There's so much said in the way that Snape says clearly. There's a finality there, and more than that, there's that tone that makes him think of being back in his class, of disapproval not for choices made, for duplicity, but because the concoction swirling in his cauldron was violet instead of the proper indigo. If only the subject at hand was that easy, that simple to rectify. He wishes he had a good excuse, something he could offer to justify his actions, a culprit that was more likely than himself, but none of the other staff would dare. Elixir of Dementor's Bane was both very advanced, and not of an effect prone to abuses by the student body. He could imagine Granger making it as a theoretical study on the interaction of asphodel and mandrake root, but while Draco would be the last person on Earth to admit it, Hermoine wasn't typical.
He swallows, turning even more pale as Snape talks about his supply cabinet, and they both know that Draco is well and truly caught. Denial seems his only course; clinging to his assertion of innocence while hopeless, saves him from having to admit to being wrong, recant that false ignorance. "I would never---" He gets no further than that before Snape cuts him off, using his full name, and Draco leans back in his chair, shirking back from the weight of Snape's anger. He wouldn't tolerate this from anyone else, would probably have implied that they deserved to have things stolen, accused them of idiocy if they dared mention the potion he was clearly making. Snape was different. They both know this; it's in the emphasis Snape puts on the words that hang in the air between them.
There's tension, and Draco doesn't have any words for a moment, no cute, snide remark about how much better than him he is. Because he's not. Because there's simply too much between them. Their edgy day-to-day conversations are one thing, but this, here, it's like Snape is reclaiming that prior authority over him. If there was any doubt about that, it vanishes at that command. The way the anger vanishes, replaced by cool control. Stand up and bend over your desk.
It makes Draco swallow visibly, his blue eyes widening, a flush rising red in his cheeks. "You can't be serious," he says in near-desperation, but he knows better. If it was anyone else, he would assume it to be a sick joke; even with McGonagal. There's indignation, insult in his protests, but they quickly fade into silence. With Snape, he not only knows that he wouldn't demand something he didn't intend, but there's so much between them that Snape really can demand this of him. Snape has done too much to help him, too much for him. And that's why Draco finally rises to his feet, flush-faced, but his chin raised almost defiantly as slender, delicate fingers grip the edge of the desk. He just looks up into Snape's dark eyes for a few long moments before he sharply kicks the chair out of his way.
Draco swallows, wide-eyed, a flutter of fine blond lashes over his blue eyes before he slowly leans in. His slender body bending forward, until he's exposed, humiliated, bent over his desk like some sort of naughty child. Which perhaps he is, but he's also an instructor now, and somehow, he hadn't thought that Snape would push him like this, take one of the only things that actually meant something: his pride.
no subject
He swallows, turning even more pale as Snape talks about his supply cabinet, and they both know that Draco is well and truly caught. Denial seems his only course; clinging to his assertion of innocence while hopeless, saves him from having to admit to being wrong, recant that false ignorance. "I would never---" He gets no further than that before Snape cuts him off, using his full name, and Draco leans back in his chair, shirking back from the weight of Snape's anger. He wouldn't tolerate this from anyone else, would probably have implied that they deserved to have things stolen, accused them of idiocy if they dared mention the potion he was clearly making. Snape was different. They both know this; it's in the emphasis Snape puts on the words that hang in the air between them.
There's tension, and Draco doesn't have any words for a moment, no cute, snide remark about how much better than him he is. Because he's not. Because there's simply too much between them. Their edgy day-to-day conversations are one thing, but this, here, it's like Snape is reclaiming that prior authority over him. If there was any doubt about that, it vanishes at that command. The way the anger vanishes, replaced by cool control. Stand up and bend over your desk.
It makes Draco swallow visibly, his blue eyes widening, a flush rising red in his cheeks. "You can't be serious," he says in near-desperation, but he knows better. If it was anyone else, he would assume it to be a sick joke; even with McGonagal. There's indignation, insult in his protests, but they quickly fade into silence. With Snape, he not only knows that he wouldn't demand something he didn't intend, but there's so much between them that Snape really can demand this of him. Snape has done too much to help him, too much for him. And that's why Draco finally rises to his feet, flush-faced, but his chin raised almost defiantly as slender, delicate fingers grip the edge of the desk. He just looks up into Snape's dark eyes for a few long moments before he sharply kicks the chair out of his way.
Draco swallows, wide-eyed, a flutter of fine blond lashes over his blue eyes before he slowly leans in. His slender body bending forward, until he's exposed, humiliated, bent over his desk like some sort of naughty child. Which perhaps he is, but he's also an instructor now, and somehow, he hadn't thought that Snape would push him like this, take one of the only things that actually meant something: his pride.