He glared in frustration as he listened to the clumps of the Mad-Eye Moody's leg recede down the hallway, and made a conscious effort to unclench his fists in the wake of the ex-auror's declarations. It took several deep breaths before he felt he could deal calmly with the aftermath of their impromptu meeting.

Snape stared down at the top of Draco's bowed pale-blond head, willing him silently to meet his gaze. They stood thus for several minutes before he finally caught the boy's eye as he peeked cautiously up at the Head of Slytherin House through the wispy strands of his dishevelled hair.

It was unusual to see Draco Malfoy looking anything less than picture-perfect, Snape noted to himself. It was even more unusual to catch him with his eyes brimming with barely-restrained tears.

"Come," he directed sharply, gesturing the boy to follow him down a series of corridors, and into his room - muttering the password softly enough that there was little chance the student could have heard it. "Sit," he frowned, indicating the bed.

He turned his back deliberately while the boy settled tentatively on the bed, and rummaged unnecessarily through his cupboards before retrieving a small jar of powder. Placing it on the bedside table, he placed one hand on Draco's shoulder.

The boy jumped, startled eyes flicking up to meet Snape's own at the contact. The professor ignored his student's obvious unease, instead sliding his hand down to the boy's upper arm, probing lightly at his back with his other hand. Draco wriggled uncomfortably, but did not protest aloud.

"Take your robes off and lie down," Snape instructed briefly, before delving back into the cupboard. Draco didn't move. "Unless," Snape continued, showing him the second jar half-full of ointment that he had just selected from his stores, "you would prefer to see Madam Pomfrey about those bruises?"

Draco shook his head lightly, and obeyed with some reluctance. Dropping his robes to the floor, he lay on Snape's bed, his face half-buried in a pillow that not so incidentally soaked up his tears. With brisk but gentle fingers, the potions master carefully massaged the ointment into Draco's pale flesh wherever the darkening tones proclaimed damage had been done.

The boy muttered angrily under his breath, his words mostly indistinct - yet two names were very clear in the potions master's ears.

"Stay clear of Moody," he warned the boy. "You were lucky this time. Don't push him."

"'Lucky'?" The response was outraged, the boy's entire body tensing up.

"Indeed. Irritating an overly-paranoid ex-auror is not beneficial for your health, Malfoy." As he himself knew only too well - although there had been nothing 'ex' about the auror at the time...

"It was none of his business," the boy returned grumpily, turning his head slightly so as to speak more easily.

"Cursing another student from behind?"

"It was only Potter," he mumbled, what little Snape could see of his face tinted pink. "And he deserved it. He insulted my mother."

"Were you insulting his?"

"No." Draco squirmed beneath his hands, turning his face back into the pillow. "Weasley's." The professor snorted, and continued rubbing the salve into the pale boy's skin in silence.

"Turn over," he instructed at last, after tending the handprint left on the boy's upper arm.

Draco remained motionless.

"Or I will turn you over myself."

Grudgingly, the boy did so, and Snape continued his ministrations - ignoring the rather obvious reason why the youth hadn't wished to comply.

"I would advise you against complaining to your father about Moody," the Head of Slytherin House commented, his hands still moving deftly over his pupil's slender frame. "I will naturally inform him of the incident, but you should understand that it would not be very prudent for him to confront Moody and his ilk after the affair at the Quidditch World Cup." He glanced up briefly to find silver eyes glaring at him in frustration.

"But - "

"Moody and his kind would be all too happy to use any sort of excuse to investigate those who have been previously associated with Death Eaters. I do not believe your father would appreciate being the centre of Ministry attention."

Draco grimaced, biting his lower lip, his eyes mutinous. "But - "

"Get dressed." He turned his back once again, this time crossing to his desk and pouring a cup of water from the flask he kept there. With swift motions, he tipped a measured amount of powder from the first jar into the water, swirling the mixture expertly in one hand.

"Here," he held the cup out to his now-clothed charge. "Drink."

For once, Draco obeyed without hesitation, draining the cup smoothly before handing it back.

Snape eyed the empty cup briefly before setting it aside and returning the full weight of his regard to the boy who stood before him.

"Slytherins are chosen for their ambition - and also for their cunning." He eyed the blond dourly, his lips quirking in a humourless half-smile. "Cursing someone from behind in the middle of the Entrance Hall, surrounded by witnesses and teachers is not cunning - it's stupidity."

Draco didn't quite cover a wince at this statement, his cheeks yet again pink with shame, and moved quickly to leave as Snape opened the door for him - only to halt as the professor laid a hand on his shoulder once more.

"You have a good mind, Draco. Use it."

Silver eyes widened, then narrowed as the youth contemplated his teacher's words. After a moment of intense scrutiny, he inclined his head and departed, leaving the older man alone in his chambers.

Exhaling heavily, Snape closed the door securely, and returned to his desk. Seating himself, he prepared a second cup of the powder and sipped at it steadily. It was nothing more than a mild pain relief preparation that he used regularly for headaches, but it disturbed him that Draco had drunk without a single question.

Blind faith would be Draco's downfall, unless he could somehow manage to get the boy to think for himself...

Perhaps this incident with Moody would be the prompt the boy seemed to require to start thinking about his actions seriously. Or perhaps that was hoping for too much from the aggravating ex-auror.

"Damn you, Moody," he half-whispered. "Why did Dumbledore have to choose you of all people?"

Unbidden images of another set of bruises drifted before his eyes, bruises he himself had borne as the mildest of punishments the aurors had inflicted on him for being one of the Marked...

He repressed a shudder, closing his eyes and draining his cup dry as a ward against his impending headache. With a short sigh, he opened his eyes. Picking up a quill and a piece of parchment, he began to write.

Dear Lucius...