Part V

...

"Harry, shouldn't you be heading down to the Quidditch pitch?" Hermione asked, not looking up from the books she had scattered on the floor in front of her.

Harry was sat on the sofa, the bright glow of the roaring fire warming his face. He closed his eyes for a second, his head dropping further down the plush arm. The warm fire was reminding him of his bed and how he wanted to be there instead of outside in the freezing cold.

"Harry!"

His eyes shot open and he looked around, seeing Hermione looking back at him, a stern glint in her eye.

"I don't think Oliver would be too impressed if he has to come back to drag you to the pitch, would he?" That was the impression she got when he jumped on her the moment she entered the Common Room, asking for her to complete the near impossible. At first she wondered whether he was joking because of the time, however, the expression that crossed his face caused her to rethink that notion. She had been wary about waking the three older girls but she had nothing to fear once she passed on the message that Oliver asked her to do this and that they had to be at the pitch as quick as humanly possible. Angelina looked ready to kill and Hermione was grateful that she would not be to the one on the receiving end of her temper.

"She's right, Harry," said a voice to his right.

"Wood won't think twice about dragging you to the pitch by your hair," said a voice to his left.

The twins.

"I don't know how he gets away with abusing us poor Quidditch players like he does," Fred said, slouching over the back of the sofa, hair still slightly damp from his rude awakening.

"Both McGonagall and Percy let him get away with it too – favouritism, if you ask me," George added, leaning his broom on the side of the sofa, using Harry's slumped head as leverage. He stole a glance towards Hermione and forced back a laugh as he watched her making notes in the margin of the book and making lengthy footnotes. If she wasn't careful then she would be heading down the same direct as Percy, which is something George wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. One Percy was bad enough. The world wouldn't be able to handle another insufferable, stuck-in-the-mud swot who believed the world was split into the ministry workers and everything else.

"I very much doubt that," Hermione chimed in, her tone sceptical. "Professor McGonagall is far too professional to play favourites."

"What do you call this then?" George asked, moving his broom, hitting Harry's head a little harder than he originally intended.

Harry sat up further, absently rubbing the side of his head. "If I am anyone's favourite, I doubt it would be McGonagall's," he muttered, recalling the lectures, detentions and deducted points last year, courtesy of one Professor McGonagall. He was certainly no favourite.

"Oh come off it, Harry," Fred snorted. "That Nimbus Two Thousand says otherwise."

Harry looked down at the broom that lay snugly across his lap, the calligraphic signature on the handle glistening golden red, flames reflecting in the immaculate varnish. He was perfectly aware of the rules against first years having their own broom, having Hermione remind him at every opportunity ensured that, but the notion escaped him after mounting the broom for that first time and feeling the wind blowing through his hair at the complete freedom it enabled him.

"I don't…"

"Wood told us that he and McGonagall had discussed for hours which broom would best suit you. Apparently she was leaning closer towards the Cleansweet Seven, whereas Wood was convinced the Nimbus Two Thousand would be better for a swift and agile Seeker, such as yourself."

The black-haired boy looked backwards, the look of bewilderment and slight amusement crossing his features. He struggled to imagine McGonagall, strict and straitlaced, casually discussing Quidditch, possibly over tea and sandwiches, with the fanatical, and at times crazy (scary crazy), Oliver Wood. "When did that happen?" he asked, not helping himself. His curiosity was now officially piqued.

"Detention," the twins coursed.

"Detention?" Hermione squeaked, closing her Potions textbook and pushing it aside.

Before anyone had the chance to finish the story, the voice of a slightly irritated Angelina Johnson echoed throughout the Common Room. "Message from Wood: If you're not on the pitch in a quarter of a second then he's going to drag you on by your hair, starting with the youngest."

Harry jumped up instantly, sending a silent apology to Hermione for kicking her books, and rushed out of the room, his broom clenched tightly in his arms. Unsure of whether or not Wood was serious with his threats, he was not willing to risk it. He was rather fond of his hair and did not wish to see clumps of it in the older boy's hand.

Fred and George followed Harry's lead, though not as eager to reach the pitch as the other was. It was still, after all, ridiculously early and they needed to get back at Oliver some way or the other. True, it wasn't exactly as creative as some of their plans but it would suffice, especially when being a minute late for Quidditch practice was classified as an unspeakable crime in the eyes of one Oliver Wood.

"Hey, Fred," George said, tapping his twin on the shoulder and tilting his head towards the Great Hall.

Fred stopped in his tracks, eyes scanning the dimly lit room, the flickering light from the torches illuminating the lone figure slumped across one of the tables, head buried in his arms, glasses placed carefully next to him. Fred crept towards, a grin playing on his lips at the realisation that his older brother is sound asleep and completely vulnerable to any potions that may accidently fall into his goblet. It was almost too easy, he thought, using his teeth to pull the cork from the vial and quickly poured the liquid into the goblet. It lacked challenge and finesse. It was over – just like that.

"Maybe we should jinx his glasses," George said, picking up the frames and placing them close to his face, squinting at the blurry shapes and images that greeted him. "For old times' sake?"

"As temping as that may seem," Fred began. "I don't think our dear little Percy would be able to handle losing his vision, as well as what this little potion will do, all in one day - he'd have a breakdown before breakfast."

"Next time then," he replied.

Fred placed a finger to his lips, gently crouching next to Percy. He looked so at peace. It would be a shame to-

"Percy!"

Percy jumped awake with a start, flailing his elbow in doing so and sending the book he was reading off the table, falling to the ground with a soft thud. His head snapped upwards to see two identical, and somewhat blurry, faces staring back at him. He clumsily felt around for his glasses, panicking slightly when he could not find them, a lump forming in the back of his throat. He hated being reduced to this helpless mess due to his poor vision. It terrified him. He failed to understand why his family found great amusement in this. How could they find it amusing when he found it terrifying that he could barely see a couple of inches in front of his eyes before everything became nothing but a blur?

"Here," said George, placing the glasses in Percy's hands.

Percy held up the glasses towards the roaring torches, diligently inspecting the lenses as best he could and feeling along the frame. "What did you do?" he asked bluntly, directing his attention to his brothers.

"O brother mine – so suspicious…"

"With good reason too," he said, sliding the glasses onto his face, blinking his eyes. "A jinx to make me colour blind again? Frog vision? Perhaps so I see nothing but pink bubbles whenever I concentrate too hard?"

"We're innocent," they declared, looking towards one another and nodding vigorously.

Percy remained motionless, his face stoic, lips straight and his cloudy blue eyes focused on the twin brothers. "I shall believe that when I see it – or don't, as the case may possibly be…"

"Your doubt wounds us, Percy," Fred stated, feigning a distraught expression.

"To no end, it-"

"Fred! George!" a familiar voice bellowed. Oliver stood in the entrance, anger flaring in his eyes as he stared at the three Weasley siblings. "If yer not gonnae to take Quidditch seriously then I suggest you go right back to bed and donnae bother coming back. The decision is yours." With that he left, muttering a string of colourful words under his breath.

"What the hell is his problem?" Fred asked, barely stopping himself from shouting.

Percy sighed, bending down to retrieve his fallen book, staring pensively at the cover. "Oliver's … he's having a tough time at the moment. Don't push him, please."

"What do you mean?" George asked with bewilderment, brows furrowed.

Percy shook his head with a sad smile on his face and looked up. "Run along now, boys."

"Percy…"

"Please."

The conversation was well and truly over, not to be mentioned again. The twins knew their brother well enough to know this. It did little to change how this bothered them though.

They would find out … one way or another.

They always did.

…

Percy stared blankly at his open book, eyes scanning the same words over and over again, not absorbing any of it. He did not acknowledge when Ron came and sat down next to him, a piece of toast hanging from his teeth, jam and butter dripping onto the varnished wood. He said his greetings to Hermione – he was nothing but polite, after all. The rest of the morning was quite the blur. He recalled Marcus Flint striding towards him, his emerald robes billowing behind him, and making a series of snide comments, even going so far as to insinuate insults towards Ron. Percy suspected that Flint was merely looking for a morning rouse, as he had done on several occasions in the past. It was nothing new to Percy, which is why he failed to take the bait and rise to it. He was to set an example, after all. He watched with a satisfied smirk spreading on his face as the disgruntled Slytherin left the Great Hall, pushing a first-year Hufflepuff into one of the tables as he passed and threatening another once he was out of sight.

Percy closed the book with a soft sigh and picked up his goblet, taking a large drink. The juice must have begun to settle after this time because it had an odd, lingering taste to it. Suddenly, his hands began to shake and the goblet fell from his grip, falling to the floor, the liquid already beginning to soak into the stone flooring. His throat burned and his vision blurred, the room beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction. Or was he moving? He was leaving the Great Hall, oblivious to the stares he was receiving. His feet were moving of their own accord, far too quickly for his liking - he had to hold out his hand to steady himself. His throat burned worse than before, the muscles constricting around his windpipe. He brought a hand to his mouth to silence the dry cough, eyes widening as he saw flecks of blood coating his palm.

What was happening?

To be continued...