Snape shuts the door behind Draco, the wards still firmly in place as he follows Draco in to what is a nice, almost cozy sitting room. The walls are lined with bookshelves and the light comes from hovering candles that had been clustered near the single black chair until Snape had gotten up, and were now lazing about above their heads, scattered to spread a low light. There's a second chair for guests, but it doesn't see much use, and it's not meant to. It's hard and straight backed, no cushion, the kind of seat intended for a guest he'd like to leave sooner than later.

Draco may not be looking at him, but he's certainly looking at Draco. There's color in his cheeks, a flush, perhaps embarrassment for the reason he's come. Regardless, it looks good on him, makes him look human. Without it his alabaster skin makes him look carved from stone, statuesque, perfect.

"You did, I always sleep fully clothed," he says with dry sarcasm and the lift of one brow. Draco is nervous, he's talking without thinking, and it's endearing. Not that he'd let on to that.

"I was reading," he says sincerely, "You're not bothering me at all."

He doesn't ask why he's here, what he needs, because he trusts Draco to get to that. He doesn't want to press him, except that increasingly he does, but against a wall, not for answers.