This is a bit of a traumatic piece, dealing with Percy's thoughts after his
capture by Voldemort. It also includes slash, albeit un-consummated. If
this isn't your cup of tea, then I would suggest you didn't read it.
If you do read this though, I would appreciate feedback - please hit the review key and tell me what you think.
This is all belongs to J.K Rowling - Thankyou so much for the loan of such wonderful characters.
Captured.
I remember the first time I saw him. How old must he have been? 11? 12? I can't remember exactly. I don't remember much any more. Not the names of any of those pupils I used to reside over. I don't remember why I felt it necessary to be so pompous, so untouchable. But I do remember that I felt important, a wave of glory having swept over me from the first moment those vitally significant words had been spoken to me. "Prefect." Who cared if the unavoidable allusions to ridicule and stupidity had come right along with it. I was right where I belonged. High management, allowed to pass judgement on my fellow pupils. And I do remember I loved every moment of it.
And now? I never knew that it would be my downfall. An inside knowledge of the whole of Hogwarts.
I struggle with the chains that bind me.
Huge frameworks of iron trap my hands and feet, and I slump back against the stone wall, like every one of us here. How many of us dirty, bound people are there here? The cell stretches for what seems like miles, and there are bodies all along. Most of them so far removed from reality as to have given up all hope of ever surviving this hell. Maybe I've still got that loss to come. As Mel Gibson once said, "You may take my life, but you'll will never take my freedom." Once more, my mind swings back to Him.
I see him as he was, a young man, with chocolate brown hair, dazzling grey eyes and a broomstick as a permanent attachment. I always watched him, though for a long time I couldn't see why I was so fixated on the handsome Quidditch player. Now I wonder how I could have been so stupid for so long. Now, with all my freedom taken away, I long for the chance to tell him exactly how I feel. I will probably die in this cell, and Oliver will never know just how I loved him. How I always loved him.
I used to love sharing a room with him. The way we used to share glances, lingering glances. By the time I got to be head boy, the sidelong glances had metamorphosised into open gazes. The way we used to sit on either side of the huge desk, books open in front of us, and never take our eyes off each other.
And now I'm here, and I wonder why we never took the plunge and went for it. Why my fear held us back. But now? I have no fear. How can I fear death, when it can only be a release from what I suffer now? I'm stuck in an underground cell in a foreign country, awaiting a death sentence from a man who shall remain nameless. As always. Humanising him removes the abject terror of anonymity, yet still we dare not speak his name.
For a second, my mind flicks towards my family, but I can't let it linger there. I feared for their lives before I was captured, and I don't doubt that the death eaters have extracted their revenge on the Weasleys. I have no doubt that Oliver is also dead. I felt it, like a stab to my heart, when I heard of the dark side's attack on the French frontier. He was knighted before his death, Sir Oliver. I can do no other but imagine him, and I long to be released from this hell. Will no-one release me from my torment? I long to be with him once more.
Hungry scars criss-cross my tired legs, and I relinquish all my previous hope. There is nothing left. I can feel my mouth open, hear my moans of pain. I long for the end.
If you do read this though, I would appreciate feedback - please hit the review key and tell me what you think.
This is all belongs to J.K Rowling - Thankyou so much for the loan of such wonderful characters.
Captured.
I remember the first time I saw him. How old must he have been? 11? 12? I can't remember exactly. I don't remember much any more. Not the names of any of those pupils I used to reside over. I don't remember why I felt it necessary to be so pompous, so untouchable. But I do remember that I felt important, a wave of glory having swept over me from the first moment those vitally significant words had been spoken to me. "Prefect." Who cared if the unavoidable allusions to ridicule and stupidity had come right along with it. I was right where I belonged. High management, allowed to pass judgement on my fellow pupils. And I do remember I loved every moment of it.
And now? I never knew that it would be my downfall. An inside knowledge of the whole of Hogwarts.
I struggle with the chains that bind me.
Huge frameworks of iron trap my hands and feet, and I slump back against the stone wall, like every one of us here. How many of us dirty, bound people are there here? The cell stretches for what seems like miles, and there are bodies all along. Most of them so far removed from reality as to have given up all hope of ever surviving this hell. Maybe I've still got that loss to come. As Mel Gibson once said, "You may take my life, but you'll will never take my freedom." Once more, my mind swings back to Him.
I see him as he was, a young man, with chocolate brown hair, dazzling grey eyes and a broomstick as a permanent attachment. I always watched him, though for a long time I couldn't see why I was so fixated on the handsome Quidditch player. Now I wonder how I could have been so stupid for so long. Now, with all my freedom taken away, I long for the chance to tell him exactly how I feel. I will probably die in this cell, and Oliver will never know just how I loved him. How I always loved him.
I used to love sharing a room with him. The way we used to share glances, lingering glances. By the time I got to be head boy, the sidelong glances had metamorphosised into open gazes. The way we used to sit on either side of the huge desk, books open in front of us, and never take our eyes off each other.
And now I'm here, and I wonder why we never took the plunge and went for it. Why my fear held us back. But now? I have no fear. How can I fear death, when it can only be a release from what I suffer now? I'm stuck in an underground cell in a foreign country, awaiting a death sentence from a man who shall remain nameless. As always. Humanising him removes the abject terror of anonymity, yet still we dare not speak his name.
For a second, my mind flicks towards my family, but I can't let it linger there. I feared for their lives before I was captured, and I don't doubt that the death eaters have extracted their revenge on the Weasleys. I have no doubt that Oliver is also dead. I felt it, like a stab to my heart, when I heard of the dark side's attack on the French frontier. He was knighted before his death, Sir Oliver. I can do no other but imagine him, and I long to be released from this hell. Will no-one release me from my torment? I long to be with him once more.
Hungry scars criss-cross my tired legs, and I relinquish all my previous hope. There is nothing left. I can feel my mouth open, hear my moans of pain. I long for the end.