![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sua_layTitle: Done
Author: Rimau Sua Lay
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Percy Weasley/various Death Eaters
prompt: despair, virgin
word count: ~2900
Summary: - Percy Weasley is done. But at least he's not a disappointment anymore.
Warning: Not the happiest fic! Angst, rape, death. Can we say Dark Fic? Can we?
Notes: This is the sort of fic I don't write. Ever. But playing a little challenge game with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wolfsbride, the idea came to me and didn't leave me alone, so... Special thanks to WB for the beta.
Done
The final crucio left Percy breathless. He didn't move, content to just lie on the stone floor as the spasms of agony went through his body. They would pass soon, they always did, and he concentrated on staying conscious, knowing it would just be worse later if he blacked out now.
"So...You are a Weasley after all." The hated voice came from the shadows, hissing the words out. "I always thought you could rise above those mudblood loving ways, considering the purity of your blood. Such a... disappointment to be wrong."
Percy would have laughed if he had the strength for it. As it was, he could only manage a strangled snort. Yeah. Sorry to be a disappointment. Not that Voldemort was the only one who saw him as such.
He wondered if his brothers still thought of him that way. It was obvious they had the last time they'd met, him standing by Minister Bagman's side as his most trusted aide, them following Harry Potter, coming to ask the minister to reconsider his position in what they so dramatically called the 'ongoing war'.
That had been months ago, before it had all gone wrong, so wrong.
Life had a funny way of changing between heartbeats, like the moment Percy had realized all the things his family had warned him about had been true. Minister Bagman had indeed been involved with Voldemort, his sudden advancement in the ministry after his mysterious absence had been phenomenal, carefully orchestrated by those needing a puppet leading their world. One minute Percy had been a valued member of the society, a man of relative wealth and a strong position, feeling good about his life. The next, he had been a miserable traitor with nothing but shattered illusions left.
Breathing in and out slowly, ignoring the twinge in his side, he refused to think about his life as an illusion. He'd done what he thought was right, both when he'd worked in the ministry and then later when he'd owled all the documents he could get his hands on to Harry Potter.
Not a total disappointment, not to himself anyway, and that was what really mattered, right?
He waited for Voldemort to cast another curse, wondering if it were possible to die from the pain caused by the cruciatus. It was something many scholars had theories about, but no one had ever come to a certain conclusion. Such uncertainty annoyed him immensely, especially now that it had turned from academic interest to real need.
Dying would be easy now, easier than living anyway. This abysmal dungeon was too well guarded with too many Death Eaters. He couldn't escape, not on his own, and even after long hours of torture, he couldn't find the selfishness to hope for a rescue.
He was on his own, away from anyone who might still care about his fate, separated from old friends and family by choice, by foolish pride.
"What shall we do with this traitor then?"
Percy doubted Voldemort was asking him, so he didn't say anything, still concentrating on his breathing. The masked men standing around him made a few suggestions, all worse than the one before, and he couldn't help flinching at some.
Fear was a new sensation, introduced by the Dark Lord himself, but this wasn't simple curses or hexes the Death Eaters were talking about. It was humiliation and torture that involved blood and pain and things Percy didn't even have words for.
His heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest, he waited, wondering if he should try to make a run for it.
Crawling would be a most appropriate term, but even so, maybe someone would hex him with the killing curse for even trying.
Someone kicked him, surprisingly gently, so that he rolled to his back, looking up at a masked figure standing before him. He blinked, uncertain of what was going on, but knowing it wasn't anything good. Voldemort was still there, right at the edge of his vision, his eyes burning like two embers, burning into him.
"He's yours first. As a reward for your good services, my young friend," Voldemort said, his voice pleased, and the men around him murmured in appreciation and encouragement.
Muttering, "Thank you my lord," the masked man kicked Percy again.
The voice was familiar, making Percy think of the moment before he'd been taken to the dungeons. His youngest brother had always called the boy a ferret, but he thought he reminded him more of a rat. A filthy rodent living on scraps.
He smiled at the thought even as strong hands grabbed him and pushed him to his face.
"Not much fun, is it, Weasel?" The hands were ripping his already torn robes.
"Better than listening to your tantrums..." he managed out, his tone far from the usual dry politeness.
It wasn't the smartest thing to say, but even a man as reasonable as himself could be pushed over his limits. He had a second to enjoy his empty victory before his robes were completely gone, and then he was lifted until he was on his knees, face still pressed
against the cold stone.
He hadn't thought of this, hadn't thought of the rumors about how the Death Eaters amused themselves, the old stories always making him scoff. Fairy tales of ogres made to frighten children to behave; not real, not something people would actually do to each other.
Definitely not something he should ever worry about.
Pain lanced through him as something pressed against him and then pushed in, the agony more defined than the cruciatus, tearing a horrified sound from his throat. He barely heard the laughter, his whole body going rigid with the feeling of being penetrated, fingers scraping at the stones until they were bloody, nails torn.
Trying to squirm away, escape the only thing in his mind, he reached out for something, anything, and there was nothing to ground him, nothing to help him get away from the bruising hands and the hardness invading his body.
Behind him, the rodent of a boy was laughing, breathing hard with every thrust. Calling his name out, mocking him, laughing at him.
Percy didn't have the strength to hate himself for screaming. He'd already screamed during the torture, even after he'd sworn to himself he wouldn't bend or break. Such empty promises, made with the conviction of strength he didn't possess after all.
"Not making any more jokes, are you, Weasel?"
No jokes, not ever, and Percy bit through his tongue to keep those words inside. He might scream, but he wasn't going to beg. Not now, not to this bastard, not while he still had an ounce of pride left.
The taunts turned to groans, harsh breaths on his shoulder, and then something hot flooded inside him, burning him. He could only manage sobs, not knowing if it was for the pain or the humiliation or the relief that it was all over.
"Well done." The hated sibilant voice rang in the room, sounding darker than before. "Now I do think it is your turn, Minister Bagman."
Percy flinched at that, unable to comprehend that even that had been a lie. None of the others had been referred by name, not the ones who'd dragged him down here, not the ones casting curses. Then the true meaning of Voldemort's words hit him, and he tried to scramble away again.
There were hands on him, holding him still, and he could hear cloth being removed, then a zipper. He could imagine those meticulously pressed trousers his boss had always worn, and a stray thought of him ruining his clothes while kneeling on the dirty floor came out of nowhere, making him shake his head in disgust.
Something pressed against his ass, stinging the already raw skin, and he let out a whimper. Not this, not again.
It was like someone was hearing his frantic thoughts. The touch against him was soft, limp, and a moment later a familiar voice muttered, "I'm sorry... I can't..."
Rancous laughter came from the ranks of the Death Eaters, but Percy closed his eyes in relief. Nothing could be worse than this. Absolutely nothing.
Like so many times before, he was wrong.
There was another touch, another man behind him, and this time the press against his abused ass was hard as iron, pushing in with determination. He could feel blood run down his thighs, struggling against the invasion weakly as if he had no strength for anything else.
"That's right, Weasley..." hot breath touched his shoulder. "Fight me."
A shock of blond hair fell down, covering the side of Percy's face, and he flinched at the touch, knowing all too well who was on top of him, hating the thought as much as he hated what he was doing.
"Good... I imagine your father would be like that as well.... All fire and rage and weakness under my hands..." The thought seemed to excite him more, as the thrusts turned into pounding.
Percy gagged, the strength of the thrusts driving his body into an awkward sprawl. "No..." No, Merlin, not this, not this, and please shut up about his family.
Husky words still fell from Lucius Malfoy's lips, cruel descriptions of what he was doing, what he was going to do with others. He was clearly accustomed to this, lasting forever, his hips driving in and out, almost in synch with his taunts. "So tight, I bet you were a virgin before my boy got to you... I wonder if your brothers will feel as tight as you do... It'll be a pleasure finding that out..."
"No..." Wailing it out, Percy tried to turn, tried to reach for Malfoy, but he was too weak from the torture, weak from what Malfoys had done to him, and his flailing made Malfoy laugh, a hand grabbing his hair.
This was what it meant to be broken. He'd never understood the saying before, not before his body was taken and his mind filled with the possibility of horror. There was nothing left of him, nothing left to do, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out and tickling his skin as they trailed down.
When Malfoy finally groaned out with his completion, Percy kept still, not daring to hope it was the end but feeling the bitter taste of disappointment anyway as someone else took his place. His ass was on fire, the pain not diminshing with the slippery feeling of blood easing the way of every thrust. He didn't know who was holding him down this time, didn't recognize the voice sprouting out profanities, and it was a blessing. Nothing personal in the words and threats, nothing to touch him deeper than skin.
It didn't make it better, his body screaming with agony, his whole being filling with despair as the Death Eater finished. Someone cast a rudimentary healing charm on him and he could feel a tingling sensation deep inside. Then there was someone else, touching him, the soft sweeps of hands a mockery of real caresses, followed by the now familiar pain of penetration, dry this time, tearing out screams from his hoarse throat.
He was moved, pushed to his back, then to his side, his body growing stiff. Never looking at the masked figures reaching out for him, he tried to shut down, hide somewhere deep inside him, but the agony was always fresh on his barely healed skin, and each muttered word tore at his soul. The worst were those who kept on a litany of commentary, muttering, "Yeah, fuck, can you feel I'm fucking your sweet arse?" like he wasn't even there, unable to comprehend what was going on. He had no defenses against that.
This was hell, the simple act of bodies claiming him more unforgivable than any of the curses named as such. It was an endless agony, every pumping body emptying into him replaced with a new one, taking him, branding him, and none of his screams and pleas and crying helped one bit.
"We should give him some rest," Voldemort said when the Death Eater holding him down slipped out of him. "There is always tomorrow."
Percy blinked, his eyes almost swolled shut from all the tears. Tomorrow? Dear Merlin, he wondered if that meant an endless string of days, all spent like this. His mind almost snapped, the thought too awful to bear, and when the world didn't fade away, he cursed his life.
The muttered words of a healing charm made him flinch, and then there was a silence. No one came to grab him and drag him away, no one left the room. It was as if the Death Eaters were all waiting for something, a dismissal, a command to act, like it was all they knew.
Voldemort laughed. "But of course, I'm forgetting something. Come, now. Yes. Go ahead. You should be rewarded as well, my most loyal servant."
Tensing, Percy listened to the soft footsteps and the now familiar rustling of cloth. He was breathing erraticly, almost choking on every intake of breath. "Please, no..." And yes, he was indeed a disappointment, to himself the most, but he couldn't even try to be brave,
for there was no bravery in lying on filthy floor, covered in semen and sweat and blood.
There was laughter coming from all around him, but his pleas didn't stop the touches, didn't make it all go away. The hands on his skin were firm but not bruising, but the hardness of yet another cock pressing into him gave him no mercy, as cruel and punishing as
the ones before.
Percy's fingers curled on the floor, the final act of defiance, of desperation.
Moving in a steady pace, the Death Eater leaned down, bracing himself with a hand on the floor, the other one holding onto Percy's hip, slipping a little on the sweaty skin. Percy stared at the pale hand, the illusion of etherity marred by dark ink stains.
"No..." And he knew it was still in vain; begging and pleading had never got any mercy shown in the Potions class, and it was futile now. Still, he gasped out, "Please," his mind unable to comprehend this.
It was easier when he didn't know who they were, when the taunting voices were blurred by the cheers and laughter, when the curses and profanities weren't personal. This was somehow worse than Malfoy claiming him, swearing vengeance to his whole family.
He had trusted some of these people, this one probably more than any, with a child's trust towards those who were meant to keep them safe and teach them things. Memories of the best time of his life, years of being surrounded by books and new knowledge were torn apart by steady movements of hips against his arse.
Feeling lips on his ear made this act a mockery, and he wanted to close his mind from whatever words would come next.
"I'm sorry this is all I can give you..." There was infinite sadness in the deep voice.
Percy stiffened as he felt something sharp on his skin, a bite or a prick. It was barely noticable, the pain brief and quickly fading, and the moment of distraction made the steady thrusting into him feel even worse.
Then it slowly misted over, like fog dancing over the Black Lake in the morning. He let out a pained sound, his lips going slack, but there was no real agony, no sensation as the body above him stiffened and then shuddered in completion. It was all somewhere far away, not really touching him.
Mind oddly clear, he realized this was not supposed to happen to him. There ought to be something else, something more. The Death Eaters grabbing him and dragging him away barely registered, as did Voldemort's promises about tomorrow.
He felt no terror or fear, he felt nothing at all.
Pain was also gone, and it was more welcome than anything. He lay where they dropped him, not noticing the hardness of the floor or the tight shackles on his wrists.
He was done, had nothing left in him, and though there would be no real rescue, he knew he was still saved. Nothing could be done to him, and this numbness was a gift beyond price. The analytical part of his mind wondered just exactly what it was he'd been given, but the rest of him didn't give a damn. It clouded the pain, clouded the horrors, and it was just like falling asleep or slipping into sweet unconsciousness, with one slight difference. He was certain he wouldn't wake up this time, and it was a blessing.
This was death, but it wasn't as bad as he'd sometimes imagined. He kind of wished he could tell that to his family, or even tell Snape he understood. That he was grateful.
Their world was burning, but he'd done his share, had given good people good information, though it had been one of the last things he'd ever done, and maybe, just maybe they would win. Whatever happened, he was going to die, not as a disappointment, but as a casualty of war, and there were worse ways to go. Worse things than poison now turning everything black.
A soft smile made his already dull eyes shine for a moment though it couldn't move his lips.
The End
Disclaimers: Not mine, borrowed without permission, am not making any money. Please don't sue. Sherbet Lemon?
Author: Rimau Sua Lay
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Percy Weasley/various Death Eaters
prompt: despair, virgin
word count: ~2900
Summary: - Percy Weasley is done. But at least he's not a disappointment anymore.
Warning: Not the happiest fic! Angst, rape, death. Can we say Dark Fic? Can we?
Notes: This is the sort of fic I don't write. Ever. But playing a little challenge game with
wolfsbride, the idea came to me and didn't leave me alone, so... Special thanks to WB for the beta. The final crucio left Percy breathless. He didn't move, content to just lie on the stone floor as the spasms of agony went through his body. They would pass soon, they always did, and he concentrated on staying conscious, knowing it would just be worse later if he blacked out now.
"So...You are a Weasley after all." The hated voice came from the shadows, hissing the words out. "I always thought you could rise above those mudblood loving ways, considering the purity of your blood. Such a... disappointment to be wrong."
Percy would have laughed if he had the strength for it. As it was, he could only manage a strangled snort. Yeah. Sorry to be a disappointment. Not that Voldemort was the only one who saw him as such.
He wondered if his brothers still thought of him that way. It was obvious they had the last time they'd met, him standing by Minister Bagman's side as his most trusted aide, them following Harry Potter, coming to ask the minister to reconsider his position in what they so dramatically called the 'ongoing war'.
That had been months ago, before it had all gone wrong, so wrong.
Life had a funny way of changing between heartbeats, like the moment Percy had realized all the things his family had warned him about had been true. Minister Bagman had indeed been involved with Voldemort, his sudden advancement in the ministry after his mysterious absence had been phenomenal, carefully orchestrated by those needing a puppet leading their world. One minute Percy had been a valued member of the society, a man of relative wealth and a strong position, feeling good about his life. The next, he had been a miserable traitor with nothing but shattered illusions left.
Breathing in and out slowly, ignoring the twinge in his side, he refused to think about his life as an illusion. He'd done what he thought was right, both when he'd worked in the ministry and then later when he'd owled all the documents he could get his hands on to Harry Potter.
Not a total disappointment, not to himself anyway, and that was what really mattered, right?
He waited for Voldemort to cast another curse, wondering if it were possible to die from the pain caused by the cruciatus. It was something many scholars had theories about, but no one had ever come to a certain conclusion. Such uncertainty annoyed him immensely, especially now that it had turned from academic interest to real need.
Dying would be easy now, easier than living anyway. This abysmal dungeon was too well guarded with too many Death Eaters. He couldn't escape, not on his own, and even after long hours of torture, he couldn't find the selfishness to hope for a rescue.
He was on his own, away from anyone who might still care about his fate, separated from old friends and family by choice, by foolish pride.
"What shall we do with this traitor then?"
Percy doubted Voldemort was asking him, so he didn't say anything, still concentrating on his breathing. The masked men standing around him made a few suggestions, all worse than the one before, and he couldn't help flinching at some.
Fear was a new sensation, introduced by the Dark Lord himself, but this wasn't simple curses or hexes the Death Eaters were talking about. It was humiliation and torture that involved blood and pain and things Percy didn't even have words for.
His heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest, he waited, wondering if he should try to make a run for it.
Crawling would be a most appropriate term, but even so, maybe someone would hex him with the killing curse for even trying.
Someone kicked him, surprisingly gently, so that he rolled to his back, looking up at a masked figure standing before him. He blinked, uncertain of what was going on, but knowing it wasn't anything good. Voldemort was still there, right at the edge of his vision, his eyes burning like two embers, burning into him.
"He's yours first. As a reward for your good services, my young friend," Voldemort said, his voice pleased, and the men around him murmured in appreciation and encouragement.
Muttering, "Thank you my lord," the masked man kicked Percy again.
The voice was familiar, making Percy think of the moment before he'd been taken to the dungeons. His youngest brother had always called the boy a ferret, but he thought he reminded him more of a rat. A filthy rodent living on scraps.
He smiled at the thought even as strong hands grabbed him and pushed him to his face.
"Not much fun, is it, Weasel?" The hands were ripping his already torn robes.
"Better than listening to your tantrums..." he managed out, his tone far from the usual dry politeness.
It wasn't the smartest thing to say, but even a man as reasonable as himself could be pushed over his limits. He had a second to enjoy his empty victory before his robes were completely gone, and then he was lifted until he was on his knees, face still pressed
against the cold stone.
He hadn't thought of this, hadn't thought of the rumors about how the Death Eaters amused themselves, the old stories always making him scoff. Fairy tales of ogres made to frighten children to behave; not real, not something people would actually do to each other.
Definitely not something he should ever worry about.
Pain lanced through him as something pressed against him and then pushed in, the agony more defined than the cruciatus, tearing a horrified sound from his throat. He barely heard the laughter, his whole body going rigid with the feeling of being penetrated, fingers scraping at the stones until they were bloody, nails torn.
Trying to squirm away, escape the only thing in his mind, he reached out for something, anything, and there was nothing to ground him, nothing to help him get away from the bruising hands and the hardness invading his body.
Behind him, the rodent of a boy was laughing, breathing hard with every thrust. Calling his name out, mocking him, laughing at him.
Percy didn't have the strength to hate himself for screaming. He'd already screamed during the torture, even after he'd sworn to himself he wouldn't bend or break. Such empty promises, made with the conviction of strength he didn't possess after all.
"Not making any more jokes, are you, Weasel?"
No jokes, not ever, and Percy bit through his tongue to keep those words inside. He might scream, but he wasn't going to beg. Not now, not to this bastard, not while he still had an ounce of pride left.
The taunts turned to groans, harsh breaths on his shoulder, and then something hot flooded inside him, burning him. He could only manage sobs, not knowing if it was for the pain or the humiliation or the relief that it was all over.
"Well done." The hated sibilant voice rang in the room, sounding darker than before. "Now I do think it is your turn, Minister Bagman."
Percy flinched at that, unable to comprehend that even that had been a lie. None of the others had been referred by name, not the ones who'd dragged him down here, not the ones casting curses. Then the true meaning of Voldemort's words hit him, and he tried to scramble away again.
There were hands on him, holding him still, and he could hear cloth being removed, then a zipper. He could imagine those meticulously pressed trousers his boss had always worn, and a stray thought of him ruining his clothes while kneeling on the dirty floor came out of nowhere, making him shake his head in disgust.
Something pressed against his ass, stinging the already raw skin, and he let out a whimper. Not this, not again.
It was like someone was hearing his frantic thoughts. The touch against him was soft, limp, and a moment later a familiar voice muttered, "I'm sorry... I can't..."
Rancous laughter came from the ranks of the Death Eaters, but Percy closed his eyes in relief. Nothing could be worse than this. Absolutely nothing.
Like so many times before, he was wrong.
There was another touch, another man behind him, and this time the press against his abused ass was hard as iron, pushing in with determination. He could feel blood run down his thighs, struggling against the invasion weakly as if he had no strength for anything else.
"That's right, Weasley..." hot breath touched his shoulder. "Fight me."
A shock of blond hair fell down, covering the side of Percy's face, and he flinched at the touch, knowing all too well who was on top of him, hating the thought as much as he hated what he was doing.
"Good... I imagine your father would be like that as well.... All fire and rage and weakness under my hands..." The thought seemed to excite him more, as the thrusts turned into pounding.
Percy gagged, the strength of the thrusts driving his body into an awkward sprawl. "No..." No, Merlin, not this, not this, and please shut up about his family.
Husky words still fell from Lucius Malfoy's lips, cruel descriptions of what he was doing, what he was going to do with others. He was clearly accustomed to this, lasting forever, his hips driving in and out, almost in synch with his taunts. "So tight, I bet you were a virgin before my boy got to you... I wonder if your brothers will feel as tight as you do... It'll be a pleasure finding that out..."
"No..." Wailing it out, Percy tried to turn, tried to reach for Malfoy, but he was too weak from the torture, weak from what Malfoys had done to him, and his flailing made Malfoy laugh, a hand grabbing his hair.
This was what it meant to be broken. He'd never understood the saying before, not before his body was taken and his mind filled with the possibility of horror. There was nothing left of him, nothing left to do, and he squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out and tickling his skin as they trailed down.
When Malfoy finally groaned out with his completion, Percy kept still, not daring to hope it was the end but feeling the bitter taste of disappointment anyway as someone else took his place. His ass was on fire, the pain not diminshing with the slippery feeling of blood easing the way of every thrust. He didn't know who was holding him down this time, didn't recognize the voice sprouting out profanities, and it was a blessing. Nothing personal in the words and threats, nothing to touch him deeper than skin.
It didn't make it better, his body screaming with agony, his whole being filling with despair as the Death Eater finished. Someone cast a rudimentary healing charm on him and he could feel a tingling sensation deep inside. Then there was someone else, touching him, the soft sweeps of hands a mockery of real caresses, followed by the now familiar pain of penetration, dry this time, tearing out screams from his hoarse throat.
He was moved, pushed to his back, then to his side, his body growing stiff. Never looking at the masked figures reaching out for him, he tried to shut down, hide somewhere deep inside him, but the agony was always fresh on his barely healed skin, and each muttered word tore at his soul. The worst were those who kept on a litany of commentary, muttering, "Yeah, fuck, can you feel I'm fucking your sweet arse?" like he wasn't even there, unable to comprehend what was going on. He had no defenses against that.
This was hell, the simple act of bodies claiming him more unforgivable than any of the curses named as such. It was an endless agony, every pumping body emptying into him replaced with a new one, taking him, branding him, and none of his screams and pleas and crying helped one bit.
"We should give him some rest," Voldemort said when the Death Eater holding him down slipped out of him. "There is always tomorrow."
Percy blinked, his eyes almost swolled shut from all the tears. Tomorrow? Dear Merlin, he wondered if that meant an endless string of days, all spent like this. His mind almost snapped, the thought too awful to bear, and when the world didn't fade away, he cursed his life.
The muttered words of a healing charm made him flinch, and then there was a silence. No one came to grab him and drag him away, no one left the room. It was as if the Death Eaters were all waiting for something, a dismissal, a command to act, like it was all they knew.
Voldemort laughed. "But of course, I'm forgetting something. Come, now. Yes. Go ahead. You should be rewarded as well, my most loyal servant."
Tensing, Percy listened to the soft footsteps and the now familiar rustling of cloth. He was breathing erraticly, almost choking on every intake of breath. "Please, no..." And yes, he was indeed a disappointment, to himself the most, but he couldn't even try to be brave,
for there was no bravery in lying on filthy floor, covered in semen and sweat and blood.
There was laughter coming from all around him, but his pleas didn't stop the touches, didn't make it all go away. The hands on his skin were firm but not bruising, but the hardness of yet another cock pressing into him gave him no mercy, as cruel and punishing as
the ones before.
Percy's fingers curled on the floor, the final act of defiance, of desperation.
Moving in a steady pace, the Death Eater leaned down, bracing himself with a hand on the floor, the other one holding onto Percy's hip, slipping a little on the sweaty skin. Percy stared at the pale hand, the illusion of etherity marred by dark ink stains.
"No..." And he knew it was still in vain; begging and pleading had never got any mercy shown in the Potions class, and it was futile now. Still, he gasped out, "Please," his mind unable to comprehend this.
It was easier when he didn't know who they were, when the taunting voices were blurred by the cheers and laughter, when the curses and profanities weren't personal. This was somehow worse than Malfoy claiming him, swearing vengeance to his whole family.
He had trusted some of these people, this one probably more than any, with a child's trust towards those who were meant to keep them safe and teach them things. Memories of the best time of his life, years of being surrounded by books and new knowledge were torn apart by steady movements of hips against his arse.
Feeling lips on his ear made this act a mockery, and he wanted to close his mind from whatever words would come next.
"I'm sorry this is all I can give you..." There was infinite sadness in the deep voice.
Percy stiffened as he felt something sharp on his skin, a bite or a prick. It was barely noticable, the pain brief and quickly fading, and the moment of distraction made the steady thrusting into him feel even worse.
Then it slowly misted over, like fog dancing over the Black Lake in the morning. He let out a pained sound, his lips going slack, but there was no real agony, no sensation as the body above him stiffened and then shuddered in completion. It was all somewhere far away, not really touching him.
Mind oddly clear, he realized this was not supposed to happen to him. There ought to be something else, something more. The Death Eaters grabbing him and dragging him away barely registered, as did Voldemort's promises about tomorrow.
He felt no terror or fear, he felt nothing at all.
Pain was also gone, and it was more welcome than anything. He lay where they dropped him, not noticing the hardness of the floor or the tight shackles on his wrists.
He was done, had nothing left in him, and though there would be no real rescue, he knew he was still saved. Nothing could be done to him, and this numbness was a gift beyond price. The analytical part of his mind wondered just exactly what it was he'd been given, but the rest of him didn't give a damn. It clouded the pain, clouded the horrors, and it was just like falling asleep or slipping into sweet unconsciousness, with one slight difference. He was certain he wouldn't wake up this time, and it was a blessing.
This was death, but it wasn't as bad as he'd sometimes imagined. He kind of wished he could tell that to his family, or even tell Snape he understood. That he was grateful.
Their world was burning, but he'd done his share, had given good people good information, though it had been one of the last things he'd ever done, and maybe, just maybe they would win. Whatever happened, he was going to die, not as a disappointment, but as a casualty of war, and there were worse ways to go. Worse things than poison now turning everything black.
A soft smile made his already dull eyes shine for a moment though it couldn't move his lips.
The End
Disclaimers: Not mine, borrowed without permission, am not making any money. Please don't sue. Sherbet Lemon?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 06:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 12:57 pm (UTC)I aim to please.... Must check who gushed and where and will see if it can be un-gushed.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-16 02:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-17 12:26 am (UTC)