Chapter Text
The top of Draco’s left hand felt like someone was taking a hot wire and tracing letters into the flesh. The fist of Draco’s right hand was gripping a quill so hard it might snap.
I must be almost done, Draco thought.
He braved to glance up from his parchment and counted the number of blood-red lines he had written. 1, 2, 3, 4…5? That’s all? The thought of having to write on the parchment and etch the words into his skin again made him pause, causing the quill to hover over the following line. As if she sensed the students' hesitation, Umbridge snapped her head up from where she was bent over her desk and looked over to Draco.
“Let’s say… 20 more lines, Mr Malfoy, to learn that I will not be disrespected in my classroom,” Umbridge said with a giggle, flourishing her pink feathered quill.
Draco scowled at a Tabby that was staring at him from an ornamental plate across the small room and looked back down. The faster I write, the faster it’ll be over, he reasoned to himself and with that, Draco took a deep breath and began to write in a hurried scrawl.
‘I must not break rules.’
It’s not even my fault, Draco thought, seething. He was only late because his idiotic owl was almost the last to arrive at breakfast, and of course, Mother had sent him the longest letter of the school year. So, of course, by the time he’d finished it, he was almost running late, so of course, he had to run up the stairway, almost bawling Professor McGonagall over in the process. So, of course, he had to wait for a “no running in the halls, Mr Malfoy” speech for which he then had to walk away. So, of course, by the time he arrived, breathless, it was too late - a simple “See me after class” from Professor Umbridge had sealed his poor hand’s fate.
Draco had finished, and his hand had healed over immediately, scarring over in his exact handwriting. He took the parchment without a word and placed it on Umbridge’s desk, and a few droplets of blood flew off and landed on the mahogany wood. Umbridge frowned at them. However, she seemed to relish taking her time in looking over the parchment - for a spelling mistake? To simply delay his agony? Draco managed a small smile as he imagined the hexes he wanted to use on Umbridge-
“You may go, but remember… You must not break rules.” Umbridge said, interrupting his thoughts.
Draco couldn’t leave fast enough.
Draco was looking for sympathy and attention in the common room after classes. He lay across a wide green armchair and whined to Crabbe and Goyle while they played a game of exploding snap. Crabbe and Goyle were largely ignoring Draco as he went on, waving his arm around near them.
“She can’t do this,” He complained.
Crabbe and Goyle shrugged. Draco wasn’t surprised by this reaction. Crabbe and Goyle - along with a lot of the other Slytherins - were relishing the special treatment Umbridge had begun to impose on those who showed their loyalty to her - something their House had taken to with some ease. It had been boring Draco, it was 5th year, and they still wanted to wander the grounds looking to terrorise some first-years? Draco thought they could at least do something creative.
Draco sighed; he wasn’t getting anywhere with the two oafs sitting before him.
“Where’s Parkinson?” He asked flatly.
“Lake.” They replied in unison.
Draco groaned, getting up. It was a day when you could feel winter prematurely. Draco wrapped his dark green scarf tightly around his neck before walking out of the castle and outside. He found Pansy with her head in a book with a buff-looking merman on the front, which she did not try putting down as Draco approached and sat beside her. Without a greeting in return, Draco thrust his hand between her face and the book's pages.
“Look at this.” He stated.
“I… must… not… break… rules.” She read out, “What the fuck?” Pansy put the book down and took Draco’s pale, cold hand in both of hers, tentatively touching the red skin. “Does that hurt?”
“Yes,” Draco said, pulling his hand away, “Well, it did hurt a lot.”
“What happened?” Pansy asked, concerned.
“I believe it’s Umbridge’s idea of detention.”
“That’s so messed up. I thought she didn’t touch us.” Pansy said - never under any illusion that her House wasn’t receiving special treatment. She hadn’t minded so far; she’d thought this was probably how the Gryffindors felt all of the time, but it was far less enjoyable now that her friend had been impacted.
“Apparently, that’s not the case,” Draco replied glumly, “But I might be the only one. I’ve been looking all day, and I haven’t seen a single other hand like mine, and there’s no horde of students knocking down her door.”
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I may have seen this before.”
“Really?”
“I only glimpsed in Charms, but I don’t think I’m mistaken. Take a guess at who she could possibly take a personal vendetta against?”
Draco made a sound in his throat that sounded a lot like, ugh, “Potter.”
“Not that I think you’ll actually listen to me,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes, “but maybe you could talk to him? Or talk to the headmaster? What’s, like, the good friend advice to say?”
“You know I’m not going to do that.”
“I know,” she admitted, “Now, c’mon, it’s freezing.” She smiled, and they walked back to the common room, Pansy holding his left hand the whole way.
In potions the next day, Draco couldn’t help feeling curious and kept trying to get a look at Harry’s hand. It was more effort than expected as Harry happened to sit directly behind Draco, and he wasn’t convinced a 180-degree manoeuvre of unsubtly was the correct move.
Instead, twice he walked to the cupboard at the back of the room to get something he didn’t need; there was one toilet break and three ‘wheres-Slughorn-oh-there-he-is’ look arounds - but no luck. Harry had always had it out of view or covered by his old school sweater. When the class finished, Draco packed up and looked back - hoping for another glance - Harry had already left.
Draco decided he didn’t need to know. Why did he even care?
As he walked back to the common room, Draco began to draft the letter to his father in his head, ‘Dear Father, I have something which I request you take straight to the minister…’
His train of thought was interrupted when a bronze hand bunched the front of his robes and pushed his body into the wall of a small alcove. Potter stood before him with a menacing look in his green eyes.
“What do you want with me?” Harry growled.
“Oh, piss off,” Draco replied, pushing Harry’s fist away from him, “Anyone told you you’re a bit conceited?”
“You’re obviously up to something.”
“Just show me your hand.”
“What?” Harry said, automatically lifting his right hand; they both looked at it. It was clear and smooth, with a smattering of dirt under the fingernails that Draco didn’t enjoy.
“Your other one.” Draco said, rolling his eyes and taking it upon himself to grab Harry’s wrist and pulling down the sweater to reveal the miniature mountainscape of scarred lettering spelling out ‘I must not tell lies’.
Before Harry could speak, Draco placed his own hand, face down, staggeringly pale in comparison, next to Harry’s.
“Oh, you too.” Harry said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.
Without really thinking, Draco replied, “Can we do something about this?”
Harry was silent; his expression turned from suspicion to confusion into contemplation. He was silent a moment more.
“Well,” Harry finally conceded, “I may have something.”