There are certain moments in Percy's life that he remembers with acute
clarity.
His room as a child, off the second floor staircase with the navy-darkness filtering in from the garden window. Scabbers perched on his chest, whispering secrets and promises of power and glory. The smooth-sleek way his hide felt when Percy would lazily run a hand over him, stopping to pinch at the tail.
The Ruby-red paperweight in his palm and a hole in wall at the Ministry. His brother's eyes over the rims of coffee mugs and pressing heat engulfing his skin. Ginny's fingertips pressed against his forearm.
The edge of his prefect badge pressed to the skin of his fingertips. The way it glinted and bobbed in the sunlight, pinned neatly to his chest. The cool metal calmness when he kissed it each night.
The disgust when Penelope tried to touch him, flailing backwards and connecting his shoulder with the headboard sharply. Trembling and telling her to get out, to never come back. The taste of vomit that lingered for hours, and a few of her stray strawberry hairs found on his pillow weeks later.
The brittle pages of the diary retrieved from a Ministry filing cabinet, forgotten years after the raids on the Malfoy house. The slim precision of a fresh quill as he joins ink with paper.
He cannot remember the moment when Tom first kissed him, all air and dust and parchment. Or the moment when he knew this was all wrong. Perhaps because the latter never happened.
Percy doesn't make mistakes. He's perfect. Tom isn't a mistake.
Tom whispers about Ginny's body, Percy's empty glass of vodka catching the low moonlight in a prism and spraying it over the empty pillow case. Her small hands and thin neck that Percy remembers so well. Tom remembers too. Silky thighs and tears and secrets before it all came crashing down.
Percy's not young, not really anymore. He's 30, he should have a wife and kids and family by now. He shouldn't be living in dreams and devoted to the Ministry and the Ministry only. But he is. Ministry by day and dreams by night, and never the twain shall meet.
Tom is so young, and in reality he's dead now, so it doesn't matter anyways. He's a boy, the boy Percy wants to be and never was, the boy that Percy might have been if the rats had their way and if it weren't for ruby paperweights and hot summer nights that fogged his glasses.
Sometimes Percy cries. Tom just stands there, fingertips conjuring snakes of green and purple smoke that twist together before they disappear. Tom always asks about the Chamber. Percy doesn't have the heart to tell him it's destroyed.
Tom doesn't have a heart at all.
His room as a child, off the second floor staircase with the navy-darkness filtering in from the garden window. Scabbers perched on his chest, whispering secrets and promises of power and glory. The smooth-sleek way his hide felt when Percy would lazily run a hand over him, stopping to pinch at the tail.
The Ruby-red paperweight in his palm and a hole in wall at the Ministry. His brother's eyes over the rims of coffee mugs and pressing heat engulfing his skin. Ginny's fingertips pressed against his forearm.
The edge of his prefect badge pressed to the skin of his fingertips. The way it glinted and bobbed in the sunlight, pinned neatly to his chest. The cool metal calmness when he kissed it each night.
The disgust when Penelope tried to touch him, flailing backwards and connecting his shoulder with the headboard sharply. Trembling and telling her to get out, to never come back. The taste of vomit that lingered for hours, and a few of her stray strawberry hairs found on his pillow weeks later.
The brittle pages of the diary retrieved from a Ministry filing cabinet, forgotten years after the raids on the Malfoy house. The slim precision of a fresh quill as he joins ink with paper.
He cannot remember the moment when Tom first kissed him, all air and dust and parchment. Or the moment when he knew this was all wrong. Perhaps because the latter never happened.
Percy doesn't make mistakes. He's perfect. Tom isn't a mistake.
Tom whispers about Ginny's body, Percy's empty glass of vodka catching the low moonlight in a prism and spraying it over the empty pillow case. Her small hands and thin neck that Percy remembers so well. Tom remembers too. Silky thighs and tears and secrets before it all came crashing down.
Percy's not young, not really anymore. He's 30, he should have a wife and kids and family by now. He shouldn't be living in dreams and devoted to the Ministry and the Ministry only. But he is. Ministry by day and dreams by night, and never the twain shall meet.
Tom is so young, and in reality he's dead now, so it doesn't matter anyways. He's a boy, the boy Percy wants to be and never was, the boy that Percy might have been if the rats had their way and if it weren't for ruby paperweights and hot summer nights that fogged his glasses.
Sometimes Percy cries. Tom just stands there, fingertips conjuring snakes of green and purple smoke that twist together before they disappear. Tom always asks about the Chamber. Percy doesn't have the heart to tell him it's destroyed.
Tom doesn't have a heart at all.