𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚄𝙼 » 𝚂𝚂/𝚁𝙻

𝚇𝙸𝙸𝙸 >> 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝚄𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙾𝙵 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻𝙸𝙰𝙼 𝚂𝙷𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙴

< 1 MONTH, 3 WEEKS >

The snow cakes itself into the ridges of his boots, lining the heel with streaks of white so aseptic it may as well be gold.

He strides down a diffident street, relatively unpopulated, each house very large and very far apart, each plot of land lined with tall metal fences and plants higher than the shingles and femerells themselves. The morning is stationary and inorganic. The air has nothing to it; not even a name.

He stands outside the gate until it opens for him and he walks hesitantly up to the large front door. He disrelishes immensely the memories he gets from the stone exterior alone, and he hasn't even stepped inside yet.

The door in due course is opened, and he's acknowledged by an old school-time friend, dressed in contoured black robes and dark leather gloves, the hems lined with dangling chains that Severus can only guess are genuine silver. Looking at the man, he wishes this were one of his nightmares; a memory so easily brushed away with the opening of his own eyes. He wishes he could wake up from this and ignore it all and exist only in a separate time. But this is real, from the intricate textures of the man's long, white-blond hair to the mephitic reek of fine wine on his extortionate suit vest.

"Lucius," Snape greets him, stone-faced, as his old cult colleague stares back with just as little attached emotion.

"Severus," Malfoy replies, stepping aside and motioning with his walking stick to the colossal front room. "Please. Come inside."

Each step reverberates across the bare stone walls, the large undraped room feeling less ornate than Snape's own home in Spinner's End regardless of the incredible difference in monetary worth. It's so arid, so crepuscular, no personality or signs of life to it in the least. There is not a single memory gracing its walls or any implications of laughter echoing through the stone floor. It's just a large gray box, cold, dull, unhappy. He doesn't like being in it. Not at all. He's never liked boxes; whenever he finds himself in one it reminds him of when he would hide from his father in the cupboards.

"As you understand, Draco is about a year now," Malfoy explains, leading Snape out of the large room and into another, showing the way to a large staircase that is all too familiar to the feet. "I just wanted you to meet him."

Severus tightens his jaw, feeling all too much as if there are strings attached and having a rather decent hunch regarding the material they are woven from. "I see."

"Narcissa would have loved to see you," Lucius adds in attempt to strike up conversation, "but she was called last-minute to Knockturn Alley for some business. She wouldn't tell me quite what it was. She sends her love."

Snape nods. "Mm."

They reach a rather large bedroom at the end of one of the manor's multifarious hallways, Lucius' gloved hand reaching out to coolly push open the door, which is kept up so well that the hinges don't even creak. The room is dark and gray and empty aside from a small bassinet in the middle, which they approach in complete silence. The snow from Severus' boots is beginning to melt on the floor. He makes a sort of statement of it, liking the fact that he'll leave an inconvenient trail of mud and water around the undelightfully spotless house. He makes no move to wipe his feet. He just lets them drip onto the murderous stone as he leans over to seethe expressionlessly into the cot.

But his eyes soften as he leans over it, taking in the sight of the bantam boy nestled within. Draco Malfoy, sleeping soundly between satin and lambskin blankets, his white hair just starting to grow over his head, lances Snape's chest in a way he has rather not been forecasting. He quickly pretends it is not so, straightening back up again and remaining outwardly unaffected.