Eclipse

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.
(~Simon and Garfunkel)

************

Chapter 2

Lessons in Power

Draco had only been in the dungeons under Malfoy Manor a few times in his life. The first time, he'd been eight years old. His father had decided he was old enough to be brought on a grand tour of the place, weaving tales of Aurors that had been held there and Mudbloods they had tortured during the height of the Dark Lord's influence as he went. It was then that Draco had received his first small lesson in power; what it was and why it was so important. The power to control people, the power over life and death; Draco saw and began to understand these things. In that dungeon, Lucius Malfoy owned people's lives. In that dungeon, Draco had begun to learn the value of power.

The second time Draco had seen those dungeons had not been so pleasant. It had been another lesson in power, though the moral of the tale was very different. On that occasion, Draco had learned the lesson from the other side of the cell bars. Draco had been eleven years of age when he had tried to sneak into his father's drawing room, planning to steal a few select items from the cache under the floor there, whilst his parents played gracious hosts at one of their world-renowned, glittering dinner parties. He had wanted to bring something, anything, to school with him to show off to his friends and increase his own influence and power. He knew better than to disobey his father, but the temptation had been too great. Of course, he had triggered the room's protective charms and wards, which had brought his father bearing down on him immediately.

Lucius Malfoy had been neither sympathetic nor vindictive as he had chained Draco to the dungeon wall, and Draco had not cried aloud. Emotion was for the weak. This was a punishment, and a fair punishment at that; both father and son knew it. As he had locked the cell door for the night, Lucius had said simply, "You don't take power like that, Draco. You have to earn it. Now, you will have to pay for it." When the doors to the dungeons had slammed shut, leaving Draco alone for his night of contemplation, he had finally broken down, tears streaming freely where nobody could see him. His father, whose dealings with both friend and foe had been laced with deviousness and greed, had pressed a hypocritical lesson on a mind which was far too young for such things. In many ways, it was a harder Draco who emerged the next morning, and perhaps that had been Lucius Malfoy's intention. Thus had his father shown him what it was like for someone to have power over him.

Now, all these years later, looking through the bars of the same cell at the limp, dark-haired figure lying on the floor, Draco felt that elusive thing called power. This time, he had earned it.

Draco allowed himself a small smile as his father fastened the lock on the cell door.

Lucius Malfoy turned to Draco with a flourish and caught that small smile. For perhaps the first time he stood and truly saw his son, mentally appraising him. Draco had indeed learned his lessons well, and now he had brought even more honour to the Malfoy name. He was a worthy child. A strong heir. Lucius' face unconsciously echoed Draco's satisfied smirk.

"Draco, this will please the Dark Lord immeasurably. He was not entirely convinced that your plan would succeed, but you certainly made a very elegant job of it. Simple, yet cunning. Salazar Slytherin himself would have been proud." He held out a hand. "May I see that dagger?"

"Yes, father." Draco knew it to be command more than question, and obediently withdrew the blade, turning it to his father, handle first. He knew when to speak and when to hold his tongue, so he stood in respectful silence as his father examined the small blade. It was still coated in dry blood.

Lucius turned it carefully over in his gloved hands, murmuring to himself as he examined the piece. "Very impressive. To think, all it took to bring down the unstoppable Harry Potter, after all this time, was this." He ran his fingertips along the flat of the blade, some flecks of blood sticking to the glove. His face was contemplative as he rubbed his finger and thumb together, letting flakes of the blood drop to the floor. "And this... the thing the Dark Lord has sought for so long. This time, it will be completed."

He handed the dagger back to Draco. "I must contact my master and inform him of your success. If he is as pleased as I expect, you will soon have the privilege of calling him 'master' as well." He flicked his eyes briefly towards the prostrate form in the cell. "Stay here and keep an eye on him. Potter may look helpless, but he's been inordinately lucky his entire life. We should take no chances."

Draco bowed his head slightly. "Yes, father."

Without another word, Lucius Malfoy spun around on his heel, and strode towards the stairs leading from the dungeons.

Draco congratulated himself silently. That was as much outward praise as his father had ever shown, and he had rightfully earned it. His father was proud of him today, and that pride was best displayed with decorum and class. Even in matters of a positive nature, Malfoys did not lower themselves to empty displays of emotion. It would be a sign of weakness, just as tears would be. Weak, just like that little slip of a boy lying in the cell.

Draco turned and leaned against the wall, just outside the bars of the cell, observing Potter at his leisure through the gaps. The Gryffindor was lying awkwardly on one side, exactly where Draco had dropped him upon arrival. His face was paler than usual, and his lips had an unnatural bluish hue. Draco narrowed his eyes and carefully observed the faint rise and fall of Potter's chest. The boy was still alive. The pallor was just a side-effect of the potion, and would wear off soon.

With his eyes closed, Potter appeared almost peaceful in his oblivion. Soft lines and gentle curves spoke of youth and naivety, and belied the horrible things the boy had experienced in his life. Without his glasses, something about Potter's face had a different quality, as though a mask had been removed, taking with it the image of the Boy Who Lived, and leaving merely an innocent boy in its place. It also left Draco staring, inexplicably captivated. For a moment, he almost found it difficult to remember that this was the face of his enemy.

Draco shook his head to clear it. That was the face of the boy who had snubbed his outstretched hand on the first day of school, choosing instead the company of the dregs of wizarding society. That childlike face had smirked in triumph at far too many Quidditch games, as Draco left the field empty-handed. That face had graced the covers of the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly, while the name "Harry Potter" had been on the lips of every witch or wizard across Britain, if not the entire world. That was a face which had haunted Draco for far too long.

Now it was the face of weakness, Draco told himself staunchly. Potter was behind the bars, and Draco was on the outside, looking in. The haughty Gryffindor was unconscious, in a cell under Malfoy Manor, under Draco's power.

Power over life and death; it was almost intoxicating, addictive. Apparently, the more you loathed your enemy, the more intense the feeling. All the things he had wanted to say to Potter, and now he had the perfect opportunity. Here, Potter couldn't go running to Dumbledore. His little Muggle-loving, Mudblood friends weren't here to help him now. Here, he was alone.

Draco watched the almost imperceptible rhythm of the boy's breathing, carefully tracking it for some slight change. Anyone but Draco might not have noticed the first tiny twitch of an eyelid, the slight stirrings of limbs, the trembling of the other boy's lower lip. As though in slow motion, Potter's face scrunched up in an expression of agony. Draco leaned forward for a better view, folding his arms across his chest. The potion was wearing off.

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Cold . . . so cold. Must have kicked off the blankets. Too cold. Terrible nightmare . . . Malfoy. Malfoy attacked me. It's too cold in here. Why can't I move? Frozen . . .

Harry tried to force his eyes open, only to be rewarded by stinging prickles of pain racing across his face. He tried to recoil, which only increased the sensation. Gradually, the sharp bite of pins and needles spread across every inch of his body, as though reviving after circulation had been stopped for far too long.

Eyes tightly shut, he gritted his teeth and held every muscle tense, trying to block out the possibility of making the pain any worse. He rode it out, unable to think past the pins and needles. His mind was still far too numb for the effort that would require. After an immeasurable length of time, the prickling dulled to the point where he could allow himself to move. With a shudder, Harry sagged against the floor, gasping desperately for breath.

The surface under his cheek grated against his skin. Cold and rough pebbles, digging small channels into his soft flesh. He cautiously reached out and spread his palm against the floor. This was most certainly not his bed. Nor did this feel like the floor beside it. With a leap of mental terror, his heart stuck in his throat. It barely seemed possible but... the last few hours hadn't been a nightmare.

He cautiously pried his eyelids open, dreading what he might see. The floor beneath him was composed of rough stone, lightly strewn with gravel and sand. Beyond that, he could make out heavy bars, starkly silhouetted by a few torches lining the walls. Bars... so he'd been captured. He couldn't see much else. Everything was blurred beyond the stones and gravel within a foot of his face. A second wave of panic threatened him as he realized his glasses were gone.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his knees. His shoulder was throbbing where Malfoy had stabbed him. Blood roared through his ears, threatening his tenuous hold on consciousness, and he tipped his head forward into his hands, begging for it to subside. Beyond the rushing sounds, he heard a voice that nearly made his frigid blood boil.

"Did you have a nice nap, Potter?" the voice drawled.

Harry forced his head up and turned towards the sound of the voice. He'd completely missed the irregular silhouette of a body tucked neatly against the other side of the bars, and now he wished he'd never noticed it at all. Although he couldn't see the other person's features, and the blood was still pounding through his ears, he'd recognize that drawl anywhere. "Malfoy," he spat in reply.

"That's right, Potter." The blurred shape pushed closer to the bars, leaning up against them. "Didn't the professors always warn you not to wander around the school at night? But no, the great Harry Potter is above the rules."

"You stole my bloody Potions assignment, you bastard," Harry snarled, still trying to regain some strength in his legs.

"A minor detail. You could have rewritten it." Malfoy pulled something out of his pocket and waved it through the bars. Harry recognized the cracking sound of wrinkled parchment. "You should have rewritten it. I'm surprised you managed to pass your Potions OWL with the crap you hand in."

"Well, maybe I should have asked for your help, seeing as you're such an expert." Sarcasm dripped from each of Harry's words.

"Attitude isn't going to help you, Potter." Draco tucked the parchment back into his robes lazily. "But of course, you're the famous Harry Potter. Too big to ask for help. Certainly too big to follow the guidelines everyone laid down to protect you. Now look where it's got you. Dumbledore's not here to hold your hand anymore, Potter."

"I need someone to hold my hand?" Potter asked incredulously, his disgust in the statement evident. Even doubled over on the floor as he was, the conviction and spite in his tone was enough to make Draco cringe slightly. "You hid behind Crabbe and Goyle for years, you hid behind Umbridge, and now here you are, clinging to your father's robes. He bought your way onto the Quidditch team, is he buying your way up the ranks with the Death Eaters now too?"

Draco was grateful that Potter couldn't see his face right then, because if he had, he would have seen the sting of that comment written clearly in his captor's expression. However, Draco was quick to reassume his carefully poised manner, outwardly ignoring the comment about the Quidditch team. "Oh, I'm earning my keep with the Dark Lord for myself," he drawled smugly. "You were the key. Of course, father's influence has been beneficial. Too bad all your parents ever did for you was get themselves killed and put you firmly on the top of the Dark Lord's shit list."

Fury sent Harry lunging at the bars, hand outstretched for Malfoy's neck. "YOU!"

Harry just missed the edge of Draco's cloak, as the blond boy jumped backwards in surprise. Harry's arm was thrust through the bars up to his shoulder while the other hand clenched one bar, white-knuckled. His breath hissed audibly through gritted and bared teeth, but it was the eyes that caught Draco off-guard.

Draco had never actually seen Potter without his glasses before. Even under normal circumstances, behind the dull glare of the lenses, his eyes had always shone with a peculiar intensity which Draco found disconcerting. His mind flashed to the minor disaster during his Charms OWL, when Potter's gaze had caused him to lose control of his Levitation Charm, and his wine glass had shattered. Nobody else would have been able to cause him to falter like that; nobody else could cause his emotions to flare violently like Potter did. However, if that had been disconcerting, this was a hundred times worse. Now, that fierce emerald gaze drilled straight into his own eyes, blazing with anger, pain, and - something else that Draco couldn't quite decipher, and he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to. Whatever it was, Draco felt his own heartbeat freeze momentarily in his chest.

Their eyes stayed locked, barely an arm's length apart, and for a split second Draco could taste a hint of fear on the tip of his tongue. It was insane. Potter was behind the bars, without his wand, without even his glasses. He was helpless. Yet if that were true, then why did Draco feel at that moment that the Gryffindor was more in control than he was?

Draco finally tore his eyes away, thoroughly shaken. Potter was under his control, his prisoner. He couldn't let the balance of power change like that again. He had to keep the upper hand next time. And there would be a next time. Potter always had a talent for getting under his skin, but here in the Malfoy dungeons, that sort of thing was simply unacceptable. When he turned back towards the cell, he found that Potter had withdrawn his arm and was now gripping the bars with both hands. His slender wrists seemed almost stronger than the metal bars, and Draco had to remind himself that the cell was magically reinforced. The boy's face was still pushed between the bars in defiance, hair standing in every direction, appearing for all the world like a wild creature that should never have been captured and would never be tamed.

"You leave my mum and dad out of this." Harry kept his voice deceptively calm, refusing to lower himself to further outbursts. That would be exactly what Malfoy wanted. "If you have an issue with me, deal with me."

Malfoy opened his mouth as though searching for a comeback when the heavy clacking of heeled boots drew both boys' attention.

"Draco?" Lucius Malfoy emerged into the passageway. "Draco, I do hope you are conducting yourself properly down here?" He appraised Harry. "Mr. Potter, so nice of you to have joined us."

Harry dropped his hands away from the bars, but carefully held eye contact with the older wizard. If he was surprised by Lucius' appearance, he hid it well. "You're supposed to be in Azkaban."

"You really thought they'd be able to keep me there for long, Potter? Oh no, boy. I have powerful friends. You would have done well to remember that before interfering in things you can't possibly handle."

"It's not as though I've had much of a choice." Harry glanced around, even though he really couldn't see much without his glasses. "Where am I?"

"This," Mr. Malfoy spread his hands invitingly, with just a hint of the grandiose, "is my humble home. Well, the lower regions of it, more specifically. I apologize for the accommodations, of course, but we suspected that you might not take too kindly to our invitation, and might decide to leave before it was polite to do so."

The oily tone of Mr. Malfoy's voice was more appalling than a blatant insult. Harry resisted the impulse to gag at the words, but his nose wrinkled up in distaste. "And just how long do you plan to keep me here?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it?" A twisted smile played across Lucius' lips. "As you know, my master has some unfinished business with you. He may have regained his physical form, but you have something else he desires. A decade and a half ago, some of his power transferred to you. Had he killed you the night he was restored to his physical form, he would have regained much of it. Unfortunately, you seem to have an uncanny attraction for luck."

Harry snorted. "Right. I'm rolling in fate and fortune."

Mr. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. As fate would have it, an opportunity which was unavailable at that time has now presented itself. In a few short weeks, there will be a full lunar eclipse. Such astronomical events are times of high magical potential, Mr. Potter. It was an event far too... useful, to miss."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Astronomy. Why hadn't he paid more attention in Sinistra's class?

Mr. Malfoy let out something that loosely resembled a short laugh. "I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, Mr. Potter. The Dark Lord himself will be more than willing to explain it to you. He's rather pleased with this event, as are we all."

Harry's head spun. There appeared to be no way out. Voldemort had obviously planned some disturbingly heinous way to kill him. Better yet, he was Malfoy's house guest. Well, house might be pushing it some. Could the day get any better? He blinked against the haze over his eyes. "Give me my glasses," he said flatly.

Mr. Malfoy feigned surprise. "Draco! Where are your manners? Give young Mr. Potter here his glasses. A Malfoy is always gracious, remember that."

"Yes, father." Draco reached onto a small shelf cut into the stone wall and retrieved the glasses. They had been slightly bent during the abduction, but they were still quite usable. Staying as far back as possible, as though feeding a dangerous animal at the zoo, he reached over and offered the glasses to Potter.

Potter's hand came whipping through the bars and snatched the glasses from Draco's fingers faster than he could blink. Quidditch reflexes. Potter really was born to be a Seeker. Draco wasn't, and that simple fact disgusted him no end. Whether he was disgusted with Potter or with himself - well, he'd never quite been able to answer that question.

Harry jammed the glasses back on, and glared back at Draco, then Lucius.

"Now Potter, where are your manners?" Lucius Malfoy asked with mock horror. "It's proper to say 'thank you' when someone does you a favour."

"I have nothing to thank you for." Potter's tone was icy.

"Oh, but you do. You're still alive, and relatively undamaged, are you not? And I stress that all these things are relative."

"Sure," Potter tipped his head up. "If you call poisoning and a stab wound 'undamaged,' I'm just peachy."

Draco only then noticed that Potter had been favouring his left shoulder the entire time. He hid the injury well. Draco was almost impressed.

"Come now, Potter." Mr. Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "All I ask is a little gratitude. That's surely not so difficult."

The corner of Draco's mouth curled up in a slight smile. His father was toying with Potter. This should be amusing. It would make a change from his toying with Draco, at least.

The dark-haired Gryffindor pressed his lips shut in defiance.

"I told you to say 'thank you'," Lucius hissed. With one swift motion, he whipped out his wand and leveled it at Potter. "Imperio!"

Outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, this was the nearest to hand Draco had ever seen one of the Unforgivable Curses used. The suddenness of his father's action startled him, but still, he took a small step forward to observe more closely. After all, this wasn't an everyday occurrence.

Behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, Potter's eyes lost focus, and his face became blank. He teetered unsteadily on his feet briefly. Slowly, he opened his mouth to speak, and Draco waited expectantly for the hollow "thank you". It never came.

Potter's mouth snapped shut and he squeezed his eyes tightly closed as though blocking out a bright light. He tipped his head forward and shook it as if trying to dislodge something from within his ears. When he raised his head again, his eyes were clear. "You know, Voldemort tried that too. You were there. If it didn't work for him, what makes you think it would work for you?"

Draco was shocked. Potter had not only thrown off the curse, he had also insinuated that the Dark Lord himself had tried the same thing, and had likewise failed. Draco's only relief was that Potter was staring at his father and not at him. Lucius Malfoy, too, was visibly ruffled. Covering it quickly with a grimace, he snarled back, "You'll learn some respect in time, Potter, but it doesn't much matter. It'll all end the same way. You're a fool, but I suppose you can't help that. It's inherent to your surname."

"Go to hell."

"I think not," Lucius sniffed, "but you'll be taking your holiday there soon enough." He quickly turned a cold shoulder to his captive, facing Draco squarely instead. "Now Draco, the master shall be arriving late tomorrow to examine our guest. In the meantime, he has given you a particular task, and a great honour. As the person who caught Mr. Potter, the Dark Lord feels it fitting that you should also be the person to guard him. We wish to take no chances. Do you understand the importance of this task?"

Draco met his father's gaze and saw the cold pride written there. He flicked his eyes at the boy standing quietly in the cell not three meters away. He thought of the blazing ferocity in Potter's eyes, the defiance, and most particularly, the way he had thrown of the Imperius Curse as though it were nothing more than a cloak with a tricky clasp. Potter was not to be underestimated, but Draco felt more than certain he was up to the task. The smaller boy was unarmed and imprisoned, and, after all, was Draco a Malfoy or not? "Yes, father. Potter isn't going anywhere."

"Excellent," Lucius proclaimed with a sharp nod. "I'll have one of the house-elves bring down food and bedding for you." He hesitated, then pulled the corners of his mouth into something vaguely resembling a smile. "I'm proud of you, Draco."

And with that, he left. Draco watched him go, mouth hanging slightly open in shock at the unexpectedly lavish praise.

"You really did such a very proud thing, Malfoy. Sneaking up on an unarmed classmate and stabbing him. How very noble of you."

Draco gaped at Potter, who was now standing with his arms folded across his chest, mocking him. The Dark Lord himself had failed to kill Potter on several occasions. Death Eaters whose plans for Potter's capture failed often forfeited their lives to Voldemort. Draco had been the person who had finally succeeded in that apparently impossible task, and in one statement, Potter had reduced its significance to nothing more than a cheap prank.

Draco felt his face flush. How did this boy manage to infuriate him so easily? "You're in a bloody fine position to talk. You're just lucky I didn't decide to finish you off myself."

"You couldn't have." Potter sounded quite sure of himself.

"Only because I had to bring you back alive."

"That's not what I mean." Those vivid green eyes leveled themselves at Draco, who found himself blinking involuntarily.

"Then what exactly do you mean, Potter? Do you think I actually give a rat's arse about you?" What was Potter playing at?

"No."

"Think there's some sort of 'inner good' in me?" This was starting to become damned uncomfortable.

Potter scoffed, "No."

Draco could feel his heart thudding nervously. "Well then, what are you getting at?"

"I don't think you're strong enough to kill me yourself."

Potter turned his back on Draco and made himself busy finding a spot for the night. It was a good thing he did turn away, because Draco's stomach had coincidentally chosen that moment to twist itself into a knot. How dare he? How dare. . .

"Don't push it, Potter. You're just tempting fate, and you really don't want to make things harder on yourself than they already are," Draco shot at him, but the comment was lacking its usual edge.

Harry glanced briefly back over his shoulder. He'd heard the slight shift in Malfoy's voice, and he liked it. "Voldemort is trying to kill me. Again. I'm not too worried about anything you're going to do."

He returned his attention to his inspection of the floor, but he could still feel Malfoy's eyes on the back of his neck. The Slytherin's presence in such close quarters made him just a little bit edgy. Alright, so he was uncomfortable with it. No, it bloody bugged the hell out of him. Forget that Voldemort would be paying him a visit in a few short hours to divulge his diabolical plan for Harry's demise. Those hours would be spent in the same room as Draco Malfoy. Somehow, that almost seemed the worse of the two. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

Harry didn't need to peek again to be certain that Malfoy was furious at being casually brushed aside. The lack of verbal response was enough to confirm it. He knew Malfoy well enough to anticipate the boy's reactions, just as Malfoy seemed to know at least a bit about him. All Harry had to do was to stay one step ahead, keep Malfoy irritated to the point of distraction, continue pushing the other boy's buttons, and hopefully he could find a way out. Malfoy was probably more than ready to devote all his time to driving Harry mad. It shouldn't be too difficult to turn the tables.

The floor was cold and hard, but it was welcoming enough. Apparently the poison had taken more out of him than he'd realized, leaving him lightheaded and somewhat nauseated. He tucked his left arm carefully against his body and drew his knees towards his chin with his right arm, all the while keeping his shoulder turned towards the bars. He didn't want Malfoy to see his face. Somehow, if he kept that hidden, it would almost feel like a touch of privacy.

A sharp cracking noise almost caused Harry to relinquish that tiny shred of seclusion, but he held his ground, awaiting the next audio clue.

"Master Malfoy, sir, your father is sending Biddy here with young Master Malfoy's things." A house-elf's high pitched squeak greeted his ears.

"Put the chair and blanket down there." Malfoy's voice was flat and impassive.

"Where is Master Malfoy wanting his tea, sir? Mistress Malfoy is not wanting young Master to catch cold."

"Just put it down next to the chair."

There was a soft clinking of dishware, then a pause. "Aren't you going now?" Malfoy spat at Biddy.

The house-elf squeaked, "Master Malfoy, sir, Biddy is wondering . . . is that Harry Potter?" The elf's voice was bursting with poorly hidden awe.

"I said go!" Malfoy yelled.

Harry heard a heavy, sickening thud and knew that Malfoy had just landed the pitiful elf a kick. Vivid memories of Lucius Malfoy's hideous treatment of Dobby broke to the surface of Harry's thoughts. Ignoring his body's protests, he dragged himself to his feet and threw himself against the bars. "You lay off her, Malfoy!"

Startled by the outburst from his previously subdued prisoner, Draco nearly forgot about Biddy, who was slowly picking herself up from the ground. "What did you tell me to do?"

"I said 'lay off her'."

"Why should I? She's a house-elf. She's not supposed to go about asking questions of her masters, sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. It's not for her to question me in anything."

"And so her 'masters' have to prove they're in control by beating up defenseless house-elves?"

"A house-elf must be totally loyal. That's its job," Draco sniffed.

"I always figured it was better to earn loyalty than to beat it out of a person."

Draco's mouth was already open, preparing to dish out the next retort, but his voice choked in his throat. His father's voice echoed through his head like some sort of Pavlovian mantra. You have to earn it. Earn it. You can't just take it. You have to earn it. Those words had danced circles in his head for hours the night his father had left him there, and he'd never forgotten. His eyes wandered over Potter's shoulder to the chains hanging unused from the cell wall. He subconsciously rubbed his wrist, remembering the cold metal that had cut them all night, leaving ghastly red marks. You have to earn it.

"House-elves aren't people," Draco said flatly, but his words sounded hollow in his ears. "They owe their loyalty to the family that takes them in. They have to learn their place, the hard way if necessary. They would actually prefer for you to punish them, rather than have you give them clothes."

Harry mouth turned down in a very unconvinced frown. "So you kick them around like vermin, or force them to punish themselves? I thought Malfoys were always gracious."

"Well, sometimes we merely lock them in a cupboard for a couple of days, or in the dungeons, or we don't permit them to eat."

As many times as Draco had seen a house-elf being punished, and had even inflicted the punishments himself, he'd never actually put it to words. Standing under Potter's harsh scrutiny, in a place where he, himself, had been punished, it sounded absolutely brutal. Barbaric. Not the gracious, distinguished behaviour of a Malfoy. He had never considered quite that way - no. That was nonsense. His father had taught him better. He was not going to let Potter's sanctimonious speech get to him.

Draco fixed a scowl on his face in a vain attempt to keep Potter from seeing his reaction, but the other boy wasn't even bothering to look at him. Potter's face had gone a shade paler, and he seemed to be wavering on his feet a little.

Harry swallowed as the sick feeling in his stomach from the poison had intensified at least tenfold. He tried to ignore it, but he was so tired that Malfoy's description of the milder forms of house-elf punishment quickly brought vivid memories boiling to the surface, and he was unable to push them away. He could almost feel Uncle Vernon's meaty hand clenching his shirt at the nape of his neck, shoving him roughly into his cupboard. He could hear the harsh voice bellowing in his ear, "... and no meals for a week!" And then the sound of the cupboard door slamming shut behind him.

The Malfoys were no better than the Dursleys, and ironically, they were each the one thing the other most despised in the world. Did the Malfoys see the same punishments as being suited to people? Probably, but not for actual members of their family. House-elves, nephews, and blood enemies, lock them away and force them into submission. At least this dungeon, unlike his cupboard, gave him space to stretch out his legs. Quickly berating himself for even beginning to consider the merits of the Malfoy dungeons, Harry shook his head to clear it.

Malfoy was regarding him oddly. "What's the matter with you?"

It was the usual Malfoy drawl, to be sure, but there was a strange lift to his voice; he was curious. Well, if Malfoy wanted to know something, why on earth should Harry give him the pleasure? "Sod off, Malfoy."

Harry heard no attempt at a response as he made his way back to his spot on the floor. Every part of him hurt now, even the pieces you couldn't find on any anatomy chart. He just wanted to curl up and let this wretched awareness disappear. He couldn't let Malfoy see him in pain; wouldn't let himself show any sign of weakness. With no help at hand, completely alone, he needed to stay strong. It was all he had, and it was his only chance to get out of there alive.

Suppressing a grunt of pain, he settled himself back into a tight, fetal ball, his injured arm cradled in his lap, wishing against all odds that he would wake up back in Gryffindor Tower and this would all have been one very strange nightmare.

*********

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.