Chapter 2
‘At least there are no dementors’. Those were the last words he had heard from anyone. Ron had been the one he heard them from, out of all people. Percy supposed that indeed was true; he would have much rather been imprisoned without dementors than with and was glad they had been removed from Azkaban’s security. But then again, he would have much rather not been imprisoned at all.
Upon hearing those words, his first instinct had been anger. How could Ronald, free, heroic Ronald dare diminish the gravity of Percy’s sentence? And then he’d remembered Ron had earned his liberty. He’d saved the world, for Merlin’s sake. Percy hadn’t snapped at his little brother, partly because of the realisation that, for once, he had really tried to make him feel better, and partly because he just didn’t see the point.
Ever since Shacklebolt had uttered the condemnation, Percy had been gone. Even during the meeting with his family that Arthur had managed to obtain, he hadn’t been there. He was already on the macabre island, his fingertips were already sensing the cool brick walls, his body already felt the dirt accumulating from a severe lack of hygiene, his nose already crunched at the smell, his mind already felt the consequences of the isolation before he was even physically in the prison.
Percy had tried his best to hug his mother, to apologise to his father, to part with his siblings, but none of it had been real. He barely noticed when he was moved from the Ministry custody cell and roughly forced to take a portkey with an Auror.
Regret only started to kick in when the lock to his cell was turned. Percy let himself slide down to the floor and realised with shame that he hardly even remembered the parting with his family. The only fresh thing, engraved in his memory was Ron’s last sentence. It was ridiculous, revolting even, that that should have been the memory that remained with him throughout eleven years of imprisonment. Percy took off his glasses with a sigh, setting them down and taking advantage of the movement to let the tips of his fingers linger above the cold brick floor. It was just like he’d imagined it; he noticed as he closed his eyes. But the satisfaction of having been right was not even a satisfaction any longer, rather a bitter irony that left a metallic taste in his mouth. How many other, infinitely more important things had he been wrong about?
A tear rolled down his cheek, just as a wave loudly came crashing onto the rocks that surrounded the prison. His vision was all blurry without his glasses, but he liked it. It felt more like a dream that way. Percy could distinguish a large hole in the left wall, but he didn’t allow himself to look out. He knew it was too high to jump anyway, and, even if it wasn’t, he wasn’t sure he would’ve tried and escaped. It was worthless, they would always find him. Besides, he had done so much hiding in the last few years that he felt it could last him his whole life. He wasn’t sure he could bear any more.
As he started drifting off to sleep, not quite caring enough to move to his small cot that looked just as uncomfortable as the floor anyway, he found himself reaching for a wand that wasn’t there.
Well. At least there were no dementors.
Percy had heard of prisoners going insane. Not only in pre-war Azkaban, but in every kind of prison. One of his seventh year Muggle Studies essay had been about similar things; he’d written about methods of torture the Germans had used in prisons during the Muggles’ second World War. Sleep deprivation, isolation, lack of proper hygiene; it’d all seemed fascinating at the time. Percy’d been very proud of his work, especially the part about the later consequences in the survivors’ minds.
He snorted. The sudden noise made him jump, before he realised he had scared himself. Merlin. It was the irony of it that made him feel ill; he had now the bloody privilege of getting to experience those symptoms, not just read about them in books.
The sound of keys jingling made him jerk up. Foolishly enough, every time an auror came by his cell, he saw Harry opening the door and setting him free, assuring him it had all been a mistake. None of the aurors were ever Harry, though, and all they ever did was slide a bowl of food, water and a spoon through the trapdoor on the bottom of the steel door. Sometimes, if he was lucky, an additional comment was thrown in. Usually an insult. It didn’t matter; anything that could’ve broken the deep, overwhelming silence was good enough.
As it always was, the bowl was passed first. Then, the spoon. Then, a bottle of water. Three things, always in that order. Then, a sealed parchment? Percy crawled his way to the door the fastest he could, taking the letter in his hands in disbelief. “What...” His voice was rough. It hurt to use it. He hadn’t done so in…Merlin knew how long. A month. Three. A year.
The auror on the other side of the door laughed. It was a cruel kind of laugh, the kind of dirty chuckle that could only be whistled through disgusting teeth. “Got some mail, Weasley.” Percy didn’t look up, because what was there to look up at? If he had, he would’ve been met with the dark grey of the steel door. He much preferred the sight of the letter and its neat handwriting he could oddly not understand. “I’m not allowed to get mail.” He found himself muttering, his vision blurring —was it tears, or was he not wearing his glasses again? The auror laughed once more.
“Your father fought so hard to get it to you, and now you don’t want it? Merlin, now I see why they used to say you were ungrateful.”
Percy’s ears went buzzing so hard that he didn’t hear anything else the auror had to say. His grip on the envelope tightened and he watched the wrinkles form and permanently print themselves onto the parchment, mesmerised. He couldn’t read what was written on it, but he assumed it was his name. He readied himself to tear the seal apart, until he heard someone shout.
There were no words, or not ones he could discern in any case. It seemed to come from far away, yet…yet Percy felt it was so close. A shaky hand put itself against the brick wall, and he brought his face closer to it. Someone was wailing. Maybe it was laughing. “Hello?” He called out. The noise briefly stopped, before it got only louder. “Who is it?” Percy, starting to lose his patience, tried again. Whoever was out there merely kept shrieking and, with each one of his calls, he felt the laughter getting more directed at him. Shame burning in his cheeks, he threw himself up and yelled. “Shut up! Be quiet!” His tone was shaky and shrill, and Percy cringed just by hearing it.
There were only more manic chuckles. He fell to his knees, tears welling up in his eyes. Was it his destiny, to end up like the laughing person on the other side of the wall? He started sobbing, and did not notice when he stopped. Perhaps he had fallen asleep crying.
He only found the letter the next day, or what he believed was the next. A whole week could very well have passed. The mere thought he had casted the parchment aside and hadn’t remembered it until he noticed something white on the floor sent a sharp sense of guilt stabbing through him. Percy opened the letter, trying not to dwell on the fact he’d torn the corner of the parchment accidently, not paying any respect to what his father had went through and hell and back just to give him. They used to say you were ungrateful.
Percy scrambled around to find his glasses, though his vision was blurry with tears constantly anyway. It was more of a principle; if he gave up on wearing them, he gave up on civilisation. Abandoning his glasses meant giving in to the prison. When he’d pulled them on, barely noticing the large crack in the lens, he scanned the parchment.
Percy. They’ve asked me to keep this letter brief, or they won’t manage to get it to you. I’m so glad we finally get to write to you, even if it’s just once. We all miss you so very much, son. I miss you and I’m waiting for the day we can see you again. -Your dad
Hi’s from everyone. You’ll forgive George, Ron and Charlie for not writing, Dad said we only get a page. Everything’s going well here, Ron and Hermione got married! And Ginny and Harry’s engagement party was yesterday. Perce, I’m a father. I have a daughter, her name is Victoire, and, I wanted to tell you, we’ve chosen you as the godfather. She’ll be grown when she meets you, but I’m really looking forward to it. I miss you. -Bill
Hello, Percy. Bill’s told you about Harry, I suppose. I know you must be proud of me, and, if you were here, you’d say something nice. You were always kind to me. How are things going on with you? It must be lonely. I’m sorry I can’t be there and help; I really would want to. I hope you’ll be alright. I love you, Percy. We all do. -Ginny
I love you, my Percy. Ever since you’ve been gone, nothing has been the same. I wake up every day and wish you were here. I love you so much. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to write. There’re so many things to say, and so little time. I’ll just say this: Make sure you take care of yourself. I hope I’ll see you soon. Your father is still trying to get Kingsley to release you sooner, and he’ll never give up. I love you. -Mum
Percy tried not to notice the fact none of them had said a word about the reason he’d gotten there in the first place. The silence, the taboo that all of it still was for his family was palpable, even through the letter. A wave of shame washed over him. ‘She’ll be grown when she meets you.’ How was he supposed to sit there and listen to how well everyone was doing without him, about the marriages and births he’d missed, and be happy ? A sob came out, before he even knew it was coming.
Yet, he was. He was supposed to listen to all of this and be happy, happy that life still went on. Happy that he was an uncle, never mind a godfather. His niece had been born, and he’d missed it. How many other things would he miss? Would every one of his brothers keep having children who, when he came back, would not even know Percy?
A sharp guilt went piercing through him. Why did he have to think of himself again? He only had himself to blame. He was the one who put himself in that position, he had chosen to miss births and weddings. After everything he’d done to them, his family still had written to him and told him about Victoire. Why couldn’t he be glad they did, and stop being selfish?
They used to say you were ungrateful.
There was a shout. Perhaps it was himself, perhaps it was his laughing-neighbour from earlier. And then he cracked a chuckle. If seventh year-him could see him now…He wouldn’t even believe it. Every detail of his life had been planned, at the time. By twenty-two, he was supposed to be Minister for Magic, for Merlin’s sake. Not rotting away in a cell in Azkaban.
Was he even twenty-two anymore? Not for the first time, Percy regretted not having counted the days with a chalk as he’d read characters do in books. He crunched up his nose as he tried to come up with an accurate guess of how much time he had spent here. All he knew was it must have been winter, he noted, giving up. Merlin, he was cold.
Oddly enough, every one of his attempts to create a routine was unsuccessful. No day was ever the same as the other ones, yet they all somehow blended in together and resembled one another.
Sometimes, he spent hours lying down on his cot, staring at the ceiling. There was an inscription, up there. He’d noticed it a while ago. ‘WARM WATER’, it read. The letters were messy, had been hastily traced. Percy’s interpretation of it depended on the day. Most of the time, he oscillated between a plea that a manic, thirsty prisoner had written up there, and an idea, something that its author could lie down and stare at, imagining being in a bath of hot water. Maybe it calmed their trembling slightly. Percy hoped it calmed his. He tried his very best not to think of another meaning, the call of the water, promising him to free him from the cold. To Free him.
Sometimes, he paced around the cell for Merlin knew how long. All Percy was aware of was that he was supposed to keep moving, at all costs. He’d done this enough times to know the cell by heart. Even with his eyes closed, he could have walked around randomly and not bumped into anything. Useful skill to have, when one became blinder every day. He had tried to wear his glasses, really, but they just didn’t seem to work; he kept having blurrier and blurrier eyesight. After enough time, Percy couldn’t tell if he had them on or not. Hell, he couldn’t tell anything anymore. It was as though his whole body had been utterly desensitised. One time, he accidentally passed a hand below his chin, and felt a cluster of thick, dense hair. It took a moment for him to understand he had a beard that only stopped when it reached his lower chest. He did try to calculate how long it had been from the length of it, but, frankly, he couldn’t be arsed. How would it matter, if he had been there a year or five? It felt like he’d been in Azkaban all his life.
Sometimes, when he woke up, he would take a moment to remember where he was. Who he was. It was what scared him the most, forgetting. It wasn’t like there were any other alternatives, either, there was nothing to do but sit back and watch as his memories fell through his fingers, tiny grains of sand. He tried, and kept trying, to contain them; but they slipped their way out through the small cavities in between his fingers. It was hopeless. He always managed to remember, eventually, that he was Percival Weasley. The letter helped, too. He kept it next to his cot and stared at it for long moments, when the sun had set, and the sea was a little too loud. What terrified him was, every day, it took just a tiny bit longer to reach his memories and, every morning, the older ones, of his childhood, seemed just a tiny bit further. Cloudier.
Sometimes, he heard unusual sounds. Different from the crying or the laughing from the manic prisoners, those were whispers. Most times, they weren’t clear words, rather gibberish but in other, rarer cases, he could distinguish what was being said to him. He forced himself not to hear it, dreading what he was capable of.
Sometimes, he recited what he remembered. Everything. In a sort of manic frenzy, he muttered to himself about helping his mother in the kitchen, about being teased by his brothers, about getting seven Outstandings in his NEWTS, about the trial, about his friends from Hogwarts…about the war, too, though that was hardly by choice. Sometimes it was all he remembered, and he did have to start somewhere. Most times, merely talking about some memories unlocked the other ones. When it didn’t, well…
Sometimes, the laughing person Percy had taken a liking to calling his ‘neighbour’ was quiet. The laughter always resumed in the end, though, and Percy believed if he had any ounce of sanity left in him, it was thanks to his neighbour. They would shout and he, first with hesitation and then with none, would scream back. It was freeing, in a way. He didn’t care anymore if his neighbour was laughing at him or at life in general. Or at themselves —Merlin knew he could relate to that. No, he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to.
The laughter was the only thing that broke the silence.
The fucking, bloody unbearable silence.
That was why it was so hard on Percy when the laughter stopped. For a while, he still held hope the familiar noise would resume. He fantasised about laying on his cot and feeling the comforting vibrations of the snickers. And then, when enough time had passed, whether that was a month or a year, he quit. Quit wishing, quit remembering, quit doing things.
He didn’t know how long he had laid down after losing hope of his neighbour ever returning. Didn’t know how long his eyes couldn’t bear to look at anything except the ceiling. WARMWATER. And God, he was so cold.
The silence was heavy, burdening him with room to rethink everything he had ever said or done, using his imagination to fill in the —larger than he cared to admit— gaps. The silence was dreadful.
So dreadful that he didn’t mind the whispers getting more frequent. Louder. It wasn’t that he was happy about it, Merlin knew he wasn’t capable of that anymore, but at least it meant there was something that could distract him from the silence. “Percy,” The voice would say. “Perce.” It was soft, almost gentle; that was one of the first thing he noticed —and liked— about them. He didn’t know who the voice belonged to, but he was certain they wanted to help him.
Once, when the loneliness stung a bit harder than usual, he was staring at the ceiling again, trying to find out how long he could go without blinking. “Percy.” The voice called for him. That was another reason he liked it, it always reminded him of his name, even when he forgot having ever had one. “It’s May second.” And he knew it was true. He would’ve expected to have forgotten the date, really —because how dared he remember the date of Fred’s death and not his birthday? But he hadn’t.
May Second was still engraved into his eyelids, printed onto his soul permanently. “He would’ve been twenty-six this year.” He once, a lifetime ago, would have tried to use that to calculate how long he had spent in the cell. At that moment, he didn’t have the will nor the energy to do so, though, his mind clouded with thoughts of his little brother.
A bitter taste invaded his mouth at the realisation that he couldn’t remember Fred’s face. “Percy?” The voice snapped him out of it, kindly. “It could have been you.” He wasn’t sure if he had been the one to say it, or if it was the voice, but did it matter? There was only him to hear it anymore. “Fred…he gave you that time. What are you doing with it?”
There was a hand on his shoulder, icy cold. He didn’t mind the frost, for once. At least it was something to feel. “Rotting away in a cell. He would be so disappointed.” The voice was right. It had always been. Its only goal was to help him; without it, he would not even remember his own name. So, he sought comfort in the cold presence —and almost found it.
Surely, though, being in prison wasn’t something he could be blamed for, nor would Fred do that. Yet it was. He’d brought it upon himself; he’d made the decision to waste the time his brother didn’t get to have. It did not matter if the decision was conscious or not, the result was the same.
He felt a tear struggling its way out of his eye, something that he wasn’t familiar with these days. There was only so much crying a man could do before his eyes and entire body were as dry as his soul.
The next time he cried, or at least knowingly shed tears, he was lying on his cot, half-sleeping, half-awake. The sea was cradling him into a light, empty sleep, while the moon was singing to him made up lullabies, of gibberish words and abstract phrases. Suddenly, there was a scream. It wasn’t anything like his neighbour’s cries, though, it was…Penny. He was sure of it. “Percy!” It seemed to him she screamed again. He jerked up and all but flew to the left wall. It wasn’t often that he ventured to that side of the cell, the side with the hole in the wall, far too afraid of his own thoughts. He did look down to the sea, pushing his deep, throbbing need for deliverance away and, soon, it was his turn to scream.
There was a cadaver floating in the dark, heavy waves. Penny.
Maybe she had come to help him escape and had drowned. Maybe an auror had spotted her and killed her.
Why would she come?
He wasn’t worth anyone sacrificing themselves.
“Does she not even deserve your acknowledgment? She died for you.” The Voice laughed, and it sounded cruel now.
They used to say you were ungrateful.
And now he was doubting the only friend he had in the world.
He shivered, both because of the cold and the terror.
WARM WATER.
His eyes set on the sea. It did look warm. He closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips at the idea of letting go.
He couldn’t do that. There must’ve only been a couple more years left.
At least there were no dementors.
He blinked and, in a second, Penny was gone.
Taking a couple steps back, he pushed his right palm towards the wall to keep balance. Merlin. What was that? Was he starting to hallucinate? He took a deep breath and did what he always did when he was anxious; recite everything. Starting with his name. A hesitant breath struggled its way out of his mouth. How was he called? Penny had said…what had she called him? Peter? How did he normally deal with forgetting? The letter!
He jumped to the ground and started to grope for it, only now noticing he couldn’t see. When his fingers sensed parchment, he picked it up and deciphered it with difficulty. He could not see. Merlin, he could not see. Not one letter in the entire parchment made any sense, they all blurred together in a cruel, sneering manner.
“Your name is Percy.” The voice hissed. “Percy.”
Percy.
And the fear of forgetting conquered yet another portion of his heart.
Sometime after was the beginning of a new friendship, with something that had no mouth yet communicated more deeply with him than anyone ever had. Percy, a name that he now spent more time searching then taking for granted, had taken a liking to watching the sea.
It felt like he had never seen it before, not that clearly. He vaguely remembered the reason he deprived himself of it was the temptation the sea could bring, but that was a lifetime ago. At least it certainly felt like it.
But it was nice, having something to look at. Sometimes, he was filled with an indescribable desperation that gnawed at him, begging not to be forced to watch the waves any longer. He never listened to it, unable to take his eyes off it.
It was constant; the sea never moved. He never had to wonder if his mind was tricking him again, or if the horizon was slightly above where it stood the day before. He knew, in every one of his bones the answer was No. That was what he liked about it; it was permanent. The sea was at least something that would stay with him throughout the eternity of his sentence.
He'd long forgotten how long he was supposed to be in prison for and, while he was certain that his scheduled release date had already passed, he found he hardly cared now. The voice had told him; no one back at The Burrow even remembered him, they all had their perfect little lives, their children, their careers, to worry about. “No one has time to think about their disgrace of a brother.” Had he said that, or had the Voice?
Penny visited, sometimes, which was welcome. He knew she must’ve been mad at him, though, for something unknown — “She died for you.”— since she never spoke. She just stood there, her face dark with the limited, closed off beauty of death, staring at him. Her eyes were unforgiving, her eyebrows graved. No matter how much he had begged upon first seeing her, she never said anything. She just appeared, sometimes, stood there for Merlin knew how long, before vanishing as quickly as she’d arrived.
Most of all, though, he was numb. He slept, he stared at the wall, he listened to the Voice and the Sea. He barely ate. The Voice was the one who had advised it. “You want to feel things.” It had murmured in his ear. “If you quit eating, well…I assure you, you will.” And he’d believed it.
When Penny spoke for the first time, there was a storm. The sea was agitated, lightning strikes stabbing it every other moment. Even the moon was shy, hiding behind one of her clouds and, he, deprived of the lullabies he’d grown accustomed to, was also agitated.
A flash.
When it died down, and he could see again —as much as his worn-out eyes allowed him to— he immediately noticed Penny. Great, he thought bitterly, before scolding himself. She visited him, for Merlin’s sake, why couldn’t he be thankful for once? All he ever-
A flash.
They used to say you were ungrateful. It was when their eyes met, though, that he understood this was different. It all was. She was more Penny-like, her eyes having taken their green, sparkling look back. Her lips were parted, almost as if she was readying herself to say something.
A flash.
“Who are you?” It was with such disgust that he had to gasp. “What?” He breathed out. “Penny, are you real? I thought-” She huffed, and it was not gentle nor kind in the slightest. “Who are you?”
A flash.
And he cursed the Voice for not being there to remind him. Who was he? He looked down, thinking rapidly. What did he do, when he forgot? Merlin, did he have something planned for when he forgot what he was supposed to do when he forgot?
A flash.
A letter. The letter. By some miracle, it was in his hand. He scanned it, pain piercing through his skull at the sudden concentration. Percy. His eyes went back to Penny’s face. “I’m Percy! Percy, I’m Percy, we’re friends.”
A flash, and he didn’t see the emotions that ran through her face.
“You’re not Percy. Percy isn’t…” She looked him up and down. “I am, I swear! I swear, Penny, I am.” He was on his knees, now in the Gryffindor common room. The fire in the chimney looked warm and comfortable, but he’d lived long enough to know nothing was.
A flash, and the man who wasn’t Percy blinked.
The Voice ran a hand over his spine, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “She’s right, you know. You don’t even know who you are.” It sneered, almost seductively. Because it was seductive, the idea of abandoning everything he was. Everything he thought he was.
A flash, and he was standing up, a gaping hole now before him.
He clenched his hands into fists, as Penny sneered at him. She handed him the letter from Percy Weasley’s family, an act of kindness he didn’t expect. An act of kindness he didn’t deserve.
A flash, and he lost his sense of self.
“Do it.” The Voice murmured. And he did. “Incendio.” He watched the letter, having been thrown to the sea for good measure, disintegrate as it fell. It felt far, now. Unimportant. It all did.
A flash, and it was over.
A step, and he was Free.
A prefect, an overachiever,
A prisoner, his plea.
A flash, and to it he was drawn.
A mere step, and he was gone.