Current mood:

complacent

BLUNDER INTO FANTASY, 3/?
It’s occurred to me today that, really, the idea of ‘essence’ from the spirit is kind of/just about/maybe/totally is from an episode of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer. One of the best, “Earshot.” I love the message there - everyone has insecurities, everyone’s just trying to get through their days, their lives as best they can, no matter how self-assured and confident they may appear. Buffy’s line to Jonathon, “It looks quiet down there. It’s not. It’s deafening,” sends chills through me every time.

Thank you so much for the comments and the encouragement (seriously, how are you finding these secret chapters, hidden away here? ;) and if you find any glaring errors (ha, ‘any,’ ha-ha!) and huge plot mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them quickly and pretend they never happened!

Download REM’s “Sweetness Follows” here.


Chapter Three
(Word Count: 6790, 14829 total, not counting author’s notes, like the above, or quotes)

Listen here my sister and my brother
What would you care if you lost the other?
I always wonder why did we bother
Distance from one, deaf to the other.
Oh, oh, but sweetness follows.
- REM, Sweetness Follows

Fortunate for Percy, the remaining schooldays for the week passed quickly, the culmination of mid-term essays and texts, and an excess volume of homework and school duties absorbing his days and nights. He stoically ignored his disturbing new talent, adopting the mature stance: if I don’t think about it, perhaps it will all just go away.

For every person that walked by him and unwillingly opened their imaginations, he would physically move away or, if that wasn’t possible, start a conversation about nothing with the purpose of bringing their attention back to reality. He discovered that concentrating hard on viewing himself as standing at the edge of fantasies kept him from being taken into one fully, a scary premise that he’d managed to avoid proving thus far. So overwhelming the lure of seeing new, confidential thoughts, he felt certain that strict avoidance meant he wouldn’t have to participate in them. The talent, he gathered, may expand into addiction quite easily, and then how would he separate fantasy from reality?

Though his fears were based on supposition, Percy remained vigilant at all times. Some instances were hard to avoid, such as when he was faced one-on-one in a quiet place, like that morning when he had to brief the House professors as part of his Head Boy duties. Thankfully the professors all had ordered thoughts and kept their contact short. For tutoring the early years, he found constant intimidation best. (This hadn’t been the week for good impressions on Hogwarts’ youth.)

By Saturday mid-morning, while most students were continuing their studies or walking the grounds, or heading off to Hogsmeade for the day, Percy, left with no other social or dutiful or academic distractions, was starting to focus (and worry) about his abilities. A breath-stealing, heart-racing, near-toppling panic set in on his way to the dungeons, so crippling that he held the stone wall surface with stressed fingers, backtracking his way to the kitchen for coffee before resuming course.

One cup downed immediately, another provided in a charmed goblet to keep warm, a stronger, hyped-up Percy headed back towards the dungeon classroom that was to be used for the weekend detention session. He was accustomed to attending such weekend duties, having spent the two years prior volunteering to supervise the week’s more notable miscreants for a few long hours. Usually one of his brothers was in attendance and a few noticeable regulars, and every other week an entire House year that he could almost guarantee had been sent from Professor Snape’s class.

On this day, Percy, armed with only his coffee and a paperback novel, would have to find some method of distraction other than schoolwork or duty. There was, after all, only so long he could discipline – rather, yell at, for hours. How strange school life was, he mused inwardly. Strange that the older he was getting, the more spare time his academic studies afforded him.

The classroom was empty, as expected, and he whispered common charms to light the candles and heat the room, wishing he’d have thought to move to a class where heating charms took quickly.

“Strange, indeed,” he muttered through clenched teeth, placing his paperback firmly on the professor’s desk, and his coffee on top. “And ironic that the more I impress my professors, the more responsibility… work, they give me as a reward.”

He pursed his lips, letting out a little “spppft” of air noisily, instantly recognizing the signs of the overworked and stressed.

No wonder, he justified silently, sitting at the chair, staring down into the contents of his mug. He was constantly on, trying to stay away from the active imaginations of teenagers while maintaining his impeccable grade average and fulfilling his Head Boy role. Worse yet, he was starting to think, getting a good night’s sleep in a Quidditch-obsessed House. The night before had been the most trying with exhausting thoughts and odd aspects that he knew weren’t from his own subconscious. Upon waking and seeing the state of the dormitory, he knew he’d seen the combined dreams of his roommates, featuring thousands of broom types, random Quaffles, gleaming Quidditch gear, and the outdoors, all vast green pitches and roaring applause.

No big surprise there, though. Gryffindor House had won the privilege of representing Hogwarts at the world school play-offs, held every ten years, and most of his House’s senior year had left for Ireland that morning by Portkey.

Experiencing such dreams, even ones that only vaguely hinted at their depth, led Percy to believe that his talent was adjusting, becoming fine-tuned to viewing fantasy more clearly. And here he was, trapped in a dungeon with a small group of people, no homework to work on and no way – no civilized way, he corrected and actually considered, to keep the students from indulging in random thought as they put in their time.

Percy drained the coffee easily, not tasting a drop of it. Not feeling the usual warmth spread through his body, or the welcoming buzz that set his day aright. Holding the empty mug between his hands, he slouched over his knees, bending his forehead to touch his legs. The coming hours would, no doubt, be telling of whatever measure he might expect from this talent’s range.

“Perce.”

Slowly Percy lifted his head, recognizing Ron’s voice as the youngest Weasley entered the dungeon. He heard (and felt) rather than seen him slam his books onto a desk in the back of the room, and move his chair in a long, screeching motion. Percy watched him sit dramatically, collapsing onto the desk itself as though he were overextended and desperate for a good nap.

Good news, all the same, and Percy’s mood began to lighten. Ron never came to detention alone – he doubted Ron ever pissed alone, always with his friends or his House year, and perhaps a large, busy, talkative bunch would be enough of a distraction. Percy couldn’t remember what he thought or fantasized about at thirteen, and had no desire to remember.

With relief, he watched more students from Ron’s year come into the room, all sleepy-eyed and annoyed, but speaking rapidly and without pause, as he’d only known Gryffindors to do.
Looking the most alert of the bunch, Hermione walked purposefully to the professor’s desk. “I told Ronald that he shouldn’t have say Professor Snape was--”

Percy, too tired to hear yet another excuse on how she found herself in detention, nodded understandingly and waved her away with a pained grin. With any luck, she’d take her disgust with Ronald out on him for the next while.

Percy leaned back in his chair and cracked the binding of his paperback, having no interest in (he reviewed the cover’s image) -- romance? Good grief! He shoved the novel into a robe pocket, taking a mental note that he should see what word is placed after ‘Classic’ when choosing tattered (and obviously well-loved) novels, and hoped no one had seen the cover.

He reviewed the room. Despite his attention, the students’ soon understood he wasn’t about to start lecturing on discipline and order and all those other fun things he quite enjoyed speaking on (if only to see them squirm), and spoke together at their animated speed.

Past the other students, his gaze found Ron and Hermione and watched their interaction closely, each talking fast and with such zeal that he wondered if they had too much to share with each other and too little time to do it.

I wonder if I’ll ever… He stopped that line of thought immediately. Obviously his youngest brother had a crush on Hermione, and that lent in part to their friendship, but Percy had Penelope to fulfill that role.

And yet, he couldn’t help but finish: if I’ll ever have that myself, his resolve gave way to speculation, staring at the two openly.

Friendship looked like a lot of work. What would he talk about? What would he do with a close friend, a best friend? Would he be as self-conscious with a friend as he was with Penelope, always worrying about what he said or did, always prepared for the worse to come out of her mouth and criticize him, even when she’s never been anything but sweet and polite? Would he have to share his personal thoughts and feelings on people, beliefs, current events? That put a sour feeling through him. Percy was an intensely private person, and didn’t like opening himself up to criticism based on his personal views. Perhaps, he felt, that was the reason this intrusive ability to see others’ fantasies bothered him. He wouldn’t want someone to invade his privacy, without being able to censure his thoughts and justify his fantasies.

Hermione laughed loudly and pushed Ron playfully, and the third-year ducked his head and blushed wickedly, as only a Weasley could do. Give and take, Percy recognized the subtle flirting. But it was their friendly, comfortable nature that turned his thoughts to Oliver.

He’d been correct in thinking that their conversation Tuesday might be their last. Oh, he had nodded a greeting several times and asked once about Hermes’ condition, but Percy had the impression Oliver’s attentions were on the playoffs that weekend, and didn’t want to prolong conversation himself, lest he be dragged into the Keeper’s fantasies. He didn’t imagine it’d be a pleasant experience, all flying Quaffles and injuries, near misses on a fast broom and distasteful locker room jabs. Percy did wish him good-luck that morning but thought it went unheard, Oliver’s face already in game-mode.

Another yawn escaping as he stared at the students’ interactions before him, Percy thought he may be safe to let down his guard, just a little. Everyone was either talking or working (talking and working, in most cases, actually), and no one appearing to be staring off or keeping to themselves, playing out their most intimate fantasies.

Or so he believed.

Like looking down into a Pensieve before the magic pulled the viewer inside, he began to see the shapes of images, much clearer than he’d ever seen before. He saw the deep azure sky of a summer’s day revealing a picturesque country landscape of bare hills that surrounded peaceful lake. He could even smell the richness of the country, the grass and the warmth that further tempted him in. He recognized a student rowing vigorously to the water’s centre in a small canoe – names’s Finn something-or-other, Percy tried to put together, watching with detached interest. This fantasy wasn’t so bad, he considered, entertaining the idea of allowing himself to be pulled forward. Until Finn flung the oars to the side, stripped, and flipped backwards over the edge of the boat.

Heart beating fast, Percy held his breath as his view shifted to what Finn what seeing – water eclipsing overhead and fierce tidal pools pulling him to the lake’s bottom. He barely resisted the draw to get into this fantasy himself, hovering on what he felt was the cusp of going through, smothering the urge to rescue the boy.

And then, he spotted where Finn was headed. A massive transparent dome was place on the lake’s bottom, inside revealing an extensive, Atlantis-like imagined city. Percy watched, fascinated, as the boy played through a series of events quickly, playing hero to the city and then welcomed into the dome with open arms, cheers even. The event was quite detailed, Percy noting several scientific factors that Finn imagined, like the impressive supports and oxygen apparatus used for the dome itself. Only a fear of deep water kept Percy from joining him. That, and the fact that all the sea-people were naked, such as Finn, and all quite well endowed.

He pulled back to reality and looked about the room, catching Finn reading a science fiction novel in the back corner.

Hufflepuff, Percy made a silent reminder to tell Professor Sprout about this third-year’s interest in underwater life. Without the naked bits, of course.

Catching the clock and seeing he’d only been supervising for twenty minutes, Percy let his mind wander again. He saw shadows of fantasies he’d never want to be a part of: dance competitions, groping teenagers, shopping in muggle London, travels to America. Some were fairly interesting to him, like those that hinted at murder mysteries or long adventures that the students’ explored themselves, formed like an interesting novel taken out every now and then to enjoy. But the intimacy of seeing such private thoughts still bothered Percy, and he couldn’t bring himself to join one. That, and seeing one student seducing Professor Snape had sent him into a coughing fit that had, thankfully, caught the student’s attention and stopped her fantasy completely.

Despite his better efforts, Percy knew he was playing a losing game. Out of the students present, he felt a kindred draw into one imagination, and wasn’t all that surprised to find himself an unwilling participant for the first time.

I’m… I’m at the pitch.

Stunned, Percy looked around him and thought for a moment he’d been transported outside somehow, or perhaps had blacked out during detention and only remembered now where he was. He was standing in the Gryffindor House section of Hogwarts’ Quidditch pitch, wrapped in his winter robes with a long scarf drawn around him tight. It was cold, bone chilling cold, and he blew on his bare hands and shuffled his feet to get warm.

That was when he noticed that most of his housemates didn’t have definable faces. The sensation of sheer terror raced up his spine, but he had no time to focus on his surroundings, as a player raced by the stands on his broom, almost knocking him over.

It was Oliver, looking much larger than he was, wearing an extra-long red-and-gold cape, and wearing a toothy smile that seemed a sneer, unreal. The crowd went wild as he deflected the Quaffle several times, until his actions became too confident, cocky, knocking him clearly off his broom. The crowd turned, booing, the mistake common to someone new playing the game.

Now I know Oliver would have made that play. Percy made a face, trying to cheer amidst the boos.

A new player raced by, and the crowd turned to positive cheers again. It was Ron, filling in for Oliver’s vacant place, expertly deflecting a bevy of Quaffles. Gryffindor soon won the game, and the announcer played up Ron’s part highly, his Housemates holding him in the air and chanting his name.

Percy grinned, unable to help laughing, and applauded as Ron’s fantasy played out. Everything was over-the-top and unreal, but he was filled with the sense that this place was plausible, was almost real, at least to Ron, and Percy wasn’t about to ruin that for him. The crowd carried Ron by him, and he reached over to squeeze his shoulder. That caught Ron’s attention and when he looked back, Percy yelled out, “Good job, Ron!”

His youngest brother smiled appreciatively and nodded his thanks.

Shaking himself clear, Percy grabbed onto his desk, startling the few students sitting at the front. The shift was surprising – from cold to warm, outdoor to indoor, faceless people to… actual people. He looked at the clock, seeing that his time in Ron’s fantasy, which he estimated at fifteen minutes or so, took mere seconds to experience.

His gaze flitted over the students until settling on Ron, who’s dazed expression indicated he was still in the throws of his imagination, even with Hermione chatting animatedly to him.

Percy felt his cheeks stretch, indulging in a flattered grin. Ron obviously hadn’t thought his participation in his fantasy was odd, which meant… Which meant that I’d been an actual thought on Ron’s behalf. He wanted to include me there.

Percy sat back in his chair, taking out his novel again (desperate times) as he tried to tune out the fantasies that now echoed in his ears. He started to read but couldn’t see the words clearly, his mind still on Ron’s fantasy and his own part. Could his approval, his presence, mean something to the boy after all?

Well, who would have thought?

--

The morning session over, Percy had begun to clean the classroom when Professor Sprout poked her head in, asking him to supervise another scheduled detention session that afternoon as her prefects had left with the other senior Hufflepuffs to watch the playoffs. He couldn’t say no but was determined to enjoy his two-hour break, taking a lengthy lunch in the Great Hall and choosing several historical novels from the library that, unfortunately, looked even more boring than the romance he had that morning.

With half-an-hour yet to kill, he made his way back to the dormitory, figuring he could perform some cleaning charms on the seventh-year bedroom, or start the houseelves on the entire House. He doubted the Tower was in any condition fit for living, after the Quidditch team and their more enthusiastic fans left that morning.

His suspicions were confirmed as he waded through clothing that lined the Common Room furniture and stepped over the garbage that littered the winding staircase. He controlled his temper until reaching the seventh-year room entrance, spotting that the door had been slightly left open and dirt visible on the handle and side. He muttered disparaging remarks underneath his breath as he took the corner of his robe and rubbed it cleaned.

“Hey.”

Percy whirled around, startled, peeking into the room.

Oliver was kneeling before his truck at the end of his bed, most of his upper torso hidden by the open lid, and digging furiously. Quidditch everything was tossed into the air and clothes were piled in a heap on his bed and, to Percy’s further dismay, a few wayward snitches had been activated and were buzzing about the ceiling.

“Oliver? What are you doing here?” he spoke quickly, jaunting towards the bed. Astonished to see his roommate in his room instead of in Ireland for Quidditch, he couldn’t think properly, his brain lagging behind his words. He started to fold the crumpled clothing.

“Forgot some things,” was the only answer muttered from inside the trunk. Percy almost had to ask what he said, his voice low and echoing. With his accent, his ‘forgot’ sounded like ‘furrgout,’ and Percy barely kept from mentioning that observation aloud.

“What things?” he pressed instead, like lecturing a first-year.

“I’ve… left… my… gloves!” he emphasized the word, raising his hand triumphantly, waving a pair of threadbare gloves. He sat up, revealing hair that was standing on end and a blood-red face that looked weary but victorious.

Head shaking, Percy said conversationally, “I’m surprised MacGonagall let you come back for those.” There was no insult in his tone.

“Oh, she knows how important these are. Besides the Portkey’s only a ways beyond the pitch out there,” he said as he jumped to his feet, jerking a thumb at the window. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I--” Percy stopped, looking at the pair of white briefs he was rolling. He dropped them onto the bed, landing on top of other rolled underwear. He lost his breath momentarily, almost speechless, but then managed to sputter, “I was giving you a hand.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow and appeared about to say something, when a snitch whacked Percy upside the head.

“Damn,” Oliver whispered harshly, though a muffled chuckle escaped seconds later.

Saved by a snitch, Percy thought, feeling dizzy. There was a warm, vibrating sensation at the corner of his jaw where he’d been hit, and he plunked down to the edge of Oliver’s bed, massaging his chin, stunned.

Oliver sat on the bed next to him, the mattress sinking down so low as to jolt Percy’s attention to the present. To a present where he’d been caught rolling Oliver’s briefs! If he had any luck at all, the remaining loose snitches would finish the job and the world could be done of him.

“Come ‘ere,” Oliver was muttering, like one speaks to a child, as he took Percy’s hands into his own. His eyes caught the bedside table where all the snitches were placed, having been deactivated already, along with a wet cloth.

Percy hadn’t realized Oliver had left the room.

He startled at Oliver’s touch, unexpectedly pleasant and knowing – knowing how to still his hands, knowing how much pressure to apply to keep Percy from jerking away, knowing how to comfort and to seemingly vanquish pain. And like the Monday before, when he’d first stood next to Oliver, he was struck with the similar sentiment of his first impression - that Oliver felt real, as though one of the boys he’s shared a room with had been only a myth over their time together.

The cloth was warm held firm against his jaw, a critical eye examining the damage before a nod of approval was given. Approval of the injury or how he was coping, Percy was sure, and soon the cloth was shoved into his own hands. Oliver’s eyes travelled to his, indicating he wanted Percy to take hold.

“That’ll smart for awhile,” he said, disappointed. But when Percy started to stammer an apology, he looked up sharply and said very clearly, “Sorry about that. I should have been watching-- Well.” Shaking his head, he touched Percy’s hand that held the cloth to his jaw, pressing hard, instructing, “Hold it like this until the blood stops. There’s not that much. You want me to take you to the infirmary again?”

Percy’s stomach dropped, feeling stillness echo through every part of his being. Infirmary? Again? With Oliver? His nerves on edge, he was approaching giddy at the Keeper’s words. There would most certainly be talk, and Oliver didn’t need a rumour going around that they were friends.

The bedroom’s door had closed over from Percy’s abrupt entrance, and now clanged open deafeningly. Still, neither man moved from their spot on the bed, Oliver holding Percy’s hand against the cloth, looking at him inquisitively. I’ll be fine, Percy wanted to address this look.

“Oliver, I’m to tell you that if you’re not back at the pitch in ten minutes, MacGonagall will--” Alex paused in both speech and step mid-way into the room, staring at his roommates, confusion marking his dark features.

Oliver’s hand dropped away, and Percy let the cloth slip to the floor.

“Right. Found the gloves, no worries.” Oliver stood and straightened his clothing unnecessarily, running a hand through his hair to flatten it.

“You didn’t… punch him?” Alex asked curiously but also with some amusement. He appeared frozen, his gestures stiff and delayed.

Oliver, who appeared about to explain, instead shot Percy a teasing grin and said, “What’s he going to do about it? Tell the Head Boy?”

Percy made a sound, ‘Pft!’ and stood up as well, still feeling a little dizzy. He didn’t have a smart remark to that comment – not one that he was sure wouldn’t ruin whatever sort of acquaintanceship they had, so he turned to Alex, explaining, “I was hit by a snitch.”

“Horrible,” his friend muttered in his native tongue, giving the Keeper a twisted look before saying excitedly and in perfect English, “Let’s go!”

“Right. Er. Well,” Oliver turned to Percy, clutching his gloves in both hands and twisting. He looked behind the redhead, at the mess on his bed.

“I’ll get it,” Percy offered quietly.

Eyebrows raised, Oliver was genuinely surprised. “Thanks. Only if it’s no trouble.”

“You know, Perce,” Alex said in the doorway, stopping. “You should come to watch the games sometime. I know that you are serving detention this weekend--”

“He’s supervising detention this weekend,” Oliver corrected, throwing on his jacket (and, Percy noticed, trying to stuff some of his newly rolled underwear in his pockets).

Watching him, Percy’s mind lagged for a moment at what he had heard. Oliver knows my schedule? Of course he does. What else have I done every Saturday for the past few years

“Ah, sure. Anyway, you should come and see us play sometime. It’s quite an amusing game. You’ll enjoy yourself,” Alex nodded kindly.

Percy, about to answer, stopped when Oliver started to chuckle. “You’re wasting your time, Al. Percy’s always there. Always been there, haven’t you heard him? Sits right near the Keeper’s hoop, you know?”

Percy gaped at him, and in turn his roommate turned to him, eager and almost scared. “Ah… You know. I mean, I’m the Keeper, right? I see these things because he’s always right there.” He went to pat Alex on the shoulder but missed and slapped the wall clumsily, drawing himself up fast as though the mistake wouldn’t be noticed. “You’ve been second-string for two years, so…”

“Right,” Alex nodded, and seemed to be repressing laughter. “Suppose I’m lucky that Fred’s out for a little bit. I get to see… rather, hear you, Perce.”

Percy backed away, the back of his knees hitting the edge of his bed, and stumbled onto the mattress. Still staring at his roommates, astonished. Oliver had seen him? Oliver had heard him?

The Keeper was opening his mouth again, starting to mumble some nonsense about the acoustics of flying that high and how voices carried, but Alex was pushing him out of the bedroom, making his excuses to Percy.

The Head Boy didn’t move for some time, watching the door closely, horrified some other Quidditch players might barge in any moment. In less than twenty minutes, he managed to embarrass himself beyond any other moment he’d experienced in his school life. In his entire life! Oliver caught him folding his underwear, to which he still had no explanation, except perhaps that he was use to picking up after his brothers at home. And then he was hit by a snitch, one that he should have deactivated, or had Oliver capture, as soon as he walked into the room, because everyone knew they were drawn to the less athletically inclined. And now, to find out that Oliver’s heard his cheers, his rants and raves, over the course of their time at Hogwarts together, and he’s never mentioned what he had heard, or teased him about it, or-- discussed the game with Percy afterwards…

The pity party would have to wait. He stood, clearing his throat to the empty room, gathering his wits. Quietly he cast several cleaning charms that had Oliver’s trunk scrubbed and polished lemon-scent new, and his clothes folded and tucked away neatly inside. Closing the bedroom door behind him, he put the incident out of his mind, and headed for his afternoon’s session.

--

When Percy set his mind to doing something – anything, he succeeded. As he took his place at the professors’ desk again, he had no thoughts about Oliver or Alex, or Quidditch or other peoples’… underthings. Instead he thought back to the mornings’ detention session, specifically to Ron’s fantasy, and wondered what his other brothers fantasized about. Probably girls and Quidditch, money and fame.

Percy looked out at the empty classroom and lamented over the state of the wizarding youth. Not one student that morning had imagined getting good grades.

Not that he would have expected anything other than a Quidditch fantasy from Ron, if he had ever given thought about what he might imagine. Percy had always found his relationship with his brothers difficult and trying, most of the time thinking he’d prefer to be addressing the worst of Hogwarts students placed under his watch than those who he had to live with during holidays and summer months.

And even if they allowed me to finish a sentence, they wouldn’t take me seriously or truly listen to what I had to say, he thought gloomily, looking at the sizable pages of historic novels he’d taken out to ‘enjoy.’ The dungeon had remained cool and dark, even with the candles lit and the warming charm cast that morning, and this atmosphere only further encouraged misery.

In the past, Percy had tried more than once to offer help to his younger siblings, such as Bill had helped him with his first year homework, but they would have none of it, always falling into the same pattern of immediate defence. With the twins, Percy didn’t expect either of them to give a second thought to assignments or tests, especially when they didn’t show proper decorum in the first place. He found conversation difficult, having to question every word before speaking in case he said something seemingly innocent that may cause them to verbally attack him or, worse, planning an actual physical attack, with booby traps and explosives.

And even after such action, he had to earn what little trust they’d given him all over again. Their relationship came down to a cycle, one where Percy felt he would never catch-up. They still looked at him with scorn and a simple ‘hello’ took too much of their energy, and Percy wondered why he keeps trying so hard because “life will always be this way, I’ll always be easy, willing prey, and why can’t I have an easy relationship with them, like Bill and Charlie?” etc. If he leaves home next year, will they still connect, somehow? Will they ignore him if they pass by him on the street?

Whatever’s to be… It was an old argument he continued to debate within himself, and he was tiring of it. But as he opened one of the novels, he recalled Ron’s fantasy, and how his presence there was Ron’s choice.

Did that mean anything? Was he missing something?

“Wow. I hope I can find a seat.”

Percy watched Fred enter the dungeon, torn books tucked under his elbow, a scowling expression directed at his brother. He held his sprained arm in a loose, crude-looking sling that moved stiffly with his body, reminding Percy of the extent of his injuries incurred weeks back. Two second-year Slytherins had tried to charm the team into flying paper hearts, a St. Valentine’s Day prank well beyond their skills, and their magic instead hit Fred at full force, knocking him off his broom. The injury hadn’t appeared worth worrying about at first, as Fred was only just taking off and hovering about five feet from the ground, but he’d stumbled upon falling, hitting his head, and the handle of his broom dug deeply into his shoulders.

Another charm-related incident on the pitch, Percy noted, shaking his head. It’s a death trap out there. It was Oliver who first noticed that Fred’s injuries went beyond a simple sprain and mild concussion, and upon further examination, Pomfrey recommended he take some time off his broom and rest. Oliver had assigned Alex to Fred’s Beater’s position, a long-awaited opportunity for the young man, but also assuring Fred his spot would be there when he recovered.

Trust Oliver to notice that one, he thought, feeling an affinity for his roommate, and the care and attention he gave his players and the game. Even MacGonagall expressed her admiration for these leadership qualities during the meeting with the Headmaster and Percy to determine the students’ punishment. I wonder if Oliver would like to hear what she said about him.

Bringing his mind back to present, Percy watched Fred pick a desk in the middle of the classroom and slam his books down, resembling Ron’s movements that morning. He looked miserable (And why wouldn’t he, his team at the playoffs, Percy reasoned, sympathizing with him), and put his head on the desk, again like Ron, trying to sleep.

About to go back to his novel, Percy remembered the draw of fantasy, and thought it a good idea to keep a running conversation, even with a prickly brother. But he realized he was too late.

The room changed so fast that Percy’s first thought was that Fred fell right to sleep, right into this dream. But… no. He looked around at his surroundings, noticing how exact and precise everything appeared, the fantasy lacking the vague ambience of a dream state.

Percy was at the Weasley burrow, standing in the front doorway and clutching a… He looked down. A fruitcake?

Christmas. He examined his appearance, seeing that he was clothed in handsome winter robes that working wizards donned and smart shoes, a briefcase lying at his feet. He turned his head, curious to see the job title under the nameplate, but the gold was too blurry.

I can’t believe he has me here, holding a fruitcake. Ha-ha, very funny, he thought impatiently. But he stuck his head out the door, trying to see through a scenic snowfall, briefly wondering why Fred had forgotten to include Penelope.

“It’s cold! Get in here, Perce. Mom won’t let us start without you!” Ron shouted, annoyed, from the kitchen.

Percy did as he was told, feeling the slightest touch of the cake in his hands as he closed the door, which itself felt easy and light. The sensations were interesting; he felt no physical exertion from what his ‘presence’ there did, though he felt the warmth of his family home and smelled the familiar scents of laundry softener and cleaner, and his mother’s Sunday dinner.

“Pass the potatoes, dear,” his mother was asking someone indistinguishable from near the head of the Weasley kitchen table.

Percy took the seat where he usually sat, noting that Fred was also missing from his place. The family had already begun to eat, including George, who was having a friendly chat with Bill and Charlie. He couldn’t make out the faces of his parents and Ron and Ginny, though he felt their presence.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Fred?” he couldn’t help but ask.

Everyone paused in their eating and conversation, and glanced at him strangely before continuing. Percy couldn’t hear all of their talk but he was left with the impression that every word spoken was well-thought out and intelligent, and when he looked at the gestures of his family, far more polite and civilized than their usual Sunday dinners.

Fred came into the kitchen alone and took his place at the table, no one appearing the wiser. Like Percy, he was dressed in heavy winter robes.

“Hello, Fred,” Percy tried to attract the younger man’s attention but his gaze was focused on everyone except him, watching the discussion with fierce interest.

The banter continued for some time, some pieces more discernible than others, but Percy was fascinated by his brother’s actions (and inactions, he noted). He didn’t eat – or even look at his plate, instead focusing hard on what everyone was saying, almost working at finding openings in the conversation for witty word play. At such a time he would shout his words awkwardly and the family would pause to look at him, some even going so far as to speak outwardly about his untoward behaviour.

When his parents would direct attention to Fred, the subjects would include pressing, revealing questions about his current studies or romantic life, or worse yet (judging by his face), his plans for after graduation. Percy knew that in a real life scenario, Fred and George would joke about opening a shop, and there would be no second-guessing, even with Mrs. Weasley’s open disappointment at the idea. But here, in his fantasy, Fred lowered his head in shame, ignoring her questions until she directed her attention to someone else.

Percy had seen enough, having long since gone cold at the realization that he and Fred shared the same anxiety at family gatherings.

“Fred!” he said sternly, relieved at how easy he brought himself out of the fantasy. At this same time he felt the fantasy leave Fred’s mind, and saw his head rise from the desk, startled.

“Wha?” his brother yawned rudely, settling back down. “I was asleep!”

“Uh-huh,” Percy said dryly, taking his time standing and stretching, and slowly walking to Fred’s desk, debating on what to say. He noticed the clock on the wall, a little surprised to see that only a few minutes had passed since Fred had entered the room.

It occurred to the seventh-year that he could just go back to his book and forget what Fred’s insecurities had shown him. But filled with a sense of right and family duty, and almost humbled and saddened that his brother felt this way, didn’t want to let another minute pass without telling him…

I’m sorry.

It’s not just you.

I see much of myself in your fears.

I see you as more than you see yourself.

I love-- Percy stopped, grabbing hold of his senses, and the casual words came out of his mouth without forethought, “Don’t try so hard, alright? For anyone. You won’t get any further ahead. If anything, you’ll be more miserable.”

Fred looked at him dully, stretching his hands out with fingers splayed wide. “Usually I just sit here. I wasn’t aware you’re looking to practice Divination on someone.”

“Fred!” Percy snapped impatiently, before the vision of Fred sitting at the family kitchen table came to him again. He had an idea to get around things: “Why are you here? Talking in class?”

“Repeatedly,” Fred said, almost proud, a mischievous smile spreading across his cheeks.

“Well, stop it,” Percy said, frustrated. “Or I’m going to start thinking you’re doing it to spend more time with the prefects. Or me.” Fred’s jaw dropped. “And don’t think I won’t tell that to anyone who’ll listen!”

“That’s spiteful,” Fred whispered dramatically. “Cruel!”

“Almost as cruel as you wasting your Saturday afternoon here with me.” Percy closed his eyes, rubbing his temple hard. He had a mild headache, blaming the sudden impact of being pulled into two fantasies within hours, and his astonishment at dealing with the realization that…

They all feel like outcasts. Maybe not all the time, maybe not in every situation, but they aren’t as brave, aren’t as complete, as they led me – and everyone else, to believe. A deep sadness struck him. They all want to belong. They all pretend to belong, and sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.

Perhaps we all feel that way, he mused, thinking about Ron’s fantasy earlier that day. How comforting… and heartbreaking. Sad that we’re all feeling like this, that we can’t take comfort in just being ourselves, in being together. It was a realization he felt he should have always known, and almost shameful that he hadn’t thought through sooner.

“You shouldn’t have to apologize for just being yourself,” he finally said, the words sounding strange to his ears but knowing he had to say this aloud, for both their benefit. “And…” He licked his lips, considering, before turning a meaningful gaze at his younger brother. “And I’m sorry if I – or anyone else, ever made you feel that way.”

For once in his life, Fred was stunned silent, and Percy had the fleeting thought that his mother would never believe this instance ever took place.

His Head Boy tendencies kicking in, he nodded towards the door. “No one else is coming, apparently. Tell anyone who will listen I had something to take care of this afternoon, and assigned you lines or some other punishment, to be done on your own time.” He kicked the foot of his brother’s seat. “Go.”

From the look of utter amazement and gratitude, Percy would say he finally succeeded in having one over him. The younger boy jumped up from his seat, seemed to consider hugging Percy or running, opting for the latter.

“Hang on!” Percy said, muting a smile. “You could always use this time to get a head start on your Herbology term assignment.” He had no idea if such an assignment existed, adding this bit of irritation just to make sure Fred didn’t think he’d gone completely off his rocker. Judging by Fred’s exasperated sigh and quick leave, he succeeded.

Percy felt good. Better than he had in years, actually, giving his brother a reprieve (the first one he’d ever doled out) and also freeing the afternoon for his own enjoyment, perhaps to walk the grounds or spend some time with Penelope. Technically he was breaking the rules but as Fred would have spent the afternoon bored or napping, and ending up resenting Percy’s position even more, he felt he’d made the right decision. After five years in Hogwarts, there wasn’t likely to be a proper reprimand for getting Fred to shut up when he was amongst friends.

Show-off, Percy thought fondly, though he knew now that Fred put real effort into fitting in. He resolved to notice this at the next holiday dinner, and perhaps take a closer look at his other brothers as well. Hopefully without the detailed imaginative bits, he added, not wishing even a glimpse of what his parents might fantasize about.


To Be Continued...