One Should Never Tell
A solitary echo of footsteps sounded off the grey stone walls that led to the heart of the castle. The boy to whom they belonged held a steady gait as he passed through the increasingly confined space. He showed a level of comfort here, bred only from having spent much time in the dark and dank environs.
The boy paused hesitantly at one of the iron-braced, wooden doors. He was waiting for something, though nothing came. Moments passed and the marks of sullen impatience marred his pale features.
After many more moments of silence, the boy pushed against the aged door and ambled into the room beyond.
The dungeons had never been a particularly comfortable place within the castle walls, but the change in their Master since previous years had wrought some improvements.
Professor Slughorn was not known to suffer discomfort unduly.
Though little natural light spilled into this deep part of the building, large gas-lit lamps imbued the cold stone walls with a warmth and light to which they were unaccustomed.
It was possibly the only aspect of being a Slytherin that Draco Malfoy had never appreciated. Draco too did not feel the need to endure discomfort when it was unnecessary. It was for this reason that he experienced a recurring sense of gratitude as he entered the Potions lab, in spite of the mild resentment he felt towards the Professor.
His angst about the rotund Slughorn was in part a result of the man's constant lauding of Potter's heretofore unknown potion-making skills, in addition to Draco's indignation at the cool and abrupt manner in which he, himself, was treated.
Such changes as these were not the sort most easily adapted to by the youngest Malfoy.
The soft tick that echoed within the stone room called his attention to the small, brass clock which rested upon the Professor's desk; it told Draco that there were still a few spare moments before the double potions class was to begin. He was early. In fact, he was so early that he was the first to class again. Draco did not mind this fact; he rather liked to prepare himself in solitude when he had the chance.
His lithe form strolled to a desk at the back of the room, as was his custom, and he placed a large leather book-bag on the table in question. He sank his form onto the uncomfortable stool, taking much gratitude in the opportunity to relax, even if it was only for a moment or two, and began sorting his required tools for the class.
Draco had always had a particular aptitude for potions, something which had previously been encouraged by his Head of House, former Potions Master, Severus Snape. However, as a result of many contributing factors, Draco had noted a significant decline in his ability to concentrate on his studies and, hence, perform to his normally high standards.
If he was completely honest, there were a few other reasons as well. The primary one was the conspicuous absence of his housemates, with their constantly watchful eyes. It was really the only opportunity he had to tune out his surroundings, without the steadily streaming questions of feigned concern from people he knew did not really care at all.
It was also the only class he had with her, and truth be told he was looking forward to this particular lesson with relish.
Instinct would have ordinarily caused his movements to still, his spine to stiffen, when he heard the aged wooden door creak open to admit the first of his classmates. He had become quite good at overpowering that instinct to react though, doing so told far too much of the truth of his thoughts than he was inclined to share. Instead, he remained slouched and apparently unaware of the bustle around him.
He was not though. He paid much attention.
The first through the door had been his pompous, over-indulged professor whose small hands pressed and rubbed at the plum, velvet smoking-vest that represented his usual attire. The brass buttons that adorned the right side, and which were presently fastened across the vast stretch of his stomach, appeared almost ready to give out from the visible strain.
He was followed shortly by his equal in pomposity, Ernie MacMillan, who had taken to sitting with her in class of late. This was most likely because Hermione Granger, who they all knew to be so clever, was joined in this class by her infinitely less intelligent friends: Potter and Weasley, who could hardly write their own names without conferring with the other. The latter two were always partnered in this class, leaving their friend to the no doubt less than thrilling company of the Hufflepuffian.
More footsteps sounded, signalling the entrance of three Ravenclaw students whose names Draco had never taken the time to learn. Now they were only waiting for Potter and Weasley and her.
She came first; he heard her laugh and it sounded soft and tinkly, then controlled. She was laughing at something Weasley had said, and had clearly not intended to. She would reprimand him next, he knew. The thought brought an anticipatory curve to his lips and he ran long, pale fingers across the spine of his onyx quill in the appearance of distraction.
Draco watched as they entered. Her cheeks were still slightly pink from having been outside in the chill air, for what he could not imagine, and her quick eyes were bright. She did not look at him quizzically when she passed, in the way he had visualised. She had not looked intrigued or annoyed either.
In fact, she had not looked at him at all, not even with the most fleeting of glances.
Draco felt his jaw clench in reaction, and his gaze narrowed at the back of her head, wild as it was with the untameable mass of her curls. Despite attempts to the contrary, he could not deny his infuriation at the snub and nor could he determine its meaning. Was she deliberately ignoring him, or was she genuinely unfazed by his presence?
He could hardly decide which was worse. The only point of which he was completely certain was that he had not finished toying with her, had barely even started and was thus determined that next time would be different.
Next time she would notice.
Slughorn's voice rose and fell around him, but Draco found that despite his best efforts, he could not grasp the words completely. He cursed softly as his fingers slipped and lost their grip on the small paring knife he was using to prepare the sprig of lovage needed to create the potion which the class had been instructed to brew.
The herb was shredded unevenly and with a quick glance he noted that he had not juiced the alihotsy leaves to produce the required amount of fluid. His potion would never be right at this rate, but with such little time and inclination, he found there was very little he could do to remedy the situation at such a late stage.
Steam issued in swirling puffs from his cauldron, which caused his hair to slick against his forehead. He pushed the fair locks from his eyes and blew out a frustrated sigh.
Draco lifted his head to gaze around at his fellow students efforts in the hopes that there were less ideal results than his own amidst the class. Weasley, in typical fashion, appeared to be gagging from the noxious fumes of his effort, and he noted with satisfaction, the look of bemusement upon Slughorn's face as he assessed the contents from a safe distance.
His gaze shifted to pause on the girl behind the useless redhead and he saw that she appeared almost, if not more, frustrated than him, and was in fact shooting rather malevolent looks at Potter.
To say that he was intrigued by the intent behind the look would be an understatement in the extreme. Whatever its cause, Draco felt a slight ease siphoning down his spine at the sight of her discomfiture.
In the face of the very large concerns in his life at that point, petty things may have seemed a ridiculous thing to draw comfort from, but draw comfort he certainly did. Grudges reminded him of the normalcy of previous years and how greatly he had not appreciated them.
It was on this heavy note that his thoughts were interrupted as their professor called an end to the class, and issued them with homework. Draco gathered his effects and made to leave the small confines of the dungeons with as much haste as would be deemed acceptable.
Weak light filtered through the high panes of the castle windows as he made his way through the winding corridors that led to the main hall. It was in this direction that he was headed when a minute figure obstructed his view.
"Dr-Draco Malfoy?" It was a small boy. A first year, clearly, and Slytherin too, which explained how he knew him. Draco raised a brow in question and the boy thrust a scroll of parchment into his hand. "It's from Professor Snape, he wants to see you."
Draco swore under his breath, loudly enough to cause the heads of nearby students to turn in his direction. It was quite the last thing he had wanted to hear and his mind was in a whirl as he turned back in the direction from whence he had come.
He saw her standing there, watching him with a blandly curious glint in her eye. Draco, impatient and agitated, scowled at her before pushing through the gathering crowd of hungry students. This time he did not care that she was watching, was not worried at what she thought.
His impending conversation with Snape was the sole thought occupying his mind.
His pale knuckles rasped across the roughly hewn wood of Professor Snape's new study. A voice from within the walls bid him to come in, and yet Draco felt sure there had never been a tone less inviting.
He pushed against the door frame and listened for the usual creak, but there was none. It was easy to forget the change in the professor's circumstance. This office was not at all like the man's previous place of residence, and Draco could not help but wonder whether its new owner appreciated the change. He doubted it.
A degree of sumptuousness at odds with Severus Snape's typically cool demeanour greeted him as he stepped across the threshold. The room was all books and trinkets and glowing light. Draco glanced toward its king with a look of ill-concealed derision.
The mocking gesture was duly ignored, as he had known it would be. Snape, though indulgent as he had been in previous years, was a different quantity altogether now. He could be a problem for Draco. And if there was one thing the boy did not need, it was another problem.
The older man gestured to a rather plush looking seat across from the large, antique desk behind which he was perched.
"Professor," he said by way of greeting. He continued glancing about the room with a deliberation bred from knowledge of the outcome of holding eye contact with the dark-haired man before him. Bellatrix had equipped him with more than Occlumency lessons over the summer. She had warned him of his former professor's inclination to interfere.
Unfortunately for Draco, however, avoiding his Head of House had proven far more difficult than he had hoped, though his efforts to the contrary had been quite valiant.
"Draco, I presume you are aware of the reason I requested your company. Or have my most recent owls gone awry as well?"
The blond haired boy felt a hint of his old smugness cause a smirk to pull at the corner of his mouth. It was also very unfortunate that Severus Snape knew him quite so well.
"Actually, Professor, I can't begin to imagine to what I owe the pleasure." Draco's tone was coolly impassive, as was his expression. Severus Snape was watching him with dark eyes that missed nothing. There must be nothing to miss. It was the only way to navigate the conversation with any degree of success.
The older man sighed and spoke with a resigned sort of tone to which Draco was not accustomed to hearing. "Draco, this is no game you are playing. I know what it is you are doing. Moreover, I know that it will not work. Surely you realise this also?"
Something like fear clutched at his insides and he responded on the offensive. "Then you know I won't talk about it!"
"Draco! Listen to me; this is a fool's path. You need to confide in me - I can help you." Snape leaned in close now, almost conspiratorially and Draco felt his fists clenching in restraint. It would all be so very easy to palm it off to someone older, wiser.
He could not do that though. No one could help him with this. No one.
He leaned in close and sneered with all the resentment he could muster and spat, "I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help."
He pushed back and the scrape of wood against the floor jarred his already rattled senses. He stalked from the room, slamming the door but feeling no relief from the burgeoning turmoil within.
His palms itched as he wandered in steady pace, yet without direction, among the castle halls. Draco could feel his composure cracking as it had not done before, and he wanted so very much to pass his lot to someone else. Anyone else.
It was not until his knees collapsed beneath him, causing his weight to sag against chilled tiles that he realised where he had stopped. And when the curious voice asked him who he was and what he wanted, he did not yell or sneer as he might normally have done.
Instead he let his face fall into his open palms, allowed his shaking form to dissolve before the watching girl. She was only a ghost after all. What would it matter if she saw him weak, just this once?
It would come to matter far more than he could possibly have known.