Draco's eyes snap up to look Snape in the face at that sound of disapproval, the way that the man's tongue clicks against his mouth. There's that brief flutter of uncertainty, where he's not sure what he's done wrong, just knows that he's clearly not doing something right. It makes his stomach twist, because what else could Snape possibly ask from him? His face is still flushed with the humiliation of it, and his lips thin as Snape's voice spills into the air between them. Truthfully, he's never been spanked, not really; his father's punishments were never tactile, skin-to-skin, it was always magic. However, he doesn't feel obliged to tell Snape that.

There's still that defiance, even in the face of what this is; that Snape is going to spank him. He's worn out his defenses about not being a first year student anymore, and there's not a thing he can say, nothing to refuse this. He trusts Snape, in a strange, twisted sort of way. It's because he's always been the one there when Draco's hurting, clinging to the edge. It's never gentle or sweet, but maybe that's not what he needs regardless. There's no demand about charmed doors, because somehow Draco trusts that Snape will only push him so far; to demand it seems redundant, maybe another disappointment.

He swallows at that demand, a flutter of eyelashes and the way that his shoulders curl inward, as if he wants to hide from how inescapable this is. He takes a breath, reaches down and undoes his belt, the zipper, pushes expensive black trousers down his legs so they pool around his ankles. Then his slender hands come back, hooking into black silk boxers and pulling them down over his hips, exposing the curve of his ass as they slide down his pale, slender legs. He doesn't pull up off the desk as he does so, trying to play by Snape's rules, avoid making this worse when he's already flushed and his heart is pounding in his throat.

"There," he intones with all the defiance he can muster, his eyes bright as he looks back up at him.