The summon to Professor Snape’s office had somewhat thrown him off. Though he’d seen it coming a mile away, Draco remained surprised that his Head of House hadn’t waited for their first day at school to end before requesting that Draco come to see him.

Eager much? he thought sarcastically as he left the Slytherin common room to make his way to his godfather’s private quarters further down in the dungeons. Can’t wait to grill me on everything that’s happened during the holidays, I bet.

Severus Snape’s office was in the image of the Potions Master’s classroom: dark, ominous, and covered with jars that sported stomach-churning content of the mummified variety. After about a month of tolerating Lord Voldemort and his cohort at Malfoy Manor, Draco did not wish to see any more creatures of the twisted and macabre sort. Thus it was that he decided to show up directly to Severus’ den.

Few students had ever seen the man’s private rooms. But Draco had been let in more than once, on the account that the two were, in a way, family. He hadn’t been invited in years, though; their relationship was not what it used to be.

What did it used to be? he asked himself on the way. His inner voice sounded harsh and reproachful and he reminded himself that he wasn’t being fair to Severus; his sour godfather had tried to be there for him. There was a time when he didn’t miss a birthday and always sent something for Christmas. That habit had long since been broken, relegated to the background to make room for more pressing matters, such as the resurrection of the Dark Lord and the war it rekindled. But there was no denying that Severus had tried.

It was no great loss, though; his godfather’s presents had always paled compared to the ones he got from his parents and other relatives. Severus’ gifts were of the homemade variety. When Draco was little, they consisted of charmed, sculpted figurines that came to life at a tap from his wand. When he’d become too old to play with toys, Draco had been given useful Potions that couldn’t be found anywhere else.

Trifle things, the whole lot of them, Draco told himself as he neared the gloomy passageway that led to the man’s sanctum. Stupid things I ought to have thrown away.

Standing in front of a cobblestone wall so dark that it appeared black, Draco pulled out his wand to trace the intricate pattern that would reveal the door leading to Severus’ living room. It shimmered into existence as the veil hiding it lifted, and Draco tapped twice at its surface with his wand to signal his presence.

The Potions professor waited a good five minutes to answer it—though Draco knew it would only take him half a minute, maybe less, to make it from his office to this door. He’d been kept waiting on purpose. When the door swung open, it revealed a brooding wizard with crossed eyebrows and pinched lips.

Draco was so used to the affected look that it washed over him like gentle rain. In return, he beamed at his godfather with a cheerful smile that was just as fake. “Evening, Severus,” he said, not thinking twice about addressing his Head of House by his first name. “You wanted to see me?”

The Potions Master’s face darkened as he moved to the side to let the blond in. Draco’s apparent good humour unnerved him further. The more Severus’ expression soured, the more Draco smiled.

Walking in as if he owned the place, the young wizard proceeded to the dark-brown leather sofa that faced the lit fireplace. He had half a mind to ask the brooding potioneer to serve him a drink. But he held himself back, knowing some limits were better not to be crossed—if he wanted to keep breathing.

Severus sat in a nearby, matching, well-worn armchair, crossing his arms over his chest as he did. His silence indicated that he wanted Draco to go first in the verbal joust that was sure to follow.

Draco pondered what to lead with. He was half-tempted to question the man’s absence from the seasonal festivities that happened at Malfoy Manor. As far as he knew, Severus hadn’t attended once. Or if he had, he’d been careful not to be seen. “What did you want to know?” he asked at last. The question lacked originality, he knew. But he could feel a headache settling in, and he wanted this imposed discussion over and done with quickly.

Two could play this game, it would seem, for Severus chose an equally direct route to address his concern. “Show me your arm,” he demanded, his tone cold and dispassionate.

Years of practice were put to good use as Draco feigned surprise. He rose both of his fully clothed arms a few inches above his bent legs and wiggled his fingers for good measure.

Severus was unamused. “You know what I want to see.”

And Draco did—of course he did. Not that he would take it easy on his Head of House; after all, he was a Slytherin, too. “You’ll have me remove my clothes now? How improper, Professor,” he replied with mock-seriousness, his tone more haughty than offended.

The Potions Master leaned forward slightly, his presence imposing and looming despite his seated stance. How he managed to pull that off, Draco could never understand. Was it the coarse, stringy black hair? he wondered. Did it add to the voluminous black ensemble he wore? Or was it the discomfort produced by his unfathomable obsidian eyes, the large, hooked nose, and sallow skin?

“Don’t test my patience, Draco,” Severus said, his tone lowering an octave.

Draco knew to heed that warning, and he rolled up his left sleeve. Despite his better judgement, he felt his smile vanish as more and more of the dark ink was revealed on the inner side of his pale forearm. It was a tattoo of a skull with a long, winding snake protruding from its mouth like a tongue. Magical, like everything else in their lives, the snake slithered faintly about under Draco’s close scrutiny.

Not wanting to see the Dark Mark further, and curious as to Severus’ expression, Draco kept his silver eyes on the other wizard’s obsidian ones as he turned his arm over. The Potions Master’s eyes narrowed at the revealed pale expanse of skin, and something akin to pain flickered within his dark orbs. It lasted only an instant, but Draco had been watching the man intently, and he caught it, same as he detected the short gasp that passed his slightly parted lips.

It wasn’t his parents’ pride or the manic grin his aunt, Bellatrix, had sported on her face when the Dark Lord had inflicted his dark signature on him. If only for an instant, Severus had shown surprise, pain, and a sliver of regret. And that, coming from a man of his ilk, was like a long monologue on how he felt about the subject.

Finally, clueing in on Draco’s scrutiny of his person, Severus shot to his feet to slink away, his black robes following him like a flurry of dark, angry wings. Stopping by the small kitchenette niched in the wall left of the corridor leading to his bedroom, his godfather opened a cabinet to take out a glass and a bottle of amber liquor.

“You’re an idiot,” he said as he poured himself a drink. His tone was little more than a whisper.

Though he knew that it was futile, Draco felt like defending himself. The idea of his godfather criticising him—and on that particular subject, no less—didn’t sit well with him. You’re one to talk, Draco wanted to say. But he went with the more gracious, “It’s not like I had a choice, and you know it.”

Not wanting to see the reaction that sentence garnered on the sour man’s face, Draco turned away, and his gaze became lost in the fire. There’d never been any choice for him, and they both knew it. Ever since the Dark Lord had returned, him joining the Death Eaters had never been a matter of if but when.

That didn’t stop Draco from feeling the shame that the sodding mark produced in him every time he looked at it, and he hurried to smooth his sleeve back over it. It was the symbol of his enslavement, the proof that he was no better than his father and all the other wizards who grovelled at the feet of the half-breed monstrosity that had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor.

A moment later, a glass of liquor appeared in his line of sight, held up by a pair of pale, long, familiar-looking fingers. Without glancing up at his godfather, Draco took the drink from him. Bringing the glass to his lips, he took a large swallow, discovering that it was whisky—and a good vintage, at that.

When Severus’ now-empty fingers resettled themselves on his shoulder, something stirred within him. For the briefest moment, Draco felt like a child all over again—a small child who never thought of Severus as an imposing figure despite the huge height difference. A child who openly sought the older wizard’s odd bouts of affection every chance he got and managed to cram in way more hugs than anyone else would have thought possible. A child who’d requested evening bedtime stories, who’d adored the dark-haired man’s mild, deep, velvety baritone. Severus’ gentler voice, one he hadn’t heard in years, was now permanently laced with tension.

But Draco wasn’t a child anymore; he’d joined the world of adults through the most barbaric rite of passage. Holding onto his drink with slightly more strength than necessary, he tilted what remained of the whisky into his mouth, rejoicing at how it burned on the way down.

Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy, he thought. And siding with power was what they did best, after all. They aligned themselves with the winning side, regardless of the dubious morality of their actions—as long as it benefited them in the long run.

What now? Draco wanted to ask. What happens to me now? But he didn’t have the strength to voice his thoughts aloud. So he remained silent as Severus let him go and returned to his chair. He knew the answer already; they both did. Now, Draco would do as he’d been told. He’d find a way to fulfil his mission or die trying—the effect of an unacceptable failure.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said, placing the empty glass on the low coffee table. Then he stood up and sauntered back to the front door.

Draco had his hand on the handle when Severus called out his name. He stopped, looking back to peer over his shoulder at the older wizard. His godfather was staring at him, his expression at first guarded, then faintly anxious. If he didn’t know Draco’s mission yet, he could certainly guess at its nature. Did he fear that he wouldn’t be able to carry out the deed? That he would fail?

Steeling his own features, the blond arched one of his eyebrows questioningly.

“You’ll have to be careful from now on, Draco. I won’t be able to protect you in these circles,” he explained kindly, his tone a stark contrast to his harsh demeanour.

The young wizard almost scoffed at the words. When had Severus ever tried protecting him, anyway? Sure, everyone seemed in agreement that the Slytherin Head of House was a bit more lenient towards him than he was towards—well, everyone else. But Draco was the best at Potions in the entire House, and he’d always figured that was part of the reason. Other than that, Severus Snape had never shown Draco any more kindness than his other students.

When it became clear Severus wouldn’t say anything more, Draco let himself out.