He hurts. The Dark Lord has made his displeasure clear that there wasn't more information. He might have relayed more misinformation had he had the chance, but he had lost his ability to think and remember his carefully planned lies in the haze of pain. The Dark Lord had set the other death eaters to abusing him too quickly. He had lost consciousness in the dungeon room of the meeting, but wakes on the lawn outside. A stick to lean on and masses of bandages conjured with a ferula charm make his leg able to support weight, but just barely. He remembers that someone's boot had connected with the back of his knee just before his head connected with the floor. His head spins every time he moves, but he doesn't dare stay where he is. There will be a drunken revel going on inside, and it will soon spill outdoors. The inebriated death eaters will do him even more damage than when they are sober. Apparition isn't safe in his current state, but he does it anyway. Splinching will be less painful than what waits for him if he remains here.
He is not splinched, but again passes out when he arrives, the pain of landing on his hurt leg too much for him in his weakened state. It is early morning when he wakes again. He is yet weaker, but his instinct for self preservation forces him to his feet again, struggling to get to safety while he still can.
The gates open for him and he hobbles slowly through. He is shaking all over, staggering, in danger of falling at every step. Blood trickles into his eyes from a head wound he is barely aware that he has, and he doesn't notice it. He cannot think, can barely see his destination, but pushes on on instinct alone. He feels the pain, and at the same time does not.
He falls and lies there a moment, then crawls forward again, dragging his broken body up the steps. The great doors open for him, as if they know that he does not have the strength to open them himself. The antechamber is deserted, and he pulls himself to his feet again, clinging to a torch bracket with both hands for balance. He wants to keep moving, but his legs won't support him.
His colleague finds him there, clinging to the wall to stay upright, head bowed, face and hands slick with blood and cold sweat, eyes glazed. She rushes to him, and he hears her call his name as if from a great distance and feels her arm go around his shoulders as his shaky control over his body finally gives out and he plunges into darkness again.
He floats a long time, perceiving vaguely light and dark and sometimes voices, but never close enough to make out words or people or location. An indeterminable time later, he makes out someone saying his name and struggles to come back to himself.
There are people near him, they're talking about him. They think he'll soon either wake or die, because they don't know what more they can do for him and cannot take him to St Mungo's for fear of it having been infiltrated. As his head slowly clears, he remembers what happened and recognizes where he is. Despite his weakness and overall ache, he breathes a sigh of relief. He has made it to safety, and is alive to spy again. To be hurt again. But that is the future. The present is that he has defied death again.
The two women talking near him do not realize yet that he has finally woken, and they are worried. They have both known him since his childhood, indeed know more about him than he would care to have revealed, and have a soft spot in their hearts for him. They've seen him hurt before, many times, and know how he responds to it. They knew from the minute they saw him how bad it was. They see him hurt more often than healthy, hurt by abusive parents when he returned to school in the fall, by school bullies during the school year, by the death eaters as an adult. Many times they have wished to protect him, but they have never been able to. All they can ever do for him is do their best to heal the wounds of his body and mind. Even there they know that they fail. He remains distant and aloof, never seeking help until he is too far gone to help himself. He allows nobody to get too close to him, preferring to hide his pains behind his smooth public mask, never letting on that anything is wrong. Once in a while they catch him self-medicating, crying, treating some injury, when he thinks they will not see him, and when caught he makes the evidence disappear and lies to them with a straight face. It is only these times, when he is too weak to struggle, that he cannot hide from them.
Older (file creation date 2010) piece I found sitting on my harddrive. Dear Merlin, this is a dark little vignette.
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