Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me.

Warning: memories of rape/ non-con.

The wind wailed restlessly outside, and trees swayed precariously, groaning as they bend over with their weight, under the force of the wind, warning of a coming rainstorm.

A blot of lightning flashed across, splitting the grey blanket in two for a second, followed by a thunder that struck the eardrums like a whiplash.

Large raindrops start to fall, and green eyes watched as they descend, finally splattering on the cold stone slabs below. It creates a splash effect that makes it seem like they are white forms dancing, ripples from each raindrop colliding and blending into one another.

Crack! A branch of the great oak tree finally snapped, carried a distance by the howling wind before it hits the ground.

Would I snap too in the storm?

Or perhaps it's only the trees that break.

Would the swirling gusts of air and battering rain break me like it broke the branch?

Like you broke me?

A hesitant hand reached for the wand that lay concealed in the folds of his cloak.

Will I- do I dare?

A floating spell was cast. The window thrown open. And a figure stepped off the ledge, falling forward, embracing the rush of air that sped up to meet him.

Foolish, foolish boy.

The body suddenly stopped, suspended in mid-air. Arms began to move, parting and pushing air currents aside as the body glided upwards. It's like swimming, only the medium is air and not water.

He reached a certain height, and lay face up towards the clouds, contend to let the rain fall, to let the wind play, directing him to where it wills. Drops of water beat upon his body, soaking him to the skin. Cold shafts of air enveloped him, caressing his face, an invisible icy hand that makes him shiver.

Just like certain long pale fingers that touched him, moving across his naked skin, cool and cruel.

He shut his eyes tight against the unwanted rush of memories that comes, desperately clinging on to the cold that does not allow him to think.

Don't think, only feel. Feel the cold, the chill that went bone deep in the torrent of rain and icy wind.

Let the rain wash over him as if it would cleanse his battered soul, heal his tortured mind, sooth his abused body, and revive his dead heart.

As if it doesn't matter when fingers probed him as he lay helpless. As if it doesn't hurt when alien hardness rammed into him. As if he doesn't taste blood each time he bit his lip from crying out. As if a piece of him doesn't die each time it happens.

As if.

Tears mixed with rain, tasting a little salty.

Just like the sticky white liquid that floods his mouth when he comes.

He suddenly felt the urge to vomit as his stomach heaved violently at the thought. The moment passed, and he shivered.

It was cold. Now it's freezing.

But he does not care.

He is numb. Beyond cold, beyond pain, beyond feeling.

And it doesn't matter if his blood were to splatter across the cold stone slabs like the rain.

Because he is already dead.

He drew out his wand.

"Finite Incantatum."

And he fell.