He was a fucking cosmic joke; his life was a joke. What life? His apartment was shit, a hole in London's packing district. His job? Jesus, his job was intolerable. He wondered how it was possible to be so un-tethered from society and at once at its core. Still the fucking hero.

Second Week:

Harry smiled wanly, walked a touch faster, and pulled his cloak a little tighter. No Dementors, whose bright idea was it to exile them? Human guards wanted. They were flesh and blood and desires. He felt ill; another mental tally: 'Things that were not going his way'. He should have modified the list with 'today': 'Things that were not going his way TODAY'.

The next two guards he passed with his head down. He spoke, every time, to a man named Garrison. He was too young to be guarding Azkaban; maybe a year or so off from Harry's twenty-two. The young man's face opened childishly when he saw Harry. He would smile, laugh about his 'patients'. It made Harry uneasy to think so casually about the prison. The prison Sirius had suffered and escaped from, and Voldemort had essential hijacked.

Another tally, as he remembered why his cloak was so tightly around him. Azkaban was now playing host to Rodolphus Lestrange, recently captured and still very much insane. There was a tangible buzz among the guards. Garrison had been…enthusiastic. It was understood and to an extent over looked when prisoners became violently and suddenly ill or they turned up with 'a little too deep' of a cut. The inmates were just as much playthings as they were heinous criminals. He was very careful; if his eyes were down and his peripherals blocked then he would not have to see anything.

He pressed his forehead against a stretch of bare stone. He could hear and feel his ragged breathing, a small struggle. His lungs felt pressed, the air stale, damp. He visualized his path, twenty feet to the corridor, another guard, forty feet until the big doors, another corridor, a left. He didn't recognize the guard, big and pale, he was imposing. His face lit unnaturally when harry pulled his hood away, though.

"Didn't tell me we was having a special guest today. Coulda cleaned him up a bit," he laughed brightly at his own implication and winked at Harry. "Had a rough night, though. So, don't expect his usual charm, eh?"

Harry nodded and gave something closer to a grimace than smile but it went unnoticed. The man talked more fluidly once they moved to the East wing. He, too, was excited about Lestrange. He liked to 'break a spirited' as he put it. "Really make 'em bleed" and Harry suspected he was speaking literally.

Eighth Week:

He stopped only once to push down the rising bile in his throat and made it to the East wing in record time. The usual guard, Nick as Harry had learned on his fourth week, was waiting for him. It was their custom for Nick to walk him to the last warded door and wait for Harry to return. Today, his face was ugly, gnarled and he only grunted at Harry as they walked. Each torch they pasted let him see a little more of the man's face. It was heavily bruised on his right side, with four almost, claw marks running down his cheek.

"One of the little bastards had a go at me," he said by way of explanation. More than a go, a whole fucking piece! He was silent after that and left Harry to go on at the door.

He felt bare, as he always did, along this last stretch. No wand, left with Garrison. No cloak, just him. His feelings, his own painfully terrifying thoughts.

All of the cells were small, boxes with holes as toilets really, but his, Lucius', was smaller. "Lights," he called warningly as the torch lit for him. His cell was kept in almost constant darkness. His third week, when he had first had the courage to leave Nick's side, he had surprised Lucius by stepping into the room too quickly. The torch flared and he watched the man press a palm against his eyes, shielding them from the painful lights, before melting into the deep shadows. A punishment. Even within a cell the man had power over him. He kept hidden for the twenty minutes that Harry remained.

Now, he took two steps closer to the bars. Lucius sat in his chair, legs crossed at the knee, hands folded in his lap. Last week they had sat in silence: Harry unable to think of a topic important enough to discuss, Lucius too weary to try.

"I've got a promotion," he began.

And immediately, "well done, Mr. Potter."

"I didn't take it."

He made the smallest of movements, an inclination of his head. "Bureaucracy is fickle."

"I'm sick," he began again," I spent seventeen years of my life running from people like YOU. A-and now I chase YOUs around all day. How can I even be good at it? Every criminal knows my name, my face.

Lucius tilted his head, "Mr. Potter, do not confuse what I have done with the common criminals you chase. I sought neither influence nor wealth."

"No, you just wanted power to rule the fucking world."

He sighed and Harry thought he sounded remarkably human. "I had no wish to 'rule the world'. A sneer, "I wanted to protect my family, my son."

"How'd that work out for you?" And he felt immediately childish for taunting a man behind bars.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow as if to say 'do you feel big with bars between us?" Then very softly, "things went very wrong. No one Potter, not even Dumbledore, can predict every possible outcome to a situation."

"You served Voldemort twice," he said, incredulous now and consciously stepping towards the cell.

"It is in my interest and yours as well to see wizarding society flourish."

"Is that your new rationale." He laughed bitterly, "I guess you have all the time in the world to think of this shit!"

"Mr. Potter," his voice was soft and Harry remembered how dangerous the caged man was –is. "Do you know that less than 26% of the world's population is made up of magical folk? Of that, .8% are of pureblood descent. Does it make sense to you that as more muggles enter our world we lose ourselves to their beliefs and culture to some extent?"

Ninth Week:

"Feeding time, Your Highness." Nick brushed passed Harry and tossed a plate of odd tan shapes on the floor at Lucius' feet. "You get to watch the animals at the watering hole today, Mr. Potter." He winced when the guard gave a belly laugh and clasped his shoulder. A wave of nausea rolled over him.

Lucius remained in his chair, a few boards and nails really, and kept perfectly still. He seemed unaware of the plate, unaware of Nick's insult. At last, when Nick left the two men locked eyes. Dove grey against emerald green.

"You're early this week, Mr. Potter."

He snorted, "trust me that wasn't my choice."

"You don't find Mr. Bram enchanting," and there was almost an amused smile threatening to breakthrough.

He snorted again. He should not be charmed by Lucius, not when he knew all too well how that charm could be played against his enemies. Was he still, after five years, the blonde's enemy? Whom could he possibly hurt behind bars and confined to Azkaban Island. Harry slumped against the wall, hiding within the chamber's shadows. The man wasn't threatening, not physically. He was bones and skin and the dirt that caked him.

"You don't eat," he said breaking the silence.

Malfoy had closed his eyes while they were quiet and now opened them, slowly, as if it was beyond his bodily power. "Very rarely," the older man said.

Harry coughed to hide his laughter. As if the man could afford not to eat. "Gods, Lucius. Nothing less than gourmet for you."

Lucius unclasped his hands and made a swiping motions, finger tips skyward. "I'm allergic," he said simply.

"What?"

Slowly the tiniest smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes, "Mr. Potter, I am human." Harry stepped forward and was within inches of the bars. They felt grimy, thick with what…dust, filth? He looked intently at Malfoy. Pale, no, swallow from imprisonment, and painfully thin.

"WHAT are you allergic to?" He asked sharply. He was furious because if Lucius was a human being he would have to feel something other than hatred for him.

"The preservatives in the food." They both looked down at the indistinguishable tan mass on the plate.

"Do they know," Harry countered; he knew the answer already. These inmates, Malfoy, they were just toys.

"Of course," he said lightly.

He let his head rest on the bars before pulling back quickly. Why had he been early today? He left ten minutes later, feeling overwhelmed with grief and…self-pity. Malfoy. Even without the Dementors Azkaban was harrowing. Yet, the guards gave Harry a different sense of loathing.

He made it to the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Ally before doubling over to dry heave. Why did he visit a man whom he despised? Why was he, now, feeling such acute sympathy?

Eleventh Week:

He had not gone yesterday, a Thursday. The paper had said there was a riot within the prison. Three men were killed; he had stopped reading after that.

"Harry, Merlin, pay attention, mate."

He glanced up, annoyed, "You haven't heard a word we've said," Hermione sniffed.

"No, honestly, I have. Wedding, Neville, Hannah. You and Ron trying for a baby."

"Prat, "she said. "Harry, I'm," she glanced at Ron. This was planned, "we're worried. Ginny said-"

"-Ginny worries, hell I'd call it more nagging," he added lightly.

"Oi-"

"Yeah, I know. She cares and all." Harry grimaced as Hermione kicked him under the table. Ginny was a touchy subject with Ron. Some days they got pissed and no one was safe and others, Ron was practically radioactive about Harry sleeping with his sister. Not so much sleeping anymore.

Hermione's voice drifted to him, "- all care. You never come home. You –"

"You shagging some slag?" Ron cut in hotly.

"Ronald! Don't ask him that. Of course he's not. You're not," she said firmly

She plead with her eyes. As if to say 'deny it whether it's true or not.' They both understood how terrible life could be if he did not answer correctly. Not truthfully.

He relented, "no, I'm not."

Hermione looked so relieved he felt ashamed of his need to taunt them. As a matter of fact he was not cheating on Ginny. He wanted out, desperately, though. He wanted something of his own, something that was not or would not remind him of his place in the world.

"Oh, Harry," Hermione again, "if you're unhappy you have to talk to her about it. Tell her what's making you feel this way."

"Come on Moine. Leave off. He gets like this. Ginny's probably just being a little too caring," Ron said, the sarcasm tangible.

"Look," he kept his voice calm, "Ginny and I have our problems but we're fine. Let's just leave it."

He wanted to have a life not constantly in the spotlight. And very briefly, it whipped through his mind that- he wanted Lucius Malfoy to be alive.

Fourteenth Week:

Lucius sat, in more shadow than light this week, but harry could see the deep purple bruises on his left cheek. They were new, and all consuming on the pale skin.

"It is inconvenient," Lucius mused.

"What is?" Harry said.

"It is inconvenient that you must see me as human in my present state."

"I, n-no-"

Lucius smiled, almost gently, fatherly, at Harry. Humoring him. "Never the less," the blonde continued smoothly, "I apologise for this," and he swept his arm in an all encompassing gesture.

Harry didn't meet his amused eyes. He wasn't amused by Malfoy's levity. Harry seemed to melt into his corner, the filthy bars, the coarse stone wall, and the cracked concrete a seat for him. He felt as disgusting as Lucius looked sitting there.

He reached between his knees and fingered the letters there. He brought them each week, touching them and knowing he was sick to want this connection "I thought you were suppose to be eating more?" He mumbled.

"A larger portion once a week is far more detrimental than three small ones."

"What the hell does that mean?" The young man whispered fiercely. "You were supposed to get more food, better food," he added harshly.

"You must be more specific in your request next time, Mr. Potter."

"Is this just a fucking joke to you? I'm trying to help you, Lucius."

And of course the blonde man knew that. He could sense the dark haired man's need, his want of something. He watched Harry lay his head on his folded arms, a dark shadow against the stone. He could see the young man ghost his finger tips over the vile parchment of his letters. Harry's were written upon pristine sheets of muggle paper. The first, and the only one Malfoy bothered to keep, read:

Malfoy, are you alive?

It was left unsigned and arrived to him via Nicholas Bram, who had the good manners to open and leave carelessly atop his dinner. It was a revolting mess when Lucius finally read the four words.

He understood rage; he even could fathom blind violence but that day they both nearly overtook him. In the absence of his wand he struck out wildly: the wall, his chair, he had rattled the bars in abandon and then it was gone. Because he had no energy; he was angry as he hadn't been for decades. Why should this injustice, among the thousand tiny others, bother him? Because it was Potter, Harry.

He looked searchingly at the young boy; he looked beaten, had always looked beaten, since that first day they met in the bookstore. Then he spoke kindly, "this is not hell, Harry." The boy made to interrupt when Lucius said his name, said it so mildly, but Malfoy raised his hand preventing him. "It is uncomfortable, yes," he continued, "but death is a long way off. I am meant to suffer here."

The younger man looked up, so sharply he pressed a hand to his temple and Lucius was reminded of Harry's systematic warning of the torches being lit. That first time when he was both shocked and blinded with the pain.

"Jesus, don't you ever get angry, because this would be the time."

Twentieth Week:

Malfoy cradled his wand arm, subtly. It upset the boy to see his perceived pain. Although, his arm gave a nasty throb as if to remind him that pain was more than a mind game. It was broken, badly, and perhaps in several places. "Ah," Lucius said hoping he had responded correctly to Harry's babbling. The boy, young man, really was incorrigible when he relaxed. Currently, he was facing the bars, Malfoy, and toying with the fringe of a cheap shirt.

"You haven't been listening," he asked with an honest smile.

"I'm afraid I have been woolgathering."

"It's ok," and a blush spread across his cheeks as he realized he had no right to grant even this small forgiveness. He coughed and drew his knees to his chest, embarrassed. "I don't care if you listen. No, yeah, you don't actually have to at all. I don't really have anything-"

"Please, begin again, Harry," Lucius interjected politely.

Harry started, his green eyes flashing alarm. Malfoy apologizing? "Its not-"

"You do me a kindness by allowing me your company; the least I can do is provide you with a sounding board."

Harry smiled shyly," I'm not sure I'm an allowance but," a nervous pause, "thanks." Malfoy inclined his head slightly, both in thanks and as a reminder to Harry that he was telling a story.

"Er, well I was talking about quitting the Auror's office. I'm sick of criminals," here he cast a glance at the blonde, "I'm sick of catching them, at least," he amended. "I'm not complaining. Not really, I just, er, wish my job was happy. I know I help people. Catching bad guys and all, but if I worked with medicinal potions I could do real good. I could see people live."

"Live?" Malfoy asked.

Harry gave him an eyebrow wiggle, disguising his discomfort. "Yeah, I mean when I'm done with them, healing them, they get to walk out. They can play with their kids again and go to work. Live."

"Do the wizards you catch deserve your goodwill?"

"It's not mine," Harry said, "it's just something people deserve. I'm so fucking tired of taking things away from people." He shook his head, "I don't understand crime."

"You don't understand crime or you don't understand a person giving up the freedoms you worked so hard to win for them?"

"It wasn't just me! I wasn't the only one," he shouted.

"Yes, Harry, I realize," the older man said. His voice was so calm, a cool wave over the young man who felt as if he were on fire.

Harry pressed his forehead against the bars. He just wanted to be cool. Where his heart should have been he felt there was a flame, the embers his lungs. He couldn't breathe; his finger tips were warm, wet. Tears, his letters! His tears, larger than life, dropped to his hands which clutched the parchment. He was ruining them. Stop!

"Stop," he shouted, willing his body back to normal temperature, willing the tears away.

Something filthy and black was there, in his vision, and it was several seconds before he recognized the shapes as Malfoy's boots. Another five beats before something heavy and cool settled on his neck, rubbing, soothing.

"Breathe Harry, you must breathe." Lucius. And, he did, at last, begin to breathe. His chest expanded with the movements on his neck. The hand moved up into his hair and he breathed out, as the long fingers brushed the knot of his spine he pulled air in greedily. After ten, maybe eleven deep breaths in this pattern the hand moved to the top of his head and very gently pushed him away from the bars. Lucius had come down to his level and their eyes caught.

"I cared very deeply for Severus," the blonde finally admitted, "and he wanted you to live. He died," he added in a whisper, "so that YOU could live."

Twentieth Week: Sunday- Letters to Lucius Malfoy.

4:07 a.m.

L,

Did you love Snape? I'm quitting; Madame Pomfrey agreed to take me on.

H.

4:12 a.m.

L,

Were you IN love with Severus?

H.

4:34 a.m.

L,

I'm sending a potion for your arm. Yes, I did notice.

H.

Twenty- Second Week:

Lucius was unconscious on the twenty-first week, Thursday. Harry felt ill and furious. He mirrored Lucius' behavior weeks ago. He rattled the bars and punched the walls, splitting his knuckles open. He demanded to be let inside the cell. "I am not leaving until I make damn sure Mr. Malfoy is alive," he said calmly.

He and Nick had a glaring match and Harry gave his very best imitation of Severus Snape. Harry won. The guard lurched past him and murmured some words. He was gone before the bars parted to create a human sized gap.

The blonde man was lying on his stomach, his bad arm, the awfully broken one, crushed under his weight, however slight. Harry dropped to his knees ghosting his hands over him. What the fuck! He pushed his shirtsleeves up, deciding. He carefully began to turn Lucius so that first he was on his side, away from Harry, to keep the pressure on his good arm, and then on his back. Malfoy groaned, moving as if to curl into himself but Harry placed a restraining hand just above his knees. The pale man barely had a pulse, and each breath seemed to rip through his lungs. He pressed his palm against Lucius' cheek. The blonde moaned, and Harry jerked his hand away. His faced was flushed, one cheek swallowed and ugly where a cut looked inflected.

Harry was moving quicker now. Garrison had been too hung over to check his wand. He let it drop into his hand from his inner sleeve. He healed the cut and the lump on Malfoy's face with little trouble, but the arm made him nervous. It must have already started to heal improperly by now. He concentrated, visualizing the result he wanted before speaking the incantation. There was a sickening crack (definitely had been healing wrong) and then a soft sigh from his ward. Thank Merlin. He wanted to sleep, Christ he just wanted to wake up next year. The young man rested his cheek on Malfoy's leg; his right cheek, so he could watch the, now deep, rise and fall of his chest. He moved a hand up his rips, wanting, no needing, to feel his heartbeat.

"Now who's not listening, Potter," Lucius said lightly.

They were in their usual places. Malfoy in his chair, Harry sitting on the floor facing the bars.

"I'm sorry," he said, then severely, "what happens to you when I don't come, to visit."

Lucius raised an eyebrow, just hinting that he found Harry humorous. "You always come," and he gave the younger man a wry smile.

"How's your arm," he asked quickly trying to distract Malfoy from his blush.

"I'm doing very well. Thank you for the potion."

"Which you never received."

"It was a kind sentiment, nevertheless."

"A kind sentiment didn't fix your arm or heal those cuts."

"No, you did that Mr. Potter." Lucius' gentle voice countered Harry's bitterness. "Now," he said, his tone shifting into seriousness. "I believe you wrote to me with rather exciting news?"

Harry's face broke into a wide smile. "Yeah, I guess I'm not as bad at potions as I thought. Madame Pomfrey said I was good with patients, and-" Harry seemed to expand in the room as he talked. And, Lucius listened, intently, which surprised Harry more than anything ever would. It felt wonderful having someone hear him, as if the man actually cared. Lucius had stunned him with book suggestions and classes he may enjoy taking. "You know about potions," he asked wide eyed.

Malfoy almost chuckled. "An interest that Severus and I shared."

"You loved him," Harry said.

"Very much."

"What happened? I-I mean if you don't mind talking about it?"

"Life happened, Mr. Potter." He closed his eyes heavily for a moment and when he opened them his face was deadly serious. "Life and the war, and prior commitments. I made very poor choices in regards to my love of Severus. I-I wanted to keep him close to me," Malfoy's voice had the slightest tremor, "I was going to marry Narcissa. I believed I could both start a family, as was my obligation, and keep my lover."

Harry made a sobbing noise in the back of his throat as if 'I'm sorry' wouldn't quite come out.

"I am not looking for absolution," he growled, "I was wrong and it caused us both pain." His face gentled and he turned his hands in a palms up gesture. An apology.

Twenty- Third Week:

"Harry, whatever you're thinking or planning, don't. Malfoy is dangerous. You're just not seeing it yet."

"Look, Mione, I'm not talking about him. You asked me to have lunch. Please, tell me this wasn't what you wanted to talk about?"

"Oi, don't jump down her throat like that. We have a right to be upset. You're dating my sister and having secret meetings with that tosser."

"Ron, they're not secret. Harry told us. But Harry," she dug her nails into his arm, "you and Ginny are working on things right? I mean you're getting back to normal in-"

"Gods, Mione, don't talk about that in front of me," Ron snapped. "Mate," Ron added gruffly, "get yourself sorted and stop messing about my sister."

They were not children anymore but Hermione protected Ron, and he protected them both, still. When he met her eyes, as Ron began to storm off, he could see very clear that she was again playing Ron's protector. Ginny must have told her weeks ago about them, her confession to Harry of cheating on him. It hadn't bothered him at the time, but watching Hermione's face shift into lines of sympathy, he felt a surge of rage. At Ginny, for pushing him around so easily and at himself because he felt weak. He had not wanted a conflict. Yet, here he was and this truly would be his only chance.

"Ron," Harry called, "Ginny's moving out. She cheated on me."

"Where the fuck is she living then?" His irrationality was kicking in and he turned alarmingly red. "Work. It. Out," he shouted.

"Ron, please-"

"NO, shut it. I want to hear this. I'm sure it's a great fucking story. Why is my sister not good enough for Harry Potter?"

"That's not what-"

"We're not working it out." Harry felt crushed, caged in between Ron's righteous anger and Hermione's overwhelming grief. He had not gone to Azkaban today because of this, them.

Twenty-fourth Week: Monday

They had not been expecting each other, not on a Monday. Not when civilians would be around. Harry had been cautious, not from embarrassment but from a fierce need to protect the other man from any further scrutiny.

It was surprising not to see Garrison or Nick, to be truly searched because Monday guards were harder somehow, angrier. They were in awe, yes, but also more distrustful. These people, Lucius, were dangerous and it struck Harry with almost a suffocating force that this was a jail. Its' contents had no hope of escape and the cycle the inmates lived of resistance and punishment was forever. He was properly patted down and inspected by the guards. It felt intrusive after nearly six months of absolute invisibility. Nick had no use for a young man who grew pale at his vivid descriptions of prisoner torture.

Even with the torch light it was darker than usual and all Harry could see of Malfoy were the bottoms of his black boots, just on the edge of the light. He was not in his chair but against the back wall, on the dirt.

"Gotta take care with this one," the guard said noticing Harry's gaze. "Never know on a day like today."

"You never know what?" Harry asked sharply.

"We're just making sure that he doesn't try anything funny," and the guard's voice had hardened too, as if in defense of a real threat.

"I want to go inside."

"Inside what?"

"The cell."

"Why?"

"This isn't fucking twenty questions, just let me in."

"Mr. Potter-"

"You checked me; I don't have weapons. I don't even have a wand." Harry glared as hard as he could and the guard seemed to see a flicker of something truly unstable in his emerald eyes.

He shrugged, "I suppose he's not going anywhere," he chuckled.

"Not chained to the wall I am not," Malfoy added smoothly. His voice was gruff as if there were gravel bits stuck in his throat but Harry was aware of an immense relief washing over him. Had he actually thought Lucius was dead? NO! Yes!

He waited until the guard left to step through the gap. He felt panicked, as if he would die in here and-

"Mr. Potter," and he was here again, grounded by Malfoy's voice. The blonde was chained awkwardly to the wall, his hands so far above his head that he had to remain on his knees to keep the pressure off his shoulders.

"What do they think you're going to do?"

Malfoy shrugged in a way and Harry thought he looked oddly submissive, back turned towards him, vulnerable. He looked utterly broken. "Here," Harry said moving to the opposite corner and getting his usual chair. He brought it next to the man and bent to help him stand. Lucius leaned heavily on him, teetering on his bloodless legs. His arms rested comfortably on his lap now and Malfoy breathed deeply for a moment.

"Thank you," he said on an exhale.

The young man waved it off, "do your shoulders hurt much?"

"It is not unbearable." Harry wondered if anything was unbearable to Malfoy. Would he ever call uncle? Or would he rather die?

"Do they feel dislocated?" He didn't wait for an answer; he was already moving his hands over Malfoy's shoulder blades. It felt as if he were examining a skeleton the bones stuck out so intensely. His hands began a tentative slow sort of kneading. He kept the pressure light, as if the older man might shatter. "Monday is not your usual day," Malfoy said.

"I wrote to you," he said weakly because he knew Lucius received his letters days, sometimes weeks, later.

"Ah, perhaps on Friday I'll receive your apologies," he countered mildly.

"Hermione and Ron wanted to have lunch, an intervention more like," he murmured.

"Oh."

Harry wasn't sure if it was a question but he wanted to talk. This chaos had all begun because he was visiting Malfoy, because he had grown to respect and even like the man. He was seeing the change in himself as if someone had very rapidly flicked a light on. It was shocking and equally welcomed. He felt human being able to empathize with Lucius and it was a release. He doubted his humanity because he had killed a person, a thing. Until recently he had willingly worked in a job that could require him to kill again. He felt that by leaving the Auor's office he could take back his principles. Would anything take away his self-loathing? He had a very real fear of losing himself to evi-

"Harry-," Lucius made a strangled sound beneath his hands and Harry jumped when an icy hand touched his own.

"Fuck." He immediately loosened his grip, leaning back heavily against the wall. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"What were you thinking?" Lucius asked softly.

"I feel like a human being when I'm here." He kept his eyes firmly shut.

"Harry, let go," Lucius said and the kindness in his voice felt like punishment. He was lost; he didn't know if Lucius meant for him to forgive himself or to release his shoulder, which was still in a death grip.

Malfoy's hand was skin and bones but Harry clung to it. He brought his right hand up holding the long, thin fingers within both of his, absorbing the warmth that Lucius didn't have to give. Harry let it go on and on, taking everything from him, comfort, acceptance. He forced himself to let go very suddenly, dropping his hands lamely to his sides; Lucius folded his own on his lap. They looked like a staged muggle photograph; the young man standing behind the frail older one. He laughed, a burst, and then he felt it deep in his stomach, a terrific rumbling sensation.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I'm confused." Harry lazily flopped his head onto Lucius' shoulder. He didn't care that he had broken down gain, or that he liked touching Malfoy.

The man tensed for only a moment before relaxing under the weight of Harry's head. He wondered how long the boy had carried this self-hatred around with him. Forever he expected because he survived. He was forced to see that he had spent seven years of his life avoiding death. There was no adrenaline at the end; it truly was reality and the boy's own dread that he would have to go on living, perhaps alone.

He felt Harry's hysteric laughter turn to sobs, his shoulder becoming damp. He wanted to protect the child he had tried to kill on more than one occasion. The irony. He could almost see the humor, except this was Azkaban and Dementors or not there was no joy. Very lightly he placed a hand on the boy's head combing his fingers through the ever messy hair. His breathing slowed and gradually Harry began to remove himself from Lucius until they were again separated by bars.

Twenty-Seventh Week:

It was a laboriously slow process, and they were awkward. As they moved they had to use a sort of shuffle step because Lucius would not allow Harry to carry him and Harry tried several times anyway.

They moved rather quickly from Azkaban to the mainland and he suspected the older man would not show weakness inside the prison. He had rented a car because flooing seemed too much effort, for them both, and he wanted the drive.

Having Lucius released from Azkaban had been true hell, and the fight he put up was almost primal. He felt snapped, stretched over the last six months by guilt and raw need. He needed a friend; he needed a monster that he could always defeat. He took them down long winding roads and that seemed to never end. He wondered when he would have to explain the whole thing to Lucius. Soon he thought because now he would have to get back to his own life. Hadn't this been his goal for the past six months, maybe longer? Lucius would be free and that would be a debt repaid. Narcissa had saved him and he was saving her husband. He should have done it years ago.

Lucius slept haltingly, trying and failing to remain awake and upright. When he did sleep Harry watched, almost hungrily. He looked a thousand times worse than frail. Years ago, Lucius had been a full head taller than himself and at least forty pounds heavier with what Harry imagined was lean muscle. Now, he absolutely knew he could snap him with a thought. He reached over abruptly and seized the older man's hand. Almost unconsciously he stroked his thumb along the blonde's wrist.

Harry took Lucius home to Malfoy Manor. It seemed bare, stripped, by the ministry, of anything that brought life and joy. It took Harry's breath away, the blankness of just stone and marble. They negotiated the Manor's many steps and corridor hastily; Lucius was exhausted and put up far less resistance when Harry began to combination carry and drag him to the room he had gotten ready. He moved along beside Harry silently and seemed to use all his effort staying vertical. Harry ran a bath, testing the water on his wrist as he would for a small child. He sat Lucius on the edge of the enormous tub and lingered. He wanted to say something, anything that would sound normal. He settled for kissing the older man's forehead and fleeing embarrassedly.

Just as the shadows were growing deep he returned. The blonde was still on the tub's edge, head pressed back against the wall, exactly as Harry had left him. He almost smiled. Because of course Lucius wouldn't bathe himself. He re-ran the water as he began to pull the man's clothes off, moving him like a rag doll. He felt a wave of something like arousal roll over him. It was wrong, revolting; the man weighted a hundred pounds wet and he was thinking about what it would be like if they fucked.

The warm water seemed to awaken Lucius and his eyes focused on Harry as he scrubbed him with a soft sponge. The water was murky after Harry had finished his back, brown after his arms and black when his torso was clean. He finished his legs and thighs before a nervousness crept up on him. He brought the sponge up higher, rubbing away the dirt on Lucius' inner thighs. Harry glanced up; Lucius look at ease, hands resting in the water, head back, and eyes still shut.

Tentatively he pushed the loofa against the side of the older man's cock and swiped downward towards the base. A strip of pale white flesh was revealed; he repeated the action, letting the sponge linger ever so slightly with each motion. He didn't know what he expected but Lucius was hard and suddenly the sponge was moving over patches of skin that were already clean, in a kind of caress. Harry's cheeks were on fire and he bent down further over the tub, closer to Lucius, who at some point had spread his legs wide. This was obscene and hot as fuck. Gods. One of them made a keening sound, low and needy; and, Harry sped up his hand which had joined the sponge in its awkward fondling.

He felt like he was watching a train wreck, more like participating, and could do nothing to stop it. He couldn't stop his hands; he couldn't even stop his hips from rutting in the air. He wanted friction, badly, but that would have meant moving his upper body away from Lucius and he couldn't. Wouldn't. He didn't know.

He was too hard to know anything. He could only think of two things; would Malfoy come soon and should he come in his pants? The first was answered quickly. They were both worn, impatient and to find release and Harry abandoned the sponge. He fisted Lucius' cock with both hands, hard, feeling guilty for more than one reason. As Lucius groaned Harry pulled his hands away watching his cook bob up and shoot pearly white strands directly into his face. Christ. It was enough to have Harry pushing helplessly against the tub. He gripped the edges, thrusting for all he was worth, which still didn't seem like enough. It hurt; it was clumsy but he just couldn't stop until he came. His eyes opened and shut rapidly; Malfoy flashing in and out, looking beaten and beyond beautiful.

"Please, please, please," he might have chanted forever or ten seconds before Lucius finally released him in a rough whisper, "Harry."