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A Fragile Thing	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 2163 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Fragile Thing
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J.K. Rowling, no surprise there. I'm merely experimenting with them a bit.
No money made, no harm intended.

Rating: mild R for a bit of slash and violence

Note: Thanks to the brilliant ShatteredSuppression for beta-ing.

Feedback... makes me so happy it's pathetic, really. Comments, criticism and flames are most welcome.
*...* denotes unspoken thoughts

A Fragile Thing

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

Any fear, any memory will do;

and if you've got a heart at all,

someday it will kill you.

(Rita Dove, Primer to the Nuclear Age')

The Boy Who Lived...
Here, in the Muggle world, he looks almost washed out, as if his importance were dimmed by an aura of mediocrity. He pushes a heavy shopping cart through the parking lot towards a sneering trio of Muggles surrounding a largverlverly-prestigious automobile.
"Hurry up, boy," the male head of the little Muggle herd orders.
He digs in his heels to stop the overloaded cart in front of the open trunk and, muttering "Yes, Uncle Vernon," starts to put the acquired provisions into the car. The Muggles watch, the female with pursed lips and impatient fingers drumming against the hood, the younger Muggle wearing a spiteful grin.
I permit myself an equally spiteful smile ere casting an Obscurus spell on the immediate area to divert Muggle attention.
They don't immediately notice me as I step out of the shadows. I focus my gaze on the back of the black-haired teen and call out to him.
"Harry Potter!"
He whirls around and stares, first in surprise, then in shock founded in recognition. A glass of pickles shatters on the floor. Admirable reflexes - I've seen similar in trained Aurors. Not that it helped them. Not that it will help him.
His hand reaches into the pocket of his washed-out jeans under a baggy, red sweater, and then stills there, helpless.
*Left your little suburban fortress without a wand? Thanks for the confirmation, little one. But don't let it trouble you too much. You wouldn't have stood a chance with it, either.*
The elder Muggle sputters in outrage as he glares at his nephew.
"How often hI toI told you I don't want any of your freak friends showing up around us!" he growls.
I'm torn between sincere amusement at being mistaken for a friend of Potter's and the desire to blast the presumptuous Muggle to bits for calling me a freak. Just who does that mistake of natural selection think he is?
"Uncle Vernon, I-" my target stutters, but is interrupted rudely.
"I warned you after last year's disaster that I wouldn't tolerate any contact with those people any more."
"Uncle Vernon, he's not-"
"Do we have to lock you up again, boy?"
"He's no friend of mine!" Potter finally yells, his voice high and terrified enough to shut his uncle up at last.
"No, most certainly not," I point out silkily, drawing my wand. "Although it's interesting to see, Mr. Potter, that your... popularity does not extend into the Muggle world."
He flinches under the unbridled sarcasm.
"What do you want, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Why, Mr. Potter, I've come to ask you to accompany me, of course."
He lifts his chin with admirable determination, green eyes burning right into my own.
"I won't go anywhere with you!"
"Before you decide on that course of action, I would advise you to consider the fate of your Muggle relatives," I reply with a dangerous glint in my eyes. The Muggle stares at me open-mouthed, while his wife and son crowd fearfully behind him. Obviously, they have found themselves on the wrong end of a wizard's wand before.
It's only when I take a threatening step forward that it hits me. Power roils around me, hissing and crackling furiously over my skin, intent on forcing me away.
Bugger! I will never again call Dumbledore a tottering old fool, at least not to myself. It is, I admit freely, one of the most pt prt protective spells I've ever encountered. It surrounds the little group like a shielding embrace of feathers and fire - Light Magic. And yet, like any purely defensive spell, it can only react. Potter, I'm almost certain, doesn't know it's there, because it will only turn itself against an outside threat. Neither do the Muggles, naturally. I lower my wand a fraction and bury all hope of taking the Boy Who Lived by magic. But, as an old Slytherin saying goes, there are ways and ways...
"Well, Mr. Potter," I continue as if nothing had happened, "allow me to make my offer: you will surrender yourself, and in return your Muggles will be allowed to leave alive. I am being very generous with you, considering that you have no way of fighting me at all."
The spell sputters around me, but I know I will not attack, and that is enough for it to cool down. Despite the power, there is something muted about this otherwise impressive construct of magic, and the reason becomes clear to me when I throw a side glance at Potter's Muggle kin. They project resentment and anger, not only at me but also at their charge. It... cripples the magic, to a degree. If there was love between them, it would be unbreakable, far beyond my capability to hoodwink. But such are the strengths - and liabilities - of pure Light Magic.
"Now, Mr. Potter," I press on, raising my wand threateningly in the direction of his Muggles, "will you humour me, or do you wish for even more deaths on your conscience?" He stares at me in horror, torn between his protective instinct and fear - emotions that are written on his features with a bold brush.
Glancing sardonically at his relatives, I decide to twist the knife a little.
"Indeed, I suspect your charge declined to tell you that his... exploits this spring left one of his schoolmates dead? No?" I shake my head in mock offence and enjoy the horrified looks they give the Boy Who Lived. The spell around them shudders and loses even more of its brilliance. "Young Mr. Potter is indeed a threat to the safety of those around him. You might be grateful to see that danger removed from your presence."
"That's enough!" Finally, Potter's temper flares. He looks at me with a mixture of anger, disgust and outrage - most of it directed at me, but not all. Very good. There's nothing like a full-blown guilt complex to cripple an enemy.
"I'll..." He breaks off, not daring to look back at his family. "I'll come with you. Just let them go, Malfoy."
Inclining my head in approval, I turn my wand away from the Muggles and point it at Potter instead. The Muggles take the hint and dash towards the car, jumping into it like into a lifeboat. None of them look back. The car revs out of the parking spot with screeching tyres, scraping the wing of the one in the neighbouring spot and the paint of several more while speeding out of the lot.
*So they leave you, Potter, unprotected and defenceless, like the worthless Muggles they are.*
He just stands rooted to the spot, not averting his eyes, but I notice the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his back. Such terrible fear, hidden behind such admirable courage. I point my wand at his throat.
"Dormio!" Having won this round in the face umblumbledore's defences, I can afford to be gentle. For the moment.
The vivid eyes close under the sleeping spell, and he crumbles onto the pavement in a heartbeat. Pocketing my wand, I move to pick up the limp body and Disapparate, clutching my prize.
~ ~ ~ *** ~ ~ ~
Asleep, he projects an unexpected image of peace. One arm curled below his head, the other hanging down over the couch I dumped him on. Glasses still on, but knocked slightly askew. Vulnerable. At ease. That will change once he wakes.
I stare at him silently, permitting myself a smile of satisfaction. The Dark Lord will love this present. Now that Potter is caught without any hope of escape, I could notify him at any time. Of course, experienced player that I am, I'd never announce a plan like the abduction of Potter beforehand. You never know the eventualities, all the things that might go wrong. But now that it has succeeded... W the there is still time. And there are some matters that should be discussed before the Dark Lord gets his hands on Potter. Matters like house elves. And diaries. And presumption.
After a couple of minutes, his eyelids start to flutter and a corner of his mouth twitches every so oftens sus subconscious is warning him, even as his conscious sleeps. Finally, the eyes open, unfocussed and wide at first. They sweep over the room as he sits up slowly, and widen even further when he notices me standing next to the fireplace, half concealed in its shadow. As before, he halfway reaches for his wand before remembering it is so far away it could just as well be stuck in another dimension. I step closer, giving him a cruel, very lazy smile, and revel in the terror he cannot completely conceal. The dilated eyes, the hairs standing up on his neck, the slight tremor.
"Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Mr. Potter." I incline my head with mocking teneteness.
His eyes dart through the small room again, taking in the lack of windows, the single door on the far end, behind me. The absence of potential weapons. His lips twitch, an almost contemptuous expression.
"Are you going to kill me?"
A cool, unruffled voice that forces some grudging respect from me. Of course I know he has courage. I saw it in the Riddle graveyard, when he stood up to the Dark Lord. But such bravery is a challenge of its own, enticing me to find out whether I can break through that valiant facade, can shatter the desperate control, strike a deeper wound than Voldemort has. I don't think he realises how much of a temptation he is. Not yet.
"No, Mr. Potter," I answer pleasantly. "I will not be the one to kill you."
He nods thoughtfully. I can see his brain filing away the knowledge about who will, the faraway look that suddenly removes his mind from this plane of reality and transports it onto one that is only his, and the Dark Lord's. A place of destiny. I won't interfere with destiny, just help speed it along. But not yet. I won't relinquish him just yet.
"He's not here," Potter notes, one hand absently brushing over the famous scar under his unruly black fringe.
"No, he's not," I acknowledge. "There are some... points I intend to raise with you beforehand. Things that do not involve the Dark Lord."
Something about my tone makes him give me a wary look. Good. He's back in the real world, and he's not stupid.
"Like what?" he asks suspiciously.
I give him my best evil sneer.
"Your meddling with my property, for example. Inciting my house elf to attack me. Insulting me in public." His brows furrow and he looks almost incredulous.
"Revenge," he clarifies. "You want revenge."
"Of course, child." *And why, oh why, does that surprise you so?*
He gives a humourless snort and returns my gaze, shrugging carelessly and holding up his empty hands.
"I'm afraid I'm not equipped to duel you."
I slink closer until I'm standing directly in front of him, sincere amusement tugging at the corners of my mouth. His head is tilted up slightly to make up for the small difference in height between us. He does not flinch away, green eyes meeting mine head on. He is unique, indeed. It will not save him, but I do appreciate a worthy adversary.
"I was not thinking about giving you the honour of duelling me, Mr. Potter." I lower my voice and murmur in his ear, "I intend to punish you." It is more of a hiss, laced with menace, and this time he draws back, just an inch, but enough to show that he's not as calm as he'd like to project. As, of course, he has every reason to be.
Excruciatingly slowly I draw my wand, giving him ample time to weigh all the implications of the gesture before resting the tip against his shoulder.
"I believe you are... acquainted with the Cruciatus Curse?"
Oh yes, he remembers. A flash of terror runs through his eyes, and he draws an audible breath as if an invisible hand had crushed his throat for a second. If he weren't trapped between the couch and the fireplace, I'm sure he'd try and make a run for it. As it is, as the Gryffindor hero he is, he can just square his shoulders, shove the fear back to a place where I hopefully won't be able to see it, and prepare for the very worst.
"But while that is certainly effective," I continue amiably, "it somehow lacks subtlety. There are countless other Dark Arts spells I could introduce you to, Mr. Potter. There is one that would turn the marrow of your bones into liquid fire; one that could slowly and quite literally freeze your blood, until your slightest movement would shatter you from the inside; another which would shred your skin and flesh with a flick of a wand and put it right back together with another... Ah, I see I have piqued your curiosity," I drawl, wilfully misunderstanding the look of horror and disgust in his eyes.
I trail my wand down his arm below the short sleeve of his sweater and murmur the first part of the spell. A deep slash opens as if drawn by an invisible, jagged blade, running down all the way from elbow to wrist. Blood gushes out of the wound, colouring the white skin like broad brush strokes from an angry painter. It's a picture with a strange but undeniable beauty to it. The blood cumulates into heavy droplets on the underside of his arm and starts to drip onto the floor, first in occasional drops, then in a steady rivulet.
He lets out a strangled moan and slumps against the wall, teeth biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle any further expression of pain. Quickly, to prevent him from weakening too much from the blood loss, I speak the second part of the spell. The wound disappears as quickly as it had been inflicted, with the same fascinating effect as pulling up a magical zipper.
He stares down on his bloody arm, then looks up at me, lips curling with contempt.
"You're a disgusting coward," he states flatly through still slightly clenched teeth.
"And you, Mr. Potter, are a fool," I reply softly, and, in the light of this display of impetuousness, decide on employing a far more insidious weapon than mere pain-inducing curses. I will not let myself be denigrated by this arrogant little creature. "I do believe, however, that the punishment should be fitting the crime. You lost me a servant - it seems appropriate that you compensate me for that."
A dark, wry smile plays on his lips at that.
"Housework?" There's a note of sarcastic humour in his voice, though, I notice with interest, it is not directed at me. "That's... appropriate, all right."
"No, Mr. Potter, I would not waste your talents on housework. There is, however, a wealth of other, infinitely more... stimulating services I intend fou tou to perform."
His brows furrow, disbelief and anxiety mixing at the silky threat in my voice. Using his momentary confusion to my advantage, I reach out and pick his glasses off his nose, running my thumb lightly over his cheek while doing so, and drop them onto the couch. That achieved, I give him a slow, lascivious once-over, eyes lingering momentarily on all the inappropriate places, until there is no way he can misunderstand my meaning. Blood rushes into his face, and his mind is without doubt squirming as madly as a worm toasted over a torch flame.
At last, embarrassment gives way to such unbridled fury that I have to resist the urge to take a step back. Rage darkens the impressive eyes until their green turns into an impossible near-black. In that moment, he resembles nothing so much as the young Voldemort, Tom Riddle as he had been preserved in the diary that Potter cost me three years ago. There is an unspecific resemblance between the two at the best of times, but they could be twin brothers when they hate.
His reaction surprises me nonetheless. Instead of a punch or kick, he clenches his fists, points the right one at me and snarls, in a voice that is both clipped and icily cold,
"Avada Kedavra!"
I jump at the words, completely taken by surprise. A mild but sickening tremor of pain rushes through my temples, and for a second I'm not sure if the sudden, eerie green that lights his eyes is their natural colour or the ghost of the curse. But if he expected me to fall dead at his feet, he must be severely disappointed by now. The slight pain is gone as quickly as it had flared up. Still, it is a testimony to his strength that he could make me feel anything at all.
Shaking my head in mock disappointment, I tut at him.
"Trying to perform one of the most complex spells in existence with wandless magic, the resort of children and fools, Mr. Potter? I must say that I expected more, although you seem to fulfil both prerequisites."
He doesn't react at all, still stunned, it seems, both at his attempt to use the Killing Curse and its undramatic failure. Such absolute confusion is delightful, in its own right. Instead of striking back, I lean closer and put my lips over his gently. They are surprisingly cold, and when I run my tongue over his lower lip I taste blood and the bitter aftertaste of the curse. A slight tremor runs through his body, but he doesn't struggle or try to escape.
*Yes, child, what you're feeling is the fallout. The Killing Curse requires more than just the words, magical blood and a wand. It requires focussed hatred and a slight opening of the door to the darkness in your heart. And, as a price, it chips away a tiny fragment of your soul every time it's used, successful or not. Welcome to the dark, Po!*
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A Fragile Thing