i do not own harry potter or any of the characters involved, besides the two (now one) muggle characters in the story. the rest belong to j.k. rowling.

although I do tend to read through my chapters a few days after posting them and fix any glaring errors, this chapter—among all others—remains mostly:

unedited

chapter 9

Bill found his brother's behavior to be increasingly erratic throughout the day. Molly, given the current mental state of her son and the fact it was his birthday, decided to let him go with some brief scolding, but kept a watchful eye on him and advised everyone older than Percy to do the same.

Bill felt like Percy's mother, always positioning himself to see even a sliver of the now-fifteen year old. He tried not to make it too obvious, unlike his parents—whose clear supervision was making Percy visibly uncomfortable. He did, trail slightly behind and listen every time his brother excused himself from the room, and tallied up a total of 27 times Percy washed his hands between the time of his return and the time they left to get him a gift.

Percy, being an infamously difficult person to shop for, was the only Weasley in the family who straight-up chose his gift. The other kids dropped subtle and not-so-subtle hints to their parents what they wanted for their birthdays and other holidays, but Percy constantly remained so silent and impartial throughout his life that eventually their parents gave up even trying, and sometime between midday and evening, they would herd their clan into the fireplace and allow Percy to go to any store he wanted, dragging bored, whining siblings behind him that could only be quelled by the promise of ice cream or some other treat once they got Percy a gift, which often irritated Percy to the point where he'd skim a couple books' backs, pick any two and then get the hell out of there. Bill didn't blame him.

Bill hoped to God that Percy would pick his typical bookstore, so that he could pick up a new, nice journal for Percy's writing and a couple of great quills. He was in luck, as Percy stood uncertainly in the crowd of Diagon Alley, eyes shifting about nervously as the mob seemingly swallowed him, then eventually began to shuffle through the mass into the direction of his frequented bookstore. Percy had never been unsure of his ability to navigate the throng of wizards and witches, being 5'11, he was taller than a little more than half of the people and could easily see over a lot of the crowd. Yet as the family, began their expedition through the large gaggle of people, Percy migrated closer and closer to their dad, until he was lighting grasping his elbow in a childish plea to stay near him. It looked a little strange, actually, a teenage boy clinging onto a man he was the exact same height as, like a child who was much younger and smaller than he was. Arthur tossed his son a worried look, moving his free arm to lay a comforting hand on the 15-year-old's arm, which was stowed away under the fabric of a loose-fitting green flannel shirt.

When they arrived at the bookstore, Percy released his father, looking slightly embarrassed with the way he gripped his arm. He disappeared behind a shelf, and Bill decided he trusted the younger Weasley enough to go wander off into the store in search of something nice for Percy's writing.

He had finished the book the night before, reading far into the night, enthralled by the way his brother made characters come so vividly to life. It was beautiful, really. He'd never truly appreciated the effort and talent needed to create his favorite novels until it was his own brother who did it. He never thought about the writer sitting for hours working, and how hours led into days and days led into weeks, and weeks into months, and sometimes months even led into years. Bill had a new appreciation for the writing community, and he couldn't wait to discuss the story with his brother. He wanted to know everything that went into writing a book so vibrant yet sad, deep and thought-provoking all at once. It had inspired him in a way not many books had done before. He knew he was a bit bias due to the fact the author shared the same genetics he did, but he had a feeling many would agree. If an author writes to inspire, Percy was already achieving his goal.

Bill had shamefully found Percy's journal to be an interesting read, with the vivid, emotional details it provided. The book was a million times better. It was set in the muggle world, and Bill was unsure of how or why Percy seemed to know about muggles than their father, an avid-muggle lover, but he was almost glad he did. It gave him a peek into two worlds previously unknown to him—muggle life and his little brother's mind.

The notebooks Percy wrote in were all lined, unlike the parchment the majority of the wizarding community used, and Bill was thrilled to find a thick, black notebook with thin, pale lines running across the pages. He made his way over to the quills and hovered by them before changing his mind. Percy had written about despising getting quills for his birthday, and Bill was inclined to agree with his opinion—quills were a necessity, not a gift. He instead plodded along through the shelves until he found the vials of ink. Ink, too, was a necessity, but none of the Weasley kids ever got to use a lavish, expensive ink. They used the cheapest one that would work, and Bill had a feeling that wouldn't work out too well when trying to write a whole novel. He scanned the shelves, running through all the classy inks he'd seen his coworkers use. He tried to remember which ones he'd heard the most recommendations for, finally settling on one labeled pure ebony instead of black. He had a feeling Percy would appreciate the almost unnecessary label, and deep down he hoped he and Percy could laugh about it in a way they never had—as brothers.

Although Percy always knew what his gifts were, Bill still avoided him as he made his way to the front counter to purchase the gifts. He could at least keep them hidden in the bag provided with his stuff. He'd leaving Percy wondering what the gift was, but not whether or not he was going to get one.

He grinned to himself as he brushed past his bored younger siblings and chatting parents to go check on Percy. Bill glanced at his watch, noting they had already been here longer than they normally would've been. He looked through Percy's typical aisles, and with a mixture of concern and confusion, began to wander up and down the shelves until he finally peeked down the mental health section and found Percy sat on the floor surrounded by books on OCD.

He seemed to be deeply engrossed in the book he currently was scanning, which was balancing precariously on his thighs. His eyes were rapidly moving along the words, eyes wide and blinking hurriedly. It was peculiar to Bill that Percy would be reading up on his disorders—he had been so reluctant to accept his diagnosis previously. And why only OCD? There wasn't a book for his other afflictions in sight.

"Percy?"

His head snapped up so swiftly, Bill could've sworn he'd just been witness to how his brother contracted whiplash. His brother stammered out words he couldn't understand—but they sounded suspiciously like apologies, and as Percy scrambled to gather up the pile of books and deposit them haphazardly on the shelves, he couldn't help but notice that behind his glasses, Percy's eyes looked mysteriously misty.

There was a rush of cold air as Percy briskly brushed past Bill and began moving towards the front of the store. It seemed like the air rattled him more than human movement should've, but he didn't have time to ponder it. It wouldn't go away now. He had taken a physical brush of light air peppering his skin and turned it into an emotional turbine of swirling ice and snow. He had internalized the chill and now he had a brother to check on.

Bill rushed to the front of the store after his brother, moving so briskly that his shoes somehow slapped against the carpeted floor sharply enough to create an echoing noise throughout the silent store.

"Find anything, sweetie?" His mother's sweet voice was warm and calming as always, brushing over Bill's ears in a very comforting manner. He really did love his mum.

"You don't need to get me a gift."

"But sweetie, it's your birthday, of course we do."

"Okay, well, I don't want it. I don't want anything."

Bill watched as his brother pushed the door open, the bell tinkling in an inappropriately cheery manor as he watched Percy comb swiftly through the crowd of wizards into the store across the street, the owner of the nearest floo point.

His mother began to round up the rest of the kids, blinking her eyes quickly to dispel the moisture that was pooling rapidly in her warm brown irises.

"Mom, why don't you take them to go get ice cream or something, like you promised? I'll go talk to Percy. I'm sure he just flooed home." Molly looked ready to protest, but she quieted, her features unfolding into a look of defeat as she nodded in agreement, leading the kid's and Charlie out of the store.

Bill glanced back at his father, still standing in the storefront, shifting unsteadily from foot to foot. The dark chocolate eyes met his own, and his father gave a tight-lipped smile.

"I think I'll go look throughout the store for something for Percy, regardless of what he says. Unfortunately I don't know quite what he likes, but perhaps I'll find something worth his time." Bill gave a short nod of approval, but then smiled fondly as his father as the older man placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "I know this is new for all of us—this mental illness thing—but we'll figure it out. For Percy's sake."

He then clapped his son's shoulders and began to retreat into the bookshelves. "Of course we will. We're Weasleys. We always figure it out."

It sounded an awful lot like Arthur was reassuring himself.

Bill was right. He found Percy perched on the back steps of the house, gazing out at the trees with the same frightened, weepy expression on his face. He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to comb through the sinew of Percy's mind and extract many responsive words, so he simply handed Percy the bag with his gift in it and began speaking.

"I know you said you didn't want anything, but it seemed like an appropriate gift."

Percy removed the items from the bag, running a pale finger along the cover of the book, slowly tracing patterns on the outside. He gave a short, airy laugh through his nose when Bill pointed out the ostentatious ink name. Bill was rather disappointed, he had hoped for to have a real bonding moment with his brother, but he supposed he brought it up at the wrong time for such a thing to occur.

"Look, Percy, I'm not going to try and claim I understand what you feel. I'm not even sure you know what you feel. I can't imagine it. It sounds terrible—what you're going though. Merlin, this is a horrible pep talk.

"I'm not gonna keep you here with some long lecture either about how much we care about you, because although we do care about you—a bloody lot, I might add—I want you to figure it out yourself. You're never going to believe it if someone's telling you. You never quite learn if someone just tells you what to believe. Great, now I sound like McGonagall.

"But, regardless of that, the one thing I will ask you to believe is that we're here for you. We all are. Mum, Dad, Ginny, Ron, Charlie, the twins, me. We're all here and we always will be. It's all up to you, how we go about helping you get better. We'll be there for you for everything. Whatever you want. Whatever you wanna do, just tell me. We can figure it out. We'll make it work."

Percy blinked slowly, head resting in his hands. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully, though he could've simply been politely ignoring his older brother's words. Just as Bill was about to give up, stand up, and leave Percy to his thoughts, the 15-year-old pulled his hands from his chin and spoke in a quiet, gravelly voice. It sounded like he regretted his words before he even spoke them.

"Bill… What do you do when you don't wanna live anymore?"

a/n I hope this chapter is enjoyable to you.