Amnesty

A Surprise Visit



Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to JK.



Rating: G.



Author's Note: Takes place before In the Beginning. Technically, the first part in the series so far.



Short and sweet. :)



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Another sunrise colours his ground-level window in grimy hues of pink, orange, and yellow. Another night fades into the obscurity of his mind, swallowed by the inky darkness of That Corner.



Another day shall pass as it always does. He will count two hundred and forty-seven blocks of mortar stone, and he will scratch his right calf, gritting his teeth against the rising pain. By nightfall, he will be reduced to a sobbing, wailing shell of his normal self.



He will beg. Plead. Throw his pride and life away, if only They would come and relieve the burning agony.



And thus, one by one, They will silently flow into his cell, black robes swaying elegantly about their legs. His dark angels, blessed guardian angels of his father's lullaby.



His bargain—my pride, my life, the pain!—will be accepted, of course.



Faces of purest white innocence, They will crouch beside his shuddering, clawing body. Gently will They stroke his arching neck, his sweat-soaked ribs and thrashing legs. Gracefully will They administer their mercy, from the most delicate of glittering phials.



One by one, They will pass the phial.



One by one, a drop of absolution each.



He will not feel shame in his greediness for their holy offering. There is none in lurching up to every hand, in thrusting his thirsty tongue out to greet each drop. It's an aphrodisiac to his taste buds, his senses, his mind. An addiction he would never willingly shed. He welcomes the sweet tang of forbearance and humility. Lets his eyes roll back in his head and a low moan rumble out of his throat. Ice will spread throughout his veins, will cloak the fiery pain and numb his thoughts.



As sleep finally begins to claim him, he will find his arms and legs too weak, too heavy to lift if he should wish. But no, he never does. Not even when They clamour closer, let their hands drift and stroke and squeeze and mar. They have released him from the pain, and so he will ignore the dull protestations of his mind and receive his penance, his atonement. His redemption.



Hum a little melody, my sweetest child.



I will, I shall, my darkest guardian angels.



He giggles and stretches on the cold, stone floor of his cell. One arm, two. One leg, another. The chain connected to the manacle about his ankle clinks and clatters. Slowly, cautiously, he sits up, grimacing at the sore spots he's developed over the course of the night.



Right on cue, a bowl appears before him with a light pop. Filled with steaming, thick broth and accompanied by warm, crusty bread laid over the rim of the bowl.



A rat appears from the left corner of his cell. Fur thin and balding, claws scratching at the floor, whiskers frittering to and fro.



He frowns and idly scratches his right calf. Frittering?



He hums thoughtfully. Fritt-ering. Fritter-ing? Frittering.



Grimacing, he reaches for the bowl and carefully pulls it closer.



Frittering is not a word—leastwise, he hasn't heard of it before. But, even if he's pretty certain it is not a word, it sounds right to his ears, to his mind. The only other word he can think of to replace it with is wiggling. Wiggling is too heavy and cumbersome for the delicate movements of the rat's whiskers, though.



He picks up the length of bread, breaking a hunk off with nimble fingers.



One dip, two.



Plip. Plop. Drip. Drop.



He glances up at the rat and its steady, but hesitant progress towards him. Frowns and tilts his head. Usually, the rat is more comfortable with him. Arrogant, even. He has had to guard his food from the conniving little creature more than once. Guard his food whilst also enjoying the company it brings him. If the rat is with him, is accepting his food and regarding him with beady, black eyes, than he is not invisible. He is not forgotten by the world to this lonely cell and left to rot into the bones that creak within his body.



"Here, here," he whispers hoarsely, and holds his soup-soaked piece of bread out to it.



The rat stops its steady progress out of the darkness. It regards his offering, and then him, with unblinking wariness. One of its fragile, gnarled hand reaches up to scratch its cheek.



He should give the rat a name. A special name for a special rat that keeps him company and shares his food and has not forgotten him.



The rat creeps closer. Sits on its haunches and tests the air. Sniff, sniff. Fritter, fritter.



"Here, here," he whispers again, desperately this time. The rat needs to take his food. He moves closer to the rat, onto his hands and knees and over his bowl of broth, one hand waving the now-soggy bread. "Please. Take it. It's okay."



Special rat blinks and moves forward, but then glances to the door of his cell and whirls around, bolting for the corner it appeared from.



He stares after Special rat and hates how he has to fight the urge to call it back. Beg. Plead. Throw pride and life away if only Special rat would take his food and confirm that he has not been forgotten.



He sighs and sits back, half-heartedly eating the bread he'd offered to the rat. It's cold now.



"Draco?"



He jumps, accidentally overturning his bowl of soup as he turns to face the voice.



Immediately, he scrambles back. Away from his cell door, away from the green eyes owlishly blinking at him between the bars. Shock makes his body tremble and his heart pound. Hope makes him forget about mistakes committed and impossibilities.



"P-Potter?"