Voldemort had refused to kill Harry when he had been brought to his knees several months before. It was not by Voldemort's hand, or even a well-placed Death Eater, but instead by something more sinister. Harry had to give them their due, they had thought it out. Several doctored photographs and well-placed rumours later, the Chosen One's friends turned on him, and the belief that Harry had gone over became even more universally accepted than the Daily Prophet's attacks on his mental stability some years earlier. Even those he had trusted implicitly turned on him, and he was left friendless and alone.

The memories hurt, but it was nothing compared to his life would become after Voldemort's inner circle of Death Eaters had caught up with him.

Harry shuddered as the recollection washed over him, remembering the words that sealed his fate, 'I've thought of a better use for you...' and Harry suddenly found himself at the mercy of every Death Eater that wanted him, any Death Eater he had wronged, every Death Eater Voldemort ever felt like rewarding. Memory overlapped memory, and his battered body carried with it marks of his current life in the form of scars. Harry could no longer where specifically he had received them or from whom, he had long ago stopped keeping track.

And now it was Lucius Malfoy's turn. He had no idea what to expect, but at this point he no longer cared, not really. He would be used, abused, and maybe he would finally have the courage to take his own life before things got too bad. But it seemed no matter how destroyed he became, both physically and mentally, he seemed incapable of letting himself just die. Voldemort had been all too happy to revive him from near-death more than once, to allow his suffering to continue unabated.

He was thrown to the ground and a boot pressed into the side of his throat to keep him from getting up. Harry could see little from this vantage point, save for a pair of expensive-looking dragon hide boots someone—Lucius, he assumed—was wearing. He felt emotionally exhausted, and it did not even have it in him to summon forth the fear that simmered just below the surface.

Distantly, he could hear voices, but he had completely blocked them out. To him, they sounded like little more than an inane buzzing. Early on, he had listened carefully to these conversations, as they concerned him, but after a while he realized that despite the fact that they were discussing him, he had no say in the matter one way or the other.

Like when Avery hung him from the ceiling, and cut off his hands with a penknife while he was conscious.

Or when Nott implanted a wasp nest in his chest cavity.

Or when the Carrows sealed him in a soundless, windowless room, and allowed him to succumb to hallucinations the seclusion and sensory deprivation had caused him.

This was not including the Death Eaters who were simply content to rape him nightly, and somehow, these instances were worse. His body was nothing but a thing to them; a thing to grind into the dirt, a thing to take from, and thing to destroy, and then remake whole. No matter what had been done to him, Voldemort healed his wounds, and he was new again. The words, 'thank you, My Lord,' would tumble from his lips as he kissed the hem of his robes.

Surely death was preferable to this endless cycle of pain, agony, and shame, but what could he do? He had lost everything. Voldemort and his followers was all he had left.

Movement.

Someone grabbed him by the hair and lifted him to his feet. The pain was searing, but he did not react to it. Fleetingly, he saw the men of the Malfoy family watching him with matching expressions of indifference, but Narcissa was curiously absent. He was dragged from the resplendence of the main levels of the manor, and into the dark of the dungeons.

He was stripped and a thick iron hook was twisted with the bonds of his wrists, and he was hung up from something chillingly similar to a meat hook. A second later he gasped in shock as he was drenched in ice cold water.

Harry's body was scrubbed roughly, his minor wounds tended to, and he was redressed in clean clothes. He was only dimly aware of this, and he felt something close to amusement flare up in his mind for a moment, as the man who washed him was unwilling to meet Harry's dead, blank stare. He lived, but he often felt more like a reanimated corpse. How many times had he been revived from near death? He had lost count. How many times had his mind been assaulted before it finally broke? Responding was something he had forgotten, just as he had forgotten the sound of his own voice—save for the sound of his own screams.

The cold of the stone floor bit into him as he was thrown into the cell, and the clang of it shutting and locking felt oddly final to him. Harry crawled to the back of the cell and pressed his back against the wall, made of the same cold, solid stone as the floor. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, and allowed a feeling of peace to wash over him. The calm before the storm, waiting to see just what Lucius and his little shit of a son had planned for him.

It did not take long for Harry to be approached by his new captors, and while he heard the steady footfalls of someone approaching, he did not react. No fear was in him, he was far too exhausted to care enough to feel the fear. He heard the jangle of the person banging against the cell door, and he opened his eyes to see Draco Malfoy standing there, a familiar cold look in his eyes. Based on how he was standing and the redness of his palms, Harry supposed that he had hit the heels of his hands against the cell bars in an attempt to scare him.

Harry knew how he probably looked to Malfoy—with his battered body and the blank, indifferent expression upon his face. He was every part the victim, but accepting his fate with no fight, no complaint probably seemed wildly out of character to the other boy. He had seen reactions like Malfoy's before, brought on largely by his insouciance they reacted with anger, trying to get a rise out of him. The problem was, he couldn't find it in himself to care.

He didn't care what happened to him, not anymore. He would be left here for a few weeks, or months, and what was left of his body would be shipped back to Voldemort. He would be revived and healed as necessary, and the cycle would begin again.

Malfoy gritted his teeth, watching him much like a frustrated child watches a sleeping zoo animal, impatiently waiting for it to wake up. “Say something Potter,” he said, more anger than scorn in his tone. Harry watched him in silence, not allowing himself to react. Aside from the repercussions of rising to the obvious bait, he had no desire to get into a pointless, one-sided tiff with the youngest Malfoy.

Harry took a moment to shift his gaze and look him directly in the eyes, green meeting jewel-bright blue, then he closed his eyes and returned to his repose. Distantly he heard Malfoy mutter in annoyance and stalk off.

~

For the first few days Harry was left alone which brought out of him a feeling of unease. He was fed some kind of gruel twice a day which was pushed through a narrow, horizontal slot in the bars. Malfoy came down to visit him often. Honestly, Harry had no idea what Draco felt there was to gain from heckling him like this, but as with his first night, he felt no desire to react to the jibes. This seemed to infuriate Malfoy even more, though Harry noticed that no matter how often or how long he stayed to pester him, he no longer could met his eyes.

This was not an uncommon occurrence. Coupled with his lack of desire to do—well, anything, it had been said that looking in his eyes was like looking into the eyes of a corpse. There was nothing there anymore, no emotion, no reaction—nothing. At some level, Harry speculated that this was the root cause of the Death Eater's desire to torture him to such extremes, to make him react in some way that proved that he was actually alive. Not that it helped all that much, the extremes the Death Eaters had gone to trying to make him feel had only cause the opposite effect, and Harry's consciousness seemed to fold in on itself, unable to cope with the outside world any longer.

After what Harry had estimated to be about five days, he was summoned. His wrists were rebound behind his back, not by a house elf, but by a human servant. He was ushered up to the second level of the house. He looked straight ahead, trying to summon an emotion to his mind. Fear at what was to come, wonder at the grandeur of the manor, annoyance at how his bonds itched—but he felt nothing. As ever, he felt empty.

He was led to an ornately carved oak door, and beyond it was a bedroom. The servant bowed and left, and Harry shifted his gaze to see Lucius reclined slightly on a large bed, adorned with rich materials of angora and silk. It did not take a genius to work out what Lucius' intended role for him here was. He kept his gaze focused resolutely forward, though he was not looking at anything in particular, his eyes behind his glasses unfocused as though he was in a daze.

On the edge of his peripheral vision he saw Lucius shift into a standing position in one fluid motion, and the heels of his boots clicked against the wood floor as he approached Harry.

“Let me look at you,” he said in his familiar slow, drawling tones. His hand grasped his chin and Harry's gaze was forcibly shifted to the older man. In such close proximity to someone he despised, he felt the faintest tendril of fear in the pit of his stomach. He forced it down, not allowing the emotion to show upon his face. “I see, it is as the others have said,” he seemed curious and vaguely amused, rather than angry. “Are you even in there anymore, Potter? Or are you simply a shell?” Harry did not avert his gaze nor allow it to change. Lucius had gotten closer to the mark than most of his cohorts, but he felt there was no point in responding to the words or the unsettlingly gentle touch of the man's soft fingertips that brushed against his jaw and throat.

The muscle in Lucius' cheek twitched into what was almost a smirk, and he moved Harry to the bed and bent him over.

Harry pressed his cheek into the smooth coverlet and stared at the wall. It was wallpapered with a pattern of deep crimson and silvery oak leaves, and following the design was sufficient in distracting him while he felt his trousers being pulled down, something cool being slicked over his backside, and the dull pain that followed.

~

Contrary to what he supposed Lucius had intended, Harry found life at the Malfoy Manor to be quite peaceful. He was largely left alone in the dungeons, his solitude punctuated by visits from Draco in which he tried to get a rise out of his once-classmate. The insults the younger Malfoy shot at him rolled off like droplets of water, but no matter how infuriated he got with Harry's brushoffs, he never used his wand against him. This actually surprised Harry, as he had grown quite used to being on the other end of the Cruciatus Curse for failing to react.

Lucius took him to his bed at first only occasionally, but as time went on he was summoned with greater frequency. He learned from overheard snatches of conversation that the reason he had not seen Narcissa was due to the fact that she had left Lucius some six months before, something about catching him shagging the gardener. It explained her absence and Draco's anger towards Harry at the very least. Perhaps seeing Lucius using him as little more than a sex toy had made him feel as though Harry was some kind of physical representation of the thing that drove his mother away.

Though Harry would never admit it, he had begun to look forward to Draco's visits. It was a blessed reprieve from the blank nothingness his mind had become. Listening to Draco attempt to berate him, get a rise out of him, anything, then storm off only to be back an hour later to try again. He also enjoyed the act of trying to figure him out. Why did Draco feel the need to continually come down to the dark and dank of the dungeons only to pester Harry, before disappearing again? At some level, Harry felt as though there was something more going on than just deep-seated enmity left over from their school days, but as with all things that crossed his mind in the last months, his curiosity was fleeting, and he would quickly allow his mind to go blank once more.

Coupled with his sporadic encounters with Lucius and Draco's frequent visits, Harry noticed that something in himself was different. At first, he couldn't pinpoint what it was, but then he realized that a veil of some kind had begun to lift; he could feel again. Slowly at first, then with greater frequency. He felt as though he was experiencing the first hints of spring after a particularly hard winter.

Harry was uncertain what this meant, and he didn't know if it was exactly a good thing. To feel meant he could hurt, and he was so tired of being hurt. In the dead of night his memories assaulted his mind, and he wept silently, no sound ever escaping him.

Lucius did not fail to notice this change in him. He never spoke of it, but it was apparent as he called for Harry with greater frequency, though he was still as silent as a doll. The renewed life the Death Eater could see behind his eyes seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect upon him, and he began to take his time, turning their ten-minute tussles into more drawn out experiences. Harry's body reacted to Lucius' touch readily, and while he was still mute, he could no longer stop the flood of tears that his orgasm would cause.

It seemed to unnerve Lucius somewhat, and he would lie next to Harry and watch the motionless, expressionless young man, the only indicator that he was aware of the world around him being those tears. In these moments, through the glaze of his silent anguish, he could almost see Lucius' expression soften—almost.

As with Lucius calling upon him more frequently, Draco, in turn, came to pester him more often as well. However, it had become clear early on that Draco was not the same petulant child he had known in school. Something had changed within him. For better or for worse, Harry did not know for certain. With each visit, Draco's anger seemed to ebb slightly, each time his tone softening, his words less cutting. Each visit ended the same, with an outburst of frustration at Harry's silence, and he would storm off.

~

After several weeks within the Malfoy Manor, Harry had begun to wonder when his ownership would change hands. It had to be soon, most Death Eaters that had laid claim upon him grew bored of his presence after a short time, and it would be on to the next sadist. But each time Harry expected to see a human servant come down to retrieve him for such a purpose, he could barely conceal his surprise when he was led, once more, to his master's chambers.

As strange as this was to Harry, it was nothing compared to the peculiar changes he saw in Draco. As the seasons shifted, so did he. He had come to Harry almost every night, leaned up against the bars of his cell—and talked. Somehow, Gods knew why, Draco Malfoy had decided that Harry was the best candidate to be his therapist.

At first, Draco spoke of trivial things—his frustration with his father, how, despite the fact that he was conversing with him civilly, how he hated Harry too. As time went on, his words turned to stories of his childhood.

“I don't even know why I'm telling you this, Potter,” he would say, punctuating his monologue as though trying to understand for himself why he suddenly felt so comfortable divulging his secrets to his sworn enemy. “But my father always talked about how great and powerful the Dark Lord was—is. How close to a perfect world we had achieved with him standing above us, Master of All, but...” he paused, his words seemingly frozen in his throat. Harry leaned forward despite himself. “—it doesn't feel that way.”

Draco's own daring seemed to unnerve him, and Harry did not see the boy again for a long time.

~

Harry was uncertain whether his imprisonment without Draco's presence was better or worse. He had to admit, if anything, it was peaceful. But the long hours he was left on his own had become agonizing in their silence. Harry had almost begun to look forward to his time with Lucius, because if anything, it was a welcome distraction to the memories that plagued his mind.

When Draco next reappeared, it was winter.

Harry couldn't know this for certain, but the temperature in the dungeons had dropped dramatically, and a servant had given him new, warmer clothing to wear.

Draco's appearance had startled Harry out of a daydream by way of jangling keys. He looked up in a daze, then shook his head to make sure his eyes were not cheated by some spell. Yes—Harry realized, there was Draco, and clasped in his hand was a wide ring of old, tarnished keys. Draco looked at him with a calculating look that did not befit his character. As he stared Harry down, he lowered one of the keys to the lock on Harry's cell door.

With a loud clunking sound, the door unlocked and it swung inwards. Harry watched, his back pressed against the wall of his prison, his knees bent and his arms twined around his thighs in a lazy, relaxed posture. The moment filled Harry with a mixed sense of dread and confusion. What was Draco trying to accomplish? He wasn't sure.

“Why don't you run?” Draco asked after a moment of tense silence. It was not a suggestion, but a question. He seemed genuinely curious as to why Harry felt absolutely no desire to flee. Harry watched him, uncertain whether Draco was worth breaking his silence.

“Where would I go?” Harry's voice was a hoarse whisper, and he barely recognized the sounds coming from him. After spending so long in darkness and silence, it was strange that the person that had dragged him into the light was Draco Malfoy. His question seemed to confuse Draco as much as the sound of his voice startled him, and he elaborated, trying to ignore the tickling ache in his throat as he spoke, “you and yours killed my friends, my family, my teachers. Everyone I ever cared for. Those you didn't murder, you turned against me. I have nothing. So where would I go?”

It was more talking than Harry had done in a very long time, and it made his throat hurt. He watched Draco, masking his emotions into a blank stare. He felt a faint surge of anger bubbling just below the surface, but he felt that he had little to gain by bringing it out. As he spoke, he thought he had seen a flash of remorse cross those fair features, but a second later it was gone. Harry probably imagined it. He turned his gaze from the boy, and he heard the heavy sounds of the door slamming and the lock scraping into place.

Draco never did answer him.

Harry counted five days since his last contact with the outside world that did not involve him bending over like a bitch in heat. It was just as harrowing as every other experience as Lucius' personal sex toy, but Draco's absence unsettled him more than he'd like to admit. The fact that Lucius had no desire to leave too many marks on him was a small mercy, and while his gait was still distinctly bow-legged, it wasn't as uncomfortable to pace in his cell as it could have been.

Harry couldn't remember exactly when he abandoned his silent contemplation for a near-unceasing desire to move, but he couldn't tell which he really preferred.

It was not entirely unexpected when Draco returned to the dungeons a few days later. Harry had returned to his corner, relaxing in a semi-meditative state, wilfully emptying his mind to prepare himself if he was called upon. It was so much easier to go through the motions of what he was expected to do when he didn't have to think about it.

“Potter,” there was none of the usual sneer in his voice.

Harry looked up and shifted his gaze to Draco. He had reverted back to his trademark stoicism, finding peace, rather than chaos in the simple act of keeping his silence. Draco seemed slightly unsettled by his silent stare, and he could only hold the captive's eyes for a moment, before averting his gaze. Harry watched him in silence, his eyebrows raising in surprise when instead of the expected typical cutting remarks or gibbering confessions, he slid to the floor.

He angled himself symmetrically with the bars of Harry's cell, and leaned against them. Harry's eyes widened in surprise—he was amazed that Draco would willingly want to sully such expensive clothes. The dungeon wasn't unsanitary by any means, but the act in itself still surprised him. He watched Draco in silence, and while the boy never once lifted his gaze to meet Harry's, he recognized the panicked look in his eyes all too well—the 'what the hell am I doing?' look. Harry felt the corner of his mouth twitch slightly.

~

The new camaraderie between the pair was by no means comfortable for either boy. Each evening, Draco would appear, sit next to the bars of Harry's cell, and in equal silence Harry would shift and sit next to him—the iron being the only barrier between them. Harry was not entirely sure what Draco felt he was to gain from these quiet evenings together, but he appreciated the company all the same, even if it was his sworn enemy from his schooldays.

More than once, Harry spent his days trying to work up the nerve to ask Draco just why he was coming down to see him every night. Was he doing it at his Father's request, or did he feel pity towards Harry? The former seemed likely, but he secretly hoped that in the time between the end of Hogwarts and this moment, maybe Draco had finally grown a conscience. By the time Draco had made his evening appearance, Harry once again lost the nerve to ask the other boy, and they spent another evening in companionable silence.

The following morning, Harry woke with his cheeks pressed against the bars of the cell door. He grimaced as he lifted his head, massaging the indentation in his cheek, and found that once more he was alone. He could not recall Draco leaving however, and he supposed that he had left sometime after Harry had nodded off.

Harry stood and stretched, grimacing through the stiff pain in his muscles, and moved to the back of the cell, stretching out his legs and pressing his back against the cool stone. Above him, he could hear the distinctive tones of Lucius and Draco. The voices were loud and full of emotion. The words themselves Harry could not distinguish, but it was apparent that the father and son were having a very heated argument. He was not entirely sure why, but he had a suspicion that Lucius had discovered where Draco disappeared to each evening.

Harry's suspicion grew more pronounced as the day went on, in particular when no one had bothered bringing him his meagre breakfast meal. His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, but he forced himself to rest, and ignore the hunger pangs.

That evening, his visitor was not Draco, but one of the human servants of the manor. He looked particularly grim as he forced Harry to stand and bound his wrists behind his back. This alone made Harry's unease worsen, as he had not been bound when being summoned since his first evening at the Manor. He stumbled slightly as he followed, unused to staying balanced without the help of his arms, and he was led not to Lucius' bedroom, but to the sitting room.

At first, Harry was confused. Ahead of him he saw Lucius sitting by the fire, his lips pressed together in a thin line and his eyes flashing dangerously. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Draco, but he didn't dare look in his direction. The servant pushed on Harry's shoulder, forcing him to his knees in front of the older Malfoy, and Harry tilted his head forward. In part because he knew it would be expected, and to use it as an excuse to conceal his fear from the man.

“Draco,” the musical, low tones of Lucius filled the room. Harry suppressed a shiver, as within that voice he could all but feel the venom, the quiet anger that was waiting to erupt. “You seem to have developed a soft spot for our half-blood chattel,” Harry bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stay silent and still as the man's fingers raked roughly through his hair. “I do believe you understand the...awkward position that puts us in. The Dark Lord will not be pleased if he hears of you treating this creature with any form of kindness, no matter how misguided it may be.” Harry could not stop the soft gasp that escaped him as Lucius grasped the hair on the back of his head in a painfully tight grip, and threw him roughly onto the stone floor.

With no way to prevent it, Harry felt his cheekbone scrape against the stone hearth, while the plush rugs that lined the room did little to cushion his fall. Harry squirmed in an attempt to pull himself back up, when he felt Lucius' boot press into his throat, hard. He struggled to hide his grimace of pain, but he was not entirely sure how successful he had been, as he heard the man sneer softly. “Draco, come.”

“Father, please—” Harry heard pain in the other boy's voice, almost anguish. It shocked him, but also he felt a prickle of fear lance through him. Whatever Lucius was planning, he knew he'd be limping back to the dungeons tonight.

“Draco, you are a pure-blood wizard from one of the most ancient bloodlines in Great Britain. It is high time that you learnt our ways. Now come.” Harry distantly heard the sound of a chair scraping against stone, followed by the soft footfalls of Draco's approach. Harry heard him stop just short of where he lay, but from the angle he could not see the boy. “Now, Son,” Lucius said softly, almost lovingly, “like we practised.”

Harry heard the boy sigh heavily as though bracing himself, and he tensed, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

The Cruciatus Curse hit him like a thousand shards of glass in his veins, hot coals against his skin—Harry gasped, because as soon as it had started, it stopped. Lucius' boot still pressed into his throat, and a fine sheen of cold sweat had begun to prickle his skin.

“Fool,” hissed Lucius, his anger more present in his tone this time, “you have to mean it. Crucio!”

Harry screamed. His body seized and shook, and he struggled to escape the burning, endless pain. He gasped and wheezed around the pressure of Lucius' boot, only distantly aware of the tears that streaked his cheeks, and after what felt like nothing short of a lifetime, the pain stopped.

Harry lay still, his body soaked with cold sweat, his skin bone white, and still pinned to the ground by Lucius. His breath came in short gasps, but he didn't bother attempting to regain his composure—Harry knew all too well that this was just the beginning.

“Draco,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper, but carried the same implied threat of what would happen if the boy did not obey. Harry kept perfectly still; save for the short, shallow gasps of his breath, he could have been mistaken for dead.

“Really, Father, this is unnecessary—” Draco's voice seemed to be attempting to return to its haughty, natural tone, but the faint quiver in the words left no illusions to his fear both for his father as well as his reluctance to hurt Harry.

Above him, he heard a faint pop and a soft sound of Draco hissing in pain, followed by the heavy sound of the boy hitting the floor. The way Lucius' boot dug momentarily into Harry's throat, he assumed that he had cast a curse of some kind at his son.

Harry drew into himself at that moment. It was not an unfamiliar reaction, one that he had grown accustomed to performing when the outside world proved too unpleasant for Harry to cope with. The dead of his mind made him feel safe, even if it was temporary. He could still feel pain, but somehow it did not matter. Nothing mattered.

This time however, Harry found himself wholly incapable of coping with the knowledge that someone was trying to protect him. It alarmed him, primarily because the last time he had put his trust in anyone, it had been Voldemort. He could trust that Voldemort would heal his wounds, he could trust that He would wipe away the hurt His Death Eaters caused him. But this trust—it was tenuous, at best. Harry had learned firsthand that the trust of friends and of family could be broken as easily as a twig. He had not even been aware of the trust he had developed for the younger Malfoy, but here he was, unwilling to cause him hurt. It scared Harry more than he liked to admit.

The pain came then. He could hear himself crying out, but it seemed muted somehow, as though he was watching it happen to someone else. He could feel the pain, hear his own hoarse screams, but somehow it no longer mattered. Harry was no longer even aware who it was casting the curses on him.

~

Harry felt cold. His cold sweat had soaked through his clothing and clung to him uncomfortably. He shivered. It took him a moment to realize that he was back in his cell, and completely alone. He sat up, wincing as he did so. Every movement reminded him of some ache that had been inflicted upon him. Though he had no mirror to assess the damage, he could feel some unknown substance clinging to his face, and upon closer inspection flecks of dried blood rubbed off his chin. Aside from this, he could find no external damage, save for what felt like a bruise in the shape of a boot on the side of his neck.

While his body ached too much to walk properly, he shambled to the left side of the cage, and pressed his back against the cool stone, his cheek resting against the iron bars. It was far from comfortable, but the cold of the metal felt good against his burning skin.

Harry had no idea what time it was, but it felt late. The silence above him felt heavy, as though it carried actual weight. He was too exhausted to bother looking around him, or he may have noticed the near-invisible movement of something approaching him. The rustle of a cloak near to him startled him out of his daze, and he saw Draco Malfoy emerging as the Disillusionment Charm was lifted. Harry watched him warily, much in the same way an abused animal may regard its human owner. However, Draco's characteristic cool indifference was gone, and instead his expression was riddled with guilt.

He fell into an awkward sitting position next to Harry, and he lurched back fearfully. He immediately regretted the movement, as he gasped in pain. Draco winced as though he had been struck, and he reached through the bars, and laced his fingers with Harry's. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered.

Draco asked nothing of Harry—at least not verbally. He sat down next to the boy's cell, not even looking at him, but he kept his fingers lightly laced through Harry's, giving the other boy the option to pull back if he wanted to. His thumb traced light circles on Harry's palm, the gentle touch making him tremble slightly, almost fearfully. He was unused to tender contact like this, it had been too long. The touch instead made him shiver with fear.

The boy offered Harry no verbal reassurances, nor did he give Harry any reason to distrust his motives. Instead he continued to rub the captive's palm, trying through light touch to soothe him. Slowly Harry felt the knotted muscles relax, and he feebly squeezed Draco's hand.

Draco did not stay long, and cast another Disillusionment Charm upon himself before disappearing back to the main level of the house. In his absence, Harry felt as though the boy had taken a little piece of himself with him.

~

Lucius' treatment of his catamite had steadily become more violent, seemingly no longer content to take him for his own pleasures, but now to use as something akin to a stress toy for the man to take his anger out on. Each encounter left Harry with deep welts on his back and chest, twisted muscles, and the dull ache that followed Lucius' forced entry to his most private of places. He was careful to never cause any wounds that would leave permanent damage, and left Harry in his agony for several hours before he ordered his servants to heal him.

Without fail Draco would come to him after every beating. He never spoke, and often he looked as bad as Harry felt. His eyes had gained a haunted look, as though his emotional trauma was equal to Harry's physical afflictions. Draco would sit next to the cell bars, lace his fingers with Harry's, and they drew strength from one another.

Harry had forgotten that everything has its time, and everything dies.

He had dragged himself back to the corner and he was waiting for Draco to come. Lucius had been comparatively gentle that evening, and the broken bones in his legs were hardly noticeable—provided he didn't move. The effort of dragging himself from the centre of the cell to the corner had caused his skin to dot with sweat from the exertion, and his stomach lurched, dry heaving as a reaction to the pain.

Draco came then as he always did, his silent promise to Harry. Tonight felt different; Harry could see it on the youth's face, he didn't even need to ask. He looked pained, as though someone had died. Considering what was going on beyond the walls of the Malfoy Manor, it was entirely possible that someone actually had. He fell to his knees next to Harry, and stared at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. His eyes told the story, his voice seemingly chased away. Something terrible had happened. In spite of his pain, Harry extended a hand through the bars, and clung to his agemate.

All thoughts of dignity lost, Draco allowed a single tear to streak his cheek. He reached through the bars with his free hand and cradled Harry's cheek. Draco guided Harry's head forward and kissed him delicately, as though afraid any motion of force would cause the boy to shatter.

Harry could taste the boy's tears on his lips, and felt the aching loss the boy was experiencing, though he seemed unable to vocalize it. He did not push—he never did, and instead squeezed the boy's fingers reassuringly.

The next day, Harry understood.

Much earlier than he was used to being called, he awoke to one of the human servants descending the stairs to the dungeons, the man's expression unreadable but something in it made Harry uneasy. He was dragged to his feet and he yelped in pain, his legs buckling under his own weight. The man huffed, and flicked his wand and levitated Harry upright, his toes just barely grazing the stone. Using his wand, he conducted Harry's body up the stairs and into the sitting room.

Draco and Lucius stood side by side wearing matching stony expressions. Sitting in the chair the older Malfoy usually occupied was Voldemort. Harry felt the charm lift, and he collapsed in front of the Dark Lord, utterly unable to even kneel in his broken state. “Oh, Harry,” his high, cold voice lanced through him, and he fought back a shudder.

A cold, white finger hooked under his chin and forced his gaze up to meet the serpentine red gaze.

“Look at you, so broken...it must hurt terribly,” Harry's eyes watered, the excruciating pain of his legs coming back in full measure. His breathing was laboured, but he didn't speak. Voldemort released his chin and his gaze fell to the carpet, gasping as he struggled to kneel, though it was next to impossible.

“Dear boy, we cannot leave you in such a state. My Death Eaters get carried away, you understand...” Harry's breath hitched as a warmth filled him, as though he had sunk into a hot bath. He could feel his welts left by Lucius knitting together and fading, his bones returning to their normal state, and the haze of damage to his mind caused by Cruciatus clearing.

Harry dragged himself to his knees, pressed his hands to the ground, and crawled forward. He kissed the hem of his robes and murmured, “thank you, My Lord.”

He was all Harry had.

finis