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Draco screamed again as his skin split once more beneath the force of the curse. His fingernails clawed at the Axminster, leaving behind wide bloody streaks, staining the twisted silk curls of vines and leaves that his mother was so proud of.
He'd played on this rug as a child, sending his battalions of miniature Aurors out to do battle on the orders of Salazar Slytherin. It had been his Britain -- southern England was the wide stretch of fringe in front of the hearth, Wiltshire had always been the safe comfort beneath the small Sheraton cherrywood sidetable next to Mother's favourite chair, and Hogwarts was the stylised coil of red roses just to the left of the curio cabinet.
When he was six he'd destroyed all of London with his toy dragons, sending them swooping down upon the unsuspecting Muggles. Dobby had never been able to entirely remove the scorch marks, and Father had been quite pleased to tell the story of London's fall each time visitors had remarked on them.
But now the sitting room of Malfoy Manor was filled with shadowed faces and silent black robes, all watching his disgrace. Draco hated them all at this moment -- hated their triumphant smirks and their satisfied murmurs about the fall of the family Malfoy and their amused whisperings about his most recent failure.
Pain ebbed through him, the steady burn in his muscles and bones bursting into flame as Cruciatus wracked his body yet again. The pale skin stretched taut across his clenched hands was bruised and bloody, the wrinkles across his knuckles giving way as he lurched forward again with a cry, his fists catching him just before he tumbled into the rug.
Draco drew a shallow breath, wincing at the press of his lungs against shattered bone.
"Please -- " His mother pushed through the dark cloaks and fell to her knees in front of the Dark Lord, her hair hanging in limp wisps around her damp, pale face. "My Lord, no more." She touched the hem of his grey robe, her hand shaking, head bowed as he curled his lip, watching her with ill-concealed amusement.
Alecto Carrow laughed, her harsh cackle echoing in the silence of the room.
"Narcissa," Snape murmured, and Draco saw him then, next to His Lordship, arms crossed and forehead furrowed.
"Please, Severus. He's my son," Narcissa said quietly. "I can't lose him as well."
Snape sighed and turned. "Bellatrix. Remove her."
Draco pressed his forehead against the rug, his shoulders trembling at the slashes of pain twisting along his spine. He could hear Aunt Bella's sharp whispers as she pulled Narcissa from the room. He knew what she'd be saying. It was his fault. He'd faltered, had allowed the old bastard to sway him just long enough for Snape -- a half-blood for Merlin's sake -- to steal the glory that should be his. That should belong to the Malfoys. He deserved his punishment; he had humiliated the family. Father would be furious at his hopeless bungling. He might as well have been Crabbe. Or Goyle.
Malfoys did not fail.
"If you will, my Lord," Snape said quietly as he knelt beside Draco, "I would ask for the boy to be spared." His mouth thinned and his black eyes were cold and emptier than Draco had ever seen them be. "Although Merlin knows there is little reason to do so." Draco flinched at the press of Snape's thumb against the nape of his neck.
"I don't need your -- " he began, but Snape cut him off with an irate snort.
"As friend of the Malfoy family, I will vouch for the boy's loyalty." Snape's fingers twisted in Draco's hair, jerking his head up painfully. "Despite his foolishness."
"I'll take the boy," Fenrir Greyback said with a sharp, too-bright grin. His eyes glittered in the lamplight, and Draco shivered. "As another -- family friend."
Snape tensed. "I think not."
"Want him for yourself, Severus?" The werewolf bared his teeth. "Surely you can share just a wee bit of the lad."
Draco's head swam. He could see His Lordship's narrow face through the blood that trickled into his eyes, matted his lashes. It wasn't entirely his fault, he wanted to say, if he'd just had a bit more time -- but the words caught in his throat. He wouldn't shame his father any further.
"I want this incompetent little fool out of my sight, Severus, before I'm convinced to crush him beneath my boot," the Dark Lord said, his voice soft, deadly, and a lazy flick of his wand sent Draco tumbling backwards, wincing at the stabs of pain that twisted through his bruised body. "Or to allow Fenrir his pleasure."
"As you wish," Snape said, and Draco pushed weakly at the callused, potion-stained hands lifting him.
"I won't -- not with him -- " he choked out, throat raw and thick, but a wand tapped lightly against his temple and he felt his aching muscles relax, saw the sweep of greasy black hair brushing his cheek blur.
Bastard, he thought angrily before he sank into the darkness.
*************
Narcissa waited at the door, a small valise at her feet. "It's all I could gather," she said tightly, twisting her hands together. "You'll watch over him?"
"I have entirely no intention of allowing him to be harmed." Severus shifted Draco in his arms, casting a levitation spell to free one hand, and the boy whimpered and pressed his face into Severus's shoulder. The acrid tang of blood and sweat hung in the air, soaked Draco's skin and robe.
Narcissa brushed her son's hair back from his forehead. "There are moments when I think the worst enemy a Malfoy can face is himself."
Severus gave her a level look. "A truth that could be said of us all."
"Perhaps." Narcissa caught her lip between sharp, white teeth. "He's my only child, Severus. I couldn't -- with Lucius gone -- " She looked down the hall at the half-drawn sitting room door. "His Lordship has already claimed the Manor for his use."
"Among other things, I'm certain," Severus said dryly and Narcissa looked away, a flush staining her cheeks and her mouth tightening.
She shivered, wrapping her arms around her waist, her fingers pulling nervously at the seams of her grey silk robe, then she looked back at Severus with dull eyes, her chin raised defiantly. "We all do what we must. I won't have my son's inheritance taken, and I'll do whatever is necessary to protect his interests."
"As will I." Severus flicked his wand towards the valise, causing it to fold into a tiny origami crane that flapped its tapestry wings and flew up to his shoulder, nudging a leather-handle beak into his hair. He batted it away with a scowl, sending it tumbling tailfeathers over beak.
"Where will you take him?" Narcissa touched her son's face, wiping away a streak of blood, thick and wet on his pale cheek.
Severus shook his head. "Better for you not to know."
She nodded, silently, blinking against the too-bright shine in her eyes, and Severus looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "I'll contact you when I'm able. The Aurors will be looking for us as it is, and the longer Draco remains out of His Lordship's presence, the safer he'll be."
"Thank you." Narcissa hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering her voice. "And Severus? Whatever you wish in return -- "
"We'll speak of it later." Severus glanced warily down the hall. "You're in a position to help, Narcissa. Yourself and your son, whether or not it's too late for Lucius."
Narcissa pulled the door open and leaned against it. "I know," she said quietly, meeting Severus's eyes. "And I'm quite aware that I owe a debt." Her fingers brushed against her son's arm. "But please keep him safe."
Severus tightened his arm around Draco, pulling him closer as he stepped into the cool night air. The myriad wards surrounding the Manor crackled sharply around them for a moment before recognising his Mark and fading away, and he could feel the soft rise and fall of Draco's chest, the wet warmth of breath against his neck as Draco's head fell against his shoulder, blond hair tumbling against a bruised cheek, pale white in the moonlight. The valise settled against Draco's throat, fluttering its wings gently.
Idiotic brat. Foolish, idiotic, reckless brat.
His fingers curled around Draco's as he Apparated them away from the Manor, Narcissa still standing in the doorway, the sweep of her skirt fluttering in the summer night breeze.
*************
Draco could feel the soft scratch of a damp cloth against his cheek and the careful press of slick fingers sliding across his chin and throat, leaving behind a sharp sting that dulled into a hot, uncomfortable ache and the thick scent of cloves and eucalyptus and a whisper of dittany.
"Hurts," Draco whispered, his voice still rough and painful. He swallowed and pressed his head back into the thick pillows. Each breath sent a jolt of pain through his thin torso.
Snape scowled down at him, mouth thin and tight. "Cruciatus is not the most pleasant experience." His hands moved down Draco's body, a simple spell cutting through bandages that Draco was quite certain hadn't been there before.
"How long have I been asleep?" Draco started to sit up only to gasp at the sharp burst of pain that shook his thin arms.
Snape dipped his fingertips into a jar of salve sitting on a tray that floated alongside the bed and smeared the ointment across Draco's sternum. "Three days." Snape hesitated, his fingers stilling on Draco's skin, his palm warm and pleasantly heavy. "I thought it best, given the circumstances."
"What circumstances?" Draco asked, but Snape ignored him, instead reaching for a phial on the tray and uncorking it. "Where have you taken me? I want to speak to Mother."
"Later. Drink this."
Draco sniffed the phial suspiciously.
"Just drink it," Snape snapped. "I can assure you that had I wished to kill you, I would have done it before you woke." He slid a hand beneath Draco's head, holding him up as he quaffed the potion. Draco dragged the back of his hand against his mouth, making a face at the bitter aftertaste. Wretched cack.
Draco closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, his fingers twisting in the crocheted coverlet draped over him. He felt the bed shift as Snape stood up, heard the steady thud of Snape's boots against the wood floor, then a pause as the door opened.
"Draco," Snape said, and then he sighed. "Sleep."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Draco slept again.
*********************
Whisky splashed over the rim of the glass, wetting Severus's fingers. He licked them without thought, setting the bottle aside. Muggle whisky, one of his father's influences, though he hated to admit the fact. Still. The swill Ogden saw fit to bottle was, without argument, sub par to what the Muggle Scots produced. There were certain areas in which Muggles seemed to excel, and distilling spirits was one.
The fire smoldered orange-red in the sitting room hearth, casting long shadows across the blackened wooden planks of the floor. Tossing his frock coat aside, Severus sank into a overstuffed brown twill chair, faded by sunlight. He pulled a crumpled pack of Lambert & Butlers from his pocket -- he'd picked them up at the corner chemist's that morning -- and lit one with the tip of his wand.
He breathed out the smoke with a sigh. It drifted to the ceiling in a lazy grey-white spiral.
"Am I correct in assuming you've not yet eaten again?"
Severus looked up at the woman leaning against the doorjamb, her grey-black hair pulled back into a tight bun at her neck, emphasizing the steep jut of her nose and sharp, long planes of her face. A few tendrils escaped at the temple, curling softly against her throat. She frowned at him, her heavy brows drawing together. "It'll do you no good to drink all your meals, you realise."
"You needn't nag, Mother." Severus toed off his boots and let them drop alongside the ottoman. He flexed his toes, ignoring the gaping hole in his left sock. He'd always been pants at darning charms. The whisky burned pleasantly as he sipped it, leaning his head back against the chair.
Eileen sighed and flicked her wand towards her son. His boots marched off towards the wall, settling themselves neatly next to the door, and a loose string of yarn pulled free from the seam of Severus's sock, weaving its way groggily through the knit and pulling the hole only slightly tighter than it'd been.
"I never was very good at that charm." Eileen perched on the edge of the ottoman, running her finger over the inept darning. She plucked the cigarette from her son's hand and took a drag, making a face as she blew out a thin stream of smoke.
"Not to mention laundering charms." Severus looked at her over the rim of his glass. "Was there anything white of mine that didn't turn grey?"
His mother smiled faintly. "How is the boy?"
"Better." Severus sighed and took another drink of whisky, resting his glass on his knee. "Alive."
"A preferred state of existence." Eileen watched her son, her fingers moving gently across his ankle. "You're still angry."
"Merely tired."
"You did what you were asked -- "
Severus pulled away from her touch and took back his cigarette. "Have you cloth ears?"
A moment's pause, and then Eileen stood stiffly. "There's broth in the kitchen if you want. You'll need to feed the boy when he wakes again, so I've left a warming charm on it."
"Bloody hell," Severus said, wearily, recognizing far too well the tense lilt to her voice, but she was already at the door.
"You know, Severus," she said, not bothering to look back, "you ought never to have been put in that position as it is. Despite all he did for us, I'll never forgive Dumbledore that."
Severus stared silently at the flickering flames long after she left, twisting the glass of whisky in his hand, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, ash drifting to the floor.
"Damned old coot," he said finally, his throat closing on the words as he hurled his glass at the mantel.
Severus buried his face in one hand, hair falling lank and thick over his wrist.
Shining shards of crystal lay scattered across the floor, glinting in the firelight.
*******************
The sun was shining through the narrow bedroom window when Draco woke, spilling warm squares of gold on the rumpled white coverlet.
He stretched, wincing at the sharp ache in his side, and sat up. He was starving and judging from the smells drifting from the hallway, breakfast was being cooked somewhere.
The room was tiny, a few spare feet of space tucked beneath one of the eaves and barely larger than his closet at the Manor, but the blackened wood floors were spotless and the walls were papered in a black and white toile print that reminded him of his mother's sitting room.
A pair of his school trousers and a white shirt were draped across the chair next to the bed. He bit his lip, barely breathing as he squirmed to the edge of the mattress and reached for them, cursing the disappearance of his wand.
It took twice as long as usual to dress -- every movement seemed to bring out a new pain or ache and his head swam every time he bent.
He didn't bother with shoes.
The hall was empty, but he could hear the clatter of dishes downstairs, and a woman's voice, singing in a language he didn't understand.
Draco hesitated, his bare toes curling into the threadbare carpet on the stairs. There was no telling where Snape had brought him, or who was downstairs, but his stomach rumbled and twisted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.
He sighed and continued down the stairs, trailing his fingertips along the plaster wall.
The warmth of the kitchen rolled over him when he pushed the door open, along with the sizzle of sausages in the pan, and his stomach lurched.
A dark-haired woman -- the one singing, he presumed, although she'd stopped before he'd come in -- caught him as he wobbled forward, hand clutching at the doorjamb. Scraps of paint broke off beneath his fingers and scattered across the stone floor.
"You oughtn't be up," she said, and Draco sighed in relief at the British accent as she helped him to the table. "Look at you, weak as a kitten."
He shrugged her away and sat gingerly in a chair that he wasn't entirely certain would hold his weight. "Where am I? Snape wouldn't -- " he hesitated, wondering too late if they were to use false names.
"Yes, well, Severus has never been an easy one to offer information," the woman said dryly, and he relaxed. "And you're in Wales. Aberdaron to be exact."
Draco sat up too sharply, and he winced at the pain shooting through his ribs. "Wales?"
"It's safe. Mostly. Not many wizarding folk around here, at least in the village." With a twist of her wand, she levitated a small bowl across the kitchen in front of him, along with a toast, spread with barely a smidgeon of butter and marmalade, and a mug of tea. Murky brown broth sloshed onto the table and across his arm.
Draco eyed the bowl in disgust. Honestly, even the Hogwarts elves did better than this. "I'd rather have eggs. Poached."
"They'd be back up before you swallowed." The woman handed him a spoon. "Your stomach's not up for that adventure yet. Broth and bread, and perhaps something more substantial later."
Draco glared at her. She merely quirked a black eyebrow at him.
"I wouldn't argue." Snape closed the kitchen door behind him. "She always wins." He was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbow, and Draco blinked. He'd never seen his Head of House out of his work robe. It was unsettling in a way that he wasn't entirely certain he could describe.
"And where have you been?" The woman was back at the stove, dishing up a plate of eggs and sausages and tomatoes and mushrooms.
"Chemist's." Snape sat down across from Draco, tossing a folded newspaper on the table, along with a half-empty pack of cigarettes, the silver and black label glinting in the sunlight. "I needed to walk."
"Wanted by the Aurors, and you considered this a good idea?" The woman handed Snape the plate. Draco gazed at it longingly, hoping for just one sausage to roll his way. He pushed his spoon through the broth, clinking it against the curve of porcelain.
"Don't start, Mother," Snape muttered, through a mouthful of egg, and Draco turned to the woman, startled enough not to comment on his professor's appalling table manners.
"Mother?" Of course. The resemblance was there in the sallow skin and long, angular face, though Draco couldn't have known it, really. Still, he felt vaguely uneasy. He'd never thought of Snape having a family before, which was absurd, he knew, since no one ever simply came from nowhere, but Snape was Snape and he'd always been there, alone, all of Draco's life. It was odd to consider him as a child with a mother. Draco nearly choked on a bite of bread. He wondered what Snape had been like as a boy.
"Surely you didn't think I hatched?" Snape bit into a sausage, smearing grease across his bottom lip. He licked it away.
Draco flushed and swirled his spoon through his broth. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Watch your tongue -- "
Snape's mother set a steaming mug of tea in front of him. "Leave him be," she said sharply, with a quick tug on Snape's hair, and Draco had the presence of mind to hide his smirk when Snape glared at him. She sat down in a chair, her own mug in hand. "You can call me Eileen."
"He can do nothing of the sort," Snape snapped at her, shaking his newspaper open. It was black and white and none of the pictures moved. What on earth was the point of a photograph that stayed still all the time?
Draco glared at an advert for Guinness. "You know, I rather think it's none of your concern what your mother wishes me to call her, but then you're never interested in anyone else's wishes, are you? We're always to do what you want." He slammed his spoon down, sending broth flying across the table. "Well, I'm done with it."
The newspaper trembled for a moment before being thrown across the table. Snape's jaw tightened, and Draco flinched. He'd seen that look before, but only directed towards Potter. Or possibly Longbottom after a particularly explosive Potions class.
"Severus," Eileen began, but her son cut her off.
"And what exactly are you done with?" Snape leaned forward, dark eyes fixed on Draco in a way determined to make him squirm. Draco forced himself to sit still.
Draco raised his chin. He wasn't afraid of Snape. He was a Malfoy. A pureblood. He rubbed his damp palms across his thighs, the soft wool sticking on his skin.
"I think you know," he said, meeting Snape's gaze, and he was relieved that his voice didn't waver. "I don't need your help. I never did. And you're not my father; you're not even my Head of House any longer. I won't tolerate you ordering me about like that."
"No. I am most certainly not your father. Nor your Head of House." Snape's mouth thinned. "And I seem to recall a moment of hesitation on the Astronomy Tower, Mr Malfoy, in which you did need my assistance."
Draco's stomach twisted again at the thought of the tower and Dumbledore's eyes and how his wand had wavered, just long enough to give Snape enough time to step in and take what should have been his. "I could have -- "
"No, you could not have." Snape stood up, shoving his chair back with a clatter, and Draco jumped as he leaned over the table, teeth bared. "You never could have, and that, Draco, is the crux of the matter and the very reason His Lordship forced onto you a task that not even He had been capable of performing, do you not see that fact, you ignorant little whelp? It was never about what you could do. You're a child. Nothing but a damned foolish boy too stubborn to listen -- " He broke off, his mouth tight, his hands clenched on the tabletop.
"Severus," Eileen said again, and her voice was quiet in the silence. "That's enough."
Draco stared blankly at Snape, and he pushed his bowl of broth away. "I think perhaps I'm tired again," he said, standing up slowly, refusing to flinch at the sharp pain curving down his spine.
Snape looked away, and Draco suddenly felt worn out and oddly disappointed. He drew in a shaky breath and made his way to the door, not bothering to look back. He didn't need to.
"I want my wand back," he said.
He could feel the burn of Snape's gaze on his back, prickling his skin in a strangely discomfiting manner.
The door swung shut behind him.
*******************
A crisp sea breeze was blowing through the open window, and Draco lay stretched across the foot of the bed, chin propped in his hand. He could see the swell of waves from here, the grey-blue stretch of Cardigan Bay.
A few Muggles strolled across the street, past cottages and stores of rough white stone and grey slate roofs, and Draco watched them, fascinated. He'd never understood Muggles; they were strange, pitiable creatures, his father always said with that amused smirk of his. Pathetic and weak without magic and so easily frightened. Even house elves were more fortunate than they.
But seeing them here, in their curious-yet-similar clothes, with their oddly slow automobiles chugging past that couldn't jump corners or dodge lightposts, Draco wondered. They were strange, yes, but perhaps they weren't so terribly different -- he jerked away from that thought, his cheeks flushing. Father would be appalled.
He touched his left forearm lightly, as if he could feel the curve of the Mark on his skin, which he knew was impossible, and yet still he traced his fingertips across the soft cotton of his shirt.
Sometimes he could feel it burning, just under the skin. Always a reminder of where his loyalties lay. Of what he stood to lose.
He hated the damned thing.
The gate clattered below and Draco saw Snape making his way through the roses and down the crushed shell path. Good riddance, he thought, rolling over onto his back and staring up at the plasterwork ceiling.
Everything had changed. Everything, and so quickly -- but really, if he was honest, it'd changed a year ago when Father had been imprisoned.
He pulled the pillow over his chest, hugging it tight. If it hadn't been for that -- if Father hadn't been in the Ministry that night, if Potter and Granger and that bloody Weasel hadn't shown up -- and then he hadn't a choice when he'd been called before His Lordship --
It wasn't fair.
None of it was fair, and the worst of it was that Snape was right, though Draco'd never tell him so. He could still feel how heavy his wand had been in his hand only a few days past, could still feel his heart pounding. He'd wanted to vomit, and he'd known even then he couldn't do it. He wasn't a killer. He was too weak.
Weak and worthless.
He couldn't even protect his mother from -- his mouth tightened. There wasn't any use thinking it.
Draco curled around the pillow, burying his face against the white cotton. It smelled of lavender and he breathed out slowly, trying to ignore the hot lump aching in the back of his throat.
*******************
The Hog's Head was barely filled even at midday and as usual was dirty and reeked of goats.
Severus pulled his hood further down, though he was quite certain none of the pub's patrons had any interest in his identity. One did not come to the Hog's Head for socialisation, but rather for drinking, whoring, and other more nefarious pastimes.
Which was exactly Severus's intention.
He nodded to the barkeep, a tall man, scowling man who jerked his head towards a closed door at the end of the bar, sending his unkempt grey beard flying into the firewhisky he was pouring for a dour-faced blonde witch whom Severus recognised as one of the whores who made use of the Hog's Head's upper rooms. As he understood, both Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini had employed her services last term.
He wondered if Draco had as well.
The door was unlocked, as it always was, and the tiny office was still crammed with boxes of liquors. Two barrels of beer and a roughhewn plank of wood, chewed at one corner, the teeth marks still visible, made a makeshift desk, across which piles of paper were stacked dangerously high, and a half-empty pint served as a paperweight for a few scattered Prophets.
The stench of goats was stronger here. Severus's lip curled as he cast a detection charm. No spells. No hexes. No charms. He relaxed slowly.
"They say you did it." Aberforth ducked through the door, closing it behind him.
"Yes." Severus pulled a packet of folded paper from his pocket and tossed it on the desk. "It's all in order with the correct encryption. Details of the next two Muggle attacks."
Aberforth grunted and reached for the papers, riffling through them quickly. "Albus always said you'd be the only one to have the bollocks to actually do him in." He looked at Severus shrewdly. "And that you'd hate him for it."
"He knew me well." Severus hated thinking about that night. Hated thinking about Albus's request. He'd tried to escape it, told him he'd prefer his own death, but Albus had laughed in that irritating way of his, and informed Severus that his work was far more important.
Bastard.
Aberforth was studying him in that curiously piercing, blue-eyed way of his that was far too like Albus's for comfort, and Severus glared, pulling his cloak tighter. "I assume the information will make its way to the appropriate individuals?"
"Aye." Aberforth tucked the papers into his robe. "And I won't be telling them where it came from. Brother gave me specific orders on that score."
The burning hit without warning, searing into his left forearm. Severus swore and clutched it tightly. "I need -- " He gritted his teeth. He bloody well wished His Lordship would come up with a less damned painful method of requesting his presence.
Aberforth barely glanced at him. "Go on then. I'll take care of this." He patted his pocket.
"Keep the damned goats away from it," Severus snarled, his fingers curled around his throbbing forearm, thumb stroking across the Mark.
"Snape," Aberforth said sharply, and Severus paused, turning back. Aberforth tugged at his beard and sighed. "Something's happening soon. In Azkaban. I've heard a whisper or two from the hags and they're always the first to know these things -- " He hesitated. "You should know."
Severus nodded and, gathering the folds of his cloak tighter around his thin frame, Apparated.
*******************
Draco woke to a hand stroking gently across his shoulders.
He tensed and the hand pulled away. The bed shifted beneath him and he rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. He was tired -- too tired, really, and he wasn't entirely certain the crust under his lashes wasn't the residue of tears.
The corners of the room were shadowed, and the sky outside the window had turned a warm purple-gold.
Eileen handed him a glass. "Drink."
For once Draco didn't argue. The water was cold against his aching throat and he drained the glass quickly, handing it back to her without a word.
The mattress sagged the slightest bit when Eileen sat down. "Your wand," she said quietly, handing him the thin cylinder of cherrywood. He clutched it close, the familiar carvings on the hilt comfortable against his skin. Magic thrummed warm and thick through his palm and up his arm, and he breathed out. Funny how off he'd felt without it.
She brushed Draco's hair back out of his eyes. Her fingers were cool against his skin. "The bruises are fading."
Draco nodded and this time he didn't pull away. Her touch was oddly comforting, the way his house-elf nurse's had been when he was little and had woken up screaming. He'd always had nightmares. The ones from the past year were just the worst. "This is your house?" he asked after a moment.
Her hand moved away, much to Draco's disappointment. "It is. Severus insisted I purchase it after his father -- " She hesitated for the briefest moment. "-- died."
"The Muggle." Draco settled back against the pillow, watching her curiously.
Eileen nodded, and she looked away. The shadows hid her eyes. "There was a bit of money afterwards. Muggle insurance, but Severus didn't wish to keep any of it. He thought it best I spent it on a house instead. Away from Yorkshire, and I'd always loved holidays in Wales when I was a child."
Draco plucked at the edge of the coverlet, rolling the crocheted fringe between his fingers. "He's angry with me."
"Yes," she said simply, and Draco was suddenly, inexplicably annoyed. Of course she'd take his side. That's what mothers did, after all. A wave of loneliness rushed over him, making him even more irate. His own mother hadn't even owled. Or Floo'd.
"Well, I don't know why," he spat out. "I'm the one who should be angry. I'm the one who -- "
"Who forced my son to commit murder on your behalf," Eileen snapped back, her brows drawing together in an expression eerily reminiscent of Snape's. Draco flinched. "Yes, I'm quite aware of that fact." She stood up, and the mattress lurched to one side. "Perhaps instead of feeling so bitter about your supposed failure, you might stop and think of the reasons why you weren't able to kill Albus Dumbledore. And perhaps after that, you might ask yourself why Severus was willing to murder a man in order to protect a selfish little brat such as yourself."
"I'm not -- " He bit his lip. Now she was angry with him as well. Brilliant. He couldn't seem to do anything properly, now could he?
"You're not a child any longer, Draco," Eileen said tightly. "And believe me when I say that you should do whatever it takes to keep from knowing what it's like to take someone else's life."
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
Draco curled up next to the wall, staring silently at the bumps and ridges in the plaster.
It truly wasn't fair. Why couldn't it all just go back to the way it was?
He wrapped his arms around his thin chest and pressed his face into the pillow.
Not even a timeturner could fix this.
Dusk faded into darkness.
*******************
The meeting of the advisors was, as usual, a torturous affair followed by a private (and equally tortuous in its own right) dinner with His Lordship, the Lestranges, and a too-pale Narcissa who sat silently at the Dark Lord's right hand and Severus's left, toying with her food instead of eating.
Severus eyed her in irritation. The damned woman was going to fade away, and he'd no intention of informing Draco that his mother had starved herself to death since he was quite certain that somehow in that addled brain of the boy's he'd be blamed for that as well.
Instead he passed the small basket of bread to her. "Eat," he murmured. Her eyes flicked up at him, and then away, but she took a roll with a sigh.
"How is he?" she whispered.
Severus glanced down the table where Rodolphus and Rabastan were attempting to amuse the Dark Lord with the tale of their latest spot of Muggle torture --- a fourteen-year-old boy who they'd snatched from his bicycle on the outskirts of Avebury the night before. He wouldn't return home. Severus wondered what the child's parents would feel - how frantic they might at their son's disappearance, how frustrated with the Muggle police's belief that the boy had run away. How long would it be before their small hope for seeing their boy again finally died?
Bellatrix's dark eyes were fixed on him, almost as if she were attempting to read his thoughts, and Severus raised an eyebrow at her. She pursed her mouth and looked away.
"Well enough," he said, reaching for his wine. "Infuriating as always, but alive."
Narcissa relaxed in her chair and smiled faintly. "He's rather like his father."
The wine was rich and full and blood-red, one of the best from the cellars. Wine collecting had always been Lucius's passion, and Severus had spent hours with him, discussing the merits of one bottle or another. His first glass of proper wine -- not that cack the Muggles sold in corner markets that his father had brought home -- had been given to him by Lucius. He had taught him to roll the wine across his tongue, to breathe it in, to allow it to take over his senses.
Severus could still see the look of bliss on Lucius's face when an excellent bottle had been opened. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Lucius was a bastard and a fool, yes, but years of friendship covered a multitude of sins, he had found.
Perhaps it might even forgive his son's transgressions.
He sipped his wine. "Yes," he said finally, staring into the bowl of his glass. The candlelight flickered across the swirling surface of the wine, flashes of gold in crimson. "Quite like, I'd say."
The door to the dining room flew open, and they were all on their feet, wands at the ready.
"Forgive me, my Lord," Pettigrew said, his chest heaving. He was trembling and pale, and while that wasn't entirely unusual for the rat, there was something more frantic, more tense about his movements that caused the hair on Severus's nape to prick.
"You had best have a good excuse, Wormtail," His Lordship said, eyes narrowed. The angled slits of his nostrils flared. "Now."
Pettigrew licked his bottom lip, eyes darting around the room nervously. He twisted his hands, and Severus swore the rat's hair trembled. "It's Azkaban, sir. The Ministry -- tonight --" He glanced at Narcissa, then back at the Dark Lord. "They've given them the Kiss. Macnair and --" He faltered.
"Lucius," Narcissa said softly, pressing her fist to her mouth.
The table was silent for barely a moment before bursting into chaos. Shouting, slamming of fists against tabletop, the Dark Lord's angry hiss and Pettigrew's squeaks and stammers. Severus could feel Bellatrix suddenly next to him, her hand on her sister's arm, her usually strident voice low and careful.
He wasn't in his body, and yet he was, and he recognized that sensation all too well, moving through the familiar thick fog of shock, and his mind snapped at him to gather himself now because there were things to be done.
Lucius was dead.
"Draco," he heard Narcissa choke out, and somehow, for some reason, that was his undoing.
Severus threw his serviette on the table. "Do excuse me," he said blankly, and he didn't wait for His Lordship's permission before striding from the room.
********************
Draco was still awake when the door to his bedroom opened. He blinked and rolled over. Snape stood in the doorway, a black outline against the rectangle of flickering light from the hall.
With a rough cough, Draco swallowed, his throat thick. "What is it?" he asked, sitting up.
Snape hesitated. That was never a good sign.
"It's your father," he said finally, and then he looked away.
No. Draco's breath caught. He didn't want to ask. Please, don't make me, he thought, fingers twisting in his pyjama top, tugging at the collar. Please.
Snape walked to the window and stood staring out at the street below for a long moment. "The Ministry," he said slowly. "He and Macnair -- " He broke off and he gripped the windowsill with one hand. Draco barely saw Snape's fingers tremble. "At least the Dementors aren't painful."
Draco's head swam.
"No." He scooted back against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest. He was suddenly cold and shaking. His throat closed up; his jaw was tense, tight. He dug his heels into the mattress.
Father. Gone. Kissed.
Dead.
It took a moment for him to realise the soft keening echoing in the room came from him.
And then Snape was there, next to him, silent and dark, and when he touched Draco's arm, Draco turned towards him blindly. He needed -- he didn't know what he needed, but when Snape's arm slipped around him, he pressed his face into black wool and he grasped at Snape's robe, pulling him closer.
The tears were hot on his skin, and he was ashamed of them -- such weakness, but they couldn't be stopped and then Snape's fingers were in his hair, stroking, and he was saying something softly, but Draco couldn't think, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe.
He couldn't imagine Father being gone, couldn't comprehend it. It wasnt real. It couldn't be.
Snape's fingertips skimmed his temple, brushing his hair away, and Draco tipped his head back, blinking hard. Snape's face was sharp ridges and deep shadows, but his eyes were strangely soft. Draco didn't understand it, couldn't explain it, but he couldn't stop himself from touching Snape's cheek, running his thumb across the sweep of cheekbone, tangling his fingers in thick, greasy hair.
"Don't cry," Snape said, and his voice was rough, almost pleading, Draco thought as he drew in a shallow, ragged breath.
"He was going to kill them both if I refused, he said. Mother and Father. That's why I -- and now --"
"I know."
"He was your friend," Draco said quietly, and he knew he was talking about more than just his father.
"Yes." Snape tucked a stray lock of hair behind Draco's ear, and his touch was gentle. Careful.
Snape was always careful with him.
Draco could smell the tang of sweat and lemongrass in Snape's robe, and when Snape brushed his knuckles lightly over his tear-stained jaw, his stomach twisted.
This was mad. Insane.
He wanted --
Snape's lips were soft against his, and he made no move to push Draco away, his hand instead cupping Draco's cheek. This wasn't like kissing Nott or Pansy even, Draco thought, and it wasn't just that Snape was older, that he was his Head of House, that this was taboo in so very many ways.
They both needed this, he realised, with a jolt of surprise, and when Snape opened his mouth against his, he groaned and slid across Snape's lap, kissing him hungrily.
He tasted of wine and the Malfoy elves' chocolate trifle and the slightest bitter trace of cigarettes.
Tongues and teeth pressed and clashed and Snape was pulling at Draco's hair, biting down his throat and Draco was so fucking hard already. He didn't stop to think, instead grabbing Snape's hand and dragging it down the front of his pyjamas, pressing his cock against those thin, strong fingers.
"This is madness," Snape whispered against Draco's throat, and Draco shivered at the warmly wet press of Snape's mouth across his skin, the electric stroke of his thumb along the underside of his cock, cotton pants sliding against his heated skin. Merlin, he didn't think he could get much harder.
He raked his fingers through Snape's hair, pushing it back from sallow skin. "Probably." He rocked his hips forward, and he could feel the hard press of Snape's cock against his. "Just -- " Draco bit his lip as Snape's thumb slid over his bollocks. His pyjama bottoms were pulling away from his waist, the tip of his cock pushed through the placket, hot and wet already. "God. Touch me."
Snape pressed his face into Draco's neck, and his breath was hot and ragged. He said nothing, but his fingers pulled at the buttons on Draco's pyjama top and when it was open, he slid his mouth over Draco's skin, and he licked Draco's nipple.
Draco groaned.
Before he knew it, Snape had rolled him over and pressed him into the mattress, and he was jerking at Draco's pyjamas, tugging the pants down over Draco's hips and Draco was pulling at Snape's robe because he needed skin, needed to touch it, to taste it, to feel it slide across his.
His hands found skin and somehow Snape's robe was off and then his shirt and Draco was fumbling eagerly with Snape's trousers. It wasn't like he was a virgin, after all, and it'd been too long since he'd been touched, and God he didn't want to think right now; he just wanted to feel, to touch and Merlin, Snape's skin was soft and warm, and his arse flexed beneath Draco's palms and he moaned into Draco's jaw and the soft huff of breath that gusted over his skin made Draco gasp.
Snape's finger traced along one of the still-pink scars curving across Draco's chest, remnants of Potter's attack in the bathroom, and Draco stilled, wondering if Snape was repulsed, until he lowered his mouth and kissed along the puckered skin, tiny sharp bites that caused Draco to writhe beneath him.
"Please," he whispered, pulling at Snape's shoulders until he slid up Draco's chest, catching his mouth roughly with his.
Their cocks pressed against each other, hot and hard, and Draco's hips bucked up. Snape pulled at Draco's leg, tugging it over his hip and he rocked forward, his cock sliding against Draco's -- oh, God, yes -- and Draco dragged his fingernails down Snape's back, pressing back against him, matching the thrust of Snape's hips.
"Beautiful." Snape's mouth was on his ear, and Draco was so bloody close and he knew he should be appalled by that because he wasn't even being fucked yet, but then Snape grabbed his hips and rolled onto his back, pulling Draco back over him, and Snape was gasping, looking at him with those dark, burning eyes, and then Snape was pulling him hard against him, rocking his cock against Draco's, his fingers digging into Draco's hipbones. "I want to come," he said, his voice gruff, and Draco was lost.
He pushed up, his thighs straddling Snape's and he looked down at their bodies straining together, at their cocks sliding against one another and his shoulders shook, and his hair swung forward, tumbling into his eyes, catching on his cheeks. Snape's skin was flushed and damp and Draco wasn't certain that he'd ever seen anything as amazing as Snape arching beneath him, as the wet, red heads of their cocks pressing against Snape's stomach and then Snape's hand was there, between them both and he had their cocks and was pulling, pressing, twisting, and Draco could feel the soft scratch of Snape's rumpled trousers rubbing against the back of his thighs and it was too much.
He came with a sob, and he lurched forward, his forehead pressed to Snape's shoulder. Snape's hand was still on him, moving quick and fast, smearing Draco's come over his own cock and Draco could hear his sharp, short gasps of breath, his soft groans, and he turned his head into Snape's neck, biting gently as Snape twisted beneath him, and his hips bucked up once, then twice, and with a muffled cry Snape came against Draco's stomach.
Draco lay there quietly, drifting in the soft rasp of their breaths, his cheek against Snape's chest, Snape's fingers stroking slowly down his spine.
For the first time in months he felt...safe.
He supposed he should feel strange about that. He was too tired to care. Tomorrow perhaps. For now he needed the slow, steady press of Snape's hand across his skin, strangely comforting.
Draco closed his eyes and curled into Snape's side.
********************
Severus knew he was in trouble.
It wasn't even what he'd done, and the fact that Draco was young enough to be his son, even if one didn't consider the relationship between himself and his student -- former student, he reminded himself as if that made any difference.
Draco's lashes curved against his cheek, a sweep of blonde-brown against pale skin that fascinated Severus. He traced the hollow of Draco's throat, following the pattern of early morning sunlight and shadows against the thin pink scars left by Potter's Sectumsempra. His jaw tightened. There'd been so much blood spread across that tiled floor -- blood and water and Draco had been so pale when he'd knelt beside him. He'd been certain --
The memory still filled him with rage. Even now, months later.
He was lost. He knew that, despite the fact that he was quite deliberately refusing to look at the implications of that realisation. Perhaps he'd known it in some fashion for nearly a year, the night he'd taken on the Vow.
Perhaps.
He touched Draco's mouth, dragging his thumb lightly over the soft bottom lip.
Draco shifted next to him, sighing softly in his sleep, and Severus's hand stilled. Draco's eyes fluttered open, sleepily, and he looked at Severus for a long moment, his arm still draped over Severus's chest.
Severus knew the moment he remembered -- the barely noticeable widening of grey eyes and the soft, quick intake of breath. Draco pulled away, slowly, his cheeks pinkening, and he pulled the sheet back up over him and glanced away.
There was a pause that Severus knew he should break, but he wasn't certain what to say, and so it stretched out, awkward and oddly painful, and then Draco shifted again and he sat up, still not looking at Severus.
"I should -- " Draco trailed off and he bit his lip. A sigh and he crawled to the foot of the bed and slid off, reaching for his clothes.
"Draco," Severus said, and then he stopped. Draco buttoned his shirt, and pulled his trousers on.
"Don't," Draco said quietly. His hair hid his face and Severus fought the irrationally desperate urge to push it back, to look in those cool eyes. "It's not your fault. I shouldn't have -- " He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
"It wasn't your -- "
"I said don't," Draco snapped. He pushed his feet into his shoes, not stopping to bother with socks. "It was just sex, that's all it was, and it's fine. You don't have to worry that I'm going to tell anyone, all right?"
Severus ground his teeth. There were moments when the boy truly deserved a good hexing. "I didn't think you were."
Draco paused, his hand on the doorknob and Severus knew he should say something else, but his throat closed off. It was just sex, that's all it was...
The boy was right. It was sex, nothing else, and he should be used to that after twenty years of infrequent one-offs in ratty Muggle hotels. Sex was just sex. Something to be done when wanking wasn't enough -- and he knew he was full of shite.
Say something, you fool, he thought.
"My father died when I was twenty," Severus said, and he was startled, because that wasn't what he'd meant to say. Draco looked back at him, warily, fingers tensing on the doorknob, and Severus took a deep breath. "He hadn't come home in three days and Mother couldn't -- " He stopped, staring down at the twisted, rumpled sheets. "The factory had closed, and he'd gone on another piss-up. The Muggles had him -- in the morgue. The fucking arse was pissed enough to pick a feight -- " Severus winced at that damned accent sliding back in after all these years.
He sighed and looked up at Draco then. "But he was my father. No matter what I thought of him -- or of myself at the time, that didn't change the fact that I lost something that day." He hesitated. "It wasn't...easy."
Draco stared down at the floor, silent for a long moment, and then he nodded. "Thank you," he said softly, and he left the room then, closing the door behind him without glancing back.
Severus reached for his trousers, fumbling in the pocket. He pulled out the nearly empty pack of Lambert & Butlers and lit one, leaning back against the pillows and exhaling a thin stream of grey smoke. He could almost pretend his hand wasn't shaking.
Almost.
********************
The High Street of Aberdaron was narrow and quiet this early in the morning. The few Muggles out and about barely took notice of Draco, wandering down the kerb, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. The salt of the ocean hung heavy in the air, along with the slap of waves against sand and rock just around the corner, the squawk of seagulls as they lit on cottage eaves.
He was tired, and he needed a bath -- he could still smell Snape on his skin, and he supposed that should be disturbing but it really wasn't, which disturbed him more.
Snape. Severus. Draco choked back a wild laugh. He didn't even know what to call him any more. He didn't understand any of this, and he wasn't certain why Snape had let him do that last night. He shivered. Just the memory tightened his cock, made him want more, made him wonder what it would be like to actually fuck his professor, to be fucked by him.
He stopped outside a newsagent's -- Eleri Stores the white sign above the door asserted and a small handwritten note in one of the wide, white-paned windows claimed ice cream was made fresh every morning. He stared at his reflection in the glass. Rumpled clothes, mussed hair, and his face was drawn and sharp. There was a mark just below his jaw, red-purple against his pale skin, and Draco touched it lightly, thinking of Snape's mouth against his throat and the way he had looked at Draco. The way he had needed him. Perhaps it wasn't just sex.
Perhaps.
Father would have disapproved, Draco thought, and he smiled faintly before sighing. He'd never quite been good enough, had he? Not for Father at least, and Draco suspected that Lucius Malfoy had secretly wished for a son more like himself. Stronger. More certain. One who wouldn't fail the way he always had --
His mouth thinned. Enough. Bloody damned enough.
He continued down the street, never noticing a shaggy-haired man in a neatly patched black cloak standing in the shadows at the corner, a young, bespectacled wizard at his side.
*******************
Severus scooped the porridge into a bowl, setting aside the cauldron to be cleaned later. A splash of milk on top, and he sat down at the table, spoon in mouth.
His mother poured a cup of tea and pulled her shawl tighter as she sat across from him. She sipped the tea, watching him silently. "Where's Draco?" she asked at last.
"Somewhere." Severus shrugged and stirred the porridge. It was thick and pale, and his stomach rumbled. "He'll be back when he's ready."
Eileen raised an eyebrow. "You let him go out by himself?"
"He's not a child," Severus said, annoyed. His spoon scraped against the side of the bowl. "And he needed time alone."
"I suppose, yes." Eileen looked away. She curled her hands around her cup and steam drifted between her fingers. "I still can't believe the Ministry allowed them to be Kissed."
"Retaliation." Severus licked his spoon, ignoring his mother's frown. He sighed. "Scrimgeour's way of punishing the family as a whole for Albus's death, despite Draco not being responsible. I despise that man."
"Better than the alternative, however."
Severus snorted. "Barely."
An owl, small and battered, beat its wings against the window, and Severus flinched. It wasn't one of His Lordship's, nor one of the Malfoy owls, as best he could tell. He hesitated for a moment.
"Let it in," his mother said softly, and he gave her an uneasy glance before flicking his wand at the window casing.
The owl tumbled in, sending limp feathers drifting every which way, and landed on the table with a thump. A scrap of greasy parchment was tied to its leg with a bit of dirty twine, and Severus recognised the handwriting immediately.
Aberforth.
He scanned the note and swore before setting it aflame with a quick Incendio.
"What was it?" Eileen set her cup down, her face twisted with worry.
Severus stood up. "The Aurors have found us. The Order was informed this morning." He pushed his feet into his boots. "We have to leave. Draco--I shouldn't have let him --" His fingers tightened on his wand.
Eileen pushed her chair back. "You try the shore. I'll take High Street."
"Mother--" Severus hesitated, just looking at her, unable even to choke out the thoughts swirling in his head.
She touched his arm. "We'll find him."
He nodded, and turned towards the door. He hoped she was right.
*****************
The water was cold against his bare feet and the rock he sat on hadn't yet warmed, and Draco was almost certain he could make out the Wicklow Mountains on the Irish shoreline. He'd tied the laces of his shoes together and draped them around his neck. They were heavy against his chest, and the heel of one dug into his rib, but he didn't notice. Or care.
It was beautiful here, and quiet, and he thought perhaps he could understand why Snape's mother had chosen this spot. There was a certain peacefulness that came with watching the steady rush of waves to shore.
He heard his name called and he looked back towards the whitewashed buildings of the village, surprised to see Snape rushing towards him, stumbling in the thick, wet grey-white sand in an undignified manner that would have made Draco laugh, if it hadn't been for the expression on his professor's face.
Something was wrong.
"The Aurors," Snape said, grabbing at Draco's hand, and for once Draco didn't pull away. Snape's palm was tight on his wrist and without thought Draco twisted his hand to slide his fingers through Snape's.
They felt right, warm and heavy together, and Snape looked at him and the heat of his gaze took Draco's breath away.
"We have to go," Snape said softly, and Draco nodded.
"I think not." Remus Lupin stepped out from behind an outcropping of rocks, a Disillusionment Charm shimmering away. His tawny eyes gleamed at them and he raised his wand. "According to wizarding code N189-2378, I'm authorised to arrest you for the murder of Albus Percival Brian Dumbledore--"
"Wulfric," Snape said, rolling his eyes.
Lupin blinked at him, and his wand dipped slightly. "Pardon?"
"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore." Snape stepped in front of Draco, his hand still tight around Draco's. "If you intend to arrest us for murder, you fool, perhaps you should at least make certain the name of our victim is correct. And did you know that the Headmaster was quite fond of knitting patterns and tenpin bowling and would drone on quite pleasantly for hours about both over a pot of tea if you allowed him? Or that his favourite gift was a pair of warm socks and a bottle of whisky?" He curled his lip. "Or perhaps you'd not any wish to actually know the actual man you idolised lest he slip from the pedestal you placed him upon."
Draco looked at Snape in surprise. Socks and whisky?
"That's entirely enough, Severus," Lupin said, mouth thin. "You might as well--"
"Where are the rest of them?" Snape snapped, and he had his wand in his other hand then. "You're not alone, that I know full well." A wide sweep with his wand, and he whispered something that Draco didn't quite understand, but suddenly they were surrounded by wizards. Draco counted seven at least, no, eight, and he thought perhaps he should be pleased that they were considered dangerous enough to warrant that many.
He wasn't.
A thin wizard pushed past the Aurors, the sunlight glinting off his round glasses. Draco's throat closed.
Potter.
"We're going to die," Draco whispered, pressing up against Snape's back, his heart pounding, and he knew then that was the last thing he wanted at this moment. Snape squeezed Draco's hand gently, pulling him up to his side and sliding his arm around Draco's waist.
"It's over, Snape." Potter's robe whipped in the wind and his hair stood on end. He pointed his wand at them. "You weren't ever going to get away."
Snape snorted. "You damned fool. It's only begun." His fingers tightened in Draco's shirt. "You've no idea what's coming, Potter. Albus knew."
"And we buried him two days ago," Potter spat out.
"In a white tomb fit for a king," Snape said with a snarl. "He'd have hated it."
The Saviour of the Wizarding World's wand trembled. "You fucking--"
There was a flash of red light and Draco flinched, his fingernails digging into Snape's hip.
"Harry--" Lupin shouted, grabbing Potter as he stumbled back, his eyes wide, glasses askew, his hand clutching his shoulder. Blood welled between his fingers, thick and red.
Eileen stood on the dunes behind them, her wand raised. "Go now," she shouted, and Snape hesitated only a moment before he jerked Draco closer to him, and just before the sharp tug of Apparition hit him, Draco saw the green light explode across Eileen's chest.
She fell, and another streak of green light rushed past Draco's face, so close he could feel the heat of the curse.
They landed in a field, tumbling to their hands and knees, and Snape was retching and shaking. A herd of sheep watched them nervously, their bells clanking loudly as they shifted about. There was nothing else about, not even a hut or a road, and Draco supposed he should be grateful for that. Without easy landmarks it'd take a few minutes at least before the Aurors tracked the Apparition.
He held Snape's hair back, stroking his temple lightly until he sat up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
"She--" Snape broke off, looking away.
"Yes."
"Bloody stupid woman." Snape's hand shook, and Draco slipped his fingers through Snape's again. He squeezed gently.
"If she hadn't--" Draco knew it wasn't any solace, true or not.
Snape closed his eyes. "I know." He pulled his hand away and staggered to his feet. "We have to keep going."
"Nott said His Lordship had a safe house in Cornwall--" Draco held his hand out and Snape pulled him up.
"We're not going there." Snape didn't look at Draco. "They won't find us among Muggles. None of them will."
Draco hesitated. "His Lordship--"
"Will be displeased. It's the only way, Draco," Snape said quietly. "For now at least."
There was a moment's silence. Draco knew what he was being asked. "Then we'll be Muggles."
"No magic." Snape gave him a sceptical look and ran his hand over his face. His eyes were dark and dull. "And no house elves."
"I think I can manage." Draco rested his head against Snape's shoulder, his cheek pressed against the soft cotton shirt. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and Snape touched his face lightly.
The grass barely rippled when they disappeared, and the sheep bells clanked softly as the herd ambled on.