Perfect. It's strange how such a simple word could have so much meaning. I spent much of my life working, struggling to obtain that level of perfection that others only dreamed of. I suppose you could say I was obsessed. Insistent on reaching my place in life, my Eden.
People have asked me how I did it. How I became one of the most brilliant wizards of all time. Unhappiness. If I had let myself be happy then I would have seen how little perfect really mattered. Then I would have seen that trying to be perfect made you be even less perfect in a sense.
My father always used to tell me I was to stubborn, that I was just like him. I used to scoff at him when he'd tell me that if I kept striving for perfection I would end up losing out on life. How could a man such as he tell me what perfection would do to me? I could sit here and blame him for it all I suppose, or my brothers and sister. But I never really was the type to place blame or offer myself self pity. It made me feel weak and with a weakness I could not be perfect.
It's ironically funny in a way that everything in my life depends on that word. Perfection. I have often lain on my bed and wondered, what exactly is perfect? What is it that I'm looking for? But one thing I've learned in my years of being alone it's that no matter how much you ask, the shadows on your wall will never have an answer.
I wish I could tell you that as I grew older I realized perfection wasn't everything but I can't. It took me time to see my mistake, but by then they owned me. People always told me I would go places in my life. A boy as brilliant as me would see the world. I wonder if they could tell me then how I ended up here, stuck in a cramped little office writing by candle light with no friends or family to care. I've become very cynical since the war started.
At first I was convinced that it was all a lie, Voldemort couldn't be back. I'm still not even really sure what opened my eyes. Maybe it was the attack on the ministry I got caught in or the destruction in Diagon Alley. Or perhaps it was the capture of Marcus Flint. I had known him at school, not in the chummy way your thinking but as a classmate and enemy. I went to his trial. My brothers who went also asked me why I had come we had never been friends. And that was true Marcus had bullied and ridiculed me my entire school career. But I had seen him before he became one of them. I had known him when he had just been stuck up Marcus Flint the playboy in our year at school. I had known who he really was.
I remember locking eyes with him before he died. He had seemed so calm so sure of himself and what would happen to him. He hadn't been perfect in anyone's eyes but mine then. To me in those final minutes he had seemed so perfectly imperfect. Just like the story of my life.
Perfect. It's strange how such a simple word could have so much meaning. I spent much of my life working, struggling to obtain that level of perfection that others only dreamed of. I suppose you could say I was obsessed. Insistent on reaching my place in life, my Eden.
My imperfect Eden.
End
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Well if you were confused the person talking was Percy. This is a one-shot if you were confused. But please drop me a line, and tell me what you think.