In Your Hands
Waiting.
The tick of the Muggle clock was the only sound.
Waiting.
He thought about picking up the clock and throwing it across the room.
Waiting.
No. Make no noise. Make no mess. Don't speak don't move don't even dare to think without permission.
Waiting.
He'd be here soon.
The thought was not reassuring.
He wondered when his life had become this: a constant nightmare of fear, of suspicion, of perpetually trying to be something he wasn't. Lying that he was something he wasn't. A year ago? Or had it happened sooner?
It was their fault. He tried the thought on for size, as he often did these days. Their fault. They were so loud - so bright - so visible. He'd said time and again that they should keep their heads down. What was to be gained by shouting defiance, and dying for their pains? There was no escape from this - couldn't they see that? But they wouldn't listen. They took too many chances. And they dragged him along with them. They knew he was weaker than them. They knew he was scared. But they let him get involved anyway - put him at risk, and trusted him with secrets he didn't want to know.
The thought didn't fit so well as he'd persuaded himself it should. It wasn't their fault. He didn't have to stay - but that would be betrayal - but wasn't it more of a betrayal to be where he was now? His head spun. The thought didn't fit. And he was still waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting like a pickpocket with a key clenched in his sweaty fist, except that the key was a golden charm wrapped deep in his weak, frightened soul.
He didn't know what was going to happen after tonight. He didn't want to know. He'd told them they should keep their heads down. They were clever. They'd get away. No - no, they wouldn't. Because they knew they couldn't be found now. They knew they were safe. They thought they were safe.
How had he come here? He was scared - scared of death, of pain - but most of all, when glittering red eyes burned into his own, he was just afraid of the white-skinned sharp-faced cruel and laughing lord who'd said, with a soft hiss, a year ago, 'You'll do. You'll serve. You will not speak. Now go.'
His arm burned. The Mark burned when he thought these things. He was caught now, they had him branded, and if he showed the Mark to the others they'd kill him.
So he was going to kill them instead. No. NO. Stop. He couldn't. He would never do that.
All he was doing was waiting. That was all. He wasn't going to kill anyone. He was just going to wait, and then he would answer one question, and that would be all. He would never kill them. They were his friends.
The clock ticked.
He wanted to break it, but he didn't dare.
He watched the door instead.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
The tick of the Muggle clock was the only sound.
Waiting.
He thought about picking up the clock and throwing it across the room.
Waiting.
No. Make no noise. Make no mess. Don't speak don't move don't even dare to think without permission.
Waiting.
He'd be here soon.
The thought was not reassuring.
He wondered when his life had become this: a constant nightmare of fear, of suspicion, of perpetually trying to be something he wasn't. Lying that he was something he wasn't. A year ago? Or had it happened sooner?
It was their fault. He tried the thought on for size, as he often did these days. Their fault. They were so loud - so bright - so visible. He'd said time and again that they should keep their heads down. What was to be gained by shouting defiance, and dying for their pains? There was no escape from this - couldn't they see that? But they wouldn't listen. They took too many chances. And they dragged him along with them. They knew he was weaker than them. They knew he was scared. But they let him get involved anyway - put him at risk, and trusted him with secrets he didn't want to know.
The thought didn't fit so well as he'd persuaded himself it should. It wasn't their fault. He didn't have to stay - but that would be betrayal - but wasn't it more of a betrayal to be where he was now? His head spun. The thought didn't fit. And he was still waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting like a pickpocket with a key clenched in his sweaty fist, except that the key was a golden charm wrapped deep in his weak, frightened soul.
He didn't know what was going to happen after tonight. He didn't want to know. He'd told them they should keep their heads down. They were clever. They'd get away. No - no, they wouldn't. Because they knew they couldn't be found now. They knew they were safe. They thought they were safe.
How had he come here? He was scared - scared of death, of pain - but most of all, when glittering red eyes burned into his own, he was just afraid of the white-skinned sharp-faced cruel and laughing lord who'd said, with a soft hiss, a year ago, 'You'll do. You'll serve. You will not speak. Now go.'
His arm burned. The Mark burned when he thought these things. He was caught now, they had him branded, and if he showed the Mark to the others they'd kill him.
So he was going to kill them instead. No. NO. Stop. He couldn't. He would never do that.
All he was doing was waiting. That was all. He wasn't going to kill anyone. He was just going to wait, and then he would answer one question, and that would be all. He would never kill them. They were his friends.
The clock ticked.
He wanted to break it, but he didn't dare.
He watched the door instead.
Waiting.
Waiting.