The voices around me fade in and out of my awareness as I watch him.
He is lying on the cell floor, his trembling visible even from here. His
eyes are open, panicked and vacant. I wonder how much he is aware of. I
wonder if he knows that these men are discussing his impending death.
Through the eyes in my mask I watch him, and I wonder if he knows that I am
here.
The others filter out and I am alone with him. I approach the bars swiftly. I do not know how long we have. I do not know if he will recognize me in his state, nor do I know if he will want to hear what I have to say. More distressing than that, I do not know what I can possibly tell him. I have little comfort, and even less hope, to offer.
His sudden movement startles me as he rises and lunges toward me. I step back reflexively and he reaches a thin arm out for me. He is looking directly into my eyes and recognition is clear. I meet his gaze and step to the bars, encircling one with my fingers. I resist the urge to pull away when his hand, unpleasantly warm, covers my own. His other hand grabs my wrist and slides roughly up my arm and under my robe, stopping only when his elbow becomes wedged between the bars.
"Potter", I hiss, doing my best to ignore the awkward physical contact.
"Please don't go," his voice is a horse whisper. This small movement of his mouth is enough to reopen his split lip and a trickle of fresh blood runs down his bruised chin. The sight is pathetic.
"Be quiet, Potter." His hands are moving again, squeezing and caressing my skin. "I am doing everything that I can."
A door slams somewhere and he jumps. His grip has become painfully tight and I start to have nightmare images of being found like this. I pull away and he whines in protest. He tries to reach out for me again and his legs give way. For a moment his arm is stuck in the bars and he dangles before collapsing to his knees, forehead resting on the bars.
People are approaching. Despite myself, my hand reached out for the boy. It rests on the top of his head for a moment in what I hope is a comforting gesture. It is all that I have to offer. I retreat and lean casually against a wall just as the door opens to admit two Death Eaters. To my horror, I hear that Potter has begun weeping. It is a high pitched and inhuman sound.
One of the masked figures laughs.
"Did we interrupt? Having a little fun of your own, were you?"
"How could I resist?" I respond dryly. "You try teaching this brat for seven years."
I sweep out of the room, leaving their laughter behind. I resolve to find every opportunity I have to spend some time with the boy. I am sure that I can get him alone under the guise of revenge. Until I can reach Dumbledore or find some means of smuggling one teenage boy from a fully shielded and guarded compound, I will give him the closest thing to a friendly face that he has here. It is all that I have to offer.
The others filter out and I am alone with him. I approach the bars swiftly. I do not know how long we have. I do not know if he will recognize me in his state, nor do I know if he will want to hear what I have to say. More distressing than that, I do not know what I can possibly tell him. I have little comfort, and even less hope, to offer.
His sudden movement startles me as he rises and lunges toward me. I step back reflexively and he reaches a thin arm out for me. He is looking directly into my eyes and recognition is clear. I meet his gaze and step to the bars, encircling one with my fingers. I resist the urge to pull away when his hand, unpleasantly warm, covers my own. His other hand grabs my wrist and slides roughly up my arm and under my robe, stopping only when his elbow becomes wedged between the bars.
"Potter", I hiss, doing my best to ignore the awkward physical contact.
"Please don't go," his voice is a horse whisper. This small movement of his mouth is enough to reopen his split lip and a trickle of fresh blood runs down his bruised chin. The sight is pathetic.
"Be quiet, Potter." His hands are moving again, squeezing and caressing my skin. "I am doing everything that I can."
A door slams somewhere and he jumps. His grip has become painfully tight and I start to have nightmare images of being found like this. I pull away and he whines in protest. He tries to reach out for me again and his legs give way. For a moment his arm is stuck in the bars and he dangles before collapsing to his knees, forehead resting on the bars.
People are approaching. Despite myself, my hand reached out for the boy. It rests on the top of his head for a moment in what I hope is a comforting gesture. It is all that I have to offer. I retreat and lean casually against a wall just as the door opens to admit two Death Eaters. To my horror, I hear that Potter has begun weeping. It is a high pitched and inhuman sound.
One of the masked figures laughs.
"Did we interrupt? Having a little fun of your own, were you?"
"How could I resist?" I respond dryly. "You try teaching this brat for seven years."
I sweep out of the room, leaving their laughter behind. I resolve to find every opportunity I have to spend some time with the boy. I am sure that I can get him alone under the guise of revenge. Until I can reach Dumbledore or find some means of smuggling one teenage boy from a fully shielded and guarded compound, I will give him the closest thing to a friendly face that he has here. It is all that I have to offer.