After The War

by DauntlessKilljoy

Summary:

Fred dies. The war against Voldemort is over. But a new war is beginning; how will they cope against grief?

Currently this story focuses mainly on Percy and his self-harm. It may expand onto other character's mental health too.

Chapter 1: Harry POV

Summary:

Harry returns to the Burrow with the Weasleys. No one is coping.

After, all the Weasleys came home.

Almost.

They tried to support each other as best they could, sharing their grief round the kitchen table over cold cups of coffee.

Bill had brought Fleur, and they were camped out in his and Charlie’s own room, Charlie squashed in with Ron and Harry. Hermione shared with Ginny, because regardless of the fact that her and Ron had slept in the same tent for almost an entire year, they were still too young. At this point, no one felt young. No one counted the days until ‘adulthood’ with any certainty. Colin Creevey had been a child. He would always be a child. Hermione suspected Mrs Weasley wanted someone to keep an eye on Ginny, and told Ron as much when he tried to argue. George slept on the sofa. No one commented on the fact that every mirror in the house had been shattered. Percy didn’t leave his room.

The kitchen table was crowded; no one knew quite what to do. They tried to keep up an air of normality, meals cooked (badly) by Fleur and Hermione, Mr Weasley returning from work late as usual. Mrs Weasley spent most of her time in the pantry, pretending not to cry. Harry didn’t know what to do to help. If there was anything he could do to help. Someone had taken down the Weasley clock, and he was glad; he didn’t want to see where Fred’s hand pointed.

Percy still didn’t come down. Mrs Weasley left him food twice a day, her face twisting as he barely touched it. Bottles accumulated in the outside bin, where no one else would look, and it wasn’t hard to work out who was responsible. Ginny swayed on her feet, just a little, just enough for Harry to know that she was well practiced at hiding it, that maybe he should have noticed before now. But he left it. Everyone’s grief was still raw, and if this was how she chose to cope then it wasn’t his place to judge. Yet. He knew he’d have a conversation with her in the weeks to come but now was not the time. Percy still did not come down.

Harry spent a lot of time at Dobby’s grave. There had been a graveyard constructed at Hogwarts, next to Dumbledore’s tomb, for those whose families chose to have them buried there, or for those who had nowhere else to go. That’s where Remus was buried, Sirius’ ashes propped up against his headstone, and Tonk’s grave next to it. Her parents hadn’t wanted to separate them. He knew Charlie spent a lot of time there, tending the plants alongside Professor Sprout. Colin Creevey was buried there too, his grave so small in comparison. If he had never met Harry, if he had idolised him, would he still have crept back to Hogwarts to fight? Would he still be dead? Harry didn’t like to think about it. The Hogwarts graveyard was crowded with dead, and yet the living wanted to thank Harry, praise Harry, celebrate Harry. They didn’t realise that he just wanted to be left alone, that their passion to congratulate him made him feel claustrophobic, like he couldn’t breathe – The Boy Who Lived. Sure, he had lived. But at what cost? So many of those he cared about were dead. Dobby’s grave was quiet, peaceful in comparison. No one knew where he went, except Ron, who joined him when his own grief occasionally made him quiet. Harry found that the dead could be mourned anywhere; he didn’t need to be with their bodies to remember Remus, and Tonks, and Sirius, and Colin, and Snape. They were still with him. They always would be. It was the living he was trying to escape.

On the fourth day, Angelina arrived. Lee, Harry had expected; he hadn’t left George’s side since the battle other than to apparate home to sleep. Angelina was another story. Her grief was a blaze a fury, one that lit the damp candles of everyone in the house; she got Mrs Weasley cooking in the kitchen again, challenged Ron and Ginny to games of quidditch, even when George wasn’t up to it. She stroked the younger girl’s hair through their shared tears, sitting with George for hours when he felt unable to move, to speak. She was their saviour. A white knight always ready to pop out should they need anything from the shop, her dark cornrows flared down her back. It surprised Harry then, when one day he walked into the lounge when he couldn’t sleep, to find them kissing. Her and George. Not passionately, more in comfort than anything else, but he retreated back upstairs, heart thumping in his chest at the betrayal of it all. Fred hadn’t even been dead a week – and she was already making a move on his brother? The fury turned marrow molten in his bones, eyes smouldering. Maybe it was the grief, intensifying every negative emotion he felt, but even Ron knew to leave him alone.

Finally, she caught him alone, gesturing for him to join her alone in the garden. He stood, arms crossed, waiting to hear her apology, waiting to hear her try to excuse what she had done, what she was doing to Fred’s memory.

“You’ve been glaring at me all day,” she said finally, her mouth a firm line. “Out with it. What have I done that’s so terrible?” She was trying to joke, and if Harry hadn’t been so caught up in his rage he’d have recognised the sadness hidden in her eyes – it mirrored his own.

“You – Fred – kissing – memory – George – not right,” he stuttered, anger making it hard for him to get his words out. She cocked an eyebrow, her voice wry.

“Wow, succinct Potter. Let me guess, you made the assumption that because I went with Fred to the Yule Ball three years ago, that we have been in love ever since? Is that right?” Her hands were on her hips, and Harry had been around Hermione long enough to be afraid. He mumbled something under his breath, anger dissipating as he realised how stupid that sounded. Three years was a long time. His old quidditch captain stared at him for a long time before she opened her arms, drawing him in, despite his surprise, and comforting him in a way that no one had since the battle ended, because of course the ‘Chosen One’ was fine; he’d defeated Voldemort, he was their hero, their saviour; he didn’t need their support; he was an idol, not a human being. He knew he was being bitter, that grief and loneliness and guilt tinged his every thought. He knew Mrs Weasley was mourning a loss he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, that he was alive and standing and that was more than she could ever say about Fred. He knew she was worried about Percy, locked away in his room, and that George was falling apart. He knew she worried about how Arthur masked his grief, throwing all his energy into the clean-up effort, and that she thought Ginny was hiding her emotions behind a brave exterior, just like she had done with Riddle’s diary. He knew she watched Ron and Charlie like a hawk, as if she could protect them from anything. He knew it wasn’t fair to expect her to be his mum too. He just felt lost.

“Fred asked me to the Yule Ball that year because he knew I liked George,” Angelina said finally, nostalgia thickening her voice. “He also knew that I’d never admit it in a million years – Gryffindor pride and all that. So, I went with him, and he dumped me off on George halfway through the night.” Harry felt her smile as she released him, and he finally saw how tired she was, how tired they all were. They had been fighting for so long, but so many had been taken from them along the way. It almost made him question if it had been worth it. Almost. “George and I aren’t official – we never have been – but we have definitely been more than friends since that night. I forgive you, for thinking I was betraying Fred in loving George, but it was never like that, and if you think it again I will dash your brains in with the quaffle next time we play quidditch. Are we clear?” He heard the serious note in her voice, and knew he’d hurt her, this strong, steadfast girl he’d never realised could be hurt. He recognised the parallels with himself almost immediately and shook them off. Angelina was better than he could ever be.

“Clear.”

“Good.” She nodded, like she was ten years older than him instead of only two. “Then get back in there and stop glaring for crying out loud. They need you.”

Even with Angelina there, things didn’t improve – Harry didn’t expect them to; there wasn’t a magic wand that could be waved to vanish their grief – but the vigil round the kitchen table did lessen, each recognising that their grief needed to be felt differently, that maybe they weren’t ready to discuss him yet. Eventually, Mr Weasley’s hours at work decreased, and he spent his days in the garage, Molly perched on a discarded stool.

On the sixth day, Ron had had enough.

“What is he doing up there?” he asked for the fifth time. “I get it, we’re all grieving, but we’re his family, the least he could do is show his face, at least to mum.” The last part hit the nail on the head; whilst the Weasley children were angry at Percy for hiding himself away, it wasn’t anger for themselves, but for the extra suffering it caused their mother.

“I don’t know what to do.” Harry overheard her confined in Bill on evening at the kitchen table. “I don’t know how to help him.” He didn’t hear Bill’s reply, but it struck a nerve, and he spent the night at Dobby’s grave, both the wind and guilt crashing against him again, again, again.

“It’s like he thinks grief’s a competition,” Ron continued angrily. “Like he thinks that if he stays up there then he wins, that he’s the saddest or whatever. It’s stupid.” Usually, when Ron got like this, Harry let it run its course; Ron’s grief turned to rage the quickest, and Harry knew he’d feel bad about it later on, whispering to him in the night, vulnerability only shown in the darkness.

“That’s not why he’s doing it,” Harry said suddenly, surprising himself.

“Then why?” Ron’s ears were starting to turn red. “Because it’s not because he’s having a bloody party up there, that’s for certain.”

Harry glanced at Hermione for help, but her returned look was simple – it was his problem to deal with. They both knew to leave Ron alone when he got like this, and it wasn’t like they could do anything to make Percy come downstairs.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” Harry backtracked; he didn’t feel up to a fight. “Sorry mate, I don’t know why I said that.”

They weren’t coping. No one copes after grief; Harry knew that; not after Cedric, not after Sirius, not even after Dumbledore. But that had been different. Back then, he’d been alone in his grief, locked away at the Dursley’s. It hadn’t mattered if he coped or not because no one had cared. It was different to see it in such a group setting. He felt on show, all the time, and the lack of privacy in the house wasn’t helping.

Chapter 2: George POV

Summary:

Percy has still not come downstairs, and George is worried.

George was worried about Percy. Sure, he was so full of grief, and loss, and emptiness that sometimes it felt like he was going to explode from how much he was missing. But there was a tiny part left, a tiny part that was screaming at him that Percy was not okay. Screaming past the suffering, and pain, and the sheer knowledge that he was missing something, someone, some part of him. It took a while. Longer than it should have. The screaming was simply background noise, overpowered by everything else, and George didn’t have the energy to look for it, to decide if it really was something to be concerned about. But it was there.

It begun the same as usual, with Ron going off on one. Angelina was holding his hand, tethering him to the ground, to the moment.

“Percy’s  being selfish,” Ron decided. “He needs to think about mum; his grief is causing her more pain, and she doesn’t deserve that. What is he thinking, that he misses Fred more than the rest of us? Newsflash, dickhead, the rest of us stayed during the war; you’re the one who left.”

“That’s not what he’s thinking,” said Harry quietly, and George got the impression that Harry had been thinking this a lot but had been waiting for the right moment to say it. “It’s not about grief; he feels guilty; guilty for leaving, guilty for coming back, for ‘distracting’ Fred in the battle, or whatever else he thinks he’s done. He doesn’t think he deserves to grieve with the rest of you. He’s probably worried you hate him.” He stopped, suddenly as if he was afraid he’d said too much. Afraid they’d realise he wasn’t just talking about Percy.

“Well, then he needs to get his head out of his arse,” Ron said, nonchalantly. “We all lost a broth-”

George was out of his seat before Ron had finished, Angelina behind him as he took the steps two at a time. The screaming in his head was louder now, shouting over his sadness in a way that nothing else had managed to. Of course Percy felt that way, and of course it had been Harry that had noticed. This is what Percy did; it had happened before, when he only achieved an Exceeds Expectations in Defence Against the Dark Arts in his OWL mocks; when Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets; even Oliver Wood had mentioned it on more than one occasion, having had to share a dorm with Percy. He was stupid not to have realised it. He mind recalled a conversation him and – nope, not doing that – had with Oliver during Percy’s last year. He’d been worried, really worried, but they’d shrugged it off; it was Percy, he got obsessed with exam stress, but he was always fine in the end. Now, George began to wonder if they should have been more concerned at the time, should have realised their older brother needed them, however much he pretended not to, however much he pretended to hate them. He could hear Angelina talking to him, but her voice was taken as if by the wind, her words gone before they could reach his brain.

“Percy!” He banged on the door; there was no time for politeness. Either Percy needed him now, or he was fine, in which case he could get his academia-obsessed ass downstairs and show the rest of the family he was alive, unlike…unlike… George pushed it away. There was no response. He kicked it again. “Perce, I’m not kidding. If you don’t let me in, I will break this door down.” There was something very wrong. He could feel it. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before. Well, he did. But still. He cast alohamora, unsurprised when it did nothing, and he slammed his palm against the door again, shaking. “Percy, let me in!” There was a shuffling behind it, and Angelina pushed him slightly out of the way, her wand-work quick around the lock. It clicked open, and George shoved through, barely aware he was leaving her in the corridor. The room was a tip – very un-Percy-like. Books had toppled from shelves, the duvet in a tangle on the floor. George was suddenly very aware that Percy hadn’t been here since he’d left them for the ministry; the only things left were those he’d had at school. His Gryffindor tie hung over one corner of the bed, scraps of parchment screwed up on the floor. Percy was holding a waste-paper basket, the top overflowing with red tissues as he tried to shove more in, panic racing across his face like a whirlwind, eyes like a rabbit when a fox had finally found its prey, and George remembered what Oliver had said to them that time, which they had conveniently ignored because it was Percy, perfect prefect Percy, and the idea that he was doing that was preposterous. Oliver was wrong, there was no doubt in their minds.

Oliver was not wrong.

George left the room.

Heart racing, hands trembling, he went to get Bill. Not because he didn’t love Percy, not because he didn’t want to help, but because he knew he couldn’t, not right now, not when grief felt like it was not only swallowing him, but chewing him, ripping him to shreds with canine incisors on the way down. Bill was the oldest, Percy trusted Bill. Bill would be able to help. He’d be able to do what George never could.

Angelina found him afterwards, head resting against the door to his and Fred’s room, not ready to enter, but wanting to proximity of it, the comfort it had once given. She sat down next to him, pulling him to rest upon her shoulder. He knew her and Lee were keeping an eye on him; their shifts were blatantly obvious to the point he was never alone. It was as if they were worried about what he might do, what might happen if he had a moment to truly be alone for the first time since birth. But he would never – his mind caught on the soft glint from Percy’s windowsill, as if the bloody tissues hadn’t been enough evidence. He felt like he had failed, failed both of them. But there was enough of him left to know that he couldn’t do this, couldn’t have anything to do with this, no matter how much it hurt. He’d told Bill as much, apology clinging to his words. Bill had understood, even if he didn’t say. George barely had enough left to stop himself falling apart. If he tried to stop Percy they’d just end up dragged into Tartarus together. Angelina just stroked his hair, and at some point George registered a warm shape on his other side; she’d sent a patronus to Lee, and he was glad. He needed them both, both to stop him returning to Percy and stop him from spiralling.

Finally, Angelina pulled him up, her hand in his.

“I want hot chocolate. Come with me?”

He nodded silently, the tears dried on his cheeks. This brother wasn’t his responsibility. He’d lost the one who had been, and there was nothing he could do about that. He followed her and Lee downstairs.

Chapter 3: Bill POV

Summary:

Bill approaches Percy about his unhealthy coping mechanisms and tries to help.

Trigger warning for self-harm references (mentions of wounds, briefly described).
Please do not read if this will trigger you.
This trigger warning will continue into the next chapter, but will be a lot stronger.

Percy was sat at his desk, hands clasped as he tried to stop them shaking. The room was cleaner now, or at least it was compared to George’s description of it. The books were away on the shelves, the bed neatly made. A copy of ‘A History of Magic’ was open on the desk, but Bill knew Percy was only pretending to read; he’d memorised it by the time he was twelve. The waste-paper basket was empty, and the only thing on the windowsill was a spare quill.

“Perce,” Bill said softly, closing the door behind him as he entered.

“Oh, hey Bill.” The casual tone was strained; even before Fred’s death this was not how Percy would have responded to his oldest brother invading his room.

“George fetched me.”

“Did he?” Panic flared across Percy’s face before he smothered it again, knee bouncing. “I didn’t mean to worry him earlier; I was planning to come downstairs, and then my quill exploded; red ink went everywhere, it took ages to clear up.”

“Percy, you’ve been up here for six days.”

He hesitated, biting the edge of his thumb-nail, a very un-Percy-like habit. “Has it really been that long? I must have gotten distracted; there’s a lot to do at the ministry now that the war is over, and people are looking to me to direct them. I am quite high up after all.” They both knew it was a pitiful excuse, exacerbated by Percy’s voice tailing off towards the end; he had been close to Fudge, who denied Voldemort’s return until it was almost too late, and Thicknesse, who had been under the imperious curse the entire time. No one would be looking to Percy for guidance now that the war was over. Bill sat on the bed, not wanting Percy to feel him towering above him.

“How long?” he said finally, not daring to finish the question. How long had his little brother been suffering? How long had Bill been ignorant, had Percy felt alone, felt like there was no other choice?

“Yo-you’ve just told me,” Percy stuttered, eyes on the doorway, refusing to look in Bill’s direction. “You said I’d been up here six days.”

Bill sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then I don’t know what you mean,” Percy said firmly, closing his History of Magic book and sliding it back on the shelf. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to finish writing a letter to the Head of Wizarding Transport regarding the reopening of Floo Networks; it’s really quite important you know.” Bill’s heart ached, his stillness at odds with Percy’s erratic movement, Bill could practically hear his heart. He’d smelt the blood as soon as he’d entered the room, chastising himself for not noticing it before. Now he knew what he was looking for it was so obvious, and it crushed him how hard Percy was trying to hide it.

“Percy,” Bill said slowly, as if he was trying to coax a frightened animal. “Where’s the blade?”

“What blade?” Percy answered quickly, too quickly. “I don’t have a blade, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stomach twisting, Bill ran his fingers down the scars on the side of his face, something he did when he was upset or anxious. He really wanted to give Percy a chance here; he didn’t want to just come barging in and rip all control away from him. But he would, if that was what would keep his little brother safe.

“I know it’s here; George saw it earlier. I just need to know where-”

“George saw nothing!” Redness crept up Percy’s face, his eyes frantic. “There’s nothing here, he saw nothing, please leave me alone.”

“Percy,” Bill tried again. “We all miss Fred, we’re all struggling. I’m here to help; we both know you wouldn’t be acting like this unless something was wrong.”

“I’m fine!” said Percy shrilly. “I’m fine. Please just leave me alone.” Lungs constricting, Bill inhaled deeply. The next part would breach Percy’s trust, but if that was what he had to do. He was the eldest; he would bear this burden.

“Accio blade,” he said softly, not missing the hitch in Percy’s breath as the tiny silver thing landed in his palm.

“I don’t know what that is!” Percy began. “I’ve never seen that before in my life; it must be Ron’s, or Ginny’s – you know what teenage girls are like with these sorts of things.”

“We both know it’s not Ginny’s,” Bill said gently. He patted the bed next to him, well aware Percy was making eyes at the door like he was going to bolt any second. “I won’t shout at you. Promise. And you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. Just let me make sure you’re not about to bleed out all over the carpet. Mum would go mental.” The joke was the right move; the corner of Percy’s lip twitched, and he sat down right on the edge of the bed, his arms clenched around his stomach. His heart raced in his chest, mirroring Bill’s own, and Bill could almost see the thoughts at war in his mind, clashing over their desire to control him.

“It’s okay, Perce,” he soothed. “Can you show me them? The cuts? I want to make sure you’re caring for them properly.” The scent of blood was fresh, tangy, and Bill knew what Percy had done when George had left the room.

“You don’t need to; they’re fine.”

“Okay, but I’d like to check them anyway. Please?”

Percy hesitated, his whole body stuttering, before lifting his sleeve, deliberately facing away from his brother.

Oh Percy. Bill’s heart crumpled. Red, inflamed, and angry cuts littered his arms, slashing across flesh almost as if done in a rage; they were at odds with his perfect, controlled brother. A couple were still oozing blood, and Percy had made no effort to heal or even cover them. It seemed the bloody tissues George had spotted in the bin were the extent of Percy’s care.

“Can I heal them?” Bill raised his wand, trying to ignore the wobble of Percy’s lip, the tears that he refused to let fall.

“It won’t work,” Percy stumbled over the words. “Magic doesn’t work on… doesn’t work on… them.” The last part was filled with vehemence, disgust lacing the words, and Bill understood. Magic wouldn’t work because they were self-inflicted. But that still didn’t explain why Percy hadn’t at least covered them.

“Did you clean them?” he asked. It took Percy a moment to answer, shame radiating from the small shake of his head.

“Okay,” Bill said, trying to maintain an aura of calm, of control, for both of them. In reality, he felt completely out of his depth. “I’m going to grab some things from the bathroom; will you be okay here whilst I’m gone?” Will you be safe? He asked silently.

“You really don’t need to.” Percy began to tug his sleeve down, but Bill stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to anyway. I’ll be 2 minutes.” He got up, escaping to the bathroom. Only then did he let himself breathe, let himself choke on grief, a different kind to the one he felt for Fred. His breath shuddered.

One.

Two.

Three.

He exhaled, forcing himself back into the present, back into the bathroom cupboards where he grabbed the first aid kit his mum kept there for emergencies, not that she really expected anyone to need it – they were wizards, there was magic for that kind of thing. But not for this kind of thing apparently.

When he returned, Percy was still where he’d left him, shoulders hunched, glaring at his arm.

“Let’s get that cleaned, eh? Then we can get it covered.” Percy didn’t respond, merely stuck his arm out mechanically in Bill’s direction again.

Bill made quick work of it, cleaning the cuts with antiseptic wipes and clearing away any remaining bloodstains. He wrapped it quickly with a sterile bandage before letting Percy pull his sleeve down. Exhaustion seeped into the air; it felt like they were walking through water.

“I know if I ask you to stop, you’ll just end up hiding it from me. I know, I know,” Bill held up his hands when Percy shot him a panicked glance. “I said we wouldn’t talk about it. We don’t have to. I just want you to know that you can come to me when you’re struggling, whether it’s before you do this, or afterwards.” Percy hung his head. “I want you to come to me about it,” Bill added firmly. “Regardless of what your brain tells you. Let me support you. Don’t let me lose another brother.” It was a low blow, bringing Fred into it, he knew that. But he also knew that if Percy didn’t stop it was where he’d end up, regardless of what lies he told himself. His brother nodded, still refusing to look at Bill. “I love you and will support you. Even with this. Just come to me if you need, okay?” Bill stood. He’d said what he needed to.

“Oh, and Percy?” He hesitated by the door. He knew his brother well enough to recognise that Percy desperately wanted to be alone right now, but there was one more thing he had to do. “It would mean a lot to mum if you came downstairs.” His brother nodded again, and Bill closed the door slowly. His heart twinged, and he longed to go curl up in his old bedroom with Fleur, and let her help take his worries away. But there was one more thing he had to do first.

George was sat at the kitchen table, Angelina showing him photos of her newborn niece.

“It’s sorted,” he told George. “You don’t need to worry about him; I have everything under control.” Gratitude spread across George’s face like a smile as he nodded, a weight lifted from the shoulders that were already holding up the sky, holding up the universe that had always been for two, and was now for only one.

It was not all sorted, and he most definitely did not have everything under control, Bill reflected as he climbed the stairs to his room. But he knew that was what George needed to hear. Fred’s death had torn through them all, but George had been ripped from his soul. He would take the longest to heal, and to do that he needed to focus on himself. I’m the eldest, Bill thought to himself as he let himself be enclosed in Fleur’s arms, they’re my responsibility.

Chapter 4: POV Percy

Summary:

Percy relapses (is it really a relapse if he never intended to stop in the first place?), and Charlie fetches Bill.

Major trigger warnings for self-harm and self-hatred.
Please look after yourself and don't read if it could trigger you.

The nightmare never ended. Sure, Percy went downstairs now. Sure, Percy was the perfect doting son, the perfect, helpful brother, as if his stint locked in his room had never happened, but that was merely a role he played, one he had played his whole life. Sometimes he thought it fit better than the real him ever could. But the nightmares came at night, corroding his strength, stripping his will-power. Cold sweat trickled down his neck like blood, making him crave the real thing even more. But the mask remained. Charlie had moved into Percy’s room now that he had opened his door, and Percy hadn’t complained; it had been unfair after all for him to have a room to himself when Ron, Harry, and Charlie were having to share the attic room that was barely big enough for one person, let alone three. Percy even gave Charlie the bed; the floor was more than he deserved. Bill, true to his word, didn’t push Percy on his… problem. And Percy avoided him where at all possible, shame burning his cheeks. No one was supposed to know. And still, the nightmares came.

“You’re actually are joking Perce… I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were-”

Viridian light slashed at his skin, cutting his little brother down, etching his final grin into his face like marble. Blood dripped down his chin as he fell, limbs untethered, soul released. George’s yell resounded in his skull, inhumane and wild, pain scratching his voice raw. His mother’s sobs incoherent, his father’s empty stare, and a brother without a twin. Eyes turned on him, boring deep, carving a space where he had been to fill with rage, and grief, and anguish. He was merely a vessel for their hatred. The flashes of light continued as the battle was waged, and he stood, rooted to the ground, rooted to their loathing and blame, and just waiting for one of those streaks of light to end him.

Percy woke with words on his lips and blood on his tongue:

This is your fault.

Tonight, the voice was George’s. Trembling, Percy lay immobile on the floor, trying to quieten the breaths that were heaving from his chest. It was his fault. He’d left; he’d betrayed his family, and then, when it had mattered most, he’d just stood there as his brother was murdered.

It should have been you.

It should have. The words rang true in his ears; he could have pushed Fred aside, sent him and George to a quieter, safer part of the castle, drawn the deatheaters’ attention to himself. He should have died. Better that than the reality. Better than living in the space of someone else. Pinpricks of pain shot through his palms, nails embedded in the skin, heart punching against his ribcage as if it could break it. He deserved it: the pain, the nightmares, the hatred of his family. He was guilty, and his welcomed every ounce of pain he could; there would never be enough to repay the debt he owed. The debt he paid in blood.

Charlie lay a few feet above him, nestled in the duvet like a cocoon, arms pressed to his chest as if he could shield his heart from the world’s pain. It was too late for that. Everyone would have been happier if it had been him, Percy, rather than Fred. It wasn’t him being dramatic; it was a fact; it was true when they were all at Hogwarts and it was still true now. No one truly cared for him other than out of a sense of familial obligation. It was obvious; everyone else had friends, partners at their sides, and Percy had no one. He deserved no one. He deserved worse. The blade called to him, songs of punishment and torment, relief and salvation. He could never fix his mistakes; he could never erase the rotten core that was his heart, the ambition that wrapped its tendrils round his brain until they suffocated him of his humanity; but he could pay for them. He would pay for them. It was what he deserved.

He pushed the blankets back slowly, careful not to wake Charlie, his arms tingling with the need for it. The waxing moon shone from the gap in the curtains, illuminating the way, and Percy crept towards the bathroom, the urge growing stronger with every step. His nails dragged down his arms, catching on the cuts that were already there, tearing them wider, wider, wider. He knew there was blood on his pyjamas, but the thought was distant, almost as if it were happening to someone else; all he had was his need for pain. It tore through him like a wildfire, destroying every logical thought in its path, and he needed it, god he needed it. He shut the bathroom door behind him, relishing in the relief of having made it, not caring if it was loud, not caring about anything but the blood trailing down his arm and the need for more, more, more. He deserved this pain. It was the only way to cleanse his soul.

He hadn’t done it in the bathroom before, not since he were at school, but his family kept a stock of razor blades under the sink, and he grabbed the packet with sticky fingers, hands shaking in anticipation, struggling to get them out. In the end, he just shook the entire box on the floor, his head going quiet at the glint of metal, at the promise of castigation.

Soon fresh cuts joined the old ones, his arm a mess of dried and fresh blood, covering the scars beneath, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed more; he deserved more. Until there was a gentle knock on the door.

“Percy?” It was Charlie’s voice, barely louder than the beating of Percy’s heart, the crashing of his lungs like waves against a cliff-face. “Percy, you’ve been in here nearly 20 minutes. Are you okay?” He didn’t answer, his voice robbed from him, like he’d robbed the lives of so many others during the war. It wasn’t just Fred; he’d passed on information to hunt down muggleborns; he was responsible for their deaths, their torment, their agony. He had ripped families apart. Charlie spoke again, “do you need me to get Bill?” and Percy hesitated, Bill’s name cutting through the self-loathing. He knew Bill had said he could ask him for help if he needed it, but Percy knew he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t need help; this was what he had intended. He didn’t want Bill here because that would cause Bill more pain, and hadn’t Percy already caused enough of that? This was Percy’s cross to bear, his decision, his atonement. He picked up the blade again as Charlie disappeared, his footsteps on the stairs. He didn’t think about why Charlie had followed him to the bathroom; didn’t think about why Charlie was asking if he should fetch Bill; his mind felt jagged, tearing the insides of psyche to shreds in his attempt to be good just for once, to right his wrongs.

The footsteps returned, and Percy’s breath caught in his throat. They were lighter this time, and Percy’s heart knew what Charlie had done before Bill even began to speak. The blade clattered to the floor, his fingers numb.

“Percy, can you let me in please?”

The bathroom was a mess, blades littered the floor, and blood stained the tiles where he’d let it fall. Stupid, he cursed himself, selfish.

“Percy, Charlie might not have been able to undo your locking charms, but we both know I can. Please let me in.”

He couldn’t even remember casting a charm on the door, let alone where he’d put his wand.

“I’m fine, Bill,” he managed to get out, looking down at his arm in disgust and wishing Bill would leave so he could do just one more. One more as punishment for waking Bill up in the night. One more to quell the twisting in his gut. “Go back to bed.” He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on his brother’s face, the pain he had caused him.

He heard Bill sigh, heard a muttered incantation, heard the lock click open.

“No! Don’t come in…” he cried out weakly, shoving his bleeding arm behind his back as if that could hide the damage he’d done, sliding the blade into his back pocket. Unsurprisingly, Bill didn’t listen, slipping into the already cramped bathroom and sitting opposite Percy on the floor, his elder brother’s scars stark under the bare lightbulb. Crimson blood stained the cuff of his pyjama trouser, mopping up dashes from the floor. Percy closed his eyes. Maybe when he opened them this would just be another one of his nightmares; maybe when he opened them Fred would still be here and none of this had happened. He opened them slowly, but Bill was still sitting there, his arm was still burning, and his brother was still dead. Percy let out a strangled sob.

“I’m sorry, okay? You don’t need to be here, I can handle it, please just let me handle it.” It was so much worse now that Bill was here, now that Bill was seeing. Before, he’d have just finished what he needed to, until the edge of his guilt was blunted just enough, and then he’d be able to return to sleep, to another day of pretending. But now Bill was here, and everything was ten times worse. Before, his habit had only hurt him. Based on the look on Bill’s face, that was no longer the case. Just another thing to add to the never-ending list of his faults. His fingers itched to wrap themselves round the blade again.

“I asked you to come to me.” Bill sounded heartbroken, the broken shards of his disappointment carving deep into Percy’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Percy begged for it to be better, begged for Bill to just leave him be. “You didn’t need to see this; I didn’t want you to see this.” He hung his head, the fingers of his injured arm wrapping around the blade, just hard enough to take the edge off, just enough to ground him into the present.

“You need help, Percy. Let me help you.”

“I don’t deserve help.” The response was muffled, vulnerability raw, but Bill heard it all the same.

“You do. Whatever your brain is telling you right now, it’s lying to you. Let me help.”

Tears slipped down Percy’s cheeks, and he scrubbed them away with his free hand, undeserving of the release of emotion they allowed. He didn’t respond, but he also didn’t pull away when Bill guided his injured arm out from behind his back, coaxing him, slowly, gently, to unclench his fist so that Bill could take the bloodied blade, and Percy hated the way his brother’s shoulder’s tensed, as if shifting to make room for a new weight. He still didn’t speak as Bill cleaned him up, as if he didn’t trust Percy to manage it himself. Which… was probably right, Percy had to admit. He’d more likely tear the cuts further than help close them up. Which wasn’t a problem. He knew it looked bad to Bill, knew Bill was crushed under the weight of this…thing. But it wasn’t that big of a deal, not really. If Bill just left him alone with it, then it would stop hurting him.

He didn’t notice the muttered charm Bill did to clean up the bathroom, didn’t really register Bill tidy away the rest of the blades before shoving them into a pocket, guiding Percy back up the stairs. They didn’t go to Percy’s room, instead Bill guided him into the bed he shared with Fleur, his sister-in-law nowhere to be seen. He felt foggy, the air syrupy around him, and he didn’t resist his brother, despite the reminder that he hadn’t attended the wedding, he hadn’t supported his brother on the most important day of his life. Exhaustion clung to him like a parasite, stronger than the urge for pain, sapping his strength, and he didn’t fight as it pulled him into the depths of slumber. His eyes caught on Bill one last time, watching the way his brother let the tears flow when he thought Percy couldn’t see. I caused that, Percy thought, his mind losing grip of reality as he tumbled into sleep.

Chapter 5: POV Percy - The Aftermath

Summary:

Percy wakes up after a rough night, and Bill wants to talk.

Notes:

Please remember, Percy's train of thought is based on someone with very low self-esteem. He is quite a unreliable narrator in terms of how he views himself and other's reactions to his self-harm.

The smell of coffee woke Percy gently, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. Oh fuck. Bill was sat on the bed next to him, eating a sausage sandwich, tomato sauce skirting out the bread like blood. Percy looked away. Bill gestured to a fresh cup of coffee on the nightstand, and Percy drank gratefully, letting the boiling liquid scald his tongue. His hands shook slightly, and he wrapped them more firmly around the mug, noticing, dimly, that Bill had cast a heat protection charm on it. His mouth twitched; he didn’t know how he felt about that.
“We should talk,” Bill said finally, putting his empty plate down. Percy slouched, wishing the covers would swallow him whole.
“We don’t need to…” Percy began, weakly. “I could just leave, and we could pretend it never happened.”
“I don’t think so. You need help, and it’s obvious you’re not going to get it if I leave you to your own devices.”
“I don’t!” Percy blurted out, coffee sloshing. “Need help that is. I’m fine. I’ve got it under control. It’s really nothing to worry about.” The bandage poking out from under his pyjama sleeve said otherwise, and Percy glared at it. Not helping.
“Perce, I feel like the fact you were bleeding on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night says otherwise.”
“I didn’t mean to wake Charlie up,” Percy said, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry I worried him. He’s got enough going on.” Charlie hadn’t just lost Fred; he’d been close friends with Nymphadora Tonks. And now she was gone too.
“You didn’t wake him,” Bill said carefully. “I asked him to put a charm on the door – it woke him when you opened it.”
“You did what?”
“It was for your own good,” Bill stated calmly. “It didn’t do anything other than wake him when you left the room. I didn’t tell him anything else – although maybe you should, he will be wondering after all.”
Percy felt his face growing hot. “That was an invasion of privacy; you had absolutely no right to cast that spell on my door.”
“I did, actually,” Bill replied firmly. “I’m pretty sure the bandage round your arm explains why it was necessary someone knew what you were doing last night. What would have happened if I hadn’t have come, Perce? Would you have kept going? What if you cut too deep? What then?”
“Maybe it would be for the best!” Percy exploded, the tension from last night catching up with him. “Maybe it would end everyone’s pain; it’s no less than I deserve.” He stopped suddenly, wishing he could swallow back the words, but they had already reached his brother, Bill’s eyes growing wide. “It’s not like that!” desperately, Percy tried to back-peddle. “I just meant, well, we know what I’ve done. I left, I helped hunt down muggleborns, I got Fred killed. Everyone’s thinking it; I’m just the only one with enough guts to say it.” He hesitated. “I’m not suicidal. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”
“What if it had been Ginny who found you?” Bill said eventually, seating himself on the bed. “Or Ron? Or mum?” The unspoken threat of Mrs Weasley’s wrath hung in the air. Or, not so much of her anger, but of the suffering it would cause her.
“No one was going to find me,” Percy mumbled, suddenly embarrassed at his outburst. “The door was locked.”
“And if you’d fainted from blood loss?”
“I wasn’t going to,” Percy insisted. “I’m not actively trying to kill myself Bill.”
“How long? How long has it been going on for? Just since Fred? Help me understand Percy.”
He hesitated, torn between truth and lie, but that was all the answer Bill needed.
“You need help, more than I can give you. I think you should see a mind-healer.” Percy tried to interrupt – the idea was preposterous. “No.” Bill held up a hand to silence him. “Let me rephrase. You have a choice. Either you see a mind-healer, or I go straight to mum, and I can watch you try to explain this to her. I’m not trying to hurt you Percy, but I can’t carry this all by myself. Something has to give.” He placed a scarred hand on his younger brother’s shoulder.
“I-I can’t afford a mind-healer,” Percy said eventually, shame clouding his words. Despite his high-ranking role at the ministry, he was still only an assistant, one who’d only been in the job a couple of years. He hadn’t been earning much, and then he’d left the Burrow and all his money had been paying for a room at the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t have any savings. “Please don’t tell mum, you know she doesn’t need this right now.” Or ever, he added silently.
“I’ll pay,” Bill said firmly, and Percy wished he could curl up into a ball and disappear.
“You don’t need t-” Percy started, but was interrupted.
“I’m paying. And you’re going. I will support you in this, Perce, even if it means you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” His voice was quiet, almost a whimper, but his mind was whirling, a cacophony of chaos. They would try to take it away from him; the one thing that meant he could get through the day; the one thing that enabled him to sit at the kitchen table and pretend everything was okay, everything was normal, that he wasn’t torn apart on the inside, that he hadn’t been slowly breaking over the years, tossed over the edge by Fred’s death into a chasm of self-loathing. He deserved it. That was what Bill didn’t seem to understand; that his habit was only a counterbalance to the suffering he caused. He wasn’t the perfect son, not yet, but he would keep trying until he was. He wouldn’t let Bill take away the one thing that had been his consistent over the years. But that meant convincing Bill he was okay, he was healed, he was better. Percy didn’t want to waste Bill’s money on a mind-healer, but he couldn’t let mum find out; he’d rather die. He’d pay Bill back; with what job, he wasn’t sure yet. But he would.
“Fine,” His voice sounded firmer than it had minutes ago, the plan solidifying in his chest, control calming him. “Fine, I’ll see a mind-healer.”
“Thank you,” Bill said quietly, relief palatable on his brow. “I’ll send an owl to someone who might be able to help.”
Percy nodded, putting his empty coffee mug down and getting out of the bed. The itch was already begging to be scratched in the back of his head, and whilst he knew he couldn’t risk a repeat of last night, it wouldn’t be long until the blade was back on his wrist.
People always assume that once you’ve been caught, the self-harm lessens. They’re wrong. It’s just another thing to hide, another flaw that makes you a burden in other people’s eyes. The lies intensify until they’re all you are, even to the people who think they know the truth.
“Percy.” He hesitated in the doorway, still struggling to meet Bill’s eye. “Come find me next time. Please. I’m not ignorant enough to believe last night was the last time.”
Fixing his mask in place, Percy gave his brother a tired smile, shrugging his shoulder. Actively seeking out help was the last thing he would do, but Bill didn’t need to know that. He pulled the door shut behind him.

Chapter 6: POV Percy - Therapy

Summary:

I may have attempted to write a Ginny/Harry chapter, but it just wasn't going anywhere and it all felt wrong, so back to Percy.

Therapy begins.
Percy is fine. Of course he's fine.

“Look,” Percy said, standing in the doorway of the mind healer’s office. “I don’t know what Bill’s told you, but I don’t want to be here. I don’t need to be here.” I don’t deserve to be here. “So, if it’s all the same to you we can just sit in silence until the time is up.” He felt bad about the last bit. Felt bad about wasting Bill’s money; but he would pay him back every knut.
The mind healer – Isadora Flint – just looked at him, two mugs of coffee steaming in front of her.
“Why don’t you take a seat, and you can tell me why you think that.” Her voice was soft, pleasant, coaxing, but Percy was having none of it. He wouldn’t let her tug him into a false sense of security. He didn’t need her help, didn’t deserve it. Fred was dead, George was in pieces; he needed to suffer. It was the only way he could live with himself.
“At least drink the coffee before it gets cold.” The healer was unphased, and Percy wasn’t sure if that annoyed him or not.
“I don’t like coffee,” he said petulantly. It was a lie – his body practically ran off coffee at this point, but he didn’t want to give in, even an inch.
“I can change it to tea?”
“I’m not thirsty.”
The healer nodded, unperturbed. “You could still sit down.”
Percy shook his head, back rod-straight as he stood in the corner of the room. Standing for an hour was the least he could do. He knew Bill wanted him to stop, knew he wanted him to ask for help, but the blades called to Percy like a siren, waiting to drag him down, drag him under, oblivion as the air is wrenched from his lungs. He’d stop by the shop on the way home; Bill might have taken his blades, but there was nothing to stop him buying new ones. Bill wouldn’t find out this time, Percy would do better, he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.
“Percy,” the mind healer’s voice roused him from his thoughts, and he raised his gaze, frowning. “Are you okay? You disappeared for a moment there.”
Steel shutters clamped down behind his eyes, and he nodded. “I’m fine.”

Shutting the final cupboard, Percy finally put the tea towel down, his back aching. Despite his mother’s best efforts, cleaning the Burrow had been no one’s priority recently, and after his fifth job rejection without an interview he’d figured he might as well be useful. So far today, he’d cleaned all the bathrooms and tackled the mounting pile of washing up that had overflowed from the sink onto the sideboards. He knew he could have done it with magic, but magic never made it quite clean enough no matter how much energy he put into the spell. He used to think that household spells just weren’t his forte, but more recent research confirmed that some things, like cooking and cleaning, were just better without magic.
It had been three weeks since he’d first started seeing the mind healer, and so far he owed Bill money for three sessions in which he’d stood in the corner and refused to speak. But Bill had kept up his end of the bargain and not told their mother about Percy’s habit. Yet. The cuts on his thighs stung, grating against his trousers every time he moved, but he couldn’t switch back to his arm, not yet. Initially, in that first week, Bill had wanted to check Percy’s arm, supposedly for any sign of infection; since then, Bill hadn’t asked to look again, but Percy couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk his brother learning that his ‘healing’, his going to the mind healer, his mental stability was just a façade. He’d always been the perfect brother; top grades and head boy like Bill, a strong job straight out of school, never in trouble, never a problem, always respectful. But it had never been enough, nothing he did made his family love him more and he’d accepted that, even though he continued to try and please them. It was fine, he was fine. He shook his head, like a wet dog, trying to shake the negative thoughts from his brain before the familiar sensation crept down his arms. The house was still packed with people, and he had to be careful when he let himself cut. Maybe later when most of the Weasleys and co would be playing quidditch.
“What ya doing?” a voice popped up out of nowhere, and Percy span around. Ginny was sat on his recently cleaned counter, muddy boots knocking dirt onto the floor.
“Cleaning.” He scowled, casting a quick spell to clear up her mess. Some people had no common decency. She took a gulp from a dark green and gold flask, the Holyhead Harpies logo printed on the side.
“Why?”
“Because it was dirty. And it saves mum from doing it.”
Ginny shrugged. “Fair enough. Are you coming to play quidditch later?”
Percy raised an eyebrow, a gesture he had perfected when prefect as an effective method to scold silly second years without having to raise his voice. Of course he wasn’t going to play quidditch. Quidditch had been the bane of his existence since he was five years old, and he’d realised that suddenly there was something that he wasn’t good at, no matter how hard he tried. Well, something other than disappointing his family.
“Okay, okay.” Ginny raised her hands in mock surrender, the flask slopping liquid onto the floor which Percy swifty mopped up with his wand. “I was only asking.”
“Did you actually want something?” Percy said, irritated. “Or did you just come in here to make a mess and invite me to things that one, you know I hate, and two, no one wants me at anyway?”
Ginny took a long look at him, and Percy bit his tongue, aware that he had said too much, that his incredibly full cup was beginning to slosh over the sides, regardless of how hard he tried to keep it steady.
“Bill was looking for you,” she said finally. “I think he went out to the garage, though.”
“Okay,” Percy felt his heart sink. “He’ll find me when he’s ready.” There was no way in hell he was going to seek Bill out.

Bill found him 2 hours later, when the rest of the Weasleys were playing exploding snap after lunch and Percy had retreated upstairs to read, a silencing charm placed on his door to keep out the rabble.
“Percy.” Bill stood in the doorway, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands, wand stuck into his ponytail. “Can I come in?” Percy nodded, gesturing to the bed; despite Bill’s question, it wasn’t much of a choice.
“How are you?” Bill handed him the tea, perching on top of Percy’s blue comforter.
“Fine.”
“How’s therapy?”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” Percy said emphatically, forcing the lie out from between his teeth. “The mind-healer says I won’t need many more sessions; I’m nearly better Bill; there’s nothing to worry about.”
His brother sighed, placing his mug onto the bedside table.
“Please don’t lie, Perce, not to me.”
“I’m not lying.” Defensiveness bit his tongue. “That’s what she said, that we could stop the sessions soon.”
“Percy, she sent me a letter, said you had barely spoken to her about anything, not even small talk. She’s worried.” He paused. “I’m worried.”
“I’m fine,” Percy repeated. “And if it’s the money you’re worried about, I will pay you back, just as soon as I have a job.”
“I’m not worried about the money, I have enough to pay for it.” Percy held his tongue as Bill spoke; it wouldn’t do to argue over it; he’d pay Bill back regardless of what his brother wanted. “But I am coming with you to therapy tomorrow.”
“You’re doing what?” Percy nearly choked on his tea. Surely that wasn’t allowed? Therapy was supposed to be private; surely his brother being there would negate that?
“Normally, it’s not allowed unless it’s been agreed between the therapist and patient prior; however, Isadora agreed that you’re getting nowhere currently. And whilst she can’t force you to talk, I’m certainly not going to let you sit there in silence. You’re wasting both yours and her time.”
Percy scowled, feeling his cheeks heat with his brother’s critique. “Well, why don’t we save both of us the trouble, and I just won’t go? That way she can use the appointment for someone who actually needs it.”
“You do need it Perce, and you are going. Unless you want to go back on our deal? I can go fetch mum now if you’re ready to talk to her.”
“Don’t you dare!” Anger bubbled up inside him, his stomach acid making him sick.
“Then you’ll come to therapy with me tomorrow. And actually talk.”
“Fine,” Percy said grumpily. “But there’s nothing to talk about; I’m fine. I’m better.”
“Are you?”
“Yes! My arms are healed, you can look if you want.”
Bill shook his head slowly. “I don’t need to; but I do know there are more places you can self-harm than just your arms.”

Chapter 7: POV Percy - Therapy 2.0

Summary:

Bill goes with an unwilling Percy to therapy.

TW for self-harm, passive suicidal thoughts.
Remember, Percy is an unreliable narrator.

Three steaming cups of coffee sat on the table, and Percy froze in the doorway, indecision clawing at his gut. He didn’t want to do this, and running away looked like a really good option right now. Apart from the brother in the doorway behind him, who at that moment decided to gently push Percy into the room.
“Hi Bill; Percy.” Isadora’s voice floated from where she was piling biscuits on a plate near the kettle. “Thanks for coming.”
“No worries, how’ve you been?” Bill sat on the couch, arm thrown across the back of it. He seemed perfectly at ease, either not realising or not caring that he was in the centre of Percy’s nightmare.
“Not too bad, I caught up with Sarah and Chris last week, which was nice, they asked after you.”
“Nice, I’ve been meaning to meet up with people, it’s just that now’s not the best time. Maybe when everything’s settled down a bit.” Noticing Percy was still hovering, Bill gestured for him to sit, frowning.
“I know what you mean, I’ve been inundated with appointment requests since the war ended, but it’s important you look after yourself Bill.” She glanced at Percy, a flicker of surprise dancing across her face. “That’s the first time he’s sat down for a session,” she told Bill. Red heated his ears, and Percy clasped his hands tighter in his lap. It wasn’t that big of a deal.
“That’s why I’m here,” Bill said, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the worry line between his brows. “He’s been telling me therapy has been fine, that it’s working, that you say he doesn’t need to do it for that much longer. But we both know that’s not true.”
“Percy,” Isadora said. “What made you feel like you needed to tell Bill this?”
“Nothing, it’s fine. I’m fine.” There was a lump in his throat, and Percy desperately tried to ignore it. “Everything’s fine. I don’t need to be here.” The last bit tailed off; barely believing himself.
“I don’t think that’s true.” Isadora paused. “And by the sounds of it neither do you.”
“I am fine,” Percy said quickly, stronger. “I’m out of my room, I’m helping mum around the house, I’m trying to get a job. I’m doing everything you want.” He directed the last bit at Bill, refusing to look at his older brother.
“Then why won’t you at least try therapy?” Bill asked, succeeding in keeping the exasperation from his voice. It wasn’t the money, or the time that bothered him, but the fact that Percy kept on lying.
“I – I just think it’s a bunch of nonsense. And I don’t need it!” The lies twisted round his tongue, the truth buried in his throat. Truthfully, he was afraid it would work; afraid Isadora would manage to see through his façade and turn him against the one thing that made him feel like he could still be alive, the one thing that meant he deserved to be alive. If he was dead, he wouldn’t be able to feel pain, and his self-flagellation would cease.
“You do need it,” Bill said firmly, “or we wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m fine,” Percy repeated, goosebumps creeping over his skin despite the summer heat.
“You’re not.” Bill paused; he’d promised himself he’d go in slow, supportive, but firm. None of that was working. He inhaled; he hated bringing it back to this, but Percy’s self-harm gave the clearest insight into his mental wellbeing. “When was the last time you cut yourself?”
Percy didn’t answer, the walls caving in, narrowing his field of vision. The tingling moved up his arms from his fingertips, asking, begging him for the blade. Not yet. He swallowed. Soon.
“Percy.” Isadora’s voice broke him out of his reverie – just – it felt like he was drowning, oceanic pressure squeezing his blood vessels. “Do you want to answer Bill’s question?”
He shook his head frantically.
“I think you should. I think it would help us all understand where you’re currently at mentally.” He didn’t respond. “Percy, I recognise that right now you’re probably feeling quite overwhelmed and worried about what Bill and I might say if you talk to us. That’s okay, you’re allowed to feel those things, but I guarantee that you’re in a safe space right now. We just want to help.”
Percy shrugged, pinching the edge of his wrist discreetly to centre himself.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, and I’d like it if you could nod or shake your head. Do you think you could manage that?”
He shrugged again, debating if he could make it out the door before Bill caught him. Probably not, Bill’s curse-breaking job kept him fit, his reflexes sharp; Percy probably wouldn’t even manage to get off the couch before Bill was onto him.
“We’ll take this at your pace Percy,” Isadora continued gently. “If you need a break, let us know.”
He nodded, wondering if he could have that break now so he wouldn’t have to answer any of her questions.
“Have you self-harmed this week?”
He tensed, feeling Bill’s burning gaze on him. He didn’t want to do this, but he sensed Bill wouldn’t let it go until he got some semblance of the truth. Crimson clouded his cheeks, blending with his freckles, but he nodded.
“More than once?”
He nodded again, deepening his pinching in humiliation. It was only Tuesday.
“Today?”
Bill was stiff besides him, a coil wound tight, and Percy hated that he had forced this side of his caring, well-meaning brother out. Another reason to succumb to the urge when he got home.
“Did you clean them? Bandage them at least?” Bill interrupted, his hand on Percy’s shoulder.
Percy hung his head, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
“For fuck’s sake, Percy!” Bill didn’t shout, but his voice echoed round the small room, causing the younger brother to flinch. “I told you to come to me. Why won’t you let me help you?” A dry sob caught in Bill’s throat, and Percy wrenched himself out of his brother’s grasp, retreating to the furthest corner of the sofa.
“I’m sorry.” The sound came out garbled, the truths choking him. Deep in his stomach, self-loathing curled its tail around his intestines, squeezing. He hated that he was hurting Bill, hated that he couldn’t seem to do the one thing Bill wanted. But his brother didn’t get it; if Percy asked for help, Bill would just hate him for it. And Percy would deserve that hatred.
“Percy,” Isadora’s voice broke through, bringing both Bill and Percy back to centre. “It worries me that you have uncared for wounds – we don’t want them getting infected. Could I look them over for you?”
His head was already shaking before she’d finished the question, mini earthquakes in his hands. His arm was not fit for human consumption on the best of days. She’d not seen it before, not seen the mess he had made of himself, and he didn’t want that to change. Decisively, he wrapped his arms around himself, as if he could protect her from them.
“What about Bill?” Isadora prompted. “Could he look at them for you?”
Percy glanced at his brother briefly. Bill’s eyes were fixed on him, a pleading. He’d reined his emotions back under control, and all Percy saw was someone who desperately wanted to help him. He nodded, cheeks burning; the relief on Bill’s face was palpable as he reached out a hand towards Percy. He hesitated. He knew Bill had seen his cuts twice before, but that did not mean he wanted to make a habit of it. What if Bill thought they weren’t deep enough? That Percy was just doing it for attention? What if he was disgusted and decided he didn’t want to help anymore?
“Perce,” his brother said softly, “whatever your brain’s telling you right now is a lie. I want to help. Let me help.”
Percy stiffened, and exhaled; eyes fixed firmly on his shoes, he held out his arm.
And like the last two times, the world didn’t end.
Bill’s touch was light as he rolled up Percy’s sleeve, gentle when he had to peel away the fabric from where it had stuck to each cut, even as Percy grimaced. He’d been in a rush – Ron banging on the bathroom door for Percy to ‘get out you twat’ because he’d ‘been in there bloody ages’ – and hadn’t let them clot before rolling down his sleeve. Bill was quick, efficient. The wounds were cleaned and wrapped before Percy could form a proper thought. And that was a problem, because he knew he owed Bill more than this. Knew that his brother would want him to start talking. And Percy didn’t want to upset him anymore, so he closed his eyes.
“I don’t like telling you when I’ve done it because I don’t want to upset you. I’ve already done it, and it’s not like we can turn the clock back, so there’s no point you knowing. It won’t change anything.” His voice felt wooden in his mouth, but he forced it out, battling with the lies that were trying to force their way out of his throat.
“What about before?” Isadora prompted softly.
“I don’t want to get you before,” Percy said bitterly. “I deserve this, I need it. You would only want to stop me. And I’d pretend to feel better insofar as it took for you to leave me be so I finally could. Because I would. Nothing you can say would stop me. I would just pretend. And that would waste your time. It would cause you pain. It would feel more like I was betraying you than if you just didn’t know about it in the first place. And then I’d deserve it more.”
“What if you went too far one day?” Isadora asked. “Wouldn’t you want Bill to help you?”
“If I go too far, it’s because I deserve it,” Percy said slowly, almost trancelike. Now that he’d started, the words tumbled out. If he stopped the lies would return, and whilst he craved the safety they promised, he needed to do this for Bill first, even if it meant his brother turned away and didn’t come back. Maybe it would be better that way. Enticingly, the blade sang to his fingertips, reminding him that it would always be there, even if no one else was. “If I’ve gone too far, maybe it’s because I meant it. Maybe it’s because I’ve suffered enough for Fred’s death and they will all finally let me be.”
A tear slipped silently down his cheek, warm against his skin, and Percy opened his eyes. Bill’s eyes were visibly wet, and he held out his hand for his brother.
Percy took it, but the desire to cut was locked around his fingers, his other hand clenching the blade he’d shoved hastily into his pocket. Soon, he told it. The pain was etched upon Bill’s face, Bill who took every care to never show weakness to his brothers, to always protect them, even from themselves. Bill who deserved every good thing in this world.
Percy yearned to be the person Bill wanted him to be. But he wasn’t. Corruption was buried so deep inside him that Percy wasn’t even sure where it began. But he knew he deserved to cut. He just wished he could protect his brother from it.