Title: Behind the Green Door
Pairing: Harry Potter/ Draco Malfoy
Warnings: Dark, Coarse Language, Sexual Situations, Violence
Summary: In the midst of the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy witnesses his father's capture of Harry Potter. Draco is given a mission: to watch the Boy Who Lived. But in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, something besides hate and enmity is born between two desperate souls.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
As a child, I had often wondered if perhaps God actually existed. If maybe, like the unicorns and pixies of my reality are a mere dream to Muggles, maybe their 'God' seems like just a folly to wizards only? Maybe there truly is a God?
Of course, ignorant as I was as a child, I had only ever asked God for the purification of the world. I had asked Him to rid the world of Muggles and blood traitors, so that perhaps my existence would be easier. So that perhaps Father could be a happier man.
I highly doubt that he would've been.
But like a being of dust and smoke, this 'God'-person has remained a mystery to me. As a child I had wondered why He didn't attempt to make the world a better place. Now, I can only hope that he doesn't. For now I realise that I am the vermin of this earth, my kind is the plague that must be cleaned out.
But as much as I realise that my place in this world is of the lowest kind, I still cannot deny it. Like a true creature of the underworld, I am drawn to the darkness, finding it impossible to leave it. Something about being a part of that hidden society, possessing those traits that so very few of us are honoured to inherit... It draws me in, and I cannot pull away,
In truth, I can't say that I want to.
Even as I am forced to watch a beaten and bloody Potter being dragged into one of the cells in the dungeon, I feel little remorse. He kicks and screams, trying desperately to escape the forceful grips Nott and Rowle have on him. Father sighs exasperatedly, casting me a sideward glance.
"Such a pathetic display. No dignity at all." The words sound as a warning, telling me to never, ever act with such classlessness if I were to be captured.
I nod, agreeing not only to the matter of Potter, but also reassuring Father that his point is made perfectly clear. "What can one expect? After all, Potter was raised by Muggles."
Lucius snorts with appreciation, a thin smile appearing on his grim face. He opens his mouth to answer, but Potter's shouts cut off whatever he was going to say. As if he has finally had enough of Potter's demeanour, he raises his wand and with a swift spell knocks Potter unconscious.
Nott and Rowle exit the cell, leaving the Boy Who Lived sprawled on the floor. Father nods approvingly, before turning to me.
"You know your job, Draco."
I nod curtly, and remain watching as Lucius turns away and stalks out through the door, Nott and Rowle at his heels. I sigh deeply, turning to look at the boy in the cell.
Potter is lying indignantly on the floor, his oversized jeans covered with grime and his Gryffindor-red sweater ripped and stained with his own blood. His glasses have ended up in the corner of the cell, but have somehow remained intact. Somehow he looks really vulnerable without them. Or maybe it's just that he is trapped in a dungeon that produces such an image.
Moving to lock the cell door, I take a good look around the dungeon. The air is thick and musty, but at least the room in itself isn't particularly dirty. Sure, a little mould and grime here and there, but that's all part of the subtle charm of dungeons.
I turn to the corner furthest away from the cell, producing a comfortable armchair and a small table with my wand. Sitting down, I light a candle and reach for the book in my pocket. Opening the copy of Potion Prodigy: 1000 Ways to Exceed Yourself, I lean back in the chair, sighing contently. If I have to stay here, I might as well be comfortable.
Potter stirs on the floor. He groans loudly, his breath somewhat laboured. From the pain, I imagine. I ignore him, continuing with my book, hearing him roam about for a couple of minutes.
"…Fuck." The word escapes him in a heavy breath, and I am finally forced to lift my concentration from the pages.
Potter has sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He must have gotten quite the blow to his skull when he fell to the ground. I soon grow bored of watching his grimaces, and try once again to continue reading.
"Where the fuck-?" he begins, and I look up to see him looking around the room. For a second I wonder why he hasn't spoken to me, before I realize he probably can't even see me.
"You might want to try putting your glasses on, that might answer a few questions," I drawl, extremely pleased with myself when Potter jumps at the sound of my voice.
"Malfoy?" he exclaims in an accusing, yet uncertain voice.
I snort. "Yes, Potter. Now please get those glasses of yours, so these inane questions might stop sometime tonight." I watch him hectically feel around himself on the floor, in a couple of minutes finally reaching out to the corner of the cell and clasping his hand around his glasses.
He puts them on, blinks in the still quite dim light, and turns to me. "It is you!" He spits the words out furiously, yet there is something resembling relief behind them.
"You don't say," I mutter, moving into a more comfortable position in my chair.
A silence follows as Potter regards his surroundings. "Where are we?" he asks tentatively, clearly uncertain. I leer at him, extremely pleased over this newfound power over the Golden Boy. Of all the times I have known myself to be his superior, this is the first time he has acknowledged it himself.
"Malfoy Manor. Where else?"
Another minute of silence. "Why are you here?"
I snort incredulously. "I live here, Potter."
He clearly doesn't find it funny. "Don't try to play games with me, Malfoy. Why are you here?"
Giving him a stern gaze, I nonchalantly turn my attention to the pages of my book. "The question you should be asking, Potter, is perhaps not why I am here, but why you are."
My words keep him silent for a long time. I imagine he is reliving the past day as he remembers it. Why he actually is here, I have no idea. For some reason the Dark Lord seemed it to be unfit to just kill him, and he was brought here. Maybe he is to be some kind of trophy when we win the war, who knows.
Why I am here, is a completely different matter. One Potter shouldn't feel himself concerned with.
"How much time do I have before he is going to kill me?" Potter suddenly asks, and I am taken aback by his forwardness. For the first time in my life, I realise that contrary to what I had believed, Harry Potter does realise his own mortality, and is fully ready to face it. Some new found respect for the Boy Hero rises within me, and I feel almost sorry that I cannot give him a proper answer.
"I honestly do not know," I answer truthfully, and Potter seems to believe me. He only nods, finally rising from the floor and lying down on the small bed in the cell.
"It can't be too long now," he sighs.
"Do you mind, Potter? This just got interesting."
"Oh, I am truly sorry to have disturbed your little reading session, Malfoy." He sneers at me, ludicrously trying to resemble some kind of threat. When I don't react, he snaps. "Have you no fucking humanity at all? I am asking you about my friends!" He stands at the bars, hands wrapped around them, knuckles turning white in rage. "How can you be such a heartless bastard? If you were in my place, wouldn't you want to know that Crabbe and Goyle are alright?"
Without Potter's knowledge, his words turn into knives in my chest. I lower my book onto my knees, slowly turning my gaze to Potter. "One of the Weasley twins died. As did the werewolf. I believe that the Mudblood and your little girlfriend survived. I don't know about the Weasel." I hiss the words through clenched teeth, sneering viciously at Potter.
He stands paralyzed for a moment, taking in the words, before sliding down the bars onto his knees on the floor. "Oh God… Remus," he whispers, his lower lip trembling.
I watch Potter in disgust. I don't believe I have ever hated him as much as I do right now. Before I can stop myself, I have opened my mouth to speak again. "What became of my friends, Potter, is a quite different matter. Crabbe was killed in a raid three months ago." My mouth grows dry, but I continue. "Goyle committed suicide soon after."
I don't know why I spoke at all. Certainly not for sympathy, who the hell would feel sorry for a Death Eater?
Definitely not Potter.
"Fuck you, Malfoy!" he bursts, standing up and shaking the bars in front of him. "What are you pulling, trying to score sympathy points from me? Well fat chance!" Potter exclaims, his green eyes alight with rage. "It's your own fault that-" He stops, realizing that he has gone too far.
"You're saying that it's only fair?" I hiss, rising to my feet and approaching the cell slowly. "It's fair because they were evil, right? Evil, because they sided with the Dark Lord? Evil, because they were sixteen years old and led by what their entire world was about?" I grit through clenched teeth, stopping right in front of Potter. He fidgets under my gaze, but doesn't look away.
"It was their own choice," he mumbles, swallowing loudly.
"They had no choice," I sneer at the dark-haired boy, fighting myself not to curse him. "They were children who did for their leader what any of your lot would have done for Dumbledore."
"Don't you dare say his name!" Potter spits at me from behind the bars, his green eyes piercing me. He draws in a deep breath. "What are you saying, Malfoy? That you are all just misled children who shouldn't be held responsible for their actions?" he sneers sardonically.
I am just about to hit him, but his suddenly his emerald eyes hold such power that I am momentarily taken aback. How Potter manages to overwhelm me, even when he stands trapped behind bars, I will never know. Nevertheless, I back down.
"We are not misled. You have the right to hold us responsible and think that we are wrong." I take a step back, gazing at Potter with tired rage. I know that whatever I say, he will never be able understand. But I have to say the words out loud, even if just because Potter is a narrow-minded, self-centred, self-righteous bastard.
"But don't you ever again try to tell me that we don't have the same fucking right as you do to mourn our losses," I hiss, narrowing my eyes at Potter. I spit at him. "And never, ever tell me that it's justice that we have to watch our friends die!"
As I turn away, Potter mumbles something that could've been an apology.
End of part I