Entry tags:

fic, gregory goyle, rabastan lestrange, slash

FIC: 'Minotauros' for spidermoth
Recipient: spidermoth
Author: snapelike
Title: Minotauros
Rating: R for violence
Pairings: Rabastan Lestrange/Gregory Goyle
Word Count: 7,500
Warnings: Violence, torture, rape (not between pairing)
Summary: Being sentenced to life in Azkaban should be punishment enough for almost any crime. But as it is, prison power games make sure any sentence is topped with a little extra that makes things even more unbearable. There is only one way to get though: fight and win, or lose and despair. Azkaban is not for the weak, Gregory Goyle already knows that when he finds Rabastan Lestrange abused and violated by his fellow prisoners.
Author's Notes: Since this is about getting the un-loved characters some loving, I chose two of the most unlikely ones and tried to come up with a story that would let them be together with at least some kind of proper reason for such a strange pair. I hope I managed. Thanks to my lovely beta, X.

***

Minotauros

The first time Gregory Goyle saw Rabastan Lestrange without clothes on, Mr Lestrange was tied up and stretched over one of the low basins in the middle of the cold communal bathroom down the third floor corridor in Azkaban's left wing. The Dangerous Criminals wing.

Mr Lestrange's legs were spread, his head wasn't visible, bent over the pale porcelain as he was. His long, dark hair was brushing over the floor, tangled and wet. A mixture of semen and other, less attractive fluids were smeared over Mr Lestrange's arse, dripping down his legs and pooling around his feet. It seemed as if several men had had their fun with him. Also, from the look of things, Mr Lestrange had not participated willingly. There was a stench of shampoo and blood and defeat in the room; a stench that had nothing to do with the physical and quite unappealing traces the other men had left.

At the muffled sound of Gregory's bare feet on the stone floor, Mr Lestrange jerked. 'No more. God! Please, no more.' Mr Lestrange's voice was low and hoarse and tear-filled, raw from the screams that might have left him earlier. It was as if they still echoed between the icy, tile-clad walls.

Gregory had frozen, standing just inside the door. His large frame almost filled the door opening. He knew very well that things like this was going on but he had never seen the pathetic results. Oh, there were so many issues which were paid for in this or in similarly repulsive ways; so many petty revenges sought out. At times, Gregory (who wasn't smart, but was smart enough to know he wasn't) was really glad he was nothing but muscles and a brain that allowed him to find pleasure in simple things. No one ever included him in their plans, and no one dared berate him for keeping out of the power games which were inevitable anywhere Death Eaters and their minions gathered. Even in a place like Azkaban.

Especially in a place like Azkaban, it seemed.

'I'm not...' he croaked, not wanting to see the other man's degradation. 'I had nothing to do with that.' Gregory wasn't sure what to do. He took a step closer, something that made Mr Lestrange whimper. 'Do you want me to... get help?' he asked, insecurely, knowing that the only help they'd get was one of the guards dragging Mr Lestrange off to his cell and lock him up. Adrian Pucey had spent two days with a concussion and a broken finger after a beating, that much Gregory knew. In Azkaban one helped oneself because the guards most certainly didn't, as if just being a prisoner wasn't punishment enough.

'Just... get me out of here,' Mr Lestrange managed. 'Please.' Any arrogance the man had ever had was gone and only desperation was left.

But it was a relief to be told what to do. Gregory was used to that. It made things easier. Sometimes, it was hard to have a mind that denied one to make the tiniest connections between facts to create logic. Of course Mr Lestrange didn't want to stay here like this, any fool could see that. Gregory shook his head as if to make the straying information end up in the same place and allow him to react.

When pointed in the right direction, Gregory had no problems acting. In an instant he was next to Mr Lestrange, untying the ropes around his ankles. Gregory wondered where the perpetrators had got them. Ropes were not allowed. Too many unfortunate deaths. Mr Lestrange startled at the touch and a thin sound, like that of a cornered animal, left him.

'Shhh,' Gregory said, 'I'm not going to do... that. I'm helping.'

'Yes. Thank you,' Lestrange whispered, as if he had no voice left.

Gregory stood. 'I am going to untie your hands now.' If it scared Mr Lestrange to be touched, it was probably clever to tell him what he was doing.

'Thank you,' Lestrange repeated, sounding as if he was trying some kind of normality.

Kneeling in front of the man, Gregory impatiently tore at the ropes. Mr Lestrange smelled acridly of fear. His wrists had red welts on them. Just over the knuckles, the rope had worn through the skin. Carefully, Gregory pulled Mr Lestrange's hair away from his face.

Lestrange looked up. His face was tear-streaked, and he had a puffy eye. Somebody's fist had left a red, bruised mark on his cheekbone. It would be purple tomorrow.

'Do you think you can stand?' Gregory asked. 'I can help you, but if you'd rather I didn't touch...' Gregory found Mr Lestrange to be a bit like Draco. A sensitive Thoroughbred. He didn't think Draco would have anybody touching him when he was hurt, either. Yes, treating him like Draco... that would be the best approach.

Lestrange seemed to try to get up, but he slumped back over the basin, letting out a pained cry. 'Please?'

Gregory knew very well how intimidating he looked, a fact that had kept him out of the conflicts the entire year he had been confined. He hesitated, wanting to reassure the wounded and apparently scared man in front of him. 'Is it all right if I... carry you? Gregory breathed in deeply, a grave mistake since Mr Lestrange really didn't smell too well, not his own doing of course. 'Maybe you would like to... can I help you... wash?'

Lestrange let out a strangled, almost hysterical laughter, between laughing and crying. 'Oh Salazar, please!'

There were more laughing sobs, and Gregory was at a loss what to do. He waited until the sobbing died out. 'Very well. I can do that.' Reluctantly, he placed a hand the size of a dinner plate on Mr Lestrange's shoulder. Lestrange hissed involuntarily, but since nothing else happened, Gregory slid his arm around Lestrange's waist and helped him straighten up. That made him cry out again. 'You are not hurt?' Gregory asked. 'I mean... apart from...' Apart from the rape and the beating and the wounds on wrists and ankles... It was beyond Gregory how people would want to do things like that. Beating people up because one was angry at them or disagreed with them, that he understood. But this... how could anyone take pleasure in an unwilling victim? It had probably something to do with making Mr Lestrange feel bad, that much was clear. A power game. Gregory didn't understand those, either, although he should have, being Draco Malfoy's minion. Not even seven years in Slytherin house had taught him more than "Pure-blood good, mud-blood bad". How, exactly, that applied to Mr Lestrange, Gregory failed to appreciate.

'No. I... don't think so.' Lestrange sounded if he was trying to be brave.

Gregory recognised the tremble in the voice and the less than determined words. Yes, this was quite like Draco Malfoy. He supported Mr Lestrange with the other arm as he stood - or more like hung - in Gregory's embrace. He had never realised Mr Lestrange was so small. Then again, everybody else was small compared to Gregory. His upper arms were the size of other men's thighs and he stood almost a head taller than the tallest of the other prisoners, except for Thorfinn Rowle who was just as large and mean as Gregory, just older and slower. It seemed, however, to comfort Mr Lestrange more than to scare him, to be close to the physical force Gregory was.

'I'll be careful. I promise,' Gregory said, and lifted Mr Lestrange as easily as if he'd been a child. It made the man let out renewed whimpering. Gregory swore somebody would pay for this. Painfully. Mr Lestrange was of the Inner Circle, and had to be treated with respect. Gregory could feel his low-simmering anger rise, furnace-hot.

'Who did this to you?' he growled as he took the few steps towards the closest shower cubicle. 'I'll see to it that they will have a few very pain-filled weeks.'

'No. It'll just get worse. Don't, Goyle. Please?' Mr Lestrange's hands were trembling and it sounded as if he was going to cry again. Gregory didn't know what to do with that. Crying was a sign of weakness.

'Why?' Gregory asked and put Mr Lestrange down on the floor, something that made him wince.

'Because you have not been... involved before. You are going to have a hard time if you interfere.' Rabastan Lestrange leaned against the tiles, still with Gregory's arm around his waist. He groaned, as if the pain was overwhelming.

'Oh,' Gregory said. He understood that. It would be a declaration of war if he did anything. Something akin to a thought of clarity struck. 'I think I am already involved,' he said. 'Just by helping you.' He reached around Mr Lestrange and turned on the water. He didn't care that his underpants got wet; there was no way Mr Lestrange could do this by himself.

The water was cold at first and made both men gasp. It didn't bother Goyle. Physical displeasure didn't mean anything to him. He held Mr Lestrange as he turned the taps to make the water warmer. 'Is it all right?' he asked worriedly. The man in his arms felt so fragile.

Lestrange just gasped and Goyle had a suspicion he was crying. 'It'll be all right,' he said, helplessly, at a loss what to do. He couldn't even imagine how it must be to be ravaged like that. Gregory would have ripped the perpetrators apart before it had happened to him.

'I don't think so,' Rabastan Lestrange managed, sobbing wetly with his face turned upwards into the stream of warm water. 'They'll do it again.'

Something inside Gregory snapped. He had never bothered with fairness, just with strength and power, neither had he attached himself to someone who looked remotely weak. But the older man's tears and pain... it didn't make sense. Rabastan Lestrange was a man to be respected: old pure blood, finer than any other man confined in Azkaban. For the first time in his life, something akin to a plan flowered and grew rapidly; so fast Gregory could hardly comprehend he was able to think something up so complicated. 'No they won't,' he said firmly, with all the conviction he could muster. 'I'll see to it that it won't.' The words were barely audible in the noise from the shower, but they were there, formed and spoken and most definitely meant.

Something in Gregory's voice obviously convinced Mr Lestrange. He bent his head and sighed, relaxing against Gregory's shoulder. He didn't say anything. Gregory took it as a sign that he was in charge at the moment. He understood. Draco had been like that too: conflict left him either mean-spirited and weak, or helpless and weak, at least for a while, until Draco had thought up something awful for revenge. Gregory liked that. Mr Lestrange would feel better soon, and he would help Gregory take this out on the wizards who had participated.

'Let us get you clean and back into the cell,' Gregory said, deciding he had to manage things until Mr Lestrange was ready. His words elicited another relieved sob from the man.

'Please,' Mr Lestrange said and let Gregory do exactly that.

- 0 -

'Out,' Gregory demanded, glaring at Yaxley who usually shared the cell with Mr Lestrange. He stared at the man, the way he usually stared at people he wanted to intimidate. 'Get one of the guards here.' Gregory took a step closer, still with Mr Lestrange in his arms. 'I said, out, now! Unless you want me to rip a leg off you, so you have an excuse for not being able to move.'

Yaxley seemed to realise it was probably no empty threat and he hurried to get up from the narrow bed and out of the cell.

'I warn you not to speak of this to others,' Gregory sneered as the man passed by him. He knew Yaxley would. Yaxley belonged to Dolohov's fraction and they were probably the ones who had tortured Mr Lestrange. The outcome of this all depended on whether Gregory was able to flash power enough to make the other group step back and reconsider. If not... hell would be loose, had Azkaban not been hell already.

Mr Lestrange whimpered, tightening the grip around Gregory's massive neck. 'Sorry,' he said softly. It wasn't really possible for him to think more than one thought at a time, and putting Mr Lestrange down had somehow eluded him. 'Do you think you can stand for a moment?' he asked.

'Yes.' Lestrange's voice was shaking, as if the mere fact he had to face his cell and one of the men who had abused him was more than he could stand.

Gregory put Mr Lestrange down, making sure he was able to support himself against the cold granite wall. Quickly, he gathered the blankets and pillows from both beds and made up Mr Lestrange's bed with them, creating a soft, warm nest for him to cuddle up in. Mr Lestrange didn't watch. He stood, breathing heavily with closed eyes, leaning against the cell's damp wall, still wrapped in the towels Gregory had found. 'Hold on,' Gregory murmured, opening the chest that held Mr Lestrange's few belongings. Having money outside Azkaban did ease things a bit, and Mr Lestrange had more than most. Of course he didn't sleep in the usual grey nightshirts, but had pristine white linen ones. Gregory pulled one out and held it out for Mr Lestrange to take. No reaction. Maybe the man was paralysed by what had happened. Gregory eased Mr Lestrange away from the wall, almost tenderly slipping the nightshirt over his head before he reached under it and removed the towels. Only then did Lestrange recognise Gregory's presence.

'Come,' Gregory said softly and led the man to the bed. 'Lie down.' He pulled the blankets aside and lowered Mr Lestrange down on the bed. The man seemed to be in shock: catatonic and unable to act. Gregory lifted his legs up and covered him. 'There,' he murmured, as if to calm a nervous horse. 'Try to rest.'

There was a sound at the door, and Gregory looked up to one of the guard standing there. Luckily it was one of the less hostile ones. 'I'd like to send an Owl to my good friend Draco Malfoy,' Gregory said, towering over the guard. 'It seems as if some of the other prisoners have quite a distorted idea of how it is allowed to mistreat their fellow prisoners, and I need to tell Mr Malfoy and his father about what is going on here so they can talk to the Minister about it,' Gregory said, without breathing. He hadn't even known he knew words like distorted since it had more than two syllables. He preened, proud he had been able to form a coherent sentence with more than five words in it. 'I am certain there will be a valuable goodwill for the guard who helps me get in contact with my friends and the Minister,' Gregory continued, trying to remember how Draco had played this game and what he had said to manipulate people into doing his bidding.

The guard startled. 'The Malfoys and the Minster aren't speaking. Lucius Malfoy barely avoided to be thrown back here.'

'His wife saved Potter's life. Do you really want to have Potter's anger directed at you?' Gregory had no idea if such a threat worked. He'd rather have thrust a fist through the man's chest. That worked too. 'And get Yaxley out of here. I am using this bed from now on,' Gregory demanded, knowing how Malfoy often had used this kind of tactic. If one demanded things as if it was an obvious thing, it often turned out in Draco's favour.

'You want to have this cell?' The guard asked, somewhat flabbergasted over Gregory's bossing him around. He looked up - very much up - at Gregory's thuggish face. 'And you guarantee there is some goodwill to be had from this?' he asked, voice low. 'From the Malfoys?'

'Just do as I tell you,' Gregory said. 'You know how much power both Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy have, even if they are not popular at the moment. Help me in this, make your colleagues do the same. The Malfoys are on the rise again, and you know it. It'll be worth it.' Gregory's mind could hardly wrap itself around the pretty words and hollow promises. Gregory felt like a nice little monkey (or rather a huge gorilla) mimicking its former owner's habits and actions. Only it seemed to work. Damn it, it worked!

'All right. One Owl today. And go get your things from your cell, then.' The guard seemed to realise that something unfortunate had happened to Mr Lestrange. 'I'll keep an eye on him until you return. I'll talk to the other guards later.'

Gregory felt an odd sensation of gratitude well up inside him. 'Thanks. It is appreciated,' he said, in a more kind tone of voice, although still trying to sound like Malfoy. It was as if half of what he had said was something he didn't understand himself. He didn't know if he had used the right words at the right time. He nodded, turned and strode down the corridor to his own small cell (it was much smaller and quite a bit colder and more uncomfortable than the one Mr Lestrange had paid for.

Yaxley was standing outside, casually leaning against the door frame. 'What do you think you're playing at, Goyle?' The older man pushed away from the door. 'You better get out of my cell before you are hurt. We don't like what you are doing. Lestrange had it coming.' Yaxley clearly thought himself intimidating. It didn't work on Goyle.

'If you don't want to get seriously hurt,' Goyle said, as he towered over Yaxley, 'I suggest you get your stuff and your arse down here in a jiffy. I am taking over your bed. And if I see you or any of Dolohov's lackeys near Mr Lestrange again I am going to kill you. All of you.' The threat was whispered in a low tone, pleasant and soft, grating against the ruthlessness. No one could be in doubt Gregory meant exactly what he said. 'Painfully, and very, very slowly.'

- 0 -

As soon as the guard had returned with and waited for Gregory to finish the letter for Draco (written in a clumsy, childish hand, with several spelling errors) so he could send it away, Gregory sat down on the bed opposite Rabastan Lestrange's. He stared for a long time at the silent shape hidden under the blankets. Gregory knew next to nothing about Mr Lestrange, other than he had been a ruthless Death Eater, and still was, if he was allowed to fight with the sophisticated weapons a true pure-blooded aristocrat was able to use: magic, dark arts, arrogance. More was the pity that Mr Lestrange's weapons had lost their power, since nothing but brute force had any value inside Azkaban's grey, icy walls. Connections, yes. They helped. But if one's connections were put in here together with oneself, then they didn't mean much. Gregory knew that, and felt suddenly happy he had once served Draco Malfoy. Now he just hoped Malfoy knew how to honour that.

Gregory sat for a long time, pondering on power and how to wield it when one actually didn't know how to do it right. It was clear Mr Lestrange wouldn't be any help. The man knew how to torture and spell and use magic to hurt, but none of that worked now. Gregory was alone. He would have to rely on the strength he had, and the safety that was to be found in bullying others.

Outside, darkness fell, and Gregory lit the fireplace (another luxury he hadn't had in his old cell), making the room warm and oddly cosy. Lestrange stirred and whimpered, turning slightly. He pulled off the blankets, as if he was too warm underneath them with the roaring fire burning. None of them said anything, and the click-clack of the magical locks that opened screamed metallic and loud in the silence.

Gregory stood. 'Up,' he said almost coldly and opened Mr Lestrange's chest. He pulled out a soft brown robe, undershirt and socks. With a giant foot he pushed Mr Lestrange's boots over to the bed. 'Get dressed. We have to be down in the great hall in five minutes.'

'I can't. Mr Lestrange's voice broke. 'It hurts too much... I... they...'

Gregory stepped over to the bed and turned Mr Lestrange's face up. The man's brown eyes looked large and scared. 'Now listen. If you don't go down there, they know you are weak. They'll continue. They'll be over you like a pack of hyaenas the instant they get the chance.' Gregory let go as Mr Lestrange trembled and closed his eyes in pain. 'So now you get up, get down there and act like the arrogant bastard you are, treating anybody even worse than usual. I'll be at your back, and I am going to make a pulp out of anyone who even dares look at you in the wrong way. We have the guards with us in this, and we will have our supporters with us as well. Dolohov won't dare.'

'Us?' Rabastan looked up again. 'There is an us?' he asked hoarsely. 'I thought I told you to stay out of this.'

'Yeah, it's too late now, isn't it?' Gregory put the robe down and turned his back. 'Please, Mr Lestrange... dress, so I can help you survive.'

There was a rustle of sheets and fabric and a loud, pained moan. 'I suppose you may call me Rabastan, if we are going to be in this together.' Mr Lestrange's voice sounded as if it came somewhere between laughter and cry. 'Thank you,' he said behind Gregory's back. 'Don't think I'll ever forget the... kindness you have showed me.' There was a pause. 'You can turn around now.'

Gregory had never been allowed to call anyone from the Inner Circle by their first name before. It was almost as if Mr Lestrange thought this had made them equals. 'Thanks, Mr- Rabastan,' Gregory managed. He remembered his manners. 'I'd be delighted if you would call me Gregory.'

'Very well, Gregory,' Rabastan said. 'After today I'd go to some lengths making sure you are delighted, and using your first name is my pleasure.'

They made it to the dining hall, Rabastan hanging slightly in Gregory's arms. 'You have to straighten up now,' Gregory said, sensing the other man's pain and weakness. 'Half an hour's play acting will spare you a lot later - and gain you some of the footage you've lost.' Gregory looked down at the man he was holding, finding nothing but surprised tenderness in his eyes; a feeling Gregory suspected he was reciprocating. He had never cared about anybody but Draco and Vincent, but Rabastan felt so familiar, someone Gregory could use his hitherto unused strength to protect.

'I know,' Rabastan said, unwilling to let go of Gregory's arm. He sighed deeply. 'I'm ready.'

'Good,' Gregory said, rubbing Rabastan's shoulder to soothe him. 'I'm with you.'

They stepped into the hall: a high-ceilinged room, still impressive even though the old castle hadn't seen a throng of rich, expensively clad people for centuries. The roughly made tables and benches clashed against the rich carvings and the dark-paneled walls. The black and white marble floor was still beautiful, if not clean.

Rabastan Lestrange moved as if he belonged in the hall during its former glory. He made the plain brown robe seem like a ermine cloak, walking down the aisle as if he wore an invisible crown.

The hall was quiet for a moment; only the relieved sighs of Lestrange's minions filled the silence. Then Dolohov sneered from one corner, breaking the silence, 'have you come back for more, Lestrange? I knew you had it in you, such a pretty little doll. You liked it, to be taken by real men. A pity we couldn't have your incompetent sister in law to play with too, or your gorgeous brother. They would have made such lovely toys too.' Dolohov's cronies roared with laughter. The guards stepped out from the shadows, clearly ready to take down anybody who was causing more trouble.

Rabastan turned a little. Gregory could almost sense how much he strained himself to uphold the royal demeanour. 'Hardly,' Rabastan said in the most arrogant tone, looking at Dolohov as if he were a bug. 'None of you are equipped like real men,' Rabastan purred and put a hand on Gregory's arm, suggestively. 'There is no comparison.' Rabastan smiled haughtily and let out a laugh. 'And yours,' he said to Dolohov. 'Very cute. It almost felt like a prick, just so much smaller.' Rabastan smirked, then turned and found his seat between Amycus and Macnair while the hall once more erupted in laughter and catcalls. Rabastan moved slowly, his fingers clutching at Gregory's arm, as if the abuse hurt more, now that the worst was over. Gregory admired the man. Facing Dolohov like that, even making fun of him, had been brave.

'I'm sorry,' Rabastan whispered as Gregory sat down next to him. 'I didn't mean to indicate you were... with me. Attracted to men.'

'It's all right.' Gregory took the closest bowls and began to shovel a large amount of potatoes and gravy on his own plate. 'We all are, in here, one way or the other.' It was all they had, most of the prisoners condemned to life in prison. One was made of steel if one could go through a wizard's life-span in prison and not want the touch of another human being, no matter if one wasn't originally inclined that way. Except Gregory hadn't had anyone, hadn't wanted to. He was here only for a few years and no one had ever been like Dra-

Gregory had confused himself with that line of thought. He put the plate he was holding down. He needed to think. He had never been in love with Draco Malfoy. It wasn't manly; that was what his father had told him. He had kissed a few girls and it had been nice; something one did as a pure-blood wizard. But Gregory realised he had never really been against kissing another man, if there had been another man that wanted him. As it was, no one had. The girls had only kissed him to please Draco. No, Gregory was the muscle others used to hide behind or send to war. Not one to be kissed. One thing he knew, though, was that had Draco ever asked, he would have kissed him. Draco was precious. Fragile. Like Rabastan Lestrange.

- 0 -

It took weeks before the opposition acted. Being half as clever as the rest of the prisoners, but twice as good at bullying people, the attack didn't come as a surprise, neither was it surprising that it was Thorfinn Rowle, Dolohov had set on Gregory and the wizard he had chosen to protect. They were on their way down to breakfast, as always trying to be neither too early, nor too late. Any of those options presented unwanted risks. Obviously, Dolohov had understood that and decided to make a more direct approach. Dolohovs' cronies were blocking each end of the corridor as they put their most dangerous weapon to use. Thorfinn Rowle was the only other wizard who wasn't forced to look up at Gregory. He was just as tall and muscular, older. Slower.

As the huge man strode down the corridor, Gregory assessed his chances. Rowle was harder, had more combat experience. He was also definitely slower, less agile. Most importantly, Rowle wasn't protecting somebody he cared about, Gregory realised, not the way he had come to care about Rabastan. Rowle fought because he had to; fought for a man he probably didn't even like. Gregory would fight because Rabastan had treated him with respect and courtesy from the moment Gregory had stepped in and helped, even if Rabastan was an arrogant bastard to anybody else. Even with his simple brain capacity, Gregory knew what would happen to Rabastan over and over and over if there wasn't an end put to this. Now. Draco had said never to go for the unimportant ones. In this, Rowle was unimportant. He was just the weapon. Gregory smiled menacingly as silence fell. Nobody spoke, everybody knew what would happen. There wasn't a guard in sight anywhere.

'Letting your little, fat lapdog run free, Dolohov?' Rabastan drawled from their cell's door opening. 'You do know what happens to stray mongrels, don't you?' No one could possibly have sounded more condescending, more arrogant.

Good. Let Rabastan do the talking, distract them. Gregory acted fast as lightning as Rowle's attention was directed towards Rabastan, using his work-horse-like swiftness to set in an attack before anybody expected it. Gregory had never been famous for playing fair. In an instant, he kicked out, crouched low to avoid any blow Rowle might be able to set in, and cracked Rowle's knee cap with a hard kick that made the man's leg bend backwards in a decidedly wrong angle. That fight was over before it had even begun. Rowle fell as hard as a cut-down tree, shouting curses and one or two decidedly offensive things about Gregory's mother.

Gregory ignored the man, and with his giant arms he shoved three other wizards out of the way and grabbed Dolohov by the collar of his prison robe. 'You are dead,' Gregory snarled, his brown eyes hard and cold. 'And I will love to pick you apart in little pieces before you take your last breath.' Gregory was hissing, all the hate he felt against Antonin Dolohov made him look even more intimidating than usual. No one seemed to be willing to step up on Dolohov's behalf. It was quite clear Gregory meant what he said.

'I'll do anything! Anything!' Dolohov was begging, realising nobody cared whether he lived or died - not even the guards. Nobody liked a loser. 'Spare me! Please, Mr Goyle!' the man whimpered, his thin moustache looking ridiculous as his mouth contracted in a pained grimace.

'Your vow that you and your lackeys will not ever again bother Mr Lestrange in any way. In fact, you are going to cater to his tiniest wish. Swear on your children's lives!'

'I swear! On my children's lives!' Dolohov looked exactly as pathetic as he sounded. Magic tingled, glittered in the dark corridor, little golden specks to confirm what Dolohov had promised. Gregory kept himself from jerking away. He hadn't counted on any magical interference. Maybe it had happened because of the anger and fear?

'Good,' Gregory growled and drew his fist back before he smashed it into Dolohov's rat-like face. It made a satisfactory wet, crushing and grating sound as the man's nose and cheekbone broke. A second blow snapped Dolohov's collarbone as if it was a dry twig. Gregory let go of the screaming man, arrogantly just opening his hand and let the man fall.

'You promised,' Dolohov whimpered between sobs and cries. No one cared to help him up. Dolohov's power had diminished, disappearing with the drops of blood that landed on the stone floor. He had lost.

'I promised not to kill you, you creep,' Gregory said, and turned his back to Dolohov's followers, showing exactly how little he feared them now. 'I didn't. The next who dare lay a hand on Mr Lestrange won't be as lucky.'

'You may return to you duties,' Rabastan interrupted, still leaning casually arrogant against the door frame. He, too, knew Azkaban was his now. 'Although someone better take rat-face there to the infirmary.' He sounded as if he didn't care one Knut, which was probably exactly right. 'Come, Gregory,' he said and walked into their cell. 'We have other things to do than watch the riff-raff collect the garbage.'

Gregory followed, sending the assembly a mean glare, as if to underline that he was Rabastan Lestrange's enforcer, and anyone who misbehaved would answer to him. What would happen in such a case was already established. 'You and you-' Gregory picked out two of the stronger prisoners who had supported Rabastan previously. 'Guard the door and let no one in without asking.'

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Rabastan's arrogance disappeared. 'Oh, Salazar,' he managed, his voice trembling. Gregory thought he looked as if he was going to faint. Maybe Rabastan couldn't stand the physical encounters. It wasn't as if the man hadn't tortured both Muggles and Wizards alike before. It had been by magic, of course. Cleaner. More elegant. Gregory put an arm around Rabastan's waist as if to support him until he could sit down. Gregory liked that his cell mate was like this: strong and weak at the same time. Clever enough to know whom to attach himself to.

It seemed as if Gregory's huge form provided comfort for the slightly shaken Pure-blood. 'You did that for me?' Rabastan said and leaned into Gregory's embrace. It didn't sound as if loyalty was something he was used to. Gregory knew why. The Death Eaters had learnt the hard way to be loyal only to Lord Voldemort.

'Er-' Gregory said, not quite intelligently. 'I think so.'

'I owe you,' Rabastan said and leaned his head on Gregory's wide chest. It showed how much Rabastan appreciated Gregory's support. A true Slytherin never owed anyone anything if he could help it.

'No. You don't,' Gregory whispered softly. 'I want to protect you.' He realised it was true. He wanted to protect Rabastan more than anything in the world. It was something Gregory knew how to do. Nobody was better at it than he. He even liked it. It was another form of strength, but a strength nevertheless.

'You aren't too bright, are you?' Rabastan murmured, almost tenderly. 'I am not usually this grateful. But I won't forget, my friend.'

'Not too much, no.' Gregory didn't mind. Draco had told him over and over how stupid he was. Rabastan never did that, and even now it sounded more like he was teasing. Gregory didn't say more, just held Rabastan, stroking his back as if he were a puppy looking for comfort. It didn't feel stupid at all, on the contrary.

They stood like that for some time, until Rabastan had stopped trembling. As they let go of each other, a knocking on the door disturbed their relaxed state.

'Yes,' Rabastan demanded.

One of Goyle's men stuck his head in. 'There's a guard to see you, Sir.'

Goyle held up a hand. 'Which one?' he asked, not letting anyone in until they were sure it was one of the friendly guards. Taking over the prison had its price but also its benefits. Nobody, except the one or two Aurors who were here, would dare approach Mr Lestrange without permission in the future.

The man mentioned the name of the guard who had taken Gregory's Owl to the Malfoys.

'Let him in.' Gregory didn't need to look at Rabastan to decide.

'That was immensely stupid,' the guard said to Gregory as he entered. 'You know they are going to give you at least a couple of more years for that?'

'Yeah,' Gregory said, shrugging. It wasn't as if he had something to do outside the walls when he was done serving his time. 'So what?'

'I got the blooming reply from Malfoy for you this morning, and of all days you decide to make such a display. The management is not pleased, Goyle.'

'Dolohov. He's been talking.' Gregory was stupid, but not that stupid.

'Far too much. Be glad you got a positive response from your Death Eater friends outside. You are going to need all the support you can get to get out of this.'

Rabastan looked over the guard's shoulder to see if anyone but their own men were present. 'Did Lucius pay you?' he asked, fixing the guard with a piercing stare.

'Generously,' the guard said. 'No worries, Mr Lestrange.' The guard handed the letter to Rodolphus. 'I took the liberty to read it. I am risking a lot for this, but I am not letting anything happen I don't know about. Malfoy is already working behind the lines to use the unfortunate events Dolohov put you through to secure less than lifetime for you. The Minister is listening, although not willingly... yet.'

Rabastan just nodded. 'Slytherin?' he asked. 'Or just clever?'

'Both.' The guard smirked.

'Good man.' Rabastan smiled graciously and held out a hand so Gregory could help him sit down. Gregory beamed. Now, this was what he liked: to see Rabastan take the place that was rightfully his as Lord Voldemort's close servant. There was no Dark Lord any longer, of course. Gregory found that to be alarmingly comforting.

'Mr Malfoy told me to get you anything you wanted, he'd charge everything to your Gringott's account,' the guard informed them. 'Would you like a larger cell? More rooms? I suppose you'll like to have your own, er- chambers now?'

'We'll see,' Rabastan said, dismissing the guard as if he were a servant. 'For now, just leave us.'

Gregory realised he didn't want Rabastan to get them two cells. How could he protect the older man if they weren't sleeping in the same room? Gregory didn't dare ask. They used the day for discussing and evaluating strategies and allies. Rabastan even seemed to appreciate Gregory's opinion. Since raw power was all they had, it had suddenly become important. Rabastan didn't understand the power of physical violence and pain that was dealt without magic, and Gregory felt almost important. It was a wonderful feeling.

It was late when the guard returned, serving them high tea on Rabastan's request. The food was good, much better than the gruel that was served in the dining hall. Gregory suggested they sent some of the left overs to Rowle. It would be clever to get him on their side. He wouldn't hold a grudge against Gregory. Weapons did not hold grudges. Gregory knew that he, like Rowle, was nothing but the fighting bulls of kings.

None of them spoke of the possibility of an early release for Rabastan, neither did they speak of the fact that Gregory wasn't staying forever. There was no reason to mention he just had given years of his life for Rabastan. They both knew it, knew what the price of power had been.

Finally, Gregory put some wood at the fire, making sure it would burn through the night. Outside darkness had fallen, and the night was clear and moonlit. There were no clouds. It would be a cold night. They got ready for bed. None of them spoke. It was as if so many things had happened in one day that they found the silence to be calming.

Quietly Gregory got into his narrow bed, pulling the blankets over his broad shoulders. He lay there, thinking, staring into the wall, not really knowing what to think of everything. It seemed so complicated. He waited for Rabastan's breathing to calm: a sign he had fallen asleep. Sometimes he had nightmares, and Gregory wanted to be certain the man had fallen into a deep sleep before he gave in to it himself.

Rabastan's voice pulled him out of the attempt to make sense of the day's events. His words echoed what Gregory had been thinking.

'Could you...' Rabastan's voice sounded hollow and tired. 'Could you hold me,' he asked quietly, his tone soft, no teasing arrogance in it at all. 'I can't sleep. It has been a... disturbing day.'

Gregory moved slightly in his bed, sitting up. He didn't answer. It was quite surprising since nobody had ever asked for him to hold or touch or do anything like that. He didn't know what to say.

'You make me feel safe,' Rabastan said softly. 'Please, Gregory?'

'Oh,' Gregory whispered. 'I see.' He wasn't sure he did, but he understood how someone physically weak would like that. Draco had- Gregory stopped himself. Maybe he had to stop thinking about Draco, entirely. He had done that a lot. Far too much, Draco would have said, if he knew about it. But then again, Draco never counted on Gregory to have any brain at all. Or any feelings. To Draco he had been little more than a tool. A savage ox to bear the yoke. Was this any different? Was he but a tool once more?

He pulled off the blanket and swung the massive legs over the edge. The floor felt cold and dirty under his feet. There was a pebble under his left big toe. Gregory stared out in the dim darkness; the embers casting a weak pale light, enough for him to see the huddling form in the other bed. No, he decided. Rabastan Lestrange's need was true. It might be nothing but a need for comfort, but Gregory had learnt to take what he could get. This was about comfort and care, not about using another wizard. Gregory suddenly remembered Rabastan had told him not to interfere, not to get involved. Too late now, just as it was too late not to respond to the rare honesty in the man's plea. Rabastan Lestrange was one who used people, dangerous. Maybe the fact that Gregory had seen him the instant he was diminished to an ordinary human being had something to do with it?

'Please,' Rabastan repeated. 'I need you.'

That was all Gregory wanted to know. He had no idea what this was, or would become. All he knew was that circumstances had drawn them together, forming a bond of care and tenderness between them. Rabastan reached out for him, holding out an elegant hand, both a plea and a demand. Gregory took it. It disappeared entirely in his giant fist. Quietly he slipped under the blankets and into Rabastan's soft bed, so much better than the one Azkaban provided. Again, Gregory realised that Galleons truly moved things words could never change.

He sighed deeply as he leaned back into the pillows. The mattress dipped slightly under his considerable weight, and Rabastan almost sank into his embrace. Hesitantly, Gregory wrapped his arms around the warm body. Rabastan leaned his head against Gregory's shoulder, letting out something that sounded like a relieved moan. Rabastan's breath was damp against Gregory's neck; his lips close enough for him to feel the softness of the full lower lip. It made Gregory's body feel as if magic shot through it, and he could feel desire and arousal and something else, something deeper, mingle into an intoxicating energetic feeling he had never felt before.

He had never been one to question what his superiors did or wanted, but this new feeling made him do it anyway. Enlightened, Gregory considered that Rabastan and he were more like equals than they were master and servant. Gregory was not Rabastan's minion, but his friend. There were things Rabastan couldn't handle, just as Gregory knew how much he lacked intellectually. They were so different and yet completed each other perfectly. 'Now what?' Gregory asked, for the first time realising he had just as much right as anybody else to ask questions, even if they were not the most clever ones.

Rabastan didn't say anything. He just drew back a little, raising himself up on one arm, sliding the other around Gregory's neck. Then soft lips were pressed against Gregory's, and a wet, warm, determined tongue demanded entrance. Rabastan's nightshirt-clad body was burning hot against Gregory's own aroused form.

That moment, he found he had never been offered a more satisfactory answer to anything in his whole life.