Dirty Business

CHAPTER ONE

Harry blinked. Though he saw nothing in front of him, he didn't expect to, the sensation of closing and opening his eyelids seemed oddly surreal. After all, you don't blink when you're dead. Fuzzily, Harry realized that this was not as comforting as it should have been. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he didn't feel at peace at all and wasn't that what everybody, Muggles and wizards alike, insisted death be like?

Straining to wrap his oddly dilapidated mind around these thoughts, Harry opened his mouth. Only to find that he couldn't.

It was then that the events of the past day rushed back in a dizzying whirlwind, leaving Harry wishing he could go back to thinking this was the afterlife.

Shortly after arriving at the Weasleys' for Bill and Fleur's wedding, Harry had broken his word to Ron and Hermione. Enough people had suffered on his behalf; his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore, now even Mad-Eye Moody and Hedwig. He wouldn't allow his two best friends to become his next victims. So Harry had struck out on his own with virtually no clue where to start.

How long had he been away? Sometimes hours seemed like days, days like weeks. Honestly he had no idea. Occasionally he found out information, mainly from the feverish episodes accompanying his scar erupting in pain, but what he did learn was useful, though often frustratingly unclear. One particular piece of information continued to plague him however and this he'd learned, not from Voldemort's scattered thoughts, but the Daily Prophet. And no matter how unreliable they were at times, there was no way even Rita Skeeter could have misreported the following headline:

Severus Snape - New Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!

Every time Harry thought of Snape sitting sullenly in Dumbledore's chair, greasy hair surely smudging on the pristine wood behind him, his stomach clenched painfully and his blood boiled with fresh anger. Harry had sworn to himself that the first chance he got, Snape would pay. And then, last night, things had gone slightly pear-shaped.

He didn't remember much. Only one minute he'd been completely alone and the next, surrounded and attacked by multiple Death Eaters. And now he was here. Wherever here was.

Breathing steadily through his nose, Harry slowly assessed his situation, what he knew of it at least. First of all, he was alive. That right there seemed completely out of place. Choosing not to dwell on his good, or perhaps not so good fortunes, Harry attempted to move and found his hands and feet just as tightly restrained as his mouth. And naturally, his wand had been removed from his back pocket. Even though he was far from mastering non-verbal magic, with his wand he would've at least had a chance of releasing himself. But, as far as Harry knew, even Dumbledore and Voldemort hadn't mastered the ability to perform wandless magic; so there was little chance of that happening.

At that moment, harsh light suddenly invaded the inky blackness of the room, leaving Harry squinting and blinking rapidly. Eyes watering, he looked towards the source of the light and could make out a harsh silhouette against the doorframe, though the features were too obscured for Harry to make out through his blurry eyes.

"Get up, Potter."

The all-too-familiar voice, not to mention the easy use of his last name, left Harry with no question about who had been sent to retrieve him. Slowly Draco's pale features came into view. Harry narrowed his eyes and gestured towards his bound feet. Strangely refraining from comment, Draco raised his wand and the bindings fell away instantly, not only from Harry's feet but hands and mouth as well. Licking his cracked lips, Harry sat up, glaring at Draco who was beginning to look impatient, shifting from foot to foot and glancing nervously over his shoulder.

"I suggest you hurry," he snapped after a moment, turning away.

Harry followed behind silently. Something about Draco's manner didn't seem right to him. The arrogant Slytherin of the last six years would have been gloating cheerfully given the current situation but his expression had been anything but triumphant. In fact, Harry wasn't sure what his expression had been. As they walked onwards through the dreary house, he wondered darkly if Draco had been taking lessons from Snape on how to hide his emotions.

When at last they stopped, it was outside of two ornately furnished doors that were propped open, but not enough to see inside. Harry's heart thumped painfully in his chest and his stomach flip-flopped several times at the thought of stepping through, quite possibly to his death. Sensing his hesitation, Draco fell into step behind Harry, murmuring quietly as he passed, "He's not going to kill you."

Harry barely heard Draco's words however as he stepped through the threshold and came face to face with a pair of slitted red eyes.

Voldemort's snake-like face settled into a malicious smile while Harry's drained of all color and they stared at each other for several tense seconds. When Voldemort spoke, his voice was a hissing whisper. "Harry, how nice of you to drop in!"

A short spurt of humorless laughter filled the room and Harry belatedly realized he was surrounded by Death Eaters, some of whom he immediately recognized; Wormtail, Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy. They all were watching him intently, looks of triumph only outshone by their obvious hunger for Harry's death.

"Glad to oblige," Harry retorted, glaring back into Voldemort's eyes. The Dark Lord's grin slowly faded and he raised his hand, one long skeletal finger outstretched towards Harry's forehead. A strange look came over him as he slowly lowered his finger and Harry forced himself not to flinch away, preparing himself for the pain of contact. But it didn't come. Abruptly Voldemort turned away, black robes whirling around him and he began circling Harry.

"Do you know why you're still alive, Harry Potter?"

Harry stared straight ahead, having no answer at all but realizing he would soon hear it, whether he wanted to or not.

"You," Voldemort continued, addressing his followers just as much as Harry, "are going to be my new puppet. Dumbledore had his turn with you. Now it's mine."

Confused, Harry glanced at Voldemort despite himself. He had resisted the Imperius Curse before and he would sooner end up like Neville's parents than give in to torture.

"I'd rather die than help you," Harry ground out slowly.

Someone shouted and in the next moment he was writhing on the ground, every nerve ending firing simultaneously in agony.

"Enough," Voldemort said calmly, gesturing at someone.

Hazily Harry realized that one of the Death Eaters, not their leader, had cast the Cruciatus. Shakily, he rose to his feet, muscles still twitching uncomfortably. A coppery taste filled Harry's mouth and he absently spat the blood on the spotless marble floor.

Voldemort looked disdainfully at Harry. "I see Dumbledore didn't teach you very good manners."

"Guess I learned from Snape," he returned coldly.

A slight smile came over Voldemort's features again at the mention of Snape. "Ah, yes, Professor Snape. Ironic isn't it?"

Knowing it was in his best interest to hold his tongue but, as was in his nature, unable to do so, Harry blurted out, "Why didn't he just get it over with before? Why make Draco do it at all?"

In the corner he lurked in, Draco paled and glared at the ground.

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort scolded in a tone similar to one a parent would use on their child, "my followers are all loyal however... inefficient at times. Young Draco has already been dealt with. And now your turn has finally come."

"I won't give in! It doesn't matter what you do to me!" Harry shouted, mentally preparing himself for another agonizing writhe on the ground but, this time at least, nothing happened.

Finally having stopped his vulture-like circling, Voldemort spoke suddenly from right behind him, his breath blowing softly on Harry's neck. Harry shivered despite himself.

"Think about it, Harry. What greater blow to the Wizarding world than knowing their wonder-child, the Boy-Who-Lived, has joined up with me?"

Icy fingers worked their way through Harry as Voldemort's suggestion sank in. It didn't matter what he did in terms of resistance. The only thing people on the outside would know was that Harry Potter was with the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and that he was still alive. What would they think of him? What would Ron and Hermione think?

"It'll never work!" Harry said venomously, despite his own doubts. Voldemort laughed softly. It reminded Harry of the sound an animal would make if it were dying.

"No need to worry yourself. You won't be killed. Not now at least." He paused for a few moments. "Now, despite how helpful you're being, Harry, I must set a good example and punish you for your sins."

It was then that the world erupted in a bright rainbow of agony.

***

The next time Harry regained consciousness, both the memory of what had happened and the lingering effects returned immediately. His punishment had lasted for hours. When Voldemort had finished with him the other Death Eaters had been more than willing to join in, though the end result regrettably couldn't be death. Several times Harry had passed out, from the pain or the manner of spells they were using he wasn't sure, but each time they'd revived him for a little longer. How he had ended up back here on the cold stone floor though, he couldn't remember.

Harry rolled unsteadily onto his side, groaning slightly as his bruised muscles protested angrily and threatened to cramp and spasm. Swallowing thickly, he waited for the sensation to fade before attempting any further movement. Just then, the sound of a door latch moving caught his full attention and Harry's mind filled with dread. Surely they hadn't come back for a second round so soon.

"I brought you some food," Draco said tonelessly as he entered.

Harry glared up from his position on the ground, though he imagined he still looked rather pathetic nevertheless. Draco silently produced a small lamp and tray and closed the door behind him before crossing his arms and leaning against the far wall. Harry stared openly for a moment.

"You're here to keep me company then?" he asked sarcastically, struggling to sit up.

"I'm here to make sure you don't try something stupid," Draco sneered in return, "like choke on your food."

"I'm more likely to choke from talking to you." Having finally regained a sitting position, Harry leaned his pounding head back against the bricks, willing the nausea welling up in his gut to go away. Right now the idea of eating was the last thing he wanted to do.

After a moment he looked up to find Draco watching him and he felt irrationally angry for his odd silence.

"Isn't this your chance to gloat, Malfoy?" Harry asked, the anger in his voice only somewhat abated by pain and weariness, "you finally beat me, after all these years. Happy now?"

Something strange flashed across Draco's features and he turned his stony gaze away, maintaining his silence.

Confused by the Draco's uncharacteristic composure but too tired to try again, Harry absently picked up the bowl from the tray and stared at it. It may have been soup at some point. Now the filmy layer at the top and slightly pungent smell suggested it had been around for a few days at least. Hoping he could stomach it, Harry took a sip and found it wasn't terribly bad, considering. The house-elves at Hogwarts definitely didn't prepare it, but being picky wasn't exactly an option at the moment.

"Your hand is shaking," Draco commented flatly as Harry quickly spooned down the soup. Harry sent him a brief scathing look. Draco continued, "The effects should wear off by tomorrow though."

Harry set the bowl down with a clatter and stood shakily, ignoring the discomfort. "First you escort me to a torture session with Voldemort and your dad and then you bring me soup and tell me everything is going to be okay? I've had you figured out for years, Malfoy, so you might as well drop the act!"

Suddenly, an odd sensation overcame Harry and he felt his stomach muscles beginning to seize up uncontrollably. He was barely able to lean over before he vomited up everything he'd eaten. Still the sensation refused to subside and he continued to throw up bile and dry heave for several minutes, only vaguely aware that someone else's hands were the only thing keeping him from collapsing in his own mess.

Slowly Harry became aware of Draco's support but didn't refuse as Draco helped him move to a clear spot to lay down. Shivering from a feverish mixture of hot and cold, Harry curled into a ball and glanced up at Draco, unsure of what to say. In the end, through a mixture of embarrassment, anger, and confusion, he decided to say nothing.

Throughout the day, Harry continued to sleep fitfully, fever coming and going almost as often as his Slytherin counterpart, who was apparently in charge of keeping him alive. Many things happened, most of which Harry couldn't distinguish between dream and reality, but he was aware of Draco's sensitive care the entire time he remained sick. The only reason this stuck in his muddled mind at all, was, before today, Harry would have never used the words Draco and sensitive in the same sentence.

If things had seemed pear-shaped before, now they were absolutely indescribable.

***

Days passed, each one much like the previous. Harry would be roused from a fitful sleep curled on the stone floor, then unceremoniously led to face Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Each day, Voldemort would ask him if he was ready to cooperate. Harry was never entirely certain what he was supposed to cooperate with, but every day his answer was an emphatic no. After the inevitable torture session, Harry was vaguely aware of being Levitated back into the dungeons, after which he usually passed out. Waking later, shaking and feverish, his head would snap up for a moment, searching for the now familiar white-blond head. Upon spotting Draco, he would begin to relax slightly, knowing that he would rather have his school nemesis as company than be completely alone.

Today, Harry took longer than usual to wake up. On some level, he was aware of Draco shaking him, yelling at him to wake up, but another part of him wanted nothing more than to drift peacefully into the inky blackness of oblivion.

"Potter!" Draco's voice sharply pervaded through the mist in his mind. "Damn you, Potter, get up!" Suddenly there was a stinging slap across his face, and his eyes fluttered open wearily.

Draco was crouched beside him on the icy floor, his hair falling across his pale, pale face, breathing heavily. "Potter?" he asked cautiously.

Harry managed to sit up painfully, shoving Draco away when he tried to assist him. Draco rocked back on his heels, glaring daggers at Harry.

"You know, you could make this easier on yourself," Draco spat.

"Oh, you mean by sucking up to old Snake Face? Sorry, Malfoy, but I'm not a coward like you are."

Draco rose to his feet, sneering down at Harry in disgust.

"Fuck you, Potter. You think I enjoy being your nursemaid? You can die for all I care." As if to prove a point, he kicked Harry sharply in the gut.

Harry recoiled in shock, curling instinctively into a protective ball, his already jumpy nerves shooting random bursts of pain in his abdomen. He began coughing uncontrollably, a hacking rasp which left a spray of blood on the stone floor.

Peripherally, Harry was aware of Draco crouching back at his side, and was too weak to protest when a hand gripped his shoulder. "Oh my god, Potter, I didn't mean it. You can't die, you just can't." Draco's voice sounded strange, and if Harry hadn't known any better, he would almost have believed that Draco was on the verge of tears.

"Just kill me," Harry managed to gasp, feeling his consciousness beginning to fade. He felt Draco's wand pressing into his stomach, heard a soft murmur, and sighed in relief as the pain abated slightly.

"Thank you," Harry said softly, not even caring how entirely twisted it was for him to thank his captor. Opening his eyes once again, Draco's pointy features came back into focus, his face pinched tightly with something akin to worry. Harry's eyes met his briefly, and the expression was quickly schooled into the usual blank look of disdain.

"Don't thank me," Draco said roughly, pulling back from Harry. "Personally, I couldn't care less, but I doubt the Dark Lord would take kindly to you dying on my watch." He regarded Harry for a moment, an unnameable expression on his face. "Are you able to stand?"

Harry doubted it, but nodded anyway, pulling himself shakily to his feet. He swayed slightly, the stone walls whirring around him like a macabre merry-go-round with flashes of white-blond hair. He heard Draco curse under his breath, then felt an arm drape around his shoulders, steadying him. He leaned against Draco gratefully, once again not caring about the perversity of his gratitude.

"Come on, Potter," Draco said after a moment. "He's waiting." Surely it was only Harry's imagination, but something in his longtime enemy's voice sounded distinctly like regret.

***

Draco managed to drag Harry up the stairs, stopping occasionally to catch his breath. He felt ribbons of unease tearing through him, a feeling which hadn't left him since the night he was supposed to kill Dumbledore. Victory wasn't supposed to be mingled with guilt, and triumphing over the boy he had hated since age eleven wasn't supposed to be so hollow. It could hardly even be considered a triumph, because triumph was nothing but glory, prestige and power. It didn't look at you with empty green eyes that used to be lit with hatred; it didn't grovel on a filthy stone floor waiting to die. Draco was suddenly struck by a thought; if he could manage to ignite that light again, then maybe all was not lost.

"Hey Potter," Draco whispered silkily as they neared the top of the stairs, "why don't your friends come and save you? Surely Weasel and your precious Mudblood have thought of some idiotic plan by now?"

He was pleased when Harry angrily shoved his arm off his shoulders. "Don't call her that!" he hissed. Draco almost smiled when Harry, seemingly in a burst of strength, stomped the remainder of the journey unaided.

***

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort hissed softly, a cold smile on his reptilian face, "why must you continue to defy me?"

Harry, in spite of feeling as if he could fall over at any second, managed to smile back. "Well, let's see... maybe because you're insane?"

Harry braced himself for the usual burst of pain, but nothing came. Instead, Voldemort was regarding him with a strangely gleeful look. It took only a moment for Harry to realize why.

Three Dementors glided ghostlike towards him, and Harry felt the familiar cold fear grip him. Out of habit, he reached for his wand, but of course it wasn't there.

"You can stop this, you know," Voldemort said icily. He, along with the other Death Eaters were all safely behind a wolf Patronus, which bared its teeth as it prowled back and forth to ward off the Dementors.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but found himself paralyzed with fear. The Dementors brushed against him with icy fingers, and Harry fell to his knees as his mother's screams filled the air.

"Not Harry!" his mother cried over and over, and all the while Sirius fell through the veil in an endless loop and Dumbledore was struck down again and again by the traitorous Snape.

Harry knew that most prisoners in Azkaban went insane rather quickly, except of course for Sirius, who had been able to take his Animagus form. But unfortunately for Harry, he could no more turn into a dog than a Muggle could turn a teacup into a frog, and he suddenly longed for the welcome release that insanity would surely be.

The Dementors lingered around Harry for what felt like hours. For a time he curled into a fetal position on the floor, sobbing bitterly with fear and humiliation. After a while he merely watched the ghostly specters with a vague sort of indifference, the images they conjured no longer filling him with fear. Instead, he felt nothing but a numb apathy, and he wondered if at last, he had gone insane.

Suddenly, the Dementors were cast away by someone's Patronus, and a moment later Draco was pulling him back to the dungeons.

Harry allowed himself to be pulled along without a word, finally collapsing onto the hard stones. He shuddered at the loss of human contact, shrinking against the wall.

Draco watched him with a strange expression; his gray eyes almost lost in dark shadows. He raised his wand, and Harry suddenly felt a curious sensation run over his body, almost as if a giant washcloth had brushed over him. Looking down at his hands, he was surprised to see they were no longer coated with grime, and he looked up at Draco questioningly.

Draco shrugged, managing to screw his features into a halfhearted sneer. "I was tired of smelling you, Potter."

Harry simply nodded, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall. He felt a weariness that went down to his bones, and pain that seemed to pulsate with every pump of blood. "Don't leave," he managed to whisper sleepily, and he fell asleep before Draco could answer.

But Draco did leave, for he was nowhere to be found when Harry awoke many hours later. A house-elf brought him food and water later that day, watching him nervously before Disapparating out with a crack.

Harry watched the door anxiously. Surely they wouldn't leave him, would they? Anything, even torture, was better than dying of loneliness. He watched the door until his eyelids grew heavy, and he fell into a fitful sleep, the sounds of his mother's screams still ringing in his ears.

Although Harry had no way to keep track of time, he felt as if a week must have passed in which he had no human contact whatsoever. Once, he found himself yelling at the tiny house-elf to stay and talk to him, and it had stared at him with sad doe-eyes before Disapparating.

The room was so cold, as cold as the Dementors' hands had been, and Harry shivered in vain, pulling his legs up to his chest for warmth. He could barely manage to eat without retching, so he merely took small sips of water which tasted metallic against his tongue. He was so weak that even his head felt like a cumbersome weight on his neck, so he gingerly lowered himself to the icy floor, no longer able to keep the tears from leaking out of his eyes. Not that it mattered, as there was no one to see him.

***

Draco opened the door cautiously, afraid of what he would see. On Voldemort's orders, everyone was forbidden contact with Harry Potter for three days, and Draco himself had been kept busy with other duties, as if to ensure Harry's solitude.

Harry was lying on his side against the wall, his face pressed into an arm. He raised his head weakly, looking at Draco with dull eyes.

"You left," he rasped accusingly, and Draco was shocked to see tears running silently down his filthy face. Years ago, Draco surely would have pointed and jeered, but now he nearly felt like crying himself.

"Yeah," he said, crouching beside Harry's prone form. "I had to. I...I'm sorry."

Harry's shoulders shook with silent sobs, and Draco knew that Harry could not be well, for the Harry Potter he knew would rather serve a small stint in Azkaban than let Draco Malfoy see him in such a moment of weakness.

Draco gently lifted his face, touching a cheek lightly with the back of his hand. The skin felt inflamed, and he drew his hand back in shock. "Shit, Potter. You're burning up." Harry didn't respond, and Draco pulled himself to his feet with a sigh. Immediately, Harry's hand snaked out, clamping around his leg.

"Please don't leave me again," Harry said in a panicked voice.

"I'll be back," Draco replied, surprised at how soothing his own voice sounded. When Harry's grip didn't loosen, he sighed, continuing. "I need to get you a potion for your fever. I promise I'll be back."

Harry's hand dropped, and Draco turned to leave, uneasy thoughts parading in his mind.

***

Not so long ago, Malfoy Manor had been a paragon of class and wealth. The dozens of rooms not used by its three occupants were kept in immaculate condition by the house-elves, casting an almost museum-like appearance to the ancient home and reinforcing the Malfoys' standing through the unnecessary amount of furniture, collectibles, and artifacts kept within their walls. As a boy, Draco had spent many long hours ghosting his way through these rooms, the lone child in an even lonelier house. In the dark shadows and dimly lit hallways he had played and pretended to be a great wizard, often resorting to bossing around terrified house-elves for lack of any other play-mates, dreaming of the day he'd be as important as his father. The rare instances he had been allowed into his Lucius' study had come and gone in a flurry of excitement for Draco. He'd absorbed all his young mind could possibly gather, hanging on his father's every word, meticulously learning and filing away every experience into the back of his mind for later use.

Through Narcissa's pampering and encouragement, Draco soon felt confident enough to use his status as a Malfoy over others and at age nine, two years before he would begin Hogwarts or Durmstrang, as his parents were still undecided on this point, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were introduced as good pureblood friends for Draco. Though nearly twice his size already, both had obediently fallen into line behind the bossy, waifish child, becoming the brawn behind Draco's brains, or as it usually was, his mouth. Now, many years later, Draco felt the lone child again, but more so than ever before. No friends dogged his quiet steps through the previously unoccupied halls; there were no exciting late-night visits with his father to look forward to and no pampering and treats from his mother. But most of all, what Draco missed was something other than people. It was the youthful fervor and anticipation of the future, of all that he could possibly achieve in the years to come. All that filled Draco now was fear and dread.

Passing quickly through the halls, he hoped to draw no attention to himself from the lurking Death Eaters, spread entirely throughout the Manor. Purposefully by Voldemort, he thought, so the Malfoys retained nothing of their previous lifestyle. His family's standing with the Dark Lord, already precarious after his father's imprisonment, had worsened following Draco's failure; he and his parents were often treated like intruders in their own home. So Draco had learned to adopt an action he had never before in his life used. He kept his head down. He avoided confrontations and contact in general unless necessary, and was extremely wary of who was on the receiving end of the snappish comments that he'd previously dealt out on such a regular basis. At Hogwarts the worst possible reprimand he'd received was an occasional detention or docking of House points, maybe an occasional minor hex or jinx when Crabbe or Goyle didn't manage to step ahead in time. But that had been the world of another time. A wrong word now could result in torture, or worse, as far as Draco was concerned, partaking in it himself. Of course, to let someone know he was anything less than thrilled about maiming and killing the unfortunate few brought back to the Manor, was hardly an option.

"Going somewhere, young Malfoy?" The high-pitched, oily voice behind Draco made him ball his fists in disgust, even as he turned around to face the rat-like face of Peter Pettigrew, or Wormtail as he was more often referred to nowadays. Draco glanced disdainfully at the older wizard, his eyed sliding over the shining silver hand hanging at Wormtail's side. As if he wasn't already creepy and disgusting enough, the magical hand bestowed by Voldemort often twitched and moved on its own accord, seemingly a personality all its own ready to do its master's bidding. At the moment, the metallic fingers lay completely still while his other hand, the real one, tugged persistently at the buttons on his ratty coat.

Draco kept his voice steady but purposefully soft as he replied; there was no need to draw anyone else's attention. "I'm fetching a potion. Is there a problem?"

Wormtail's face contorted into something Draco supposed was a smile. "A potion for Potter? Whatever for?" A strange glint had appeared in his dead-looking eyes that Draco did his best to ignore.

"It's so he won't die," Draco snapped, hoping Wormtail would be satisfied enough with the answer to leave him alone.

"You know," Wormtail said, taking a slow step closer to Draco who barely managed not to retract himself in revulsion, "if you ever get tired of taking care of him, I know lots of people who'd be more than happy to take over..."

The sleazy, suggestive comment left Draco feeling physically sick and he took a step back despite himself, crossing his thin arms across his chest and glaring.

"I'm going to pretend I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Draco ground out, no longer attempting to mask the disdain in his voice.

Wormtail's grotesque smile widened, apparently having anticipated Draco's reaction. "Or maybe you've already been taking care of your young Gryffindor friend. I always did get that vibe from you after all."

Draco paled in anger and spun around, no longer caring if he pissed Wormtail off. His jeering chuckles followed Draco down the hall.

"You know I used to be a Gryffindor too!" Wormtail called after him, trotting to catch up with Draco's long strides. Ignoring him, the younger man continued his quick pace but suddenly a hand clamped his arm and spun him around forcefully.

Draco pushed the hand off in disgust, sneering as he drew himself to his full height. He was at least six inches taller than Wormtail, but as he'd been a small child, he'd learned to use every inch to intimidate, and he did so now, leering down at the grotesque man as he'd seen his father do so many times to those he considered his inferiors.

"Don't fuck with me, Wormtail," he spat vehemently, noting with delight that the smaller man shrank away. Draco smiled coldly, taking a step closer. "I can make things very bad for you, very quickly."

Wormtail's rodent-like face twitched, his eyes watering slightly. Then a gleam came into his eyes, and he smiled, revealing his sharp, yellow teeth.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Master Draco," he said with a faux bow, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "I just find your concern for Potter a little strange, that's all."

"It's not concern for Potter," Draco snapped. "The Dark Lord entrusted me with keeping him alive, and I intend to do so."

Wormtail's revolting smile never wavered. "Whatever you say. Just keep my offer in mind." He gave Draco a last meaningful look, licked his lips, and then turned around to leave.

Feeling almost physically dirty from his exchange with the vile man, Draco continued down the long hallway, passing countless generations of Malfoy photos as he walked. They were silent as he walked by, knowing a true Malfoy when they saw one, but Draco hoped that they jeered at their unwelcome guests.

A moment later, having quickly perused through Snape's potion supplies in order to find a suitable potion, Draco at last made his way uninterrupted back to the dungeons.

Harry had not moved from where he'd left him, and was so still that for a moment Draco feared he was dead. He would wonder later at the brief panic that had clutched him like a vice, but would finally feel satisfied that it was merely self-preservation. After all, the Dark Lord certainly wouldn't take kindly to him failing a task for the second time.

"Potter?" Draco asked cautiously, feeling an insane amount of relief when the dark head raised shakily, a slight smile gracing the chapped lips.

"You came back," Harry said softly, lowering his head back to his arms.

Draco approached him cautiously, dropping to his knees beside him. "I told you I would." His eyes darted quickly over Harry's frail form, and he was startled to feel a wave of protectiveness wash over him as he recalled Wormtail's lewd suggestions. He clenched his jaw in anger. Potter was his and his alone, and had been since they had met in a robe shop at age eleven. He still hated him, of course, but he was his to hate, and he would kill that sick fuck Wormtail if he dared to touch him.

Draco sat against the wall next to Harry, muttering a quick warming spell to heat the frigid air. He placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, pulling him gingerly to lie against Draco. Harry was too weak to protest, and his head lolled against Draco's chest, eyes closing with a soft sigh. Draco pulled the potion from his robe pocket, carefully tilting Harry's head as he removed the stopper. Prying Harry's mouth open with a finger, he poured the bottle's contents into his mouth, hurriedly clamping his jaw shut and tilting his head upright. Harry shuddered, thrashing slightly in surprise, then leaned bonelessly back against Draco, his eyes closing once again.

Thinking Harry was asleep; Draco was surprised to hear him speak a moment later. "Draco?"

Startled both by the use of his first name and at hearing Harry's voice, Draco asked shakily, "what?"

"Stay? Please?"

Draco nodded, then remembering Harry couldn't see him said, "yeah. I'll stay."

Harry sighed with relief and his breathing changed a moment later, signifying his unconsciousness. Draco sat there stiffly for a moment, an unnameable emotion threatening to choke him, then, draping an arm possessively over Harry, fell asleep himself.