A/N Because all we have are Harry's views on Percy (which are slightly biased by the twins and Ron), I like that we don't get much character development on him. Yes, I would love to read more about Percy in the official books, but I like that I can add character to him. The books don't use "I" and "my", etc. but they are third-person limited, which means that it's not the most reliable method of writing to get the full story. It's bound to get slightly muddled in the telling ;)
Last in Line
Arthur tapped his foot mercilessly as he sat in the Saint Mungo's waiting room. It seemed his entire life took place here now. He himself had been stationed here for a while and just recently his eldest son had been attacked by a werewolf.
"Mr. Weasley?" The ginger haired male looked up as a nurse entered the waiting room, clipboard in hand. "You can go in now. He's stable." She led him down the hall to a small, private room shroud in dim lighting.
When he entered the room, his brown eyed gaze fell on the body laid under starch white sheets. The woman watched the Weasley patriarch's face carefully for a moment before she spoke again.
"He certainly cut himself deep enough to die. It's really lucky that his flat mate found him." Arthur nodded, rubbing his tired eyes slowly. "His friend left this. He said he read the end of it… That you should too. He thinks you should read all of it though. Mr. Wood said he would sometimes watch him write in it at school and it may have some answers." The redhead looked up and his gaze landed on an old leather-bound book in her hand. Percy's journal. He remembered when Bill gave that to the boy right before going to Hogwarts, when Percy had just turned 11. He nodded, exchanging a thank you as he took the book and sat by his third son's bedside.
Arthur laid the book to rest on the bed by Percy's thigh, rubbing a circle on the back of his son's hand with his thumb. The redhead's hair was in its natural wavy state, the mass of waves and curled falling in front of a closed blue eyes. His hair was far longer than Molly would ever let it grow when the boy was in school. She thought his curls would be too much to handle long and cut the shorter than she had with all the Weasley kids. Bandages were wrapped around his wrists, a faint smattering of red visible in some patches of it.
He settled back in his chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he prepared to read. The book appeared to be filled to the end.
August 22 1987
I'm not quite sure why Bill decided to get me this for my birthday, but if he thinks it's a good idea for me to write the contents of my brain out into this journal, then I will. He tells me I can write anything in it. Maybe it won't be so bad. My thoughts are becoming rather crowded trapped in my mind. I have nowhere else to let them out. No one ever really listens when I talk anyway.
Besides, I'm starting Hogwarts soon and if it ends up being anything like it is at home, I won't have any friends or anyone to talk to. I guess this is my only friend, isn't it? A brown leather book bound together by cheap glue. I can smell the glue as I write this. In a way, it's comforting. It's rather sad that this is my only friend, but I'll take what I can get. The cover of this thing is very stiff and it's rather difficult to write in. Maybe if I use it enough it'll soften up.
It certainly had been used enough. The covers were now pliable and soft to the touch, bending in Arthur's grasp as he read through the neat words.
I don't really know what else to write so I guess maybe I'll just tell you some things about my life. Look at me, already talking to you like you're an actual person. Maybe one day someone will read this though, so I guess that someone is you, potential reader. Welcome to the horribly bland life of Percy Weasley, 11 years old today.
The first thing you should know, if you don't already, is that I have a rather large family. Six brothers and sisters total.
Bill is the oldest. He's my favorite. He's the only one who talks to me at all, really. Even if he's just humoring me. Maybe he really cares. He's a prefect and it seems to make Mom and Dad proud. I can't help but wonder if I'll be prefect too and if it'll have the same effect on my parents. It seems everything I do has been done before.
Charlie is next in line. He's the free spirit. I think he's really good at Quidditch, though recently he's been showing a keen interest in dragons. I heard him tell Bill he was thinking of being a tamer. I hope he'll let me come see the dragons if he does become one.
Fred and George are a pair. They're funny and fun and have already taken to tormenting me, even if they're only nine.
Ron is the youngest boy. I recently taught him chess and he's already better than me. He's already on the path of being like everyone else is. They're all better than me in someone else.
Ginny is the baby girl. She's very sweet and I can tell she'll have the kindest heart of any of us. Perhaps I'm just being sexist because she's a girl. I don't know. It's hard to predict things like this.
They're all distinct in some way.
Bill is the oldest.
Charlie's the wild one.
Fred and George are the funny ones.
Ron is the talented one.
Ginny is the only girl.
Percy is… Nothing. Yet! I can make something of myself. I have to be able to. They all have, and it's only natural for me to catch up eventually. I quite enjoy drawing, actually. It could possibly become my "thing."
One's "thing" is the thing they are best known for and best at, in case you weren't aware. You probably already knew that. I don't have a thing yet. I will one day. I have to.
Drawing, in fact, was my original intent for this journal, but then Bill went on to say how I can write things in it, and I don't want to let him down. Who knows? Maybe writing will replace drawing. I doubt it. But who cares? I'm open to anything if I can become good at it.
I think maybe I'll begin addressing these to you. I don't know if you even exist, much less your name, so I guess I'll just stick with the whole "potential reader" thing. Dear Potential Reader sounds okay… Possibly? It'll make it seem more like a letter to me, which then opens up the possibility of someone to listen to me talk besides a piece of paper. I guess not even the paper listens. I don't think a paper can listen. If I had someone to write letters to, I wouldn't need this journal. I suppose I'll just pretend it's a letter that I just haven't got around to sending yet. Yea, that works for me.
That's it I guess. Mom's calling me down for dinner now. I'll be back as soon as I have something interesting to tell you. Can't waste the paper, after all.
-Percy Weasley
It was starting off innocent enough Arthur supposed. Yes, there was the talk of not fitting in with the family—getting lost in the crowd—but there was hope. Optimism. He had a feeling that said spirit wouldn't last long.
Percy was barely eleven when he wrote that and it was already more than the boyish scrawls you'd expect from a kid that age. He had a feeling the constant reading Percy did played a part in that. Arthur vaguely wondered how good he'd be now as an adult.
There was a long skip until the next entry and Arthur realized that Percy really meant it when he said he would only write things he deemed important—the updates weren't as consistent as he'd expect from his precise son.
The next one was dated September 1st, 1987. The day Percy started Hogwarts.
September 1st, 1987
Dear Potential Reader,
I started Hogwarts today. Mum gave me a fierce but quick hug before moving on to Charlie and Bill, clinging to them longer.
I hung onto Bill's sleeve on the train but he managed to shake me off the crowd, leaving me standing alone with nothing but my Hogwarts trunk.
The only available spot I could find was next to a boy who introduced himself as Oliver, later adding his last name to the mix. Oliver Wood, is his full name. We talked a little but it soon became him rambling about Quidditch as I sat listening silently. He said I was a good listener. I just didn't really have anything to contribute to the conversation.
When I finally gave up my last name, the reaction was as expected. He immediately exclaimed with great enthusiasm, "Your older brothers are on the Quidditch team!" Just another way I'm in their shadow.
The rest of the trip was spent in silence.
I was really scared I wouldn't be placed in Gryffindor. The hat almost put me in Ravenclaw, then Slytherin.
"No, Slytherin wouldn't work. You have a strong longing to be desired. Loved. That wouldn't happen in Slytherin. I also see a strong wish to fit in with your brothers, but a wish to not be known as just another Weasley… I suppose it has to be…" You can guess what happened next. I got placed in Gryffindor.
I don't think I'll forget the expressions on Bill and Charlie's face when my sorting reached the three minute marker. There was fear, confusion, nerves, but also a bit of understanding. Part of them seemed to expect it.
I nearly cried when the hat placed me in the same house as my elder brothers. I don't think I've ever stood up faster.
Incidentally, Oliver was put in Gryffindor and we're the only Gryffindor boys in our grade. Maybe we'll become friends.
-Percy Weasley
Arthur sighed. They would've been proud even if Percy had been placed in Slytherin.
He pushed his son's hair out of his face, running his fingers through the waves gently, a particularly curly strand tugging on the jagged corner of his index finger's nail. He kept his eyes on the closed eyelids, willing Percy to open them and let him see those brilliant blue orbs, even if only for a second, but they stayed shut. His gaze fell on the soft features on Percy's freckled face. The boy had never been popular with anyone, much less girls, but there was something about his face when it wasn't creased with worry or anger that made Arthur think he'd do just fine in life once he got passed the stiffness imbedded in him.
He leaned back and continued reading; he didn't know how much time he had before Percy woke.
September 8th, 1987
Dear Potential Reader,
Hogwarts is terrible. I had high hopes, but I think I may have been wrong. I don't get the classes, I have no friends, and I have to live up to the high expectations of teachers and peers simply because of who my brothers are. Not to mention Professor Snape seems to have an aversion to shampoo.
Because I don't understand the criteria we're being offered all my time is spent studying and not making friends. Everyone is forming groups and I'm left alone. Just like at home. Even Oliver seems to only be my friend behind closed doors.
On a brighter note, the lack of companionship allows me to practice drawing more.
Today, one of Charlie's friends tripped me. And he was right there. I thought surely he'd say something, but he just smothered a laugh and turned his head away.
I dropped all my things in the fall, but a Ravenclaw girl helped me pick them up. Her name is Penelope. I think I may call her Penny. She said that was fine by her. She has curly blonde hair and dark brown eyes.
I think maybe we'll become friends someday, but that's what I thought about Oliver.
She saw my notebook of drawings when she bent down to help me with my things, and she asked me to draw her one day. I promised I would. So I guess, now I have something to look forward to.
Well it's almost midnight and Oliver wants me to turn off the light, so that's it for now.
-Percy Weasley
It had never even dawned on Arthur that maybe the reason Percy studied so much in school was because he didn't get it. But he supposed it made sense.
And that name—Penny. Where had he heard that before? He vaguely recalled the twins teasing Percy about a girl, drawing out the name Penny in sing-song voices to mock Percy for having a girlfriend. Arthur smiled despite himself. Turns out that did work out in Percy's favor. The real question was for how long.
He watched the nurse bustle in and quickly swap the old bandages for new ones.
"Mr. Weasley would you like us to owl your wife?"
"No, I can do it. I will. Soon. I should read a bit further first."
The young woman smiled before exiting and leaving the man to read in silence. He skimmed the next few entries. They had thinned out to about monthly and weren't of anything of great importance. Mostly just ranting about bad grades and how much studying and homework he had to do. It was becoming quite apparent that his son struggled greatly in most of his classes.
There was a long skip after the first month of second year, all the way until the beginning of his third year. It was weird to Arthur how inconsistent the writings had been then, but then again, Percy had only been eleven and twelve—even he lacked perfect schedule at that age.
He began the first entry Percy had written as a thirteen-year-old and immediately saw differences in the way the ginger spoke. He didn't sign this one at the end, for starters. The entries and paragraphs were longer and more descriptive, ridden with angst and the occasional cuss word and in a strange way, thoroughly entertaining. It was like a good book Arthur couldn't put down. Percy had a way of capturing the attention of his "potential reader."
The man wondered how good Percy's drawings must be if he was at least half as good with a pencil as he was with words.
September 22nd, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
I'm not going lie at all about why I haven't written in a while: I lost this thing near the end of last school year and found it on the floor underneath my bed today.
Fred and George have started Hogwarts and now the safe haven of school is no longer safe. I don't leave my room much these days. I don't need them embarrassing me more than my peers already do.
I spend a lot of them in front of the window. I find myself watching the stars often. I've come to the conclusion that I hate every single celestial being in the god damned sky. They're free and unrestrained, beautiful and gentle yet entirely threatening.
They dance around in the night sky with taunting steps, coaxing me towards them, despite the fact I can't reach them. They must be sadists. They take their freedom for granted and that makes me mad. I'm filled with incomparable rage when I look out the window and see them peeking through the darkening sky before they come out of hiding completely, the bright silver contrasting against the indigo sky like splatters of paint across a canvas.
The sky is their infinite ground and yet they stay planted to the same spot, laughing down at me as the wind provides a tune for their brilliant glow. If I were half as free as them, I don't think I'd ever be sad again.
Incidentally, I've decided that Oliver Wood is the best friend that could've fallen into my lap. Even if he's my only friend (besides Penny, of course), and we're only friends when we're alone, I don't care. He's too busy for me when others around, but at least he makes time for me.
Oliver likes to start off the conversations we have at night with a cheeky grin, asking me how Penny is, speaking her name in a sing-song tone before we eventually fall into quiet, peaceful seriousness again.
He often tells me how his abundance of friends is actually quite stressful. "Ya know Perce," he'll say. "I wish I could just give up on all of them, but they would never let me go. I wish I could just sit there in comfortable silence with you all day like we do at night. You're the only one who gets it."
I know what he means when he says I'm the only one who gets it. I've never had an abundance of friends, in fact I'm so irrelevant to my peers they may as well just see me as a blurry face. They probably do. I wonder if my family does too. It's all I am, a blurry face in the background of everything. They probably think I don't care. Despite my unimportance to the world, I get what he means. It can be rather stressful to try and fit in. Maybe I'll have to ask Oliver for some pointers, what he's doing seems to work far better than what I am. I don't fit in with daytime Oliver, fake Oliver. But maybe our fake selves would fit in nicely together if the people Daytime Oliver hung out with would give me a chance. They could coexist until we're alone with the night sky (and the sadistic stars) and the facades are put to rest. Day in and day out. The same routine over and over again. Two fake people living fake lives until they can pass the show over to the people hidden from the sunlight. How pleasantly miserable.
I don't think Oliver nor I are particularly happy with our current existences. But that's okay because that mutual unhappiness gives us a bonding point. We may both hate life and want to disappear, and we may be different as night and day, but the conversations of displeasure that we share late at night on my bed whilst splitting a box of Every-Flavor beans are the genuinely the best thing I have in my life. It amazing what sheer sorrow can do for you.
We often talk about running away as we toss the sweets into the air and catch them in our mouths. Oliver's better at catching than I am, but I'm better at getting the perfect arc that allows the bean to spiral in the air before landing in the warmth of our mouths. I often toss them to him and he catches them, then we try it the other way around and laugh when he ends up smacking me in the face. Quidditch has trained his arm to throw straight forward, not upwards.
Running away sounds purely ideal. Maybe we'll go to northern London. Maybe America. Maybe Canada. Maybe somewhere where no one will ever find us. Maybe we'll plan it out, maybe it'll be a spur of the moment decision and we tell no one. I wonder if Mum would cry if I disappeared one day. Probably not.
He'll look down to my notebook at the foot of my bed and leaf through the sketches scratched out on each page as we let the silence put things and thoughts where they should be put, and then he'd speak again, softer than he was before, as though we were whispering secrets in the back of a crowded classroom instead of our dimly lit, empty room. Maybe to him we are. Oliver has a habit of talking quietly to me when he's sharing something he's never shared before. "You know, I love Quidditch, but I hate all the people that come with it. I don't even know if it's worth it. Quidditch as a profession probably won't work out as my dad so graciously reminds me."
"I don't think I'll ever make it as an artist," I offer to make him feel better. "I can't even work up the nerve to show my damn family." He grins at me easily as he raises himself off the bed.
"Your family is a group of asshats if they don't see your talent, Perce. One day we'll run away from our families like we planned and maybe our dreams will happen. You can be the artist, and I'll be the athlete. Maybe one day I'll even find something I like better than Quidditch."
And you know what? If it means I get to live with my best friend doing what I want to and not what I think my dad wants, then I'll keep on living and practicing. I think the only reason Oliver and I don't just off ourselves is just because we want to make the other proud and we know what the other feels. We're not going to leave the other for our own selfish ideas. The artist and the athlete, huh? Sounds pretty damn good to me.
I listen to his breaths even out as I lay awake—the sound is comforting. "You're lucky in a way, Percy," he says. "You don't have to care what anyone thinks." But I do. And he knows I do.
If Oliver and Percy were still friends, what had changed to make him kill himself? What happened to the boy who was so determined not to leave his best friend to suffer alone that he suffered himself? What happened to the boy who managed to hang onto the last remaining strands of hope he had for years to make him lose his grasp?
The ginger closed the book, preparing to stand up and owl his wife. Molly had a right to see her son too. When he went to place it on the nightstand next to the hospital bed, a folded paper fluttered from the back cover, and he scooped it up, unfolding it and reading the date and phrase printed on an otherwise blank backside.
November 15, 1989I finally, drew you Penny.
He flipped it over and smiled at the photo before him. A non-moving pencil sketch, yellowing at the edges with old age. The paper was soft and wrinkled, the crease marks deep as though it had been unfolded and refolded constantly.
Percy had drawn Penelope, leaned against a tree with a small daisy in hand, a smile on her face. Something about the complete natural stance of her position told Arthur Percy had drawn the photo from a memory, not by looking at her posing for the picture.
The curls in her hair were soft and natural, pulled into a low, loose bun with strands falling out and framing her face. Percy's glasses lay crooked on her small nose. Her Ravenclaw tie was half untied, hanging by a small knot in the middle of the fabric. The patchy light streaming through the tree's leaves illuminated certain patches of her skin.
Percy had drawn her in the most beautiful way he could've. Something told Arthur this was far better than a moving, modeled portrait. It was quite clear that Ron wasn't the only "talented one."
He refolded the paper, helping further accentuate the creases etched into the old parchment. Arthur returned the journal to the end table by Percy's hospital bed before he set off to find an owl and paper. The owl who informed him of Percy's attempt at his life had come from Oliver, sloppily written and tie to Hermes' leg hastily. The owl had delivered it to Arthur when he was alone, which allowed him to slip away to St. Mungo's unseen.
When he was done writing letters to not only Molly but Charlie in Romania, the only one who couldn't get the information straight from the family matriarch, he returned to Percy's bedside, vaguely wondering how long he had to read before the boy awoke.
October2nd, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
Today—well actually, it's 12:30 at night (morning?) so I suppose I should address it as yesterday—was the start of Halloween month and I can already tell it'll be just as hellish as the last one. The Slytherins have deemed October their annual "let's torment Percy even more than normal 'in the name of Halloween spirit'" month. How pleasant it is to repeat the habits of the past two years again. I can see they're not going to get any more mature as time passes.
The only Slytherin who is actually pretty nice is Adrian Pucey—even Oliver agrees he's not too bad. But he has his Slytherins and Quidditch friends and I have my own (two) friends, so we're too busy to establish anything more than being acquaintances. Or at least he is.
After a group of Slytherins nearly punched my lights out yesterday, Oliver and I decided to skip the rest of the day's classes. I didn't argue at all; if the teachers saw my bruised face I'd be sent to Madame Pomfrey, and that's honestly the last thing I want to do.
Hogwarts' hallways are eerily silent when everyone else is in class. Oliver and my footsteps echoed through the empty stone corridors as we walk until eventually our steps fell into the same pattern, the old one which sounded reminiscent of toddlers stomping now a single loud click over and over again, tapping rhythmically against the walls. Click, click, click.
He decided our destination should be an empty classroom, saying the silence would make it appear like our bedroom at night and therefore we would be comfortable. He then went on to say by surrounding yourself with "familiar surroundings" allows you to reflect on your life and help you become a better you. He says that he overheard a group of Ravenclaw girls discussing those "facts" and that Ravenclaw is smart and henceforth they are right.
I simply responded by saying since we've been here I've already thought three times about taking the old potions scalpel on the desk and murdering him with it just because I wanted to see what the inside of a human stomach looked like. Oliver agreed it wasn't working and we decided to move on to the astronomy tower, discussing the possible appearances of the inside of a gut the whole way there. I think there's something seriously wrong with both of us.
The wind on the tower was intense, the October chill clinging to our bones with its icy breath. We sat on the ledge, our feet dangling off the wall over the grassy fields rested ahead of us. I couldn't help but notice how much nicer Oliver's shoes are than mine.
As I listened to Oliver recount the time he wanted to smack Marcus Flint over the head with a bludger to see how fast he'd bruise I cut him off.
"Hey, Ol, do you think if you acted the way around other people you do around no one would ever talk to you again?"
"You mean if they knew I was bloody mental?"
"Yea."
"Absolutely."
The sunlight washed over us as we sat in silent reverence. I found it amazing we hadn't been busted yet. The warm golden glow of the sun was like a hot bath, and despite the fall cold that nipped my nose, the warmth of the sunlight still reached me, the waves of balminess and cold clashing against my skin. It's incredible how one can be cold yet hot at the same time.
I don't think I'll ever forget the conversations Oliver and I have. Even the ones I don't tell you. The ones of happiness, the ones of anger, the ones of deep, endless wondering. They're permanently imbedded within me. Sometimes, I've realized, happiness makes me cry more than sadness does. I think it's because sadness is becoming infinitely laced within my spirit—it's hard to acknowledge something once it's gotten old. Maybe that's why my family act the way they do towards me. The ones we had atop the tower that day are particularly important to me. Even just the shiftless talk of what the inside of a human looks like will be seared in my mind forever.
It's the things we talk about today that affect who we are tomorrow. The next thing Oliver asked I think is the one that made me think the most of any of the vague ideas we tossed around together on the peak of the tower.
He spoke as he held out the palm of his hand to the clouds, golden sunlight bathing his tan skin in its sincere glow. "Percy, if you were given the opportunity to fly away—not on a broom—would you take it?"
"100%. I think I'd be scared though."
"Of what?"
"That it'd feel so good I'd give up on family completely. That I'd drift away and become one with the wind and never come back. Maybe that's is want I want. I'm not completely sure."
"Someday, Perce… We can take the brooms out and fly. Only problem is we'd have to come back."
He closed his the fingers around the palm of his still outstretched hand, as though closing the sunlight into his grasp. He didn't unclench his fist for the rest of the time we were up there. I think he just wanted to hang onto the sunlight just a bit longer.
In the end, we never talked about the typical teen things as much as we did that one thing. No matter where our conversations began—girls, Quidditch, human intestines and brutal murder—they always somehow rolled back to the topic of freedom and escape. But that's okay. I don't think either of us are ones for idle chat. We're not kinds to avoid the bigger picture. Unlike most people, we can only pass the time for so long until the truth joins the discussion. Like I said, that's okay though. It set us apart from others, brought us together, which therefore indirectly kept us going through times of desperation.
These were the only things we had to look forward to: the hypothetical prospect of escape.
Those Ravenclaw girls were wrong—new places inspire us to become better people. If you stay rooted to the same thing forever, it's only a matter of time before independence invades your thoughts as well.
-Percy Weasley
"Dad?" Arthur looked up, head snapping back as Bill's voice reached his ears. His brown eyes fell upon the three people standing in the doorway.
Molly immediately cried out in sobbing sadness, rushing to Percy's side and pulling up her own chair on the opposite side of the bed. Bill and Charlie stood awkwardly, shock ridden on their faces as they took in their brother's beaten down appearance.
Arthur hid the book from Molly's sights—he figured the depressing statements Percy had been writing since a young age wouldn't help her mourning. Bill looked at the book in confusion, his father mouthing I'll explain later to him as the eldest sons took a seat.
Molly stayed for two hours, hounding the nurses for information before she left to give feeble explanations to the kids and make sure the Order was properly fed. She leaned down and kissed her son tenderly on the forehead, whispering how much she loved him before she left, tears finally slowing to a trickle.
When she left, Bill and Charlie immediately launched into action, asking why Arthur was reading Percy's old journal and why their younger brother had attempted suicide.
He held up his hands to silence them; he didn't want to jar Percy from the rest he needed earlier than he required for it to be beneficial.
"I'm reading it to try and answer your second question. Percy's friend, Oliver, the one who found him said it might have some answers. I'm not too far into it and it's already given me some idea. Thank God you gave this to him, Bill."
"Is it good?" Charlie asked, earning an annoyed eye roll from Bill. Arthur offered a weak smile in return.
"Honestly? This is one of the best written things I've ever read." He then read the last two passages he had surveyed to them, the effect of the words just as strong the second time.
When he finished, Charlie offered a statement of, "Bloody hell, Perce."
The two brother sat in silence before eventually shifting in their seats, Charlie admitting he had to head back to the Reserve and Bill saying Fleur was expecting him home soon. Arthur promised to let them read the booklet itself once he was done.
November 16th, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
Nothing too interesting has really happened, so I suppose that's why I didn't write for months? Jeez, I'm pretending these are legitimate letters and I can't even have the decency to write consistently. If these were letters, I have a feeling I would've offended the recipients. At least I'm slightly better than 11-year-old Percy, right?
Oliver had be watch his Quidditch game today. I suppose this isn't very different, I always watch his game, but this time Fred and George noticed me and they sure found pleasure in questioning me in my sudden appearance to the games. They've failed to realize I sit behind them nearly every time.
Incidentally, Gryffindor won by a long-shot.
After the game, I watched the team and my housemates celebrate in the Lion's Den, a couple older students cracking open bottles of Firewhisky they had snatched from their parent's alcohol cabinet before they left for school, even going as far as to offer sips to the people third year and up. Oliver and I shared an entire glass of it. The seventh year boy who had poured us the drink seemed impressed we weren't loopy from just the half glass we both consumed, saying we must have stomachs of steel.
Oliver proudly announced it was in his Scottish blood. I don't know where mine came from.
I hope Fred and George don't tell Mum and Dad I drank Firewhisky. I don't regret it now but I know I will if suddenly Mum decides to place me on constant watch to make sure I don't drink again.
The Firewhisky's burn is still lingering in my throat as I write this. I find the gentle, ghost of flavor in the back of my esophagus soothing in all honesty—it's a reminder of how I finally fit in with the Lions, even if only temporarily. One of the twins' friends, Lee, gazed up at me in wonder (I'm a good foot plus taller than him) as I chugged the last of the cup's contents earlier tonight.
"You don't seem as uptight as Fred and George told me you were," he told me, confusion etched on his face as bound over to his friends to talk about the victory.
There were 67 people crammed in that small space of the common room, 68 if you count me. Heads of black, red, brown and blonde as they stood in groups, clusters of people spread throughout the room with only small, narrow passageways clear for people to drift through.
The voices were stitched together in a communal hum, an occasional clearing of the throat bursting from different spots in the room. It's weird to me how a group of people can sound like one, rumbling voice as it bounces off the walls.
The party slowed to a trickle as curfew hit, Prefects commanding we get to our rooms before Mcgonagall caught us. Oliver and I left with the ghosts of smiles on our face. His cheeks were still wind-bitten red. I think it was the best either of us had felt in a while.
I partially wish Penny was a Gryffindor—she could've been there sipping Firewhisky with Oliver and I—but I love her just as she is. Her house won't change that at all. It does, however, makes me wonder if our relationship would be any different after if I had accepted the hat's original offer of Ravenclaw.
I finally got around to drawing her yesterday. I drew my favorite memory of her where the sunlight was bathing patches of her skin it's warmth, her grin was easy, her stance comfortable, my glasses she had swiped off my face hanging off her nose.
I can see without my glasses, I just prefer wearing them. They're bloody efficient at hiding emotions. I don't know if I should give it to her. She didn't realize I was watching so closely that day and she seems to have forgotten our deal, after all. She may get mad I drew her without her consent. We never did get together so I could draw her portrait.
Looks like we both broke our end of the deal.
-Percy Weasley
Arthur sadly unfolded the paper again, eyes sweeping over the drawing he spoke about. He ran his thumb gently down his son's cheek, "You could've given it to her, Perce." Or maybe he did, and his prediction reigned true that she was mad it wasn't a planned thing. He highly doubted the latter was a possibility. He didn't think even the most high-maintenance of girls would be annoyed with that.
Arthur wondered if she had even looked exactly like that in the moment; his son seemed to cherish her dearly and he probably saw her in a different light than others did, like he did with Molly. The ginger man chuckled, he remembered when he first started liking Molly, and he would've done anything to make her happy or notice him.
December 3rd, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
I'm not looking forward to this Christmas break. Neither Bill nor Charlie are coming home, and while I've never really participated in the annual Quidditch game I still wish they were there for it—the twins have been sulking all day since they found out.
Part of me wishes they would just ask me to play. I probably wouldn't even say yes, but it'd be nice to have the offer stand. I wish I had the chance to set aside a book I inevitably get for the holidays and smile at my younger siblings and just say, "Sure I'll play."
But, because I'm me it would be me awkwardly approaching and saying, "Can I join in?" In which they would laugh in my face, Fred and George cracking some joke about me that everyone will laugh at. Dad will chuckle happily and Mum will fight back a laugh before scolding them lightly, but the happiness in her eyes will say enough.
I would normally be able to avoid the upcoming holiday except everyone at Hogwarts won't stop buying gifts for each other at Hogsmeade and the teachers are decorating the tree as I write this in the Great Hall. Normally I'd be wary to write in a journal in front of my peers, especially with Fred and George present. I don't need them to have another reason to call me Prissy.
Oliver is sitting with his Quidditch friends again today. He always does. Even if he wishes he didn't have to. Fred, George and that kid Lee are sitting by them and listening to them discuss bludgers and beaters and snitches. I wish he could sit with me—I want to talk to him about the Christmas holidays.
I want to see if the holiday is as miserable at his house. Maybe one day I'll spend Christmas with him. I'd love for him to spend it at my house, but Fred and George would inevitably steal his attention with talk of Quidditch and Exploding Snap.
I'm a bit confused with why the teachers have Hagrid drag the tree in. They're literally using magic to put ornaments on even the lowest branches yet they can't use magic to carry the tree in? It's a bit of a bitchy move but I suppose it is his job.
I have no clue what I'm going to get Penny. I think she may've just caught me staring at her. I wish I were Ravenclaw or she were Gryffindor so maybe I wouldn't have to spend meals alone. She asks me why I don't sit with Oliver during lunch time sometimes. I simply tell her I enjoy the alone time. When she asks why if I get lonely when I'm alone I respond with, "Being lonely is totally different that being alone." It's true, but I guess I just have to deal with them both.
Loneliness, I've found, is crippling.
I think it was easier for me to deal with the emptiness being by yourself brings when solitude was all I'd ever known. Old habits die hard and now that I know what true friends feel like, it's hard to be without them.
I've come to the conclusion that part of the reason I find the company of my family so frustrating is that I seem to be the only one who remembers the Wizarding War. Fred, George, Ron and Ginny were too young to remember. Bill and Charlie spent the majority of it tucked away safely at Hogwarts. Mum and Dad don't even seem to remember it at all.
I used to want to go out and have friends during the war. To feel the rays of light wash over my skin and have a smile spread across my face in laughter and euphoria, but as time went on, those things disappeared. Secrecy and darkness, fear and hiding became my reality. During the war, any shows of weakness were fatal. If you cried, you died. I wonder if I learned to hide my feelings too young. It seems that the things you do early in live stick with you forever. Habits are easy to create and hard to drop.
I remember a time when Dad finally made it home for my birthday after the war. Suddenly, there was this new, strange man in my life and I didn't know what to do about it. Mum's scared ways had taught me to trust no one but the ones you know well. With the mantra of "trust no one" running through my head, I found myself hiding behind Mum's legs. Looking back, I must've really hurt Dad's feelings.
I don't blame Dad for never being home, really. It wasn't his fault. But those crucial young years of bonding were torn away from both me and him. I don't think he's ever really seen me the same as my siblings. I was the quiet one who preferred books to sports. The one who preferred the silence of night to the bustling joy of day. I was the outcast. The black sheep. I suppose, in reality, I still am.
Like I said, habits are hard to get rid of, and I think Dad's habit of giving me space until I adjusted to his presence was just another example of a lesson learned too well.
-Percy Weasley
Arthur finished those paragraphs with a sense of crippling sadness. It had never occurred to him that he treated Percy any differently but looking back it was clear to him he did. The way Percy acted around him when he was six had seemingly been seared into his mind, and he now realized that giving the boy space had become habitual.
Don't speak to him too long, don't sit too close, don't try to hug him longer than a few seconds and if he stiffens up always let go. They had become clockwork parts of his routine. Day in and day out—don't let Percy feel uncomfortable.
He was ashamed to admit that his son at thirteen was even more observant than he at his old age.
December 21th, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
I think yesterday was a bit of a turning point for my life. Ginny was taken to Saint Mungo's for a fever, in fear of spreading it to us.
With Mum had the hospital with her and Dad being sent to work for a crisis, I was in charge of my siblings.
By 7:30 I had food on the table for them. Only for them though. I made just enough for me to have a small portion of it, but when I saw the small amount the twins left Ron with, I gave it to him. I never was one for family meals anyway.
The twins had taken some hassling to get into bed, but did it with little names thrown in my direction, so hey, I'll take what I can get. I found myself sitting alone in the kitchen at 11:30 with only a piece of bread for my dinner and a notebook to keep me company. Mum hadn't gotten around to grocery shopping yet and the bread was the best thing I could find.
As I sat there trying my best not to get crumbs in the ink of my quill or the drawing on the lined paper, I heard Ron's voice behind me.
"Percy?" I turned to see him standing in the doorway, red hair wild from his pillow, eyes half closed in a yawn as he shuffled towards me and climbed onto a seat beside me. "What's that?" he asked, words slurred together with a slumber he hadn't yet shaken off. His brown eyes were watching my quill as it stood mid-stroke on the paper. I followed his gaze to the black ink of the drawing.
"Just a drawing." I brushed it off quickly—I didn't want him blabbing the one thing I loved doing to the twins for them to tease. Ron, was the first family member to see a drawing of mine since I was his age.
"I like it." The sleep had mostly worn from his voice and eyes as he laid his head on the table. I finished the last few lines of the drawing of the Burrow and handed it to him.
"Take it."
"Really?!" I nodded as I shook it gently, smiling as his fingers curled around the paper. He started to climb off the chair and I turned back to the table, looking down at the half-eaten biscuit on my plate. I wasn't expecting what he did next.
He wrapped his arms around my neck, paper brushing my cheek as he maintained a firm grasp on it.
"Thanks for taking care of us today, 'cy." He then shuffled off, drawing in his hands as he looked at it whilst climbing the stairs. As he walked away I realized my name wasn't on the drawing anywhere. But that was fine, especially when today I heard Fred and George ask where the drawing was from to have Ron brush it off and say he found it in the attic.
I found myself smiling as I listened in on the exchange. Maybe Bill isn't the only one of my siblings who gets it.
-Percy Weasley
December 25th, 1989
Dear Potential Reader,
Well, my prediction reign true. My siblings asked Dad to join in on the game but not me. Not only that, but for Christmas I got what I get every year: a sweater, a book, and two new quills. I guess I could use the quills for drawing, but black and white pictures are getting extremely boring. I'll take what I can get though. In fact I'm happy they remembered me at all.
I went into Diagon Alley on Christmas Eve.
The snow was sparkly on the ground, but had been pounded in by the feet of the guests who shared the joy of the night whilst walking under the twinkling Christmas lights adorning the buildings.
The cold was harsh and I ended up looking through the window of an art shop as Mum wrangled the twins in, promising the younger siblings chocolate frogs if they behaved. Dad took my brothers to the sweet shop while Mum took Ginny to some girl's store down the street. They both forgot about me.
My breath fogged up the glass as I pressed my nose into the cool window. My feet carried me into the shop, a bell ringing merrily as the heat reached my chapped nose. The warmth of this small art shop was far greater than any I had ever felt.
There were rows of paintbrushes, canvases and colored pencils all gleaming down at me merrily. The shop smelled of fresh paint and pencil shavings. There were so many different variations of each color it seemed unreal. I didn't even have a box of crappy colored pencils and here were all these different shades of blue, green, purple and even gray. It seemed unfair that people had access to all of this, but that's simply the way life works. I watched an employee help out another who sat at a table in the back, paintbrush poised in hand.
"Can I help you?" I turned around to see a man about 25 years old smiling at me warmly. He had a splatter of white paint on his rosy cheeks and glasses slipping off his nose. His shirt was the same as the other employees'.
I shook my head, still staring in wonder at the happiness in his eyes. This place was magical, and I felt myself growing happy myself. The older man helping the young girl suddenly bounced into the front of my mind and I pointed behind me awkwardly.
"What are they doing?" The man looked behind me, following me finger to the pair. His shirt had the name Ian sewn into it.
"She's the newest apprentice."
"Apprentice?"
"Yea." He leaned onto the counter behind me and I turned and repeated the action. "That guy there is the shop owner, he takes in art apprentices—teaches 'em the way of the art world. Why, you interested in bein' an artist?" I nodded, muttering something about not even pencils to work with, the words artist and apprentice running through my mind at rapid rates.
I was snapped out of my thoughts to see a paper and pencil being slid under my nose.
"Show me what you got, kid. Maybe when you're older you can be the old man's apprentice."
I drew the street outside. I started off a bit shaky but as I kept going, the movements became natural and the lines became crisper, cleaner. I paid great attention to the detail in each individual building and light, using the darker shading pencils they provided me to draw the shadows cast upon the faces of the passerby. Drawing had never felt better to me. It was like this shop was awakening inspiration that lie within in me that I didn't know existed. I found myself getting excited about the things I was drawing.
I finished the scene quickly, before adding a curvy signature to the bottom. Percy Weasley had not ever seemed like a better name to write than in that moment. I hadn't noticed the shop owner behind me until suddenly he was clapping my shoulder and praising the work.
The euphoria was short lived as Mum came into the shop, sighing in relief as she gasped, "There you are, Percy. Come on, we're leaving." She didn't wait for me. I followed her out when Ian's voiced stopped me.
I turned just in time to catch a box of shading pencils being tossed my way. Both Ian and the owner smiled at me.
"Keep drawing, kid." Ian then looked back down at my signature and smiled, giving a short, happy laugh. "Percy Weasley, huh? I'll remember that one so I can say I gave him the first legitimate pencils of his life. You got talent, Percy. Don't let anyone tell you different."
Mum didn't question the pencils in hand and I made no attempt to hide them. I don't even think she noticed.
Being an artists' apprentice doesn't seem too bad. Not bad at all.
-Percy Weasley
Arthur would've gladly gotten Percy an unlined sketchbook and some pencils too if only he had known. It seemed he and Percy were both too strong in their habits towards each other.
January 1st, 1989 1990
Dear Potential Reader,
Well, it's a new year. I don't feel any different. I don't understand why people act like New Year's brings radical change to their life. All you do is sit there until it becomes midnight, scream a cliché phrase before whatever party you had promptly disperses.
I wonder what wonderful new disappointments await me this year! Note the sarcasm if for some reason you were unaware it existed.
I sent Oliver some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and my old notebook of drawings for Christmas since he seemed to like them so much. It was filled up anyway. I guess it's time I get a new one, I just hope Mum and Dad don't ask what for. Of course if I say "schoolwork" they won't be too surprised will they?
Oliver sent me a letter saying his gift was too awesome to send over mail and that he wanted to give it to me in person to see my reaction, but he assured me his face was nothing less than ecstatic to get my gift.
I don't think there's much more to say. The year just started, give me a break. After all, I'm just boring old Percy Weasley.
-Percy Weasley
January 6th, 1990
Dear Potential Reader,
I wasn't planning on writing today actually, but Oliver gave me a really great gift and I found it was necessary to express my gratitude before the excitement fizzled out.
He handed me two sloppily wrapped boxes when I saw him on the platform, a wide grin on his face as we stood blocking the flow of wizards milling around the train station. Needless to say, my family wasn't present when he gave them to me.
I opened the gifts gratefully and I think I may have almost cried when I saw them. He had given me pencils. Pencils and a sketchbook. Finally I had an unlined sketchbook and some colored pencils. I would've settled for some shitty twelve pack, but he got me a really, really nice box of 24 pencils and they looked so nice I was sure they were too expensive. I guess I voiced that out loud because he grinned at me and assured me they weren't too much.
"I showed my mom your drawings you sent me and she agreed you deserved some fucking awesome pencils for your fucking awesome skills. Let's go get a seat and try 'em out."
I flashed Mom a wave as I followed him, but I didn't say bye. For some reason, that seemed totally fine. I never was one for goodbyes. They seemed like I was never coming back. Maybe I wouldn't have said goodbye even if I wasn't coming back.
Oliver waved off his Quidditch friends as they tried to follow us to a train car and we sat in the very last one, doors slid shut and voices hushed despite the fact we were the only ones for quite a few boxes. We even split our money and got some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. It was just like I remembered it, but this time it was brighter. Not only because the sun was shining, but because I finally got Oliver's time when there were other people willing to take it.
Finally Hogwarts doesn't seem so bad. I think things might be looking up for me. I'm starting to realize that while Hogwarts may not be the best place on Earth, it's giving me some of the freedom I long for, and even if I don't fit in here either, it's certainly better than being an outcast in my own family.
Maybe Oliver will even sit with me at lunch this year.
-Percy Weasley
There was yet another line of short, semi-meaningless entries that depicted grades and worries. Then came another long gap of no writing until Percy was 15. Arthur supposed he was too busy with schoolwork and art to be concerned with filling in a book with recounted details.
March 28, 1993
Dear Potential Reader,
I miss Penny so much its all-consuming. I guess I never really told you that we got together this September but that doesn't fucking matter now, does it? I can't stop thinking about how she looked frozen in that bed. It's a like a sick, torturing cycle of how she looked before and how she looks now.
I prefer how she looked before.
I miss seeing her curly blonde hairs fly behind her as we walked across the school courtyard. I miss sneaking out of the dorm at midnight to meet her in one of the towers and stargaze. Never the astrology tower, however. Despite out intend to watch the stars, the astrology tower is mine and Oliver's and Penny respected that. Respects it. Fuck, I'm regarding her as past tense already.
I don't really remember how I reacted when I saw her, I just know I realized how painful it must feel—if she felt anything at all. And I remember that it hurt. It hurt to see her hurt. I didn't leave her side until Madame Pomfrey kicked me out.
I don't care about the other people who were frozen anymore, because now it's just about me and Penny. Frozen in time together. How tragically ironic.
Oliver doesn't walk with me at all any more. We haven't spoken like we used to in a while. Everything is breaking fast. It only took the first jolt for my glasswork life to be knocked off the shelf and shattered. The downfall was slow. Like when you see something falling and you know you can't catch it time, so you have to stand there and watch it fall slowly. The fall is slow. The impact is quick. Quick, deadly, and dangerous.
The halls are dreadfully silent without Penny to walk with me. It's funny—the halls are probably louder than they've ever been with all the excitement and I wouldn't know. It used to be me and Penny alone in our own little snow-globe world, but without her in our world, it's only me. It's just like at home, and that's terribly lonely. I'm trapped behind the glass and it's slowly suffocating me.
Without Penny and without Oliver, I'm all alone in my own little kingdom.
I'm trapped in my glass castle. Just a king and his rusty throne.
It doesn't help that Ginny seems to slowly be having the life sapped from her as well. I'll keep an eye on her. I can't save Penny and I can't save myself, but I can help Ginny. I will.
I think, I did something bad today. It's hard to tell, as it felt perfectly fine for me.
I don't really know what I was thinking. Maybe my thought process was that if Penny was going to hurt, I should too. Weak logic, I know, but my logic has always been more of a façade.
I took that old switchblade I got in a Muggle London shop and I broke my skin with it. The thing is, when you're stuck in a gray castle all alone, you start to long for color.
Red is color. Red is pretty. Red is powerful and overwhelming. Red is very… Weasley. It's only natural for me to seek different Weasley reds than you find in my hair. The red was calming in a way, as it spilled from my arm in silky ribbons. It was like paint spilling down a canvas.
My art, I'm finding, is becoming very dark. It's fitting. It suits me. I feel like tragedy is what I do best. It seems my entire life is a tragedy, after all. I don't know if I'll keep up with the habit of harming myself. The cuts are like an open window for my worries. Maybe just every once in a while, a small scissoring cut here and there when I need a reminder.
A reminder that I'm a Weasley. A reminder that I'm alive. A reminder that I have a soul.
This castle is gray. There are no mirrors. I can't see my blue eyes or my red hair when I need color. There are only shades of gray, black and white on the surface, but underneath there is color. I can see the veins through my white skin, itching to be released. The blue is color, yes, but I don't think it's enough. Blue is too calm. Red is the violent outburst within me. It's slow and comforting to watch a small bubble of color break the white before falling, streaking the stone floors and the alabaster skin with its scarlet tears.
Look at me. Over a year of no writing and I've already fallen into my lengthy, long-winded ways. I wonder what the twins would say if they saw that. They'd probably roll their eyes at my speech—tell me to quit being a baby and get over it. Maybe they'd care. I don't think they would.
Penny and Oliver used to be my muses. I could pour my soul out into them. Now the dams have overflowed but the rain is still falling. So I guess it's time my clouds moved on. They've rolled away and now they're pouring out into a sketchbook and you, Potential Reader. Back to square one. Some of my rainclouds are still hovering over them, waiting for the sunlight to soak up the sadness and return it to the clouds before they drop their loads again. It's only a matter of time before the dams get tired of holding back the water, and when they break completely, I don't know if the clouds will have the strength to hold the liquid until a new barrier is built.
For now though, the clouds will roll on. I'll continue living and everyone around me will keep ignoring the unhappiness my lenses hide, the cuts my robes hide, the dark circles I pretend aren't there.
I'm running on my final ounce of happiness—this I know. It's only a matter of time before that runs out and if I don't get one of my friends back soon to give me a refill, the truth will come through again. Harder this time. And without a dam to catch the worries, the clouds will build up.
But like I said, for now I'll just put on the mask of indifference and go through the motions until I can be alone with a pencil and paper. It shouldn't be too hard.
Ignorance, after all, is the mask I wear best.
-Percy Weasley
Arthur had to put the book down after finishing that letter. He had no idea this started at such a young age. It was scary. The way Percy had described the urge to harm himself was terrifying and overwhelming, and he wondered how a few drops of blood could be so powerful.
He could imagine it though. He had watched blood fall before. He could imagine the silky, bright red as it slipped down skin, but he could never, ever imagine forcing himself to bleed. Pain was bad. Pain was harsh and, well, painful.
Arthur couldn't imagine pain being anything but evil. The fact that one of his sons actually resorted to harming himself instead of talking to him or one of his siblings.
Just how much did they make Percy feel like an outcast? It disgusted him to think all this time he had slowly been killing his son and he didn't even know it.
The boy muttered something weakly and Arthur laid a hand on his arm until the shifting calmed and Percy resorted back to his silent state of rest.
He found he couldn't fully read the next few entries. All they were was Percy describing his downward spiral and as his parent, Arthur found it was too depressing for him to read and even felt tears welling in his eyes, but one entry caught his eye.
April 22nd, 1993
Dear Potential Reader,
Fuck. Fuck it all. Fuck it all to Hell because it's all fucked.
Oliver caught me cutting myself today. It was the first time I allowed myself to indulge in the feeling in a week and a half and he fucking woke up as the blood was dripping.
I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face. The moon was glimmering outside and the silver light cast shadows on his shock-struck face. Despite my own astonishment and impending doom, I thought about what a nice, depressing painting it would be.
He woke up because of me. I was being so quiet until my eyes landed on my photo of Penelope. She looked at me with such sadness as she watches me pull out a towel to stop the blood. I held the frame in my hands as I stood on the stone floor. She was always great at reading my emotions, and picture her was no different. She looked at me with such sympathy it was like she got it.
But she DOESN'T, DAMMIT. She's not the outcast in her family. She's not hated by her peers. She's not an emotional wreck. She listens well, but she doesn't get it. Not even Oliver does. NO ONE FUCKING GETS IT. I couldn't see anything but blind anger and suddenly her picture was across the room, the frame was dented and the glass was raining on the cold floor like drops of water. It was shiny in the moonlight. Glittering in a million pieces like pieces of the stars and I was transfixed, but then Oliver's voice broke my silent vigil.
"Percy?"
After his momentary pause, he rushed forwards and ripped the switchblade from my hands, shoving the only window in our room that opens ajar and tossing it onto the lawn. A splatter of my blood flew off of its silver blade and found its home on my window before it streaked down in a silky red trail.
I think he regrets blocking me out of his life. He never fully did. He didn't even mean to. But I had Penny and he had Quidditch. Life stole us from each other. It made us think we were different people now when we were exactly the same. We were still the boys who sat on the towers and talked when they skipped class. We were the boys who talked about flying and freedom and planned a better life. Life made us think we had changed. Made us think the process of our eventual departure from each other's life was normal. It would be for any of our other friends. But Oliver and my relationship ran deeper than mere friendship. It was hurting that brought us together. It was hurting that drove us apart. It was hurting that reunited us. I think it's the mutual understanding that we drove ourselves away through sheer confusion and nothing else was what made our transition back into best friends so easy.
Hurting couldn't choose a team, and as soon as it switched sides, it was soon after changing it's mind again.
We didn't talk about the cuts on my wrist for long. It was slow, tense conversation as the sun set and we skipped dinner until the talk of self-mutilation was gone and we were back to our old ways.
"This place is getting so smothering with all the drama happening, you know? I don't know how you can pretend you're not concerned for slow long, Percy. I wish I could do that."
"No you don't. I don't think it's healthy to be like me. Believe me, I'd change if I could, but old habits are really hard to quit."
It went on like that for a while. I guess, looking back as I write this, I'm kind of glad that things happened this way. Slowly but surely one water-catcher is growing back and the clouds are starting to spread out again.
-Percy Weasley
A/N This was originally meant to be just a one-shot but it's over 12,000 words already and I have to go to age 20 in Percy's life and right now he's 15 sooo…. I also felt a really long story was more acceptable in two parts than one so I decided I would finish the rest of it as part two.
I think I'm pretty good for grammar and editing in this, but it's 12:30 AM, I've been working for hours and I'm too frazzled to finish editing so please excuse any errors.
This is gonna take me a while to finish (probably another week like this took me if I work consistently) so please bear with me.
ALSO: this is more for my Fairy Tail readers, but I have an Instagram for my anime drawings. It's anime_art_etc so yea…
Review, favorite, follow, whatever you think I deserve.
Hope you enjoyed your stay in the Chemical Garden, Radioactive Flowers.
-Chemical Violets