Harry Potter, Snape/Draco -R

Title: Wherein Draco is in a Room
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Snape/Draco
Summary: Draco in a room. And Snape is there sometimes, too. Spoilers for HBP like WOAH. tzi is the most wonderful girl to walk the world. And, in a related note, she beta-ed this. ^__^

ETA: *FLAILING MADLY* OMFG OMFG! Art! wellington drew art inspired by (?) this and it is beautiful!




"Mr. Malfoy,"

He was on unsteady feet before opening his eyes. He'd complain about the disruption of his sleep only if he wasn't about to be rushed to a new location. Again. "What's happened? Is --" He tried to clear the sleep from his voice and sound particularly grown up, "Does he know?"

There was a chance that the Dark Lord would be merciful toward the youngest Malfoy. He'd gotten Death Eaters into Hogwarts undetected. He'd worked tirelessly, surely that was enough to prove his worth? Even if he'd choked, even if he'd actually considered Dumbledore's offer . . .

Snape said nothing, however, and Draco's stomach sank.

The professor, or the ex-professor crossed the darkened room in three long strides, dropping boneless into a leather recliner. Draco couldn't recognize the room or the furniture and Snape refused to give him any clue of his location, other than the fact that it was heavily shielded from all Legilimens, a haven from Voldemort. Certainly nothing of Snape's was as nice as the soft, dark green carpeting, or multitude of books. Perhaps he had some unknown, obscenely kind and stupid relatives that would allow a fugitive of the Dark Lord to stow away?

"Maybe it's not too late; could I apologize---?"

"I wouldn't advise it." said Snape shortly, and only when he rested his head in open palms did Draco realize that something was very, very wrong. Or, worse than it already was.

"Sir?" his voice turned light in an effort to keep it devoid of any emotion.

He heaved a sigh, "Your mother--"

"What about her?" Icy fingers were slowly traveling up his back.

"The Dark Lord could sense your treachery. She was already gone when I arrived," he said it solemnly, brokenly, and Draco thought he should wake up from this ruin of a life at any moment. Even the long, sleepless nights at Hogwarts were better than this. But since when did sons of Death Eaters deserve any better? A coward and a turncoat should've expected this sort of thing, really. "I told him you, too, were killed. That Potter had followed us. You dropped from his mind the moment you stepped into this room, so I trust it's safe to assume he believed me."

Draco wasn't listening. His legs had given out beneath him, and he thought he might've heard a distant thump, and realized it was his head meeting the wooden edge of the settee.

*

Grieving for his mother was surprisingly overpowering.

His existence consisted of a small bathroom and sitting room. There weren't even any windows in his gloomy sanctuary, which left his mind free to travel in dark, repetitive circles. Guilt, pain, anger, a never ending, hollowing ache. Memories. He hadn't quite realized how much of his life had been touched by his mother. His existence in the Manor had been accompanied by only her, freckled by a few lessons with cool, professional tutors or moments of solitary.

She had taken him out to play in the snow for hours, she had kept the lurking creatures of their lake at bay as he swam in summer. She had arranged play dates with other children that never went over well because of her temperamental son. She patiently waited through tantrums, never tiring, and moments of his own youthful cruelty and annoyance against her had a sudden sharp, stinging edge.

Snape's visits were random. Sometimes, he stayed every night of a week, then disappeared for a whole month's time.

Draco kept meticulous time in the front cover of an atrociously outdated potions book, and refused to think of what would happen if Snape simply didn't come back. That, of course, meant that he thought out every possible outcome in excruciating detail.

There were so many possibilities. What if he grew tired of his pathetic charge, or was killed by Voldemort, or was simply trampled by a dragon? Draco wouldn't know for months. He'd worry and hope and eventually break down.

He wondered if mourning for two was harder than mourning for one.

The charm that renewed the food would eventually wear out and he wondered if starvation would be enough to force him out of his asylum, if the wards didn't fade first, opening his mind and presence to anyone who cared to look for it. He didn't know who would bother to look for a dead man, but Snape had been so strict about it.

He didn't know anything of Voldemort's struggle, how much of a chance he had in the outside world. He didn’t know if either side was desperate enough to take him, or comfortable enough to simply let him be.

Snape refused to say anything either way. The news he got was suspiciously absent of any war at all. It was as if Pansy had dropped dead of her own accord, as if half Weasley clan had simply wandered off one day.

"Longbottom's gone." Dead or simply missing was anyone's guess; Draco had given up asking for any elaboration after the first week.

It all felt quite futile and he wanted to tell Snape. They were delaying the inevitable; they were the worst, betraying both sides and fate never let double crossers simple be. But he didn't say it, because as long as he didn't say it, they might be able to slip by.

*

Boundaries slowly dissolved.

Professor Snape was Severus Snape, a man willing to touch and comfort and care for him, it seemed ridiculous that anything else had ever mattered.

The first time it happened, Draco had been asleep on a couch Snape had transfigured into a bed.

He woke to cool, calloused fingers brushing against his forehead and only then realized how very familiar he'd grown to Snape's touch.

Any boy over a certain age could recognize touch with intent, and he felt no uncertainty when pulling aside the blanket to offer himself properly to the older man. Even with sleep mussed hair and that horrid scar running cleanly across his chest. It would rain toads before he was rejected by Snape.

Hands that once mended bruised elbows and nicked fingers traveled up his stomach and sides as if they'd just now appeared. His robes couldn't have done that good of a job of hiding his form, but the near cautious way he pressed chapped lips to his collarbone suggested he had no idea where Draco's body had come from.

Snape slowly led the way and said nothing about Draco's fumbling hands and constant, badly muffled gasps.

He thought he might snap when Snape was finally in him. He shuddered and whimpered and tried to pull free but Snape calmed him as he'd done countless times before with potions that were bubbling out of control. Only when he finally stopped shuddering around Snape's thickness did he move, a firm grip on Draco's thighs, forcing him open and surely leaving bruises.

The embarrassment of coming almost immediately was swallowed just as quickly by the pleasure of lying open and exposed to Snape's own desire. His grunts, watching his throat grow taut when he finally came, thrusting in deeper than any human was meant to go.

When Snape pulled out, Draco felt closer to snapping than he did when the man entered. He understood and pulled him close, curtaining the smaller body with his own and when Draco woke in the morning, he'd vanished again.

*

Once, Draco screamed. He stomped his feet and destroyed every book in the room save his carefully kept calendar, screeching out nonsense until his throat was torn and bloody.

Then he might've heard voices drawing near and couldn't remember a face outside of Snape's that wouldn't kill him on sight, so didn't dare speak again until he returned two weeks later and made Draco wail his release, clinging to wide, pale shoulders like they'd be ripped apart if he didn't prove how much he needed this.

*

Snape made several attempts to continue Draco's education once winter had rolled around-- not that Draco could tell from any change in his surroundings. The simple word 'December' scrawled over faded ingredients dictated it and Draco followed without question.

The lessons were impossibly frustrating; however pleasing their results ended up, they weren't what Snape set out for.

The roles implied too much. A simple act of dominance that was once commonplace made Draco flush which made Snape nearly stutter when he noticed. A cold reprimand was enough to send Draco sliding into Snape's lap, hard, pleading, demanding and spoiled.

He didn't stop trying, though, out of perseverance or how Draco nearly passed out when he came whenever they played this game, Draco wasn't sure. He couldn't really say he cared.

*

Long hair made Lucius appear regal.

It made Draco look like Narcissa and that wasn't something either of them particularly enjoyed. Snape cut around the fragile skin of his neck and behind his ears with uncharacteristic nervousness, nearly slicing his flesh.

Draco didn't flinch.

*

And once, Snape didn't come back.

*

Draco set fire to his makeshift calendar sometime in June in a fit of frustration. He'd missed three days, or five or six. He watched it burn in the once polished sink, ancient residues of magic turning the smoke light green.

He watched it billow for a moment and wondered at the simplicity and freedom of plain gray smoke that Muggles made, how he'd trapped himself in this room by his own cowardice and betrayal, and how the only obstacle a Muggle would have to face was a bloody lock.

*

Draco didn't mourn Snape.

He didn't mourn his mother anymore, or the life he should've had.

He simply didn't think.

*

Draco supposed that one of the reasons it would've hurt -- would've hurt, mind, because it was impossible to hurt when one wasn't thinking – was the fact that he'd let his guard down. He'd known the dangers Snape was facing and he'd agonized over them but he hadn't really thought he'd have to face them.

Draco couldn't remember Snape failing at any endeavor, and apparently hadn't thought it even possible. It was painfully obvious now, of course. Even as Snape never failed, Potter always won.

And sons of Death Eaters didn't get happy endings. They faced their bitterly ironic deaths, holed up in rooms with their own spinelessness.

*

One night he took a shower, glanced down at his arm and saw the mark had faded away.

It was the end of the Death Eaters, of Voldemort, and not for the first time, Draco damned his cowardice.

Surely anyone else would've found a way out by now. Would've hunted down Snape and avenged his death or maybe even rescued him, or just found out what the hell had happened. Draco could no more do that than he could murder a man.

Without Snape he couldn't survive, let alone in a world of Gryffindors. If they even allowed him.

He washed the arm quickly and wondered how long it'd been gone, and how long he'd been forgetting to stare at his arm.

*

The voices grew closer and closer, and Draco couldn't get any quieter. The faint hum of life turned into distinct sounds, then muffled conversations.

Draco felt dizzy, gasping in air only when he realized he'd forgotten to breathe.

He lost his wand ages ago but figured it didn't matter anyway since any form of magic cast that wasn't awfully cautiously done broke the wards.

"--should be right here."

"I don't see -- ah, I've got it."

Harry Potter was there.

Harry Potter was in his sitting room. And (more importantly) wasn't killing him. And (annoyingly) had been working out, if the pronounced muscles in his arms and chest were anything to go by.

Draco was suddenly very aware of the fact that he hadn't seen the sun in what had to be over a year and the closest thing to a work out he had was moving from the bathroom to the settee.

"Well there's the little ferret." His voice was bizarrely rough. Draco was sure that's how he'd always sounded, it'd just been so long since he'd heard anyone but Snape.

"What?" It came out more like a croak than a word and he took a step back, as if trying to physically separate himself from embarrassment and whatever punishment he was about to face.

"Unfortunately, being a coward isn't a crime. You're not in trouble." Potter had apparently learned Legilimency. Or maybe it was just written across his forehead.

"You were looking for me." He said hoarsely, accusing. So very easy to slip back into the mindset of a sixteen year old. "You wouldn't look for me unless you got to punish me for something."

Potter's head cocked to the side, he looked amused. "I wouldn't want to look for you unless I got to punish you. But I owe someone." Potter held out his hand and Draco stared at it blankly. "We need to Apparate, unless you learned it?"

He flushed and remembered the fruitless attempts to transport outside his circle. Potter had been staring at him then, too.

Potter's hand was softer than Snape's, smaller. It fit almost perfectly around his, instead of nearly encasing it. Draco idly wondered if he'd be comparing every thing he touched or saw to Snape for the rest of his life. However short that turned out to be.

He Apparated without any warning, dragging Draco along with him. It was odd how the near strangling sensation of getting pulled through a tunnel that was entirely too small for him was enough to make him realize how very much he'd missed magic.

They landed and he was on his feet for about a second before toppling over. He immediately wrenched his hand away from Potter's steadying one, dreading the Potter residue he had to've picked up on the journey.

"And just where have you taken me?" He tried to snarl but his voice wasn't cooperating and it came out as a whine.

He got to his feet with a scowl. It was near sunset, and he must've screwed up his sleep schedule because it felt like noon.

"Mr. Malfoy,"

He whirled around, staring blankly at the figure laying limply across a bed. Snape looked unbelievably weak, fragile. Barely held together, probably just out of St. Mungo's.

It fit together quite suddenly.

He didn't mind how Potter nearly gagged and threw himself out of the room when he straddled Snape and pressed himself against his still fragile body. He didn't care that he'd tell people who'd tell people who'd put their faces on the paper with words like 'TRAITORS!' and 'DISGUSTING!' because Snape hadn't failed.

He wasn't a turncoat, he was a tortured hero and Draco was his prize. Draco wasn't a coward, he was Snape's damsel in distress. And maybe they'd get to live happily ever after anyway.