'If Thine Enemy...'

{ If Thine Enemy... }

Chapter Eight: How Thin the Veil

Ah, to think how thin the veil that lies
Between the pain of hell and Paradise.
- George William Russell, Janus

His room wasn't dark anymore. He stumbled in unsteadily, head snapping up in shock at the sight of a lit fireplace. Hadn't Malf... Hadn't the man told him there wasn't a fireplace in this room? Or did it just appear now that Harry needed it? It hadn't been there before... maybe this wasn't his room after all. But no. Everything else was the same. That was his bed, rumpled over there. It looked strange in the firelight, wavering...

Nothing seemed real anymore. Maybe the wizard had lied to him. About the fireplace. Just to get him to leave... to follow him to the other room...

It didn't matter. The memory of that room made him sick. Those beautiful, Gryffindor colors... the room had been a jewel of gold, warm to the touch and to his soul. But it was all just a charade. Beneath the warm carpet was cruel, dark stone... Beneath the man's cold fingers was hidden the heat of claws, gripping him... That smirking mouth had hidden a tongue like a knife. It had cut him like a hot blade. A tongue like... a tongue like a...

Nothing was real.

The door to the bathroom swam before his eyes. He had to strip. He didn't know why, but he had to... get rid of these clothes... he had to bathe... get rid of that man's hands on him.

In a mad frenzy, Harry began unbuttoning his shirt--ripping the buttons when they took too long. Dry sobs wracked him, but no words came out--he couldn't form any. His mind was a black storm. He pulled down his trousers--kicked them aside. Pulled off his underwear. He was hard. His erection was a twist of hot, hungry agony between his legs. He had to get that man's touch off him. Off.

The sharp edges of the bathroom hurt his eyes. Too much light. Harry wished he could put it out--the room was charmed to light itself whenever someone took a bath. But he didn't want the light. He didn't want to see himself. His arms, his knobby elbows. His trembling legs. His... He didn't want to see how hard he was.

But he stared at his wrists. They still burned. His eyes widened and ragged gasps escaped him when he saw the Dark around them. Twin rings of smoky black, writhing about his wrists like shackles, stinging his skin. But it wasn't the other man's magic that bound him. Harry's knees hit the bath-tub as he stumbled in shock. The magic was his. Still eager... still hungry for another's Dark. It fed on the memory of the wizard's fingers on his wrists--sinking hot little teeth into the skin there, sending sparks of pleasure and pain straight to Harry's groin.

Harry didn't look at the mirror. When he turned to the tub it was already filled with steaming water--magicked to just the right level. He took off his glasses with trembling hands and placed them on the edge of the tub, lowering himself shakily--banging his knees against the sides. The hot water burned his legs. He gasped when the heat of it lapped between his thighs--slid along his erection like a warm tongue.

And then he remembered. He had to wash.

The water just reached his knees. He plunged his wrists into it, hissing as the heat only made them burn worse. But he had to get that touch off of him... Shutting his eyes tightly, he dunked his head. Rippling heat scorched his face--tore at his lips as if with claws. He pulled back quickly at the sting, shocked to see a hazy pink spreading through the water. Little curls of... blood?

His hair had clotted into thick black ropes that swung before his eyes. Everything beyond them was blurry. Harry raised his fingers tentatively to touch his mouth--winced at the stab of pain. The skin of his lips felt raw, burnt, painfully sensitive. He could feel a flap of skin torn from the lower lip, leaving a burning triangle of flesh. He stared at his fingers when he removed them. They came away red and slick with blood.

The bastard... He *bit* me!

But the thought only made his erection throb harder. Harry grit his teeth. The blood had diluted between his knees now--a delicate, curling pink. He stared at it, and began trembling as if with cold--even though the water was so hot. He raised his bloodied hand to his mouth again. He opened his lips and let his tongue taste it--his own blood, tingling with Dark both his own and Malfoy's. Malfoy's. He closed his eyes. Suddenly, he realized that his other hand had worked its way under the water, until wet heat lapped around his elbow. His fingers sought and found... No. Harry choked back a sob. NO!

But his hand was already moving--he couldn't stop. He stroked feverishly, harshly, as if to punish himself. Rough enough to hurt. The stone of the bathroom echoed with his moans. They sounded incredibly loud in the small room, only the gentle slapping of water against the tub accompanying his movements, steady as heartbeat. He might have been saying something--sobbing, cursing--he didn't know. The light was orange through his closed eyes. He sped up until he was pulling at himself mercilessly--gasping at the force of it, such a contrast to the warm water stroking softly over his balls. A feeling somewhere between terror and ecstasy flooded him, and the flesh in his hand spasmed violently. His head fell back against the edge of tub and his mouth opened to let out a choked, horrified scream.

Silence rang through the room, shocked and impenetrable--as if the walls had swallowed the sound right from his mouth. Dimly Harry realized he'd sounded as if he'd been wounded.

Slowly, as if afraid of what the world might look like now, Harry opened his eyes. For a moment things were even more blurry than usual--but then he realized that his lashes were clumped with tears. He blinked to clear them. His hair clung to the sides of his face, slick and cold.

The silence seemed to have infected him. He could feel it swelling in his chest, filling him--pushing against his ribs. He couldn't breathe. He'd never come harder in his life.

Horror seemed to have left him--was replaced instead by a quiet, cooling tingle in his belly. His mind had gone silent--as if there were no more words left after the litany of curses he'd let forth. The water was lukewarm now, surrounding him like a womb. It cradled him gently. Harry felt as if he'd died--or as if he'd yet to be born.

He focused his eyes on the water. Between his twitching thighs, pearly white come floated in the fragile pink of his blood. It did look, Harry thought, like pearls. Pearls nestled in a very, very pale rose.

The Dark around his wrists was gone.

* * *

Farther along the same wing, in a room not too far away, Lucius Malfoy sat facing the fire. He was fully clothed--despite the fire's heat, and him being so close to it. His hands were clenched tightly on the arm-rests of his chair. Beneath his heavy cloak and tunic, sweat traced along his skin in thin, spidery threads. His booted feet were unmoving on the floor. His face was expressionless--only the roiling grey eyes, lit storm-like by the fire, gave any sign of torment. Only those eyes gave any sign that his clenched jaw meant anything other than contemplation. That it meant he was afraid to go to sleep--afraid to dream--of what he might dream. That he refused to touch himself--refused to admit defeat, to give himself kindness when what he needed was punishment. Punishment for being so stupid. Punishment for losing control. Punishment for letting the boy see it.

Damn you, Lucius.

And when Dark rolled towards him in a wave of ecstasy, along his link with the boy--when he felt Potter's orgasm hit him with the force of shattering glass, Lucius did nothing but dig his fingers harder into his chair, and bite his tongue until he tasted blood. He didn't even have the strength to fight it, the sensation of this stranger's orgasm crashing past the shields of his mind and flooding it. Of a foreign Dark unfurling in his veins like beautiful, black blood--a song of pain and paradise.

Lucius' eyes remained open. He didn't even blink. The muscles of his face now stretched taut, he desperately held onto the last strands of his control. He felt the boy's scream echoing in his chest as if it were his own. The magic of his mental shields floated in broken shards around him. His fingers were white with strain, and the blood in his mouth tasted nothing like it should have. Nothing like...

His eyes darkened with longing. A single bead of sweat slid down his temple into his collar, soaking an deeper black into the already dark cloak.

* * *

Morning, when it came, had the fragility of something broken and newly repaired. It slipped in through the window, touching Harry's face with pale, tentative fingers. It almost seemed afraid.

Harry blinked and shivered. He felt cold. The fire had burnt out with sunrise, and the sheets around him were unusually stiff. For a moment he wondered why, before remembering how he'd tumbled into bed still wet from his bath--numb, emptied, exhausted. The water must have dried on the sheets, stiffening them like starch. His mind had completely shut down.

Everything was so quiet. If Harry wanted, he could imagine that he was alone in this mansion in the middle of nowhere. That he didn't have to ever get out of bed--that he didn't have to face the day and whatever it brought. That he wouldn't have to face...

Prickles of cold ran up his arms. Harry still couldn't believe... everything that had happened last night. It all felt so unreal. If it wasn't for the strange bed, he really would think he was back at Hogwarts and this was all a dream... No. Not a dream. A nightmare.

He was too tired to do anything. To face Malfoy again. To face the facts he'd been told last night. To face his own feelings. He couldn't even be sure they were appropriate, any more. It was ridiculous. Laughable, even. Beneath his skin Harry felt like he'd been filled with glass--broken glass--that beneath his numb surface lurked all the grief, all the betrayal, all the rage he'd felt last night. How he'd wanted to tear Dumbledore's face open, wanted to beg for truth, wanted to cry and ask for comfort from the very soul who had betrayed him.

That he'd wanted to eat the man who had bitten his mouth, devour him, rake his fingers through long, blonde hair--beat him, hold him, kill him. Escape from him. Be hurt by him.

By Lucius Malfoy.

It was just wrong. So wrong and... grotesque. So foreign. Harry Potter couldn't feel this way. Not the Harry he thought he'd been. Was his mind even his own?

Nothing made sense any more. The world was torn, replaced, reworded. Harry felt like he'd been handed the script to an entirely different play than the one he was supposed to be acting in. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Albus Dumbledore, Harry's kind guardian. Cho Chang, lovely Ravenclaw. And Harry's true love. Harry felt like laughing, but he found his teeth were clenched. The world had gone stir-crazy on him--or else he had. How could he possibly take any of this seriously? Why shouldn't he just jump out these godforsaken windows--let the wards burn him before he hit the ground? What difference did it make? Everyone was staking a claim on him--Dumbledore, Lu--Malfoy. Everyone. They were all fucking butchers, and they wanted him to be their knife.

But only one of them had lied to him.

Somehow, Harry felt sure of that. That Malfoy was telling the truth. Because everything he said made sense, bloody, fucking, painful sense, and he wanted to kill the man for it... For telling him the truth...

The lie had been so much better.

Harry curled in on himself--wrapped his cold arms around his chest, felt his own heat. He didn't want to move. His body was stiff, his wrists sore, and his lips still painfully raw. His head felt heavy with shock and silence--like it was filled with wool. Morning was a curse. He didn't want to wake up.

He didn't want to think about the kiss. Was that even what it was? Kisses were supposed to be soft, sweet, like when he'd seen Percy kissing Penelope at last year's ball. But this... thing Malfoy had done to him--it had felt more like an attack, a revenge, a... an ambush. Or something. It had hurt, it had cut, it had made him fucking bleed... But it had also torn Harry open, in the centre of his being, where no one had touched him before. It had sent a shock of recognition and terror through him--unlocked a deep and never-ending chasm of hunger, a desire so powerful it was almost memory. It had elevated him, horrified him... But he'd still pushed up against the wizard. He had moaned needily, hips arching...

Harry flushed at the memory. He'd never been so hard in his life.

God. Why this? What did it even mean? Why did he feel it? Why did Malfoy kiss him? What... to shut him up? He could have just hit Harry... God, that would have been simpler. Much simpler. This just screwed everything up, and Harry wasn't even sure how it screwed everything up. Except that it did. Before he'd felt that it was only the Dark in him that was hungry... That it was hungry for Malfoy's magic, and that's why he'd felt the need to be closer...

But Harry wasn't even sure that was the only reason anymore. The reason that he'd liked it...

Fuck. Shut up already. It doesn't make sense, OK? It can't. It won't. It doesn't even mean anything. Malfoy was just pissed off. He's a sick, twisted man. Why the hell did he have to do this? To shock me even more? To break me?

But then Harry remembered the look in the man's eyes as he'd pulled away. Equal parts rage and hunger, need and hatred, lust and... fear? Why fear? The way the wizard's hands had trembled... The self-loathing on his face before he'd quickly turned away.

It hadn't felt like Malfoy was trying to hurt him... No, not just trying to hurt him. More like...

What? But he'd said he wouldn't do it again... Well... Malfoy hadn't said it, but when Harry had asked, he'd just seemed so angry. Harry wasn't sure if the wizard had been angry with himself, or with him, or if he'd just stopped when Harry made that sound, when Harry showed that he wanted it... Was he angry about that? Why would he be? Why would he even do it in the first place? It didn't make any sense.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Finally, Harry raised himself from the bed. He winced at the twinge of pain in his wrists--pale skin still blotched with bruises. Bastard.

He was too tired for this. His soul ached with exhaustion, with the need to just curl up, somewhere he didn't have to ask questions... Questions that flitted in his head like sharp-winged creatures, until his mind felt lacerated. It was all too much, too soon, and it was so crazy, that he still couldn't quite believe...

Believe it, Harry. You. Are. Harry mentally copied Snape's voice whenever a potion went wrong. In deep. Fucking. Shit.

He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. Deep.

Then his eyes fell on the fresh set of clothes at the foot of his bed, and his head snapped up in panic.

Today was his first lesson in the Dark Arts.

Shit.

* * *

The house-elf poured him tea in one of Narcissa's dainty little cups. A ridiculously delicate thing, so breakable that he almost felt obliged to mistreat it. Perhaps he would, unintentionally... Even though his fingers were steady this morning. It had taken nearly all night for them to stop trembling.

Lucius lifted the cup to his lips calmly as the elf disappeared. He leaned back in the chair in his study, contemplating the unlit fireplace. The events of yesterday seemed somehow distant, surreal...

Hot tea scorched his throat. Don't be fanciful, Lucius. You've been up the whole night thinking--let it go now. Just let it go. It was a foolish mistake--Merlin knows what possessed you--that damn boy--

The cup rattled on its saucer, and Lucius realized his hands were shaking again.

Damn it. Stop. Rationalize, Lucius. Rationalize. The boy's probably only more terrified.

He remembered the orgasm from last night.

Or not. But he'll think twice before challenging you again. Before belittling your power. This has only made him more vulnerable. Easier for you to shape.

Lucius ignored the voice in his head that commented he wasn't exactly immune either. Slowly, his hands steadied themselves. The tea pooled warmly in his belly, sending a strange sort of comfort along his nerves.

Just as he was raising the cup for a third sip, the fireplace suddenly roared into life.

He glanced up with a grimace. Who is it now? If it's Narcissa...

But it wasn't. The wards on the fireplace glowed, before a series of glittering words began writing themselves in the fire.

Draconis Lucius Malfoy, from the Hogwarts Slytherin Common Room

Lucius sighed, and debated for a moment. He was scarcely in the mood for communicating with his brat of a son, but Draco might have important information about the state of affairs at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore's response to Potter's disappearance.

'Very well.' He waved a hand irritably at the fire. Another word added itself:

Accepted.

The fire swirled, and after a moment the words disappeared.

Lucius folded his hands.

'Father?'

Draco's voice--drawling as usual, but without the insolence he'd had last summer. Good. The disciplining had its effect, then.

'Draconis,' Lucius acknowledged.

Another moment of swirling, and his son's face also appeared in the fire--along with his shoulders. Draco smiled. Such a picture of politeness.

'Father. It's good of you to see me this morning.'

Lucius looked away, and smoothed his robe casually. 'Indeed. I trust there is a reason for this intrusion?'

Draco's smile faltered. 'I... I thought you'd like some news, Father.'

Lucius looked back at this--his eyes narrowed. 'What news? Is it of any importance? If it's about Quidditch--'

His son's face tightened--Far too open, Lucius thought. Far too open for a Malfoy. 'No, Father. It's more important than that.'

The bitterness in that statement, thinly veiled as it was, wasn't lost on Lucius. His lips curled in a sneer. 'More important than Quidditch, indeed. And if it's so important, Draco, I trust you have taken the appropriate... measures?'

Draco's mouth thinned in indignation. 'Of course, Father. I placed all the shielding wards around the fireplace here. No one can see us or hear us. Not that there's anybody here anyway--they aren't even awake yet.'

Lucius' voice sharpened. 'That is of no consequence, Draco. You are to put up all the wards, as I taught you, every time you have to speak to me on weighty matters. And mind your attitude when you talk to me. You wouldn't want a repeat of the summer's punishment, would you?' His tone was not threatening, but the question itself was enough to make Draco blanch.

'O-Of course, Father. Do not be concerned with such paltry things. You'll be happy at my news...'

'Will I indeed.' Lucius was dry. There was a painful desperation to Draco's tone--why? Was it a hope for kindness? For approval? No. None of those. Simply a desire to escape punishment. Well. If he does not train his voice better, I might have to discipline him to do that, too... Hardly conducive to avoiding punishment.

'Father--' And here Draco's voice was excited, before he quickly evened it out to his polite drawl again. 'Father, Potter's gone missing.'

Lucius knew better than to feign surprise. He simply inclined his head--grey eyes cold and flat as always. 'Really. Disappeared. Where to?'

Draco seemed put out by his response. 'We don't know, Father. No one does. Everyone's got theories--'

'I'm not interested in theories, Draco. Nor have I time to waste on gossip. If Potter landed himself in the infirmary, it is hardly any of my concern.'

A surge of anger briefly lit Draco's eyes before he quickly hid it. Not fast enough, boy. Not *nearly* fast enough. 'He's not in the infirmary. In fact, he's not even at Hogwarts. Dumbledore himself said that.'

Ah. Finally. 'Now that is interesting,' Lucius admitted, his tone grudging. Just enough to lead Draco on.

It had the desired effect. 'Exactly, Father. Very interesting. When Potter didn't show up for breakfast after this Hogsmeade weekend, we just thought he'd drunk too much Firewhiskey.' Draco almost snickered here, but his father's cold gaze cut him short. 'Y-yes. So... he didn't turn up for lunch either. Or dinner. Or on Tuesday. The whole day, Father. None of the classes.'

Lucius took a sip from his tea. 'Go on.'

'Obviously, everyone thought he was ill--or that it had something to do with You-Know-Who.'

It was hard not to grimace at that childish avoidance of Voldemort's name.

'Potter's two friends--Weasley and the Mudblood--they looked worried. But then, yesterday, they disappeared too.'

Oh? Lucius almost sat up despite himself. Now this truly was strange... 'Continue, Draco.'

'Everyone got really worried. Well--the Gryffindors anyway. McGonagall was tighter than her bun. Even Snape looked constipated.' Another snicker cut short by Lucius' glare. 'And then, at dinner, Dumbledore got up. He said he apologizes for not telling us about this before, but he was busy ensuring Harry's safety.' Draco spat Potter's first name like it was a curse. 'He said not to worry--that Potter was alright, and his two little friends were alright too. They had a threat made against them by You-Know-Who. He said the Dark Lord was after all three of them, because of their being involved with the Philosopher's Stone.'

'How did he explain the two young friends disappearing a day after Potter?'

'He said that at first they thought the threat had only been for Potter... so they spirited him away somewhere safe. Somewhere the Dark Lord couldn't reach him. But then they figured that if You-Know-Who wanted revenge, he might come after brave little Granger and Weasley too... So they were sent away with Potter. To the same safe-house, wherever it is.'

'May I ask, then, why you and your Slytherin friends have... theories?' Lucius infused that word with as much contempt as possible. 'It seems Dumbledore has provided ample explanation for Potter's disappearance.'

'But that's just it, Father. It's such a good explanation. It makes sense, but... something isn't right. The way the staff's acting. And everybody knows the Mudblood and Weasley were just Potter's accessories. The Dark Lord won't bother going after them no matter how important Dumbledore says they were. Are.'

'I see.' Lucius swirled his remaining tea. He kept his expression calm and contemplative. 'Did Dumbledore say anything else?'

'No, Father. Just the usual. Another warning not to venture out of grounds, and that the next Hogsmeade weekend would be cancelled until Potter was safe. And then his cheerful "Eat up!" Not that the Gryffindors could eat anything that night...' And here an almost flawless Malfoy smirk.

Lucius set his cup down. 'If that is all, Draco, I believe it is time to end this conversation. Your dorm-mates will be waking up soon.'

Draco looked momentarily stricken. He'd obviously hoped for more approval, more excitement... 'Y-yes, Father. Of course.' He fell awkwardly silent, looking at his father with surprisingly open eyes.

Merlin. Will the boy never *learn*? 'What now, Draco?'

His son's voice was diffident, yet eager. 'I... Do we have anything to do with this, Father? Anything at all?'

Lucius cast a level, impenetrable stare at his son. 'Why Draco. Whatever could you mean by that?' His voice was utterly devoid of any inflection. Only those who knew him would recognize it as dangerous.

Draco's ears burned an embarrassed red. He should have known better than to ask about the Death Eaters. 'Sorry, Father. I meant nothing, of course.'

'As usual.' Lucius' tone was thick with disdain.

Draco flinched.

Perhaps it wouldn't do to leave the boy completely unrewarded for his efforts... Lucius sighed. 'You have done well to inform me, Draco.'

The young face lit up immediately, and was graced--almost painfully--by what seemed to be a genuine smile. 'Thank you, Father.'

Pretty, lying little boy. 'It was not a complement. It was a statement of fact. You have done well. Remember, however, that you are not to interrupt me again unless any major developments take place. I shall weigh matters here and decide what action--if any--needs to be taken. It is not your place to formulate theories, as you call them, or to circulate them among your friends. Do not offend the Headmaster, or Severus. Participate in that teenaged prattle only insofar as it is necessary--otherwise, keep a sharp ear out for any genuine information.' He paused.

Draco didn't seem extinguished by his father's strict tone. He nodded eagerly. 'Yes, sir. I'll inform you if anything happens to Potter.' He sounded pleasantly malicious as he said this. So happy in the misfortunes of his foe. He should know better. Anything that strikes an enemy can easily strike oneself...

Lucius inclined his head once more in farewell. 'Work hard as usual, Draconis. And do not let this event distract you from your studies.'

Before his son could retort, Lucius lifted his palm and blocked the transmission. The fire danced for a moment, as if in confusion, before Draco's face dissolved in flames. Lucius made a cutting motion with his hand, and the fire abruptly collapsed in a puff of dark smoke. The embers sizzled sullenly.

Closing his eyes, Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

So. This is how Albus wants to play it. All Voldemort's fault, all the time. Poor Potter hunted by the wolves again. Lucius could have laughed. Dumbledore was hardly much of a sheep himself...

And speaking of sheep. Lucius traced the thread of his tracking-spell back to Potter--the link so much stronger now, after the... incident... last night. The long thread of magic glimmered, and he traced along it carefully until he reached the deep, flickering Dark of Potter.

The boy was awake.

Lucius' eyes drifted open. A small smile curved his mouth, and he fingered the collar of his cloak absently. Awake, are we, Mister Potter?

He was pleased at the coldness that pervaded his soul--at the steadiness with which his hand summoned the house-elf again.

Conversing with his son was therapeutic for the ego.

He felt Potter move slowly, hesitantly, closer to Lucius along the tracking spell. He was walking to the study.

The elf finished laying breakfast out for the both of them. It almost reminded Lucius of that morning--

No. This time he would have the advantage. No more games. No more negotiating. For, with the coming of this day, his agreement with Potter came into full effect.

I hope you had a pleasant sleep, Potter. For today your lessons begin.

***To Be Continued***

Notes: When I mention Lucius' 'link' to Harry, I simply mean the tracking spell he had placed on Harry when he'd first brought him into the mansion. *However*, it is no longer merely a tracking spell. It has morphed and evolved after Harry activated Lucius' Dark Mark, and after Lucius kissed/attacked Harry. Since both of them possess such powerful Dark magic, and one of them (Harry) has yet to Emerge, the spell has changed into a deeper link between the two--which can, in moments of extreme pain or pleasure on the behalf of Harry (the un-Emerged), transfer the signal to Lucius (the Emerged). Hence Harry's orgasm hitting Lucius like a freight train. For Lucius, it is almost like being able to hear particularly loud sounds from a specific source.

Recall Harry's connection to Voldemort. This is *worse*, people. Because when Harry touched Lucius' Dark Mark, he was (for that period of time) drinking Lucius' magic. Remember what Lucius said about this in Chapter Seven. 'When activated [the Dark Mark] attempts a transferral of magical energy--from the Marked to the Marker--giving both participants considerable pleasure in the merging of their magics.' Thus Harry absorbed some of Lucius' power, strengthening the bond between them. Rather the way Voldemort keeps his hooks in his Death Eaters. Only things don't seem to be going usually for Harry... since he hasn't Emerged, his magic latches onto the physical proximity of Lucius (or any other Dark wizard right now--but especially Lucius because of the activated Dark Mark) to make its hunger feel known. It needs to Emerge, and every time Lucius touches Harry, it comes that much closer to Emerging. Harry's magic is looking for a mentor and/or lover to help it Emerge (you may re-read my older definitions of Dark in the A/N of the first Interlude). At the same time, it's not only about Emergence. Because of Harry's activating Lucius' Dark Mark, he already has a connection deeper than anything there should be before Emergence. This is partly the reason he can be so 'perceptive' about Lucius, and why Lucius can feel Harry's orgasm.

P.S. By Harry's 'absorbing' Lucius' power through the Dark Mark, I mean that he temporarily drank Lucius' magical reserves. Lucius isn't permanently weakened or anything (only his pride). That's why Harry couldn't even sleep after devouring Lucius' power--he had too much energy. Lucius, on the other hand, fell into bed like a comatose demon, because he'd been... er... 'sucked dry' magically speaking. For some time, he was magically weak. Feel free to re-read Chapter Five ('The Sick Rose') if you need confirmation of this. Don't worry about Lucius though... he's back to full capacity now. Back to tempting Harry's Dark with his mere presence. *grins*

I apologize to all the Draco-lovers out there (including myself!) for making Draco the way he is in this chapter. I'm sorry, but I *had* to show him through Lucius' disdainful, disciplinarian perspective--and I couldn't have Lucius doting over Draco as he does in some fics. The reason is simply that my Lucius is too cold, too distant--he has to be, if I want Harry to be the first to completely shatter his shields and emotionally disarm him. So... I kind of sacrificed Draco's pride for the sake of Harry's advances. Harry has to be the first person who disturbs Lucius emotionally--in either a positive or a negative way. Hope you don't mind. :)