The same field of violets, the little girl bouncing and circling him, plucking flowers and putting them into his hair. Her smile, ever so bright, it brings sunlight to shame. He has never felt that much peace in him throughout his childhood, despite knowing he is in a dream, it won’t hurt to drown in it just a little longer.
A boy in an oversized coat comes running to them, without a word, he pulls Harry up to.
“What?” Harry hears the young boy say something, but instead of words it is a series of gurgling, like it is spoken under a lake, or with a mouthful of water.
“You need to go, Harry.”
Harry looks back, a body with limbs splayed out, switching between the red-haired girl and a woman whose t-shirt was covered in dust, her dead green eyes staring straight at her son, speaking without the pale lips moving.
The young boy once again pulls him away from the scene as he staggers backward, small but calloused hands hold onto his arm tightly, and breaks into a run. Harry let the boy lead him away, trying to catch a glimpse of the younger’s face, but it is hidden beneath slick locks of black.
Harry turns his head back for a brief moment, the serpentine face of Voldermort hovering above his mother’s now skeletonized body, surrounding violets withering away. The boy with black hair shouts something at him, and runs even faster. Harry could feel the hair at his back standing up as he senses his enemy catching up to them.
They soon come to an abrupt halt at the border at the flowers, yet instead of the stark field of white, they're met with a cliff, alongside a bottomless pit.
“You cannot run forever, Harry Potter.” says the face of his enemy, who stops, just a couple feet behind them, “no one escapes the inevitable.”
A low rumbling sound rings across the now barren plains, thousands of charred bones, like water from a breached dam, rushing towards the two, Harry hugs the scrawny boy close to himself without a second to spare. Yet with a sudden burst of strength, the boy pries out of his arms and pushes him towards the abyss.
“NO!” his voice booming across the darkness that engulfs him as he falls, the boy at the edge of the cliff watching from above, gives him a meek smile until it is submerged by the wave of bones.
“Harry… Harry…” the abyss calls.
“Wake up.”
His head crashes into another man’s as he jolts awake from the nightmare.
“Prongslet…hello to you too.”
“Sirius…wha-”
“Tried to wake you up,” Sirius grimaces, rubbing his forehead “You were tossing around…no wonder you and James were fine falling off brooms all the time, that skull can kill.”
The man drags a stool over and sits next to the nightstand, picking up the glasses and gently gliding the temple tips to the boy’s ears. He grins at the confusion on his godson’s face, and slowly pulls him into a tight embrace, feeling thinner arms wrapping his waist a moment later.
“Thanks” Harry pressed his face onto Sirius’ shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of cologne and cigarettes, “what time is it?”
“Well,” the other man casts a quick Tempus, “it’s almost 2 in the afternoon, Poppy said you’d probably sleep for another day, but here you are.” he pauses, and cups the boy’s cheek, grey eyes searching for any lingering bruises, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
A renewed sense of relief washes over Harry like a brief summer shower, desperately holding the tears that are starting to pool in his eyes, he looks away, but the older man didn’t miss the choked chuckle he let out.
Sirius encompasses him once more, “Shh…shh… you’re here Harry, you’re safe.”.
With that, Harry decides that Sirius probably expensive coat doesn’t matter too much.
Their quiet moment is soon interrupted by thundering footsteps, and a loud bang at the infirmary door.
“Harry!”
“Mate you’re awake!”
“Harrykins!”
“Oh, my sweet darling!”
“My boy, glad to see you up and well.”
“Mister Potter, thank Merlin!”
One moment he is still in Sirius’ arms, then the other his face is buried in a mix of his best friends’ bushy hair and bright red handmade sweater, surrounded by Remus, the rest of the Weasleys, his head of the house, Dumbledore…
As much as he tries to calm Hermione’s quiet sobs, he can’t help but get emotional again, his heart is a bit overwhelmed by the newfound sense of security.
“Everybody move and cease shouting!” an angry hiss came out of the cyan partition screen opposite to the crowd, Madame Pomfrey (not so discreetly) stomps towards Harry’s bed, shooing off the people around the white linen bed. “There’re other patients here.”
Harry pats Hermione at the shoulder, who is still clinging onto him like a lifeline and sniffing, in which he sends an apologetic grin at the matron.
The older woman clears her throat, setting her arms on her hips, “Miss Granger, you can hug him as much as you want after I check on Mister Potter, if you’d please.”
The two Gryffindors immediately pull themselves off their friend at the command of the healer, looking sheepish.
Harry lets Madame’s wand scan all across him along with an extending piece of parchment on right, while smiling a bit at Dumbledore’s comforting grasp at his relaxed hand.
After what feels like ages of silence, Madame Pomfrey withdraws her wand and glances at the paper, everyone seems to release a breath at her now soft features.
“Well Mister Potter, as far as I’m concerned, nothing seems to be amiss, though, for safety measures, I suggest you should stay here for another full day.” She says, emphasis on the word “suggest”. “Do you feel otherwise uncomfortable?”
“Just a minor headache, and a bit exhausted.”
Madame Pomfrey hums, “What do you remember before waking up?”
Everyone’s gaze on the boy becomes more intense.
“Er… I was in a forest, Voldermor- sorry, You-Know-Who was there with some other people, and then Snape-”
“Professor Snape, Mister Potter.”
“We kinda flew… and then apparated? Then I woke up in a sea of blood…”
Madame Pomfrey immediately looks back at the parchment.
“Ah Poppy, that would be Tom’s doing.” Dumbledore smiles at the healer jovially, blue eyes twinkling.
“Professor Dumbledore was there, and so is Sna- Professor Snape, I woke up again…”
What was it?
“In the Headmaster’s office.”
“No, somewhere else before that, maybe it was still a vision? But more pleasant.”
The older woman reluctantly nods, gesturing him to continue.
“Then I was laying on the floor at the office, and then Professor Snape-”
the man curled to his side, squirming and shaking in pain, his breath erratic, blood occasionally spurts through the clutched wound.
“ Let…Cissa…” The professor chokes out, blood and sweat trailing down to his ears, dripping onto the floor.
“Vulnera Sanentur…Vulnera Sanentur…”
“Is… Is he okay?” Harry looks at the healer, then sweeps his gaze towards the others.
Both Dumbledore and McGonagall look at the school matron, the Gryffindor Head of House’s brows knitted, while the older man’s eyes lose their twinkle.
Madame Pomfrey pauses, then gives Harry a smile, albeit a very professional one.
“I can handle the professor. Have some rest, Mister Potter, and keep it down, you lot.” she says, moving away from his bead after giving a pointed look to the crowd, and signals the two colleagues to follow her, walking towards the partition.
“God’s Harry you scared us all to death!” Hermione gives a light punch at his arm, grinning at him with wet eyes.
"Sorry Mione, how come you're here though, I thought you were back at home?"
“Well, definitely not the first time, isn’t it?” Remus cut's in and hands the boy a chocolate bar from his coat’s inner pocket, Harry feels odd at the change of topic, but he happily accepts and starts unwrapping it.
Honeydukes. He remembers the one he ate at the cell.
“Well, there’s the stone, Basilisk, Buckbeak, then there’s the tourna-”
The Weasley twin slaps their younger brother at the back of his head simultaneously, while Hermoine punches him in the arm, and Mrs. Weasley glares at her son.
“Sorry mate.” He mumbles.
“Yeah.” Harry looks at a specific crease on the blanket, doing his best to move the corner of his mouth upwards, and takes a bite off the chocolate, which tasted like ash.
“Well… mind telling us how you two escape Voldiekins?” George rests his elbow on Fred’s shoulder, while Harry is trying to stop laughing at the name and choking on the candy bar.
“George!”
“I’m Fred, dearest mother.” giving her the widest grin.
“Snape uh…came to me when I was being held in a cell.” Harry savors the steadily blooming sweetness at his tongue. “He came in the second time, gave me some potions and chocolate.”
Harry tells their looks without facing them.
“Malfoy Senior came in, they argued and Snape convinced him to go to Dumbledore. Where is he now by the way? I think I saw him at the office.”
“The Malfoys are currently detained and monitored in the dungeons.” Mister Weasley says, face lights up with a hint of merriment.
“Oh you should have seen their faces,” Ron grins ear to ear, “Those prats got tied up on the floor before you came in, and begged, can you imagine? Malfoys begging, so much for being ‘the elites of society.”
For a brief moment, Harry recalls the scene of Malfoy’s surrounding the professor, comforting words spilling from their normally venomous lips.
“And then?” Ginny asks.
“There’s this madwoman, Bellatrix Lestrange.”
“My insane cousin, the epitome of the Black Madness, broke out of Azkaban early in the holidays.” Sirius nods.
“She led me out into the woods, there’s like this bonfire with other death eaters surrounding it, including…him. He tied me onto a stake then stared at me, and my scar hurt like hell.”
Remus’s eyes flash bright amber at that, alongside Sirius’ low growl.
“Before that, they all drank a vial of something that Snape brewed.”
“Did you drink it?” Sirius holds onto Harry’s shoulder in an instant.
“Yeah, but I feel pretty fine.” Harry shrugs.
“He could have given you poison!”
“If it’s poison Poppy would have known just now, Padfoot.”
“It’s the dark arts Moony! And Snivellous made it! Harry could be dying!”
“Sirius, you should trust Albus, if not Severus.” Mrs. Weasley says, the last part lighter than the mention of Dumbledore.
“After a moment,” Harry waits until his godfather calms down again, “Snape kinda flew me up above the woods? I think he side-long apparated somehow and then landed us both in Dumbledore’s office."
“Ha!” Sirius barks, “Snape on a bloody broom, that's the sight I'd pay to see. He didn’t even join the class in fourth year, nor Quidditch, bastard can’t even fly straight.”
“Severus can ride a broom, and he was not that bad at it until someone decided it was funny to jinx his broom, he fell off mid-air and broke his leg in third year, so he stopped taking it.” Remus kicks Sirius in the shin, who looks away at the questioning glares sent towards him “I didn’t see a broom bursting through the window though?”
Harry, still processing the information about Sirus and the jinxed broom, feels a sense of familiarity from what Quirrel did to him at his first Quidditch match.
Maybe that’s why he knows the counter-curse?
“Snape didn’t use a broom, he sorta just…flew?”
“Flying without a broom?” Ron's eyes go wide at that
“I’ve read about someone named Jarlet Hobart using a levitation charm on himself to fly unassisted, it didn’t work out though,” Hermione says.
“I didn’t hear him say the spell,” Harry shrugs again, “he just held me and took off.”
“Bloody hell, imagine-“
“Flying like that instead of using a broom in Quidditch.”
“Think he’ll be-”
“Up to give us lessons?” Fred finishes the sentence for George.
“Quidditch without brooms being smashed mid-air is no fun, that’s just Three Broomsticks without Rosmerta.”
Everyone chuckles at Sirius’s flair of dramatics, yet Harry can’t help but stare and wonder about the happenings behind the partition screen at the opposite side of the room.
He sees Dumbledore’s arm around McGonagall’s shoulder, whose fist is clenched, the other hand removing her golden spectacles, shaking. Madame Pomfrey is hidden behind the cyan fabric, though judging by the red-stained cloth she just put into the water basin, things are pretty dire.
“He’ll be fine, Minerva.” Harry hears the grandfatherly whisper.
McGonagall steps out of the screen, takes in a deep breath, and gives an absent nod towards the man.
“Hey, that’s Snape you’re looking at, he’ll probably wake up and make us scrub cauldrons tomorrow.” Ron smiles wryly at where Harry’s sight settled on.
“Singing while blood practically pours down from his head too.” Sirius sneers, his nose wrinkled as if he smells something pungent.
“What?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I was in a dream of some sort when I heard someone singing,” Harry shudders, it’s soothing melody still lingering in his mind
“Yep, holding your hand and singing to you and your sweet dreams.” George slaps Harry at the back of his hand. “Who knew dungeon bats can sing.”
“Professor Dumbledore told me about it, it’s in Latin, but even he hasn't heard of it before, maybe it’s some kind of old magic?” Hermione suggests, stifling a laugh.
“Yep, dark magic,” Sirius shakes his head vehemently, “He’s Snape, and he hates Harry, maybe we should have Poppy scan him again.”
“Merlin Pads, no, he sang that to Lily bef-” Cutting the sentence off, Remus slaps his hand to his mouth.
“My mum? They knew each other?”
[ Petunia? ] Snape’s voice comes up in his brain, his aunt’s name rolls off his tongue with disgust and contempt.
“We were all in the same year, but I think they knew each other before Hogwarts.” Remus’s kind smile is now back on his face, a little wider at the teenager's shocked expressions. “I’m not at the liberty to tell you anything else, perhaps Severus will if he’s comfortable to do so.”
Yeah of course he will.
“Times up! Let the boy rest!” Madame Pomfrey comes stomping back, “No buts Mr. Black, Mr. Weasley.” She pushes Harry down, pulling the white covers up, and dousing him with a small flask of dreamless sleep.
“I’ll see you later tonight then Harry,” Remus brushes the fringes off Harry’s eyes, Sirius, now in his dog form lets out a soft, but cheery bark before whining and leaving at the scarred man’s gesture. The crowd too disperses after more hugs and well-wishes.
Dumbledore appears at the end of his bed, tapping lightly at the corner of the bedsheet. “Rest first my boy, let us talk in the evening.” he says in a calm and benign tone, finally leaving, the hunched figure of McGonagall in tow, closing the large wooden door with a click.
Harry's consciousness falls back into the welcoming darkness at the sound of equipment clinking and the occasional chirping outside the window.
“Full Name?”
“Severus…Tobias Snape”
“Occupation?”
“Dungeon bat of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Deep orange light streams through the tall windows of the hospital wing, while Harry woke up a while ago, he’s desperately trying to hide his smirk under the blanket at the quiet conversation at the opposite side of the room.
“Well Mister Snape, seeing your sarcasm wasn't lost to the blood that you smeared all across Albus’ office floor, I’ll take that as a good sign.” Madame Pomfrey scoffs.
“Do consider it an impromptu interior decor if you will madame, it’ll be a breather from the atrocities he calls robes.” Snape replies, although his voice is reduced to a hoarse whisper.
There’s the sound of bedsheets ruffling, and a moment of silence.
“Is the boy-”
Harry brings the covers higher at the mention.
“Mister Potter is currently resting, all injuries or whatever You-Know-Who did to his brain are gone, healed by whatever you chanted I suppose.”
“The Malfoys?”
From the gap of his squinted eyes, Harry sees Madame Pomfrey’s hands poking out of the partition, dumping another stained cloth into the basin, summons a clean one, and back into the hidden view.
“They’re the least of your concerns right now, hold still.”
“Poppy-”
The sentence is cut short by a low grunt, followed by metal rattling.
“They’re being held in your quarters, you exasperating man.” another rattle, “My scans can’t identify much, how do you feel?”
“In pain.”
“For a person in pain, you sound too calm about it.”
“You prefer I wail like a Hufflepuff first year getting scraped at the knees?”
“Severus, that…thing is cursed, and impaled a vital organ of yours.”
“And Narcissa pulled it out.”
“That woman,” Madame Pomfrey takes in a deep breath, “sees me incompetent to do my job as a healer and insisted, your bleeding only reduced with your enhanced Blood Replenisher.” she says, snapping at the last sentence.
Snape’s snort is immediately followed by a pained hiss “How long?”
“Two and a half hours ago, large flask, along with painkillers.”
Snape’s already strained breathing seems to be dulling even more.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing, apologies.
Harry releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding at the sight of a large silver phoenix gliding gracefully towards where the conversation is.
“Albus is asking for me,” Madame Pomfrey steps out into view, Harry hurries to curl back up into the sheets. “Go back to sleep, Severus.”
“Tell him–”
“Go to sleep young man,” the matron stops mid-stride, snapping her head back at the unsteady voice, “Don’t even think of sitting up.”
“As you wish, mother,” he draws.
The older woman sniffed, and resumes taking wide steps towards the exit.
Harry silently waits until the clicking boots outside the hospital wing until he can only hear Snape’s shallow breathing. He sits up and puts his Glasses on, after taking a moment to gather his Gryffindor courage, he slips into the fluffy slippers at the side of his bed and tip-toed towards the cyan partition across the dim-lit hospital wing.
“Perhaps the thought of Gryffindors attempting stealth at the presence of a spy might be futile did not pass through your brain, Mister Potter.”
Harry jolts at the worn-out voice, then with an audible gulp, he stops at the side of the nightstand next to the professor’s screened bed.
“Sir…I…uh.”
“Eloquent as ever Potter,” Snape glares through the gap of the fabrics, though it lacks the heat that’s it’s usually associated with, “what do I owe the displeasure?”
“I just want to thank you, professor, for yesterday.”
Snape goes still behind the screen.
“I’m either past delirium or in the depths of inferno.” the man ripostes “I do not require— nor appreciate your gratitude.”
Harry ponders if he should dare himself to move the partition aside or keep his face out of the man’s sight, though his inner debate is cut short by another groan.
“Sir, are you–, should I get Madame Pomfrey?”
“No Potter, you shall not disrupt them, and I can handle myself.”
Snape shifts behind the screen, yet judging by the irregular breathing Harry highly doubts the man’s words. There was an awkward pause between them after that.
“Unscathed?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You, Potter, Is your body intact.”
“Err, just a headache?”
Suddenly the screen is roughly pushed aside and a pale hand yanks Harry in, the onyx eyes stare straight into his, as the boy feels something prodding his brain. Snape lets his arm free, his body immediately went slack against the headboard, like he just finished running across the quidditch field. It came into full view that Harry realise Madame Pomfrey wasn’t exaggerating about the blood, Snape’s viciously shivering hand is pressing on top of a darkened spot of the blanket, his already pale complexion now looks translucent, bloodless lips slightly open at the occasional wheeze, the intense gaze that has been solely directed at him for the past four years is hazed and unfocused.
“Get me quill and parchment.”
“Sir,” Harry’s eyes linger on the shaking hand, “maybe I should write for you.”
Snape rolls his head back towards him and stares him down for moments like he is some kind of unsolved mystery.
“Very well, if you are capable.”
The professor proceeds to recite a whole list of potion ingredients along with brewing procedures, Harry pauses his frantic note-taking, can’t help but send worried glances each time Snape stops to catch his breath. He doesn’t care how hard he’s pressing the tip of the quill onto the parchment it’s scraping the tissue off, but only to make sure he’s writing a perfect transcript of Snape’s progressively slurred instructions.
After a long pause, and by then Harry almost thought the Professor passed out from it, the man Accio-ed the notes wordlessly into his hand, painstakingly tearing it into two parts, quill clenched in his now slightly stable hand, he scribbles something at the very corner of the smaller severed sheet.
“Have Poppy brew this for you, drink it every several hours until that head of yours ceases throbbing.” he hands the larger piece over.
“This,” Snape raises the now-folded smaller portion of parchment, “is for Lucius Malfoy in my quarters, do it discreetly, use that blasted cloak of yours if you will, the password is ‘Asphodel’ It’s urgent for both of you.”
“Yes sir.” Harry stumbles off, almost knocking the inkwell over the nightstand, but just before he steps out of the hospital wing…
“What now?” Snape hisses at the returning figure.
“Sir, just–... you knew my mum?”
Something indecipherable flashes across Snape’s eyes, though it disappears as quickly as it happened, his gaze seems to become more focused, and his lips press into a thin line, he turns his head over, back now facing the boy
“Yes.”
“Can you, tell me….”
“Merlin’s sake Potter what part of ‘urgent’ do you not understand!” Snape snaps up.
Harry does not move a step, determined to stare back at the man.
Snape lets out a deep sigh, head dropping back onto the pillow, his hand slightly relaxed above the darkened spot.
“May my demise come sooner than the time to fulfill whatever pits of curiosity you have in that head.”
“It won’t sir!” Harry bursts out of the dim-lit room and dashes towards the dungeons, missing the muffled “Insolent boy.”
Draco Malfoy is in a bad mood.
For one, he and his parents are now confined within the spaces of Severus’ quarters and monitored by people from whatever poultry group the senile old man founded.
Two, his worldview is flipped over in a matter of hours, from seeing his father’s haggard appearance when he steps into the Malfoy library at mother’s call, to the man arguing with Dumbledore about protection, and then Severus crashing in through the window with Potter, of all people, in his arms.
Blood, a lot of blood.
From the moment he can walk, Draco, the sole heir of Lucius Malfoy is taught to be an upstanding member of the elite; etiquette, academics, politics, and most importantly, “We Malfoys are purebloods, we do not allow ourselves to be tainted by those who are treacherous to the blood of our ancestors. We uphold our traditions and what is right.” is drilled firmly into his head
Oh, and “Dragon, turning the heat up or stirring faster would not hasten the brewing process.”
Yes, the Dark is where he belongs, the common goal of true Slytherins, they make their way up the ladder to achieve their destiny, to spread what is right, to make sure magic stays alive, and keep the Wixen safe from outside threats, the Dark Lord makes sure of it.
Yet sometimes, he can’t help but question why the china is shaking in father’s gloved hand at the table before he went to the ministry, the Dark Lord’s name spoken with fear, instead of admiration and reverence. Severus limped back to his office after curfew before summer, in that cloak.
“The Dark Lord has returned.” He told him over dinner at the manor one night, the first dinner in his memory where the adults didn’t bring out the champagne.
Draco is aware his parent’s picked a half-blood as a Malfoy’s godfather, not that he cares in that regard, “Malfoys only acquaint themselves with those who share their intellect, ambition, and benefits.” He remembers staying at Severus’ place in Cokeworth when his parents went abroad for business, the embodiment of “filthy and depressing”, but he doesn’t mind either, it was one of his fondest childhood memory, especially the part when his parents came to pick him and kept insisting to give the man their summer cottage until he straight up slammed the front door at his father’s face.
Being dismissed in such a manner, especially by a half-blood is humiliating, not that they cared though, “Old friend here is merely being his stubborn self.” His father smirked as they apparated away.
Worthy enough to be referred to as a friend by a Malfoy is an honor, he is an equal.
So why, the two men he looks up to the most, one begging asking a favor from their supposed enemy, and the other risking his life to protect his future master’s sworn nemesis, and more importantly, the golden boy the which man-made no qualms to show he hated?
Do I even want to wear that cloak? That cowardly whisper at the back of his head asks.
Draco puts down the mug, there’s no use warming it just to let it cool again. He walks towards the ebony bookshelves opposite the couch and lets his fingers roam freely across the worn spines across the leather-bound tomes. Unsurprisingly, the books are about potions and spell-crafting, along with a couple of theatre collections, the same ones his mother used to read to him before bed.
At the corner of his eye, a varnished wooden container the size of a shoebox catches his attention, the glossy surface stands out like a luminescent pearl in a sea of books. Much to his shame, curiosity gets the better of him, I’m bored and no harm will be done. He carefully takes the lid off, there’s the Potions Mastery certificate, the shiny badge from the International Potions Guild, pieces of parchment with two rows of handwritings divided by the printed texts in the middle, a vault key which his parents gave him but to their knowledge was never used, and–
“Merlin.”
He picks up a palm-sized hand-crafted book of some sorts, its cover made with pine green-dyed leather, with loose wax threads poking out from the badly done binds, on the cover is a hand-drawn Malfoy coat of arms with charmed silver paint, a couple drops of stray paint across the border, slightly shaky handwriting at the bottom, similar to a child who hasn’t gotten used to using a quill.
Draco flips it over, and is greeted by a family photo they took when he was three years old, charmed to stick on the loosened piece of parchment, his younger self in a white suit with leather straps at the sides along with shiny black boots, sitting on his mother’s lap and smiling at the camera, occasionally back to the woman.
She was in her old Forest green jeweled gown, the silk and silver damask ends elegantly brushed at the side while she sat on the dark ornate chair, her hair was longer back then, black and golden stands draped over the shoulder reaching her waist, surrounding the Lady Malfoy’s golden necklace; shaped like an upsidedown crown, inlaid with sapphires and emeralds, with a large diamond at the center. She smiles with an air of grace and unrivaled beauty, like a greek goddess, hands moving between cooing the boy and pointing at the camera.
His father, resting his right hand at the curve at the back of the chair, stood behind his mother. The man’s smile radiated confidence and superiority, the man's broad figure in Slytherin green coat and a light grey vest, deep blue cravat neatly tied at the collar. His left hand holding the snake-head cane, wearing the Malfoy ring, which was shining under the light he’s facing. He suddenly turned his attention towards the toddler in the photograph and chuckled silently.
Severus stood at the left side of the Malfoys, a gap in between. His usual black buttoned jacket tightly wrapped around his slim but sharp figure, the white shirt slightly poking out from the black collar, arms behind his back as he stood like a soldier. His hair was relatively silky, probably washed the fumes off as rigorously as he could before the photoshoot. Black locks tied to the back with a small tail, his face was tensed, and barely any life in the eyes, but there was a small tug at his lips. He also looked younger in Severus’ standards, less gaunt to be exact and appear to be in his own age, instead of looking like a man in his 50s when he’s only 36.
Father smiled and said something, which his godfather inched a bit closer to the older man, and three year old him must have made some comment, it made his godfather smile more relaxed.
Draco continues to flip the pages, more photos from balls, celebrations, and birthday parties, at the very end of the crafted album, is a very rough drawing of himself and Severus brewing in a lab, the black robes he drew was glossy due to repeated strokes of wax crayons.
“To Bestest Godfather and friend, We wish you a Happy Birthday.” is written below the illustration, and at the backside of the cover is the glowing signatures of himself and his parents, along with the wax seal with the Malfoys’ coat of arms stamped at the corner, like it was supposed to be some important official document.
The dust in the private quarters is making his eyes sting a little.
There’s a sudden creak at the door, and Draco immediately jolts up, bemoaning at the absence of his wand, he picks up the fireplace poker, ready to throw at whoever intrudes the space.
Well, nothing…wait, someone came through the door.
“Potter?” he whispers, not willing to alert the others of the new presence.
“How did you know it was me?” That provoking face comes into view as he drops the magic imbued fabric of some kind.
“Your hospital slippers and lack of stealth.”
Good, at least the idiot looks embarrassed.
“Come to gloat?”
“Snape told me to give your father this.” Potter hands over a folded wrinkled piece of parchment.
“And why should I trust you?”
“Oh I don’t know, maybe because ‘Merlin’s sake Potter what part of ‘urgent’ do you not understand!’” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, brows furrowed creating a rather uncannily good impression.
Draco did not almost smile at that.
“Fine.” He pinches the note and snatches it away.
A quick look at the parchment there's the shaky handwriting at the torn corner:
#
Lucius,
The headmaster is the wind, and Irene Hunt was right about it.
#
He pumps past Potter and into the private lab where his mother is. As his father is still being interrogated since four hours ago in the bedroom.
His mother takes one glance at the note and gives him a sad smile, “I’ll work on it dragon.” and promptly ushers him out of the cramped lab, closing the door behind.
“Cool gift you made here, Malfoy.” Damn Potter smirks at him, leering over the album, which makes Draco snatch it away from the table, holding it in his arms.
“Oi! Have you no decency you prat, it’s private!” he hisses.
“And you just put in wide open on the table where everyone can see, ferret face.”
Gods, I can’t punch him with Aurors next door.
“Have fun with your father then.” Potter turns drapes the cloak of his head, disappearing into view.
“Wait.”
The still visible white slipper turns back on its heels.
“How is the professor?”
“I don’t know.”
“How the bloody hell do you not know!”
“I don’t fucking know! No one ever tells me fucking anything!”
“How vulgar Potter, help me give him a message.”
“Oh, and why should I do that?”
“HE’S DYING BECAUSE OF YOU!”
That sentence rings in his ears, somehow his parents and the others don’t seem to care what’s happening outside.
The dust is everywhere.
“Fine.” Potter says, voice slightly wavered, Draco immediately summons a piece of paper from the notepad at the desk, in which Harry slides his hand out and reach towards the album again.
“Circe, NO! It’s his stuff, and private!” he bites out each syllable.
“Good luck with that then.” Potter replies, and makes his way towards the installing wall.
“Ugh! Just stay till I am done with it!”
Severus will murder me.
Potter seems to have caught his thoughts, and snorts, then starts to flip through the album with only his arms visible, much to Draco’s distaste.
Whatever Irene Hunt is about, she is most certainly be correct about Potter too.
Ch 8 No Promises
Chapter End Notes:
Irene Hunt is a real Author :D
Thank you for reading, comments, criticism and advice are much appreaciated!
Thank you for reading, comments, criticism and advice are much appreaciated!