"Dead end, Potter!"

A grim smile plays around my lips when I notice the white glow of his Patronus around the corner. Stepping into the room I see him holding off a crowd of Dementors with his back to the wall. His Patronus - in the surprisingly mundane shape of a deer - is already extremely fuzzy around the edges. He looks drained and worn out, leaning against the stone wall to keep on his feet. Gracing him with a vicious grin, I lazily point my wand at him.

"Hand over your wand, Potter, and you'll walk out of this room alive."

There is something intensely satisfying about having that insufferable brat at my mercy for once. It makes up a little for the memory of being knocked down a flight of stairs by my own bloody house-elf. Handing my prisoner over to the Dark Lord and watching whatever will happen to him then will be even more satisfying.

"Go to hell, Malfoy!"

So you want to fight, Potter? Good. It'll be my pleasure to reintroduce you to the joys of the Cruciatus Curse.

Potter's eyes flicker from me to the Dementors that are slowly shuffling closer, but he makes no move to lower his wand. Instead, his eyes widen a fraction as he peers over my shoulder. A wave of intense cold sweeps over me, and a surreptitious backward glance reveals a black mass of hooded creatures filling toorwoorway behind me. Even worse odds for the celebrated hero of the wizarding world, it seems, though I hardly need help to subdue that overrated, arrogant little whelp.

Waving my hand imperiously, I order the Dementors to retreat. Instead of obeying, they titter, a horrible, anticipatory noise, and glide closer like upright Lethifolds.

Oh, this is just what I need! So much for Voldemort's claims to have struck a deal with them, that they're on our side now. But at the core, Dementors are creatures of hunger that cannot always be controlled. And they have very long, collective memories - they will never forget anyone who escaped their clutches. Once they almost had Potter on the ground, ready to be Kissed, and I had spent weeks in Azkaban before being 'cleared' at my trial...

"Expecto Patronum!"

I shoot my Patronus at them, producing a silver-white Peruvian Vipertooth that swoops down on them. They back off - a little. But there are just too many, and we're standing in the very centre of their power. My dragon drives them back again and again, but every time they regroup they've gained a few more inches of ground. My shoulder brushes against skin and cloth, and I realise that my strategic retreat can go no further: behind me is Potter, bd hid him is the wall. His own Patronus has deteriorated into a vague shape resembling a bed sheet with hooves. He throws me a side glance with a raised eyebrow.

"Impressive, the control you have over your allies, Malfoy," he taunts. "Care to comewithwith something useful?"

There's an almost amused glint in his eye, rejoicing that I've been caught in my own trap. The sheer nerve of him! We're about to suffer one of the most horrendous fates known to wizardkind, and the little creep is smirking at me.

The smirk is vanishing quickly, though, as the waves of cold are becoming more oppressive and draining, chilling the room until the cold seeps through flesh and bone, and happy thoughts for the Patronus charm become harder and harder to dredge up. I send off another one with the image of Potter being Crucio'ed in the Riddle graveyard, but it peters out rather quickly.

If I keep up like that, I'll run out of strength in no time, just like Potter, and then they'll take us. Well, they're welcome to him of course, but I'm not ready to give up yet. My mind is working furiously on an alternative. Apparating? Impossible. Like Hogwarts, Azkaban is an Apparition Free Zone. Calling for reinforcements? We're too far below the surface, thanks to my eagerness to catch lit little bastard, who has so obviously run to provide a distraction for whatever his idiotic comrades have come here to accomplish. Shoving Potter at them and making my escape? Not very promising, considering that both exits are packed with Dementors. They'd just drink him dry and then turn on me.

I listen to Potter's ragged breath as his wand produces one last indifferent silver streak the size of a cotton ball, before it is lowered in defeat. He's practically pressed into my side in his desperate attempt to put as much space as possible between himself and the approaching horrors.

Potter... a thought flashes through my mind, but I squash it immediately. If it were anyone but him, there might be a chance. Years ago, while studying various forms of ritual magic with Narcissa, we joked about the possibility quite a bit before retreating to the bedroom, still grinning madly at the absurdity of it. But well, it would explain how Rod and Bella Lestrange survived more than a decade in this hellhole at least somewhat sane...

I look down at the shock of black hair beside me again. Raising enough energy to fuel a protective circle that might scare the creatures off - Merlin, I'd rather propose that to Mad-Eye Moody. Of course he'd cheerfully die before ever accepting, but at least he'd know what I was talking about. It's the sort of magic that wouldn't make it within a hundred miles of the Hogwarts syllabus.

But I will not die like this! I'll make this work, and if I can grind the little bas's 's overblown ego and self-respect into dust in the process, all the better!

With a flick of my wand I conjure the outline of the half circle between the wall and the assailants. Complicated chalk symbols draw themselves into being on the stone floor and the wall behind us, glowing in a muted silver-white. A surge of dry warmth crackles through the circle, confusing the cadaverous leeches with

its remote likeness to a happy memory. They practically glide all over each other trying to siphon energy from the wards. Good. That should buy me a little time.

Potter frowns at me, obviously having expected some more flashy spell. Bad news for you, Potter, I sneer mentally. I tap a finger against his wand hand and nod at the tapered piece of holly that's still clutched in it.

"Put that away, Potter." The last thing I need is for him to get wand-happy when he starts to panic.

"No."

Sighing, I put my own wand into the pocket of my robe. "You won't be needing it." Not that kind of wand, anyway.

"Like hell I won't!" he snaps angrily. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Potter backs away from my outstretched hand, clinging to his wand as if it was a life line, until scabbed, skeletal fingers wrap around his wrist from behind. He screams and waves his wand, shooting a puff of white light at the Dementor that is holding him. The creature gibbers, torn between the discomfort of having reached through the circle of wards and sheer greed. Not at all impressed by the feeble Patronus, it pulls him closer and grabs his other hand as well. I enjoy the sight of Potter's frantic struggles as long as possible before shooting my Vipertooth at the forward Dementor. Gratifying as it would have been to watch his demise, I still need the boy.

The creature reels back, robes flying, and leaves Potter swaying on his feet, wide, panicked eyes shining with disbelief.

"Don't fall all over yourself to thank me, Potter," I drawl and receive a tired glare for my pains. "If I wouldn't need you, I'd just have let it suck out your soul. And now I'd appreciate it if you would put away your wand. They won't go away by themselves, you know," I point at the crowded exits.

He throws a nervous look at the Dementors, shudders, and complies. The creatures have assembled in a loose ring around the circle, but haven't dared to close in yet. But as we have seen, bare wards won't hold them at bay for long. It's time to infuse them with something more than basic magic.

I meet the confused green eyes, suppressing a malicious grin which would do nothing to reassure him. Putting a finger under his chin, I raise his face up to mine and kiss him firmly. For a second, shock freezes him on the spot. Then he jumps, yelping when the back of his head bumps against the wall. The enraged sputtering is almost amusing, but when he starts to violently wipe his mouth with the back of his hand I feel a flicker of annoyance.

Giving him my best Malfoy sneer, I grab his shoulders, propelling him against the wall and holding him there. Not forcefully enough to spark terror, but with sufficient emphasis to get his immediate attention.

"Stop that," I command. "You will co-operate, or we'll both die. It is this or kissing one of them, Mr. Potter."

His mouth opens for a question, but I cut it off.

"You were so eager to stand up to me at Hogwarts," I snarl coldly. "Now you can put that abundance of Gryffindor courage to use." It's clear from the confused expression and furrowed brow that he still doesn't understand. "Consider it an introduction to the more unorthodox forms of Defence Against the Dark Arts," I add ominously. He'll figure out the details soon enough without me delivering a lecture on magical theory.

Instead, I step up and run my fingers over his cheek, along his chin, sliding them down his neck and over his shoulders. He flinches again, but makes a conscious attempt to suppress the reaction. Very good. Mocking a Gryffindor's courage works like clockwork. They're so utterly predictable that way. Keeping my hands lightly on his shoulders, I lean in and let my lips retrace the path of my fingers. His skin is salty, with the cold sweat of fear and exhaustion, and underneath the undertone of dust that is omnipresent and characteristic of Azkaban fortress.

Potter turns his head slightly, almost unconsciously, as if unsure whether to lean closer to my mouth or twist away from it.

"What...?" It is little more than a breathless whisper and I just smile.

"Keep an eye on the wards, Potter," I murmur into the crook of his neck and urge his head into the right direction.

As soon as his attention is occupied, my free hand moves down to his groin in an insistent, lingering caress. He gasps as if I had stabbed him and jumps again, wide-eyed both from the touch and the bright spark that has kindled inside the circle of wards. Thank Merlin I am dealing with a teenaged boy here! It makes getting a reaction so much easier. Another horrified gasp signals that - finally - he has understood.

When I move to unfasten the clasp of his robes, however, he shakes his head determinedly, lips pressed together.

"I think I'd rather die, Malfoy." It would sound more impressive if proof of his indetermination wouldn't nudge against my thigh, of course.

"That's just too bad, Potter," I drawl. "Because I won't, and definitely not to spare your tender sensibilities."

Pushing his fingers away I open the silver clasp and pull his robes back over his shoulders. My eyebrow rises as I take in his clothes. He's wearing an oversized red jumper, so long it falls down to mid-thigh. The colour has suffered from too many washings, and the cuffs are threadbare. The Muggle trousers are far too large as well, and forcefully secured with a belt around the slender waist.

Who shops for you, Potter? I ask myself incredulously. That flea-infested cur of a godfather, or those Muggles? They give you a top-of-the-line racing broom, but let you dress like something living behind a rubbish bin in Knockturn?

And yet, there seems to be an advantage in the size of the shirt. I can easily run my hands up under the baggy jumper to caress his sides and back. Soft, cool skin. Goose-bumps are breaking out in the path of my fingertips, and no, I don't think it's because of the chill of the dungeon. He relaxes fractionally as I stroke his back and put my hands on his shoulder blades to draw him closely to me. As I press up against him I can feel his excitement, and slowly grind my hips against his to let him know that the feeling is quite mutual. He bites his lip against the sensation, but the only good that does is to incite my desire to mirror the little movement with my own teeth.

Tension still dominates his whole posture, however. His hands are balled tightly at his sides, and green eyes keep wandering over my shoulder at the crowding Dementors. They swarm around the circle, closing in on the wards from time to time only to recoil again in an agitated rustle of mouldy cloth. Their hunger radiates through the wards, oppressive in its intensity.

Sighing, I reach up and very deliberately steal thrridrrid glasses off Potter's nose and slide them into his robe pocket.

"Don't look at them," I order. "They can't see us - they only sense life energy, and emotions." Well, we don't know enough about Dementors for me to bet my life on it, but he doesn't need to know that. " at at me."

My fingers close around the back of his neck and I draw him in for a serious kiss. He almost balks as my tongue slides over his lips, until I finally growl and pull back just enough to murmur with a considerable degree of sarcasm, "It might get a bit more interesting if you opened that bloody mouth of yours, Potter!"

"I hate you!" he hisses quietly, and this time I can't resist the temptation to tug his lower lip between my teeth and bite down until it elicits a groan that is not primarily an expression of pain.

"Good." I smirk against his lips. "That makes it so much sweeter."

He snarls wordlessly and kisses me back with clumsy, harsh determination. And, wonder of wonders, open-mouthed. His mouth tastes overwhelmingly of chocolate - no surprise there. The old cures against Dementors are still the best. Chasing his elusive tongue is an enjoyable pursuit, and when I finally manage to trap and pet it provocatively with my own, he responds quite enthusiastically, leaning into my body and putting his arms around my neck. Oh yes, apart from the company, this could be quite a pleasant experience. The wards seem to agree and begin to sparkle merrily.

I keep control of his mouth until his back slumps against the wall for support and he pulls away, desperate for air. Then I let my hands wander down until they come to rest on the clasp of his belt. His face acquires a delightful expression of terror which I savour as I undo first the clasp, then the buttons of his trousers.

His hands push against my chest as if he wouldn't know just what to do with them. I grab them and link them behind his back, placing my fingers over his for a moment in a commanding clasp. He shivers and obeys, keeping them folded behind his back even as I reach around and slip my hand into the front of his trousers. Too bad we don't have the opportunity to find out whether he enjoys being restrained in earnest.

Carefully, I extricate him from the confining cloth and relish in the sharp intake of breath that the touch provokes. Wrapping my hand around the rapidly hardening length, I begin to stroke from base to tip, none too gently, only pausing at the tip to draw small circles on the flesh with my thumb. It's only when I run my middle finger down the underside of his cock that it forces a sound out of him, an eerie marriage of a moan and keening wail. Not so hard to grate down that self control after all. Poor little Harry. Let's see if we can do something even worse to you.

When I sink to my knees before him, robes gracefully falling into folds around my feet, I'm not certain whether his sudden hitch of breath is disbelief, shock or anticipation. Head almost demurely lowered, I abandon my ministrations, pushing frayed trousers and underwear down to pool around his ankles, insidiously angling his leather belt so that it brushes over his erection on the way down. It produces a very interesting gasp and twitch. Now that they can roam freely, I run both hands up the insides of his thighs. His skin is feather-soft above the back of the knees, but rougher at the joint - a sure sign of spending a lot of time on a broom. The muscles are so very tense as I gently caress the small calluses with my thumbs. He shifts restlessly, small, unconscious movements to bring my hands in contact with his straining eion.ion.

Gently, I lift it to my lips and suck lightly at the tip, tasting sweat and a faintly earthy tang. Then I look up, giving him a lewd smile around his cock, and enjoy the way he first pales, and then blushes a fierce Howler red. He turns his head away, too shamed to face me ant tot too aroused to shove me away. A single tear trickles out from under a dark eyelash, and the wards flicker strongly for a moment. Sighing quietly - which provokes another convulsive twist in his nether regions - I decide to abandon the power games for now. Satisfying as they are, this is not really the time. I keep soothing and teasing him with my tongue before sucking again, more insistently.

It has been a long timece Ice I've last done this, but quite like riding a broom, you never forget the technique entirely. Slytherin in my generation had been infamous for trading mortifying sexual favours for lost house points, lost bets, lost Quidditch matches. And very few friends close enough to do that with afterwards - the Lestranges, Evan Rosier the night before he went out to meet his death at Moody's hands...

The unbidden memory brings a bitter sting, and the agitated rustling of cloth alerts me to the source of the feeling. Our hooded friends have realised that something is afoot. Smiling in grim determination, I banish the flicker of grief and concentrate on manipulating the vulnerable body of my little wildcard into a weapon that will make them regret they've ever tried to turn against me.

When I look u his his face again, I can't help but hold my breath at the sight. His head is thrown back, eyes shut so tightly it has to hurt, and sharp little teeth bite down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Two small trickles run down at the corners of his mouth, and with skin almost rendered translucent in the white glare of the wards, he looks like an ecstatic vampire prince feeding on an invisible victim.

I snort mentally at myself for waxing about the look of my enemy in the grip of passion, but the picture is so very inviting that I can't resist the urge to slide up along his body to chase the bloody traces from his chin up to his mouth with my tongue, first one, then the other. The coppery tang is strong enough to rival the chocolate as I fasten my mouth on his, further milking the swollen lower lip for its precious fluid. He moans into my mouth in despair at the lack of contact where he needs it most, and I have to grip his hips with both hands to hold him still against the wall. I lick my way up to his ear and he shudders, eyes still closed tightly, when the tip of my tongue tickles the outer shell.

"Would you like me to continue?" I murmur, giving his still twitching hips an inquisitive squeeze.

It provokes a desperate intake of breath, and with his body coiled so tightly I wonder where his lungs are still drawing air from.