'If Thine Enemy...'

{ If Thine Enemy... }

Chapter Five: The Sick Rose

O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
- William Blake, The Sick Rose

Silence echoed deafeningly in the sunlit room. The boy's footfalls had faded many minutes ago--the sound of his running feet still ringing in Lucius' mind. A pair of eyes sparked with green fire--lit with lust and terror and--grief? A wild young creature, captured for a brief moment before bolting for the door. Lucius' right hand clenched, as if to crush within it the memory of that warm face, so soft... His fingers still tingling, stinging, from the memory of a child's hot breath.

He collapsed slowly on the floor, mouth open in disbelief. Cradling his arm although the pain had nearly left it. Potter was in the guest bedroom--Lucius could feel it through the thread of his tracking spell. A bird that could only flutter within its cage--Potter couldn't get out of it, out of this mansion or even out of this wing, without Lucius' express permission. Though he may dash himself against the walls, Potter was going nowhere.

Lucius wondered what the boy was doing in his room. Crying? Laughing? Slitting his wrists? The look in his eyes could have allowed for all three.

The floor's cold stone seeped through his robes. Slowly the world righted itself--the room no longer tilting madly. Slight as a whisper, slight as a breeze, Lucius' mind began a soft list of explanatory statements. Lucius sat there on the cold floor and let his mind murmur comfortingly, logically. Potter: Wand of phoenix feather. Voldemort: Wand of phoenix feather. Potter: innate ability for Parseltongue. Voldemort: innate ability for Parseltongue. Potter: Ability to activate the Dark Mark. Voldemort: Ability to activate the Dark Mark. Potter: Begins Emerging at the age of fourteen. Voldemort: Emergence at the age of fifteen. Potter: A dark shadow within him, twisting like a monster under the sea. The green sea of those eyes. Shimmering shadow, magic as vast as Dark itself. A deep well of joy and fractured light. Of fear.

Potter: beautiful.

Beautiful.

So much for his logical mind. He was exhausted--body trembling and sapped of strength, mind fogged--drugged--with pleasure and magic and pain. No longer capable of casting a cautious spell--perhaps even a simple one. Lucius was in no fit shape to face the boy again. Not for some time... and neither, he hazarded, was Potter. He couldn't decide if he'd ravish the boy or kill him if they saw each other now. His erection was a painful heat between his legs.

Gritting his teeth, he raised himself from the floor--swaying slightly as the room tilted again. He needed rest. He summoned a house-elf to clear the still-uneaten breakfast. Both Potter and Lucius would have to fast today. Perhaps the sharpness of hunger would clear his mind.

The house-elf appeared, shivering as if expecting a blow. Lucius watched with deadened eyes as it wiped the table--its small, wrinkled hands trembling. But as it leaned to pick up the kettle, the handle slipped and it crashed to the floor.

The sound penetrated Lucius' ears painfully. 'Pick it up!' he barked. The elf was frozen with fear. Rage boiled within Lucius at that stillness.

With a vicious snarl, he swept up the entire tray and threw it--smashing it against the wall. The crash was deafening.

His own breath was loud in his ears. The stain of tea and food on the wall, cutlery shattered on the floor--somehow knifed into Lucius--made him sick. The precise perfection of the white walls was marred--dirtied--destroyed. All destroyed. Lucius' mind was a jumble of wrath and words. He cupped his head in his hands--pain flashing behind his eyes.

'Pick it up,' he hissed again.

The house-elf was terrified into action--hastily cleaning up the mess. Its thin fingers begged to be broken, the small back to be whipped. It was shaking in terror now--feeling his burning gaze upon it--moving as fast as it could without making another mistake--desperate to leave as soon as possible.

Finally everything was removed: the stain, the broken cutlery, the fallen kettle. But Lucius could still see the stain in his mind--still see the imperfection as though it had always been there and always would be, no matter how many times it was cleaned. Caused by Potter. Caused by the blasted boy. The pain in his head flashed again.

Before the house-elf vanished, Lucius lifted his face. He raised a hand to stop it, trembling--managed a hoarse growl. 'If you tell anyone about this, I'll skin you alive.'

The elf nearly dropped everything again. Then, in a blink of light, it was gone.

* * *

Exhaustion had seeped into Lucius' body. Dimly he wondered if Potter was experiencing the same, or was more enervated by their encounter. Perhaps he had absorbed Lucius' energy?... It was possible.

But he needed rest for now. Just a clean bed and an empty room. Dark with all the windows closed--to shut out the light of day. To shut out any light at all.

Stumbling into his room and absently muttering the activation of its defence spells, Lucius fell into his bed. Black robes spread about him like dark wings--white hair in disarray. A crash-landed demon too tired to fly.

The sheets were cool against his face. A scent of rain, Lucius realized. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Scent of rain.

* * *

Lucius opened the door to his room. He was tired, but the pain in his head seemed to have left him. The exhaustion was no longer bone-deep.

A peculiar sense of deja-vu flooded him. Why did he feel as if he'd done this just before...?

The shadows seemed to be too intense--the contrast between light and dark too sharp. He could feel the magical wards around his room keenly--as if they were strands of a web of which he was the centre, and every minute mote of dust set them to vibrate. The darkness of the room was absolute.

Odd. He'd thought it was morning when he'd stumbled up here... but there was no light at the edges of the windows. He whispered a soft 'Lumos', and the fire leapt up to light the walls in a dance of black and red.

It was then that Lucius noticed the pale form settled on his bed--resting languorously, bare shoulders gleaming. Rich sheets were pulled up to cover perfectly rounded breasts, pretending to a shyness that Lucius well knew didn't exist.

Their owner wasn't meant to have returned until her work with the ministry had been completed. But Lucius' mind had asked too many questions today, and the answers had all been unpleasant. All he felt was unslaked desire, and the imprint of his enemy's face still warming his right hand.

He shrugged off his cloak and unbuckled his boots.

The figure on the bed smiled.

* * *

Narcissa reclined amongst the pillows. Lucius still felt mildly surprised. How long had it been since Narcissa had forsaken her coterie of lovers to service his desires? He smirked. Ambitious, half-witted fools they were--thinking that the wife of a senior Death Eater would assist their rise to power. That her practised smiles and attentive moans were any indication of affection. He knew too well that a Malfoy was allowed no such thing, and would not be a Malfoy to submit to it.

Lucius was not possessive of his wife--quite the contrary. After all, alliances could be made and broken with her smile. Despite his mild distaste for her mannerisms, she had proved to be a valuable asset over the years.

Not to mention that she still looked stunning. Her arms still shone golden in the firelight as she stretched languidly for his inspection--the same self-consciousness that had both disgusted and amused him from the first days of their marriage. Not like... the sun-flecked green of Potter's eyes... completely unguarded, defenceless, intense. Somehow more overpowering than the calculated sheen of Narcissa's gaze.

But what a polished weapon she was, all tumbling hair and curved lips. She rather reminded him of that Muggle weapon--what was it called? A 'gun'?--yes, that weapon... so soulless, packed with shining ammunition--yet ringing hollow to the touch. Her fingers aroused no heat in him. A perfect Slytherin. Even in love-making she never quite let go--there was always a sense of timing to her moans. Narcissa prided herself on her Slytherin mind, never yielding to something as petty as mere human lust. Something as primal.

Pity that it was all so transparent to him, her shallowness and her games of playing lover against lover. A malicious doll with a pretty face. Not unlike Draco.

The heat of her body had, somewhere since the first year of their union, become a sickening cold.

But Lucius felt disturbed tonight. He hated himself for needing solace--for thinking that he needed solace. But Lucius was not fool enough to hide his own weaknesses from himself. A man was, after all, always in danger of becoming his own worst enemy. Narcissa need never know that he was accepting her embrace as solace. As the satisfaction of a need that was just not going away--a need to cement his domination over something, to prove to himself that he didn't lose control...

... back then. With his hand moving like a worshipper's over the young face of his enemy. That imperfect, crooked, delicious mouth... So honest, that little exclamation: 'Oh...' against Lucius' hand, as though Potter had never felt anything like it. The perfection of Narcissa's lips was sterile by comparison--every word, every sigh, every flick of the tongue calculated and plotted as if with a compass.

But at least she was there. For him to take, without being overtaken. For him to assuage his erection, the barely discernible trembling of his hands, the memory of a child's touch conjuring both magic and lust from him--for him to obliterate these things in the mechanical sheath of her body. To grin behind his practiced mask as he forced her own from her--forced her to scream, to admit subservience, while his own mind hung above unaltered. To watch the waves of passion as if from a distant shore, without losing a bit of himself. To regain himself... to forget the heat of that young, shivering form...

Oh, he needed solace. The sheets rustled around her as she moved--shimmering snakeskin. As he tipped her head back and heard her low laugh, he managed to feel a broken disdain for himself and his body that would not forget a mere boy's touch. A man must first conquer himself...

Her eyes were empty. The intense blue was a false colour--he could feel the small spell that made them so, sparking the edges of his own magic. A false spell, Lucius thought distractedly. A million false spells to forget a single one that was true...

* * *

Somewhere in the midst of Narcissa's embrace, Lucius felt something change. The arms around him no longer felt the same--were thinner, somehow--bonier--smaller. The body he was pressed up against was similarly smaller. Gone was the luscious depth of feminine flesh. Instead he felt thin ribs and a frantic heartbeat against his own--his hands had captured wrists that were suddenly too fragile. Too thin, too young and too... breakable.

Breakable.

Potter.

Lucius knew, somehow, before he opened his eyes. And when he found himself staring into a green that flashed in the dimming room, Lucius realized that this was a dream. The deja-vu, the peculiar intensity of the colours, the strange sense of heightened magic... all made perfect sense now. Lucius was dreaming of making love to his wife.

And then his wife turned into Harry Potter.

Even his dreams were invaded by the child. Truly, Lucius had gone mad. Utterly mad. What was he to do, when his mind was foolish enough to offer him the source of his problem instead of its solution?

He traced thin blue veins along each boyish wrist, pressing his nails against the soft skin there. Nearly tearing it, leaving bruised crescents dark with blood. Dream-Potter winced (very realistic, Lucius thought), and looked aside. Passive as if still under a sedation spell--a mere puppet in this dream's strange world. Soft hair framed the flushed face in a dark halo, pleading to be touched. Vulnerable.

Lucius surveyed his prey splayed out beneath him. He knew he was a fool to enjoy a fantasy like this, like an insipid old invalid.

But what a fantasy it was.

Potter's body shone in the dying firelight--coltish limbs suddenly graceful as shadows laced them, criss-crossing across pale thighs. The exquisitely fragile chest flickered in red and gold--a trembling chalice of white glass, filled with blood and fire-wine. So easy to break. Easy to fracture. It promised the taste of heat and spice.

Lucius' hands traced that chest with inexplicable tenderness. The same gentleness his hands had possessed before, under the Dark Mark's spell... Why was he being gentle? This frail body was made to be broken. It was practically a waste not to break it--except that he didn't want to damage his useful prey...

But it's just a dream. You can do whatever you want, Lucius.

It's just a dream.

His placed both his hands around the pulsing throat, pressing gently. Green eyes snapped back to him, pupils dilating with realization.

Lucius found he could not smile.

I can smother you now, beautiful child--who turns up on my land uninvited, who turns up in my dreams uninvited. You... cannot. Conquer me.

He pressed the throat again, harder--

I.

Harder.

Do.

Harder.

Not.

Harder. (Choked gasp; bare torso thrashing.)

Desire.

Harder. (Hands on his chest clawing, growing weaker.)

You.

The body beneath him began to sag. Small hands slid down his chest, leaving a burning trail of torn skin behind them. The dark head fell back--green eyes beginning to glaze.

Lucius felt heat twist within him--a bitter knife of lust, of heartbreak, of satisfaction. Of pain. You will not conquer me.

And just as his hands released Potter's throat, Lucius leaned down to claim a kiss.

The boy's mouth opened like a hot lotus beneath his own--gasping at the sudden lack of pressure on his throat, sucking in Lucius' breath--desperate. The thin torso pressed itself to his own again--sweating this time with effort, pulsing with the heat of dying--nearly dying--only to be pulled back to life again by the breath of its killer. The searing mouth suckled his with urgency--drawing both Lucius' breath and tongue into itself. Devouring him.

Only a dream, Lucius. Only a dream.

Fire rushed through him--he wasn't sure anymore if the heat was the boy's or his; if the blood-chalice of Potter's body was the source of the roaring pulse he heard, or whether it was his own. Gone was the distant shore, Lucius' shelter and objectivity.

Instead the waves rose in a tide of crimson joy, come to devour him whole. As this enemy's mouth was devouring him. With the blind urgency of a nursing infant, fumbling tongue locked in struggle with his own, unrecognizable... A body that accepted him and rejected him at once, coiled about him, hot, tight... Yielding and unyielding, fighting war and making peace. Green eyes that seemed to laugh with pain, scream with it--but the boy was not screaming, was letting loose instead a torrent of words within Lucius' mouth, laced with hot breath and sparking fire. Urgent words begging for life, begging for more, begging for--

A body both kind and cruel. A body so pale, so flushed, writhing beneath him in a white heat of urgency.

A serpent of innocence.

The tide rose, the heat rose. Lucius thought he felt something, tendrils of magic curl up his spine along with the impending orgasm. A hand had brushed his Mark again, but somehow Lucius knew this wasn't the reason. The magic began to thicken even as he drew closer, as the bucking of the body beneath his became more desperate.

As the final thrust caught them both, Lucius bent down to do the unthinkable.

He kissed Potter's scar.

Magic soared. The boy jerked against him, mouth opening in a silent scream--releasing, hands clenching. Something Dark rose from the body under him, something vast and glittering, invisible and filled with heat. A vast shadow that smelled of Dark magic, the scent of blood somehow sweetened to the point of a perfume, released in a rush with Potter's orgasm. It curled around Lucius, swallowing him... his own orgasm shook him, the boy's flushed face moving beneath his to capture his mouth again. Lucius felt the tide abating, as the explosion of scent lingered around them--Lucius felt he was falling into a crushed rose--layer after layer of thickening scent, the softness tangible, a thousand heated folds pulsing around him.

The scent was that of an injured rose. Of blood-petals, of beautiful wounds.

Red petals.

Black hair.

Green eyes.

The boy's hot hand had settled on his back, smoothing along Lucius' spine as if to comfort him. Such a strange tenderness. Miraculous from an enemy he had almost killed.

Lucius leaned his head against the young, bruised neck--inhaling the fading scent of the rose. It was only a dream, but Lucius slowly felt, through the haze of his body's satisfaction, just what a mistake he'd made.

Even in a dream, Potter had defeated him.

He had lost to Potter. His body had given in, as had his mind. You cannot conquer me, Lucius had said. What a fool he'd been. He conquered me already, Lucius thought, the moment I thought that about him.

The soft hand was comforting, as was the steady breath stirring his sweat-damped hair. No harm in taking solace at last, even if it was in his tormentor's arms. A tormentor in a dream-world, more yielding than he ever would be in life.

This is just a dream, Lucius.

Just a dream.

***To Be Continued***

Notes: So... er. Don't kill me. This chapter was put up due to popular demand--but alas I couldn't have Lucius/Harry action in reality yet--it would destroy my plot. The real stuff comes (no pun intended) only after a sufficient build-up and enough reasons for cooperation on both sides. If it comes at all, of course--I'm not giving away my plot. This was just a surreal experiment on my part, and a surreal nightmare-cum-dream (again, no pun intended) for Lucius. The poor bastard is tortured. I tried my best to express that here but am not so sure it worked... Do review and tell.

I should also point out that in a Dark wizard's Emergence, the Dark magic often chooses the mentor or partner who is meant to release its owner's magic--and signals to this mentor that they have been chosen (often through dreams). Guess who Harry's magic has chosen for the Emergence?

... Thaaaat's right.

Don't think it's quite that simple though, or quite that straightforward. This is switchknife writing, after all.

Next chapter: Another confrontation--this one in real time--between Harry and Lucius. We find out exactly what is going to happen to Harry now that he is in the unhappy situation of not only being Lucius' prisoner, but also of pissing him off. And arousing him. Harry himself isn't quite sure how to classify the strange depth their relationship has suddenly taken--no longer as simple as that of jailor and hostage. Because, for a few moments when he had touched Lucius' Mark... he had known himself as Master.

Please review if you want more!

~THANKS TO ALL THE GREAT REVIEWERS WHO URGED THIS CHAPTER ONTO THE NET! MAY ALL YOUR APPARATIONS LAND YOU IN HAPPY PLACES!!~

General response to my reviewers: Thank you again for the large number of reviews, and all so soon! *sends hugs and kisses* Also glad to know that all of you hung in there, even those that were squicked by the nasty Dumbledore. What can I say... it broke my heart but it had to be done. I wouldn't go so far as to call him evil, though... he is no more evil than is, say, Voldemort. They are both motivated by their causes to act selfishly and often horrifically--but they are not evil. Perhaps GMTH calling him 'hard-assed' (*chuckle*) is more accurate. I also concur with Raistlin's statement that 'evil is subjective'. In this fic I'm going to try and make sure that nothing is black-and-white--that there is no easy moralistic escape for anyone, no matter whose side they are on. Atrocities are always committed by people on both sides of a war. So don't worry, Claudius, I'll try not to disappoint... although I can't say I have a huge selection of plot devices to choose from. And Maeglin... I hope this chapter shows you that Lucius has a better chance of 'doing the honours'--more than Cho Chang did in the last chapter anyway, at Dumbledore's behest!

Also, if you people wanna smack me with a cold fish for not going too explicit with this fic, it's because: a) I'm not good with explicit--have a pathological tendency to bloom into metaphor, b) some people often feel satisfied with a fic once 'real consummation' has occurred--and I don't want to give up my readers yet, and c) the plot doesn't allow it thus far. I had to have Lucius/Harry action that wouldn't change the course of events that I had planned out for it... thus it had to be surreal dream-sex.

Hope I didn't disappoint anyone too badly... *tries to hide*