bewilders me how you still believe that your family name means anything." Snape walked around the desk, slowly moving towards Draco so that nothing separated them. "Don't you understand? When your father was imprisoned, he brought shame upon all Dark Wizards. Your father single-handedly disgraced the Dark Lord with his failure and destroyed the progress that he made. Your name has been tarnished. If you fail—rather, when you inevitably fail—you will send it into the dirt. You will be nothing."
Draco clenched his jaw, willing himself not to reach for the wand in his pocket and utter a curse he would later regret. "Fuck you. You are a revolting, depressing old man. And you don't know shit about my family."
Both of Snape's eyebrows shot up on his forehead in surprise. "I see that I've hit a sore spot."
Draco winced. Unfortunately, Snape was right on all counts. Ever since Lucius was sentenced to life imprisonment at Azkaban, Draco's life had effectively gone to shit. His mother was inconsolable. Although Draco had yet to determine whether that was because she was worried about his father or because she worried for the future of herself and her son.
Draco suspected it was the latter. And she was right to worry. Voldemort's bad side was not a good place to be, especially if you valued your life.
Besides, it wasn't as though his mother mourned his father. The two didn't love each other, that much was obvious. He didn't know a lot about love but he did know that Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy were the antithesis. Maybe one day, long ago, they felt fondness for each other. But that was long gone.
Draco, on the other hand, hated his father from the moment he first saw Lucius. It was a wonder how Draco could both despise his father and spend every waking moment praying for his recognition and praise.
And sure, Lucius' fuck-up at the Department of Mysteries cost them a lot. It meant that the Malfoys were at a greater risk of being turned against by the Death Eaters, not to mention Voldemort. However, it also meant one blissful summer without his father barging around like a raving lunatic.
Come to think of it, a world without Lucius Malfoy might be a better one after all. Regardless, Draco wasn't about to sit there and listen to some half-blood tell him that.
"Listen to me carefully," Draco snarled. He was grateful for the Muffliato Charm that Snape spelled on the office when Draco arrived, for it meant that Draco could raise his voice however loud he pleased to get his point across. "The only reason that you are worth a grain of salt to the Dark Lord is because you are his connection to Dumbledore. Once that man is six feet under, his loyalty will be severed. Have you ever considered that?"
"Me, on the other hand," Draco continued. "Well, my father's allegiance to the Dark Lord is irrevocable. He's rotting away in Azkaban for that son of a bitch. One day, my father will be freed from Azkaban. I swear on my life, when he does, he will be back in the Dark Lord's good graces. Just you wait and see."
Draco's face burned with fury, and in part, humiliation. He hated to hear himself stand up for Lucius. He played the part of the petulant child well, a role he had been trying to shed for some time now. His inner turmoil created a tsunami within him, his outbursts reflecting the anguish he felt everyday. If only for once, his father would be proud of him, maybe things would be different. But it was too late. Draco may never see his father again, for all he knew.
Exhaling sharply, Snape shook his head. "I've heard enough. You are dismissed. Get out of my office."
"Happily." Draco pushed back his chair, the chair legs screaming as they slid across the floor. He brought himself to his feet and bowed slowly for his professor, maintaining eye contact. "Sir."
With that, Draco spun on his heel and stormed out of the office. He slammed the door behind him and relished in the way it reverberated against the doorframe.
Prick.
In the corridor, the air felt thick and Draco struggled to breathe. He strode angrily up the staircase, pounding his feet against every stone step until he reached the ground floor of the castle. He cursed Snape's name the entire way. That man would be the death of him, one way or another.
The pure agony of meeting with Snape once was unbearable. Draco reckoned that this would not be the last time that he found himself in that dingy office for a progress report.
As he approached the top of the staircase, Draco realized that he wasn't certain where he actually headed. All that he knew was that he needed to get out of the castle. Fast.
When Draco emerged in the corridor, his blood ran cold. He was greeted by a dense crowd of students loitering between their final class of the day and the start of supper. Was it already that late? How long was I down in that office? Draco wondered as he navigated the throng of people. Any minute now, the Great Hall would open its doors and welcome students to a fantastic feast for which Draco would likely not have the appetite. He could barely stomach anything these days.
The students chatted amongst themselves as they waited, discussing mundane things like which professors they liked best and which they despised, and what they planned to do on their first trip into Hogsmeade. Draco resented their excitement. They were so fresh and untainted. They knew no pain, no binds, no death. It nauseated him. More than that, it frightened him. He couldn't recall the last time that he had been allowed to feel and behave like a child. It seemed like his whole life, he had been relegated to being a pawn in his father's game of power.
Now, Draco was playing a game of his very own.
As he marched along the corridor, a group of first-year students watched him with wide eyes and even wider, gaping mouths.
"There he is. That's him," one of them whispered loudly. The girl narrowed her eyes evilly at Draco as he passed. "That's Lucius Malfoy's son."
"Wasn't he incarcerated this summer? I heard he's in Azkaban."
"No doubt that Draco's next."
"I can't believe they allowed him to return to Hogwarts. We're expected to just coexist with the son of a known Death Eater. What's next? Invite You Know Who for tea?"
Draco's stomach churned. What he would never admit aloud was that these comments tore at him. He didn't need the respect or admiration of every student in Hogwarts. Merlin knew he got enough of it within the Slytherin house… Although admittedly, the high regard of his fellow classmates was diminishing fast now that his father's position had fallen.
More than that, Draco knew much of what his father was capable. What Lucius had done to people, to family members of Draco's own peers.
Had his father killed their friends? Their aunts and uncles? Their parents? He shivered involuntarily at the thought.
Now, the arsehole was in prison and Draco was here at Hogwarts, suffering the consequences of his father's actions. Fucking Lucius.
Quickening his pace, Draco found his way to an exit, shoving past a group of sour-faced second years before finally escaping into the brisk afternoon. He stood beneath a tree, where he was partially hidden from the view of the other students outside, and deeply inhaled the cold fresh air. He felt it immediately rush into his lungs and calm his sizzling nerves.
Autumn had come too soon to Hogwarts just as it had each year before. Thick piles of crunchy brown leaves across the ground after falling from the branches of nearly barren trees. A cool breeze picked up and Draco instinctively tucked his chin into the collar of his jumper to keep himself warm. Instantly, he regretted not bringing a jacket along with him.
Winter wasn't far away. It was only September but Draco could feel the months flying by. He was already running out of time.
In spite of the bracing weather, Draco set off towards the Quidditch pitch with a determined huff. He didn't have his broom on hand, but he was aching for some peace and quiet. He could feel the weight of a small cardboard box tucked within the waistband of his trousers and its presence gave him comfort. They were something called cigarettes, a Muggle invention he recently discovered during the summer.
One evening, after his mother had taken to bed without supper yet again, Draco listened to familiar sound of her desperate wails echo throughout the manor. No matter how hard he pressed his pillow around his ears, there was no drowning out her cries. Tired of the sound, Draco snuck out of the home and journeyed to London. Wandering the city in the dead of night, he eventually came across a man who offered—rather, demanded—that Draco take a cigarette from him. He used to watch his father smoke pipes when he was child, but nothing like this.
With nothing better to do, he decided to give it a go. He watched Muggles smoking from the small cylindric sticks many times before on his way to Diagon Alley or Kings Cross. If a Muggle could do it, then so could I, he thought to himself.
He returned home with his new treasure and used candlelight to ignite the cigarette, then hid in the vast garden to experiment. The smoke filled his lungs and he swore he felt his anxiety ravelled up inside. Then and there, much to his shock, a new habit formed.
The rest of the summer became a game of finding new ways to satisfy his craving. Realizing he had no Muggle money with which to pay was no issue. He was skilled at sneaking around in places he did not belong, an advantage of so many years of eavesdropping on Death Eater meetings. Besides, stealing was hardly the worst crime that Draco would commit before his eighteenth birthday.
Draco brought two packets with him to Hogwarts. Sneaking them into and around the castle was one thing. But rationing his supply until Christmas was quite another.
If any situation called for a cigarette, it was this one. He lightly patted his side to confirm the package was secured in his waistband. With gritted teeth, he lowered his head and started to make haste towards the further reaches of the Hogwarts grounds. He hoped to go about his business unnoticed but a small voice interrupted his escape.
"They won't let you go any further, you know."
Draco halted, turning every which way to find the person speaking to him. The voice, he realized quickly, belonged to Hermione Granger. She was sitting on a stone bench at the far edge of the courtyard, not five feet from where he stood although she had escaped his noticed when he arrived. She wore a puffy jacket that Draco had never seen the likes of before, but judging by how ugly it was, he could safely assume it was some sort of hideous Muggle fashion. At least half a dozen books were piled up on the bench beside her with another one cracked open on her lap.
Hermione peered up at Draco quizzically through her thick eyelashes. She didn't seem annoyed, which was her usual reaction to their interactions. Instead, she seemed curious.
Anger gurgled within him, rising to his chest and erupted as a fire in his throat. He narrowed his eyes on the witch. "What are you talking about, Granger?"
The soft look in Hermione's eyes hardened. It was as though she just realized who she was speaking to. "It's getting dark out. You can't go past the new boundaries." Hermione recited these useless facts as she gestured to the grounds which were devoid of human life. Then she looked back at Draco, tilting her head. "Are you really so self-absorbed that you haven't noticed the school has upped its security this year?"
Evidently, Draco had not noticed. "Why in Merlin's name would they do such a thing?"
"I think that is quite obvious." Hermione cocked an eyebrow. "Don't you?"
Oh. Truthfully, Draco should have seen that one coming. Another gift courtesy of Lucius.
Draco glanced longingly over his shoulder at the wide-open fields in the distance. Although he knew that the perimeters were fenced off to outsiders, it had not occurred to him that there would be boundaries for the students sealed within the invisible walls. There was no privacy left in this damned school. And if he didn't have a smoke soon, he would have a much bigger problem at hand.
He groaned aloud, throwing his head back so that he could stare up at the grey, lifeless sky. When he allowed his head to drop back to his shoulders, he glowered at Hermione. "Well, what am I meant to do now? I need to get out of here."
A baffled look flashed across Hermione's face when she realized that Draco wasn't speaking rhetorically, but actually asking for her input. Even Draco was surprised. Why was he even speaking to her? Neither of them had the answers.
Hermione ducked her head back into her book and shrugged her shoulders. "I can't help you there."
"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed. He kicked at the ground beneath his feet, sending chunks of dying grass and muddy dirt flying into the air. As he looked around, searching for a backup plan, Draco couldn't help but steal a glance at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. Her dark hair, curly as ever, hung thick around her face like a shield from the wind. Despite this, her cheeks were so red that they might very well have been wind-burnt. Draco wondered how she could sit outside, obviously freezing, without so much as flinching against the bitter wind. Unable to quell his curiosity, he asked her plainly. "Why the fuck are you out here?"
"I'm reading." Hermione lifted her book slightly from her lap. "Can you not tell?"
"Why don't you read in the library like a normal person?"
"Well, because," Hermione huffed. "I wanted to be alone."
"So do I," Draco snarled.
Hermione looked up from her book. Her brown eyes were colder than he had ever seen them before. "Then leave."
Draco searched her eyes and couldn't ignore the truth behind them. She was hiding. From what? Or who? There was something peculiar happening in the Gryffindor house. Frankly, however, Draco didn't care enough to continue pressing her for answers. Maybe a year ago, he would have revelled in teasing Hermione. These days, he could hardly find the energy to spar with her.
"Well, thank you so much for your assistance, Granger," Draco sneered sarcastically.
"My pleasure, Malfoy."
Hermione turned back to her book, utterly engrossed in the words on the page. Draco tried to place the title but it was unfamiliar to him. Admittedly, he had been slacking in his studies lately but surely he wasn't so far behind that he couldn't recognize their school books.
Now that he considered it, he wasn't sure that the book was for school after all. In fact, it didn't even appear to be a magical book. What an odd sort Hermione Granger was, sitting out in the freezing cold, reading a Muggle book.
Draco made his way back into the castle, feeling more agitated than when he left. Dirty fucking Mudblood. Why was everyone at Hogwarts so dense? At this rate, he didn't have the slightest chance of making it through another agonizing year at Hogwarts. If it were up to him, he would have left school this year instead of next. He made a case for this alternative plan to anyone who would listen to him over the summer. No one took the bait. Fortunately, he would soon never have to step foot into this pathetic school again. Although, his departure did require making a deal with the devil.
Dejectedly, Draco reentered the foyer, passing the same astonished and miffed faces. This time, he did seriously consider hexing them into tomorrow. Instead, he settled for shooting the first years a look that made them visibly quiver in fear.
Once he arrived in the dungeons, Draco felt a wave of nausea creeping up on him. He could manage this anxiety for one short year, couldn't he? One year of being a social pariah, one year of whispers in the corridor, one year of feeling isolated and alone. He survived much worse before. At least, he thought he had.
Seeing the happy expressions on the faces of everyone who passed through the halls made him sick with envy. He wished he could feel that way, too. Maybe once, a very long time ago, he had felt that way. He could hardly recall the feeling. This school was tainted with nothing but bad memories now.
By the time he arrived at the Slytherin dormitory, legs tired from speeding through the castle, Draco's skin was slick with sweat and his head was spinning. He barely managed to croak out the password. The entrance to the common room slowly appeared to him and he barged inside. He waited by the entrance, listening carefully for the sound of any lingering Slytherins inside. Aside from the quiet thud of the door sealing itself shut behind him, it was silent.
Draco was alone.
The last thing he wanted to do right now was engage in another mindless conversation with one of the half-wits he spent his time with. It was difficult enough to muddle through on a regular day, let alone today.
Trudging towards his room, Draco's muscles throbbed and his breath came out in short puffs. If he didn't know any better, he might think he was actually dying. He silently prayed that he was. He knew he wouldn't be that lucky, to get out of the task that easily.
He marched into his room and yanked his emerald green jumper over his head, tossing it carelessly onto the foot of the bed where a pile of clothes had already accumulated. The only sound in the room was the gentle ebb of the Great Lake crashing against the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the boys' room.
A suppressed sob released from Draco's lips, startling him as it echoed throughout the room. Then it came more powerfully, as though erupting from somewhere deep within him. If only his father could see him now. The pride and joy of the Malfoy clan, brought to his knees. A pathetic excuse for a son. A disgrace to the family name.
Draco's shoulders shook violently and his hands trembled as he tried to undo the buttons of his white shirt. He stripped the linen from his body and stood shirtless in the middle of the dormitory. Slowly, he raised his left arm before his face and cried out at the sight of it. The black ink on his forearm appeared more menacing now than it had when it first appeared. What once was a symbol of his family's faith in him became a scarlet letter. It gleamed like a disease festering beneath his skin.
Draco rubbed furiously at the mark with the palm of his hand, as though he could erase the stain with enough fore. When the skin burned pink and the tattooed blemish remained, Draco dropped his hand in defeat. He let out an unrestrained cry into the empty room.
Why did it have to be me?
