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No Desert	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Lucius Views: 20317 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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-Lost
- 2-Found
- 3-Open Door
- 4-Nets
- 1
- 2
- 3
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm just experimenting with them. No harm intended, no money made.

Warning: violence, slash

Pairing: Harry/Lucius, Harry/Draco

Notes: Written for the Beloved Enemies Harry/Lucius FQF Challenge No. 214:

Harry's accused of killing someone. He's hiding from everyone with Sirius. But one day Lucius Malfoy and other officials find them. In order to save his godfather (or even himself) Harry has to bargain with Lucius. (Lidi)

This chapter owes more than just a bit to Chthonia's awesome Hermione/Lucius epic Invictus (to be found on FA's Schoogle archive), although she's by no means responsible for what my warped mind did with her inspiration... Humble thanks for the beta go to the brilliant Anne Phoenix, who asked all the right questions, to FPB, who took this on despite his dislike for slash, and to Lady Black for the final grammar polish.

No Desert (2/4)

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

Chapter 2 ~ Found

Harry landed hard on his feet, arms flailing ungainly for balance. He'd screwed his eyes shut hastily against the nausea when the Portkey had taken effect, and when he opened them again, it remained dark. Dark as if the world had drowned in molasses, or ink. Panic shot through Harry's nerves; the black was so oppressive it almost stifled his breath. Had the Knut carried an additional blinding spell on it? He blinked, and saw nothing but white flashes against his eyelids. Not blind, then - just standing in complete darkness.
He raised his good hand, but encountered nothing but air. Well, at least it wasn't the front porch of Twelve Grimmauld Place, and there were no Dementors. The air had a very faint tang of burnt ozone, vaguely reminding him of the time when Shacklebolt had demonstrated the Lightning Curse in Seventh Year Defence. Though Harry couldn't imagine Malfoy would come after him with lightning bolts. To be honest, he didn't want to imagine what Malfoy would come after him with. Now that his worst panic and the adrenaline were wearing off - not to mention the image of putrid, rotting lips sliding over his cheek in search for his mouth to latch onto and suck - the realisation of just what he'd got himself into began to dawn with full strength. He'd thrown himself at Malfoy's mercy, knowing oh-so-well how little of that sentiment existed in the creature's vicious heart. In all likelihood, he had just exchanged one death sentence for another.
When a faint glow appeared quite a few feet above him, Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling. It had begun to shine in an eerie light that intensified rapidly, more intensely white at the top, and then gradually fading into a sickly green. He blinked a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness.
Now he realised that he was standing in a small cubicle, smaller even than the Room of Retreat. There was no opening in any of the walls that hinted at a door - in fact, the walls were so smooth that they looked as if black stone had been molten and poured over the whole interior. There was a bench-like structure made from the same material, which seemed to grow out of the wall - smooth, almost warm to the touch, and hard as marble. The substance made Harry shudder in revulsion. It felt as if it were alive somehow.
Harry sat down on it anyway, exhaustion overcoming reluctance. The whole ceiling now shone with the strange light, which swirled through the cell like smoke, twisting and curling in greenish tendrils. It gave off no warmth, but set off an unpleasant prickling sensation in Harry's eyes and skin, which after a while became almost painful. It felt nastiest on his damaged hand, on his forehead, and on every one of the various parts of his body that had been bruised in his recent battles. It seemed that whatever destructive potential that light entailed, it found it easiest to work its power on already damaged skin.
Harry had never heard of magic remotely like this, and it reminded him of nothing so much as of a Muggle film about radiation which Dudley had dared him to watch once. The film had left him sick and terrified for weeks. Whatever the light was, there was no place to hide, no way to fight. All that was left for him to do was to pull his robe around his body to cover as much as possible, and crouch there while the burning sensation intensified.
Harry began to tremble and took a few hyperventilating breaths. His tongue and the inside of his mouth went dry as the light seemed to suck the moisture right out of his mouth. The burning in his eyes intensified, enough to make tears well up, but then even that little bit of moisture seemed to drain away, leaving the itch worse than before. With a strangled sob, he snatched his glasses off and buried his face in the crook of his arm.
It felt as if his blood, too, was thickening and sloshing sluggishly through his veins. Like someone had bottled the effects of a desert sun, crystallised it, and was now casting it back on him tenfold. With his last ounce of conscious thought he wondered if losing his soul to the mouth of a Dementor would really have been that much worse than being burned to death like this.
The steady ache in his eyes was worst, a constant, unbearable rubbing as if splinters of wood were embedded between his eyeballs and eye cavity, rubbing them raw. His forehead throbbed continuously, though it wasn't the same as the dull roar that had run from his scar right into his skull whenever Voldemort had raged. And his arm burned worse than when the curse that killed Voldemort had rebounded on it. Harry curled up on the floor, balling up tightly under the pitiful shield of his robe, and drifted away into a pained stupor
He dreamt of Hogwarts' lake, of submerging himself into its waters until his shrivelled cells soaked up the life-giving moisture. He licked his chapped lips and cursed Lucius Malfoy, in his mind and very, very elaborately, for leaving him here to dry out like a shed snake skin in the sun. Malfoy wouldn't even look him in the eye as he killed him! This notion stole over Harry's delirious mind like a Lethifold, choking and more outrageous even than the thought of coming death.
He wondered if the fucking son of a bitch was watching him somehow, through a magical mirror or an invisible wall, and was amusing himself with the twitches and whimpers Harry could not suppress.
Although as he drifted further and further into oblivion, that thought began to matter less and less...
...
Harry's exhausted mind took minutes to realise that the deadly light was gone, and that brightness suddenly came from the left, not from the ceiling. When he lifted his head, too weak to move more than an inch, he realised that one of the walls was gone. Torchlight from the corridor outside bathed the doorway in a golden shine that - bless Merlin! - was soothing rather than scalding his abused eyes. They still ached, but he could see, and the compulsion to claw out his eyeballs against the pain was gone.
He wasn't much surprised when a dark figure materialised in the doorway, and moved towards him. So Lucius Malfoy had decided to show his face after all. And if he came to deal the death blow...
Oh well, Harry thought, let him. Better that than another round of what he'd sent him through in here.
Malfoy halted and stood over him. Harry tried to draw himself up, but his muscles refused. He felt as weak as a newborn Kneazle. Impatiently, Malfoy grabbed his arms and pulled him up until Harry found himself half standing, half leaning against the wall. The Death Eater brought up a hand and ran a black-gloved thumb over Harry's forehead, peering at it with interest. Harry leaned the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He was too worn out to resist, and Malfoy had always had this macabre fascination with his scar...
After a moment the Death Eater released him and conjured a small clay cup decorated with primitive wavy lines around the rim. It was filled with clear, beautiful water. Malfoy put it into Harry's hand, steadying it with his own for a moment until he was sure Harry wouldn't slosh the contents all over himself in weakness and greed.
"Drink slowly," he ordered.
Harry suppressed a snort. It wasn't as if he could have drunk quickly if he'd wanted to; every sip constricted his parched throat, almost making him double up in pain. But the last thing he wanted was to annoy Malfoy, to give him a reason to take the water away. It got easier after the first few drops, and the cup refilled itself before Harry could empty it completely.
After gulping down three cups of water, Harry began to feel the first stirrings of humanity in his dehydrated body. He returned the cup, and Malfoy reached into his pocket to throw him something round and soft. Harry caught it reflexively, and stared down at the pear in his hand. Turning the fruit, he wondered if Malfoy had taken it from the table in the Room of Retreat. If it was the same pear, it felt softer than before. He must have been in this bloody hellhole of a prison for a day at least, probably longer.
He bit into the pear anyway.
Sweetness blossomed in Harry's mouth, first mixed with the sour tang that curled in the skin, and then the fresh taste of yet-slightly-green pear tingled his taste buds awake and shook life into Harry's depleted energy sources. He could almost feel the fizz of energy sparking through his body as he devoured the fruit in a few short bites, disregarding Malfoy completely as he gave himself over to the blissful taste until all that was left was the stem. Finally, he brought his fingers to his mouth to savour the last traces of juice.
To his surprise, he was almost feeling like himself again, which just couldn't be - going from close to death to halfway healthy in the course of minutes wasn't natural.
"What did you do to me?"
Malfoy shook his head in mock outrage.
"What I did, you little ingrate? Why don't you take a look at that claw the Dark Lord gave you for a hand?"
Harry flinched and cradled the offensive limb to his chest. He didn't want to see it, even less bare it to Malfoy's scrutiny.
With an impatient growl the Death Eater grabbed Harry's arm and shoved back the sleeve. His fingers clamped cruelly around Harry's wrist. The thought 'I can feel that! ' hit Harry before his eyes actually took in the pale, unblemished skin. His breath caught, and he slowly uncurled the defensive fist. Malfoy let go to allow him to inspect his palm, fingers, nails... The flesh was still puffy, but it was real skin, not some horrible thing between chitin and fossilised wood...
"You've been exposed to the strongest Dark healing curse known to wizardkind, Potter," Malfoy explained. "The Dark Lord himself investigated it as a pathway to immortality, but it only heals up to a point, and over-exposure destroys the brain and surface tissue... Of course it might have done that anyway if you were sensitive to the Light, but I relied on the fact that you've always proven yourself damnably hard to kill. If not, you'd have ended up as the most healthy, long-lived zombie in the wizarding world."
"Why?" Harry asked, torn between relief and anger.
"Because the Dark Lord's curse would have spread and killed you from beyond the grave, Potter. Correcting your eyesighd red removing your scar were mere side effects."
Harry's hand flew up to his forehead, searching for the lightning bolt that had defined his life ever since his earliest childhood.

Nothing.

He felt dried sweat, smooth skin, but not even a trace of the scar.
"It lost itgicagical properties when the Dark Lord died, although it would never have disappeared so completely without this branch of the Dark Arts," Malfoy added, smirking at Harry's awed expression.
"But why?" Harry insisted. "Why would you want to heal me?"
"Because collecting a life debt from a dying enemy is not the most enchanting of prospects, don't you think?"
Oh. Yes, there was that.
"Are you familiar with the conditions a life debt entails, Mr Potter?"
"I'll have to save your life, or that of a family member?" Harry asked listlessly. Surely Malfoy couldn't want him as a bodyguard, could he?
"That would indeed be a way of repaying your debt," Malfoy nodded. "But as it is, I saved your life at considerable risk to my own should the Ministry ever learn of my involvement. That means your life belongs to me now, Mr Potter, to dispose of in whatever manner I please. Should I decide not to destroy you - which would be my right - I can ask of you whatever I want, for as long as I want, until I decide your debt is paid in full."
Which would mean he'd be worse off than a house-elf, and Harry had seen first-hand how Malfoy treated those.
"What if I refuse?"
"To refuse a life debt once it's formally invoked would mean to violate the very essence of what makes you a wizard. If you run, it will corrode your magical powers, drain your health, and probably kill you in the end, or reduce you to a state to make you wish it had. And I will invoke it, unlike your father, who never even acknowledged the debt Severus Snape owed him."
"Yes, you would," Harry murmured bitterly, only to find himself spun around as a hand grabbed his chin and forced him to look into Malfoy's face.
"Disregarding a life debt is one of the worst possible insults one wizard can do to another, Potter," he snapped. "It conveys utter contempt, implies that the other's existence is too worthless even to take note of. Is that what you would like to be for me?"
"I don't want to be anything for you!" Harry cried. "What I want is to put a few continents between us and forget you've ever existed!"
"Not a chance, my dear Harry - I think I may call you Harry. After all, we're quite well-acquainted now, aren't we?"
"Just what do you want, Malfoy?" Harry yelled in frustration. If he had to listen to the man roll in smug self-satisfaction for one moment longer, he'd hit him, and then Malfoy would probably use the Killing Curse or dredge up some other ancient wizarding law that would make things worse yet. Harry had a hard time imagining how it could get worse, but he knew it could.
"Perhaps I'm just curious, Harry." The Death Eater gave him a thoroughly disconcerting look. "You fulfilled your life's purpose when you killed the Dark Lord. Perhaps I'm interested whether you've been nothing but a vessel for that Prophecy, or if there is something at the core of you." He flicked his wand, and a long strip of black fabric spilled from the tip. "Or perhaps I just feel like torturing you for all the times that you crossed me."
Harry raised his hands protectively as the black material flew at his face, but Malfoy's wand came down in a sharp rap across his knuckles.
"Keep your hands down. We've established that your life is mine, to do with as I please. The same goes for your body, naturally." Malfoy fixed Harry with a sharp stare. "Or do you want to renege on your debt before I've even started collecting?"
With a sick feeling in his stomach, Harry dropped his hands to his sides, eyeing the floating cloth apprehensively. Again, it fluttered upwards, slid over his cheek, and then wrapped itself tightly over his eyes. It felt like wet silk on his temples and brows, and it would have been an almost pleasant sensation if it wouldn't have obscured his vision so completely. The long ends knotted themselves at the base of his skull, and then slid down behind his back, tickling his neck in the process. Harry shuddered.
"What-" he croaked, breaking off when he realised how scared he sounded.
How like Malfoy to restore his vision and then cut off the sense just when Harry would have been able to see without glasses for the first time since his earliest childhood. Being plunged into darkness in the man's presence threw him into sheer panic. It left him utterly vulnerable, unable to anticipate, let alone defend himself against, a curse, or a blow... His heart hammered in his throat, amplified by darkness. He jumped like a wild thing when two gloved fingers touched his chin and tilted it upwards.
"Nice," Malfoy's dry voice commented.
Harry felt heat creep into his cheeks, which produced a chuckle. Then the hand left his face, wrapped around his upper arm instead, and tugged. Harry staggered, his free arm clutching at air in search for something to hold on to. All it got him was another stinging rap on his flailing wrist and a sardonic snort.
"Stop playing the fool, Potter."
With considerable effort, Harry stopped struggling and allowed himself to be propelled out of the cell and into the corridor. From there, his sense of orientation deserted him completely. The darkness seemed to close in on him, solid and suffocating, each step becoming more of a physical effort than the last as Malfoy steered him along with a hand on his shoulder. Each step further might send him crashing into a wall, or a piece of furniture, or careening down a flight of stairs...
Once, in primary school, they'd played something very much like this as a game to 'establish trust', and Harry had lost two of his already wobbly milk teeth when Dudley's best mate had led him straight into a doorframe. He'd refused to participate ever since, and he trusted Lucius Malfoy considerably less than Piers Polkiss.
Harry's steps grew shortnd snd shorter, his breaths loud with dread. He halfway expected the Death Eater to shove him by force, and flinched when Malfoy closed up to him until Harry's back was practically touching his chest. Instead, the man's other arm came around his shoulder as well, and he leaned in so close that his lips almost brushed Harry's ear.
"No need to panic, Harry," he whispered. "If I wanted to shove you down into an abyss or the Malfoy family oubliette, I'd make well certain that you could see it coming."
With an angry shove, Harry shook off the arm and straightened himself out of what had disconcertingly felt like an embrace. Malfoy made a sound that might have been a chuckle behind him, and propelled him onward again. Strangely enough, though, the dark appeared not quite as oppressive any more.
After another few minutes, Harry realised that they were about to exchange the corridors for what probably was a hall, or a room. A faint metallic noise indicated the opening of doors, and it got slightly warmer than before. When the invisible doors clicked shut again, Malfoy said,
"You can stop now."
Harry obeyed and reached up to undo the blold,old, but Malfoy slapped his hands down.
"You won't need those treacherous eyes in the near future, Potter. Not that you could take off the Spellcloth without my permission, of course."
"Just what are you playing at?" Harry snapped, frazzled and exasperated in equal measures.
"If I remember correctly, we've been discussing humility and your lack of grasp of the concept?" Malfoy purred, and to Harry it resembled nothing so much as a bowstring after releasing its arrow, humming with the aftertone of danger.
Malfoy's hand didn't release Harry's shoulder yet, but spun him in a dizzying circle for a moment.
"Now, Harry, I'd like you to remove your clothes."
"What?" Harry yelled when the words finally penetrated his disoriented brain. "You've got to be fucking kidding!" The mere thought was - unthinkable!
"Why, I'd have expected you to be familiar enough with the procedure without needing to see to do it," Malfoy drawled, wilfully misunderstanding.
"That's not what I..." Harry broke off, fuming. "You bloody well know I won't do that!"
"Not half an hour ago you swore you would honour your debt, and already you balk at my first comma
The accusation was so unfair that Harry nearly choked on it. He hadn't sworn anything, he'd just... quietly acquiesced, probably. And how could Malfoy ask for that? Had he no idea how ultimately humiliating it would be? This of course, Harry knew, was exa why why the man had ordered him to do it.
"I won't!" Harry spat.
"Potter," Malfoy replied, almost gentle but with an undertone that sent cold shivers down Harry's back. "I will not resort to threats. But if I have to do it for you, you'll have to pay the price. And it will be infinitely worse than a little sting to your pride."
Harry stood straight, taking deep breaths to control his panic. Don't do this to me! he wanted to plead, but knew it would only sweeten things for Malfoy.
So there was no way out of this. Malfoy had a Death Eater's arsenal of curses at his disposal, and Harry knew that his resistance would break under the Cruciatus if nothing else. He could do it, he told himself. He was Gryffindor. He had faced down Lord Voldemort and had walked away from the battle alive, if not unscathed. He would not even have to watch Malfoy's face while he did it, he realised, suddenly grateful for the blindfold which would serve as his shield against reality.
And so, with all colour drained from his face but und, hd, he undid the fastenings of his robe with trembling hands. It slid easily from his shoulders.
Perhaps he was silly to be so spooked. Surely Malfoy's overblown sense of propriety just balked at having someone in his house who was wearing the cast-offs of a werewolf. Harry could smell his own sweat as he unbuttoned his borrowed shirt with unwilling fingers. Remus had found him two sets of shirts anderweerwear and a spare pair of jeans, but he'd not had a chance to bathe or even wash thoroughly in Grimmauld Place, for fear of making his presence known. He felt a film of grime on his skin as he undid the wrist buttons, and the thought that Malfoy would sneer at the 'dirty halfblood' made him want to cringe with mortification. But why should he? If the bastard wat oft off, all the better.
Harry clung to the open flaps of his shirt for an agonising moment. Please, why couldn't he just wake up, safe and sound in his dormitory at Hogwarts? But the surroundings didn't change, and so he finally dropped the shirt with a defiant shrug, although it gave him a twinge of uneasiness. Aunt Petunia had drummed the habit of putting his things away neatly into him at an early age. "I won't be picking up after you, boy!", he could still hear her screeching, although he'd been expected to pick up after Dudley, for whom the rules had blatantly not applied. If Malfoy wanted his clothes, he could damn well pick them up from the floor, Harry thought viciously. He felt cold air on his bare chest and shuddered.
His fingers brushed Remus' unfamiliar belt buckle and stilled, heart hammering frantically.
Oh God, he couldn't!
"The shoes first, I think," came Malfoy's amused voice, sending another wave of burning rage through Harry's mind.
I wish you were dead! he thought, furiously pulling on his shoelaces. I wish you would be trampled in a centaur stampede, I wish you would get mauled by a Basilisk and feel the poison burn through your veins until your heart stopped, I wish Voldemort had cast Cruciatus on you until your vile mind was as blank as the Longbottoms'! He kicked his shoes off together with the socks and stopped at that last thought.
The cold pricked the bare soles of his feet as he straightened up again.
"There, that's better," the hated voice continued. "Now go on."
Harry's fingers struggled with the belt again, vaguewareware that instead of blushing his face - and every other part of his body, in fact - was as cold as though there were not a drop of blood left inside him.
"Do you need help?" Malfoy inquired, voice laced with amusement and something else that made Harry's skin crawl with disgust.
"Go to hell!" he snapped, drawing on the fury over the dig to work himself up to pulling down his trousers and his underwear along with them in one furious push. Malfoy probably didn't mean anything by that tone. The creep had sounded suggestive even when he'd detailed the image of Harry being given the Dementor's Kiss. Just one additional nuance to unnerve him.
And standing there, completely naked and exposed to Malfoy's eyes and to whatever malice the vile creature could come up with, was more unnerving than anything he'd ever experienced in his life. Mortified, he felt helpless tears form in his eyes, which were soaked up by the blindfold. At least Malfoy wouldn't see him cry.
"Ah, very well," Malfoy commented, and Harry felt the man's eyes running over his body as clearly as if the fabric covering his eyes had momentarily become transparent. "That actually took less of an effort tI exI expected."
Harry's ears burned at that. He did not want the bastard to curse him, but no more did he want to be praised for putting up less resistance than the other had anticipated. He wasn't a coward! Or was he?
"Scourgify!"
Harry yelped as the Cleaning Charm scrubbed over every inch of his skin, and seemed to reach right through him with unpleasant insistence. It left his skin tingling, and his intestines felt as if someone had reached inside to polish them. Even his gums stung as if attended to with a wire toothbrush. The hair on his head seemed lighter, devoid of the grime that had matted it before.
"Much better," Malfoy commented, and Harry felt the urge to kick out in the direction of that smug voice. "Now cross your hands behind your back."
This time, Harry managed to swallow the curses that burned on his lips. It wasn't as if he'd be able to shield the more... vulnerable parts of his anatomy against a wand with his hands. Not to mention how pathetic that would look. It wasn't as if he could do anything, no matter how much he wished he'd be able to incinerate the sadistic snake with a thought.
He obeyed with some effort, and felt a familiar trickle of smooth, silky cloth on his wrists. A second strip of Spellcloth wrapped itself around them, securing his hands safely behind his back. Bloody... he tugged forcefully, but the material did not even show enough reaction to cut into his wrists. It just held fast, comfortably enough.
An inarticulate sound of panic escaped Harry's throat when cool fingers came to rest on his upper arm, and slid intrusively over his shoulder blades before proceeding to slither down his spine. They paused at every bump of his vertebrae as if Malfoy was actually counting them. It felt dry, and... intimate, like the scales of a viper. Harry dug his teeth into his lower lip, every muscle going rigid with fear. The touch left off just shy of his tailbone, then reappeared at his left knee and moved up the outside of his thigh before curling around his hip, thumb stroking the hollow there in small, lazy circles.
Harry ducked away blindly, almost stumbling to the ground in his agitation, and hissed, "Take your hands off me, you...!"
Despite the man's taunts, Harry had never seriously considered that Malfoy might... molest him. Not afblofblood, and an enemy. He could deal with mockery, even with pain. He could not deal with this!
"I can do whatever strikes my fancy, Harry." The voice was just as close - just as intrusive - as the hands had been. "There is nothing you can do, and you've got preciously little left to bargain with."
"I don't care!" Harry hardly recognised his voice, high, cracked with terror and dangerously close to unveiled hysteria. "Just get away! I'd rather be dead than have you touch me!"
Despite his tension, he was not prepared for the vicious tug that wrenched his head back by the hair, exposing his throat. He stopped breathing altogether when something sharp and metallic came to rest just over his jugular.
Oh God, he's really going to kill me! Harry's thoughts tumbled like rocks down a ravine. It's a knife, and I can't even see or move my hands!
The blade pressed in a little harder, and it burned where it broke his skin.
"Is that what you want?" Malfoy growled in his ear. Harry froze, sick with fear and petrified into place by the threatening steel. But the Death Eater pressed in harder yet, and now it hurt. Harry could feel something wet trickle down his throat and over his neck.
And then the touch was back as well. It tickled over his chest, alternating between fingertip and nail until the invisible finger came to rest against a nipple. Malfoy scraped one nail over it, lightly but enough to create a distracting itch, before his fingers returned to pinch it firmly, almost as an aftertho.
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