Chapter 10 of The Bubo
In which Draco is presented with an ultimatum.
Sunday, November 29, 1994
Draco twitched with anxiety as he stood before Professor Snape’s office, gathering the courage to knock. The calming draught he had been given upon waking in the Hospital wing, frightened and disoriented, in the middle of the night, had long worn off. Madam Pomfrey hadn’t questioned him, nor made any comments on the state he had been in when brought to her. By Potter, it turned out. Who hadn’t only stayed by Draco’s side when he’d collapsed but had apparently taken the responsibility for their fight too.
With great effort, Draco pushed aside all thoughts about that. He had to keep his wits about him. The bubo was gone. In its place, only a tender pink patch remained. Draco didn’t feel any different. The magic of it hadn’t had time to work, like Vince thought, or hadn’t worked on Draco to begin with, like Draco thought. Either way, if there was any chance to keep it all secret, he had to cling to it. Both for Vince’s sake and his own. There was no telling what Father would do if Draco’s stupidity were to result in another Auror raid of the Manor. Or worse, if he learned why Draco had taken the potion in the first place.
Salazar, guide me.
He knocked.
“Enter.” Muffled by the door, Professor Snape’s voice sounded even more tired and dejected than usual.
Draco’s heart started pounding as he opened the door a crack and peered in. “It’s me, sir.”
Professor Snape didn’t lift his gaze from the parchment he was writing on. After a few moments, Draco cleared his throat. “Madam Pomfrey said I was to see you before—”
“Come in and close the door.”
It was very hot inside, stuffy with book dust and the acrid smell of chemicals. From the corner, the furnace rumbled ominously at the threshold of hearing, blasting heat and casting restless shadows over the flagstones. The addition of a worn, square cabinet that squatted by Professor Snape’s desk made the office feel even more crowded and claustrophobic than the last time Draco had visited. The counter where he had put down the jar of Oxalis seed a week before was now taken by a complicated alchemical apparatus. There was no trace of the seed, of course. Draco knew where it had gone. On his second day with Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, he had spied Professor Snape applying a generous slather of the swelling salve on the inside of his forearm, where he hid the Dark Lord’s Mark. It had looked just as inflamed as Potter’s scar.
Draco closed his eyes, willing the intrusive image away. Professor Snape’s quill was scratching bloody trails in his ears. He wrung his hands behind his back.
“Sit,” Professor Snape said after what must’ve been three and a half hours, though he had not finished writing yet, or graced Draco with a single glance.
Draco had never thought he’d welcome the embrace of the visitor’s armchair, but now it felt like an anchor. Something to ground him and keep him in place. It did nothing for his racing pulse, though, and when Professor Snape finally put his quill down, Draco feared he might not hear well enough to hold a conversation through the relentless drumming in his ears.
“I know why you took those potions,” Professor Snape said, lifting his eyes one stubby black eyelash at a time.
Draco’s stomach turned. But then it registered: those potions, plural. Professor Snape was bluffing. Draco clenched his teeth and said nothing.
“It saddens me, Draco,” Professor Snape said, “though it is by no means a surprise, that you’ve been brought up to believe this… proclivity of yours is one that can, or should be, cured. There is no charm,” he said, “no curse and no potion that can change who you are. Do you understand? Whether you like it or not,” he said, “whether your family likes it or not—it is your nature. Immutable, inalienable, indelible. You may,” he said, “and will likely be forced to… pretend otherwise. Live a—” he waved a contemptuous hand “—normal life. Take a wife. Produce offspring. That is something magic can help with. But no one,” he paused, and the odd, wet glint in his eyes made Draco think the speech was sincere, “no one, and nothing, not even your own magic, wishes and reason, will keep you from loving who you love.”
The tears that had gathered in Draco’s eyes spilled. He welcomed them. Professor Snape’s words resonated deeper than he would ever know. But Draco was mostly… relieved. His reasons for taking Vince’s potion remained his own. A secret. And the best way to protect it right now was to play right into Professor Snape’s expectations. So, he let the tears streak down his cheeks, meet at his chin, and plop into his lap. It felt good to cry. To finally air his misery. His heartbeat slowed from sprinting to running and though his throat ached, breathing was easier.
“Sir,” he said, and didn’t mind that his voice broke. “Please don’t tell my parents.”
More tears fell. He kept his eyes down and his brow knitted against the embarrassment of sobbing, but he could hear Professor Snape shift, and when he spoke, he sounded closer.
“Ah. You got the potions from another student, then.”
Draco screwed his eyes shut, cursing himself for speaking out of turn. If he had kept his silence—but it was too late. The blunder had been made. He nodded.
Professor Snape leaned forward even further and squinted at Draco with not a trace of the emotion that had been in evidence before. “Who is it?”
“I won’t say, sir.”
“And if I were to come with you to the dormitories, and check the trunks of your friends?”
Draco lifted his chin. “You would find nothing, sir,” he lied with utter conviction, holding Professor Snape’s gaze steady. “No one stupid enough to keep contraband in their trunk can call themselves my friend.”
“Pity,” Professor Snape said without parting his teeth. He sat back. “Though I must say I am relieved that Lucius and Narcissa, at least, have not yet fallen for the tall tales of that charlatan.”
“Charlatan, sir?”
“‘Doctor’ Animus Thorn.” Professor Snape used air quotes. In some other situation, Draco would’ve fount it funny. “The man who brews this rubbish and sells it to pureblood families with much to hide and more to pay, promising treatment for all kinds of embarrassments, from harmless things like impotence, hair loss and obesity—which is, I suspect, how it gained popularity among the students here—to epilepsy, autism, homosexuality, and who knows what else.”
Draco wasn’t entirely sure what the first two things were, but he winced at the last. It was one thing to name it within the confines of his thoughts, and quite another to hear it uttered aloud so bluntly. “When you say rubbish—”
“I mean, it may appear effective, but only because the recipient believes it is beneficial, not due to the magic inherent to its ingredients or its creator. Which is, in fact, toxic and detrimental, as you have seen for yourself.”
“Like a… placebo?”
Snape’s eyebrows rose. “A Muggle term. I wouldn’t have expected you to be familiar with it. But yes. A placebo.”
Draco gazed at the assortment of writing implements on Professor Snape’s desk, remembering how he had liked to “help” Mother prepare “potions” for the numerous aches and complaints that had plagued Granana near the end of her life. It had been just sugar water, poured out into tiny vials and magicked to take on a variety of scents, tastes and colors. Draco had been especially fond of the green one, that smelled like watermelon; and sometimes, Mother had let him have it.
His thoughts went to Vince and his problem. “But… if there is an effect, no matter the cause—”
Professor Snape sat up and struck the desk with an open palm in a rare outburst of impatience. “Haven’t you heard a word I said? For Lord’s sake. It is not an illness, Draco. It cannot be cured.”
That wasn’t what Draco had asked. But to insist would be to risk incriminating himself, and Vince, further. So he just nodded, and squeezed a bit more moisture out of his eyes for good measure. “Then… you won’t tell my parents?”
A few moments passed in silence. Then Professor Snape leaned back again, looking to the left of Draco, then to the right, as if performing some mental calculation. “Three weeks remain to the end of term exams,” he said at last. “If none of your grades are under E… I will not.”
Draco held his breath. It would be hell. He’d have to spend all his free time studying. Charms, Transfiguration and Potions he didn’t have to worry about too much. History and Astronomy could be crammed, as could Arithmancy and Runes, and Theo could help him with Harbology. For Creature Care, he’d have to grovel at Hagrid’s feet and would likely end up risking life and limb to clean the dung out of screwt pens. But all that was doable. Only one subject felt entirely out of his control.
As if reading his mind, Professor Snape said, “I hear you scored an O on your last Defense essay. An auspicious beginning of your… rehabilitation.”
Draco hadn’t known that. The news threatened to stir thoughts and emotions he had painstakingly tucked away. He took a breath and kept it all under. Under. Where it didn’t matter.
“Yes, sir.” He wiped his face, though most of the tear tracks had dried already. “I’ll do my best, sir.” And he meant it. He had been spared a horrible humiliation and given another chance. To get his own problem under control. Somehow.
“I hope so, Mr. Malfoy. I truly do.”