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midnightdiddleI did a new layout. It's nice, I think. At any rate...
I haven't written for weeks. Gah, I've fallen into a rut of not writing, and I keep telling myself that I'm gonna start writing, gonna start writing. It hasn't happened yet. I have been reading, though. A lot. A lot a lot. I've noticed something, though. I don't read Naruto fanfics, ever. Not unless it's by someone I already know and love and trust. But if I don't know the person? I don't read it. I've been pushed off by too many bad fics, that I don't dare try any. But HP? Good crap, I read everything Harry Potter, especially if it has Draco Malfoy in it.
And... I wanna write HP. *sigh* I've had HP on the brain for weeks now, ever since the incident. Well, before that, actually. For months. I write Naruto, but I read HP. And I wish I could read Naruto, and wish I could write HP. So...I'm gonna try writing HP. At least, start with a few lines, in here, and see if I actually get anywhere with it.
Wish me luck?
.
.
Albatross
.
.
Percy Weasley needed everything to be perfect. It wasn't a want, or a longing. It was a need, deep in his body, right alongside the need for water and food and air. He needed things to be organized, to be set out in an order, in straight lines, printed in careful letters. Everything had to be just so, or Percy couldn't breathe.
They called it a compulsion. His mother, when she didn't know he was there, called it a problem.
Once, when Percy was little, the twins snuck into his room and moved everything, threw his clothes on the floor, pushed his toys off their places on bookshelves and the small, rickety desk. Percy didn't scream when he saw his fragile world smashed on the floor like a snowglobe. He couldn't scream. He couldn't scream, because he couldn't breathe.
Mum ended up screaming into the Floo for Dad, because Percy couldn't stop shaking, and he couldn't breathe, and then he was in St. Mungo's, in Mum's lap, pressed against her round stomach that they called 'Baby.' The nurse cast her wand in strange motions over his head, over his chest, and the pressure on his lungs eased, and he could breathe. Mum rocked him in her arms, murmured things about it being alright, he was fine, the twins were sorry, she wouldn't let it happen again.
They called it a compulsion. Mum called it a little problem, but nothing that a stiff upper lip couldn't fix.
As Percy grew older, he grew better, and worse. He didn't move Dad's knick-knacks anymore, even when they weren't even on the table. He still fixed the plates before dinner, moving them and moving them until they were all three inches away from each other. Mum would smile at him, touch his head, but she didn't ruffle his hair, because if she did, his lungs felt all tight and hot.
One day, the twins were mad at him for telling Mum that they were trying to ride Bill's broomstick. They ran into Percy's room and began to pull his things off the shelves, throwing books and toys and bottles that Percy collected and washed and set up, tallest to shortest, darkest to lightest, across the room. Percy didn't know he was screaming until Mum grabbed him, yanked him back against her body, warm and soft and safe, and began snapping at the twins to get out of the room, to put Percy's things down, to wait until Dad got home, because just see if they got dinner, after an act like this.
Dad took the next day off work, and he and Mum got a babysitter for all the kids. They Floo'd to St. Mungo's, and Percy held Mum's hand as Dad talked to a nurse. After a while, a second nurse came in, and Mum told him to go with her. She gave him biscuits and hot chocolate, and he thought she was nice, and pretty. She was showing him charms with her wand, making the biscuits on the plate dance around, crumbs on the china, when Mum came into the sitting room.
"Come on, dear," she said distractedly, and Percy straightened the biscuits on the plate before he followed her out the door.
That night, his parents fought. Percy sat at the top of stairs leading down into the kitchen, and he tapped his fingers against the stairs carefully. Right hand, left hand. Right hand, left hand.
"They have people that can help him, Molly-"
"Not Muggles."
Mum's voice sounded angry, and Percy tapped his fingers a little bit faster. Right hand, left hand. Right hand, left hand.
"Molly, if they can help, we should at least try."
"I won't let you take my son to Muggles. What if something happened? Arthur, they can find out-"
"Molly, I'll be there. Nothing will happen to him. St. Mungo's can't help him, and if the Muggles can-"
"They're Muggles!"
Mum's voice sounded hysterical. Percy was proud of himself, proud of the word. Hysterical. He'd read it a few weeks before, in a book Dad had given Bill for Bill's birthday.
"Muggles aren't-"
"They're Muggles, Arthur. They don't understand us, they're different. I won't have my son go there, I won't. I'll take care of him myself."
Right hand, left hand. Right hand- Percy stared at his hands, confused. He'd been tapping, but he couldn't remember which hand went next, and they were uneven, they were all uneven. His left hand felt heavy, but his right hand was heavier, and his chest felt tight and hot, like it did when the twins moved his things and Uncle Bilius tossled his hair. He swallowed, swallowed again, then stood up, sneaking up the stairs to his room. He laid awake on his bed for a long time, and he tried to match his breaths to Ron's childish snores, but he couldn't breathe fast enough, or slow enough.
He didn't cry.
They called it a compulsion.
Over the next few years, before he went to Hogwarts, he drank potions. There was always a new potion to try, different ones every few days, or weeks, or months. Sometimes they made him tired, lethargic. He would sleep all the time, lying on his bed or the couch or the floor. It didn't bother him, when his books got moved, or when the dinner plates weren't three inches apart, because he was too tired to care.
Another potion made him sick. He threw up everything, shaking and hot and cold all at the same time, and Mum tucked him in his bed, smoothed his hair back and murmured things about how he was alright, he was going to be alright. He almost felt too sick to notice that there were tears in her eyes, but he wasn't.
One potion made him worse. He screamed and threw things and sat in a corner, arms up over his head, swearing at everyone, using words he'd heard Bill and Charlie use when they were playing Quidditch out back. Every touch hurt him, made his insides shrivel, made his head pound, and the voices were too loud, the twins laughing in their room, Ginny singing in the kitchen. Ron told Mum, and Mum told Dad, and Dad crouched on the floor, close enough that Percy could feel his body heat, but Dad didn't talk. That potion was the worst, and when it was over, when it was all flushed out of his system from nervous sweat and a wet bed, Percy felt like crying, but he didn't. It was a compulsion.
When he was nearly ten, they finally found a potion. Things were better in his head, in ways he couldn't describe. It didn't matter so much, when his collection of bottles and jars got moved around by Ron. He didn't lock up when the twins moved the silverware, or when Bill touched him.
For a while, Percy felt happy.
He'd never felt like that before. He felt lighter inside, like if he went outside he'd float, up and up and up, away like a dandelion seed.
He danced with Ginny.
Ginny was his favorite out of his siblings. Bill and Charlie had each other, and they didn't have time for him. Charlie was too careful with him, and Bill wasn't careful enough. Charlie wouldn't touch anything, if Percy was in the room, and Bill would nudge him out of the way. Percy felt fragile and clumsy around them, like he had too-big hands and too-big feet. The twins hated Percy, and Percy hated them, in the way that siblings that love each other do. The twins tormented him, moved his things and broke his toys and laugh at his words. Percy tried to stay away from them, tried to leave the room whenever the dual forces of nature came in, because when they were around, when they were there, Percy felt like he was caught up in something that was going to tear him to pieces. Ron had Ginny, and Ginny had Ron. Ron wasn't bad, didn't bother Percy, because he was usually outside, playing next to the garden. But Ginny? Percy loved Ginny.
Ginny was special, Ginny was different. Ginny made jokes and laughed and sang, and Ginny danced. She was clumsy, in the way that five year olds were clumsy. She stepped on his feet, and sometimes she fell, and scraped a knee, but she was perfect. She listened to Percy, looked up to him, like she looked up to all her brothers. She didn't treat Percy like he was weird, something strange that didn't belong in the family. She loved him, and Percy? Percy would kill for her. But more than that, Percy would dance for her.
When he left for Hogwarts, he wrote letters home, and he always wrote something extra for Ginny. When he could go to Hogsmeade, and Honeydukes, he sent home anything he could scrounge enough money for to Ginny. Ginny was special, Ginny was everything. Ginny was Ginny. Years went by, though, and Ginny grew up. She grew taller, grew older. Soon, she was coming to Hogwarts, and he didn't need to send her letters. Then, he was out of school, working for the Ministry, and he didn't have as much time for her. Then, things happened, and before he knew it, he was living in a junky little flat in London, next-door to an old woman who sold potions out her door, and a floor above a whore who had men coming and going, day and night. Ginny was gone, Ron was gone. The twins were gone, and Bill and Charlie would never come back. Mum and Dad were out of his life. For the first time, that first night, as he conjured a pair of blankets and a lumpy pillow, and settled down on the stained floor, he was alone.
He didn't cry.
There was a new minster, there were attacks and sightings of Death Eaters. Life was busy, he was busy, and if Percy was one thing, it was stubborn. He wouldn't go back, not to his family. He wouldn't say sorry, say that he was in the wrong, because he wasn't. It didn't matter that he was miserable, that he was lonely, that he sat in the corner of his flat at night, arms up over his head. It didn't matter that he couldn't touch Mum, or rearrange Dad's knick-knacks into a perfect order. It didn't matter that he couldn't dance with Ginny.
Ginny died.
Bill found him in Diagon Alley, grabbed him and pulled him to the side of the street.
"She's dead," Bill said, and Percy didn't need to ask who. He touched Bill's scars, the silvery-white spots on his face, and Bill didn't quite pull away. Percy stepped back, and cracked back to his flat, the wards sliding icy-hot over his skin.
"She's dead, she's dead, she's dead."
Bill's voice was in Percy's head, saying the words over and over and over again, and Percy moved in time with the words. Step two three, step two three. Step ball change, pause-
He danced. He danced and danced and danced until he couldn't feel his feet. Around the low coffee table, next to the couch. Through the small, dark flat he danced. He danced like he used to dance with Ginny, body steady and still and not moving more than it had to. He was careful, meticulous. He moved slowly, because he didn't want to step on her feet. She was so small, a will-o-wisp girl, Mum said. Her face was like the twins, but her eye were like his, and she danced with him, danced and danced and danced like there was no tomorrow, because there wasn't. There was this, and now, and as long as he didn't stop dancing, she wouldn't die, she wouldn't leave him.
Ginny was always Percy's favorite.
Ginny was dead.
Percy cried.
.
.
(to be continued...)
.
.
Well, sleep calls.
I haven't written for weeks. Gah, I've fallen into a rut of not writing, and I keep telling myself that I'm gonna start writing, gonna start writing. It hasn't happened yet. I have been reading, though. A lot. A lot a lot. I've noticed something, though. I don't read Naruto fanfics, ever. Not unless it's by someone I already know and love and trust. But if I don't know the person? I don't read it. I've been pushed off by too many bad fics, that I don't dare try any. But HP? Good crap, I read everything Harry Potter, especially if it has Draco Malfoy in it.
And... I wanna write HP. *sigh* I've had HP on the brain for weeks now, ever since the incident. Well, before that, actually. For months. I write Naruto, but I read HP. And I wish I could read Naruto, and wish I could write HP. So...I'm gonna try writing HP. At least, start with a few lines, in here, and see if I actually get anywhere with it.
Wish me luck?
.
.
Albatross
.
.
Percy Weasley needed everything to be perfect. It wasn't a want, or a longing. It was a need, deep in his body, right alongside the need for water and food and air. He needed things to be organized, to be set out in an order, in straight lines, printed in careful letters. Everything had to be just so, or Percy couldn't breathe.
They called it a compulsion. His mother, when she didn't know he was there, called it a problem.
Once, when Percy was little, the twins snuck into his room and moved everything, threw his clothes on the floor, pushed his toys off their places on bookshelves and the small, rickety desk. Percy didn't scream when he saw his fragile world smashed on the floor like a snowglobe. He couldn't scream. He couldn't scream, because he couldn't breathe.
Mum ended up screaming into the Floo for Dad, because Percy couldn't stop shaking, and he couldn't breathe, and then he was in St. Mungo's, in Mum's lap, pressed against her round stomach that they called 'Baby.' The nurse cast her wand in strange motions over his head, over his chest, and the pressure on his lungs eased, and he could breathe. Mum rocked him in her arms, murmured things about it being alright, he was fine, the twins were sorry, she wouldn't let it happen again.
They called it a compulsion. Mum called it a little problem, but nothing that a stiff upper lip couldn't fix.
As Percy grew older, he grew better, and worse. He didn't move Dad's knick-knacks anymore, even when they weren't even on the table. He still fixed the plates before dinner, moving them and moving them until they were all three inches away from each other. Mum would smile at him, touch his head, but she didn't ruffle his hair, because if she did, his lungs felt all tight and hot.
One day, the twins were mad at him for telling Mum that they were trying to ride Bill's broomstick. They ran into Percy's room and began to pull his things off the shelves, throwing books and toys and bottles that Percy collected and washed and set up, tallest to shortest, darkest to lightest, across the room. Percy didn't know he was screaming until Mum grabbed him, yanked him back against her body, warm and soft and safe, and began snapping at the twins to get out of the room, to put Percy's things down, to wait until Dad got home, because just see if they got dinner, after an act like this.
Dad took the next day off work, and he and Mum got a babysitter for all the kids. They Floo'd to St. Mungo's, and Percy held Mum's hand as Dad talked to a nurse. After a while, a second nurse came in, and Mum told him to go with her. She gave him biscuits and hot chocolate, and he thought she was nice, and pretty. She was showing him charms with her wand, making the biscuits on the plate dance around, crumbs on the china, when Mum came into the sitting room.
"Come on, dear," she said distractedly, and Percy straightened the biscuits on the plate before he followed her out the door.
That night, his parents fought. Percy sat at the top of stairs leading down into the kitchen, and he tapped his fingers against the stairs carefully. Right hand, left hand. Right hand, left hand.
"They have people that can help him, Molly-"
"Not Muggles."
Mum's voice sounded angry, and Percy tapped his fingers a little bit faster. Right hand, left hand. Right hand, left hand.
"Molly, if they can help, we should at least try."
"I won't let you take my son to Muggles. What if something happened? Arthur, they can find out-"
"Molly, I'll be there. Nothing will happen to him. St. Mungo's can't help him, and if the Muggles can-"
"They're Muggles!"
Mum's voice sounded hysterical. Percy was proud of himself, proud of the word. Hysterical. He'd read it a few weeks before, in a book Dad had given Bill for Bill's birthday.
"Muggles aren't-"
"They're Muggles, Arthur. They don't understand us, they're different. I won't have my son go there, I won't. I'll take care of him myself."
Right hand, left hand. Right hand- Percy stared at his hands, confused. He'd been tapping, but he couldn't remember which hand went next, and they were uneven, they were all uneven. His left hand felt heavy, but his right hand was heavier, and his chest felt tight and hot, like it did when the twins moved his things and Uncle Bilius tossled his hair. He swallowed, swallowed again, then stood up, sneaking up the stairs to his room. He laid awake on his bed for a long time, and he tried to match his breaths to Ron's childish snores, but he couldn't breathe fast enough, or slow enough.
He didn't cry.
They called it a compulsion.
Over the next few years, before he went to Hogwarts, he drank potions. There was always a new potion to try, different ones every few days, or weeks, or months. Sometimes they made him tired, lethargic. He would sleep all the time, lying on his bed or the couch or the floor. It didn't bother him, when his books got moved, or when the dinner plates weren't three inches apart, because he was too tired to care.
Another potion made him sick. He threw up everything, shaking and hot and cold all at the same time, and Mum tucked him in his bed, smoothed his hair back and murmured things about how he was alright, he was going to be alright. He almost felt too sick to notice that there were tears in her eyes, but he wasn't.
One potion made him worse. He screamed and threw things and sat in a corner, arms up over his head, swearing at everyone, using words he'd heard Bill and Charlie use when they were playing Quidditch out back. Every touch hurt him, made his insides shrivel, made his head pound, and the voices were too loud, the twins laughing in their room, Ginny singing in the kitchen. Ron told Mum, and Mum told Dad, and Dad crouched on the floor, close enough that Percy could feel his body heat, but Dad didn't talk. That potion was the worst, and when it was over, when it was all flushed out of his system from nervous sweat and a wet bed, Percy felt like crying, but he didn't. It was a compulsion.
When he was nearly ten, they finally found a potion. Things were better in his head, in ways he couldn't describe. It didn't matter so much, when his collection of bottles and jars got moved around by Ron. He didn't lock up when the twins moved the silverware, or when Bill touched him.
For a while, Percy felt happy.
He'd never felt like that before. He felt lighter inside, like if he went outside he'd float, up and up and up, away like a dandelion seed.
He danced with Ginny.
Ginny was his favorite out of his siblings. Bill and Charlie had each other, and they didn't have time for him. Charlie was too careful with him, and Bill wasn't careful enough. Charlie wouldn't touch anything, if Percy was in the room, and Bill would nudge him out of the way. Percy felt fragile and clumsy around them, like he had too-big hands and too-big feet. The twins hated Percy, and Percy hated them, in the way that siblings that love each other do. The twins tormented him, moved his things and broke his toys and laugh at his words. Percy tried to stay away from them, tried to leave the room whenever the dual forces of nature came in, because when they were around, when they were there, Percy felt like he was caught up in something that was going to tear him to pieces. Ron had Ginny, and Ginny had Ron. Ron wasn't bad, didn't bother Percy, because he was usually outside, playing next to the garden. But Ginny? Percy loved Ginny.
Ginny was special, Ginny was different. Ginny made jokes and laughed and sang, and Ginny danced. She was clumsy, in the way that five year olds were clumsy. She stepped on his feet, and sometimes she fell, and scraped a knee, but she was perfect. She listened to Percy, looked up to him, like she looked up to all her brothers. She didn't treat Percy like he was weird, something strange that didn't belong in the family. She loved him, and Percy? Percy would kill for her. But more than that, Percy would dance for her.
When he left for Hogwarts, he wrote letters home, and he always wrote something extra for Ginny. When he could go to Hogsmeade, and Honeydukes, he sent home anything he could scrounge enough money for to Ginny. Ginny was special, Ginny was everything. Ginny was Ginny. Years went by, though, and Ginny grew up. She grew taller, grew older. Soon, she was coming to Hogwarts, and he didn't need to send her letters. Then, he was out of school, working for the Ministry, and he didn't have as much time for her. Then, things happened, and before he knew it, he was living in a junky little flat in London, next-door to an old woman who sold potions out her door, and a floor above a whore who had men coming and going, day and night. Ginny was gone, Ron was gone. The twins were gone, and Bill and Charlie would never come back. Mum and Dad were out of his life. For the first time, that first night, as he conjured a pair of blankets and a lumpy pillow, and settled down on the stained floor, he was alone.
He didn't cry.
There was a new minster, there were attacks and sightings of Death Eaters. Life was busy, he was busy, and if Percy was one thing, it was stubborn. He wouldn't go back, not to his family. He wouldn't say sorry, say that he was in the wrong, because he wasn't. It didn't matter that he was miserable, that he was lonely, that he sat in the corner of his flat at night, arms up over his head. It didn't matter that he couldn't touch Mum, or rearrange Dad's knick-knacks into a perfect order. It didn't matter that he couldn't dance with Ginny.
Ginny died.
Bill found him in Diagon Alley, grabbed him and pulled him to the side of the street.
"She's dead," Bill said, and Percy didn't need to ask who. He touched Bill's scars, the silvery-white spots on his face, and Bill didn't quite pull away. Percy stepped back, and cracked back to his flat, the wards sliding icy-hot over his skin.
"She's dead, she's dead, she's dead."
Bill's voice was in Percy's head, saying the words over and over and over again, and Percy moved in time with the words. Step two three, step two three. Step ball change, pause-
He danced. He danced and danced and danced until he couldn't feel his feet. Around the low coffee table, next to the couch. Through the small, dark flat he danced. He danced like he used to dance with Ginny, body steady and still and not moving more than it had to. He was careful, meticulous. He moved slowly, because he didn't want to step on her feet. She was so small, a will-o-wisp girl, Mum said. Her face was like the twins, but her eye were like his, and she danced with him, danced and danced and danced like there was no tomorrow, because there wasn't. There was this, and now, and as long as he didn't stop dancing, she wouldn't die, she wouldn't leave him.
Ginny was always Percy's favorite.
Ginny was dead.
Percy cried.
.
.
(to be continued...)
.
.
Well, sleep calls.
