The Coming Out of Percy Weasley

The Coming Out of Percy Weasley

Chapter Three

Letter

The journey back home was so quiet. Percy’s senses were heightened all the time. Every sudden sound made his head turn and his heart pound into his chest. By the time they’d reached Devon, Percy was a mass of sweat and exhaustion; his senses dulled and worn out. His stomach ached because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything, and he didn’t want to ask for a meal. His father was too angry to be hungry, and his mother was too sad to.

Whereas you are fantasising about curries and steak and kidney pies, Percy thought to himself. How sad you must feel.

But Percy didn’t think his appetite had anything to do with his feelings. He was in the throes of pain, but that didn’t mean his stomach stopped growling or that he would forget that the last time he’d had anything of substance was that morning when he’d eaten an omelette and a hot chocolate for his breakfast.

It wasn’t until they were near the house that Percy’s stomach audibly growled. He flushed deeply. Molly shot him an alarmed look and his father scoffed at him as if he was sick of just needing to eat, drink and breathe.

His school shirt had stuck to his body because of the sweat. He thought of running himself a long hot shower, but he wondered if his father was worried about him infecting the shower. Maybe he was sick, and maybe he was so deep into his sickness he did not realise that he was.

Somehow, being back in the Burrow made him feel safe and terrified. It was the fact that they were in mid-November, and he knew that he had a History of Magic essay to submit the following day. He knew his class schedule by heart. He could imagine a phantom Percy sitting in his Transfiguration class instead of him, answering questions about topics he’d read during the summer with a proud, holier-than-thou attitude. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Ron or Ginny, or even the twins, because his father had him off the school grounds before he’d even had a chance to check his trunk to make sure he’d taken everything with him. Oliver had moved out of their dorm room, not even having the chance to glance up at him before his parents carted him away like Percy was going to stab him in front of everyone. They would disinfect their room with wards and spells. Percy wondered if there was an evil rot in their room because both he and Oliver were gay.

Was it a coincidence, or was there a sickness in the room that made it hard for him to imagine himself with a girl?

Percy didn’t believe in coincidences. He hadn’t slept well the night before. He was filled with paranoia. He was six years old again, and he had done the horrible thing he had nightmares about at night. The men kissing in the alley and his father’s face kept swirling into his mind. How could you? He seemed to ask his body. How could you do this to me?

His father let him keep his room, and he muttered something about burning it down after he’d left. He’d refused to let him shower in their shared bathroom and had suggested something akin to housing him down on the lawn instead. Percy would rather not be treated like an animal, so he said no. He wiped his body with water wipes and used his mother’s child-friendly training wand so that he wouldn’t have to use any underage magic. He was as clean as he was going to be, but he missed the feel of the warm water on his skin. Percy wondered if they would disinfect the bathrooms in Hogwarts, too.

He lay on his bed and closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what lay ahead of him. He imagined falling asleep and waking up, and everything would be fine. He thought about kissing Penelope and already knew his dick was still limp, and his body was still cold and stiff, unresponsive to the thought of his ex-girlfriend in bikinis or short dresses.

His mother woke him up to make him eat dinner that night. He ate off paper plates; cheese pasties that were bigger than his face that tasted like curdled milk. He washed them down with copious amounts of tea and fell back asleep. Then he felt his arm being grabbed and pulled up, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his father standing in his going-out robes. He saw his pyjamas peeking out from them. “Get up,” he said. “I’m taking you to the hospital right now.”

“Now?”

“Godric, you can’t be that sick, Percival, that you don’t understand the meanings of words anymore.”

“It’s…it’s so late,” Percy said quietly.

Percy’s hazy eyes picked up on the 2:14 am on his digital muggle clock, the one that Oliver had gotten him last year. He wasn’t sure what the gift was for, but he could set the alarm and preferred it to his wizarding analogue clock, slamming itself on his leg and pushing him out of bed until he was on the floor. He didn’t need a set waking time during the holidays like he did during the school year. He was thinking about that as he was putting his clothes on.

He wasn’t thinking about the horrors that might await him or how his mind would become mush in a couple of days of being in the hospital his father had sent him to.

Percy was so calm, in a sleep-induced haze. It would be the calmest that he would be for years, too. So many lasts happened that day, and he wouldn’t even know. Years later, he would look back at this moment and think himself so naïve. He thought that he was aware of everything around him. He thought he had heightened senses. He was anxious and afraid; he did not know that there was a whole new kind of anxiety that awaited him, the kind that was very ingrained in his DNA, the kind that would not go away with sleep-inducing potions and therapy sessions.

“Where am I going?” Percy asked his father after he’d put on his own going away robes and followed him out of the house in the dead of the night. Only then had he realised that maybe his father was doing this so his mother didn’t know he was leaving in the middle of the night. “Father, where are we going?” he asked again. He was too sleepy to make connections.

They stood outside of their home with their father waving his wand.

“Father, where are we going?” he asked again five minutes afterwards, thinking maybe he hadn’t heard him.

He asked many times, but his father didn’t answer him. He noticed the anger on his face had turned into an almost anxiety. He jumped whenever Percy spoke, and even though the disgust hadn’t left his face since he’d known, there was almost a sliver of doubt in how he sometimes touched his hand. His father was sweating profusely.

“Father—” Percy began to speak.

“That’s enough now, isn’t it?” Arthur said. “Do you not understand that I don’t want to talk to you?”

“But I just want to know—”

“Shut up.”

Percy winced at the cold tone in his father’s voice.

“Oh,” Percy said, crestfallen. “Oh…okay.”

The Knight Bus had arrived, and Arthur got in with Percy, whose heart was beating faster by the second.

“I’m only doing this because I love you,” he said once they got on the Knight Bus. “You know that, don’t you?”

It was Percy’s time not to answer. He didn’t know that. He didn’t think he knew if his father loved him or not. He hadn’t known before his father found out about his condition, and he most definitely didn’t know after.

“Percy, have you heard me?” Arthur said.

Percy nodded his head. But it didn’t feel like love. “Does mum know?”

“Your mother knows,” Arthur said, but Percy knew he was lying. He could always tell. His father was awful at it. “Do you think I’d be doing this without talking to her? We agree that this is the best thing for you.”

“What’s the best thing for me?” Percy asked.

His father refused to answer that particular question.

Percy thought about his father having tried asking him about his favourite cake when he was six years old, and he knew it would be for his birthday cake immediately. He had been so excited he could hardly sit still for most of the day, waiting for his father to return from the shops with his cake. The memory that flashed through his mind was so unexpected and so painful. He wanted to cry, wondering if he’d ever be that happy again.  

“This is for the best,” he said again, but at this point, he almost sounded like he was consoling himself. Like Molly sometimes did when something happened in a way that she didn’t want it to. “I can’t have you in my house like this.”

“Like what?”

“Godric, Percy, you know. You have to understand. Or maybe you don’t… because you’re ill.” Then, after five minutes of silence, he said, “They’re going to ask you questions, and you should answer them. I don’t want you to pretend like this. Like you don’t understand what I’m talking about.”

“Who are they?” Percy asked, but he didn’t receive an answer. They were having separate conversations.

Maybe that was part of his sickness, too.

“They’re people who are going to help you out,” Arthur said. “Make you normal again.”

Percy thought of how the twins grimaced when he spoke about the things that he learned in class or how he didn’t seem to fit into his close-knit family no matter what he did. He didn’t think he was ever normal. “Help me how?”

“For fuck’s sake, Percival, haven’t I told you to stop asking me all these questions? Can’t you just listen for once?” Arthur swore. “We’re going to go inside the hospital. They’re going to ask you questions in the unit. Then, we’ll see what to do. To help you be normal again. Do you understand that, or do you need more clarification?”

Percy almost jumped up because his father had never sworn.

He did need more clarification. He didn’t understand why they had to do this in the middle of the night, and if it wasn’t so bad, why not wait until his mother came with him? No clinics were open in the middle of the night… so where would he go to the hospital? He didn’t need A&E, so where would he be going?

“Do you need more clarification, Percival?” Arthur echoed. But it wasn’t a question.

Percy nodded his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m… I’m just tired. It’s so late.” He rubbed his eyes.

Arthur’s face softened. “Did…did you eat anything? For dinner?”  

Percy nodded his head.

“That’s…that’s good,” Arthur stammered. “It’ll be fine. Just you see.”

“Okay,” Percy said because he was too scared to say anything that would set his father off again. 

When he dropped him off at St Mungo’s, Percy’s confusion heightened even more. He was so confused that he didn’t know where he was going, even when his father took him to the elevator. Even when he’d pressed on that third floor—that fabled third floor he’d heard about in passing. The third floor of St Mungo’s was reserved for cases like his, and they were there to rehabilitate him for the outside world. He’d heard rumours, but he was so antisocial that he didn’t know any specifics.

Even when standing in front of the door to the room that he was so afraid of, Percy didn’t sense a danger. Somehow, Percy had felt like everything would turn out fine. His father wouldn’t do things like this without talking to his mum about it. That it was just to scare him. But it was nearly three in the morning, and his eyes were drooping, and he wasn’t processing what was happening to him.

Nurses and two healers were already at the counter when they went there. They asked him questions at the door about his medical history, about his allergies, and about what his problems were. He liked boys. Homosexuality in big, block red letters swirling in his mind. He answered their questions just like his father had told him to.

“This is a typical case,” one healer said. “There will be a rigorous programme to help Percival deal with his… sickness… and I’m sure you’re aware of all the contingencies, Mr Weasley, when you’ve inquired about our services before. This is a new programme, but we already have some promising results. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” his father answered. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Um… be nice to him. Please.”

“Of course, Mr Weasley,” the same healer answered. “Of course.”

What contingencies? Percy looked back and forth from the healers to his father. Be nice to him? Was he staying here?

When his father turned to leave, Percy whipped his head to him. “Dad?” he said. “Dad, where are you going?”

He saw his father’s hands shake a little as he left.

“Dad! Wait!” Percy said and then tried to run after him.

How foolish, how naïve, how stupid he could be to think he was safe with anyone. Even his own flesh and blood. Nobody liked him. And now, they would take him away just like Percy was always scared they would.

Percy felt another hand grab him and push him backwards. Percy resisted.

“No! Let me go!” Percy shrieked. “Please, I lied! I don’t understand what’s happening. I need more-more clarification…you have to talk to my mum!”

He tried to move against the person who was touching him without his consent. He couldn’t remember the people standing behind the desk too well or anything about the room other than it was very white and dim, like something out that had not been finished yet. The nurses and healers had somehow donned gloved hands and masks over their faces, so he could hardly see what they looked like. He tried to reach for the door handle but could barely make out through the new tears falling down his face.

“No, there’s some kind of mistake,” Percy said. So bloody stupid. Twelve O.W.L’s, and he’d thought there was some kind of mistake. When he should’ve known. When he shouldn’t have come. “Please. I don’t want to be taken away. I don’t mean what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to kiss him. I was so confused. I don’t even like boys. Not really…”

Within fifteen minutes of sitting in the room he’d been dragged to, Percy had decided that he was no longer… that. He could not be that. He had to be cured as quickly as possible so he could leave this horrible place.

The room was white. The room had no windows. There was a door that didn’t even seem to have much of a hole, and the floor was made of marble. The walls were crisp white his dress shirts were. They were so bright they bore a hole in his eyes. The floor wasn’t comfortable. It had been fifteen minutes, and all his body ached already. There wasn’t any sound in the room either, just a deafening silence, but in the beginning, there was the racing, pounding of his heart to drown out the lack of noise. There wasn’t a smell either, but if Percy thought about it for too long, he could almost detect a vague chemical smell he was sure had come from the paint. Later, he would come to know the company that manufactured that colour by heart; the exact colour code; that exact bright blinding white. It was unmistakable to him. The paint was no longer produced because it was associated with a thirty-five percent risk of getting lymphoma in a lifetime.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. He wanted to take a leak but didn’t know where to go. There wasn’t even a bucket. Later, he would realise that the point was that he would piss and defecate where he was like an animal. He thought of his father telling him if he wanted a shower, he could house him down in the yard and shivered.

He thought of his Uncle Bilius lying on his bed with his crup next to him at night.

Less than animal, he decided. Less than.

Two hours in, Percy decided that the only thing he could do was try to fall asleep, but every position he took was uncomfortable. He could feel the blinding white reach into his retinas every time he closed his eyes. The chemical-like smell seemed to go from barely detachable to overwhelming because it was all he could focus on. He felt like he was drowning in a sea of deafening silence; ringing into his ears.

Then, there was a sound of the door opening and a man coming towards him holding a neon-coloured liquid in his hands.

“What-what is this?” Percy asked.

“Your treatment,” the man said.

“It-it doesn’t look right,” Percy squeaked. Then he remembered something from Snape’s class. “Any potion that has a colour this bright is usually associated with some level of toxicity. It’s been overboiled to—”

The man pushed him down to the floor and grabbed his shoulder so violently that Percy felt it throbbing.

“I-I don’t think that finished ready-to-consume potions should be that colour. Maybe I’ve got a bad batch. It’s not your fault, surely, but…” Percy kept stammered. He was too apprehensive to drink it, so he was pushed forward and forced to drink it.

It was the worst thing that had ever gone down his throat. It burned as it went down his throat, his initial scream turning hoarse by the second as the liquid went down his throat. He could smell the latex gloves of the man, who was in full protective gear. He could not see his face, and he could barely see the black slit of his eyes.

“I think I’m cured already. I don’t like boys anymore,” Percy said, and the moment that he said it, it was true. He could not imagine liking anything at all after this. He could not imagine drinking water or skies. He wondered if he would ever be able to eat anything again. Every time he swallowed, he wanted to cry because it was so painful. Every time he swallowed, he didn’t even know that he was crying and whimpering. “I don’t like anything anymore. When-when can I go home?” his voice was hoarse.

The man in the gear did not answer him. He just took the glass away with him.

Percy grabbed onto his leg and held it tightly. “Please,” he said. “Please give me a chance. I promise I won’t do it again.”

The man didn’t answer as he shook him off by stepping on his arm. Percy groaned in pain but tried his best to hold him still. When he’d gotten to the door, still holding onto the man, the man shoved him backwards so harshly that Percy hit the floor edge and immediately felt a coldness on his scalp. He’d hit himself so hard that he’d cut the back of his head, but he knew immediately that it was a superficial wound.

After he was left alone, the fear hit him so hard, the anxiety of not-knowing was so crippling. He started to cry for hours, crying because the salty tears running down his throat and the watery mucus running down his nose provided some kind of relief to the burning sensation at the back of his throat. He hoped he would cry so hard that he wouldn’t be able to stay awake, but that hadn’t happened. He stayed awake for hours, even when his eyes ached.

He wondered if they would let him use the lavatory or if he was right about him needing to use the room to defecate and urinate. He wondered if they were going to give him a change of clothes. He wondered if his father would wake up in the morning and realise that he’d done an awful, terrible thing and that he wanted him back. He wondered if his mother would scoop him up in her arms and drag him out of there and make him something that would heal the hole in his throat. He hoped that he would be fixed in the way that he needed to be fixed, or he would be taken home if his father had come to his senses or if his mother would realise what he’d done. But that was just in the beginning, in the very beginning, when he did not realise that they had been nice to him when he’d come there, given all that would come to happen.

There were the photographs afterwards. They were very sensual photographs of sweaty men thirty years older than him. He flipped through photos, and they went from being sexual to being progressively more violent and graphic. Nurses and doctors in protective equipment stood there, staring at him, flipping through the photos. They made him spend an excessive amount of time looking at them until he could tell every curve and every unimportant paraphernalia around the naked bodies. He felt sick, looking at older men that were naked. That wasn’t anything like the eighteen-something-year-olds in Oliver’s magazine. He felt like he was intruding on their privacy somehow, and he was glad that his cock had remained marshmallow soft. After the fourth photo, there was a lot of blood, and Percy felt too sick to look at it.

“That’s what your lot considers sex,” a voice said, and it was a feminine voice, a sweet voice, the kind of voice that would bring him home to her kitchen after he was running around all day alone. It made him shiver.

“But…but I don’t,” Percy said.

He didn’t consider that sex. He didn’t like the idea of such violent, horrible sex with anyone, not with Oliver or Penelope. He didn’t think it was right that they considered him the same type as those who bound each other and started cutting each other into pieces. The snuff radio things that weren’t even bondage; it was just a crime. Not that Percy knew a lot about bondage. He was a sixteen-year-old boy and wanted sixteen-year-old boy sex, the kind that was a little awkward and innocent. The kind where they were fussing about not knowing what kind of lube to use, so they used broomstick polish instead because they didn’t own those things in the room.

When he started shaking his head, one of the other gear-clad people smacked him with something sharp and hard.

“You’re not there yet, but you would be. You would be if you’re not treated,” another one of the people had told him. “Wrong is wrong. You think you’re not wrong because you’re not hurting anyone. That it’s something minor and small, but it’s not that. There are people of your kind that do these things. There are people of your kind that rape people and molest children. We’re going to show you.”

“No!” Percy said. “I don’t-I don’t want to see that. Please. I feel so ill already.”

“How are you supposed to get better, Percival? If you don’t see how far your sickness can go…” the woman said.

Percy closed his eyes. “I don’t want to sleep with another man. I don’t want to touch another man. Please believe me.”

He did not want to see photos of men raping other men or photos of men molesting children. But they made him look at them, every single one, until they were burned into his memory, and he spent the rest of the day throwing up and passing out because he threw up so much. He tried to imagine an alternate Percy who would ask little boys like Ron and the twins to come home with him for sweets. He tried to imagine binding Bill and Charlie or even his father or his uncle or his grandfather to the bed and using knives to trace wounds into their skin. And he felt so sick.

He was tired of them coming in every other day to show him photos of things that were so horrible. He was tired of seeing other people naked. He was especially tired of seeing little children in the nude or the photos of old men that reminded him of his grandfather. He couldn’t imagine seeing a toddler anymore, or an old man or even a boy like Oliver anymore, if they were going to be half-cut up and pooling with blood and tortured by sex toys. Percy was so disgusted he didn’t want anyone ever to touch him, not a woman or a man or anything. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like that.

You’re not like that because your father made you come here, a voice inside of him said. You’re not like that because you’re already getting better.

Percy didn’t know, but sensory deprivation was a kind of torture. He would never have considered it as such. Sitting in a white room for hours and hours and not being seen by anyone was so bad that he almost wished to see the people in the suits. He would’ve tried to talk to himself if the hole in his throat wasn’t so bad. He had looked at his hand so much that he had realised that he’d had a very small scar he hadn’t noticed was there between his third and fourth fingers and that one wrist was a bit thicker than the other one. He had moved and sat in every corner of the room and realised there was no nice corner. He laid on his stomach and his back, and he’d leaned forward and backwards. He’d spent much time walking around the room because there was nothing else to do. He even tried to do exercises, like push-ups or squats, but then he’d become terrified that he might tear his clothes.

They hadn’t given him any new clothes, and every time he’d ask questions like if he could just use the lavatory, if they could just give him a new change of clothes, or even wipes or a bucket or anything, they just ignored him at best or shoved him around and yelled at him at the worst. Sometimes, even asking for things would make them so angry that they would purposefully grab his shirt, trying to tear it. He tore his left sleeve a few times because of that. Percy had stopped wishing for his parents to save him and wished more than he’d been smart enough to bring things with him.

He wished he’d thrown a packet of water wipes with him or shrunk down a bucket. He didn’t have to urinate or defecate much anyway because he was so food and drink-deprived, and he did it in a corner. He’d torn off a part of his pants to be able to wrap his excrement in and another part to wrap it in. He was terrified about being able to smell too much of himself. He tried to zero in on the chemical smell; the smell of his blood on his clothes, or the fact that he smelled like he was alive and decomposing instead.

The burning sensation from the potions went away at some point, and an almost pleasant cooling sensation started to form. Those were the times when he would be desperately hungry. Then he started to fantasise about all the things that he’d wanted to eat. Sometimes, he just stayed hungry; sometimes, his prayers were answered, and someone had opened the door and put a tray of food inside. He wondered how often they fed him. He wondered if he was being overdramatic and fed every other meal or not being fed for days.

His mind kept racing, racing and racing with thoughts all the time…

After what felt like aeons of them giving him violent photos, they gave him a regular run-of-the-mill magazine. The kind that Oliver would have. He didn’t get aroused looking at the photos, or maybe he was just too traumatised or disturbed, or maybe he was too hungry and dehydrated to maintain anything beyond base-level responses. Or maybe he was cured, and he was just too pessimistic. When they nodded at him, Percy thought that that he might be getting better and they might let him leave soon. But then they hadn’t said anything to him.  

They did that every week, but Percy didn’t know why they did. He wondered if there was a test that he wasn’t passing or if it was for show. If there wasn’t a test to pass, he was just going to live and die in this horrible, horrible room. And that the government looked at his like and thought that he deserved it.

You’re still ill, he told himself often. You’re still so sick you don’t think what you’ve done was that bad. Maybe you’re supposed to feel how bad it is first. Maybe they could tell that you don’t feel half-bad. Percy wondered what kind of sickness he had that after all he’d been through after all the dangers of his kind had been explained to him, he still didn’t regret kissing Oliver. What kind of person was he? How could he get rid of this? How could he erase this?

How could he be cured? Was there something out there for him? Was he not trying hard enough?

Did he not have enough will?

Some letters were sent to him, and the healers or nurses who had come in said they had finally approved one. Percy was surprised. They hadn’t approved any of the letters sent to him since he’d come in there. He tried to hold onto that as he read Fred and George’s horrible letter about how they thought that he was disgusting and putrid and that he should focus on getting better so he could come home. That his whole family had disappointed him and that they hated him. Percy spent hours rereading those letters and tracing the letters with his fingers. He’d flipped the flimsy piece of paper so many times, crying so hard for so long that he felt like he might fall asleep for more than a couple of hours.

He couldn’t be angry at him for crying so much, for being so pathetic, because there was so little to do. He could barely sleep and thought so much that his mind felt like cotton. There was no stimulation in this room. Thinking about the smell of chemicals made him nauseous, and thinking about the silence too long gave him tinnitus. Then, because his tears had made the paper so wet, he noticed a slightly dented corner forming on one part. Then he peeled the first paper back and realised that there was a second letter, a real letter. He had read it so fast the first three times that he could hardly understand what the words had meant. Then he put it down and tried to sleep. He couldn’t, so after that failed attempt, he picked up the letter and read it as slowly as possible, tasting each word in his mouth like dessert.

Hey, Perce, we have been trying to reach you for ages. It’s me, George, writing to you because Fred’s awful at writing letters. We might look alike, but at least my penmanship’s legible, and he has an arthritic hand. Scratch that. Probably offensive to actual arthritics. (Fred says that you probably don’t know that we know that word, but I assure you, Perfect Prefect Percy, we’re well-travelled.) 

We’ve just come back home from the holidays and found you weren’t here! Dad said that ‘they’ve’ taken you a way to an institute, but he was always an awful liar, so we know that there’s no ‘they’ about it. Mum’s so angry at him that she no longer talks to him. She’s in the kitchen slamming pots together all the time, barely cooking. She’s tried to get you out a few times, but the monsters at the gate won’t let her, says that you’ve broken the law (as if we haven’t, like a million times over. You’re an honorary Weasley now). Dad’s even tried to a few times. He’s probably just realised what he’s done was an unforgivable thing. I’m not sure if Fred and I could ever forgive him or even Ron and Gin. Charlie and Bill look like they want to throttle him half the time. Mum’s said that she’s always known and doesn’t give a (insert the numerous expletives Mum’s said over the last few weeks. Half embarrassed to write them to you to read them out.) She’s properly angry, and so are we, but I don’t think you want a letter about that.

I’m not even sure what kind of letter you’d want, being in that institute. Mum says she’s hoping it’s like Uncle Bilius’ nursing home (you know, from when he was being treated for being an alcoholic) because the rumours are so bad. Nobody’s left the place since they’ve been in, so I don’t know how much treatment is going on… it’s only a reasonable new one. I’ve even looked up when they’ve made the wing. It’s only been six months. You’d be proud to know I’ve looked that up for you. So you’re the first batch, and Mum says they don’t do the horrible camps anymore. The Ministry’s gotten into a lot of trouble for it. So I hope you’re sitting there drinking tea and preparing for your N.E.W.T’s. 

Charlie and Bill are fuming. They didn’t know that this was happening either. They’ve come for Christmas, were stunned and had both sent owls to their jobs so that they can work on sorting it out. And helping Mum—Dad’s sleeping in the shed, and Mum’s in the house now. We aren’t even angry because we hate what he did to you. It’s wrong that you’re not here. It’s not Christmas without you. None of us want to put up the tree or make the gingerbread houses without you here.

They even tried to sneak in a few weeks ago but were always caught. We thought you were at home, doing extra chores or something, not like… ‘receiving treatment’ or whatever the bloody fuck. Sorry, you’ve just got this one, then… these gits at the gate wouldn’t take any of our letters. They could always figure out when we’ve snuggled something inside. I don’t know what they’ve got. Divination charms or something because we’ve been ingenious with hiding your letters before (what else do you expect from ours truly, to be honest?), but they always found it out. So we wrote a letter saying those awful things about you that we don’t believe in so we can hide this real letter with things we want to tell you about. Ron said you’d want to know he hasn’t broken anything on your shelves and failed to open your diary so that you can rest assured that your privacy’s been intact since you’ve been gone.

We miss you all the time here at home. It’s weird because we thought we lived separate lives in school, but we saw you three times a day anyway during meal times and sometimes, passing the hallway and I’ve gone to your dorm room so many times. We didn’t realise that we saw you around all the time until Mum and Dad took you home. In the beginning, we felt a little excited because we can do all sorts of pranks without you alerting McGonagall but it’s no fun without you catching us and going mental. It’s not as fun to do things without you. I never used to think we were close, but we are, aren’t we? You’re the closest to Fred and me, at the very least.

I don’t know if you’re getting better or not. I don’t think that there’s anything to get better at. I feel so angry because we shouldn’t have brought that picture. I don’t blame Fred. It was me that thought that it was a good idea to bring it to Dumbledore. I thought that if we didn’t do it, then maybe Colin would do it because he might think it would be wrong if he didn’t say anything. We thought we were helping you, but I don’t think Oliver deserved to be taken to an institute. I don’t think anyone does. I think it’s a horrible thing. I don’t understand where Dad’s coming from. Why he thinks it’s okay?

I’m sorry, Perce. I left this at the end so you don’t get too angry and rip it into pieces. I think it’s important for you to know that we’ve not given up on getting you out. We’re thinking of new ways all the time.

PS. Mum’s tried to get you some flapjacks inside a few times, but they don’t let any food in. Godric, you must love this place. It’s all rules and regulations, and it’s not allowed this in, and it’s not allowed that in… you do love this place, don’t you?

Percy kept reading it over and over again. He blinked a few times. He hadn’t realised he’d been a month into his stay here. All the days had melded together so badly, without the routine of solid meals to help him decide how many days he’d been there. Without any windows to tell if it was morning or night, without any sun, without any clock. He somehow had become conscious, in that moment, of how much weight he had lost but also of how strangely his abdomen was protruding. He had a soft pouch before on his stomach but he had a proper belly now, and it jiggled when he slapped it around with his hand. He was sure it had something to do with the burning potion they kept giving him. He didn’t know if that was daily, weekly, or every few hours. He couldn’t tell because of how time felt like it had moved. He had bitten off most of the skin on his lips and some of the skin on his fingers because he was hungry and he didn’t have anything else to do.

Hearing from the twins was worse in this letter than in the first one. The first one he could make excuses for, but this was the cold, hard truth. George’s voice was so clear in the letter. He tried to imagine their meagre day-to-day problems, of George telling him that Ron hadn’t ruined anything on his shelves and that they hadn’t put up a Christmas tree.

He realised that he would no longer fit into that world the way that he was. He would be a horrible dark cloud over his own family. He couldn’t imagine eating breakfast at the Great Hall with his twin brothers anymore or how it would be like to smile or laugh. The old him was already dead and buried, and they hadn’t even known. It was the first time, then, that Percy decided that he hoped that they were going to kill him because going back to his family was the worst thing that he could think of, and this letter was the best thing that had happened to him.

He realised that he couldn’t be caught with the letter either. He looked at his bitten-off nails and fingers and then decided he knew what to do. He balled the letter and ate it as fast as possible.