Held Captive by a Kiss

by megsy598

In a world where the last wizarding war was won by Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter is on the run. When he is captured by his enemies, he expects to be incarcerated, tortured - perhaps even killed. But a marriage was the last thing he thought they would punish him with. (Draco/Harry, set post-Hogwarts).

1. Chapter 1: Captive

A/N: This is a Draco/Harry story set four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, but in a world where Voldemort won. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Captive

When Draco and his mother sat at the dinner table in pleasant silence, the interruption of a burly wizard storming into the room like a raging giant had at first been a stabbing annoyance between Draco's shoulder blades. The oak doors to the dining room were flung open from the outside, and a figure in dark robes with dishevelled hair and ragged breaths entered. Narcissa Malfoy, sat opposite her son, let out a gasp at the sudden entrance, as Draco glanced up from his plate, a scowl spread across his sharp features, and immediately recognised the imposter as Gregory Goyle. As usual, Goyle's whole face was flushed scarlet from even the slightest bout of exercise, but now Draco recognised not only exhaustion but devilish excitement causing his friend's strained breathing, the kind of thrilled nature that only usually overcame the man when he was faced with a large buffet.

Draco stood from his seat at the head of the long dining table immediately at the sight of Goyle, and simultaneously slapped away a house elf trying to serve him more roast chicken. "What is it?" he addressed Goyle, with no need for greeting. With this, Goyle's large face broke into the most cunning grin that Draco had ever seen adorn his features and his eyes seemed to sparkle with a maleficent kind of joy.

"We've got him," he announced proudly. "We've got Harry Potter."

-TRANSITION-

It wasn't until he heard the distinctive sound of screaming and spells being cast that Harry wondered if perhaps it wasn't his greatest idea to spend the night sleeping in a fold-up tent in the middle of a public forest. He was shaken awake by the sounds, and found himself reaching for his wand and pouncing for the tent's entrance within seconds. His heart was pounding, his head doing the same due to lack of sleep, but he was alert enough to know Hermione's scream when he heard it.

"Hermione!" Harry called as he dove out of the tent, but knew his cry had been a grave mistake when he heard another hurtling scream from his best friend. He brandished his wand, holding it out in front of him like a shield from all the evil surrounding, but there was nothing he nor any magic in the world could do to sooth the sorrow and guilt he felt seeing Hermione. She was seized by a Death Eater clad in all black, her shoulders held firmly against his chest whilst a sharp wand prodded at her throat, threatening more than any words could.

"Harry Potter," mused a sly voice, joined by a toothless smile that broadened on the face of a nearby Death Eater. "We've been looking for you for a long time, haven't we?"

The tent Harry had emerged from just seconds ago was already surrounded by dark figures, all wearing the same dreary uniforms that Death Eaters had been loyal to for decades, and each holding out a wand with their choice of deadly curses tickling the end of each of their tongues. But Harry wasn't paying any attention to them, as his vision was trained solely on Hermione, whose eyes were wide and staring back at Harry's own with a pleading softness.

"Now, Potter, you'd better put that wand down, or I will be happy to do it for you - but it might not be so pleasant," warned the same Death Eater, the one with not a single tooth in his jaw and a face that was as gaunt and fleshless as a corpse. His hair was mousey brown, and fell over his face in clumps that looked as though they were wet, like he hadn't washed in weeks, but his stance of authority made it clear that he was the leader of this snarling pack. The men stared wildly with hunger in their eyes, like wolves who had been deprived of a meal for weeks, and Harry was their prey.

"Put down the bloody wand, boy!" the leader cried, and the others cheered their agreement. But Harry was rooted to his spot, and his wand wasn't leaving his grip without a fight. He towed his gaze from Hermione's and glanced around at the audience he'd roused, before holding his hands up as if he was going to surrender. The lead Death Eater grinned wider, but Harry was already flicking his wand at the nearest figure and casting in a whisper, "Expelliar-"

"Crucio!"

Somehow, the spell seemed to travel faster than sound, as Harry was sure he heard it well after the pain had already penetrated his stomach and sent him writhing on the ground. Or maybe it was an echo, or a second curse hitting him at another angle; he had no way of knowing, no feeling outside of the scream-inducing ache of the curse tearing through his body, seeming to rip everything apart before burning it under a blue flame. But it was a pain Harry had felt before, many times, and he refrained from screaming. Hermione, however, did not, and all Harry could hear was the wailing of his friend as the curse rippled through him in a way no other pain could.

Harry stumbled to his feet as soon as the pain had faded, only to find himself in a cage of cackling Death Eaters. There was a time when some of these men would have feared Harry Potter, or even uttering his name. A time soon after the peeking moments of the war, the battles that had resulted in the child they'd previously seen as the measly "Boy Who'd Lived" killing more men than he could count and being blinded by blood on a battle field, all the while watching his friends die before him, all in the name of hope.

But now these Death Eaters stood before him with no fear, only triumph - the same victory Harry himself would have shown at the sight of their deaths those few years ago.

"Take his wand and bind him," the leader ordered, and almost immediately a band of rough limbs grabbed Harry and tied his arms together with ropes of magic. "We'll be taking him to Malfoy Manor."

"And the mudblood?" a voice asked, and if Harry could have mustered the energy, rage would have filled his blood at the sound of the crude insult.
There was a pause, as though the leader of the gang was considering his options, before he strolled into Harry's blurry vision and shrugged. "Kill her."

-TRANSITION-

In a second, the dining room fell deathly silent. Even the house elves were all suddenly rooted to the spot, one of them dropping a tray which clattered to the ground and muffled the gasp that arose from Narcissa's mouth. Ordinarily, Draco would have scolded the useless creature, but his eyes were trained on Goyle's grinning face, his focus wholly committed to the words that had just bombarded his senses. He didn't know whether he ought to be filled with immense joy or hatred.

He had to admit, at least to himself, that at the sound of the name "Potter" his teenage heart - which he knew was buried somewhere deep inside him - swelled with all-encompassing joy. But for now, as his authority swelled with purpose, Draco knew that this was no time to indulge in childish fantasies. It was a delicate situation they were dealing with - Harry Potter would be no ordinary captive.

Draco turned back to Goyle with a stern expression. "Contact the Dark Lord immediately," he instructed. "And have them bring Potter to the ballroom. I should like to see him first."

Goyle scuttled away, dutiful as always, and Draco stood from his seat, his appetite having been cast away to make room for dutiful responsibility. He made to leave the table, but Narcissa promptly reached out to grab his hand.

"Draco, what are you doing?" she demanded, before her outburst softened into motherly concern. "I would advise that you leave Potter be until you meet with the Dark Lord and he instructs you on what to do with the boy."

Draco regarded his mother with a frown. Voldemort likely wouldn't be pleased that he had even touched Potter without permission, but whilst he respected his mother's advice, Draco couldn't allow the Dark Lord to have his way with Potter without Draco grasping the ample opportunity to see him first.

"I agree, Mother," he told Narcissa, careful with the words he used to craft the delicate lie. "I wish only to ensure that those brutes haven't done anything with Potter that the Dark Lord may not be pleased with. It shall be a quick visit, as I do not intend to keep him waiting. I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast, Mother."

Draco left the dining room with as much haste as he could muster, silently cursing to himself about how annoyingly large the room suddenly seemed, whilst Narcissa watched her son walk away with worry in her glassy blue eyes.

-TRANSITION-

Draco entered the ballroom and was immediately struck with how full the room was. He'd been aware that a group of Death Eaters had caught Potter, but he hadn't imagined so many would have been needed to catch one young wizard. Half of the Death Eaters regarded him with suspicious looks, whilst the others barely took any notice of him, instead staring off into the distance and thinking of dinner. None of them regarded him with the same fearful respect as they had Draco's father, and whilst he was used to it by now, Draco resented every time he was faced with the fact. No - they reserved that level of respect for the Dark Lord, and him alone.

Before the doors had even swung shut behind him, one of the men who seemed to be holding a rag doll in one of his hands threw the figure forward at Draco's feet. Draco at first didn't even comprehend that it was a person, and was readying himself to bark at them for throwing things so carelessly, before he recognised the raven black of the boy's hair and the slightness of his frame, and inwardly smiled that the sight of a broken Potter at his feet. It was a more satisfying sight than Draco had expected.

Potter was bound at the wrists and blindfolded, and his clothes - Muggle clothes, of course - seemed dishevelled and torn in places.

Draco nodded for the man ahead of him to remove the blindfold from Potter's head, and he did so obediently, albeit with a little resentment in his movements. Once freed, Potter didn't move. His eyes remained fixed to the floor, and he seemed to be shaking due to something other than cold. It reminded Draco of the after effects of the Cruciatus curse, which he'd both witnessed and suffered through before.

Draco sent a silent look of heated rage over the men dotted around the room at the idea that they'd hurtled unforgivable curses at Potter so carelessly. None of them understood the importance Harry Potter held to the Dark Lord. They had been hunting him for years, practically since the boy's birth, and at the first sight of him they were intent on almost killing him before Voldemort had even had a look at him. Draco only hoped the Dark Lord wouldn't blame him for his men's mistake.

"Stand up Potter, unless you intend to propose," he ordered in the strongest voice he could muster, and in an instant the boy's head shot up and his green eyes caught on Draco's blue.

Potter's eyes became wide and vulnerable, and for a second his mouth opened but no sound came. "M-Malfoy?" he finally spluttered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it may come as a surprise to your lack of perceptive skills, Potter, but I live here," Draco scoffed, wondering in a delirious second how long it had been since he'd heard that defensive voice.

"But I thought your father would -"

"My father is dead," Draco announced, as Potter stared at him with his eyebrows furrowed. "He was killed by one of your murderous friends during the war, so I am now the Head of the Malfoy house."

Draco was perplexed by the blank look Potter regarded him with at this news. He'd assumed that Potter knew of Lucius' death since his side of the battlefield had sent the curse that had killed him, but the confusion on the younger boy's face now made it clear that he'd been unaware. Immediately, Draco's thoughts took on a blinding rage, at the idea that either his father's killer hadn't seen Lucius as a feat worth bragging about, or Potter had cared so little upon hearing about it that he'd forgotten.

"I-I'm -" Harry began to stutter, but the moment Draco realised that he was about to apologise he held up a hand to silence him before he could utter another word.

"Please," he laughed, but he could tell that the sound was empty as it left his throat. "I don't need your meaningless apologies burning my ears. Now stand up before I make one of these men haul you to your feet by your hair."

Potter rocked forward suddenly at the words and hastily tried to place a steady foot on the ground, but with every attempt his body seemed too heavy for his legs to cope, and instead of standing he only shook, his limbs quaking harder than anything Draco had ever witnessed. After the third attempt, his legs finally gave in, and he tumbled into a heap on the floor.

The Death Eater, whom Draco was now beginning to recognise as one of his mother's distant relatives, sent him a questioning look, no doubt regarding his threats to Potter. Draco sighed, looking down on the crumbled Gryffindor at his feet and trying not to wonder how his skin would be to touch, before nodding reluctantly and watching the hunter's snarl that crossed the man's face.

The Death Eater's hand crashed down on the back of Potter's head within moments of him being given the nod of approval, and the black locks were crushed in a fist and yanked firmly upwards. Potter soon followed, as he was pulled by the roots of his hair into an unstable standing position.

"There," Draco said once Potter was on his feet, and forced a sardonic beam at the dark frown carved into the boy's face. "Oh, cheer up. It's been a fun little game you've played over the last few years, what with you running away, us having to track you down, and all the spells and curses and such our parties have thrown at each other. But you've been caught now, Potter, and I for one am curious to know what you've been up to all this time."

For a long pause, Potter said nothing, his green eyes staring straight at Draco without wavering, and nor did his lips move. Draco could admit; he was quick to become impatient.

"Come on!" Draco growled impatiently. "You're here now, and there are no more of your little friends to save you. The Order has been disbanded, most of them are dead anyway, and I'll have you know, this building is more heavily warded and guarded than the Ministry and Hogwarts put together. You're at our mercy now, Potter, so you'd better start talking or else."

Draco couldn't think of a violent enough threat for his words to mean anything, his mind preoccupied by the deep red shade of Potter's bottom lip as he gnawed anxiously on it. But it seemed he didn't need one anyway, as Potter sighed and stumbled into a speech without need for any more encouragement.

"After the war, we went to Beauxbatons," Harry began. "It became the safest place to hide from Death Eaters after the war, but you probably know that."

"Hm," Draco hummed, remembering the day that the Dark Lord's troops had stormed that sorry excuse for a school just as they had to Hogwarts only a short year prior. He'd accompanied them that day, against the wishes of his mother of course, but although he had fond memories of the bloodshed and slaughter on the trimmed grass of the palace's front lawn, his recall was also plagued by the memory of later hearing that his father had not survived through the battle. For that was the day Lucius had been killed.

Potter continued on: "When the school was invaded, we fled, and travelled Europe and Asia for as long as we could, trying to keep two steps ahead of any Death Eaters that might have been on our trail. Then we came back here last month."

Draco frowned; the briefness of Potter's account seemed oddly suspicious. "Why did you return to England then? Wasn't that a little risky?"

"Clearly," Potter retorted through gritted teeth, before he sighed, his gaze hitting the floor like a bag of cement. "The last attack... One of us didn't make it. We had to come to bury his body, I-"

"Ah, the Weasel," Draco said, nodding in recognition with no remorse for the fact that the man was dead. "I was wondering why he wasn't with you. I guess it's a blessing really, or else I would have had a rodent in my home when they captured you. A worthwhile sacrifice on Weasley's part, I'd say."

Draco laughed at the lame attempt at a glare that Potter send him then, and must have closed his eyes for longer than a blink, for when he opened them there was a shot of sudden pain on the bridge of his nose. He looked up to see Potter's fist recoiling from where it had just hit him in the face, before the Death Eater stood behind him suddenly decided to grab Potter by the arms and pull him back within a safe distance. Draco found his timing odd, as he'd clearly been close enough to catch Potter before he'd been able to strike Draco hard in the nose. But then again, Draco was anything but ignorant, and he had no doubt that the man had been willing the boy to hit him the whole time. As Draco regarded the man now, with his dark curls and slender yet muscled figure, he couldn't argue against the distinctive trace of Black in his features.

"There was no need for that," Draco addressed Potter, deciding to ignore the incompetence of the Death Eater who now held Potter's arms behind him in an awkward and no doubt painful fashion. "You're going to have to learn some self-control, or your time here is going to be incredibly difficult."

Potter was breathing heavily, and the scowl obscuring the beauty of his features hadn't shifted. Draco hadn't realised, but the left lens of Potter's glasses was cracked. "What do plan to do to me?" the Gryffindor asked, pained and breathless.

"Me?" Draco laughed at his ignorance. "I plan to deliver you to the Dark Lord, and he will decide what we do with you. You have apparently become quite important to him. Perhaps he will put you in the abandoned cells of Azkaban, with only the dementors as company. It would be safe... Although I doubt you'd return with your mind still intact."

He saw Potter gulp at the idea, and Draco grinned at the fear he had for the dementors. He'd never understood the depth of that fear, not since he'd first seen the creature emerge from the boggart in their third year Defence class, with that insufferable Professor Lupin. What was so terrifying about a ghost in dark clothing, other than the cold and darkness that seemed to follow the dementors wherever they went? He'd tried to ask his Aunt Bella about such quandaries in earlier years, but it was the one topic she shied from.

"Any more questions?" Draco sighed. He was beginning to bore over watching Potter in both his physical and emotional struggles, but dreaded leaving - his next port of call was likely to be a conversation with the Dark Lord, which he never enjoyed.

"What did they do with Hermione?" Potter blurted suddenly.

"Granger?" Draco questioned. He hadn't much care for the mudblood, but there were very few things the Death Eaters ever did to those they captured. He shrugged. "I'd imagine they executed her."

Potter's face was instantly hit with devastation, but Draco's attention was distracted by a loud POP! that sounded from just behind him. He turned suddenly to find a tiny, poorly clothed house elf standing at his feet.

"Master Malfoy," the creature uttered in its usual annoyingly squeaky voice (Draco had inquired into whether there was any magic that could alter the house elves' voices to sound less like irritating children, but it seemed there was nothing that could be done about it). "The Dark Lord has arrived, and wishes to see you in his private quarters," the elf reported.

Draco nodded and kicked the thing away from him - it was close enough to reach out and hug onto his leg, for Merlin's sake - and replied, "Alert him that I will be there momentarily," before the elf disappeared as quickly as it had popped into existence.

"Well, Potter, it seems your fate will be determined soon," Draco announced. "The Dark Lord will no doubt like to see you once we've spoken, but for now..." He nodded at the Death Eater, who still restrained Potter and didn't seem willing to let go. "Take him to the dungeons."

-TRANSITION-

A stone wall seemed to have tumbled down on Harry's head at some point on his way to the Manner, as his skull felt as if it weighed more than one made of gold. His head was hung, his neck having lost all strength to hold it up, and the rough movement of the surrounding men marching him this way and that had his jaw bashing against his chest so hard that it ached. He was held up by his arms, half-dragged, half-shoved ahead by the Death Eaters at his sides, as his legs stumbled in their efforts to catch up. Their steps were so much quicker than his, and steadier than his own feet which caved under even an ounce of his weight. He was so tired that his eyelids could hardly withstand staying open for more than a few seconds, and when his vision did flash before him, time seemed to have slowed down to a rate where he was forced to remain stagnant; in other words, Harry was trapped.

Over time, Harry's fatigue was replaced with panic. A spiral staircase ahead of him twisted around a metal column that plummeted miles into the ground, but there was no way of seeing the end, and Harry was only able to pear through the cracks in the rock to see an abyss below. It was dizzying, the sight of step after step after step appearing as another degree around the corner came into his vision, and his stumbling feet and weak ankles threatened to collapse any moment and send him tumbling down the staircase forever, never reaching the bottom. Worse than that, he'd caught a glance of the devilish expressions on the Death Eaters' faces as they towed him away, and could only imagine what they wished to do to him before they abandoned him, abused and broken, in his cell. Somehow, the dungeons alone seemed more appealing.

Trudging boots on stone halted when they reached the dungeons, but in his hazy state of mind Harry was unaware until he was thrown suddenly forwards, and the looming fear of falling became a momentary reality. The tight grip on his forearms disappeared, and he fell face first onto a concrete floor, his bare forearms crying out at the sharp pain. He heard laughter from behind him, deep and mellow, before footsteps retracted and a door swung shut.

Groaning, Harry tried to pick himself up from the floor, but what with depleted energy resources and his hands tied in front of him, he found it more difficult than he'd have imagined. Instead, he rolled onto his back and breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to concentrate as much as his pounding skull would allow as he angled a penetrating stare at the bindings holding his wrists together. He'd practised wandless magic before, but never with such a wand-specific spell as this. Imagining his wand casting the spell in his mind, Harry murmured, "Diffindo," and the ropes swiftly fell apart in a flash of bright green light.

Harry sighed, and rubbed at his wrists even though the ache hanging like bracelets from them was the least of his worries. His eyes scanned the cell, barely noting much more than the four solid walls, all of which were bare of even a metal grated window and caught any light that lingered in the air. From the little Harry could see, the ground beneath him seemed to be as sparse as the room's walls, stained only with grime and dust accumulated by centuries of misuse. But Harry could think of many things worse than a little dirt, and shuffled eagerly over to the nearest wall to rest himself upright against.

It had been years since he'd seen Voldemort, he realised. The two enemies hadn't crossed paths since the war - not directly at least, although Harry had encountered plenty of Death Eaters. Voldemort - or Tom, as Harry had grown to think of him as - had gradually become a distant thought for Harry as the years ticked by, a threat he knew was coming after him but one that took him a minute to form in his mind. He'd often woken up in the middle of the night wondering if any of it had been real, but now he couldn't pretend. He was locked in a cell at The Dark Lord's mercy.

Draco Malfoy - now that was an unexpected addition. Harry guessed he'd always known that Malfoy would end up as one of Tom's pawns one day, but he couldn't get the school boy he'd once known out of his head. Harry could easily recall every inch of Malfoy's snide features from those days, from the pale hue of his skin, to his deathly white hair, to the scowl that fitted his face so well Harry couldn't imagine him without it. Now Malfoy had grown up, no longer full of snide comments and childish competition, but of honour and loyalty - and frankly, it scared Harry. Malfoy had always been an empty threat in the corner of his vision, the one conflict he knew wouldn't end in either one of their deaths, half because Malfoy was a coward but also since Harry knew he'd never have the heart to kill him. Now, and he guessed since that night when Malfoy had pointed his wand at Albus Dumbledore, with tears staining his cheeks in strain, he was no longer an imagined danger.

But more than that, the mention of Ron's death and the heartless jokes Malfoy had made about it kept prodding at Harry's consciousness, keeping him far from peaceful sleep. He could still see Ron's face now, fearful but brave, his ginger hair messy and his face coated in stubble and sweat, rushing to par an attack sent straight at Hermione. Not that the intelligent witch couldn't handle it herself, but Ron had always been big on protecting the people he loved, especially her.

Ron's death had been his fault, Harry knew. If only he hadn't been complacent, if only he'd kept them moving so that the Death Eaters had never caught up with them... There were so many things he wished he had done but couldn't go back and change. And now Hermione was dead, another corpse to add to the growing list that hung over him and made his heart throb with guilt and grief. He closed his eyes against the darkness of his cell around him and let his weight rely heavily on the wall at his back. But as much as he tried to sleep, thoughts of his friends and his growing loneliness made his eyes sting and water until he was plunged into sleep.

-TRANSITION-

Draco Malfoy had found, through his many years of witnessing the Dark Lord coming and going from his family home, that the Manor itself, along with all of its residents, seemed to take on a new atmosphere at the arrival of Voldemort. He could sense it now, growing stronger with every step he took down the hallways that seemed to stretch for days, and even beneath intuition telling him that there was nothing to fear - at least from this visit - his lingering childhood fears were still ignited at the idea that he would soon face him.

A grand marble arch appeared at the end of the corridor ahead of him in the blink of an eye, and Draco marched towards it. The Dark Lord had possessed his own private chambers in the Manor since Draco had been a child, and the space allowed him to come and go as he pleased, casting away the entrance when he did not wish to be disturbed. Beyond the arch was abyss, nothing but dark, menacing swirls that reached out to grab Draco by the collar and rein him in. It was a portal, strung from dark magic that swarmed under its surface like bees trapped under glass.

Draco reached the portal and paused before it, staring into the darkness like it was a mirror that threw back a reflection of his soul. He felt his pulse ebb at his wrist, the serpent shaped tattoo that was burned into his skin sensing its master's closeness. Draco tried to ignore its existence most of the time, perpetually wearing long-sleeved robes that made him hot and sticky with sweat through burning summers, and all to conceal the concentrated scar of his self-hatred. But when in the presence of the Dark Lord, the ghastly markings came alive. Draco could feel the tingling sensation of the snake slithering around under his skin, wrapping around his wrist and tightening, like a cuff that held him in his place so he couldn't run. He was sure it was the Dark Lord's doing - a tattoo, even magical, couldn't have a mind of its own - but he dared not confront the wizard about it for fear of his life.

"Come in, young Draco." The voice was venomous, and stabbed through the portal's surface the way a blade sliced water. Draco's whole body shivered, a rumble of doubt and fear making his very blood tremble, but he stepped through the portal with a stride that carried more confidence than he would ever be able to muster. He tried his best to ignore the eerie feeling of the portal's material washing him with darkness, and kept his eyes trained on the floor until he stood in front of the Dark Lord, where he looked up at the wizard's face.

And what a ghastly face it was that greeted him. The dark, soulless eyes; the serpentine nose; the gaunt features, bony and seeming to be collapsing in on themselves - all of this Draco had seen before, but it struck him as just as terrifying every new instance he was faced with it. He wished he didn't have to look this ugly, deformed creature in the face, but Voldemort's deadly gaze paralysed him, and he knew that it would be the death of him to glance away first. The air in the room was different to that of outside: darker, heavier, as if he was still submerged in the dark fluid that made up the portal. Draco ignored as best as he could the feeling of strangulation it had on every one of his breaths.

"Draco," Voldemort drawled in a long, almost bored tone. He smiled, but with his jagged, golden-yellow teeth it looked more like a grimace. "I hear you have news for me?"

"I do," Draco choked, reminding himself not to stutter - he had done so once and paid the price, soon learning that the Dark Lord did not like to see weakness in the eyes of his followers. "Harry Potter has been captured."

The Dark Lord's eyes were pulled off of Draco's, and the blonde was able to indulge in a deep, much-needed breath as Voldemort's half smile faded into a look of nostalgia. "Harry Potter," he mused, but didn't divulge any of his inner thoughts. "What did you do with him?"

"He is in the dungeons for now. I can have him brought up to you if you wish to -"

"Brought here?" Voldemort laughed as Draco's stomach turned to mush. "Why would I want the Chosen One brought within any distance of me? There is a prophecy that he will kill me, and one I take very seriously." He grilled Draco with yet another deathly stare that made the young man's pulse heighten with fear. "Do you, Draco?"

"Of course," Draco replied, trying - and failing - to emulate the tone of calm indifference his father had always held in front of the beast that stood before him now. "But may I remind you that the prophecy said one of you would kill the other, my lord, not just Potter."

Voldemort shook his head and turned away to poke at the fire dancing in waves of pink and red flame behind him, using a metal stick that had hung on a rack from the mantel piece. It was a piece of furniture he had requested, that fireplace, and Draco heard that it was lit constantly so that he could throw misbehaving house elves into it. Even by Draco's unholy standards, he saw that as a little cruel.

When Voldemort turned back to Draco after a moment and he still held the stick, burning red from the flames, Draco feared for an instant that correcting him had been a bad idea. But Voldemort only sighed, either deciding against or never even considering a punishment. When his words came they were solemn, threaded with a tone of disappointment towards the situation at hand. "You may be right, Draco, but I am not going to kill Harry, that's for certain. He is a fragment of my soul, after all, thus killing him would be like stabbing myself in the stomach."

"Of course, my lord."

"Has he any injuries as of yet?"

Draco's throat snapped shut at the thought of Potter's treatment by the other Death Eaters, remembering how weak he'd been - he would be useless at defending himself. "A few cuts and bruises, and I suspect a few Cruciatus curses were used on him, but nothing lethal," he told Voldemort truthfully, and the man nodded, turning back to his fire without another word.

"What do you plan to do with him, my lord?" Draco asked curiously. He suspected he had stepped an inch or two out of line with the question when the Dark Lord's eyes flickered up in haste to meet his. But he retracted his assumptions when he found that the eyes were not narrow or murderous, but more docile than Draco had ever seen them. The Dark Lord must have been in one of his rare good moods.

"I'm unsure. It seems to be a difficult dilemma," he said, with a strange look on his devilish features that Draco hadn't witnessed before. It almost looked like... Amusement? And not the kind that came with maiming and killing, but the sort of expression Draco had always suspected had sprung onto his own face at the sight of Potter recoiling from one of his insults. "You must have an idea or two, Draco. Please share."

Draco gulped. "I suggest he be sent to Azkaban," he confessed, and watched the Dark Lord's brows raise in intrigue. "The place is secure, nobody can get in or out so he cannot be harmed or escape, and the torture can be punishment for his war crimes."

Voldemort regarded his suggestion with a curious expression and a slight nod of his head. "What an... interesting take," he said. "But no, I don't want Potter sent off to some island where I can't reach him, where anything can go wrong and I will be unable to do anything to stop it. In fact, I'd rather keep him closer. Much closer."

Draco almost gagged at the suggestion in the Dark Lord's tone, the way his voice seemed to purr as though he was speaking of a lover rather than a boy who, four years prior, had been his mortal enemy. It was said in whispers through both the Manor and the rest of the country that the Lord had slipped down a spiral of insanity over the last few years, triggered by the discovery that Potter was his horcrux. Draco couldn't disagree, and the man's degrading sanity made him even more fearful, but he was nowhere near stupid enough to voice this.

"I see you have a large amount of protection here at the Manor," Voldemort commented, brandishing his poker as though it were a wand. "The Malfoy family have always been wealthy, and thus heavily protected. Your father was always very generous, allowing me to share his home, and he was a loyal follower." He smiled and laughed lightly at a joke Draco had clearly missed. "Are you loyal, Draco?"

"Yes, my lord," Draco choked. The phrase was an immediate response, formed from a lesson he'd learnt from birth: to never say no to the Dark Lord. But he was starting to wonder what the man had planned, and why his face carried such a cunning grin all of a sudden.

"Well then, I feel that the best course of action would be to make Harry a Malfoy."

Never before had Draco imagined he'd hear Potter's and his names in that context, much less coming from the mouth of the Dark Lord, and with not a shred of mockery. "A what?" he felt himself utter, barely audible over the ringing in his ears where the Dark Lord's words seemed to have deafened him. But Voldemort was still speaking and his words dug at Draco's eardrums and forced him to listen.

"As a Malfoy, Harry will be protected from harm and will reside close enough for me to check his well-being," Voldemort explained. He sounded pleased with his plan, whilst Draco was swallowing the urge to throw up at the idea. "I expect you to be married within the week."

"Married?" Draco spluttered. "To Potter?"

The Dark Lord considered his with a narrow gaze, suspicious perhaps. "Yes. Is that a problem? I would hope not, if you are as loyal and devoted as you say you are."

"No, it is not an issue, my lord," Draco lied with all of the composure he could muster through his stifled rage. "I will begin making arrangements immediately."

"Excellent," Voldemort said dully, without any hint of a smile. "Though I do suggest that young Harry be kept in confinement until he fully adjusts to his new role."

His new role as my husband?! Draco thought, outraged below the surface. "Of course, my lord," he uttered through a tightly clenched jaw and teeth that would have shattered under any more pressure. Every bone in his body urged him to ambush the dark wizard ahead of him with every curse he could think of, but he refrained.

Draco left Voldemort's quarters with a shake in his step and a tremble in his every movement. The arch vanished behind him as he left, and for a split second of desperate rage, he was set on removing the chambers completely, in the hope that that the Dark Lord would cease to exist along with them. But he knew that would never work; what with his array of horcruxes splitting his soul into fragments, even considering the few Potter had managed to destroy, Voldemort was considered invincible - and Draco could do nothing to control the life his parents' decisions had made for him.