There Are Too Many Doors

They had been close, almost in sight of the camp. The raid had been smooth and more than just successful. Every one of them was now bringing along a 'personal' senior Death Eater, stupefied and body-bound. It was all they needed to change the course of the war after the Dark leader had been vanquished. It was the last step to engineer the reversal, and then the war momentum would play on their side; and then, soon, they would rest.

But, clutching his broom with his half-numb hands and thighs, Harry suddenly realized that in five minutes he would pass 'this' Death Eater to the interrogators. Tomorrow, after all the necessary papers were filled out and witnessed, the man would be finished off. Quickly and non-sentimentally. No-one could allow the luxury of a trial or even imprisonment to this kind of enemy; nobody was willing to risk it anymore. Yes, they became hard-hearted. They were too exhausted to pull their strings any more. But he suddenly realized that he couldn't let go of his solid, immobile burden.

He sometimes ponders what caused that sudden change of perspective. He doesn't know. He thinks maybe it was a strand of ash-blond hair that flapped in his face from behind and flew right into his mouth, nearly making him choke. Or maybe it was the impossible, unnatural stiffness of his captive - a thing, not a man - that he couldn't stand.

He caught hold of the wooden arm behind him and circled around so he was flying in the opposite direction. He had time. His comrades would think that he, the best of them on the broom and a fearless fighter, was creating a diversion. He rushed back, back, dodging curses coming from both 'ours' and 'theirs'. It was easy to dissolve into the usual chaos of a battle.

None would ever imagine that Lucius Malfoy would submit. So he didn't undo the binding spells when they landed in a clearing in a wood, at the grayish dawn. He remembered well how dangerous the man was. He never, even for a second, forgot just *how* evil he was. No, Harry was a good soldier; caution was second nature, or maybe even first. But as he sat opposite the still form of the man, he only saw the same form lying broken on the dirty floor of a cell, only its unnatural curves that would never be straightened, filth in the hair that would never again be white. He knew there was no sense in dwelling on those images. So his hand took a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket, soaked it in the wet grass; his body crouched next to the rigid figure and he began wiping blood and stripes of dirt from the arrogant face and pale sleek hands.

Malfoy's skin was warm. Harry didn't know why it shocked him so badly. He had expected it to be cold like a corpse, thanks to the man's frozen posture, or maybe just cool - he was such a cold-blooded bastard. But no, the skin was warm, and when he rubbed it with the handkerchief it slid over the stilled muscles like fine cloth, and gradually the skin became pink. Shivering from the chilly morning air and exhaustion, he curled up next to Malfoy - the stiff body still gave off warmth. And it still faintly smelled of perfume.

Harry doesn't remember how long he kept Malfoy a stupefied prisoner in his own house. It wasn't as though he strategically made the decision that Malfoy Manor would be the most unlikely place to look for its former owner. No, he just needed a place to hide, and didn't think about where he was flying until he saw the partially destroyed mansion.

Not that Harry was familiar with Malfoy Manor in the days of its glory, but it was cold and creepy and clearly had known much better times. Draughts from the cracks in the walls, the howl of the wind, the creaks and moans of the house itself, the eventual babbling of the only remaining house-elf… It was enough to drive away any sense of reality, but still nobody came after them, and Malfoy sat motionless in the armchair where Harry had placed him. Harry let himself not think.

He didn't speak to his prisoner, just visited him several times a day during his endless strolls through and around the manor. Sometimes he touched Malfoy's hands or face - warm meant alive. He always kept a fire in the man's room. He got used to him like one gets used to a portrait. Sometimes he would sit at his feet, leaning against Malfoy's leg as though it were a sofa. In some surreal way it felt like home, which he had never had. Sometimes he rearranged the man's hair or moved his armchair, sometimes touched his lips to his warm skin.

One day he came into the room and ended the binding spells. At first, there was almost no change at all. Harry watched how Malfoy's chest rose and fell, how he slowly moved his fingers - first his right hand, then his left. How he then leaned his head against the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. Harry poured water through a straw into Malfoy's unresisting mouth, listened to his loud swallows and-- pressed to him, wrapping himself around his shoulders, holding him. And couldn't stop his own hoarse whisper, his voice failing him from long disuse, words dropping and dropping from his lips, 'I wanted to kill you, I so wanted to kill you'. And couldn't stop kissing and kissing his hair, and his temple, and his warm cheek, and his rigid nose, the water spilling and soaking their robes.

Lucius never spoke. But Harry never needed him to. There was warm skin that never lost its perfumed scent, the skin that was sliding all over and under him; there was white-white hair blanketing his face and crawling into his mouth, or splashing all over the surviving decadent-black pillows, and he could breathe and breathe it, in and out, and never had enough. There were eyes the colour of ash and stone that always kept looking into him, even when Lucius shuddered and dug his nails into Harry's sides, shoulders, hips. There was that rusty low scream, and that warm weight, never crushing him, always smoothly mingling with him, consuming him. And skin, skin, the warm white skin that turned delicately pink at the neck, and cheeks, and shoulders.

Harry sometimes Apparated to small Muggle towns; sometimes he just walked around the woods, or climbed through the ruins of the east wing. Sometimes he didn't come back for several days. But when he returned, it always seemed to him as though he'd only gone out for a small walk.

Lucius never left the house. Actually, he rarely left his armchair. But he had nowhere to go.

A couple of days ago, Harry came back with a basket of fresh bread and couldn't find Lucius. The Manor always was a labyrinth (and his experience with labyrinths has been more than sufficient), but he has never lost himself before. There are too many doors. He knows that Lucius is here somewhere, sitting in his armchair by the fire, sipping warm amber liquid from his decanter, probably reading. It seems ridiculous that he can't find the room.

He knows he's close, it's right over here, there's no need to stop to rest, so he walks and walks, opening one door after another. He finds there are many unexpected things in their house: brightly lit bathrooms and shadowy long-long halls with barely glowing lights, dozens of bedrooms, all nearly identical and - people. He had never realized there were so many people here. Once he met a man who looked like a grown-up Neville Longbottom, who asked him where he was going, carrying that tray. It seemed wrong to speak, especially to a stranger, but he didn't want to be impolite. He shrugged and answered, "To Lucius," but his voice sounded odd to him. Another time he met a woman who handed him a set of robes and explained, before he could ask, "Change your robes. You need to wear these, dear." He was surprised, but complied - they seemed like decent robes, the kind he'd seen on the other people in the other rooms, and Lucius might be pleased to see him wearing them. He wants to go out and look at the manor from the outside, to help him locate the room, but he can't find the way out, either.

He's not worried - really, how long can he be lost in their house? But the absurdity of the situation is getting on his nerves. He has been stuck all day in these endless corridors and still hasn't reached the room. His feet ache from walking, but he's decided that he'll rest when he gets there. He will sit at Lucius' feet, will put his head on his lap, stretch his legs, and they will listen to the cracking of the wood in the fireplace. Amber will play with white in Lucius' hair, and he will breathe and breathe in his faint perfume scent. If only he could recall the right turn…

Fin