Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"I'm sure," said Snape, turning to leave the room. "Stay where you are, Mr. Malfoy. I'll get you some coffee."

There is a crack in everything;

That's how the light gets in.

— Leonard Cohen

Draco poked at the food on his plate somewhat dispiritedly. It wasn't that the food wasn't good; to Draco's immense astonishment, Snape, amongst his other achievements, seemed to be able to produce a mean blueberry scone. But his stomach was tied in such tight knots that every bite was like swallowing a jagged chunk of metal.

It didn't help, of course, that Snape, sitting across from him at the table in the small, blue-painted kitchen, was staring at him with a piercing glare that Draco found very disconcerting. Draco had always thought that laceration by means of the eyes was a rather trite expression, but at the moment Snape's beetle-black gaze made him feel as if the Potions master could state right through his forehead to the back of his skull. "So," said Snape, crumbling a bit of scone absently between his forefingers, "now that we've been over this several times, I am still unclear. You came to me because you thought I could help you, or because you knew I wouldn't tell Sirius Black that you're here?"

"Well," said Draco around a mouthful of scone, "you won't, will you?"

"Considering that I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, that's an accurate assessment, yes. What do you care if he knows you're here?"

"He'll try to bring me home," said Draco, as if this was obvious. "He thinks he can help me, but he can't help me. None of them can help me. I still think you can, though."

Snape looked absently towards the little window set in the east wall.

Pale morning light streamed through the curtains. Draco looked away; he had discovered that lately, light hurt his eyes. "I don't mind not telling Sirius Black where you are. But it seems somehow immoral to keep the news of your whereabouts from your mother.

Perhaps you should owl her and tell her why you don't feel you can go home?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "And say what? 'Lo, Mum, I can't come home because I think I'm going mad. Not just a little mad, but full-on banging-my-head-against-the-wall, frothing-at-the-mouth, homicidal-impulses barking. And by the way, send pocket money.

Love, Draco.'"

"You're not going mad. Going mad would be a fairly simple issue to deal with. This is much more complicated. You are not an ordinary boy- "

"I know, thanks, my dad told me," said Draco, looking away. His mind didn't seem to be able to wrap itself around the idea that his father was dead, even though Snape had given him the details and shown him a copy of the Daily Prophet with a headline about Lucius' death. He wasn't sure what he felt — not grieved exactly, but certainly somewhat dazed. He remembered how blank Harry had looked after getting Hermione's letter back at school, remembered thinking that Harry was in shock. He rather hoped his shock would last longer than Harry's, as he was not looking forward to what might happen when it wore off.

Snape was looking thoughtful. "I admit that I'm surprised that your father told you of the Dark Lord's original plans for you."

"Why?"

"Because your father was a liar. He lied to everyone, even when there was no benefit in it to himself. He lied because he loved it. I'm surprised he told the truth to you."

Draco didn't quite know how to respond. However he might feel about his father, family pride precluded him from insulting him in the presence of strangers, or near-strangers. He recalled having once told Harry that he hated Lucius, but that had been different because he'd been quite sure he was about to die at the time, and anyway, that had been Harry. Snape calling his father a liar was something else again. According to the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct (length: three hundred pages, containing 1,376 rules ranging from: "The Malfoy family dress robe colors are black, green and silver, except on state occasions when it is permissible to wear red, silver and black" to "Malfoys are expressly forbidden from practicing inappropriate Lust Charms on members of the animal kingdom, especially in the topiary garden; this means you, Uncle Hector") he should, to save the honor of his family, leap to his feet and hit Snape in the eye. But he didn't much feel like it, so he contented himself with glaring furiously at his half-empty teacup and muttering, "Milk."

"What was that?"

"Milk," said Draco again. "For my tea. I need some."

"Get it yourself," said Snape shortly.

Draco got to his feet and padded over to the refrigerator. It looked like an ordinary enough fridge from the outside, but upon opening it he found that it was stocked with dozens of clear glass canisters, each one neatly labeled in Snape's crabbed, articulate handwriting;

"Bat's blood", "salamander eyes", "dried mundwinkel", "lizard ears" and "tapioca pudding." The tapioca pudding looked a lot like the dried lizard ears. Draco shut the door hastily. "I didn't really want milk," he said, half to himself, and went back to the table.

Snape glared at him. "I thought you were getting milk."

"I decided I didn't want any."

"Well, I want some."

Draco, who was feeling dizzy and didn't really want to get up again, glared right back at him, and raised his left arm. The fridge door slammed open, the glass canister of milk flying out. It spun towards Draco and smacked into his hand. He banged it down on the table and raised his eyes to see Snape glaring at him more than ever.

"Do not show off," the Potions master said coldly.

Draco opened his eyes wide. "Why not?"

Bang!

Snape brought his hand down on the table with a force that made the silverware rattle. "You think you get all that power for free?" he snarled. "Nothing is free. Every time you use it, you lose a little piece of your own soul."

Draco shrank back against the back of his chair. He felt…scolded, in a way he had never really felt scolded before, not even by Sirius. It broke through a little of the hazy fog surrounding his brain, and he blinked at Snape in astonishment. "But I-"

"Shut up," said Snape briskly, and got to his feet, pushing his chair back. "Sit here," he said. "Don't move. If you use any magic at all while I'm gone, even to lift the tea-strainer, I'll force-feed you a potion that'll turn you into a gerbil."

"First a ferret, now a gerbil," said Draco irritably. "Why does everyone look at me and think 'rodent?'"

"Do you really want an answer to the question?"

"No. Where are you going?" Draco realized he sounded plaintive, and didn't care. He didn't want to be left alone, he'd been alone all day and it was enough, especially with his brain feeling as if it was about to shake itself into pieces like an old car driven too fast.

"To my workroom," said Snape. "I need to get something."

"Let me come with you."

"You haven't eaten anything. I don't want you fainting all over the place. I have a lot of very fragile and valuable equipment in that room."

Draco grabbed up a the remains of his scone and shoved it into his mouth, barely bothering to chew. "Mmpph," he said, making a broad and expansive gesture with his arms that indicated he was done eating.

Snape looked at him, and Draco could have sworn he saw a brief flicker of amusement tug at the corner of his sour mouth. "All right.

Come along."

Snape's workroom turned out to be far more of a laboratory than a workroom. Draco suspected that he probably just called it a workroom because he didn't want to sound like a mad scientist.

Nevertheless, the room would have done a mad scientist proud: it was high-ceilinged and dimly-lit, and everywhere there were cauldrons bubbling over low fires, tall glass beakers filled with substances that glowed, steamed and sizzled, labeled bags and packets filled with crushed herbs, beetle shells, shredded boomslang skin and other substances Draco couldn't have named. He walked from one table to another while Snape busied himself at a desk in the corner of the room, staring at the vials, flasks and clear philtres full of multicolored liquids.