It's inappropriate, perhaps sick and wrong by come counts, but Draco couldn't care less. He had a crush on Snape when he'd been younger, blossoming during his forth year as his hormones started to run wild. It had been childish, Snape had been different, had always drawn his attention; it was why he'd always put so much focus on perfecting his potions. After Dumbledore's death it had changed. It had slowly sunk in that Snape was the only person that was always there when he stumbled; when Harry had nearly killed him with that hex, stepping in when he couldn't kill Dumbledore, and innumerable smaller things. There were days he half expected Voldemort to kill him, when it felt like too much, and Snape became his sanity, the way he could anchor himself in the breath of a cool glance.
He doesn't expect Snape to stay, and frankly Draco isn't sure what he'd say if he did. It gives him time to catch his breath, clean up (even if he'll always know), and rearrange his clothes. He lights a few candles, and once the high settles, he finishes grading the infuriatingly dense papers of his first year students, his heart still racing in his chest.
He avoids him in public, not because he's displeased with what happened, or because he's mad at him -- not even with the fact that he very carefully tries to avoid sitting down. It's because he doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't trust himself. He might stammer, blush, give himself away, and someone like McGonogal would notice. It doesn't stop him from knocking on Snape's chamber doors two nights later, a few strokes shy of midnight.
He's still tempted to just steal what he needs, but he doesn't. Instead, he's standing at his door, and he's going to ask, even if that's something that Malfoys have never been particularly skilled at. His hands are shaking, and there's a pallor to his skin, his blue eyes sharp and haunted as he waits.
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He doesn't expect Snape to stay, and frankly Draco isn't sure what he'd say if he did. It gives him time to catch his breath, clean up (even if he'll always know), and rearrange his clothes. He lights a few candles, and once the high settles, he finishes grading the infuriatingly dense papers of his first year students, his heart still racing in his chest.
He avoids him in public, not because he's displeased with what happened, or because he's mad at him -- not even with the fact that he very carefully tries to avoid sitting down. It's because he doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't trust himself. He might stammer, blush, give himself away, and someone like McGonogal would notice. It doesn't stop him from knocking on Snape's chamber doors two nights later, a few strokes shy of midnight.
He's still tempted to just steal what he needs, but he doesn't. Instead, he's standing at his door, and he's going to ask, even if that's something that Malfoys have never been particularly skilled at. His hands are shaking, and there's a pallor to his skin, his blue eyes sharp and haunted as he waits.