i've tried to re-write this chapter and the subsequent ones but it's fairly difficult to, so i'm just going to leave them as is. i really wanted to change this particular chapter, but aye, my accident prone Percy shows up yet again. i wanted to somehow take off that last bit and convert it into something else, but no luck really. i wanted to slow down the plot a little but any slower, and it'll be a 100-chapter story with chapter 90 being a 13-year-old Percy.

shut out to the warnings that are more applicable here and will be applicable further on: isolation, imprisonment, physical and mental abuse - some described in great detail, some only hinted, unlawful discrimination and God knows what else i decide to put in last minute.

a few notes and responses to inquiries:

chemical violets: i actually laughed so hard at this. every time i look at this comment, it actually makes my day.

Ward Vermassen: when you mentioned, A: Acts on his anger and B: Does not forget all injustice as soon as chocolate or pizza is in sight i think i fell in love with you. i am very annoyed with a character suffers from a serious misjustice but a bit of a coddle is all that it needs for that person to get over it, especially in the context of serious psychiatric disorders.

Guest: i love you for that comment. i really do.

in other news: also, there's a heavy abuse plotline as i mentioned in the warnings. the abuse plotline is there for a reason. it does not seem very obvious in the beginning but it will become more obvious later on.

Chapter Seventeen

Percy had his hands on his watch, the watch that was charmed for him to remember when to hand over his essays to specific professors. It was well broken beyond repair. Percy had spent the last ten minutes calling out a repairing charm after another, hoping that it would somehow revive his shattered watch. Percy felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and he couldn't remember what essay was due when—so, naturally, he'd been writing all of them all as if they were all due on Monday. Oh, how Percy loathed that stupid Gryffindor Chaser that thought it was hilarious that Percy was agonising over his poor, little pitiful watch. There was no way that Percy was ever going to turn in an essay late... yet at the same time, he did not know how to interact with all the other Slytherin's and ask them when their essays were due.

Ever since the Gryffindor Quidditch players had broken his watch a few days ago, Percy Weasley hadn't slept a wink. He'd been going through an absurd quantity of coffee just to keep himself awake for the next minute. His hand was cramped and he wasn't sure what colour his ink was anymore. He was trying to steady his hand enough to write the last few words. Just a few more words, and then he could sleep. Or maybe, maybe instead of writing that last sentence, he could sleep now. What harm would it do?

Percy buried his face into his Charms essay, breathing in the scent of fresh parchment paper. The exhaustion weighed heavily on his frame. Just for a few minutes, he decided...

"You bloody bastards think it's so funny, huh?" Marcus Flint's voice echoed through the once empty and blissful Slytherin common room, which had been fixed a few days ago. Percy was glad to note that that since it had been fixed, this bollocks about Medusa's hair as a crown and being carried around by a bunch of first years was no longer something he had to worry about. Thank King Arthur's goat for that.

Percy didn't have to look from the parchment paper or open his eyes to know it was Marcus Flint. He had a distinctive, somewhat aggressive tone of speaking that no other individual could perfect. At the moment, that particular sound was equivalent to having his head banged by a bunch of frying pans after drinking far too much firewhiskey the previous night. Thus, Percy wore his best impenetrable scowl, placed his essays on the table, stood up from one of the chairs he'd sunk into and walked towards the source of the ruckus.

Almost instantly, he was welcome by Marcus and his crew—hit by a hex, a hex he would've noticed if not for the fact that a large proportion of his brain had already fallen asleep.

Terence Higgs pulled away his wand almost immediately afterwards, a shit-faced grin appearing on his face. "Oi! Mate, didn't see you there."

Percy was glad he was so weary that he did not feel the slightest bit embarrassed, even though he could see that his robes now matched Ginny's cerise, satin curtains back home. "Firstly, I am not your mate. Secondly, that's practically impossible considering I'm just about thrice your height. Thirdly, if you want to survive within the next three seconds, I'd demand you change back my robes this instance."

Apparently, he was not so tired that he could not allow himself to slowly feel his blood boiling. These were his best robes, and now, they matched Aunt Muriel's hat.

Terence offered a sheepish smile. "I don't really know the counter-spell per say."

"Merlin," Miles Bletchley... Bletchley, Bletchley—annoying, reckless, had-an-accent-that-made-Percy-want-to-bite-his-cheek-to-prevent-doing-something-regrettable Bletchley just had to speak. As if Percy wasn't at enough of a risk of being sent to St Mungo's for a hypertensive crisis at the ripe age of eleven. "I know I've already placed a bet on this in the beginning of the year, but are you really sure you're not ole Snape's long-lost son? I mean the resemblance is uncanny. You've even got the pierce into your soul scowl. Look at that—you've even aged fifty years."

"Bletchley, why do you exist?" Percy tried to keep spite out of his own voice.

Marcus snorted, eyes on Miles' face. "I've asked the same thing multiple times."

"You wound me," Miles insisted, his voice full of mock hurt.

As if Miles had permission to touch him, his hand clung around Percy's arm rather quickly. He was sure at the moment that the colour of the face matched the colour of his robe—or rather, at this moment, the colour of the blood that would be gushing out of Bletchley's nose if he did not unhand Percy this instance. "I know we got off at the wrong foot this year. I mean, what with me and my mates making fun of you after the common room's been fixed but we were just having a bit of a laugh."

Percy glowered at him icily. "My choice of underpants was none of your concern, Bletchley."

"I didn't expect them to be so patriotic is all. Nobody wears underpants with the Union Jack on them. Nobody. I didn't mean to yell it out to the whole Slytherin commons—nor did I mean to steal all your underpants the following day," Miles insisted with a voice as smooth as honey. Percy was sure Miles had it in him to be a politician. "I just wanted to take a few samples for research purposes. I'm doing an extensive survey regarding what choice of underpants is the most common in the Slytherin commons."

Percy's facial expression melted into apathy. "I suppose that that's alright then. After all, I can understand why you had to wear my—um—patriotic underpants over your uniform Tuesday morning, whilst singing God Save the Queen... obviously for research purposes."

Percy did not fail to notice that Adrian Pucey was not there, which meant either he was asleep (unlikely), or causing havoc elsewhere (likely). Fortunately, Percy was too tired to be looking for people to report to Snape and he was pretty sure that Snape was less and less happy to see him as the days went by—not that he was ever happy to see Percy walk to him with a two feet of scroll of all the rules the Slytherins managed to break without being caught by a prefect or a Headboy. This indirectly confirmed Miles' hypothesis about Percy having any kind of blood relation to Snape.

"This was not funny," Percy said easily, pulling out his wand and changing his robes back to their original state. This apparently surprised Terence.

"I didn't think it was funny at all," Miles insisted.

Marcus looked dangerously close to whacking Miles with a meat cleaver. "That's because you want to get into his underpants, Bletchley."

"He already did," Terence mentioned, offering a smirk.

Percy rolled his eyes and turned to leave. "Goodnight, Marcus and company," he muttered.

"Oi!" Miles suddenly called out. "Why is it that you acknowledged Marcus but we're just company?"

"I'd always assumed Marcus was just the most prominent figure," Percy said, only for Marcus to raise an eyebrow at this notion.

"Prominent how, Weasel?" Marcus hissed.

Percy rolled his eyes. "It's just...well," how could he say that Marcus was so aggressive that Percy just assumed he was the leader of this, err, pack of some sorts? "Prominent as in hard-to-forget, as in—"

"Is that a crack about my looks?" Marcus glared coldly.

Percy's cheeks coloured in. He turned to gaze at Terence, whom was particularly silent. "Trust me, Flint, I'd be less discrete if I was ever to mention anything about your appearance, which is fine by the way. I don't see what everyone's fussing on about in regards to that."

"What are you looking at me for?" Terence raised an eyebrow, looking irate.

"It's just... didn't you wonder what the counter-spell for your charming hex was?" Percy suddenly mentioned, looking annoyed by the prospect that Terence hadn't probed into it. "You never asked, so either you lied about not knowing the counter-spell or you really don't know the counter-spell but you didn't bother to ask, which is far worse than the former."

Terence just shrugged. "Can't be bothered to know the counter-spell."

Percy's eyes widened, as if Terence had committed a cardinal sin that he should be punished for. "You can't be bothered?" he repeated in a higher than normal tone of voice, enunciating every syllable with a look of disbelief etching upon his face. "You can't be bothered to know?"

"That a problem?" Terence mentioned, raising an eyebrow. "You know, they should've put you in Ravenclaw if you're going to look at me like I've called out an Unforgiveable just because I can't be bothered to learn about some stupid counter-spell. Besides, when I hex people, I never want to undo it!"

Percy just shook his head. "Suit yourself," he mumbled. "I was just... surprised."

Before Percy bothered to take his essays to his room, he turned to take one last look at them. They were happily chattering away about some nonsense involving Adrian Pucey and the girls' dormitories. Percy filed away this key piece of information for later. He pulled out his wand, directly it towards Terence and called out a dissolving spell. Almost immediately, the fabric of Terence's robe started to disintegrate, leaving small pale patches of skin out for the world to see. Most of his robe was still relatively intact. The holes sinking into Terence's robes were small and sparse in amount. Marcus' laughter bellowed out into the commons, which were starting to fill with students that realised that they had to turn into bed soon else Snape would have their heads. Terence was somewhat flushed, but relieved when he realised that his robes wouldn't just dissolve and he'd be stuck in the common room in his underpants.

"That's why knowing a counter-spell is important," Percy insisted, as he walked towards the table where he'd picked up his essays. He took one more glance at Terence, noting two small patches around Terence's pelvis. Percy allowed himself to smile self-righteously before he said, "I see I'm not the only one that has a patriotic choice of underpants."

"Git," Terence decided, but he was smiling as well. He then asked, "What's the counter-spell?"

"Depends on whether or not you can answer a question I have," the redhead muttered.

"That is...?" Terence raised an eyebrow.

Percy paused for a few seconds. The tension that was in his shoulders dissolved. "When are the Transfiguration, Charms, Potions and History of Magic essays due?"

BREATHING in the warm Saturday morning air, Percy found himself turning to his side. He might go back to sleep from exhaustion and he didn't even care like he usually would that he was thinking of wasting the day sleeping. His mind was finally at rest. He'd finished off his History of Magic and Potions essays, which were the hardest ones because the topic they were on was so vague that Percy found himself renting enough books to start a library of his own. After reading and memorising, reorganising the information into his brain and asking Filius Flitwick far too many debatable questions, Percy found himself with two perfectly written essays that he may have deprived himself of sleep and food of to produce. Without getting out of bed, the first thing he'd done was reread what he'd written. He was glad that it was coherent, because when he'd tried to reread what he'd written at four am on a Thursday morning he found that he couldn't grasp his head around any of the words. This, of course, caused an unnecessary anxiety to brew in his belly that Thursday night, and he was convinced that his existence was pointless and was all for naught.

Percy admired his handwriting for a moment. He had tragically awful x's and f's that he just about refused to acknowledge even existed but the rest of his handwriting was sublime if he'd say so himself. He let his hand press across a highly curly f in France. Oh, Merlin, did he hate himself for having an f that was curlier than his hair, and an abnormally artistic x that instead of inspiring elegance, made him look like a right arse. Percy rolled his parchment into a scroll, and then turned to his side, yawning heavily. Just as he was to return to sleep, he felt a hand grab his leg and drag him out of his beloved bed. He looked down to see Miles Bletchley standing there with a smirk on his face.

"Get up, Weasel," Miles muttered, able to pull Percy out of his bed without much effort.

Percy felt a sharp pain fill his body. Why did Bletchley have to try and pull Percy out of bed by putting a hand on his dodgy leg, which nearly always was in some mild, irritating pain? Now, the pain was definitely not mild. It was pulsating and sharp, as if a dagger was used to slice through. He bit down his lower lip to prevent himself from crying out, and all that came out of his lips was a low hiss. He hadn't noticed he'd been clutching his hands until later.

"Bletchley, I am not leaving this bed," Percy insisted with a huff.

Miles smirked, and threw Percy over his shoulder as if the redhead was nothing more than a china doll and then turned to walk out of the dormitory. Percy's eyes immediately widened. Just as he was about to say something to the effects of put me down, you big oaf, Miles did in fact put him down after they'd excited the dorms—not in a gentle manner either. He just let go of Percy as if he was nothing more than a piece of heavy weight he wanted to get rid of.

"You shouldn't say such things," Miles smirked, hair looking unkempt to the point where Filch might mistake his head of hair for Mrs Norris. "You knew that I had to."

"Pull me out of my bed for no real reason other than irritating me?" Percy was not a morning person. Even less so now that Bletchley pulled him out of the bed. "I hope you actually do have a reason. Otherwise, I'm inclined to having to slaughter you before it's even half past seven."

"I do, I do," Miles mentioned, eyes sparkling with joyfulness. "Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts are today. What kind of mate would I be if I didn't make sure that you were there to watch Wood lose a 100 Galleons?"

"Bets?" Percy's voice was high. "You woke me up so I can see you try to bet on who is going to get into—?"

Percy's eyes were suddenly wild with anger. "You must be joking. I bloody loathe Quidditch."

Miles' eyes widened. "What? You don't like—you don't like—? That's it, Perce, we're not mates anymore. I'm sorry. I can't be mates with someone that doesn't like Quidditch."

"You are not my mate!" Percy repeated for what felt like a thousandth time that year.

Miles nodded his head, and pretended to walk away in complete and utter despair. A few seconds later, he grabbed Percy by his wrist and practically dragged him down the hallway. Percy's leg was throbbing with so much anguish at that point in time that he felt like throttling Miles. By the time that they'd even gotten to the pitch where the tryouts were being held, Percy was clutching his stomach so tightly that he'd bet he'd formed bruises on his skin. He didn't even dare to care. The throb in his leg was so bad that it was all he could focus on. Miles shoved Percy in between Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey. By then, Percy let out another hiss. He'd bitten his cheek so hard that he could already taste blood.

"I hate Quidditch," Percy grumbled. They hadn't started yet and probably weren't going to start for a while.

Marcus snorted as if Percy had said something impossible. "Say that again and I'll break those bloody mirrors you call glasses."

At the mention of his glasses, Percy pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose.

"Someone woke up at the wrong side of the coffin," Adrian muttered under his breath.

"I'm part troll, you git, not a vampire," Marcus reminded Adrian, glaring at him. "I thought I was supposed to be the one that's dumb as a rock. Maybe you've also got a little troll blood in you, Pucey."

"I'm too pretty to have troll blood in me," Adrian insisted, flipping his long, shiny, jet-black hair back.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You're taking the piss out of me? Merlin, you've got the nerve."

Percy's eyes were on Marcus' face for a few moments. His grey eyes were very stone-like, his black hair bristly, his teeth large and somewhat deformed. The way the light hit Marcus' eyes, however, was a different story entirely. They became nearly non-opaque, and a snowy white in colour. Percy did not know many people whose eyes could do that. He did not fail to notice that he was fairly ashen-faced, to the point where his skin looked greyer than his own eyes. Another thing he did not fail to notice was the presence of very vibrant finger-shaped bruising on his neck. The black shirt that he seemed to be wearing underneath his robes seemed to have slid down to show off the bruising on his skin.

"What are you looking at?" Marcus suddenly called out, glaring at Percy.

Percy's heart thudded and he just looked away from Marcus. "Nothing."

His eyes wandered to the pitch, where a congregation of people seemed to be chattering about. There was an unusual ruckus in the pitch, what with many students sitting on the stands, waiting for the tryouts. Percy's attention didn't stay on the pitch for long, because it went to the fact that Marcus seemed to be rolling up parchment paper and throwing it towards Oliver Wood's head. Every time Oliver gave an icy glare back at them, Marcus just smirked. Marcus kept on levitating the same ball, grabbing it and throwing it over at Wood's head for the past ten minutes. Percy could nearly feel Oliver's blood pressure rise with every hit. Oliver suddenly grabbed the ball before Marcus could levitate it and then tore it into shreds before turning his attention towards the pitch.

"I think that was your Potions essay, Marc," Adrian muttered.

"Don't call me Marc," Marcus glared at Adrian's face. "Aye. It was my Potions essay. Most useless wad of parchment paper I could find in the common room."

"I'm sure that isn't true," Percy couldn't imagine how horrified he'd feel like if he was in Marcus' position—then again, he wouldn't be balling his essay and throwing it towards Oliver Wood either. No matter how tempted he might be. "If you'd like, I'm available throughout the weekend to help you rewrite and craft a more useful wad of parchment paper to hand to Professor Snape on Tuesday."

Everyone else seemed to burst into laughter as if Percy had told an exceptionally hilarious joke. Percy just sighed deeply, and turned to look back at the Quidditch pitch.

"Stay quiet, kid," Terence muttered, even though they were the same age. "You'll embarrass yourself less."

Percy rolled his eyes. Says the bloke that nearly broke a phial containing a deadly poison not two days ago!

When Percy caught sight of Charlie standing in the field, wearing his dark red Quidditch robes. Percy felt a pang in his chest. Suddenly, despite his great hate for the game, he actually wanted to be there helping Charlie out and gaining some sort of approval. He hated being stuck here in the stands, away from Charlie, whom seemed to have caught sight of him but ignored his existence entirely. In that second, Terence levitated the pieces of parchment with a Wingardium Leviosa from off the floor, and then glued them together using a permanent sticking charm. He brought the tortured essay, and Percy caught sight of Marcus' handwriting for just about a second. A small blush crept to his cheeks as he realised that Marcus' x's were far more superior than his own girly x. Percy filed that in his mind under "interesting but useless to know" and watched Terence ball the parchment back into a ball and he threw it—straight over at Charlie, whom looked over at them with a cold expression.

"Who threw that?" Charlie was obviously not pleased with this. "Perce, did you do it?"

Percy's cheeks coloured in. "You're mad! I would never."

Like he'd ever do something like that. He didn't care no matter how much he hated Charlie. He would not normally abuse parchment paper like this, especially when he was partially thinking about how bad or how good Marcus' essay was. He saw that the paper ball had just got to Charlie's foot, and made another mental note to take the essay into his hands and read it. He was curious about how Marcus Flint wrote an essay—abnormally curious.

"You did, didn't you?" Charlie's eyes looked nearly animalistic. "Tell me."

"I did no such thing!" Percy exclaimed.

Terence was smirking. "I saw him do it."

"You did not! You're the one that did it," Percy's face was filling in with heat, and he actually felt so humiliated in that second. Two years ago, he would've had no problem bursting into tears and locking himself in his room for the remainder of the day. He pushed his tears back, trying to prevent himself from acting too childish. "Charlie! I didn't do it."

Charlie turned around and ignored Percy's calls. If there was one thing he detested, it was being blamed for something that he had nothing to do with.

He sunk into his seat, and spent the next sixty minutes watching them assembly and try out. The tryouts were horrific of course. There was a broom that exploded within the first thirty seconds of tryouts. There were several students being taken to Pomfrey, and they weren't even close to done yet. Marcus seemed to pale when a particular student did fairly poorly, so Percy had assumed that Marcus had bet for him instead of against him. Terence and Adrian seemed excited after a blond Gryffindor made a direct fool out of herself. Miles seemed to have lost his bet, what with the consistent swearing every five seconds. Whilst the tryouts were ongoing, a niggling feeling was in the pit of Percy's stomach. It twisted and turned.

He suddenly stood up, grabbed one of the brooms a third-year Gryffindor seemed to have and just flew up into the air, which could've made Charlie's blood pressure rise.

Firstly, Percy had barely been on a broom but he knew he was awful at it. Secondly, Percy, a Slytherin, was interrupting his Gryffindor tryouts. This was sure to spark a fire at some point. Thirdly and most importantly, he was breaking the rules.

He flew towards Charlie with a weak smile. "I did not throw it," it was annoying him. He hadn't done it.

"Like I believe that," Charlie muttered. "You're trying to fit in with your new Slytherin mates."

Percy was sure that his 'mates' were trying to tell him something now but he'd just pushed it aside. "I am not trying to—"

In seconds, Percy was knocked down by a large iron ball and slammed into the ground beside the parchment paper ball. Even though he was seeing stars, losing his vision and sweating profusely, Percy let his curiosity get the best of him for those few seconds. He pocketed the parchment with his shaky hands. The last thought he had before he slipped into an unremitting unconsciousness was: this isn't as tragic as I hoped - at least I didn't make a fool out of myself by fainting.