'If Thine Enemy...'

{ If Thine Enemy... }

Chapter Seven: Before Arms

It becomes a wise man to try negotiation before arms.
[Omnia prius experiri verbis quam armis sapientem decet.]
- Publius Terentius Afer, 'Eunuchus'

Red carpet was warm and plush beneath his bare feet. Harry felt startled. Somehow he hadn't expected... red to decorate any room in this man's house. But as his toes curled in the thick material, he was suddenly grateful for not putting his shoes on before following the wizard. The rest of the room was similarly furnished in inexplicably Gryffindor colors--golden drapes over what he assumed were warded windows--mantelpiece a warm, honey-colored wood gleaming in the firelight. Two large, comfortable sofas graced the center of the room with thick velvet cushions (red again! Harry wondered) and golden tassels. This room was beautiful. Luxurious. And so... comforting. Nothing like the Spartan indifference that marked the other rooms. It almost seemed like someone else's house in here. Certainly not this harsh, pale-eyed man...

He'd been so taken with the room that he jumped when he heard the door click shut gently. Whirling, he saw the other wizard leaning against it with a strange little smirk on his face.

The smooth voice purred. 'Quite the sensualist, aren't you?'

What...? 'What do you mean?' Harry tried to uncurl his toes from the delicious carpet.

The man gestured around him. 'All this... red. So passionate. And velvet, Mister Potter. I never would have thought you capable of it.'

'What are you talking about? It's your ruddy room...'

'Oh, but it's not.' The smirk widened at Harry's expression of surprise. 'You see, this lounge is my property, but currently it caters entirely to your tastes.'

'You don't know anything about my tastes.'

'I do now.' A pale hand caressed the warm wood of the mantelpiece. 'This room is where I routinely receive my... visitors.' Harry's snort went unanswered. 'It is spelled to reflect the decor that makes my guest most comfortable--although the essential items of furniture are merely masked. It makes negotiations much more informative. Not to mention more... pleasant.'

It was so strange to hear that cold voice hiss the word pleasant--Harry shivered. He should have been surprised at this new kind of transfiguration. But suddenly, he realized he wasn't. If he concentrated and reached... out... he could begin to make out the trembling of Dark magic within the walls of the room. He pulled back quickly. 'This is a Dark spell too, isn't it.'

The older wizard didn't look perturbed by Harry's comment. 'Yes.'

Harry fidgeted for a moment--longing to curl up in one of the large sofas oddly reminiscent of the Gryffindor common room. He knew he was foolish to fall for it, but this spell... At least the colors make sense now.

'You can sit, you know. The furniture won't bite.'

'Oh, like the air here doesn't.' Harry vividly remembered nearly being throttled by thin air outside the mansion.

A faint surprise flitted through grey eyes, as though Harry's cheekiness was unexpected. The wizard inclined his head with a mocking smile. 'Touché, Mister Potter. But I'd never resort to... defensive tactics such as that in my guest lounge. Hardly conducive to fruitful negotiations, wouldn't you say?'

What negotiations does he keep natting on about? But Harry kept silent about this--waiting to see what the man said next. He was acting... differently now. Somehow being more courteous--treating him more like an equal... no, not quite. Something else. With watchful eyes, Harry lowered himself into the sofa gingerly. And nearly gasped as velvety softness heated his back.

The pale man chuckled softly--a startlingly warm sound. 'Quite the sensualist, indeed.' He walked to a line of shelves that was filled with long, tapered bottles of glass. Each was filled with a different colored liquid--some sparkling, some dull. Alcohol, Harry realized. The man's thin fingers touched each one lightly--as if striking a note-- until they rested on a light, smoky green bottle. Suddenly a small chalice appeared in his other hand, filled with the same liquid. He turned.

It struck Harry how out of place the man was in this room--how alien. As if he were sucking out its warmth... The black cloak clashed ridiculously with the red decor--leather boots somehow seeping coldness into the surrounding carpet. Even the warm firelight made him look more foreign--pale features sharpened--eyes changing from deep grey to sharp silver and back again, by the quick flickering of the flames.

If he realized how closely he was being studied, the wizard didn't show it. He sauntered over to the sofa opposite Harry's--Harry shrank back--and settled into it gracefully. Silver buckles glinted as he crossed his legs. Only after leaning back, and taking a thoughtful sip of his strange drink, did he deign to cast his guest a glance.

Harry found himself staring at the chalice in the man's hand--white fingers carefully cradling the fragile glass. There definitely was smoke rising from it.

'Irish Mist,' came the answer to Harry's unspoken question. The man lifted the pale green glass and breathed in its fumes. Momentary pleasure caused his thin mouth to smile. 'It's quite potent, you know. Quite bitter and extremely... sharp. Valuable too, of course--and rather rare to come by. Extracted...,' here the cold eyes glinted, '...from the magic of a banshee's last scream.'

Last... Harry's stomach tightened. He realized his breath had quickened. The unsteady firelight had shadowed the man's face, and the civil smile now had a rather feral edge to it.

So now it starts, Harry thought. That 'negotiation' he was talking about... This is when he starts talking and I start agreeing with everything he says.

A flash of anger heated him. At least that's what he thinks.

* * *

'You're too young for alcohol, I believe.' A careful pause--Lucius put some effort into not sounding condescending. 'Would you like anything else to drink?'

The boy was obviously thirsty--and equally obvious in trying to hide it. Lucius saw his surprisingly calculating eyes as he tried to judge whether it was safe to take food and drink from an enemy. A slight clearing of the throat, and finally, 'Just a glass of milk, please.' Ah. Suitably courteous. Potter understood that he had little choice--accept Lucius' hospitality, or die of thirst.

Unexpectedly perceptive. Lucius only inclined his head before a house-elf appeared. 'A glass of milk for our guest. And be quick about it.' The elf cringed pleasingly before winking out.

Potter was watching him carefully. Had been ever since he'd taken up his drink--carefully chosen, of course. Lucius knew the curiosity-value of Irish Mist. Not only did a delicious twinge of pain and song entwine in its smoke, but it allowed him to drop that inconspicuous little threat about a banshee's last scream. Veiled-but-not-veiled. Dangerous without being impolite. Mild but not understated. Perfect.

And the boy had recognized it for what it was immediately. Again, surprising powers of perception for one so young. Given his plain speech, one would think Potter too boorish for delicate conversation.

Apparently not.

Lucius took another sip from his glass--tightening his fingers around its pleasantly cold surface. The smoke--startlingly gratifying at every inhalation--sharpened his mind with the slight edge of pain it contained. He needed his senses about him now, and this was one of the few wizarding alcohols that actually enhanced awareness.

The room's decor hadn't come as that much of a surprise in terms of its Gryffindor sensibilities--but the sheer lushness of it was overwhelming. Potter really was a hedonist if his mind could come up with this--but a peculiarly naive hedonist, at that. Flushing upon meeting Lucius' eyes--unaware of how openly the curling of his bare toes betrayed his pleasure in the carpet. That little, surprised gasp at the welcoming heat of the sofa. The way he was leaning into it now--despite his own wariness, despite the watchful green gaze constantly focused on his enemy. Craving contact with delicious things even when it may be counter-productive.

Quite the sensualist, indeed.

In the mean time the house-elf had reappeared and placed a tall glass of milk on the little table beside Potter's sofa. There was a moment of silence as the elf hovered, waiting for further commands. Upon receiving none, it bowed and disappeared again.

Potter glanced at Lucius as he reached for the glass. Don't tell me he's foolish enough to imagine I've poisoned it--of all the...

Suddenly, an idea struck him. 'Wait.'

Potter's head snapped up, eyes wide.

'There's something you must know before you drink that milk.'

The expression on Potter's face was almost laughable. Poison, indeed!

Lucius maintained his concerned tone of voice. 'You wouldn't want to see the lovely red of that sofa ruined, would you? Since we haven't been formally introduced yet, my identity might be a little surprising. And--well, you know what Muggles say about spilt milk.'

He watched Potter's expression carefully--watched it migrate from fear to realization to indignation. At a rather slow pace. Quite charming, really, to take so long to understand that one has been so easily read, and so easily made a joke of.

Green eyes flashed. 'I don't think your name matters too much to me, considering how I'm your prisoner whether or not you tell me who you are.'

Oh, that was a foolish response. A Gryffindor response--and here he had been thinking the boy had intelligence. Lucius felt his eyes narrow--but whether it was in anger at having his name slighted or in disappointment at the boy's response, he didn't know.

His voice was cold when he answered. 'But it does matter, Mister Potter. Not only would it be unforgivably impolite of me not to offer my name, but it would also rob you of some valuable insight into your captor. So it does matter to you--it should, anyhow--more than it does to me.' He stroked his glass with a long finger. 'You really should be grateful I stopped you from picking up your drink. My name might surprise you into spilling it.'

Potter glared at him. A surprisingly enchanting glare, considering that it did little more than reveal the boy's youth and vulnerability. Lucius' smirk wasn't helping, and the boy hissed in irritation. 'Go on, then. If it's that important. Tell me your bloody name.'

'Ah, it is bloody. Very.' He raised an eyebrow at Potter's confounded expression. 'My name, Mister Potter, is...'

* * *

Harry sat in stunned silence. He'd collapsed loosely on the sofa, milk forgotten on the side-table. This was a cosmic joke--better than one of Fred's or George's--no, worse--he couldn't be the prisoner of--the prisoner of the father of--

His eyes flicked frantically over the wizard's features, only now noticing the many similarities with a certain broom-up-his-arse, annoying Slytherin Seeker in Hogwarts' fourth year.

'I... how...'

The man's voice still rang in his ears. My name, Mister Potter, is... (pale hair, pale eyes, oh God)...

'...Lucius Malfoy,' Harry echoed in shock.

A pleased chuckle. 'Delightful to see such a quick absorption of facts, Mister Potter.' The sneer in that statement was unmistakable. Damn the man. Didn't he ever stop smirking?

This was ridiculous. This was embarrassing. How could he not have noticed? It was all there. The white-blond hair. The sharp features. The silver eyes. The unnaturally pale skin. The obvious financial affluence. The massive ego-complex. Not to mention that infuriating, Merlin-cursed, seemingly never-ending smirk.

Although it did look very different on this man. On Draco it was just an... inbred reflex of sorts, a knee-jerk reaction to Harry's mere presence. But on this man... it was... a careful show of disdain--signaling familiarity one moment, and danger the next. Intimidating when curving that harsh mouth, and downright threatening when accompanied by the hard ice of those eyes. Eyes that cut you to the bone with a glance--that hid secrets with the vigilance of a sentinel and the implacability of steel.

Oh, he was very different from his son. Draco wasn't a fraction as deadly as his father--and it wasn't just because he was young. Draco's petty threats, the unrefined insults, the ill-planned pranks--Lucius Malfoy would never have sunk to those methods even as a boy. In a sudden moment of insight, Harry knew that Draco would never be as dangerous as Lucius Malfoy. Not even if he tried.

With that realization Harry forgot all about being embarrassed--about feeling foolish for failing to recognize a stranger. Suddenly, Harry felt very serious. Lucius Malfoy had told him there was valuable information to be gleaned from a mere name--but he was wrong. This was just a ploy to throw him off. Because this man being Malfoy's father did nothing to change Harry's situation. He was still a prisoner--in a Death Eater's house--in the middle of a magicked mansion in a territory he knew nothing about.

All in all, the picture wasn't pretty. No matter how much the Malfoys were.

Harry reached out calmly for his glass of milk--and was rewarded by the disappearance of that famous. Malfoy. Smirk.

* * *

Lucius' smile faded. His revelation was not having its desired effect on Harry Potter. It had seemed... For a moment, Potter's panic and mortification were delightfully obvious. An embarrassed flush declared his disarmament openly--Potter knew he was a fool for not recognizing Lucius' familial similarities with one of his own classmates.

But then the boy had focused on his face, studying it carefully, picking out features to compare with Draco's. Lucius knew that was what Potter was doing--he was sure of it--and he had allowed it in unperturbed, superior cooperation. Even leaning his face more into the light. Let Potter see his mistakes clearly--let him realize that I can far outplay him in any game of wits or words . These negotiations are mine.

What he hadn't expected, of course, was for every trace of fear and shame promptly disappear from those eyes--now a deep river-green, no longer roiling with doubts. A steady hand reached out for the glass of milk--almost casually--and Lucius followed its movement in wrathful disbelief.

Calm green eyes rose to meet his as if placing a challenge. In a gesture that mockingly mirrored Lucius' own actions, the boy raised his glass to his lips and took a small, disciplined sip.

Behind the rim of the glass, it appeared that Harry Potter was smiling.

* * *

Harry tried not to smile. He barely let the warm milk touch his lips before lowering the glass again--he was too busy watching the wiz--Malfoy's reaction.

The pale jaw had clenched painfully--hard mouth curling in what was no longer a smirk. Grey eyes had darkened almost to black, and elegant fingers now gripped the chalice with a somewhat inelegant force.

Of course, all this lasted for scarcely a second--but Harry had seen it, and it made all the difference. A thrill rushed through him--just as if he'd spotted the Snitch--fifty feet up in the air, hovering on a buzzing broom, eyes watchful for the slightest movement.

Catching the Snitch meant winning the match. Catching Lucius Malfoy in an unguarded moment--and engineering that moment, no less--won Harry back his confidence. To figure out that the man was trying to throw him--was trying to make him feel vulnerable before starting whatever 'negotiations' he wanted--well, Harry felt rather good about it, actually. He felt rather Slytherin.

By the time Harry took his next sip of milk, Malfoy was safely back behind his mask. His face was pleasant once more, fingers cradling his chalice delicately--cordial smile gracing the now easeful mouth. No longer the look of a man who'd had his plans thwarted, or of a tyrant not used to resistance.

Only the eyes remained dark as they rested upon Harry. For a moment, Harry felt fear--but then he brought the glass to his mouth once more, and took a quick swallow of milk. It warmed him down to his toes. If The Man Who Smirked wants to negotiate, let's have it.

* * *

So easily read, and so easily made a joke of. Lucius nearly snarled--his fingers tightening painfully around the chalice before he forced himself to relax. Wouldn't do to let Potter see him perturbed.

The nerve of the boy. Turning his own tactics back on him--being able to do that--the nerve, the goddamn nerve. Imitating him--Lucius Malfoy--a man never teased, never imitated, never mocked as this child had dared to do today. Sipping his milk like that--it was preposterous--reducing Lucius' carefully calculated selection of alcohol, his habit of self-discipline and sophistication, to a mere schoolboy's glass of milk. And then smiling like that. Smiling--like he'd won a bloody game. But the game was Lucius'. He'd started it. All the pieces were his--even Potter--and how dare he turn it back on him like that.

Relax, Lucius. Don't do more damage. Recover.

But still Lucius seethed. His face was calm, even polite. He'd seen to that a long while ago. But this blasted child was making a habit of turning the tables on him. No one made him feel like that. Enraged enough--insulted enough--vulnerable enough. First he uses the Dark Mark as if he were my Master; then he dares to mock my attempts at negotiation.

The field is mine, Potter. You were supposed to break. This morning when I showed you my Mark. Tonight when I gave you my name. But you make a joke of all of it--possess it--make it yours. How dare you.

Don't do more damage. Recover.

Recover.

Lucius took a carefully shallow breath, letting his eyes rest on the boy as if undisturbed. He realized that he had overreacted. Why did he let it affect him so, that this mere child upstaged his tactics? Mocked his name and manners? All it meant was that Potter was more perceptive than most children. No. Not perceptive. Empathic. An unnerving tendency for sniffing out the emotions of others--even if, as in Lucius' case, those emotions were nonexistent.

Or had been, until today.

Slowly, slowly, Lucius forced peace into himself. This hadn't happened in years. He felt the muscles around his eyes relax imperceptibly--something so small no one would notice, least of all the bespectacled wonder-boy sinking into the sofa opposite him.

Such a small incident, really--an Irish Mist here and a swallow of milk there. Hardly of importance. He still had to make use of Potter. And he still had to resort to the unpalatable task of telling Potter the truth. Unpalatable because he did not make a habit out of revealing to an enemy that very enemy's strengths--it would have been out of the question, even insane, in other situations. But Potter seemed to carry sanity away with him everywhere he went...

No. This was right. The only way to tap Potter's power would be to get Potter to acknowledge it--and then use him, consensually, in the development and deployment of that power.

For this to happen, Potter had to trust him. No. Not even trust. He just has to know that he has nowhere else to go.

And that, after all, is the truth.

* * *

He's not going to admit defeat, is he. Harry set the glass back down and settled into the sofa. That fleeting expression of rage was all he was going to get--well, OK then. I suppose it is a bit early to feel good about it. I mean, he hasn't even said anything important yet.

Malfoy was smiling at him almost kindly--but Harry knew better. He wasn't quite sure how, but he knew the man was angry. The face was flawlessly calm, but the very air around the man was crackling--a peculiar tension in the broad, black-cloaked shoulders. A strange heat in the storm-grey eyes.

When the wizard spoke his was as smooth as ever. 'I trust you know the dynamics of our current situation.'

Dynamics? Bloody hell. 'You mean that I'm your prisoner?'

Dark grey eyes lightened to silver, and Harry got the feeling that his answer was pleasing. 'Indeed--but that's only at the face of it. There are, as you know, many things I could have done with you since your arrival on my land--'

'Like killing me?'

'...Yes.' A brief scowl at the interruption. 'That was one of the options. You must be wondering why it is that I have kept you so... comfortably alive.'

Actually, Harry hadn't really thought about that--it wasn't exactly the kind of thing one likes to wonder about. He shifted uncomfortably on his sofa. This doesn't sound good. 'Um... I don't know. I expect you've got some use for me...'

'Quite.' Thin lips curled up in what appeared to be the first genuine smile he'd seen from the man. 'You are quite the valuable commodity, Mister Potter. Initially I only planned to keep you long enough to extract some... ah... information about my current employer.'

Harry knew the answer to this. 'Voldemort.'

Malfoy gave him an assessing glance--as if surprised at Harry's unthinking use of the Dark Lord's name. 'Indeed. He is usually very forthcoming with his acquaintances, and it occurred to me that there had to be something rather remarkable about you if he were so intent on gathering information about you--without telling anyone why. Even those most likely to aid him.'

'Er... wasn't he always looking for me? I mean, I didn't die when...'

'Yes, yes, Mister Potter. We are all quite aware of your status as the Boy Who Lived.' A momentary sneer. 'However, many among our circle believe it to be some sort of magical fluke. Wizards of great power often have peculiar regions of weakness, which are only discovered by accident. That alone made you interesting--to see what it was that the Dark Lord was so vulnerable to, even in a child. However, it did not mean you were anything of value in and of itself. You may simply be a magical nullifier--a sort of natural antibody--with sporadic bursts of power. But you are more than that, aren't you, Potter?'

There was a pause. Harry couldn't figure out what to fill in, though--so he kept silent.

Malfoy picked up again. 'Perhaps you don't realize your true value yet. Draco did say you were a bit slow in realizing your own importance.'

Harry bristled. 'Hey, wait a minute. What did he--'

A pale hand rose to stall him. 'Do let me finish.' The tone was so courteous that Harry stopped. Malfoy's lips quirked again. 'Thank you. You see, Potter, rather a lot has changed since you managed to thwart Quirrell in his search for the Philosopher's Stone.'

Harry was silent.

'Hasn't it?'

Something told Harry that the question wasn't just about having to write thicker essays for Transfiguration or the fact that Ron had given him 'Come again?' boxers for his birthday.

'Let me provide you with some clues. What has changed is not external--although it may affect external things. What has changed is something inside of you. What is it, Mister Potter, that may have made you feel differently about things lately? That may have lead you to break away from Dumbledore's watchful gaze long enough to stumble into my care?'

Care? The man's a bloody sadist... But how did he... how could he know? Because something about the calm grey eyes told Harry that the man did know. About the peculiar restlessness that took hold of Harry at times--deeper and more disturbing than anything Seamus or Dean or Neville or Ron were going through. The need to get away--from the people that cared about him--that watched out for him. Something that remained incomplete and unawakened, even when Hermione lectured him or Ron snuck him sweets from Hogsmeade. The knowledge that somehow, in some important sense, they were strangers--that they stood between him and something very important--that although he loved him, they couldn't... couldn't possibly... what? Understand? That strange feeling he got when he looked at his own shadow--as if it was a reflection of something inside him--of his shape, filling him from head to toe in a shifting blackness. A Darkness that knocked against his eyelids at night, that fluttered in his pulse--that sometimes opened its mouth within him like a bleeding child, yearning to emerge--

Oh shit. This wasn't something Harry liked to think about. That was the reason he'd snuck out again. Not just to Hogsmeade, but away from Hermione, from Ron... Why he'd left them in Flourish and Blott's and tried to disappear alone into the streetside shadows, thirsting for something unnameable... And then the Death Eaters had come--and then--

Malfoy studied his widening eyes calmly. 'What you are experiencing, Potter, is a phenomenon that a majority of wizards never experience in their... insignificant lifetimes.' He hissed the word 'insignificant' as though it were a curse. Which it very well may have been. 'The thing that pulls you away from your sunshine friends--that disturbs your nights with more than the usual pubescent dreams--', here Harry blushed, '--is that you are experiencing growing pains. The growing pains of a Dark Wizard.'

Harry's mouth fell open. Did he just hear that right? 'What--'

'Yes, Potter.'

Harry snorted in disbelief. 'I don't believe you. I don't bloody believe you. I've just needed some time alone--I've just--'

'Time alone for what, Mister Potter? Picking flowers? You may have denied yourself too long. Dumbledore's been hiding from you what every young Dark Wizard should have--the truth about themselves. You do know, of course, that only a Dark Wizard can recognize Dark magic?'

Harry's fingers were digging into the couch. Unbidden, a memory rose in his mind--words from a Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook he'd sneaked from the Restricted Section for his second assignment... *Tracking and identifying Dark Wizards is a near-impossible task for wizards of the Light, because Dark spells can only be sensed and manipulated by those of the Dark persuasion...* No. I can't be that. I can't be-- *Thus we must maintain constant vigilance--with the help of our well-trained Aurors, who track not magic but magical objects and other physical residue, as well as our double agents who track the comings and goings of wizards, their political ideals and gathering places.* Harry remembered thinking what little chance there was of winning, if they couldn't even tell who the enemy was... But I can't be...

'How did you know the spell that caught you outside my mansion was Dark, Potter? And the spell masking this room?'

'I... I don't know. I just did, I guess. Somehow.'

'How very convenient.' The man was sneering. 'The Boy Who Lived--what a bargain for Dumbledore! Packaged in propaganda, including free Dark-sensing equipment and Voldemort-repellant to boot.'

'Stop it! Just stop it! What the fuck do you know? How--' But Harry stopped. The wizard opposite him was deathly calm--cold gaze focused almost gently on Harry. Undeniably.

'You never came across Dark magic--in the concentrated fashion of a real spell--until you landed here, did you, Potter? The last time was as a child, when you somehow survived what you were not meant to survive. Too young to remember. And during that ridiculous misadventure with the Stone, Voldemort was too weak to cast a simple spell against you--he tried to use that fool Quirrell to snatch the Stone from you physically.' Harry didn't have to wonder how Malfoy knew--Malfoy was Malfoy. A bloody name alright. 'No, Potter. Only now do you know your capabilities. Now that you've been so fortunate as to fall into my company. Isn't that correct?'

Harry's eyes moved of their own volition to Malfoy's left arm--and he almost thought he saw the man flinch. The arm was covered with a long black sleeve now. But beneath it was--oh, Merlin. Through Harry's body ran a shudder of pleasure. Fuck... The beautiful snake, curling about the skull of the Mark... weaving twisting patterns, hissing, promising him delicious things... Oh, and it had been delicious, the heat that had raked through him at the other wizard's touch. And the part of him that had starved--ever since his fourteenth birthday--the Darkness that had hidden him from himself and from his friends--was suddenly fed, suddenly overflowing, and the bleeding child within him had opened a thirsty mouth willing to drink, drink until it would burst and flow out into the world...

No. No. No. He couldn't be one of them. One of the people who...

'Voldemort killed my parents.'

Malfoy twirled his green drink. 'He may have--he may not have.'

'What do you mean? Of course he did!'

'There isn't any proof, Potter--and as I didn't accompany him on that night, I do not know. You did repel his magic--hence your scar--but no one knows at whom his magic was directed--if you were even the one he aimed for, or your parents, or anyone else in a ten-mile radius. Spells can be repelled from a variety of locations within magical reach, in a number of different ways. Especially for one as powerful as yourself.'

'But Dumbledore said--'

'Yes, Dumbledore, Dumbledore. And the Minister of Magic. And the gracious Arthur Weasley. And every decent, Muggle-loving witch and wizard from here to the Strait of Gibraltar.'

There was a silence. Harry's mind was an echoing scream of questions. I can see the wards on the door. They're Dark. I can see the magic in that man. Dark. I can see it... And I want... But he couldn't be like Voldemort--like the man who had killed his parents... No. No. 'I think I'll trust Dumbledore's opinions more than yours,' he finally managed in a shaky voice. 'I don't know how... I don't know... what I have inside me. But it can't be. That. It can't be.' Yet he felt it twist in him even as he spoke--yearning towards the Dark in the other man. Rippling in heat--stirring his groin. Harry clenched his teeth.

The logs in the fireplace crackled. The changing light shadowed Malfoy's eyes, until all Harry could see was a knife-like glint. 'You trust Dumbledore far too much, Mister Potter. Let me ask you a few questions. They're perfectly innocent, but they will prove to you whose opinions are more... well. Trustworthy is too strong a word. Let us say accurate.'

Harry wanted to bolt out of the room. A nausea was welling up in him. The warmth of this room was suddenly to stifling--the red too bright--the sofa encompassing him too hot. The carpet was a river of blood. But you'll stick in here, said a voice in his head. Because if you don't, he'll kill you--and you know that, don't you. Negotiations at gun-point. Another part of him was laughing hysterically. Wand-point, Mister Potter! Wand-point! Then he remembered that Malfoy didn't need to use wands. A banshee's last scream...

'Ten questions should be sufficient, Mister Potter.'

The room echoed with Harry's silence.

'Question one. Draco tells me you have an Invisibility Cloak--that he saw your... disembodied head... in Hogsmeade last year, when you should have been at Hogwarts. Am I right?'

Harry froze. He wasn't going to answer. He wasn't going to. What was the point? What did this have to do with anything--and why should he say anything about his father's gift?

A long silence. Firelight reflected off the edge of Malfoy's glass; he had picked it up again. The wizard was watching him blandly--silver eyes quite empty. When he spoke, his voice held only a touch of impatience. 'If you don't cooperate, Potter, I assure you that I can retrieve the answer straight out of your pretty little head. But that would hardly prove my point to you, would it? Keeping silent isn't helping anyone.' A languid swirl of green spirit. 'Not you.' Glass barely touching smiling lips. 'And certainly not me.'

Out of my head... The Cloak doesn't have to do with anything. Innocent questions, he said. This looks innocent--Harry's inner voice snorted--But he isn't. Another silence, but this time Harry could feel Dark magic gathering around the man. The room grew hotter. He knows I can feel it. He's telling me: I can take it right out of your head if I want to. Right out of your head. The magic was Malfoy's way of flexing his muscles, with full assurance that Harry was watching. Negotiations at gun-point, huh? Speak now or forever hold your peace.

'I... yes. You're right. I do have an Invisibility Cloak.'

Malfoy nodded in satisfaction--and Harry immediately felt the relaxing of Dark magic that had begun to gather around the man. 'Good. Second question. Did you use this Cloak in any fashion while retrieving the Philosopher's Stone?'

Harry paused again--but he didn't wait for the gathering of the other man's power this time. 'Yes.' There. I'm telling him no more than that.

It seemed to be enough. 'Very well then. Third question. How did you sneak out of Hogwarts when you were supposed to be banned from Hogsmeade?'

'I used my fa--I used the Marauder's Map. It helps... er... certain students see secret passages out of Hogwarts, and where other people are so they can be avoided.'

'Fourth question. If your... map could reveal hidden things, could it also reveal your position while you were using the Invisibility Cloak?'

Despite himself, Harry was becoming curious. Where was the man going with this bizarre series of questions? 'Yes.'

'Fifth question. I take it that the Marauder's Map is hardly what one would call an incredibly complex magical device, if it was meant to be used for children's pranks. Would you agree that Dumbledore has infinitely more power than that little product of juvenile mayhem?'

'Yes.'

'Sixth question. Do you believe that Dumbledore wishes to protect you and not exploit you--that is, do you believe he would never place your life in danger if he could prevent it?'

How dare he say that about the Headmaster! Harry clenched his teeth. 'Yes.'

Malfoy raised a sardonic eyebrow at Harry's anger. 'My, my. Rather defensive of the old coot, aren't we?'

'Don't you dare--'

'Quiet, Potter. Remove your blinders and try to follow the path of questioning. It might be within the reach of your intelligence. Seventh question. Do you agree that your life was in considerable danger when you attempted to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone?'

Harry nearly choked. What sort of stupid question was that? 'I nearly died. So did my friends.'

'So your answer is that your life was in danger.'

'Yes.'

'Eighth question. Do you believe that your attempt to recover the Philosopher's Stone went unnoticed by Dumbledore?'

'Of course. I mean--I already said he'd never put me in danger. I was stupid, I thought I was the only one who knew, who could stop Snape--I mean, I thought it was Snape--from getting the Stone. If the Headmaster knew about me, he would have tried to stop me. Or help, at least. But he didn't know. I used the Invisibility--' Harry froze. Oh. No. That couldn't be right. But did Dumbledore...?

Malfoy's smile flashed like a triumphant knife. 'I see that you are already beginning to see where you contradict yourself, Mister Potter. You said yourself that the Invisibility Cloak couldn't hide your actions from the Marauder's Map, and that the Marauder's Map wasn't nearly as powerful as your Headmaster. If a toy like that could tell people where you went with the Cloak, Dumbledore knew--without a doubt--that you were after the Stone. And that your life was in danger.' A widening of that terrible smile. 'It's quite interesting, isn't it, to observe how the human mind lies to itself?'

No. No. No. This couldn't be right. The Headmaster wouldn't... he couldn't... he couldn't possibly. No. Quickly Harry ground out, 'Dumbledore wasn't there.'

'When you went--'

'Yes. When I took Ron and Hermione to fetch the Stone. We asked Professor McGonagall--told her the Stone was in danger. She said the Headmaster wasn't there. So he couldn't have known after all.'

But Malfoy's smile didn't fade. Harry felt a chill clench his heart. 'Don't tell me even Gryffindors can be so simple-minded, Potter. Ninth question. If you were in the Professor's position, and the Boy Who Lived--the vanguard of your whole ideology and the only one to survive the Dark Lord--came to you and said that he could sense danger to an important magical artifact that could grant unlimited power to Voldemort--would you just brush it away and not tell the Headmaster?'

'I... I don't know. Maybe...'

Malfoy hissed. 'Answer the question, Potter.'

'Y-Yes. I suppose I would at least mention it.' Even by fire, if need be... to tell the Headmaster as soon as possible...

'Good. Not to mention that your beloved Headmaster had already set up defenses for the protection of the Stone, meaning that he already knew it was in grave danger. Wards that would have alerted him immediately to any presence near it--even one as well-intentioned as yours. And that--unless he was mad--he wouldn't leave Hogwarts when the Stone had already been attacked at Gringotts. And another fact--courtesy again of my son--that Dumbledore turned up precisely in time to retrieve both yourself and the Stone after your success in capturing it--almost as if he were there all along, observing you. Waiting for the completion of your task. Considering this last fact, answer me your tenth and last question.'

Oh, God. I can't take this. Let me out of here. Let me out of here. Let me out...

'Do you believe that there are instantaneous methods of travel--floo powder and apparation among them--that could have enabled Dumbledore--even if he was away, which I know he wasn't--to come to your rescue much earlier? Since he had been alerted, even if he was away--either by McGonagall or by one of the many wards around the Stone.'

Harry was shaking--hands clenched on the arms of the sofa.

'Once again, I must insist that you answer the question, Mister Potter. If you are to consider it without emotion--with only the help of your rational mind, if you have one--what would your answer be? Would you honestly say that Dumbledore had your safety chiefly in mind?'

This is the tenth and last question. He hid it... in that other question... But this is it. He wants me to say... He wants me to think that...

'Dumbledore used you, Potter. Didn't he? Rather like a curious experiment--to see how far you could be pushed, to see what benefits you could yield. And you did yield, Potter. Like a little Gryffindor Golden Goose. The Philosopher's Stone! The secret to immortality! With no thirst for it yourself... rather a sweet child, so willing to give its own life for the selfish purposes of another. A perfect little scapegoat--a mere innocent with such magical power. Why not use it, Dumbledore thinks? Why not test his loyalty--see if he's really mine, this young Dark wizard--and if he's worth keeping? If he dies, he wasn't worth it--but if he lives, oh Merlin. If he lives, I have myself my own miniature toy soldier. Good, noble, ignorant Gryffindor. Powerful enough to defeat Voldemort. Powerful enough to past the test. Stupid enough to pass the test. Stupid enough to keep being used.'

Harry had folded his arms over his head. He wasn't listening. He wasn't. He rocked back and forth on the sofa--back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Please stop, please stop, please stop...

But the smooth voice ran on and on--never stopping, ever more cruel, ever more relentless. 'Do you imagine that he couldn't have destroyed the Stone before? That he didn't know--at the very moment of the attack on Gringotts--that the Dark Lord wanted it, and that it was a dangerous thing to keep? No? But then he puts it in Hogwarts. Supposedly to protect it--and then vanishes, leaving the whole place unsupervised. Places it right under the nose of a pesky little Boy Who Lived, who thinks he can save the world armed with an Invisibility Cloak. Of course, Dumbledore keeps all this enough of a secret that Voldemort comes right up to the back door, knocks, and enters. With Harry Potter waiting on the other side--the provincial lamb to the slaughter. Except, of course, that the lamb lives and proves itself ever-faithful to everyone's favorite Shepherd of Light. Albus.' Malfoy spat. 'Dumbledore.'

Tears burned in Harry's eyes. His throat had closed up on itself. His mind was a screeching swarm of rage, of denial, of grief--he cast about for a reason why. He cast about--cast about--for a way that Dumbledore couldn't have known. For a way that proved his Headmaster cared. That McGonagall cared. That anyone cared.

There was a clink of glass, and Harry looked up through his tears at Malfoy's chalice. It was empty now--stained with smoky green--the outer surface shining despite the mist within. Malfoy himself was no longer reclining. He had placed the glass on a table and was leaning forward, studying Harry intently.

It occurred to Harry that the man's face was not unkind. It wasn't kind either. It was implacable. A note of triumph had warmed his hard voice, but the eyes remained as cold as ever. Grey eyes that guarded secrets like sentinels--those eyes--were now telling him the truth. The tongue was a whiplash. Cutting pain over Harry's body, Harry's mind--the knowledge of betrayal sinking deeper within him at each word the wizard spoke. The words were cruel. The words were the most painful Harry had ever heard, because they put everything--everything--in doubt. That the one who had helped him... that the one who was supposed to protect him... that Dumbledore...

But the words were true. As he bent his head again and kneaded his fists against it, crying, Harry Potter suddenly knew it with sharp and painful clarity. The words were true. Dumbledore had known. He had let Ron, Hermione, and Harry risk their lives--while they thought they were saving the world, they were in fact... Oh God. He'd been so stupid, risked everything... And Dumbledore had known. Dumbledore had fucking known.

Lucius Malfoy had proven his point--with Harry's own words, with Harry's own thoughts. So he won after all, Harry thought with a burning bitterness. Not trustworthy, he said. Accurate. That's what he said he was, wasn't it? More accurate. Grief lashed him from within and without. He tugged his hair painfully, wire frames digging into his temples.

And all the while his enemy sat opposite him, watching him silently--as impassively as someone watching the rain outside. Frigid. Indifferent. Watching the Boy Who Lived cry, curled like a child on a sofa twice his size.

Malfoy didn't offer him comfort. Malfoy didn't offer him love. But through the haze of rage and grief, Harry knew that Lucius Malfoy had provided him with the one thing Dumbledore had not.

The truth.

* * *

Game. Set. Match.

The field was his again. Mine, Potter.

The small body was wracked with sobs--arms wrapped tightly around itself--dark head pressed tightly against thin knees.

Mine.

Lucius' hand stroked the velvet of the sofa as he watched the Boy Who Lived shudder like a wounded animal. Quivering as if struck by a blow. Sweat dampened dark curls at the nape of his neck. Lucius' eyes hungrily devoured this delicious, almost sensual sign of exhaustion. Of defeat.

The fire was burning low now. A smothering vacuum had eaten the room whole--even Potter's dry sobs couldn't quite break the silence.

He's cried long enough. Lucius had little patience with tears; he never shed any himself. Necessity had kept him from needling Potter further--the results of his interrogation had to have time to sink in, rather like a painful drug. Potter had to understand that Lucius was offering him the truth--he had to endure its passage through his system. With tears, if necessary.

But it was time for tears to stop.

Lucius rose from his sofa and walked over to the child. Immediately he felt a rush of magic around him--heating him from head to toe. Potter jerked back as well.

So. The effects of our little encounter haven't worn off yet.

Potter's sobs had stopped immediately when he sensed Lucius' proximity, although a small hiccup shook the shoulders from time to time. He refused to look up.

Lucius considered what he should say. He couldn't offer comfort--that would be ludicrous. He couldn't insult either--that would be pushing too far. Between the two, Lucius wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do. The boy's back was tense with expectation, arms wound tightly around drawn-up legs.

So, against his better judgment, Lucius reached out and took Potter's chin in his hand. Look at me, Lucius thought to him. Show me that you are defeated. Show me what you feel.

A peculiar hunger raced through him. Gently, he lifted Potter's face.

And caught his breath.

Potter had bitten his lips. Savagely. A deep cut marked the lower lip, clotted with blood. The entire mouth was bruised and red. Lucius felt tempted to run his fingers over it and see if it pulsed. The child's face was hot with tears--skin moist and slipping under his fingers. Lucius gripped the jaw harder, but Potter didn't wince. His eyes were a dull, fractured green--utterly unlike the sunlit emerald they had been previously. Lucius couldn't read anything in them.

Sighing, Lucius released him. 'Our negotiations aren't over yet, Potter. I merely gave you the background information you needed before considering my offer. I suggest you save your tears for later.'

To his surprise, the boy replied. Voice hoarse and unstable enough to be unrecognizable. Exhausted. 'Why did you tell me?'

'Tell you what, Potter? About your magic? Or about Dumbledore?'

Potter stared at him dully.

Both, then. 'As I said, I was merely preparing you to hear my offer. And I was not revealing anything you would not have discovered for yourself, in due time.' He inclined his head to study Potter's reaction. There was none. 'You are Dark--whether you like it or not. But you will like it, when the time comes. We always do.' Lucius smiled briefly at the disgust that flickered across the boy's face. 'And Dumbledore... you would have discovered him eventually, as well. Probably too late, if you had stayed with him. Betrayal always is a dish best served cold.'

'What do you plan to do with me?'

Oh, he's trying to be brave. But look how his voice shakes. Lucius stroked the boy's face again before releasing it. 'Why, use you, of course. Just as Dumbledore did. But,' and at this his voice hardened, 'there is one key difference. You will know that you are being used. I will take pains to ensure that you do--at every turn, at every moment. I will not lie to you about what I wish to gain from you, and how I plan to gain it. We will have an agreement that makes my use of you not only consensual, but also to your benefit.'

He could see a sardonic glimmer in Potter's otherwise dull eyes--a startlingly adult expression for one so young. 'So you're going to use me. Like everyone else. And it's so nice of you to let me know about it.' Potter's hands tightened on his own arms. A defensive posture. 'Why? What can I give you?'

What can you give me, Potter?

Lucius looked over the small form, pressed back against the sofa as if in denial of its existence. Black hair hung limply over a pale forehead, hiding the famous scar. Red-rimmed eyes gazed back tiredly. The delicate mouth was torn and bloodied--would be warm salt to the taste. Face glistening with sweat and tears.

A sight to inspire hunger in any hunter, so prey-like did the child seem. All curled up on crimson velvet--a bundle of tired limbs and tender skin.

But he isn't prey, Lucius. Not anymore. He's something quite valuable, isn't he?

His words came back to him. I will not lie to you about what I wish to gain from you, and how I plan to gain it. And so he spoke. 'You, Harry Potter, are possessed of more than an ability for Dark Magic. You are also gifted with--', cursed with, '--the ability to activate the Dark Mark.'

Potter's gaze sharpened at that. 'What do you mean?'

Lucius raised a contemptuous eyebrow as he moved back to his seat. 'Oh, don't be coy, Potter. That little trick you pulled with me this morning, subsequently depriving us of both our breakfasts.' It hurt to make light of what happened--Lucius didn't know why, but it felt like he was demeaning himself. But the boy wasn't to know that. Can't be allowed to know it. Lucius smiled tightly. 'You must know that the Dark Mark is a sign of the Dark Lord--given exclusively to those in his inner circle. He should be the only one to activate it.'

He saw Potter hesitate--the slack expression coming to life with distrust and fear. 'H-How... I mean... You're saying that I...'

'Activated it, yes, Potter. When activated it attempts a transferal of magical energy--from the Marked to the Marker--giving both participants considerable pleasure in the merging of their magics.' Lucius' mouth twisted in a grimace. 'Of course, Voldemort is more than happy to drink the power of his followers. Not only does this pursuit prove pleasurable, but it also allows his followers to form a stronger bond with him--sometimes willing, mostly not. But binding nevertheless.'

A vague horror began sifting through Potter's mask of exhausted shock. 'No... wait. You mean I... drank you?'

Lucius froze. His pulse quickened before he realized how ridiculous it was to let that innocent little statement affect him. The child couldn't possibly know what it meant... 'Yes. My magic.' My essence. You tasted it, Potter, and you don't even know what it was. That you needed it--that you enjoyed it. It was almost an insult. It was--

The boy was quiet. It startled Lucius to see how old his face looked. Much older than a mere fourteen--so bitter and so, so tired. What was even more surprising was that Potter hadn't given up. That he was sitting here, looking considering all of a sudden--as if weighing the pros and cons of Lucius' words. As if his mind insisted on doggedly trying to understand his predicament, even though both heart and body were exhausted. Lucius was beginning to get used to Potter's abnormal ability to recover from blows.

Such determination for one so young. Almost admirable, really. Quite ridiculously Gryffindor.

When Potter spoke, his voice was no longer shaking. He fixed Lucius with a gaze that managed to be both young and jaded. 'So what you're saying is that I am... as powerful as Voldemort.'

Not a poor mind after all. 'You activated the Mark he gave me. Thus at least as powerful as Him, yes. If not more.'

'Then why can't I get out of here?' A frustrated cry. Tears building up again.

'Don't be a fool, Potter. What you have is raw magic--and even that hasn't Emerged completely. You have yet to learn how to channel it. What you have now is...', beautiful, Lucius wanted to say. 'Extraordinary. But it is unformed. It is as useless as any raw element--it must be tamed, disciplined, and formed into spells. Until then you will be able to do little else than sensing Dark, and calling to others who have It.'

'Is that why I'm... useless without my wand?'

'Quite. You're still trapped in the somewhat childish use of wands that Light wizards have, because they cannot merge with their magic deeply enough to concentrate it within themselves. They have to focus it through tailor-made instruments--mostly wands or sigils or talismans.'

'You make it sound like they're less powerful.'

Lucius couldn't hide his contempt. 'They are. Unfortunately, they are also more plentiful--and infinitely more stupid.'

Potter didn't look convinced. Lucius smirked. 'You'll have plenty of time to discover that for yourself, Potter. In the mean time... we had best return to the terms to our arrangement.'

He noticed that the boy was still shaking. Whether it was fear or anger or mere exhaustion was not clear. To lose a mentor, an identity, and a sense of moral superiority--all in one day. Lucius didn't feel pity. He'd been through worse, much worse, than this child. And at a younger age.

But it wouldn't do to have a weak ally. Lucius' noticed Potter's glass of milk--half-full, and quite cold by now no doubt. He reached out and touched it, slowly warming it with his magic.

Potter was looking at him with wide eyes. Something of a child's nature had returned to them. A kind of awe. 'That's... another Dark spell?'

Lucius quirked his mouth in amusement. 'Nothing quite so structured as a spell, Potter. More like... a tendril.' He extended the glass cordially. 'It may do you good to finish it.'

He was right. Potter's shivers subsided after a few sips of milk. Lucius watched with a mixture of disdain and wonder. He really is a child. And I...

'Why are you being so... Why are you being so polite?'

A surprising question. And yet... of course, he wasn't being kind. Potter was intelligent enough to see that. 'I am polite, as you call it, because of your talents.'

'But you said they're useless.'

Lucius hissed in impatience. 'But not without potential. I was informing you of your need to be educated in Dark Magic--that is, if you are ever to make use of your potential.'

'What if I don't want to?'

'Make use of your potential? Don't be such a fool, Potter. You can't escape the Dark anyhow--you should know it by now. It will slowly drive you mad if you try. You need to be taught. By someone who knows how, by someone who is interested in the full realization of your power.'

Realization dawned slowly in the boy's eyes. 'You... you want to teach me?'

Lucius folded his arms. 'Yes.'

'Why?'

'For various reasons. Because it may be useful. To have support from one as powerful as you. Not to mention that when you Emerge, you will quite likely turn the world into a place well-suited for my habitat. Even if you disagree with me on certain key matters.' Lucius got up from his couch again. He felt the inexplicable need to pace.

'What makes you think I'll support you? What makes you think I won't up and run?'

'I only plan to teach you defensive spells to begin with. You will be unable to attack me or to escape in any way, until I am sure you are ready.'

'What's the use, then, if I can't attack?'

'To kill, Potter?'

A frown. 'That's not what I...'

'I know that's not what you meant. But that's what it will mean. Of course. When the time comes, you will learn that too. Perhaps from me. Perhaps from yourself.'

'I'll never join you, you know. Never.'

The resolution in the boy's voice was displeasing. And short-lived. Lucius felt his eyes narrow in annoyance. 'It is futile to predict the future, Potter. Although you may cast calculated bets. As I do. And I assure you that the chances of your joining me, as you put it, are far greater than you think.' He paused. 'Currently, you need not know the reasons for my teaching you. That I will reveal tomorrow, after you have thought about my offer. As for today... Think, if you like, of the uses you could put your magic to. You could battle the Death Eaters. Help your old friends--if they'll have you for what you are. Or,' Lucius stepped closer, 'You could do the right thing. What you think of as morally right may not be what it seems, Potter. As my student you will learn of many things. Not the least of all being where your loyalties really lie. As a wizard of Dark. As a representative and harbinger of wild magic.'

'Go to hell,' Potter snarled. His voice was like a slap.

Lucius stiffened in anger. 'You're already there, boy. Hell. With me as your guardian angel.' He kept his voice schooled despite his growing irritation. 'There is little you can do to resist me. I have been courteous with you today. Considerate. True, I have been the bearer of bad news...', he stepped yet closer, 'But surely you know better than to harm the messenger.' Curls of magic warmed around him as he drew near.

Finally, he was in front of Potter--robes brushing the velveteen sofa. The boy stared up at him, gaze unnervingly direct. Challenging. He isn't nearly as afraid of me as much as he should be. Lucius felt rage stir him again--despite everything, this stupid child was proving uncooperative. Despite his own calling to Dark and the revelation of Dumbledore's treachery. Despite Lucius' deliberate and careful honesty. Ungrateful little brat.

'I knew it. It's all a bloody sham, isn't it.' Potter's voice began as a furious whisper, but rose steadily. 'What the fuck do you think I am? Just because... just because...' Jaw set in fury, throbbing. 'You... you told me you were negotiating. Making an offer. Like bloody hell. You wanted to force me all along. That's what you want, isn't it? Why the fuck are you pretending then? Telling me all this I didn't need to know! You just want to use me, like... like everyone else.' A trembling breath--fists white-knuckled. 'Just use me then. Don't pretend to be polite. Beat your bloody lessons into me. Just use me!' His voice rose to a shout.

* * *

Harry fell back against the sofa, panting. He felt drained. The anger and grief had been building in him, slow as black poison... And now it had erupted out of him, leaving him gasping and empty. But no. It was building up again... like an infected wound, filling him with venom. The knowledge that he had been betrayed, and he was going to be used, again... Again...

Oh fuck. In a corner of his mind Harry knew he should stop. The man was looming over him--heat of robes and magic close enough to touch. Grey eyes narrowed to a hot, molten silver. Rage trembling in every line of his body. A man not used to being spoken to like this, and Harry knew it. I'm pushing him too far, too far... But Harry's despair was building, and Malfoy was going to use him... use him... 'What makes you think I need your help anyway? I've done wandless magic before. When my cousin hurt me. When my uncle... I made glass vanish, you know? I could do it. And I didn't need you. I don't. So go fuck yourself.' Malfoy flinched as if slapped--pale face contorting with rage.

'I don't need you at all. Do I? This is all just a fucking game for you. I know I've got the power. I feel it. You wanted me to admit it, right? There. I've said it. I feel it. That I'm a bloody freak. That I'm more powerful than you...' Oh, he was pushing it now... 'I was more powerful than you this morning. When I touched your Dark Mark. I felt it, you know. I was stronger than you. Better than you. I was controlling you. I -- Ah!'

Harry gasped as hard hands whipped out and crushed his--moved up to grind his wrists painfully against the sofa, until he could feel the wood underneath. Harsh breath heated his face. Malfoy had swooped down like a vulture, black robes billowing soundlessly. Long hair brushed Harry's face as the man leaned close, radiating heat--smelling of smoke and brimstone and magic and pain... Harry felt fear strike him at that scent. The look on Malfoy's face almost predatory--eyes mere slits of blazing metal. Harry winced as thumbs found the nerves on his wrists and pressed down.

Malfoy's mouth--that had been clenched hard--turned up a little at this sign of Harry's pain. As if smelling his fear, longing to taste it... Shit. You've done it now... Magic jolted through him at the proximity of the man. The mouth was too close to his. Too close. Harry tried to move away, but the hands held him in place. Breath feathered his face as the man began to whisper--voice hoarse and hot and shaking with fury.

'Don't dare...'

* * *

'Don't dare claim power you do not have--or deserve. I can do anything I want to you, boy, and see what power you have to stop me.' Lucius leaned down until he could taste Potter's breath--soft and hot and scented with milk. A mere child's breath. It brushed his face in quick, frightened gusts. He felt his gaze drawn to the bitten, wounded lips--set firmly in defiance. Lucius trembled with wrath. Still insolent. 'Anything I want, Potter.' To break that rebellious little mouth... He leaned even closer. Nearly brushing lips. Feeling the quiver of air. The heat of the child's body was close, so close... Soft and tender and so so brittle. 'Anything. I. Want.'

Then his mouth was jammed against the boy's, forcing it open--tongue thrust into hot, milk-laden sweetness. Craving the salt tang of saliva underneath. Teeth biting--tearing--raping the small mouth with bruising force. -What are you doing, Lucius?- A shudder of terror flooded him, tinged with rage--a deep gnawing hunger--and he swallowed the other's tongue whole, sucking at it. Potter's wrists struggled beneath his hands. Through the pads of his fingers Lucius felt the fierce, frantic beating of pulse. Violent tremors shook the small body. Hips arched. A strange keening rose from Potter's throat--a sound strangely like pain--somewhere between plea and protest. Lucius snarled and pulled back as if burned.

There was a thick, pulsing silence in which Lucius could hear the hammering of his heart. Over it, barely audible, were Potter's desperate gasps for breath.

He didn't look at Potter's face. His hands were shaking, so he thrust them into his cloak and turned away, hair falling to hide his face. He ran his tongue over his mouth and tasted blood. Milk and blood. Potter's lips must have torn again.

Finally he turned. Potter's hand was shielding his mouth--wide green eyes staring at him with a mingling of horror and pain. The boy was trembling--and from the he was sitting, Lucius could see that he was hard. Terrified. Erect. Defeated.

Lucius observed all this with cold eyes, even though beneath his skin scorched a fire that threatened to burn him out. His tongue still tingled with hunger. Potter's magic surged toward him like a wave. He took a quick, unsteady step away from the boy. Sweat creased between his fingers, still shaking. Thoughts refused to gather themselves--flitted like pages in a useless, shattered storm. He stared at Potter's folded legs--slender under the static of silk. Muscles taut and trembling.

He surprised himself when his voice emerged perfectly calm. Perfectly cruel, perfectly contemptuous--honed by years of discipline. Barely out of breath. He heard himself as if from far away.

'Magic by itself is nothing, Potter. Do not make the mistake of imagining your power greater than mine. Power lies in the use of magic--as in the use of any other tool. All you have is a weapon. It is useless without the knowledge of how to wield it, and where it is most likely to draw blood.' He turned away. 'Dinner will be sent up to your room. I suggest you eat your fill and then pursue the cause of sleep. You should be well-rested by dawn. Our lessons begin tomorrow.'

But Potter's voice stopped him before he left. Shaking--surprisingly deep. With just a trace of anger in it. More than a trace of fear. 'This isn't... part of the... deal... is it?'

Lucius' hands clenched. That question didn't deserve an answer. Without turning to face the boy, he forced out two words in a grating, carefully even voice. 'Finite incantatem.'

Behind him, the warmth of the room flickered into darkness. He knew that the red carpet had faded into a cold stone floor--that the mantelpiece was no longer honey-colored wood but a jagged, glistening cut of dark granite.

He left Potter sitting on a large leather sofa, in fireless blackness. A poisonous chill spread through him as he thought of the boy sitting there. The illusion destroyed, the comfort gone, aching with the force of his assault. Wrists bruised, mouth stinging. Room filling with the sounds of shallow breaths.

Lucius closed the door gently--knees nearly giving way at the pull of Dark from within. He didn't light the sconces in the hallway as he quickly stumbled his way through--supporting himself against the walls. His hands burned against the cold, cold stone.

The boy could find his own way back to his room.

* * *


Then the man's steel voice spoke. Harry could almost feel it, pressed like the flat of a blade against his face.

'Finite incantatem.'

Cold and brutal. The words were not what Harry expected. They were not what Harry wanted. They were a denial and an insult at once--and yet, at the same time, a peculiar offer of truce.

The sofa became cool, unyielding leather--the carpet disappeared to reveal a flawlessly cut, even stone floor. The fire flickered out to leave him in darkness.

A soft click announced that Malfoy had closed the door. His absence pulled a strange, unsatisfied throbbing from Harry's skin. Raw magic gathered and stung the bruises on his wrists as if thirsty for the hands that had hurt them.

For the second time that day, Harry felt tears burn his eyes. But this time... He leaned his head back against the sofa and let out a low, breathy moan.

This time he didn't cry.

***To Be Continued***