All Percy could think about lately was his death.
Ever since June there was no way of going to sleep without him thinking that he won't wake up in the morning. Each night when he was lying in his bed, he got this nasty feeling that he, in fact, won't wake up the following morning. He tried not sleeping, living on caffeine and sugar, but in the end, his body needed the rest he's been putting out for as long as possible.
Some nights were better, some were worse. Sometimes he wrote in his journal, his maybe last notes so that his family might know what was going on with him. He knew they didn't care. They never did.
Those were the better days.
The other ones were filled with raw panic, sadness and self-hatred. They were filled with him feeling the endless night reaching for him, sensing that it was almost over, a few minutes at least and his heart will stop beating. Those nights were filled with him smelling the leaking gas, slowly killing him, even though his bedroom had an always opened window. He could hear the planes flying over his house, ready to drop bombs on his house, he could hear people wandering in the dark, going to set his house on fire, he could feel the flames on his body, burns covering him completely, or water from a broken pipe swallowing him mercilessly, he could feel his organs rotting inside his body, worms eating his brain and he didn't think he was alive at the moment.
And then he opened his eyes.
He was still alive, in his own bedroom in the Burrow. His family was safe, probably sleeping at such an ungodly hour. He was just overreacting. He went back to sleep.
There's someone in the house he knows isn't supposed to be there. He can feel someone wandering through the house and picking a knife to stick into his chest. He just wished he was the first one to die. They could kill him before they killed the rest of the family. He didn't know if he could survive being the one who survived. After the whole Scrabbers-Peter Pettigrew fiasco it was haunting him how he could already be dead, not feeling anything by now. Maybe it was Peter, coming back to get them, to get his revenge, to slit his throat and make him choke on his own blood.
It wasn't Peter Pettigrew, it couldn't have been - the house was being shield by Albus Dumbledore himself. It was not an option, animagus or not.
Then, around half of July his thoughts decided that his death wasn't enough - he'd have to watch his family die in his dreams, his friends, Errol. He saw all of them dead and it wasn't unusual for him to wake up and throw up immediately.
He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, he couldn't study. He spent the days alone, wandering in the forest, wishing he was found by a serial killer and dead.
By August he was sure there won't be his next birthday anymore. And even if there was, why would he celebrate it? He'll die anyway. It wasn't like he was special, just a normal teenager surrounded by death.
His family started getting suspicious on August 17th, when he threw up at breakfast, when Bill mentioned his birthday in a few days.
'Dear Merlin, Percy! Are you alright?' He could hear his older brother's voice above him.
'Percy? What's going on? Are you sick?' His mother was running to him with tears in her eyes. 'Do you need to go to St. Mungo's?'
"What? No, what's going on?' He looked around. He was lying on the floor near the little amount of the rest of his last meal near him. His brothers and Ginny were looking shocked, staring at him with visible confusion and concern in their eyes. 'Why- why am I here?'
'You fainted, Perce. And you look like shit. Are you even eating anything? Sleeping?' Bill asked. He sat by him. 'I came back two weeks ago and we didn't even talk.' He looked at him with tears. Why are so many people crying right now? 'What's going on?'
'I- I don't know. I'm fine, just stressed with my final year, you know, exams and stuff.' He started getting up.
'But it's August! The exams are in May!' Ron almost screamed. 'Honestly, you're worse than Hermione!'
'Ronald! Watch your mouth!' His mom warned him.
'Sorry, I'll go, try to sleep. Didn't really sleep well last night.'
'Yeah, you look like it.' Fred answered.
'You look like death.' George added. (He really shouldn't have).
'If you need anything, let us know, alright?' Molly said. He nodded and went upstairs, straight to his bedroom. He closed the doors and threw himself on the bed.
He could hear the others whispering. Did he really look that bad? Maybe he should kill himself alrea- No. No, no, no, no, no. He was not going to kill himself. His brain wasn't enough to make himself split hsi wrists. He'll just wait until the fire really reaches his body, and then he won't fight it. But to make himself die? He wasn't a coward. He was in Gryffindor, he couldn't do it.
Maybe he had a schizophrenia? It was a muggle illness, sure, but maybe he was a muggle? Or there wasn't enough attention paid to schizophrenic wizards? It could be possible.
There was a knock on his door. And a small 'Perce? May I come in?'. He didn't respond, and yet the doors opened.
Bill was standing there with a sandwich. He came in netherless, put the plate on his desk and went to his bed, hugging him gently. It was the first touch Percy felt since- since too long he could remember.
He didn't want to die. He wanted to be hugged, loved, being spoken to, acknowledged. He wanted to hug his family, laugh with them, have fun, not constantly think about how they might die any second. He wanted to be alive. He started crying in Bill's arms.
'Oh, Perce. Do you want to talk about it?' He shook his head. Bill hugged him tighter. 'Do you mind then if I talk?' He shook his head again and pressed himself into his brother's storng and warm body.
Bill was talking to him about his job at Gringotts, Quiddich, his favourite books, how he dealt with the pressure during his 7th year, how he loved him, how the family loved him and how they wished he was just a little more open with them. He told him, how proud he is to have such a wonderful brother, how he was proud to say that his younger brother took all the classes Hogwarts offered and managed to ace each exam. How he loved his freckles, he had the most of them from the whole family, after all. Even Ron had less than Percy had. How he wished they could just come back to the times when it was better, when Percy was sleeping and eating and alive, and when Bill was home, surrounded by his beloved ones. When life was better for both of them.
Percy listened to his every word, tears long gone, endeavoring to make the warm stay even a moment more, but he doubted his words. After a few days the thought that maybe, just maybe Bill also thought about dying. Maybe he should indeed be more open with his feelings. Maybe he'd be better.
But Bill had to go, and Percy could tell he didn't really want to come back anytime soon. He didn't, and the sandwich started rotting after three days, left forgotten.
His birthday was a small one, he didn't invite anyone and his family made sure to avoid anything extreme. He knew they all thought he was weak, his bones being visible through a thick hoodie he for some reason still felt cold in, despite the fact that it was the middle of the summer, the hottest part of the year.
This night he dreamt about a dementor sucking out his breath, his soul, his body being left in his bed, tiny and disgusting, flies coming out of his mouth, worms eating his eyes and birds shredding his skin, eating every tiny bit of flesh they could find, his remains being just bones and mold.
Going to Hogwarts wasn't better. He had to focus on studying and avoiding Oliver who tried so hard to understand what was so wrong with him that he'd starve himself (he really wasn't). His dreams now also included a Basilisk and a few murderers running on loose.
McGonagall had to take away his badge after he failed to show up for his night partol for the second time that week, and he didn't really care. He went back to his dorm and when Oliver asked 'What's wrong?' he just started crying.
Soon they were both lying in his bed, both crying and hugging each other tightly. Oliver was crying because his best friend, his anchor, wasn't really living and he was keeping it all up by himself, and he could just wonder how bad it really was to make him like this. In the seven years they've shared a dorm, he saw him crying just twice before - when Ginny was missing and when Ron was almost dead after an encounter with Petter Pettigrew. They sat together for long hours, Percy rambling mindlessly all those thoughts he had to keep for himself and Oliver listened. (For a moment Percy thought he was in his bedroom, with Bill).
Oliver didn't let Percy sleep alone, and he made sure he could always hug him, whenever he needed some support. Percy felt better after talking, his mind being slightly lighter. He still couldn't focus the same way he could focus before, but it was better than the last months.
On the morning of the 17th of September he was shocked how easily he fell asleep last night, how his mind felt clear and sharp, so unlike what he now considered normal. He could finally breathe and was he hungry? With a smile on his face, he went for a breakfast with Oliver. McGonagall approached him and with a sad smile and did she have tears in her eyes? asked to follow her.
In her office were sitting his siblings. She turned to face them, as they could no longer take the anxiety that filled the room.
She eyed them all, one by one.
'Bill is dead. He sliced his veins yesterday at evening.'