'If Thine Enemy...'

{ If Thine Enemy... }

Chapter Six: Stranger Than Fiction

'For truth is stranger than fiction...'
- Mark Twain

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to go. The corridor was long and barren--a wasteland of echoes. The sound of his own feet running couldn't drown out the silence of his horror. His shadow flitted quickly across the walls as he ran.

He found himself back at his room. No, not his room. The room where he was kept prisoner.

Everything was Dark. He could feel it now--feel it keenly--this entire building was Dark. The wards upon the window--Dark. Around the door--Dark. He could feel them in his mind, threads of power crackling in black and red--woven tightly around everything from his bed to the dresser, to the door that let out into the hall.

Dark magic too in the man he had touched. So much that he'd seemed ignited with it--with the searing heat of a Dark flame, beckoning to Harry. A magic scented with blood and... musk? The Mark burning on the man's arm. A hot explosion of pleasure--the flame of the other's magic somehow mingling with his own, like two fires joined by a sudden gust of wind. A hand touching his face like a devotee's, like a servant's, like a lover's. Harry wasn't sure he could tell the difference. As though he were being tasted--by that simple touch, by the thumb brushing across his mouth. His entire soul tasted, devoured, worshipped--by the grey lightning of those eyes, the fingers almost fearful to touch him, settling so gently on his face. So gentle...

The guilt of it, the wrongness of it, tasted bitter on Harry's tongue. Bile rose in his throat before he pushed it down.

He could still feel the other's magic--pulsing frantically, beautifully. Threads of Dark leading from that man to the entirety of the house. A vast web of spells, binding Harry to this place as surely as a tether.

Harry gazed around him in fear and wonder. For he was suddenly given sight--as though after a lifetime of being blind, he could now feel the magic eddying around every living and non-living thing. Fluctuations of power humming throughout the entire building, through the air itself. Something within him longed to join this Darkness--emerge into it and become it. This thing within him was pushing--restless, calling like a child to be born. When the man had touched him, it had risen to the surface--unfurling slowly like a flower under a Dark sun--each petal shimmering with power, a tongue of flame branding his soul. Heat flushed through him at the memory of the other man's touch.

Harry drew his knees up under him on the bed, trying to will his erection away. He clenched his hands to keep from touching himself. He would not give in to this, he could not... This thing so tender, so murderous within himself. That threatened to turn him into a weapon, as beautifully sharp and incandescent as the man he had touched today. If he had stayed, if he had let the man continue touching him... maybe...

Biting his lip, Harry stared up at the ceiling. Everything that was happening to him was wrong. The heat, the pleasure, the magic... His peculiar hunger for the man that had imprisoned him here.. for his enemy... He was losing his mind. He clenched his teeth and hot tears pricked his eyes as he remembered Hogwarts. Hermione, Ron...

Ron...

Sickness and rage suddenly flooded him. What was he thinking? He had betrayed everyone today--his friends, his parents, Sirius, Hagrid, Dumbledore... Even Snape. What would they think of him if they knew what he'd done today? That he'd wanted... wanted...

'Oh, god...' Harry groaned as he rested his head upon his knees. Tears found their way through his tightly closed eyes.

* * *

Lucius woke slowly, although he had never really been asleep. The warmth of dream-Potter's body lifted from him like a zephyr, until the boy in his arms had vanished like so much smoke.

For a few moments he lay in what was suddenly too cold a room, suddenly too empty. His fingers curled as if gripping phantom arms. Gone... A frozen, broken rage congealed beneath his skin. The pain was gone, and the clarity of his mind returned like a chilling wind.

The dream had changed nothing. It was naught but a momentary weakness, a physiological symptom of deprivation. It signified nothing--it took nothing from him. Not his strength, not his dignity, not his self-control. The ice-gray of his eyes hardened.

Lucius Malfoy was still Master of this manor--of everything in it.

And that included Harry Potter.

He registered with disgust the cold clamminess of his release staining his robes. Flicking his hand he muttered a quick cleaning charm. He briefly considered calling up dinner, for the sun had set outside and he hadn't eaten the whole day long.

But Lucius didn't feel hungry--he felt nothing at all, except this coldness prickling under his skin. He already knew what would have to be done, logically speaking, now that Potter's true capabilities were revealed.

Lucius had wanted a challenge. Fate had simply dealt him an opponent worthier than he had expected. This was nothing to unnerve him; nothing to cause him anything more than a mild inconvenience as he re-maneuvered his plans. With greater danger came greater opportunity, and Potter was a veritable gold-mine of both. Lucius had to speak with the boy now--force him into a compromise. This matter had to be settled as soon as possible.

The smooth sheets rustled as he raised himself up. For a moment he stared at the fire that had leapt up soon after sunset, as it had been commanded to do each night. It looked so much like the room from his dream...

Lucius' mouth twisted bitterly as he stood to leave.

He ignored the memory of sweat-locked knees about his waist--hot breath moaning into his ear. He ignored the fact that his hands still trembled as he opened the door.

It did not matter if Potter had an advantage. Lucius would level the playing field.

* * *

Harry looked up as he heard footsteps outside his door. Already, the smooth yet heavy tread of those boots was becoming familiar to him. He tensed as the steps paused outside. What is he waiting for...? A smooth dread filled his stomach like lead.

The knob turned slowly.

Harry's hands clutched the sheets.

The door swung open--silently. Harry saw the wards on it glimmer as they accepted the person's entrance. A flood of light lengthened the already tall shadow of his... jailor? Enemy? Harry wasn't so sure anymore. He only knew that his touching the Dark Mark had changed everything. For better or worse, he did not know.

They stared at each other for long minutes. The wizard looked older, Harry thought, somehow more tired--hand holding the door-knob tightly. Pale hair glinted like a white flame from the bright light of the hallway sconce--a light that cast a shadow across the wizard's features, deepening the lines around the stern mouth and hard eyes.

Memories of their last encounter came flooding back to Harry. The rush of power, the tingling touch, the heat of breath against his face, so close...

He flushed and would have looked away, but for fear of being caught unawares. The man was still staring at him intently. Harry gulped. Wasn't he going to say anything?

Finally, Harry spoke up in a hoarse whisper. 'What do... what do you want?'

A strange expression flickered across the man's face, and Harry realized it was a bit of a stupid thing to say. A prisoner doesn't ask...

But there was no disdain on the older wizard's face. In fact, there seemed to be nothing at all--it was tightly closed, like a lid over something dangerous and seething. It was almost as though the whole incident with the Dark Mark had never happened. When he spoke, his was was as smooth and controlled as ever--not at all like Harry's nervous hoarseness.

'Your room has no fireplace.'

Harry started, noticing suddenly that he had been sitting in complete darkness after sunset, lost in his thoughts--or rather trying to lose them--until the light from the opened door had flooded in.

'You had best follow me, Potter. We have much to discuss.'

'Wh-where are you taking me?' Harry gathered up his courage and straightened his back.

The man spared him a cold glance before turning away. 'To a better furnished room, Mister Potter. I don't like to conduct negotiations in the dark.'

Negotiations?...

* * *

Lucius felt his calm largely restored. Gratifying as it was to hear the boy stutter at seeing him again, the true comfort was that Potter obviously had no idea of the implications--the real implications--of his ability to stir the Dark Mark. It would make his 'negotiations' all the easier.

At first the sight of Potter on the bed, surrounded by white sheets, had nearly undone him. It transported him sharply to the vista of the dream, which still lurked in his mind like a coiled serpent of gold and white and fire-light. He hated the power it still seemed to hold over him. Lucius had found himself staring at that throat, bared in the harsh light of the open doorway. He almost expected to dark bruises on it... bruises of his making...

He reined himself in tightly--grimacing. Don't be ridiculous, Lucius. The dream was of little consequence. The real negotiations would begin now. The boy had asked what he wanted... Yes, Potter did have what he wanted--power--and in generous helpings too. Surely the noble Gryffindor would be kind enough to share--if he could be made to see the benefits of doing so...

...and the obvious betrayal of those Potter considered to be his friends. For the fact that everyone had been hiding Potter's powers from himself revealed one very obvious thing. The child had been brought up in a fish-bowl of Dumbledore's making, never allowed to glimpse the motivations of Dark. They had all been afraid of Harry Potter. Afraid.

The boy would have to learn that the battle between Light and Dark was not between good and evil or even kindness and cruelty, but a simple matter of political power. A balance forever struck and destroyed. A battle between those possessed of a rare power, and those afraid of its use. Fear and desire--the only two things behind this battle, as behind any other.

Potter would have no choice, in the end. Lucius would ensure that Potter knew he alone was the boy's salvation. His path to Darkness, and his disillusionment with Light.

A brief smirk of satisfaction lifted his mouth. Potter could still be put to use--even more so now that his Darkness was revealed. Lucius was going to do something radically different from anything he had originally planned.

For now, to prove to Potter that he had been living in lies...

Lucius was going to tell the truth.

***To Be Continued***