Chapter the Eighth: In Which There are Queer Developments

Disclaimer: Not profiting—just exploring the implausibilities.

Warning: How funny you find this chapter depends on how amusing you think it is for—oh, never mind, that would be a spoiler. Just set the coffee aside to be safe.

There were inklings that worse troubles were brewing than cursed hair, spilt ingredients and epic pouts.

They were small inklings at first. Severus almost didn’t notice them, given that his charge had just received a rather handsome haul of birthday gifts, including the long-ago promised solid gold cauldron. It was impossible to ignore, however, that 14-year-old Draco was not progressing as quickly as 10- or even 7-year-old Draco.

For a time Severus chivvied him along with promise of teaching a spell or two. He managed to eke a year of productivity from Draco by dangling the various carrots of basic levitation, simple Summoning, a few Cleaning Charms, and the convenience of Lumos and Nox.

15-year-old Draco was not as easily pleased by learning how to cast streams of bubbles or colorful sparks at will, however (though he was placated for at least a few weeks each by roses and ribbons); and Severus was unwilling to teach anything that might give the boy more offensive capabilities than his attitude provided. So Draco’s apathy mounted, along with resulting errors, making Severus irritable. Then again, the struggle for Slytherin succession was becoming less a chess game and more of a bar room brawl by this point, and Severus had ample reason to be irritable without an uncooperative apprentice underfoot. It was fortunate that the ‘Dracaena Draco’ spiel acted as the Imperius curse, obliging Draco to either drop what he was doing to make his hair available or allow Wormy to move it for him. Severus had no doubt that, were Draco capable, he would to refuse access to his hair.

By the time Draco was 17, he was not only atrociously apathetic and wearisomely whiny, he had developed an unholy fixation on being rescued.

“Father thinks it’s only a matter of time before word of my sad captivity and beauty gets out. That ought to stir up a prince or two,” Draco said. Severus would not swear to it, but he suspected that the boy was studying his reflection in the polished side of the teakettle.

“I don’t know what fantasy world your father lives in, but I feel it is only just to tell you that your so-called captivity is unlikely to be noticed. Current events are a little more pressing in the minds of royalty.” Severus shook the newspaper in his hands for emphasis. Even at his blondest, Draco could scarcely fail to notice that every other headline pertained to ludicrous prophecies about one hero or another or the ever-inane speculation on how the Riddle bastard had managed to give himself both a trumped-up title of Lord something-or-other and the head of a snake (when the real question should have been how such an obviously desperate douchebag managed to successfully swallow up most of the principality of Slytherin.)

Draco pushed his food about his plate sullenly in response. Severus deemed it fortunate the boy had a meager appetite and a penchant for running up six flights of stairs to his room every time something vexed him. Otherwise the tower stairs might need widening.

On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to let Narcissa get it into her head that the boy was starving. “While you may not be welcome in a royal castle as a noncombatant—IF you have the qualifications—someone might be inclined to take you on as a potions maker,” Severus said. Inspired by a flashback to the traumatic occasion of being forced to take custody of young Draco, he added, “In fact, if memory serves, your mother said something to that effect once.”

A huff of breath and a bit of dispirited toast-nibbling were all the reply Severus received. He decided to call it a victory based on the absence of broken plates or tears.

The last straw was when Quidditch Illustrated and the fashion magazine Robes With Flair were mistakenly delivered to the tower along with the usual potions journals and the usual newspaper full of the usual bad news about the usual warring kingdoms. These particular issues (of the magazines, not the newspapers or Potions journals) featured lots of wizards… some of them modeling very little clothing. Which caused Draco to begin spending far more time in little room at the top of the tower, especially in his bath, followed by asking very unacceptable questions of Severus. This led to Severus getting into a very nasty argument with the Owl Post People, who WOULD insist on misdirecting dodgy publications his way.

From that day, the already tiresome topic of princes took an even odder bent. Draco’s fixation narrowed from rescue in general to the potential rescuer.

“Do you think the prince will be married?” Draco asked. He was supposed to be marking his star chart to determine if the constellations were positioned optimally for the production of healing potions, but the only marks on his chart looked suspiciously like Valentine hearts.

Severus looked askance at his apprentice, whom he supposed would technically be a journeyman were he allowed to go anywhere. “I cannot fathom how that is relevant, but I suspect that unwed princes have the most leisure to go about rescuing people.”

This seemed to cheer Draco, who actually took up his quill. Severus dared hope that he would complete his assignment.

“Will he be a handsome prince?”

It was a near thing, but Severus did not quite hit himself in the eye with his own telescope. It wasn’t so much what his apprentice said, but the eerily dreamy way he said it. “What on earth does it matter? You’ll be just as rescued if the prince looks like a bloody toad.”

Draco’s face crushed into a truly epic sneer. “I don’t like toads,” he murmured, “except for their colors.” Still, that seemed to quell him enough that he returned to dutifully marking his chart. Once again, Severus hoped in vain that the absurdity was done for the night.

“Am I very beautiful?” Draco asked.

Severus contemplated smacking the boy with the nearest blunt object (which would be detrimental to his poor telescope) or sending him to his room (which would be redundant, since the topmost bit of the tower was Draco’s room.) Severus decided on a non-answer. “Men are supposed to be handsome, not beautiful.” he said.

“You—you’re just jealous!” Draco punctuated his accusation by throwing his quill to the ground, which was not exactly a gesture that looked either threatening or impressive.

“I find temper tantrums ugly,” Severus managed to reply coolly. He turned his attention away from Draco’s sniveling (the words ‘terribly cruel’ and ‘my prince won’t be like that’ were distinguishable amid the sobs) and back to the sky. Really, this was more drama than Severus would have expected from a lovestruck teenaged girl—

When the knut finally dropped, Severus almost clocked himself with the telescope again. He spent the rest of the evening hoping there was nothing in the contract that said he had to break the news to the parents.