Summon the Lambs to Slaughter

Chapter Fourteen

The walk to the Headmaster's office went much more smoothly than the trip to the infirmary. The Incendi-Soothe had done its work admirably, and his pain was a distant memory, though the skin would remain red for several days. He moved quickly, relishing the ability to do so. Yes, the medicine had worked splendidly.

What did you expect? You made it, after all, he thought smugly. It was a vain boast, but one to which he was perfectly entitled. Though nearly none liked to acknowledge it because of his past association with the Death Eaters, he was, quite simply, the best Potions Master in Europe. When a particularly delicate decoction was required, it was his name scripted on the parchment. The richest wizards in Europe would gladly make a deal with a suspected devil when a life was on the line.

At the top of the spiral staircase, he raised his hand to knock.

"Come, Severus," the Headmaster called before his fingers had a chance to strike the wood.

He swept in without a word and closed the door behind him. "So you heard, then, Headmaster?"

"Of course I did," he answered, putting down his quill and pushing his spectacles up onto his nose. "The gossip of the young is faster than the wind. Sometimes I think, when better judgment escapes me, that they would make most excellent couriers to carry dispatches regarding Death Eater movements."

He snorted. "They would be captured, tortured, and slaughtered before they could gather any useful information."

"Quite so. Which is why I have yet to put it into action. And I won't, so long as I have the slightest grip on my senses."

"May I sit, Headmaster?"

"Oh, yes, of course!" He gestured at the seat in front of his desk. "Must be getting rude in my dotage. Sherbet lemon?"

Snape sneered at the proffered bowl. "Alas, I must regretfully decline," he said drily, sitting in the chair with a flourish of his cloak.

"Ah, Severus, you don't know what you're missing." The Headmaster shook his head good-naturedly and plucked a candy from the bowl, popping it into his mouth with a sigh of contentment.

"Tooth decay?" he muttered disagreeably.

Dumbledore looked at him in real surprise, his eyes twinkling. "Nonsense! I've been eating them for almost one hundred and forty years and have yet to suffer a single cavity."

"Not everyone is possessed of your singular good fortune."

Dumbledore's shoulders sagged and the sparkle left his eye. "I'm not at all certain how good my fortunes are, Severus," he said bleakly. "One of the few wizards lucky enough to have lived beneath the threat of not one, but two, Dark wizards." He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though it pained him.

Not knowing how to respond, he sat stiffly in his seat, waiting for the old man to say something else. It bothered him to see Albus like this. He was his rock, his voice of reason amid the babel of insanity and confusion. If Albus was lost, where did that leave him? It was a frightening, unwelcome thought, and he shoved it away.

"Headmaster, are you all right?" he ventured after a long minute of quiet.

Albus looked up at him, starting slightly. "Oh, yes. Just very tired. I feel every one my years tonight, Severus." He slowly replaced his spectacles.

Snape took a closer look at the face of the man sitting across from him. Albus looked utterly spent. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, charcoal smudges, violent against too-white skin. His face was deeply lined, some of the lines etched so deeply that they resembled fleshy crevasses. The eternal optimism that flickered and blazed in his eyes, the hope beacon that he dreamt of and clung to in the deepest, sweat-slicked throes of Cruciatus, was guttering, all but extinguished. He looked old-ancient beyond the reckoning of years-and terribly sad.

He suddenly felt very numb, as though he had been tossed headlong into an ice bath. He had never seen the Headmaster look that way before, not even after the news of Voldemort's resurrection. His hands fisted in his lap, eloquent explanation about Calamity Stanhope forgotten.

What is it, Albus? What happened?

Betraying no emotion, he smoothed his robes and asked, "Has something happened?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, nothing. That's what bothers me. It's nearly a month past its due, and still there has been no word regarding the Death Eater initiations. Lucius Malfoy hasn't mentioned anything, has he?" He looked at Snape almost hopefully.

"No. His last correspondence was vague, almost secretive. He made no mention of any ceremony."

"Hmm," was Dumbledore's only response. The furrowed brow and dim blue eyes were signs that he was deeply troubled. Then, "Do you think they know?"

He sighed. A familiar ache was forming between his shoulder blades, and he unconsciously reached a hand back to knead it. "In all likelihood, they've known for quite some time. Lucius is dangerously perceptive, and even if he weren't, Voldemort's paranoia is legendary. One of them is bound to have caught on."

"If that's the case, then I absolutely cannot allow you to return to them."

"Don't be ridiculous," he spat, his hackles rising. "I have to go. You need me, need the information I can give you."

"No information is worth your life, Severus. I won't endanger you," came the adamant reply.

Snape shot to his feet. This little drama had been played out a thousand times, and both were well aware of how it would end, how it always ended. They would argue, their stubborn wills clashing in an explosion of white-hot sparks. Dumbledore would plead for his safety, and he would beg for his redemption. In the end, the Headmaster would give in. He had to. Information was their only hope, and he was the only one who was in a position to gather it.

"I've been in danger since the beginning. This is hardly a new peril," he countered.

"We can't afford to lose you. You're too valuable, both as a spy and as a teacher. You know the enemy better than anyone else, and if it comes to the worst, you can teach the students to defend themselves."

"I thought you had strictly decided against such measures."

"There are other ways."

"None that will be effective."

"You don't know that. The point is, Severus, that you're of no use to me dead. I won't send you to a meaningless death."

Though he knew what was intended by the words, they still stung. He stepped back, his face tight. Never had it been put so bluntly. You are of no use to me dead. There it was, then. His sum value to the Headmaster. And it was far less than he had dared hope. A thing. A commodity useful only until the end was achieved. Not Severus Snape, battered and ravaged beyond belief, but a human being blundering in the black, filthy darkness to find his way home again.

"I see," he said coldly. "Well, I'll not die until you wish it, then." His shoulders were throbbing.

Dumbledore looked up sharply, and then understanding dawned on his weathered face. "Oh, Severus, you misunderstand," he said in a soft, tremulous voice. He came out from behind his desk and gently enfolded him in a tight embrace.

He stood in the clumsy embrace, rigid as a tentpole. It had been seventeen years since Albus had touched him this way. Seventeen years since he had stumbled, weeping and blood-spattered into his office, blind with the horror of what he had done. The feeling of that gentle-armed hug had saved his sanity and his life that night, and it now thawed the icy barrier that had begun to strangle his heart.

He awkwardly patted Dumbledore's slumped shoulders, shifting his weight from side to side. "This won't do, Headmaster," he said gruffly. "What if someone should see?"

Dumbledore gave an incredulous huff of mirth and pulled away, his eyes moist. "It's not as though we're engaged in anything sordid, dear boy. I suspect that if anyone saw, they would simply take me for the dotty old fool that I am."

"You possess one of the finest minds in the world. I would hardly call you a fool," he said defensively, discomfited to see his mentor in such a state.

"Oh, but I must be if I cannot make you see how much you mean to me. You're not just a means to an end. If something were to happen to you on my account-," he looked down, unable to finish the thought.

"You're being quite maudlin, Headmaster. I assure you that I will be perfectly fine," he said, not knowing any such thing. To distract him from another round of teeth-gnashing, he said, "I believe I'll have a sherbet lemon."

"Splendid!" The Headmaster's eyes lit up, and he hurried around the desk to offer him the bowl.

He jabbed his finger into the bowl and seized one of the sweets as though it were a prisoner of war. It was hard and cool between his fingers. He held it up and inspected it. Sunshine yellow with a thin sugar coating. Handling it like it was the rarest of poisons, he placed it in his mouth.

He nearly spit it out. It was tart, yet sickeningly sweet. It tasted like goat urine. He sneaked a look at Albus, who was eyeing him with beatific satisfaction, and promptly decided he would eat the whole bowl of the damn things if it made him happy.

Not the kind of penance I'd envisioned for myself, he thought wryly.

"How is it?" Dumbledore asked, beaming at him.

"Smashing," he murmured, wondering if his face had turned green and counting the seconds until he could swallow the obnoxious confection.

"Ah, a convert! They're irresistible!"

They're reprehensible is what they are. He sat in his chair and waited for him to change the subject. He would rather strangle on the tip of Voldemort's wand than sing the praises of sherbet lemons.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The Headmaster was clearly enjoying the spectacle of seeing him grapple with the sticky-sweet candy. Then he said, "Is there something you wished to discuss?"

"You've heard of the incident with Miss Stanhope."

"Yes. I suppose you're here to see about her expulsion."

"No. I'm not. I've taken what I feel to be the appropriate action. I consider the matter closed. I just wanted to apprise you of the situation," he said stiffly.

Dumbledore looked surprised. "No? If I recall, you were most vociferous in your displeasure at her presence here. You called her a danger, and it would seem that this incident has proven you correct. Has something changed your mind?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore looked intrigued. May I ask what?"

He considered the question. Why had he relented? When had he relented? The first question was difficult. Even now, nearly thirty minutes after he had let her roll back to Gryffindor Tower, he still wasn't sure why he had done it. Part of him still couldn't believe he really had. He was numb, dazed, disbelieving of his own benevolence. He contemplated the toes of his boots.

You owed her.

Yes, that was part of it, certainly, but not all, not even close. He owed a great many people in his life, and he had never seen fit to grant them leniency. If anything, he was compelled to push them harder, more ruthlessly, to compensate for his embarrassment at the burden of debt. He made them rue their compassion. He even owed Potter his life, and Hell would freeze over before he willingly repaid that debt.

You already have. A thousand times over.

Not that Potter would ever believe that. As far as he was concerned, he was the Antichrist, the spawn of the devil, and the bearer of darkness and damnation. Nothing would ever change his mind. After all, Potters were never mistaken.

Ungrateful little bastard.

Sometimes when he saw the boy strolling through the corridors with his friends, he wanted to grab him by his arrogant, entitled shoulders and drag him to all the places where he had shed his blood and wept his scalding tears. He wanted to push him to knees before the dark and eroding bloodstains on the basement floor of Voldemort's crumbling, stinking lair and shriek, "Do you see this? Do you know what it is? It's my blood! I shed it for you, so that you can go on breathing, go on laughing at me, ridiculing me! Every breath you take was a breath stolen from me, so be grateful for it!" He wanted to show him the places where he had vomited blood while Lucius laughed, his rich, cultured voice piercing the eerie darkness like the eager death cry of a coming banshee. He wanted to show him the price of his life. He couldn't, of course, and that made his sacrifice all the more bitter.

But you don't do it just for the sake of Potter.

No, he didn't. Much as the thought might dismay young Potter, the world, his world, did not revolve around the Child of Light. He did it for the preservation of his world, so that the world in which he had lived and learned to hate, to discern light from dark, to savor grudges like fine wine, could continue as it always had. It was ugly and disjointed and cruel, but it was what he had known, and it was far better than what Voldemort, with his twisted megalomania and limitless savagery, would ever offer.

And he did it for Albus. Albus was in as much danger as Potter, maybe even more. Albus had the power and respect about which Voldemort could only dream and fume. He had thwarted the darkness time and time again. Long before Potter had even been conceived of as more than a fancy in the starry eyes of his idealistic parents, the man on the other side of the desk had staved off the crawling, insidious blackness, outwitted it by cunning and sheer brass. The triumph of Harry Potter hadn't been the end of the battle, nor had it been the beginning. It had been a lull, a brief reprieve, and the festivities were about to recommence. This time, it would be winner take all. If he won, Voldemort would leave no survivors.

Especially not Albus. Him least of all. He would be killed, but not before hours, days of unceasing torture. He would pay for his cheek, for his temerity. Slowly. Before Death snatched away his prize, every humiliation, every indignity at the Dark Lord's command would be heaped upon his shoulders. So he did it for Albus. Potter could go to Hell.

That's all very nice, but what has it got to do with Rebecca Stanhope?

Ah, that was the issue, wasn't it? Damn that Potter boy! Insinuating himself into my bloody thoughts now.

Hardly his fault that you've developed an unhealthy fixation.

He ignored the snide voice and groped at the question. Why? What had he let her go when he had her so firmly in his grasp?

Was it the respect?

Yes, that was part of it, too. There was something refreshing about having the respect of a student that was not born of fear. It had been at the beginning, but somewhere along the line, somewhere in the hundreds of hours they had spent together, it had shifted. One evening, he had glanced into her face while inspecting her potion to see that the fear had left her, like the breaking of a long and cruel fever. There was still wariness there, watchfulness, but he thought that had always been there, and he doubted that it would ever go away. It pleased him to see it. It meant that she knew her boundaries and would not expect too much. It meant he was still safe.

Perhaps he had done it because he had been too shaken up to think clearly.

Bollocks! his inner voice snapped forthrightly.

He supposed he had let her fragile, crackling neck slip unscathed through his fingers because she had expected him to snap it. She had been waiting for it; he had seen the anticipation of it in her quivering shoulders, heard it in her listless, dead voice. He had wanted to be contrary, to prove that he was not so predictable as all that. He had wanted to catch the perpetual guardian off guard, and he had done it.

The question of when was much easier to answer. The instant she dropped her face into her hands and wept, he had known she would not be on the homebound train. There had been too much honesty in the remorse, too much bald misery. There had been no one else in that room, and yet she had wept as though something inside of her was irrevocably shattering. She had hurt him, wounded Snape the Bastard in a way that most other pupils would have envied, and she had possessed the unmitigated gall, the teeth-grinding bollocks to weep for it, sincerely and unashamedly. To weep as though what happened to him still mattered. The knowledge that she thought him worth weeping for had moved him, stunned him to his very core, and so he had let her go.

As much as he loved Dumbledore, he could not tell him these things. They were too private, too secret. "I wasn't going to let her escape the horror of what she'd done so easily," he said irritably. "Besides, if McGonagall found out I had a hand in expelling her latest cause, I'd never hear the end of it."

I'll not hear the end of it now, he thought moodily. The instant she hears about this, she'll be charging into my chambers, waving her litany of charges like a herald. I can just hear it. 'Are you satisfied, Severus? You denied her basic supplies, and now look what's happened!'

He didn't have that long to wait. The door to the Headmaster's office flew open with such a resounding crash that he could have sworn he saw a splinter of wood fly off. She barged in, eyes blazing, mouth so tight it was as though she had swallowed her lips. Her bun was practically leaping from her head. She made a beeline for him, her hands fisted on her hips.

"Are you satisfied, Severus? You denied her basic supplies, and now look what's happened!"

"Quite," he said flatly, folding his arms across his chest.

She glared at him. "I supposed you're pleased. You've proven your point."

"I'm dancing with glee. It only took severe mutilation to do it."

On the verge of another acid remark, she froze and dropped her gaze to his legs. He pulled up the hem of his robe for her to see.

She eyed his legs dubiously. "They look well enough to me."

"The wonders of modern medicine and my Potions-making skill are to thank for that."

"It's entirely your fault. Your insufferable arrogance led to this. You pushed that girl far too hard, and now you're reaping the consequences."

He rolled his eyes. "Spare me the sermon."

"I suppose you're here to have the girl expelled," she seethed.

"I did a merry dance along the way," he murmured.

"How can you be so quick to destroy that girl's future?"

"That's what I do. Severus Snape, destroyer of dreams. Death Eater, as you like to remind me."

"You have no heart."

"Thankfully, no. That's why I sent her to Gryffindor Tower."

"You're absolutely sou-you what?" Her mouth ground to a halt.

"I sent her back to Gryffindor Tower. My cruelty knows no bounds."

She looked nonplussed. "Why?"

"I want to watch her suffer, of course."

Her anger re-ignited. "I imagine you did a fine job of that on the way to the Hospital Wing."

"Her suffering was most severe," he agreed. "She seemed most concerned for my welfare."

McGonagall snorted. "I'll just bet."

The cruel disbelief in that statement stung him. Why was that so hard to believe? Was he so distasteful to her, then? Suddenly, he was angrier at her than he had ever been. He wanted to torment her, punish her. Absurdly, his eyes fell on the bowl of sherbet lemons.

"Here, Minerva," he said, thrusting the bowl at her like a particularly deadly weapon, "have a lemon sherbet!"

"Don't mind if I do," she shot back, plucking a candy from the bowl and jabbing it into her mouth as though the act should be an affront to his manhood.

"I'll have one as well," said Dumbledore mildly, scooping a handful from the bowl he held. "More than one."

There was a thunderstruck silence. After a moment, Snape set the bowl down with an irritated thump. McGonagall stared at him in haughty contempt.

"I am rather fond of that bowl, Severus," Dumbledore chided.

"My apologies, Headmaster," he muttered, scowling at McGonagall before resuming his seat.

"Now that everyone has had their fill of those delightful lemon sherbets, perhaps we might discuss this affair with a bit more decorum. Minerva, if you would, please close the door."

McGonagall did as she was asked, sparing the newly acquired gouge in the door a guilty grimace.

"Nothing a Repair Charm won't mend," he reassured her. When she was seated again, he folded his hands beneath the white down of his beard and fixed her with a beatific look. "I think you'll be most surprised at what Severus has to say."

Snape felt a pang of smug satisfaction at the quizzical look on his colleague's face. "I have no interest in expelling Miss Stanhope," he said, smirking. "I have questioned her about the incident and do not believe she was at fault."

"You what?" McGonagall said, sounding as though she had just been struck in the head with a brick.

He couldn't really blame her. He had never been known for his interest in fairness or the truth, especially where the students were concerned. He found a suspect and meted out punishment without a moment's consideration for guilt or innocence. As long as someone suffered for disrupting his routine, he was satisfied. That he should change that philosophy now and for his least-liked charge was bound to shock anyone.

If he couldn't explain to Dumbledore, the man he trusted more than anyone else, why he had let Rebecca Stanhope escape the tightly knotted noose, then he certainly wasn't going to be able to explain it to her. There was no way to explain it, not that he could find. Logic had not played a part in the decision, and it was probably the first decision of any kind he could say that about. He had simply felt that he had to let her go, that it was right.

It made him uneasy, the realization that feelings had made the decision for him. He was not a creature of feeling. He made sure of that. Nothing but anger and cold stoicism had permeated his emotional filter in a very long time. Certainly not compassion or mercy, those indefinable concepts fashioned by humanity to make itself appear more civilized. Those feelings were foreign to him, as alien as breathing water.

What was it that had stayed his hand? It wasn't compassion, he was sure. He was incapable of that. He had never felt it in his life. Childhood had left little room for it, and his nightmarish adulthood even less. Every drop of it had been leached from his bones like water leached from burning desert sand.

That isn't true. If it were, you'd still be a Death Eater.

I stopped being a Death Eater because there was no honor in it. No honor in killing the weak and miserable.

You stopped being a Death Eater because you couldn't stand the sight of babies and toddlers being torn apart-flayed alive or dismembered in their living rooms for the simple reason that they lived and breathed.

I still see things like that every time I stand in that circle. Have you yet to see me weeping on my knees?

No, but you come home and stand in your chambers with that hideous mask in your hand and you hate yourself for even being there, for breathing the same air as people who hate so much that they can feel no other emotion. You stand there in your dirty, sweaty robes and wonder if they knew how much you hated them, hated everything they stood for, how your stomach clenched and burned with the indigestion that never seems to leave you anymore every time they laughed at their twisted entertainments. You wonder if Voldemort can sense your disgust when your lips brush that cold, grey hand. You wonder these things because you're different from them, and you know it. It isn't stoicism that's given you those ulcers.

Don't confuse guilt and self-loathing with compassion.

You can't have guilt without compassion.

He curled his lip at such a libertine philosophy. The Headmaster was watching him closely, too closely for his liking, so he covered his discomfort with biting sarcasm. "Far be it for a Slytherin to observe school policy."

"You've never done so before, why start now?" She folded her hands over her knees and glared at him.

Dumbledore stepped in to cut short another blazing row before it could start. "And what did you find?"

He sat back in his chair, letting his long frame uncurl. "According to Miss Stanhope, she was seized by a sudden, agonizing stinging. Possibly a Curse."

"You say that as if you don't believe her," McGonagall accused.

"On the contrary, she is one of the few Gryffindors I do believe," he said laconically.

McGonagall drew herself up. "We Gryffindors do not lie," she said hotly.

"You do when it suits you. "Take Potter, for instance."

He drew a great deal of satisfaction in watching her sputter and haw at that. There was nothing she could say to that, no defense she could offer up. It was patently true. She and Dumbledore were both willing to break the rules for the Golden Child, to look the other way at his obnoxious disregard for the rules. Even Albus looked a bit chagrined at the truthfulness of his remark. That was merely bemusing. He would file away Minerva's seething, baleful, constipated embarrassment for private relish later.

"Have you any idea who the culprit might be?" she asked tersely.

"Draco Malfoy."

"Of course! That little troublemaker has been after her since she arrived." Faced with the prospect of finally getting her hands on the most pampered brat in the school, she suddenly looked considerably less perturbed. For the first time since entering the office, she looked cheerful. "An incident like this could get him expelled."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple."

She suddenly looked suspicious. "Don't tell me you're going to let him get away with this!"

"I'm in a very precarious position."

"A position of your own making."

"That has been a long-established fact, one I have never denied," he muttered. "Nonetheless, it would look suspicious if I allowed the only son of a prominent Slytherin alumnus and Voldemort's most trusted servant to be expelled. My name would have to appear on the expulsion request."

"Then I'll punish him. I may not be able to expel him, but I can certainly make things difficult for him," she huffed, and it was evident that her mind was racing with the possibilities.

"You were not a witness to the incident, and I'm afraid we've no concrete proof that's he's done anything," Dumbledore reminded her.

Her face fell. "Then he's going to get away with it, isn't he? Just like always."

At least then there would be equal justice, he thought. "I shouldn't worry, Minerva. I'll take care of him."

Both of them looked at him. He had never volunteered to discipline a member of his House before, and his tone had sounded faintly amused, as if he were looking forward to the event. McGonagall lost her mask of indignant bitterness, no doubt intrigued. Dumbledore looked thoughtful.

"What do you have in mind, Severus?" He was stroking his beard, a sure sign that he was unsure of the course events had taken.

"I assure you, Headmaster, it will not be fatal. Or at least not messy. We Slytherin can be quite...subtle when it comes to meting of justice." He gave a small, humorless smile.

Before they could ask him what he meant, he stood up, and with a small nod, he took his leave, leaving them to wonder, what exactly, he had in mind.

At half-past six, less than fifteen minutes after he had returned from dinner, Draco Malfoy heard the Slytherin Common Room door open with a resounding crash. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled in anticipation. Only one person made an entrance like that. He looked up from the desk where he sat composing a Transfiguration essay for the deadly dull and utterly inept Professor McGonagall. If he ever used a single thing the bothersome old biddy taught him, he would send her an engraved invitation to visit Malfoy Manor.

Though he was Head of House, Professor Snape's incursions into the Slytherin Common Room were rare. He preferred to pass his time locked in his gloomy laboratory, brooding over his simmering, sizzling decoctions. For the most part the denizens of Slytherin's lair were left to fend for themselves. Neglect, in the eyes of the weepy-eyed liberals who tied their children to their skirts with their cloying overprotection. Self-reliance, to the saner and more pragmatic.

The independence suited them well. While the other Houses simpered and sniveled beneath the auspices of their Heads, quailing and scattering in fright at the first signs of trouble, they watched and seized opportunities. They marshaled forces, closed the ranks, protected their secrets, and made the necessary sacrifices to keep the unit alive, to be ready for that next golden moment.

Not to say that they were a steadfast, loyal House. Their very independence precluded such sentiments. They fought for the House only so long as they fought for themselves. Once those goals diverged, it was every man for himself. Betrayal, or the threat of it, was as natural to the House as the hundreds of serpents that decorated every surface. Betrayal was your ally and tool, even as it threatened you. It was the double-edged blade with the poisoned tip. The air was always charged with anticipation. It was an environment he found stimulating. He thrived in it. He felt himself growing stronger with each passing day.

That he flourished here did not surprise him. His roots were here, buried deep beneath these floors for untold miles. Generations of his family had walked through this room, slept in these dormitories. His grandfather had been Head Boy. His father had been a prefect. As a child, he had often played with the shiny badge, dreaming of the day he would have something so prestigious. He was a Malfoy; it was his birthright. And it would make his father proud, maybe for one moment thaw the façade of ice he lived behind.

There is nothing on this Earth that will achieve that.

Maybe not, but it was his dream, and he would cling to it for as long as he could. Even bastards were entitled to dreams.

The professor stalked across the room, his eyes smoldering. He moved with his customary fluid grace, no trace of the staggering injuries he had suffered. He was glad. He had not intended to hurt him. He had merely been in the way. Collateral damage. Not his concern, really.

"Good evening, sir," he said, flashing his most engaging smile. "I see you've recovered from the Stanhope debacle."

Snape whirled around so quickly that he involuntarily pushed his chair away from the desk

"Do you doubt my Potions-making ability?" he snapped.

Something is amiss here. I'll bet that Mudblood freak Stanhope had something to do with this. His mind began to click furiously.

"Not at all, sir," he said, quickly recovering his aplomb. "Are you all right?"

"Come with me."

His stomach jumped into his throat and then plummeted to his knees. He knew that tone well. It was the sound of doomsday, the sound that told everyone above the blithering first-years to pack their trunks and flee. He had heard it used many times before, and the poor recipient generally emerged red-faced and snerking, tripping over themselves to retreat to the dormitories where they could whimper in privacy.

"Have I done something, sir?"

Silence.

He knows.

So what if he did? Surely he wasn't going to punish him for tormenting some useless Mudblood? He quickened his stride to keep up as he followed him toward his private office.

Well, you did burn the skin off his legs.

I most certainly did not. It wasn't my arm that tipped the cauldron.

It was your spell.

His stomach slid into his ankles. This could be very bad. Snape was not a forgiving man. He cherished his grudges, treated his hatreds like gleaming trophies. Sometimes he watched him at breakfast and at dinner, and he saw him polishing those old loathings behind his eyes, fondling them like treasured objects. He had always pitied those unfortunate enough to earn a place on his wall of shame. Now it looked like he might become one of them.

Father will kill me.

Father was the least of his worries. If Snape deducted points from his own House, it would be a first. And if he were going to set such a precedent, he would not do so lightly. He would make sure the deduction was severe and crippling. And the person responsible for forcing him into such a position would be a pariah, snubbed by his Housemates as an outcast. He, who had once been the prince of princes, would find himself in the untenable position of persona non grata in the House that shouldn't be. He would become invisible, and that was unacceptable.

You'll still have Crabbe and Goyle.

Fine, sculptured lips curled in disgust. Having Crabbe and Goyle was worse than having no one at all. They were stupid, bovine, and useless. What was more, they were easily bought. He was under no illusion about the depth of their friendship. It was as deep as his father's purse strings, and no more. They were accessories, like his plush velvet cloak or the jade clasp at his throat. The best friends money could buy.

Snape led him into the cramped confines of his office. "Lumos," the professor hissed, and the torches in his office sputtered into life. The wand disappeared. "Close the door."

He closed the heavy door and looked around. It was evident that the room had not been used in a very long time. The filthy little house elves kept it clean, of course, but the infrequent habitation was obvious if you knew how to look. It was cold in here, colder than in any other part of the castle. His breath plumed in front of him, and hard knots of gooseflesh sprouted on his forearms. A glance at the clean fireplace grate told him that months had passed since a blaze had flickered there, and the absence of firewood told him there would be none in the future.

"Your wand." Snape held out a hand, his face impassive.

"Of course, sir." His mouth was very dry and filled with a bitter, smoky tang.

Snape plucked the wand from his outstretched hand and examined it, his eyes roving over the flawless cherry finish. He tapped an inquisitive finger against the wand tip.

"Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, if I were to examine your wand more closely, what would I find?"

"I don't understand, sir," he said, knitting his brow into a mask of perfect confusion.

Snape appraised him with those daunting black eyes. Oh, yes you do, they told him. "No Curses, no illegal spells?"

"No, sir."

"Then you won't mind?" His own wand pointed at the one on the desk. "Priori Incantateum!"

He could only bite the inside of his cheek as the first spell out of his wand was the Needling Hex he had used on Stanhope. His heart was hammering in his ears.

"Indeed," Snape murmured, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"Sir, I can-," But Snape cut him off.

"I was hoping it was you."

"Sir?" he managed, stunned by the dramatic turn of events.

"Even Stanhope isn't so stupid as to have one of her fits in front of a boiling cauldron. I saw her reaching for that odd stick of hers. I knew it must have been a Curse. Well done."

Draco felt his shoulders relax. "But I thought you were going to deduct points," he said, feeling a little foolish.

Snape snorted. "The day I deduct points from my own House for the sake of some insipid, whinging Gryffindor is the day I submit my resignation. In fact, I am awarding thirty points for ingenuity. However, in the future, I must ask that you exercise a bit more care. I have no desire to end up like Stanhope."

Draco chuckled. "Yes, sir."

All of the tension left his body. The danger had passed. His fears seemed silly in hindsight. Of course Professor Snape would offer no punishment. He understood. They thought alike, as did all great minds. He would see the value in what he had done, the necessity of it. He was Slytherin, through and through.

"Sir, did they expel her?"

A cough that might have been sardonic laughter. "Of course not. She's Gryffindor, and she's the Headmaster's charity case. Nothing short of murder will get her out of here."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't know why he accepted her in the first place. I knew he was a Muggle lover and a Mudblood apologist, but this is beyond comprehension. People like her don't deserve to live, much less taint magical ground like Hogwarts. My father always said he was a crackpot."

Snape's eyes flashed, and for an instant, he thought he saw rebuke in those black pits, but he only said, "Bring me the Incendi-Soothe from the Potions stock in the Common Room. My skills are above reproach, but Madam Pomfrey's are not."

"Yes, sir." He enjoyed the Professor's acerbic observations about others. They were uncannily true to the mark. He'd always thought Madam Pomfrey was an incompetent cow, especially after his Quidditch mishap in second year. He'd lain there in the grip of unspeakable agony while she had fluttered and twittered over Potter as though he were at Death's very door. She'd neglected and endangered his health so that Potter could upstage him once again.

Prejudiced old bitch, he thought, and left his wand on Professor Snape's desk.

When the door closed behind Draco, Snape sat back with a ragged sigh. Damn that boy.

Even after five years, Malfoy's sheer, undiluted arrogance still stunned him, still chafed. There was no reason why it should; he had known his father for twenty years, long enough to know the he was likely the most self-important sod on the face of the Earth. Possessed of arrogance potent enough to swamp everything in his path. The very grass trembled beneath his feet. Arrogance powerful enough to imprint itself on the genes of the next generation.

And it had. It came off the boy in staggering waves. Along with the limitless Malfoy bankroll, it was his legacy. It was the mark of his line, a genetic inheritance. It would never be cleansed. That fact stung him. He had hoped that perhaps the boy would have chosen a different path, learned from the sins of his father.

Whatever made you think that? He's been smothered in that noxious influence since the day he was born. It is inescapable. Who else would he look to for guidance? You? Folly. You barely exist on the periphery of his vision.

That was true. He barely existed on the periphery of anyone's vision. To the students, he was the morose, nasty bane of their lives, the despot they loved to hate. To the faculty, he was the unhappy sinner seeking his penance from the only man willing to give it. No one looked any closer than that. No one wanted to. He had made sure of that.

He was not sorry for his solitude. He cherished it. He did not long for a gaggle of boisterous, jolly friends. He did not wish to be known as a fine, upstanding man. He liked being left to do as he pleased when he pleased. He had no desire to bare his soul like some sniveling, lovelorn poet. Sometimes, though, he wished that he could leave something to the world other than legions of former pupils who shuddered at his name, something that would justify his presence in the eyes of the Fates.

And you thought you could save Draco?

He had been sure of nothing, but he had noted that he, unlike the other students, did not fear him. He had even seemed to hold him in some esteem.

He respects you only because he thinks you agree with him, that his father's elegant poison flows through your veins. As soon as he realizes it doesn't, the respect will fade. In a few years, it will be gone anyway. An adult Malfoy respects no one, only uses those he can. He is a lost cause.

So he was. He saw it more and more every day, the molding of Voldemort and his father. Each day, his shriveled humanity eroded a little more, leaving only senseless hatred. It was too late for Draco Malfoy, and the knowledge made him angry. Looking into that self-assured, sneering face made him sick because he saw the untapped, wasted potential behind it. Sometimes, he desperately wanted to grab him by the collar of his immaculate robes and shake him until his teeth rattled and the dense fog of unearned privilege left his brain.

The boy was just like his father. Sleek, cunning, arrogant as a drunken lord, and confident of his position atop the wizarding world. He was insulated by reality, ignorant of the existence of consequences, of repercussions. Those things did not exist for him, and unless things changed dramatically, they never would. No one would ever dare challenge him.

Except...

Except he was going to. He knew all about life and its consequences. Who better than he to teach him the hard lessons that his father would not? It would be part of his curriculum. Yes. And one of the first lessons he would learn was that betrayal didn't always come from the enemy without.

He picked up the wand, a small, predatory smile on his face. A fine lesson. He looked at the door. Draco would return any moment now.

You're far too trusting, Mr. Malfoy.

When Draco returned a few minutes later, he noticed nothing peculiar about his wand. Snape only smiled.