A/N: Don't own. Not British. And... I wear glasses. Therefore I'm not J.K Rowling.
And if I was J.K Rowling, why on earth would I be writing fanfiction?
Background information that you should probably know: I wrote this because I wanted Harry to tell Malfoy to go to hell. And then I liked the title, so I put it on, and I wrote it and it's really odd 'cause I put too much description in. Technically, it takes place between Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows. There may or may not be a sequel, simply because I'd love to write Ron's reaction to Harry's... stupidity.So. Yeah. Reading is good for your literacy level -- reviewing is good for my ego.
Amnesty
"Go to hell."
The words are sharp, clipped, simple, and utterly full of contempt. They are spoken by a seventeen-year-old with dark hair, glasses, green eyes, and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
"I've already been there." The words are spoken softly, quietly, but they are beyond emotion. There is nothing that could ever be revealed in that voice. These words were spoken by a seventeen-year-old with white-blond hair, grey eyes, and dark shadows around his eyes.
"What do you want with me?" asks the first, his wand still held steadily out in front of him, ready to curse in a millisecond's notice. The other has glanced at this wand only once, and made no move to attack him.
"Amnesty," whispers the other, though his words are soon caught by the wind and swept away. His eyes don't see the other as he says this, staring at the inexplicable puddle of water at his feet.
A thought, a decision, a memory. A green jet of light, a skull and a snake, ethereal smoke lifting into the night, burning something he'd thought could not be burned. Another thought, and then he realized that it was cold outside, even in this summer air. "Why?" he asks, the word falling from his mouth.
"I didn't kill him," he replies, as though this is enough of an answer. "I couldn't," he adds, after a tense moment of silence. He flicks his eyes upward again, and his gaze never wavers from the wand pointed directly at his chest. He hadn't known that the other boy's gaze could be so cold.
"That's an excuse." replies the other boy, and even his voice is cold.
"Yes," agrees the white-blond-haired boy. He doesn't say anything else, and his gaze never wavers from the wand pointed directly at his chest.
"You're going to catch your death," remarks the first, but it's nothing but a statement of fact, perhaps of the cold weather, perhaps not.
"Eventually, yes," he replies, voice cool and confident, obviously not caring.
"How do I know this isn't a trick?" You don't.
The blond-haired youth takes his wand out of his pocket, offering it to the other without a word, noting that he grips his own wand tighter and his lips twitch, as though he is about to say something. The dark-haired youth takes it, in turn, pocketing it. "Amnesty, then," replied Harry Potter slowly, and held the door open for Draco Malfoy, leading the way into number twelve, Grimmuald Place.
"Thank you," he replies, his words quiet, and for the first time, a hint of an emtion slips into his voice. It's gratitude.
And trust me, it's not for just opening the door.