Thank you for the reviews! I can promise to update this story fairly quickly, as I already have a lot written, and the chapters just need some editing.

Chapter 2—The Bower

Harry opened his eyes slowly. It wasn't the sounds that confused him, or even the bed beneath him, so soft that it was like lying on a cloud, as much as the smells.

He glanced around, and found himself enclosed in walls of breathing green. Trees with delicately arched trunks swayed long, slender leaves back and forth, opening and closing like lungs. The green tapered off into yellow near the leaf-tips. Here and there, the startling orange or white note of a flower announced itself among the branches. Harry had never seen blossoms so big. The closest, which was dispensing a large portion of the fragrance into his nostrils, was at least as wide as both his outstretched arms.

He stared up, and above him was sky. Bright wings cut the air as three or four birds soared over the clearing. They swirled casually around each other, then broke apart with shrill cries and dived into the trees. A moment later, low, muted songs broke forth.

Harry snapped himself out of his daze and carefully examined his surroundings, chiding himself for taking so long to notice what was nearest. He did indeed lie on a bed, so mounded with pillows and blankets that he curled his lip a bit in disgust. Who needed that many? The bed itself sat on grass so finely cut that Harry could make out tiny purple and blue flowers in it. All in all, it was a strange place Malfoy had chosen to abduct him to.

But Malfoy wasn't here at the moment, and no chains bound Harry to the bed. He started to sit up.

Almost at once, he found that while he could move in any direction, an invisible barrier kept him from leaving the bed. In fact, he couldn't lift his arms and legs much higher than about a foot from the blankets. It was the oddest thing. Harry had never seen a binding spell like it. His limbs would rise that distance and then fall limply back. He wished he knew the spell for use on some of the Death Eaters who'd mastered the trick of breaking Body-Binds.

More to the point, though, he wished he knew the spell so he would know the countercharm. Then he could escape and go back to work. From the angle of the light, it was at least ten-o'clock in the morning by now. God knew what Wormwood was doing on the Moly case without him.

"Good morning."

Harry jerked his head up and narrowed his eyes, then chided himself for being startled. Malfoy had emerged from a gap in the trees that hadn't looked like a gap, ducking between two interwoven trunks. He carried a jade-colored tray in his hands. On the tray sat—something. At some point, it might have been an ordinary stack of pancakes. Then it had received so much syrup, butter, strawberries, and whipped cream that it looked like a sad parody of healthy food.

Malfoy took his wand out and conjured a small table, setting the tray down on it. Then he stood regarding Harry expectantly.

Harry let his breath out slowly. He'd been in hostage situations before. He still couldn't figure out what Malfoy wanted from him, but he knew how important it was to remain calm and refuse to let the enemy control the situation. Humor the bastard.

That would have been easier if he hadn't been so sure that Wormwood would make a disaster of the Moly case. It needed patience, and Wormwood's overriding fault was a restlessness that pushed him to ask questions long before he should, and as a consequence make mistakes.

"Good morning, Malfoy," Harry said, keeping his voice even. "I think there was some mistake last night. If you'd mind letting me go?"

Malfoy folded his arms. "Why?"

Play along, play along. Harry had encountered Dark wizards who were incapable of accepting simple logic like this, so twisted were their minds. "I need to get to work," he said. He lifted his arms to meet the limits of the spell. At once they relaxed and dropped back into his lap. "And the spell, which I'm sure you set for my safety, won't let me leave the bed."

Malfoy acquired a funny little smirk. He conjured a chair next to the table and reclined in it. Harry barely kept from snorting. Of course the chair was made of dark wood and slanted at such an angle that it would mean maximum comfort for the person lying in it. Trust Malfoy to keep up standards even when he'd gone mad.

"There's no mistake, Harry." Harry frowned at the use of his first name. It was never a good sign when someone who took hostages did that. "I simply got tired of watching you waste what you are. I decided to take you and show you that you could, in fact, have a life. I'm going to teach you how to relax, how to have fun, how to feel good again—all those things you've forgotten." Abruptly, he leaned forward, and his voice dropped. "I'm going to make you feel so good, Harry."

Harry just stared at him. If not for the training that told him to guard his tongue and keep humoring Malfoy's delusions until he could find a way to escape, he would have spoken the truth.

This was insane.

Harry was forced to consider the possibility that Malfoy had taken him for personal reasons, and not because he was a Death Eater. Some bizarre revenge for their Hogwarts rivalry? A prank that he intended to play until he got bored? All the possibilities Harry could come up with didn't make much more sense than what Malfoy had said.

Perhaps seeing this, the bastard smiled some more. Harry studied his face, and found little of the student he'd known there. Oh, Malfoy still looked much the same, but his features had softened and been transformed. He wore his hair shoulder-length, and moved with a lazy confidence that certainly didn't belong to the panicked boy Harry had known their sixth year at Hogwarts. And he looked as though he hadn't known a day's hardship since the Wizengamot pardoned him.

All of those could be important clues to getting free. Harry had once escaped a Dark witch because he noticed that she tended to get flustered when he smiled at her. He'd done enough of that, and finally she'd neglected to lock his manacles properly. He could escape Malfoy the same way.

It would help if he understood him better, of course.

As if he agreed, Malfoy started talking again. "You realize that you haven't lived at all since the Dark Lord killed your friends, Harry? You're sleepwalking through your life. I've watched you for two years. All you do is work, and eat and sleep just enough to keep yourself healthy so that you can work some more." His face had darkened now, and Harry saw a trace of that same rage with which Malfoy had confronted him in the alley. What it made him think was that his captor was dangerously unstable. Wonderful. "It's ridiculous. I won't have it, not when I know how beautiful you are, what you could be like if you were wanted and tended and taken proper care of." He arched an eyebrow. "And I want you."

Harry bit his lip to keep in a desperate laugh. God, this was mad. Malfoy was talking about making him into a dog or a cat, it seemed like. Were a collar and a food bowl his next gifts?

On the other hand, the part about him watching Harry for two years made him sound like a stalker, and Harry knew how to deal with those. He'd protected Seekers, Ministry officials, singers, and others who had become the target of a crazed obsession.

What he couldn't figure out was why Malfoy had chosen him as the target. They hadn't even seen each other in eleven years, and Harry's profile had dipped low enough that Malfoy shouldn't have latched on to him as others typically latched on to a celebrity. If Harry's life really bored Malfoy as much as he said it did, how had he drummed up the interest to watch Harry for so long?

"You really don't get it, do you?"

Malfoy's voice was soft. Harry looked up, and was startled to see him leaning even closer, almost to the limit of whatever spell he'd put on the bed, probably. His face had softened, too, and he studied Harry intently. Harry hoped he was about to offer a real answer.

"You aren't going back to work for a time, Harry," Malfoy said. "Maybe not ever. It depends on how well you respond to what I teach you. For right now, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. No cases, no curses, no crazed enemies. There's just you, and me, and what I'm going to show you of pleasure."

Harry tensed. He couldn't imagine not working. He had to know he was doing something, helping other people somehow, with his life. How could Malfoy expect him to spend hour after empty hour in this—wherever it was?

"Where are we?" he asked. The information might help, and Malfoy looked in the mood to give it to him.

Malfoy smiled and nodded, as if he approved of Harry taking an interest in his surroundings. "The Manor's garden," he said. "Enchanted so that some plants that don't naturally grow in England flourish here, of course. You spent the night on a proper bed, for once." He gestured to the tray. "And I've brought you a proper breakfast, sweet and rich. Eat up, Harry."

"I don't think so, thanks," said Harry. He was hungry—he'd put off eating yesterday to get the Dashwood case finished, and had planned on a late dinner when he got to his flat—but Malfoy had probably drugged the food.

"You need this," Malfoy said, with the same weird intensity. "You need this so badly you don't even know you need it."

Harry snorted, and decided to dare a little sarcasm. At least it might shift the balance of power between them. "I don't think I need a breakfast so full of sweets and so short on actual food."

"For now, you do," Malfoy said. "I've watched you eat, too, you know. Corned beef sandwiches? Day in and day out? A piece of cheese and a glass of water when you think it's a special occasion? Really, Harry. Your taste buds must have shriveled. I'm eager to do things that will make you cry out in pleasure—" Harry shifted uncomfortably at the look Malfoy gave him then, one that raked his body head to toe and gleamed like metal—"but moans are acceptable, too. Such as the kind of moans that you'll make when you taste this."

Reluctantly, Harry accepted that the situation was real, and Malfoy really did want him for some sexual purpose. He had to set sanity aside. The important thing was not that he wasn't beautiful; it was that Malfoy believed he was beautiful, and would act accordingly. And he really wanted Harry to eat sweet foods and—succumb to some sexual fetish he had, apparently.

Resisting him might make him angry. Certainly the rage that had shone in his eyes indicated that. And Harry had no idea what the anger might make him capable of. Stalking someone for two years wasn't a good sign, though.

Harry decided it wasn't worth fighting over something as simple as this. He'd do much better pretending to go along with Malfoy and escaping once Malfoy let his guard down and learned to trust him. Veritaserum in the food or Malfoy turning out to have a fetish for whips would make that more difficult, of course, but Harry hoped he could escape before it got to that point.

"All right," he said. "If that's all you'll give me to eat."

"For right now," said Malfoy, waving his wand and floating the tray off the table. Harry watched intently for the moment when Malfoy would have to take the spell barrier down, but to his puzzlement, the food passed straight over the edge of the bed without a pause and settled into his lap. The spell must be on him, then, Harry thought, and not the bed. "Fresh fruit and wine later, of course. And I'm going to have quite a time teaching you about proper cheese, and food you've never heard of, let alone tasted."

Harry surveyed the tray. Beside the enormous stack of pancakes was a glass of milk so frothy it looked like foam, a knife, and a fork. He picked up the knife and cut a cautious chunk from the pancakes. Then, more than aware of Malfoy's eyes watching his every move, he stabbed the piece with the fork and put it in his mouth. He didn't taste any of the common drugs that he'd been told to watch for in Auror training.

Of course, it was a little difficult to taste anything but the intense sweetness spreading through his mouth, making him feel as though he'd been punched in the tongue. Harry choked a bit, and felt his stomach rumble harder. He couldn't deny it was the best thing he'd eaten in years, and his cramped appetite, which he usually ignored, was awakening with a vengeance.

"Good, Harry," Malfoy said softly. Harry blinked at him, and surprised a smile on his face. "This is the simplest lesson that you'll learn, but one of the most important. Tastes good, doesn't it?"

The smugness behind the smile dissipated Harry's euphoria, making him wonder if the meal was drugged after all. He forced himself to put the fork down. "I still don't see why you care so much about this," he said.

"Oh, you will," said Malfoy, standing. "But the short answer is that I want you. Quite a bit, more than I've wanted anyone in a long time. And the people I want should be taken care of, especially if they can't take care of themselves." He flicked his fingers in a way that dismissed the whole last decade of Harry's life. "I want you to enjoy yourself."

Harry sighed. "Why?" he whispered. He'd play along in a moment, but if there was any possibility of a straight answer, he wanted one.

Malfoy tilted his head. "If you could see yourself the way I see you, Harry, you wouldn't ask that question. I'll send a house-elf to fetch the tray when you're done." And he turned and walked calmly back through the gap in the trees.

Harry stared after him, then sighed and returned to eating. That hadn't been as productive as he hoped. He had no idea how to escape yet, and no idea how long Malfoy planned to keep him.

And while he was here, God knew what damage Wormwood was inflicting with Aholibah Moly. And if Malfoy held him longer, a week even—

Harry felt his stomach curdle abruptly. It could be months, couldn't it? Malfoy wouldn't have been so stupid as to simply kidnap Harry and make him vanish. He would have covered his tracks. And if he'd chosen the right story, then no one might look for him. It wasn't as though he had anyone close.

And how many victims would suffer because of Harry not being there to handle cases?

His mouth curled, Harry took a firm bite of the pancakes. He had to escape. There were no two ways about that.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

From behind the trees, under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm, Draco watched Harry eat. There weren't as many moans as he'd hoped for, especially once Harry obviously came to some conclusion that dismayed him, but now and then his eyes fluttered shut, and he spent longer on the pancakes than Draco had ever seen him spend on a sandwich, savoring them despite himself.

That will change, Draco thought, eyes narrowed. Everything will.

He supposed he sounded mad to Harry, and maybe even to someone else. He didn't care. He hadn't cared since he saw a photograph in the Daily Prophet two years ago, of Harry capturing Bellatrix Lestrange.

The picture had been taken just at the moment of capture, as Harry spoke the spell that Stunned Draco's aunt and dropped her where she stood, and the change in Harry's face was breathtaking. One moment he'd been utterly calm and closed-down, the way he looked when he made some of the speeches they'd required of him on the first few anniversaries of the Dark Lord's defeat; the next moment, his face had blazed, life shining through his green eyes like unclouded sunlight.

The first man was someone Draco couldn't imagine feeling anything but contempt for. The second made him want in a way he hadn't ever felt.

He had investigated Harry before he'd approached him, of course. Malfoys were not rejected. He intended to understand Harry and what he liked, what he disliked, what he looked for in a partner—everything about him that would insure Draco succeeded in snaring him.

What he'd found shocked, horrified, and then enraged him by turns. Harry wasn't the man Draco had seen in the photograph, except in the moments when he captured a criminal. He'd forsaken life and plunged into work. He never dated. He had no friends worthy of the name, only people whom he talked to about cases. He had no pleasures in life that didn't relate to his hunting—and even that, Draco had come to see, was more a grim duty to others than something Harry did because he loved it. He was a zombie, a sleepwalker, an indifferent gray mass of a person, a true public servant. He was wasting all the beauty that Draco saw in him because he didn't care.

Two years had been enough to convince Draco that the pattern wouldn't change without outside help, and, not coincidentally, to inflame his lust so much he would have to kidnap Harry. He knew what he wanted. It became clearer every day. This wasn't a passing fancy, it was an obsession, and Draco was salivating at the chance to teach Harry how to live life again. It didn't matter if other people understood. In fact, Draco was pleased they didn't; it meant less competition for Harry. His mother might stare at him sorrowfully, Severus might sneer, and his Slytherin friends might give him looks of blank incomprehension. That didn't matter, either. Lucius was the only one who might have successfully opposed Draco's desires, and Lucius had died five years ago in Azkaban. There was nothing standing in his way.

It didn't really matter if Harry wouldn't ever have taken Draco as his lover. Draco intended to take Harry as his.

He watched patiently as the mild sleeping potion, one of his own inventions, in the pancakes took effect, and Harry relaxed involuntarily against the pillows. A Malfoy house-elf appeared with a pop and removed the tray.

Draco turned and strode towards the Manor.

Now, the second phase could begin.