Amnesty

Series Title: Amnesty

Beta: For this series, only myself.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK.

Spoilers: Up through HBP.

Author's Note: This is going to be a very dark series. Some of the warnings listed are just to cover my ass in case someone reads something they don't want to read and I may not actually write all of them, but I want to make sure that you know it's quite possible. :) To cover my ass further, there may be self-harm and gang-rape. Hurt/Comfort will not be as prevalent as the warning might lead you to think, but elements of it are there, so I thought I'd better include it as well.

This part, Please, is what sparked the rest of the series; I wrote it in about five minutes, intending for it to be a one-shot ficlet. However, I saw many other parts popping up and soon enough I had an entire plot working itself out. The posting of this series will be a bit different though. I will be posting snapshots of the time/plotline and they may be out of order. For example, x event happens before y event which occurs before z event. However, I may post y event first, then x event and z event. By the end of the series though, you should have the entire story and the reason for the 'snapshot' idea will be made clear.

Warning(s) for this Chapter: Reference to torture.

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He drops to his knees and then sits on his heels, unable to hold himself up with the pride and dignity he once had.

He is broken, defeated, but above all else, tired.

He is tired of being a puppet, of throwing his life away, of bowing to the whims and creeds of others. His shoulders droop in exhaustion and his head drops to his chest, as if the strings that had been holding it aloft were suddenly cut.

It has taken days upon days to finally succeed in destroying what he once was.

Suddenly, a hand is in his hair and is painfully yanking on it, pulling it so far back that it is a wonder his head is still attached, a wonder that silent tears are his only response, leaking out from behind closed lids. Another day, another earlier day, he might have cried out in pain, struggled futilely against the nails scratching deep into his scalp and dragging his head back. Now, he does nothing—just cries mutely and relaxes as much as he is able with his head in this position, with his neck kinked so awkwardly, with his breath so harsh and panting out of him, creating a throbbing sort of ache in his throat.

"Look at me."

He doesn't want to and the voice knows this, knows what has finally happened and wants to see it, wants to wallow in the sadistic pleasure of its handiwork. He keeps his eyes closed, feeling more tears gather and burn and scour them. He could say that his reason for not obeying the voice is a fogging of his mind from pain or a miniscule amount of pride, thought gone. This is not true, however, and the awareness is just as cruel as the hand forcing him to its bidding, the voice forcing him to give his last reserves of whatever it was that kept him from breaking for so long. The eyes are the windows to a person's soul, it is said, and if he opens his eyes and bares his soul, the last remnants of it will be taken and dangled temptingly in front of his face before being obliterated.

"Look at me."

The voice speaks again, irritated with its lack of response. He is almost surprised that he hasn't been punished for his insolence yet, but perhaps the voice knows that this isn't a direct disobeying of its order—it is simply a lack of will to do more than dangle here and take in the pain that is his companion, that lets him know he is still alive.

"Please …"

Startled by the softly uttered word, his eyelids flutter open of their own volition. Just as soon as they do, he knows he has well and truly lost, for the tenderness in that one word was false and yet he yearned for that insincerity, yearned for the memories of better days it brought.

Triumphant eyes meet his own and he lets out a wailing sob that shakes the very foundations of his reality, that encompasses all the pain he has been through and will continue to go through.

For those remnants, those shards, of a once-glorious soul have been left intact to remind him of all he has lost.