A/N: Just a quick oneshot about Percy. It's tragic, of course, because I don't really do happy fics. Enjoy.
He should have known that Legilimency would be his doom.
He should have been more careful. He should have learned Occlumency.
Percy sighed wistfully to himself and leant against the stone wall of the dungeon. His long legs stretched out on the cold floor, and he shivered slightly, hugging his arms closer to his torso in a pathetic attempt at warmth. The cracked left lens of his glasses made his vision seem fractured—not that there was much to see. Just darkness.
He had not betrayed the Ministry. He had not spied for the Order of the Phoenix, and he most certainly had not been sending secret letters to the Order and plotting to overthrow Scrimgeour. Sure, he hadn't supported Voldemort or the new muggleborn-persecuting rules, but he had not spoken out against them either. He had simply stood on the sidelines, dutifully filling out paperwork and following his orders. Yet here he was, trapped in a little dungeon in the Ministry with Dementors sweeping about the corridors just outside his door, found guilty of high treason.
He did not know who had been listening to his thoughts, who had reported him to Umbridge. The trial had been a blur; all he could remember was Umbridge's sickly sweet smile as she sentenced him to the Dementor's Kiss.
How long had he been locked here? He had no sense of time. All he could perceive were the dark and the cold and the rough texture of the stonework and the screams that occasionally permeated the thick walls of his prison. Time passed, minutes or hours or perhaps even days, unheeded by the lone prisoner. His stomach growled threateningly, and thoughts of his family swirled in his mind. He wondered if his father had noticed that he had disappeared. He wondered if they were all okay, if Harry was on his way to defeating the Dark Lord. He hummed a lullaby to himself, a lullaby that he vaguely remembered his mother humming a long time ago.
It happened without warning. The cell door was thrown open, its hinges screaming rustily. The suddenness of it wrenched him cruelly out of his musings, and he jerked upright, his sore bones cracking with the unexpected movement. The cell grew icier, and a tall dark shape obscured the doorway, blocking any light that attempted to filter its way into the tiny room. Percy's breaths—quick, desperate breaths-- came out in mists that grew rapidly foggier as the Dementor glided closer to him. Memories of his betrayal of his family began to surface in his clouded brain, and he clenched his fists and his eyes.
The rotting hand closed around his throat, and as he was lifted to the Dementor's rattling mouth he smelled the decaying scent of death. His every pore felt frozen; even his red hair was standing on end. He heard one last death rattle before his soul was stolen.
Percy Weasley was a shell. He did not hear Harry Potter set free the muggleborns awaiting trial. He curled docilely in his cell, never noticing if he had fellow prisoners with him.
He did not think of his family. He neither knew nor cared when the war ended. He felt nothing when his mother sobbed over his unresponsive form.
He took no notice when he was transferred to the closed ward in St. Mungo's. He huddled unmoving on his bed as the Healer shut the door behind her, exchanging one prison for another.
And the Wizarding World moved on.