I'm back! You missed me, right? Hah. Anyway, m'sorry this took so long and that it is, admittedly, not some of my best work. New job and some personal issues have kept the muses at bay. But we're muddling along, and some plot advancement at last. Er... sorta. Once again, not my characters, I just string them along for my own twisted amusement. This is a mature fic, and it does involve some mention of torture. So be forewarned.
That said, on with the show.
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"Lucius. I trust you have things well in hand with our young guest."
"Of course, my lord. Things are progressing at a most gratifying pace," came the smooth response from the blonde, sleek head bowed low.
"And your son?"
"He will be joining us shortly, my lord. Narcissa, unfortunately, insisted on feeding him before she would send him down."
"Ah, Lucius. You should not be so hard on the lovely lady Malfoy. A mother's love, as we have all learned, is not to be taken lightly."
There was something hard beneath the sibilance, a bitterness that bled into the soft words and prompted a tightening of Lucius' shoulders.
"Of course, my lord. Accompany me downstairs, or would you prefer to wait until Draco joins us?"
Spidery fingers gestured negligently, the blood red robes inching upward on an arm far too thin to belong to a fully grown man, flesh a sickly white- not the alabaster purity the Malfoys enjoyed, more a bluish-white that hinted at decay.
"Lead on, Lucius. We will leave your boy to his dinner. No sense in prolonging my anticipation any longer."
Another sweeping bow from the blonde, arm flung outward to a door that had been unseen until now. The antechamber they had been standing within was richly appointed, of course. All mahogany panels and tapestries older than some of those that decorated the walls of Hogwarts, a darkness that hinted at opulence and suffocating warmth. The room was circular, only one exit visible until Lucius had made that smooth gesture that seemed to prompt a doorknob to coalesce where there had been bare wood paneling.
"Clever, Lucius. I trust only you can use that entrance."
"Only those of Malfoy blood, my lord. The charm is an old one, and we know how the Ministry views blood magicks these days."
The two shared a malicious chuckle, neither sounding entirely human as they passed from the antechamber into the dank stairwell that would lead them down into the dungeons below Malfoy Manor. Above them, a mother and son were sharing a meal in silence, forks clinking against expensive china. And below them, a raven-haired boy wept and shivered in the darkness, wrapped in fever dreams.
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Harry hurt. As simple as that, slight frame wracked by assorted pains he did not care to catalogue. Whippings had given way to brandings, brandings had given way to the insertion of needles beneath flushed skin, and all the while there had been verbal abuse- a litany of Harry's failings as a human being, as a student, as a friend... as a would-be saviour.
Dimly, the teenager was aware of the pain, a sharp overtone to the dull throb of hunger and the shivering heat of fever. Still nude, bereft of glasses, he huddled in the corner of the dungeon space, arms wrapped around his midsection and knees drawn to chin. If he thought himself pathetic in the posture, near foetal position upon the cold stone floor, it didn't show upon drawn features. Emerald eyes were heavy-lidded, dulled to jade above cheeks hectic with color.
The thing first upon his mind was the new pain, the knife-sharp stab at his brow that was enough to draw tears to his eyes. That pain, white and noisy in its clamor for attention, meant his tormentor had been true to his word- Voldemort had arrived.
So intent was he upon not drowning in the agony of that headache or the frantic clamor of fear, the battered young Gryffindor missed the creak of the door opening.
"We meet again, young Potter. You are looking rather less spirited than last time, I see."
It was a nightmare. For an instant, Harry held fast to the idea that this was just some product of his fevered imagination, a persistent fear come to haunt him in his misery. But when he squinted up, there stood Lord Voldemort, a smear of pallor against robes the color of fresh blood. At his elbow presumably stood Lucius, only distinguishable by the white-blonde of his hair.
"Then you won't mind if I don't get up and bow," he grunted, rearranging limbs in a parody of self-consciousness.
Laughter sounded, a slithering, dry sort of amusement that carried no undertone of merriment at all, crawling across Harry's skin like a live thing. It made him want to shudder, to block out the sound, but he wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction of watching him cower.
"Lucius, it would seem your formidable skills have met their match."
A low scoff from the blonde, long-fingered hands making some gesture of dismissal at the implied insult.
"He has been in my care but a short while, my Lord. I assure you, he will grovel most satisfactorily soon enough," he assured in a smooth, oily voice. Harry found himself wondering why no one ever picked up on that tone of voice from Lucius Malfoy, the one that hinted at terrible things and a myriad of sins beneath its cultured tones. Were they all so blind?
"For your sake, I do hope so. I will be most disappointed in you otherwise, my snake. And you know I don't take well to disappointment," Voldemort hissed, threat implicit in the soft reprimand.
Viciously gratified that he had gotten the cruel blonde in some measure of trouble with his master, the battered Gryffindor could not prevent the twist of his lips in something that was more grimace than smile. Unfortunately, it did not go unnoticed by either tormentor.
"Lucius, I believe your young guest is mocking us. Perhaps another lesson is in order?"
The not-so-gentle prompt had the cool weight of dread blossoming in Harry's stomach, leaden and heavy as it threatened to rob him of breath. Not again, not so soon. He was suddenly afraid that he no longer possessed the energy to swallow back his screams, and the idea of Voldemort enjoying the sounds of his torment left him feeling ashamed and weak. Expression scrunched, eyes tightly closed to block out the sight of what was to come.
It was almost a blessing when he heard the whisper of robes and a smoothly incanted crucio, the Unforgivable tearing through nerves and muscles to leave him in a jittering, seizing mess on the straw-covered floor. But he didn't scream.
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The air was cooler as Draco descended the stairs, only the eerie dance of shadows across the stone walls to accompany him down. His mother had departed him in the room above, a warning in her cold blue eyes. His stomach was in knots, head filled with the memory of Snape's instructions as he came upon the heavy outer door that led into the dungeons.
Beneath Malfoy Manor lay a cris-crossing morass of catacombs and stone-walled rooms: dungeon spaces large and small, abandoned tombs and forgotten crypts. The blonde teen found himself shivering and jaw clenched as he willed himself into stillness, a hand splayed across the cold door to press it inward. He could not hear his father or the Dark Lord, and wasn't sure whether that was a blessing or a curse. Had they already returned upstairs? And was he a coward for wishing such?
Resolutely he continued on, until he came to the barred door at the end of the cramped hallway. Beyond he could hear nothing save labored breath and what might've been laughter, but it was cold laughter- malicious, too highly pitched. Swallowing carefully, Draco swung open the door and stared, horror-struck at the scene that met his eyes.
His father stood, wand outstretched and pointed at the jerking, nude form of one Harry Potter. The other teen looked wretched, and Draco's heart turned over in his chest, seizing up with mingled horror and pity, guilt somewhere beneath the clammy pain of sympathy. Sympathy?
The young raven-haired wizard was curled awkwardly on his side, olive-toned skin gone to sickly yellow, covered in blood and the shiny redness of burns. Lips were open in a soundless scream, and Draco watched in morbid fascination as the other boy's Adam's apple bobbed, the muscles in his throat working desperately to produce sound... or not to produce it. Nails scrabbled at the floor, and Draco gasped aloud as Harry rolled to reveal the ruin that was his back.
The noise seemed to draw his father and the Dark Lord from their cruel amusement, cold greys and inhuman reds finding the gaping blonde. Neither seemed amused, and Draco found himself unable to recall a single one of Snape's meticulous instructions. His mind was absolutely, terrifyingly blank.
"Draco," hissed the elder Malfoy, a world of warning and disapproval lacing the two syllables. Wand dropped to his side, and Potter ceased flopping like a landed fish, neither of the adult wizards sparing him any further attention.
"Father, my Lord," the teen finally managed, voice threatening to break. He stooped, assuming a kneel upon the cold stone floor. From beneath a pale sweep of lash he studied the hems of robes, trying to fight the irrational urge to peer around them to check on Harry, whose muted, hitching breaths he could still hear, thick and wet as if with unshed tears.
"Ah, young Malfoy. I am pleased you were able to join us," came a voice that made the hair on the back of Draco's neck stand up. He watched as blood-red robes filled his vision, ghosting over the flagged stone floor without so much as a sound. It only served to make the entire scene more surreal.
"I am honored, my Lord."
He twitched as a hand found his shoulder, sharp fingertips digging into flesh and bone with a painful insistence.
"You are everything I would have hoped for in Lucius' son. Arise, young Malfoy, and allow me to congratulate you."
Trying desperately to school angular features into what he hoped approximated a smug look, he straightened, lash still hooding pale greys. Don't look, don't look...but it was like a quidditch accident, a morbid, unreasoning fascination in studying this thing that was the Dark Lord.
His eyes found the captive Gryffindor instead, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought Harry to be dead. His eyes were wide and staring, a glazed, dull green that locked onto startled greys. Then betrayal flashed through those eyes, and Draco wasn't sure whether it was an improvement- that look of disbelief and anguish from the raven-haired wizard instead of his sightless staring.
From the corner of his gaze he caught sight of his father, preening beneath the shared glory of having aided in the capture of the infamous Harry Potter. Disgust sizzled through the blonde teen then, abrupt and unexpected, reflected upon aristocratic features.
"He is pathetic, is he not, young Malfoy?"
Misinterpreting his expression, Voldemort cast a disdainful glance to the sprawled Gryffindor, earning a weak glower in return. Draco nodded dumbly, unwilling to trust his tongue to come up with a proper response. His emotions were trying to betray him at the worst possible of moments, and it was inconceivable... to have worked years to be hard and cold and untouchable to be so undone now.
"You see now why he could never have hoped to defeat me. How weak he is, how easily broken. You have done well, Draco. Your place will be assured alongside your father's one day soon."
And for no reason he could place, Draco Malfoy felt no pride at all, no warm swell of smug superiority. He felt sick and lost, trapped between two monsters and the sudden weight of knowledge that he was one of the bad guys. It was a strange revelation, to know that somewhere he'd gone from taunting and bullying to having a hand in what would surely be Harry's death.
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"Ron!"
It was a whisper, a hiss of understated demand that had the redhead looking up from his plate, brows arched in question. Hermione was staring over his shoulder, dark eyes intent upon something in the distance. Swallowing around a mouthful of potato, Ron turned to follow her gaze only to be swatted in the arm for his trouble.
"Ow, Hermione! What was that for?"
Rubbing the spot where she'd contacted his skin as if in serious affront, he earned a roll of those coffee-dark eyes as his friend settled back down to her spot on the long bench.
"Malfoy's not at dinner," she stated, matter-of-fact and just a little worried.
Ron's brows drew together, freckled features scrunching in thought.
"You think...?"
He'd learned it was better just to prompt her that way, rather than risk speculation and her inevitably pointing out that his reasoning was flawed. So he lifted a dinner roll, tearing it into two uneven pieces to slather butter across both, attention firmly affixed to the pensive Hermione.
"Isn't it obvious? He's probably left the castle- he might even be where Harry is," she breathed, suddenly excited. Ron found himself staring at the way her lips quirked up at the corners, not quite a smile but close enough- as if she'd worked out a puzzle and was particularly self-satisfied. Then he noticed she was watching him, expression fallen into long-suffering lines.
"Have you even been listening? Honestly, Ron... it's like your brain goes on vacation at meal times."
"Oi! I was so listening," he muttered, indignant and not just a little embarrassed to have been caught staring. Abandoning his efforts with the now soggy roll, the redhead leaned across onto his elbows, blue eyes intense.
"So Malfoy knows where Harry is... when he gets back, we can...erm. What are we going to do?"
Another prompt, somehow feeling that his immediate suggestion, which involved pounding the pointy-faced Slytherin against a wall until he told them about their missing friend's whereabouts, probably wouldn't go over well. But Hermione just rolled her eyes again, standing to fix her friend with a frighteningly familiar look.
"I've got an idea."
Ron watched her dart out of the Great Hall, wondering, as usual, if he should be relieved... or worried. He rather suspected the latter.