I'm relieved I left my room tidy

They sat outside the Hospital Wing for an hour and 47 minutes- Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, and Oliver, still in his blood soaked robes.

Molly and Arthur arrived after twenty minutes.

Molly Weasley rushed down the corridor, red hair flying wildly. Arthur wasn’t too far behind her.

“What happened?” She demanded as she skidded to a halt beside them. Her eyes drifted from Fred to George to Ron to Ginny and finally to a last person she didn’t recognize. She stared at him for a moment before remembering one of the photos Percy kept on his desk of him and his roommate; Percy was smiling, a rare occurrence for him in the past few years, and the other boy had an arm wrapped around him. So one of Percy’s friends, but Molly couldn’t remember the name.

Her eyes somehow moved from his face to his hands, and her heart dropped to the floor when she saw blood covering his skin. She knew in an instant it was her son’s blood.

She crumpled like paper, falling into Arthur’s arms with tears overflowing down her face. Arthur noticed what she did a moment later, and his expression broke like porcelain. Tears filled his own eyes, but he tried to keep them under lock and key. He had to be strong for his children.

“What happened?” Arthur repeated his wife’s words.

“We were in the Common Room,” George said. His gaze grew distant as he found himself back in Percy’s doorway, seeing the blood and Percy’s pale face, wondering for a terrifying moment if Percy was even breathing. “We heard a yell and ran upstairs. Percy was…” George’s voice broke.

“He cut his wrists,” Fred finished when George was unable to. Fred stared at his trembling hands. “On purpose. Oliver found him. There was so much blood, Dad…” Fred dissolved into tears. He had been trying to stay strong for his twin and his younger siblings, but all of it- the pressure of responsibility, the terror of losing Percy, the trauma of seeing his brother bleeding out- was piling on his shoulders. He couldn’t bear it anymore, and the tears he’d been holding back finally broke free.

Molly pulled away from Arthur, tears still flowing, but she pushed past her own fear and worry to focus on her children. Ginny was still sobbing, had been since they told her, and Ron was curled into a ball in his seat, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them. George looked like he wasn’t even there, eyes glazed over, and Fred was breaking down. They needed her now.

Molly sat between Ginny and Ron. She pulled her daughter to her chest and let Ginny cry freely into her robes. She wrapped the other arm around Ron as he sniffled, trying to hold back tears. Ron leaned into her embrace but stayed curled into a ball, like he was trying to shut out everything.

Arthur sat between Fred and George. Fred immediately fell into his arms, and the sobs burst forth as the dam broke. George didn’t even seem to notice when Arthur wrapped an arm around him.

Oliver sat awkwardly off to one side as the family comforted each other. He pulled his robes down over his hands to try to hide the blood; it didn’t do much because it was also staining his robes, but he didn’t want to look at his blood-soaked hands anymore.

They sat there in silence for the rest of the time until finally, Madam Pomfrey exited the Hospital Wing. They all immediately stood up and crowded around her, waiting for the news with bated breath.

“He’s stabilized,” she told them. “A large part of that is because his magic was fighting to heal him; it kept him alive. I was able to heal the wounds, but there will be scars. However, Percy’s magic was exhausted in trying to save him. The magical exhaustion has put him into a coma.”

Everyone was quiet as they took that in.

“But he’ll recover… right?” Molly asked.

Madam Pomfrey hesitated. “I hope so, but the thing with a magical coma… no amount of healing spells can fix it. Percy has to choose to wake up.”

“So there’s nothing we can do?” Arthur asked.

“You can talk to him, spend time with him, and you can hope,” Madam Pomfrey answered. “I’m sorry I can’t do more, but what I can tell you is Percy is strong. His magic fought tooth and nail to keep him alive, and I hope it will continue to do so.”

“But why did he do it in the first place?” Fred asked. “Why would someone just… do that?”

“Some people are in a lot of pain,” Madam Pomfrey stated. “To the point where they think dying would free them from their pain.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell us?” George demanded. “We could’ve helped, we could’ve done something!”

“I don’t know,” Madam Pomfrey admitted. “But it is hard for people to explain this pain, to even put it into words.”

“Or maybe he just thought he couldn’t come to us,” Ron said.

“Ron,” Molly started.

“We’re all thinking it!” Ron exclaimed. “I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve talked to Percy in the past three months! Fred and George are constantly playing pranks on him! Ginny pushed him away last year! I wouldn’t want to come to us either!”

“Ron!” Arthur said. “You can’t blame yourself or your siblings. We couldn’t have known-“

“We could’ve if Percy actually thought he could talk to us!” Ron yelled.

“Ron’s right,” Fred said. “If we hadn’t pulled so many pranks on him, maybe-“

“He would’ve come to us,” George finished.

“Blaming yourselves will not help Percy,” Madam Pomfrey interrupted. “He needs all of you right now.”

Everyone fell quiet.

“You can visit him now,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Talk to him. Some say coma patients can hear when they’re in the coma.”

Madam Pomfrey stepped to the side, and everyone filed into the Hospital Wing.

Percy was the only one there, the curtains around the bed drawn. Molly immediately rushed to Percy’s bed and pulled the curtains aside; the others followed her, a bit more hesitantly.

“Oh, my baby,” Molly whispered as she sunk into a chair beside Percy’s bed, the others gathering around it.

Percy looked so pale, even paler than the white sheets he was lying on top of it. Even in a coma, he didn’t look peaceful; his face was slack and empty, like he wasn’t even in there. His arms lay on top of the blankets, so they could all see the white bandages wrapped around his arms.

Molly brushed aside a lock of his red hair and rested her hand on the side of his face.

“He’s so cold,” she murmured, and she pulled the blankets up to Percy’s chin, maneuvering his arms so they were under the blankets.

Oliver hung back, staring at his best friend in the hospital bed. Percy looked just as limp and lifeless as he had when Oliver found him, and if it weren’t for the slight movement of his chest, Oliver would’ve thought he was dead.

Oliver took a step back and then another. “Ihavetogo,” he blurted, and he ran from the room.

Oliver closed the hospital wing door behind him, and he leaned against it. He slid down the door until he was sitting on the ground, hands clenched into fists against the cold stone (just as cold as Percy’s skin when Oliver held him). Oliver pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them as the tears finally came, sobs wracking his whole frame.

Oliver wasn’t sure how long he sat there, crying into his knees. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, hours. Time didn’t seem to matter anymore; the world was shrinking until all he could see was Percy in that hospital bed.

“Mr. Wood,” a voice said, and Oliver looked up, face blotchy and covered in dried and fresh tears. Professor McGonagall stood over him, looking down at him with her face etched with sadness and sympathy.

Oliver quickly scrubbed his face. He knew it was stupid, but even given the situation, it was embarrassing to be caught crying. His teenage boy pride was cringing, even though it was perfectly normal to cry when your friend tried to kill himself. Oliver pushed himself to his feet and stared at the ground, trying to hide his red, tear-stained face.

“Professor,” Oliver greeted.

“How is Mr. Weasley?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“In a coma,” Oliver managed.

Professor McGonagall nodded. “And how are you?”

Oliver shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“Mr. Wood… Oliver,” Professor McGonagall said, and the use of his first name made Oliver look up in surprise. “Things like this happen because a person feels they can’t talk to anyone, but I want you to know you can talk to me.”

Oliver hesitated. He didn’t know how to explain the all consuming grief he felt. Percy wasn’t even dead (yet), and the weight of grief was bearing down on him like he was Atlas holding the sky on his shoulders. The guilt was eating him alive, clawing at his insides until there was nothing left. And the confusion, all the questions, were whirling around inside him, each question a jagged piece of glass cutting into him the longer they went unsaid and unanswered.

“I just don’t understand why,” Oliver said. “Why Percy would… he could’ve talked to me. He didn’t have to… He wasn’t alone!”

Oliver wasn’t even making sense to himself, but Professor McGonagall seemed to get it.

“Oliver, these things make a person feel so alone that they don’t see all the people around them,” Professor McGonagall said. “It blinds them until the pain is all they can see. They don’t see how their suicide will affect others. They just want the pain to stop.”

“It’s not Percy’s fault,” Oliver said.

“I know,” Professor McGonagall replied.

“So why am I so mad at him?” Oliver asked, and the admission splintered out of him like a broken mirror. Shame curled in his gut. His best friend tried to kill himself, and Oliver was mad at him. How selfish is that?

“It’s normal to feel hurt,” Professor McGonagall stated. “Your friend was hurting, and he didn’t tell anyone. He couldn’t see all the people that care about him, and he couldn’t see how his suicide would hurt people. It’s normal to feel angry.”

“But it’s not his fault!” Oliver burst out.

Oliver didn’t know how to explain how he felt, the turmoil of emotions building in his chest, but somehow, Professor McGongall seemed to hear what he wasn’t saying.

“It’s not yours either,” she said.

Oliver wiped away the tears on his face, wondering when he even started crying again. Professor McGonagall rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don’t you go get changed?” Professor McGonagall asked. “Take a moment.”

Oliver nodded. Being covered in Percy’s blood certainly wasn’t helping; every time he looked down, his mind flashed back to finding Percy bleeding out on the floor.

Professor McGonagall entered the Hospital Wing, and Oliver headed for their dorm room. He took the back hallways so fewer people would see him still covered in blood. The red of his robes helped to hide it, but the darker patches were unmistakable, and Oliver wasn’t ready to face the questions or the rumors or the stares.

Of course, he couldn’t avoid the Common Room. The minute Oliver stepped through the portrait hole, everyone in the room turned to stare at him. Oliver froze like a startled deer, trapped by the stares.

Oliver broke free after a second and ran up the stairs. Behind him, the whispering started.

Oliver approached the door to their dorm room and paused outside, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

The last time he had been here, he had been holding Percy’s unconscious body as blood gushed down his arms and soaked the makeshift tourniquets wrapped around his wrists.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

The House Elves hadn’t gotten to the room yet. The dark patch on the crimson rug was easy to pick out, two puddles having sunk into the rug. Oliver wondered how the House Elves would ever be able to get it out.

Oliver tore his gaze away and went to his dresser, pulling out a new shirt, pants, and robes. He changed quickly and threw his old clothes in the trash. He could replace them; he didn’t think he could ever wear them again, even if the blood did manage to come out.

After changing, Oliver went to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands raw, the blood circling down the drain; Oliver kept scrubbing long after the blood was gone.

Oliver returned to the room and sat on his bed, burying his head in his freshly cleaned hands. He stared blankly at the wall.

He didn’t know what to do now.

Percy always hated the Hospital Wing. In first year, Percy told him the Hospital Wing was too colorless and still and quiet, compared to his noisy, bustling, colorful home. It smelled of medicine and potions, and it was always associated with pain and sickness. Now, Percy would have to stay there for who knows how long.

Oliver walked over to Percy’s bed, avoiding even looking at the blood on the rug. He grabbed Percy’s favorite blanket- a blue one he’d brought from home- always folded neatly at the end of his bed. Oliver could take it to the Hospital Wing, so Percy could feel a bit more comfortable when (if) he woke up.

Oliver moved to Percy’s desk next. It was always clean and tidy but now it seemed especially so. A stack of books in the left corner, a few ink pots in the right, and in the center…

A stack of envelopes. The top one said Mum in Percy’s neat handwriting.

Oliver placed the blanket on the chair and picked up the envelopes. He shuffled through them, reading the name written on each one.

Dad. Bill. Charlie. Fred. George. Ron. Ginny. Penny. And…

Oliver.

Oliver realized what they were. They fell from his hands and scattered across the floor. Oliver quickly followed them to the floor, falling to his knees and burying his head in his hands. A sob burst out of him, followed by another and another and another. He couldn’t stop crying.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before a hesitant knock sounded on the door.

“Oliver?” Someone called. Katie. “There’s someone at the portrait asking for you.”

Oliver sniffled and hurriedly scrubbed at his eyes. “I-I’ll be there in a second.”

Katie hesitated another moment, like she was debating whether or not to say more, before Oliver heard her footsteps retreat.

Oliver gathered himself up, putting the pieces of himself crudely back together. He stacked the letters he’d dropped and stood, grabbing the blanket and heading for the door. He wiped at his eyes one last time before exiting the room and descending the staircase.

Everyone was trying not to stare at him and failing miserably. Oliver ignored all of them and headed straight for the portrait hole, stepping through it.

He paused when he saw who waited on the other side with red rimmed eyes and messed up hair, robes disheveled like she’d run all the way here.

“Penelope?”