Eclipse

Chapter 6

Disturbing Discussions

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Harry found himself deposited flat on his back, on a stone floor almost the same as the one he'd just left. Next to him, he could hear Draco moving, and he'd barely pushed himself to his knees when he found himself staring at the tip of Draco's wand again. The other boy was glaring at him coldly, brandishing his wand at him as though holding a dangerous animal at bay.

A quick glance around told Harry that they were alone in the dungeon. To his side, an empty cell was waiting, door open, a key resting in the lock. The only sound was the echo of dripping water from some dark corner of the passageway. In the momentary privacy, Harry allowed himself a sigh, and a few seconds to breathe.

He turned back to Draco, letting a multitude of thoughts swirl through his mind. What the hell had just happened back there? Strange, electric; it had flooded through him like a rush of icy water, bringing him alert and awake, making his body tingle and his breath catch, and he was certain Draco had felt the same thing. He'd seen it in the look of pure surprise written clearly across Malfoy's face as they locked eyes.

Now, however, there was no sign of it anywhere in his captor's demeanor. He could almost fool himself into thinking it had only been an illusion, but his instinct told him he knew better than that. He knew it had been real, and he was sure Malfoy knew as well.

Settling back against his heels, he said with deceptive casualness, "I wonder where the party is."

"Shut up, Potter." Draco's voice had resumed its usual cold drawl, much to Harry's surprise. Not that he should have expected anything different, but...

Draco motioned tersely with his wand towards the cell. "Get up. On your feet. And no fast moves. I'd be just as happy to stun you and toss you in there myself." There was no doubt that the warning was real.

Harry raised an inquisitive eyebrow as he rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off Draco. The Slytherin was a little enigma in his own right, Harry decided. Just when it seemed that there had been a real change in the person Harry had always known as Malfoy, his father had arrived, and every precisely trained behavioral pattern had fallen back into place.

Well, perhaps not all of it. The Malfoy that Harry used to know had always appeared genuine, had never seemed like an act until now. And it had probably been quite authentic until that point, but apparently the seeds of doubt had been sown. Malfoy didn't even keep his friends close. But if Harry's hunch was correct, he'd just let his enemy get closer. Probably too close. Under-the-skin close.

The look on Draco's face when their hands had touched had proven beyond a doubt exactly what was an act and what was real. In that instant, Draco's eyes had betrayed him.

"Malfoy... ?"

"I didn't give you permission to speak!" he snarled. "Just get into the bloody cell! NOW!"

He jabbed towards Harry with his wand, as though to underline his command more strongly, but in reality it was a nervous movement, designed to cover the fear that seemed to be pulling at his vocal cords.

Draco didn't have the luxury of considering the emotions and thoughts churning in his mind at the moment. He was desperately trying to bury them below the far more immediate situation. True, the room was empty save for them, but instead of putting Draco at ease, it had ignited every carefully trained nerve he possessed with alertness and caution. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected that he might be under surveillance.

That wouldn't have been a problem normally. He would have assumed his practiced, confident poise, been his usual haughty and self-righteous self. At one time, he would have properly enjoyed holding Potter at wand point, making both idle and not-so-idle threats. In the very least, he could have put on a proper show for the Dark Lord, or whoever else might have been watching. However, that wasn't so easy at the moment.

His subconscious kept poking through the cracks in his fear, drawing him back to the instant his hand had connected with Harry's. The strange sensation that he'd felt when he'd touched Harry before had magnified, filling his consciousness. There had been a thrill in the human touch, a guilty sort of joy. He was dwelling on it, couldn't shake the ghost of the feeling from his body. It was almost as though a subtle connection had been forged between them, cementing their new understanding into something else, something he couldn't exactly define, something that left him edgy and unbalanced. Something that should never exist between them.

NO, he told himself staunchly. He hadn't felt that. He hadn't. His loyalty to his father and the Dark Lord was true. It had to be. He had no other choice. Right now, whether he wanted to do it or not, he had a job to do. Voldemort had given him an assignment, and even if it felt like a secluded, throw-away task, nothing escaped the Dark Lord's eye. Not even one's innermost emotions. Until now, there had been nothing to fear from that. Potter had just changed everything.

Harry responded to Draco's prodding, his expression still inquisitive, turning to walk unhurriedly towards the cell.

Draco's thoughts ricocheted back and forth from Harry to the Dark Lord, to his father, to his duty, and back to Harry, leaving him slightly dizzy. Each of Harry's painstakingly slow step caused Draco's heart to thud a little louder as seconds seemed to stretch out. Any longer and his frantic nerves would reach a level of panic he wouldn't be able to hide. Someone would suspect something, though he wasn't quite sure what.

Faster, damn you! He poked Harry in the back with his wand. "Stop procrastinating!"

It hadn't stung, Draco hadn't used a charm to make it sting, but Harry snapped around as though it had, and glowered in irritation. Draco found himself beginning to feel sorry... until he saw Harry's glare fade away as the boy searched into his eyes. It made Draco feel terribly vulnerable, as though all his layers of protection had been peeled back. Harry seemed able to do that to him with uncanny ease.

After only a split second, Harry gave an almost imperceptible nod, and resumed walking towards the cell.

Draco hesitated, momentarily stunned. Quickly, wiped the surprise from his face, hiding the surge of hope he felt. If that nod meant what he thought it meant, then Harry was actually going to cooperate with him. Willingly. But why on earth would Harry do such a thing?

Perhaps, whatever Draco had felt when their hands had touched hadn't been his imagination, and Harry had felt it, too. Tucking away this thought for later, Draco trailed Harry closely to the door of the cell, feeling nervous still, but not so much as before.

As Harry passed through the door, without really realizing he was doing it, Draco let his hand brush along the small of his back, as though ushering him forwards. His fingertips graced the fabric, pressed against the too-thin back underneath, and he realized that he didn't particularly feel like locking Harry in.

Harry felt the slight pressure against the small of his back, not a push, just a touch. He spun around again as a different sort of surprise shot through him. Draco's touch had conveyed a sort of protectiveness, and a peculiar solidarity. It wasn't what he would have ever expected from Draco Malfoy, but then, nothing lately had happened the way he'd expected.

The door swung shut between them, but Harry continued to stare at Draco until he was forced to look back. The face was still Malfoy; cold, impassive, arrogant. But unlike before, the cold concrete of Draco's irises sparked at him like polished silver, the eyes of a person who had finally woken from a long dreamless night. For the first time, they spoke directly to Harry, flashing with confusion and apology. Underneath that, there was still the fear.

Draco inclined his own head just a fraction of a centimeter, a sign of respect. It was all he could do without completely letting himself crumble. He was beginning to falter, betrayed by the mixed-up thoughts which continued to dance unbidden through his subconscious. Here, right under Voldemort's nose, was the worst place he could lose his grip. Finally, he turned the key in the lock, maintaining as much of his outward dignity as he could.

To any onlooker, nothing unusual had occurred between the two teenage boys in the dungeon. No blaring emotions, no subtle undertones. Draco could only hope that he could maintain those appearances... at least until this whole matter was taken out of his hands.

Before he'd even put the key in his pocket, the dungeon door flew open with a crash. Draco whipped around, suspecting, with a wave of terror, that Voldemort had arrived, but instead his father hurried into the passageway, breathing hard.

Lucius took a quick appraisal of the scene, noting with satisfaction that Harry was now securely locked in the cell. His breathing slowed slightly as he composed himself and turned formally to Draco. "Excellent, Draco. Excellent," he said in a rush.

Draco could see that Lucius was still in a highly agitated state, but instead of asking, he waited for his father to reveal the reasons for that anxiety.

"The Ministry officials arrived at the front gate just as I emerged from the south passage," Lucius explained. "We shouldn't have waited so long, but what's done is done. Your mother will be able to claim ignorance and should be able to maintain the Manor. They may do a full raid, but any questionable items can be attributed to me."

He shot a harsh, meaningful glare over his shoulder at Harry. "It's not as though my public image could be tarnished any further."

Harry leaned casually against the side of the cell. "I suppose you're going to try to blame me for the fact that you finally got caught, and your shining public image was destroyed."

Lucius's face contorted as though he were feeling constipated. "For once, Potter, I'm going to agree with you."

"Good," Harry said, his eyes sparking devilishly. "Because I wouldn't want to share credit for that accomplishment with anyone else."

For the second time that day, Draco found himself trying hard not to laugh at Potter's antics in front of his father. Thankfully, he stifled it before Lucius turned back to him.

"Draco, I must leave immediately. I expect you to maintain your dignity..." he paused, letting the many implications of that last word percolate, "while I am gone."

Draco nodded once, and then asked tentatively, "Father?"

Lucius inclined his head, permitting Draco to speak.

"Where is everyone? The headquarters feels deserted."

Flattening his lips, Lucius spoke tensely. "Very observant, Draco. You're correct of course. We have to ensure that we keep the ministry distracted enough to prevent them from finding Potter until we can make use of him. Tonight in particular, while moving him, the Dark Lord planned a series of attacks to keep them occupied."

Over his father's shoulder Draco saw Harry stand up a bit straighter, green eyes darkening over as worry lined his features.

Lucius kept talking. "I must go and join them. Stay here, do your duty." He turned sharply to leave, shoes clacking loudly on the stone floor. Just before he was about to turn the corridor, however, he paused and glanced over his shoulder at Draco.

"The Dark Lord has expressed a wish to speak with you privately upon his return." The tension and anxiety in his voice were palpable, and his final words echoed ominously. "Mind that you are ready."

With that, he was gone.

Draco felt his knees start to buckle as the echo of his father's words faded from the depths of the passageway, continuing to reverberate round in his mind. The Dark Lord himself wanted to speak to him. Not in passing, as he had done before, but privately. Once, that would have been the highest honour Draco could have imagined, short of his father's undying approval. Now, however, there seemed to be a new factor in the equation.

Draco had prepared himself over the years for his inevitable meeting with Voldemort. His father had assured him that no others of his generation would serve the Dark Lord so well; he was a Malfoy. Now, Draco had been the one to catch Potter, effectively bringing himself into the ring of Voldemort's followers, and putting him in a very enviable position by the estimation of most Death Eaters. A few days ago, his own assessment of the situation would have been the same. Not so anymore.

For the first time in his life, he found himself questioning everything. Himself, his family name, Voldemort; Draco was guilty of doubting everything he knew and everything on which he'd been relying, just as he was about to face trial by Voldemort. As a Death Eater, life, power, and survival are based on certain truths. Misplace a single one, and the rest of the defense crumbles. He would be judged, possibly very harshly. Voldemort had a common tendency to make himself judge, jury, and, whenever he deemed fit, executioner.

He wasn't ready for this now, suddenly unprepared. If Voldemort knew his doubt, if Voldemort suspected his wavering loyalty and weaknesses, there would be nothing he could do to defend himself. The Dark Lord does not give second chances.

Draco wrestled back the bleak feelings, trying to will some fortitude into his shaking legs, and being only partially successful. He had always thought he was strong enough to face this, but now, although he wanted to be unafraid, it was all too much.

Then again, he was the same age as Harry, who was facing his own encounter with Voldemort, and Harry's fate was much more certain. For Draco, this was what he'd always wanted, the path he'd accepted and chosen from his father. Harry had never had any choices. It almost seemed unfair.

Knowing that the headquarters were deserted and that no eyes were following him, Draco finally turned to look into the cell. Harry was no longer standing against the wall, smirking as he had been before. Instead, he was scrunched up on the floor against the wall, with his arms wrapped around his knees, his face upturned in a tight, pained expression, eyes closed.

His own fears temporarily pushed aside in favour of his curiosity; Draco opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but stopped himself, taking an opportunity to silently observe Potter's face.

Harry's skin was still too pale, almost as pale as Draco's, but appeared more so under the stark contrast of the black fringe falling carelessly across his forehead, partially hiding his scar. There were streaks of dirt along his jaw line and across his nose, and his cheek had a nasty abrasion. He would have seemed nothing more than an innocent child, rather than a man who had faced death more times than anyone should... save for his expression.

Under his cheeks, his jaw was tightly clenched, lips thin and sallow, and dark circles ringed his eyes. He'd been worn ragged, but despite his blatant exhaustion; the emotional pain that was obviously eating him alive, the hell he'd been through in the past few years; even more the past few days; he wasn't crying, wasn't admitting defeat. Draco, who wasn't even Voldemort's target, felt ready to crumble at the prospect of meeting the Dark Lord alone. Harry, on the contrary, was holding strong.

It was that display of quiet strength that forced Draco to recognize a strange beauty and elegance he hadn't imagined possible, especially in the form of this awkward-looking boy. It was magnetic, and Draco wondered what he would have been like if he'd fallen into the company of that kind of strength long ago. Now that he had seen it so clearly, could he ever force himself to forget? Could he still humble himself, as he'd always been trained to, to Voldemort's cold power, and continue to loathe the strength he'd seen in Harry Potter?

Finally, he permitted himself to vocalize his curiosity, and perhaps even a bit of concern. Keeping his voice as level as possible, he asked, "What's wrong? Scar hurting?"

Harry opened one eye, and then closed it again before answering. "No, it's not the scar, although the damn thing does keep prickling. Gets annoying after a while."

Harry fell silent again, showing no signs that he was going to answer further without prompting. Draco knew that he wouldn't be satisfied until he got an answer. Conceding to his need to know, he crossed over to the cell, pushed his face against the bars, and demanded through them, "So then, what is it?"

This time no trace of a green iris peeked through eyelids. Instead, Harry pressed his face against his knees as he replied softly, "Whatever Voldemort is doing tonight. Whatever he's doing to distract the Ministry. If all the Death Eaters have gone with him, it must be huge. I wonder... I wonder how many people, innocent people, are going to die tonight. How many already have."

Biting his lip, Draco considered this carefully whether there was any answer he could give Harry, before musing aloud, "It's not like it should really matter to you. They're not touching Hogwarts yet. I mean, you probably don't even know any of them."

Harry's voice became even quieter, but the force behind it grew. "They're innocent human beings. Yes, it does matter to me."

Harry's words dug at him, and Draco realized he was almost beginning to feel sorry for the night's victims when he realized his foolishness. He suddenly remembered exactly why the Gryffindor was so bloody annoying. With everything else weighing on the back of his mind, he didn't want another sermon. He had issues enough of his own to deal with. "Are you going to give me another one of your sanctimonious lectures, Potter? I don't need to hear it right now."

"What's the matter, Malfoy?" Potter's voice was barely above a whisper now, but there was a definite tone of sadistic amusement under it. "Don't like hearing about the nastier things that Voldemort and his Death Eaters do? Does the harsh reality of bloodshed make you queasy? All those innocent people, dying needlessly, messing up your carpets? Your own father has likely killed his fair share."

The sting in that last jab only served to incite Draco even further. "They're just Muggles, Mudbloods, and Muggle lovers," he said defiantly. "They're hardly human."

Harry didn't move, didn't speak, but his eyes came open and answered for him, slicing into Draco, burning through him with a sharp definition.

Draco could rant and hurl insults to a blank wall all day, he did it regularly enough with Crabbe and Goyle to be well-practiced in that skill. Even in his sleep-deprived state of exhaustion, he could have easily held his own in a verbal spar with Potter, he was sure of it, had the boy just kept his eyes closed. Every single time, those bloody piercing eyes had thrown him off. He couldn't hold up under Potter's scrutiny. His words didn't seem to have enough push to force their way past the barricades.

He almost let himself take back the comment, but he couldn't. Not here. Not in the Dark Lord's own dungeons. Every little blow Potter struck was another nail in Draco's coffin, another chink in his armor against Voldemort. Every time Potter went one up on him, it left him weaker, less capable, feeling strangely hollow. If Draco met Voldemort under those conditions - and that meeting was coming soon - he didn't want to think about what might happen.

Anger. That's what he needed. To be hard, cold, with no traces of weakness, compassion, or any other soft, human emotion which would allow Voldemort to rip him apart. He needed to clear his head, to think the way he'd always been trained.

He'd humoured his curiosity enough, now it was time to work. Respect aside, Draco wouldn't let himself change his long-held beliefs because of Potter's sanctimonious lectures. Potter was not going to win this round.

How dare he? Draco thought to himself. Perfect Bloody Potter. Does he think that just because I haven't made his every breathing moment into pure misery that he suddenly has some sort of control over me? I've let him have more control than I ever should have. Potter may be powerful, but damned if I'm going to let him have that much power over me! I won't let him! He will NOT destroy me!

Spurred by his own thoughts, Draco latched on to the weak thread of familiar heated competitiveness, everything that had once defined his relations with Potter. This had all meant nothing. Anything he'd let himself believe about letting his guard down in the name of curiosity had been a bloody farce. His father was right. He never should have looked into Potter's eyes. It was a mistake, a slip, a near-fatal flaw in his quest to get into Potter's head. He'd almost forgotten himself, and that was unforgivable. It was time to reclaim his position in this power struggle, and close himself to the uncertainties that were eating away at him. His pride, his heritage; he was a Malfoy and damn, he was going to let Potter know it. The game was still on.

"Potter! Stop looking at me like that!" The command dripped with spite. "You with your Mudblood and Muggle-loving best friends... gah! Your type are all alike. All idealistic, think you're always right, don't you? Think you can make me feel guilty over a mob of Mudbloods?"

Harry merely stared at him darkly, causing Draco's stomach to jump through itself yet again. He didn't like the emotions in that glare, especially after the other looks Potter had given him over the past few days and hours, but he couldn't let it shake him.

"Besides," he added some venom to the spite, "whether or not I brought you here, it's you the Dark Lord wants, it's you those people are dying for tonight. If it weren't for you, none of this would ever have happened."

Harry didn't move, his icy glare still freezing Draco in place. The silence seemed stifling, choking, broken only by the frantic thrumming of Draco's heartbeat in his ears.

Potter. People dying, Lucius's temporary imprisonment in Azkaban, and Draco's fear and doubts. Everything was wrong because of Potter.

Jutting his chin out, Draco made one final stab. "It's all your fault."

Harry sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a moment before gazing at Draco again. He looked like a wise aged man who had become tired of listening to the idiocy of a young apprentice, and tired of arguing.

"It's my fault," he said, and the sick irony bleeding from that statement caused Draco to take a small step backwards. "Of course, it's my fault. Soon, Voldemort will kill me, but those people will keep on dying, and it will still be my fault. Be sure to put that on my epithet. 'It was Harry Potter's fault.'

"It's your wish come true, Malfoy. Everything you ever wanted, wrapped up in one neat little package. I'll be dead, the Mudbloods will be dead, and you'll be Voldemort's little pet. Glory... power... lifetime of servitude, all for you."

Harry's voice lowered dangerously, tension mounting behind each word. "Just remember, when you're standing over your very first victim as Voldemort's faithful Death Eater, and you're staring down the length of your wand at that Muggle or Mudblood, listening to the beautiful screams of pain until you finally decide to finish him or her with a nice, neat 'Avada Kedavra,' just remember that it's ALL MY FAULT."

Draco stood mutely, transfixed by the picture Harry had just painted, which was playing itself out in his mind like a poorly developed Wizard photograph. A rebuttal, Draco could have taken that, could have fueled his artificial anger, could have continued the verbal spar. This, however, wasn't a rebuttal. Thrown off guard, that which Draco had always believed to be the most eloquent tongue in Hogwarts, his own, had finally run out of steam. Harry hadn't risen to Draco's game. He'd stepped right over it.

Clenching his teeth, Draco reached up and grasped two of the bars and leaned his forehead in the grove between them. The cold metal against his temples soothed the headache he'd just realized was starting to throb there.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

The question was so different from the one Draco had thrown out before the duel all those years ago. It held none of the same rancor, none of the spite. That fact took Draco more by surprise than the fact that it had been asked at all, though he couldn't quite see where Harry was taking the conversation.

"Of what?" He tried to sound confident, and was completely unsuccessful.

"Voldemort. I saw you freeze up when your father said Voldemort wanted to talk to you."

"You did?" The question came out in as a squeak. Draco was unaccustomed to showing his emotions. He was even less accustomed to people noticing them.

A spark of amusement flashed across Harry's face. "It's a fairly normal reaction, judging by the fact that maybe a dozen wizards in the world are willing to even say his name. Most people are pretty scared."

"You're not," Draco said, more quickly than he meant to. "Scared, I mean."

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "In a way yes, in a way no."

"Well, you're used to it at least."

"Malfoy, you never get used to getting up-close and personal with your own mortality."

Draco laughed bitterly. "A new thrill every time, is it?"

"Something like that."

Watching the other boy, his face pressed close to the bars, an unwelcome thought fell into Draco's head. "I think... I almost understand."

"Do you really?" Harry asked, not hiding his amusement at the bold claim. "How is that?"

"Facing... You-Know-Who," Draco said softly.

Harry gave a snort. "A heart-to-heart discussion with Voldemort may not be anyone's idea of a good time, Malfoy, but you're his servant, not his target. He doesn't want you dead. He couldn't care less."

Draco looked at him bleakly. "That's just it, Potter. You were right about that. He doesn't care, and I don't matter to him. Nobody does in the end. He's not much more cordial to his followers than his enemies. Who knows? He might decide I'm not worthy."

Harry's couldn't quite understand why Draco was volunteering this information. What was Draco saying? And why? "Do you want me to feel sorry for you or something?"

"No, Potter." He sighed deeply. "I don't."

Harry studied him carefully, blonde hair no longer perfectly smooth, tired circles underneath his eyes, the bars of the cell furrowing indentations into his cheeks. Draco's knuckles were white spots on fingers clenched tightly around the bars, as though he were trapped on the inside, looking out.

"You're as much of a prisoner as I am."

Draco felt his throat tighten, nervous again. "How is that, Potter?"

"You can't see it?" Harry tilted his head side ways into a classic pose of curiosity.

Draco pulled his face back from the bars as though stung. "I'm nobody's prisoner!"

A corner of Harry's mouth pulled up in perverse amusement. It was a fascinating twist to see this particular table turned. At the same time, however, he wanted Malfoy to understand this snippet of fact, as if somehow, it actually made a difference. Perhaps it did. "Oh, there are different types of prisons, Malfoy, but they're prisons just the same."

"And just what kind of prison am I in, Potter? Explain it to me, because thankfully my mind doesn't work like a Gryffindor's."

Harry shook his head incredulously. "I've told you before, just not in so many words. It's the choices you make, Malfoy. Those are your own personal bars and shackles."

Draco's mouth opened slightly and hung there for a moment before he spat back, "Not that again, Potter!"

"You asked, and I gave you an honest answer, which is more than you might deserve," Harry said with a shrug.

The conversations of these past few days were running circles in Draco's head, and his underlying exhaustion wasn't making this any easier. Draco's frustration with this train of thought reached a peak. He let go of the bars and stomped his foot irritably. "And I already told you, this isn't my choice! This is just what I have to do! It's my name, my heritage..."

"Isn't it what you want?"

"Yes! No! What the hell are you doing? Stop trying to trip me up!" This wasn't funny anymore. Why did his words always seem to fall out at the wrong angle around Harry? What happened to all the retorts he'd saved over the years? Why was the razor edge of his wit suddenly as dull as the broad side of a cauldron?

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, inciting Draco even further.

"Listen here, Potter. This is exactly what I want. Who wouldn't want to be on the winning team? Who wouldn't want more power than anyone could possibly imagine?" He jabbed one thumb at his own chest. "It's what I want."

Green eyes flicked from Draco to the floor, then back to Draco. Harry spoke in a soft, almost caring tone. "Then why are you so scared?"

The look in Harry's eyes, one of almost gentle honesty, the suddenness with which his own fear was turned back on him and the truth behind the simple question - it all shot through Draco, shaking him to the core. Biting his lower lip, he spun around and slammed his back against the bars of the cell. He wrapped his arms tightly across his chest, furling his fingers into the folds of his shirt, and squeezed his eyes closed against the hot pain pressing behind them, hoping against futile hope that Potter hadn't seen the look on his face. After a moment spent trying to compose himself, he opened his eyes and took a shuddering breath.

"Because, Potter," he said as evenly as possible, still facing away, "sometimes, when you want to play for the winning team, the price you pay for failure is very, very high."

His voice broke again, and once more he closed his eyes, not daring to move, much less turn back around. This was embarrassment beyond anything he'd ever experienced before, and there was plenty to compare. The only thing he had left to his credit was that actual tears hadn't leaked past his eyelids yet.

Harry listened to the calm, measured words; but Draco's shoulders quivered, and his breathing was uneven. The boy was actually upset, crying, even if Harry couldn't see the tears.

Don't listen to it, Harry, he told himself. This is Draco Malfoy. He handed you over to Voldemort. He's as rotten as they come. People like him don't even have a heart to break...

Harry sighed. People without hearts don't cry.

"Malfoy, I..." What the hell was he going to do? Comfort the bastard? Civil conversation was perfectly acceptable when no emotions were really involved, but now, like this? Sure, he'd already accepted that Malfoy wasn't a completely inhuman git, but emotional support? To reach out a hand to him?

Harry looked down at his right hand, the one he'd used to touch the Portkey, the one that had brushed against Draco's hand. He could almost feel the ghost sensation of Draco's fingers against his; those hands, warm, smooth, utterly human. In that instant something in his underlying perception of the other boy changed. They'd shared the same fear, the same electric connection, and with that the sense of being totally alone had vanished completely, even in the face of being thrown into Voldemort's personal cage. It wasn't something you could forget or ignore easily.

Like it or not, he and Draco were together in this.

Draco still hadn't moved and his shoulders hadn't stopped shaking either. What with all the things Draco had done, said, and wished upon him over the years, Harry had sworn that he would love nothing more than to see Draco have it all come back to haunt him. Harry had always imagined it would be welcomed day to see Draco finally break down and cry with misery. However, he knew what it was like to face Voldemort. Having seen that unexpected spark of humanity, having seen Draco underneath the familiar façade he knew as Malfoy, he could no longer wished an unpleasant fate upon him.

Harry stood and approached Draco cautiously. If Malfoy sensed him approaching, he didn't show it. Stopping just short of the bars, Harry searched for something to say, but came up empty.

Draco heard the approaching footsteps and felt Harry's breath behind him. Furious embarrassment flushed hot across his cheeks. "I suppose you think this is absolutely wonderful, Potter." His voice was choked and halting. "Decided to come and get a closer look so you can laugh at me? Go ahead, Potter. Laugh your bloody arse off."

Harry frowned at Draco's words. He watched as the blonde head tipped forward, exposing a slender and now shockingly vulnerable neckline. Loose strands of hair brushed against the nape of Draco's neck, sliver blonde on pale, everything shaking with the unsteady motion of his breath. The frown faded to sympathetic melancholy. "No, Malfoy. I'm not laughing."

Surprised by the tone of Harry's voice, Draco's head raised a little, and he almost stared to turn around. The words weren't mocking, not laughing. It almost sounded as though Potter cared. No, that wasn't possible; he was simply imagining it.

Then, in a way that Draco couldn't possibly deny, the impossible happened.

A warm pressure settled on Draco's right shoulder, sending a heated shiver down his spine. His breath caught as the hairs on his neck stood on end. Potter had just reached through the bars and had laid a hand on his shoulder. Draco stood rigid in surprise, a dozen possible reactions screaming through his head.

Potter is touching me! Touching me! Slap him, step away! Tell him off. Laugh at his over-sensitive Gryffindor arse. Insult him. Be utterly disgusted that he touched me...

Yet Draco couldn't do any of those things, first because he was too stunned to move, but even as he overcame the surprise, he was interrupted by a thought he didn't think was really his own.

But you're not disgusted, are you? The little voice echoed through his head one more, louder than it had been the other times, and continued of its own accord. He touched you before, or more specifically, you touched him. Admit it; you're glad of the touch right now. Grateful.

No, that can't be.

The little voice didn't listen; it just kept going merrily on. And you're grateful because it's the most human thing you've ever felt, the most startling, the most vivid. You've always been drawn to the conflict with him because it made you feel alive.

No...

Now, you've actually touched him, let yourself be human, and you can't live in your little vacuum anymore. You know each other, in a way you've never even let yourself know your friends. The game is up, Draco. It's too late to play ignorance. The game is up.

Draco was hardly aware that he'd moved at all until the fingertips of his left hand brushed along the fabric covering his right shoulder, searching for that human touch they had felt both a few minutes and an entire lifetime ago. Without knowing exactly why, he found himself acutely aware of just how much he needed to feel it again. It was forbidden fruit; friendship with the enemy, where the lines defining friend and foe had blurred beyond recognition.

Finally, he felt the warmth of Harry's hand brush against his own, and immediately, Harry recoiled. For a fleeting instant, Draco found himself afraid that the sudden sense of comfort he'd found had just been an illusion.

Dejected, he was about to let his hand drop in an attempt to save himself from further embarrassment when he was stopped short by warm, dry fingers encircling his own hand and gripping tightly. An emotion Draco couldn't recognize flooded through him, and a single choked gasp escaped his lips before his throat tightened.

It was utter insanity. Harry Potter was holding his hand. He should have hated it, but at the same time, it seemed to be the only thing anchoring him to reality, whatever that was, and he was grateful. He stood still for a moment, his mind too numb to really consider what was happening, unwilling to break the contact, or unable. After a few heartbeats, although it might have been an hour for all it mattered, Draco realized his hand was shaking. So was the rest of him. He had to pull himself together, back to reality.

With a shuddering breath, he withdrew his hand and slowly turned around. From a neutral face, two bright green eyes were blazing back at him curiously. Draco reached out and grasped one of the bars with his hand to steady himself, and lowered his eyes.

"Are you ok?" Harry asked softly.

Draco clenched his teeth. He couldn't answer that. He was too afraid of what he'd be forced to say, and for once, he didn't think he could lie if he wanted to. Instead, he stared at his hand, white-knuckled around the bar, following the lines of the hand to his wrist and the dark smudges that still encircled it, scars of his own punishment from long ago. He glanced from his own wrist to Harry's, hidden by the sleeve of the ragged jumper he wore, and then back to his own.

For fear his voice would break again, he asked in a whisper, "The cuts on your wrists, from the shackles, did they heal yet?"

"What?" Harry sounded surprised.

"I asked if the wounds on your wrists had healed yet."

Harry peered at him curiously for an instant, but instead of answering, he slowly wrapped his left hand around his right sleeve and pushed the cloth halfway up his forearm, then held out his arm for Draco to see.

Draco bit back the sick feeling that was welling up in his stomach as he took in the image. Harry's wrist was encircled by a ring of painful-looking scabs, peeling at the edges, some oozing a little, obviously due to lack of proper care. The sores would leave a permanent bracelet of dingy brownish scars, a permanent reminder of the pain and humiliation Harry had endured, the punishment, chained to the wall, a prisoner of the Malfoy dungeons.

Just like Draco.

"I could heal those for you," Draco said softly, not letting himself look up from Harry's wrist to his face. "If you wanted me to."

He watched as Harry clenched and opened his fist, as though testing to see if the hand attached to such a mangled wrist was still functioning properly. "I think I'd rather you didn't."

"It'll leave a scar you know."

"I know," Harry acknowledged. "I'm pretty familiar with scars by now."

"Then why would you want to keep it?"

Harry dropped his hand to his side, and the sleeve fell down to hide the sores once again. "To remind myself, I suppose. It's another ordeal I've come through, something I overcame. What doesn't kill me can only make me stronger, or that's how the saying goes. I don't know whether it's true. I guess there must be something in it, or why would so many people say it? "

"Oh." The sentiment seemed a little masochistic to Draco, but who was he to say anything? He glanced down at his own wrist again, and wondered if that was so very different.

"Why did you want to know that, all of a sudden?"

Draco finally lifted his head, considering the question. He really had no idea why he wanted to tell Harry about his own wrists, his experience in the Malfoy dungeons, but there were a few possibilities. It might have been a bizarre competitive throwback, something to say, "Ha, I did it too, and I was younger," to, but that wasn't right at all. He might have pulled a stunt like that when he was twelve years old, but not now. Especially not now. Did he want sympathy? Absolutely not. He'd got past his need for such an emotion years ago, and the actual pain of the incident was just a memory. Draco Malfoy didn't need pity for the pain of the past.

It was, perhaps, that he actually wanted something in common with Harry. A bond, a shared ordeal, an understanding. Maybe, all he wanted was for Harry to understand him, for whatever that was worth.

Expressionless, Draco reached up with this free hand, delicately pinched the end of the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it back enough to reveal his own slender wrist. He held it up where Harry could see. If anything, the muted torchlight of the dungeons made the old scars even more noticeable.

Harry took a step forwards and leaned across, examining the proffered wrist calmly, carefully. Draco turned his arm so that Harry could see the full circle of bruise-like markings.

"Those are..."

"I got them the same way you did. Same place, same shackles."

Harry's eyes shot up, startled, disbelieving. Draco gave him a solemn nod of confirmation.

"Why?" Was all Harry could say.

Draco shrugged. "I got into trouble."

"Your... your father did this to you?"

"It was a fair punishment!" Draco snapped, more defensively than he'd intended.

"Then what did you do to deserve it?"

Draco dropped his hand back to the bar, gripping it again, his wrist still exposed. "I wanted to bring something with me to Hogwarts to impress the other first years. I knew I'd be in Slytherin, and they're very impressed by power." He paused and took a deep breath before continuing. "I snuck into my father's private study, looking for something suitable to take, and he caught me."

Harry looked at him in alarm. "This was before your first year?"

Draco's lip wrinkled up, but it was more a pained expression than a prideful one. "So?"

"You were only eleven, and your father chained you up in a dungeon?"

"It was only for one night." Draco shrugged off Harry's disbelief.

Harry took a half-step backwards, eyes going wide, not wanting to hear what Draco was saying. It didn't matter though. He'd already seen enough in Draco's eyes to know. The Malfoys might like to think they had class, but they were just as heartless as the Dursleys. Forcing submission, obedience. The Dursleys had never broken Harry, yet in a perverse play of psychology, the Malfoys had broken Draco.

The thought of Draco as a captive in his own house, to his own family name, a slave to Voldemort, trained carefully, honed to sharp perfection, imprisoned by the echoes of his own upbringing, imprisoned by his own scars.

And Harry understood.

This was Malfoy. The boy was who he was, a product of his heritage; but new ideas were beginning to take root, wildflowers in a carefully cultivated field. He was a Malfoy, but he was also Draco, and despite the deeply ingrained loathing he still held for Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but see him for what he was, who he was, and why. Willing participant though Draco might have been, he was yet another victim.

Harry felt something squeeze inside his chest. For a moment, he mistook it for pity, but it wasn't. He blinked in surprise. By Merlin's beard, he was empathizing with Draco Malfoy.

"Only for one night," he echoed, staring at Draco blankly, searching for any hint that this was all a joke, even though he knew perfectly well that it wasn't. The Malfoy he knew would never admit any weakness, especially not as a joke. Harry realized it must actually be difficult for him to admit to this.

"It was a lesson I needed to learn," Draco said dryly.

"What kind of bloody lesson, Malfoy?" Harry asked, suddenly angry, though not at Draco. "What kind of lesson requires an eleven year old boy to be chained to a dungeon wall overnight?"

"It wasn't all that terrible!" Draco protested, trying vainly to reclaim his ego. He pulled his hand back from the bar and absent mindedly began rubbing his wrist. "Father wanted me to learn some obedience. I had disobeyed him, and it was wrong. I had to learn to be worthy of my name, learn that I had to earn power, not take it. He wanted me to be strong..." His voice trailed off.

Harry regarded Draco with a pinched expression for a moment. "Did he succeed?"

Draco felt his throat constrict again, and his failure to give a response prompted a knowing nod from Harry.

Still rubbing his wrist, Draco turned away and said softly, "You know what the worst part was?"

"What?"

"Not long after my father left, I got this terrible itch right on the bridge of my nose. I couldn't reach far enough to scratch it all night."

When he looked back up, Harry was smiling again, in a combination of amusement and empathy. Draco gave a small chuckle in return.

"Why didn't you heal your scars with magic?" Harry asked simply.

Blinking once, Draco realized he was still rubbing his wrist and quickly pulled his hands apart and grabbed the bar once again, this time with his other hand, needing something to do with his hands to prevent himself from resuming the nervous motion. "Same reason as you, I think. To remind myself; so that I would never forget."

He looked through the bars, glancing at the famous mark on Harry's forehead, then into his stunning green eyes. "I guess scars really are powerful reminders..."

Harry replied with a neutral snort.

Draco glanced down, inexplicably embarrassed. He'd never spoken about these things with anybody, but here he was, telling his most personal secrets to his sworn enemy.

But he's not your enemy anymore, is he?

Draco blinked in response to his errant thought. No, I guess not.

When Draco blinked again, he was shocked to find two thick tears spilling down his cheeks, finally escaping after he'd tried so hard to hold them back. He was about to turn away again when a now-familiar jolt worked its way up his arm as Harry reached through the bars and wrapped his finger's around Draco's wrist. The silent tears turned into a grunt of protest. He tried to pull his hand away, but Harry held it fast, before drawing Draco's hand through the bars just a few centimeters. Draco was surprised to find that he didn't feel the immediate urge to pull back again.

Harry turned Draco's hand over softly, almost tenderly, and pushed the sleeve away from the circle of dark smudges around the wrist. Holding Draco's palm with one hand, Harry ran two of his fingers lightly along the blemished skin, tracing the old scars. He overturned Draco's hand, exposing the sensitive underside of the wrist, and his fingers came to a rest over his pulse point.

Draco could feel his own artery beating against Harry's fingertips. He also felt startlingly vulnerable. Like this, Harry could do any number of violent things to him, but Draco knew with a disarming certainty that cruelty wasn't what Harry had in mind. It was as though Harry was deciding for himself if Draco did, indeed, have a heart. Of course, Draco knew that he did, for that heart happened to be thundering in his chest, and Draco was equally certain Harry felt the elevated pulse. When he appeared to have reached his conclusion, he gave Draco's hand a single tight squeeze and released it.

Draco didn't move. Hand still held out before him, still feeling the lingering touch across his wrist, he tried to stave off the cold hollowness that was seeping through him again, the familiar emptiness that had been his only companion within the walls he had built around himself.

The walls had crumbled.

It was a deadly error: he had allowed himself to feel. His protection, which had been growing progressively thinner in Harry's presence, was gone. All the years of careful training, torn down by a single touch, and he was about to go face to face with The Dark Lord.

Still frozen in place, he asked in a raspy, raw whisper, "Why did you do that?" He glanced back up at Potter's pensive expression, and repeated, harsher this time, "Why?"

Harry shrugged, but it wasn't a casual movement. Looking as though tears were going to spill from his own eyes, even though they were perfectly dry, he said softly: "I had to. I don't know why. I just had to see..."

Draco was caught between the tremendous pulling urge to give himself over to the release he felt in allowing himself to be human, to speak openly, to touch; and the fear that was welling up in the back of his mind like icy black water. For Merlin's sake, he was in Voldemort's headquarters! To be weak here was to forfeit your life, and Potter was right. He was scared.

Terrified.

Withdrawing his hand suddenly, he pulled it tightly to his chest, hugging it close to him, and stood as straight as he could against the terror thundering through his veins. He looked at Harry despairingly. "Don't you ever do that again."

"What? I only thought... "

"Well you thought wrong, Potter!" he howled. "You have no idea what you just did."

Harry took a step back, visibly stunned. "What do you mean, what I just did?"

"What you did! You... you just ruined everything!"

"How did I ruin anything? For someone who you stabbed, captured, and handed over to Voldemort, I'd say that I've been inhumanly kind to you! I was trying to help you! From what I could tell, we're both up against Voldemort, and you're scared stiff! I happen to know what that's like. Obviously you don't."

"You have NO idea what it's like for me right now!"

"Fine, Malfoy. Next time you're at the point of tears, remind me to be a heartless bastard to you! Apparently that's how you people function around here!"

Draco stomped his foot in frustration, hot emotions pulsing behind his eyes again. "That's exactly what I need! You just don't get it!"

"Well, fuck, Malfoy. Explain it to me then, because for once, you're right. I don't get it."

Draco turned his head to the side, trying desperately to pull a coherent thought the haze that seemed to be permeating his mind, before giving the calmest response he could muster.

"Five days ago, Potter, when I was planning all this, I was ready. I could have faced Voldemort. Detached, cold, calculating; that's how you've got to be around him. Raw anger is the only emotion you can allow yourself, because it covers your fear, allows you to hate. That's what I was trained for. I was barely ready and only because I had taught myself not to feel, but I could have done it. That's what it's all about Potter. Controlling your fear, controlling your emotions. The Dark Lord can look right through your eyes and into your soul. Did you know that?"

Harry cringed inwardly, but said nothing.

"If your walls break down, if he sees your fear, then you're not worthy. If you're not worthy, you get discarded. I hope I don't need to explain that to you."

"Not at all, I think I can work it out for myself" Harry said bluntly. "I just figured a little bit of support might not hurt..."

"That's exactly what's going to kill me here, Potter! You really don't get it, do you?"

Draco squashed the palm of his hand into his face in frustration. There was no reason not to just spill everything out. He barely had the strength to hold it in anyway, even if he'd wanted to. It was time to be honest, with himself as much as with Potter. He sucked in a slow breath through his shaking fingers before pulling his hands away.

"I've been taught to stand on my own, not to feel anything. You're the only person who could pull emotion out of me that I couldn't stop, but as long as that was anger, I was still safe. You just broke down the only defense that I had, Potter. In three bloody days, you destroyed me."

Harry's jaw hung loosely as he listened to Draco's ranting.

Draco barely noticed the ease with which he was giving away so much himself through his words. It felt good to let it all pour out. His thoughts boiled freely to the surface, coming hot and fast.

"As long as you were pushing at me, I could still hate you. But no, you had to go and turn into a human being on me. Had to become real. Fuck, you even decided to be nice. All of a sudden, you forced me to actually feel. I have no defense against that. Now, I've got nothing, no walls, no safeties... nothing to defend me against The Dark Lord."

He laughed bitterly. "It's almost ironic. I bring you here to your death, and you just as effectively kill me."

Harry inhaled sharply in amazement at the sudden openness Draco was displaying, the painful honesty. "You're not dead yet, Malfoy."

Draco snorted. "Close enough. And isn't that what you always wanted to see anyway?"

Harry's eye twitched. "No, Malfoy," he said finally. "That's not what I want."

Draco appeared doubtful. "Even though I did this to you?" He said, indicating the cell, the dungeons around them.

Harry considered the haunted look in Draco's eyes. Draco's skin was paler than usual. The cold sweat starting to break out on his forehead and the dark circles under his eyes were all proof that Draco was drained, emotionally and physically. The faint trembling in his pale pink lips; the strained shaking in his stance, further demonstrated this fact. When was the last time the boy had slept?

"No," Harry responded with a firm gentleness. "Because no human being deserves to have to deal with this, Malfoy. And you're human, too."

Draco felt his knees connect with the floor as his legs finally gave way beneath him. He knelt still for a moment, numb to the world around him, not feeling, not hearing, not seeing. If he were to do any of those things, he'd be human again, and he dreaded that beyond all else.

Humans are frail. They bleed, they break, they scar, they die.

I don't want to die.

Not here. Not like this.

"I don't want to die."

"I understand that. Neither do I." Harry's voice broke through the haze.

Draco hadn't been aware that he'd spoken aloud. He realized just how exhausted he really was, starting to lose control of his faculties, even becoming a bit hysterical. Blinking a couple of times as though that would clear the fog that was pervading his brain, he pulled his head up against the leaden weight that seemed to have settled over him.

He gazed blearily through the bars to where Potter was now kneeling just across from him; watched as Harry wrapped a small hand around one of the bars between them. The edges of the scabs on his wrist were still visible under the cuff of his sleeve. Draco stared at it for a while, then back up at Harry's face, which was examining him with something like concern.

It was then Draco realized the edges of Harry's features were blurry. In fact, everything was melting together like a watercolour painting left out in the rain. He only vaguely remembered that that it had been hours since he'd taken his Sleepless Nights potion, and the tiny part of his brain that was still functioning logically berated him for his forgetfulness. Not that it mattered, of course. It was too late anyway.

Feeling his upper body tilt forward as his sense of balance faded, Draco's hand snapped up and grasped a bar for support, brushing against Harry's hand. He could feel the heat radiating off of it and the tiny jolt that broke through the spreading numbness, and it gave him a moment's strength, just enough to whisper, "Thank you."

Then, he was sagging forward against the bars, his exhaustion finally overtaking him. He felt a hand grip his own, and the last thing he heard before he passed out was his name.

"Malfoy? Malfoy!? Draco!"

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

"Malfoy?" A familiar voice called harshly in his ear as something poked him in the back.

Go away, he thought. I'm so tired. So very tired. Leave me alone.

"Malfoy! Wake up! You've been asleep for hours. Argh!"

The urgency and pain in the voice finally pulled Draco out of his blissfully dreamless sleep, and he realized with a start where he was: slouched against the bars of Potter's cell on the floor.

Asleep on the job. In The Dark Lord's headquarters. Oh fuck.

With a surge of pure terror, he leapt to his feet, teetering unsteadily for a moment.

He scanned the dungeon rapidly, caught up in the irrational fear that someone had arrived and caught him sleeping on the floor. Instead, the room was empty, and he was still alone with Potter. Furious that another human frailty had put his life at risk, he took out his anger on the only target available.

"Potter! You dumb git! How the hell could you have...? "

Draco suddenly fell silent when he realized that Harry was still on his knees. Only now, he was rubbing his forehead with his hands. Draco knew that could only mean one thing.

"He's back?"

Still rubbing, Harry nodded confirmation. "He's back."

Draco felt his eyes go wide. "Why did you let me sleep like that?!"

Harry dropped his hand and squinted through the stinging pain. "You needed the sleep."

"But what if he'd come back, and decided to come down here?" Draco stammered, still edgy.

"I knew I'd realize the instant Voldemort returned. I reckoned I'd be nice for once and let you get some rest."

A flash of warm gratitude welled up in Draco only an instant before the fear grasped him again. His sleep-numbed brain was still struggling to awaken, and irrationality quickly joined his fear.

"Fuck! That means he's coming for me soon! How the hell am I going to do this? He'll take one look at me, and he'll know. He'll know I'm not strong enough. Oh Merlin..."

Harry watched as Draco began to pace the small section of corridor frantically, and a look of regret ghosted across his features.

Draco stopped pacing suddenly and swung round to stare at Harry. "I told you, don't look at me like that! You'll only make it worse. That is, unless you really are trying to kill me, which I wouldn't put past you."

Harry appeared to consider this, then his entire expression changed. He pulled himself to his feet. His eyes narrowed maliciously behind his glasses and his mouth screwed up in a devious smirk. "Who cares, Malfoy? You're just a slimy Slytherin git anyway. A little snake, bowing and scraping at the feet of the biggest snake of all."

"What the hell...?" Draco was completely taken aback by the abrupt change of attitude in his captive, not quite awake enough to keep page with the sudden shift in conversation.

"Yeah, Malfoy. That's it. Just shivering in your boots now, aren't you? That's right, his cowering little snake on a leash. A short leash at that."

"What the hell is the matter with you?!"

"Heh, the matter with me? Absolutely nothing. Remember? I'm Voldemort's prime target, but you're the one who's scared witless."

"Bugger you... you... you pathetic little scar-head!"

"Scar-head? Is that the best you can do, ferret-boy? Maybe Voldemort would like a ferret to go with his pet rat. Do you remember how to bounce, Malfoy?"

Draco sputtered for a moment at the memory, feeling the furious embarrassment from the incident as fresh as a new wound, and remembering how Potter had been the cause of it, before blurting out, "You arrogant bastard!"

"That's 'Arrogant-Bastard-Who-Lived' to you, ferret-boy." Harry was beginning to look very pleased with himself. "I've gone four rounds with Voldemort and I'm still kicking. What will be your title after your little visit with Voldemort? 'Malfoy, the Cowering-Ferret-Who-Didn't-Quite-Make-It.' That sounds good."

Draco clenched his fists as he glared at Harry, the boy's casual demeanor infuriating him even more. "You sodding little self-righteous freak! After everything I did for you; you know something, you can forget it! You-Know-Who could slice you open and leave you to bleed to death for all I care! I'll watch and I'll laugh!"

"Not if Voldemort has already done you in, you won't. You're so pitiful, Malfoy. You really are."

Everything spilled over. Seething, every muscle along his neck bulging unnaturally, Draco had finally had enough. "FUCK YOU!"

"Are you angry or something, Malfoy?" Harry taunted, looking strangely satisfied.

"Bloody hell I'm angry!"

"Not scared, are you, you spineless coward?"

"I'm never scared!" The response was automatic, something Draco had repeated to himself so many times through his youth. He felt nothing but the familiar old sense of rage flooding through his veins. Hot. Burning. Pushing out everything else.

He glared at Harry, mentally cursing the boy for his stupidity, his lack of gratitude, his obnoxious manners. He felt angry. He felt powerful. He felt....

Still wincing slightly against the pain in his forehead, Harry nodded once in approval. "Good. Then stay that way, you stupid prat."

Draco only had a split second to register what Harry had actually done before he heard the dungeon door crash open and Lucius Malfoy enter the passageway in a fury. Draco turned to greet his father with a respectful nod, and everything fell automatically into place.

All his old practiced mannerisms, from his facial expressions to his posture flowed as smoothly as the lines of a flawless sculpture that had been years in the making. This particular piece of art had been carved from his cold anger, which Potter had taken from him and just as easily returned to its place. In three days, without magic, Harry had torn Draco apart and rebuilt him. Still, underneath it all the architecture held a hidden element that hadn't existed before. Or, perhaps, Draco had just never been aware of it until now.

Lucius cast Harry a quick sneer before rounding on to his son. There was no warm greeting, merely business as usual. "The raids last night were largely successful Draco, so the Dark Lord should be in a fairly moderate mood. He's waiting for you in the main hall."

Draco began to feel the icy tide of fear washing over him again, but just as quickly latched onto his residual anger like a lifeline. He bobbed his head in a short bow and answered, "Yes, father."

A flicker of worry and parental affection briefly graced Lucius' eyes, but it was quickly buried. "You will succeed, Draco. Remember your training. The Dark Lord demands subservience, but he does not allow weakness in his followers. When he walks, follow behind him. Two steps back and to his left, until he invites you to walk next to him. Keep your eyes down until he tells you to look at him. He will question you, and when he does, bear in mind that everything and everyone is secondary to your obedience to him."

Unable or unwilling to speak for fear of letting his emotions crack through, Draco merely bowed his head once more.

"Very well, then," Lucius said with a casualness that belied the situation. "I'm relieving you of guard duty until you return." An unspoken "if you return" hung in the air, an ever-present worry when in Voldemort's company.

"Now..." he said, inclining his head towards the exit, "The Dark Lord is waiting."

Draco took one last look at his father's face, searching for any further signs of concern and worry, but there was nothing. Only the aristocratic façade; the trademark Malfoy sneer. As he turned to leave, however, he caught a quick glimpse of Harry, who was watching him intently, sending silent encouragement when Lucius had appeared for all the world not to care.

He couldn't afford to make any actual gesture, but Draco was sure that Harry caught the gratitude he felt. If Voldemort could see what Draco was thinking through his eyes, for some reason, he was most certain that Harry could, too. Where both of those ideas had once terrified him, the latter no longer did. The former... well, he was about to find out. Without another glance, Draco turned and exited the dungeons, letting the door fall with a heavy bang.

The stone stairs were just a bit too large for a comfortable stride, and lit by sconces placed too far apart for Draco's liking. As he climbed, he considered exactly what Harry had just done for him. It brought new meaning to the concept "cruel to be kind." Harry had been listening to what Draco had said. Listening and understanding. Draco could still feel the flush of anger in his cheeks, and his pulse was still elevated from that heated row. He carefully nursed that angry fire, trying to turn it back on its source; Potter. He had to find enough fuel to keep it going, but the more he thought of the strange kindness Harry had shown, the more incapable of the feeling he became.

He turned his thoughts away from Harry, and focused on the hollow sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell, trying to pull his thoughts away from Potter.

Footsteps. Hollow, empty, like his life, or more specifically, the way his life had been.

Hollow, the way he'd been raised to be, devoid of any real human sentiment.

All the things he'd been denied growing up; his harsh training, his lessons, echoing in his brain like footsteps in the corridor.

The way he'd been sharpened and honed with one purpose, one goal in life, to be the perfect servant to Voldemort.

Born, raised, and trained into slavery.

Cowering in fear... he hated it with a passion.

The burning anger returned; hot, but faceless. Empty, hollow fury.

He reached the top of the staircase and surveyed the hall spread out before him. A high ceiling, lit mostly by daylight filtering through tall, narrow windows. No amenities, no decoration or ornaments. Cold, heartless, purely functional and grand in size only. It was the perfect palace for the Dark Lord. Wooden doors lined either side of the entrance hall, but at the far end was one door which stood larger than the others.

This was it, and Draco was ready as he ever would be.

He didn't actually notice that he was walking towards the door; more he saw it loom larger and larger until he was at last moving through it. Standing just five meters away, appearing as terrible as Draco's memory of him, was Voldemort.

Draco took two smooth steps into the room and immediately dropped to one knee, staring at the floor in front of him. To approach any closer would be inappropriate for an Uninitiated.

"My Lord," he said, in his best-groomed manners.

Voldemort did not speak but instead closed the gap between himself and Draco. Once again, Draco found himself staring at the shiny toes of Voldemort's boots. He mentally willed an artificial sense of calmness into his body, keeping his mind silent but alert, like a predator.

"Tell me, my young snake, are you a child or a man?"

His mind turned a quick somersault over the unexpected question. Draco's first instinct was to answer that he was most certainly a man, but he caught himself. He couldn't make that claim without Voldemort's approval. Instead, he replied, "My Lord, I am nothing but your humble servant, for you to name."

Silence fell over the hall, and Draco began to fear that he had answered incorrectly.

After a few dreadful moments however, a harsh, short laugh escaped from Voldemort. "Indeed," he said. "Very astute, young Malfoy. If only all my servants were as sharp and so accurate. But then, none of them brought me Harry Potter. Follow."

With that, Voldemort stepped past Draco and swiftly walked from the room, washing Draco's face in a brush of cold air that smelled like the stones of a dungeon as he passed. Draco scrambled to his feet and quickly fell in step behind the Dark Lord, to the left, two strides back, as his father had instructed. He had no idea where Voldemort was leading him, but it wasn't his place to question. It is never the place for a servant to question the master.

The two sets of footsteps echoed in perfect time through the entrance hall and down the deserted corridors, right up to the bottom of a spiraling staircase. Voldemort began to climb, and Draco, swallowing his growing unease, could only continue to follow blindly.

"Malfoy, are you prepared to sacrifice anything to gain power?"

Another double-edged question.

"In the name of serving you, My Lord, anything." The words sounded fake to Draco's ears, as though he couldn't believe they had come from his own mouth. One more reaction that had been programmed into his mind since early childhood.

"Really now?" The challenge hung in the air as they continued to climb.

Draco swallowed. "Yes, My Lord."

"You are an ambitious little snake, young Malfoy, but perhaps too young. One of my most loyal servants was barely your age when he joined the ranks of my followers though. Based on your father's assurances that you were well suited to both the task and the merits of the Malfoy name, I permitted you an opportunity. In response to that chance, you brought me Harry Potter." The Dark Lord seemed to be musing more to himself than to Draco. "Your ambition could take you far, perhaps to the top ranks amongst the Death Eaters, but such power has its price."

Draco knew that nothing came without a price; that everything had to be earned. The idea was nothing new to him, but still he listened intently as they continued their ascent, feeling he would be ready for this challenge.

"Are you willing to kill, Malfoy?"

"At your command and without hesitation." Draco answered automatically.

They reached a small landing, and with frightening suddenness Voldemort spun in his place, rounding on Draco so fast that it was all the boy could do to stop before colliding with the Dark Lord. He sank to one knee, quickly bowing his head.

"At my command..." Voldemort said slowly, rolling each word around in his mouth as though he were tasting a sip of fine wine, "and without hesitation."

Draco had been prepared to answer that question for years. But now, to actually have said it... it sounded different. Voldemort's glare pressed on the top of his head, and Draco struggled to keep his mind blank.

"Without hesitation," Voldemort echoed again. "Tell me, what if you needed to kill or displace a less worthy follower in order to rise in the ranks?"

Draco froze at this question. "What do you mean, My Lord?"

Voldemort laughed, a short, cruel laugh. "A Death Eater does not gain influence by my word alone. Surely you were aware of that?"

"Yes, My Lord." Draco answered automatically.

"Good. I will have none but the best as my followers, and only the best of those are worthy of climbing the ranks. A true Death Eater would never let himself be led by an inferior."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And if you are capable of defeating someone, you are superior. Simple logic of course. How do you rank, Malfoy? How much power are you willing to claim? With a performance such as the one you gave me when you captured Potter, I would expect you to live up to your family name. Your father shows his cunning to me through his... dealings with others, and he ranks quite favourably. However, it is always good to see fresh blood, if it is proved worthy."

Draco didn't like where this was going. Not one bit.

"How much do you crave power, young Malfoy? Are you a true Slytherin? Will you do what it takes? Are you even willing to... displace your father?"

Draco felt his guts freeze. Surely he couldn't be expected to...

There would never be a reason to...

His father was as loyal as anyone! Why would Voldemort suggest such a thing?! It was unthinkable, killing his own father. The very suggestion made him feel as though he was a rooster being put to a cockfight for the amusement of the master, and he hated it.

The Dark Lord certainly noticed Draco's hesitation. "Malfoy, there is no place for sentiment in someone who wishes to follow. You either serve me single-mindedly, or you do not serve me at all. Do not tell me that you are sentimental over your father."

"No, My Lord," Draco said quickly.

"Are you certain?"

Draco thought about this carefully. Now would be the wrong time to lie. However, it didn't feel like a lie. "I am certain, my Lord."

An expectant pause hung uncomfortably between them.

"Are you loyal to him?"

Well certainly, thought Draco, though of course he couldn't say that. His loyalty was to Voldemort, and Voldemort alone. His father had said so... which was exactly the key to the answer.

Bowing his head even lower, Draco replied, "My loyalty to my father extends only so far as he instructed me to give my loyalty, first and foremost, to you, My Lord."

Draco listened to the sound of his own breathing, which seemed unnaturally loud in his ears as he waited for some sign that the Dark Lord approved.

"A valuable lesson to learn. Your father seems to have trained you well. Thus, if I commanded it, could you kill him?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort must have approved, for as he took one step back, he said shortly, "Walk beside me."

Draco should have felt honoured to be invited to walk alongside the Dark Lord, but instead, he felt like a dog being made to heel. He vaguely wondered what he should do if Voldermort instructed him to bark like a dog as well.

It was in silence that they reached the top of the long staircase, opening into what was obviously a lookout tower, with one window at each of the cardinal directions.

It was still early morning, Draco could see, and the nighttime mists had still not burned away completely from the forest that spread around them in all directions. Instinctively, Draco checked his directional bearings by the angle of the sun. His father had taught him that, just another facet of his training. It was yet another reminder that for his entire life, he'd been training for conflict of one sort or another.

Voldemort approached the south window and looked out. "Look, Malfoy." It wasn't an invitation, but a command. Draco stepped to the window. It was a spectacular view of a wooded valley surrounded by high mountains, but the Dark Lord does not waste his time admiring the scenery with prospective Death Eaters, so what was he meant to be looking at?

"Just over one-hundred miles to the south lies the first victory I shall have in my conquest of the Wizarding world."

Draco's heart gave a little leap. Hogwarts. His mind quickly flashed to the familiar memories of his warm bed, the dungeons, the daily routine. They were so close to Hogwarts.

Voldemort must have noticed his homesick expression, and his words hissed warningly. "You, of course do not feel any undue sentiment towards Hogwarts, do you Malfoy?" Not a question, but a threat. "Look at me."

Draco rapidly calmed his mind, put on his best neutral mask.

This was not the time to panic.

Still, nothing could have quite prepared him to meet those hideous red eyes. Like Harry's, they ripped through him, and tore him apart. Unlike Harry's, there was no humanity behind them, no passion, no truth. The sibilant voice grated against his ears again. "Tell me, Malfoy. Does Hogwarts hold any meaning for you?"

Do not lie. He'll know. You can't lie.

Draco's own mental advice wrapped around his thoughts. "My Lord, Hogwarts is... familiar to me, nothing more."

"I see," Voldemort's eyes narrowed to angular red slits and Draco had to look away again. Voldemort laughed at his obvious nervousness.

"Ah yes, familiar." He spoke with a twisted sort of nostalgia. "Hogwarts is familiar to me as well, remember? I spent seven years there, surrounded by Mudblood filth. Forced to be contaminated by wizards who pretended to care for the future of magic, as they polluted it with their mere presence."

"Malfoy," Voldemort's voice was once again sharp and direct, "I am not fully convinced that you have no sentiment towards Hogwarts. You shall have to prove that your loyalty is unerring. You will lead one prong of the attack."

"Yes, My Lord," Draco said blankly, trying not to actually think about what Voldemort had just said.

"You should be pleased to have this honour, Malfoy. As the school crumbles, you will see where power lies. You shall taste the power of absolute control over life and death...and fear. To control a person's fear is to own him completely. You will feel that power over those who are rightfully your inferiors: Mudbloods, Halfbloods and Muggles. A Death Eater knows how to gain power through fear. You, Malfoy, will learn this as well."

He paused, and Draco felt himself sweating beneath his collar. This sounded so familiar... so familiar...

Potter.

Harry had already told him this. Every last bit of it. Power through fear... empty power... not caring... only taking. He knew, damn him. He knew...

"A Death Eater also knows when to fear, Malfoy. Not the pitiful cowering you will elicit from the Mudbloods, but proper respect for your superiors; for your life, your glory hangs on the threads of your fear. You have the potential to become one of my most valuable servants, but remember your place. Forfeit your life; do not forget who is master.

"You are master, My Lord." Draco said quickly as he bent his head and shoulders forward in a deep bow, but his mind was reeling.

Nothing but a servant, a pawn, in the Dark Lord's game. A week ago, this thought would never have so much as occurred to him. Now, it was all he could think about. It all made so much horrible sense.

He gritted his teeth, still staring at the floor. He was fearful, yes, but a strange hurt was growing in his chest... pain. Dispelled by the words of Voldemort himself, Draco's beliefs, the tenements on which he based his whole life, were flying away from him. With no convictions, no underlying beliefs, the only things grounding him to reality were the quivering threads of his fear.

Then something much more tangible pulled him back to reality faster than he could blink.

The sharp bite of honed steel pressed into the soft hollow at the base of his neck, not breaking flesh, but just barely. Draco felt his heart stop in his chest.

Voldemort's long fingers played along the handle of the dagger he held, and his voice hissed maliciously. "Am I master, young Malfoy? Truly? Do you cower in fear like a child in front of me, unworthy to call me master, or do you bow to me in humble fear and respect like a proper servant?"

Fighting to still his trembling, and trying harder still to quell the immediate instinct to jumping back from the dagger at his throat, Draco gave the only answer he could muster. "I wish for nothing but to serve you, my Lord."

"To serve me, Malfoy, is to serve with a single purpose. To hesitate on my command is to invite a fate worse than death."

Right now, with the edge of the dagger beginning to take purchase in his sensitive flesh, Draco didn't want to consider a fate worse than death, but he was sure that the Dark Lord could think of something.

"Can you follow any order, Malfoy? Would you do anything on my command? Without hesitation? I must know that you are worthy. I must know that you are capable. Are you truly loyal?"

"My life is yours, my Lord, to destroy if you choose."

"Ah, but what if I gave that choice to you?"

Choices... choices... The shock that ripped through Draco at this statement almost pulled his attention back from the blade until Voldemort shifted his grip, causing the sharp metal to dig a little deeper. If this was a choice, it was a dreadful set of options. But then, it was his own choices that had led him to this point in the first place.

"I will not move this blade, Malfoy. However, were I to command you to impale yourself on the dagger in my hand, could you do it? Service to me is absolute. Unquestioning."

Draco felt his stomach drop, and a numbness seemed to overtake him. He couldn't get his lips to move, couldn't reply. He swallowed once, trying to force his dry throat to function, to give the expected response, but it was no use. There was only one way he could give his reply.

Taking a deep breath, Draco leaned forward just a fraction of a centimeter. He stifled his reaction as the blade finally broke skin, and he felt a warm trickle of blood trail down his chest. He stopped and waited for any sign from Voldemort that he had passed this test. Right now, with the tip of a knife burrowed into his flesh, at the hands of Voldemort, failure could only mean one thing.

He waited several agonizing seconds. The sharp sting at his throat was nothing compared to the icy fear wrenching at his heart in his chest, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Then, the blade was withdrawn.

"Very well, young Malfoy. You do indeed have the makings of a Death Eater, but your full loyalty must still be proven. Be certain where you stand, Malfoy. Now, you may return to your guard post."

And that was that.

No ceremonious goodbye, nothing to mark his success in surviving this meeting with Voldemort. The Dark Lord turned back to the window, summarily dismissing him.

"Yes, my Lord." Draco wasn't certain how he actually got to his feet, dazed as he was. He'd only just become aware that he'd even moved when he found that he was almost at the bottom of the staircase. There was no sound behind him, no sign that Voldemort had followed. No indication there was another living soul in the place, and Draco certainly felt isolated enough.

His legs were shaking beneath him. After the flood of emotions, this felt like an aftershock. With that, along with the sick feel of blood still oozing down his chest, he found that he couldn't manage to stagger the rest of the way to the dungeons. Not now, not like this. He needed to collect himself.

Brushing his hand along the wall to keep his balance, he half-stumbled, half-ran along the corridor until he reached the first room with an open, unlocked door, and ducked inside. A quick spell locked it behind him.

Alone in the deserted room, Draco finally lost his nerve. He leaned his head back against the wall and slowly slid to the ground as his legs gave out, shaking miserably. His breathing was harsh and ragged, but still, he wouldn't cry out loud, nor would he let tears escape him. He didn't deserve to be allowed to cry. His own decisions, his own choices, had brought him here. It was nobody's burden but his own, and he deserved the torment he'd earned.

It was his choice: to live his life in servitude to a man who wanted nothing more than his fear.

Draco reached up to his neck and ran his fingers against the painful puncture wound, then down through the slippery trail of blood that was still oozing down his chest, dabbling his fingers in the crimson liquid. He pulled his hand away and held it out in front of him, the pads of his fingers coated in thick spots of his own partially dried, clotting blood. With a morbid fascination, he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, watching as the blood dried completely and formed sticky little clumps. The flecks of blood fell to the floor, just as Harry's blood had fallen from his father's fingers.

Harry's blood on Draco's dagger, Draco's blood on Voldemort's dagger... except Harry never had a choice.

Draco choked back his gasps and sobs as he realized he had freely given his own blood to Voldemort. He was given a choice. Voldemort had said so. Even Harry had said he had a choice. Draco had just never seen the choice for himself until it was too late; he hadn't been ready for it.

Inevitably, the need for an immediate decision had come. His father would have said he'd made the strong decision. The honourable choice. Lucius Malfoy would have been proud to see his son just then. However, Draco knew better. Strength hadn't been his motive. The only thing that had pulled him forward onto the blade had been fear. Puppet on a string, dance for the Dark Prince, you foolish jester.

You're a pawn, Draco.

You've been played your entire life.

Brainwashed to be the perfect slave to the Dark Lord.

Bow down to your master, Draco. Grovel like a House Elf. Cower in fear. Sacrifice your own life at his mere whim.

You can't say no. It's too late for that. The choice isn't yours anymore. You made your decision already.

The voices in his head taunted mercilessly.

You never even would have realized the mess you were in if your sworn rival hadn't knocked some sense into you.

Potter...

It was Potter he had to blame for putting ideas like this in his head. Without Potter to turn things upside down, inside out, and through himself, he would have been more than content to be Voldermort's circus performer. Damn Potter, with his chivalry. Damn him for being right. Damn him for every single glorious piece of misery to which he had subjected Draco...

And then it dawned on him. Harry was still alone in the dungeons with his father. Draco felt a little more blood drain from his face.

Oh shit...

Not knowing quite why the idea of Harry being trapped with his father scared him so much, or considering why on earth he was worried about the boy in the first place, Draco unlocked the door without a second thought and found himself racing towards the dungeons. His heartbeats drowned out even the sounds of his footsteps thundering down the corridor. He skidded slightly as he took a sharp right turn to the dungeon staircase, bolted down the stairs, and almost slammed into the door at the bottom. Heart pounding, he threw the latch and hauled the heavy wooden door open.

Somehow, Draco had expected screaming, arguing, or even howls of pain to greet him, but the passage was eerily silent. He pulled the door shut behind him and held his breath, listening, waiting, his feet frozen in place. Then he caught it; a choked gasp, the sound of someone straining through some sort of hideous pain.

Harry.

He tore down the passage, taking the turn that led to Harry's cell. His feet and his breath came to a dead stop as he caught a full view of the scene laid out before him.

Harry was on the floor, face-down, writhing, gasping for breath, obviously the victim of The Cruciatus Curse... and Lucius's wand was still trained on him. Harry's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and as before, his mouth was wide open, gasping for air, but not screaming.

Lucius finally noticed Draco's arrival and lowered his wand. Harry's rigid body collapsed limp against the floor, as the curse was removed, and Lucius turned towards Draco. A delighted sneer was written boldly across his face.

"Draco, you've returned in time for a bit of fun. It is good that you have returned, of course." He eyed the smear of blood at Draco's collar. "You obviously met the Dark Lord's approval. I expected no less. Potter seemed to insinuate that you might not. Then the little bastard had the audacity to suggest that I had no concern for your welfare. I felt it necessary to remind him of his manners." A wicked smile that was all teeth spread along Lucius's face.

Draco flicked his gaze towards Harry casually, appearing to scoff at him. In reality, he was checking to see how much damage his father had inflicted. He saw Harry's arm move, and his dark head turn to the side as a groan escaped him.

At least he's conscious, Draco thought with relief. Out loud, he answered, "I'm sure you've taught him a most valuable lesson, father. He needs teaching. "

At this, Lucius's face pulled itself up into another very unpleasant sort of smile. "Certainly, Draco. However, the boy wasn't insulting me. His first insult was directed at you. Perhaps you should have the honour of completing his lesson?"

Draco stared at his father in disbelief. It was only through force of will that he kept his mouth from falling open.

Think fast, Draco. Think fast.

"Father... I've never used an Unforgivable Curse. What if I am unable to work it?"

"Draco," his father said patronizingly, "you'll need to use these curses soon enough. What better time to practice?"

There was no escaping this, Draco realized. If he didn't do it, his father would suspect disloyalty. If he outwardly refused, he would die anyway, and so would Harry. For some reason, he hadn't really considered the fact that it mattered to him what Harry's fate would be, but somehow, he knew it did. He also knew he didn't want to hurt Harry. He felt guilty enough already.

If he used The Cruciatus, he could apologize later, explain why he'd done it. And then it would all be alright. A poor excuse to be sure, but it had to be enough. There was no other option. All he had to do was not think about what he was doing. He just couldn't allow himself to see the human being at the other end of his wand. To work an Unforgivable, he needed to feel anger, detached hollow rage. He couldn't allow himself to feel... whatever it was he seemed to be feeling for the boy lying face-down in the cell.

He braced himself and dug around inside for the last scraps of rage left in him from his encounter with Voldemort. "Yes, father," Draco finally answered, praying that his voice sounded cold and harsh, because to his own ears, he sounded scared as hell. His fingers found his wand in his robe pocket. Next to his own wand, Draco's hand brushed against another piece of polished wood he'd placed there: Harry's wand.

When one wizard conquers another, the winner goes the wand of the defeated party, a sign that one has power over the other. Technically, Draco owned Harry. It was his right to torture him. It was also his right to free him. However, in front of his father, if he ever wanted any sort of option of doing the latter, or any options at all come to think of it, he had no choice about the former.

Draco took two steps towards the bars of the cell as he aimed his wand at Harry. His eyes flicked from his father to Harry's prone form. The boy was still moaning softly as the after-effects of the curse slowly wore off.

Don't think about it, Draco. Just don't think about it. God, Potter, don't look up. Please, just don't look up.

As if in a silent answer to Draco's thoughts, Harry's head finally came up. His glasses were once again scratched and smudged, sitting haphazardly on the end of his nose. Harry opened his eyes blearily and peered up above the rims at Draco.

Draco stared down the length of his wand into Harry's eyes, and something in him snapped.

He couldn't do it.

"Draco," the father's voice came from behind him. "Do not tell me that you have been so taxed by your visit with the Dark Lord that you are unable to accomplish such a simple task." The disapproval and impatience in the words were blatant.

"No, father," Draco responded automatically, but all his attention was on Harry. Those vivid green eyes were silently begging him, pleading with him, not to make him go through the curse again. So tired, so battered and bruised, but not beaten. Even after all that, Harry still hadn't given up. Despite everything, he was trusting Draco not to hurt him. He had actually placed his trust in Draco. It was written clearly in his eyes, which stayed locked solidly with Draco's, not wavering in the slightest, even as the rest of his body trembled.

"I'm not sure, Draco," his father lectured. "You seem disturbed. To have passed The Dark Lord's tests, you must be stronger than this. I did not raise my son to be weak."

"I am strong, father," Draco said with as much conviction as he could muster, which in his estimation wasn't much.

"Then prove it," Lucius snarled.

Draco forced his grip tightly around his wand, and closed his eyes against the emotions that threatened to rip him apart.

Anger.

He needed anger, hatred, but he couldn't feel them, not towards Harry. Not anymore.

He searched for something that infuriated him, but he couldn't pull his thoughts past the hideous situation into which he'd been heartlessly thrown. Only a few days ago, he couldn't have imagined anything better. To have passed the Dark Lord's approval, to have captured Harry Potter, to have his father actually be proud of him; it was everything he'd ever wanted.

Now it seemed different. Thrown there by his father, caged there by Voldemort. Forced into the bidding of a master who wanted the fear of his followers and enemies alike. A master who had held him at knife point, threatening his life over his loyalty. A lifetime of being fed nothing but cold, heartless fear, just to make him the perfect tool to torture and kill...

And there, Draco found his anger.

Eyes still closed, he opened his mouth to begin the curse, but somewhere in the middle of the word "Crucio!" his eyes opened of their own accord, and he caught one last look at Harry's eyes before the curse hit.

There was no fear there, no cowering. Instead, Draco saw the most shocking look of utter betrayal.

And then the curse struck him.

Harry flipped onto his back as though struck by a physical blow. First, he curled up on himself as though he could shy away from the pain, but there was no escape. His arms flailed and his body twitched violently. His mouth opened, but instead of the silent straining, broken only by the occasional gasp, a bone-chilling scream ripped through the dungeons, and through Draco.

Draco pulled his wand away, breaking the curse, mortified and sickened by what he'd done. His unfortunate victim was still lying on his back, sprawled, chest heaving. Draco almost thought he could see Harry's ribs through his shirt. He shifted his attention to Harry's face; the teeth bared between pale lips, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and something new... one tear rolling down each cheek.

Lucius stepped close behind Draco, and quickly, Draco prayed to whatever powers would listen that what he had already done would be enough. He could never do that again, no matter what he tried.

"Hmmm..." Lucius mused aloud. "You didn't hold The Curse for very long, but you did manage to make him cry out." He lowered his voice. "Even the Dark Lord didn't pull a scream from him."

Draco blinked.

Lucius continued. "You must have used a very powerful curse to succeed in that... Sufficient, for your first attempt."

Yes, father," Draco replied blankly. Voldemort hadn't caused Harry to scream, nor had his father. But he had, and Draco knew why. Physical pain alone wasn't enough to break Harry. Draco, on the other hand, had struck a much deeper kind of injury.

In the cell, Harry moaned once, clutched his stomach, and turned over on to his side.

Draco looked away quickly. He couldn't watch this and maintain the pretense in front of his father. He met Lucius' gaze, and his father favoured him with a brief smile.

"You will serve the Dark Lord well, Draco. Now, I must return to my master." He paused briefly, then smiled again. "Congratulations."

Draco stood still as he listened to his father's footsteps retreating down the passageway. He waited for the dungeon door to swing shut before he dared to look back towards the cell. Harry hadn't moved. He was still lying on his side, facing away from the bars.

In one swift motion, Draco rushed to the bars of the cell and dropped to his knees as close to Harry as possible. "Potter! Potter! Are you okay? God, Potter, please!"

One of Harry's legs shifted, and the answer came back to him in a terribly hoarse voice. "Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Potter, please listen!" After what had just happened with Voldemort, he needed Harry to listen to him. He needed someone to understand, and Harry was the only person who might understand. Without him, Draco was alone. "I didn't mean to do it! I had no choice! I'm sorry! I... "

With a sudden burst of motion, Harry pushed himself upright and glared at Draco with a vehemence that hadn't been there before. "I told you, Malfoy," he growled, "don't you ever tell me you're sorry unless you can prove it."

"But I... "

"I know how the Unforgivables work. You have to really want to hurt someone for them to work." Despite the vehemence in his voice, Harry's body was still shaking terribly, probably going into shock, and Draco's concern peaked.

"But I didn't want to hurt you!" Draco cried, frustration and panic beginning to mount.

"Bugger, Malfoy! Do you really expect me to believe a pile of crap like that?" Harry's words were pure anger, but Draco began to hear the underlying pain breaking through, and that bothered him much more than the anger. "Who'd you want to hurt, Malfoy? Voldemort? You're his little pet, his little puppet. I can't believe I tried to help you."

"Please listen to me!" Draco was almost begging now. "Harry... "

"DON'T!" Harry hissed, shooting him a glare of raw loathing. "Don't you ever use my given name! You. Haven't. Earned. It."

Draco mouthed wordlessly, trapped by the anger in Harry's eyes. He wanted to explain what was happening, wanted Potter to hear him, but it didn't matter. His words would mean nothing. Harry had trusted him, even though there was no substantial reason for that trust, and Draco had betrayed him. Now the only way he could prove anything was by his actions alone, but what actions could he possibly take? Was there anything he could do?

With a sigh of defeat, he just dropped his head. "Right, Potter."

The only response was a disgusted grunt. Harry turned away from him and shuffled slowly across the floor to the wall, settling down with his back turned squarely to Draco, dealing with his pain in isolation. It was a familiar sight to Draco by now, but after everything that had happened, it hurt in a way that was completely foreign to him.

He averted his eyes from Harry, grasped one of the cell bars, and hauled himself heavily to his feet. How was it possible to simultaneously feel crushed between a rock and a hard place, and also as though he were teetering precariously on a tightrope with nothing to grasp?

What would his father think? After years of raising Draco to the very finest Malfoy traditions, to be powerful, to uphold certain ideals, how would Lucius Malfoy react to the idea that his son was having second thoughts? No, these were not second thoughts. These reservations were far beyond second thoughts. Draco may be sworn to serve Voldemort, but he couldn't do that anymore. It was impossible.

After everything he'd seen and felt, he couldn't continue the life he had lived before. The sickening twist of fear in his gut whenever he thought of Voldemort confirmed that. However, far more strange and shocking was the pain he felt in his chest when he thought of Harry. Voldemort was powerful, but Harry had something else, and Draco knew that underneath it all, Harry's approval would have meant much more than Voldemort's.

Once again, Draco reached up to the base of his neck and felt the point where the dried blood had encrusted the wound there; it was the mark of Voldemort's "approval." It was also the mark of a kind of existence that, hopeless as it was, he would be destined to have as Voldemort's servant.

Finally, he turned away from the bars and made his way to the chair Biddy had brought him. Shivering in the cold dungeon air, he wrapped the quilt tightly around his shoulders. His mind drifted involuntarily to the boy sitting on the floor of the cell, and he shivered harder. Alone and imprisoned, Harry was less of Voldemort's tool than he was, and he was stronger. Now, Draco understood exactly what Harry had meant. The choices he made, the prison he'd built for himself, his chains and his servitude. It was no mental game that Harry was trying to play on him. It was cold, sharp, and real, like the dagger Voldemort had held to his throat.

He wouldn't live in fear, could not continue to be a pawn. He couldn't continue to be the way he had been before.

Then... what could he do?

*********

My place is of the sun and this place is of the dark
I do not feel the romance, I do not catch the spark.
By grace, my sight grows stronger,
And I will not be a pawn
For the Prince of Darkness
Any longer.
(~Indigo Girls)

********

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