I Heard There was a Secret Chord (but who is in control?)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything beyond the plot you might not recognise, nor do I make any profit from this work; but I do try not to mess J. K. Rowling's sandcastles too badly. Sadly, I can only make dunes.
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"_I've always wondered how it might feel." you say, quietly, feet swinging into the emptiness.
"_how might what feel?" Ollie asks from beside you, arms resting on the parapet of the Astronomy Tower. He's looking at the Pitch in the distance, probably thinking about how he should be practising now, instead of hanging out with you, wasting his time on useless words he cannot hear. You find yourself agreeing to his assessment (except you aren't sure this is what he thinks, dare hope that these words don't cross his mind because he values you too – more than Quidditch – and you hope, you hope, you hope; but Oliver's eyes are on the grass and the hoops and you could never compare.)
"_never mind." you say instead. Ollie looks at your strangely. "Don't you have practise?" you ask (because you must hurt, you must be punished and silent and alone, so you push him away before he can see you crack and reveal all your imperfections).
"_in a little while." Oliver says, turning back to the Pitch and the emptiness, and you wonder how it would feel to lean forward and fly. You waver, but your knuckles are white on the stone. You don't have the guts to do it. You never do.
'It'd be a mess to clean up' you think instead, as if you might hide the cowardice even from yourself; and you hate who you have become a little more each time.
"_alright there, mate?" Ollie asks, brown eyes fixed on your dangerous lack of balance. "don't you wanna come down or something?"
You shrug, then obey. It wouldn't do to alarm Ollie; because the Scott is stubborn enough that, once worried, you'd never have a moment of peace again.
'Not today.' You think, as your shoes squeak against the stone floor. Oliver looks relieved. 'But soon.' It's a promise. (You try not to imagine Oliver's face, when you'll be gone. He would feel guilty, you think, and that's not something you want. You've put it off for so long, thinking about his face, thinking about his pain – but there is something ugly breathing in your chest, something grey and painful and numbing and every day you pray you might go to sleep and never wake up.)
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Then, there is a night with too much firewhiskey. Gryffindor has won the Quidditch Cup and Oliver has never seemed so happy: brown eyes alight with the sheen of triumph and a flush rising on his throat. The Twins have snuck alcohol in, and where you might have once told them off; now you can only bless their cunning. The alcohol burns, so you take another swig and force it down. The pain is about the only thing able to cross the haze now, and you'll gladly pick that over the grey fog that has taken over.
You are a maudlin drunk. It doesn't surprise you, really, because monsters have to be invited inside before they can enter and you have made your bed. Lie in it. You are a maudlin drunk, a quiet drunk too, and Oliver (golden Oliver, Oliver who smiles at you and makes you burn brighter than the sun, Oliver who looks past you and grips your shoulders so you won't fall) Oliver isn't drunk enough to think you are sober. He also isn't drunk enough to miss you leaving the room, a bottle in your hand and no partner in sight.
"_Percy!" he calls up the staircase, but you are a maudlin drunk and pretending he hasn't called is easy. You don't want anyone tonight; because someone might upset the careful balance you have learnt to keep, the brokered agreement between the Haze and you. You are walking on the edge of a knife and someone would push you over as easily as pull you back. (Still, you think somewhat blearily, if you were to want the company of someone, it would be Oliver's.) "Percy!" he calls again, and you hear him, you do, but the noise of the party has dimmed and your room is cold. You walk right past its entrance, carry on higher and higher until you've gone by even the First Year's dormitories and the curling staircase comes to a halt. Here, you know, there are cobwebs and no one ever comes. Here, you know, there is a man-sized window and cold steps for you to sit on, quietly, peacefully, until the grey monster in your chest calms and settles back down to something manageable. "Percy." Oliver says, coming into view and he's red faced from running after you, from climbing all those stairs but he did it; he gave you chase and this is why you wouldn't mind it if Oliver were to push you over the edge as he tried to pull you back.
You realised a long time ago how hopelessly in love you are with your roommate.
(Perhaps it's not love so much as the need to be loved, the need for his attention, for someone to see you and love you and Oliver has already begun, calling you back from the ledge and sitting with you atop the Astronomy Tower and you believe him, you trust him, but the Grey Monster has to be invited in and if Oliver doesn't know of it, then he can't call its name.)
"_Perce." he says as he comes to sit next to you, and you watch the firewhiskey slosh in the bottle. You are a maudlin drunk. Ollie is an affectionate drunk. (It works, in its own twisted way.) "Whatcha doing?" He sits too close for comfort, but you lean into him and drink from the bottle.
"_thinking." you reply, not quite the truth but not quite a lie. You are brooding.
"_it's bad for you." Ollie says with a laugh, and you don't know what to respond so you stay quiet. "I heard you had an enchanted car?" he finally asks, once the quietness has become too much for him to handle.
A car. Yes, you did. Not you; your father – but you liked that car. The thought of it. You have always wanted to learn how to drive a car. (You've never asked for lessons, because you know you would crash it, on purpose perhaps, press on the accelerator until the world flashed by in a blur and close your eyes to feel the wind in your hair and let go of the wheel so you could throw your arms up and fly, fly, fly and surely death would find you, sooner rather than later, and then you'd be free for real this time.)
You would rather not talk about the car.
"_Perce?" Ollie says, jolting you out of your thoughts. You take another swig of the bottle and Ollie wrestles it from your hands. Because he's stronger, and having six siblings means learning how to share, you hand it over. He drinks from it too. It's like an indirect kiss. When he gives it back, you trick yourself into tasting him on the lip of the bottle, and it makes the whiskey sweeter than it should be. The smoke burns your throat.
"_I don't want to talk about it." you say instead, one of the few words you've said since you realised maudlin-Percy equalled drunk-Percy and Oliver barks a laugh.
"_thought it was bloody brilliant." he replies, heedless of your wishes, and you'd think you were listening to one of your brothers if it were not for the thick Scottish accent. "Wish I could fly a car. Me Dad's got one, you know? Licenced and all. Said we should be able to blend in with the Muggles if we ever needed. Taught me how to drive it too – real blast this summer's gonna be. Almost as good as a broom."
You imagine Oliver driving fast on a country lane, the sun on his face and the wind in his hair and laughter in his eyes, and you think that, yes, a car crash would be a nice way to go. You wonder if Oliver feels it too, the urge to press down on the pedals and let go of the wheel, but you don't ask. The Grey Monster may curl inside of your chest but your brain still knows that there are some things people don't talk about, like sex and death; and your urge to press down on accelerator pedals and close your eyes is one of them.
"_I think" you say very carefully, voice very quiet because the Grey Monster is purring in your chest and you fear, you fear "that I would quite like to visit you at the Summer." Oliver grins, because he's your mate and he loves having you over, he loves getting you into new things and this driving phase is one of them, but as you say these words you know with unerring certainty that you will never honour them. (You'll be dead by the summer, you think, and the Grey Monster curls lovingly around the pain that thought gives you, hiding its jagged edges and tiding you over with apathy. You feel nothing when Oliver laughs and clasps your shoulder; and perhaps it should alarm you, but it doesn't.)
You think of bright red cars, shiny as freshly-drawn blood, and you think of smashed skulls and caved-in chests and you wonder at the dramatic death a car-crash might be. 'How loud', you think. 'How bright.'
Perhaps you might drive over the edge of a bridge and into cold water instead. That would suit you better because the shock would kill you almost instantly. Otherwise you'd drown; because you wouldn't even fight to get out, would you? You'd drown, holding your breath for as long as you can (and perhaps you'd fight, after all – the human mind is bent on survival and you are no greater than most) and your lungs would burn, the water would clog your nose and sting your eyes and perhaps you'd cry, after all, but you'd be dead all the same and isn't that your end goal?
You think of the waste of money it would be – why use a car when a rope is cheaper? – and decide that no, after all, a car crash does not suit you at all.
(Still, you think – the speed and the wind in your hair and closing your eyes; it would be exhilarating.)
.
They say that starving is painful. You would tend to agree, because it's drawn out and long and overall very inefficient, what with giving people plenty of time to notice (only if they want to, of course) and then decide to get help (once they have admitted something's wrong) and there's always the very likely possibility of them force-feeding you. They'd keep a closer eye on you after that, you'd think, so you decide that starving, for all the idea of wasting away appeals to you, isn't a very good way to die. You'd take weeks, you know, and you'd look dreadful too. Perhaps it's selfish; but you want to look peaceful when you die – not like a wraith.
It's why you don't like the idea of throwing yourself off the Astronomy Tower. It'd be messy. You don't want your parents to see you like that, your little siblings even less and imagine, oh imagine Oliver coming across you on his morning run around the Castle; what would he think, then, of the Great Percival Weasley who tried to fly? (Plus, what if you chicken? What if you let yourself fall, and then half way realise that no, you don't want to die anymore – the fear would take over and the regret but you wouldn't be able to do a thing because you'd be falling already and the weight of your failures might just keep you here, as a ghost, rather than letting you pass on peacefully.)
You learn how to Apparate, and the thought of falling off the Astronomy Tower loses its charm. What's the point of falling when you can just halt your death with a flick of your wand?
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You are running out of option. You are also running out of time.
He's growing, that Grey Monster inside your chest, slowly spreading its arms; fluffy and cold and tender as he cradles you close. You don't want to break his embrace, because you don't have the strength to, but the more he winds around you the more he saps your strength and you think you'll never be free of it. He croons softly in your ear, whispers things that you know aren't true but it doesn't matter because the voices are talking, shrieking, and whilst you do your best to ignore them; they are seeping underneath your skin too.
It's a wonder you fit, really. You are a small boy, thin and gangly, and surely there shouldn't be enough space between your skin and bones for all the monsters that curl inside of you. Perhaps, you think, they'll slowly drive you out. Where would Percy Weasley go, then? (You think Oliver might just let you curl up inside his ribcage, because he's always been bigger than life, bigger than himself and surely someone like him has got space for a tiny wraith like you?) The Grey is soothing and it's cold, and you wonder why anyone would want to break out of its embrace. It cradles you and curls all their taunts away, shoos your worries far until there's nothing in your mind but a hazy peace that makes anything trivial. You don't hurt, and you don't cry, and you don't feel anything at all. It's – restful. Weasley blood is passionate and you are glad to be moving beyond it. To be transcending it. You are proving yourself more, somehow, by becoming less – less proud and less loud and less present – and it's very peaceful when the quietness descends on you, as it has done today, and blocks everything but the beating of your heart. It thrums inside your brain, drowns all the sounds of concern and queries and unwanted voices and you can concentrate on breathing when it is like that. In, and out. You'll be gone soon, you think, and the words don't alarm you. You are already fading. In, and out. Oliver will move on, and your siblings will move on, and your parents will move on. They'll cry, of course, in the beginning, because they loved Percy Weasley, but they'll be glad that you are gone because you aren't Percy Weasley – at least not the Percy Weasley they remember. In, and out. All your worries fading one by one. In, and out. You are becoming more by being less; and you feel big enough to swallow the world.
In, and out.
.
There are very few things that can cut through the haze. Not all of them you dislike.
The shrill voices of your family can, and those you always frown at because with them comes guilt and anger and incomprehension. They tell you to be alive, to laugh and burn and be; and you like the Grey Haze well enough that you don't want to be alive. You want to fall back to sleep, to go through the motions of life unhurried, unheeded, and your family refuses to let you do that. It's – frustrating.
Oliver can cut through the Haze. You think it's his Scottish brogue, because none of your other mates can; though perhaps that's because you don't quite have any mates like Oliver. He's brighter than the stars. He doesn't need to smile, but simply to be; to come into a room or let you hear his voice and suddenly the Haze retreats, faster than ice melting in the sun, and he leaves you feeling warm and full and like you can do things again. Then, Oliver leaves – because he cannot spend his life beside you – and the cold comes back. You learn to accept it as a fact of life; like winter comes every year after summer and like ice crawls back as soon as the sun is down, and you are grateful for the spare moments Oliver might give you, unknowingly, letting you bask in his presence like the moon reflecting the sun. You are Percy Weasley, and you can do no more than orbit and pretend to shine; vain and cold and barren. The idea suits you. The Grey Haze smooths over any sadness it might bring.
Pain can cut through the Haze too.
You realise it, one day, when you trip (all on your own, over the empty air, like the useless idiot you are) and the sting in your palms suddenly sparks a light in the Haze. Your entire body thrums: your attention spikes and focuses solely on the hurt flesh and for one unescapable second; you are present. Then the Grey comes back, soothing and gentle, and it passes a calm hand over the beating heart in your chest, slowly banishes the adrenaline from your blood and whilst it curls over the sharp edges of the sting, it cannot prevent it from smarting every time you use your hands. You don't heal the grazes, because as you move your fingers and write; there are flashes of light going off in your head, reminding you that you are Percy Weasley and still breathing. It's a strange feeling, and the Grey makes you feel like you are floating in between lucid spells; so you resolve to try it again, soon. Perhaps, you think, you have found a compromise. Perhaps there'll be a summer in Scotland, perhaps you'll learn to drive a car, perhaps you'll ride a broom again. You don't know.
.
Slowly, with time, you learn some things work better than others.
Fire burns, and you don't like it at all. The first time you willingly press the inside of your arm to your glowing wand tip, it burns and stings and you feel hot and cold, like fire and ice and the universe suddenly held inside one little point on your arm; so you yelp and let go of the deceivingly innocent stick and your heart races a thousand miles per minute. Even when away from your skin it still burns, still hurts and smoulders and you don't like it, not at all, so you run your arm underneath water and promise never to do it again. The Grey Monster hisses and coils and recoils in your chest, angry, and you don't know what to do anymore, panic rising because it keeps burning and burning and burning and there are tears in your eyes. It burns for days.
You sneak a butter knife from the table, sharpen it with a spell; but you don't like it any better. The blade is thick, and it presses down on your skin rather than cuts, rubbing and turning it an angry, ugly red more often than it breaks through. You put the butter knife back, one tiny scar on your wrist beside the ugly old burn that angered for days, and decide you need something better.
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They keep coming out, all the time, in Potions when you have to roll your sleeves up, or in Charms when you weave your wand, so you decide that you need somewhere else too. Your wrist is too obvious, especially when your mother watches over you like a hawk, so you resolve to find somewhere more – personal. More hidden. You think about the sole of your feet, because surely no one is ever going to look there, but it's too small; not enough canvas, not enough place, and the Grey Haze begs to roll over and draw you back. You think about your forearms, your back, your stomach; but nothing makes sense, nothing at all, until one day you put your head between your knees and breathe and find yourself face to face with the soft, creamy, unmarred skin of your thighs.
It's a revelation.
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You are an artist. The Grey Haze is your muse.
When you turned fourteen, your father taught you how to shave. You've never needed to, unlike your elder brothers, but it's never bothered you before. Yet another way in which you could show your superiority, because a man without facial hair was a man who put time and effort in his appearance and clearly the fates had given you an advantage there too. Your father had told you to keep the silver razor, that you might one day need it and he'd bought it for you anyway, and perhaps he'd feel guilty if he knew what you use it for. Except it doesn't matter. It is wonderful.
Thin and flexible: a tiny blade that breaks your skin without pressure at all – and you love it. The Grey Haze too.
The first time you use it; you don't press hard enough. The skin splits, but you've just parted the epidermis and you sigh – in relief or annoyance, you don't know, and try again. The skin of your thighs is thicker than your expected, but it's fine. It just means you have to press a little harder, to drag the blade a little longer, and it's not like it bothers you.
You soon learn to use just the tip. Dragging the entire blade, you realise, stings a lot and cuts too deep for you to be comfortable with it. The whole point of this is that it keeps away the dreams of flying, so you don't want to lose control over the only thing that makes the Grey Haze come and go at will. The tip cuts just enough that blood pearls, which is what you want to obtain a nice, sharp sting that fades away quickly. It makes itself known again, at random times throughout the day – perhaps when you take a step just a little too long, or push up a stair with a little too much enthusiasm, and you feel giddy with the thought that you are, finally, ultimately, controlling the Grey Haze that curled in your chest. You have tamed it, that monster you invited in; you are clearing your own messes and becoming a man. You are handling yourself.
This, you know, is good. This, you know, makes you proud. You are dealing, and you are dealing all on your own, like an adult, and you feel maturity seeps in your bones with it. You are learning pain and punishment, are learning apathy and reward and balance and, surely, this is what being an adult is like. You are doing well. You are excelling.
You are brilliant.
.
You begin, in control. You don't do it often, because you know that's not healthy; but once in a while, when the Grey Haze becomes too strong, you give it a slash and come out on top. You acquaint yourself with it, like any responsible adult should, slowly learning how to handle it and soon it's every week, perhaps sometimes every couple of days but you are in control. You can stop whenever you want, you think, because this is not an addiction. This is you handling yourself; being self-sufficient and growing up and it's not like you are depressed. You are fine, coping, really, and you know you can get help if you ever feel like you've gone too far.
In fact, you are back in control after a long time of being slave to Grey Haze; and you've never been happier to be alive.
Then, it slips and you don't notice. Some days you do it, simply for the sake of doing it. You rationalise it, saying that it's because you deserve it, because the Grey Haze is strong and you need to break out of it, because you've been a bad son or a bad friend and soon enough you just stop justifying it to yourself; because there's no one to convince. You do it daily, sometimes twice a day, and your skin is beginning to scar because you aren't leaving it the time to heal.
Still, you are stubborn. 'I am fine' you think, 'coping a bit oddly, but they wouldn't understand. I need this, and I can stop whenever I want.' It's not wrong. You can stop whenever you want, but you just don't want to stop. You are learning how to live, placid in between flashes of lucidity, and it suits you. You are having strokes of genius; your mind uncluttered by all the mish-mash of emotions that normal teenagers experience and you are greater, somehow, for feeling less. You aren't prey to those emotions they feel, to the anger that makes them say mean words and the tears that spring in their eyes. Teachers say you are mature and you smile, because yes, you are, aren't you? You are dealing and coping and self-sufficient. This is your method of coping, you rationalise, and it makes a lot more sense than lashing out, no? It's a lot more efficient anyway, you think, because when they are angry the others hurt everybody and then they lose time arguing, crying, making up, whereas you can just let it all go and move on. Truly. It takes you perhaps a couple of minutes to bleed your worries out.
It's efficient, and useful, and you could stop whenever you wanted. Really. You are fine. Perhaps a little tired, but then adults are tired all the time.
.
Then you cut too deep and scare yourself.
There's blood, more of it than your meant for and your bandages stick to the cut in a way that you have never experienced before. You have to rip them off and the cut bleeds again and you reapply it, a cleaner, different part, and it sticks and rips and sticks and rips until there's a raised, puckered violet scar left behind. It doesn't go, standing out against your pale skin unlike the other silver scars and it terrifies you. You hide the blade in an envelope, tape the envelope to the underneath of your bed frame and swear you won't do it again.
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You hold for a couple of months, and there is a triumph in your blood because you are right, you were right, you could stop whenever you wanted to – and you did – and you are stronger, better, because you are in control. The Grey Haze still curls in your chest but you remember the feeling of mastering it, of conquering it and now you are its master: summoning it at will so it can curl and shield you and sometimes keeping it hidden for weeks so that you feel everything again; sharply, jaggedly. You are in control still, a different kind of control, but you have all the cards in your hand and your success is assured. You are triumphant.
Comes the second month, things are piling up once more. The blade is at the back of your mind, because colours seem brighter lately, the world more real, and then slowly it hurts again, hurts to breathe and move and be and you are scared by what's happening. You are more scared to hurt than you are of the blood that welled up when you cut too deep because you have lost control; you have lost command and your body is feeling again when you haven't allowed it to, the Grey Haze isn't coming at your beck and call anymore and you need to find it again, you need to feed it again, that monster, so that it may came back. You would rather the devil you know than the one you don't.
It's a choice to get the envelope back out; one you make with the clear promise in mind that it's your choice, your decision, and you have good reasons for doing this and you'll be more careful, now, not to cut too deep again. The blade feels like an old friend and you are glad to have its weight in your hand. It stings, but you had forgotten the bite, so it startles you. It's like the first time all over again except that now you know the rewards, know what's coming next and soon enough the Grey Haze is there, swells up in your chest and cradles you like it hasn't done for a while. Good, you think, because you are back in control.
'It's nice to see you acting yourself again' people say, and you agree with them in the privacy of your mind. It's nice indeed to finally be in the front seat.
(Dreams of flying come back; but they feel good, like a comfort blanket, so you don't try to chase them out again.)
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You are careful. For years, no one sees. You handle things with the maturity of an adult and you rely only on yourself; you become an island of your own, an oasis of calm in the tempest of hormones and you don't belong amongst your peers, don't match them but it's okay. You've paid the price for becoming more, and soon enough they'll learn the lesson you've assimilated. You are careful, because you know that the Grey Monster isn't something other people should battle (after all, it takes a very special brand on control that not everyone can handle) and so you don't speak of it, don't ever mention it because monsters have to be invited inside and if people don't know it exists then they can't invite it at all.
Oliver and you draw apart, slowly.
You barely notice it, too busy being in control and staying in control, and Oliver becomes more and more involved with Quidditch until it's all he talks about. You barely hear, past the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and you wonder if he notices, sometimes, that you can't see what he sees. There are spots in your vision because the Grey Haze is organic, it's learning and growing too, with you, and soon you'll have to find a different way to keep it at bay. You are very, very tired. Some days, you go to sleep and pray you'll never wake up.
.
You read books. Some of them have people giving into the Haze, and you feel morally superior to them because you are battling it and winning. Some of them have people, like you, fighting and fighting and still, you think, it's not the same because they aren't in control but you are. This entire thing is about control, and you have it – for once in your life, you own something, something precious and important and you are in control. You read books, loads of them, and try to understand if anyone is quite like you. But, you know, you are special. You have become more, and less, and you are greater than the sum of your parts, a magnificent whole in shades of grey that don't quite match, don't quite fit but shimmer in the sunlight like a mirage. You are a thought and an idea, free but gone in a blink, and sometimes you aren't sure you are real. You are magnificent.
You read books. None of them are quite who you are, or what you are, and you scoff at the books, scoff at the words and the people because you are not like them. You are in control.
(Still. You read the books, because being in control is having a plan, and a backup plan, and a backup plan for that backup plan. You read the book and think about the words they use to describe it. They are woefully inadequate, because none mention the Grey Haze and the Monster and being in control, but they use words like "pain" and "peace" and, you think, perhaps they wouldn't understand anyway if you tried to talk about control so you need to simplify it, to let them hear what they want to hear; like a child to whom you say "gone to sleep" instead of "died".) You learn the words they use, the tiny little lies that make sense – because there's no point in saying the truth when people won't understand it. You prepare your words, careful, for the time someone might discover your secret to being mature; all the while knowing that no one will because you are in control.
.
Sometimes, you admit, you aren't so much in control. But these are rare, and you put them out of your mind because you are in control most of the time – almost all the time, really – and everyone's allowed mistakes.
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Then comes a day when you aren't in control at all.
Your dorm is empty, and you have just taken a shower. There's a fluffy towel wrapped around your waist, and some scars peeking at the bottom of it; but it's okay because your swimming shorts are long enough to cover them, and you wouldn't show anyone your thighs anyway. You walk out of the bathroom, over to your trunk and the clothes packed in it and pull on a pair of boxers. The towel gets folded atop the bed, because you are tidy and in control of your personal space, and you are pondering if you should put on pyjamas or trousers when the door slams open and Oliver comes in, winded and out of breath, and you are only in your boxers and they most definitely don't hide your scars. But he's in a hurry, worried about something and he doesn't notice. (He doesn't notice.)
"_Percy!" he says, as he crosses the room and begins searching his trunk. "Have you seen my quidditch socks? I can't find them and I've got practise in ten minutes!"
"_have you looked underneath your bed?" you ask, as you pick the first pair of trousers that sit atop your trunk, heart beating wildly in your chest, and put it on quickly.
"_yes." Oliver says, almost in a panic. "Wait, let me check yours."
He turns around, almost diving to the ground to look beneath your bed and you quickly struggle into the trousers, one leg, then the next, and by the time he straightens up again you are shrugging on a shirt. He looks triumphant, with a pair of the white woollen socks in his hand.
"_you thief!" he says with a smile, hurriedly putting them on and storming out of the door like a whirlwind. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.
He didn't see a thing. You weren't in control, but Oliver didn't see a thing because he wasn't expecting it, didn't expect it and it's magnificent, you think, how powerful you feel. You were there, so close to being discovered, to being outed, but Oliver didn't see a thing and there's adrenalin running through your veins, a fire in your soul that burns and burns and you laugh, loud and clear and relieved, and the Grey Monster laughs along with you.
.
You are less careful after that. Cut a little too low, cut a little too deep, don't bother tidying your blade before getting dressed; and you revel in the way they don't see, in their chosen blindness. You are powerful, and strong, and all-seeing, and your own acuity sharpens as you notice things again; powered by the Grey Haze and maddened by the thrill. You live out of step with the world, watching and seeing but not participating. You begin to orbit around your peers. Just a little out of reach, just a little out of touch. You notice things.
The Grey Monster purrs and purrs inside of you, feeding on your feelings of superiority and power, revelling in the adrenaline that pumps through your blood and gives you the strength of a god.
They are all blind, but you can see.
(You are in control, not just of you but of them too, whoever 'them' might be, and you are beginning to be bigger than yourself, greater than your skin, stronger than the voices and the laughter and the Grey Haze.) You are designed for greatness.
.
It all comes tumbling down on a Saturday.
Oliver has just come back from practise, drenched to the bone and cold, and he hammers at the bathroom door, telling you to get out so he can warm up with a nice, long shower. Because you aren't a dick, you gather your remaining clothes, pants already on but blade not clean and you hide it in the folds of your dirty shirt. Then you get out, aware Ollie is dripping mud and rainwater all over the floorboards and the elves are going to struggle getting that off, and he brushes past you quickly into the bathroom. Because he's in a bad mood and cold, or perhaps by accident, his shoulder rams into yours and you lose your grip on the bundle in your arms, grabbing the shirt before it can fall to the ground but the razor is heavier, too heavy and it clatters to the ground with a metallic sound.
You freeze in horror, then throw yourself down to catch it; panic blinding you and making your limbs shaky with adrenalin but Ollie is a Keeper and a good friend – probably feeling bad for having rammed into you – and he gets to it first. He grabs it, not realising what it is, and is in the process of handing it back to you when he looks down, down at you on all four with horror on your face, and looks again.
There's still blood on the blade, because you are an idiot who got cocky, and Ollie looks stumped at he stares at the object in his hand. His clothes drip water on the floor, but it becomes the least of his concern as a flash of realisation passes across his face. Then; incomprehension.
"_Percy." he says, in his Quidditch Captain voice. "What is this?"
You sputter, spring back up and try to snatch it back.
"_that's got nothing to do with you" you say, but Ollie is bigger and broader and stronger than you, and it's just desperation driving you now because the cat's out the bag.
"_Percy" he asks again, "what is this?" and there is something in voice, perhaps like he's begging you to give him a perfectly reasonable explanation except you've got none coming to mind at the moment – but the truth won't do, you know, and suddenly all those books come back to you, with their fake words white on black and imprinted in your mind; and perhaps they weren't so fake because they seem like a very good idea at the moment.
"_I..." you say, and trail off because he's looking at you, brown eyes begging and begging but you can't give him what he asks for so you look away, at the glinting silver blade and close and your eyes. "I use it to make the pain go away."
It's a whisper, but it hits him harder than a bludger and you don't dare open your eyes because the Monster is laughing, loud and angry, and your blood is pounding harshly in your head and if you opened your eyes then you'd run away, skidding like a prey because it's too much, too much and you need this to stop now, you need to be back in control and he's taking it away, taking it all away and you don't know how you'll deal.
You know how this will end, though.
"_oh, Percy." Oliver says, and very carefully he draws you in his arms and you don't know what to do because you've never heard Oliver use that tone of voice before, like he's sad and upset and sorry all at once, like he's guilty but angry and disappointed and you don't know what's happening, don't know what to say because nothing will make him understand because you've failed at keeping him from the Grey Monster and control is slipping through your fingers.
But Oliver is warm, for all he stinks of mud and sweat and rainwater, and he's oddly real in your arms, like no one has been for that past couple of years, and although it feels like a dream, although it feels surreal when you hug him back, like your mind is going into shock and not responding; the mud on your clear skin isn't going away. It's still there when Oliver steps in the bathroom, taking your razor with him, and it's settling on your skin, pulling as it dries and flaking off and you sit, at the edge of your bed, catatonic because your certitudes were just a house of card that came tumbling down. You sit there, and then you lay there, quietly, remotely, as if it weren't you at all, and you close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. In, and out. In, and out. Ollie comes out of the shower, and he calls your name, and you pretend you are asleep – but he knows better and so he dresses quickly in pyjamas and slips in beside you and turns the lights off and he's warm; he's real at your back and you think you can hear him cry, sniffles in the dark, but you don't understand why he's crying or why he isn't in his own bed. 'It's not real' you think fervently in the dark 'it's not real, it's not real' and you hope that when you open your eyes, all this will be gone.
('Surely' you think, 'it didn't all fall down so easily.')
.
You wake up, and Ollie is still there. The reality of the matter hits you then, but you don't want to think, don't want to deal, so you call the Grey Haze and it is all too happy to come back, to tide over you and drag you under and you close your eyes again, going back to sleep, ignoring the world just a little longer.
Oliver is awake when you next wake up. You know you are going to have to face him at some point, know you are going to have to get up and face life too, but you are hoping that you might just close your eyes and not wake up (though it hasn't happened yet) and therefore you try to fall back to sleep, once more – like the coward you are. But he's noticed you, he's been watching, too, with those big brown eyes of his, and they are red rimmed and you've caused this, you've caused this and you are ugly. (There's no control at all left.)
"_I'm sorry." Ollie says, like he's got something to apologise for and you don't understand, you don't, but these words mean something to you and to the Monster and to the voices and suddenly you start bawling, start crying and gasping for breath and hiccupping like a toddler and your nose is blocked, you can't breathe, your pillow is wet but Ollie holds you; he holds you and doesn't let you go and he's warm, he's there, he's real. "I'm sorry." Ollie says again, into your hair and you think he's crying too, perhaps, can't really make it out in the haze of emotions and you try to put it all away, you really do, you try to get back on your feet but the Grey Haze doesn't come when you call it and it terrifies you, so you cry harder. Years of careful control, shattered in one night and you cry for that too, for all your efforts and the lengths you went to, for the peaceful feeling you'll never have again, for what you've lost when Ollie saw the blade and asked 'what's that?' and you'll never tell him, because if he doesn't understand the lure of the Monster then perhaps he won't call him inside; but you are scared and terrified and you've lost the one thing that made you great.
Ollie holds you, and you cannot deny that this is very, very real.
.
You are at his mercy now. (Out of control.) Oliver could destroy you, you and your carefully built world of perfected apathy and silver lines, and you are weary. He doesn't tell you what he did with the razor and you don't ask (because if you pretend it didn't happen, then perhaps he'll forget about it) but you get another one, in secret. You must be patient, though, because Ollie is checking on you, keeping watch, but you know he can't keep watch forever. In a few months he'll be tired of this, tired of checking on you and watching everything twice and whilst you'll have to be very, very careful; you'll be free again. He'll always tie you down, always have this leash on you, but apart from killing him (and you do consider it, once, in a fit of madness that leaves you shaken and shaking, terrified and crying and perhaps thinking that you do, indeed need help) which you are sure now you won't do; then he'll always know. (You don't dare obliviate him, because Oliver is omnipotent in your mind, blazing like the sun, and one day he would remember your deeds and he'd break you for what you did to him. He'd look at you and no longer love you and that would rip you apart.)
He tells you to show him your scars, and you do because you don't doubt that if you refuse, he'll tell someone. You are terrified. He tells you to show him your scars, so you take off your trousers and stand there, naked apart from your boxers, and allow him to put his hand on the puckered skin of your thighs as he traces them slowly. You want to cover yourself up, immediately ashamed, but he hasn't said you could so you stand there, quiet and silent and ashamed, and you wait, you wait and try not to think about how warm his hands are, how ugly the skin is, how it once was creamy and smooth and pale. You try not to regret.
"_Percy–" he says, when he sees your scars, a sigh that makes you take a step back because it's packed with too many emotions for you to decode. He's gentle when he traces them, and perhaps he looks shocked, surprised at how many there are, at how old some of them seem to be, and it makes him wonder, makes him question.
"_how long has this been going on?" he asks, as he traces a purple one – another near miss, but you were perfectly in control – and you don't know what to say. It's been going on for a long time, longer than he needs to know so you just shrug, trying not to look at him and you pray he'll drop the matter. "Percy." he says instead like a warning, and there's no one listening to you, no mercy for someone who brought this onto himself (you made your bed, and now you must lie in it.)
"_a couple of years." you say, when three, four years is closer to the truth, but already Oliver pales under the reality of it.
"_years?" he whispers, and you think he'll cry again, perhaps he'll faint, but you don't know anymore. You keep your mouth shut. "Years, Percy? How did we not see it? How did I not see it?" he asks, voice rising and pushing off from you, disgusted (with you or with them, you don't know) and you stumble back, scared and confused and you just want to close your eyes and wave it all away. "Why didn't you say anything?" Oliver asks, voice angry and thick and you think he's going to hit you, perhaps, or perhaps he'll storm from the room and tell someone but you don't know, you don't know what to say because you wanted to tell them, you did, sometimes, but the words wouldn't come out, like now, stuck in your throat and too big for your mouth and you think you need a whole different language to express yourself because they wouldn't understand, wouldn't comprehend and not saying anything is better than saying and not being understood; so you stay silent, always have, always will, and would rather burst than give in. "Why didn't you tell me?" Oliver asks, voice broken and kneeling (when did you curl up into a ball?) and you put your hands over your ears because you don't want to hear it, don't want to hear him because you did this for him, for you too but for him – you didn't speak because you were trying to save him, to spare him – but you can't say that. You still have a chance at saving him, at keeping him from the Grey Monster so you don't say a thing, keep quiet and close your eyes and press your hands against your ears. He's wrenched control from you, grabbed it from your hands and you try to keep the monsters at bay – for him, you do, always have – but it's hard when their voices can't be drowned by pressing your hands harder against your ears.
Perhaps he'll storm out of the room and tell a teacher. You don't know, but you are rocking on your heels, huddled on the floor of your room and Oliver is kneeling in front of you, looking at you with tears in his eyes and his hands are big and warm and they break through the Haze, break through the madness that is rising from inside.
"_it's okay." he whispers, in that thick Scottish brogue that can part the Haze without trouble. "It's okay. I'm here now, and it'll be fine. We'll be fine."
You don't believe him for a second; but saying it seems to make him feel better, so you act like you do.
.
Because Oliver is seventeen and not-an-adult, he tells McGonagall. Suddenly there are people all around you, colours and sounds that keep moving, keep shifting, and there's your mother's crying and your father too and Oliver is saying 'sorry' to you, over and over again, and you don't understand why because you never thought he'd keep quiet, you were always just waiting and it's a relief now, because he no longer has this against you. There are people speaking about your feelings, but no one asks you what you feel so you stay very quiet and silent and don't speak. Your parents don't tell your siblings, though you think Bill and Charlie work out that something's not right, but you aren't going to tell them first so everything's quiet and no one speaks about it and there's shame every time you don't meet their eyes. Your mother cooks more, and speaks louder, and pretends that it hasn't happened. Your father watches you with sad eyes, and sometimes he tries to speak to you about feelings; about how it's okay to be different, how it doesn't matter because they love you but they don't understand and you know they won't, know they can't, so you don't say a word. You listen, numb because the Monster's still there, and when he's done speaking you say: 'okay Dad', go off and try not to feel the weight of his stare on your back. The Twins still prank you, though, so it's like nothing has changed, and that's okay.
They talk about taking your Head Boy badge away, because perhaps there's too much stress, and although it's everything you've ever feared; you don't speak up. You want to close your eyes and watch everything fade away, want the world to go back and leave you to orbit it silently but Oliver refuses, and he fights for you to keep your badge. He tells McGonagall that stress has nothing to do with it, that you are hardly studying as much as you used to and you've got plenty of free time already and more free time is just more time to be silent – and surely that's not a good thing; so why take away one of the few things you are proud about, why punish you when you've already punished yourself, and you think, blearily, that Oliver is a good friend. He fights for you, and perhaps he doesn't say the right thing or fight the right battles, but you remain Head Boy. 'It's only a few more months to go.' Professor McGonagall says with a sigh, and you know these words intimately. There's a countdown in your head, one that started at six months and is slowly dwindling away because you know, you know, that once you are out of Hogwarts, graduated and gone, your parents will pretend that it never happened and you'll be able to go back to your previous ways easily. It's just a matter of surviving until then, of bidding your time and being quiet and breathing in, and out. (In, and out.)
.
Oliver sleeps in your bed all the time, now. It's uncomfortable, because the Hogwarts bed weren't made for two grown boys, and you are often too warm during the night, but he always comes back and you don't understand why. He shrugs away the questions you don't ask, every night slipping in beside you and tugging you to him and his skin is warm, which works because you are always cold. Sometimes he cries, and your pillow is wet for a while. Sometimes he just holds you and sometimes there's something stiff against your back in the morning. He never says anything, and you don't either. Sometimes you are the ones with morning wood – and perhaps once upon a time Oliver might have made a joke, cracked a smile or grinned; but now he's quiet and subdued and a lot of things go unsaid between the two of you. Perhaps you aren't very good Gryffindors.
He sleeps in your bed all the time, and when comes summer holidays and the Burrow; your bed is cold and you don't quite know what to do with yourself. You are quiet, and withdrawn, and you don't often leave your room; rather spending the day in the dark than having to see your brothers laugh and your sister smile, and it hurts to be so numb, it hurts to be so cold. You don't understand why you miss Oliver so much, except you do, because you've loved him (or the idea of him) for the longest of times and it's strange, now, to be alone. You are never alone, of course, because the Monster is not gone, but you almost wish Oliver might come and stay with you at the Burrow.
Then he owls, and offers for you to come and stay with him in Scotland, something he hasn't done in a few years, and you think of car rides and the sun on your skin and the wind in your hair – and not of accelerator pedals or closing your eyes or letting go of the wheel – and you smile. It's been a long time since you've smiled, you think, and your mother looks ready to burst into tears again (and your elder brothers watch, careful and silent, but Ron scoffs and Ginny laughs) and, although they seem reluctant to see you go, your parents agree to let you spend the rest of the summer with Oliver.
You pack your trunk, and your razor (in case you develop stubble whilst there, of course) and there's something light in your chest; something buoyant and happy that settles next to the monster, doesn't chase it away (cannot chase it away, because you've invited it it) but it's okay because it's brighter, lighter, greater, and you smile and hold your case tightly and cannot wait to see Ollie again.
.
The six months pass whilst you are in Scotland, but there's no need to go back to the razor so you leave it hidden in your trunk. Oliver says nothing, but you sleep in the same bed and summer is warm so you are just in boxers and although he doesn't let his eyes trail down, you know he notes every day no more scars appear and they contribute to the brightness of his smile. He takes you out in his father's car, and the sun is just as warm as you thought, and he teaches you how to drive it, and you learn to resist the urge to just press down and let go. Oliver grins next to you, letting out yelps when you turn a little too sharply or brake a little too soon but it's all good fun and, well, you don't need to know how to drive because he'll be there to drive for you anyway.
Oliver gets accepted by Puddlemere United; and you accompany him to the welcome party, with his parents, and people ask you if you are together and you shrug and Oliver shrugs and says why not. He kisses you, that night, and he's warm and brilliant, like you thought you once were, and the elation in your chest is jagged, harsh, unrelenting; but you don't want the greyness to smooth it over. You hold it, and treasure it, jagged and sharp and unrelenting, and Oliver smiles – boyish and bright – and he holds you that night even though you are both too warm and you think there's hope, still, within you.
.
Oliver's mom and dad help you find a house, somewhere not too far from their own Manor, and you settle in nicely. You find a job at the Ministry, something that challenges you and forces you to think, to keep on your toes and constantly be present – so that the greyness cannot come and take over anymore; and Oliver is Keeper for Puddlemere United and there's hope, there's hope.
.
You get back in touch with your mom and dad, to let them know you aren't dead, still alive; and then you take Oliver to a dinner at the Burrow, when you are sure there won't be many people, and slowly you re-learn to be around your family. They are a little surprised to see you together like that but they don't make a big fuss and you wonder if they are scared too, scared that you'll slip back to the monster waiting. Charlie asks you if you are better, though he doesn't know what you are better from, and you say that you are, for the moment. It's not a lie. Oliver's hand tightens around your own, because the monster will never leave (you invited it in, after all) but it's your job to keep finding reasons to be happy, to keep putting one foot in front of the other and so long as you can manage, so long as you can persuade yourself to feel; then it won't take over.
Oliver kisses you, warm and real, and Charlie shrugs and Bill laughs and you think that you can do this.
You are back in control.