A/N: Percival Ignatius Weasley, next Minister of Magic of the United Kingdom, is now a prisoner in the Dark Lord's dungeon. His only hope is a certain glint in the eye of Marcus Flint. To what depths will Percy sink in order to escape?
Slash/yaoi/homosexual relationships. Swearing. Violence. Don't cry to me if you don't like it.
by cyanide blue
"You idiot, you stupid bloody idiot, don't you see what you're doing? You're killing Mum and one day you'll realize how wrong you are."
Pay attention, Percy. Keep your eyes open, because they're watching you, laughing at you, amused at your agony. They may have control but you have your pride, and no one's taking that away from you.
"At least this one had sense," the man he now knows is Rodolphus Lestrange says. "He left those Mudblood-lovers... he left his family. That's sense."
Charlie's eyes were clouded with tears that day, and Percy refused to believe those tears were genuine, that it was all a ruse, that they were fools. His father, a fool with no sense, poor with no ambition, where will that get you, Father? His mother, investing time and love into her joke of a husband, sacrificing dreams and ambition for her children, why would you waste your time on us? Charlie and Bill and Ron playing Dumbledore's heroes, Fred and George playing court jesters, dear, shy sweet Virginia now one of the roughest Hit Wizards in the Department. You just couldn't stick to the rules, Percy thinks. And now you'll pay for it, and I'm sorry.
Nonsense words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs run through his head, diplomatic and sensible, but you can't file away life or death—or love—and he knows that, deep down.
He'll never be able to apologize. He's going to die, and he knows it.
"Ah, but he followed Fudge." A wicked grin overcomes a face that he recognizes, and he recoils. Bellatrix Lestrange... the Longbottoms... the Longbottom boy, one of those that followed Potter and his little army. First merely a bogey in his head from the stories Mr. Crouch had told, now real. Too real. "Stupid ickle Fudge, who couldn't tell a Death Eater without the Dark Mark tattooed on our foreheads. Fudge's lapdog." She leers at him, and he is unable to not quail at her dark eyes on him.
He coughs, pain racking his throat to his shoulders with his restraints—Muggle restraints, no less, how ironic—and winces. "I am no one's lapdog," he manages to say.
Bellatrix Lestrange cups his chin, cackling in his face. "You are our dog," she whispers, grinning. "Unless the Master asks for you."
"Rodolphus, call off your wife. The Weasley looks like he's going to piss himself already, we don't need a mess."
Percy freezes at the voice. He knows that voice.
Rodolphus Lestrange sighs. "Flint, keep your nose out of things that don't concern you."
Flint steps into his vision, smirking as though his dreams have come true. "I know him. I know what will make him twitch. Leave him to me, then you can have him for what you will."
Bellatrix glares at Flint and she grabs his shirt collar, yanking him closer with malicious intent. "I've been torturing for longer than you've been alive, little boy."
Rodolphus looks between his wife and Flint and Percy a few times, and comes to a decision. "My love, he may be telling the truth… do you remember the fun we had with Lupin? We knew him… only had to mention a few things and he went mad."
Bellatrix seems to be pleased by that memory and looks to Rodolphus fondly, but looks back to Flint and remembers her purpose. "So?" she scoffs, and pushes Flint away impetuously. "I want him. He'll break." She inspects Percy with an artist's eye—if a sadistic one—and he doesn't move, not wanting to cringe and show his fear at her words.
Break?Despite his efforts, he feels himself shaking, and hates himself for it. Flint's eyes lock onto Percy's, and Percy glares back.
"Still with the Mudblood, Weasley?" Flint has never spoken fast or slurred words, like some. Percy now understands why. Flint picks and chooses his words carefully when he decides to speak, as to have the most impact possible when they are finally spoken.
Percy shakes his head, and the faintest traces of bitterness are audible in his voice. "I chose business."
Penny didn't cry when he chose the Ministry over her. She never was one to cry. She just shook her head in mixed disgust and sorrow, said his name in a way made his stomach turn with guilt, and stormed off. He hasn't seen her since.
"So you left the only woman who could likely stand you, nonetheless would be willing to snog you… for work. Hmm." Flint taps his lip in mock thought. "Or maybe she left you?" he says, smirking. "Maybe you just couldn't satisfy her?"
Talking to Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange is one thing, but talking to Marcus Flint—who knows him on a strangely personal level for an enemy—is another thing entirely. Percy has to grit his teeth so he doesn't respond.
Bellatrix now eyes Flint with some appreciation. "He wants to hurt you," she giggles. "It's almost cute."
"I told you I knew what I was doing." Flint nods to her, clearly pleased at the compliment.
Bellatrix pats Flint on the cheek like a mother giving a young child praise—though, Percy reflects, the idea of Bellatrix as a mother is not a comforting one. "Have fun, ickle boy," she says as she leaves, pulling a slightly put out Rodolphus out of the room and leaving him alone with Flint. The instant they are gone, Flint walks over to the wall where Percy is chained, and cups his chin.
"You're mine now, Weasley," he whispers. "All mine."
Percy sees the glint in Flint's dark eyes and fear drops cold in his stomach.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Flint's grin grows wider—Percy has to resist the urge to cringe at Flint's, well, bad dental health—and he laughs. "No," he says softly. "But I'll make you wish that I did."
And it's abundantly clear from the look in Percy's eyes that, as Flint traces his fingers down Percy's chest, the true torture right now is living.