detention p2
Percy stands in the gloom, the dust clouding up around him like a thick fog.
But it’s not Percy, not really. Harry has to continuously remind himself of that, because the real Percy is not far from his side, staring at his new look-alike with wild eyes.
There’s something terribly wrong with this other Percy, who stands in front of him coolly, surveying his surroundings with a sort of detached interest. You can see it in the way fake-Percy smiles, not the trademark troublemaker smirk Harry had come to expect but something cold and callous, with teeth sharpened to points like that of a shark. It’s in the way his eyes, dark and alight with an almost greedy fervor, rove over the room, taking delight in the way the three of them flinch as his gaze lands on them.
His hands, Harry realizes slowly, are stained with blood.
Percy — the real Percy — takes a step back haltingly, and it’s so unlike his usual smooth, panther-like movements that Harry stares. He’s breathing hard; short, panting gasps that are so ragged his throat convulses with the effort.
That, Harry thinks, might be the most terrifying part of all.
The complete and utter surprise on Percy’s face is so overpowering that Harry suspects that he might not have known what Boggarts were at all. Or perhaps he just never expected his greatest fear to be himself(or whatever Jekyll and Hyde version of himself this is).
Fake-Percy had been looking around the room with an air of casual boredom — as though the entire situation was completely uninteresting — but at Percy’s scratchy, desperate breaths he glances over at him.
He takes in Percy’s appearance with an amused expression, as though to say, how silly, getting so worked up by little ol’ me. It’s two parts delighted and one part vindictive, as though Percy, for all two seconds that he’s met him, has wronged him terribly, eternally.
He meets Percy’s eyes and steps forward, his smile turning cruel in its curve. Hands raised, palms facing outwards, crimson stark on his skin, he turns the perfect imitation of terrified, eyes widening comically in fear.
“Wha- what have you done?” He asks, his tone mocking, jeering.
Percy stumbles back like he’d been shot.
Stammering now: “I- I didn’t— you—”. Turning, glancing wildly around the room, as though there’s an off-switch, somewhere, if only he can find it.
Fake-Percy laughs, a high, cold noise that raises goosebumps on Harry’s skin and echoes through the room, until it sounds like a thousand people, all laughing together at some hilariously funny joke. For a moment, Harry is reminded of Tom Riddle’s laugh in the Chamber of Secrets.
At Harry’s side, Umbridge squeaks frightenedly, stumbling slightly behind him as though to use him as some sort of human shield.
Percy is still frantically looking around, everywhere but the copycat standing right in front of him.
“Are you scared, Perseus?” Fake-Percy asks, his eyes alight with amusement.
Something about what he says must snap Percy back to reality, because he turns to Umbridge(Harry helpfully steps aside; he’s certainly not in a hurry to help her), his face hardened to stone.
“Turn it off,” he all but growls. There’s something exceedingly inhuman about his voice, dark and ominous, like a higher being sharing wisdom to its devotees.
Fake-Percy rolls his eyes dramatically to her, his gaze a lazy challenge. “Do it,” he stage-whispers.
Umbridge’s resolve, probably threadbare at this point, bolsters slightly at Percy’s insolence(never mind that it wasn’t the real one), and she gives her best shot at a smile. “Now, now, Mr. Jackson. You did ask for a different punishment.” Her voice betrays her slightly, wobbling slightly at Percy’s name.
Harry steps back at Percy’s resulting snarl. It’s not even directed at him, but it’s filled with so much anger and desperation that it’s almost instinctual.
“Turn. It. Off.” He growls again, his eyes flashing dangerously. (Is it Harry’s imagination, or are his eyes almost luminous in the gloomy darkness?) There’s a pause, where Percy stares at Umbridge, chest heaving, behind which fake-Percy grins smugly at her, his expression goading.
Umbridge shakes her head.
Percy, almost without thinking, reaches out his hand and tugs, as though pulling on an invisible rope, and Umbridge lurches towards him.
Harry’s heart stops.
There’s something dreadfully wrong with the way Umbridge moves. She sort of pitches towards Percy, not through her own momentum, but out of some other, invisible force, like a puppet controlled by strings.
A second later it’s gone, as Percy drops his hand, looking vaguely sick, and Umbridge stumbles to a stop, her face deathly white.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Fake-Percy says delightedly. He must have moved closer some time before, because now he’s close enough that he lays a hand on Percy’s shoulder.
Percy whirls around, faster than Harry even thought was possible, and socks him in the jaw.
In fake-Percy’s defense, he takes the blow like a champ, letting it glance off his cheek in silence. He half-crumples to the floor before straightening, using a nearby chair for support.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he says casually, though his voice is slightly strained and there’s blood dripping down his face.
The look on Percy’s face is near animalistic as he fumbles for his wand(his arm is shaking, Harry notes), and points it, shouting “Riddikulus!”
For once, Percy’s spell does absolutely nothing.
Fake-Percy looks around in pretend, even going so far as to inspect his arms and chest for any gaping holes(there aren’t any), before shrugging bewilderedly, his confusion mocking. “What happened there, Perce? You wanna try again? Here, I’ll even stand still for you.” Then, when Percy still hadn’t moved, his wand still aimed, uselessly— “Come on! Give it another try, don’t be embarrassed.”
Harry, with frantic horror, realizes he needs to help, and he desperately tries to pull out his wand from his cloak. In his haste it snags on the cloth(for the first time ever, of course) and Harry wastes a few valuable seconds pulling it out.
“Oh, we can’t have that.”
Harry glances up, his wand finally out, only to watch fake-Percy hold out his arm and twist.
Harry barely has the time to connect the motion to what Percy had done not long ago before a spasm of pain runs through him.
He gasps in pain as he feels something in him warp, and an insurmountable pressure begins growing beneath his skin, as though he’s about to burst.
His wand drops from numb fingers, clattering to the stone floor.
There’s a horrible vagueness to it all, not like the usual sharp bite of pain but something dull that covers his senses like a dark, stifling fog, leaving him slow and without panic.
His vision goes blurry, until everything is a monochrome watercolor, comforting on his eyes and cool on his head. He feels numb, like the time he’d gotten anesthesia during a dentist appointment(the Dursleys had been so upset at the idea of paying for a dental bill; if anything, their anger had been worse than the ache in his jaw for the following day) — except it’s for his whole body — and so he barely feels it as he hits the floor, his cheek coming to rest on smooth stone.
Vaguely he can see Umbridge — or more particularly the garish pink heels she wears everyday — disappear from his side, backing up until she’s out of sight. He’d turn his head to see where she’d gone, but it feels so heavy and he’s so tired.
It doesn’t matter anyway, Harry thinks sleepily. She’s a coward.
The thought that he’s about to die finally registers as he rests on the floor, but for the first time he can’t summon fear at the idea. There’s a fog that rests on his brain, a sack of bricks on his chest, and all he can think about is his stupid moonstone essay.
It’s the sort of stupid, unimportant(he can imagine Snape’s glare at his words) topic that he’d think about before death, unsurprising in Harry’s opinion. He’ll get a T for it, not even a D, which is unfortunate. He’d really wanted to do better in Potions this year, if not simply to spite Snape.
His eyes, which suddenly feel so heavy — when did they start feeling so heavy? — droop to a close, it’s better that way, too hard to keep them open—
Suddenly, like a blast of cold water, the pressure under his skin disappears, and colors — a wild cornucopia of them — fill his vision, blooming even in the darkness. Harry gasps; he hadn’t realized that he’d stopped breathing but somewhere, along the way, he had, and never had the air tasted so sweet as now, his lungs reveling in their use.
Harry scrambles up to his knees, his fingers instinctively grasping for his wand.
His skin feels numb, like his body is no longer his own, and his muscles are abnormally weak and shivery.
When he’s finally able to summon the strength to look up again, his brain short circuits at the sight of two Percy’s fighting, before he remembers and tries to heave himself to his feet.
His arms buckle under the weight of his body, pale(well, paler) and shaking, until Harry crashes back onto his face(this time, it hurts).
Percy must have attacked his copycat to get its attention off of Harry, which, while effective, now left him in a bit of a situation.
I need to get closer, thinks Harry hysterically. I need to get the boggart to focus on me and switch.
Both Percy’s are grappling on the floor, Percy having abandoned his wand in favor of a more traditional method of fighting. He gets up and throws a chair into his counterpart’s face, spraying wood splinters everywhere as it breaks apart.
Harry tries to get back on his feet again, panting hard from the exertion, before conceding defeat and practically crawling closer.
But, to his surprise, while the boggart flickers for a moment, fake-Percy’s clothes getting grayer and more dementor-like, they turn back in a second.
Fake-Percy sniggers at the attempt, waving a hand almost lazily. And then Harry feels it again, the odd, disjointed feeling of some invisible force taking control of his body, and he’s yanked backwards, crashing into a wall.
When he comes to, he’s on his side, his back in agony. My nose is bleeding, he realizes deliriously. His glasses are cracked, too, enough that he has to squint slightly to see ahead of him.
Percy rushes his look-alike wildly, his limbs having lost their careful precision several hits ago. Fake-Percy feints right, with all of the elegance of a jungle-cat, smiling amiably as he takes the opportunity of Percy’s imbalance to trip him, sending him crashing into the wall.
He stands over him, hands tucked into jean pockets casually, looking down at Percy with the sort of regard one would give an interesting leaf they found in a park.
He leans forward slightly. “Wanna see something cool?” He asks. Percy groans, pulling himself up again slowly in obstinate defiance.
Fake-Percy grabs him by the scruff of his shirt, and suddenly, there’s a rumble and the whole room is shaking.
The floor, previously smoothened stone splattered with fresh blood(mostly Percy’s, unfortunately), comes away flakily, exposing a pit, black and seemingly endless. Harry isn’t even near it, yet he scrabbles away, pressing himself to the wall with a desperation he’d never felt before.
Because there’s something wrong with that hole. There’s an ominous, dark, air spilling out of it, almost sucking them in, so much so that Harry has to push his sneakers onto the stone to keep from being dragged closer.
Percy has gone deathly white at the edge.
They both sort of peer in, silently.
“Long way down, huh?” Fake-Percy asks. There’s a strange sort of respect in his voice, a seriousness that wasn’t there before. He looks back down into the hole, one hand on Percy’s shoulder, securing him in place.
There’s a reddish hue to the dust now, making the room look like some sort of strange, fucked-up hellscape. Harry can taste it on his tongue, ashy and dry.
Percy says something quietly, so quiet that Harry can’t pick it up, but fake-Percy nods conversationally.
“Nobody does, Perce. But trust me —” this last part is whispered, a sort of caress in his voice that causes Percy to shudder “— there’s nothing quite like the view from halfway down.”
Percy looks up at his counterpart, coughing painfully, and mutters something indistinguishable. Whatever he must have said broke the strange stillness of the moment, and fake-Percy’s face darkens, his arm waving away the illusion of the pit carelessly.
He pushes Percy with one leg until he sprawls over, stomach heaving as he struggles to get up again on uncracked stone. Fake-Percy watches, coldly, waiting for him to finally get to his knees again before kicking him in the stomach hard enough that he doubles over again.
“I’m winning, Perseus. I’m winning, and you’re losing. And do you know why?” Fake-Percy asks, pressing his foot onto Percy’s stomach until he’s wheezing for breath.
He continues in the blank silence, unbothered by Percy’s lack of response. “I’m winning because I’m better. I’m winning because I’m not scared.” He grabs Percy by the mop of his hair, dragging his face closer to punctuate his point. “I’m winning because you’re just a man…” He’s so close now that no doubt they can see the whites of each others’ eyes. “And I’m a god.”
He drops Percy like a sack of potatoes, looking up at the ceiling, arms outstretched. “You could have had all of this!” He shouts, and it echoes through the room.
Harry shudders at the realization that he does, indeed, look like a god standing there, eyes inhumanly bright, in stark contrast to the blood dripping down his face and staining his shirt. His skin glows with life, so much so that it’s impossible not to see him as anything but the centerpiece of the room.
There’s a moment of silence, as fake-Percy, caught up in this moment, this power, stares up at the ceiling, breathing deeply.
“They’rre goirnng tro kill yoou.” Percy finally says, his voice weak and muffled.
Who they are, Harry isn’t sure, but fake-Percy seems to understand, because he flashes Percy a shark’s smile.
He crouches down so that he’s level with Percy and sends him a derisive smile.
“Me? No, I think you misunderstand, Perseus.” There’s a manic look in his eyes now, that hadn’t been there before. “I’m going to kill them.”
He leans in closer, conspiratorially. “After all, it’s just me, good ol’ Percy. Nobody wants to hurt me.” He laughs, forearms propped up on his knees as he leans over his parallel, and Percy closes his eyes as though to shut him out.
“They won’t even see it coming.” Fake-Percy whispers, and Percy shakes his head weakly.
“No,” he responds. It’s feeble and spiritless, so unlike Percy’s refusal in Umbridge’s office.
Fake-Percy stands up and starts walking to the door. “Oh yes, I will.” He calls out, his voice more disappointed than anything.
Harry feels sluggish as he goes for his wand.
I need to stop him. He’s going to leave and kill somebody. Even with the blood on his hands and shirt, he still looks identical to Percy, a student at this school, and nobody won’t believe that it’s him.
Until it’s too late, of course.
But before he can hold out his wand, fake-Percy screams.
It’s a scream of pain, but also surprise, as he stumbles to his knees, turning partially to see behind him.
Percy’s standing up, more wobbly than usual but still standing, and has an arm splayed out in front of him. The reddish haze — almost as if it’s alive — presses closer to him, until he’s shrouded in it, frame barely visible.
His eyes are dark and dull and his voice is the most indifferent it’s ever been. “No, you won’t.”
There’s a sickening snap and blood streams down, making the floor slick.
Harry leans over to the side and throws up.