"Out and about rather late, Headmaster," Snape hears behind him, and the voice sets his teeth on edge. He steels himself, closes off his mind entirely, and turns to face the speaker. "I could ask you the same, Alecto." She grins up at him, her eyes glittering insanely. If there truly was a Satan, Snape is certain Alecto and Amycus Carrow would surely be his spawn. The squat, ugly little thing grins even wider and takes a step forward. Oh, if there were just a way to convince the Dark Lord the Carrows were unnecessary, he'd have them out of the castle before either of them knew what was happening.
"Was there something you needed, Alecto? Something important?" She takes another step toward him and if she takes a third, it just might be her last. "I was just curious, Headmaster, what might have brought you out at this time of night, that's all," she says and it seems she may actually be about to take that potentially fatal last step, when Filch interrupts them. "There's no students out of bed, are there?" Alecto pounces on the caretaker before Snape can even speak. "No, Filch," she says icily, "but I've something to discuss with you." Snape turns and extracts himself from the situation, and is gone before Alecto even notices he's left.
As he passes under a particular archway, where a particular individual tends to hide, Snape says silkily, "Peeves," knowing the chaotic spirit is bobbing along behind him, "would you like to make me...happy?" Like the psycophant he is, Peeves purrs, "oh yes, Mr. Professorheadmasterness, sir." Snape slows his pace just slightly. "The wall sconce on the third floor just above the landing seems to be lose, Peeves." Peeves' eyes nearly pop out of his head with anticipation, "the one holding the mace, Mr. Professormaster sir?" Snape's eyes glint in the darkness and he bares his teeth in a wicked grin. "Yes, Peeves, that one. If a certain someone isn't careful, she might get hurt."
Snape hears a swish as Peeves spins around, then a malicious cackle as the troublemaker bounces merrily away. Feeling very satisfied, he heads down the steps into the dungeons, and to his room. His quiet, dimly-lit room. With an empty bed. Sighing, he undresses and pulls his nightshirt out of the wardrobe and slides it on slowly. He runs his hands over it and wishes he had the nightshirt Elsbet bought him for his last birthday. It goes down to his knees and feels like satin, and looks like someone cut a swatch out of the midnight sky and turned it into cloth. Down the left side, starting just below the collar, is a beautiful alien script embroidered in silver thread. She told him the glyphs are Vulcan; Ashau, Hakau and Nam, which means Love to heal One's Existance.
It means so much to him that if it were a day robe, he'd wear it in place of his professor's robe, and damn the questions he'd get. Or would get if anyone had the guts to ask him about it. As he climbs into his lonely bed he extinguishes his wand-light and gives himself to sleep.
Conversely, Lucius Malfoy is apparently wide awake. He finds himself in the reading room, glad the dogs are asleep. His hounds, however, did not settle down until he had returned home,and lie curled up in front of the fireplace. Dogs, he thinks again, the bitterness rising in his throat with the taste of bile. He despises the Snatchers and resents being forced to bivouac them within his own house. If it wasn't bad enough having them here, that disgusting Fenrir Greyback is with them. In his house. Sleeping on his furnature, eating his food.
He desperately needs a distraction.
He knows exactly what that distraction is, but unfortunately, it's beyond his reach. He pours himself a drink and downs it, then pours another, though it's not what he wants. What he wants is sitting safely tucked away in a Muggle's house. He downs the second glass of firewhiskey and hesitates to pour a third. But he does pour it. He wants...oh, how he wants. Malfoy is not accustomed to wanting. He's accustomed to having. True, he's wanted Severus Snape for quite a long time, but he had resigned himself to the belief that it would never be. But now he wants something else as well, something he's not supposed to want, and it's like a fire down deep in his soul.
He wants the taste of the Absinthe she brewed herself, without Magic, and he wants the taste of her lips. He wants to go where Snape has been, and he wants to know what Snape knows. He wants, he wants, he wants...what an evil thing, this wanting. He finishes the third firewhiskey and pours himself another, wrestling with his thoughts. He walks along his shelves full of books and runs his fingers along their leatherbound spines. Does she have a library? he muses, taking a sip of his drink. Severus has probably given her one already, he thinks bitterly, then wonders why he suddenly feels bitter.
He looks at his glass. Bad, naughty, wicked, evil firewhiskey, that's why, he thinks, but he knows that's not it. I'll give them both something they'll never forget, he thinks, suddenly feeling very...dominant and feirce. He turns toward the couch as he takes another sip, then thinks about the two of them there...what would he do if he had them there? He rubs his mouth, thinking again about Snape's kiss. Just as he feels his knees give and he has to sit, he hears the first accusatory voice.
"You're sick, boy! Sick! I know what you're thinking about," his grandfather's portrait spits from over the fireplace, "and you're sick! Thinking about such things...you're a disgrace to the Malfoy name!" At first, he stares at the portrait as if it has never spoken before. Then his father Abraxas starts in. "I can't believe any Blood of mine would ever dream of mixing with a filthy Muggle," and Malfoy grips his glass, shaking his head in silent denial. "And a man as well, the boy is corrupted," his grandfather says, and Abraxas laughs coarsely, "better a man than a dirty animal."
Malfoy's rage flares and he lashes out, "shut up you shrivelled old bastards! You're both dead, what do you know? What did you ever know? Nothing but hate, hate and lies!" Now the other portraits are rebuking him, but he doesn't care. "I won't be you anymore, I--" his grandfather spits, "your son is a Blood-Traitor, Abraxas," and Malfoy spits back, "so what if I am? It's better than being like all of you!" But when Abraxas glares down at him and says, "you are no son of mine, Lucius! You should die like your dirty animal will--" his rage erupts into violence.
He shouts at the hounds to get out of the room and throws his glass at the portrait of Abraxas. He then grabs the half-empty bottle and throws it at his grandfather's protrait, showering himself with firewhiskey. The alcohol first drips, then runs down into the fireplace, and the flames leap to life, quickly climbing up the mantlepiece and to the portraits above it. They shout at him but he can only laugh, and he laughs until he realizes, he's soaked with the liquid. He swears and turns to flee the room, but instead
he wakes with a start. And he wakes alone. He's inside his private room, where not even Narcissa ventures. The only light is the light from his wand, the only items the leather couch he's laying on and the coffeetable in front of it. The only other things in the room are the two pictures on the coffeetable he'd been looking at before he'd fallen asleep. In the first picture, he's standing beside a Slytherin House-mate just shortly before the end of his last year. The Housemate is a twelve-year old Severus Snape, and he stands with his arm around Snape's shoulders, almost protectively.
The second picture was taken several years later. The man he's standing beside is a twenty-year old Severus Snape, and the arm he has around Snape's shoulders means something other than protection, though Snape had no inkling. Malfoy remembers Snape was a decidedly unhappy young man, and he remembers too how badly he'd wanted to change that, despite the fact he'd just married Narcissa Black two weeks prior. He'd married for Blood-Purity, not love. He'd hoped to have that with the young man at his side, but it did not come to pass.
But now? He sits the pictures back down. He's feeling too many things at once; his head is pounding and it's not from any drink. He thinks about that wretched dream and it pounds more...though...not all of the dream was wretched. Sighing as though he feels very heavy, he sits back on the couch. He doesn't know what he's going to do, he only knows what he wants to do. He lets himself think about pretty Elsbet, wrapped in Snape's arms, and he closes his eyes. He's too tired to think about this, he's too tired for anything, even to answer the stiffening need that seems to sneak up on him as he lays back down.
"Was there something you needed, Alecto? Something important?" She takes another step toward him and if she takes a third, it just might be her last. "I was just curious, Headmaster, what might have brought you out at this time of night, that's all," she says and it seems she may actually be about to take that potentially fatal last step, when Filch interrupts them. "There's no students out of bed, are there?" Alecto pounces on the caretaker before Snape can even speak. "No, Filch," she says icily, "but I've something to discuss with you." Snape turns and extracts himself from the situation, and is gone before Alecto even notices he's left.
As he passes under a particular archway, where a particular individual tends to hide, Snape says silkily, "Peeves," knowing the chaotic spirit is bobbing along behind him, "would you like to make me...happy?" Like the psycophant he is, Peeves purrs, "oh yes, Mr. Professorheadmasterness, sir." Snape slows his pace just slightly. "The wall sconce on the third floor just above the landing seems to be lose, Peeves." Peeves' eyes nearly pop out of his head with anticipation, "the one holding the mace, Mr. Professormaster sir?" Snape's eyes glint in the darkness and he bares his teeth in a wicked grin. "Yes, Peeves, that one. If a certain someone isn't careful, she might get hurt."
Snape hears a swish as Peeves spins around, then a malicious cackle as the troublemaker bounces merrily away. Feeling very satisfied, he heads down the steps into the dungeons, and to his room. His quiet, dimly-lit room. With an empty bed. Sighing, he undresses and pulls his nightshirt out of the wardrobe and slides it on slowly. He runs his hands over it and wishes he had the nightshirt Elsbet bought him for his last birthday. It goes down to his knees and feels like satin, and looks like someone cut a swatch out of the midnight sky and turned it into cloth. Down the left side, starting just below the collar, is a beautiful alien script embroidered in silver thread. She told him the glyphs are Vulcan; Ashau, Hakau and Nam, which means Love to heal One's Existance.
It means so much to him that if it were a day robe, he'd wear it in place of his professor's robe, and damn the questions he'd get. Or would get if anyone had the guts to ask him about it. As he climbs into his lonely bed he extinguishes his wand-light and gives himself to sleep.
Conversely, Lucius Malfoy is apparently wide awake. He finds himself in the reading room, glad the dogs are asleep. His hounds, however, did not settle down until he had returned home,and lie curled up in front of the fireplace. Dogs, he thinks again, the bitterness rising in his throat with the taste of bile. He despises the Snatchers and resents being forced to bivouac them within his own house. If it wasn't bad enough having them here, that disgusting Fenrir Greyback is with them. In his house. Sleeping on his furnature, eating his food.
He desperately needs a distraction.
He knows exactly what that distraction is, but unfortunately, it's beyond his reach. He pours himself a drink and downs it, then pours another, though it's not what he wants. What he wants is sitting safely tucked away in a Muggle's house. He downs the second glass of firewhiskey and hesitates to pour a third. But he does pour it. He wants...oh, how he wants. Malfoy is not accustomed to wanting. He's accustomed to having. True, he's wanted Severus Snape for quite a long time, but he had resigned himself to the belief that it would never be. But now he wants something else as well, something he's not supposed to want, and it's like a fire down deep in his soul.
He wants the taste of the Absinthe she brewed herself, without Magic, and he wants the taste of her lips. He wants to go where Snape has been, and he wants to know what Snape knows. He wants, he wants, he wants...what an evil thing, this wanting. He finishes the third firewhiskey and pours himself another, wrestling with his thoughts. He walks along his shelves full of books and runs his fingers along their leatherbound spines. Does she have a library? he muses, taking a sip of his drink. Severus has probably given her one already, he thinks bitterly, then wonders why he suddenly feels bitter.
He looks at his glass. Bad, naughty, wicked, evil firewhiskey, that's why, he thinks, but he knows that's not it. I'll give them both something they'll never forget, he thinks, suddenly feeling very...dominant and feirce. He turns toward the couch as he takes another sip, then thinks about the two of them there...what would he do if he had them there? He rubs his mouth, thinking again about Snape's kiss. Just as he feels his knees give and he has to sit, he hears the first accusatory voice.
"You're sick, boy! Sick! I know what you're thinking about," his grandfather's portrait spits from over the fireplace, "and you're sick! Thinking about such things...you're a disgrace to the Malfoy name!" At first, he stares at the portrait as if it has never spoken before. Then his father Abraxas starts in. "I can't believe any Blood of mine would ever dream of mixing with a filthy Muggle," and Malfoy grips his glass, shaking his head in silent denial. "And a man as well, the boy is corrupted," his grandfather says, and Abraxas laughs coarsely, "better a man than a dirty animal."
Malfoy's rage flares and he lashes out, "shut up you shrivelled old bastards! You're both dead, what do you know? What did you ever know? Nothing but hate, hate and lies!" Now the other portraits are rebuking him, but he doesn't care. "I won't be you anymore, I--" his grandfather spits, "your son is a Blood-Traitor, Abraxas," and Malfoy spits back, "so what if I am? It's better than being like all of you!" But when Abraxas glares down at him and says, "you are no son of mine, Lucius! You should die like your dirty animal will--" his rage erupts into violence.
He shouts at the hounds to get out of the room and throws his glass at the portrait of Abraxas. He then grabs the half-empty bottle and throws it at his grandfather's protrait, showering himself with firewhiskey. The alcohol first drips, then runs down into the fireplace, and the flames leap to life, quickly climbing up the mantlepiece and to the portraits above it. They shout at him but he can only laugh, and he laughs until he realizes, he's soaked with the liquid. He swears and turns to flee the room, but instead
he wakes with a start. And he wakes alone. He's inside his private room, where not even Narcissa ventures. The only light is the light from his wand, the only items the leather couch he's laying on and the coffeetable in front of it. The only other things in the room are the two pictures on the coffeetable he'd been looking at before he'd fallen asleep. In the first picture, he's standing beside a Slytherin House-mate just shortly before the end of his last year. The Housemate is a twelve-year old Severus Snape, and he stands with his arm around Snape's shoulders, almost protectively.
The second picture was taken several years later. The man he's standing beside is a twenty-year old Severus Snape, and the arm he has around Snape's shoulders means something other than protection, though Snape had no inkling. Malfoy remembers Snape was a decidedly unhappy young man, and he remembers too how badly he'd wanted to change that, despite the fact he'd just married Narcissa Black two weeks prior. He'd married for Blood-Purity, not love. He'd hoped to have that with the young man at his side, but it did not come to pass.
But now? He sits the pictures back down. He's feeling too many things at once; his head is pounding and it's not from any drink. He thinks about that wretched dream and it pounds more...though...not all of the dream was wretched. Sighing as though he feels very heavy, he sits back on the couch. He doesn't know what he's going to do, he only knows what he wants to do. He lets himself think about pretty Elsbet, wrapped in Snape's arms, and he closes his eyes. He's too tired to think about this, he's too tired for anything, even to answer the stiffening need that seems to sneak up on him as he lays back down.