"Expelliarmus!"

The words "oh, shit" came to mind as Percival's wand suddenly left his hand. He should have been expecting it; it had, afterall, been the first thing he had thought of. However, that which we should expect is rarely what we actually do end up expecting, if we prepare ourselves at all. And so, Percival Swinton found himself as vulnerable as a naked sheep among wolves, his hands trembling as he staggered backwards.

The stagger of a petrified man soon turned to the stagger of a somewhat tipsy one, bumping into walls that didn't really seem to be there, as Rabastan's alcoholic spell was able to hit him without any dodging or blocking.

There is one comfort that this author is able to take, regarding the well-being of her poor, misguided Percival, who, no matter how deserving, was going to recieve a rather harsh punishment soon enough. And that is, Mr. Swinton would be intoxicated while incarcerated. So perhaps, just perhaps, after a rousing rendition of Sweet Addeline (which he presently commenced), he would simply pass out, and it would all be over before he knew what had begun.