Snape looked at him. His favorite student, a boy he had always been rather fond of, for no reason he could decipher given that he detested Draco's father. But there it was. Perhaps it was because Draco reminded him of himself at that age, just as Harry reminded him of James. But perhaps that was all wishful thinking; Draco was really nothing like him at that age. I wasn't a fighter, he thought. It took me years to learn that there might be anything in the world worth fighting for.
Draco had fallen silent, watching the black circular disk spin lazily over his hand, a dark and slightly disquieting light in his eyes. He had a dreamy half-smile on his face, as if he were thinking of something else now, somewhere he would like to be. It was the same smile that would give Charlie Weasley nightmares, but it merely gave Snape pause for thought.
'Perhaps I can help you. But first there's something you should know.'
'What?'
With brutal calm, Snape said, 'Your father's dead. He died this evening.'
Draco didn't move, but went suddenly, startlingly white. The dark light behind his eyes that had disquieted Snape seemed to crumble momentarily, leaving his eyes translucently clear, windows of shock and loss. The spinning disk cracked in half with a sound like a broken bone, and the pieces rained down onto the carpet. Draco looked up at Snape, his face made childlike again with astonished desolation. 'Are you sure?'
'I'm sure,' said Snape, turning to leave the room. 'Stay where you are, Mr. Malfoy. I'll get you some coffee.'
There is a crack in everything;
That's how the light gets in.
— Leonard Cohen
Draco poked at the food on his plate somewhat dispiritedly. It wasn't that the food wasn't good; to Draco's immense astonishment, Snape, amongst his other achievements, seemed to be able to produce a mean blueberry scone. But his stomach was tied in such tight knots that every bite was like swallowing a jagged chunk of metal.
It didn't help, of course, that Snape, sitting across from him at the table in the small, blue-painted kitchen, was staring at him with a piercing glare that Draco found very disconcerting. Draco had always thought that laceration by means of the eyes was a rather trite expression, but at the moment Snape's beetle-black gaze made him feel as if the Potions master could state right through his forehead to the back of his skull. 'So,' said Snape, crumbling a bit of scone absently between his forefingers, 'now that we've been over this several times, I am still unclear. You came to me because you thought I could help you, or because you knew I wouldn't tell Sirius Black that you're here?'
'Well,' said Draco around a mouthful of scone, 'you won't, will you?'
'Considering that I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire, that's an accurate assessment, yes. What do you care if he knows you're here?'
'He'll try to bring me home,' said Draco, as if this was obvious. 'He thinks he can help me, but he can't help me. None of them can help me. I still think you can, though.'
Snape looked absently towards the little window set in the east wall.
Pale morning light streamed through the curtains. Draco looked away; he had discovered that lately, light hurt his eyes. 'I don't mind not telling Sirius Black where you are. But it seems somehow immoral to keep the news of your whereabouts from your mother.
Perhaps you should owl her and tell her why you don't feel you can go home?'
Draco rolled his eyes. 'And say what? 'Lo, Mum, I can't come home because I think I'm going mad. Not just a little mad, but full-on banging-my-head-against-the-wall, frothing-at-the-mouth, homicidal-impulses barking. And by the way, send pocket money.
Love, Draco.''
'You're not going mad. Going mad would be a fairly simple issue to deal with. This is much more complicated. You are not an ordinary boy- '
'I know, thanks, my dad told me,' said Draco, looking away. His mind didn't seem to be able to wrap itself around the idea that his father was dead, even though Snape had given him the details and shown him a copy of the Daily Prophet with a headline about Lucius' death. He wasn't sure what he felt — not grieved exactly, but certainly somewhat dazed. He remembered how blank Harry had looked after getting Hermione's letter back at school, remembered thinking that Harry was in shock. He rather hoped his shock would last longer than Harry's, as he was not looking forward to what might happen when it wore off.
Snape was looking thoughtful. 'I admit that I'm surprised that your father told you of the Dark Lord's original plans for you.'
'Why?'
'Because your father was a liar. He lied to everyone, even when there was no benefit in it to himself. He lied because he loved it. I'm surprised he told the truth to you.'
Draco didn't quite know how to respond. However he might feel about his father, family pride precluded him from insulting him in the presence of strangers, or near-strangers. He recalled having once told Harry that he hated Lucius, but that had been different because he'd been quite sure he was about to die at the time, and anyway, that had been Harry. Snape calling his father a liar was something else again. According to the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct (length: three hundred pages, containing 1,376 rules ranging from: 'The Malfoy family dress robe colors are black, green and silver, except on state occasions when it is permissible to wear red, silver and black' to 'Malfoys are expressly forbidden from practicing inappropriate Lust Charms on members of the animal kingdom, especially in the topiary garden; this means you, Uncle Hector') he should, to save the honor of his family, leap to his feet and hit Snape in the eye. But he didn't much feel like it, so he contented himself with glaring furiously at his half-empty teacup and muttering, 'Milk.'
'What was that?'
'Milk,' said Draco again. 'For my tea. I need some.'
'Get it yourself,' said Snape shortly.
