A/N: This story gets a little graphic here. If you don't like slash, I would stop reading if I was you...! ;)

Constructive criticism is welcomed. :) This is a little rough and ready as I just quickly wrote it. I might have to edit it in the morning...!

Chapter 2

On Harry's return to the Ministry, he had been accosted with demands for information. The death of Sarah Moon had caused a great amount of confusion, fear, and no small amount of anger. Plenty of Aurors were calling for the destruction of the captive, insisting that he was not a man, but a dangerous creature. The death of one of their own had caused an anger Harry had not anticipated. Simons was in the middle of a small huddle of Aurors, all whispering furiously.

Harry had gone straight to Shacklebolt's office on his arrival, without writing a formal report on the visit. The head of the Auror office would want to know everything he had to say sooner rather than later.

So it was that he stood at the glass-fronted office, through which he could see Shacklebolt already arguing with four or five other Aurors. He leaned against the wooden frame of the door, prepared to wait. He did not want the other Aurors trying to draw him into their argument.

"Did he speak to you then, Potter?" Malfoy drawled from behind him. Harry jumped, twisting round to see Malfoy leaning against a cubicle wall. "Everyone is sure that he must break under your steely gaze."

Harry scowled. Malfoy was no less annoying here at work than he had been at school, although of course less evil.

"No," he said slowly, "he didn't really speak. He asked me whether the woman died in the crash, and I told him yes. After that he didn't say anything."

"Well that's something. I spoke to him and I couldn't get a peep. Not that I knew if he was asleep or listening or anything with those goggle things on. Hey though," Malfoy leaned closer, "did you see his eyes when they took them off?"

Harry blinked, "No, I wasn't there. I didn't know you were either. I thought it was just—"

Malfoy cut him off with a significant, wide-eyed stare, "They're silver. Silver, and shiny. Like someone's poured molten metal over the surface. Amazing," Malfoy pulled back, "I wonder why they're like that. Maybe he has x-ray vision."

Harry raised his eyebrows, "Maybe."

Just then, the gaggle of Aurors poured out of the office, Shacklebolt shouting, "And that is my final word!" at their retreating backs. One of them shot Harry a considering look, and appeared to be stopping to talk to him, but Harry hurried into the office and shut the door quickly behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Potter." Shacklebolt said, still looking cross and resumed his place behind his large mahogany desk. "I'm glad you came straight to see me. I am looking forward to shedding some light on this case. Sit down." He opened a file that lay in front of him and flicked through it.

"Yes, sir." Harry said automatically, and sat down in the chair facing the desk.

"So, what is your report?" The head of the Auror office asked, turning another page in the report.

"My findings were inconclusive," Harry began, "the man did speak to me..."

"He spoke?" Shacklebolt interrupted, looking up, "What did he say?"

"He asked whether the woman in the crash had survived. I told him she hadn't, and he didn't speak again. I told him where he was and who we were, and why he was there, but he just sat there. At least we know he understands and can speak our language, though..."

"That is one blessing." Shacklebolt agreed. He leaned back in his desk chair, obviously thinking. "I'm just not sure what the best course of action is. We need to find out where he's from; he may be from another Ministry's jurisdiction. If he is, we can move him back there. You will just have to try and coax the truth from him. I expect that he is not a wizard, but perhaps some sort of magical creature we do not have in this country. I have contacted some leading researchers in that field and await their replies on whether they have come across something of this like. If we can converse with him, we can discern where he is from and return him there. He may have to serve a term in Azkaban, but as Moon attacked him first, he will probably receive a reduced sentence if he admits to remorse for his actions."

Shacklebolt looked suddenly tired. "The memorial service for Sarah Moon is tomorrow afternoon. The other Aurors are adamant that we destroy this man, but I simply cannot. Not when we don't know what he is, or where he's from. He could be being controlled by a dark wizard for all we know." He shook his head, "Try and find out what you can from this man. I would also like you to speak at the service. You are dismissed."

Harry stood slowly and retreated from the office.

Ginny had long gone to bed by the time Harry arrived back home from the Ministry. He didn't feel tired, and so poured himself a glass of firewhiskey and sat down at the kitchen table. The tablecloth was white, with delicate pink flowers Ginny had embroidered one winter evening. He traced the flowers now, feeling the rough pattern against his fingers. He couldn't draw his mind from the prisoner. His mind showed him the image he had witnessed early that day – a hunched figure, ready to attack, muscles tense and ready. Those hidden eyes. He tried to imagine them the way Malfoy had described them. Silver, like molten metal.

Harry shivered and took a long drink of firewhiskey. He felt tense, nervous... eager. It was hard to admit the last emotion to himself. He wanted to get back to Azkaban, try to talk to the man again. Find out what he was. Every time he thought of it, the desire to go back, to see him again, grew. He didn't know what it was. Fascination, he supposed. Here was a dangerous entity. A killer behind bars. It was like watching a tiger in the zoo, all that aggression, all that danger. Close enough to touch. To touch those frightening, alien creatures. To be among that power.

Abruptly, Harry stood. He downed the last dregs of his firewiskey and put the glass back on the table. He couldn't wait for tomorrow. He was going to see the man now. He would stay there as long as it took, days. Until he spoke. Until he told Harry everything.

Dark excitement welling in him, he started towards the door.

"Harry?" Ginny stood, framed in the doorway to their bedroom. She wore a nightdress, thin and flowing, with her body clearly visible through it. He realised, with a sudden jolt, that he was hard. But it wasn't for her; he felt no spark from the curves of her body. It was the thought of the tiger in the cage that aroused him.

She frowned at his silence, and moved towards him. "Harry," she said again, "where are you going? You only came back an hour ago, I heard you come in."

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to clear it.

"I," he began, but his voice was throaty and rough. He coughed to clear it, "I've forgotten something. I need to go back."

"You need to go back now?" She asked, incredulous, "In the middle of the night? Why don't you just stay here with me," her voice suddenly became a purr, "I'm sure you can go tomorrow—"

"No." Harry interrupted, brushing her wandering hands aside. "I have to go now. I'll see you tomorrow, Ginny."

He gave her a quick, emotionless kiss on the cheek and hurried out the door, leaving her hurt and confused on the front step.

The entrance chamber of Azkaban was deserted. Harry had the right to enter the prison whenever he needed to, but still he felt as though he were not meant to be here. It was eerie; the torches flickered silently in their brackets, casting dancing light on the stone walls. He met one guard, who merely nodded at him and opened the door to Corridor E.

He walked slowly down the corridor, peering at each numbered door in turn. Finally, he reached the right door. Number 32.

He pressed his hand against the door. He didn't know the right incantation which would open it, but as he had helped strengthen and form the magical shields that guarded each room he found it relatively easy to pick through the threads of magic until he found the right one. The door made a quiet clicking sound, and slowly opened by its own accord.

The room was dark. Harry realised the lamps had probably only been lit here for his visit. Why would a prisoner need lights? Enough thin light would stream through the barred window in the day, but only the blackness of twilight entered through it now. He couldn't see the man at all. Harry turned, and flicked his wand in the direction of the lamps.

He turned back to the illuminated bars. The man stood at them, barely inches away, staring into Harry's face.

With a yell of fear, Harry stumbled back, slamming his back hard on the door to the cell. Cursing, he looked up. A small, lopsided smile grew on the man's face.

"Scared easy." The man commented. His hands were fists around the bars, but his stance was relaxed.

Harry made no response to this. He just rubbed his chest and scowled.

"You can call me Riddick." Riddick said, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his arms. "I've been waiting for you to come back."

Harry looked up, surprised. "Me? Why?"

Riddick's face was expressionless, "I can taste your hunger." He said, quietly.

"My hunger?" Harry replied, nonplussed. He moved a little towards the bars, so he stood just out of Riddick's reach if he tried to grab him.

"Hunger for something... dangerous." Riddick smiled slowly. Harry recalled his feelings in his kitchen, back at home. The tension, the excitement. The tiger in the cage.

"Riddick," Harry said, slowly, "where are you from?"

"I'm from nowhere." Riddick replied, his voice emotionless once more. "Birthplace unknown."

"But where were you travelling to?"

"Lupus 5." Riddick said blandly.

Harry was confused, "Where is that? Portugal? Spain? Russia?"

Riddick tilted his head. "It's a transport hub. You can get a ship almost anywhere."

"A boat?"

Riddick started to smile again. "A spaceship."

"A spaceship?" Harry replied, thrown, "Is that what you landed here in? A spaceship? From space?"

"This planet is primitive." Riddick said tonelessly. "You have no space travel." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Are you... are you trying to trick me?" Harry asked. He wasn't sure why Riddick would lie about this, unless he had been escaping from another country and didn't want to go back.

Riddick didn't seem to think this deserved a reply. His smile was gone, and he had reverted to staring (or Harry thought he was) straight at Harry.

His burning desire to see what Riddick's eyes really looked like made him move forward again, though still out of the other man's reach.

"Let me see your eyes." He whispered, mesmerised. He didn't know why he said it. The silence and the flickering lights from the candles made him feel that he was dreaming. The firewhiskey had muddled him just enough to be brave enough to ask. He stared into Riddick's face, waiting.

A long moment passed, and then Riddick raised his hands to his face, and slowly drew up his goggles. His eyes were closed, but he slowly opened them. Harry's own eyes widened.

They were silver. But more than just the colour silver, like a boiling pot of molten silver, writhing and seething. They reflected the light from the flickering lamps. They were breathtaking. Harry felt like his heart was in his throat, frightened yet entranced. He didn't realise that his mouth had fallen open, just a little.

"Got to kill a few people," Riddick whispered, his voice so low and gritty Harry could barely make out the words, "Get sent down the mines of Cain 6. Diggin' up moonrock. So bright, it burns your eyes till you can't see it anymore. Eyeshine." He gave his slow grin. "Can't see the moonrock, but you can see the scum creeping up on you in the dark."

Suddenly, in a movement so fast Harry barely registered what was happening, Riddick had grabbed him. He roughly pulled him up to the bars, so they were pressed against each other in the spaces between them. Riddick's arm tightened around his neck.

"Release me!" Riddick roared, squeezing him still tighter. Harry choked, his hand grasping desperately for his wand. When he grabbed it, he twitched it vaguely in Riddick's direction and he was released. He jumped away, swinging around to see Riddick staring at him. He had used a simple stinging hex, and could see small red welts on Riddick's muscled bicep.

"Magic." Riddick said, thoughtful. "You think your magic blood would be different. Taste different. But that girl, she smelt like sweat and copper, just like everyone else. And her blood was just the same." He licked his lips, sensuously. "Tasted the same."

Harry stared at him, and to his horror, he felt himself harden from the lustful look on Riddick's face.

"I will-" Harry's voice was rough and dry, he swallowed and tried again, "I will tell the Ministry what you have said, and they will decide what to do."

Riddick didn't say a word; he just smiled at him, his silver eyes burning Harry's skin. Harry turned tail, and ran.

Riddick's body was pressed hard against his. He felt his erection straining against his jeans, and moaned. Riddick's mouth clashed hungrily with his own, and Harry felt as though he was drawing strength, life, through the other man. Pressing his mouth harder into Harry's, Riddick slammed him against the wall, knocking the air from him. But Harry wasn't afraid, not like earlier, in the prison. He pulled Riddick closer towards him; every part of him – his muscled thighs, his hardness, his chest – seemed to meld into Harry. He wanted to climb inside Riddick's body, closer, closer. Riddick's bare chest was warm and solid against his – when had they taken their clothes off? – as he pulled back, ending their heated, endless kiss.

He was drowning in those silver eyes. They filled his vision, his mind, his soul. He couldn't breathe. He could feel his cock throbbing with release, pleasure overwhelmed him.

He woke.

The sheets were tangled around his legs, his erection flagging as the final evidence of his release spilled from him. Ginny slept on next to him, her body so close it was almost touching his.

He felt sick. He tore himself from the tangled blankets and stumbled to the bathroom, where he vomited, over and over, until his throat was raw.