Eclipse

I don't know when I noticed life was life at my expense.
The words of my heart lined up like prisoners on a fence.
The dreams came in like needy children tugging at my sleeve,
I said I have no way of feeding you, so leave.

(~Indigo Girls)

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Chapter 3

Bitter Tea

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Draco watched the still form of Harry Potter, curled up against the wall of the cell, and shivered. The dungeons were cold. That was just the way things were, but it didn't mean that Draco had to like it. He tucked his feet underneath him on the chair and pulled his blankets in tighter. It had been a long night, and it wasn't over yet.

His tea had gone cold hours ago, left untouched on the floor by his feet. His mother had always refused to let him sweeten it (sweetened tea being simply not proper), and despite its fragrant aroma, Draco had never appreciated its bitter edge. Besides, he would have much preferred a stronger beverage to keep him warm - one that would have drowned out the ridiculous thoughts that kept swimming unchecked through his head.

For a fleeting instant (in a fit of momentary insanity, to be precise), he'd almost slipped and uttered an apology to Biddy, before she'd disappeared from the dungeons. He, Draco Malfoy, apologize to a house-elf? Preposterous! But worse still, Potter had instigated the whole thing, only to turn his back on Draco and curl up apparently sound asleep on the floor.

Nobody turned their back to a Malfoy, and here was Potter, calmly doing just that, like there was nothing to worry him in the world. Draco considered turning his wand on the obnoxious captive, but to what end? Torture him? For some reason, the idea had lost its appeal. Control him? Apparently that wasn't going to work. No, he wanted to beat Potter at his own game.

No matter what the situation, Potter had always managed to come out on top. Oh, it wasn't just Quidditch. There was the House Cup, the Triwizard Tournament, media coverage, fame and fortune... it was enough to make Draco sick. Now that fluke of a boy, asleep on the cold dungeon floor, was winning in a game of wits.

Draco set his jaw firmly. No, this was only the first round. There would be plenty of time to turn the tide of this contest. He just couldn't let Potter get to him. He certainly wasn't going to dwell on it. But that was exactly what he was doing, and he knew it.

Draco shifted in his seat, turning his back so that he couldn't see Potter and the cell.

Potter couldn't possibly know the effect his comment about "earning loyalty" was having on Draco. As a Malfoy, he had spent his entire life trying to earn respect, prestige, and most importantly, power. Loyalty was merely the logical consequence of those attributes, not a quality that stood on its own. His father's loyalty to the Dark Lord, his own loyalty to his father; loyalty was simply given to the person with the most power.

Power. That's what it was all about. The final goal. It was the last step, of course, requiring time, cunning, and knowing the right people. It was a remote aspiration for Draco when he was younger, so respect had become his intermediate goal. He had sought it from his friends, his professors, and mostly, from his father. Crabbe and Goyle had been easy enough. Show those goons a card trick, and they would worship you like the second coming of Merlin. Professors were a bit more difficult. He had always earned top marks in his classes, particularly Potions; but with Mudblood lovers like Dumbledore running the place, the Malfoy name didn't hold the clout it once had. Draco had managed to royally embarrass himself on occasion, had gotten in trouble with a number of professors, and every single time, it had had something to do with Potter. Detention in the Dark Forest, tangles with hippogriffs, and painful moments as a flying ferret - all of it was courtesy of Potter, one way or another.

Naturally, whenever Potter inadvertently instigated something like that, his father made it known just how displeased he was. It wasn't easy for anybody to earn respect from Lucius Malfoy. The task became even more difficult when he was your father. Draco had never quite been good enough, never quite been able to move fast enough, although there was nothing he wanted more. Gods that be, he swore that the harder he tried, the more he fell short of his father's expectations. As the only Malfoy heir, he had a reputation to uphold. He had a destiny to fulfill. Only great things could come from a name like Draco Malfoy.

He came so close, too.

His father had been pleased with Draco's report card at the end of his first year. Pleased, that was, until he had heard about Mudblood Granger's marks. Draco had watched in shame as his father had removed his report parchment from its frame over the mantle and reduced it to ashes with a flick of his wand. Edged out by a Mudblood. It was humiliating. It was disgraceful. It was not the place of a Malfoy.

It was nowhere near as bad as the after-effects of his first Quidditch match though.

"Now, Draco, this is the finest broom money can buy. I will not have my son displaying himself on anything but the best broom, nor do I expect anything but the best from his performance. "

Clearly his performance had not measured up to his father's expectations. He'd been too distracted with antagonizing Potter to notice the Snitch hovering just above his shoulder. Not only that, but Potter had beaten him with a broken arm. Everyone had fawned over the little hero, while Marcus Flint dragged Draco aside to hurl insults that would have made a troll blush. Despite the severity of that embarrassment, the letter from his father had been much worse. His eagle owl had arrived the following morning with a letter that read simply, "I am displeased."

So Draco had focused on next year. The next time around, he wouldn't let Potter distract him. Eye on the Snitch, and he was sure to win. Oh, that had been a lovely thought while it lasted.

The following year, Potter had burst onto the field atop a Firebolt. Draco had relived the last few seconds of that game over and over in his head ever since. He'd been so far ahead of Potter, closing in on the Snitch. There had been nothing between him and his golden prize... until Potter had come racing past him, faster than Draco had thought possible. His hand had been mere inches from the Snitch when the Gryffindor Seeker had batted him out of the way and claimed the tiny sphere, and the Quidditch Cup, for Gryffindor.

It was maddening. The only reason that could have happened was because perfect Potter had a better broom. Therefore, all Draco needed to do was ask his father for a Firebolt, right?

He couldn't have been more wrong. His father's eyes had been daggers of steel, tearing Draco to shreds as effectively as his words.

"Draco, you didn't even prove yourself worthy of the last broom. Now, you want to excuse your incompetence by blaming the fine broomstick I bought you last year?"

"No, father! It's just that I . . ."

"Silence. Stop making excuses. You were unable to beat Potter when you had the superior broomstick, so I see no reason to give you another superior broom now. You have to earn it."

It all came back to that, didn't it?

Well, this time he'd earned it, hadn't he? Tonight, Draco should have been reveling in the victory he had earned. The bane of his existence was held securely in a cell in the Malfoy dungeons, and Draco had put him there. His father... His father had actually been proud of him. He'd said so. Tomorrow the Dark Lord would bestow honour on the Malfoy name, and all to Draco's credit. So why the hell did Draco feel like he couldn't look himself in the eye just then?

It was all due to the same cause, his grief: the boy who was sleeping in the cell, not more than twelve feet away, oblivious to the world.

The sweet sound of Lucius Malfoy's "I'm so proud of you, Draco," had been thoroughly drowned out by Potter's sarcastic undercut, "How very noble of you." Why should Potter's words resound more vividly through his mind than the long-sought words from his own father? Bloody Merlin's beard; if it hadn't been for the Dark Lord's express wish to have the boy alive, he would have killed the insufferable little scar-head himself.

Draco would have run the poison-laced blade across Potter's slender throat instead of just puncturing his shoulder like a harmless bee sting. He would have stood there, and laughed at the glory of watching Potter's blood seeping out across his skin, drenching his jumper and pooling on the floor. Relished in the ways it puddled, memorized the exact shade of deep crimson red. It would have been a sweet revenge indeed to smell the metallic tang of Potter's life force seeping through his fingers like sand. He would have reached down and wiped the blade on Potter's sleeve, placing that final smudge of blood to stand as testimony to his victory, and watched as the final ebbing of life drained from Potter's body. He would stare down into the terrified eyes in triumph and...

Draco glanced down at his splayed fingers and the flattened palms of his hands, lying in his lap. They were shaking. That was just it, wasn't it? Now, thinking about it, he really wasn't so sure he could have done it. The mission had been a success precisely because the responsibility was minor and the rewards great. But what if the mission had been to kill? He hadn't actually considered the possibility, not really, until Potter had thrown the challenge in his face, bold and defiant.

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

Could he? Could Draco take the dagger to Potter's throat? If he'd been told to, could he have actually poisoned Potter instead of merely stunning him? Could he honestly stare down the length of his wand, directly into Potter's piercing green eyes, and say, out loud, "Avada Kedavra" ?

Draco tipped his head forward into his trembling hands and dug his fingers into his face. More than anything, he wanted to be able to answer those questions with a resounding "yes", but he had seen something burning in those eyes, something alive, something very human. You don't think of your enemy as another person, but merely as a means to an end. Could he have killed Potter? He didn't know anymore. He just didn't know.

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Harry had certainly tried to sleep in spite of his physical discomfort, but every time he'd come close, another alarming thought had raced through his brain, jolting him awake. It would have been so much easier to have simply let the world fade away, but it was too late for that. Reality had finally struck him, irreversibly. The realization of his situation had left him in too much shock to move. He didn't want to think, but his mind was churning around in circles. Like everything else, it was thoroughly beyond his control. Perhaps it was due to the presence of his captor, but most of Harry's disturbing thoughts centered on the blond boy on the other side of the bars. Given that he was about to face the most powerful evil wizard of the age - again - it was a strange time for him to be brooding about the schoolyard bully.

Still, that was exactly what Harry was doing. If it hadn't been for that slimy little ferret, he would be curled up soundly in his four-poster bed back in Gryffindor Tower, with no more worries than his Potions assignment. He wouldn't be freezing his arse off on a cold dungeon floor. His shoulder wouldn't be throbbing with an ever-increasing ache where Malfoy had stabbed him. His mind certainly wouldn't be digging trenches in his subconscious.

Harry was almost afraid to pull back his robe to check how bad the damage to his shoulder was. It certainly wasn't going to be pretty, but in retrospect, he realized that it could easily have been a great deal worse. Much worse.

What if, in his need for vengeance and conquering hatred, Malfoy had taken the knife to Harry's throat instead? It was possible. People like Malfoy didn't need strength to kill. It was simply a part of their nature. People weren't flesh-and-blood human beings to them. They were obstacles blocking the opening before the final goal.

Harry had only insinuated that Malfoy couldn't have killed him because he knew it could never happen, and that simple fact would serve to infuriate Malfoy to no end. Not that the bastard couldn't have done it if he'd had the chance; Harry was quite sure Malfoy would have had no trouble stabbing him in the back, literally. No, Malfoy just wouldn't get the chance to prove he could kill Harry because Voldemort would never allow someone else to do it. Voldemort wanted that final vengeance too much, and Draco would only be able to sit back and watch. In a sick twist of irony, Malfoy actually had to protect Harry, to keep him alive for Voldemort's use. That had to be a blow to Malfoy's ego.

Of course, if Harry were to escape, that would be even better. If? No. When. There had to be a way out. He was the damned Boy Who Lived. He'd escaped from Voldemort more than once; he could certainly escape from Draco Malfoy. Perhaps - if he played his cards just right - he could manipulate the Slytherin git. Possibly antagonize him into opening the cell door. Get his wand back. And then what? Well, he'd think of something when the time came. First, he had to get under Malfoy's skin, and - if he was even remotely perceptive - it seemed he'd already started.

Harry almost wondered what the look on Malfoy's face had been when he'd turned his back. Strike that; he was dying to know, to see what sort of leverage he might be able to gain over the other boy. Malfoy hadn't said a word, hadn't made a sound; not a clue for Harry to follow, and Harry refused to concede even his curiosity in front of Malfoy. But for someone who always tried for the last word, it had been somewhat surprising that the Malfoy insult-vault had come up empty. Even more curious had been the slight change in the tone of his voice. Had Harry struck that deep a blow? Malfoy knew he'd never get to kill Harry himself. Was that really so disturbing a thought to the Slytherin?

Harry bit his lower lip. That couldn't be quite right. Perhaps his offhand insult had been a bit too close to the truth? Malfoy had always been a coward, hiding behind his trollish friends, running at the first sign of danger, using his father's name as a shield. That made sense. He really was simply a coward, and Harry had called him on it. Yes, of course. It was absolutely obvious.... no it wasn't. He dug his teeth a little deeper into his lip.

When he'd called Malfoy a coward the first time, accusing him of hiding behind his father's robes, there had been an immediate counterattack, and it had been a pretty deep one. Harry felt his throat close a little as he remembered the remark about his parents. If those bars hadn't been there, he would have crushed Malfoy's windpipe with his own hands. Two more inches and he would have had him. Instead, he'd been trapped, and there was nothing he could do to defend his parents but glare at the bastard who'd insulted them in the first place. If looks could kill...

But they couldn't, sad to say. Funny though, Malfoy had appeared for a second as if that was exactly what looks could do. Those grey eyes, which had always been narrowed in a sneer, had been peeled wide open, sparking with tenuously restrained alarm. It was the first time Malfoy's eyes had ever looked alive to Harry, and the spark he saw underneath them had been fear. That served the git right. Fear was exactly what those eyes should contain. But still, there had been something else too.

Harry released his lower lip from his front teeth, and pulled the inside of his cheek between his back molars. He bit down. Hard. The pain did little to distract his mind from the minor epiphany that was closing in around it. There had been fear alright, but also some sort of recognition. Recognition? What the hell was he recognizing? How grievously enraged Harry was? That would require an understanding of human emotion. That little prat didn't have enough humanity running through his veins for that task.

Vaguely, Harry found himself wondering just what sorts of emotions could possibly exist in someone as loathsome as Draco Malfoy.

He didn't really have time to think on it before his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a choked cough. After hours of holding his silence, Harry decided to let his curiosity get the better of him. He'd been sitting perfectly still for so long that every muscle fiber seemed to rip apart as he rolled his back flat against the wall and turned his head to look at Malfoy. The sight that greeted his eyes was startling, to say the least.

Malfoy was doubled over, wrapped in a fancy embroidered quilt, head in his hands. His normally slick hair was frizzing at the ends. Even more amusing, his shoulders were shaking, just slightly, but definitely shaking. Harry let his mouth fall open in amazement. This was just too good an opportunity to miss. Let the game begin.

"What's the matter, Malfoy? Lose your teddy bear?"

The blond head shot up, revealing the classic Malfoy features warped by something normally foreign to them; emotion. Well, what a concept. The little snake was actually capable of something resembling human sentiment. Harry couldn't quite identify which emotion, but it almost seemed genuine. Almost.

"What did you say to me, Potter?" His voice was low and raspy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I interrupting a personal moment? I'll just leave you to your privacy... oh wait, I can't! Too bad, eh, Malfoy?"

"What the hell is your problem?" The drawl was back.

"Let me think about that." He paused for effect. "Oh yes, I remember now. I'm trapped in a dungeon with you, awaiting certain doom at the hands of a deranged dark wizard. That would just about cover it." He allowed himself a silent snort, which sent a wave of pain shooting through his shoulder, causing him to wince. "Almost forgot, lovely stab wound too."

Malfoy hesitated for a fraction of a second, not much, but enough that Harry noticed it, before finally shooting back, "You deserve no better."

Harry gaped at Malfoy in disbelief. The Slytherin was carefully avoiding his eyes, putting on a show of stretching his neck like a preening peacock. "I deserve no better? Deserve? And just how are you judging that?"

"You've spent your entire life meddling in things that were too big for you," Malfoy sniffed. "You go strutting around like you own the school, and all the professors kiss your arse, make special allowances for you, especially the Mudblood-lover Dumbledore. You picked a fight with the most powerful dark wizard of the age, and most of all," Malfoy turned and looked at Harry, carefully placing his gaze just above Harry's eyebrows, "you messed with my family. Never a good move, Potter."

Harry swallowed. Where could he even begin to start tearing apart that slew of accusations? He sighed. Start at the top and work his way down, he supposed. "Malfoy, I was a year old when I got mixed up with Voldemort." Malfoy flinched at the name, but Harry ignored it and carried on anyway. "Last time I checked the history books, he came bursting into my house, killed my parents, and then tried his hand at me. I was too young to remember any of it, and you're saying I picked the fight? That's really funny, Malfoy. Really impossible, but really funny."

"Not that, you stupid prat. At school. You went messing with the Dark Lord's business on your own. Last year was bad enough, gallivanting to the Ministry like some glorious little hero, but you've been pulling stunts like that since the start. My father told me all about them. You just had to go and be the brave little Gryffindor, protecting the bloody Stone, then messing with the Chamber of Secrets. The school would have finally been rid of Mudblood filth, and you had to get in the way."

Harry pushed himself to his feet, steeling himself against any display of pain as his shoulder sent throbbing waves down his arm and across his chest. He walked slowly and deliberately across the floor to the bars of the cell. "Don't you call people that. Those were good witches and wizards that monster attacked, a lot finer and more respectable than some I could have mentioned." He glared meaningfully at Malfoy.

Malfoy snorted. "Finer my arse. A Hufflepuff and that scrawny Creevey kid. And that monster would have done the school a favour if it had actually killed that eyesore, Granger."

A burning fury rose in Harry's chest, and he began to reach for the bars as though expecting that he could bend them apart himself, escape, and strangle the bastard on the other side. Don't rise to it, Harry. That's exactly what he wants. Don't take the bait. Stay in control. He lowered his hands. Through a clenched jaw, he spoke in the most even tone he could manage. "You're just jealous of her."

"What are you talking about, Potter?"

He's asking questions. That means he's being defensive. "The only reason you want Hermione out of the way is because she beats you at every turn, even in Potions."

"Humph. You think far too highly of your little Mudblood friend."

Harry shook his head, the fury melting into determination as he eased into the baiting game. "Oh, I think very highly of her, and for good reason, not just the fact that she's much brighter than you. Yes, you're jealous of her. Either that, or it's because she happens to be my friend. Is that it, Malfoy? Just need another little way to get at me? Which is it? Jealous of her marks..." Harry paused and raised an eyebrow. Go for the kill. "... or jealous of her friendship with me?"

Malfoy's face contorted as though he was choking on some bad cheese. He sputtered briefly, finally snarling out, "I have no desire to compare myself to a pathetic Mudblood, nor would I ever envy her friendship with the likes of you." The venom in the last word was palpable.

Harry narrowed his eyes and regarded Malfoy through the bottom half of his glasses, suppressing a triumphant smirk. Too easy. "I'm not altogether convinced. Hermione and Ron are two of the best witches and wizards I could ever want to know. They would die for me, and I'd die for them. That's loyalty, Malfoy, and that's a hell of a lot to be jealous of."

"Crabbe and Goyle -"

"- would roll over and fetch for anyone who offered them a dog biscuit. Oh yes, that's really something special."

Draco hadn't actually realized that he'd moved from his seat until he came to a stop just out of Potter's reach.

"Crabbe and Goyle would do whatever I told them to do."

"So would a well trained cocker spaniel. They follow you around like overgrown puppies, although not quite so intelligent, and you use them. Without someone bigger and stronger to hide behind, you're nothing."

Draco felt his irritation giving way to fury as he glared at his insolent captive. Potter was his prisoner, under his control, and the boy dared to stand up and belittle him? Draco could feel his hands starting to shake. He clenched them into fists, hoping Potter hadn't noticed. "Without your little friends here, you're not much of anything yourself, Potter," he snarled.

The dark-haired boy tipped his head to the side thoughtfully, looking far too confident, even as his damaged glasses balancing precariously atop his nose. "If you're so sure of yourself, Malfoy, why don't you give me back my wand, let me out, and face me for yourself?"

Heat was beginning to rise behind Draco's ears. At the moment, there was nothing he'd like more than to have a proper duel with the obnoxious bastard in the cell, just to prove that Potter didn't have a chance against him, but that was something he wouldn't be able to try anytime soon. Besides, it was just a trick. Potter was trying to goad him into allowing a chance for escape. Try harder Potter, that won't work.

Draco forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Potter?"

Potter blew out a breath through his nose. "Actually, I'd like to use a bathroom. Where the hell am I supposed to go?"

Draco's upper lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. He raised one hand and pointed towards a hole in the floor in the far corner of the cell. "All the comforts of home, eh, Potter? I'm sure it's a fair match for the Weasleys' house." He jutted out his chin. Surely he'd won this round?

Potter took a step towards the corner with one foot, but the stance of his body remained the same. "Nothing of yours could ever be half as good as anything the Weasleys have, Malfoy. Now, do you mind? I'd like a little privacy."

Once again, Potter turned his back to Draco, and left him standing open-mouthed. That unbelievable bastard had done it again. How did Potter always managed to catch him off guard?

Draco turned away from the cell, still confused and irritated. He had no desire to see Potter doing his business, so he sullenly moved back to his chair and slouched back into the cushions. It was a good thing his father couldn't see him right then. A Malfoy wasn't supposed to slouch.

He kicked at the floor absently, doing his best to ignore the sound of a stream of water plinking down a hole in the floor. It had to be almost morning, because he could hear his stomach complaining loudly for breakfast. Funny thing though; he wasn't actually hungry. Draco hardly noticed Potter leave the corner of the cell and move back to the spot where he'd spent the night.

Staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him, Draco was doing his damn best to empty his mind. He didn't want to think about how maddening this whole mess was becoming. There would be almost three more weeks of guard duty before the Dark Lord collected his prize. If the past few hours had been this bad, how in the name of Merlin was he going to be able to handle the rest of it? He hadn't expected a sleepover with Potter to be fun and games, but at the same time, he'd never thought the heavy hand of the power struggle would come from the other side of the bars.

His thoughts were cut off by his stomach growling again, but before he could mentally tell it to shut up, it was answered by a loud crack. Biddy appeared before him bearing a tray laden with pumpkin juice, toast, bacon, some fruit, and, of course, a steaming pot of tea.

"Master Malfoy, sir! Biddy is being sent by Mistress Malfoy. Mistress is telling Biddy to remind young Master that he is to eat a proper breakfast, sir."

Draco frowned. "I'm not hungry."

"Sir, Mistress Malfoy is insisting, sir." The house-elf hesitated. "Senior Master Malfoy is also wanting Biddy to tell you that the prisoner is also to eat, sir."

Draco noted that there were, indeed, two cups next to the flagon of pumpkin juice, and an extra empty plate. He rolled his eyes and nodded. A Malfoy is always gracious, yes; but that shouldn't mean that he had to share the same breakfast as Potter. Probably Biddy had been told to fix breakfast for both Potter and himself, and hadn't been aware that it wasn't proper for prisoners to eat as well as their captors. Draco sighed. He didn't have the energy to correct the ignorant house-elf properly right now.

"Is Master Malfoy needing anything else from Biddy, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, you may leave."

"Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir." She bent down and picked up the tray she had left last night, with the cold pot of tea still full.

As she was standing upright to disappear back to the kitchens, Draco caught a proper look at her. Slouching in his chair, it was the first time he had ever found himself on eye-level with a house-elf. Dressed in a decrepit pillowcase and looking distinctly forlorn, it wasn't a sight a Malfoy should have to lower himself to see. However, now that he'd seen it, there was no way to pretend he hadn't. Already feeling emotionally bruised, this was just another thing buffeting his brain in directions it had never before swayed. He hadn't actually intended to say it; it must have slipped out from the murky depths of his swirling thoughts. Possibly for the first time in history, a Malfoy actually looked a house-elf in the eye and said, "Thank you."

Biddy's ears perked up in sheer delight and her oversized eyes watered around the edges. She began bobbing her head in excitement, squeaking loudly. "Oh, Master Malfoy, sir! You is muchly welcomed, sir! If Master is needing anything else of Biddy, just call, sir!" She almost dropped the tray, she bowed so low. Still holding the bow, she vanished with a sharp crack.

Draco planted his feet against the stone floor and pushed himself a bit higher in his chair as he realized what he'd just done, and what Biddy had just said. It was unexpected, to say the least. His father would never have approved. A Malfoy never thanks a house-elf. It would lead to impudence from the creatures. They might get ideas, perhaps even fancy themselves to be deserving of thanks.

Biddy had never informed him to "just call" if he wanted something. Of course, he would have called if he had desired, with or without her permission. And she would have come; no thanks were required. It was the function of a house-elf. But still, this was strangely different. It hadn't been raw, forced servitude. Biddy had offered her services willingly. It was highly unorthodox, but it almost felt... good. Perhaps, just maybe, Potter had been on to something.

Harry stared at Malfoy. He must be delirious, because for a moment, it had almost sounded as though Malfoy had thanked the house-elf. That was it. Delirium.

Malfoy must have realized that Harry was staring, and he turned to him wearing his best mask of contempt. "What are you gawking at, Potter?"

"I had a vision. For a moment, albeit brief, you almost resembled a human being. You don't need to worry though, because then I realized I must simply be losing my mind." Harry leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, getting ready for the next volley.

"What do you know, Potter?"

Harry sat up away from the wall and turned back to Malfoy. Whatever kind of verbal attack he'd expected, that hadn't been it. The other boy was still scowling at Harry with disdain, but his voice hadn't been laced with the same poisonous harshness it had always held. It sounded almost... bemused.

"A Malfoy is always gracious," Draco continued. "I'm just living up to the expectations of my name."

"That's not something I'd care to brag about. I saw how 'gracious' your father was to Dobby. I had never seen such revolting treatment of a living creature in all my life." The thought finished itself silently in Harry's mind: Except maybe the way the Dursleys treated me.

"My father simply expects the kind of loyalty and respect due to a person of his stature," Malfoy sniffed, although his voice had started to waver.

"So someone of his stature has to resort to beating helpless creatures and starving them, in order to feel powerful? Your father is sick."

"My father is a great man!" Malfoy bellowed like a wounded animal. "He's a proud and dignified man, upholding a proud and dignified family tradition."

"Tradition of what? Cruelty?"

The hot air in Malfoy's balloon had apparently deflated. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Harry nodded. "That's fine, because I don't think I want to." What was there to understand? Lucius Malfoy was the original Evil Bastard, and Draco was Evil Bastard-in-training. The Malfoy tradition was Slytherin at its finest; the unbridled use of cunning and greed in the unending quest for power. No cost was too high, not even human life.

So why had Malfoy thanked Biddy?

It had to be another game, Malfoy was trying to wage his own mental war on him, a counterattack perhaps. However, this game seemed different, and Harry found himself curious as to where it might lead.

Malfoy was brushing one foot back and forth across the floor, once again curled up in his chair, staring at the breakfast tray in front of him. Harry watched him silently, waiting for the Slytherin to make the next move.

"Do you want some tea?"

"What?" Harry found himself asking, not being quite able to keep the surprise from his voice.

"Are you daft? I asked if you wanted tea. I'm supposed to feed you, remember? It makes no personal difference to me, but you're no use to You-Know-Who if you starve to death."

Malfoy didn't use Voldemort's name. Come to think of it, neither had his father. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain, Harry filed away this scrap of information for later use, burying it behind the more pressing issue at hand. "Tea?"

"Don't make me ask you again, Potter, or you're going to be wearing it."

"Is it sweetened?"

"Sweetened tea? Don't be absurd. It's not proper to add sugar to tea." That was his mother talking, and Draco knew it.

Harry nodded. "Then no thanks. It always tastes bitter to me without sugar."

Draco raised his head just a fraction away from the breakfast tray and regarded Potter out of the corner of his eye. What kind of game was this anyway? Potter couldn't say that! It was just too... too... He was not going to have even tea drinking preferences in common with his prisoner. He would not. He was a Malfoy.

Draco dropped his head back down and shook it, as if he could dispel the similarities through his ears. Without another word, he piled two thick slices of toast on one of the plates next to several pieces of bacon and poured a cupful of pumpkin juice. Potter was watching his every move throughout the process. Let him. "Apple or orange?"

"I'm not hungry."

Draco sighed and repeated, more insistent this time, "Apple or orange?"

A pause. "Apple."

In silence, Draco carried the cup and plate to the cell. There was one horizontal slot just large enough for a laden plate. That one night he had spent in the cell, he had wondered what that slot was for. Now he knew.

Potter hadn't moved from his spot by the wall, and Draco tapped his foot impatiently. "Starving yourself isn't going to do you any good." It was like taking care of a petulant child.

The reply came back in a sarcastic drawl that sounded far too familiar. "Oh, Malfoy, I didn't know you cared."

Draco almost dropped the breakfast. His brain was screaming protests at the derisive implication. That was the absolute furthest thing from the truth. The boy was his personal sworn enemy, not to mention the enemy of his family. He hated Potter with a burning passion. Looking down his nose, Draco forced the drawl back into his own voice. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm merely following orders. We need you alive."

Potter leaned forward and eased himself to his knees, then to his feet, clearly favouring his left shoulder now. He stared at the floor as he approached the bars, not really seeming to notice Draco. His hands grasped the dishes at the same instant his face came up, locking eyes with Draco. "I'd rather die on my own terms than let Voldemort have me for his purposes. I'd even rather let you kill me."

Draco couldn't tear his eyes away. Behind Potter's glasses were balls of green fire, flaming with accusations left unspoken. Harsh emotions wrapped themselves around Draco's chest and squeezed tightly. Anger, resentment, fear . . .

Potter finally turned away and retreated to his place by the wall with his breakfast. Draco was left standing still, inhaling deeply as the iron band around his chest was replaced by a new sensation, this time, a strange sort of smoldering heat accompanied by a different sort of breathlessness. In that horrible burning awareness he realized that this was what being hurt was like.

How was Potter doing this? Draco didn't care what the boy thought of him. The Gryffindor was weak, Draco reminded himself once again. He was unarmed and imprisoned, helpless... yet he was still stronger than Draco had ever been. That was what terrified him. Draco had finally discovered that his rival had the upper hand, even under dismal circumstances, and probably always would have, until the day he finally died. Well, at least there was an end in sight, and the responsibility wouldn't fall on Draco. Strangely, the thought didn't reassure him as he'd expected it would.

Potter was sitting quietly in his spot, tossing the apple absently from hand to hand with nothing more than a flick of the wrist.

Draco set his jaw, willing the familiar loathing to overtake his distress. When that didn't work, he settled for irritation. "It's food, Potter. Not a plaything."

Without skipping a beat, Harry bit a large chunk out of the apple and started tossing it again. Around the mouthful, he mumbled, "It's both."

Draco felt his face getting hot. This was a losing battle, it seemed. The boy was too irritating for Draco to deal with. Still, just wait until the Dark Lord arrived. Just wait. Potter surely couldn't hold up against that, could he? No. The boy would crack, and then, once again, he would be the image of the pathetic little Mudblood-loving Gryffindor nemesis that Draco had always loved to hate. Just wait.

Hours passed. Draco made a silent vigil of the whole affair, refusing to be pulled into another verbal battle, and mercifully, Potter didn't seem all that inclined to offer him one. The apple had been set aside, and its one bitten spot had turned brown. Steam had long ago stopped puffing from the spout of the teapot. Biddy came, retrieved the tray, and disappeared. All the while, Potter didn't move or speak, and neither did Draco.

Draco felt himself starting to doze off when a pained hiss snapped him fully awake. Pulling himself directly upright in his chair, he saw Potter bent over on the floor, the agony on his face partially hidden by his hand pressed against his forehead. Draco was so startled by the sudden change Potter's demeanor that he didn't allow himself time to think up a smart comment. "What is it?"

It took a moment for Potter to pull his hand away from his face to reveal a very grave expression. He whispered one word. "Voldemort."

The door of the dungeon flew open with a crash, and Draco didn't need to look to know who had just arrived.