Draco was used to having to watch his back; he’d done it most of his life. But he could usually relax when in Slytherin’s quarters. Sometimes he’d hang out in the common room for a few drinks and games, or he’d have a few laughs with his dormmates before nightfall.

His uncompromising rebuke of Pansy Parkinson had changed all that. He had no idea what the tart had told everyone else when he’d refused her advances. But it had changed the precarious dynamics of the inner House. There was no river to be cried over Pansy’s poor, hurt feelings; she’d been quick to replace him with Blaise Zabini—quite possibly that very night, Draco surmised. Nevertheless, something imperceptible had shifted around him. The insistent looks that tracked his movements were one thing, and the silences when he neared groups of comrades engaged in discussions were another. Are they afraid of me? he wondered? Quite possibly, yes.

Of all the sons and daughters of Death Eaters in attendance, he was, after all, the only one who’d taken the mark. Children were rarely inducted before they reached the age of majority, but the Dark Lord had made an exception for Draco—probably at Lucius’ insistence. Or maybe it was a direct result of his one-of-a-kind position at the centre of the enemy’s lair, where he was in the perfect spot to strike from within.

Either way, his mark had upset the balance and forced Draco to include additional steps in his nightly rituals. On his bed, he placed several Repelling Charms that joined the Silencio he used to keep his nightmares to himself. Then, once the green drapes were closed, he magically sealed them together and strengthened their thickness to something akin to metal.

He was truly alone now. Well—he still had Crabbe and Goyle’s allegiance, of course. But it was only that. There had never been any genuine friendship between the trio. There had been nothing more than their respective parents’ influences—a mirror reflection of the Death Eaters’ own interactions. Mr Crabbe and Mr Goyle responded to Lucius Malfoy in much the same way that their sons answered to him.

***

January morphed into February, and snow thawed on the grounds of Hogwarts. The Quidditch game against Ravenclaw was fast approaching, and their Captain, Urquhart, put in a request to double their training sessions. Their Head of House—who didn’t seem to like that his snakes were currently at the bottom of the scoreboard—granted it.

Unable to indulge in the sport anymore, Draco found an excuse to bow out of the team entirely. When he heard a few days later that Harper had replaced him, he knew his godfather could kiss goodbye any hopes he had of housing the Quidditch Cup in his quarters come summer. As it stood, Slytherin would be lucky not to finish last.

Draco had always liked Quidditch; it was the one good thing that was truly his. His talent and, frankly, out-of-this-world abilities weren’t a result of his father’s wealth. They were all his own work—unlike his education, his fine-tailored clothes, and even his haircut. Nothing in his life was his but his ability to play Quidditch.

Sure, his father may have paid for his broom—and the brooms of everyone else on the team—but he was the one flying it, and he knew he bested any other seeker in a race, even on an old Cleansweep. Except for the Potter brat, of course. Boy Wonder, it turned out, was just as good as he was—but then the Fates did like to throw him the odd curveball every now and then.

It had hurt to let go of Quidditch—even more so that it wasn’t really his decision. But it had been made clear to him, over the Christmas break, where his priorities lay—and it wasn’t on the pitch. It was in a dusty old room, piled to the ceiling with long-forgotten knickknacks.

The note he found in his quarters at the end of class, which requested he meet his Head of House at once, was a surprise. Maybe the old chap wanted his chance at holding the Quidditch Cup more than Draco had thought. Steeling his features into his usual mask of nonchalance, he made his way to Severus’ door—the door to his private quarters, of course. The note’s commanding tone had ruffled Draco’s feathers, and his godfather could make it up to him by sharing his good whisky again.

After the usual swishing of the wand and knocking, the Potions Master let him in, and Draco made his way to the sofa. Severus sat in his habitual armchair, and a heavy silence fell over them. His godfather was a man of few words, and he liked dilly-dallying even less. So Draco expected him to waste no time and dive headfirst into the matter at hand. But Severus remained obtusely silent as he stared at the flames in the grate.

Unwilling to play whatever game the older man had in mind, Draco put an end to the silence before it became oppressive. “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked. “If it’s about Quidditch, you can save your breath. I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

When Severus remained mute, Draco pinned him with his gaze, knowing it was bound to annoy him to the point of action. Besides, if his Head of House wouldn’t talk, he could try to determine some other way to discover why he’d been summoned. The dark-haired wizard looked more tired than he’d expected. The creases at the corner of his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and the skin beneath his lashes was a darker hue. He’d lost some weight, too, if the hollowness of his cheeks was any indication.

Physical clues were all Draco could gain from his close scrutiny. Severus was Occluding something fierce, and all his emotions had been locked tight behind the thick curtains of his lashes. Yet his lips remained tightly pressed together. A little too tightly, Draco noted, and that was a clue, all right. It showed that Severus wanted to talk to him, and yet he didn’t. He was forcefully preventing himself, it would seem.

Now that he’d found his opening, the boy dove in. “What did you want to talk to me about? Quidditch?” he demanded.

“I do not care the least bit about Quidditch,” the man replied at last before pressing his lips together once more. But it was too late. His tone had provided Draco with another clue. It hadn’t been the dark, scathing one he liked to use on unsuspecting students. Nor was it the bland, unaffected tone he resorted to when forced into adult discussions he had no interest in. His voice had held a wealth of emotions, and Draco replayed the sentence in his head a few times to dissect the syllables. There had been anguish there—a sure sign that his godfather was genuinely troubled by something. And so Draco waited for more.

“Your back’s against the wall, isn’t it? You’ve made no headway?” Severus asked at last, and Draco sneered at the words.

He’d never liked being made to feel like a failure, and somehow, that it came from Severus Snape, of all people, hurt even more. He’d asked him here only to criticise him—to berate him for his lack of success. Well, now Draco knew where they stood with each other. His memories of his caring, kind godfather were just that—memories. Severus was no longer on his side, and he’d stopped giving two Knuts about his wellbeing long ago. And Draco didn’t even know what he’d done wrong to earn himself the cold-shoulder treatment.

“I’ve still got time,” he protested. And he did—even if it was running out faster than food on Crabbe’s plate.

The Potions Master glanced his way, looking down at Draco’s forearm, and his obsidian eyes became fixed on the thick black wool of his robes. The Dark Mark wasn’t on display, but they both knew it was there just the same. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he continued sternly as his eyes steadfastly held on.

Draco saw his throat stir as if he wanted to say more, but the Potions Master’s thin, pale lips remained tightly closed. Severus’ emotionless face made it hard to tell if he was angry or simply deeply disappointed. Draco tried to meet his eyes, but Severus looked away, choosing instead to focus his attention on the flames dying a slow death in the fireplace.

Can’t even look at me anymore, can you? Draco thought bitterly. Wasn’t that just grand? Pain surged in him so violently his own lips almost parted to let out the ugly truth, the desperate aching need he felt in his very core.

Help me—please help me, Severus.

He bit his tongue so hard to keep the words at bay that he tasted blood.

He’s going to kill me. Please—I don’t want to die.

But Draco wasn’t a needy child anymore, and he couldn’t run to adults with his every problem. So he remained quiet and smothered the inner voice until it squeaked into submission.

“Do you require assistance—with your task?” Severus asked eventually. And this time, the dark timbre of his voice was so cryptic that Draco doubted anyone but Severus himself could have made sense of it.

“Not from you,” he replied, standing up. He gulped down the blood in his mouth so that it wouldn’t stain his teeth. “You can report back that I’m working as fast as I can. That blasted old thing is a nightmare. But I’ll find a way to sort it out, and the Dark Lord will have what he wants.”

Something shifted on Severus’ face at his words, something that Draco refused to acknowledge as a display of pain. It was so brief that he convinced himself that it must have been a trick of the light. Without another word, he turned on his heel to see himself out.

His godfather did nothing to stop him, and Draco was out of the man’s rooms in no time. He’d planned to go directly to his dorm, but didn’t object when his feet took him to the stairs leading back to the ground floor instead. Minutes later, he was out of the front door and into the cold February night.

Despite the chill in the air, Draco took a deep, long breath and held it in for a few seconds before exhaling. Then he repeated the action two more times, realising that he had needed that. A breath of fresh air—and the illusion that there was some freedom left in his life and not everyone was trying to control him.

His head was a mess of conflicting thoughts. He couldn’t reconcile Severus’ behaviour with what he knew of him. Most of it was on par with the man he knew him to be, but the odd piece here and there simply refused to fit in with the rest of the jigsaw. Severus’ hesitance was foreign to him, and there had been a moment when he’d seemed to genuinely care. That, too, was an odd display for him. Had he been trying to trick him? Was he playing some kind of twisted mind-game on him? Was it an ill-concealed attempt to gain his trust to better keep him on a tight leash? What was he hoping to gain? Did he think Draco would now come and pour his heart and soul out to him, reveal his every hesitation and doubts, just so that he could be punished with another bout of Cruciatus when he next met his Lord? Did he really think that Draco was that stupid?

It hurt—damn, the colliding thoughts hurt. But when tears sprung into Draco’s eyes, he blamed them on the cold, biting February air. Severus was his godfather; he was family—once. He should have been on his side—like his parents. But he, too, had shown where his true allegiances lay, and it turned out that, these days, family meant little anymore.

Taking a few steps forward into the sluggish snow that blanketed the courtyard, Draco turned on his heel to face the imposing facade of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It loomed tall and imposing in front of him, and he felt small and desperate as he faced it—and alone. So utterly alone.

He was backed into a tight corner, and the walls were closing in on him. His time was running out, and the Damocles sword magically held above his head swung lower and lower.

***

Increasingly, Potter was proving to be an annoyance. It was no secret that the two had it in for each other and got into a fight—verbal or physical—every chance they got. But their little game had stopped being fun a long time ago.

Everywhere Draco went, there was the shaggy-haired brat with an eye out for him. Merlin, but it had gotten to the point where he wasn’t even trying to be discreet about it anymore. Granger and Weasley had apparently given up on trying to get Boy Wonder to change his mind, too, for they were conspicuously absent most of the time. Or perhaps they were too busy snogging in a corner or something. Not that Draco thought they would do much more than that. He’d bet a Galleon Ms I’m-all-brains was too prudish to consider taking her clothes off, and the weasel too clumsy-fingered to do more than attempt to lethargically eat his way down her throat.

Gryffindor’s hero, constantly breathing down Draco’s neck, remained a nuisance. And boy, was he good at tailing him. Whenever Draco tried giving him the slip, Potter invariably found him again in no time—like they were playing some twisted game of hide-and-seek. So much so that Draco wondered if Potter had placed a Magical Trace on him or something. He’d checked one evening but found nothing to explain the prat’s uncanny ability to keep track of him through the meandering hallways full of bustling students going from one class to the next. Potter was just that good, it would seem.

The only times he managed to move freely anymore were after curfew. While Draco had no qualms about breaking the rules to relocate to the seventh floor to get more work done, it seemed that Gryffindor courage only went so far.

And so the young Slytherin had been forced to revise his schedule to work around Potter’s attempt at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He stopped trying to get to the Room of Requirement during daylight hours, instead spending time in the library or in the dorms, where he studied schematics and spells older and dustier than the cobweb in the Room of Lost Things. But come nightfall, he moved to the seventh floor to put what he’d studied during the day into practice.

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but he couldn’t afford to have Potter discover what he was up to. The tattletale would run back to the headmaster at once, eager to spill the beans to get his reward Lemon Drop. Merlin knew, he’d probably earn a couple of hundred extra points for Gryffindor in the process.

***

It was later than he’d intended when Draco reached the seventh-floor hallway. Though it was dimly lit, he found his way effortlessly. He’d been coming to the Room of Requirement so often that he could have done it in pitch-black darkness.

Draco had found a new spell in an old carpentry book that he wanted to try. It was said to be able to restore the cellulose in the wood to a near-pristine condition. If that didn’t work, he’d try good old-fashioned polish and elbow grease next. That was how desperate he was to make the blasted thing work.

Distracted as he was by his own thoughts, he never saw his teacher coming until it was too late, and he’d been backed into a corner, a brightly lit wand-tip in his face. Whoever was facing him had started in on his or her rounds early.

Heart pounding in his chest, eyes burning in pain, Draco brought a shaking hand up to shield his gaze from the blazing light.

“You better have a good explanation, Mr Malfoy,” his attacker said, “or points will be deducted from Slytherin House.”

Soft-spoken as it had been, the woman’s voice was unmistakable. The reserved tone and slight French accent told him that he’d been caught by their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Leen Nine.

“Mind lowering your light, Professor Nine?” he asked as he wracked his brain for a suitable reply.

“Ah, désolée,” she said, and Draco realised this had to be the first time he’d ever heard her speaking French. The light dimmed, and she moved her wand to the side for good measure.

Blinking back tears, Draco could finally focus on her face. She looked as she always did. Much like their Potions Master, Nine always wore the same clothes. Her dark hair was pulled into the same tight chignon it always was. For jewellery, she wore the same sparkling earrings—though she’d added a charms bracelet during the holidays. And her blouse was the same shade of blue, regardless of the season. Severus wore his clothes like armour, Draco knew, and he wondered what her excuse was.

“Your answer?” she asked with a demanding raised eyebrow when his silence had lasted too long.

Having no believable lie to feed her, Draco went with a variant of the truth. “I had to recover something from the Room of Requirement, ma’am,” he said, thinking that if she didn’t know such a room existed, it wasn’t his problem.

She took it in stride and barely blinked at him. “And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” Her raised onyx brow stayed where it was as her eyes narrowed at him, and Draco felt studied like a Mandrake on a dissecting table. “I wonder what could be so urgent, Mr Malfoy?”

“His medicine, probably,” said a dark voice that seemed to materialise from the shadows.

Draco wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard the Potions Master arriving, and Professor Nine cowered in fear as he stepped into the light, an imposing figure clad in ample black robes. Her hand shook a little as it lowered an inch or two, and the light at the tip of her wand dimmed.

Looks like first years aren’t the only ones Severus can scare off with his mere presence, thought Draco as he fought to keep a smirk off his face.

“Medicine?” Nine asked, voice now so soft it was barely audible.

Once more, he was saved from having to reply by his godfather’s interruption. “A sensitive subject, I’m afraid,” Severus said. “One I have been appraised off as Mr Malfoy’s Head of House.”

Choosing to go along with whatever lie the man had thought of, Draco added. “I’ve run out of it, and I keep my supply here.” A pause followed that he hoped had some dramatic flair. “I need to take it every evening.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at his words. “Why would you keep it here, of all places?”

Severus lent a helping hand again. “You’ve clearly never been to the Slytherin quarters, Professor,” he said before forcing out a sigh that Draco felt was a touch too theatrical. “I am forced to admit that adherence to the rules sometimes leaves a little to be desired within my House—particularly where personal belongings are concerned. It was my suggestion that Mr Malfoy keeps his stock in a more secure location. The medicine is rather valuable, after all.”

Beautifully done, Draco thought, thankful for his godfather’s quick thinking. There would be no arguing that, and it was an excuse he could use again should he find himself in a similar situation in the future. In truth, if word got out amongst the staff of today’s incident, it would only help him.

His Defence Against the Dark Art’s professor wasn’t willing to admit to her defeat quite yet, though. “You will do well to retrieve your—valuables during the day next time, Mr Malfoy,” she said. “Or remember to ask your Head of House to accompany you, should you run in so late to take your medicine again.”

He nodded, affecting a chastised look. “Of course, Professor. I didn’t really notice the time when I left the dorms.”

“I’ll see to it that Mr Malfoy takes more care with his undertakings,” his godfather said with a pointed look that all but screamed, ‘You’re almost in the clear. Now do shut up’. “The impetuousness of youth, I’m afraid.”

Has the man just called me a child to my face? Draco wondered, feeling his blood boil. Somehow, that sentiment must have been reflected on his features, for Severus hastened to add, “We’d best be going before you land yourself in more trouble, Mr Malfoy.”

A long arm clad in black to the knuckles reached for his shoulder, and he was yanked forward until his feet followed, and he stood by his Head of House’s side. Not only had he been told he acted like a child, but he was manhandled as if he were one.

Draco had half a mind to fight himself free of the man’s tight grip. He didn’t need his help, anyway. He hadn’t needed the rescue either; he’d have found a way on his own. What did Severus Snape care what happened to him, anyway? Was he trying to make a good impression on their new teacher and look like the honourable Head of House he was supposed to be? What kind of scheme was he trying to pull off now?

Their Defence professor saw through him once more, and she doled out a warning. “These are dark days, Mr Malfoy, and help is in short supply. When someone reaches out a hand to you, it’s best not to fight it off—no matter how clumsy it is.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked away. The light from her wand disappeared with her as she rounded the next corner. It was soon replaced by a similar nonverbal Lumos burning off the tip of Severus’ wand.

Professor Nine’s parting words had stunned Draco into silence, and he let himself be led away without protest.

What did she know? he thought bitterly as a familiar rage rose in him again. Severus wasn’t trying to help him; he didn’t care. Severus was just another servant doing his master’s bidding, nothing more. And what had he been doing in the seventh-floor corridor so late at night? Had he been spying on his godson to make sure that he was toeing the line?

And what if, one day, Draco decided not to do as he was told anymore? Would Severus report him to the Dark Lord himself? Would he be the one doling out the punishment this time—a slap to the face from his hand, followed by a Cruciatus from his wand?

Deep inside of him, a broken, childlike voice sobbed, pleading for some compassion and help.

Why don’t you love me anymore?

But the voice was so small, broken, and distant that it never made it past the confines of his chest.