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Brothers in Arms	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 3424 -:- 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-Brothers in Arms
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. No harm intended, no money made.

Note: Inspired by Anne Phoenix's brilliant Small Price to Pay, with even more thanks to Anne, Emmy and Leni Jess for the beta.

Written for the three-part Beloved Enemies Anniversary Challenge:

1) Use the line as the first words of the fic: "And what, precisely, am I supposed to do with that?"

2) Use all three words, anywhere in the fic: haven, shackle, fiasco

3) Fill-in-the-blank summary: Harry had never thought he would ever surrender to a Death Eater, until Lucius shows up in his cell. But when Lucius offers him a deal, Harry has no choice but to reconsider.

Brothers in Arms

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

"And what, precisely, am I supposed to do with that?"
I shoot Rodolphus Lestrange an angry look before returning my attention to the cell at the end of the corridor and its single occupant, chained to the far wall.
Lestrange shrugs.
"According to Bella, our Lord entertained the thought last night of giving him to you to turn into your slave."
I snort and glare at the prisoner. He can't see us - the torchlight doesn't reach beyond the end of the corridor, but it highlights him. Black, tangled hair. Lanky frame. Pale arms pulled up above his head by black metal cuffs. Bloody perfect. The invinc Har Harry Potter. And even at the door of death he has to make himself a nuisance.
It's not that I couldn't very well imagine breaking him - the traditional way, that is. If I remember those insolent eyes in the Department of Mysteries, looking at me as though I were his equal, or - even more insulting - his inferior. Oh yes, I'd like to shatter that arrogance, bathe that haughty face in tears of pain and force pleas for mercy out of that mouth. In fact, I've hlarmlarmingly detailed visions to that end, during those endless months at Azkaban.
But that...
"Though I believe that between Bella and us, we can nudge his mind in another direction, if you're so averse to it," Lestrange offers when he senses my anger.
I glower darkly at the cell door.
"I did not become a Death Eater to touch a Mudblood's child." The mere thought is repulsive, even if the brat is the Boy Who Lived.
Lestrange shrugs again.
"Bella or Walden would destroy him, and as for me..." he shakes his head and I return his bemused look with a wry smirk of my own. "Still drawn to women exclusively. Apart from being a Mudblood, he should be your cup of tea."
"Our Lord should just throw him to Snape then," I snap. "His hatred for the brat is almost pathological, and he's definitely twisted enough."
"But then it's you our Lord is displeased with, isn't it?"
Yes, I think angrily. Just because I took the initiative and organised our escape from Azkaban while He didn't lift a finger and expected us to stew in our cells and agonise over our 'failures'.
"I did not expect reprisals for returning into His service," I snarl, failing to hide the bitterness in my voice. Lestrange puts a hand on my elbow.
"I, for one, am glad that you got us out, Lucius, and I'm sure the others agree. I'll do what I can to help if you really want to get out of t.. a.. affair."
I look at the cell with its disreputable inhabitant again.
"We'll see."
He follows my gaze.
"He doesn't look like much of a threat, does he?" he remarks. "Perhaps our Lord should just kill him and be done with it... singling him out will only increase his reputation. After all, what has he ever done, apart from being lucky?"
My rational side tends to agree, and yet I can understand the almost physical itch that goads the Dark Lord to try and wring any kind of victory out of this, his 'nemesis'. I know it because I feel that desire burn in my own veins.
"Don't tell me you're pitying him," I sneer.
Lestrange shakes his head with a slight frown.
"Believe me, I don't. His father was one of the greatest bastards ever to walk Merlin's earth. And yet, he seems awfully... young for all of this."
Despite the reassurance, there is a touch of wistfulness in Lestrange's tone, and I understand where it comes from. Rodolphus will never have a child - over a decade of imprisonment in Azkaban has damaged Bellatrix too much, and yet he will never look at another woman. Lestrange does not pity Potter himself, but his death will remind him of his own losses.
"Go and deal with him, then," he says and turns away. I wonder at the strange tone of his voice as I listen to his footsteps drifting off in the distance. Even on his most lucid days, Lestrange's moods can be unsettling.
As I step out of the shadows, I recognise the guards and incline my head. Augustus Rookwood nods coolly, while Andrew Goyle throws me a grin.
"I'm here to see our guest," I state the obvious. "You can call it a night." A faint clink of chains sounds inside the cell. Yes, let him worry.
"Remember that our Lord doesn't want him damaged yet," Rookwood emphasises, ever eager to ingratiate himself with our Master. Goyle just lifts thick eyebrows at him in exasperation, and I entertain the idea of leaving a pronounced mark on Potter just to see the contemptible bureaucrat cringe before the Dark Lord, knowing Rookwood would not have the nerve to accuse me. But then it wouldn't be worth getting an ally in trouble along with him.
"Let's go," Goyle says and waves for Rookwood to precede him, giving him no chance to linger.
I wait until they're out of sight before unspelling the cell door and entering.
Potter stares at me coldly, body leaning heavily against the wall to take the pressure off his chained arms. He's still wearing his battered Hogwarts uniform, though the silly glasses are gone. The scar on his forehead stands out in an inflamed red line against the bone-white skin, a sure sign that the Dark Lord has been to see him.
It had been so ridiculously easy to walk into Honeydukes the evening preceding a Hogsmeade weekend, casting Imperius on the owners, and ordering them to gift Harry Potter with a certain ChocoGalleon after making his purchase. All that was left to do afterwards was to sit back and wait for the Portkey to deliver him.
I walk up to him and stare at him for a long minute. I have dreamed about this ever since they brought him in two days ago. The urge to go down to the dungeons, to gloat, to hurt, to break that little overrated half-blooded creature for the shame it has brought on the Malfoy name had been almost overwhelming. And not only thate hae has disgraced me, stood up to me again and again, and I have never suffered a wizard to challenge me without exacting revenge.
He looks back defiantly, bith ith a wary glint in his eye. At last, I backhand him across the face with all the strength I can muster. The impact throws his head back against the wall with an audible crack. He doesn't make a sound, but his lip has split and blood paints his teeth as he snarls at me. My hand stings from forcforce of the blow, but the hot rush of pleasure at causing him pain is so intense it's almost disconcerting.
"How courageous!" he spits, stained lips curling in contempt. "To bad you weren't quite that brave in the Department of Mysteries."
I raise an eyebrow and slowly draw my wand. He tries to keep his expression blank, does quite an impressive job, to be honest, but cannot suppress a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes dart from my wand to my face. Giving him my most chilling smile, I cast a Silencing Charm over the cell.
Never fear, child. I will destroy you tonight, but not with magic.
"Now, Mr Potter, I think you'd like to know what brought me here," I drawl, and register how he relaxes a fraction when no curse is immediately forthcoming. "I'm here to acquaint you with the fate my Lord has in store for you."
"Oh, are you?" the brat drawls back with considerable bravado. "And Voldemort needed to send one of his high-and-mighty because that'll come as such a surprise, considering that he wanted to kill me ever since I was a baby?"
Tapping my wand against his cheek, I watch him tense again.
"Do you really think it's prudent to aggravate your situation with impudent behaviour, Mr Potter? Or are you just fond of pain?"
At that, a small frown knits his brow.
"Neither," he retorts. "But it won't make a difference, right? You and your master-" it comes out with just enough emphasis to make it an insult rather than a fact, "- will make it as hard on me as you possibly can, no matter what I do. Do you think I'll crawl before you just so you can get your kicks?"
I marvel at his matter-of-factness. He does have a point, of course, but I think he underestimates how much his cockiness makes me want to crush his ego into dust.
"It may come as a surprto yto you, then, that the Dark Lord does not intend to kill you for the time being," I reply.
"No?" He cocks his head slightly and shifts his wrists in the shackles.
"No," I confirm with a sardonic grin. "He insists on your complete degradation, to make up for your past infractions."
He knits his brows severely. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that he wants your mind broken and your will utterly subjugated to another's. To mine, Mr Potter," I add with relish. Even if I'm hating the prospect itself, I long to see his composure shatter. "He plans to give you to me."
He pales visibly, but still keeps a steady voice.
"Oh, really... should I feel honoured? I would have thought that any mediocre minion with a talent for the Cruciatus Curse would do."
Yes, this is as delightful as I had hoped. Such obnoxious innocence practically begs to be destroyed.
"You misunderstand, Potter. The Dark Lord doesn't want you broken by torture. That would be easily accomplished, and no victory." I can hear the lethal tone in my voice and wonder for a moment what he'll make of it, if he's even going to notice through his impending outrage. "No, he wants you humiliated and defiled, an active participant in your own destruction." I pause for a moment. "Lust and pain, Potter, are a far more potent combination, and will have the additional advantage of making you hate yourself even more than you will hate me."
This time he just stares, mouth half open in shock, until realisation sets in and pure rage contorts his face.
"You- you sick, twisted piece of-"
I backhand him again, and this time when his head connects with the wall there is a smear of red on the stone and a moment of concussed silence. A bruise mars his cheek, dark against deadly pale skin. Impatiently, I raise my wand.
"Ennervate!"
His face twists in pain before the eyes open into a weary, pained look. He swallows hard, once, twice, and the blood that has threatened to spill from the corner of his mouth disappears.
"Have I made it sufficiently clear that your attitude is unacceptable?"
"You're-" he slurs, and glares, and falls silent. I smirk, and the moment of self-restraint vanishes. "How can you say that?" he snaps. "How can you even think it? I'm going to school with your son, for God's sake!"
"And you've made all the wrong enemies, Potter," I state coolly.
"Oh, so you're saying if one of your Auror enemies decided to... to rape Draco, that would be all right, then?"
Again, I am forcefully reminded of the fact that this creature is as far removed from aristocratic wizarding society as one can be without being a lowly Mudblood himself.
"Potter, I ensured that Draco would be protected from harm from the hour of his birth. Whether I - or his mother, for that matter - am far away, dead or imprisoned, anyone attempting to lay a hand on my son would die a lingering and supremely agonising death. Among true wizards such magic ommoommon enough, even without the kind of flashy self-sacrifice your mother seemed to favour." I curl my lips in mocking pity. "Please do not try to blame me for the fact that none of your 'guardians' - not even a wizard as supremely powerful as Dumbledore - has bothered to provide you with a similar level of protection."
Of course Dumbledore would never approve of steeping an infant so deeply in the Dark Arts no matter what the advantages. But Potter doesn't know that, and the look of hurt confusion on his face is just too precious. And yet, he catches himself quickly enough, gives me an extremely cold look and doggedly returns to his previous line of thought.
"At the risk of giving you another flimsy excuse to beat me, Malfoy, but even though I've always considered you an evil bastard, I didn't take you for a rapist." He sneers contemptuously. "You're not even that ugly - can't you think of someone who'd have you voluntarily, or just remember that you're actually married?"
He stares right into my face, practically daring me tt hit him again. But though I enjoy making him suffer perhaps more than I should, why resort to something as unsubtle and Mugglish as physical violence when words will cause him just as much pain? Especially since I suspect he'd rather be knocked cold than think about me touching him.
"This is where your Muggle blood and upbringing show again, Potter," I scold mildly and enjoy the raw hatred blooming on his face at the tone. "What the Dark Lord has in mind is nowhere as simple or crude as 'rape'. It is a time-honoured wizarding art of revenge, a test of wills, and power, and determination."
"Art?" He spits out the word with acidic venom.
"Yes, indeed. An art which, if performed properly, will reduce a loathed enemy to a mindless pet that will crave my every touch, and do whatever it is told no matter how despicable. A creature so dependent that every hour spent outside my presence will feel like being cast away from the presence of a deity."
After such a creature has been broken, it is quietly disposed of - abandoned in a nameless dungeon like Caradoc Dearborn, or quickly strangled in their bed like Anne Weasley. There is neither honour nor pleasure to be gained from the torture of such a pet, who will not comprehend any longer why it's being hurt despite obeying every order given to it. Although I'm not sure whether the Dark Lord is aware of such subtleties.
I don't have to try for a threatening tone. The very thought of doing that to him makes my insides tighten in anticipation. Not for the end result, but for the process. For a moment, I wonder whether the Dark Lord realises how much of a temptation his intended humiliation is for me. The thought that he might be able to look so deeply into my convoluted feelings surrounding the issue of the 'Boy Who Lived' would be far more humiliating than if he just played on my well-known loathing for the intimate presence of a Mudblood.
A Mudblood who now, after the first shock has passed, draws himself up as much as the shackles allow, and hisses as if he were speaking Parseltongue: "I'd never!"
"I've succeeded with wizards far better trained than you, Potter," I shut off his protests. That's nothing but the honest truth after all. "There is great prestige to be gained among the Dark Lord's circle from the breaking of such a prize."
And there are many who would gladly overlook that the boy has Muggle blood if they were pntednted with the chance to perform like trained animals before the Dark Lord. I give him a look of pure loathing and, od, out of sheer spite,
"And considering how unprepared you are for any kind of resistance, there is very little risk to my status involved."
He perks up at that and latches on to the most improbable interpretation.
"So if I win this, I'll be free?"
Oh please, Potter! I snort mentally. You're trying to out-Gryffindor Godric, aren't you?
"No." I shake my head. "There is no way you could 'win', but if you should, you'll get to die with a shred of integrity intact."
"Oh, great!" His mouth twists in disgust. "Why would I even bother, then?"
Even chained in a dungeon in the realm of his enemies, he's wrapped in the safe haven of his pride. I look at him, at the cold, accusing eyes, the defiant posture, and tell him with undisguised honesty,
"You would, Potter. It's what you are."
He stares at me in surprise for a moment, before his face turns into a bitter, hateful grimace.
"And have you any idea how much I hate your kind venting their rage on me just because of what I am? Although you wanting to rape me because of it is certainly a new one."
"And what makes you thing I would want this, Potter?"
The question makes him pause and still for a moment, and I realise that confusing him is almost as amusing as shocking him.
"Like hell, Malfoy. I could see how much you got off on telling me about it."
I bow my head slightly. "And yet, there is one aspect that makes the Dark Lord's plan almost as repulsive to me as it seems to you."
He frowns and bites his bottom lip in what he would probably honestly defend as an innocent gesture.
"I see," he finally nods.
I raise an eyebrow and study him carefully. "Do you/p> /p>
He shrugs. "I'm male." The self-assured words tease a chuckle out of me, no matter how hard I try to suppress it. His frown deepens. "What's so bloody funny, Malfoy?"
"You are," I grin. "Your absolute naivet�. I couldn't care less about the gender of the person I'm asked to practice my arts on, but what on Merlin's green earth makes you think I'd ever voluntarily touch the spawn of a Mudblood?"
He scowls and opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Bright child. You surely don't want to voice your outrage about the fact that I'm not looking forward to fucking you.
"All right, then," he finally grinds out, with an almost adorable angry 'v' etched between his eyebrows. "You've established that you wouldn't touch me with a barge pole, I've established that I'd rather be messily dead than be touched by you..." He looks up, stamping said letter even deeper. "i>whi>why are we having this conversation?"
"Because," I remind him softly, "the Dark Lord desires it."
"And great Lucius Malfoy can't weasel himself out of it?" he sneers.
I raise my wand again to watch him shrink back against the wall inadvertently.
"The Dark Lord," I point out, testing the strength of the Silencing Charm one last time, "is less than pleased about my organising the second mass breakout from Azkaban without his express consent."
Potter mutters something under his breath that sounds like "Idiot!", and I smile thinly. I won't argue with that, little Harry.
"He is also less than pleased about the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries, and my conduct during his state of... discorporateness," I add. "But yes, I could probably tweak his mind in a different direction."
"So why-" He stops and the outraged mask descends on the overly treacherous featuagaiagain. "What do you want, then? For me to crawl and beg and plead with you not to rape me?" He shakes his head in frustration and winces when the cut on the back of his head bumps against the wall. "You know, Malfoy, that would have worked hell of a lot better if you hadn't told me before how much you hate the thought."
I shake my head in amusement. Time to move in for the kill. Let's see whether he's just a fraud who's succumbed to his own fame, or whether there really is that invincible core to Harry Potter that everybody insists there is.
"I've told you everything so you can make an informed decision about the proposal I'm about to make you, Potter."
If he weren't chained already, I'm pretty certain he'd throw his arms up in exasperation.
"Prop...? Malfoy, I'm sitting here in this lousy dungeon and I can't even move! What could you possibly want from me? You're not going to let me out and help me to off Voldemort, you you?"
If I were Gryffindor, dead stupid and suicidal, perhaps.
"Not likely, Potter," I drawl. "But not completely off the mark, either."
His sudden, desperate look of hope is scorching, as if he'd thrust a burning torch in my face. It dies slowly when I continue.
"Don't get your hopes up, Potter. What I want from you is a distraction. At the moment, a lot of my 'comrades' are very upset about our Lord's refusal to break them out of Azkaban. They feel indebted to me, and those who came to an arrangement with the Ministry after the Dark Lord's defeat sixteen years ago are not necessarily very enthusiastic about seeing their new lives disrupted, and the wrath of our Lord hanging oveem fem for their 'disloyalty'."
"Su'ru're really considering a palace revolt, Malfoy?" I have his undivided attention now. "Why?"
"The displeasure of the Dark Lord is a dangerous thing, Potter, and I refuse to take the role as punching bag, like Wormtail, or Avery." I pause for a moment, realising that I'm speaking to him almost as if to an equal. I hate explaining myself, but well, he deserves to know why he's supposed to let himself be destroyed.
"During the Dark Lord's first reign, I was proud to follow a man who would build a glorious new wizarding society on the ruins of omnipresent Muggle hubris," I state. "Now, I have a hard time reconciling that idealism with a Dark Lord obsessing over a mangy halfblood boy whose only achievements were a dead mother with a talent for protective magic, and incredible amounts of luck."
He snorts at that, but it's more an expression of amusement than protest. Something in him does agree with my verdict, it seems.
"I want to pass on to my son an ancient and respected name, and the Malfoy inheritance." Putting the feeling into words for the first time is almost magic, as if the speaking it aloud made it real. "I don't want to see my wife forced to scheme in the shadow of her mad sister to protect me. And most of all, Potter, I have realised that there are far more subtle ways of wielding influence than through the Unforgivable Curses. Not that using those is not enjoyable, but I prefer to have my name bandied about the Wizarding World as something other than a curse word."
I don't believe the Dark Lord can win, I realise with a sudden jolt as I listen to my own words. Not after all this time. Not preoccupied and damaged as he is. I give the chained boy before me a hard stare. One more thing this damnable child has to atone for.
"But to assuage your curiosity, Potter - what I'm proposing is to go through with my Lord's plan, even if it is supremely distasteful."
"Go through with it?" he whispers, so softly I have to strain to hear him. "But you said-"
"It will assure him of my loyalty, and you-" My gaze swipes over him, assessing his spread-oigurigure. "Knowing my Master, he will be fully preoccupied with your suffering, and with observing your descent into hell."
For the first time, I see a glimpse of true, undisguised fear flitting over his face. Oh, yes, boy, you have reason to fear!
"You're able to resist the Imperius Curse, aren't you, Potter?"
A shadow falls over his worried expression for a moment, before he nods hesitantly.
"Ah, yes, impressive," I drawl with a touch of mockery. "But what I want from you is to take the Curse without resistance."
What little colour there has been in his complexion drains out at that. "Why-" he whispers, then swallows audibly before trying again, "why would I want to do that, Malfoy?".
"The Dark Lord fears you, Potter," I point out with some impatience. "Even that blinkered old fool Dumbledore believes that you will be His downfall. And that prophecy-"
He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
"I don't care about your precious details, Potter - but it does state that you will defeat Him, correct?"
He chews on his lip a bit more, and I can practically hear his mind running over the words my Lord would so crave to hear.
"That I can defeat him," he amends at last.
- 1
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Brothers in Arms