"At first you didn't want to think it was love.
No, don't even try to deny it, glaring won't make me take it back. You didn't want to admit it.
No.
Don't look so embarrassed, it's fine. He didn't want to believe it either.
You would stare into the infinity, with the goofy smiles characteristic of love, and you would try to wipe them off, to no avail. Nothing could get them off.
Not even snogging someone else.
And you tried it, didn't you? He tried it too. When you ended up sighing his name you decided it was the time to stop. It was repulsive, yes. Wrong in many, if not all, cultures.
It was fine that you tried to repress it. Everyone would have tried. And it was somewhat funny, if no one ever confessed that to you.
No. No, they wouldn't. It was a serious matter.
But that you ignored love, true, pure love just because of something irrelevant like morals was funny. Love is nameless, no? It should be universally accepted. Total liberty of love. That's what we all aim for.
Then you proceeded to hate eachother. It was the his fault that you loved him, wasn't it? Don't sneer. It's true.
It was just a phase.
After that, you started not to care. It was just a phase, you were sure of it. It was rather normal that you felt attracted to him; teenage curiousity.
Funny the excuses people come up with to hide their dirt.
But the phase wasn't a phase, was it?
It wouldn't go away.
Everyday, it would hit you harder. So hard you wanted to press him against a wall and kiss the life out of him. Along with some other thing that had you waiting until everyone else in the dorm had fallen asleep so you could take care of it.
Only not everyone else had fallen asleep.
He had the same issue you did, and he watched you. You still can't decide how it made you feel, can you?
It wasn't repulse. It wasn't exactly love, though. But you still hadn't accepted that you loved him.
He had.
He stared at you with wide, desperate eyes that you tried to ignore yet couldn't quite.
You never noticed he had such alluring eyes.
You never noticed his lips turned a reddish-pink when he pouted.
But, no. You couldn't possibly love him. Could you?
You decided to experiment.
Stop it.
It had been too much. He threw you against the bathroom wall, that day, and you let him take you.
You pretended that it had been good. You pretended that it had been bad.
There was no love there.
You just went along with it, at some point.
It didn't feel good, it didn't feel bad. Your curiousity had been satiated, but you suffered the consequences.
Please, stop.
No. No, it wouldn't stop. He was rough and he did it roughly. It could have hurt, only you blacked it out: it didn't feel good and it didn't feel bad.
People noticed, by then. You were always locked somewhere secluded. They couldn't believe it, it was a serious matter.
You left school before it was confirmed, though, so it was no big deal.
Only, it was. You were always with him. Now that you were both alone, together, he was insatiable.
And no one would stop him, and you couldn't black it out. Oh, Merlin, what had you done?
Nothing. I never did anything.
That's right. You never did anything. You just sat there, being his and not at all. Loving him and hating him. That's why you would never, ever, leave him.
You'd rather hurt yourself than him. How chivalrous of you.
It was just a phase.
No. You were past that point. You were adults. Nothing was a phase and times were darkening. You weren't safe in your little flat anymore and were was your little brother? Not safe. Your little sister? Not safe. Your big brother? Not safe, but who cared?
I did. I always cared.
That's a lie. You hated your big brother. You blame him for everything. You always blamed him, ever since childhood.
When people started dying you knew it wasn't right. He fucked you harder. Yet nobody seemed to notice the bruises you so desperately displayed. Your stupid cry for help. No one would help. They weren't worried about you, were they? People were dying and you were safe.
I wasn't safe.
You were safe. Your injury had long-since healed. He punished you for that, do you remember? You weren't sure why, but you know now. You cried, that night. You thought he hated you, you felt so unprotected.
It was always about you. You felt you had the right to be a narcissist: nature had ensured you were so.
Never a narcissist.
Yes, a narcissist. You had better fallen in love with yourself, you wouldn't hurt anyone other than you.
I didn't hurt anyone.
Liar. You did. You hurt everyone. You like hurting them.
He was dead then. Just dead. Pale and stiff, and you hated him for that, for dying. But it was fine, wasn't it? There was no love there.
Fine. Fine. Very much fine.
You loved him. Admit it.
You thought it was better to ignore that, to ignore your true feelings.
It made you feel better with yourself, less dirty. Because he was the one sinning, not you.
But he was dead. Dead.
And you wanted to take him home and make love to him.
Because he couldn't be dead, maybe it was just a phase: maybe he was denying life for a while.
He can't be dead. Not dead. Not dead.
But he is. DEAD. And it is your fault. Admit it.
You had promised not to leave his side, yet you did. And he died.
Your fault, your fault, all your fault.
Percy's fault. Not mine. Percy. Not me.
Go ahead. Say it again. Maybe you'll believe it.
Percy's fault. Not mine. Percy. Not me.
Do you believe it?
No.
And where are you now?
The walls are white.
White, pale, white, pale.
Everything is white and you want some colour.
Red hair.
Your hair is gone. Gone, gone, gone.
Everything is gone and he is gone and you loved him.
Not dead.
Dead. No, please, not dead, no.
He can't be dead. Not when I loved him.
Colour. I see colour. Red hair.
Go on. Tell your mother you're fine.
She's waiting to hear it, she wants to believe it.
She believed it, believes you.
You're such a liar.
No, never a liar.
Dead. He's dead.
Just a phase, maybe he's denying life for a while.
Mum's leaving, now, promising chicken soup for dinner.
She knows.
You don't eat. And it's been weeks.
Not eating. No throat, everything's gone.
You want us to shut up. You're shouting alone in your room.
They fear you've gone crazy.
Never crazy.
You have. You're crazy, because you talk to yourself.
He's not here for you to speak with. And now you're holding your breath.
Don't fuck this up, now. Do it the Muggle way. Painfully.
It drags, and it hurts. Like hell.
Oh, please stop!
No, not stopping. You must suffer. You hurt him.
And you never told him you loved him.
Gasp his name. You're bleeding.
Fred.
Atta boy. You're dying. But we're not fading, are we?
You hear us yelling. We won't stop.
We're him, and you.
All that's left.
Everything's gone.
And there's no love here."