 |
Boggart
23 May 1999 Burning vomit rose up his throat alongside the unease. He tried to piece together how long he has been out for. Based off the darkness outside, Percy figured it was well past midnight. His head pounded, raged within his own skull as he stumbled forward for his coat. No one had come for him, not a single letter sent to see if he was alright or when he thought he would be heading to the Burrow for dinner. Since the war, Percy made himself believe that things were going to be different, that he was going to be seen - heard but with every passing day it became evident that nothing had changed, at least nothing in a positive way.
He ignored the pull of the alcohol, the longing to press the cool glass to his lips and numb what reality was trying to prove to him. The drink gave him excuses, allowed him to believe that things were okay. It gave him courage. Since drinking, some of his family joked about how Percy had suddenly grown a personality, unknowing that it was the drink speaking and acting for him. He had no filter anymore and wasn't afraid if he rubbed shoulders the wrong way with people. He could still hear Ron’s howling laughter as Percy dared to correct Hermione. He could see Bill grinning as Percy told wild tales enthusiastically to his wife that Percy barely knew. His parents no longer rolled their eyes as he went to speak. Even Ginny had cracked a smile or hid laughter at some of the ridiculous things he found himself doing now. No matter how hard he tried though, George never cracked and to a point Percy was relieved, George’s laugh just like Fred’s.
None of it mattered though, not a single damn thing. The moment he was sober Percy was forced back into the shadows, no longer felt like he belonged; wasn’t really a Weasley. They didn’t see him, even when he tried everything in his power to be. Percy swore under his breath as he awkwardly leaned over his desk, bellous laughter filling the room as he toppled head first, long lanky legs flailing in the air. Bottles scattered across the floor in his struggle to pull himself up to sitting, Percy loudly shushing them as he collected them. Three tall bottles hugged into his chest the memory from the morning burned, the way he was brashly pushed aside by his mother as he sought her help - as he was drowning and she choose Potter over him. She saw it, saw him struggling and still bypassed him.
Gingerly, he set the bottles along the window before he uncapped the one with a little amber liquid pooled at the bottom. Lips pressed to the bottle, Percy froze, every muscle in his body tense. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones even if his brain couldn’t register what exactly it was. There was a quiver to his hand as he set the bottle back down to assess the situation he now found himself in, laughter filling the air. Even with the alcohol fueling him, Percy reached unsteadily for his wand. He knew he heard it, knew the reason the hairs on his arms were now standing.
“You let me die.”
Percy whirled, his heart rushing alongside the scream that left him. Blood ran down his face, a large dent in his skull where the wall had collapsed on him, Fred stood inches behind him, a snarled smile on his face. He didn’t move as Percy pressed himself back into the wall. The haunting laughter filled the air, the same one that filled Percy’s dreams.
“You should be dead - not me. Everyone wishes it was you.”
Wand out, Percy swallowed hard as Fred’s head cocked to the side to study him. The smile never faltered, a more sinister glow to it as Percy tried to look away. “Ri . . . Riddikulus!”
The hyena-like laughter ripped through Percy as he vanished. Even in his current state, logic took hold and he knew it wasn’t really Fred. He had enough nightmares, relived the moment of his death enough to know exactly what he was facing. Again he threw the spell, his fear replaced instantly by his parents. They stood with their family tree, his mother’s hand hovering over his name.
“Mum -”
“You don’t belong,” his father said coldly. “Of all we lost, you’re still here. The disgrace.”
“We don’t want you anymore.”
“Riddikulus!” Percy yelled, a break in his voice as it missed the mark. Black burned into the family tree, Percy’s name glowing under his mother’s hand. Eyes wide, Percy felt the rise of emotion as the family tree floated before him, Percy scorched from existence. His voice grew in volume, rage behind the spells as Percy threw every spell he could think of at the boggart.
Light filled his office, Percy’s name called out from the distance but he was too far gone. Everything he was terrified of, his family disowning him, removing him from their lives because of what happened to Fred, his past mistakes had come to life.
“Deprimo!”
The blast filled Percy’s ears, the shrill scream enough to pull him from the boggart. Red hair crumpled to the ground, Zoshia’s eyes wide as she clutched her side. There was a rush of faces, people piling into the small office to find out what the commotion had been about, Percy standing unnaturally still as he looked down at Zoshia, blood staining her clothes.
“Zosh . . .” he began. Percy made a move for her, apologizing as a pair of hands gripped him and hauled him back.
“Weasley!” Kingsley voice boomed, everyone falling silent admist the chaos.
His head shook, Percy fighting to keep his attention on the Minister of Magic and not his friend on the ground. “There - there was a boggart.”
Kingsley pinched the bridge of his nose, a low groan leaving the man. “Does it look like there’s a boggart here?” As Percy scanned the room, Kingsley grew impatient. “Boggarts cannot get into the Ministry, Weasley! You know this, now explain what in the bloody hell -”
“Sir.”
Both Kingsley and Percy turned to the voice, a male standing beside the bottles. Red flooded Percy’s face as eyes fell on him. He wanted to fall through the ground, to plummet into the darkness he had experienced moments ago. He didn’t dare look at Kingsley, the face of his father lurking just behind the Minister telling Percy all he needed. The shame on his father’s face, the utter disapproval crushed him.
“Zoshia . . .”
“Isn’t your concern. You should consider yourself lucky it wasn’t a serious injury. Pack your things, you’re done here.” There was a pause, Kingsley sighing as if to offer an apology but the man turned and strode out of the office, other’s following suit.
Percy stood numbly, his eyes locked on the stain of Zoshia’s blood on the ground. He could feel his father still there, could feel the burn of the stare. Against his better judgement, Percy looked up to face him, hoping he would see that his son was breaking and needed help. The look his father wore was one that mirrored the boggart, the look of shame.
“I’m sorry,” Percy whispered, his face dipped into his chest as he did the only thing he could think of and ran.
1 Comment
|
