Title: A Halfblood Prince

Author: Anne Phoenix

Rating: R

Summary: After all these years, Lucius finally understands the true meaning of power…

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 Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

***


A halfblood prince


I’m not sure what has drawn me back down here tonight; each soft footstep placed with expert care on the crumbling steps of the old winding staircase. Down, down into the forbidding darkness. There is no light in the dungeon at night, so it is pitch-black save for the faint glow of my lumos.

But you don’t need light to find your way around down here.

The foul air greets you the moment you step from the stairs, and guides you with the increasing reek of suffering and death through the maze of corridors to the section where the prisoners are kept.

I wrinkle my face against the putrid stench and even try pinching my nose, but it permeates my skin and assaults my senses anyway. I take a deep breath to adapt, and momentarily feel nauseous. It never really goes away…

Even deprived of all senses I am sure I could easily find the occupied cells. After all, I did grow up in this manor, and the sinister passages are all too familiar to me. In the olden days, the days of my youth, there were no prisoners, no fetid smells; just empty cells that my friends and I used for our games.

Children’s games…

An echo of our carefree laughter reverberates everlastingly within the walls of my memory. Like any normal wizarding children, we played Dark Wizards and Aurors, chasing each other round and round brandishing our wands like swords and shooting off harmless hexes. So long ago...

I was foolish then. I still had the luxury to believe politics did not, and never would, concern me.

When the first prisoners were brought in, I was already grown-up enough to understand they would not ever be leaving. And yet I was child enough to mourn the loss of my playground!

The dungeons remained a playground of sorts.

Father encouraged my participation in the games of the adults. Right from the start, Crabbe and I were allowed – expected - to watch as Father interrogated his enemies. Once, he even let me cast the Cruciatus Curse all by myself. I don’t remember the name that first victim. Caradoc Dearsomething. The vision of his face has since merged with the faces of so many others. On the other hand, I clearly remember his screams ringing through the dungeon. Strident at first, then breaking and raw… By the time Father was finished with him, there wasn’t that much left.

That day I learnt Death can be a blessing.

I probably should have realised there was something desperately wrong with my aristocratic pureblood family, but somehow it never struck me that normal families did not spend their Sundays torturing people in the dungeons of the ancestral home. Instead, I threw myself enthusiastically into this legacy. Of course, it didn’t help that all my friends were living in similar situations.

Throughout the years, prisoners have come and gone. I like to think I have matured now, that I have a better understanding of life, but in truth nothing has changed. Well, one thing has changed: Father is long dead and I am now personally in charge of the Malfoy dungeon. Obviously, The Dark Lord -You-Know-Who- still does as He pleases with my manor and my life… I am in his service, as are all of my old friends. We play our own games now – hunt the Mudblood, torture the enemy… kill, kill, kill…

All these thoughts, old and new, flit through my mind as I make my way to the cells. It also crosses my mind for the hundredth time that if we are going to be using the dungeons this extensively, then it might just be worth investing in a proper sanitation system. Not for the prisoners, of course, but for my colleagues and myself… and even for the house elves whose duty it is to dispose of corpses and scourgify cells. After all, those same little hands make my tea every morning. I shudder at the notion, but luckily have arrived at my destination. It does not do to dwell on such unhygienic thoughts.

The tip of my wand illuminates the content of the cell that has drawn me back down into this filthy hellhole. He is asleep. Or unconscious. Beautiful. Curled up on the cold floor, wearing nothing but grimy rags that expose patches of bruised skin… He looks so exhausted and resigned it makes my loins quiver disturbingly.

At our Master’s request, we have spent the past three days attempting to break this boy’s resistance to the Imperius Curse. It is common knowledge that the right dose of pain will render any mind vulnerable to intrusion. Hence, we used the worst curses we could think of, many not unforgivable simply because they are unimaginable in their cruelty. Yet the boy’s natural defences, coupled with an unexpected mastery of occlumency, have so far blocked us out of his mind.

I gaze at him in admiration. By all rights, he should not be alive.

“Can’t get enough of me, can you, Malfoy?”

I startle at the sound of his croaking question. Has he been awake this whole time? Is he so powerful that days of torture do not knock him out cold? At him I smile coldly and whisper in my most mockingly sweet voice, “Just wanted to catch you when you were most vulnerable, Mister Potter.”

He sits up, not even trying to hide the sharp wince that makes his limbs twitch in memory of pain. His eyes glow unnaturally in the dim light, and he stares at me unwaveringly. He takes in a deep shaky breath.

“Well, you caught me. What do you want?”

His voice betrays a fatigue that runs as deep as his bones. It’s not just the continuous torture of the last seventy-two hours; it’s a lifetime of misery. I smirk.

“I want you to make it easy for yourself. Open your mind.”

“Why?”

“Because you have nothing left to gain by resisting. Because my Lord will kill your little girlfriend tomorrow morning if you continue with this ridiculous charade…”

He manages to keep his gaze steady, although I notice his pupils dilate impressively.

“Malfoy, you don’t want me to make is easy for myself; you want me to make it easy for you. Kill her, she’ll be better off dead, anyway.”

I am about to retort that in that case we will not kill her, just inflict worse indignities upon her person, before I catch myself. The little bastard almost pulled me right into his trap. His eyes light up momentarily with the knowledge that he has won.

The glint fades rapidly.

“I know it’s only a matter of time,” he whispers, at last looking down. “You’ll break into my mind eventually, and I don’t even want to know what happens next. Something awful. Or else you would have murdered me right at the start.”

In truth, I have no idea what our Lord has planned for the boy once he is under our control, but I do know he is not to be swiftly despatched into the next world. If I understood correctly he is a trophy that is to be savoured alive.

“I don’t know.”

The admission of ignorance blurts out before I even realise it, gentle and apologetic, like a silken caress over charred flesh. The boy visibly tenses. He does not know what to make of me, of my presence, of my words. And anger fills his face.

“Just go away,” he sneers with vigour. He feels this cat and mouse game has gone on long enough, yet I am playing none… I would not dare, for I feel as ensnared as he looks, and would not be confident of my place in such a game.

Giving him one last scrutinising look, I turn on my heels and do as he said. He is not near as broken as he looks. I feel as hollow as before.

***

Bellatrix Black is insane. I hated her as a child and I hate her still.

Right now, I can hear her insane laughter radiating from the dungeon almost as loudly as the screams of the black-haired boy she is torturing. I don’t need sensory contact to know her arousal as Harry Potter writhes at her feet, fingers desperately clawing at his face as though that could ease the pain. Rodolphus and Rabastan are most likely both sitting back to enjoy the show. They love their Bellatrix.

My Lord is pacing, and if I didn’t know better I would say He was nervous. Every time Potter’s screams break off, my Lord tenses and looks up attentively, not moving until the next curse is cast.

“She won’t kill him, will she?”

The question is so unexpected, so anxious, that it takes me a moment to register it has just been uttered from the lips of the Dark Lord. I straighten up self-consciously. “She would not be so foolish as to disobey your direct orders, my Lord.”

“I fear Azkaban has changed her, Lucius. She has been given to madness.”

I know what my sister-in-law is capable of, but her madness has nothing to do with Azkaban. I clearly remember the day Bellatrix, Travers and myself were sent to silence Marlene McKinnon, a powerful witch working for the Order of the Phoenix. I stood guard and Travers tortured McKinnon for information about the Order. Bellatrix was nowhere in sight. We later found out that whilst we had been following our command, she had taken the initiative to slaughter McKinnon’s entire family. Viciously. She even placed a silencing charm around the scene of her crime so that Travers and I should not be aware of her actions.     

As though reading my mind, the Dark Lord decides to come with me to inspect Bellatrix’ handiwork for Himself.  I can sense His apprehension and it confuses me, so I speed up my step to trace the familiar route to Potter’s cell. I feel a little like a child discovering his parents are not always right, and I’m not sure I like the insecurity of fallacy.

As predicted, Rodolphus and Rabastan are down here with their beloved Bellatrix… they stare through the iron bars with a look of rapture that freezes my blood. But it is nothing compared to the ecstasy on the face of the bitch herself. She leans against the wall; robes hitched up, spread legs strongly supporting her weight as she forcefully maintains the boy’s face buried in the depth of her pubis. She ruts against him, punishing every unrequited movement with an acute twist of his eye-length black hair.

From the milky-white sheen glistening on her thighs, I can tell the torture of Harry Potter has been providing her with continuous pleasure. I find it hard to swallow the bile that rises in my throat. Enemies deserve to be punished, and they deserve to die painfully. But not even the most hated prisoner deserves to be violated in this manner by the most despicable woman alive…

The Dark Lord, however, appears neither surprised nor disturbed by the sight. On the contrary, he is relieved to find his young captive alive. He casts a disdainful look at me just to let me know He has sensed my weakness, and then enters the cell to join his faithful servant. The latter throws Potter to the floor like a rag-doll, eyes blazing with absolute insanity.  

“He resists, my Lord. The whelp resists!” she whines, nudging at the boy with her toe. He coughs up a small black curly hair as he rolls onto his back, twitching uncontrollably. She has evidently beaten him physically, as well as with magic, but as his eyes meet mine they undeniably flash. The message is clear – he is not broken.

“Master, let me…” I suddenly exclaim, both shocked and relieved when my voice echoes that of a spoilt child that cannot wait its turn. But unexpectedly my Lord shakes his head. “We are getting nowhere with this approach.”

He bends over Potter, and slaps the boy slightly to rouse him from his stupor of pain. “Pay attention, Potter.”

A spasm and a whimper.

“You know what I desire – control of your mind. As enjoyable as these past few days have been, the time for games is coming to an end. Tonight I will execute your little friend. Unless, of course, you voluntarily let me in.”

Potter whimpers again in response. Even such a small sound betrays the permanent damage to his vocal cords, and for a moment I fear he will choke. Considering the amount of pubic hair on his still-moist lips, there must be a fair amount mixed with blood further in too.

“Then I will stay to guard over him,” I volunteer. And if our Lord does not notice my desperation it is perhaps because His own is even greater. I am very grateful that He makes Bellatrix and her twisted fan club leave with Him…

“Just you and me again, eh, Malfoy…”

I jump at the sound of his scratchy voice.

“Your race is almost run,” I retort, but am horrified to see him smile through the blood and grime. “I told you yesterday. I won’t negotiate. If He kills Ginny, then… well, she’ll be in a better place.”

Oh Harry, Harry… what are these secrets you so desperately protect?

“And if he kills you?”

The little bastard actually laughs. He laughs! I don’t doubt this is a first in the history of the Malfoy dungeon. What reason do prisoners have to laugh? His laughter turns from amusement to mockery.

“Are you so simple that you don’t know death can be a blessing?”

Of course I know, insolent –

“And I doubt Voldemort is going to grant me any such mercies…”

I flinch at the use of our Lord’s name, yet find myself ensnared in Potter’s trap once more. I am nodding my agreement, confirming his belief that he is to be kept alive! If only I could see into his mind, perhaps I could understand this unbelievable drive.

***

Night comes all too quickly. For all his bravura, it is obvious that Potter is terrified. Ten minutes ago, he boldly informed the Dark Lord that he was ready to watch his best friend’s sister’s murder… Now there is nothing to do but wait for her to be dragged before him.

“You can still save her,” I remind him, almost pleading. He fervently shakes his head. “You’re pretty thick, aren’t you,” is his only response.

He says nothing until my Lord returns, and then avoids my gaze to stare straight at the young Wealsey daughter. It is almost impossible to believe that she is only one year younger than Potter. Where her eyes flit left and right with the dread of her upcoming fate, his rest on her with unbelievable serenity, belying the agitation I know he feels.

He does not look away even as the Dark Lord forces the girl to her knees in front of Harry, even as she desperately begs with him to tell us what we want to know. He seems untouchable, closing his eyes only briefly before muttering a heartfelt apology.

“I will only ask once, Potter…”

But already he is shaking his head, and the girl is sobbing. The Dark Lord slowly pulls out his wand, grinning darkly as her sobs mutate into terrified screams. A flash of green and she falls lifelessly to the floor.

Her body is closely followed by the free-flowing tears of Harry James Potter. With a hitched breath, he straightens himself out and hisses: “That was the best you could do? Now I have nothing to lose, Tom.”

In his eyes I can see the upset and the hatred and the power. For the first time ever I no longer feel at ease in my good old family dungeon. It hits me that I am a wretched pawn dragged around the board of a game I formerly believed to control. It is so easy for the Dark Lord to strike out over and over at this young enemy… but what has it achieved? Nothing.

In general, fear in the form of anticipation of pain and suffering is what maintains the vulnerability of prisoners. It makes them malleable and pathetic. If the Dark Lord Voldemort is not capable of striking fear in a young man’s heart, then surely the time has come to no longer fear his name… or even his iron authority and ruthlessness?

When at last my Master leaves me alone with Potter, I finally realise what it is I must do.

Several strong healing charms restore the boy to his usual elfin beauty.

“Come on, Potter, its time to get going.”

He blinks owlishly, running bony fingers over the repaired wounds, so I waste no time and magically yank him to his feet. “Hurry!”

Confused, he nevertheless follows my order and comes to stand beside me, suspicion blazing in his eyes. I throw myself into the lion’s den. “That prophecy. You can defeat Him?”

He does not respond, so I plough on. “You must defeat Him.”

At that he starts. “What are you saying, Malfoy?”

“Can you protect me?”

How foolish I feel, addressing this whelp with such breathless reverence! Yet something tells me that I am making the right decision. Voldemort may be the Dark Lord, but He has lost His spark… perhaps he transferred that inner magic that attracted to many to Harry on that fateful night…

“I can protect you.”

And amazingly, I believe him.

It all makes sense. He has some knowledge that can destroy Lord Voldemort. He has the power to protect that knowledge and the ability to apply it. In comparison Voldemort is feeble. He can kill and he can mutilate, but it is becoming increasingly clear that he will not rule. Not ever.

With this newfound clarity, I lead Harry out of my Manor and set him free into the big wide world beyond the gates of my estate… He leaves without even turning back, unhurried but unwilling to linger.

There is no doubt in my mind that I will see him again. He will vanquish Voldemort, and when the time comes I know he will save my life as I just saved his.

Fear of a name is unreasonable. Never before have I allowed myself to think so freely, safe in the conviction that He can no longer break into my mind. Harry does not inspire fear but admiration and trust. And I feel so free!

My father forced me to respect the Malfoy name. Voldemort forced me to obey him. Harry did nothing… he simply stared at me with those big green eyes and silently taught me the real significance of power.

I no longer feel any fear.  


THE END

©Anne Phoenix

5th July 2004