FIC: Charade, Chapter One [SS/DM, NC-17]
Charade
by Femme
Pairings: Snape/Draco, among others (heh)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: HBP SPOILERS
Summary: Everything changes the morning after.
Notes: This chapter is for flimsy and frogslayr. When I offered up drabbles a few weeks ago, frogslayr requested Snape/Draco, red socks for flimsy. This, um, started as a drabble and ended up as the first chapter to a novel. *looks sheepish* This is without doubt, HBP-compliant. Spoilers within.
Chapter One - An Unwelcoming Welcome
When Draco woke the morning after the night that changed the world, the first thing he noticed were the socks--twin blood-red slashes draped over black trousers which had been tossed unceremoniously over the arm of the chair next to the bed. A small tuft of yellowed cotton poked through a torn tuck in the worn charcoal tweed upholstery; a white shirtsleeve dangled at a cockeyed angle from underneath the rumpled trousers.
"Professor?" His voice caught in his throat--the groggy hitch that always came after a dose of Dreamless Sleep--and he blinked, his eyes slowly focusing in the darkness of the room.
He shook his head, trying to clear the heavy buzz of potion-induced sleep. He vaguely remembered quaffing the phial Snape had handed him when they'd arrived at the house in the middle of the night, sweating and panicked, a rat-faced little man greeting them at the door, twitching with questions until Snape had sworn vociferously and hexed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Nothing else after that. Not how he had ended up in this bed. Not how his clothes had been removed. And definitely not the socks.
He blinked again and wrinkled his nose against a wide yawn. He didn’t own red socks. Even in his current muddled state he was certain of that. Red was so very…Gryffindor.
Stifling another yawn, Draco crawled to the edge of the bed and pushed one of the heavy curtains aside. A thin golden stream of late morning sunlight spilled into the room, filtered through the grimy windowpanes. A battered Muggle lorry rattled down the empty, narrow cobblestoned street, carrying crumbling bricks and molding boards piled high in stained cardboard boxes; a puff of black smoke exploded from a rusted pipe dangling from the back of the vehicle, and Draco jumped, letting go of the curtain and scampering back across the wide bed.
He pulled his bare knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around his legs; his thin linen braies bunched around his hips. He shivered. It was too much--if he closed his eyes again he could see it all, hear it all--the screams and the shouts and those blue eyes staring at him gently from behind the half-moon spectacles and that careful, even voice and the calm look on that wrinkled face when Snape raised his wand to do what Draco couldn’t…
"It's over," he whispered into his bony kneecaps, fingernails digging into his thin thighs. "It's over, it's over, it's over..."
"It's over, time to go!" Snape had shouted and then they were turning the corner, running hard, heels slamming against the worn granite corridor as quickly as his heart thudded against his chest, each stumbling jerk of his body complete terror, and Snape’s long fingers were tight on his shoulder, pushing him onward and the Aurors were behind them and his gasps were echoing in the hall and he could hear Potter shouting--
His eyes burned; he rubbed a still mud-streaked hand over them, scowling down at the rumpled bedclothes. He dug his toes into the white cotton, twisting them against the wide wrinkles of fabric. It was over and he'd failed. Again. And Snape, that bastard--Draco kicked at the sheets with a snarl. He hadn't asked for help, now had he? He could have done it, no matter what the Headmaster implied. He could have. He would have. He was seventeen now, for God's sake, not a child any longer, and he’d only needed another minute or two. If they hadn't burst in when they did--
The door to the bedroom swung open; Draco shrank back against the scarred and scratched mahogany headboard, fingers automatically fumbling for a wand that wasn't there.
"You're awake." Snape levitated a tray onto the bed as he walked into the room, his feet oddly bare and long and pale against the blackened wood floor.
"I am." Draco flushed and he jerked the sheet up to his chin, ignoring the strangeness of the sight of his Head of House in simple black trousers and white shirt. His eyes drifted to the wide black leather belt at Snape's too-narrow waist, the dull pewter buckle glinting at him in a most mocking fashion. He felt his cheeks grow oddly warmer; he turned his head, studying the steaming teapot on the tray-an incongruous scrap of fragile rose-splattered china.
"Where are we?" he asked with a sulky curl of his lip. "It's filthy."
Snape pushed the curtains back on the window. Draco watched a cloud of dust swirl from the heavy brocade and shimmer in the sudden brightness. "My house." Snape stared down into the now-deserted street below, answering almost absently. “In Lancashire.”
He looked over at Draco, his eyebrows drawing together in a sudden scowl, his lips thinning. “Eat and get dressed,” he snapped. “Your mother will be here shortly.”
“Mother?” Draco looked up in surprise. He flinched at the withering glare Snape cast his direction and raised his chin. “I didn’t know she even knew this hovel existed.”
“I can assure you that she does.”
"I suppose she must collect me." Draco hunched his shoulders and sipped from his cup of tea, the tart bergamot tang of the Earl Grey sliding over his tongue. He poked at a buttered crumpet; his stomach rumbled. “I don’t know where my clothes are. Those aren’t mine.”
Snape reached for the trousers and socks, then stopped, an odd look crossing his face. He picked them up, his fingers sliding over the finely knit wool of the socks. He turned blank black eyes towards Draco. “Your school uniform is no longer appropriate for you to wear. I had Wormtail alter these for you while you slept.” He tossed the shirt and trousers on the bed; he kept the socks twisted in his fingers. “These, however, he ought not to have given you.”
Draco smeared a thick layer of raspberry jam over his crumpet and bit into it. “Why?” he asked through a mouth full of bread and sweetened fruit, not particularly interested in the answer.
“They were a gift.” His back to Draco, Snape folded the socks into a tight packet and slid them into his trouser pocket. “To me.”
Draco swallowed and licked jam from his thumb. “Who gives socks as a present?” he said with a sneer. “I wouldn’t tolerate it-“
Snape turned on him, eyes blazing. “Do shut up, you damned overspoiled whelp.”
Draco blinked; his mouth fell open. He licked nervously at a smear of jam on his lower lip. “You can’t speak to me like that,” he whispered. “My father-“
“I believe I just did, Mr Malfoy. And your father is in Azkaban and will remain there for quite some time if our Lord is to be understood. I would not rely upon him or his tattered reputation for protection were I you.” Snape smiled at him then, a cold twist of his thin lips that sent Draco’s stomach churning. “Welcome to Spinner’s End, Draco,” he said softly. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“What are you talking about?” Draco sat up straight, not caring that the sheet fell to his waist. “Mother will take me back to the Manor-“
“I rather doubt that. Your mother, unlike yourself, is hardly a fool. Despite her wishes to keep your idiotic hide alive.” Snape’s jaw tightened. “Dress. The bath is across the hall. I expect you downstairs in twenty minutes to greet Narcissa.”
Draco flinched as the door slammed shut. He pushed the tray away.
He didn’t think he was hungry any more.
by Femme
Pairings: Snape/Draco, among others (heh)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: HBP SPOILERS
Summary: Everything changes the morning after.
Notes: This chapter is for flimsy and frogslayr. When I offered up drabbles a few weeks ago, frogslayr requested Snape/Draco, red socks for flimsy. This, um, started as a drabble and ended up as the first chapter to a novel. *looks sheepish* This is without doubt, HBP-compliant. Spoilers within.
Chapter One - An Unwelcoming Welcome
When Draco woke the morning after the night that changed the world, the first thing he noticed were the socks--twin blood-red slashes draped over black trousers which had been tossed unceremoniously over the arm of the chair next to the bed. A small tuft of yellowed cotton poked through a torn tuck in the worn charcoal tweed upholstery; a white shirtsleeve dangled at a cockeyed angle from underneath the rumpled trousers.
"Professor?" His voice caught in his throat--the groggy hitch that always came after a dose of Dreamless Sleep--and he blinked, his eyes slowly focusing in the darkness of the room.
He shook his head, trying to clear the heavy buzz of potion-induced sleep. He vaguely remembered quaffing the phial Snape had handed him when they'd arrived at the house in the middle of the night, sweating and panicked, a rat-faced little man greeting them at the door, twitching with questions until Snape had sworn vociferously and hexed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Nothing else after that. Not how he had ended up in this bed. Not how his clothes had been removed. And definitely not the socks.
He blinked again and wrinkled his nose against a wide yawn. He didn’t own red socks. Even in his current muddled state he was certain of that. Red was so very…Gryffindor.
Stifling another yawn, Draco crawled to the edge of the bed and pushed one of the heavy curtains aside. A thin golden stream of late morning sunlight spilled into the room, filtered through the grimy windowpanes. A battered Muggle lorry rattled down the empty, narrow cobblestoned street, carrying crumbling bricks and molding boards piled high in stained cardboard boxes; a puff of black smoke exploded from a rusted pipe dangling from the back of the vehicle, and Draco jumped, letting go of the curtain and scampering back across the wide bed.
He pulled his bare knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around his legs; his thin linen braies bunched around his hips. He shivered. It was too much--if he closed his eyes again he could see it all, hear it all--the screams and the shouts and those blue eyes staring at him gently from behind the half-moon spectacles and that careful, even voice and the calm look on that wrinkled face when Snape raised his wand to do what Draco couldn’t…
"It's over," he whispered into his bony kneecaps, fingernails digging into his thin thighs. "It's over, it's over, it's over..."
"It's over, time to go!" Snape had shouted and then they were turning the corner, running hard, heels slamming against the worn granite corridor as quickly as his heart thudded against his chest, each stumbling jerk of his body complete terror, and Snape’s long fingers were tight on his shoulder, pushing him onward and the Aurors were behind them and his gasps were echoing in the hall and he could hear Potter shouting--
His eyes burned; he rubbed a still mud-streaked hand over them, scowling down at the rumpled bedclothes. He dug his toes into the white cotton, twisting them against the wide wrinkles of fabric. It was over and he'd failed. Again. And Snape, that bastard--Draco kicked at the sheets with a snarl. He hadn't asked for help, now had he? He could have done it, no matter what the Headmaster implied. He could have. He would have. He was seventeen now, for God's sake, not a child any longer, and he’d only needed another minute or two. If they hadn't burst in when they did--
The door to the bedroom swung open; Draco shrank back against the scarred and scratched mahogany headboard, fingers automatically fumbling for a wand that wasn't there.
"You're awake." Snape levitated a tray onto the bed as he walked into the room, his feet oddly bare and long and pale against the blackened wood floor.
"I am." Draco flushed and he jerked the sheet up to his chin, ignoring the strangeness of the sight of his Head of House in simple black trousers and white shirt. His eyes drifted to the wide black leather belt at Snape's too-narrow waist, the dull pewter buckle glinting at him in a most mocking fashion. He felt his cheeks grow oddly warmer; he turned his head, studying the steaming teapot on the tray-an incongruous scrap of fragile rose-splattered china.
"Where are we?" he asked with a sulky curl of his lip. "It's filthy."
Snape pushed the curtains back on the window. Draco watched a cloud of dust swirl from the heavy brocade and shimmer in the sudden brightness. "My house." Snape stared down into the now-deserted street below, answering almost absently. “In Lancashire.”
He looked over at Draco, his eyebrows drawing together in a sudden scowl, his lips thinning. “Eat and get dressed,” he snapped. “Your mother will be here shortly.”
“Mother?” Draco looked up in surprise. He flinched at the withering glare Snape cast his direction and raised his chin. “I didn’t know she even knew this hovel existed.”
“I can assure you that she does.”
"I suppose she must collect me." Draco hunched his shoulders and sipped from his cup of tea, the tart bergamot tang of the Earl Grey sliding over his tongue. He poked at a buttered crumpet; his stomach rumbled. “I don’t know where my clothes are. Those aren’t mine.”
Snape reached for the trousers and socks, then stopped, an odd look crossing his face. He picked them up, his fingers sliding over the finely knit wool of the socks. He turned blank black eyes towards Draco. “Your school uniform is no longer appropriate for you to wear. I had Wormtail alter these for you while you slept.” He tossed the shirt and trousers on the bed; he kept the socks twisted in his fingers. “These, however, he ought not to have given you.”
Draco smeared a thick layer of raspberry jam over his crumpet and bit into it. “Why?” he asked through a mouth full of bread and sweetened fruit, not particularly interested in the answer.
“They were a gift.” His back to Draco, Snape folded the socks into a tight packet and slid them into his trouser pocket. “To me.”
Draco swallowed and licked jam from his thumb. “Who gives socks as a present?” he said with a sneer. “I wouldn’t tolerate it-“
Snape turned on him, eyes blazing. “Do shut up, you damned overspoiled whelp.”
Draco blinked; his mouth fell open. He licked nervously at a smear of jam on his lower lip. “You can’t speak to me like that,” he whispered. “My father-“
“I believe I just did, Mr Malfoy. And your father is in Azkaban and will remain there for quite some time if our Lord is to be understood. I would not rely upon him or his tattered reputation for protection were I you.” Snape smiled at him then, a cold twist of his thin lips that sent Draco’s stomach churning. “Welcome to Spinner’s End, Draco,” he said softly. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”
“What are you talking about?” Draco sat up straight, not caring that the sheet fell to his waist. “Mother will take me back to the Manor-“
“I rather doubt that. Your mother, unlike yourself, is hardly a fool. Despite her wishes to keep your idiotic hide alive.” Snape’s jaw tightened. “Dress. The bath is across the hall. I expect you downstairs in twenty minutes to greet Narcissa.”
Draco flinched as the door slammed shut. He pushed the tray away.
He didn’t think he was hungry any more.