Upon awaking, Draco knew without opening his eyes that he wasn’t in his room. The sheets beneath him were wrong, for one: plain cotton instead of the smooth silk he was used to. The smells weren’t that of a room where several teenagers had been sleeping in for hours, and Goyle’s incessant snoring was made conspicuous by its absence.

It wasn’t home either, and it didn’t smell like the infirmary. So, where the hell was he? Opening heavy-lidded eyes, he got his answer in the form of a sleeping Potions Master sitting in a chair, inches away from his bed—well, Severus’ bed, most likely. His godfather’s head rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed. He looked utterly exhausted and more than a little uncomfortable folded as he was on the small chair. But he was there, and he’d let Draco sleep in his bed. And something warm pooled in the blond’s chest at the thought, even as moisture appeared in his eyes.

Draco tried moving, reaching out a hand to wake him from the uncomfortable position he’d fallen asleep in, but searing pain stopped him cold. Feeling as if his arm had been dipped into molten lava all of a sudden, a moan escaped his lips as he stilled himself. Severus’ hands were on him an instant later.

“Hush, Draco,” he said, voice a little raspy from having just woken up. “Don’t move just yet.”

Draco let himself be pushed back onto the mattress and rearranged into a more comfortable position. When his godfather pressed a glass phial to his lips an instant later, he obligingly swallowed without question. Whatever it was tasted foul, but it made some of the pain go away. So, it wasn’t that bad. Severus’ hand was on him again, his fingers losing themselves in Draco’s hair, and he leaned slightly into Severus’ touch as his eyes lost the battle to stay open, and he fell back to sleep.

***

The next time he woke up, Draco immediately knew where he was. And he was conscious enough to swallow the few spoonfuls of soup that Severus fed him without a word of complaint. The soup was followed by another potion, which catapulted him back into the arms of Morpheus instants later.

***

The third time was the charm, as the saying goes. And Draco could prop himself up to a mostly sitting position against Severus’ plump navy-blue pillows. His mind focused on the colour to analyse it more thoroughly. It was blue—not green or silver, but blue. Looking around the bedroom of Slytherin’s Head of House, he realised that both House colours were absent from the decor. The walls were eggshell, and the bookcase that lined the right wall was light oak, as was the wardrobe that stood on the opposite wall.

Looking closer to where he lay, underneath an equally blue blanket, Draco found that the bed and bedside table were of a matching type of wood. The room’s simple furniture gave the place a homey, comfortable feel. It was far from the austere, dark crypt students seemed to expect from Severus Snape.

Speaking of Severus, the man was nowhere in sight. And Draco couldn’t hear a sound, save for his own breathing. Looking back at the bedside table, he found that his godfather had left him a sandwich, a crystal phial with something blue inside, and a note. He reached for the note first, instantly recognising the spidery scrawl.

“Eat the sandwich first, then drink the potion—all of it.
I will be back once classes end.

Do not leave my rooms. I mean it!
S.”

Draco happily obliged, taking a large bite of the curry chicken sandwich that had been left for him. It was his favourite, he noted, surprised that Severus would have remembered. He was hungrier than he’d thought, he realised, and he polished off his plate in no time. He postponed drowning the potion right away, though. Draco did not know what it was, and he feared that it would put him right back to sleep. He refused to waste this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pry through Severus’ most personal sanctum. A poor way to repay the man for his kindness? Well, yes, it was—but Draco was a Slytherin, and so was Severus. And honestly, his Head of House might take it as a personal affront to the very memory of Salazar if Draco didn’t at least try to snoop a little.

Fighting off the bout of dizziness that surged when he got vertical, Draco took small tentative steps to the bookshelf, curious as to which titles he would find. Severus’ office was filled with potions books—various recipe repertoires ranging from rudimentary to so complex that they took over a week to brew. There were also academic treaties on the subject, thought-provoking essays written by some fellow potioneers, and a few books that would be more at home in the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s office.

Severus’ living room’s bookshelves had their own sets of tomes, and they were of a different variety. Historical volumes sat next to books on Creature Lore and accounts of vampire encounters. Philosophical manifestos debated the merits of race status within their society, and there were a dozen more thick volumes on just as many subjects. But here, in Severus’ bedroom, Draco discovered that the books were all Muggle literature. He didn’t recognise a single name—but then, the only Muggle books he’d ever read in his life were Homer’s.

There were many tomes by a chap named Arthur Conan Doyle—and really, you’d have to be a Muggle to have a name made up of three first names. Further along, he found several thick, leather-bound editions written by someone who went by J. R. R. Tolkien. And really, who but a Muggle would choose to use three initials and zero first names? Out of curiosity, he plucked the first one out. The Fellowship of the Ring, it was called. And Draco flipped it over to read the back cover. It sounded interesting enough.

Deciding that he might need something to pass the time if the potion didn’t put him to sleep, he took it with him as he continued to discover the room. The grand tour of Severus Snape’s bedroom didn’t take him long. Save for the wardrobe, the bed area, and the bookshelf, there was little else to see. With a smirk, he moved to the pièce de résistance, the grand finale, the object of many a speculation amongst Hogwarts students past and present: Severus Snape’s armoire. It was a plain, double-door oak wardrobe, seven feet tall and about three feet wide. Reaching for both metallic knobs at once, Draco pulled open both doors and stared at the contents revealed to his curious gaze.

Laughter bubbled from his throat at the copious amount of identical sets of clothes it contained. Black trousers, check. Black frock coats, check. Long-sleeved white undershirts, check. Boy, the man was predictable. Draco found one or two dark-coloured hoodies and two jumpers, but he feared those didn’t see the light of day very often—forgotten as they were at the bottom of the lowest shelf.

***

When Severus returned that evening, the four Hobbits had just gotten to Rivendell, and the elves that lived there weren’t anything like the elves Draco knew. He was reluctant to put down his book. But his godfather had come bearing gifts—or rather, a very large tray laden with supper and dessert. Draco figured the race to save Middle-Earth could wait.

“How are you feeling?” Severus asked after he’d taken a few bites.

“Much better,” Draco replied truthfully. His body didn’t ache much anymore. And the last potion had taken care of what was left of his headache. In all honesty, he’d felt worse after some of his more brutal Quidditch games than he felt now. “Thanks,” he added, feeling that a modicum of gratitude was needed.

Severus gave him the barest nod of acknowledgement, and Draco’s appetite sagged. It felt like their relationship had shifted yet again. This was no longer Severus, his Severus. It was Professor Snape, Hogwarts’ austere Potions Master, and Lord Voldemort’s personal potioneer Death Eater. Draco found that he missed the man he’d been reunited with, however briefly, last night. The man who had cared for him and tended to his injuries. The man who’d offered him warmth and protection and had brought him solace from the pain, hurt, and shame.

“Finish your food,” his Head of House instructed sternly from where he was leaning against the wardrobe with his arms crossed over his chest. The chair he’d dragged over from the kitchenette the night before had been gone when he’d woken up. And with Draco in bed, Severus had nowhere to sit.

“I’m not that hungry anymore, sir,” he protested. A flash of hurt passed through his godfather’s tired eyes at the formal address.

He half-expected the man to call him Mr Malfoy in reply, but he went with the more minimal, “Eat, anyway.”

And Draco did because Severus’ tone meant he had better comply. He forced the rest of his mashed peas down without tasting them and almost choked on a piece of cod that he’d cut too big in his haste. He drew the line at the desert, though. There was no way his stomach could digest that slice of strawberry cheesecake.

Severus didn’t give him any grief over it and simply levitated the tray away and back to the kitchenette in the other room. When he came back, he had a chair with him, and he placed it by the bedside table again in the same spot where it had been the night before. Sitting on it backwards, he rested both arms on the wooden back and, in a rare display of vulnerability, leaned his head forward until his forehead rested on his folded arms.

When his head lifted back again, moments later, Severus looked exhausted, old, and weary to the bone. And Draco squirmed a little, unsettled as he was to see his godfather so open, as if all his Occlumency barriers had been removed—or, at least, a good portion of them.

“How are you, really?” he asked, his tone genuinely concerned. Draco looked down and shrugged. He wasn’t sure how to reply to that. “Yes, the Dark Lord’s displeasure tends to have that effect on many people,” Severus said at last, seeming to have understood the silent response.

Draco wasn’t going to reply, but words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord an instant later. “My parents—” he choked out. “They—they just stood by. They did nothing, while—while—”

He was unable to continue, so horrid was the thought. If it had been only him and Severus, he could have understood. He’d been given a task, and he’d failed. Thus, he’d been punished. But that his parents had been there, that they had stood by without so much as a word to try and stop what everyone in that room knew would happen…

“If it’s any consolation, Draco,” Severus said after a world-weary sigh, “they weren’t at liberty to do anything.”

“Don’t make excuses for them,” Draco said, and the words came out harsher than he’d intended them to. He barely remembered leaving that dreadful place, but he’d been cognizant enough to retain a few flashes of his parents’ faces. And it wasn’t concern that he’d seen on his father’s features—only discontent and disgust. And there had been nothing on his mother’s icy exterior, as usual. They hadn’t said or done anything to help him—only Severus had.

“It’s complicated, the—”

“What’s bloody complicated about it, Severus?” Draco roared. “They did nothing, said nothing. They just stood by and watched it happen. And then they just looked down on me like I wasn’t even worthy of being their son.” He was well aware that he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, but he couldn’t stop himself. Months of repressed anxiety and fear were getting the better of him, it seemed. “It’s simple enough to understand; it’s not complicated at all. Not a word—not even a gesture of comfort. They gave me nothing! My own parents.” He was crying now—he could feel it, but still, he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. “My own parents, Severus! And they did nothing. Why? Why?”

Draco couldn’t help asking that one word even as tears turned into sobs, and all the pain that he felt came pouring out. And his godfather mustn’t have had the answer for it, either, for he kept quiet. But he had something better to offer. Sitting up, Severus was by Draco’s side an instant later, and he wrapped the crying boy in his arms as he kept pleadingly asking why.

Though the pain seemed to want to tear at his heart until it was no more than a gaping, bleeding hole, Draco was keenly aware of Severus’ presence by his side. The familiar woody and herbaceous scent that came from spending hours hunched over boiling cauldrons; the deep velvety voice that was impossibly his as it murmured a litany of shushing words; the warmth that brought back so many memories of earlier, better times. This was his Severus again: the man who’d always been there for him as far back as he remembered. The one who carved little figurines for him to play with when he was a child and never complained about reading the same inane bedtime story over and over again every time he visited. The man he didn’t want to be forced to lose ever again.

“Please don’t go, Severus,” Draco heard himself plead through the sobs. “Please don’t go again.” He felt his godfather’s strong arms tighten around his shoulder, and he buried himself deeper within his embrace even as his fingers grabbed fistfuls of his dark robes. “Please. Please. Please don’t go again.”

It wasn’t until Draco felt the chin resting above his head nod that he allowed himself to be comforted enough to let go of some of the fear. And it took him long minutes to get his breathing back under enough control for sleep to claim him.

***

Draco was once more alone in Severus’ bed when he woke up the next day. Casting a quick Tempus, he saw that, though it had already started, breakfast wasn’t over yet, and he still had time to be ready for class. Looking around, he found no note or sandwich. So, he let himself out of his godfather’s rooms. After a quick change of clothes, he joined his comrades in the Great Hall for however many bites he’d have time for before he had to head to Transfiguration.

He only saw Severus in passing during the day and received little more than a nod of acknowledgement from the man. Unsure once more where they stood, Draco suffered through his classes in silence. He got his answer that evening, though, when he found a book on his pillow that was most definitely not his. It was a leather-bound volume from a Muggle author who’d chosen to use a set of initials instead of a first name. It was a story about elves that didn’t behave like any he knew and a boy who’d been given an impossible task to accomplish. It was Severus’ copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.