Pairing(s): Harry/Tom and Draco/Ron (I think that will be all....)
Warnings: insanity? not the humor kind, but real insanity. angst, slash and sex. blood and morbid themes. I am not for children
Rating: R
Part: 07/??
Disclaimer: Not mine, need I have to say? The character have their rightful owners (who I am too lazy to name off), I'm just borrowing them for some one my little ideas.
Noted: I don't have a beta, so forgive my errors. Just starting to write and I already have a backache. That's sick. I just came from doing some codes for fanlistings that I joined, so I guess I have reason to be sore. I'm not in the brightest mood though (its not the fanlistings faults, I adore them to death and I join 'em for fun) cause I found out I'm over my limit for my domain. That means that I have to delete a ton of stuff when I get home. :( oh well, that's life.
He kept his eyes down.
The smell told him that if he raised his field of vision just a little to look at the feet of the ones at the high table, he would be violently ill. The smell made his mind scream to look (who is it? who is it?) and not look (don't let it be her. not her. not him. not anyone).
He would just keep his head down.
The ground was safe.
He almost wished that he were back where he had been hidden. There was no smells that made his mind scream there. There was no ache in the pit of his stomach at the thoughts of what he didn't want to see. There was nothing but the wait for his Master in where he had been hidden. He wanted that back.
He hated the wait, but he preferred it to this.
In his mind visions of a brown haired girl and a green eyed boy danced in his head. Also in his mind were visions of those same two in various stages of death, like hanging from the ceiling with vacant faces. Or lying at the Dark Lord's feet in a heap of his unfortunate peers. Or cut to pieces (there had been rumours of such muggle-like things happening).
Or...
Or...
The horror in his mind made him shiver and shake. He tried to keep still as possible though. He didn't want to attract too much attention to himself; to do so could be dangerous to his health. He didn't want to embarrass his Master either with his fear.
He was without anything, everything was given away.
He pressed him lips firmly together and lowered his head more. Focusing on the rules of his existence could help him for now. Help him block out the scent hanging thickly in the air. Help him stay as small and non-existent as possible.
Without anything. He wasn't allowed to possess anything; everything was passed to his Master. His name wasn't really his either. It was just signed onto paper when need be. He wasn't an 'it' though, those where house elves. He was just there. He was referred to as 'him', usually with a tone that implied that he was lower then the speaker.
He didn't have emotions, just the actions his Master wanted (lesson one: keep emotions hidden and never voice your thoughts).
He didn't have friends, just his Master (lesson two: Master is everything and friends are just an act).
He had no future (part two of lesson two: JUST Master).
He had no rights (lesson three: learn to bite your tongue without screaming or bleeding too much).
He couldn't name his Master (lesson four: it was just Master, nothing else).
He was, just was (lesson five: anything for Master, whatever his wish is, do it).
"Don't block this out," a voice whispered in his ear. His Master. Master always talked to him like that. Quiet, so that not many people could hear what was being said. Master seemed to like the privacy of such talk, so he had liked it as well. "It'll hurt less later if you absorb it all now. Get through the shock."
He wanted to shake his head. To say no. But he couldn't do that. He hadn't gotten permission to speak yet (lesson number six). He never got permission to speak out in the open anymore.
"Look."
He might have let out a whimper as the command came. He wanted to disobey, but it was too late to do something like that now. If he disobeyed now, he would embarrass Master greatly, and Master would be horrible displeased.
He started to cry, as he fought to lift his head (it seemed, his body was fighting his Master).
"Shh, it'll be okay," the voice murmured, a smile laced into the words. Fingers tapped his chin and forced his head to rise. "There, there..."
He knew he was crying harder now, but his face felt numb. He breath came in small, choking like gasps. His throat tightened and he wanted to scream. He wished he could scream. But he wasn't allowed to scream.
"The useless die," boomed a voice at the front. His vision was too blurry to tell who it was; he just knew they were dressed in black. "Be there anymore? Get rid of these, the Lord will not want blood on his shoes." He could see the motion of a kick and something flop at the man's feet.
He looked down at what was being kicked.
And almost sobbed one of those loud kinds of sobs.
Somewhere in his mind he had convinced himself that his own family would be all right. They were purebloods after all, even if they were a little on the poor side sometimes. Surely, his sister wouldn't be touched in all this ugliness.
Noooooooooo wailed his mind.
He cursed his eyes for focusing on this horror. Cause he saw one of the things he feared. The brown haired girl laid there, eyes open and blank. Lips parted, robes slightly torn. Her fingers looked just a little bit ink stained, like she had been in the library when it all happened. Beside her laid a red haired girl. Her face was pale, making her freckles stand out like a sore thumb. Her hair stuck against her forehead and her body lay on her side, almost turned away from him.
His peers.
Dead.
His family.
Dead.
His friend.
DEAD!
He cried as quietly as he could, since it was the only thing he would be allowed to do. His Master wouldn't care if he cried; His master would enjoy it actually. Misery loves company, or something of the sort.
"Let it sink," whispered his Master as he was wrapped in strangely strong arms. "See? Told you they'd leave you. Told you that one day, you would only have me. Never doubt your master."
He cried against his Master's shoulder, clutching at the robe (but trying not to wrinkle it). He let his misery sink over him as he stared forward at the bodies.
Then loud footsteps sounded and a progression of black dressed men entered the hall. They surround their horrid lord all the way up to the high table. There they parted and let their lord sit in what was once Dumbledore's chair (he wondered ideally, what had happened to the old man).
The Dark Lord smiled and waves a hand to the side.
He bit his tongue hard not to scream at what came forward.
Harry Potter.