I think I've read all the good fanfic out there. That is, the good ones that I like. The nice angsty, hurt/ comfort, gut wrenching stuff that makes you feel pity and horror towards what happens to someone but you just want more. This chapter is much shorter than the last, but I wanted to get straight to the point with this one.

-RedWayneHood

He is blind for the next two weeks.

Percy stumbles slowly through the darkness that is now his world, that is his friend, where large shapes are only made out by barely visible differences in dark coloring. One day, he looks toward the bright spot he knows is the sun peeping through the trees he can no longer see, and his eyes don't even feel like they're burning after at least five minutes.

He finally knows he's broken when the only thing he thinks about is the torture. Of the whip against his back and the spots the guards hit the most. He thinks of the Cruciatus curse and the points on his body that flare with pain, the joint he can't move hours after due to the pure pain inflicted on it. The world has become numb. Everyday, he is tortured. Everyday, he is humiliated. A traitor. A child.

Filthy.

Bastard.

Weak.

Useless.

Pathetic.

Cowardly.

Weak.

Broken.

Defiant.

Weak.

Sick.

Weak.

Weak.

Weak weak weak weak weak weak weak weak.

The worst part, which he doesn't even think about, is the fact he has to work. He's tugged into the open by a Death Eater, and when Percy finally hears the footsteps fade, some kind soul would come to him and help him to the quarry and mines, where they would put him in an unassuming spot and put a mining axe in his hand and Percy's labor would begin, the time seeming to be nonexistent in his numbness to anything but pain. Up, down. He always loosens his muscles when bringing the axe down. Up, down. Stone chips off from the infinite source of stone and minerals, and Percy keeps going. He keeps on working, even when his muscles tremble and the small amount of precious water he can drink per day seeps out of his pores in a salty mixture. He does this until when he assumes, although he doesn't care, is evening. Same as everyday, the female Death Eater takes him to the center of the Camp, gathering all the other prisoners, and publicly tortures him. It's grown to be something he's accustomed to. He's stopped wearing a shirt because they would just tear it off his frail body.

Is it still torture if it doesn't do anything, if his mind is too shattered ro have anything else to break?

It's on that day that he hears something, something new, something he doesn't care about. He hears the sound of multiple apparitions, of calls of "Expelliarmus!" and the angry shouts and yells of Death Eaters that is the tell-tale sign of something gone wrong, a rebellion or a liberation.

Turns out it's the latter.

Percy stays hunched in his position, feeling the thing itch on his face, his sweat making his eyes sting and his blood making uncomfortable trails down his back. He hears but doesn't comprehend the cry of a name in a shocked, horrified tone. He hears the angry cry of "Alahamora" and the clink as the cuffs open and fall off his wrists. He doesn't comprehend the stream of curse words, but he does feel the tender hands lifting him up as the sounds of a battle rage around him. One arm is under his knees, and the other is under his shirtless bony shoulder blades, hand cradling his head to a leather clad shoulder.

"Shh, I got you, I got you." His gut squirms as the soft-tone man carrying him Apparates, and Percy is no longer in the place that has been his home for, he would learn, eight months.