Amnesty

Chapter Title: Blood and Ink



Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK.



Author's Note: Takes place before Please.



Warning(s) for this Chapter: Adult language, a spoiler for the fifth book if you see it, and a little bit of blood.



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He sneers at the proffered quill, contempt mangling his thin lips. "It's amazing what a few years can do for your bad habits, Potter, although I can't say that I'm not pleased you don't chew on your quills anymore. Watching you in History of Magic was always nauseatingly vile."



He gets a shrug in response—a rather lacklustre reaction when he'd truly wanted an angry retort, a flash of hatred in emerald eyes. "If you want to write to your mother, this is what you get."



Potter has been a blank, emotionless slate since the moment he captured him, Apparated him to this location, and hauled him into this anteroom. His memories of Potter at Hogwarts are no longer viable; they show him being brash and passionate, ready to rush headlong into anything no matter the consequences. This is a different Potter—a muted, calculating, war-hardened one. To distract himself from this troubling realisation, he returns his focus to the quill being held out. It is long, sleek and black, with closely cropped feathers and a particularly pointy tip.



He snorts. Loudly. "Ever the generous one, Potter." He takes a step forward, a deliberate tactic by Potter to reinforce the fact that he's in control. His pale fingers, bony in his emaciated state, pluck the quill from its graceful rest on Potter's palm. It feels unusually light and delicate between his thumb and index finger. "Does this even have ink in it or did you forget that minor detail?" He smirks.



One of Potter's hands indolently gestures at the desk he stands next to. The piece of parchment laying on top is framed beautifully by the flaming colour of the mahogany wood. He didn't know Potter had such good taste in furniture or a gift for staging to make things look presentable. "Just write your note, Malfoy. I don't have all day."



He sneers again and stalks over to the desk, pulling the parchment around to the side of it. "Oh no, mustn't keep Saint Potter waiting. Lord only knows the world would probably cease to spin." He bends down over the edge of the desk and puts quill tip to parchment. Glancing over his shoulder at Potter, who is busy staring at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room, he huffs and hunches his shoulders, ensuring that the words he would be writing would only be seen by him.



A short second later, he yelps, and the quill drops out of his throbbing and bloodied hand. "What the fuck is this, Potter?" he snarls, whirling around with the wounded hand cradled to his chest.



The other man frowns, concern flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"



He thinks it's about damn time some emotion was seen on Potter's face and wonders if maybe the situation isn't as bad as his gut is telling him. Perhaps he can weasel his way out of here yet. "Look at my hand!" He holds it out imperiously, assuming Potter will rush over to heal it.



But Potter doesn't move—just stands and stares at him with confusion and distaste warring on his face. "What the hell are you talking about? You're not expecting me to kiss it, are you?"



He blinks, nose wrinkling. Kiss it? He doesn't want Potter's nasty mouth on his hand. He'd probably contract a disease through the cut. "Why would I want you to do that? Jesus, all I want is for you to heal the cut since you took my wand."



Potter's frown blossoms into a scowl and the corners of his mouth tighten. "Listen, Malfoy, I don't know what you're playing at, but there's nothing wrong with your hand. Just finish your damn letter, so I can take you in."



"I—nothi—" he splutters, eyes wide. "Are you blind, Potter? My hand has been—" His growing tirade comes to a sudden halt. The cut had vanished, a faint red line the only evidence it had been there. His eyes narrow, looking up from the back of his hand at Potter. "What did you do?" he asks accusingly.



Potter rolls his eyes, appearing exasperated. "I didn't do anything. I don't even know what you're talking about—"



"No, you did something," he says, swallowing a sudden bout of desperation and hoping it wouldn't show in his words. "I—I know you did. It wasn't just my imagination. I know it." Could it be that his mind hadn't recuperated as much as he'd thought? Being caught by Potter could be further proof of that … After escaping from his imprisonment, he'd avoided Potter to the best of his ability, never staying in one place for more than three days before moving on. How had he been found? "D—Don't—" He pauses, draws in a deep, calming breath, and starts again. "I'm not a fool, Potter. Don't lie to me."



Potter's face abruptly closes down. His eyes become shuttered and dark, the tense lines bracketing his mouth vanishing, his brow smoothing and taking the exasperation, the confusion, the distaste with it. Once more he is left with an empty shell of the Potter he knew. "Lying is not a habit I indulge in. Would you like to continue writing your note?" Potter glances at the grandfather clock. "You have approximately five minutes to do so, before I am required to Apparate you to the Ministry." There is no inflection in the other man's voice; not of anger or confusion, not even of boredom. It is simply the even, rolling timbre of his voice.



He gives a short nod and turns back to the desk. The quill points to the elegantly sloping, blood-red line that had been the start of his D. He tries not to shudder in revulsion at the sinister picture, certain that he is giving it connotations it doesn't deserve. Warily glancing over his shoulder, he meets Potter's eyes. He imagines that if Potter wasn't so intent on maintaining a cool outer mask or if Potter hadn't changed so much, he would be glaring at him, challenging him to pick up the quill again. Sometimes the things one imagines are better than the reality, and so his emaciated fingers find themselves around the thin black shaft, pressing the tip into the parchment to continue his letter. The pain is severe, blistering along the back of his hand, along the flayed edges of his skin. A grimace, a wince, a snarl—all fight to escape, but he is a Malfoy. In blood and ink, every word has its price. He keeps the message short and to the point.





Dear M.,



I have found a place where I may permanently rest from my travelling. I do not know when next I shall write, but rest assured, it shall be as soon as I can manage.



Your son,



D.