The night it happened was not the only night that Snape touched himself to the memory of it. He had last night as well, in the silence and darkness of his chambers.
Draco was avoiding him. It was to be expected, he wasn't concerned. Truthfully, it was welcome, gave him space for his thoughts. He wasn't hung up with regrets, he wasn't that kind of man. He had done exactly as he intended to do. The punishment had been well planned before that burst of rage, and the rest… well, that had been a long time coming.
Snape considered what Draco's next move would be. Would he steal again? It was entirely possible. Draco had always been so defiant, and a second offense, Snape had to admit, would almost be admirable. Aware of what the punishment would be, almost inviting it. Snape wasn't so sure that he would go that route, however. It was likely the message would get through to him, that he'd return to whatever method he'd previously been using to get the ingredients he needed, or simply come and ask for them.
Relying so heavily on a potion wasn't the answer, but he'd give him what he needed if he came to him, whether it was from his supplies or by his hand. Yesterday, he'd caught sight of Draco in the hall, looking much the way he often did, the way he realized now was a precursor to remaking the potion; shaking, hollow, lost. Snape made a batch of the potion earlier today in preparation for when he finally came.
Tonight, Snape was seated in a dark easy chair, feet up on a low stool. He was only partly undressed, long frock coat hanging neatly in his bedroom, leaving him in the white shirt he wore beneath with its high collar and long buttoned cuffs, a slender fitting black vest and trousers that buttoned at the ankle. Shoes off, feet in slippers. He wasn't sure it would be tonight, but when the knock came, he knew who it was at once. He glanced to the clock, set down his book and stood, moving through the rooms for the door, and opened it.
Draco looked so pale and small it was alarming. His gaze caught the shake of his hands and returned to those sharp, ice blue eyes. Nothing about Snape's face is apologetic, because he doesn't regret what he did, what happened. He has nothing to apologize for, and neither, anymore, does Draco. He paid that due two nights ago.
The air from the corridor is cold, while that of his chambers is warm at his back, and he steps back into it, opening the door wider with a soft, "Come in," that doesn't leave room for Draco to say no. Whatever happens, even if tonight it's just a conversation, it's not one that is happening in the hall.
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Draco was avoiding him. It was to be expected, he wasn't concerned. Truthfully, it was welcome, gave him space for his thoughts. He wasn't hung up with regrets, he wasn't that kind of man. He had done exactly as he intended to do. The punishment had been well planned before that burst of rage, and the rest… well, that had been a long time coming.
Snape considered what Draco's next move would be. Would he steal again? It was entirely possible. Draco had always been so defiant, and a second offense, Snape had to admit, would almost be admirable. Aware of what the punishment would be, almost inviting it. Snape wasn't so sure that he would go that route, however. It was likely the message would get through to him, that he'd return to whatever method he'd previously been using to get the ingredients he needed, or simply come and ask for them.
Relying so heavily on a potion wasn't the answer, but he'd give him what he needed if he came to him, whether it was from his supplies or by his hand. Yesterday, he'd caught sight of Draco in the hall, looking much the way he often did, the way he realized now was a precursor to remaking the potion; shaking, hollow, lost. Snape made a batch of the potion earlier today in preparation for when he finally came.
Tonight, Snape was seated in a dark easy chair, feet up on a low stool. He was only partly undressed, long frock coat hanging neatly in his bedroom, leaving him in the white shirt he wore beneath with its high collar and long buttoned cuffs, a slender fitting black vest and trousers that buttoned at the ankle. Shoes off, feet in slippers. He wasn't sure it would be tonight, but when the knock came, he knew who it was at once. He glanced to the clock, set down his book and stood, moving through the rooms for the door, and opened it.
Draco looked so pale and small it was alarming. His gaze caught the shake of his hands and returned to those sharp, ice blue eyes. Nothing about Snape's face is apologetic, because he doesn't regret what he did, what happened. He has nothing to apologize for, and neither, anymore, does Draco. He paid that due two nights ago.
The air from the corridor is cold, while that of his chambers is warm at his back, and he steps back into it, opening the door wider with a soft, "Come in," that doesn't leave room for Draco to say no. Whatever happens, even if tonight it's just a conversation, it's not one that is happening in the hall.