Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.
Chapter 14: Chiaroscuro
When Charlie wakes up the next day, it's nearly noon and the Burrow is uncharacteristically quiet, with the Weasleys having dispersed to work or, in Ginny's case, school. Bill had given him a Dreamless Sleep potion the night before, and Charlie was grateful to escape the memories of Percy's breakdown, at least for only a few hours.
Molly is back in the kitchen when Charlie trudges downstairs. She quickly wraps him in one of her impossibly tight hugs and then deposits a heaping plate of eggs and sausage in front of him. Charlie tries to eat, but Percy's voice keeps flashing unbidden into mind—"He wouldn't let me die"—and his stomach roils.
Abandoning the food, Charlie watches Molly wave her wand, charming a knife to chop a stack of carrots into neat little slices. A thought occurs to him. "Mum? Why did you call for me to help with Percy?" The entire family had been there, but Mum had called for him, specifically.
Molly pauses in her work, a few unpeeled potatoes hovering in place. "I thought it was obvious."
"But…Percy was always closer to Bill," Charlie says, although even as the words leave his mouth he knows they aren't true. Percy was always more similar to Bill, with their outstanding exam scores and matching Head Boy badges, but Percy was never actually close to any of them. He and Bill were close friends, same with Ron and Ginny, and Fred and George of course were inseparable…always leaving Percy out.
Sadness flickers across their Mum's face, and Charlie wonders if she's thinking the same thing as him. "Maybe so, but he's clearly felt the most comfortable with you since he came back. And no surprise." She offers him a tired-looking smile. "You've been so wonderful with him, Charlie, I hope you know that."
Charlie's face flushes pink, a strange twisting feeling in his stomach. "Er…"
"And you looked after him in school, didn't you?" Molly adds. "I remember a few letters about that."
"I don't know…" Charlie had always dutifully promised to look after his little brothers before every ride on the Hogwarts Express, but Percy had pretty much taken care of himself. A few times Charlie had stepped in when the usual teasing of Percy got out of hand; once he had even needed to fight with Flint, that trollish Slytherin Quidditch player, to get him to leave Percy alone. But surely that wouldn't be the reason Percy turned to him, broke down in his arms instead of their Mum's?
"And then of course, there's what happened with your father." Molly's voice drops, and she flicks her wand, sending the potatoes peeling in double time. "You weren't there for that."
"No, I wasn't," Charlie curls his hands into fists, remembering his confrontation with Arthur last night. Even with the benefit of a dreamless sleep, he can't decide whether he overreacted or let their father off easy. "Has Dad—"
Two loud, crisp knocks cause them both to freeze. Charlie locks eyes with his Mum, and he knows they're both thinking the same thing—with the heavy-duty protection spells around the Burrow, who could be knocking on their front door?
"It has to be one of the Aurors or the Order guards," Molly reasons, but she ceases all her cooking spells and holds her wand at the ready.
Charlie nods, slipping his own hand into his pocket to wrap around his wand. He relaxes a bit as he opens the door to reveal a familiar face—Oliver Wood, the former Gryffindor Quidditch keeper.
"Charlie!" Oliver greets him, looking friendly, if a bit tired. "I was hoping you'd be here, how are you?"
"Oliver," Charlie manages a smile. "Good to see you." And, despite the worry and horror gnawing steadily harder at his guts since Percy's been back, it is good to see Oliver. Oliver Wood brings back the simpler Hogwarts days, when beating out the Slytherins for the Quidditch Cup was his biggest concern. And while Charlie had pretended to be too cool to indulge in Oliver Wood's hero worship of him, he'd be lying if he said he hated it.
But Oliver's presence still raised a few questions. Charlie glances out past him, to where the Auror assigned to guard the Burrow is sitting out front, looking half-asleep in the noonday sun. "Not to be rude, but how are you here?"
"I've been helping out with guard duty," Oliver replies. "As an Order member, not a Auror, of course. I still play for Puddlemere," he adds with a smile. "Or I will, when the regular seasons start up again."
Charlie hadn't known Oliver was a member of the Order of Phoenix, but he guessed it made sense. "Okay. Thanks, then, for helping."
"Sure." Oliver suddenly seems awkward. "I was actually on duty last night."
"Oh." Charlie winces, realizing for the first time that the guards had been witness to his outburst. "Well, Weasley drama. You know how it goes."
"I remember, believe me," Oliver offers a weaker smile this time. "There was always something brewing in the Gryffindor common room with you lot." He shuffles his feet a bit. "I wouldn't say anything about it, but I couldn't help overhearing that you were talking about Percy."
Charlie's body seizes up with tension again, and his face forms into an involuntary grimace.
"And I don't mean to intrude, but, well," Oliver continues, "the Prophet confirmed Percy was the prisoner rescued from the Death Eater hideout, and then I heard you talking about him, and I—"
Great. The last thing they need right now is more people prying into the details of Percy's captivity. Charlie grips the edge of the door, preparing to shut it. "Listen, Oliver, this is a family situation."
"I get it, I do," Oliver says quickly. "I'll leave. But can you just tell me—is Percy okay?"
Charlie pauses. Oliver looks honest in his concern, his face an earnest mix of fear and hope. Charlie remembers that Percy and Oliver were the same age, would have been in the same dorm room at Hogwarts—they might have been friends. It hadn't occurred to any of them, Charlie realizes with a twist of guilt, that Percy would have friends they should contact.
"Here, come inside for a minute." Charlie opens the door and beckons Oliver inside to the sitting room. "You and Percy were friends at Hogwarts, then?"
"Er, yeah, I'd say we were." Oliver rubs his chin. "I mean, we weren't best mates or anything, but we got along alright. But no one's heard from him since before the war ended, until this."
Oliver looks at him expectantly, and Charlie weighs how much to tell him. "Percy's recovering," he says, vaguely. A moment passes in awkward silence, but Charlie can't think of anything else to say that would preserve Percy's privacy.
The sound of a sharp inhalation of breath causes him to turn, and Charlie's heart leaps into his throat as he sees Percy standing in the doorway.
"I think this was a mistake, Percy," Penny's voice comments sagely as Percy stops, swaying slightly on his feet as he takes in the scene in front of them.
"Ooh, this is a bit awkward, isn't it?" Oliver says.
Except it's not Oliver, it's Percy's contrived hallucination of his old schoolmate, a pathetic mental artifact conjured during the depth of his loneliness and madness that has never left. The real Oliver Wood is sitting there, staring at him, his mouth ajar, literally stunned into silence by the pitiful creature Percy has become.
Percy had caught a glimpse of Oliver's approach from his window, briefly wondering whether his hallucinations were so sick of his company that they were beginning to wander abroad. But then Oliver had come into the Burrow, and Percy had been seized with panic.
Why was Oliver here? Were his siblings telling Oliver all his secrets, laughing at what a worthless wreck he had become?
Or—and this was the possibility that had chilled Percy to the bone, that had propelled him out of his room when he thought nothing could get him to cross that terrifying threshold into the Weasley home—was Oliver telling his siblings?
Because Oliver knew things. Things Percy had made sure were kept quiet, things that he had worked and charmed and hexed to keep quiet, so that they would never reach the rest of the Weasleys.
("Look at yourself, Percy, you need to go to the Hospital Wing!"
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. While you might not know even the mere rudiments of healing magic, Oliver, some of us are able—"
"Don't give me that shit. I know what you're doing, and I'm not falling for it. Please, just let me talk to—"
"No!")
And now Oliver was here, right next to Charlie, both with their eyes burning holes in him.
"This was definitely a mistake, mate," Oliver (no, not the real Oliver) comments. "What did you think you were gonna do?"
"Percy! I was just asking about you, good to see you!" Oliver moves to stand, and Percy flinches. Charlie grabs Oliver's arm and yanks him back into his seat. Oliver blinks in shock, his gaze bouncing between Charlie and Percy. "Oh, erm, sorry."
"Oliver is part of the guard the Order arranged for the Burrow," Charlie explains. "He just wanted to know if you were alright."
"Sure, of course," Oliver says sarcastically. "Cause we're such good friends, aren't we Percy?"
"Did you need something, Perce?" Charlie asks, eyeing him uneasily.
And of course he would be uneasy, because Percy hasn't left his room since he came back. The ground floor of the Burrow seems both crushingly small and monstrously large. Percy grips the doorframe behind him to steady himself, hoping they won't notice.
"Pathetic Percy, can't even stand on his own!"
"They're staring at you, better say something, you nutter!"
"Parchment," Percy blurts out. "I need more parchment. I've run out."
The color drains from Charlie's face, and Percy swallows against the lump rising in his throat. He had suspected Charlie had seen something wrong in his writing last night, and now that suspicion is confirmed in real time.
"Well done. Yet another tick in the incurable column!" Oliver cackles.
"What are you writing?" Oliver asks.
"Go on, tell them! Tell them about your insane lists of regulations and potions and runes and every other insufferably boring thing, and how you can't help filling them with the truth of what you are."
"You don't have to," Charlie jumps in, "if you don't want—"
Percy's head is swimming as he tries to keep the multiple Olivers straight in his mind, but if he doesn't answer he'll just seem more worthless. "It's fine, Charlie. I—I'm working on some N.E.W.T. study guides. For my sister."
"You double-check those, make they don't talk about what a weak, disgusting coward you are? After all, Ginny already knows that."
"I hear Ginny's turned out to be a brilliant Chaser," Oliver says, bringing the conversation back to Quidditch as was always his wont. "If she's getting her N.E.W.T.s now, maybe I'll be playing with her soon! Nice of you to help her out. She's lucky, I remember how thorough your notes and study guides were."
"Such bullshit," Oliver sneers. "You know what I think of your guides and lists. Bloody obsessive, that's what they are."
"Obsessive, that's what you used to call them." Percy regrets the words immediately. Why remind Oliver how abnormal and neurotic he is?
"Oh. Maybe, yeah," Oliver says, furrowing his brow.
"Percy, the unbearable prat no one ever wants to be around—"
"But then again, people used to say my Quidditch plays were pretty obsessive too." A grin grows on Oliver's face. "I made dozens of them in our last year, remember that? All the color coding I did, I learned that from you. You would charm your ink into all those different colors, remember?"
Percy frowns. Had Oliver really learned from him? "He's just placating the nutcase, coddling Poor Pathetic Percy—"
"And you taught me how to charm my plays so the different positions would actually move," Oliver continues, still grinning. "I still use that spell all the time. It drives my coaches mad!"
Percy waits for his imagined Oliver to make the usual cutting remark, but none comes. A memory surfaces instead.
"Nah, it's all alright, Perce, it's not worth wasting your time. The magic's beyond me, I guess."
"Nonsense! Your incantation and wand movement are perfect, you just need to work on your focus. I'm confident you can get it."
"Are you sure? Don't you have Head Boy duties or something?"
"I've got my schedule managed very well, don't you worry. Let's keep at it."
"Thanks! I doubt I've got anything you'd want, but I owe you one."
"Well, if you're offering, how about you keep up those 5am Quidditch practices? Fred and George trouble me a good deal less when they're properly exhausted."
"Ha! You've got a deal!"
Percy blinks in surprise at the forgotten moment of camaraderie. The hallucinated Oliver he sees day in and out is far colder, far crueler than this memory of his schoolmate. Why was that?
"Did you get that spell out of a book or did you invent it?"
Percy had imagined long conversations during his captivity, with Oliver and Penelope and many others. Their presence had been, in a deranged but very real way, a comfort. The imagined Oliver hadn't been cruel, then, had he? He hadn't existed to jeer and mock, to ruthlessly seek out every despairing thought in Percy's head and shove it in his face.
"Percy? You okay?"
No, Percy realizes. That sneering, hateful voice, waiting at every turn to cut him down, to tear at him, to poison his every thought and crush his every hope over and over until death seemed preferable, wasn't Oliver.
"Percy, mate, what's wrong?"
It was him. It was Flint.
"Don't touch him! Get back, Oliver! Percy, can you hear me?"
Percy had been rescued, had gotten away from Flint, only to bring him along in his own head.
"Because deep down, you know you deserved it."
Charlie's proximity forces Percy to snap back into the present. Charlie has taken his now familiar stance before Percy, soft-voiced, hands empty and visible, ready to pacify him. Oliver is a few steps back, his eyes wide and horrified.
"Wood knows about some of the fun we used to have in school, doesn't he?"
"You should go, Oliver," Percy rasps.
"Percy…?" Oliver breathes, his eyes huge and face pale.
"Just leave!" Charlie tells him.
"Okay, okay," Oliver stammers. "I—I'll owl you later."
"No!" The word rips from Percy's throat and suddenly he is on the floor, darkness swirling at the edge of his vision, Charlie huddled next to him.
"Percy, hey, listen to me, you're safe, I promise, he's gone—"
And Flint just laughs.