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Notes: To Femme, on her birthday.

I am but a voice;
My life is but the life of winds and tides,
No more than winds and tides can I avail...
- John Keats, Hyperion

He should have expected it when Draco came to his quarters. When Draco knocked and entered, glancing up furtively as the wards let him in. He looked apprehensive--a rare enough expression, now that Draco had learned to mask himself, for Severus to intuit the cause. The reason Draco was here, at this hour of the night and almost-trembling, dressed in little more than a thin robe.

Severus had even been encouraging it, little by little, this building of something other than a platonic mentorship. He knew how to play the game, after all--even at his age, even after all these years. Draco was Voldemort's favourite, just as Lucius had been. The Malfoys with their golden hair and skin. Such beautiful things. They'd be ornaments if they weren't so useful. Voldemort was fond of Draco as he would be of a favoured nephew, and Draco was filled with such potential, such hate towards all the right things. A young, fierce knife ready for a wielding hand. A vessel ready for secrets.

So Severus offered the boy a drink, some of what he'd been having himself--Irish Mist, potent and pale green as absinthe. Edged with a twinge of pain, a bright flare of magic as it went down. Draco coughed as he swallowed. Severus watched his throat.

Minutes passed, in which they talked of things neither of them would remember later--and Severus could feel it building inside his chest, what was to come, in the curve of Draco's wrist or the clean line of his jaw.

Finally, the question asked itself.

Draco looked aside, a high flush on his cheeks because of drink or lust or fear, and asked: 'I heard--you and my father--were you--'

'No,' Severus lied. Draco had the audacity--or innocence--to look relieved, and then Severus was setting his glass down carefully, and Draco was too, and his hands were cool on Severus' face, slightly damp and slightly unsteady, when Draco stepped close to kiss him.

Checkmate, Severus would have thought, except that he didn't, and he didn't have to ask if Draco had done this before, because the grey surface of Draco's mind was choppy under his own, swirling and fast as though wind-whipped. Obvious even through his shielding.

'Slow,' Severus hushed him, 'slow,' even as he guided Draco to the bed, slipping off sleeves and kissing shoulder, throat, sternum--all smooth and perfectly formed, luminous as wax.

Slow, he told himself, not allowing himself to think that Draco must trust him for this, to come to him for-- No. He closed off his mind so as to not be distracted. He could feel the frantic beat of the boy's pulse against his mouth, the urgent curve of his erection against his thigh. Slow. Guide him through this dance. Guide him.

He noticed odd little things. Draco's knees anchored in the sheets. Making dents in the mattress. How he accepted Severus' fingers in silence, perhaps a moan or two, careful careful Severus not too fast. Draco eased up slowly, beautifully, a warm gift given willingly but reluctant to open itself. Panting harshly when Severus finally pushed in, one hand on Draco's shoulder to steady himself. Draco's head was bowed, pale hair trailing on the pillow, face hot and sticky with either sweat or tears when Severus reached around to touch it, but he couldn't see Draco's face, and perhaps that was for the better. He pulled out slowly, so slowly he thought he might break from it, and pushed back in, and almost came. Move. Wait. Move.

Draco began making little sounds. 'Uh, uh, uh.' Like he was hurt. Hurting. He sounded like a child. The thought should have made Severus pull back, but somehow his hips snapped forward, deeper. Draco choked, as though cloth had been pushed into his throat.

Be gentle with the young, said a voice in his head, and suddenly Severus remembered collapsing on the floor in Dumbledore's office, waiting for word from the Potters, shaking and sweating while the Mark burned on his arm. Strange that he should think of it now, while fucking this boy almost as young as he had been then--how he had sat listening to the ticking of the clock, reading Muggle philosophy on the richly carpeted floor. Too late. Too late. Too late.

Time melted. He was fucking Draco more gently now, distracted--running his hands up and down Draco's sides, feeling them tremble, seeing Draco's back move beneath him like a river of spilt milk. Don't cry, he wanted to tell Draco, don't... But when he curled his arm around Draco's waist he felt Draco's prick brush against his wrist, hard and hot and wet, and then Draco was coming even before Severus could take him in hand, too quick and only seventeen and closing about him like a vise oh fuck and Severus was coming too, thrusting too hard, feeling the tight velvet around him warm with a sudden burst of sperm, hot as blood from a wound. Severus' hand slipped in the come on Draco's belly and they both collapsed, ungainly, sweating, spent, onto the sheets.

It was only later, when Draco's back was to him and he was quiet in his sleep, a sated young animal, that Severus thought of what he'd done.

He'd needed to do it. It was justified. Fucking the son of his erstwhile lover. Fucking his student. Fucking a child. It was just mechanics. Severus with his body all up in strings, one twitch of Dumbledore's fingers, or Voldemort's, and he danced. An image of Draco as a young boy, clapping his hands. Dance. Dance. Dance. It had been a house-elf then. Lucius standing aside, whiskey in one hand, smiling. Wand tapping his thigh.

No. It must be a dream. Everything was a dream now. How much had he drunk? Of the Irish Mist, before Draco had knocked on his door? Of Draco himself?

Too much. Too much.

I don't hate you, he thought quietly, either to himself or to Draco or to the phantom between them. His hand was splayed across Draco's chest, warm, feeling the double-thump of Draco's heart.