I tried to write a song-fic, it wouldn't flow.
This was created instead. In my mind this is about Harry and Draco, but I'll leave it to you to interpret the end with either boy in the roles if you don't like my selection.
It is not slash, so no actual romance.
Well, here's my Christmas piece. Funny, I always write my most depressing stuff around this time! Oh well. I hope you enjoy it. Constructive criticism Really appreciated as are other reviews. This just leaves me to say, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
Prisoner of War
I sit here watching you watching me. You don't seem to care, do you? Of course not; you listen to your leader. You turn your eyes towards the door. Is your master coming? Won't that be fun...
You can watch him torture me, hell, you can even join in! Then he will be satisfied that you are worthy of his beliefs. You follow them anyway, so why not do it officially?
You sit on that chair watching me writhe in my chains. You never speak. Well, why would you? I'm just me; and not worthy of your divine attention. The man smiled at his captor and spat blood onto the stained stone floor. The man observing him didn't stir, not acknowledging the movement of the captive.
You don't know how much this hurts… I feel like my internal organs are being flayed, much harder than the beatings that bastard gave you. I can see the scars forming on your grimy chest. You poor soul, I wish I could help…
I wonder what you are thinking of as you look at my body; is it remorse? Glee? Or even desire? I don't even know what I look like anymore, these chains aren't exactly built for comfort! My eyesight is blurry; too many lashings of a whip across my face. Your looks are clear however; I guess it is because of the time I have spent here taking in your features: your high cheekbones, your fiery eyes, your crimson lips… I can see you perfectly! I wish I couldn't; torture is an ugly thing, as should its creators be. Ironic, it seems that evil comes from pure beauty…
It is funny how things turn out; the good sometimes have to be as bad as the bad, and yet can still be labelled good. Men who strive to be good perish, yet those 'good' who are willing to do 'whatever it takes' are labelled heroes, even though they themselves performed unspeakably evil acts. Is it ok to hurt bad people? When do you become bad? Is it after hurting someone? After wishing someone ill? If so, then mental or physical hurt?
Black and white is a tricky line to tread; all too easy to cross in the minds of 'justice'. Justice is nothing but public opinion. I maintain my path of grey… The thing with grey is that, no matter how much white you add, it is always grey; a tarnished tone, evil always present.
Could I save him if I tried? I doubt it. No one would allow his escape, and I would be dragged down too. I could never help him if I was worse off than him… no, stop lying, I'm just plain scared; I don't know what they would do if I 'changed sides'; 'whatever it takes' right…
The watcher stood up, muscles in his legs aching from non use. He couldn't just sit there anymore. Don't worry; I'll take care of you. Without a word, he walked to the man hanging on the wall. Without a word, he brought a calloused hand to the man's face. Without a word, he traced the once proud features of the captive. What have they done to you? Without a word, he massaged the hostage's torso, carefully avoiding the welts and bruising. This didn't leave much left, but he continued nevertheless.
The prisoner almost froze during the man's caresses; he was confused and sceptical of his own senses, numbed by pain. But he felt it; he felt the feathery touches soothing the hurt where they could not sooth the wounds. He saw the man's eyes, preoccupied in their task. They were compassionate, an emotion the man had almost forgotten to recognise. He stiffened, and voice gruff and breaking from lack of use, whispered harshly, "I don't need your pity."
"That's good," replied the man, still stroking his chest in fascination, "because I'm not giving it to you." He stepped back and immediately the captive was sorry for his cruel words. The man, interest apparently abated, sat back down.
Pity, sympathy, concern, all these words, none include understanding. People say that understand, but they pity. People pity, but all they do is realise that the situation is bad. Words made long ago have lost their meaning to today's use.
Why? Why did he stop? Why did he start? Is this a new form of torment they have made? Messing with my mind; making me think that someone cared? Oh god, just stop… everything, just stop… I can't… too much… May they finally forgive me… I can't take any more.
The man in chains slumped and the seated man ran to him checking his pulse. He ran to the door calling out. In seconds a tall man walked in. "He's dead," croaked the anguished man.
"Took him long enough," replied the tall man, "I'll tell Dumbledore."