by Scy

Draco Malfoy smiled as though he knew what reason Lucius Malfoy had for hating the Potions Master. Not that the older Malfoy would have been indiscreet. Just clear. The boy probably recorded everything that his father told him. It's what every good little boy did in the event that he was in a position to take over. Oh so prudent to have as much information as possible to waggled threateningly in front of potential loose tongues.

He had to learn that blackmail was a deep game, and he only knew the first few strokes yet.

After an interrogation that went well he took a grater portion of the bed, and Lucuis had to drape over him. Not that he minded; it was a kind of test, how far would the contact go before someone felt that dignity was compromised.

When the interviews went poorly, Severus came to bed after Lucius. He ignored the threats and posturing and kept his back to the other man until the Malfoy had tired. Lucius eventually realized that he was being overloud, and quieted. No mater how he wound himself about his bedmate, Severus did not answer to him, and was not to be claimed.

He didn't tolerate interruptions during his research, and when brewing potions. A focus that was maddening, but it served the Death Eaters well to let Severus alone, and then he would return the favor with a mixture that was useful.

There was a sharp odor in his nostrils a corrosive had been used, cleaning agent, the subject had been ignorant or uncooperative, which didn't matter in the end.

The tendency of a gang or cult to mark their bodies, as well as tie themselves irrevocably together through ceremony was covered neatly with the Dark Mark.

Devotion, servitude, and need were seared into flesh as a tangible moment of emptiness. But Voldemort always took and they were his limbs to bring more to him.

The Death Eaters; not just servants of a Dark Lord, but hungry souls. They carried out the most menial tasks and some special ones as the need became evident. Taking all those lives, the spirits, they had more than a bit of death. Their stomachs weren't unsettled by blood, slopped or spread.

The skull of an infant felt like an egg. It was light the bones not completely fused, and it looked abnormal, its proportions uneven.

On his stomach, face resting on a pillow, skin exposed, he looked even more like a deadly animal. Hair ruffled, back tense, and if he hadn't taught himself how to secrete a chemical to discourage contact it would be a wonder. Despite all of his body language, he would share the blankets.

He had beautiful eyes. No one noticed that. They liked to go on about his temper, the way that he had no respect for anyone, and that he never failed to scare the students to death with only a look. But they never mentioned his eyes.

Their love was not the frenzy of the children. For they knew it was more than a passerby, it had become a thing not to speak of in the quiet of a cup of tea Its patterns ever-changing into inverses of the still-familiar in the leaves and dregs of liquid.

Depressing to think of the children in terms of Muggle historical figures. It was unrealistic to expect that Joan of Arc got as far as she did. She'd risen up during one of those Ďand a child will lead themí times in history, and when that period is over, she was disposed of.

The forest was closed off to the students, but that didn't mean teachers weren't known to make trips into the Dark groves.

There were all sorts of beasts living in the thickets, some benign, others shy, and those whose dispositions did not take well to being disturbed.

But a wary traveler, or an experienced one could move unmolested through the trees, provided that discretion was ever in the the thoughts and a respect in their steps.

Evil did not sleep, but took naps. And those who were good were forced to keep the same hours. There were no candles that burned as needed.

Desire congealed thicker than blood on pale lips and was altered in uttered words. Kissing Severus was like the shock of ice melting under the tongue, the sharp feeling of sensitive nerves lively all at once. Mouths tended to meet midway and bodies did the same while minds had their own paths. Tongues couldn't always depend on words to say what was really meant, therefore fluids spoke the loudest.

There was always brilliance in the pulse of magic over bruised flesh. Blood gathering under skin pressed overmuch was more striking than unmarked skin.

Lucius enjoyed educating his son. The boy had a great deal to accomplish, and therefore needed to know things. Of course, he didn't understand much of it. Cold feet in the morning weren't a thing to be dreaded, not on fine dawns when their owner curled around you like a feline, and never stole the covers without reason. A teacher didn't fawn over students that were from good families because of intelligence. It was strategic wisdom, and the boy still didn't know that. Hate was so much more warmer in the winter, but lust had its own furnace.

Severus knew these things; moreover, he would not tell Draco. After all there were some lessons to be learned through experience.


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