Draco watches, hand hovering over the doorknob, as Harry runs -- literally sprints -- down the hallway. He skids to a stop before Draco. Draco raises an eyebrow, questioningly. "You were almost late," remarks Draco, somewhat impressed.

Harry catches his breath, resting with his hands on his knees. "Yeah," he says, panting. "Hence the running."

"And here I'd thought you'd never make it," he says, and chides himself for the awe in his voice. Remembering himself -- and Pansy's words -- he stands straighter and opens the door, cutting off whatever Harry was about to say.

Umbridge's office is pink -- like the level of pink that an adolescent girl might be obsessed with -- and covered in cat decorations. Umbridge is sitting, smiling her usual condescending smile, behind a personal desk. There is a smaller table with two chairs in the center of the room.

Draco halts in his tracks.

On it, there is a dark black quill.

Harry walks on in past him, uncaring or unknowing (though it is likely the latter) of what awaits them. Draco grabs his hand instinctively. Harry stares at him. "What is it, Malfoy?" he asks, trying to wiggle out of Draco's grip.

But Draco is grabbing him tightly, not even thinking about the action. "That's a Blood Quill," he states, looking at Umbridge.

Umbridge's smile widens. "Why, yes it is. I'm impressed you recognize it."

"The Hell's a Blood Quill?" asks Harry, but both Umbridge and Draco ignore it.

"I was taught about it at home," says Draco, his words still stilted. His eyes slide over to Harry. "Hence why Harry here doesn't know about it."

"Taught about Blood Quills at home -- I'd wonder what your home life looks like, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco tenses up. "I was taught to be prepared for anything," he says, honestly. "My parents are good people."

Umbridge tuts, standing up and approaching them, making Draco realize that it's probably time to let go of Harry's hand. Once freed, he yanks his arm back and holds it protectively to his chest.

That's going to bruise, thinks Draco absently. He wonders what it will look like.

"I'd thought so, too," says Umbridge, with that same everlasting note of disappointment in her voice. She folds her hands over her skirt. "But with your recent behavior, I'd say they skipped a lesson or too."

"I meant to apologize for that," says Draco, smoothly. "My recent behavior, that is. I meant no disrespect to your or your position." He'd offer to stay after and talk more about it, but given she seems to be sticking a Blood Quill onto them, that is a far away idea at the moment.

Umbridge bristles, happy. Harry gives him the most incredulous expression and Draco holds back a chuckle. Harry is not funny, he reminds himself, thinking of Pansy. Harry is the least funny boy alive.

"But I'm still... concerned," he settled on, thinking it a little more dignified than terrified. "Blood Quills aren't exactly the most friendly of magic."

Harry asks, "Is anyone going to tell me what a Blood Quill is?"

This time, he is ignored, but he is not exactly answered, either. Umbridge says, "You'll see soon enough." Turning away from Harry's offended expression, she addresses Draco again. "And I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Malfoy. After all," says Umbridge, titling her, a sly grin on her face and something sick in her eyes, "what is you can note about the Quill, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco turns back to the table, his eyes raking it and the Quill.

He doesn't get it. It's just the Blood Quill and a roll of parchment.

... And then he gets it. "It's not just the Blood Quill," says Draco, talking more to himself than anything, "it's a Blood Quill. As in singular."

Umbridge giggles -- a revolting sound -- and claps. "Yes, that's right. There's only one. You'll be observing Mr. Potter's punishment -- this is more of warning for you, Mr. Malfoy, than any sort of punishment."

"Understood," says Draco.

Harry is looking between the two of them, face screwed up and frowning, like he isn't sure what to make of what they're saying. "I'm going to be honest," says Harry, because he is a Gryffindor at heart, "I don't like the idea of anything that has 'Blood' as the name." And something administered by someone who hates me, goes unsaid.

At least he has enough sense for that, thinks Draco. But not enough sense not to end up here anyways... and to get an extra week's detention with her afterwards.

He does not feel bad. He doesn't, okay?

So he sews his mouth shut and sits down, does not utter any understandings or reassurances. He says nothing. This is what you have to do to survive, and it is awful. It is always awful.

Harry is told to write lines. Dolores will be grading papers in the meantime. He's to write 'I must not tell lies,' and there's a problem, says Harry. There's no ink. And something in Draco's face gives him away because Harry pales. He's put things together. Figured out why they put the Blood in Blood Quill.

He writes the letter I, an experiment, hesitant but needing to see it to believe it.

His hand is sliced open, bleeding slightly before healing itself.

He makes eye contact with Draco, and something unsaid floats between them. I am suffering, it says. I am suffering and your punishment is not even to suffer with me. It's just to watch, and you aren't even forced to do that. I am setting an example and this very act, even unobserved, is enough to do so.

You don't have to watch. You don't have to feel sympathetic toward me.

But, he's saying, I am asking you to.

Watch me. Please do that, if nothing else.

And in this small, unfamiliar torture chamber disguised as a regular room, Pansy's words are a million miles away. They disappear in Draco's head.

As Harry Potter writes, and bleeds, and writhes... Draco Malfoy watches.