Savior of the broken, beaten and the….
Chapter one: When I was
A Severus Draco fic, not slash, familial inclined. The title is based off a lyric from "My chemical Romance's: The Black Parade".
Decorum, patience, and a near rock like stillness marked his charge. It had… changed over the years. The boy, his attitudes, his manner. What was allowed became more important than what was wanted, and though it hadn't happened yet, he waited with a wry dread, a dark anticipation, for what they wanted to become what he wanted.
At times, anticipation wasn't a good thing.
Still, it was there. Like pain, it affirmed and reaffirmed that life carried on. With such optimism beating in his heart he ushered his guest in the gloomy depths of his home. No dungeons here, merely mundanity, books, and bookshelves. Truthfully there were dungeons, but little minds were forbidden that information. The taboo was a result of an alliance between parent and keeper made long ago. It kept idle hands from discovering the joys of acid exposure, open flames, and the multitude of mishaps that potions labs inflicted on the careless.
And the arrogant.
Severus sighed, wished to, truly he dared not indulge. Expression was forbidden per present company so he declined indulgence. Still he wished…
The boy, his nose was tipped up, his lips pressed into a cold thin line. Grey eyes, his father's trademark, flicked here, there, everywhere. From the doorway, forbidding himself the indulgence of actually passing the threshold, forbidding himself an encounter with the shabby the boy's patron and sire leaned upon his walking stick. Trademark sneer in full attendance. It was an expression the boy mirrored far too well.
But, most telling of all, mirrors and trademarks aside… was one fact. One interesting little bit of information that had all but wandered into his clutches.
(Once he'd coveted such information, a lifetime ago, risked life and limb for it, amusing it'd wander up to him now. How things had changed…)
The man did not protest. Releasing his ward, his son, into the arms of a potential traitor. He didn't bat an eyelash as his boy, his legacy, walked amongst decay so ingrained it had never been grand before the rot settled in.
Really, traitor was a kindness. The home's owner mused, even as he went through absent graces and insincere offers of tea and the like. Being a traitor was a mercy. Truth be told the owner of the hovel was known as scum by the masses. Religiously tidy of his possessions, obstinately unfastidious about himself, it said much for a man who valued things over people and made an effort to flaunt it.
Even if those things were counter band, books, and universally shabby. They were relics of second hand shops, the occasional (shameful) dumpster dive, and the odd piece of loot from… better days.
Granted the "good old days" involved murder, brewing poisons, and torture (of others if you were lucky, but he'd had bad days and had the scars to prove it).
From his place, framed by wood, braced by earth, patron flicked his eyes to his son, than his son's keeper.
"Certainly with school out, it would not be so difficult…"
A gesture, black glad man slashed his hand through the air, silencing the aristocrat with a glare. They would not have this argument here. Not with the boy amongst them. Said child looked up from running a finger along a books spine. Looking both back and up, stiff backed, face placid (too placid, shuttered, closed off, the edges sealed with ice) he knew they were talking of him. But, though curious, he had no comment.
Hardly the actions of a prince.
That last drummed up a grimace the uninitiated would have thought of as a smile. Teeth bared, he inclined his head. A seeming invitation, but under the surface it was actually an order: Enter and be damned. He'd shunt them both to some corner, a hissed spell for privacy, and then he'd tell Lucius Malfoy what he thought of being hoisted off as some second rate babysitter…
Unmoved, unmoving, (unseeing, the idea was terrifying, quickened his heart though he didn't know why) Malfoy considered gloom and grit and was satisfied. He turned, forgetting in his malicious absent way a little matter of farewells.
To hell with this, to hell with him. To hell with place and station. Grimace morphed into a snarl as he stormed after the sharply dressed blonde. Black cloak and robes snapped about him, a tribulation all its own. A world away, a façade broke, ice melted, and the residue lingered….
Ripping open the door Lucius had absently closed he took one step, two. The crack, the absence of presence sensed, assured him that pursuit would be futile. Snarling he whipped about on his heel, slammed the door behind him as an afterthought.
Save, afterthoughts like his, had no real thought behind them, and were not absently malicious.
Rather wholly, fully, truly cruel.
The boy winced, cringed back against the shelf. Small mercy that he wasn't by the fire, else his startled hop might have left him amongst the flames.
A grate… he'd have to invest in one of those sometime soon he supposed...
Looking at the child, with only finery on his back and nothing else, and Severus Snape sighed. A loud this time. He'd need more than a grate, and there was no suppose about it.
"Mr. Malfoy." Grey eyes their attendant streams looked up at him, small features were twisted into misery. Wonderfully, joyous day this was. "I... assume you were informed as to who I am and how long you'll be here for?"
A headshake, wide eyes, but no to what, he wondered.
"My name Mr. Malfoy-" Each word was slow, grudgingly given, gone were the chances to save his voice... per tradition he'd scarcely talk once away from the dunderheads. Clearly this summer, he was not going to be allowed his annual reprieve. "-is Severus Snape."
To say he was a mite bitter was saying his place was a little gloomy. Still, he held to ghost's kindness, didn't make it as obvious as he could have, his bitterness. That head shook, golden blonde hair caught what little light there was this cloudy afternoon and glimmered about the edges.
"No what boy!" he snapped.
"I don't… I don't know... you... or how long…" Tears flowed freer, to Severus' grunt the head lifted, looked up from the floor.
A start, of sorts.
"Fine." To that complete acceptance the boy blinked, fool jaw slack, eyes wide. "Time isn't an issue until September, we've time. As for who I am… I'm your Godfather. But I suppose Lucius or Narcissa never told you that, did they?"
A head shake, he didn't turn to see it, didn't care really.
Wonderful, joyous day indeed. He wanted fire whisky, the strongest concentration he could get… But, with this.. complication… he wouldn't be able to indulge, would he? A glance at the tearful, fearful, face confirmed and affirmed his query.
Damn damn damn….
Still, he held to kindness' ghost, he'd not drink with the brat under foot. He may be a monster, a murder, but he drew the line at abusive bastard. That was a ghost too familiar that he'd never indulge.
Never mind that phantom shared so much of hium, was so much of him, even his face.