No Poetic Device

* * * * *

(i’ve been dreaming. i was lucid. i dreamed blood was seeping from my pores.)

The candles in the Potions dungeon always seemed on the verge of extinguishing themselves, burning as they did low and deep red, their tortured writhing casting manic patterns on the nitre-encrusted walls behind them. To Severus Snape, their frenetic dance was the only thing providing him with sanity. They offered a focal point, a numbing activity that would keep dangerous painful thoughts from reaching his conscious mind. There was a hollow ache in the back of his throat that he refused to acknowledge as a desperate desire to slump over onto his desk, sobbing. He could feel it now; identical white-hot points of pain drilling excruciatingly into his forehead and the cursed black mark on his arm. He wanted to scream to someone, demand answers. He had done nothing more to anger them! The spine twisting, skin splitting punishments when he had given aid to the side of the Light were provoked, expected, almost welcome as a horrible penance for the crimes he had once committed. But he had been silent, inactive. This, now, was for nothing more than their own amusement. An involuntary shudder wrenched his body, and he entwined his fingers into his hair, anchoring himself.

...severus...

He jerked reflexively to the side, away from the word that felt like it had been breathed hotly into his ear. His eyes fixed on the glowing flame, and he refused to move.

...severus, why do you hate us so?...

His teeth caught his lower lip.

...you’re beautiful, severus. but in our way. not theirs. you are beautiful in fire and black silk and blood...they will never love you for that, severus. we will. we do. we miss you...

Jagged enamel ripped through relenting flesh, and red pearls sprang forth, outlining the frozen grimace.

...come back to us, severus. you belong to us...

The grey wisps of smoke thickened and formed a leering face. It hovered mere centimetres from him, laughing cruelly. He screwed his eyes shut. The backs of his eyelids were assaulted with horrible images: blood and flesh and fire and hatred. His eyes flew open again, mouth falling open in the struggle for air. And suddenly there were claws inside him, scraping out everything vital he had. They drew themselves abrasively along the insides of his ribs, shredding bone and tissue. He doubled over, arms clenching his torso, shoulder cracking against the stone floor. He was empty now, everything was gone from inside him, and liquid ran down the wet red emptiness of his ribcage, tears and acid, salt and vitriol. They ate away at what little protection he had left. His spine arced, then released, flinging his head downwards, wet black ropes of hair flying. His jaw cracked against the floor, and he knew no more.

* * * * *

It was becoming unbearable.

Draco pressed his fingertips harshly into his forehead, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, his lower lip from trembling. The words on the scroll of parchment in front of him were incomprehensible, swimming in and out of his field of vision, but if there was any sort of god, it would appear to McGonagall that he was deep in concentration, so she would refrain from calling on him. He had absolutely no clue what he had been on about for the past hour, and any unexpected questions from the good professor would surely make his inattention obvious. A sudden realisation of irony brought an empty smirk to his lips: his Father’s...ministrations had been provoked by his inadequate performance in school, now, those lessons of his father’s were making it impossible for him to learn any others.

“Mister Malfoy!” The deities appear to be absent today, thought Draco as he sat up with a sharp intake of breath, and immediately regretted the action. God, it hurt...trying to ignore the sudden searing pain in his ribs, he mustered up the best charming, attentive student expression he could, knowing even as he did so that it was rather sickly. Fuck it.

“Yes, Professor?” Assorted titters from the Hufflepuff side of the classroom told him that there was an appropriate answer, and he had not given it. McGonagall’s features grew stony.

“Sir, if you will please deign,” Her tone was so biting that Draco almost winced, “to join the class for today’s lesson, we would be most appreciative. Break is over. There will be time for daydreaming about your girlfriend in Aruba later.” More quiet laughter rose from the class, now spreading into the Slytherin side as well. Draco felt a pang of injustice at the barb, but there was nothing to be done. He fixed his eyes on the teacher as she resumed her lecture, folding his hands quietly on top of his desk, but the all over aching refused to be forgotten. He watched impassively as his fingers slowly clenched more tightly together, knuckles stained white with tension. The effort of holding himself upright was becoming more than his battered torso could bear, and he felt his spine curving gently. Things began to whirl slowly, becoming dim and out of focus. Fuck, he thought with perfect clarity, I am going to faint.

Before everything went black, however, the slumping of his body brought his lacerated back into contact with the hard wood of the chair, and this snapped him into consciousness with an audible stifled yelp. Heads turn to peer at him questioningly, and McGonagall seemed more than a little bemused.

“Malfoy? Are you alright?”

“I don’t...I...think I should go see Madame Pomfrey,” He managed to get out, rising too quickly and sending another wave of darkness in front of his eyes. Righting himself, he barely took the time to scoop up his books and wand before hurrying out of the classroom.

The hallways were empty; almost every student was in lessons. Draco was grateful for this, as it meant not having to make any unnecessary stops to explain being out of class. His treacherous body was causing his progress to be slow enough as it was, forcing him to pause often, thin chest heaving and joints screaming. Christ, he thought, something’s really wrong. He had planned on simply retreating to the Slytherin dormitory to crawl into the relative comfort of his bed until he was whole again, but he was beginning to fear it was something more than just the cuts and bruises. He was used to having those and being untreated, and it was always hell, but never like this. One to many blows to the head, he thought wryly, almost smiling, but the reality of the situation sobered him. More likely, one of the various open wounds had got infected, and he was in the grips of a fever of some sort.

Draco grimaced. Going to Madame Pomfrey was out of the question. Even though the nurse was known for her lack of nosiness, Draco’s current state would not go unnoticed. Madame Pomfrey would feel obliged to do something, and that always meant the same things: lies from him, lies from his Father (he fell down the stairs, really, that’s how he got lash marks all over his back and hand-shaped bruises up and down his arms), distrust, smoothing over, and another beating. Vicious cycle. There was only one alternative: Snape. Draco sighed, running a shaky hand through his corn-silk hair. He always felt so awful going to Snape with his problems; god knew the man had enough of his own. Briefly he toyed with the idea of forsaking help, but a violent tremor wrenched his body and made up his mind. He couldn’t get seriously sick and attract attention.

He started down the familiar path to the Potions dungeon and arrived at Snape’s office in short order. The looming wooden door was closed, but this was no surprise. Snape’s fear of thieving students had prompted him to place simple locking charms on the door, but it was easily opened if you knew how. Draco drew his index finger in a gently waving horizontal line along the scarred wood, and it swung open with a slight creaking of hinges. Cautiously, he poked his head around the doorframe, and saw nobody. Content to wait for the return of the professor, he stepped in and pushed the door closed behind him, and almost tripped over Snape’s crumpled form lying on the cold stone floor, twisted and unnatural as if some giant hand had flung him unceremoniously there.

“Oh, gods,” he breathed, falling to his knees next to the man, almost oblivious to his body’s violent protests in accordance with the new wave of panic that had just overcome him. With trembling fingers he straightened the listless body as much as possible and began gently exploring it, probing ribs and joints for obvious breaks. His searching digits climbed Snape’s jaw line, jerking back in fear of causing the man pain as they hit upon a sizeable lump disfiguring the feature. Well, I suppose that accounts for the unconsciousness…

Snape’s skin was clammier and colder than usual, but spreading down the white curve of his neckline to his shoulder it began to acquire an inexplicable warmth. Curious, he gingerly lifted the arm, and was surprised to feel heat radiating through the billowing black robe sleeve. He pushed back the garment, and almost retched at what he saw.

The Dark Mark was a sign he was familiar with, having it seen blazoned on the forearm of hundreds of guests at his father’s manor, but it had never been like this. It reared itself ugly, charred, and black, as if had been newly branded there. The flesh surrounding it was red and chafed, split by heat and weeping blood and clear fluid. Draco caught the sides of his tongue with his molars, swallowing back bile. His first instinct was to dash for the aid of Dumbledore or Madame Pomfrey, but sporadically obeying unjustified urges had never been a shortcoming of his. He rocked back on his heels, forcing hysteria out of his brain and compelling himself to think calmly and rationally. In all likelihood, Dumbledore was fully aware of how much control Voldemort had over his followers, even those like Snape, who had long since severed themselves from his ranks. However, there was still an off chance that the Headmaster had no idea what Snape endured as penance for his past sins, and Draco wasn’t about to divulge that information without Snape’s blessing. Besides, such an action could have horrible repercussions upon himself. His reputation of unerring subservience to the Dark would undoubtedly be brought into question, and while it was not an image he was particularly fond of, it was necessary if he wanted to avoid incurring the wrath of his father.

Draco let out a huff of breath, staring down in consternation at the professor’s placid face. There has to be something helpful in this labyrinth of stoppered everything. A Cooling Potion for the arm and a Restorative Draught, at least. He shoved himself to his feet, biting back what he feared would have been a whimper of pain had he let it emerge. No time for that now.

On uncertain legs he made his way to the cupboards lining the walls. These he unlocked in a manner similar to the door. It took him several minutes to locate the phials he was searching for, as his vision kept blurring and Snape’s handwriting bordered on the illegible. Finally successful, he stumbled back to the doorway, more or less collapsing on the floor. With hands that refused to be steady he unstoppered the first vial and dribbled the crystalline liquid liberally over the angry Mark. The inflamed appearance immediately calmed. Draco breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now Snape wouldn’t have such a painful awakening when the Draught brought him back to reality.

Draco gingerly cradled Snape’s head in one hand, twining his fingers through the snaking ropes of black hair. With his free hand, he lifted the second vial to Snape’s colourless lips, nudging them apart with the glass rim. He trickled a few drops between the slightly parted teeth and waited for the man to stir before tipping up the bottle and giving him a proper swallow. Snape made a choking sound, then wrenched himself out of Draco’s grasp, flipping over and bracing himself against the hard stone floor with both hands. His head hung down like a black mop between wing-like shoulder blades that twisted spasmodically as he coughed and gasped like a recovering drowning victim. Draco had fallen backwards, watching with worry creasing his brow.

“Professor?” he ventured cautiously. The was no response for a moment as Snape hung there motionless, then a shudder rippled down his spine like a dog shaking off water. He slowly lowered himself to a sitting position, looking spent. Eventually, his eyes focused on Draco, and he listlessly nodded once.

“Malfoy.”

Draco reflexively returned the nod with an ungraceful bob of his head, not removing his grey eyes, alight with concern, from the professor’s countenance. “Are you alright?”

Snape shifted, a grimace of pain contorting his features as he moved his head, aggravating the lump on his jaw. “I should be fine.” His gaze settled on the two potions. “Did you administer those to me?” Draco nodded an affirmation, and Snape’s thin mouth curled into what was for him a pleased smile. “Good. Good thinking. Though I would have been grateful had you done something for this.” He grazed his fingers over his chin, and Draco smirked ruefully.

“I would have, but the only thing I could think to do was an Unengorgement Charm, and I wasn’t sure I remembered the right incantation.” Snape chuckled hollowly.

“Then I thank you for your restraint.” He mumbled a few words, and the knot visibly decreased in size. Slowly, using the desk as a prop, he rose to his feet. Draco’s breeding reacted automatically and he stood as well, in a long-practised fluid motion that caused him to hiss with pain. Snape’s dark gaze turned on him once more, heavy eyebrows drawing together in concern. “Malfoy?”

Draco wrapped his forearms protectively around his thin torso, casting his silvery gaze to the side. A flush of embarrassment rose in his sculpted cheekbones. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Snape consult the clock, and knew the professor would be realising Draco was supposed to be in class. The rest of the assumption, of course, would follow shortly.

“Again?” came Snape’s voice, its harsh edge dulled with the man’s best attempt at sympathy. “May I see?” The exchange had had much practise. Wordlessly, Draco drew off his robe as gingerly as possible, revealing his lacerated back. He heard the sharp intake of breath between Snape’s teeth, and commented tonelessly, “I think it may be infected.”

“It is.” Snape was now medically sterile in tone, something Draco was grateful for. “I can fix that much, but you really should start seeing Madame Pom-”

“No.” Draco couldn’t see Snape’s expression, turned as he was with his back to the man, but there was no response, only a moment of silence, then Snape’s almost noiseless footsteps. Draco could hear the soft clattering of vials being sorted through, and the rasping of a stopper being taken out.

At the first icy touch of Snape’s fingertips on his oversensitive back, Draco flinched, but soon relaxed into the welcome relief of the ointment. Under Snape’s expert administrations, the flaring heat of his wounds soon subsided with a cold tingling. Snape’s hands smoothed down along his spine, completing the treatment. Draco stood a moment, reveling in the sense of no pain, before retrieving his robes and shrugging them on. Snape presented him with a handful of vials when he turned back to the man.

“These should be helpful. You should go to your dormitory now. I’ll excuse you for the rest of the day.” Draco nodded his thanks and headed for the door, but paused just short of it.

“Sir?” Snape was standing behind his desk, head bowed meditatively. He looked up at the boy’s voice.

“Yes, Draco?”

“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”

Snape actually smiled, a true grin with only the slightest tinge of irony in the drawn thin lips. “You either, Draco.”

(i can’t eradicate what happens when i awake...break. i die in my daydreams.)