Chapter 1
3 February 1995
My darling Draco,
The snowdrops have begun to blossom on the West Walk, and I find myself growing nostalgic. When you were a young boy, you so adored waking as the sun rose and spiriting yourself out of the Manor and off down the path to seek the flowers that had opened overnight. At breakfast, I would find one tucked in the folds of my napkin, still cold with the morning frost, and you with your flushed cheeks and bright eyes would regale us with the changes of the grounds. These days, we are limited to the reports of the head gardener as she prepares for spring plantings. I wonder if your father and I will have the time for an early morning stroll before the winter is through.
I am afraid, my love, that I cannot provide any certain answers to your inquiries. The Board of Governors is engaged in delicate negotiations with the aurors in their efforts to ensure the safety of the school without alarming the masses, and although I cannot say that the presence of dementors at Hogwarts is what a mother might hope for her son’s school years, it does bring some comfort to remember you are protected. Less comfort, perhaps, than would be found if the supposed object of Sirius Black’s hunt were to be removed from the school, but the Headmaster and Minister are in agreement that the young Mr Potter should remain at Hogwarts, and Lucius is certain that they cannot be swayed.
Take care, my darling. Yes, it is true that Sirius Black shares our blood, but he was always unpredictable. In his boyhood, he was a wild thing rivaled by only your aunt Bellatrix for his caprices. His contrarian nature compelled him to take up Gryffindor House when, as you are well aware, it is our family’s proud tradition to reside in Slytherin. By fifteen, he was so intent on deliberate defiance it was cause enough to be removed from the family. I am pleased to admit that I did not know him well by then, nor would I stand his company after his being branded a blood traitor. I would never have guessed his allegiance to the Dark Lord, however, perhaps suggesting that he maintained at least some of the family’s subtlety and intellect, at least before his imprisonment and extended exposure to the dementors.
Of that time he spent in Azkaban, I am afraid I am certain of even less, and may only offer conjecture. You might recall that the Minister’s visit following the troubles at the World Cup found him of sharper mind than presumed. The press was quick to assign this as proof of his corruption and importance in the Dark Lord’s ranks, but I do wonder. He was certainly clever enough to gain some advantage from the visit, as his escape so closely followed the initial press, regardless of the delay in the reporting. Further, the numerous sightings near and far betray his ability to move at will through the country. Yes, the Minister believes he is in pursuit of Harry Potter. One must wonder, if that is so, would it not have been easier to target the boy before he entered the most protected magical stronghold in the nation? And what would he have been doing as far south as Bristol?
I am unhappy at the very notion that you might come close enough to him for contact, but it is a mother’s painful burden to entertain such wretched thoughts in consideration of her child’s safety. If the aurors truly fear he is now travelling to Hogwarts, we must act on the presumption that he has already breached Hogsmeade. Though I am glad you will not be further denied your rightful experience, stay alert during your upcoming outing, my dear. None can say what psychosis or pathologies may have brewed in Sirius’s mind over those long years of misery at Azkaban, nor what resentments he may have fostered for those living freely outside of those prison walls. If you will only heed your mother’s fretting, then should you find yourself in his presence, you will not be tempted to rely on our family’s relations with him as the only pillar of your security. Let the aurors and the Minister’s men handle him. If there is any foundation to my doubts, I would not risk you, my dear child.
Should fortune favor us, however, such a confrontation will not come to pass, and your school life will continue on much as it has. What a delight that even under the dementors’ oppression you continue to have such interesting experiences. It would be well worth your time to continue to foster your relationship with Mr Zabini in particular, as his is a family that neither of our houses have secured bonds with in the past. Your continued frustration with Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle is understood, my darling, but I am glad to read of your wisdom and toleration of their faults.
As for this Ms Granger, to be frank, my love, I can’t imagine why you are wasting your thoughts on a mudblood. Whatever knowledge she might regurgitate from books, whatever skill or potential, it would hardly matter if she were the next Morgana: she is and never will be anything more than a mistake in nature’s order. I suppose if one must endure the presence of such filth he would do well to show the proper courtesies, especially if he is a pureblood of a dignified name, for if she is so resourceful she will perhaps find herself in some minor role at the Ministry, should she, by order’s right, spare us the burden of breeding mudblood spawn into our world. It would behoove you for her to recognize your upstanding superiority ahead of any truly unavoidable interactions.
Your father expects your marks for the year will display that distinction.
On more important matters, our acquisitions from the holiday have finally made it through customs, though not for the efforts and prejudices of the customs office in Germany. They were delivered yesterday morning, just after breakfast. When I received them, I had the most unfortunate experience of laying eyes once again on Madame Schreiber’s gift and was nearly ill from the sight. Although it was a shame to be parted for the holiday, you were quite blessed to remain in England, where your eyes were spared the sight. I confess myself ungraciously relieved, my dear, to report that this morning Master Burke deemed it a fake. Had that really been your great-uncle’s portrait, I’m afraid tradition would have required us to display it in the manor, and can you imagine how the colours would clash with the divans in the purple room? I should think Madame Schreiber was trying to sabotage us, had she the wit…
1.
“...through two-hundred seventeen with six inches on the predicted component breakdown analysis results for a potion we have previously brewed in this class. Pre-lab for the analysis potion must be turned in on Wednesday, no later, no earlier.”
Severus’s eyes scan over the students scrambling to note down the assignments and pack their bags under the tolling of the castle bells, dragging across Weasley as he stuffs still-wet parchment into a patched bag, sneering at Longbottom as his quill falls to the floor, skipping entirely over Vince and Greg to come to rest, finally, on Draco. Stay behind, that look says. Draco nods, once, and Severus turns away.
Mother says Severus is one of the best practitioners of mind magics in the world, so skilled he can harvest memories while carrying on conversations, plant suggestions so cunning his victims will think their ideas are their own, and, most importantly, stop anyone from seeing what is going on inside his own mind. Mother says Severus is dreadfully clever, positioning himself right under Dumbledore’s nose, ready snatch up secrets no one else would dare to. Mother is, of course, an occlumens herself, a noble accomplishment that should only be expected of a Lady of a pureblood house, but from what Draco has read on the subject—and yes, the library at Malfoy Manor has books on every magic imaginable, including the controversial, though the Ministry will never know where to look—most practitioners are skilled in occlumency or legilimency, and rarely both. She, certainly, is no legilimens; was she, Draco’s introduction to occlumency would have been more interesting than hours upon hours of meditation. Mother says that meditation builds patience. Father says it builds resilience, for the hours upon hours of petty matters the current Ministry allows to be brought to the Wizengamot’s consideration. His tutor says it is a requirement to his education, and if Draco couldn't overcome boredom, he has no right calling himself a Malfoy, but Draco hardly puts stock into someone outside of the family making such claims.
Regardless: Draco doesn’t believe Severus quite so unreadable as his mother does. She believes he hides his thoughts and emotions thoroughly, but she simply has not cared to learn his tells. Though Severus’s face rarely strays far from dour irritation, there are hints. Glimpses beyond the veil. How still he holds his shoulders, that ever-so-slight tilt of his head, the tightness that affects one side of his face more than the other: these are the rare suggestions Draco has identified to indicate that he might, somewhere deep, deep down, be smiling.
Severus is not currently smiling.
Draco waits as the rest of the class exits, gathering up his notes and tapping the scroll case Father had procured for him for Christmas with his wand, retracting his notes off into a wizard’s space. Pansy starts talking at him. Something about lunch, but he’s hardly listening. It’s a beautiful contraption, this case Father has given him. All of his notes for every subject kept neat and clean within one case. Father had it commissioned, and, as Undetectable Extension Charms are closely regulated, for Draco to use it somewhere so public as Hogwarts it had to be licensed, too, which would have been an absolute bore of paperwork for whoever Father hired to deal with it. The wood is hand-carved, and the ends are set with Goblin silver-work, engraved with a pattern of peacock feathers and runes of protection. Father believes that if you are to do high-quality work, you simply must use high-quality tools.
Finally, the door closes, and Draco regards Severus through his lashes.
Severus is concerning himself with the papers on his desk. Upper NEWTs have their practical on Monday afternoons, and Severus is fastidious when it comes to keeping his desk free of all clutter. He bats his hand towards the seat closest to it.
“Sit.”
Arse. “I really can’t,” Draco says, returning the scroll case to his bag. Severus would be unimpressed by such luxury. He would certainly use it, if Father were to gift one to him, and would be pleased with the convenience, but the casing would quickly be stained and dented. “As much as I would like to stay for lunch, I’m afraid Pansy had just now invited me to—”
“Sit."
Draco has had years to watch the witches Mother takes tea with, and has long since perfected a most graceful put-upon sigh. Tedium is an excellent mask, though Draco knows it is futile. Severus is in a mood. He readies himself for the attack.
The bout thusly follows:
“What,” Severus instigates, still not looking at him, “do you believe the appropriate punishment should be, for a criminal who co-opts others into their dirty work?”
Draco crosses his legs, a motion with all Father’s poise. “That depends, I suppose,” he parries with nonchalance, “on the nature of the crime. And its success.”
Severus advances with a wide strike. “Hypothetically: the sabotage of another student’s potion, resulting in a chain explosion and endangerment of whoever might have inhaled the noxious vapors that resulted.”
But Draco sees the roundabout for what it is: an opening to riposte. “Is this about your lab last Friday? I heard Granger mistook valerian for yarrow. How careless.”
The remaining schmutz on Severus’s desk vanishes, and Severus presses his hands into the wood, leaning in, a glaring lunge:
“Hufflepuffs, Draco? Hufflepuffs?”
The Hufflepuffs, as it happened, had been the path of least resistance. Their ideals are simplistic and clear, their view of the world through such rosy lenses they practically tie their own hands to be human marionettes. “If the Hufflepuffs had anything to do with it,” Draco deflects smoothly, “then it is an in-house matter, isn’t it? Shall I call Professor Sprout down for you?”
Severus stares at him for a moment. Then he lifts his wand. There’s half a moment where it is a different spell emerging, a different color, as it were. But instead of charging forward towards Draco, Severus's spell spreads out across the classroom, and the scent of pine soap cuts through the still air as the desks are scrubbed and chairs lifted to rest atop them. The elves will be here the moment they leave, Draco knows, to scrub every inch of it again; though this is the lecture hall, rather than the laboratory, Severus cannot risk any cross-contamination in his work, especially when those who will be consuming the medical potions he brews are students, most too young for their magic to be settled, and the slightest error, Severus says, can result in efficacy deterioration for properly produced potions consumed in the future.
Perhaps that is why he is so disproportionately irritated.
“Your jealousy,” Severus says coolly, "is getting out of hand.”
Jealousy? It takes every ounce of control to keep his face from expressing how insulting that is, which is, perhaps, why his verbal feint is subpar: “I’m hardly going to be jealous of you for having to deal with Granger, Severus.”
Severus’s lip curls away from his teeth, stained yellow from chewing yarrow for a brewer’s hand poultice. “You told Mr MacMillan to transfigure the valerian and swap it out while Ms Granger and Mr Potter were distracted by Mr Finch-Fletchley. Do you know how I know this?”
“I’m sure you will enlighten me.”
“Because aside from Ms Granger, you are the only student with sufficient knowledge to conceive of exactly the substitution necessary to create a flashy disruption,” Severus says. “Unlike Ms Granger, you lack the intelligence necessary to apply this knowledge appropriately. You are also,” he goes on, “the only party to voice that the intended target of this petty vandalism was not, in fact, Mr Potter.”
Ah. “Potter does nothing but avoid attention, between bouts of playing hero,” Draco parries, for he has studied Severus’s opinions well enough to weaponize them as his own. “Granger, on the other hand, is garrulous slag who has managed to demonize herself to everyone with half a brain. It is only logical that her housemates would target her. I would not assign her intelligence, Severus, unless you mean to devalue the term.”
For half a moment of silence, he almost thinks he has the bout won.
“I also know,” Severus concludes, “because Mr Macmillan told me.”
Bloody Hufflepuffs. Whether or not Macmillan was caught had been the least of Draco’s concern, obviously, but he should have known he would be too simple-minded for honor. Finch-Fletchley, mudblood though he is, was at least raised to an acceptable standard of conduct, but Draco ought to have recognized Macmillan’s propensity for betrayal. Mother often says there is no term more concise than ‘traitor’ for a pureblood who intentionally associates with mudbloods.
It would be pointless lying to Severus, in any case: Draco’s readings have forewarned him that legilimens, in opening their thoughts to those of others, develop an uncanny perception of tells, and Draco has not mastered his own to the extent that Severus has, and Severus has known him precisely for the same duration, and through what the books call those most vulnerable times in his development. Pointless, too, would be to own the action; a confession would arm Severus with the ability to foist punishment off onto Filch or that oaf Hagrid, knowing Draco would find it all the more loathsome. And one certainly mustn't apologize for dealing out justice where it is due.
Severus straightens and crosses his arms across his chest. “A rivalry can be a valuable tool, Draco, for those who understand the use. To have an opponent to defeat can provide motivation and inspire focus. When it leads to distraction, however…” He drags out the thought, cooling his tone to something icy. “Then you become no more than the worst of the slobbering masses. You ought to learn from Granger, Draco, about how to—”
“Learn from her!” Draco exclaims. “Good God, Severus, have you lost your mind? She is nothing more than a filthy—”
“Draco.”
Severus’s voice, low as it is, sounds like a foghorn as it crashes through him, and his black eyes close, as if he can’t bear to even look at Draco any more. He pinches the bridge of his nose between those long fingers of his, face scrunched as it might if he had a headache—but he rubs his temples when he has a headache, regardless of where the pain is. When he opens his eyes again, peering through the tangle of his fingers, he looks right through him.
That’s what makes the strike sting sharper when Severus’s voice goes flat. “You are hopeless,” Severus judges. “And a waste of my time, I see now. Get out.”
Father says unchallenged obedience is a gift given to those who have earned the deepest respect. Severus Snape is and has always been a cruel man, crueler than Father in his most vicious disappointment, with a gift for finding wounds to salt. Longbottom, he yells at; Bulstrode, he coddles; but Draco, he leaves to inflict his own punishment, knowing exactly, through many years’ observation, the way a Malfoy’s honor falls.
Were it anyone else, Draco might stay to argue—then again, were it anyone else, Draco wouldn’t care enough to remain. Were it anyone else, the deaf ears the words would fall on would cause no pain.
Draco stands, snatches his bag, and leaves. He does not need to look back to know that Severus is not watching.