It was during his third year.

Percy had chosen to take Muggle Studies as one of his electives. He was as every bit as curious about muggle things as his dad was, just more reserved with how he reacted. The class itself sounded terribly fascinating, but that wasn't the entire reason why he'd decided to take it.

His dad had been utterly ecstatic upon hearing about it and had driven the family that summer, prattling on about muggle inventions and finally getting to know the function of a rubber duck.

It was a brilliant moment for Percy, who practically glowed with pride under the praise and shower of attention he was receiving. It'd felt so good , finally getting noticed for something. To his knowledge, both Bill and Charlie had taken the class before him, but neither of them had talked about it at length while at home. Their dad prodded, of course. They answered a few questions, but they hadn't really wanted to discuss that out of everything that Hogwarts had to offer and so their mum swiftly changed the subject.

He could still remember it well, the rare glint of pride that clouded over their dad's eyes, sending a sensation of warmth throughout Percy's body. His dad had been so thrilled because his son was going to take Muggle Studies. That his son was going to do well in it because Percy always did well.

(The last thought brought forth a sense of bitterness).

On the morning of September first, just as he had been about to step aboard the train, his dad took him aside. He specifically asked that Percy write to him about everything and anything that they were learning.

Percy was going to refuse, initially, in a gentle manner. The amount of work that he would tackling would be more than his first couple of school years and he wasn't sure how much free time he'd have to write to his dad-

But than came that hopefulness, that excitement. As it already was, Percy found it with great difficulty to bond with his dad. He was either working or tending to his other children that required more attention than Percy did. It wasn't often that he found himself in a situation where his dad wanted something of him that wasn't watching over the younger children or making sure to listen to his mum or keeping a close eye on the twins so they didn't go blow something up.

So, he'd said yes. With a bit of a warning, he admitted that he wasn't certain how much free time he'd have to write exceptionally long letters. But his dad hadn't minded; he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling and clapped him on the shoulder, bidding him a good year and adding that he couldn't wait for the first letter.

As it turned out, Muggle Studies wasn't all that bad. It was actually interesting to hear how muggles lived and how they'd invented helpful things like a telephone to communicate with other people instead of using owls. Percy would sit there in the back, in awe of what Professor Burbage explained to them and for once, no one was side-eying him strangely or rolling their eyes at his enthusiasm, as they seemed to be entranced by the lessons as well.

And if they weren't, if they were just there for an easy O, they kept to themselves.

Percy dutifully mailed letters each Saturday to inform his dad of the week's lessons, a long, detailed account that would surely please him. For the first time that he could remember, Percy had felt wanted . He'd felt useful , not just to be shoved on to a task that his parents needed a pair of extra hands to handle. He and his dad exchanged letters much more frequently then his previous two years combined. Percy would try to not look so pleased when Charlie's eyes would wander down the Gryffindor table toward Errol, who would deliver the letters. Percy hadn't ever received that many before.

And it'd felt so good .

Then came during the second term: Professor Burbage began a unit on health conditions that affected both muggles and wizarding folks.

Insomnia. Percy was taking notes when Professor Burbage mentioned that term. In which a person has trouble getting to and staying asleep, she'd told the class and given possible causes and the treatment that muggle healers referred to their patients.

He slowly lowered his quill to his desk, his notes becoming abandoned as he listened, intrigued. Insomnia sounded awfully familiar to the problem he'd been facing at night.

Sleep hadn't come over him like he'd hoped.

Perhaps he was experiencing first day back jitters, silly as it might sound for a seventh year, or maybe it was the harsh silence of the room that was so unlike what he was used to back at home-even at night, there was noise being made about somewhere -; or perhaps, it was everything going on at once that made him feel as though he were being choked.

Whatever it was, his nerves or the lack of noise, it prevented him from drifting off like he'd been yearning for all day. He spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, feet becoming tangled within the blanket. His sense of frustration had steadily increased when he just couldn't fall asleep . His eyelids felt extraordinarily heavy and he'd acquired a slight headache from staying awake for a concerning number of hours; but no amount of shifting, no amount of pillow flipping would ease it.

His bed was nearest to the room's only window; the silky, red curtain was left open, as neither of them had bothered to shut it, and slowly, as the minutes ticked by, the night faded away to the morning, where the sun rose to the top of the sky, the sunshine spilling into the room.

It was a few minutes once dawn broke, that mercy was finally descended upon him and he was able to sleep, where his nightmares unveiled themselves. He vaguely remembered a pitch black room, where there were no doors and no matter how much he screamed, it all seemed to be in vain. Then came the faces of Fred and George; identical mischievous grins that sent a swirling of nerves dropping into his stomach like a brick.

Then, he'd woken up.

A thin trail of sweat clung to him and he breathed erratically, momentarily startled by his surroundings until he remembered where he was.

If there had been any other intimate details pertaining to his dream, besides what he remembered, they wouldn't come to him. One thing was for certain; that not for the first time, the twins had invaded his dreams, twisting it until it embodied a very real, a very chilling nightmare.

His own brothers .

He knew it was something that could never leave past his lips; they couldn't ever find out. Oh, they'd just laugh themselves silly. To think, a Head-Boy that was frightened by his own brothers. It was preposterous, completely irrational!

And yet...

Perhaps it wasn't so much that Percy was scared by them in its most literal sense, but years of dealing with their antics had left him wary for whatever might come his way. They certainly didn't disappoint anyone there.

The bed that was on the other side of the room- Wood's bed-was vacant. The blanket was thrown nearly all the way off, the pillows were haphazard and a pile of what Percy guessed to be pajamas that Wood had worn the night before was laying in the middle. He must have woken up at the crack of dawn, as he was prone to doing. Quidditch try outs or practices hadn't started yet and wouldn't for a couple of weeks, under normal circumstances, that is.

Wood was a fanatic through and through; Percy wouldn't have been shocked in the slightest if he found out that Wood was going to gather up his players today and begin to practice and strategize.

Honestly, Percy was grateful that he'd made the wise choice of not joining the quidditch team like Charlie, he didn't think he could handle those inhumanely early practices.

Yes, that's the only reason

You couldn't handle it

You aren't as good as Charlie

Or the twins

Or even Ron

You'd just make a fool of yourself

Is that what you want?

Really, what are you playing at?

Couldn't it be said he was decent within his own regard? Sure , he might not have had the same talent that Charlie was gifted with and he might not be the human bludgers that Wood referred to the twins as, but he wasn't awful . He could ride a broom proficiently, he could follow the needed directions. So what if he didn't have that same urge to follow it obsessively or play? It didn't mean that he was indifferent, that he disliked it.

That was what most people thought. That somehow, in a family full of quidditch fiends, he was the odd one out that preferred to read instead of joining in.

Which was absolutely unfounded. Even his family believed it. Most of them. Percy wanted to squash that rather annoying rumor and gesture wildly to the posters that were hanging up in his bedroom at the Burrow and ask if those meant nothing .

Did no one know him that well at all?

They don't want to know you

You're too boring

Maybe if you loosened up, they'd like you more

Percy yawned.

He needed to be up, needed to get dressed and ready for the day to begin. It was past the time when he usually made an effort to get down to the Great Hall in case his presence was needed. Professor McGonagall didn't accept tardiness from anyone and while there wasn't a set time for the Prefects and Heads to be down, they typically tried to be there at a reasonable time so they could be of assistance to the first-years or any returning student that was in need of directions or if a question was to be answered that was within the bounds for them to do so. It was a part of his duty, one that he could not simply push off to the Prefects because he was tired . Everyone was tired. Not only that, but Professor McGonagall oversaw it-at least, for Gryffindor-she would not take his absence lightly; Percy would do all to avoid a rather unpleasant conversation that would most definitely take place.

That was part of the struggle.

Another was the fact that he simply did not want to go down there . It wasn't all to be blamed on his exhaustion, that he could get over swiftly if his mind was kept busy. No, the problem laid deeper than that. He was brought back to the previous night, with dinner being stuck in his head. The fear was worse now; it could be chaotic or it could not, the students would be sleepy or anxiously anticipating their classes. Percy's stomach was feeling awful already, whether by what was to come or that he needed to eat something.

He really, really didn't want to go.

He didn't want to face all those people that would surely find a reason or two to stare at him like he was a freak.

Or embarrass himself.

That seemed to be inevitable. Somehow, someway, he could guarantee something would go wrong. Someone would be snickering at him and the noise would echo in his mind for the rest of the day, as a reminder.

He wanted to hide. Pretend to be ill. Yes, he'd seen the twins do that before. It worked for them. They didn't get caught. He was clever enough, he could think up an illness to take him out of classes for the day but not serious enough that he would be sent to Madam Pomfrey, where it would be discovered that it was merely an illusion all along.

And if it worked, he could imagine the homework pile up. It usually wasn't too bad for the first day; but what if this year was different? What if, now that he was a seventh year, things weren't going to be easy for them and he'd have so much to do that he would never get caught up, doomed to fail. He'd never get a job at the Ministry, he'd been a failure without very many N.E.W.T.S; a laughingstock among his family. Oh, the twins would have a field day-

He had to go.

He still didn't want to. His sleep deprivation would catch up with him eventually. Perhaps he could stop by the Hospital Wing for a Pepper-Up Potion or kindly ask for some Dreamless Sleep before returning to Gryffindor Tower for the night. Madam Pomfrey might allow that, seeing that he wasn't one of those students that tried to feign being sick often so as to get out of being dealt a consequence for not doing an assignment or just wanting to see if they could get away with skipping.

Even though that had been exactly what he'd briefly contemplated on doing.

Percy weighed the option of just sliding back underneath the blankets for a few measly minutes. Just to rest his eyes, then he'd hurry up and leave.

No, no, that wasn't right either. He would end up falling asleep, as his luck would have it, causing him to miss all of his classes, creating an even bigger mess.

Percy pushed himself out of the bed, wincing at the pain shooting up and down his neck. He'd been laying at an angle, trying to burrow within the pillow and he must have stretched a muscle.

You can't stretch what you don't have

He went to the lavatory where he relieved himself, afterwards he brushed his hair and teeth in an attempt to seem slightly presentable. Those simple tasks had become a bloody chore, requiring more effort than they should have. He knew it sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears, and if he had to explain it, he wouldn't have been able to so articulately.

It just...had.

Simply put, he didn't feel like doing any of those things anymore. Maybe he was lazy. Maybe he'd given up and was finally alright living within his own filth. He didn't know. Only that by talking about it someone was bound to, understandably, be disgusted by it. So, he wisely kept it to himself.

And tried to disregard his mum's voice blaring in his ear, lecturing him on how he was supposed to set a proper example for his siblings.

He'd had to force himself to do it back home. Growing up, he'd become so prideful in his appearance, not wanting a single speck to be out of line. No one else in his family did that; none of his siblings cared to the extent he did. It was all about presentation. His parents did their best, he was grateful for all of it, but Percy was also well aware of how different they were in comparison to other wizarding families. For one, he didn't think anyone else at Hogwarts had to wear hand-me-downs, ones that were shorter at the ankle than all the others. He didn't see anyone else's jumpers have patches on them-like his did.

So, he tried to make up for that. With what he lacked in clothing, he made up for with the way he presented himself. Even if they were technically on the poorer side, that needn't mean he had to flaunt it.

His family-if they knew-would have accused him of being ashamed.

Maybe he was? It was difficult to explain, to understand.

He wasn't ashamed of his family, it was nothing that deep. Percy craved acceptance. He craved feeling like he belonged and getting what he deemed to be necessary approval.

With his hard-work, going above and beyond, making him seem like he was so ambitious when it was far from the truth-it pleased his professors. They liked that- most of them liked that.

His parents were fine with that as well. They didn't give him those same lectures that were strictly reserved for the twins or Ron if he was caught slacking off.

And it was nice .

It felt good to get his accomplishments recognized, even if there was a war waging itself on the inside because deep in his soul, he knew he didn't really deserve any of it.

With a heavy sigh, Percy methodically brushed his teeth in the same pattern he'd used for years. He spat out the foamy remnants of his toothpaste into the pearly, sparkling sink. When he lifted his head back up, he took a good, long look into the mirror.

He didn't like what he saw.

Sickeningly pale skin that held not a touch of a tan. Sunken eyes from spending so many nights sitting up in his bed, worrying over this and that. His nose looked odd, his ears a bit too big, His face, all of it, just so different than all the rest of the boys in his years. He hadn't a hint of facial hair, but that was a preference on his part. You wouldn't look good with one. At one point, the twins had asked him if he was even a bloke.

Percy could still feel the shame that he'd felt.

With one last glance, he slipped out to put on his uniform and gather his bag that was full of books and other supplies he would need for class. Luckily, he'd learned the charm that would lighten the load.

Down in the Great Hall, it was less than half filled. Some of the students had come and eaten before he'd gotten there and were now waiting until it was time to head to their classrooms. Most of them looked a bit worn at having to get up so early; he reckoned that many-if not all of them-had spent their summer holidays lounging around and not leaving their beds until the hours leading into the afternoon.

As if you were any better

Hypocrite

Nonetheless, despite the general weariness, it was radiating the same bundle of energy it always did.

All the way down the staircase, passing by groups of students and the occasional professor, trying to picture how the table in the Hall would look like and if he'd be able to find a decent seat, he'd taken deep breaths, reminding himself the do's and don'ts that he'd come up with.

It was like a lifeline, a pathetic one, at that. It was a routine that he'd developed on how to get through the corridors, finding a desk to sit in for his classes and to correctly sit down at the table without making it awkward for him or anyone else.

He sat down at the end of the table alone . There were few students at the Gryffindor table, none of whom were in his year or any faces that he could recognize. Wood wasn't there. He must have gone on to check on the quidditch pitch. He was prone to doing that, too. Like a mother who fretted at being away from her child, Wood didn't like to be away from the field for a greater length of time than he had to be.

He caught some snippets of conversations that were going on around him. Some were moaning about the incoming homework they could be receiving or excitedly anticipating the quidditch try-outs. Others grumbled about being stuck in Professor Snape's class again . A few, however, were just trying to wake up, though not doing a good job of it by the way one boy had his head laying directly on the table.

Percy poured some cornflakes into his bowl and some pumpkin juice into his goblet, sipping to ease up the dryness in his throat. He wasn't that hungry, or at all, really. Even with the space that was between him and the other students, he still felt trapped. Kind of how he'd felt back in the train compartment during his meeting.

He'd only been there for a minute or two and he wanted to leave.

Coward

The inner voice was blowing into his ear tauntingly. A silky, smooth voice that was eerily like Professor Snape's. Underneath the table, his foot was tapping the ground erratically, while the voice sounded like it was growing louder and louder .

Coward

Coward

COWARD

"Mr. Weasley." Percy could have jumped out of his skin, the noise abruptly dying down, his senses returning to normal. He found Professor McGonagall standing across from him, holding an armful of papers and wearing her natural stern expression.

"Professor," he greeted faintly, licking his lips. "Good morning. Is there...is there anything you need?"

"Not at the moment, Mr. Weasley. I've only come to hand you your times table," she gave it to him after shuffling through what she had, until she reached the W's .

"Thank you, Professor," he said, setting it down beside him, but mindful not to set it close enough to his goblet, where the juice could spill on it. He expected her to leave now, so she could deliver the rest before classes began. But she didn't. At first, he plastered on a tight smile, trying to continue to eat his utterly tasteless cereal.

But how was he supposed to eat when someone was staring at him?

"Erm, Professor?" Did his voice go up in pitch? Did he sound nervous? She would think something was wrong, that he had something to hide. And he didn't. Not really. "Was there something else you wanted?"

There. He was polite, he was pleasant.

Professor McGonagall frowned, the wrinkles along her mouth became more pronounced. "Are you getting enough rest, Mr. Weasley? You look worn."

No

I haven't slept properly in so long

Instead, he insisted otherwise. "Of course, Professor."

"Perhaps you ought to stop by Madam Pomfrey for some Dreamless Sleep?"

He still wanted to. Merlin knows he did. But now that a professor was suggesting he should do it, it sent off alarm bells in his head. She can see your incompetence. She knows something's wrong with you. Everyone can. It's glaringly obvious. To everyone but you, anyway.

"There's no need for that, Professor McGonagall," he smiled. Smiling was tiring. He wanted to stop. "I'm perfectly fine."

Professor McGonagall was skeptical. Why couldn't she just go away? The other students would need their times tables, the minutes were trickling away as it was. She needn't waste any more time than she had. "You're quite sure?"

No

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "I suppose I was a little over excited since receiving my Head-Boy badge in the mail."

At that, Professor McGonagall allowed a smile to grace her features. "It is an honor," she agreed. An honor that you don't deserve . "But please, Mr. Weasley, do rest tonight. And if the responsibilities ever become too much, you can always come to my classroom."

She knows , his heart sped up. She knows, she knows, she bloody well knows!

"Yes, Professor," he nodded respectfully. There, she took her leave, immediately her eyes falling upon a younger student who was racing out of the Great Hall-and she reprimanded him, stalking away from Percy.

His schedule was fairly packed with tougher courses-on par with being a seventh year. He'd made it into Professor Snape's potions class, when everyone else-other than the Slytherins-tried not to unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then, there was no guarantee. Professor Snape had high, practically unattainable expectations for a regular course, but this one was especially demanding.

He only let you in so he can see you fail

Because you will

You aren't smart enough

You're just lucky

And your luck's about to run out