Still with me? I'm flattered and very grateful. So the standard disclaimers apply: Not mine, never will be, and the esteemed Lady Rowling is a goddess. Anyway. There's a bit of Harry-bashing in here, but nothing too graphic. Keep it in mind, kiddies. I like dark and so dark it shall be.
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Screaming. Someone was screaming.
Hoarse cries rang out, endless and ragged, incoherent pleas mixed in with the breathless wailing. Every now and again came a hiccup, breath hitching sharply before hysteria resumed.
He'd been prepared for curses. He'd been dreading hexes. Every nerve had been in anticipation of crucio. He had been terribly, horribly mistaken.
Lucius Malfoy, it seemed, harbored a Weasley-like fascination in a very specific aspect of Muggle life. Torture. He delighted in the ingenious, non-magical methods of producing pain. So it was that Harry found himself naked, face down, spread-eagled and pinioned at wrists and ankles. The loss of clothing had concerned him greatly, as if his last vestiges of armor had been stripped from him, leaving him nothing but a scared teenage boy- not a powerful wizard in the making. Lucius had even taken his glasses, tossing them aside with a disdainful sniff. Not that there had been much of a view as the young Gryffindor had been bound, but the loss of vision made him feel just that much more vulnerable.
What had come next had resulted in the screaming, the high keening cries that he couldn't seem to stop. Malfoy had produced a thick, braided rope and systematically set about opening Harry's back in long, painful welts. Each lick of the whip was like fire, searing across the unprotected flanks of sides, across the backs of thighs- not an inch of flesh was spared. If Harry had been more in control of his faculties, he might've appreciated the elder Malfoy's stamina. As it was, he could only thrash against the shackles binding wrists and ankles, trying in vain to escape the whistling bite of that whip.
He didn't even have the luxury of passing out, as every time the battered Gryffindor attempted to slip into unconsciousness a quick ennervate had him fully aware once again. Harry's world dwindled to the vicious ache in his extremities and the sharp, painful licks of the whip, Malfoy's drawling voice insistently belittling in the background.
"Insignificant."
Crack.
"Impertinent."
Crack.
"Disrespectful."
Crack.
The Boy Who Lived wept, writhing on the low table. When Malfoy seemed to tire of the activity, he leaned close over the sobbing youth, running the course whip across abraded flesh in a sick parody of a comforting caress.
"I shall leave you to think about the error of your ways, boy," he murmured close in the shell of Harry's ear, digging a long finger into the still gaping wound in the boy's shoulder, drawing a keening moan of protest.
Some distant part of the Gryffindor began to long for his body to give out, his thoughts bleak and disjointed as Lucius strode from the room, barking for a house elf to draw him a bath.
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"Granger, you honestly want to chat me up about Potter?"
Hermione shifted uneasily, watching the blonde boy's incredulity mount with every passing second. They'd been in this little classroom for nearly half an hour now, going in circles in a characteristic battle of insults and witty repartee. The Gryffindor prefect's temper was rapidly fraying- she was missing class for this, after all.
"Look, I know you saw him last night. I just want to know how he was- was he afraid? Was he hurt?"
She hated the whine in her voice, the underlying hint of desperation at discerning anything new about her friend's state. It seemed to amuse the Slytherin prince, however, prompting a slow twitch of the muscles at either corner of his thin lips.
"Terrified, Granger. Screamed like a girl," he drawled slowly, pale eyes flickering away from her even as he spoke.
"Malfoy, please. I need to know... it's important, don't you see?"
Hermione sighed as he turned back, a single blonde brow sweeping upward in a very good impression of one of Snape's more condescending expressions.
"Why? Why is it so bloody important?"
"Because he's my friend," she offered simply, arms coming to fold across her chest. She was perplexed as to Malfoy's reticence to share any information with her. It wasn't as if he was keeping secrets- she already knew. Dumbledore had explained the whole thing, as he was well aware. Feeling piqued that he would withhold the truth just to aggravate her, Hermione stifled a sudden urge to just hex him and be done, distantly wondering why she was channeling Ron.
Malfoy settled onto the edge of a desk, looking nearly as uncomfortable as she felt. Folding elegant hands in his lap, he eyed her with what seemed like a peculiar mixture of enmity, confusion, and guilt. It left Hermione puzzled, blinking slowly as her analytical mind attempted to pick apart the strange conglomeration of emotion.
"Look, Granger. Last I saw he was fine... well. Close enough," he amended with a shrug, earning a dark look from the Gryffindor prefect.
"What do you mean close enough?"
"Merlin, are you always so demanding?" he snarled, stormy eyes narrowing a fraction.
Hermione did not dignify that with a response, glowering in return at the irate Slytherin. He was keeping something from her, and she was just stubborn enough to keep at this until he either caved... or lost himself a lot of House points by hexing her.
"Fine, fine. He wasn't seriously injured, if that's what you're after. Just bumps and bruises. He didn't scream or cry or any of that rot. He just... glared," concluded with yet another shrug, aristocratic features settling into a rather bland expression.
Nearly satisfied, Hermione straightened up to fix the blonde with a strained smile, vaguely bemused at how his eyes widened at that.
"Thank you, Draco. If you think of anything else... or... well. Want to talk," she offered awkwardly, wondering what had possessed her to say that. Ron would have kittens to find her chatting with Malfoy.
"Right, Granger. Then we can have cocoa and braid each other's hair," sneered the young wizard, abruptly standing and stalking from the room, leaving a slightly bewildered Hermione in his wake.
That had certainly been... something.
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"Severus, my boy, are you certain you are quite well?"
The Potions Master nearly flinched at the use of the endearment, recalling it spoken in a voice that was higher pitched and far more sibilant.
"Fine, Albus. Nothing a quick restorative will not make short work of, I assure you," he murmured gruffly, clutching at the arms of the ridiculously overstuffed chair to still the lasting tremors in his hands.
Sighing, the Headmaster sat forward, elbows resting on the cluttered surface of his desk. Behind him, a portrait murmured something about disrespect, earning a sharp glare from Snape's dark eyes.
"As to the portkey, are you quite certain we should allow another student to be taken from the grounds?"
"Now, Severus, we must trust that no harm is intended toward young Mr. Malfoy. I don't suppose anything was said about your accompanying him this evening?" queried in a hopeful sort of voice, blue eyes thoughtful over the rims of spectacles.
"Unfortunately not, Albus. I could arrange to be holding the portkey as well, but I do not believe it to be part of the Dark Lord's plan for the evening," he confided.
"In that case, let us not tempt fate a second time today," Dumbledore murmured gently, favoring the younger man with a fond look. Severus merely rolled his dark eyes skyward, though he was not truly as irritated with the concern as he made out- it was all part of the act.
"If you insist," the Potions Master shrugged, feigning indifference.
"That I do, my boy. Now off with you, as I'm sure you are quite anxious to speak with young Draco."
Snorting at the Headmaster's dismissal, which hadn't changed much over the years much to his dismay, Severus stood and twitched his robes back into place- ignoring the dirt and grime that had gathered from his earlier prostrations in the dust.
"Quite, Albus. If you will excuse me," and with a quick inclination of his head, the Potions Master swept from the room in a whisper of billowing robes.
Left to his own devices and a host of clamoring portraits, the Headmaster simply shook his head, observing to no one in particular that Severus really was too proud for his own good.
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"Are you properly ashamed of your behavior thus far, Potter? We cannot proceed until you apologize for your earlier disrespect."
Disoriented, Harry squinted toward the sound of the voice, trying to focus bleary emerald eyes. He could only assume he had passed out once again, because the bewildered young man could've sworn he had been shackled to a table. Now he was upright, hanging at an excrutiating angle from wounded wrists. The dull throb in his shoulder had awakened with a vengeance, pulsing in time to a sluggish heartbeat and radiating an unhealthy sort of warmth as well. In fact, the captive Gryffindor felt feverish in general, sweat and blood sheening his battered body.
"Well? I am not a patient man, young Potter," Lucius drawled, finally coming into Harry's line of vision- blurred though it was. Of course, the tall blonde still looked impeccable, dark robes spotless, gloved hands steepled beneath his pointed chin. Facial features were nothing but a pale smear, but Harry thought he could detect the malicious glitter of grey eyes- though it might be a product of his fevered imagination.
"Sod. Off," the younger wizard carefully enunciated, the words clipped as if he'd bitten them off.
Lucius chuckled softly, and it was nothing like the laughter that had been startled out of Draco the day before. Had it only been a day before? It seemed like a lifetime, a whole different universe in which he had been a student, a friend... not this thing hanging from a dungeon ceiling, trying to force shaky legs to hold up meager weight.
"I can see we have quite the lot of ground to cover before the Dark Lord's arrival this evening."
Harry started, a frisson of true fear tickling along the abraded length of his spine. Another low chuckle sounded as the blonde wizard paced out of his sight, motions graceful as any stalking predator.
"Frightened, Potter? Perhaps there is hope for you after all."
The voice was behind him now, an ominous hissing and clanking underscoring the words. Torn between wanting to glare at his tormentor and not wanting to know what was about to happen, the young wizard shuddered, clenching his teeth and scrunching eyes closed.
When the brand contacted the small of his back, the slight youth screamed and arched forward, nearly yanking his arms free of abused sockets.
"Now, about that apology..."
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Stones skipped evenly across the surface of the lake, hopping once, twice, a third time and then disappearing beneath lingering ripples. Palming another stone, Draco straightened from his crouch at the lake's edge, gaze distant and troubled.
Damn Granger for demanding anything from him. Why was she so bloody concerned, anyway? It wasn't as if she could do anything for her precious golden boy, never mind how brilliant she supposedly was.
The blonde sent the last stone skittering across the lake, glowering as it only skipped once before sinking. Unoccupied hands folded within the depths of his robes, as if he had suddenly noticed the temperature wasn't precisely inviting students to come linger out of doors. Grey eyes surveyed an equally grey sky, the promise of snow hinting in gathering clouds and in the taste of the brisk air. Draco was not overly fond of winter- the cold ate right through his slender frame. Even now he was shivering, cursing whatever folly had driven him to escape the castle.
It had been Granger's fault, really. And Pansy. And all the other simpering, interfering prats that simply wouldn't leave him be to brood in peace. Grumbling under his breath, Draco pivoted on a heel and began to make his way back up to the castle's doors.
He was not worried about Potter. He was not. The heir to the Malfoy name did not concern himself over whether or not some sniveling mudblood was reduced to begging him for information. When he closed his eyes he did not see hurt emerald eyes reflecting betrayal and abandonment. And he most certainly was not having second thoughts about his service to the Dark Lord. His father was proud of him, and that was enough.
Wasn't it?
Working himself into a towering snit, Draco Malfoy barreled through the massive front doors and into the entrance hall, earning more than a few looks of cringing surprise. He snarled at the attention, delicately pointed features twisted in rage. He was the Prince of Slytherin, the heir to a legacy of darkness and power, and he was not going to let some niggling bit of conscience ruin his day!
He had almost managed to convince himself of such when long fingers abruptly closed on his left shoulder, Snape's silky baritone interrupting his jibbering inner monologue.
"Mr. Malfoy, if you could tear yourself away from terrorizing your fellow students, I would like a word with you."
Oh, not again, Draco groaned mentally, mustering an unconcerned shrug to the summons that effectively dislodged the older man's potions stained hand.
"Yes, sir."
He wondered if he sounded as defeated as he felt. Probably. Uncomfortably aware that nothing had gone right since the moment he set eyes on Potter in the Forbidden Forest, the young wizard followed his Head of House into the labyrinthine halls of the dungeons.
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"Ronald Weasley, you put that down right this instant!" Hermione snapped, hands on hips as she glared at the redhead.
"Come on, 'Mione... just a peek? I couldn't concentrate last night with everything.."
Expression softening just a fraction, Gryffindor's resident bookworm relented and let her friend peruse her notes for the moment.
"A peek, then. And don't you dare crinkle that parchment," she sniffed, easing into her favorite fireside chair. Crookshanks was soon in her lap, shedding madly across the dark fabric of her robes. Ron, perched like an oversized freckled vulture on the arm of the nearest couch, snorted softly.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he offered dryly, earning a sharp look from his friend.
"I'll have you know I don't allow just anyone to read my notes, prat."
"I know. More's the pity- you could make a bloody fortune letting people copy off... oi! Give those back, I wasn't finished yet!"
Hermione, in a manuever worthy of a seeker, had leaned forward to snatch the parchment from Ron's loose grasp. Sitting back, she smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the corners, huffing quietly.
"Honestly, Ron... that would be an awful infraction," she began, only to have the redheaded wizard squint at her with a certain crafty glitter of blue eyes.
"Speaking of, where were you this morning? You were actually late to class."
The bushy-headed witch suddenly became very interested in returning her notes to the cluttered depths of her school satchel, rearranging books and bits of parchment for a long moment.
"Come on, out with it," Ron prompted impatiently.
"I... I went to speak with Malfoy."
"You did what?"
It was to be expected, really, that explosion of shock and horror from her hot-headed friend, and Hermione could only sigh.
"Ron, really. I wanted to ask him about Harry."
"You asked Malfoy about Harry? Why? I don't care what Dumbledore says, that nasty git had something to do with Harry getting lost in the forest," sputtered Ron, arms gesturing so wildly he nearly knocked himself from the couch's arm.
"I asked Malfoy," she said with over-exaggerated patience, "because he could tell me how Harry was when he was taken. It's rather important to know what sort of state he was in, after all."
Ron goggled, suddenly pale beneath his freckles.
"Did he say? I mean, I didn't even think to ask..." stammering now, the youngest Weasley male leaned forward to peer intently at his friend.
"Which is why I asked, of course," she gently pointed out, "And yes, Malfoy says Harry was well enough."
"Well enough? What in the bloody hell does that mean?"
"Now, Ron... calm down. It means that Harry wasn't stunned or seriously wounded when he was taken."
Sighing, the redhead flopped back to sprawl on the couch, staring at the ceiling in obvious bewilderment.
"I hadn't even thought of that. Blimey, 'Mione... I just.. I guess I just assumed he was all right. Harry's always all right, you know?"
"I know, Ron" sighed the studious young witch, eyes dark with sympathy and concern.
Harry was always all right. He had to be. It was an integral, necessary part of the their orderly little universe. The Dark Lord may be out for their friend, but he always triumphed.
Because the good guys always win.
Don't they?
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For the second time in as many days, Draco found himself seated awkwardly within the cushioning depths of a couch in Snape's private sitting room. Cradling a cup of tea between hands suddenly beset with the tiniest of tremors, he tried, rather unsuccessfully, not to gawk at his professor.
"He wants me to come to the Manor tonight?"
The aristocratic young blond winced as his voice cracked, thrusting itself into an octave he hadn't heard in years.
"Mr. Malfoy, if you will calm yourself I will explain," Snape smoothly cut in, effectively derailing any thoughts Draco might have had about protesting such a move.
Sighing around the rim of his cup, the Malfoy heir nodded in a sullen sort of silence, observing with vague satisfaction that his head of house seemed just as uncomfortable as he was feeling.
"The Dark Lord has requested your presence, yes. He has provided a portkey, but I cannot guarantee it will take you to the Manor. That is my best guess as to where you will be visiting, as the Dark Lord wishes to see you and your father together and... most likely, he wishes to see Potter as well. Therefore the Manor becomes the most likely place for a rendevous."
Draco nearly choked on his tea, suddenly faced with the idea of not only seeing the Dark Lord, but having to come face to face with Potter once more. It was bad enough the irritating Gryffindor was haunting his days at school, must he be forced to endure the boy's presence when he should be enjoying praise and congratulations from his father and the Dark Lord as well?
Frowning severely, the Potions Master resumed speaking, his own cup of tea going untouched on the table next to his chair.
"When you arrive, it will be essential that you do not look at the Dark Lord. Do not make eye contact, do not speak unless spoken to, do not presume any arrogance in his presence," came the silky baritone, clipped and terse as it was when directing particularly dense students.
If he was intending to unnerve his student, he was doing an excellent job of it. Draco was becoming more and more anxious by the moment. It was one thing to hear about the Dark Lord, to imagine being in his favor, to admire the idea from afar as a thing only the most powerful of wizards could do... it was another thing entirely to have a meeting hours away and realize that there were rules and protocols to follow, and what happened if he forgot something? The blonde was certain he didn't really want to know.
On and on and on went the rules, whole lists of proper ways to address the Dark Lord, times to kneel, when to kiss the hem of his robes...
Draco's head felt as if it had been stuffed full of cotton. The Potions Master's voice became more and more distant, a consistent deeply-voiced murmur in the background. The Slytherin was forced to recognize that this was fear. He was afraid. Afraid of a misstep, afraid to shame his father, to undo all that he had done in kid-napping Harry.
Harry, who inspired an entirely different feeling- not fear so much as apprehension. Recognizing belatedly that Snape had stopped speaking and was now regarding him with some irritation, Draco snapped back to attention.
"..Yes, sir. I understand and will... endeavor to make you and my father proud," he stated firmly, only the tiniest of hesitations to the offer belying his jangling nerves.
The older wizard nodded, his expression not unkind as he produced an empty potion vial, the motion as fluid and untraceable as any stage magician's slight-of-hand. Startled, the blond youth stared at the innocuous item until another motion from the professor left it airborne, spiraling into a glittering arch toward the couch. A seeker's reflexes had long fingers closed around the cool glass without a second thought, and Draco found himself holding his destiny in steady hands.