Amnesty

Chapter Title: White, Whitey, White



Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JK.



Author's Note: This takes place before Blood and Ink. The next update will be in 3-4 weeks.



Warning(s) for this Chapter: BDSM, non-con, adult language and violence.



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A hand claps over his mouth and the cool tip of a wand jabs into his jugular. "Don't. Move."



He freezes, eyes widening and breath shuddering out, his hands clenching around the tin. Oh, shit. Potter had finally fucking caught up to him. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He knew better than to light a fucking fire, but he'd been (still is) so fucking cold and exhausted and depleted; all he'd fucking wanted was to reheat the remains of a fucking shepherd's pie he'd nicked from a fucking Muggle's house. Weeks of running had made him careless and now it was all—fucking—over. Fuck.



"Good," Potter says firmly.



Clothing rustles, his curved back is briefly brushed against, and a fan of heat filters through the ragged tangles of his hair. Potter is squatting close behind him—indecently so, with his arms resting on his shoulders, instantly creating an intimacy between them. Something they shouldn't have, whether it is false, imagined, or unintended. As much as it pains him, he keeps his burgeoning contemptuous comment in check, unsure where he and Potter stand and unwilling to prematurely find out with the business end of a wand at his throat.



"I'm glad you're cooperating, Malfoy, because I'd hate to have to hurt you."



Potter's breath blazes across his ear and cheek before fading away. Previous reticence abandoned, he snorts loudly and smirks, although it is hindered by Potter's grubby hand across his mouth. Potter just had to ruin the suspenseful atmosphere by spouting a horribly clichéd phrase. His shock rapidly disappearing beneath the belated, full realisation of just who this is, he blithely swats the wand away and ducks out from Potter's hand. "Is that the best you can do, Potter?" He chuckles at Potter's huff and resumes eating, fingers digging into the cold mess of lamb and mashed potato's. "You've been chasing me for weeks," he continues, speaking around his fingers, knowing Potter is getting further irritated by the obvious lack of respect or fear. "I'd rather hoped for something less anticlimactic and Gryf—"



"Incarcerous."



His shepherd's pie clatters to the ground as his arms are yanked behind his back and tied at the wrist with a length of thick rope, his ankles snapping together into the same predicament. The force of the attack is enough for him to lose his balance, and he falls backwards over the log and into Potter's lap. Stomach fluttering anxiously, memories and instincts rising, he finds himself mute within the chaos, his tongue heavy and dry. He looks up into tumultuous emerald eyes, entranced and surprised by the bleak anger roiling in their depths.



"I wasn't kidding, Draco," Potter says quietly.



The butterflies in his gut swirl frantically higher, the trembling of their wings echoed in his muscles, beating against his throat and twisting it tight. Something is wrong—P-Potter? What are you doing here?—didn't call him by his surname—is staring down at him gravely, sombrely—Y-you c-can't be, no—and a shadow falls across his face. He flinches, closes his eyes, but he only feels the delicate touch of what must be calloused fingertips along his cheek. But they lied before and so he whimpers, a war of unbidden pleasure and memory-tainted fear swallowing him, crushing him. He tries to avoid the caress, but the movement is restricted by his position and restrained arms, making it impossible to do more than futilely rock his head back and forth. He wants to cry out, wants to fight against the images assaulting his mind, whispering, taunting, telling him he hadn't escaped from His torturous grasp. This is just another figment of his imagination preying on his weakened mind. Instead, he bites his lip to keep the pleading words in. He hadn't broken down for Him and he doesn't plan on it now. He can survive because he has escaped from Him and this Harry isn't as bad as He usually is. This is the real Harry Potter (not Him) and he will be safe.



"Hush, it's okay," Harry soothingly murmurs.



A finger traces down to his chin, swirling around its jutting mound and then up to a cheekbone. He shudders and whimpers again, squeezing his eyes closed tighter. He knows this isn't Him, knows he is in trustworthy hands, but he can't help thinking they are still one in the same, because what the hell does he know? He doesn't know anything. Everything is speculation in his mind, everything is touches and caresses that are lies within themselves, masking their true source, and now he can't tell the difference. The voices aren't helping. They insist this gentleness is insincere and temporary because it has happened before, this way, and it is only a matter of time. He is ridiculed for his desire to lean into Harry's touch, soak up its warmth and attention, to finally accept what he's been craving, needing, for so long: You can't trust him. You don't know who he is, can't be certain. He will take from you what he wants; use and abuse you to his satisfaction, and leave you to the pain even you cannot heal, for it is deep within your heart and soul. The voices then coil, twine, contort in on themselves and mock him for his fearful shame: This is what you pined for, cried out for in your mind. You wished to be able to touch the truth just once before you died. Now he is here, right where you want him—and yet you hold back. You know he is not Him. Take advantage of it.



"I heard some interesting stories from your … friends," Harry whispers silkily.



He stiffens, eyes flying open. The bleak anger in Harry's gaze has grown into a vindictive fury, glittering with some other emotion he doesn't bother identifying because the voices are right. This isn't Potter; it is Him, and oh god, he must still be in the dungeons surrounded by gleeful brethren, everything is a lie, he isn't free, captured—betrayed—Naughty little boy, aren't you, Draco? "No, please," he whines, closing his eyes and turning his head to lie against Potter's thigh. "I didn't …"



"Oh, but you did. Perverted little git, aren't you, Draco?" Potter says, his tone sibilant and scornful.



The eerily similar wording sends another jolt of fear through his body. No, no, this isn't how it's supposed to be, he thinks miserably, wishing he could curl up into himself until he ceased to exist. Where is Harry? The knight in shining armour he'd prayed for during the most nightmarish of his experiences? While he hadn't expected roses and kittens, especially after what he'd done to … Hogwarts, he had assumed he'd be treated better. Isn't that Harry's sort of thing? To be more noble of mind and all that shit? This Harry is different: ice and arrogance, apathy and cruelty. The night becomes surreal then, for those are familiar to him in a way he wishes they weren't.



Him in disguise, the voices are right.



Another hand forces his head back up and the finger is suddenly circling his mouth, drawing closer with each spiralling turn. His heart strums faster as his breath catches, lips parting involuntarily. The predatory finger accepts the unconscious invitation and drags slowly, erotically over his lower lip before forcing its way past his teeth and into his mouth. His eyes pop open once more, fixing their incredulous and fearful gaze on Potter's face. Potter is smirking, a ruthless viciousness and depravity disfiguring his still boyish features. It sends his fear tripling and trilling into terror as the horror of his situation finally blindsides him. The appearance of those emotions only confirms his earlier thought that this is Him, not Potter. Months under the … care … of Him has allowed him a stunning insight into what He is, but he doesn't understand how because Potter (he was certain) had stormed the castle—



"You seem to be suffering from a case of mistaken identity," Potter croons melodically; "I am Harry. I always have been—always will be … just with an addition, of sorts, that was most unexpected, but has proved most fortuitous."



And with those forbiddingly cryptic words, he knows he should be putting more of an effort into escaping. His Slytherin self is nearly screaming itself hoarse with cries of danger and self-preservation. This is as far from where he wants to be as it gets, and yet even the simplest of plans to get away remain elusive.



"You have nothing to say?" Potter questions idly, eyebrow raised. "You always used to run your mouth, whether someone cared or not."



The finger strokes his tongue enticingly, arousing a feeling, a response, that had been diligently cultivated in previous months. A response he'd struggled to fight and subdue without success, to his burning shame. He protests half-heartedly, gurgling through the build-up of saliva in his mouth. He swallows automatically, cringing as he naturally presses the finger to the roof of his mouth and sucks on it, lips and teeth closing around the knuckle. He doesn't want it misconstrued as acceptance of what … Potter is doing to him.



Suddenly, the world is spinning and his lungs are empty. He desperately lunges after the fleeting breath, head swimming, heart straining to beat against his ribs. Just as quickly, the world rights itself with an abrupt jerk, his abdomen slamming hard against something. The shock of impact makes him choke on what little breath had been creeping into his lungs, but soon his chest lurches laboriously and fills with the heavy weight of life. Confused, he briefly tries to heave himself up and quickly discovers that it's easier to simply rest his head on the … ground and let the blood rush to his head and pool, pulsing, throbbing, congealing. Dirt stirs and twirls into the air with his panting disturbance and rushes in to his open mouth, his nose, his eyes, coating them in a thin, scratchy layer of dryness. Eyes watering, he coughs harshly, hacking in an effort to clear his throat and prevent himself from choking on the suffocating grime. His nose burns and tickles, making him sneeze in interrupting bursts; his sinus cavities ache and pound their own complaint against the invasion of particles; and his head feels like it is about to explode, but maybe that isn't so bad.



Through the fog of physical discomfort, he becomes aware of a hand holding his torso to the … log and another shoving his legs apart, then slithering beneath his hips to awkwardly rip at the fly of his trousers. Realising what is about to happen, but unable to muster the energy to try and prevent it, he simply lies there, bowed over the wood, dirt still twirling and twinkling in the firelight. His mind takes a pre-emptive, protective measure and begins to shut down, withdrawing to a tiny island in the shadows, away from the possibility of distress, detached and curtained from everything except his sanctuary. The island is familiar and comforting, cloaked in tranquil invisibility, a soothing song from his early years whispering on the wind. He has carefully constructed this spot over the past months, made it habitable and welcoming. He had plenty of time to do so. Sinking his feet into the warm, white sand, he thinks about how it is a shame the shepherd's pie has gone to waste and that, if he'd known, he wouldn't have taken his time relishing the explosion of taste on his bland tongue.



"Fuck, you're just asking for this, aren't you?"



The words slink and hiss into his ear, but they are bobbing inconsequentially on the sea that surrounds his shielded island and they don't mean much to him. His body is lifted slightly from the log, his tattered trousers yanked down to his thighs to bare his naked arse, but he is fully clothed, sitting on warm, soft sand, so it doesn't mean much to him. White, like the pet kneazle he'd had as a kid. He'd named it Whitey because he'd thought such an obvious name was awfully clever of him. Now, that logic is slightly off to him, but he doesn't mind. He never minds much of anything on this island of his, he whimsically thinks, drawing happy faces and laughing faces and funny faces in the white, white sand.



"Fucking slut, Draco. Such a pretty little one though. Pretty, with your arse offering itself to me and your cock hard and dripping. I knew you wanted this—I heard what you did, what you screamed …"



Unimportant, meaningless words join the others because he's still drawing faces into the—white, Whitey, white—sand of his island. One time he'd covered the entire island with faces and he'd had to draw over the other ones because he never erases the faces; it's just that when he has to go back to his island, they are gone and he can start anew. They are fun to draw.



But suddenly a deep, scorching, stinging blaze is consuming him and he finds himself in the sea—no longer a gentle sea, but a raging, roaring, swelling one, tossing him over and under—



"Oh, fuck, Draco. You're so tight—shit, what a—surprise. Your—oh yes, moan for me little slut, take my fucking fin—"



—the sour brine is invading his every orifice and pore, eating him alive, joining the inferno inside and he arches, distorts; he screams, he keens, he cries out with the injustice and agony and humiliation of it all, lungs engulfed, eyes rolling back—



But suddenly he is back on his island, sinking his feet into the—white, Whitey, white—sand. The curtain has returned to protect his island from the sea, doing its best to filter out the sounds of the pounding surf, the insistent jeering of meaningless and insignificant words, the howling wind that speaks of the torment his body is going through. The nursery song that had been a whisper is now a blanket, covering and doing its best to mask the turbulence surrounding him as a simple background harmony, weaving in and out. He smiles and happily hums along to the melody, ignoring the vague sensation of a heavy weight collapsing, tracing the happy faces and laughing faces and goofy faces in the—white, Whitey, white—sand of his beach.



He never did mind much of anything on his little island sanctuary, he thinks as he becomes aware of the sea calming and words that didn't belong with the others floating through the curtain.



"Obliviate."