Lights Out

Hands and feet bound in shackles, Weasley moves like an old man. He's surrounded by guards as he makes his way down the long corridor to the interrogation chamber, but he immediately singles Draco out from the crowd, perhaps because Draco's a familiar -- if not friendly -- face. Here in the prisoners' quarters, the Death Eaters don't bother with masques. These wizards won't get out alive. "Malfoy."

"Weasley." Draco's voice doesn't taunt. Six years of war goes a long way to stripping the challenge from one's tone and Draco now considers himself pragmatic.

"Bet you ten Galleons I get out of here alive." It's gallows humour. Weasley knows he's never leaving.

Draco plays his role. "Gutter rats don't have ten Galleons." He wonders how long they'll question their prisoner; Weasley's a high-ranking Auror and a staunch supporter of Dumbledore, so he's bound to hold some useful information.

"Not a gutter rat anymore, Malfoy." Ron's face is deathly pale, his freckles standing out in stark contrast. "Where are you taking me?"

"Separating you from Potter," Draco lies easily. Weasley's only bargaining chip is as Potter bait, but Potter himself is already a captive.

They've reached the door now. A guard upfront unlocks it and ushers the group inside. Macnair's already there and grinning, his glee barely concealed. Weasley straightens his spine as much as the bonds will allow, looming not-so-menacingly over Draco. "You'll never get anything out of me," he says boldly.

"We'll see." Draco doesn't want to stay for this part, but it's expected. The door slams behind them, cutting off all noise to the outside world. No sound comes in and none gets out.

2.

Draco's been reassigned -- put in charge of guarding Potter's quarters. Some would see this as a post beneath the son of one of the Dark Lord's highest-ranking officials, but Draco believes it's an honour. Outside of perhaps Dumbledore, Potter's their biggest coup. He's the one they've been trying to catch for years, which is probably why he's still alive. Draco's heard rumblings of a prophecy that links Potter to his Lord, but he's unsure of the contents. However, he is perceptive enough to realise that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wants Potter to suffer.

Wearing an expression of practised neutrality, Draco folds his hands behind his back and carefully appraises his new charge. There's no exchange of "Malfoy"/"Potter" as Draco expected. Instead, Potter immediately lunges forward, his arms thrust through the bars, grabbing for the front of Draco's robes. "Where's Ron?" Potter asks, his voice laced with panic. "Can I see him?"

Draco takes a step back, so he's just out of Potter's reach. "Weasley's been relocated," he says. (Liar, liar, nags a voice at the back of his head.) "We can't take the chance that you'll conspire with one another." He feels like he should be taunting Potter, playing his part, but he just can't bring himself to do so with the screams of his former yearmate still so close to the surface.

"No!" cries Harry, face crumpling as he throws his full weight against the bars. "Please let me see him! God, Ron. RON. RON!" Weasley's name echoes off the walls of the near-empty cell, throwing Draco a bit off his game as Potter continues to scream, his voice growing hoarse with each repetition. Finally, Potter resorts to nonsensical, raw, ragged shrieks, until Draco's facade cracks and he orders Potter to "Stop, stop!" Potter doesn't comply, his raspy cries continuing as loudly as his torn throat will allow. Draco draws his wand; Potter visibly flinches, but still screams. "Silencio!"

The chamber is instantly quiet, but in some ways just as loud as before. Potter's now wordlessly screaming, thick cords of neck muscle taut with exertion, mouth guppying, as though he'll be able to break the spell just through sheer will. Finally, after an age, he exhausts himself and slumps against the wall, resting his forehead on his knees, which are drawn up to his chest.

Draco wishes he knew what to say; he's just been standing here watching this scene for hours, barely saying a word, and Potter already seems broken. He wants to mock Potter like he did when they were children, but he can think of no quips and his rival's silent anyway. Potter turns his head then, his cheek now resting on his knees and breathes silently, raggedly, the position the final tableau for a saviour. The walls closing in around him, Draco can stand this no longer.

"Time for lights out, Potter," Draco says, knowing there's no lights out, not really, but he's looking for a quick escape and he'll take it in any form. Potter keeps looking at him, -- or looking through him, perhaps -- silent accusation in those unsettling green eyes.

Shoving the door open, Draco quickly lifts the Silencing Charm and flees, cooling his forehead against the rough cinder-block walls as soon as the door shuts behind him. He's witnessed countless tortures and murders in his years as a Death Eater and participated in almost as many. Why is he letting Potter get to him?

3.

"How's Ron?" The next day, Potter's voice is scratchy and it's painful just listening to him.

"He's a right pain in the arse." The lie rolls off Draco's tongue, though he wishes there was no knife-to-the-gut side effect accompanying the words. He leers, leaning close to the bars of Potter's cell. "I think we'll break him, though...get him to reveal the whereabouts of your precious Order." It's a half-truth. Weasley was definitely broken when Goyle hauled his body to the incinerator.

Potter presses up against the bars, close to Draco's face. "Do you think you can do anything so they'll let me see him?" Potter's lashes are lowered and Draco isn't sure what he's playing at.

Draco puffs his chest out importantly. "I'll speak with the Dark Lord and see if something can't be done." Draco hasn't had private audience with his Master since his induction in their last year at Hogwarts, but he can't see the harm in putting Potter off.

"Is there any way I can speed the process?" Potter's rasp is easier to bear at these low levels. "That I can...give you?"

"What kind of thing could a prisoner possibly offer me?" he sneers, somewhat confused.

Potter merely raises his eyebrows at this, briefly sweeping Draco's body with his eyes. Draco suddenly understands.

"I'm not a bloody poof, Potter," Draco says, retreating and making a hasty grab for the exit door. He calls "Lights out" over his shoulder and pretends he hasn't heard Potter ask, "Is that so?"

4.

"Any news?"

Draco's grown used to Potter's constant questioning by now. "Your...friend," he says, giving the word as much vitriol as he can manage, "still will not cooperate. He's a little worse for the wear now, I assure you." Draco's so wrapped up in the story that he almost believes the words. Almost, until his brain provides the image of a redheaded man with a rivulet of blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, blue eyes glassy and vacant. "He's fine."

"Good," Potter says, slumping against the wall and sitting, still close to the metal bars. "Do you ever think about our school days?"

"Not much." It's too easy to get wrapped up in memory.

"I hated you," Potter confesses with an easy laugh that shouldn't accompany warden-prisoner conversation. Draco slides to the floor, too, simply because it's easier to hear Potter speak from here, not that there could be any other reason.

"I still hate you, Potter."

"Of course you do," he assures Draco. "I think it was the way you were always trying to one-up me. I'm a Seeker, you're a Seeker. I get a Nimbus 2000, you get a 2001."

"I'd been playing Quidditch my whole life," Draco says haughtily.

"True enough, but I hated you all the same. You weren't my first real enemy, though." Draco watches Potter close his eyes and tip his head back, deep in thought. "That was Voldemort," -- Draco shivers involuntarily at the name -- "though I didn't know that until I got to Hogwarts. Then, my cousin Dudley, though he wasn't really that bad, I suppose...just bigger than me and a spoiled brat. But you wouldn't know anything about that, right?"

Draco refuses to respond to Potter's needles. "No," he replies shortly.

"My aunt and uncle didn't like the fact that I existed, but I don't know if they were my enemies or just intolerant. Then, other bullies, mostly Dudley's gang. Then you. But you weren't the first," he repeats.

Draco notices that his hand is just a few inches away from his prisoner's fingertips. Potter's fingernails are filthy and he smells a bit ripe because three days in an enclosed space with a toilet would do that to anyone, but Draco still wonders what those fingers would feel like under his own and feels instantly guilty for such a thought.

Potter's head lolls over to one side, so he's facing Draco, who looks up, meeting the other's eyes. "What about you, Ma--Draco? Was I your first?" Potter briefly covers Draco's immaculate hand with his filthy one and Draco leaps up and away, like he's been burned.

"No," Draco says shortly, trying to maintain an air of dignity. The voice that lives in the back of his head has started calling him a liar again, this time louder than ever. Draco quickly makes excuses so he can go; these may have been "It's late" or "I have important business to attend to" or "I have to check up on the other prisoners," but it doesn't matter because they're all lies. "Lights out, Potter!" he exclaims before he dashes away.

"G'night, Draco," Potter calls after him. It's three in the afternoon.

5.

Potter is shaking when Draco arrives. It seems he's been flushing his meagre rations down the toilet. "A hunger strike, Potter?" Draco says, clucking his tongue. "That's not at all sporting."

"I want to see Ron," Potter replies, his teeth chattering slightly. "I w-won't eat until I get to see him."

Draco is instantly angry, surprising himself. "I can't make things move any faster!" Or bring anyone back from the dead, says the ever-present voice. He nervously runs a hand through his hair, then clutches at Potter's bars. "I...I'll see what I can do."

Potter's pressed against the cell door a second later, grabbing for Draco's robes and pulling him closer still. Draco reaches for his wand, but Potter only kisses him hard, then pushes him away. Stumbling backward, Draco brushes imaginary lint from his clothes.

"Offer still stands." As Potter chews thoughtfully on his own bottom lip, Draco tries not to notice his red, swollen mouth. "I'm willing to do anything to see Ron, you know. It's not like I have anything to lose."

"Potter...."

"Yes?"

"I...I have to go. Father and I are meeting." Draco hasn't seen his father in two weeks. He pushes the heavy door open, pretending he's not thinking about Potter kneeling in front of him or Potter on all-fours, knees bruising on the concrete. Still framing the doorway, he swallows hard and carefully regards the man entrusted to him. "Li-- See you later, Potter."

Draco returns late that night and listens to Potter's shallow breathing as he sleeps fitfully.

6.

"Ron." Potter's voice is listless and he has trouble lifting his head; he's continued his hunger strike, even though Draco knows nothing can come of it. Weasley's already dead, Potter's going to die either way, and the Dark Lord dislikes melodramatic gestures, unless they're of his own design.

"Tomorrow," he promises softly, surprising even himself. "If..."

"If?"

"If the offer still stands." After a moment, he adds, "Harry."

Harry's jaw drops a bit, but he nods. Draco enters the cell, securely locking the door behind him, then lifts Harry up, gathering him into his arms. Draco undresses him gently, bestowing feather-light kisses all along his jaw and collarbone, exploring a new bit of skin as each button comes undone. When Harry's naked before him, the harsh, fluorescent light does nothing for his skin, nor the angles and planes of his body, but Draco can't help but find him a bit beautiful.

He tips Harry's chin up, covering his mouth in a tender kiss, afraid that his prisoner might break at any moment. It's a slow exploration of tongues and lips, as both make small noises of contentment. Harry, though hardly in a position for aggression, nudges Draco towards the cot along the wall. He undoes Draco's robes with the same care that Draco showed for him, then allows them to pool at their feet. Their bodies meet and Draco relishes the skin-to-skin contact, more than a little surprised to find Harry as hard as he is. They're exactly the same height.

"Let me...," Harry says, kneeling on Draco's robes and gesturing, his meaning clear; Draco instantly agrees, perching on the end of the rock-hard mattress with its filthy, greying sheets. Harry settles between his thighs and takes Draco into his mouth, working him over and over again as Draco moans. He grips the edge of the bed, now complete in the knowledge that he's never wanted anything more and he can't help tumbling over the edge, squeezing his eyes shut, panting and thrusting into Harry's mouth.

Guilt washes over him as soon as they're done. This is...not right. Eyes still closed, he says quietly, "Weasley's dead."

"I know." Draco's eyes fly open. "From the first day, I knew. You're a terrible liar, Malfoy." Harry's holding Draco's wand, trains it at his head. "Petrificus Totalus," Harry says and Draco thinks he sounds almost regretful. As his frozen body topples over, Harry grabs Draco's robes and unlocks the cell, slamming the door behind him.

Draco doesn't know if Harry will make it out alive, but he knows his own fate will be sealed as soon as he's found in Harry Potter's empty cell, naked and petrified. Lights out.