Refuge

Chapter 2: The Unquiet Harbor

Draco Malfoy was confused as he stared up at the ceiling. A faded, cracked Apollo floated directly over his head, flanked by small winged babies, centaurs, and other beings that Draco didn't recognize. It took him a few moments to realize that he was far from home. He sat up immediately, ripping the sheet away from his bare torso.

Stumbling to the adjoining bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and neck. To his relief, the image that was reflected in the baroque mirror did not betray what he was feeling inside. At least the nightmares had not returned, only strange and half-remembered visions. Perhaps it was a good sign. Maybe he was getting better at being a Death Eater--if he could only control his fears, his feelings, in the future.

Leaning closer to the glass, Draco examined himself critically. Impatiently he scratched his lean, angular jaw, which was covered with light stubble, and rubbed eyes that were still heavy with sleep. There was nothing overtly tough or intimidating about his face--nothing that would set him apart as a Death Eater. Nothing like Dolohov's viciously scarred cheek or Bellatrix's mask of pain and glory from her imprisonment. He was nothing, compared to them. The self-mocking mouth before him revealed enough: cowards couldn't boast of battle scars.

Holding his left arm up to the mirror, Draco examined the still-raw Dark Mark that glared menacingly back at him. Directly after receiving the Mark, his arm had felt numb and dead, but his heart had been filled with a new knowledge of his potential, and a new fear: fear of the Dark Lord. Now the sight of it filled him with a sense of dread. Yes, there was terror of Lord Voldemort, but also something worse: the fear that he had forever dishonored the Malfoy family through his cowardice.

At first, the symbol seared into his arm had been a mark of bravery, of distinction. He remembered showing the Mark to his friends for the first time. By the end of their fifth year at Hogwarts, they had become much harder to control. It had been so satisfying to see how their respect for him deepened. Crabbe had been afraid, at first; he had seen it in the boy's face quite clearly. Goyle had merely grunted in approval, while Pansy's eyes had been even more worshipful than usual.

It had surprised Draco that the Dark Mark had improved his opportunities with girls. Pansy had always been attracted to him for his money, but it had been gratifying to know that she wanted him because of his power, too. He hoped that word wouldn't spread among his friends of his great failure on the Astronomy Tower. Surely Voldemort would discover that it had been Snape who had killed Dumbledore, who had completed the task awarded to him. The task that was supposed to prove his worthiness.

Draco felt the tears coming again. It made him angry. He hadn't cried since he was a very little boy, when his father's punishments used to terrify him nearly to death. As an older child, he learned that crying merely made his father treat him with cold indifference, and so had forced himself to suppress his feelings. But over the past year at school, the tears had seemed to come so easily, so often. Dodging into the boys' lavatory, where he could lock the door and cry in privacy, had become almost a regular event toward the end. He had felt so isolated, and so sorry for himself. But above all he felt great fear and pain at the thought of killing Dumbledore. Part of him wanted the old man's approval and love, but he knew that he would get none of it. It had all been given to Potter years before.

Well, Draco had found his own approval and love: the Dark Lord had taken him in, had made a place for him among the Death Eaters. At first he had refused to let himself admit that Voldemort had given him the task to get at his father, locked away in Azkaban. He wouldn't let himself believe that Voldemort cared very little whether he lived or died. But now he knew that his life was worth very little, even in far-away Salem. The idea that the Dark Lord might take his life for failing to complete his task made the tears fall fast and hot. Filled with shame, Draco buried his face in his hands and wept.

Suddenly, a thin blade of morning sunlight streaked through a crack in the heavy brocade window curtains, casting a halo of light around his fair head. He looked up and gaped as he saw his silvery hair and tearstained face illuminated, and found himself grinning broadly in response. For the first time in his life, he didn't care that he looked foolish. The light was a reminder. He was powerful. In spite of everything, he was powerful. The feeling reminded him of how he had felt after performing the Imperius Curse, of having complete control over another soul. Someday, if he could only free his father, the Dark Lord would taste his power. Then he would be sorry. They would all be sorry.

Draco's beatific moment was interrupted by a short, ugly maid who knocked at the door and almost immediately entered his suite. She was bearing a tray of what looked like breakfast.

"How dare you enter without my permission?" Draco demanded, drawing himself up to full height. He hurriedly pulled a rich purple dressing gown around his pale shoulders and continued to stare at her imperiously. Draco was tall for his age, and had inherited his stature from his father. He didn't fully realize the effect he created: it was rare that the poor woman met notorious, good-looking young wizards from abroad.

Overcome, the maid squeaked in response, nearly dropping her tray. She hurriedly backed out of the room, in the process colliding with Severus Snape, who rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Look where you're going, woman!"

The terrified maid, who looked as though she was about to burst into tears, mumbled a "Very sorry, Mister Snape," and fled. Ignoring her, Snape entered and cast himself down into one of the richly embroidered chairs in the sitting area.

"Draco, I have something I wish to discuss with you."

Feigning disinterest, Draco lifted the cover from the discarded breakfast tray and grabbed several pieces of toast. "What is there to talk about? You prevented me from doing what I needed to do, so now I have to hide here. Now I'm living like a prisoner. Ironic, isn't it? My life is forfeit, while you're His favorite."

"You were unable to carry out the task. It had to be done."

Draco whirled toward his professor. "It had to be done--by me. You've ruined everything."

"Draco, you're behaving like a child. It is quite unbecoming."

Draco pulled out the wand that Charles Applethorn had leant him. Before he could cast the first hex, he found himself flat on his back, the wand embedded deep in the wall behind him. Breathing hard, he hauled himself to his feet.

"I hate you."

Snape seemed to take this remark in a stride. He resumed his seat on the over-adorned chair. "I told you, you are relatively safe here. You are no longer on the Dark Lord's mind--for the moment."

"You told me he believes that I'm dead."

Snape shrugged. "It amounts to the same thing. He is occupied with larger matters right now. When he does begin to think about you again, you are assured of nothing."

"Then what do you want to talk about?" Draco asked, his voice flat and dead. The moment in the sunlight had vanished from his mind.

"He is going to summon His Death Eaters soon. I know that He is preparing his next move, and that He wishes to gather His strength." Snape rose and began pacing before the fireplace in the sitting area.

"What's that got to do with me? I don't want to serve Him anymore."

Snape was at Draco's side then, his long fingers curling around the boy's rather fragile-looking wrist. The older wizard roughly pushed back the purple cloth to reveal Draco's Mark.

"You bear His Mark. When He calls, you will feel pain in your arm that will be nearly unbearable. The longer you resist the call, the worse the pain will feel, until you wish for death. Then you beg for death, but it won't come. Finally, the agony will subside a little, but a worse feeling will fill your heart when you think of the punishment He has in store for those who ignore his summons," he hissed.

Draco pulled away and covered his arm again. Something about his once-favorite professor had changed. He had always admired Snape's ruthlessness and skill, and had been instantly won over as a young student when the Potions Master had exposed Harry Potter for the attention-seeking fraud that he was. At moments, he had even loved the man, who had supported him when no one else did. But now he sensed an urgency in Snape's manner that was more frightening than the man's horrifying words. He felt fear rise in his own throat as the jet black eyes of his professor caught and held his own.

"What shall I do, then?" he asked, trying to steady his voice, which threatened to betray him with a preadolescent squeak.

"Remain here. There is nothing else you can do, until He is at leisure to send others to get you--or decides to come himself. The Dark Lord does not allow apostates to survive."

"You survived," Draco heard himself saying.

Snape was silent for a few moments, his face an unreadable mask. All sense of power abandoned, Draco wondered whether he would be punished for his forwardness; however, Snape merely walked toward the door with slow, measured steps.

"He acknowledges me as one of His most loyal servants, now. You will need help during the summons--help resisting His call, and help managing the pain. I will not be able to aid you, as I must heed Him."

Draco nodded; there didn't seem to be much to say.

"Since Applethorn is a complete imbecile and no one else here can be entirely trusted, I have decided that Madam Rosmerta will fulfill the role."

At the mention of Rosmerta, Draco felt the blood begin to rush more quickly through his veins. It was as though Snape had mentioned an old lover. He could not explain his need for her, or for power over her. He had controlled her for months, and each day that passed had made him feel strong, almost invincible. He knew what it meant to preside over someone else's fate. He longed for that feeling again, more than for any drug or comfort that could be found in Knockturn Alley or throughout the wizarding world.

Draco could feel Snape's eyes on him, measuring him, gauging the effect of the woman's name on him. He could feel his cheeks coloring slightly, and hid his trembling hands behind his back.

"Why would she want to help me, sir? She hates me."

Snape's lips twisted into a smile. "Everyone has his...or her...price, Draco. Have you learned nothing in Slytherin for the past six years?"

After his professor had left, Draco dropped his head into his hands in exhaustion. Within the space of an hour, he had grasped the possibility of power, had lost it, and then had it restored again. The only thing he was sure of was that he was on his own. Not even Snape could protect him. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made the right decision.

Would it be easier to repent, return to Voldemort, and make amends? To accept punishment for failing to kill Dumbledore and for running away? Fear and shame had driven him to desert the Death Eaters; would they be the motivation for his return as well? For now, he knew there was nothing he could do. He would have to trust in his professor; his trust in himself had long since run dry.