A/N a lot of this chapter is dialogue

Chapter 6

THE QUESTIONS were weird. They were dumb and annoying and Percy hated everything about this stuffy office, but somewhere in the back of his mind, his voice chanted a mantra of they're finally going to find out what the fuck is wrong with you, you freak of nature.

Questions included:

Over the last week, how have you been "on average" or "usually" regarding the following item: Low mood, sadness, feeling blah or down, depression, just can't be bothered?

Over the last week, how have you been "on average" or "usually" regarding the following item: Feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, letting people down, not being a good person?

Do you have times when your mood 'cycles', that is, do you experience 'ups' as well as depressive episodes?

How effective did they expect this to be? Percy could easily lie on it. Why shouldn't he? But he knew he wouldn't lie. The more he looked at the questions on the page, the more compelled he felt to tell the truth. Surely his family would know if he was lying based on that journal.

He filled out the paper slowly, marking honestly as he pretended not to feel Bill's gaze moving between the form and the person filling it out. As the last question got marked off, he held the clipboard out to his elder brother to return to the desk, looking away to the wall.

The wallpaper was powder blue, decorated with ugly flowers of a darker shade. The floor was cream white and streaked with dirt, and Percy rubbed his shoes against a smudge to try and wipe it up. He was unaware how much time passed, and just barely aware of Bill's uncomfortable shifting in his chair, but it felt like an eternity before the door to the back slid open and a woman with graying brown hair called out his name.

Percy cast one glance at his brother. Yes, it was partially Bill's fault that he was here in the first place, but maybe he could help him escape. That wasn't exactly likely, however, so the ginger begrudgingly shuffled towards the receptionist, tapping her feet impatiently as she surveyed Percy with hard green eyes.

She wore too much flowery perfume, and that mixed with the sterile smell of ink and the sickly scent of cleaning spells made Percy feel nauseous. Her skirt swished around in a wide circle, occasionally hitting his legs with its muted purple flowers. Her heels clicked against the linoleum floor as she briskly stomped to a door, knocking briefly before swinging it open and promptly abandoning Percy in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar man. And to think I was just starting to like the Flower Lady.

The therapist shook his hand with a warm smile and motioned for him to sit. Percy sat with his rigid Prefect's posture, shifting uncomfortably as he peered around for anything to look at but the gray-haired man in front of him.

After a few minutes of stiff questions and terse answers, Percy finally placed his elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning his head into his hand.

"Look, I know what you're going to do here. You're going to sit behind that desk, and you're going to act indifferent to everything I say, except for a few times when you're going to try and act supportive. You're going to write on forms and play God, asking me impossible questions and not answering any of my own unless the response they require can be recited from a textbook."

The therapist raised an eyebrow at his outburst, but it didn't take long for him to launch into the whole reason Percy was here. The journal.

"So you write a journal, huh?" Percy refused to answer, simply watching the man with a raised eyebrow as a silent what do you think? He just wanted a reaction from this weird, emotionless man. Was this therapist even human? How was he supposed to trust a being of hidden emotion and silent judging? That was why Percy didn't trust himself.

"Do you like writing?"

Percy sighed, rolling his eyes as he dropped his hand away from his head. "Yea, I guess."

"What do you write?"

"I don't know… Everything, I guess? Short stories, books, plays. You can figure out the rest." Percy wasn't sure why he was deciding to be honest with this man. Something about the very premise of a therapist made him want to curl up and die, and yet he still found himself falling into the trap of the doctor's questions.

"Has anyone ever read anything you've written besides yourself?"

"No."

"And why is that? What's the harm in showing off your skills?"

Percy leaned forward in his seat, a hostile, small smile playing his features as he reviewed his answer in his mind. "Let's put it this way. Would you really want to share the one thing you like doing, when all anyone ever does is tell you they don't particularly care for you or anything you do?"

The therapist returned the grim smile, bitter amusement visible in his eyes. Whether or not he was just humoring Percy, the redhead was unsure. He didn't think he wanted to know.

"No, I suppose I wouldn't."

"Besides, who said I had talent?"

"You seem like the type of person who wouldn't continue something if you didn't think you could do it sufficiently."

"And I'm also the type of person who would show off if they were confident in something they did. Just to get a little positive attention."

"How does that work out for you?"

"I don't know…"

"It doesn't sound like it's gone very well." Percy gulped, his eyes staring unfocused at a pencil on the man's desk.

"If I talk about the things I like—well, that I'm expected to like—or do, I get told I'm pretentious and pompous. If I don't talk, I'm trying not to be part of the family."

It felt like hours passed by. Hours slowly melting away in this office, hands of a clock moving for eternity. When his life at school finally came up, Percy snapped. The floodgates opened and he began describing in vivid detail he normally saved for his writing how much he despised his life at Hogwarts.

"I don't like Hogwarts. Since day one, I haven't liked it. I lost my brothers on the train and had my first panic attack, I almost got sorted into a completely different house than my entire family, and everyone in my year decided almost immediately that anyone would make a better friend than me.

"I had to study so hard so that the teachers liked me as much as my brothers. And they started to love me and put so much pressure on me. And that didn't help the friendless situation. I can still hear their voices in my heads, whenever anything comes into question, just repeating over and over again, 'Percy knows. Percy knows. Percy, why don't you stand up and explain it to the class?' I was 11. You can't put that kind of pressure on a kid that age. How is anyone supposed to relax and make friends like that?

"I have no friends. My only friend is my roommate and he's only my friend when we're alone. I've let one other person see the real me occasionally, but not enough to hold a steady friendship. In order to live up to the expectations left from my perfect older brothers, I've had to become the image of what everyone wants from Bill and Charlie's younger brother. I'm not Bill. I'm not Charlie.

"I'm not naturally smart like Bill, or wild and exciting like Charlie. I'm not funny like the twins. I'm not as talented as Ron. I'm not as friendly as Ginny. I'm just me. I'm weird and unpopular. I'm stiff and constantly worrying about everything. I have no real talent. I have panic attacks constantly and get scared to even leave my room in fear of having one, and yet I still sneak out at night and get into loads of trouble. I spend all of my time studying just so I can live up to what everyone expects me to be. I've created a façade so perfectly cold, my own siblings don't even think I care about them. The only other things I care about besides them is writing and smoking, and both of those things bring me so much comfort, yet they scare me so much. They are beautiful and comforting. They look and feel like everything that's wonderful about life. Like the first real rays of sunshine after winter, and like warm laughter that spreads over a room of people perfectly comfortable in each other's presence. The real soft, gentle laughter. Perfect human noise that dies out naturally. They're everything good I have in my life, but they're both so, so deadly.

"I work towards goals I don't even want instead of the ones I do. I don't want to be a fucking Prefect. I don't want to be anything that has to do with me. I hate myself. I hate the real version of myself, and I hate the made up one. They're both horrible people. One doesn't have any fun, and the other has so much it doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel right to betray the other one like that. And I can't stop that."

"What do you mean by 'it doesn't feel real'?" Percy thought about it for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he began speaking again.

"It's… It's kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror, and you say your name out loud. And you repeat it to yourself, until you've broken it down so much that it's reverted back to its black and white definition. A name is just a word that's been assigned to you. Fun is just a distraction until responsibility returns. And I know this… But knowing these things… that doesn't feel good."

These things Percy described… They didn't feel good to talk about. They tasted bitter in his mouth and burned the back of his throat like vomit. They were the exact opposite of names and fun. They didn't feel real until they were said out loud. He had said things he didn't want to admit. And he couldn't unsay them. They would forever linger in the air and in the back of his mind. They would be whispers ingrained in the peeling wallpaper, forever haunting this room like the words that had been spoken by others, and when the building crumbled, and the people who spoke them and listened to them all died, they would drift away, and—like everything—they would eventually be forgotten.

"You described how lonely and sad you were, but then made comparisons to things you found happy. Are these things you have, or just things you want?"

"I couldn't tell you. I'm not sure I know myself, though I think it's likely the latter."

"What do you want from your life, Percy? What do you see and read that you want to experience yourself?"

"I want to have more friends, so that if one goes away, there's another to fall back on. I want to have genuine friendships, with people who want to be my friend always. I want to enjoy new food I've never tried. I want to see sights I've never seen. I want to listen to laughter that starts out loud, and fades away as the day draws out, but still remains pure.

"I want to hold hands with a girl, and have my first kiss. I want to have pure, young love, and then later real, passionate love. I want to meet somebody who always makes my heart flutter—scratch that, I have met somebody who does that. I want to know that they feel that way too. I want to have late night conversations with somebody I care about.

"I want to look at sights from a high up point, and not worry about dying from falling. I want to be able to fight off panic attacks, and enjoy things fear free. I want to read books that will enthrall me, and see Muggle films that will make me appreciate the entire world more—wizard and non-wizard. I want to find beautiful music that I can enjoy with the people I care about. I want to find songs that fill my heart with joy and excitement. I want to go to a concert. I want to learn to play instruments. I want to dance and laugh and discuss the weird questions that constantly run through my mind with someone who will only love me more because of them. I want to accept my quirks, and find people who accept them too—to find people with quirks I can accept as well. I want to experience sorrow that leaves me a better person than before, so that next time, when I hit my worst it won't be so bad. As strange as it is, I want to experience heartache, and cry, and feel excited nervousness instead of panicked anxiety.

"I want to feel the want to explore my talents openly. I want to publish a book or play and watch something I created come to life. I want to experience everything about life, good and bad without ever having to feel this hopeless again. I want to be wanted. I want to be so wanted that I understand why I'm wanted, and I want myself too. I want to want to get to know the person I am and will be. I want to be fascinated by both myself and those around me. I want… I want to not have so many wants."

Percy drew in a breath as he finished his speech. He didn't want to have so many wants. But wanting was better than the apathy he had erected around himself. It gave him something to work towards, to pull himself out of this slump… If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then another day.

"I'm going to give you a piece of advice." Percy looked up at the man in front of him. He had been so wrapped up in his spinning thoughts, he had almost forgotten the therapist was there.

"I think you should show someone something you've written. Get some constructive criticism, get some confidence. Then maybe you'll have enough confidence to have publish a novel, or put a play into work."

The idea stuck with Percy as he walked back out to the front. It stuck with him as he waved a goodbye to the Flower Lady and as he followed Bill to an ice cream stand in Diagon Alley. It stuck with him as his brother coughed into his hand and awkwardly brought up one of his own wants.

"I was wondering if maybe—just maybe, you don't have to—one day I could maybe read something you've written. Besides your journal that is." Bill gave an awkward laugh. Percy looked up from his minty ice cream and despite all the sorrow and brooding that his admissions in the therapist office had left on his mind, he gave an airy, quiet laugh, and a really soft smile graced his face. The shock on his elder brother's face was evident.

"Yea… I think… I think I'd like if you did that."