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pretty boy
"Fucking Gryffindor pretty boy" Flint used to call him, growling at him in a voice that made Lee bite his lip until it bled, and tugging his dreadlocks, just hard enough to hurt.
He's not that pretty anymore.
He's barely twenty-four, and he walks onto what used to be the Quidditch field to teach the new recruits how to survive. They look at him and they see a veteran, weary and battle-scarred and old. He looks at them and he sees children, some of them barely sixteen and volunteers, others eighteen and drafted into this mess. And every two months, he sends them off to die.
When I was their age, he thinks, but doesn't finish his thought.
When he was sixteen, the most eventful thing in his life was being pressed against the wall of the broom shed by the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and being fucked hard and long and thorough. Best sex of his life, he realises now. Of course, now it's too late, because he's not pretty anymore, and he's not a boy anymore, and his dreads are just a vague memory now.
When I was their age, he thinks, I was fucking happy.
Hey, Jeanne? Your turn again. *cackles*
The one certainty in war is that in an hour, maybe two, you either still be alive or you'll be dead.
(Lt TC McQueen; Space: Above and Beyond)
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