A Fragile Thing

*...* denotes unspoken thoughts

Any fear, any memory will do;
and if you've got a heart at all,
someday it will kill you.
(Rita Dove, Primer to the Nuclear Age')

The Boy Who Lived...

Here, in the Muggle world, he looks almost washed out, as if his importance were dimmed by an aura of mediocrity. He pushes a heavy shopping cart through the parking lot towards a sneering trio of Muggles surrounding a large, overly-prestigious automobile.

"Hurry up, boy," the male head of the little Muggle herd orders.

He digs in his heels to stop the overloaded cart in front of the open trunk and, muttering "Yes, Uncle Vernon," starts to put the acquired provisions into the car. The Muggles watch, the female with pursed lips and impatient fingers drumming against the hood, the younger Muggle wearing a spiteful grin.

I permit myself an equally spiteful smile ere casting an Obscurus spell on the immediate area to divert Muggle attention.

They don't immediately notice me as I step out of the shadows. I focus my gaze on the back of the black-haired teen and call out to him.

"Harry Potter!"

He whirls around and stares, first in surprise, then in shock founded in recognition. A glass of pickles shatters on the floor. Admirable reflexes - I've seen similar in trained Aurors. Not that it helped them. Not that it will help him.

His hand reaches into the pocket of his washed-out jeans under a baggy, red sweater, and then stills there, helpless.

*Left your little suburban fortress without a wand? Thanks for the confirmation, little one. But don't let it trouble you too much. You wouldn't have stood a chance with it, either.*

The elder Muggle sputters in outrage as he glares at his nephew.

"How often have I told you I don't want any of your freak friends showing up around us!" he growls.

I'm torn between sincere amusement at being mistaken for a friend of Potter's and the desire to blast the presumptuous Muggle to bits for calling me a freak. Just who does that mistake of natural selection think he is?

"Uncle Vernon, I-" my target stutters, but is interrupted rudely.

"I warned you after last year's disaster that I wouldn't tolerate any contact with those people any more."

"Uncle Vernon, he's not-"

"Do we have to lock you up again, boy?"

"He's no friend of mine!" Potter finally yells, his voice high and terrified enough to shut his uncle up at last.

"No, most certainly not," I point out silkily, drawing my wand. "Although it's interesting to see, Mr. Potter, that your... popularity does not extend into the Muggle world."

He flinches under the unbridled sarcasm.

"What do you want, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Why, Mr. Potter, I've come to ask you to accompany me, of course."

He lifts his chin with admirable determination, green eyes burning right into my own.

"I won't go anywhere with you!"

"Before you decide on that course of action, I would advise you to consider the fate of your Muggle relatives," I reply with a dangerous glint in my eyes. The Muggle stares at me open-mouthed, while his wife and son crowd fearfully behind him. Obviously, they have found themselves on the wrong end of a wizard's wand before.

It's only when I take a threatening step forward that it hits me. Power roils around me, hissing and crackling furiously over my skin, intent on forcing me away.

Bugger! I will never again call Dumbledore a tottering old fool, at least not to myself. It is, I admit freely, one of the most potent protective spells I've ever encountered. It surrounds the little group like a shielding embrace of feathers and fire - Light Magic. And yet, like any purely defensive spell, it can only react. Potter, I'm almost certain, doesn't know it's there, because it will only turn itself against an outside threat. Neither do the Muggles, naturally. I lower my wand a fraction and bury all hope of taking the Boy Who Lived by magic. But, as an old Slytherin saying goes, there are ways and ways...

"Well, Mr. Potter," I continue as if nothing had happened, "allow me to make my offer: you will surrender yourself, and in return your Muggles will be allowed to leave alive. I am being very generous with you, considering that you have no way of fighting me at all."

The spell sputters around me, but I know I will not attack, and that is enough for it to cool down. Despite the power, there is something muted about this otherwise impressive construct of magic, and the reason becomes clear to me when I throw a side glance at Potter's Muggle kin. They project resentment and anger, not only at me but also at their charge. It... cripples the magic, to a degree. If there was love between them, it would be unbreakable, far beyond my capability to hoodwink. But such are the strengths - and liabilities - of pure Light Magic.

"Now, Mr. Potter," I press on, raising my wand threateningly in the direction of his Muggles, "will you humour me, or do you wish for even more deaths on your conscience?" He stares at me in horror, torn between his protective instinct and fear - emotions that are written on his features with a bold brush.

Glancing sardonically at his relatives, I decide to twist the knife a little.

"Indeed, I suspect your charge declined to tell you that his... exploits this spring left one of his schoolmates dead? No?" I shake my head in mock offence and enjoy the horrified looks they give the Boy Who Lived. The spell around them shudders and loses even more of its brilliance. "Young Mr. Potter is indeed a threat to the safety of those around him. You might be grateful to see that danger removed from your presence."

"That's enough!" Finally, Potter's temper flares. He looks at me with a mixture of anger, disgust and outrage - most of it directed at me, but not all. Very good. There's nothing like a full-blown guilt complex to cripple an enemy.

"I'll..." He breaks off, not daring to look back at his family. "I'll come with you. Just let them go, Malfoy."

Inclining my head in approval, I turn my wand away from the Muggles and point it at Potter instead. The Muggles take the hint and dash towards the car, jumping into it like into a lifeboat. None of them look back. The car revs out of the parking spot with screeching tyres, scraping the wing of the one in the neighbouring spot and the paint of several more while speeding out of the lot.

*So they leave you, Potter, unprotected and defenceless, like the worthless Muggles they are.*

He just stands rooted to the spot, not averting his eyes, but I notice the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his back. Such terrible fear, hidden behind such admirable courage. I point my wand at his throat.

"Dormio!" Having won this round in the face of Dumbledore's defences, I can afford to be gentle. For the moment.

The vivid eyes close under the sleeping spell, and he crumbles onto the pavement in a heartbeat. Pocketing my wand, I move to pick up the limp body and Disapparate, clutching my prize.

~ ~ ~ *** ~ ~ ~

Asleep, he projects an unexpected image of peace. One arm curled below his head, the other hanging down over the couch I dumped him on. Glasses still on, but knocked slightly askew. Vulnerable. At ease. That will change once he wakes.

I stare at him silently, permitting myself a smile of satisfaction. The Dark Lord will love this present. Now that Potter is caught without any hope of escape, I could notify him at any time. Of course, experienced player that I am, I'd never announce a plan like the abduction of Potter beforehand. You never know the eventualities, all the things that might go wrong. But now that it has succeeded... Well, there is still time. And there are some matters that should be discussed before the Dark Lord gets his hands on Potter. Matters like house elves. And diaries. And presumption.

After a couple of minutes, his eyelids start to flutter and a corner of his mouth twitches every so often. His subconscious is warning him, even as his conscious sleeps. Finally, the eyes open, unfocussed and wide at first. They sweep over the room as he sits up slowly, and widen even further when he notices me standing next to the fireplace, half concealed in its shadow. As before, he halfway reaches for his wand before remembering it is so far away it could just as well be stuck in another dimension. I step closer, giving him a cruel, very lazy smile, and revel in the terror he cannot completely conceal. The dilated eyes, the hairs standing up on his neck, the slight tremor.

"Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr. Potter." I incline my head with mocking politeness.

His eyes dart through the small room again, taking in the lack of windows, the single door on the far end, behind me. The absence of potential weapons. His lips twitch, an almost contemptuous expression.

"Are you going to kill me?"

A cool, unruffled voice that forces some grudging respect from me. Of course I know he has courage. I saw it in the Riddle graveyard, when he stood up to the Dark Lord. But such bravery is a challenge of its own, enticing me to find out whether I can break through that valiant facade, can shatter the desperate control, strike a deeper wound than Voldemort has. I don't think he realises how much of a temptation he is. Not yet.

"No, Mr. Potter," I answer pleasantly. "I will not be the one to kill you."

He nods thoughtfully. I can see his brain filing away the knowledge about who will, the faraway look that suddenly removes his mind from this plane of reality and transports it onto one that is only his, and the Dark Lord's. A place of destiny. I won't interfere with destiny, just help speed it along. But not yet. I won't relinquish him just yet.

"He's not here," Potter notes, one hand absently brushing over the famous scar under his unruly black fringe.

"No, he's not," I acknowledge. "There are some... points I intend to raise with you beforehand. Things that do not involve the Dark Lord."

Something about my tone makes him give me a wary look. Good. He's back in the real world, and he's not stupid.

"Like what?" he asks suspiciously.

I give him my best evil sneer.

"Your meddling with my property, for example. Inciting my house elf to attack me. Insulting me in public." His brows furrow and he looks almost incredulous.

"Revenge," he clarifies. "You want revenge."

"Of course, child." *And why, oh why, does that surprise you so?*

He gives a humourless snort and returns my gaze, shrugging carelessly and holding up his empty hands.

"I'm afraid I'm not equipped to duel you."

I slink closer until I'm standing directly in front of him, sincere amusement tugging at the corners of my mouth. His head is tilted up slightly to make up for the small difference in height between us. He does not flinch away, green eyes meeting mine head on. He is unique, indeed. It will not save him, but I do appreciate a worthy adversary.

"I was not thinking about giving you the honour of duelling me, Mr. Potter." I lower my voice and murmur in his ear, "I intend to punish you." It is more of a hiss, laced with menace, and this time he draws back, just an inch, but enough to show that he's not as calm as he'd like to project. As, of course, he has every reason to be.

Excruciatingly slowly I draw my wand, giving him ample time to weigh all the implications of the gesture before resting the tip against his shoulder.

"I believe you are... acquainted with the Cruciatus Curse?"

Oh yes, he remembers. A flash of terror runs through his eyes, and he draws an audible breath as if an invisible hand had crushed his throat for a second. If he weren't trapped between the couch and the fireplace, I'm sure he'd try and make a run for it. As it is, as the Gryffindor hero he is, he can just square his shoulders, shove the fear back to a place where I hopefully won't be able to see it, and prepare for the very worst.

"But while that is certainly effective," I continue amiably, "it somehow lacks subtlety. There are countless other Dark Arts spells I could introduce you to, Mr. Potter. There is one that would turn the marrow of your bones into liquid fire; one that could slowly and quite literally freeze your blood, until your slightest movement would shatter you from the inside; another which would shred your skin and flesh with a flick of a wand and put it right back together with another... Ah, I see I have piqued your curiosity," I drawl, wilfully misunderstanding the look of horror and disgust in his eyes.

I trail my wand down his arm below the short sleeve of his sweater and murmur the first part of the spell. A deep slash opens as if drawn by an invisible, jagged blade, running down all the way from elbow to wrist. Blood gushes out of the wound, colouring the white skin like broad brush strokes from an angry painter. It's a picture with a strange but undeniable beauty to it. The blood cumulates into heavy droplets on the underside of his arm and starts to drip onto the floor, first in occasional drops, then in a steady rivulet.

He lets out a strangled moan and slumps against the wall, teeth biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle any further expression of pain. Quickly, to prevent him from weakening too much from the blood loss, I speak the second part of the spell. The wound disappears as quickly as it had been inflicted, with the same fascinating effect as pulling up a magical zipper.

He stares down on his bloody arm, then looks up at me, lips curling with contempt.

"You're a disgusting coward," he states flatly through still slightly clenched teeth.

"And you, Mr. Potter, are a fool," I reply softly, and, in the light of this display of impetuousness, decide on employing a far more insidious weapon than mere pain-inducing curses. I will not let myself be denigrated by this arrogant little creature. "I do believe, however, that the punishment should be fitting the crime. You lost me a servant - it seems appropriate that you compensate me for that."

A dark, wry smile plays on his lips at that.

"Housework?" There's a note of sarcastic humour in his voice, though, I notice with interest, it is not directed at me. "That's... appropriate, all right."

"No, Mr. Potter, I would not waste your talents on housework. There is, however, a wealth of other, infinitely more... stimulating services I intend for you to perform."

His brows furrow, disbelief and anxiety mixing at the silky threat in my voice. Using his momentary confusion to my advantage, I reach out and pick his glasses off his nose, running my thumb lightly over his cheek while doing so, and drop them onto the couch. That achieved, I give him a slow, lascivious once-over, eyes lingering momentarily on all the inappropriate places, until there is no way he can misunderstand my meaning. Blood rushes into his face, and his mind is without doubt squirming as madly as a worm toasted over a torch flame.

At last, embarrassment gives way to such unbridled fury that I have to resist the urge to take a step back. Rage darkens the impressive eyes until their green turns into an impossible near-black. In that moment, he resembles nothing so much as the young Voldemort, Tom Riddle as he had been preserved in the diary that Potter cost me three years ago. There is an unspecific resemblance between the two at the best of times, but they could be twin brothers when they hate.

His reaction surprises me nonetheless. Instead of a punch or kick, he clenches his fists, points the right one at me and snarls, in a voice that is both clipped and icily cold,

"Avada Kedavra!"

I jump at the words, completely taken by surprise. A mild but sickening tremor of pain rushes through my temples, and for a second I'm not sure if the sudden, eerie green that lights his eyes is their natural colour or the ghost of the curse. But if he expected me to fall dead at his feet, he must be severely disappointed by now. The slight pain is gone as quickly as it had flared up. Still, it is a testimony to his strength that he could make me feel anything at all.

Shaking my head in mock disappointment, I tut at him.

"Trying to perform one of the most complex spells in existence with wandless magic, the resort of children and fools, Mr. Potter? I must say that I expected more, although you seem to fulfil both prerequisites."

He doesn't react at all, still stunned, it seems, both at his attempt to use the Killing Curse and its undramatic failure. Such absolute confusion is delightful, in its own right. Instead of striking back, I lean closer and put my lips over his gently. They are surprisingly cold, and when I run my tongue over his lower lip I taste blood and the bitter aftertaste of the curse. A slight tremor runs through his body, but he doesn't struggle or try to escape.

*Yes, child, what you're feeling is the fallout. The Killing Curse requires more than just the words, magical blood and a wand. It requires focussed hatred and a slight opening of the door to the darkness in your heart. And, as a price, it chips away a tiny fragment of your soul every time it's used, successful or not. Welcome to the dark, Potter!*

I draw back, taking in his shivering form, blank face and clouded eyes, and congratulate myself. Yes, I have indeed managed to provoke a reaction, and a spectacular one to boot. Perhaps because the threat is so far removed from his Gryffindor-defined worldview that it has been incomprehensible for him. He has contemplated and experienced injury, torture, death, but not this. Perhaps he doesn't deserve it. But then, if we'd all get what we deserve, I'd be ruler over the Wizarding World, and he'd have spent the last fifteen years buried in an infant's coffin next to his parents at Godric's Hollow Cemetery. We will play this game out, and if it breaks him, all the better!

I lean in to capture his lips again, leaving one hand to rest on his cheek and putting the other against the nape of his neck to pull him closer. His body is trapped between me and the wall, and the close contact slowly melts the ice of shock that has encased him. His eyes are still unfocussed, but realisation of just what he has done and where it has got him gradually begins to dawn in them. Fear, shame, and, to my great surprise, an intense sense of relief.

*Are you glad that I'm not dead, Potter? That you're a failure as a killer? How... sweet.*

The thought amuses me, and I let that amusement come out in my eyes as I take the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Despite his emotional turmoil, I am rather prepared for a struggle than for him to part his lips slightly to allow me greater access. It is an eerie kiss - not punishing or violent as I had intended, not even by a long shot passionate, rather hesitant and... tender? His hands come up, very tentatively, to rest on my back. It's only a little touch, and yet it almost makes me shudder.

It doesn't even last for a minute, though it feels much, much longer. Then a sudden jolt stabs through him, which I feel as if it had happened to me because our bodies are pressed together. Panic floods his eyes, then his whole face. He jerks his hands away as if they'd rested on a boiling cauldron instead of only my robes. He does not so much shove me off as shrink into the wall, cringing away from all contact.

"No!" he moans, in a tortured, desperate voice, face hidden in his hands, and slowly slides down the wall.

I don't understand, and this sudden outburst angers me more than I would like to admit. Snarling, I reach down and grab his wrists, pulling them up until he is pinned against the wall, forced to face me.

"What?" I hiss, gripping his wrists fiercely enough to feel the bones shifting under the thin, pale skin. He just averts his head, tangled black stands falling across his face, shivering badly now, with gasps coming so shallow and rapid it's closer to hyperventilating than breathing. This is not just the botched Avada Kedavra, but something much more serious.

"Look at me, curse you!" I slam his captured hands against the wall to get his attention. When he finally does, I curse again, this time because he allows his vulnerability and desolation to leak out, visible enough for me to read it. I stare at him, for a long time.

"That was your first kiss, right, Potter? Not just your first, your first, ever. Except from your parents, but that is removed so far in time and memory that it is inaccessible now, not to mention shrouded in death and loss. Your hypocritical Muggle family never touched you, except in revulsion. Your friends at Hogwarts may love you, but they are as careful with physical contact as teenagers are bound to be. The only one who ever touched you with sincere emotional intent was the Dark Lord, and every time he put a hand on you, or only sent a thought your way, it made you reel in agony. And you're no better yourself, are you? You just laid your hands on, what was his name, Quirrel?, and he burned to death."

"Touch is pain, and love is death, isn't it, Harry? Your parents loved you, and therefore they died. Little Jenny Weasley loves you, and Tom Riddle almost sucked out her soul to get to you. Amos and Judith Diggory's son just walked with you and was killed for it. And every time you look at your friends, you feel like you're signing their orders of execution. You don't hate your Muggles for their cruelty and coldness because as long as they hate you, they are safe. Everyone who loves you dies. Everything that touches you dies. You are a living cancer, sucking the life out of everybody around you."

I watch silent tears spilling from his eyes, listen to the heart-wrenching sobs and wonder what hurts him more: that it is the truth, or that I have spoken it aloud.

There is a black hole at the inner core of Harry Potter, and everything he has built over it - the patience, the bravery, curiosity, the strength and determination - is built on sand without a foundation. I marvel at Dumbledore's utter blindness - did he throw this child back into the arms of his enemies again and again just to prove that unlike us Slytherins, one of his Gryffindors will rise from the ashes as a phoenix instead of a demon? How can the Man Who Knows Everything not see what has been done - what he has done - to his champion?

Carefully, I let go of Potter's wrists and they drop to his sides listlessly while their owner stares over my shoulder at nothing. He has stopped crying outwardly, but I wonder if he ever will inside. I have succeeded with my goal tonight, but it was not what I had in mind. I was picking up an axe to break through a heavy wooden door but crashed it through a delicate stained-glass window instead, and now tiny shards of splintered glass lie all around me. *I am truly sorry, Harry. I wanted to break the hero, not shatter your soul.*

For a second, the temptation of re-instigating contact is almost overwhelming. I could use his weakness, this utterly vulnerable state, to claim him, remake him into something whose only ties would be to me. He is so desperate for any form of love. And deep down inside, a part of me wants it, not just for expediency's sake, but honestly wants it. Not just his body, though that would be a delightful bonus in its own right, but most of all his mind and dormant power. I want to drown him in passion and seductive pain, and... affection until it fills that horrid, insatiable emptiness inside him. But I won't. It is too late for me - too late for such an enormous step away from everything I know and believe in. I won't be touched by the blight he carries with him, the twin curse of love and death. Nor will I risk my position and the wrath of Voldemort for such an uncertain gain.

I put a hand on his shoulder, careful not to convey the slightest hint of gentleness, and when he looks up, I tell him, with cool determination, "I will not die for you, Potter." It is both a promise and a reassurance. "But you, Potter, you will die for me."

He nods at that, almost imperceptibly, and I honestly don't know whether I should gloat or despair at the hint of relief that shows in his eyes for a fragment of a second. But he's right; it will be for the best. Yes, Voldemort may put him through hell for a while, but then it will finally be over. No more pain, no more emptiness, no more danger to others. Strange that a Death Eater might be more merciful on this sworn enemy than the great champion of light Dumbledore ever chose to be...

I grab his glasses from the couch and hand them over to him, careful not to brush his fingers in the process, and watch him slip them back onto his nose reflexively. Take your shield and put your armour back on, Potter. And then put yourself together again. You can't face the Dark Lord like this!

~ ~ ~ *** ~ ~ ~

Without further hesitation, I stride over to the door and unlock it with a wand's flick. I throw it shut behind me and walk towards the Mansion's Hall of Apparition. There, I turn off the wards and Disapparate right into the main hall of the Riddle House, the headquarters of the Dark Lord. I give Wormtail, who has been put in charge of supervising the incoming Death Eaters, the tiniest of curt nods and make my way to Lord Voldemort's quarters to deliver my message.

The Dark Lord turns his red-tinted snake eyes on me as I enter. I sink down onto one knee, the reverence hiding the bitter smile that plays around my lips for a moment. A salute to what could have been. It is gone, replaced by confident pride when I rise again.

"My Lord, I have come to give you Harry Potter..."

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

Comments? Criticism? Flames?
Go hit REVIEW, dears!