Aftershock

Morning had come all too quickly, just as a thousand mornings had before and a thousand would follow. Light seeped through chinks in the heavy curtains and yet, it still seemed dark.

In the middle of the vast, four-poster bed, Draco Malfoy was lying on his side, turning his back on the day, fingers biting into the pillow beneath his head, his cheek pressing against the rich fabric. His eyes, wide, stared blindly at a point somewhere beyond the wall. He had barely slept, his face pale and eyes shadowed.

The day was starting the same way as days always did, but this time, today, he felt different, everything felt different. Everything was different.

Distantly, he was aware of the sounds of the house waking, and yet - more than anything - he wished he could have woken up in the Slytherin dormitories, to be fawned on by Parkinson and to spend a pleasant day tormenting his underlings.

A shudder ran down his spine at that thought.

He tried to unclench his fingers from the pillow, wincing as pain lanced through his knuckles, then spread his hand and pushed himself unsteadily upright. It took more effort than he had expected to get beyond that point, forcing himself to slide out of bed and to his feet.

How he pulled on his robe and made his way to the dining room, where he knew his mother would undoubtedly be, he couldn't be sure, his feet carrying him while his mind was swimming with the images of an ancient man blasted into the air, shimmering green for an eternal second, before falling out of sight.

Those damned blue eyes were haunting him, the eyes that had held his, which had been so calm, quietly persuasive, even in the face of death. Those eyes which were still wide-open and watching when the old man was blown away.

Shuddering, he considered briefly returning to his room, but knew that would only make his mother worry. Still, it took all his resolve to turn the steely handle of the door and enter the room.

Two figures occupied the long, mahogany table, neither of them talking. The quiet chink of silverware against expensive china was the only sound, leaving the creak of the door to shatter the stillness.

"Draco!"

The sight of her face made him flinch.

When he had seen her last night, her beautiful features were contorted in agony, tears shining on her cheeks, but even the sight of that tortured visage didn't hurt quite as much as seeing her trying to be happy, her mask of merriment beautiful but cob-webbed with barely visible cracks.

He wondered, fleetingly, if she was still in pain as well.

"Good morning, mother," he said quietly, lowering his eyes to examine his slippers, anything to save him looking at her, seeing beyond the smile and into the wounded creature behind her blood-shot blue eyes. His eyes slid sideways as he glanced at the other occupant of the table. "Sir."

Snape was gazing at him, steadily, emotionlessly. "Draco," he acknowledged, laying down his cup of tea. Black eyes held grey and Draco visibly flinched.

"Don't," he whispered. To his surprise, Snape didn't argue with him, his pale, bony hands unfolding and cradling the delicate cup of tea once more, dark eyes examining the surface minutely.

The silence descended once more, uncomfortable and stifling. Draco stared down at his plate solemnly, his favourite breakfast of bacon and black pudding appearing on it, yet it had never looked less appetising.

Picking up his fork, he pushed the meat around the plate, then looked up to find his mother watching him anxiously.

"I'm all right, mother," he said quietly. "You don't need to worry about me."

To his horror, he saw the glitter in her eyes that preceded tears. A pale, elegant hand leapt to cover her mouth and she turned her face away, as if ashamed to show such weakness before him.

"Mother..."

Sweeping her fingers beneath her eyes, Narcissa laid down her napkin and rose from the table. "Excuse me for a moment, Draco, darling," she said with a faltering smile.

Nodding, Draco rose and watched her hastily walk from the room, the door closing behind her with a creak. He remained standing for a moment longer, then resumed his seat, his fork directing his breakfast into half-hearted laps of the plate once more.

"You should eat."

Glancing at his former teacher, Draco couldn't quite smother the surge of revulsion at the sight of him. Yes, he had hated stupid, idiotic, naïve Dumbledore, but Snape had just walked up and killed him, just like that.

It was his fault that Draco had been kept awake by the image of that blast of green light blasting the old man into the air. It was his fault that Draco had been unable to sleep. It was his fault that he had cried and doubted and hurt.

"Why are you here, Sir?" he heard himself say, viciously skewering a slice of black pudding.

"On your mother's request," Snape replied quietly, as if oblivious to the bitterness in Draco's tone. His milk-less tea remained untasted, shivering slightly in the painted china. He gazed at Draco so steadily that the youth turned his face away. "You should eat," he repeated.

"I'm not hungry," Draco mumbled.

"Nevertheless, you should eat," Snape's voice was maddeningly calm, as if he had nothing more the night before than deal with an unruly group of students, instead of murdering an old man.

Draco's teeth ground together and he brought his fork down on the plate with a clatter. "I'm not hungry," he repeated, then burst out, "You can't tell me what to do! You're not my teacher anymore."

Snape's expression remained unfathomable. "No," he agreed. "But I am a friend of your parents and they trust me with your welfare."

"So did Dumbledore," Draco mumbled darkly.

Further up the table, there was a clatter and Draco looked up, startled. Snape's face had gone white. The cup he had been holding had - apparently - slipped from his fingers, dropping back onto the saucer.

On the dark surface of the table, a reddish stain was spilling from the cup. Draco leapt upright, his chair crashing as it fell over, staring in horror at the dark pool that was spreading towards him.

Snape's wand appeared and with a flick, the dark slew of tea disappeared.

"Draco..."

Still staring at the spot where the spill had been, Draco whispered, "You killed him."

He expected no answer, hoped for none.

"It had to be done."

"He was an old man!"

"I did what had to be done, Draco," Snape's voice was utterly calm, neutral and devoid of any expression. "If you would rather I let him live and let you die..."

Draco felt sick, his hands pressing down on the edge of the table. "I was meant to..."

"I know."

"But I was meant to!"

Snape's chair legs squealed on the floor. "I know," he repeated. He, too, was standing by the table, his upper body out of the range of Draco's down-turned eyes, spindly-fingered hands spreading on the wood.

Legs shaking, Draco forced his throat to swallow. "I couldn't..." There. It was said. Little more than a choked gasp, but it was said. He tentatively lifted his eyes to Snape, expecting to see disgust at such childishness.

"I know, Draco," Snape said softly. "I know. I saw you there. I understand."

Turning away, trying to blink down the stinging in his eyes, Draco carefully pulled his chair upright again and sat down, sinking back against the padding of the seat. "He was angry, wasn't He?"

Snape resumed his seat too and nodded. "You did well to come as far as you did," he said quietly. "You did not fulfil the Dark Lord's order, which is why he had cause to punish you, but you did well enough to protect your parents."

The stinging in his eyes was growing unbearable and he blinked furiously. "It wasn't enough to stop him hurting mother," he gritted out. "It wasn't her fault." He glanced towards the door, half-expecting his mother to reappear. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"Do you really need to ask that question?" Snape replied.

Draco shuddered, but he understood. The Dark Lord had appeared the previous night. He had been pleased to learn his adversary was destroyed, but the punishment Draco had been expecting, even emotionally prepared for, had not touched him but struck out at his mother instead.

Only when he tried to stop his Master was the wand turned on him and his pleas went ignored, turning into screams. His body was still aching every time he moved, muscles strung tight. Had anyone else intervened, he had no doubts they would have been treated the same way.

They sat in silence for a time, until Draco's ragged breathing came back under his control. Only then, did Snape rise, his chair scraping on the floor again.

"You should eat," he said.

"Yes," Draco replied dully. "You said."

Snape paused beside his seat, glanced down at him. A bony hand unfurled and a small bottle was placed on the table. "This will help with the pain," he said in a low voice. There was a pause, as if he intended to add more, but then he turned and strode towards the door.

Draco stared at the small bottle.

Part of him almost desperately wished that it could be poison, or some simple way to break free of the Dark Lord's hold, but even as his shaking hand wrapped around it, he knew he would never be able to take that way out.

Not until his mother was safe, not until she and his father were free and together again.

With shivering fingers, he tugged the cork free and sniffed the transparent purple liquid. It had a strange, sour smell and no doubt, tasted as odd. Swallowing half the contents, he corked the bottle and leaned over to place it beside his mother's plate.

Until they were safe, he decided soberly, he would do what he had to.