15 Minutes

They never really see me. No, not me at all. Because I'm never me when they're around. Only when I'm alone.

I suppose when I was younger I was not so reclusive. It must be the kind of trait that comes to light later on when you start becoming old enough to want to escape.

It's just Oliver and me and then John in here. 1987 was a small year for first years. Voldemort probably. But they've both gone now, first Oliver and then John once I assured I had to finish the potions report. He should know by now that was a lie. I won't argue with success, however.

I turn the radio on. Loud. The stations I scoff when they are here blast songs with rhythmic lyrics and the haunting sounds of guitars pushed to their limits. I can see them, hands flying over instruments screaming with electronic suffering, hair flying as the music isolates them from everything else that is, has been, and will be. And I am with them.

My stride is unbroken as I place my glasses on the bed, as I brush the red-orange threads from my unseeing eyes. They're little more than blue glass orbs when I take off the lenses, but it doesn't matter. A new sense of awareness takes over. They aren't needed here.

Quidditch. They won't be back. Studying. I'm covered. Freedom isn't going to class. It isn't flying or watching Katie Bell score for Gryffindor. The freedom is here, now in the music making every fibre vibrate with an ecstasy they haven't felt in far too long.

In this room, as I jump on my bed and sing desperately along with lyrics I never knew I had remembered, I am alive and I can't understand how I enjoyed playing dead for so long. Never again.

No, it's not great art. The muggles are far ahead of us in that respect. They have more flops but more greatness too. It's just the world's way of evening things out. We get a cure for the common cold; they get Mozart. They probably don't even realize that their instruments are really only magical adaptations of muggle designs. But there's something addictive, something comforting about the way these sounds pour from the small radio.

There's a part of my mind somewhere telling me that I'm an idiot, telling me that John could be back at any moment even if Oliver can't, telling me that I'll knock myself senseless without my glasses and then where will I be. But the dark side's been too long in waiting. My reason has been suspended in a phenomenon it's desperately trying to comprehend. Don't bother. Just listen.

I'm mad. I've gone mad. What am I doing? Something's just been turned loose that's been in wait for months. Why can't I be this more often? Why am I only truly myself when the rest have gone? Why do I even bother asking when I've known the answer all along, impaired judgment notwithstanding? I can't be anything but perfect Percy the prefect. As soon as the song's ended I know I'll put my glasses back on. I'll turn the radio off, comb my hair...maybe I'll even make an appearance down at the pitch. A bit of good, wholesome house spirit couldn't hurt my chances for head boy.

But could it hurt me?

I've always hated alliteration.

~~~~~

A/N: My first piece- just a quick exercise of sorts. Any comments/suggestions/etc. would be appreciated. Thanks.