Andrew Kirke (flewthenfell) wrote in plagued_logs, @ 2015-10-24 19:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | !open, 1998 october, adrian pucey, andrew kirke |
Who: Adrian Pucey & Drew Kirke
When: Friday afternoon?
Where: the Grounds
What: Drew 'escapes' the Infirmary in a panic
Rating: R - mentions of non-con
Drew had been feeling pretty poorly and complained about being cold in his journal, but he'd been shaking from fever and nearly delirious. When one of his housemates came up to bed and found him soaked through and shivering under his blankets he'd been taken to the Infirmary where he'd spent days lying asleep or groggy, plied with Dreamless Sleep Potion because he kept waking up the other patients by screaming in the middle of the night. He'd been doing a little better after his fever came down, enough that he was able to stay awake for a little longer than half an hour at a time, and his pounding headache had eased enough that he had been able to catch up with the news over the journals.
The announcement from the Headmistress about someone having been assaulted had gone right over his head, but he read Dean's entry about a rapist being loose in the school and promptly lost what few marbles he'd managed to rearrange in a panic attack. It didn't play out like a usual one, if there was such a thing; he acted like he wasn't upset but his surroundings weren't the comfortable and familiar bricks and mortar of the castle, but of the dark, tall prison block that he'd spent too many miserable hours in. He waited, playing possum until there wasn't anyone around paying attention before he slipped out of bed and was off, dressed in pyjama pants and a warm top but nothing on his feet, not that he noticed.
He was still too-warm and his eyes were fevery-bright but he thought that he was surrounded by guards and Death Eaters and he snuck through the halls unseen until he got outside. He scouted the base of the castle wall until he got to an alcove hidden out of the way where he dropped down to sit at the base, his back to the castle stonework. He was shivering and hot and flush faced and he whimpered to himself as he saw shapes and hands come out of the fog, whispers curling against his ear like disgusting tongues that he felt lick up the side of his face, chilly fingers curling around his wrist and then the inside of his thigh.
He kicked out and pushed away from the touch that wasn't there and screamed, a terrified, wordless sound of terror dampened by the fog so that he was shouting alone like he had been in prison, only this time he was futilely fighting memories, not sadists.