Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dizzy spells began the day after they came back from Egypt.

It had been a marvelous trip - or so everyone said. Bill’s grinning face under the desert sun, the twins exploring every cursed tomb they weren’t supposed to, Ginny chasing scarabs with Ron, and Mum smiling like she hadn’t in years. Even Percy had felt something light bloom in his chest for once -pride, maybe, or the rare comfort of being included.

But on the last night, as the sun sank behind the pyramids, a strange fatigue had settled in his bones. The air had felt too thick, his skin too warm. He’d brushed it off as heat exhaustion.

Percy Weasley didn’t get ill.

He was responsible. Reliable. Unshakable.

And now, weeks later at Hogwarts, that weariness had not gone away.

“Brilliant, Fred! You’ve just made her turn purple!”

Fred and George’s laughter filled the Gryffindor common room like firecrackers. A terrified first-year girl sat in front of them, face blotched violet, while smoke still curled from the tiny sweet she’d been tricked into eating.

“It’ll wear off,” George said cheerfully, scribbling notes. “Probably.”

“Perfect reaction time,” Fred added, jotting something on a scrap of parchment. “We’ll call it the Blush Banger. Instant embarrassment!”

Percy froze at the foot of the stairs, his stomach twisting. “What on earth are you two doing?”

Fred turned, smirk fading when he saw Percy’s expression. “Oh, here comes the Ministry-in-Training.”

“You just hexed a first-year with an unregulated sweet," Percy snapped, striding forward. “Do you even think before you act?”

“She volunteered!” George protested. “Didn’t you, Ellie?”

The little girl looked on the verge of tears. Percy’s tone softened immediately. “Go to the hospital wing, Miss, please.”

She scampered off, still sniffling.

Fred rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Perce, we’re not murderers. It’s just a bit of fun!”

“Fun?” Percy repeated, voice rising. “You’re using people - children- as test subjects! You could’ve poisoned her!”

George’s jaw tightened. “Merlin, you sound just like Mum.”

“Someone has to,” Percy shot back. “You two are out of control. You’re supposed to represent Gryffindor, not drag it through the mud with your idiotic stunts.”

Fred’s laughter was gone now, replaced by something sharp. “You love telling people what they should be, don’t you? Always the golden boy, always right.”

“That’s not..”

“Yes, it is!” George cut in. “You walk around acting like you’re better than the rest of us. Like we’re all disappointments waiting for you to fix!”

Percy’s throat tightened. “I just want you to stop getting yourselves expelled! Do you think I enjoy nagging you?”

Fred crossed his arms. “You don’t nag. You preach.”

For a moment, silence hung between them -thick, heavy. The fire crackled in the hearth.

Percy’s face flushed red. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, turning away. “One day, you’ll realize someone had to care enough to stop you.”

“Don’t bother,” George called after him. “We don’t need saving.”

He left before they could see how much that stung.

In the corridor, Percy leaned against the wall, breathing hard. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He could feel it again -the same light-headedness that had started in Egypt. Like the world was spinning just slightly faster than he could keep up with.

They never listen.

He’d spent years trying to set an example, to keep the Weasley name from being synonymous with chaos. But to them, he was just a nag, a bore, the brother who’d rather quote the rulebook than laugh at a joke.

He swallowed against the ache in his throat.

I’m trying to hold this family together, and they think I’m the enemy.

Later that night, Fred and George sprawled on their beds in the dormitory, Lee Jordan flipping through Quidditch Weekly on the floor.

“Can you believe him?” Fred muttered. “Marches in like he’s our dad.”

“Worse,” George said. “At least Dad lets us breathe.”

Lee looked up, brow furrowing. “You two are rough on him. Percy’s... well, Percy. But he means well.”

Fred scoffed. “Meaning well doesn’t give him the right to boss us around like we’re five.”

“I’m just saying,” Lee continued, “he looked sort of sick earlier. Pale. Maybe he’s stressed.”

“Stressed? He lives for stress,” George said. But even as he spoke, a flicker of unease crossed his face.

Fred hesitated. “He has been... off, hasn’t he?”

“Probably just overworking,” George muttered. “He’ll be fine.”

The words didn’t sound convincing—even to him.

The next morning at breakfast, Percy looked perfectly composed, as always. Uniform crisp, posture straight, badge gleaming. His spoon clinked against his teacup in an even rhythm. The twins exchanged a glance but said nothing.

“See?” Fred whispered. “Still breathing. Still bossy.”

George managed a smirk. “All’s right with the world.”

But when Percy looked up briefly, his eyes seemed tired... faint circles shadowing the edges.

Later that day, Percy sat beside Oliver Wood in the library, trying to finish an Arithmancy essay. His hand trembled slightly as he wrote, the ink blotting on the parchment.

“Oliver,” he murmured, setting down his quill. “I think I might need to see Madam Pomfrey after class. Can’t seem to shake this... tiredness.”

Oliver looked concerned. “You all right, mate? You’ve been looking peaky since term started.”

“It’s probably nothing. Maybe a tonic will help,” Percy said, offering a small smile. “I’ll be fine once I get some rest.”

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips when he arrived. “Back again, Mr. Weasley? You look dreadful.”

“Just a tonic, please,” Percy said, voice low. “I’ve been... a bit faint.”

She handed him a small bottle. “Drink this and rest. And don’t come back pretending you’re fine if you’re not. Your prefect duties can wait.”

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” he said automatically, though he knew they wouldn’t.

Back in the dormitory, the firelight painted the room gold and scarlet.

Percy unbuttoned his collar, sweat beading on his forehead. He took the tonic in one swallow, grimacing at the bitterness.

Usually, it worked within minutes. Tonight, nothing.

He sighed, tugging off his tie and robes. “A shower,” he muttered. “That’ll help.”

As he pulled off his shirt, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror... and froze.

Across his back, faint blue patches mottled the skin, spreading from his shoulders downward like bruises.

He blinked, reached back to touch them. Cold. Tender.

“What in Merlin’s name…”

His hand trembled. The room felt distant, spinning gently around him.

Maybe it’s just poor circulation... from stress.

Yes, stress. That was reasonable. Logical. Something he could fix.

He sank down on his bed, pressing a hand over his eyes. His body felt heavy, but the ache in his chest was worse.

They’ll never understand. They’ll think I’m just being dramatic again.

The fire crackled softly, his Head Boy badge catching the light on his bedside table... gleaming, flawless, untarnished.

Just like Percy was supposed to be.

But beneath the shine, something was cracking.

And it was spreading.

Chapter Text

The air at Hogwarts had grown colder, heavier.

Not just from autumn’s creeping chill, but from the Dementors gliding beyond the castle walls... grey shadows that leeched the very warmth from the grounds. Every student could feel it: that strange, pressing gloom that made laughter sound forced and candlelight dimmer than before.

For Percy Weasley, the chill had sunk much deeper.

He told himself it was only the weather. That everyone was tired. That being Head Boy meant feeling the strain of responsibility more than others.

But the truth sat beneath the excuses - an ache in his chest that wouldn’t fade, a trembling in his hands he hid beneath folded arms during prefect meetings.

Every morning, he fastened his badge with precision, polished until it gleamed. The golden “H.B.” caught the weak sunlight through the dorm window, and for a brief moment, he could almost believe he was still strong. Still capable. Still the image of composure he’d built piece by piece.

Almost.

“Oi, Percy! Heard they’re hiring Dementors to replace prefects!”

Fred’s voice carried across the common room, bright and mocking even under the castle’s shadow.

George grinned from the armchair beside him. “Yeah, they’ve got the same sense of humour, so you’d fit right in!”

The younger Gryffindors snickered. Percy didn’t flinch, though he felt the burn rise in his chest. “At least Dementors have a purpose,” he said evenly, closing his book. “Which is more than can be said for your latest joke shop disaster, I imagine?”

“Disaster?” Fred said, pretending to look wounded. “We prefer the term scientific setback.”

“Scientific?” Percy’s voice was sharp, weary. “You blew up the third-floor corridor!”

“Barely!” George protested. “Just a mild singeing. And technically, Filch was in the way, so it’s his fault.”

“Merlin’s beard…” Percy rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You two are impossible.”

The words came out softer than intended. The room spun faintly when he stood, and he gripped the table edge for balance. None of them noticed -- or if they did, they mistook the pause for irritation rather than exhaustion.

Fred smirked. “Lighten up, Perce. We’re just keeping things lively.”

“Lively?” Percy’s tone snapped again, too sharp. “There’s a convicted murderer on the loose, Dementors outside our gates, and you think this is the time to be reckless?”

The laughter in the room faded. A few first-years exchanged glances. Even George’s grin faltered.

“Blimey, you sound like Mum,” Fred muttered, suddenly quiet.

“Good,” Percy said flatly. “Someone needs to.”

He gathered his books and strode toward the stairs. Behind him, the murmurs started again.

Softer, cautious.

Patrolling that night felt like walking through fog.

The castle’s torches flickered in their sconces, shadows stretching long across the stone walls.

Percy’s steps echoed faintly, each one heavier than the last. He passed a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch. The Dementors hovered like stains in the mist, black against the silver moonlight.

His reflection in the glass startled him.
The hollow beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin... he barely recognised the face staring back.

“You’re fine,” he whispered to himself. “You’re just... tired.”

But when he pressed his fingers against the cold stone to steady himself, the blue marks on his back ached. Faint, bruised-looking shapes that had spread since the start of term.

You can’t let anyone see.

Not Fred, not George, not anyone. They’d never understand.

They never had.

A few nights later, during a particularly long prefect meeting, Percy’s concentration wavered mid-sentence.

“So,” he said, glancing down at his notes, “patrol rotations will be adjusted for the next fortnight due to the Dementor presence. Make sure all students are indoors by...”

His vision blurred. The parchment swam.

“Percy?” Penelope Clearwater’s voice cut through the murmur. “Are you all right?”

He blinked, forcing a smile. “Fine. Just... low on sleep.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she said gently.

There was concern in her eyes, and that - somehow - made it worse.

“I’m fine, Penny,” he repeated, sharper this time. “Let’s continue.”

She hesitated, then looked down, biting her lip. The others shifted uncomfortably, no one daring to speak.

He finished the meeting as if nothing had happened, but when the prefects left, Penelope lingered.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself,” she said softly. “You’re already Head Boy. It’s okay to slow down.”

Percy forced a smile, though his throat felt tight. “If I slow down, everything falls apart.”

“Percy...”

“Good night, Penelope.”

He turned away before she could answer. The moment the door shut behind her, he pressed a hand to his chest, breathing through the ache there. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.

He just didn’t know how to stop.

That night, Percy lay awake, the sounds of his roommate’ soft breathing filling the room. His heart pounded in uneven bursts. He turned on his side, curling into himself, trying to ignore the cold ache seeping through his skin.

He thought of Egypt — of hot sand and blinding sun. Of laughter echoing through ancient ruins.

And of one dark tomb he’d never forgotten.

The memory hovered at the edges of his mind, waiting for him to let it in.

He wasn’t ready yet.

The days blurred together in a haze of parchment, duty, and sleepless nights. Percy threw himself into work with the kind of desperation that made people mistake exhaustion for diligence. He told himself that he was doing what Head Boys did - keeping order while the rest of the school spiraled into whispers about Sirius Black and Dementors.

In truth, he was running.

Running from the weight in his bones, from the blue stains spreading across his skin, from the way his hands trembled when he tried to write neat, straight lines.

He caught glimpses of his brothers in the Great Hall.

Fred and George at the far end of the table, laughing with Lee Jordan as if the world beyond the castle walls wasn’t dripping with fear.

Every time Percy looked their way, he saw only how carefree they seemed. How easily they existed.

He told himself it didn’t bother him.

That it was good they could still laugh.
But somewhere deep down, a bitter little voice whispered: They’ve never taken anything seriously. Not even me.

“Morning, Perce!”

Fred’s voice carried across the table as Percy sat down with a plate of toast he didn’t intend to eat.

“Lovely day to remind everyone we might be murdered in our sleep!”

George grinned. “Think the Dementors fancy a cup of tea with our dear Head Boy?”

Laughter from nearby Gryffindors rippled through the hall.

Percy didn’t rise to the bait this time. His fork hovered over his plate, his vision swimming faintly.

The noise around him felt distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

He heard Fred’s voice dimly, teasing something else, but it faded behind the pounding in his ears. His heart raced, then stuttered.

Not here. Not in front of them.

He inhaled slowly, blinked until the world steadied.

When he looked up, both twins were still watching... laughter frozen halfway between mischief and confusion.

He forced a thin smile. “Good morning to you too,” he said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. “I’d advise you to focus on your O.W.L.s rather than your jokes for once.”

Fred made an exaggerated face. “Ah, yes, the day our dear brother learns to have fun will be the day a Dementor joins the Quidditch team.”

George chuckled, though it sounded half-hearted. “Lighten up, Perce.”

Percy simply picked up his cup. “I’ll lighten up when I see either of you in the top ten of your class.”

He stood and left. His hand shook so badly on the goblet that tea splashed down his sleeve - but no one seemed to notice.

Behind him, Fred muttered, “He’s getting worse, isn’t he?”

George frowned. “Worse at what?”

Fred hesitated. “Just... worse.”

They didn’t talk about it again.

In the afternoons, Percy often found himself in the library. The quiet was a mercy; the only place where he could let the mask slip. He sat in his favorite corner, quills and parchment scattered before him, but half the time the words blurred into nonsense.

He pressed a hand to his temple. You just need rest.

But rest had become a stranger... each night filled with cold sweats, dreams of golden sand and the sound of stone grinding shut.

Sometimes Penelope joined him, sliding into the seat opposite with a knowing smile. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy,” he said automatically.

“You’ve been hiding,” she corrected.

He didn’t answer.

She reached across the table, her hand brushing his wrist. “Percy, you look awful.”

He pulled back slightly, forcing a polite smile. “That’s one way to flatter a man.”

Her brows knit. “I’m serious. You’re pale, your hands are cold, and I swear you’ve lost weight. What’s going on?”

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to say: There’s something wrong with me. I wake up aching, and I can’t feel warm anymore. I think something followed me home from Egypt.

But he couldn’t. Words like that didn’t belong to Head Boys. They belonged to hysterics and hypochondriacs . Not to someone who had everything under control.

“I’m fine, Penny,” he said, as gently as he could. “I promise.”

She didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push either.

That night in the private of his bed curtains, Percy peeled off his shirt and look back at the small hand mirror. The marks had grown worse. The faint blue patches were now darker, branching like veins of ink.

He touched one along his shoulder blade and flinched.

Not from pain, but from the chill. His skin was cold, even to his own fingers.

The candlelight flickered, and for a moment, he had a moment of panic, he had a thought of What if I'm truly in trouble.

He turned away sharply, swallowing bile. “It’s not real,” he whispered. “It’s just stress. You’re fine.”

He sat heavily on the edge of his bed. The dorm was silent except for the faint hum of wind outside and the scratch of quills from the nearby study room. His badge glinted faintly on the desk, its reflection trembling in the candlelight.

He picked it up, running his thumb across the gold. It felt heavy tonight. Too heavy.

The next morning, Oliver Wood stopped him outside the Great Hall. “You all right, Perce? You missed breakfast.”

“Just overslept,” Percy said, adjusting his tie.

Oliver frowned. “You oversleep? That’s a first.”

Percy smiled faintly. “Even Head Boys are mortal.”

“You don’t look it... you look dead on your feet.”

The remark was meant as a joke, but Percy’s smile faltered.

Oliver’s face softened. “Seriously, mate. You need to ease up. The world won’t end if you skip one meeting.”

Percy looked past him at the crowd streaming into class - students laughing, whispering about Hogsmeade trips and Quidditch. He envied them, the way they could exist without the weight of perfection pressing into their spines.

“I can’t afford to ease up,” he said finally. “Not now.”

Oliver sighed. “Stubborn git.”

Percy’s lips twitched. “You sound like my mother.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll listen to her, if not me.”

But Percy already had that distant look again - like he was somewhere else entirely.

Down in the Gryffindor common room, Fred was tossing a Fizzing Whizzbee into the air when George said quietly, “He’s not himself.”

Fred caught the sweet midair, frowning. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? He barely eats. He’s thinner. Pale as a ghost.”

“He’s always pale,” Fred said, forcing a grin. “Comes with being a rulebook in human form.”

George didn’t laugh. “You saw his hand this morning. It was shaking.”

Fred’s grin faltered. For a heartbeat, something like guilt flickered across his face. “So what do we do? Ask if he’s dying? He’d hex us for implying he’s anything less than perfect.”

George leaned back, staring into the fire. “Yeah,” he said softly. “He would.”

They said nothing more, and the fire crackled between them - warm, comforting, and utterly useless against the chill creeping into their thoughts.

Chapter Text

The morning after another restless night, Percy stood in front of the mirror in the shower room, wand in hand.

The blue branching marks had spread farther up his ribs and shoulder. When he turned, the candlelight caught them -gleaming faintly like veins of ice under his skin. He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood.

He whispered a Glamour Charm - one of the simple ones he’d learned from an old textbook on basic transfiguration illusions.

The skin shimmered, and for a moment, the marks blurred, faded, disappeared.

But the longer he stared, the more unstable the spell became... flickering like a candle about to die.

He steadied his hand, tried again. Finite incantatem. Disillusionment. Glamour again.

Layer upon layer. A false skin. A perfect lie.

When he finally looked normal again, he let out a shaky breath. “There,” he whispered. “See? You’re fine.”

He buttoned up his shirt, fixed his tie, and pinned the golden Head Boy badge back over his chest.

As if that little piece of metal could keep him from falling apart.

Percy Weasley had always believed in order - in the kind of precision that kept chaos away.

He was the one who kept his shoes polished, his homework color-coded, his quills aligned by length.

He was the one who believed that if you worked hard enough, followed every rule, and did everything right, the world would reward you.

But lately, the world felt like it was watching him from behind a veil.

He could feel it in the way people looked at him... a little too long, a little too curious.

Maybe they saw the cracks in his facade. Or maybe he was just paranoid.

Either way, he couldn’t let them see.

Because if anyone found out he was sick - if anyone discovered the curse - it would all unravel.

The Weasleys didn’t have money for healers, let alone curse-breakers. The cost alone would be catastrophic. Bill had mentioned it once in a letter -- a single curse-breaking expedition in Egypt could drain an entire Gringotts vault.

And Percy knew his family’s vault wasn’t exactly overflowing.

Ron needed new robes this term; Mum had written about patching them again. Ginny had second-hand books and shoes a size too big. The twins were forever at risk of being expelled for their pranks . And Dad’s salary at the Ministry barely covered everything as it was.

If Percy went home sick, if they had to pay for his treatment...

They’d have to choose.

And he couldn’t bear to be the reason they went without.

So he convinced himself this -the fatigue, the marks, the faint ache deep in his chest - was temporary. Manageable.

He just needed to last until graduation. Until he got that position at the Ministry. Until he could fix everything.

That day, he went through classes on autopilot.

In Charms, Professor Flitwick praised his essay. In Transfiguration, he earned full marks.

People saw the same composed, confident Percy.

No one noticed that he could barely stay upright.

At lunch, Penelope caught him again. “You’ve been skipping meals, Percy.”

“I’ve been busy,” he replied, voice flat.

“You said that yesterday.”

“I’m Head Boy. It comes with responsibility.”

“You’re going to collapse.”

He turned his head sharply. “Then I’ll do it privately.”

Her face fell, but she said nothing. Percy regretted the words instantly. He almost apologized. Almost.

But instead, he gathered his books and left before she could see the tremor in his hands.

That night, Fred and George were hunched over their parchment near the fireplace, designing a new prank.

Lee Jordan leaned back in his chair, watching them. “So, when’s the next great Weasley invention reveal?”

Fred smirked. “As soon as McGonagall stops lurking like a hawk.”

George snorted. “And as soon as our dear brother stops confiscating our prototypes.”

Lee grinned. “Still on your case?”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Always. He acts like he’s our dad.”

“Or Mum,” George added. “Honestly, I’m starting to think he was born forty.”

They laughed, but Lee didn’t.

“He doesn’t look well,” Lee said softly.

Fred glanced up. “Who?”

“Percy. He’s pale. Really pale. You sure he’s just being... Percy?”

George sighed. “He’s fine. Probably just stressed. He likes to act like the world will fall apart if he blinks.”

“Still,” Lee muttered. “Doesn’t feel right.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance... the kind of silent twin communication that said more than words could.

“He’ll be fine,” Fred said at last, voice quieter.

“He has to be."

Percy was in his dorm, bent over an ancient book on curse concealment spells. It wasn’t supposed to be available to students, but he’d borrowed it under the guise of “advanced magical theory research.”

His candle burned low as he skimmed through pages in feverish silence.

“Curses that feed upon life essence cannot be fully dispelled by concealment charms; such magic only delays the inevitable.”

He stopped reading. His throat felt tight.
He turned the page.

“Victims may experience fatigue, pallor, cold skin, and progressive discoloration resembling magical frost.”

His eyes traced the final line, his stomach twisting:

“Exposure to ancient necromantic wards may bind fragments of malevolent energy to the host -- manifesting weeks or months after contact.”

The words blurred.

He pressed a trembling hand against his side, where the marks now pulsed faintly beneath the Glamour.

That tomb. The one in Egypt.

The twins had dared him to step inside, remember? “It’ll be fine, Perce! It’s all show, no danger!” they’d said.

He remembered the torchlight flickering over carved walls, hieroglyphs glowing faintly, Fred’s laughter echoing... and then the cold.

A curse flaring.

The breath punched out of him.

The world spinning before he collapsed.

Bill had been there. He’d broken the seal, pulled Percy out before the curse consumed him.

He’d said it was mild - just a “residual ward reaction.”

But Bill had looked pale when he said it.

Now, Percy wondered if it had been more than that.

He closed the book slowly.

If Bill knew... he’d come running. He’d insist on sending him to a curse specialist.
That would cost hundreds of Galleons.

And that wasn’t an option.

He sat at his desk, quill hovering over parchment. The first line came out neat, deliberate.

Dear Bill,

I was wondering if you could recommend some books about defensive enchantments -particularly Egyptian ones.

I’ve been doing some research for a paper on ancient curse structures. I recall you mentioned a few titles once.

Any suggestions would be appreciated.

Your brother, Percy Weasley.

He stared at the words, heart pounding.
It was a lie, but only partly.
He needed those books.

He needed to understand what was happening to him... alone. Quietly.

He sealed the letter, folded it neatly, and stared at his reflection in the dark window.

“You’ll fix it,” he whispered. “You always fix it.”

Two days later, he got Bill’s reply by owl. The handwriting was fast and looping, a little messy. Bill had always written like someone in a hurry to get back to living.

Hey, Perce,

Good to hear from you. You might like “The Dangers of the Dead” by Amara Quinn. Good overview of Egyptian ward magic.

Also “Binding and Banishing: An Arithmantic Study.”

Why the sudden interest? Something spark your curiosity back at Hogwarts? You’re not poking around any tombs, I hope.

Be careful, little brother.
Love, Bill.

Percy smiled faintly at the last line.
Be careful.

He folded the letter and tucked it into his desk drawer beside the tonic Madam Pomfrey had given him. He hadn’t taken it in days... it didn’t help anyway.

The Glamour Charm would have to do.

That weekend, he joined the prefect meeting as usual. The other students were buzzing about the Dementors stationed outside. The school felt different now - colder, darker.

“Head Boy Weasley,” one of the younger prefects said cheerfully, “you look well-rested for once.”

He forced a smile. “Discipline does wonders for the complexion.”

Laughter rippled around the room, and for a moment, he almost believed it. He could pretend. He could hold the image together.

Until his vision swam again, and he had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.

No one noticed.

Because no one ever noticed when Percy Weasley smiled.

In the quiet of his bed curtains, Percy Weasley whispered another concealment charm and prayed the blue veins would stop spreading.

He was still smiling when the candle went out.

Chapter Text

The storm outside had settled into a restless drizzle, mist clinging to the castle windows like breath. Inside Gryffindor Tower, the fire burned low, the common room half-empty except for the trio -Harry, Ron, and Hermione - who had fallen into their usual rhythm of late-night “homework disguised as trouble.”

Hermione was scribbling furiously on parchment, lips pursed, while Ron half-dozed beside his half-finished Potions essay.

Harry stared into the fire, thinking about Sirius Black. The whispers, the fear, the way the Dementors made the air taste like ash. It was hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Library run?” Hermione asked suddenly, sitting up straighter. “I need to check the binding charm on boggart counterspells. Flitwick said the older editions are more accurate.”

Ron groaned. “Hermione, it’s nearly curfew.”

“All the better,” she said briskly. “Fewer people about.”

Harry sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “Fine. I’ll come.”

Ron muttered something about suicidal bookworms but followed them anyway, stuffing his quill into his bag.

The corridors were half-lit and eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made footsteps sound too loud. Candles flickered, and the shadows seemed to stretch just a little too far.

When they reached the library, it was nearly deserted. Madam Pince shot them her usual look of suspicion before vanishing among the shelves, leaving them with the faint scent of dust and candle wax.

Hermione disappeared immediately between the stacks, hunting down her reference. Harry trailed after her. Ron lingered by a table near the back, the one by the old cracked window that overlooked the lake.

That’s when he saw him.

“Blimey,” Ron whispered. “What’s he doing here?”

Harry followed his gaze... and there, at the far table, sat Percy.

Head Boy badge gleaming faintly, posture perfect, surrounded by open books.

Normally that wouldn’t have been strange - Percy lived for study sessions - but something about the scene was off.

The books weren’t textbooks. They were old, their spines cracked and gold lettering half-faded. The kind of books locked behind rope barriers. And Percy’s hand… trembled slightly when he turned the pages.

“He’s probably writing another essay about the proper placement of commas in Ministry reports,” Ron muttered.

But Harry frowned. “He looks... tired.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “He always looks tired. He’s allergic to fun.”

Harry didn’t answer. Percy’s movements seemed oddly deliberate... too careful, too stiff. As if he were forcing normalcy.

Ron squinted. “Bet he’s covering for something boring. Extra credit or Head Boy paperwork.”

“Should we… say hi?” Harry asked.

Ron snorted. “If you want a lecture on responsibility, go ahead.”

Harry hesitated, but curiosity won out. “Come on. Just for a minute.”

Ron sighed dramatically but followed.

Percy didn’t notice them approach. He was muttering under his breath, wand tracing faint patterns over the page -not the sharp flicks of a student practicing spells, but the precise, almost reverent movements of someone trying to hide something. A shimmer passed briefly over his forearm - a faint distortion in the air- and then vanished.

“Percy?” Harry said softly.

Percy jumped so hard he nearly knocked over his inkpot. His eyes were bloodshot, the circles beneath them darker than Harry had ever seen. But the moment he recognized them, his expression hardened into the familiar mask. Polite, cold, controlled.

“Harry. Ronald,” he said briskly. “Breaking curfew, are we?”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Look who’s talking.”

Percy ignored him. “The rules apply to everyone, you know.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, crossing his arms. “What about the rule that says not to sneak into the Restricted Section, eh? What’s all this?” He gestured to the books. “Research on how to be more boring?”

Percy’s eyes narrowed. “This is Head Boy business.”

“Oh, of course,” Ron said sarcastically. “Because the fate of Hogwarts clearly depends on you reading about ancient... ” he leaned closer, squinting at the title,  “Egyptian ward curses?”

Percy slammed the book shut. “That’s enough.”

Hermione appeared then, carrying a small stack of books. “Ron, stop it,” she hissed. Then she turned to Percy, trying to smooth things over. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We were just... ”

“Breaking curfew,” Percy interrupted again, his voice clipped. “I’ll overlook it this time, but I suggest you return to your dorm before I change my mind.”

Ron scowled. “Oh, that’s rich. You sitting here in the middle of the night and lecturing us?”

“I have responsibilities,” Percy snapped.

Ron shot back immediately. “Yeah, like making sure everyone knows you’re better than them?”

Harry winced. Hermione whispered, “Ron... !” but he ignored her.

Percy’s face flushed. “I don’t expect you to understand what it means to have ambition, Ronald.”

“Oh, so that’s what you call it? Ambition? Isolating yourself and bossing everyone around?”

“You think I want to?” Percy’s voice cracked. Barely, but it was there, raw enough that even Harry froze. “You think any of this is easy?”

Ron blinked, thrown off for a second, but then scoffed. “Oh, poor Percy. Must be so hard being perfect all the time.”

“Get out,” Percy said quietly.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Gladly.”

He spun on his heel. Hermione gave Percy a sympathetic look, but he refused to meet her eyes. Harry hesitated, lingering a second longer. For just an instant, he thought Percy looked… scared. Pale, trembling slightly, like he was holding something together by sheer will.

“Are you... ” Harry began.

“I said go,” Percy whispered.

And that was that.

They walked back to Gryffindor Tower in tense silence. The corridors seemed colder now, the torches dimmer. Hermione clutched her books tightly.

Ron broke the quiet first. “Honestly. He’s impossible.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“I mean, he acts like we’re toddlers every time we breathe wrong. What’s his problem?”

“Maybe he’s under stress,” Hermione said softly. “Being Head Boy is... ”

“Oh, please,” Ron interrupted. “He loves it. He probably dreams about polishing his badge.”

Harry frowned. “He didn’t look right.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “He never does.”

“No, I mean... ” Harry hesitated. “He looked… sick.”

Ron blinked at him. “Sick? Percy? Nah. He’s just uptight. Always has been.”

Hermione bit her lip but didn’t argue.

They reached the Fat Lady’s portrait. Ron muttered the password and climbed through first, muttering about “brothers with superiority complexes.”

Ginny was curled up in one of the armchairs near the fire, sketching something in the corner of her Charms notebook. She looked up as they entered. “You’re back late. Get caught?”

“No,” Ron said shortly. “Just got lectured by the Ministry-in-training.”

Ginny blinked. “Percy?”

“Who else?” Ron threw himself into a chair. “He’s in the library, reading about ancient curses like a loon.”

Hermione frowned. “He’s not a loon.”

“He acted like one.”

Harry stayed quiet, settling near the fire. The image of Percy’s pale face wouldn’t leave his mind.

Ginny tilted her head. “Ancient curses?”

“Yeah.” Ron waved a hand. “You know how he is. Probably trying to impress some Ministry bloke with his knowledge.”

Ginny frowned slightly, thoughtful. “Weird thing to study for fun.”

Ron shrugged. “Everything he does is weird.”

Hermione glanced at her. “You know him best, Ginny. Has he seemed... off lately?”

Ginny thought about it. The truth was... yes. She’d noticed. The letters home from Percy had been shorter lately. Colder. And when they’d come back to Hogwarts, he’d looked tired... more than usual. There was a strange tension in him, like he was stretched too tight.

But she wasn’t sure how to explain that to them without sounding paranoid.

“He’s just busy,” she said finally, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Ron huffed. “Busy acting superior.”

Hermione sighed. “Ron.”

“What? You saw him! He’s always like that. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us just because he’s got a shiny badge and a dictionary for a brain.”

Ginny smiled faintly, though her stomach twisted. “You’re not entirely wrong,” she admitted. “But… he’s still Percy.”

Ron snorted. “Exactly.”

Harry finally spoke, voice quiet. “He didn’t look fine to me.”

That silenced everyone.

“What do you mean?” Ginny asked, sitting up a little.

Harry hesitated. “Just… pale. Shaky. Like he hadn’t slept in days.”

Hermione frowned deeply now. “Maybe he’s overworking himself.”

Ron rolled his eyes again. “Please. He thrives on overworking. He’s been like that since first year.”

Ginny looked at her brother, then down at the flickering firelight. 

Percy would have told someone if something serious had happened. Wouldn’t he?

“Maybe he’s just nervous,” she said finally. “It’s his last year, after all. He wants to get into the Ministry.”

Ron smirked. “Yeah, can’t wait for him to write home about how he’s Minister of Magic before breakfast.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look, but Ron didn’t notice.

Harry only stared into the fire. “Still,” he said quietly, “something about him didn’t feel right.”

Meanwhile, back in the library, the candles had burned low. Percy sat exactly where they’d left him, staring blankly at the closed book in front of him. The echo of Ron’s words still lingered... He’s impossible. He’s always like that.

His hands were shaking again. He pressed them flat against the table until they stilled.

He’d meant to keep calm. He’d meant to pretend. But the stress, the pain, the constant concealment... it was all catching up to him.

The Glamour was fading faster each day. The blue veins pulsed faintly beneath his skin, cold and rhythmic, like something alive.

He could still hear Ron’s voice in his head. He’s just uptight. He loves it.

If only it were true.

He leaned back, exhaling through his teeth. He couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not when everything he’d built depended on the illusion of being fine.

The Weasleys couldn’t afford another burden. Not when the younger ones still needed so much.

He whispered under his breath, almost a prayer: “You’re fine. You just have to hold it together a little longer.”

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t stopped for two days.

It streaked the castle windows in thin, silvery threads, casting the corridors in a dull, restless haze. The whole of Hogwarts seemed weighed down by the storm. The looming presence of Dementors outside didn’t help. Their chill sank into everything: into the stones, into the students’ moods, into Percy Weasley’s bones.

He sat in the corner of the Gryffindor common room with Oliver Wood, half-listening as Oliver rattled off Quidditch strategies.

“I’m telling you, Perce,” Oliver said, tapping his parchment impatiently, “we can’t afford another near miss with those Dementors lurking around. If they show up during a match... ”

“I’ll remind Dumbledore about the petition for the anti-Dementor charms,” Percy said automatically. His voice was thinner than usual, but Oliver didn’t seem to notice.

Percy adjusted his glasses, trying to focus on the paper in front of him. His vision blurred slightly. The ink marks seemed to tremble. He pressed his palm against his temple, forcing the dizziness down.

He’d been fighting that faintness all day, the whisper of exhaustion that lingered behind his eyes like a shadow. It was getting worse, he knew. But he couldn’t afford to stop. He couldn’t afford to be weak.

Oliver was still talking, his Quidditch obsession spilling into words like “formation” and “seeker angle.” Percy smiled faintly. It was nice, in a way -- predictable, harmless. Oliver didn’t expect him to joke or chatter, only to listen and occasionally nod. It made the world feel manageable.

A voice broke through their discussion.

“Er... excuse me, Mr. Weasley, sir?”

Percy turned. A first-year stood there, red-faced and panting, clutching his robes. His tie was crooked, and his eyes darted nervously toward the boys’ staircase.

Percy straightened. “Yes? What is it?”

The boy hesitated. “It’s... um... your brothers, sir. Fred and George. They told us not to tell anyone, but... ” He wrung his hands. “There’s… smoke coming out of their dorm.”

Oliver froze. “Smoke?”

The boy nodded rapidly. “They said it was an experiment, but... something exploded, I think. And I think one of the second years might’ve got burned.”

Percy was already on his feet before the boy finished.

His chair screeched against the floor, and his hands clenched at his sides. For one awful second, the room swam -a flash of dizziness so sharp he almost staggered- but he forced his breathing steady. He could feel Oliver’s eyes on him.

“They’re at it again,” Percy said through his teeth. “Of all the... ”

“Percy...!” Oliver began.

But Percy was already storming toward the stairs, his robe whipping around his ankles.

In the fifth-year boys’ dormitory, chaos reigned.

A cloud of bluish smoke hung thick in the air, smelling faintly of burnt sugar and fireworks. Fred was fanning the window open while George crouched near a small cauldron, poking at the bubbling mess that hissed and spat every few seconds. A group of wide-eyed second-years huddled by the door, whispering anxiously.

“Relax,” Fred said, coughing. “It’s fine. Just a minor... er... combustion.”

George grinned weakly. “Yeah, the cauldron’s meant to do that. Completely intentional.”

“You two are mental,” one of the second-years muttered, and bolted.

Before they could reply, the door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.

“What,” Percy said, his voice icy calm, “is going on here?”

The smoke seemed to curl back from him like it knew better.

“Uh-oh,” Fred muttered under his breath.

Oliver came in behind Percy, waving away the haze. His eyes widened at the sight of the mess. “Merlin’s beard... what did you two do?”

“Magic experiment,” George said brightly.

“Madness,” Percy corrected sharply. “You call this experiment?”

Fred straightened, smirk already in place. “Ah, the Head Boy himself, come to inspect the riffraff.”

Percy ignored the jibe. “You promised me you’d stop experimenting on school property.”

George shrugged. “We didn’t. Technically, this dorm is shared-...!”

“Don’t,” Percy snapped. “Don’t you dare twist rules to justify your recklessness.”

The twins exchanged a glance, the same defiant spark lighting both their faces.

It always went like this: Percy scolded, they deflected. A familiar dance. But tonight, something in Percy’s tone broke through the usual rhythm.

“Do you realize,” he said, voice trembling slightly with anger, “what could have happened if a first-year had been in here when that thing went off? You could’ve seriously hurt someone!”

“Relax, Perce,” Fred said lightly, though his jaw tightened. “It’s not like we meant to... ”

“Not like you meant to,” Percy repeated, stepping closer. “You never mean to, do you? You never mean to take responsibility either. You think everything’s a game, as long as it gets you a laugh-...”

George cut him off, irritation flaring. “Oh, come off it. Such a Perfect Prefect Percy. We don’t need another lecture.”

Percy froze at that -- and for a heartbeat, the only sound was the faint crackle of whatever they’d brewed in the cauldron.

His expression shuttered. “If that’s what it takes for you to start behaving like adults, then so be it.”

Fred’s smirk faltered. “Merlin, Percy, why do you always have to-...”

“To what?” Percy’s voice rose, sharp and frayed. “Care? Someone in this family has to!”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Even Oliver shifted uncomfortably near the door.

Fred’s temper snapped. “You think caring means bossing everyone around? News flash: it doesn’t! We don’t need you telling us how to breathe.”

George added, quieter but cutting, “No wonder everyone avoids you lately.”

Something flickered in Percy’s eyes. Pain, or maybe something deeper. His shoulders sagged just a little, as if their words had weight. But the anger held him upright.

“I’m your brother,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I just don’t want to see you ruin yourselves.”

Fred crossed his arms. “Then stop trying to live our lives for us.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy pretending to be perfect... !” George began, but stopped abruptly.

Because Percy swayed.

For a moment, it was subtle... the faintest stumble, a soft hitch in breath. Then his face drained of color. His hand went out to steady himself on the bedpost, but his knees buckled.

“Percy?” Oliver’s voice broke the stunned silence. “Perce...?”

Percy’s mouth moved soundlessly. His eyes unfocused, as if he were looking through them all. The world tilted, and then he was falling.

Oliver caught him just before he hit the floor.

“Bloody hell...!” Fred blurted.

“Percy!” Oliver’s shout echoed through the dorm. He turned Percy onto his side, panic rising in his throat. Percy’s skin was ice-cold. His pulse... there, but faint.

“Get Madam Pomfrey!” Oliver barked. “Now!”

Neither twin moved.

Fred’s freckles stood stark against his pale face. “We... we didn’t... ”

“GOOO!” Oliver roared. “You bloody idiots! You’ve been riding him for weeks! Can’t you see he’s not...!”

But the rest of the sentence vanished as Oliver’s voice cracked with fear.

Fred bolted first, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tore down the stairs. George stood frozen for half a second longer, staring at Percy - pale, lips faintly blue, his badge gleaming dully against his chest - before he ran after his twin.

Oliver drew his wand, whispering a levitation spell. Percy’s body lifted gently, limp in the air.

“Hang on, mate,” Oliver murmured, voice shaking. “You’re alright. You’re fine. Just hang on.”

He sprinted for the door.

Chapter Text

The corridors blurred past in streaks of torchlight and stone.

Oliver half-ran, half-guided Percy’s levitating body, his wand hand trembling. Percy’s head lolled slightly with every turn, his freckles ghostly against his pale skin. The Head Boy badge - that stupid, shining badge - glinted mockingly in the torchlight.

Fred and George trailed behind, silent for once. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the vast hall, mingling with Oliver’s ragged breathing.

When they burst through the Hospital Wing doors, Madam Pomfrey looked up in alarm.

“What on earth... ?!” She hurried forward, eyes widening. “Mr. Weasley!”

Oliver’s voice cracked. “He just collapsed! One minute he was shouting, the next... !”

“On the bed, quickly!” she ordered, flicking her wand. The nearest bed cleared itself, and the sheets folded down neatly.

Oliver guided Percy down. Madam Pomfrey’s magic flared: diagnostic spells spiraling over his chest and head, but her brow furrowed deeper with each flick of her wand.

Fred took a tentative step closer. “Is... Is he going to be alright?”

Madam Pomfrey didn’t answer immediately. “Get back,” she snapped. “You’re in my light.”

Fred flinched. George pulled him backward.

Oliver clenched his fists, pacing. “He’s been exhausted for weeks. I told him to slow down, but he wouldn’t. He said he was fine... Merlin, he always says he’s fine... ”

“Quiet!” Madam Pomfrey hissed.

Her wand glowed again. Bright blue this time. Percy’s body twitched, then went still. The air around him crackled faintly, like static before a storm. His magic was surging, unstable, pulsing under his skin.

Madam Pomfrey drew back, her face tight. “Something’s interfering with his magical core.”

Fred swallowed hard. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” she said grimly, “he’s not just fainted. His magic’s… reacting to something. Get Professor McGonagall.”

George didn’t move. “But... ”

“Now!”

He ran.

Five minutes later, McGonagall swept in, robes swirling, her expression sharp as steel despite the late hour.

“What’s happened?” she demanded.

Madam Pomfrey gestured toward the bed. “Collapsed during an altercation. His magic’s unstable... the readings are fluctuating like I’ve never seen.”

McGonagall’s eyes softened briefly when she saw Percy. “Good heavens.”

Oliver stood off to the side, pale and shaking. Fred and George hovered near the door, looking smaller than they ever had.

“It’s my fault,” Oliver said hoarsely. “He’s been tired, but I thought he was just overworked. I should’ve...!”

Madam Pomfrey interrupted briskly. “None of that now. He needs quiet.”

She cast another charm, muttering under her breath. The diagnostic light shimmered faintly red. Not a good sign.

McGonagall frowned. “What do you mean, ‘interfering’? Has he been cursed?”

Madam Pomfrey hesitated. “There’s… residue. Faint. Old. Like a buried enchantment reacting under strain. But his concealment charms... ”

“Concealment?” McGonagall repeated sharply.

“Yes.” Madam Pomfrey gestured to Percy’s body. “He’s using glamour charms - clever ones, too. It’s masking physical symptoms, but it’s draining him. I can feel the magic tugging at itself.”

Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why would he...?”

But he didn’t finish. Because he already knew.

Madam Pomfrey sighed heavily. “He’s been hiding this for a while. And now, the stress - whatever he’s been doing- his magic’s gone out of balance.”

“Can you stabilize him?” McGonagall asked quietly.

“I can try. But he needs rest. Real rest.”

Outside the curtained bed, Fred and George stood stiffly, not daring to speak. The faint murmur of spells drifted through the partition, punctuated by the occasional sharp clang of glass or whispered incantation.

Fred’s stomach churned. He’d seen Percy angry, smug, infuriatingly perfect... but never like that. Never breaking.

“I didn’t think he’d…” Fred’s voice faltered.

George finished for him. “Collapse?”

Fred nodded.

Oliver turned on them suddenly, his expression dark with fury. “What did you do?”

The twins froze.

“You’ve been pushing him for weeks!” Oliver’s voice shook, loud enough to make Madam Pomfrey snap “Quiet!” through the curtain. “You treat everything like a joke, and now look at him!”

Fred swallowed. “We didn’t mean...!”

“Didn’t mean?” Oliver’s temper flared, all restraint gone. “You never bloody mean to! He’s your brother! He’s been running himself ragged trying to keep this place together, and you...!”

George’s jaw clenched. “We didn’t know he was... ”

“Didn’t know?!” Oliver hissed. “He’s been pale as parchment for weeks! Anyone with eyes could see something was wrong!”

Fred flinched like he’d been hit. “We thought... we thought it was stress!”

Oliver’s voice cracked. “You thought wrong.”

For a moment, no one moved. The sound of Percy’s uneven breathing filled the silence.

Then Madam Pomfrey swept out from behind the curtain. “That’s enough.”

Her face was drawn, her voice clipped. “He’s stable for now, but his magical core is dangerously strained. I’ve contacted the staff quarters. Professor McGonagall, he’ll need supervision overnight.”

McGonagall nodded, her expression grave. “I’ll stay.”

Fred’s voice came out small. “Can we... see him?”

“No,” Madam Pomfrey said firmly. “Out. All of you.”

“But...” George began.

“Out!”

Her voice brooked no argument.

Oliver lingered for a second longer, eyes fixed on Percy’s still form. Then, jaw tight, he turned and followed the twins into the hallway.

The corridor outside the Hospital Wing was cold and empty.

For a long while, none of them spoke.

Fred leaned against the wall, staring at his shoes. George kept pacing, hands in his hair. Oliver stood apart from them both, breathing hard.

Fred finally broke the silence. “He’s… gonna be okay, right?”

Oliver didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low, hoarse. “I don’t know.”

Fred looked up, startled. “What do you mean you don’t... ”

“I mean,” Oliver said, “whatever’s wrong with him... it’s not just exhaustion. Pomfrey looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

George’s pacing slowed. “You think… he’s sick?”

Oliver hesitated. “I think he’s been hiding something. And I think whatever it is, it’s been eating him alive.”

Fred winced. “We didn’t know...!”

“Then start paying attention,” Oliver snapped. His voice cracked again. “He’s my best friend. And if...! If anything happens to him...! ”

He broke off, unable to finish.

The twins said nothing.

After a moment, the Hospital Wing doors opened again. McGonagall stepped out, looking older than she had an hour ago. She regarded the three boys with quiet intensity.

“Madam Pomfrey will monitor him through the night,” she said. “You’ll return to your dormitories. No arguments.”

Fred swallowed hard. “Professor, is he... ”

“Alive,” McGonagall said sharply. Then, softer: “But unwell. His magic is unstable. We suspect the stress has caused a temporary imbalance. Perhaps magical exhaustion.”

George frowned. “That bad?”

McGonagall gave a curt nod. “Worse, if he doesn’t rest.”

Oliver took a hesitant step forward. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Pray he wakes up in the morning,” she said quietly. “And in the meantime...” she hesitated, the steel in her tone cracking for just a second. “I’ll be writing to the Headmaster. It may be wise to relieve Mr. Weasley of his Head Boy duties until he recovers.”

Fred’s stomach dropped. “You can’t...! He worked his whole life for that!”

McGonagall’s eyes softened. “Then perhaps that’s part of the problem.”

She turned and disappeared back through the door.

Inside, Madam Pomfrey worked in near silence. Percy lay motionless, breathing shallow but steady. She ran her wand gently across his arm, watching the diagnostic lines flicker red and gold.

The glamour was still holding... barely. It shimmered faintly over his skin, masking the faint blue patterns beneath. The boy had woven it tight. Too tight.

“Foolish child,” she murmured. “You’ve been hiding this for weeks, haven’t you?”

The air around Percy pulsed once, then went still.

In the world of dreams, Percy burned.

The curse wasn’t fire, not really.

But it felt like it.

A heat that wasn’t heat, a pain that crawled beneath the skin, twisting and pulling. His blood felt too thin, his heart too loud.

Every breath scraped raw in his throat.

He could hear something - laughter? The echo of the twins, far away, calling him “perfect Percy” with that teasing lilt.
He wanted to shout back, but his voice wouldn’t work.

The world blurred into sand -- the tomb, Egypt, the faint glow of runes.
He remembered falling. Bill’s voice, distant and terrified.
Then darkness again.
And now this: a burning that wouldn’t end.

He tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey. The warmth drained away, replaced by cold so deep it hollowed him out.

In the waking world, his hands clenched weakly at the sheets. The dark spots on his back deepened, spreading like spilled ink beneath the glamour. His breathing hitched.

Once.

Twice.

Before evening again.

Outside, the twins sat on the bench near the door, heads bowed. Fred’s knee bounced restlessly; George’s fingers tapped against his wand in silent rhythm. Neither spoke.

Oliver stood by the window, staring into the rain-soaked night.

For once, no one had anything clever to say.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was half-lit by dying embers when the portrait hole swung open.

Fred barely had one foot inside before Ginny launched at him.

“What happened?” she demanded, grabbing a fistful of his coat. Her brown eyes were wide, frantic. “I heard... someone said... Percy collapsed? Is it true?”

Fred froze. George stumbled in behind him, looking hollow. Oliver stood in the doorway, silent, his jaw tight.

The room fell quiet. The fire crackled softly. A few lingering students stared, whispering behind hands.

Ginny’s voice broke the silence again, sharper this time. “Fred! Answer me!”

Fred’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat felt like sandpaper. George stepped in instead, voice low. “He... he fainted. Pomfrey said he’s resting.”

“That’s it?” Ginny’s voice trembled with disbelief. “He just fainted?”

Oliver finally spoke, tone clipped, exhausted. “He didn’t just faint.”

All eyes turned to him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week: eyes red, posture stiff. His Quidditch robes were still damp from the rain. He rubbed a hand over his face, then glanced at the Weasleys, one by one... Ginny, Ron, Fred, George.

“I’m done,” he said flatly. “I don’t want anything to do with you lot right now.”

Fred’s face went pale. “What...? Oliver, come on... ”

“No,” Oliver snapped. His voice cracked, sharp and cold. “Your brother nearly passed out on the floor after shouting at you for experimenting on first years. You’ve been winding him up for months, and you just... just laughed.”

Fred’s stomach twisted. “We didn’t...! ”

“He’s my best mate,” Oliver said. “And you’ve been treating him like a bloody nuisance.”

The room went deathly silent.

Even the fire seemed to shrink.

Oliver looked away, shaking his head. “He’s lucky he’s alive. And I’m done cleaning up the messes you cause.”

Without another word, he turned and left.

The portrait slamming behind him with a dull thud.

Ginny let go of Fred’s coat. The firelight flickered across her face, all freckles and fury.

“Is it true?” she asked, voice trembling now. “You made him collapse?”

Fred’s throat closed up. “Ginny, we didn’t...!”

“Don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“Ginny,” George said quietly, “we didn’t make him collapse. He... he was yelling, and then he just... went down.”

“So you did make him yell,” she shot back.

Ron, who’d been standing awkwardly near the back with Harry and Hermione, stepped forward. “Ginny, stop shouting.”

She rounded on him. “You shut up, Ronald! You didn’t even notice anything was wrong with him either!”

Ron stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Ginny said, eyes flashing, “you’re all so busy fighting or joking or whatever it is you do, you didn’t see him! He looked awful for weeks!”

Hermione reached for her arm. “Ginny...!”

“No!” Ginny’s voice cracked. “He’s our brother!”

Her voice echoed in the quiet room. For a moment, no one said anything. Fred’s hand trembled. George stared at the floor.

Harry glanced between them all, uncertain, wishing he could vanish.

Finally, Ron muttered, “He’s probably fine. Pomfrey’s looking after him.”

Ginny turned away, shaking her head. “You’re all idiots.”

She stormed off toward the girls’ dormitory, the door slamming behind her.

Fred dropped into a chair, staring into the fire. George sank beside him, silent. Ron stayed standing, jaw clenched.

Hermione exhaled softly. “Maybe you should just... give it a day. Let things calm down.”

Fred didn’t answer.

The flames hissed. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled across the mountains.

Morning came gray and heavy with rain.

In the Hospital Wing, the curtains around Percy’s bed rustled faintly. He stirred, eyes blinking open. The light stung.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then the smell of antiseptic and the faint hum of magical wards brought it all back. The shouting. The dizziness. The weightlessness as everything went black.

He sat up too quickly. The world tilted. A dull ache pulsed in his temples.

Madam Pomfrey appeared instantly, wand in hand. “Easy, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy blinked, struggling to focus. “How long...”

“Since last night,” she said briskly, placing a hand on his shoulder to keep him still. “You fainted. Magical exhaustion.”

“Magical...?” Percy began, but she cut him off.

“Yes, yes. You’ve overworked yourself. Studying, patrolling, Merlin knows what else. You young people have no sense of limits.”

Percy stared down at his hands. The faint blue under his skin - the curse - pulsed once, hidden beneath the glamour. He could feel it simmering. He forced a smile. “I’m fine now.”

“You’ll rest,” she said firmly. “Professor McGonagall will see you after lunch.”

That silenced him.

By the time he reached the Great Hall at midday, his steps were steady but slow.
Conversations rippled around him. Forks clattered. Students whispered. He caught fragments --“fainted,” “overwork,” “Head Boy,” -- before he sat down at the far end of the Gryffindor table.

“Percy!”

He turned. Penelope Clearwater was hurrying toward him, her expression a mix of relief and worry. Oliver followed, quieter, carrying two trays.

“Merlin, you scared us,” Penelope said, sliding onto the bench beside him. “I came by the Hospital Wing last night, but Pomfrey wouldn’t let anyone in.”

Percy’s lips curved into a practiced smile. “I’m fine, really.”

“You don’t look fine,” Oliver muttered. His voice was gentle this time: cautious, almost guilty. “You look like you’ve been hexed by a Bludger.”

“Thank you for the concern,” Percy said dryly. “But I assure you, I’m back to full strength.”

Oliver gave him a long look. Then, with a sigh, he set a plate of toast in front of him. “Just eat something, yeah?”

“I don’t...”

“Eat,” Oliver said firmly, though his tone was soft. “You’ll make me feel better.”

That earned a quiet laugh. Percy obeyed, if only to stop the worried looks.
For a while, they ate in companionable silence.

Penelope glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You really should rest more, Percy. You don’t have to carry everything yourself.”

He smiled faintly. “Someone has to.”

Her brow creased. “Not if it breaks you.”

He didn’t reply.

At the far end of the table, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny watched from a distance.

“He’s up,” George murmured.

“Looks better,” Ron added.

Ginny didn’t say anything. She had her chin in her hand, staring at her brother. Relief washed through her... cold and fleeting.
He was there. He was talking, eating. Smiling, even.

But she couldn’t shake the image of Oliver’s expression last night. Or the quiet fury in his voice when he said Percy looked like death.

She wanted to walk over, to ask if he was really alright. To apologize for not noticing sooner.
But the guilt stuck in her throat like a hex.

So she just watched, pretending to focus on her oatmeal, and said nothing.

McGonagall found him just as he was leaving lunch.

“Mr. Weasley,” she called.

He straightened immediately, forcing composure. “Professor.”

Her eyes softened. “You gave us quite a scare yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” he said automatically. “It won’t happen again.”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid that’s not entirely up to you.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She gestured toward an empty classroom nearby. “Let’s speak privately.”

The room was dim, dust motes floating in the air. Percy stood rigidly, hands clasped behind his back, waiting. McGonagall folded her hands.

“Madam Pomfrey and I have discussed your condition,” she began carefully. “You’ve been under significant stress. Too much, it seems.”

Percy’s stomach dropped. “With respect, Professor, I assure you...!”

“You collapsed in the middle of a corridor,” she interrupted gently. “You’re not well.”

He swallowed. “Just a momentary lapse, I promise. I’ll pace myself better.”

Her expression didn’t change. “You’ll be taking a temporary leave from your Head Boy duties.”

The words hit like a physical blow.
“What?”

“It’s for your health,” she said quietly. “Professor Dumbledore and I agree...”

“You’ve written to the Headmaster?” he cut in sharply. “For this?”

Her brows knit. “He deserves to be informed when one of his students nearly injures himself from overwork.”

“I’m not injured!” Percy’s voice rose, echoing against the stone walls. “I’m perfectly capable of resuming my duties.”

McGonagall blinked, startled. Percy Weasley, raising his voice was a rare event indeed. But his composure was fracturing, splintering under weeks of pressure.

“Mr. Weasley,” she said slowly, “no one is questioning your dedication...”

“Yes, you are!” he snapped. “You think I can’t handle responsibility, that I’m some overachieving fool who can’t take a bit of strain...!”

“Enough,” McGonagall said sharply. “You are exhausted, and...”

“I can’t afford to be!” His voice cracked. He took a shaky breath, forcing his tone back under control. “If I... If I step back now, I lose everything I’ve worked for. The Ministry! My recommendation...!”

Her expression softened, pity flickering behind her glasses. “You’ll still have your place, Mr. Weasley.”

“No,” he said, quieter now, but shaking. “You don’t understand. You can’t.”

There was a long silence.

McGonagall sighed, her voice gentler than before. “You’ve always carried too much, Percy. But even the strongest wand can splinter if it’s overused.”

He didn’t respond. His jaw was tight, eyes burning, every muscle straining to hold the mask in place.

Finally, she said softly, “You’re dismissed. Rest, Mr. Weasley. That’s an order.”

He turned stiffly and walked out.

Outside, the corridors buzzed faintly with afternoon chatter. Percy’s ears rang. His hands trembled, the faint shimmer of glamour flickering for half a heartbeat before stabilizing again.

He leaned against the wall, chest heaving.

Head Boy no longer.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much... but it did. Every word, every sacrifice, every sleepless night… all for what? A single fainting spell, and suddenly he was unfit. Irresponsible. Weak.

He couldn’t let them see weakness. Not the professors, not his siblings. Not anyone.

He’d keep up appearances. He had to.

The Weasleys didn’t have galleons to throw at Healers in St. Mungo’s. 

He couldn’t fail.

He couldn’t be another burden.

Percy drew in a shaky breath, squared his shoulders, and walked back toward the common room. Each step a deliberate act of defiance.

Back in Gryffindor Tower, the whispers had already started. Students glanced up as he entered, murmuring behind their hands. Fred and George looked up from the sofa, startled.

He ignored them.

“Perce...!” George began.

Percy brushed past. “Not now.”

He climbed the stairs without looking back.

The twins exchanged a glance. For once, neither had a joke to make.

That night, Ginny saw him in the common room, hunched over parchment, quill scratching furiously.
She opened her mouth - Are you really alright? - but when he looked up and offered that tired, perfect smile, she lost her nerve.

She just nodded, turned away, and whispered goodnight.

And Percy, alone in the firelight, pressed his trembling hand over his arm, where the cursed warmth pulsed faintly beneath his skin, and told himself, again, that everything was fine.

Even as the lie began to tremble.

Chapter Text

The castle slept under a pale, watchful moon.

Percy slipped from his dormitory, his steps careful against the creaking floorboards. The torches in the corridor had been dimmed; the shadows were long and whispering.

He clutched a lantern in one hand, his wand in the other, and made his way toward the library.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew it.

If Madam Pomfrey or Professor McGonagall caught him... well, they’d likely send him home for the rest of term. But the glamour was fading. He could feel it. The curse beneath his skin had begun to flare again, hot and pulsing, as though it mocked every concealment charm he layered on top.

He needed something stronger. Something that would last.

And he had an idea.

Runes.

Ancient magic that worked differently from spells: older, quieter, and sometimes more binding. He remembered a dusty passage from “Runic Integration and Magical Binding”, buried in the restricted section.

If charms failed… perhaps sigils wouldn’t.

The library door creaked open under his wand. The smell of parchment and candle wax greeted him like an old friend. He slipped inside and closed it behind him.

His lantern glowed softly as he weaved through the aisles, past shelves of neglected tomes. He found the book after ten anxious minutes, wedged between Magical Auras: A Study and Anatomy of Cursed Energies.

His hands trembled slightly as he opened it. The ink was faded, the runes drawn in old ink, annotated by someone with sharp handwriting.

He scanned until he found it... a sigil for “Containment and Masking of Magical Essence.”
It looked deceptively simple: three intersecting runes carved in a triangular loop.

He copied it carefully into his notebook, memorizing the pattern.

When he straightened, the silence felt too loud. His pulse echoed in his ears. He replaced the book, took one last look around, and slipped out the door just as the clock struck two.

By dawn, the first light had begun to spill across the towers.

Percy sat in confinement of his bed curtains, quill poised, the runic triangle sketched neatly on a scrap of parchment. His wand hovered above it. The faint lines of the glamour spell shimmered weakly over his skin, threatening to collapse.

“This has to work,” he whispered.

He drew a deep breath and whispered the incantation he’d pieced together from the text.
The rune flared blue, then sank into his skin like water.

For one breathless moment, he felt the curse still. It's restless heat dimming, the shimmer smoothing out completely.

Then silence.
Stillness.
Peace.

It worked.

He exhaled shakily, almost laughing in relief.

By the time Oliver returned from Quidditch practice, cheeks flushed and hair wind-tossed, Percy looked perfectly normal. Dressed, polished, precise. As though nothing had ever been wrong.

“Morning,” Oliver greeted, throwing his gear bag down. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Percy said smoothly, stacking his books. “I intend to attend all classes today.”

Oliver squinted at him. “You sure? You nearly gave Pomfrey a heart attack yesterday.”

Percy smirked faintly. “I assure you, I’m fine. She’ll be relieved to hear it.”

Oliver studied him for another moment before shrugging. “Alright, study head. Just don’t faint again, yeah? I can’t carry you and my broom.”

Percy rolled his eyes, amused. “Noted.”

At breakfast, the Great Hall was loud and bright.

Fred and George spotted him first, exchanging a glance that was half relief, half guilt.
They didn’t dare say anything.

Ron, sitting beside Harry and Hermione, whispered, “He looks alright, doesn’t he?”

“Better than alright,” Hermione murmured. “Almost… glowing.”

“Maybe Pomfrey fixed him,” Harry said, not entirely convinced.

At the far end of the table, Ginny looked up from her toast. Percy was laughing softly at something Oliver said. The sight eased something tight in her chest. For the first time in days, he looked like himself.

But when he turned slightly, the morning light caught his face... and for a flicker of a second, she thought she saw something shimmer beneath his skin, like light under glass.

She blinked.

It was gone.

Herbology that afternoon was humid and crowded, the air thick with damp earth. Gryffindors and Slytherins shared the greenhouse, which never boded well.

Professor Sprout bustled about, handing out thick gloves and pruning shears. “Today we’ll be studying Venomous Tentacula,” she announced cheerily. “A mature one, so mind your fingers!”

The students groaned and shuffled into pairs.

Percy partnered with a quiet Slytherin, while Oliver helped Professor Sprout with the larger plant at the front. The room hummed with chatter and rustling leaves.

Everything felt normal... until it didn’t.

Halfway through the lesson, the curse inside Percy’s chest flared hot.

Sudden.

Sharp.

And burning.

He froze. The rune beneath his skin pulsed violently, a dark spot on his back burned.

His vision blurred. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The rune - meant to contain magic - had begun to clash with the curse’s raw energy, fighting it.

“Mr. Weasley?” Professor Sprout called. “Are you quite... ?”

He didn’t hear her. His magic surged out like a wave. Wild and uncontrolled.

The Tentacula nearest him jerked upright.

And across the room, the one in front of Oliver lashed out violently, its vines snapping through the air.

Students screamed as Marcus Flint - the one sitting nearby not expecting this kind of sudden incident - stumbled backward, his neck caught by a vine that coiled tight around him. The plant hissed, tightening its grip.

“Merlin’s beard!” Professor Sprout shouted.

“Everyone back!”

Oliver lunged forward, slashing at the vines with his wand. “Diffindo!”

The vines recoiled but tightened again. The Tentacula’s leaves flared red, thrashing like angry snakes.
Percy clutched at his wrist, gasping as sparks spilled from his fingertips: blue and gold, uncontrolled.

“Percy!” Oliver yelled. “Stop it...! Whatever you’re doing, stop!”

“I... I can’t!” Percy’s voice cracked. “It’s... clashing... ”

“Finite Incantatem!” Professor Sprout cried, her spell deflecting the plant’s strike. “Wood! Get him clear!”

But Oliver didn’t move away. He turned toward Percy, who was trembling now, eyes glowing faintly with uncontrolled magic. The air crackled around him, bending light.

“Percy, listen to me,” Oliver said firmly, stepping closer. “You need to calm down, alright? Just... breathe.”

The words barely reached him. The rune burned brighter, the mark searing up his back like molten glass.

He could feel it. His glamour unraveling under the strain, the curse pushing back like a beast in chains.

“I can’t... ” he whispered. “It’s breaking...”

“Percy!” Oliver grabbed his shoulders. “Look at me!”

Something in that voice -- steady, commanding -- cut through the haze. Percy gasped, forcing his focus outward. He drew in one shaky breath, then another.

The magic shuddered - flared once - then snapped back inside him like a collapsing star.

The vines fell limp. The greenhouse filled with smoke and the stench of burnt roots.

Marcus Flint slumped to the ground, coughing, bruised but alive.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Professor Sprout barked, “Class dismissed! All of you, out!”

Students scrambled for the door, whispering in frightened tones. Oliver stayed where he was, one hand still on Percy’s shoulder.

“Can you stand?” he asked quietly.

Percy nodded weakly. His face was pale as parchment, sweat dripping down his temple. The rune mark on his back glowed faintly beneath his clothes.

“Hospital Wing,” Sprout said, her voice tight. “Now.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He slung Percy’s arm over his shoulder and half-led, half-dragged him out of the greenhouse.

The walk through the corridors felt endless. Percy’s breaths came shallow and uneven.

“I told you to rest,” Oliver muttered. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Percy managed a weak laugh. “Would you believe me if I said I was experimenting?”

“Not even slightly.”

By the time they reached the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey was already waiting, alerted by Sprout’s Patronus.

“For heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed, ushering them inside. “Twice in one week!”

She waved her wand sharply, conjuring a diagnostic glow over Percy. The light flickered erratically, colors warping from blue to crimson. “His magical signature is unstable again,” she muttered. “This is no ordinary exhaustion.”

Oliver hesitated. “Professor Sprout said it was some sort of clash... ”

Pomfrey cut him off. “Enough, Mr. Wood. He’ll recover with rest. I’ll inform Professor McGonagall.”

“Is he... ”

“Alive, yes. Foolish, absolutely.”

She glanced sharply at Percy, who was barely conscious. “You, young man, will not be leaving this bed until I say so.”

Oliver stepped back reluctantly. “Right. I’ll… tell the others.”

Before he left, he looked down at Percy: pale, still trembling faintly. His voice softened.
“Stop trying to fix everything on your own, Perce. You don’t have to.”

Percy didn’t answer. His eyes had already fluttered shut.

When McGonagall arrived later that afternoon, Madam Pomfrey showed her the erratic readings.
“It’s as though his own magic is rebelling,” Pomfrey said quietly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

McGonagall frowned. “Could this be connected to that… concealment you mentioned?”

“I suspect so,” Pomfrey admitted. “He’s hiding something. But what, I can’t yet tell.”

McGonagall looked down at Percy’s still form, lips pressed thin. “Then we’ll have to watch closely. No more classes for now.”

She turned toward the window, watching the rain streak the glass. “And for Merlin’s sake, let’s hope this isn’t worse than it looks.”

Meanwhile, in the common room, the Weasleys sat in tense silence.

Fred rubbed at his temples. “Sprout said Percy lost control of his magic.”

George muttered, “That’s twice in a week.”

Ron frowned. “He’s not saying what’s wrong, is he?”

“No,” Ginny whispered, staring at the fire. “He’s hiding it.”

No one argued. They all knew it was true.

And somewhere far above, in the quiet of the Hospital Wing, Percy dreamed of burning blue light and runes glowing and angry.

And the cold, crawling voice of the curse whispering, You can’t hide me forever.

Chapter Text

The days following the Herbology incident were heavy with suspicion and whisper.

Gryffindors accused Slytherins of hexing the plants. Slytherins, in turn, whispered that Percy Weasley had lost control on purpose -- a show of power gone wrong.

The corridors seemed sharper now, the laughter more brittle. Even Peeves, sensing the unease, floated silently more often than not.

In the Great Hall, whispers trailed like smoke behind Percy’s name.

“Exploded a Tentacula, didn’t he?”

“Heard he nearly strangled Marcus!”

“Madam Pomfrey said he’s still out cold...”

By the second morning, the tension boiled over in the form of Marcus Flint’s sneer.

He cornered Oliver Wood outside the Great Hall, broad shoulders squared, the green and silver of his scarf twisted in his fists.

“Better keep your Golden Boy on a leash, Wood,” Flint drawled, teeth flashing, “Wouldn’t want him to hex the wrong player on the pitch, eh?”

Oliver froze. His jaw worked once before he stepped close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Say that again,” he said evenly.

Flint smirked. “I said...!”

He didn’t finish. McGonagall’s voice sliced through the corridor, sharp and unmistakable.

“Enough! If either of you would like to spend your Saturday scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons, do continue.”

Flint turned away, muttering. Oliver’s fists unclenched. His heartbeat, however, didn’t slow.

That night, in the Gryffindor common room, he sat apart from the others... eyes distant as Fred and George whispered strategy for the upcoming match. He’d always been consumed by Quidditch; it was the one thing that gave him focus, purpose.

Now it was just something to survive until Percy opened his eyes again.

The Quidditch match arrived with a sky swollen and grey.

Cold wind whipped the banners, and Dementors clustered beyond the pitch like black smudges on the horizon.

Harry flew like a streak of gold and scarlet; Oliver barked orders, half frantic, half proud.

Then the temperature dropped.

The breath left the crowd in one collective gasp as the Dementors swarmed.

Oliver’s shout was lost in the wind.
Harry’s broom jerked violently. Then fell.

The scream that tore through the stadium was inhuman, desperate.

Professor Dumbledore's voice shouting “Expecto Patronum!” echoed, drowned by the chaos of wind and shrieks and flapping robes.

When the world stilled, the match was lost.
The Snitch lay forgotten in the mud. Harry lay motionless on the ground, and Oliver fell to his knees beside him, his face ashen, his voice raw from shouting.

Later - much later - the Hospital Wing was full.

Harry Potter’s bed was surrounded by professors, and the faint hum of whispered healing charms.

Madam Pomfrey moved briskly between beds, muttering about broken bones, idiotic broomsticks, and Dementors that had no business near a school.

Percy stirred.

At first, it was only the sound: the scrape of a potion bottle, the soft rustle of curtains.

Then the pain arrived, dull and deep, rolling through his ribs. He sucked in a thin, shaky breath.

The world came back in fragments... the smell of disinfecting potion, the echo of soft voices, the clink of glass.

Something heavy sat on his chest, but it wasn’t pain exactly. More like pressure. The faint hum of magic still thrummed through the air.

“…Harry, dear, stay still...!” Pomfrey’s voice, crisp and commanding.

“I didn’t... mean to...” Harry mumbled, voice hoarse.

Percy blinked. Light stung his eyes. He turned his head slightly, wincing as something pulled tight across his shoulder.

The curtains around him were half drawn, a warm lamplight spilling through the gap. Beyond it, he could see Madam Pomfrey hovering over the next bed - Harry’s - her wand moving in small, precise circles.

He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep.
His memory blurred -- blue light, pain, Oliver shouting his name -- then nothing.

The memory of Herbology flashed briefly. The burning rune. The way his magic had gone wild.

He closed his eyes, guilt clawing at his ribs.

If anyone had truly seen it-...

“Don’t sit up yet, Mr. Weasley.”

Pomfrey’s voice came closer. She pushed aside the curtain, eyes sharp behind her spectacles. “Merlin, you gave me quite enough trouble this term.”

Percy swallowed. “How... long?”

“Two days,” she said briskly, checking the readings floating over his bed. “And don’t look at me like that. You’re lucky you didn’t fry your magical core completely.”

“Harry?” Percy rasped.

“Alive. Shaken. Fell off his broom. Dementors. The Headmaster’s looking into it.”

Percy’s heart twisted. “And the match?”

Pomfrey gave him a flat look. “Wood’s been inconsolable, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He turned his head toward the far corner. The bed beside Harry’s was empty, sheets still rumpled.

Oliver’s bed.

He could imagine it... Oliver sitting there until Pomfrey forced him out, his hands restless, his jaw tight. The idea hurt in a way he couldn’t name.

Outside, the rain had begun again, soft and steady.

The Hospital Wing was quiet now; Harry had drifted to sleep, and Pomfrey was locking her cabinet.

Percy lay back against the pillows, staring up at the stone ceiling. His hands trembled faintly beneath the sheets. The rune mark under his clothes pulsed weakly -a faint blue only he could see - against pale skin.

He’d hidden the truth this long... he could keep hiding it longer.

He had to.

The door creaked open sometime later. The footsteps were heavy, unhurried, familiar.

Oliver.

He looked terrible... hair damp, uniform rumpled, eyes rimmed red. The exhaustion clung to him like fog. He walked slowly, as though he wasn’t sure what to say, and stopped at the foot of Percy’s bed.

“You’re awake.”

Percy managed a faint smile. “So I am.”

Oliver exhaled, something breaking loose in his chest. “You picked a great time to nap, you know. Lost the match. Potter fell. Dementors swarming like mad...”

His voice cracked. He looked away. “I thought...!” He stopped. Shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You thought what?” Percy asked quietly.

Oliver’s hand curled against the bedpost. “Thought I’d lose you too.”

The words hung between them... soft, raw, heavy. Percy didn’t know what to say. His throat felt thick.

Oliver rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “Sorry. That was... stupid. I’m just tired. And you...”

He gestured vaguely, half angry, half desperate. “You’re always pushing yourself too far. I can’t -bloody hell, Perce, you scared me.”

Percy’s lips twitched faintly, a ghost of a smile. “You’re far too emotional for a Quidditch captain.”

“Shut up,” Oliver said, but it came out shaky, affectionate.

He sat down in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees. The silence between them wasn’t awkward this time... just full. The rain pattered against the window; somewhere down the hall, a clock chimed.

Oliver finally leaned back, eyes closed. “McGonagall says you’re to rest. Two weeks.”

Percy frowned. “Two...!”

“Don’t start,” Oliver said without opening his eyes. “She’ll hex me if you do.”

Percy sank back into the pillows, jaw tightening. Two weeks meant falling behind. Falling behind meant weakness. And weakness meant everything he’d worked for -his chance at the Ministry, the stability his family needed -  could crumble.

But when he looked at Oliver, slumped in exhaustion yet still there, he said nothing.

Then Oliver suddenly became restless as if just remembering something. He took out something from his robe -an envelope, edges creased and ink slightly smudged.

“Your mum’s owl nearly crashed into me on the way in. Poor bird looked like he was ready to drop dead mid-flight.”

Percy sat up a little, wincing at the pull in his chest. “Errol’s been threatening to retire for years.”

“Wouldn’t blame him,” Oliver said, passing the letter over. “Here. Thought you’d want it right away.”

Percy took it carefully, fingers brushing the familiar handwriting. “Thank you.”

Oliver hesitated. He looked like he wanted to joke again but didn’t. “McGonagall told me that she gave that break because you seemed to be... overworking yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Percy said, too quickly. “Just... tired.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “You lost control of your magic, Perce. That’s not tired, that’s blowing like a bludgered bird. You scared the hell out of everyone.”

Percy’s throat tightened. “It won’t happen again.”

Oliver let out a slow breath, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “I wonder if that sentence is a promise, or just you wanting to end this confrontation.’”

That pulled a small, reluctant laugh out of Percy.

“Just… take it easy,” Oliver said, quieter now. “Let people help you for once.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Oliver said, stepping back. “Go on, read it. She’s probably wearing a hole in the kitchen floor waiting to hear back.”

Percy looked down at the letter. “Most likely.”

“I’ll come by later. Holler if Pomfrey starts force-feeding you again.”

Oliver left him with a half-smile and a nod, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

My dear Percy,

Professor McGonagall’s written to tell me you’ve been unwell. She says you’ve been pushing yourself too hard again and need a proper rest. That’s all she said... but it’s enough to make me worry.

Please, love, listen to her. There’s no medal for running yourself ragged. We’re proud of you already. You don’t have to prove a thing to anyone.

Rest, eat something decent, and don’t rush back before you’re ready. Write me a line when you can. Just to say you’re all right. That’s all I need.

All my love,
Mum

 

Percy stared at the page for a long time after finishing, tracing the familiar loops of her handwriting with his thumb.

The words were gentle. Ordinary. But they pressed against the raw edge of something he didn’t want to look at too closely -guilt, maybe. Or relief.

He was sure Professor McGonagall purposely didn't tell his parents the whole fainting episode in details, he was sure she was just feeling a little bit guilty. Or else, he would receive a Howler.

He folded the letter carefully and set it beside his bed, staring at the ceiling until the light outside turned gold.

Chapter Text

The air in the Hospital Wing was cool and antiseptic, filled with the quiet hum of magic and the faint clink of potion bottles. Percy stirred, half-awake, as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the room.

Percy blinked his eyes open. His vision swam for a moment before settling on the blurry image of Harry Potter sitting on the next bed, pale and sheepish, his right arm wrapped in thick bandages that still shimmered faintly.

Harry noticed the movement. “Oh-uh, you’re awake.”

Percy rubbed at his temples, the familiar ache at the back of his skull pulsing faintly. “So it would seem,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “hey neighbor.”

Harry gave an awkward laugh. “Didn't plan for this to happen. Dementors.”

Percy let out a tired sigh. “Ah... right. Those things.”

Madam Pomfrey bustled over, checked Percy’s pulse, and muttered something about “reckless students” before marching away again. When she was gone, Harry looked at Percy more curiously.

“Everyone’s been talking about you,” Harry said quietly. “Said you… passed out during Herbology.”

Percy stiffened slightly. “A small magical imbalance,” he said quickly. “Nothing of concern.”

Harry didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. He stared at his hands for a moment before blurting out, “You’ve heard about Sirius Black, haven’t you?”

Percy looked at him sharply. “Yes. Escaped from Azkaban.”

Harry nodded, his expression tight. “They say he’s after me.”

Percy’s heart skipped. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Harry hesitated. “But he broke into the castle once already. I just… I keep wondering why. Why me?”

Percy considered him for a long moment... the boy who carried too much for someone his age. The weight of survival, of fame he didn’t ask for.

“I’m supposed to be resting for two weeks,” Percy said finally, adjusting his pillow. “Professor McGonagall’s orders. But that doesn’t mean I have to waste the time. If you truly want answers, perhaps I can help.”

Harry looked up, startled. “Help? You’d really... ?”

Percy smiled faintly, a bit of his old Head Boy confidence returning. “It’s not as though the Ministry will share Azkaban records with a third-year. But I know where to start. Patterns, family histories, curse documents… I can at least narrow the trail.”

Harry blinked, genuine gratitude flashing in his eyes. “Thanks, Percy. Really. It’s… nice to have someone to talk to about this.”

Percy tilted his head. “You have your friends.”

Harry shrugged. “They’re great. But they don’t... well, sometimes I feel like they think I’ll break if they say the wrong thing.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “Before this, the only adult I really talked to was Professor Lupin. He actually listens. But the Defense class…” Harry grimaced. “It’s mainly theory, and the professor sometimes doesn’t show up for class.. But really, nothing actually helps when there’s a criminal coming after your life.”

Percy’s expression softened. “Practical application has never been Hogwarts’ strength. Still, if you’re interested, we could look into offensive magic together. Something beyond the curriculum. There are safer ways to learn it than nearly dying on a Quidditch pitch.”

Harry’s face lit up like a Lumos charm. “You’d really do that?”

Percy smiled... a real one, small and almost shy. “If I’m to spend two weeks ‘resting,’ I might as well put the time to good use.”

“Thanks, Percy,” Harry said, his voice quieter now. “You’re… not like how Ron describes you.”

Percy raised a brow. “Oh? Should I be worried?”

Harry grinned. “He just thinks you’re too serious all the time.”

Percy chuckled under his breath. “Someone in this family has to be.”

That afternoon, Harry was discharged with strict instructions to not fly or duel for a week. Percy stayed behind, pretending to nap as Madam Pomfrey fussed over potions and notes. But his mind was buzzing... not from fever this time, but from something sharper.

Maybe this was good. Maybe helping Potter would distract him from the curse gnawing under his skin.

He was still lost in thought when another familiar voice broke the quiet.

“Percy?”

Ron stood at the door, clutching a small packet of Chocolate Frogs. Hermione and Harry hovered behind him.

Harry offered a quick, “See you later, Percy,” before slipping out with Hermione, leaving the brothers alone.

Ron walked over slowly, his eyes darting between the potion vials and the faint sheen of sweat on Percy’s temple.

“You look… better,” Ron said finally.

Percy gave a small shrug. “Recovery seems to be a theme around here.”

Ron tried for a smile, but it faltered. “So, uh… what happened? Pomfrey said you overused your magic?”

Percy kept his tone even. “It’s nothing dramatic. A combination of stress and overwork. McGonagall insisted on a two-week break... along with suspension from Head Boy duties.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “She what? But that’s... !”

“A minor setback,” Percy interrupted. “Temporary.”

Ron hesitated, fiddling with the wrapper in his hands. “You sure you’re okay? I mean, really okay? You’ve been weird since... since Egypt, actually.”

The mention of Egypt made Percy’s stomach tighten, but he forced his face into calm neutrality. “I assure you, Ron, I’m perfectly fine. Fatigue doesn’t constitute a family crisis.”

Ron frowned. “You always say that. But there’s something you’re not telling us.”

“I’m telling you what you need to know.”

“That’s not the same thing!” Ron’s voice cracked, frustration leaking through. “You think we’re all idiots or something? Like we can’t handle it?”

Percy met his gaze evenly. “You’re my brother, not my confidant. There’s a difference.”

The words stung.

Percy knew it as soon as they left his mouth. The way Ron flinched told him so.

Before either could speak again, Percy’s tone softened. “Look, Ron… the school is under threat. Sirius Black is out there, and I can actually help with that. That’s what matters right now... not my sleeping habits.”

Ron looked conflicted. “You’re helping with that?”

“In an academic capacity,” Percy said. “I’m assisting Potter. Research, mostly.”

Ron blinked. “You and Harry?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Percy said with a faint smirk. “He’s more inquisitive than he looks.”

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to keep arguing. Wanted to demand honesty, to pull back the mask Percy wore so tightly . But something in his brother’s face stopped him. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical; it was deep, carved into the bones.

“Fine,” Ron muttered finally. “Just… don’t overdo it again, okay?”

“I won’t,” Percy promised, though the words tasted hollow.

When Ron left, the room fell silent again. Percy leaned back against the pillow, his mind replaying the conversation.

He hadn’t lied. Not exactly.
But he hadn’t told the truth either.

He’d seen what the curse was doing... the way his veins sometimes pulsed blue under the skin, the way the air crackled faintly around him when he used too much magic. If Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey found out, they’d strip him of everything: his badge, his reputation, his future.

The Weasleys couldn’t afford another mouth to heal. He’d seen the bills for simple spell damage before... and curse-breaking was ten times worse. He couldn’t drain what little they had.

No. He’d fix it himself. Hide it. Control it.

And if the price was a little pain... 
He could bear that. He always had.

Percy closed his eyes, the echo of Harry’s gratitude and Ron’s concern still humming faintly in his ears. He’d built a careful web of half-truths... all to keep them safe from the truth of him.

And yet, as the night deepened and the faint pulse of magic stirred under his skin, Percy couldn’t help but wonder... 

How long before the web snapped?

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the dormitory curtains, hazy and pale, catching the dust in slow-moving beams.

Percy sat up carefully. Madam Pomfrey had dismissed him from Hospital Wing last night, but his body still heavy with the familiar dull ache that had become his constant shadow. The pain was quieter now... not gone, just muted, like a storm pushed to the horizon but never really dispersed.

Across the room, Oliver was gathering books into his satchel, muttering under his breath about practice schedules and essays. The sound was oddly comforting, grounding Percy in a normal rhythm that he no longer felt part of.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Oliver asked without looking up. His voice carried the quiet guilt of someone who knew the answer already.

Percy managed a small nod. “Perfectly fine.”

Oliver glanced over then, eyebrows drawn. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Percy tried to smirk, but it faltered halfway. “It’s one of the few things I’m bad at.”

Oliver sighed and slung the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. “Come on, then. Breakfast.”

“I’m not particularly hungry.”

“Tough. You’re coming anyway.”

Before Percy could argue, Oliver had already grabbed his wrist -- gently, but firmly enough to leave no room for refusal. He hauled Percy to his feet, half steadying, half dragging him toward the door.

“Oliver... honestly... !”

“Eat first, collapse later,” Oliver said briskly. “Healer’s orders. Or, well, Quidditch captain’s order, which is better.”

Despite himself, Percy almost laughed.

The Great Hall was loud with the usual morning chatter. Cutlery clinked, owls swooped down with letters, and the scent of toast and pumpkin juice hung warm in the air.

Oliver kept a close eye on Percy as they found a seat. Percy picked at his porridge, stirring it absently. His appetite had vanished weeks ago, replaced by that cold, twisting sensation just beneath his ribs... the reminder that something foreign lived there.

Across the table, the twins were already joking with Lee Jordan, Ginny leaning over her toast to roll her eyes at them. When she spotted Percy, she offered a small, tentative smile.

He tried to return it, though his lips barely moved.

“You could go to the library after this,” Oliver said, voice casual. “Nothing too heavy, yeah? Read something… not about magical theory for once.”

Percy looked up, startled. “Not about theory? That defeats the purpose of reading.”

Oliver gave him a flat look. “You know what I mean. Something light. Take a break.”

“Perhaps,” Percy said, the smallest thread of amusement in his voice. “If the stars align.”

Oliver snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

But the suggestion lingered.

After breakfast, when the others filtered out toward lessons or the common room, Percy lingered by the entrance of the Great Hall. His body felt strange today... heavier, somehow, as though gravity itself had decided to double its hold on him. His legs resisted movement; even breathing felt thick and deliberate.

Still, his mind clung to purpose.

He’d promised Harry he would look into Sirius Black.

And beyond that... he had another task.

The library was quiet as ever, its tall windows flooding the rows of shelves with filtered, golden light. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, undisturbed by footsteps.

Percy slipped in unnoticed, the familiar scent of parchment and ink wrapping around him like comfort.

He made his way to the far corner, where few students ever ventured. It was dim there, a nook between tall shelves of ancient reference books and forgotten records -- the perfect place to disappear.

He set his bag down, pulling free two volumes: Criminal Archives of the Last Century and Basic Runic Application in Magical Healing.

Two entirely different subjects. One for Harry. One for himself.

The moment his hand brushed the second book, a faint pulse of warmth traveled through his palm - his own magic stirring, restless. It had been acting strange all morning, thrumming beneath his skin like a contained storm.

He ignored it and opened the rune text. The page shimmered faintly, lines of neat diagrams describing energy flow and containment sigils. He traced one symbol absently with his finger. A protective rune designed to stabilize muscle fatigue.

That could help.

If he could inscribe it properly, maybe it would ease the stiffness, stop his limbs from trembling when he walked too long.

He could manage that much.

He had to.

For a while, the world narrowed to the soft rustle of pages and the steady scratch of his quill as he copied diagrams into his notebook. His writing was neater than ever; a kind of calm precision that distracted from the ache in his spine.

But as the minutes dragged into hours, his focus began to slip. The ache deepened into a sharp pull, then a slow burn. His arms felt like lead, and the runes on the page started to blur at the edges.

Percy pressed his palm to his thigh... felt the faint tremor beneath the skin, the tightening of his muscles like strings wound too tight.

No, not now.

He took a slow breath, forcing the magic in his body to still. It resisted. It was like wrestling with invisible waves, the curse pushing back, clawing against the boundaries he’d drawn.

His concealment rune - the one he’d etched onto his body days ago - pulsed in warning. It was faint but hot, a steady burn that told him the curse was fighting to surface.

“Not yet,” he whispered under his breath. “Not here.”

He closed his eyes, trying to balance the energies like Bill had once described in his letters - "magic is a conversation, not a command."

But this curse didn’t listen. It was no conversation. It was a scream.

A wave of dizziness hit him hard. His vision flickered, colors dimming at the edges. He caught the edge of the desk for support, his knuckles white.

The air around him crackled faintly.

Static.

Invisible magic colliding with itself.

His concealment rune burned again, fierce now, as if the curse underneath was biting at the surface. The veins under his skin glowed faintly blue.

“Stop,” Percy hissed, clutching his wrist. “Not now, not—”

Pain shot through his chest.

Sharp, unbearable.

His breath hitched... ! And then came the cough.

He pressed a hand to his mouth, trembling.

Once.

Twice.

And when he pulled his hand away, there was blood.

Bright, scarlet blood against pale skin.

For a long second, Percy just stared. The copper scent filled the air, metallic and real.

His mind raced ...  the curse is advancing, his magic is compensating, trying to isolate the damage, keep it from spreading to the core. It was a battle inside his own body, magic clashing with magic.

He wiped his hand quickly on a handkerchief, the shaking in his fingers betraying the calm mask he forced onto his face. He couldn’t be found like this. If anyone saw... 

He looked around.

The library was empty.

No witnesses.

No questions.

He swallowed the copper taste in his throat and took a slow breath. His chest felt raw, like something inside had torn.

But after a few moments, the pain receded... not gone, just dulled, buried again under the steady hum of concealment.

Percy sat back, dizzy and cold.

He could feel the curse, pulsing faintly beneath the surface of his skin... alive, angry, and caged.

He closed the rune book with trembling hands and whispered to the silence:

“I will not let you win.”

The words were quiet, but they steadied him.

He’d promised Harry he would find answers about Sirius Black. He’d promised himself he’d fix this. Fix everything.

He’d keep those promises, no matter how much it hurt.

Even if his own magic had to tear itself apart to protect him.

When he finally stood, his legs felt unsteady, the world swaying just slightly. He tucked the books under his arm, wiped the last trace of blood from his fingers, and adjusted his tie in the reflection of the glass window.

He looked almost normal.

Almost.

And that, Percy decided, would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Steam curled lazily from the cauldrons, thick with the scent of burnt nettles and something far less pleasant. Professor Snape prowled between the rows, his robes whispering against the flagstones.

Penelope Clearwater glanced across the table toward Cedric Diggory, who was carefully stirring his potion. His brow furrowed with concentration, the faint sheen of heat making his hair stick to his forehead.

“You’re sure you’re alright taking the extra duties?” she asked quietly. “You’ve enough on your plate with Quidditch and NEWTs.”

Cedric shrugged lightly, still stirring. “It’s temporary. Just until McGonagall lets your stubborn friend back in action.” He smiled faintly, kind but tired. “He’ll be fine.”

Penelope hesitated. “I’m not so sure. He looked pale the last time I saw him... more than usual.”

Before Cedric could answer, a voice sliced through the air.

“Miss Clearwater,” Snape drawled, eyes narrowing, “perhaps you’d care to enlighten the class on the potion’s current state before it turns entirely to sludge.”

Penelope froze, cheeks flushing. She bent hastily over her cauldron, but it was too late... the mixture was already fizzing violet, thick bubbles rising ominously.

A sharp pop echoed, followed by a puff of purple smoke.

“Five points from Ravenclaw,” Snape said coolly, then turned toward Cedric. “And five from Hufflepuff... for encouraging distractions.”

The class chuckled under their breath. Penelope’s shoulders hunched.

As Snape glided away, Cedric whispered, “He’s enjoying this far too much.”

“Always does,” Penelope murmured. “But still... Percy’s not himself lately. I think something’s wrong.”

Cedric hesitated, lowering his voice further. “You could write to Dumbledore.”

“He’s away. McGonagall’s handling things.”

Snape’s shadow fell over them again. “If you two are quite finished conspiring,” he said icily, “perhaps you’ll focus before the fumes melt what’s left of your reasoning.”

“Sorry, sir,” they muttered in unison.

By the time class ended, both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had lost a full ten points each, and Penelope’s nerves were frayed. Her friends glared as she packed her bag.

She left the dungeon with a sigh. Worry for Percy pressed heavier than the weight of her textbooks.

Meanwhile, in the library, Percy had buried himself in newspapers.

Stacks of The Daily Prophet surrounded him like fortress walls.

The pieces didn’t fit.

Black Sentenced to Azkaban Without Trial.
Explosion in Muggle Street Leaves Thirteen Dead.
Ministry Commends Aurors for Swift Action.

Thirteen dead... twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Only a finger left behind.

He tapped his quill against the table, brows drawn tight. The story was too clean. Too precise. The Ministry prided itself on procedure -- a wizard, especially one as infamous as Black, would have warranted a trial. But there was none.

And no explanation why.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ink-stained headlines. Pettigrew, Potter, Black, Lupin... all names tied together in school records he’d unearthed from the archive room that morning.

Percy frowned. So they knew each other. Perhaps even more than that.

He unrolled the parchment again:

James Potter.
Sirius Black.
Remus Lupin.
Peter Pettigrew.
Severus Snape.

All in the same year.

He drew a small circle around each name, connecting them with lines like threads of a web. And at the center, Sirius Black - the traitor, supposedly.

He frowned at a corner of the parchment where four strange names were scribbled in the margin, almost teasingly: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

He whispered them aloud. “Moony. Wormtail. Padfoot. Prongs…”

His mind whirred with logic, cataloging each name, dissecting their meaning.
Moony - lunar. Something to do with the moon?
Wormtail - sounded rodent-like.
Padfoot - a large animal, a dog perhaps.
Prongs - antlers? Stag?

They weren’t random. They were chosen with purpose. Nicknames among friends.

He underlined Moony twice. The one that puzzled him most.

He couldn’t shake the sense that this wasn’t just schoolyard mischief... it was part of something larger. Something threaded through the walls of Hogwarts itself.

He thought, briefly, of asking Professor Snape. But the man’s reaction during lessons - sharp, venomous whenever Harry Potter’s father was mentioned - told him enough.

Better not.

That left one option.

Professor Lupin.

He would speak to him that evening. But first, he needed to hide the trembling in his hand.

When Percy returned to the Gryffindor common room that evening, the fire had burned low, throwing lazy embers against the stone. Two familiar silhouettes crouched by the hearth, parchment spread between them, wands casting faint golden light.

Fred and George, whispering in that brand of trouble that could only belong to them.

Percy paused at the foot of the stairs. “You know,” he said, voice deceptively mild, “most students use the fire for warmth, not crime.”

Both twins jumped. Fred with a yelp, George with a guilty swipe that sent a quill skidding across the floor.

“Bloody hell, Perce... !” Fred clutched his chest. “You’re getting sneaky in your old age!”

Percy raised a brow. “Or you two are just getting sloppy.”

George gave a quick, nervous laugh and snatched up the parchment, half-folding it behind his back. But Percy caught the shimmer of ink before it vanished... the kind that looked too deliberate, too alive, to be normal.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” they said in unison, too quickly.

Percy folded his arms. “Revision?”

Fred winced. “Yeah, revision for... uh... Mischief Studies, O.W.L. level.”

Percy gave him a flat look. “There’s no such subject.”

The twins exchanged a glance: one of those rapid, silent conversations they were frighteningly good at. For a heartbeat, they both looked like they might lie again. But something in their expressions shifted; a flicker of guilt, maybe.

Fred sighed first. “Look, we weren’t gonna show you this... ”

“Because last time we did something questionable, you nearly keeled over,” George added, quieter than usual. “Didn’t fancy a repeat of that.”

Percy frowned, caught off guard. “I didn’t... !”

“You did,” Fred said firmly. “And Oliver would skin us if you faint again, so... ”

He spread the parchment out on the hearth rug with an air of forced nonchalance. “...consider this a peace offering.”

George’s tone was lighter, but his eyes stayed on Percy, studying his reaction. “Or maybe just… a test. Thought you might want to see what sort of mischief you’ve been missing while you’ve been Head Boying around.”

Percy hesitated, curiosity tugging at the edges of his composure. The parchment pulsed faintly in the firelight, its surface waiting... alive with secrets.

The parchment looked blank, unremarkable. Until George tapped his wand on it.

The ink shimmered and danced across the surface, forming lines and names.

'Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs proudly present… The Marauder’s Map.'

Percy quickly asked, “Where did you get this?”

“Filch’s office,” Fred said smugly. “We nicked it during detention last year. Thought it was a prank at first, but... look!”

“Reveal,” George said.

The parchment shimmered, then mocked him:

‘Did you think we’d give away our secrets so easily, you nosy git?’

George’s jaw dropped. “Every. Single. Time.”

Fred growled, stabbing at it again. “Unveil! Show! Revealus! Bloody cooperate!”

The parchment responded with another sneering line:

‘Try again, dimwit.’

Percy raised an eyebrow, lips twitching despite himself. “It’s mocking you.”

“Tell us about it,” Fred muttered. “We’ve tried every unlocking charm we know. The thing’s got an attitude worse than Filch.”

Percy leaned in, eyes narrowing. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” George said bitterly.

Percy drew his wand, muttered a few diagnostic charms under his breath. The parchment shimmered faintly -- layers upon layers of magic woven through it, complex and old.

“This isn’t student work,” he murmured. “These enchantments are far beyond your level.”

“Gee, thanks,” Fred said.

Percy ignored the jab, tracing the edges with his wand tip. “Whoever made this had to be brilliant… and reckless.”

The runes along the border caught his attention... not exactly modern Latin-based spellwork, but older, more playful structures, filled with intent and identity.

“This parchment knows its creators,” Percy said softly. “It won’t respond to anyone else.”

Fred frowned. “So it’s locked forever?”

“Not necessarily,” Percy said, lowering his wand. “But it means the magic recognizes only those who created it.”

He hesitated. Every instinct told him to confiscate it, hand it to McGonagall, do the proper thing.

But after weeks of being sidelined, stripped of title and respect, something in him refused.

“Keep it,” he said finally. “If you ever manage to unlock it, tell me. Don’t show anyone else.”

The twins blinked in shock.

“You’re serious?” Fred asked.

“Deadly.”

George tilted his head. “You’re not gonna write us up?”

Percy sighed. “Not today.”

Both twins stumped.

“You’re not taking it?” Fred asked, incredulous.

“I’m on break,” Percy said shortly. “Technically, I’ve no authority to confiscate anything. Consider yourselves lucky.”

As he turned away, George murmured, “Huh. Didn’t think Percy Weasley had it in him.”

Fred muttered to his twin, “Think we just hallucinated that.”

George shook his head slowly. 

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was alive with warmth and chatter when Percy went downstairs. The noise pressed around him - laughter, fire crackling, a chess game in progress - but his focus was fixed on the far corner, where Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat huddled over parchment and quills.

He hesitated. It still felt strange to approach them. He’d spent years lecturing... not confiding. But the questions clawed too fiercely at his mind to ignore.

“Evening,” he said, clearing his throat.

Ron blinked. “Percy?”

Harry straightened. “Are you... er, better? Madam Pomfrey said you were resting.”

“I am,” Percy replied briskly. “Mostly.” His eyes flicked between them, then to the empty space beside the fire. “Mind if I join you?”

Hermione quickly moved her books aside. “Of course not.”

Percy sat, lowering his voice. “I’ve been doing some research in the library.”

Hermione’s eyes lit up, but Percy didn’t smile.

“It’s about Sirius Black,” he said quietly.

Ron groaned. “Not more of him... !”

“Listen,” Percy interrupted. “The story doesn’t add up. He was sent to Azkaban without trial... none at all. That’s unprecedented, even for someone accused of that kind of crime. And there’s more. The night Pettigrew died, there were twelve Muggles killed in the explosion. But the records say Pettigrew’s body was never found. Only a finger.”

Harry’s expression hardened. “So he might not be dead?”

Percy exhaled. “It’s… possible. But that’s not all.”

He pulled a folded note from his pocket; a copied extract from the school archives. The names were written neatly across the parchment: James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew.

“They were all in the same year at Hogwarts,” Percy said. “They must have known each other well. And Professor Snape too.”

Ron whistled low. “Blimey. All of them?”

“Yes,” Percy said, frowning. “And I think that’s part of why no one’s speaking about it. Too many connections, too much history.”

Hermione bit her lip. “That would explain why Professor Lupin seemed… distant, when Sirius escaped.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Then we should ask him. He might tell us what really happened.”

Percy shook his head sharply. “No. Not yet.”

Harry blinked. “Why not?”

“Because something about him doesn’t add up either.” Percy’s tone softened, but the seriousness in it made even Ron look uneasy. “I’ve noticed his absences... every month, regular as the moon. And Snape…” He hesitated, recalling the faint sneer on Snape’s face as he handed over a small vial at the staff table. “Snape gives him a potion every few weeks, like clockwork. Always when he looks… ill.”

Hermione frowned deeply. “You think he’s sick?”

“Possibly,” Percy said carefully. “But the pattern is… too precise.”

He fell silent for a moment, eyes distant. In his mind, the words from the parchment echoed again - Moony.

He thought about the moon, the cycles, the potion. The quiet dread that hung around Lupin every few weeks.
And then, slowly, the pieces aligned.

His breath caught.

“Moony,” he murmured.

“What?” Ron asked.

Percy blinked, returning to the present. “A... nothing. Just… something I might have figured out.”

Hermione leaned closer. “Percy, what do you mean?”

He hesitated, glancing toward the window where the night sky pressed black against the glass.

“I think,” he said slowly, “Professor Lupin might be hiding something. Something he’s not proud of.”

Harry frowned. “You mean... ?”

“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” Percy cut in quickly. “But I do think there’s more to him than he’s letting on. His condition - whatever it is - might explain why he vanished during the full moons.”

Hermione’s face went pale. “You think he’s... !” She stopped herself, whispering, “a werewolf?”

The words hung heavy between them.

Ron’s eyes went wide. “Bloody hell.”

Harry looked torn, his voice tight. “He’s been nothing but decent to us. He taught me the Patronus Charm. He’s… kind.”

Hermione whispered, “That doesn’t mean it’s safe, Harry.”

Ron nodded slowly. “Hermione’s right. If he’s really... you know... ”

Percy raised a hand to calm them. “Listen. I’m not saying we accuse him of anything. But if he knew Sirius, if he was friends with him… he might have answers. And I might be able to ask without raising suspicion.”

Harry’s eyes flickered with hope. “You’d talk to him?”

“I could,” Percy said. “If I went under the pretense of… academic inquiry. The legal process of wizard trials, perhaps. It falls under Defense... I could frame it as wanting to understand how justice works when dark magic is involved.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. “That’s clever. And risky.”

“I’ve wasted enough time doing nothing,” Percy said softly. “If there’s truth to be found, I’d rather find it myself.”

Harry leaned forward, eyes bright. “Then do it. Please. If he’ll talk to anyone, it’s someone who sounds official.”

Ron looked between them, uncertain. “Just be careful, alright? Professor McGonagall’s already got her eye on you. Don’t go sniffing too close to whatever’s between Snape and Professor Lupin.”

Percy smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. “I’ll manage. I’ve got time to waste. And Ron, it's Professor Snape.”

The firelight caught his face as he stood -- shadows flickering like ink across parchment.

And as he left the common room, Harry turned to Hermione and Ron.

“You really think he’s right?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the closed portrait hole, where Percy had vanished.

“I think,” she said quietly, “we’re about to find out something very big.”

Chapter Text

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled faintly of burnt parchment and damp stone -- a scent Percy found oddly soothing. He paused outside the door, steadying his breath. His heart thudded heavier than usual, each beat pressing against his ribs like a warning.

He straightened his robes, adjusted his sleeve twice, and finally knocked.

“Come in,” came a calm voice.

Professor Lupin looked up from a desk cluttered with lesson plans and old copies of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. His expression, mild as ever, softened further when he saw who it was.

“Mr. Weasley,” Lupin said pleasantly. “I don’t recall assigning the Gryffindors any essays this week... especially you, since you’re supposed to be resting.”

Percy stepped in, closing the door behind him. “You're right, sir. I’m here on… a personal matter.”

Lupin’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah. That sounds ominous.”

Percy hesitated. The word personal suddenly felt like a risk. “It’s about… wizarding law. Specifically, the procedures concerning criminal trials under the Wizengamot.”

That earned a quiet, intrigued smile. “You came to a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for legal advice?”

“Defense,” Percy replied carefully, “and justice often meet at the same crossroads.”

That made Lupin lean back in his chair, visibly impressed. “Well said. Sit, then. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Percy sat, hands folded in his lap to hide the faint trembling. He could feel the ache creeping up his arms again... that dull, consuming burn. But he pressed on.

“I was reading,” he began, “about the Sirius Black case. I can’t find any record of a trial. No statements, no transcripts, no Ministry publication. It’s as if he was simply… declared guilty.”

Lupin’s expression froze for half a second. Not long enough to be noticed... unless one was looking closely.

Percy was.

“Curious,” Lupin said slowly, his tone neutral. “And what brought this to your attention?”

“I’ve been assisting with student safety notices. I thought it strange that the Ministry... ” he stopped himself before sounding too invested. “Well. Procedure matters to me.”

“Of course it does,” Lupin murmured.

For a while, the only sound was the gentle scratching of quills from the adjoining classroom beyond the wall. Percy could feel the silence stretch taut between them.

“Black was convicted of mass murder,” Lupin finally said. “Twelve Muggles. And… a wizard.”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Percy supplied, voice steady but eyes sharp.

Lupin nodded. “Yes.”

Percy swallowed. “You knew him.”

“I did,” Lupin said, quiet as snowfall.

There was weight in the words... grief, exhaustion, something raw that Percy recognized but couldn’t name. He wanted to ask a dozen questions; about the night Pettigrew died, about the others Lupin had known, about why a man could be condemned without a trial,- but the way Lupin’s gaze unfocused told him he shouldn’t.

Instead, he asked, “Do you think… anyone could have survived that explosion?”

Lupin’s eyes flicked to him, startled. “You’ve been doing more than light reading.”

“I like to understand the systems that fail,” Percy said softly. “How they might fail again.”

For a long while, Lupin said nothing. His hand drifted toward a pile of parchment, fingers brushing over the edge of a Defense essay, as if grounding himself in the present.

“Sometimes,” Lupin said, “we don’t want the truth because it demands something of us... courage, forgiveness, or worse, patience. But you… Mr. Weasley, you’re not afraid of truth, are you?”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would,” Lupin said gently. “You’ve got the kind of mind that won’t rest until the pieces fit.”

It should have sounded flattering. Instead, Percy felt a strange chill run down his spine.

He wanted to tell Lupin everything.

About the curse, the sleepless nights, the blood he’d coughed in the library... but his throat closed up at the thought.

He forced a polite smile. “I appreciate your time, sir. I should let you prepare for class.”

“Percy,” Lupin said before he could stand. “If you ever find that truth you’re chasing… be careful. Some truths don’t want to be found.”

Percy hesitated, nodded stiffly, and left.

Percy was almost down the west staircase when his leg gave out again.

He caught the railing just in time, pain shooting up through his thigh like a warning flare. His vision blurred for a second; his heart hammered in his ears. The runes etched on his skin throbbed faintly... as though his own magic was rebelling against him.

Not here. Please, not here.

He forced himself upright, breath shaking. The castle felt emptier than usual, the post-dinner quiet settling heavy around him. He’d stayed too long in the library, combing through newspaper clippings about Sirius Black and a long-forgotten name... Peter Pettigrew. But the words had begun to swim before his eyes, so he’d left, clutching his books too tightly, pretending his body wasn’t on the verge of giving out.

He almost made it to the corridor turn when the sound of boots against stone made him freeze.

“Well, well,” drawled a low, familiar voice. “If it isn’t our resident saint of Gryffindor.”

Percy tensed, looking up. Marcus Flint leaned against the wall ahead, broom slung over his shoulder, a crooked smirk carved onto his face. He looked freshly showered from Quidditch practice, damp hair plastered to his forehead, sleeves rolled up. The kind of swagger that always made professors sigh and teammates worship.

“Flint,” Percy greeted, too weary to sound irritated.

“Don’t sound so excited,” Marcus said lazily. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking around after curfew. Lost your halo somewhere?”

“I’m not lurking,” Percy muttered. “I was studying.”

“Of course you were.” Marcus’s eyes flicked over him, amused. “You ever do anything else?”

Percy didn’t answer, adjusting his books. He would’ve kept walking, but Marcus stepped directly into his path, blocking the corridor with that insufferable smirk. “Careful,” Percy said, voice tight. “Some of us don’t have time for childish games.”

Marcus’s grin sharpened. “Funny. You didn’t seem to think it was a game when your bloody plant tried to strangle me in Herbology.”

Percy froze.

The world tilted -- just a fraction, but enough. He could still see the scene: the vines snapping forward, curling viciously around Marcus’s neck, the way the class had shouted, the blue flare of uncontrolled magic bursting from Percy’s fingers before Professor Sprout broke the spell.

The shock.

The humiliation on Marcus’s face.

The glares that followed.

“I... !” Percy started, but Marcus cut him off.

“Don’t bother,” Marcus said, tone dark. “Already had enough apologies from professors trying to excuse their precious Gryffindor’s mistake.”

“It wasn’t... !” Percy’s voice faltered. He gripped his books tighter. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“Oh, I know,” Marcus hissed, stepping closer. “That’s what makes it worse. You couldn’t even control yourself. And you call yourself a prefect?”

Percy’s jaw clenched. “I was… unwell.”

“Unwell?” Marcus barked a laugh, loud and cruel. “That’s what you’re going with? You nearly throttled me in front of half the class, and you’re calling it unwell?”

Percy’s stomach twisted. He deserved the venom... Merlin, he deserved every word of it. “Flint,” he said quietly, “I'm not here to argue.”

“Then what?” Marcus snapped. “To save your conscience?”

Percy looked up, meeting his eyes. “To apologies.”

That single word made Marcus falter... only for a heartbeat. Then the sneer returned, sharper than before. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” Percy said. “But it’s all I can offer.”

Marcus stepped closer until they were barely a foot apart. “You think standing here looking sorry makes it better? You embarrassed me, Weasley. You humiliated me in front of my team. In front of Slytherins.”

His voice cracked, just slightly, on the last word - fury barely covering something rawer. Percy saw it. The crack in his armor.

“I know,” Percy said, softer now. “That I can't do anything to make it right.”

For a second, silence. Then Marcus laughed, low and sharp. “You’re pathetic.”

Percy’s fingers dug into the spine of his book. “Maybe. But I mean what I said. I’m sorry, Flint.”

“Don’t call me that,” Marcus snapped.

“Marcus, then.”

“That’s worse,” he muttered, glaring off to the side. “You lot think saying my name like it means something makes us mates.”

Percy tilted his head. “Does it?”

Marcus glared harder, but the fight in his eyes flickered uncertainly. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not often.”

“Merlin, no wonder everyone hates prefects.”

“That’s fair,” Percy said lightly. “But I’d rather be hated for trying than do nothing at all.”

That seemed to throw Marcus off more than anything. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked away with a sharp exhale, muttering, “You’re bloody infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

Another silence stretched between them, taut and uneasy. Percy could feel the throbbing in his leg returning, but he refused to show it. He wouldn’t give Marcus the satisfaction of seeing him weak again.

Marcus finally said, voice rough, “You really didn’t mean it? The plant thing?”

Percy shook his head. “No. I… lost control. And that’s not something I’m proud of.”

Marcus studied him, eyes narrowing as if trying to catch a lie. Whatever he saw made him pause. His tone softened... barely. “Huh.”

Percy hesitated, then said quietly, “If it helps, I’d like to make it up to you.”

Marcus scoffed. “What, by writing me an essay on proper wand control?”

“By helping you with yours,” Percy said simply.

That made Marcus blink. “What?”

“I saw the Charms text in your bag,” Percy said. “You’re studying. I assume it’s not for fun.”

Marcus stiffened, defensive. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Percy said. “Only that I have some time on my hands - two weeks, to be exact - and thought I could offer a hand. If you’re willing.”

Marcus looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “You want to tutor me?”

“If you’d like.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Of course you don’t,” Percy agreed, voice mild. “But there’s no harm in trying.”

Marcus glared at him, suspicion all over his face. “You pitying me, Weasley?”

“No,” Percy said carefully. “I’m making amends.”

Marcus laughed again, but it was shakier now. “You’re serious.”

“Always.”

“Figures.” Marcus shifted his weight, frowning. “Why the hell would you even want to help me?”

“Because I’m tired of hating people for no reason,” Percy said, tone honest but quiet. “And because I meant what I said. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’d rather fix things where I can.”

Marcus stared, caught between disbelief and something he didn’t want to name. Then, after a long moment, he muttered, “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” Percy said.

“You’re also bloody reckless. Wood’s gonna have a fit if he finds out.”

Percy smiled faintly. “Oliver doesn’t have to agree to everything I do.”

Marcus blinked, then smirked - properly this time, teeth flashing. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Weasley.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Percy said. “I’ve a reputation to keep.”

Marcus’s grin widened, less cruel now, more intrigued. “You really mean it, then? About tutoring?”

Percy nodded. “If you’ll have me.”

“Fine,” Marcus said after a pause. “Tomorrow. After second lesson. Old Transfiguration classroom by the west wing.”

“I’ll be there.”

Marcus slung his broom over his shoulder again, walking past him with an unreadable glance. “And Weasley?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever try to apologize to me again.”

Percy smiled faintly. “Then I’ll try to make sure I never have to.”

Marcus gave a short, surprised laugh - not mocking this time - before disappearing around the corner, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Bloody Gryffindors.”

Percy stayed there for a long moment after he was gone, hand pressed to his leg to keep it steady. The corridor was quiet again. The faint hum of magic under his skin pulsed painfully, but he barely noticed.

For the first time in a long while, someone had listened... even if that someone was Marcus Flint.

Maybe he hadn’t fixed anything yet.
But perhaps, tomorrow, he could start.

Chapter Text

The curtains of Percy’s four-poster bed glowed faintly in the dim seventh-year dormitory light. He sat up, pale and trembling, the open book of runes splayed before him like a conspirator whispering forbidden things. His wand hovered uncertainly in his right hand, trembling slightly. The symbols drawn in thin silver ink on the parchment shimmered faintly, and his heart raced with both excitement and dread.

He’d read three chapters already... every line of warning, every caution about magical interference, every grisly detail of rune resonance when placed upon a cursed body. He ignored them all.

He had no choice.

He lifted the hem of his night trousers, revealing the sharp lines of his knees and the taut cords of muscle beneath. His legs had grown weaker these past few days... his own magic and the curse battling endlessly beneath the skin, twisting energy against energy. He could barely walk more than ten minutes without feeling like the floor was moving under him.

He whispered the activation charm.

For a moment... nothing. Then, the runes lit up, sinking into his skin like fire brands. His breath hitched, and agony erupted. Every muscle in his leg convulsed violently, feeling as though the bones themselves were splintering apart.

His wand slipped from his hand.
He bit his lower lip to keep from crying out, but he had already prepared a powerful Silencing Charm around his bed curtains. No one would hear him scream.

And scream he did. The magic clashed viciously with the curse inside him, ripping through veins like molten iron, sparks of blue light flickering beneath his skin. The protective spells he’d layered over his vital organs flared brightly; trying desperately to contain the backlash.

It was like his own body was at war with itself.

Then, suddenly, the magic collapsed... The light faded. Percy slumped forward, unconscious, the rune pattern still faintly glowing across his calves before dimming to nothing.

To anyone who peeked through the curtain, he looked merely asleep... his face pale, his lips parted slightly, and his wand still clutched weakly in his hand.

The next morning dawned with the usual clatter and chatter of the Great Hall.

Percy dragged himself to the Gryffindor table, every step measured, his legs aching dully with a pulsing ache that radiated up to his chest. Oliver was already seated beside him, cheerfully stacking toast and bacon on his plate as though the other day's loss hadn’t dented his spirits.

“Morning, Perce!” Oliver greeted with a half-smile, though his eyes flicked over Percy’s paler-than-usual face. “You look like you’ve been up all night revising again. You really need to learn what sleep is.”

Percy gave him a weak smile. “Some of us have more than one thing to think about.”

Oliver laughed, but his gaze followed Percy’s. The redhead’s eyes were fixed on the Slytherin table, where Marcus Flint sat scowling into his porridge. 

Oliver frowned. “What are you looking at him for?”

“Nothing,” Percy said quickly, turning back toward his plate. “Just thinking.”

“You always are,” Oliver muttered good-naturedly, buttering his toast. “Try thinking about food for once.”

Two envelopes fluttered down in front of Percy’s plate.

For a heartbeat, his stomach dropped. Every Weasley child knew that two letters never meant good news. Oliver leaned sideways, curious, as Percy stared at them like they might sprout fangs and start shouting.

He braced himself for the tell-tale trembling of a Howler. None came. The envelopes lay there, quiet and perfectly ordinary, with his name written in warm, familiar handwriting.

The top one was from Charlie.

Percy exhaled, half in relief, half in dread. Of all his brothers, Charlie wrote the least, but his letters were always sincere. He broke the seal, smoothing the parchment open with trembling fingers.

Dear Percy,

Got a letter from Fred and George this week. Don’t get too worked up! They didn’t mean to worry me, but I could read between the lines. Something’s off with you. They said you’ve been “a bit pale” and “acting weirdly responsible.” Which, coming from those two? Means you’re probably halfway dead and still trying to be perfect.

I’m not telling Mum and Dad, don’t worry. Figured you’d rather not have them fussing yet. But I am going to fuss, because I remember a certain freckle-faced brother who used to follow me and Bill around the orchard, demanding to hold the broom even when he could barely lift it. You were five, maybe six, and when you fell and scraped your knee, you didn’t cry. You just said, 'I can fix it myself.’

That’s you all over, isn’t it? Always trying to fix everything yourself.

Listen, Perce.
Even dragons have sense enough to rest when they’re burned. If your body’s warning you, don’t ignore it. There’s no medal for breaking yourself in half.

I’m sending along a tonic recipe we use at the reserve. It’s for strained muscle fibers and magical fatigue. Tastes like old socks (yuck!), but it works wonders. You’ll need:
1. Powdered valerian root and salamander ash (check in the Hogsmead if you can).
2. Mix it with peppermint infusion.
3. No heat, just stir till it glows faintly green.

Take it twice a day. It should help with exhaustion and stop that trembling you keep pretending nobody notices.

You don’t have to write back if you don’t want to talk, but I’d like to know you’re okay. Just one line, even if it’s ‘Still alive, stop worrying.’

Take care of yourself, baby brother. You always were the clever one. Don’t go proving you’re the stubborn one too.

Charlie

P.S. I miss you. It’s quieter here without you trying to correct my Latin on the dragon charts.

Percy’s throat tightened. He could almost hear Charlie’s laugh through the ink... that rumbling, easy voice, the warmth of someone who didn’t judge, only worried.

He blinked rapidly, trying to keep his expression neutral. Across the table, Fred and George had gone suspiciously quiet, eating with unnatural speed. They bolted the moment their plates were clean. Percy’s eyes followed them, narrowed but soft with reluctant fondness.

Then he looked down at the second envelope. The handwriting was neater; longer, looping strokes that reminded him of parchment and candlelight.

Bill.

He opened it carefully, already bracing himself for his eldest brother’s gentle scolding.

Perce,

Ginny wrote to me. And before you sigh, no, I’m not telling Mum and Dad either. She just said you’ve been “tired and strange lately,” which from Ginny means she’s been watching you like a hawk.

I know how heavy things can feel. I’ve been there, pretending I was fine while the curse-breakers around me worried. It doesn’t help to pretend. Talk to someone, or at least let us help from afar.

Charlie send a letter to me about you, his tonic should help, but more than that, promise me you’ll rest. Please, Percy. The world won’t end if you put down your quill for a day.

When term ends, I’m coming home early. We’ll have a proper talk. Just us siblings. No responsibilities, no titles. I’ll even make sure Mum doesn’t hover. You can tell us anything or nothing at all, and we’ll still be proud.

You’re allowed to stop trying to be perfect. You already are. To us.

Write back, okay? Even if it’s just to complain about Charlie’s handwriting.

Always your big brother,
Bill

 

Percy swallowed hard, blinking back a sting behind his eyes.

Bill’s words were simple, but they carved right through the walls Percy had so carefully built around himself. The weight of responsibility, of silence, of trying to stay useful despite everything... it all pressed against him at once.

He folded the letters carefully, smoothing the creases with reverent precision.

Oliver, watching him from the corner of his eye, finally spoke. “Everything all right?”

Percy nodded. “Just my brothers.”

Oliver smiled faintly. “Good. They’re good blokes, your family. Worry too much, maybe, but that’s their job.”

“I suppose it is,” Percy murmured.

“You barely ate anything,” Oliver said disapprovingly, eyeing the untouched porridge. “Don’t make me spoon-feed you, Weasley.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Percy retorted dryly, which earned a laugh from Oliver.

When they finished, Oliver stood, stretching. “I’ve got class in ten. You?”

“I think I’ll go to the library,” Percy said smoothly.

Oliver grinned. “Of course you will. Try to read something not full of numbers or runes, yeah? Maybe a romance novel.”

“Highly unlikely,” Percy said with the faintest smirk.

Oliver left, still chuckling. 

Percy sat there long after Oliver left, the two letters lying in his lap.

Bill’s neat loops, Charlie’s uneven lines  both warm, both sincere. Both so them.

He was touched. Deeply, painfully touched. They worried, they cared, they saw him in a way he didn’t deserve.

And yet, what could he possibly say back?

He couldn’t tell them everything. Not about the curse. Not about the shaking in his hands, or how sometimes the world tilted sideways when he stood too quickly. Not about the fainting, the exhaustion that never really went away.

They would try to help, of course. They always did.

But there was nothing they could do. Not really.

Because Percy understood something his family didn’t... or refused to.

The Weasleys were an old name, yes, pureblood by lineage if not by fortune. By right, they should have been respected, influential. But the world didn’t care about rights.

Not when your father worked in the Ministry for a department no one remembered existed. Not when one salary tried to stretch over seven children, a cluttered house, and endless repair charms that never quite held.

Percy loved his family. He really did. But love didn’t fill plates or pay rent. Love didn’t make space in a too-small house where elbows brushed at dinner and hand-me-down robes grew thinner each year. Love was warm... but sometimes warmth wasn’t enough.

He wanted to help. That was all it ever was.

He’d chosen the Ministry because it was stable, because hard work meant promotion, and promotion meant Galleons; something solid, measurable, useful.

Not glory. Not pride. Just security.

If he could climb high enough, he could send something home. Help Dad retire without worry. Fix the roof. Buy Ginny new books instead of patched ones. Give his mum a break from stretching every Knut like a spell gone wrong.

That was what he wanted. That was what drove him.

But no one would understand that... not when all they saw was Percy the perfectionist, Percy the rule-follower, Percy the one who thought himself better.

He wasn’t better. Just tired of being less.

And so, he folded the letters carefully, tucked them in his pocket, and whispered to the empty room,

 “I’m fine."

Because saying otherwise wouldn’t change a thing.

Thankful his legs stopped trembling beneath the enchanted cloth of his trousers, he turned toward the library.

But it wasn’t rune research he sought this time. He was searching for materials that might help him tutor Marcus Flint. And perhaps, later, Harry Potter. If the boy was still keen on learning proper Defense.

Despite everything -the curse gnawing at his bones, the weight of secrets and worry pressing down on him - Percy Weasley still couldn’t bring himself to stop trying to be useful.

Even broken, he thought grimly, there was work to be done.

Chapter Text

The abandoned classroom had once been used for Transfiguration. Dust motes danced lazily in the thin light spilling through the narrow windows. The faint hum of the castle’s magic echoed faintly in the walls... a sound Percy had grown accustomed to during quiet, lonely nights of study.

He’d arrived ten minutes early, because of course he had. He always arrived early. The old desks were stacked against one side of the room, and he’d cleared two of them, arranging parchment, ink, and a stack of reference books with careful precision.

He wanted this to feel formal - not like an act of pity, but an exchange of equals.

He brushed invisible dust off the open pages. His legs still ached faintly... a dull, throbbing pain beneath the concealment spell; but he ignored it, as he ignored everything else these days. The runes had left bruised lines along his calves, faint traces of blue pulsing beneath the skin, but he refused to let them distract him.

You can handle this. You always handle things.

The door creaked.

Marcus Flint appeared in the doorway, hulking and awkward, as if the room itself disapproved of his presence. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, the permanent scowl doing little to hide the unease in his eyes.

“So,” Marcus said finally, his tone biting. “You're ready to lecture me?”

Percy didn’t rise to the provocation. “I'm ready to tutor you,” he said mildly. “Whether you learn or not is up to you.”

Marcus snorted but came forward anyway, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. He dropped his bag on the desk with a loud thud, glaring as though daring Percy to comment. When Percy didn’t, some of the fire in his expression flickered uncertainly.

“This was your idea,” Marcus muttered. “I don’t need help.”

“You accepted it,” Percy replied evenly, quill tapping lightly against his parchment. “Which implies a certain willingness to learn.”

Marcus grumbled something under his breath, too low to catch, and sat. The chair creaked beneath his broad frame. His hands -calloused from years of broom-handling - rested uneasily on the table.

They worked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the scratch of Percy’s quill and the occasional frustrated sigh from Marcus as he flipped through his own textbook. Percy corrected him gently once or twice... never mocking, never raising his voice. His calmness had a disarming effect, and Marcus found himself hating it a little less each time.

Then, without warning, the air shifted.

A flutter of wings, soft and sudden, broke the quiet.

An owl - sleek, dark-feathered, elegant - swooped in through the narrow window. Marcus froze.

The bird landed squarely on his open book, amber eyes sharp and too knowing. Its feathers gleamed like polished jet under the slanting sunlight.

Percy blinked. “A family owl?”

Marcus didn’t answer. His face drained of color.

The bird dropped a crimson envelope onto the table. The wax seal glimmered with the Flint crest; a curling serpent wrapped around a sword.

Percy recognized the look in Marcus’s eyes instantly: dread.

“That...!” Marcus began, voice strangled. “That’s not...! I didn’t...!”

He didn’t touch it. He didn’t want to touch it. Everyone knew what a red envelope meant. Even the air around it seemed to vibrate faintly, waiting.

But Marcus’s elbow brushed the edge of the parchment as he moved to push it away.

The seal cracked.

A single, dreadful heartbeat of silence... Then the envelope burst open with a hiss of scarlet smoke.

“MARCUS ROWAN FLINT!” a deep, thunderous voice roared from the letter.

Marcus flinched as though struck. Percy reacted on instinct;

Wand flicking, lips moving with precise speed... and a shimmering dome of silver light enclosed him, sealing off sound. The echoing shriek of the Howler cut cleanly, like a door slamming shut.

Marcus stared, chest heaving. He couldn’t hear it... but he knew what his father’s tone sounded like. That haughty, cutting voice that filled every corner of their home like poison.

Inside the shimmering silence, the Howler’s mouth moved furiously. Percy could see the red smoke contorting, words spilling in invisible heat. Curses, insults, the venom of a man who valued legacy over love. He didn’t need to hear them to imagine them.

Marcus’s face twisted, shame and rage clashing in his eyes. His hands clenched on the desk’s edge until his knuckles turned white. He looked young, suddenly. Not the arrogant Slytherin captain, not the sneering rival, but a boy... terrified of being discarded.

When the envelope burned itself to ash, Percy lowered his wand.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The silence was deep... not awkward, but heavy.

Marcus’s breathing was shallow, uneven. His shoulders trembled once before he steadied them.

Percy said nothing. He merely reached for the next book, flipping it open as though nothing at all had happened.

“Well,” Percy said quietly, almost matter-of-fact. “Shall we begin?”

Marcus looked up sharply, searching for mockery, for pity. There was none. Percy’s expression was calm, his voice steady. He wasn’t going to acknowledge it. He was giving Marcus back his dignity. Silently. Deliberately.

Marcus swallowed, throat dry. “You... you’re not going to say anything?”

Percy’s gaze didn’t waver. “About your private matters? No. They’re yours.”

Marcus stared at him a long while. Then, roughly, he nodded. He reached for his book, fingers trembling slightly. “Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Percy began to explain the first passage; something about the Latin derivation of magical theory, the logic of potion properties. His tone was gentle but precise. Each word measured, steady. It grounded Marcus... a tether after the storm.

He listened. Really listened. His heart still beat hard, but slowly, it steadied. The fury that had boiled beneath his skin softened into something unfamiliar... a reluctant kind of respect.

He didn’t thank Percy. He wouldn’t. But as the minutes passed, the sharpness in his voice dulled.

When Percy corrected him again, Marcus didn’t snap. He just muttered, “Right,” and tried again.

By the time the bell rang in the distance, the tension had thinned into quiet. Marcus packed his things in silence. He hesitated, then said gruffly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Pretend you didn’t hear,” Marcus said, his tone defensive, but softer than before.

Percy merely gave a faint, tired smile. “Everyone deserves silence when the world tries to humiliate them.”

Marcus stared at him... long enough that Percy glanced up, almost self-conscious.

As they packed, Marcus said gruffly, “Wood’s not gonna like this. You teaching me.”

“Oliver doesn’t have to like what he doesn’t know,” Percy replied, faint smile tugging.

That earned him a bark of laughter, rough and genuine. 

Then, with a scoff meant to disguise his sincerity, Marcus slung his bag over his shoulder. “You talk too much for a Gryffindor.”

Percy allowed himself a small, amused huff. “And you study too little for a Slytherin.”

Marcus paused at the door, looking back. “Same time tomorrow?”

“After second lesson,” Percy confirmed, tone even. “Try to review the first two chapters this time.”

Marcus grunted. “We’ll see.” But his voice carried something lighter. Grudging amusement. Maybe even respect.

When the door shut behind him, Percy exhaled slowly. His hands trembled as he gathered his books, the cost of his earlier magic catching up to him. His legs felt numb again, the runes beneath his robes pulsing faintly.

He pressed a hand to his thigh, closing his eyes briefly. You can’t keep this up.

But he smiled faintly anyway... because for the first time in a long while, he had done something that didn’t feel like ambition or duty. It felt human.

Somewhere deep in the castle, the clock struck the hour. Percy gathered his parchment, tucked it neatly beneath his arm, and left the room in quiet, measured steps... the echo of Marcus’s gratitude following him like a whisper.

Chapter Text

The old Defense room felt brighter that evening, echoing with the chatter of three younger voices before Percy even entered.

“You didn’t think we’d let you teach alone, did you?” Harry grinned. Hermione and Ron flanked him, carrying books with cautious excitement.

Percy almost smiled. “I rather expected it.”

Ron frowned, concern softening his freckles. “You should be resting, you know. Professor McGonagall’s gonna...!”

“She won’t,” Percy interrupted gently. “And I am resting. This is therapy for the mind.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing, setting up candles for light.

“Show me what you know,” Percy said. “Harry, your Patronus?”

Harry stepped forward with a brightness that seemed to fill the unused classroom. His excitement softened the air, something almost childlike glowing behind his glasses.

“Professor Lupin taught me,” he said, almost proudly. “He said the Patronus is all about memory, something so happy that the darkness can’t touch it. He made me think of the first time I rode a broom, and how my dad might’ve felt flying. That’s how I learned.”

Percy nodded, lips curving faintly. “And the spell?”

“‘Expecto Patronum.’ It means ‘I await a guardian.’” Harry’s voice took on a practiced tone, echoing Professor Lupin’s lessons. “Professor Lupin said it’s not just a shield; it’s a piece of yourself. The part that’s still good, even when everything else isn’t.”

Ron let out a low whistle. “That’s… heavy.”

Hermione elbowed him, but Percy smiled. “No, he’s right. It’s a powerful kind of magic... emotion forged into light.”

Harry raised his wand, expression sharpening with focus. The air around them seemed to tighten. His voice rang clear:

“Expecto Patronum!”

The silver mist burst forth in an instant. Brilliant. Fierce. But still couldn't form a proper shape. However, the head of the animal was unmistakably something that Percy recognised.

Percy’s breath hitched. His mind flashed, unbidden, to the notes he’d read in the library; the names written in playful ink on that cursed parchment.

Moony.

Wormtail.

Padfoot.

Prongs.

Prongs. The stag.
He swallowed, throat dry.

Harry’s Patronus flickered, the silver mist breaking apart into drifting threads of light before fading completely. The room fell quiet again, but Percy’s mind did not.

The shape - the stag - confirmed what he’d already suspected.

Prongs.
James Potter.

Then the rest followed like clockwork.
The other Marauders.

He’d seen those names on the map, written in confident, mischievous strokes. He’d wondered before if they were real, if any of them still lived. But he knew at least one had, and that meant the others might have too.

And if what he’d pieced together from half-whispered gossip and Ministry records was true, then one of them had been close enough to James Potter to be entrusted with his son.

Harry’s godfather.

Percy’s gaze lingered on the boy. Harry still looked drained, but there was something steady in the way he held his wand... the same quiet determination James Potter had been known for, if the stories were to be believed.

An idea began to take shape - sharp-edged, deliberate.

If the other Marauders still lived, if one of them truly had ties to the Potter family… then perhaps an alliance could be made.

Not out of manipulation, but necessity.

The Potters’ name still carried weight, even if its heirs were scattered and forgotten. If he could connect the right people, restore the right legacy, it could mean something greater... for the Potters, for himself, for the world that had long dismissed both the forgotten and the fallen.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.
The time wasn’t right, and he hadn’t found the right person.

But soon.

Percy looked at the spot where the stag had vanished, the air still humming faintly with its magic.

Soon, he thought. I’ll find more of them.

Harry turned, eyes alight with pride and a faint trace of embarrassment. “Still working on making it last longer,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You should be proud,” Percy said softly. “That’s more than most full-grown wizards can do.”

The boy’s grin widened. Hermione clapped politely; Ron muttered something about unfair natural talent. The air felt lighter for a moment.

Then Percy stepped forward, wand drawn, a faint tremor in his hand that had nothing to do with nerves. “Let’s all try, shall we?”

He watched as Hermione and Ron took their turns, each producing faint wisps of silver that curled away like steam. Hermione bit her lip, muttering about focus; Ron laughed at his own feeble effort.

Percy’s gaze softened. “Don’t rush it,” he said. “Happy memories aren’t commands. They’re invitations.”

Ron frowned. “What’re you gonna think of, then?”

For a long moment, Percy didn’t answer. He lowered his wand, eyes distant, and let his mind drift... not to the present, not to responsibility or pain or the curse winding through his blood, but to the time before any of it had mattered.

He was four years old again. The Burrow was loud with summer, the air thick with sunlight and wildflowers. The fields rolled gold and green, humming with bees.

Bill... no, 'Liam. Because Percy had insisted his eldest brother’s name should be that of a knight, Sir William. He remembered tugging at Bill’s sleeve, saying “You’re Sir 'Liam, the Brave,” with all the solemnity a four-year-old could muster.

Charlie - Charles, of course- had been his loyal squire, though he refused to bow properly, which always made Percy huff. The three of them had spent that entire day racing through the meadow behind the house.

He remembered being lifted high... Bill’s strong hands around his waist, Charlie shouting warnings between laughter. The world spun bright, the sky enormous. Bill ran, Percy squealed, the scent of grass and sun in his hair.

“Fly, little knight,” Bill had said.

“Don’t drop him, you prat!” Charlie had yelled back, laughing.

That laughter lingered now, like sunlight through memory. The warmth of safety, of being loved without condition. Before the expectations. Before the walls he built.

Percy felt the breath leave his chest... not in pain, but release.

He raised his wand. “Expecto Patronum.”

The word came quietly, almost reverently.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then light surged, flooding from his wandtip; gentle, steady, pulsing with silver-blue warmth.

It coalesced slowly, feathers taking shape, a small owl unfurling luminous wings before him. It hovered, eyes bright, soft as moonlight.

Hermione gasped. “That’s beautiful.”

Ron grinned, awe flickering across his face. “Looks like Hermes!”

But Percy only stared, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. It wasn’t Hermes. This owl was broader, older, its face rounder, eyes deeper, wings marked by faint streaks of silver light.

The memory ached sweetly in his chest. The summer meadow. Bill’s laughter. Charlie’s hand tugging at his sleeve.

The owl hovered once more, then dissolved into a flurry of sparks. The classroom seemed dimmer after it faded.

Hermione was the first to speak. “I didn’t know a Patronus could be so… tender.”

Percy smiled faintly. “They show us what we need to remember most.”

Ron tilted his head. “So… an owl means you like studying?”

Percy chuckled softly.

An honest, tired laugh that reached his eyes for once. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it means I miss being small enough for someone else to carry me.”

Harry’s grin softened into something quieter. “That’s a good memory.”

“Yes,” Percy murmured. “It is.”

The ache in his legs pulsed, subtle but sharp. The magic still warred beneath his skin, curse clawing at spellwork. But for that moment -brief, perfect- he felt whole.

He sat on the edge of a desk, watching the trio try again, offering gentle corrections. His voice was calm, encouraging, almost brotherly.

For the first time in months, Percy Weasley allowed himself to simply exist-- in light, and laughter, and memory.

Days bled quietly together.

Morning light, parchment dust, the soft scratch of quills... and under it all, the dull ache crawling up Percy’s spine. He lived by routine: mornings with Marcus in abandoned classrooms, evenings with the Trio near the library, nights alone behind drawn curtains, tracing runes that seared when he etched them too deep into his skin.

His composure was immaculate. His words crisp, his posture disciplined.

But each step came with a pull. The taut, invisible strain of muscles struggling under hidden spellwork, and the curse beneath it whispering its constant hunger.

And Oliver noticed.

At first, he said nothing. He’d seen Percy lose himself in work before... after exams, before Quidditch season, whenever the pressure of being perfect seemed to drive him mad. But this was different. There was something off about the way Percy’s hands trembled when lifting a quill, how his voice went tight when he laughed. The way he always claimed to be “in the library” long after curfew.

That evening, after dinner, Oliver decided he’d had enough.

“Percy.”

The sound of his name carried sharp through the hallway before Great Hall. Percy turned, startled, his horn-rimmed glasses catching the glow of the sconces. Oliver was striding toward him, expression thunderous. Hair still damp from practice, robes half undone.

“Oliver?” Percy blinked. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes,” Oliver snapped. “You.”

Percy stiffened immediately. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t you ‘pardon’ me,” Oliver growled, lowering his voice only slightly as a couple of second-years scurried past. “Where have you been every evening? And don’t tell me the bloody library. I was there.”

Percy’s expression didn’t waver, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Then we must have missed each other.”

“You’re lying.” The words cracked louder than he intended. His hand came down hard against the stone pillar beside them, making a few portraits jump. “You’re burning yourself out again, Percy. I can see it...! Merlin, you can barely walk straight some mornings!”

Percy’s lips parted, a sharp retort rising. Then died when he saw the look in Oliver’s eyes. Anger, yes, but beneath it something far more unsettling: worry.

“I’m fine, Oliver,” he said instead, tone softening to something too calm. “Truly.”

“Fine?” Oliver’s laugh was short and bitter. “You’re never fine. You haven’t been fine since... hell, since last term!”

“That’s unfair,” Percy said quietly. “I’ve done everything asked of me. My grades haven’t dropped. I...”

“... because you’re too damn stubborn to admit when you’re in pain!” Oliver cut in, frustration spilling past control. “You don’t have to prove yourself every second, you know. You’re just a seventh-year, not bloody Merlin.”

Percy’s eyes flicked away. “It’s not about proving anything.”

“Oh, come off it!” Oliver raked a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t see how you walk out of the Great Hall like your legs are about to give way? How you grip the banister every time we go upstairs? It’s getting worse!”

Percy’s voice wavered. “Oliver, please.”

“No,” Oliver said, stepping closer. His voice dropped, rough with a kind of desperate sincerity. “You scare me sometimes, Perce. You act like you can carry the whole world on your back, and one day it’s going to break you.”

The words struck deep. Percy swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the rolled parchment he held. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

For a moment, Percy almost did. He almost told him everything... the curse, the runes, the dull agony threading through his veins each time he forced the concealment to hold. How his body was betraying him piece by piece, and he was terrified someone would notice.

But Oliver’s expression -furious, frightened, sincere- pinned him in place.

If Oliver knew, he’d go straight to Professor McGonagall. Or worse, to his family. Percy couldn’t risk that.

So he forced a thin smile. “I’ll rest tomorrow. I promise.”

Oliver studied him, eyes searching, jaw tight. Then he sighed, shoulders sagging. “You’d better. Or I’ll tell Professor McGonagall myself.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Percy said, a hint of old mischief flickering through the exhaustion.

Oliver’s lips quirked despite himself. “Still cheeky, even half-dead.”

Percy’s eyes softened. “It’s how I cope.”

They stood there in uneasy quiet, the tension loosening slightly, the air filled with the muffled sounds of distant laughter from the Great Hall.

Finally, Oliver exhaled and stepped back. “All right. I’ll take your word for it... for now. But if you start collapsing again...!”

“I won’t,” Percy said quickly. “Truly. I’ll… I’ll manage.”

Oliver gave him a look that was half fond, half furious. “You always say that.”

Percy smiled faintly, his throat too tight to reply.

When Oliver finally turned to head toward the common room, Percy lingered in the corridor a moment longer, feeling the weight of the rolled parchment in his hand. The parchment; his newest experiment in concealment, written with trembling fingers and sealed with careful precision.

Percy’s guilt was a dull weight in his chest. He conjured a small paper just before the door and whispered Marcus’s name on it. No lesson tomorrow. Resting. The charm carried it off toward the Slytherin table.

He’d barely finished with the parchment when Harry, Ron and Hermione appeared by the fireplace.

“I’ll be skipping tomorrow,” he told them. “Just one day. You three keep practicing.”

Harry looked disappointed but nodded. “We will.”

When he was finally alone again, Percy exhaled shakily. He pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling the faint tremor in his magic; an unsettling pulse, like something living and wrong thrummed beneath his skin. The runes were holding, for now, but he could feel the strain every time he moved.

He whispered the smallest silencing charm under his breath, just in case another wave hit. Then, with careful steps, he turned back toward his dorm.

He was just putting down his bag, when the twins burst in, grinning like mischief incarnate.

“Perce!” Fred shouted. “You’ve got to see this!”

They seized his arms before he could protest, dragging him toward their dormitory.

The room was cluttered with parchment and gadgets, the air thick with triumph. George held up a tattered sheet of old parchment.

“We cracked it!”

Percy blinked. “Cracked what?”

“The thing we nicked from Filch ages ago!” Fred crowed. “It talks now...! Sort of. Look!”

For a moment Percy didn’t understand. Then he saw the familiar spidery ink lines pulsing faintly under candlelight - the old parchment they showed him days before.

“The map?” Percy said slowly, incredulous. “You actually managed to...!”

Fred grinned, cutting him off. “All it took was a little faith in mischief.”

George tapped the corner of the parchment with his wand, eyes gleaming. “I solemnly swear that we are up to no good.”

The ink bloomed at once, elegant lines curling outward like living veins, until the corridors of Hogwarts spread across the page in luminous black. Tiny names drifted and shimmered - students, ghosts, professors - each moving in real time.

Percy leaned closer, eyes narrowing as the castle drew itself in precise, shifting lines.

He exhaled softly. “Merlin’s beard…”

Fred exchanged a glance with George. Some of the triumph in their faces dimmed, replaced with something almost sheepish.

“We weren’t gonna show anyone at first, you know,” George admitted. “Figured you’d, well, scold us into next week.”

Percy’s mouth twitched. “That’s still an option.”

“Yeah, but…” Fred hesitated, for once without his usual grin. “After what happened, we thought maybe… you should see it. Or... I dunno. You deserve to.”

That caught him off guard. The twins rarely acted out of guilt.

Percy looked down again. The parchment pulsed faintly under the candlelight -- alive, responsive. Moony. Wormtail. Padfoot. Prongs. Names he’d read before. Names that meant more than the twins realised.

“Do you know who made it?” he asked quietly.

“Some geniuses, obviously,” Fred said. “Better pranksters than us, maybe.”

“Don’t push it,” George muttered.

Percy’s fingers hovered just above the ink, his mind already moving... decoding, comparing, remembering. “You two realise how dangerous this is, right? If it fell into the wrong hands...”

Fred groaned. “Here we go.”

“...it could expose every secret passage in the castle,” Percy continued, unbothered. Then, after a pause, he added, “But it’s also… ingenious.”

Both twins froze.

“Wait...! Did you just compliment us?”

“Mark the date,” George said. “Miracles do happen.”

Percy didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the map. Inside, his thoughts clicked together like gears. Moony. Wormtail. Padfoot. Prongs.

He already figured out the identities of two of them. But Wormtail... and Padfoot...

George tapped the parchment again, dispelling the glow. “Mischief managed.”

The ink retreated instantly, curling back into nothingness.

Percy watched until the surface was blank. “Keep it hidden,” he said. “And for Merlin’s sake, don’t get caught.”

Fred grinned. “Who, us?”

But Percy’s attention had already drifted... somewhere far beyond their dormitory walls.

There were names worth uncovering.
Secrets worth knowing.
And maybe… allies worth finding.

Percy leaned forward despite himself. He couldn’t help it. “How did you find the phrases?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Fred and George exchanged identical grins.

“Mischief...!” said Fred.

George finished without missing a beat, “... just knows another mischief!"

Percy stared at them, halfway between exasperation and reluctant pride. “You’re going to get yourselves expelled one day.”

“Maybe,” Fred said cheerfully.

“But it’ll be worth it,” George added. “Besides, someone’s got to keep Hogwarts interesting.”

Percy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. But there was the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You two will be the death of me.”

Fred grinned wider. “Better us than boredom, Perce.”

Before he could ask, the twins were already plotting new tests, their excitement bubbling over. Percy let himself smile faintly, even as unease lingered in his mind.

Downstairs, Ginny thought about them silently. Her eyes were thoughtful, a crease of worry in her brow. For all the noise and laughter above, she knew her brothers too well... something was changing. The twins hadn’t pranked anyone in weeks. And Percy, for all his tired smiles, looked ready to collapse.

She turned away, the soft echo of their laughter following her down the corridor like ghosts of a happier time.

Chapter Text

Oliver’s parting words still rang in Percy’s ears long after he’d gone.

“Rest. Or I’ll drag you to Madam Pomfrey myself.”

It was less a suggestion than a threat, and Percy had been too weary to argue. The dining hall’s chatter had faded behind him; now he sat alone in the seventh-year Gryffindor dormitory, the morning light stretched thin across his desk, quills and parchment in quiet disarray.

He had promised Oliver he’d rest... and yet, rest never came easily to him. His mind was too full.

Percy reached for parchment, quill poised. He needed to write to his older brothers, to Bill and Charlie. He needed to ensure they would not worry overmuch... they already had too much on their plates. Their letters, he knew, would have been full of concern, perhaps even rebuke if they suspected the truth. He wanted to ease them before they could even begin.

He dipped his quill in ink, and his hand shook faintly; a tremor Percy blamed on fatigue rather than admitting how strained his muscles had become.

Dear Bill,

I hope this finds you well. I’ve received your letter, and I want you to know I am fine. Truly. Everything is under control. You need not worry. I’ve been keeping up with my studies, and while I’ve been working a bit harder than usual, I assure you it’s nothing I can’t manage.

I appreciated your concern, and the advice on writing to Mother. You are right, she would fret. But I am careful. I promise to keep her from worrying over me.

Oliver is ensuring I don’t overdo things, as usual, but I assure you my time is not entirely consumed by books. I still find to review my basic magic practices, though I’ve refrained from any complex magic lately, preferring to focus on my other studies.

I will also attempt the tonic recipe as soon as possible. The knowledge of dragons always inspires me, and I think this will do more than just strengthen my body, it will restore a sense of purpose in the midst of this rather dreary term.

Please don’t worry. I am careful. And I am still your younger brother, the one who insists on trying to keep up with you in every imaginable way.

I will write again soon.

Your brother, Percy

He paused, allowing the quill to hover above the page. A faint ache ran through his thighs as he adjusted his position. He ignored it. He couldn’t afford to dwell on weakness. Not now.

Dear Charlie,

I hope Rome has been treating you well, and that the dragons are behaving themselves, at least in the manner that keeps you relatively unscathed. I received your letter four days ago, and it was a comfort, more than I expected. Your concern is unnecessary. I am far from in danger, though I admit I may be pushing myself harder than usual.

I must confess, Charlie, that the tonic you described sounds remarkable. I intend to try it under careful conditions; your instructions were precise and thoughtful. It may assist more than just my body, it may help my mind focus, which is a greater concern than my muscles, though they are equally taxed.

Please, do not speak to Mother or Father. There is no need for them to become alarmed over what is a temporary matter of overwork. I am careful, I am vigilant, and I will continue to ensure that my actions do not bring undue concern.

Thank you again for your thoughtfulness, Charlie. It is good to know that, even from afar, my older brothers are watching over me. It reminds me that no matter the distance, family is never absent.

Your little brother, Percy

He exhaled, placing both letters aside. His shoulders ached as if weighed down by invisible iron, but he forced himself upright. He would send them later, via owl, when he was certain that the letters would arrive without worry attached.

Percy returned to his thoughts... the Marauders, the map, the nicknames that had lodged themselves stubbornly in his mind.

He thought of Professor Lupin first, analyzing each small clue he had observed. Pale complexion, quiet demeanor, hollow look during certain times of the month; the signs pointed toward the same conclusion. He swallowed hard, ignoring the twisting ache in his abdomen as he considered it.

Lupin was a werewolf.

The thought had unsettled him when it first crossed his mind. What had Dumbledore been thinking? Inviting such a danger into the castle? And yet... Professor Lupin had never once lost control. He was kind, patient even. There was no trace of the savage thing that legends painted.

Perhaps Dumbledore saw something the rest of them didn’t.

But how had he survived, year after year, maintaining friendships with these four other names? That thought gnawed at Percy. Moony, Prongs, Padfoot, and Wormtail. He had identified Moony: Professor Lupin. And Prongs: James Potter. But Padfoot and Wormtail remained enigmatic.

Prongs’ Patronus had been so precise, so helpful. Could it truly have assisted Professor Lupin during his transformations, providing stability or guidance during those terrible nights? And what of Padfoot and Wormtail? Did their animal names have a purpose beyond mischief?

His head throbbed, but he ignored it, dipping into his newspaper.

SIRIUS BLACK STILL AT LARGE — MINISTRY FAILS TO TRACK FUGITIVE

The photograph... that maddening, grinning face - stared back at him, eyes sharp with something unspoken. Beneath it, a smaller article: Reports of a large black dog seen near Hogsmeade. Locals warned to stay indoors.

He read the article again. Then looked at Sirius' face, the one whom everyone deemed mad after years in the Azkaban. And again he read the article. How had he been so blind?

A chill ran through Percy.

A dog.

Near Hogsmeade.

An ominous sign that appeared since Sirius had escaped.

The nickname Padfoot.

Animagi transformation. The pieces clicked into place. The animalistic transformation. The Marauders’ names. That’s what it was. A werewolf who had friends named after beasts. That’s how they’d stayed with Lupin during the full moon... how they’d turned something monstrous into something almost human.

They young wizards had attempted something risky, and by the look of it, succeeded. The teens who had walked beside young Professor Lupin were not merely friends; they had been companions during something monstrously dangerous.

The animagus forms. The Patronus. The names. The loyalty.

His muscles tightened as he stood, pacing slightly. His legs ached, burning faintly, but he forced himself to walk. He could not afford to acknowledge weakness, not now.

He imagined the full moon nights... the terror, the necessity of companionship, the ways the Marauders had circumvented danger without letting the world know. And then Sirius. The black dog. The fugitive who had never faced trial.

The connection; it all coalesced in his mind like the turning of an intricate lock.

It was clever. It was dangerous. And it demanded attention.

Percy sank back into his chair, quill hovering over fresh parchment. His mind raced with new hypotheses even as his body screamed in quiet protest. He could not stop. He would not.

He wrote notes. He jotted down dates, names, nicknames, sightings, correlating them with known events at Hogwarts, the Ministry reports, even small tidbits he’d overheard from professors and staff.

His legs throbbed, his muscles tight and screaming beneath layers of concealment and runes, but he pressed on, unflinching.

If I fall behind, I risk losing control.

And so, he wrote. He plotted. He deduced. He ignored the ache that twisted through him like a second pulse, because the answers mattered more than his comfort.

Chapter Text

Percy woke to the familiar dull ache that stretched through his bones like cold iron. Every joint screamed, his spine protested, and his legs felt like splintering wood beneath the layers of concealment runes. He clenched his fists, willing himself to ignore it, but the pain was relentless.

Bones… they’re killing me, he thought grimly. I can feel every tendon, every joint... as if the marrow itself is tired of holding me together.

And then, a thought struck him; sharp and startling. He recalled the tales of animagi transformations. This must be how they feel, he mused, recalling Sirius’s stories of escaping detection, the way the animal form could shift so completely. Every muscle, every sinew under tension, a reshaping of self that was painful, exhilarating, and liberating all at once.

A daring idea flickered through his mind: What if… what if learning about animagi could somehow help me ease the hurt? Could understanding the mechanics, the magic of transformation, even attempting controlled practice, give my body relief?

He pushed himself upright, grimacing at the sharp ache in his knees and thighs. The thought alone made him wince... but he ignored it. Today, he would begin research.

Before Marcus’s morning lesson, Percy made his way to the library, shoving aside the usual excuses about fatigue. He needed answers... not partial, not anecdotal, but authoritative, precise.

The Restricted Section loomed ahead, shadowed and silent. His head boy badge, still valid despite his suspended position, gleamed faintly in the early morning light. He held it up and whispered a quiet charm --Obliviate minor, a subtle spell to keep the librarian from noticing the interruption of his pass. The doors swung open with an almost conspiratorial creak, and Percy slipped inside.

Rows of dusty tomes awaited, leather bindings cracked, titles gilded in gold and silver, and the smell of old parchment and ink filled his senses. He went directly to the books on animagi, copying passages with meticulous care. Each note was precise, each sketch carefully transcribed, every magical formula double-checked. His wrist throbbed from the continuous scratching, his muscles quivering, but he ignored it. Knowledge is more important than comfort. Knowledge is protection.

By the time the morning bell rang, Percy had completed what he could, stowing the copied texts in a hidden section of his bag. He swore to study them that night, behind his bed curtains, alone, with every precaution.

Marcus’s lesson that morning passed smoothly, though Percy had to fight the dull ache threatening to break his concentration. Marcus seemed calmer than usual, absorbed in the work, and Percy’s quiet presence was enough to keep the session disciplined. Not once did Marcus attempt his usual jabs or snide remarks. Percy noted it silently; perhaps Marcus respected persistence, even in a Gryffindor.

Afterwards, he lingered long enough to see Penelope and Cedric on their rounds. Their orderly presence reminded him sharply of the head boy duties he’d set aside... he longed for the authority, the clarity of purpose, but pushed it down. The pain in his limbs would not betray him.

Evening brought Harry, Ron, and Hermione to their usual corner of the empty classroom. The atmosphere, however, was anything but calm. Ron sat with his arms folded tightly, glaring at Crookshanks curled smugly on Hermione’s bag. Hermione’s lips were pressed into a thin line.

“Your cat’s hunting him!” Ron snapped, voice cracking. “He nearly got Scabbers again! Now he won't come out of his cage!”

“For the last time, Ron, Crookshanks is just...!” Hermione began, but the sentence wilted under his glare.

Percy, seated near the window, watched the exchange quietly. His patience was thinner than usual; his body still felt unsteady, but his mind refused rest.

“Enough,” he said at last, his tone even but firm. “Arguing about the cat won’t help anyone. We have larger matters to discuss.”

Ron shot him a look but fell silent. Hermione exhaled shakily.

Percy leaned forward, fingers steepled. “I’ve been reviewing some things... the names on that parchment. Prongs. Padfoot. Moony. Wormtail. They weren’t just signatures.”

Harry looked up sharply.

"We already know who Moony is,” Percy said evenly. “And Harry, Prongs might be your father.”

Harry’s expression faltered, something sad flickering across his face.

Percy pressed on, voice low but deliberate. “I did some research last night. There have been sightings of a large black dog near Hogsmeade... reports from students, even from the staff. Combine that with the nickname Padfoot, and it isn’t hard to conclude who he was.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “You mean...! Sirius Black.”

Percy nodded once. “The same. A man capable of eluding the Ministry, with ties to James Potter, and a reputation for cunning. All of it fits. Which leaves one name... Wormtail. Peter Pettigrew. The one Black supposedly murdered.”

Ron frowned, brow furrowed. “But they said he was blown to bits.”

“Exactly,” Percy replied. “All they ever found was a finger. The name Wormtail implies transformation... a tail, a smaller form. If you account for that… perhaps Pettigrew isn’t as dead as everyone assumes.”

Hermione stared at him, speechless. “You worked that out just from the names?”

“Names, patterns, timing,” Percy said coolly. “Details people overlook because they prefer simple answers.”

He leaned back, studying their faces -- Harry’s uncertainty, Ron’s anger, Hermione’s worry.

“I wanted to ask you,” Percy continued, adjusting his glasses, “about Sirius Black being your godfather.”

Harry hesitated, then said quietly, “I already know.”

Percy blinked. “You...?”

Harry swallowed, hands tightening on his knees. “Sirius Black. He was my dad’s best friend… and my godfather.” His voice faltered. “I heard it from McGonagall and Fudge when I got caught outside the castle that night. They said... they said he betrayed my parents.”

Hermione’s expression softened instantly. “Harry...”

“I don’t want to believe it!” he went on, staring at the floor. “It doesn’t make sense... If he really was my father’s best friend, why would he...?”

Ron shifted uncomfortably. “If he’s the one who handed them over… then he deserves Azkaban.”

Percy’s gaze darkened, mind whirring behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not everything we’ve been told is true.”

That made them all look at him.

“There’s a pattern,” Percy said, voice low, deliberate. “The Marauders. Four names, four friends — and one traitor. But which one?” His eyes gleamed with the sharp edge of curiosity. “I intend to find out.”

Harry met his gaze -- wary, but searching. Hermione’s hand brushed Harry’s arm in quiet comfort, while Ron simply frowned, torn between outrage and confusion.

And for a fleeting moment, Percy thought he saw the truth flicker there... in the doubt, the grief, the loyalty. The first glimmer of something he might yet use.

That night, alone behind the drawn curtains of his bed, Percy cast a silencing charm over the small area -- a tight, shimmering dome to keep even the echoes from escaping. He unpacked his copied notes on animagi, brushing his fingers over diagrams of magical flow, formulas for transformation, and the stories embedded in their history.

His body ached fiercely. Every muscle screamed as if demanding attention. His spine groaned under the strain of concealment runes. But he ignored it. He traced the steps carefully, reading, copying, committing formulas to memory. He imagined the fluidity of transformation, the way an animagus might feel the change ripple from core to extremity, muscles reshaping, joints tightening and releasing in perfect rhythm.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself imagine the relief.. the way the pain might ease, even slightly, through understanding, control, and careful practice. It was an idea that burned quietly in his chest: 

If I can understand the transformation… perhaps I can ease the curse’s toll on my body. Perhaps…

The idea consumed him. Animagi - wizards who could shift their form at will - had to control every sinew, every tendon, every ounce of magical energy. If they could adapt their bodies to the stress of transformation, surely some of that knowledge could be applied to him. He imagined, abstractly, the flow of magic as it coursed through muscles and bones, reshaping without injury. If only he could replicate even a fragment safely, perhaps the relentless ache could be stilled.

Percy’s mind, however, did not dwell solely on magic. He returned to the Marauders’ map, recalling the nicknames, the timeline of events, and the subtle patterns he had noted in the newspapers and archives.

The hours slipped by, unnoticed, as he continued to pour over every page, every formula, every newspaper clipping.

By the time the candlelight guttered low, Percy had mapped connections, noted inconsistencies in the official reports, and hypothesized the potential use of animagi knowledge to mitigate his own physical torment. The ache remained, constant and insistent, but his mind felt sharper than it had in weeks.

He closed his notebook with a soft sigh, laying down carefully. “One step at a time,” he whispered to himself. “Observe. Analyze. Protect. And endure.”

The silver-blue glow of the silencing charm pulsed softly around him, sealing his small sanctuary as Percy Weasley, weary and determined, let sleep finally claim him... if only briefly.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled weakly across the dormitory, falling on Percy’s pale, drawn face as he lay beneath the heavy blankets. His body felt like it was pressing against every seam of his bones, as though the very skeleton beneath his skin were straining to break free. Fever flared in his chest, burning through him with each heartbeat, but he refused to acknowledge it, even to himself.

From the bed opposite of his, Oliver stirred, the smell of damp hair still clinging from his early practice. His sharp brown eyes fell on Percy instantly, narrowing in concern and irritation. “Percy,” he barked, voice echoing off the dorm walls, “you look like you’ve been hit by a troll. Up and at least sit. You’re not dying on me in bed.”

Percy lifted a hand feebly. “I’m fine, Oliver,” he whispered, forcing a faint, weak smile. His throat burned with heat, and each breath felt shallow, but he could not afford to show weakness. Not yet.

“Fine?” Oliver’s laugh was bitter, full of disbelief. He leapt from his bed, hair mussed, eyes blazing. “Percy, your idea of fine would have a healer fainting on the spot! I’m taking you to the hospital wing!”

“No,” Percy replied quietly, voice thin but firm. “It’s just a fever. I’ll rest. I...”

“You will eat breakfast first,” Oliver interrupted, already heading for the door. He returned moments later with a tray balanced expertly in one hand, muttering under his breath about Gryffindor stubbornness and Weasley pride. “I swear, if you try to skip this, I’ll hex you in your sleep. And don’t give me that ‘I can’t’ nonsense. You can.”

Percy allowed a faint, humorless laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” Oliver muttered, setting the tray down on the side table. Eggs steamed, bacon crackled faintly, and the smell of buttered toast permeated the air. It should have been comforting, but Percy felt only the pulse of fever and the ache of cursed muscles that throbbed beneath his skin.

“I… appreciate the concern,” he murmured. His hand shook slightly as he reached for a piece of toast. Every small motion sent spikes of pain through his ribs and legs, but he ignored them, forcing himself to take shallow bites.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Appreciate it? You look like death warmed over and say ‘appreciate it’? Perce, I mean it...! Look at you. Your legs are trembling. You’re shivering. I can see it in your hands when you lift a spoon. How many nights have you been hiding this?”

Percy could not answer. He had no choice but to maintain his calm, to hide the truth of the runes etched deep into his flesh, the curse pulsing beneath his veins like a living thing. He wanted to tell someone, to confess, but Oliver did not need to know... not yet.

Oliver hovered over him while he ate, muttering threats and warnings. “No skipping. No overdoing it. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing... your body is screaming, and I will not allow you to ignore it.”

Percy swallowed, his throat tight with the fever. “I… I understand,” he whispered, forcing the words out. Each one felt like lifting a boulder from his chest.

Finally, Oliver relented, tossing a sharp glance at the clock. “I’m off to lessons. But if you move from this bed before I return, I swear I’ll drag you out myself. Breakfast or not, you stay here, Weasley.”

Percy nodded, his chest tight. As Oliver departed, the dormitory fell silent, leaving him alone with the heavy pulse of his body, aching muscles, and the gnawing guilt curling in his chest.

He thought of Marcus. Their lesson today was supposed to be the continuation of their tutoring sessions... the structured, delicate work Percy had begun to build trust around. And now, with fever and weakness making it impossible to reach Marcus, he would have to cancel. Marcus will think less of me. He’ll think I’m unreliable, weak… or worse, that he cannot trust me. The thought twisted inside him, sharper than the ache in his legs. He could almost see Marcus’ disappointed scowl, feel the frustration in his voice. He hated it.

Then there was the The Third Years he had been guiding. Percy’s sessions with them in Defense Against the Dark Arts had been more than practice; they had been mentorship, guidance, a way to build confidence in Harry, Hermione, and Ron. And now, once again, he would fail them. Missed lessons, unkept promises... each was a small fracture in the trust he had been painstakingly constructing. The weight of responsibility, combined with the fever and aching curse, pressed down on him until it felt like the walls of the dormitory were closing in.

Percy tried to focus on small, grounding thoughts. But the mental exercises did little to quell the physical agony. His muscles tensed involuntarily, the pulse of hidden magic coursing through his veins like wildfire. The pressure in his chest increased, tight and relentless. He could not ignore it.

Then it came -- the cough.

At first, it was just a tickle in his throat. He tried to suppress it, straightening slightly in bed. But the tickle grew, and within seconds, the coughing fit erupted with violent intensity.

Percy doubled over, clutching his chest as if trying to hold his very bones together. The pain was blinding, scorching, a fire that seemed to tear through him from the inside out. His lungs screamed for air, but each breath was ragged, insufficient. Every muscle pulsed in protest.

His legs shook.
His fingers tightened on the bed sheets.
Nails biting into the fabric to anchor himself as his body threatened to betray him completely.

His vision blurred. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with fever and exhaustion. Each convulsion seemed to pull at the seams of his body, the curse thrumming in rhythm with his heartbeat, like a living, malevolent force inside him.

And then, something dislodged from his chest.

Percy’s shaking hands caught it instinctively... a lump of blood, warm and sticky, that made his stomach drop. Panic gripped him fully now, primal and consuming. This is it. This is how it ends. I might not live. The thought clawed at his mind with jagged edges. I won’t survive this, not alive, not with this curse. All my plans, my ambition, my careful work... Gone.

Fear constricted his chest, tight as the pulse of the fever itself. I might die. I might never accomplish anything. I might never see my family again. Oliver… Harry... Marcus... Every failed promise, every lesson postponed, each trust broken multiplied in his mind, jagged and suffocating.

He flung the lump of blood from his hands in terror, burying his face in the blankets.
A guttural, ugly cry tore from his throat, uncontrolled and raw.
He wept for his body.

For his ambition.

For the fragile connections he could no longer maintain if he fell here, in silence, alone.

Hours seemed to pass in fevered misery. Percy curled on himself, exhausted, shivering, teeth chattering, his whole body a landscape of aching magic and cursed pain. He whispered spells quietly, shakily... vanishing the blood from the floor, from the sheets, from himself... until everything was clean again, but the terror lingered, hollowing him from the inside out.

Finally, when he could move without immediate collapse, Percy staggered to the small dormitory wash basin. He let hot water run over his hands and face, trying to wash away the feeling of mortality pressing down on him, the primal fear that he had never truly considered before. Each breath felt heavy, each movement agonizing, but he focused on the heat, the water, the sensation of cleansing, clinging to the small rituals that grounded him.

He stared at his reflection, pale and drawn, eyes wide and haunted, and allowed himself a single, trembling thought: I am alive. I have to be.

Slowly, methodically, he considered the next steps. He could attempt the animagi transformation tonight, using the process to alleviate the constant aches and strain. It would be difficult, dangerous even, but if successful, it might offer a window of relief, a chance to reclaim his mobility and focus.

And for his long-term survival? He needed resources. Funds to hire a curse breaker capable of undoing the ancient, relentless magic embedded within him. He began running calculations and planning contingencies in his fevered mind: temporary tutoring, careful magical research, discreet spellwork for interested parties. Each possibility carried risk, but he could not afford to delay. His life, fragile and precarious, depended on it.

Percy allowed himself a brief, tentative thought about Oliver... how lucky he was to have a friend so stubbornly caring, even if he did not yet know the truth of the runes or the curse. Yet he could not rely on anyone, not fully. He could not risk alarm, and he certainly could not risk the grief of his family if they knew how close he had come to death.

Curled on the floor, fever still flaring, body aching, Percy let the minutes pass, using them to steel his mind. Every pulse, every throb of cursed magic beneath his skin, reminded him of mortality. And of determination. He would survive. He would learn the animagi transformation. He would gather the necessary funds. He would hire the curse breaker and free himself.

Even in the solitude of his room, amid pain, fear, and exhaustion, Percy Weasley allowed himself a spark of resolve. The ache in his muscles, the pulse of hidden magic, the terror that had nearly overwhelmed him... none of it would stop him. He would live. He would fight. And he would not fail.

For now, he rested, shivering, tears dried but eyes still haunted, plotting his next moves. The dormitory beyond him was alive with the sounds of the waking school, oblivious to the struggle contained within one fevered room. And Percy, fragile, terrified, and determined beyond measure, began to plan, breathe, and endure.

Chapter Text

Evening light slanted across the dormitory when Percy woke. The fever had dulled but not gone; it lingered like a faint burn beneath his skin. His body felt heavy and foreign, as though his bones no longer fit quite right.

For a fleeting moment he thought it had all been a nightmare - the choking, the blood, the terror - until he shifted and felt it: a hollow ache in his chest, deep and unnatural. The space there felt wrong, as if something had been scooped out and forgotten.

He lay still, staring at the canopy above. The fever hummed softly in his veins, and the air smelled faintly of sweat and candle smoke. His hands  -clean now - trembled when he lifted them, remembering the weight of what they’d held last night. That sticky, living warmth. That panic.

It wasn’t a dream. It happened.

He swallowed hard, throat dry. What’s happening to me? The runes should have stayed dormant with the stabilising spell. Unless... unless they’d taken something. Burned through too much.

Percy turned onto his side, wincing. The blankets clung to him like damp parchment. Each breath came shallow, careful. The fever wasn’t cruel anymore, only watchful. Like a predator that had fed but not finished.

He shut his eyes.

The door opened, and Oliver hovered at the bedside, a hand pressed lightly against Percy’s forehead, scrutinizing him with that familiar mixture of irritation and concern.

“You feel better?” Oliver asked, eyebrows knitted. 

Percy tried to sit up and lay propped up against his pillows, feeling the residual warmth of fever lingering in his limbs. He tilted his head, forcing a faint smile. “Much better. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“Tired isn’t the same as fine, Perce,” Oliver muttered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Percy’s forehead. “Don’t push yourself, alright? No heroics before dinner, no more late-night library sessions, and definitely no wandering the castle pretending you’re impervious to a fever.”

Percy chuckled softly, though the sound was weak. “I’ll heed your advice. Mostly.”

Oliver rolled his eyes but gave a slight nod. “Mostly isn’t enough, but I’ll take it for now. Dinner is coming. I’m not letting you skip it.”

Before Percy could respond, the door swung open, and the twins appeared, peeking around Oliver like conspiratorial shadows. Their expressions were carefully measured -part sheepish, part mischievous- but their eyes betrayed genuine concern.

“Uh… hello, Percy,” Fred began, shifting from one foot to the other. George followed his lead, holding the back of his neck nervously.

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “What are you two doing here? Dinner isn’t for another...!” He broke off mid-sentence when he saw the twins’ faces. “Never mind. Stay out of trouble.”

Fred raised a hand in mock surrender. “Trouble? Us? Never.”

George leaned closer. “We just… wanted to check on our brother. Ginny’s been worried sick. Said we had to make sure you were still alive.”

Percy felt a warm ache in his chest. “Tell Ginny I’ll speak with her during breakfast tomorrow. I promise.”

Fred grinned faintly. “Good. She’ll breathe easier after that. And you… look less like a ghost than yesterday.”

Percy allowed himself a faint, tired smile. “Thanks. I appreciate you checking.”

The twins lingered for a moment longer, clearly hesitating. Then Percy leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “While you’re here… about the map.”

The twins exchanged a quick, guilty glance. Fred shuffled his feet. “Well… we were going to give it to Harry.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

George shifted nervously. “It’s… complicated. See, the Hogsmeade trip is open to third years, but Harry doesn’t have permission from his guardian. We thought… well, if he had the map, he could sneak out without getting caught.”

Fred shrugged. “We didn’t want to involve you at first, because, y’know, prefect, Head Boy, and all that… responsibility thing.”

Percy studied them carefully, noting the familiar glint of mischief fighting against genuine concern. “And yet, what are you trying to tell me?”

George grinned cheekily. “We’re gambling! You’ve not reported anything to McGonagall. So we’re taking our chances,” Fred continued, "We'll give the map to you!"

Percy let out a soft breath, a quiet mixture of exasperation and amusement. “I swear, I will give the map to Harry later. I just need to check it myself first.”

The twins’ faces lit up, relief and mischief mingling in equal measure. Fred slid the tattered, magical parchment toward Percy. “Alright, then. But no funny business. It’s… delicate.”

Percy reached for it, careful to handle the map as if it were a rare artifact. He felt the familiar thrill of anticipation, tempered by the weight of responsibility. “Understood. I’ll take good care of it.”

Fred leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “Good lad. Just don’t let it talk back to you too much.”

George snorted. “Or start moving dots without your permission.”

Percy allowed himself a faint chuckle. “I’ll try to keep it in line. For now.”

The twins exchanged triumphant grins and headed for the door. Fred paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Remember, Perce, 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

Percy’s lips twitched, "Yeah... and then, 'Mischief managed."

The twins quietly cheered 'Good boy!' before closing the door behind them, leaving Percy alone with the map, the late sunlight, and a quiet sense of both excitement and caution. He carefully unrolled the parchment, eyes tracing the shifting corridors and dots that represented every person in the castle. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget his aches, his fever, and the constant pull of magic and curse beneath his skin.

The game had begun.

Percy carefully rolled the map back into a tight cylinder and tucked it into the inside pocket of his robes before leaving the dormitory. The corridor felt warmer in the morning sun, and the distant clatter of breakfast in the Great Hall carried faintly through the castle.

By the time Percy arrived, Ginny was already seated at the Gryffindor table, neatly arranging her meal. She looked up as he approached, and for a brief moment, her expression flickered between relief and formality.

“Percy,” Ginny said softly, hovering near the table, fingers wrapped around a half-folded napkin. “You look better today.”

Percy offered a faint, practiced smile. “I'm fine. The fever’s mostly gone.”

“You always say that,” she murmured. There was no accusation in her tone... just quiet worry. “You always do that. Tell everyone you’re fine until you’re not.”

Percy hesitated, his hands stilling. “Habit, I suppose.”

Ginny frowned, searching his face. “You used to check on me every day, after...” She stopped, lips pressing into a thin line. “After my first year. You’d make tea, ask how I slept, make sure I wasn’t skipping meals.” Her voice wavered just slightly. “I keep thinking about that now.”

He looked at her properly then... really looked. The way her fingers twisted the napkin. The way her voice carried that careful steadiness that only came from learning to manage fear.

Of course. He’d forgotten how much the sight of weakness - trembling hands, drawn faces - might remind her of that year.

“Ginny,” he said quietly, measured as always. “I promise, it’s nothing like that. Just exhaustion and poor sleep. I’m handling it.”

She studied him, unconvinced. “You’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.” The lie came smooth, instinctive. He added a gentler tone, hoping it softened the edges. “Everything will be fine. You don’t have to worry.”

Ginny nodded, but it wasn’t agreement. Just acceptance... temporary and tired. “Alright,” she said finally. “Just… don’t scare me like that again, okay?”

“I’ll try not to.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She’d believed him... or wanted to. But he knew that look. Ginny wasn’t convinced.

And the truth was, neither was he.

Before either could continue, Oliver appeared, tray in hand, his eyes immediately assessing Percy like a hawk. “Breakfast,” he said bluntly, placing it firmly in front of Percy. “Eat it. Then rest. No arguments.”

Percy’s lips twitched, a hint of amusement at Oliver’s habitual sternness. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “You had a fever, Perce. I’m not letting you run yourself into the ground again. Eat. Rest. End of discussion.”

Ginny’s lips curved in a faint, almost shy smile at the exchange, observing the dynamic with quiet fascination. “You two… you have a way of bickering that’s… uniquely your own.”

Percy allowed a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yes, it’s… very effective.”

Ron, seated a little down the table, chuckled openly. “Oliver, seriously. You worry too much. The man’s your age, not a second-year!”

Oliver shot him a sharp look but didn’t argue. Instead, he jabbed a finger at Percy. “You will eat. And if I see you leaving most of the meals untouched like yesterday, I’ll personally drag you to the infirmary.”

Percy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Understood, Captain.”

He chuckled softly, taking a careful sip of pumpkin juice. The warmth helped soothe the fever and the ache in his bones. He focused on that small comfort, keeping thoughts of Marauder’s Map and his hidden burdens at bay for the moment.

Ginny returned to her meal, sipping quietly, her expression composed yet relieved. There was still an awkward distance between them, but her concern was unmistakable. Percy respected it, and that was enough for now.

Chapter Text

Percy sat in the abandoned classroom, hands folded neatly on the desk, trying to look composed. But guilt churned in his chest like a restless storm. He had promised Oliver he would rest today, that he would take it easy after the fever. Yet here he was, ignoring every ache and pulse of weakness, waiting for Marcus to arrive for their lesson.

The door creaked, and Marcus appeared, stepping into the room. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly masked by his usual Slytherin composure. He held his shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, and with a subtle swagger that spoke of confidence and challenge, he entered.

Percy noted the faint stiffness in Marcus’ movements, almost imperceptible, and his chest tightened.

Marcus reached the desk and sat at his usual place, the scrape of chair against stone loud in the otherwise quiet classroom. He gave Percy a sidelong glance, catching the faint flush on his face. The fever. Marcus’ brow twitched ever so slightly, but he said nothing. He had never been one to offer concern freely, especially toward a Gryffindor.

Instead, with a subtle snap of his wrist, he pushed a small sack across the table. The motion was slightly harsh, deliberate, a veneer of annoyance masking whatever sentiment had prompted the gesture.

Percy caught the sack, his fingers brushing against the coarse cloth. The size of a palm. Before even looking inside, he knew what it contained. Coins.

“Mar...!” Percy started, reaching to push the sack back. “Marcus, you don’t need to...!”

“I don’t accept charity cases,” Marcus interrupted sharply, his tone firm, almost cutting. “Lesson is purely transaction. Nothing more.” He added, "The previous lessons' payments included. Next lesson will be at fixed coins."

Percy hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I… I insist. I offered to teach as an apology. This...” He gestured vaguely at the sack. “...this isn’t necessary.”

Marcus’ grey eyes narrowed. “Until when, Weasley? How long are you going to refuse what is offered? This is the arrangement. Coins for instruction. Nothing more. Nothing less. I will not compromise on this.”

Percy faltered, tongue tied. He wanted to argue, wanted to protest, but something in Marcus’ tone -so absolute, so immovable-made him pause. Marcus wasn’t bargaining, wasn’t testing. This was a line drawn in stone.

“I... very well,” Percy said quietly, gingerly sliding the sack into his bag. His fingers brushed the coins, cold metal against his palm. A strange mixture of guilt and relief coursed through him. He still felt bad accepting payment, yet at the same time, it cemented something in his mind. He now had the means to fund his own experiments, and his own curse-breaking.

Marcus’ face softened just enough -- an imperceptible change, a shadow of acknowledgment-- before he cleared his throat and opened his book. The lesson began, and the world outside the words on the page fell away.

Percy read the passages aloud, explaining nuances in Latin derivation, magical theory, and potion properties. Marcus followed, correcting himself only when Percy guided him gently.

The snide remarks were still there, the quips and subtle jabs, but Percy noted they lacked the sharp bite of previous lessons. Marcus was present, engaged, though ever careful to maintain that facade of Slytherin arrogance.

In the quiet moments, as Marcus paused to scribble notes or flip a page, Percy allowed himself a brief inward thought: the coins in his bag were more than currency. They were a key. A first step toward securing his future. Toward funding the breaking of the curse that had been gnawing at him since its first sinister touch.

He imagined the process, the careful planning, the experiments he would conduct at night, all paid for through this small, hard-won transaction. His heart, still heavy from fever and guilt, lifted slightly.

Marcus had unknowingly provided him more than just financial support; he had given Percy autonomy. The lesson, the coins, the silent understanding... they all fit into the careful puzzle of Percy’s life now, one piece at a time.

Minutes ticked by. The sound of scratching quills, the faint hum of magic in the air, the occasional muttered curse under Marcus’ breath, all blended into a rhythm that anchored Percy.

He focused on the lesson, on teaching, on guiding Marcus without pity or indulgence. The fever throbbed faintly behind his eyes, his bones ached, but he ignored it, pushing every signal of weakness deep down where it wouldn’t disrupt the careful control he maintained.

When the final bell echoed down the corridors, Percy closed his book and allowed himself a small exhale. Marcus packed his bag with the same deliberate precision he had shown when entering, the coins safe in Percy’s possession.

“You didn’t make this lessons easy,” Marcus said, almost quietly, a trace of acknowledgment threading through the usual Slytherin reserve.

Percy tilted his head, lips twitching faintly. “I don’t make it easy. I make it work.”

Marcus gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, the faintest flicker of respect glimmering in his eyes before the mask returned. “Tomorrow, same time.”

“Tomorrow, same time,” Percy echoed, and as Marcus departed, the door closing with a faint echo, Percy allowed himself a silent moment.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing the coins in his bag again. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny spark of hope; not just for the lessons, not just for Marcus’ trust... but for the means to confront the curse, the suffering, and the uncertainty that lay ahead. He would need all of it.

And with that small, precious hope nestled in his chest, Percy gathered his things and left the classroom, stepping into the corridor with careful, measured steps.

Chapter Text

After Marcus left, Percy lingered in the empty classroom for a moment, the faint smell of ink and dust settling in the silence. He waited until the door clicked shut before allowing himself a long, slow exhale. His chest still ached faintly from the strain of sitting upright so long, but there was a clarity in his mind that hadn’t been there earlier.

He gathered his bag, the small weight of the coin pouch pressing against the fabric; a reminder that Marcus Flint, of all people, had insisted on paying him. A strange, bitter satisfaction flickered through Percy’s chest as he climbed the stairs back toward Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps there was something to be salvaged from all this pain after all.

When he reached the dormitory, Oliver was nowhere to be found. Good. That made things easier.

Percy crossed to his desk and took out the map. His fingers lingered over the worn parchment for a heartbeat before he laid it flat across the wood. The room was quiet but for the faint creak of the bedposts and the winter wind rattling faintly against the windowpanes.

He drew his wand. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he whispered.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as if ink had come alive, dark lines began to crawl across the parchment... thin and looping, snaking outward from the center until words formed at the top in elegant script:

"Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present the Marauder’s Map."

Percy’s breath caught as the lines spread, forming the detailed sprawl of Hogwarts. Its secret passageways, hidden rooms, and twisting staircases all unfolding in shimmering ink. The castle seemed to pulse with life; tiny dots moved across the parchment, each labeled neatly with a name.

He leaned closer, entranced. Every hallway, every hidden stairwell -paths even he didn’t know existed- appeared before him like veins in a living body. He could see the dungeons winding beneath the Slytherin common room, the kitchens bustling with elves, the Astronomy Tower’s spiraling steps, even the moving footprints of Peeves darting through walls.

It was astonishing.

He could almost hear the laughter of the map’s creators echoing from the parchment itself. Those same four nicknames that haunted his notes and memories. 

The Marauders had not merely drawn Hogwarts. They had understood it --every secret passage, every shifting stair, every hidden door. It was brilliance disguised as mischief.

Percy swallowed hard, feeling a familiar ache in his chest... not of pain, but admiration. “You magnificent fools,” he murmured under his breath.

But fascination soon gave way to practicality. This artifact would not remain in his possession forever... the twins had made that much clear. Harry would have it soon enough. Percy needed time, and knowledge was his currency.

He pulled several clean sheets of parchment from the shelf and laid them side by side on his and Oliver’s desks. His wand trembled faintly as he raised it.

“This will hurt,” he muttered, steadying his breath. “Endure it.”

He traced his wand over the first page, whispering the copying enchantment. Quills lifted, suspended by his spell, and began to glide across the parchments, ink sketching in exact miniature the intricate lines of the Marauder’s Map. The quills scratched ceaselessly -- writing, drawing, layering magic upon magic.

The effort burned. Every time he channeled the charm, he could feel the curse beneath his skin stir, gnawing at his nerves, dragging claws through his veins. The pulse of his magic came ragged, uneven... like something fighting him from within.

Still, Percy didn’t stop.

He bit his lip until he tasted copper, pressing through the shaking. Sweat beaded at his temple; his hands trembled violently as the enchantment strained his focus. At one point, the quill sputtered midair, the ink line breaking as his magic faltered.

Percy gritted his teeth, forcing the spell to continue, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges.

Finally... after what felt like an hour, perhaps two, the copies were complete. Five nearly perfect duplicates lay drying under the lamplight.

Percy slumped back in his chair, chest heaving, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His bones ached, his arms felt heavy as lead. The curse was awake now, thrumming just beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat, sharp and wrong.

But he had done it.

When he could breathe evenly again, he turned his attention back to the map. The names were still shifting across it; students moving between classes, teachers in their offices, ghosts gliding along the hallways.

A flicker of movement drew his gaze. Two dots labeled Fred Weasley and George Weasley were wandering near the entrance hall... no doubt plotting their next mischief. Another pair; Ginny Weasley and Ron Weasley... sat together at the Gryffindor table.

And there, near the Defense classroom... Harry Potter.

Percy’s lips quirked faintly. Of course Harry was there, probably practicing spells far beyond his year again. He felt an unexpected swell of affection, then quickly looked away before sentiment could take root.

His gaze roamed further. He traced the familiar dots of the professors, noting Minerva McGonagall pacing her office, Severus Snape lurking near the dungeons, Filius Flitwick in the Charms classroom. Then..

He froze.

Remus Lupin... alone, near his quarters.

Percy leaned closer, eyes narrowing. Something about that name stirred unease again. Moony. The werewolf. The one Dumbledore trusted, despite everything.

He pressed his thumb against the map’s corner, watching the ink shift and shimmer. His mind was already spinning with connections -- the Marauders, the Patronus, the stag and the wolf. If he could understand what bound them all together, maybe he could understand the curse that bound him.

His body was still throbbing with pain, but the map’s glow held him captive. This was brilliance. This was knowledge born of risk and chaos. And Percy, despite himself, was enthralled.

He leaned back at last, exhausted but satisfied. The copies would take the night to finish drying. He’d check them later, maybe even label the secret passages for future study.

But for now, as he whispered the final phrase... “Mischief managed” and watched the ink fade back into blank parchment, he allowed himself a small, tired smile.

For the first time in a long while, Percy Weasley felt a spark of control returning; thin, fragile, and hard-won.

Chapter Text

By the time Percy finished tidying his desk and sealing the last copy of the map, it was already time for Defense Against Dark Arts training. His limbs ached as though every joint had been replaced with glass. Still, he couldn’t rest... not yet.

Oliver would be downstairs by now, halfway through last lesson, and Percy used that precious window to slip quietly from the dormitory. His notes were safely hidden beneath a transfigured folder charm, and the map in that special tube put inside his robe. He carried only a neat stack of parchment and the familiar bag of quills, the disguise of a dutiful teacher on his way to a study hall.

Percy made his way to the unused Defense classroom, heart pounding a little too fast, both from exhaustion and the thrill of movement after a day studying the map.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were already waiting when he entered, their faces lighting up the moment they saw him.

“Morning, Professor Weasley,” Harry teased, his grin easy and unguarded.

Percy shook his head, smiling faintly. “If you keep calling me that, I’ll start assigning essays.”

Hermione, predictably, straightened in her seat. “That wouldn’t be the worst idea,” she said primly, but her tone softened when she looked at him properly. “You look better today.”

He lied without blinking. “A bit of rest did wonders.”

Ron snorted. “Sure. You look like you fought a grindylow and lost.”

“Then it’s only fitting we start with Defense,” Percy said dryly, and the laughter that followed was enough to ease the tension from his shoulders.

They spent the next hour working through the spells their previous professors had neglected to teach properly. Percy began with the basics -disarming, shielding, counter-jinxes- building the lessons from the foundations up.

“Let’s revise Expelliarmus,” he said, pacing lightly before them. “A simple disarming spell, but effective if cast decisively. Professor Lockhart’s… demonstrations were theatrical, not instructive.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Right,” Ron muttered. “The bloke could barely hold onto his wand.”

Percy allowed himself a small chuckle. “Indeed. Now... stance. Power through the wrist, not the shoulder. Aim to disarm, not to impress.”

They practiced for nearly half an hour, the classroom filling with flashes of red light. Harry’s accuracy was startling. Each disarm crisp and controlled. Hermione’s focus was perfect but slightly overthought, while Ron’s was all instinct and uneven force.

“Better,” Percy said approvingly. “You’re learning to rely on intent, not volume.”

Next, he guided them through Protego, the Shield Charm, adjusting their posture and pronunciation. When Hermione’s spell finally shimmered solid before her, she gasped and clapped her hands in delight.

“Very good,” Percy said, a hint of genuine pride in his voice. “You three have a knack for this.”

Ron shrugged. “Guess we’ve had plenty of practice getting into trouble.”

“Then let’s call it a valuable education,” Percy replied, smiling.

By the end of the session, Percy was sweating lightly, his magic stretched thin but stable. He gathered the parchments and turned toward them, hesitating before speaking.

“There’s something else,” he said finally, voice lowering. “Something I want to show you.”

Harry tilted his head. “Another lesson?”

“Not quite.”

He beckoned them to follow, leading them down the corridor, through a lesser-used passage behind the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. The air grew cooler as they descended, the stone steps winding into darkness.

Hermione’s voice echoed anxiously. “Percy, where are we going? This isn’t on any of the school maps.”

“No,” Percy said, smiling faintly to himself. “It isn’t.”

They stopped before a narrow stone wall. Percy tapped a specific spot with his wand, murmuring a quiet incantation. The wall trembled. And a hidden archway split open, revealing a long tunnel sloping downward into shadow. A faint, earthy breeze carried the scent of the village beyond.

Ron’s mouth fell open. “Merlin's beard.”

Harry’s eyes gleamed with wonder. “Is that...!”

“Hogsmeade,” Percy confirmed quietly.

Hermione’s gasp cut through the excitement. “Percy! This is illegal! If a teacher catches you...! If anyone finds out...! You could be expelled! All of us could!”

Her voice rose an octave, the words tumbling fast. “You’re a prefect! Well, were... and you’re supposed to enforce rules, not break them!”

Percy met her glare with calm patience. “Hermione, rules exist to protect students. And sometimes... only sometimes... breaking one protects them better.”

Ron blinked. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

Harry laughed softly, awe replacing his usual reserve. “You knew about this all along?”

“Not always,” Percy admitted. “But I learned recently. My brothers -Fred and George- are cleverer than they appear. They told me you haven’t got permission to visit Hogsmeade. I thought I might… change that.”

Hermione looked scandalized. “You can’t!”

Percy gave her a small, conspiratorial smile. “Hermione, if anyone asks, I was merely tutoring third year students. Which, technically, is true.”

Ron choked on a laugh. “Merlin, Percy’s gone mad.”

“Perhaps,” Percy said mildly, “but I’m rather good at it.”

He turned to Harry then, voice softening. “You deserve to see it at least once, don’t you think? To walk where your parents once did.”

Harry’s breath caught. The faint flicker of homesickness and gratitude in his eyes was enough to quiet Hermione’s protest.

“We’ll go this weekend,” Percy said. “Safely. No one will suspect a thing.”

When the others began to drift toward the staircase, Percy gently caught Ron’s arm.

“Ron,” he said, lowering his voice, “one more thing.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a small coin pouch... the same one Marcus had pushed at him earlier.

Ron frowned. “What’s this?”

“Pocket money,” Percy said simply. “For you. For Hogsmeade.”

Ron blinked in disbelief. “You’re giving me money?”

“I earned it,” Percy said quickly. “Tutoring fees. It’s only fair you enjoy some of it. You’re my brother, after all.”

Ron opened his mouth, closed it, then said awkwardly, “You don’t have to...!”

“I know,” Percy interrupted. His tone softened. “But I want to. And I’ll give some to the twins as well, perhaps Ginny later. She can’t go yet, but I’ll bring her something nice.”

For a heartbeat, Ron just stared. Then, before Percy could react, he stepped forward and pulled his brother into a tight, impulsive hug.

Percy stumbled, caught off-guard. He froze. Then awkwardly patted Ron’s shoulder, the faintest tremor in his breath.

“Blimey,” Ron muttered when he stepped back, cheeks red. “Didn’t think you’d actually do something cool.”

Harry grinned from behind him. Hermione, though she still looked torn between pride and horror, smiled too.

Percy straightened, smoothing his robes to disguise the shake in his hands. “Don’t tell Oliver,” he said lightly. “He already thinks I’m incapable of resting.”

Ron laughed. “Your secret’s safe with us.”

As they left the tunnel and made their way back toward the castle proper, Percy lingered a step behind, his gaze flicking toward the direction of the map tucked in his robe.

He felt the faint pull of guilt twist beneath his ribs. He hadn’t given it to Harry yet. Not because he didn’t trust him -he did- but because the map still held secrets Percy wasn’t ready to surrender.

Not yet.

There was still so much left to learn... and time, he suspected, was not on his side.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts slept under a sheen of silver moonlight, the kind that made the lake look like molten glass and the towers glow with quiet, ancient magic.

The castle’s breath was deep and even. Every torch dimmed, every stair silent.

Percy Weasley, however, was very much awake.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the Marauder’s Map open before him, its inked corridors glimmering faintly in the candlelight. He had checked the map twice already... no red dots near the portrait hole, no wandering prefects, no Filch or Mrs. Norris.

He traced his wand across the parchment. “Mischief managed.”

The map faded into blankness, and Percy folded it neatly into his robes.

He rose, every muscle protesting. His fever had lessened, but the dull ache remained; a reminder that his body was a battleground between curse and magic. He moved quietly, slipping past Oliver’s bed where the older boy snored softly, and down into the empty common room.

The fire had burned low; its embers painted the room in a soft crimson glow. Percy stood for a moment, clutching the folded map, and whispered to himself:
“Just once. Just this time.”

He stepped out through the portrait hole.

The corridors were cool and dark, filled with the whisper of portraits muttering in their sleep. Percy’s hand shook as he activated the map again and followed the inked trails toward the same secret passage he had shown the trio earlier.

When he reached it, he pressed his palm against the stone, feeling the familiar shimmer as the archway opened.

The tunnel welcomed him with the scent of damp earth and the faint hum of old enchantments.

He descended.

The deeper he went, the more alive he felt. The magic in the stones, the wild pulse of his own power... it was all thrumming together, like the heartbeats of a thousand wizards before him. And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel weak.

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he emerged into the cold open field beyond Hogsmeade. The night sky stretching endless and bright above him.

Here, under the stars, Percy drew a deep breath and took out his notes; the old parchment he had copied from the runic texts months ago, filled with diagrams of bone shifts, nerve alignments, and transformation focus points.

The Animagus ritual was never meant to be easy. It was, by every measure, a test of endurance and magical precision.

He began by drawing a small circle in the dirt with his wand, marking it with runes to stabilize the spell. Then, kneeling in the center, he whispered the Latin incantations, focusing on his heartbeat, his breath, and the pull of his inner magic.

The first stage was alignment --matching the rhythm of his heartbeat to the pulse of raw magic. The second, visualization --seeing the animal within, the shape that called to him.

He had studied the theory hundreds of times. In principle, it was simple: the body followed the will, and the will followed the soul. But in practice, it was agony.

Magic surged through him like molten fire, threading through every vein, tearing at the runes that marked his skin.

His breath hitched.

His chest felt as though it were caving in.

His fingers stiffened, his spine twisted. The world flickered between sight and darkness.

He collapsed to his knees.

Pain flooded him, sharp and relentless. His bones shrank, twisted, hollowed; his skin burned, feathers pushing through where flesh once was. He could feel his heart hammering faster and faster, wings trying to form from arms that weren’t ready, a beak forcing its way through unyielding bone.

He screamed.

Though what left his mouth was a shrill, strangled sound halfway between human and avian.

For a moment, he thought he would die right there in the dirt. That the curse would seize this moment of weakness and crush him completely.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“I will not...!” he gasped, the words breaking apart. “...be defeated!”

The magic burst outward. The circle of runes flared gold.

Then white.

Then silence.

When he opened his eyes again, the world looked impossibly vast.

The grass loomed like miniature trees, the night air sharper, cooler. His heartbeat was light, fast, steady.

He looked down.

And instead of pale hands, saw feathers the color of tawny bronze.

He blinked, and the movement was strange... round, wide-eyed. His vision was clear, every shadow distinct.

He had done it.

A laugh bubbled in his throat, but it came out as a soft, startled hoot.

He hopped forward, talons crunching softly on frost-tipped grass. The realization struck him with sudden, childish delight... he was an owl! A small one, perhaps no larger than the palm of a man’s hand, but perfectly formed.

For the first time in many days, the pain was gone. His body was light, unburdened.
He stretched his wings experimentally... only to topple sideways with an indignant hoot.

Flight, it seemed, was another lesson entirely.

Still, he tried again. A hop, a flutter, another tumble. But he laughed; if owls could laugh, he surely did. The cold wind under his feathers felt like freedom, like life itself.

He spent nearly an hour hopping clumsily around the clearing, sometimes catching a short lift from the ground before crashing harmlessly into the soft grass. The stars spun gently above him, and for a fleeting moment, Percy felt infinite.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in. He closed his eyes, focused inward, and willed himself back.

The transformation reversed with a muted rush... feathers withdrawing, bones stretching, pain returning in muted echoes. He stumbled to his knees again, shivering, but the ache in his chest was softer now. Bearable.

He looked down at his hands... still trembling, but alive.

“I did it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Merlin, I actually did it.”

He wiped the dirt from his robes, pulled them around himself, and began the long walk back through the tunnel. The map was warm in his pocket, the faint hum of his renewed magic comforting against his ribs.

The curse still lingered... he could feel it, coiled like smoke beneath his skin. But it no longer felt insurmountable.

Something had changed.

His magic had begun to fight back.

And though Percy didn’t yet know the truth, each spell, each act of quiet defiance was strengthening him, slowing the curse that had sought to claim his life.

By the time he slipped back into Gryffindor Tower and sank into bed, dawn was just beginning to touch the horizon.

Oliver shifted in his sleep, mumbling something about practice schedules.

Percy smiled faintly, staring up at the canopy above him.

For the first time in weeks, he let himself believe there might still be time.

Time to live. Time to heal. Time to fly again.

Chapter Text

By the time Percy woke the next morning, sunlight had already spilled through the curtains, warm and bright. The ache in his bones, though not gone, had dulled into something bearable. A background hum rather than a blade.

He sat up slowly, blinking against the light. His senses felt… different.

Sharper.

Every sound seemed magnified. The soft flutter of curtains. The distant scrape of a quill from the common room below. Even the muted heartbeat thudding in his own chest.

He rubbed his temples, disoriented.

“Blimey, you look awful.”

Oliver’s voice came from the doorway, his hair still damp from practice. He crossed the room with a frown and pressed a palm to Percy’s forehead. “Hmm... not as bad as yesterday, though.”

Percy gave a small smile. “It’s nothing. Just need to get used to... ” He cut himself off quickly. “... reading about the Hogwarts: A History.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “You mean you’re still not resting. I can tell, Percy.”

“I am,” Percy protested weakly.

Oliver folded his arms. “You look like you’ve been through extra Quidditch practice... without the padding. Stay here. I’ll bring you breakfast. You’re not going anywhere until you stop looking like death warmed over.”

Before Percy could argue, Oliver grabbed his cloak and stormed out, muttering something about “bloody stubborn prefects.”

The door shut, and silence settled again.

Percy sighed. He had counted, by his last calendar mark, six days remained before the his break ended. Six days to understand the curse, to control the changes, to be ready before before he took up his Head Boy duties again.

He shouldn’t be out of bed. But guilt gnawed at him... the memory of Marcus’s stiff expression when the coin pouch slid across the table. Marcus had pretended not to notice Percy’s trembling hands, nor the faint flush of fever still burning his cheeks.

And then there were Ron, Harry and Hermione.. bright, eager, still learning what Defence ought to be. They needed him.

But so did his own body.

That afternoon, despite his promise to Oliver, Percy left his bed for the lesson. His step was lighter than before, though he felt unsteady. His senses were far too sharp. Every whisper echoed, every shimmer of candlelight flared too bright.

The lesson with Marcus was brief; the Slytherin barely spoke except to correct a rune or mutter a dry comment. Percy noticed, however, that Marcus’s eyes kept flicking toward him, narrowing slightly as if weighing whether Percy should even be upright.

When the lesson ended, Marcus tossed another small sack onto the table.
“For the next one,” he said shortly.

Percy blinked. “Marcus, I told you...!”

“It’s a transaction,” Marcus interrupted. “Don’t make it something else.”

The tone left no room for argument. Percy quietly tucked the pouch into his bag.

By the time he reached the common room again, the walls seemed to breathe around him. The rustle of pages, the clatter of chess pieces... all too loud. Ginny and Oliver were waiting near the stairs, both wearing identical frowns.

“Bed,” Oliver said simply.

Percy opened his mouth, but Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Please, Percy. I heard you coughed halfway through coming here. Go. Rest.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. Just for a while.”

When the door to his dormitory shut, Percy flicked his wand toward it, sealing it with a quick locking charm. His pulse raced. The air shimmered faintly with magic... his magic.

He stood for a long moment, wand hovering near his heart. Then, softly:
“Let’s see if it still works.”

The change came easier this time.

A rush of heat.
A tightening of bones.
The breath of feathers.

His vision blurred, then sharpened, colors blooming with impossible clarity. The ache vanished.

He hopped once -- light, effortless-- and gave a startled hoot.

The world felt wide again. His dormitory stretched out like a vast forest; the draped beds were tall trees, the furniture massive boulders. He hopped from trunk to trunk; the wardrobe to Oliver’s desk to the edge of his own bed, each jump lighter than air.

In the mirror, a small bronze owl stared back. Round eyes, feathers neat, expression almost comically serious.

Percy tilted his head. The owl did the same.

He hooted quietly, amused.

Hermes would be envious, he thought, a flicker of pride in his chest. Perhaps one day, he’d fly beside his faithful companion, not as a master... but as an equal.

He spent several minutes exploring; perching on the bedposts, fluttering near the window, drinking in the unfamiliar joy of movement without pain.

Then, reluctantly, he concentrated, feeling his body stretch and twist back into its human form. The soreness returned, but faintly; the ache no longer ruled him.

He straightened his robes and turned back to his desk. The Marauder’s Map lay folded neatly beside his quills.

When he touched the parchment, a familiar thrill ran through him. He whispered the phrase and watched the ink spread like veins across the page, drawing out the castle’s hidden heart.

He leaned forward, scanning the dots that represented his siblings. Ginny was in the common room with a group of second-years, laughing. The twins were down by the kitchens, no doubt plotting their next escapade.

He smiled faintly. All safe.

His gaze drifted upward, tracing through the Gryffindor Tower. Dinner was nearly over; soon the corridors would fill again. He searched for Ron, expecting him to be in his dormitory with Harry and Neville.

And then his breath stopped.

There... inside the third-year boys’ room... were four dots. Harry Potter. Ronald Weasley. Neville Longbottom…
and a name that shouldn’t exist.

Peter Pettigrew.

For one terrible moment, he could only stare. His heart thundered in his chest, his body trembling as cold washed over him.

“No…” he whispered. “That’s not possible.”

He slammed his palm over the map, whispering the closing charm. “Mischief managed.” The ink vanished instantly, leaving blank parchment behind.

Without a second thought, Percy snatched up his wand and sprinted out the door.

He reached the third-year dormitory in less than a minute, bursting through the door so hard it slammed against the wall.

Harry, Ron, and Neville jumped, startled.

“Percy?” Ron exclaimed. “What... what’s wrong?”

Percy’s eyes swept the room, wand raised, searching every shadow.

Nothing.

No movement, no fourth boy.

Just the three of them, staring at him in shock.

“Where is he?” Percy demanded before realizing how wild he must have sounded. He lowered the wand slowly. “Forgive me. I thought... ! ... never mind.”

Harry stepped closer, concern furrowing his brow. “Percy, are you all right?”

Percy tried to compose himself. “I thought something was wrong,” he said vaguely. “Ron, you looked… restless earlier.”

Ron frowned. “It’s just Crookshanks. It's been after Scabbers again. Hermione won’t keep the monster away, and Scabbers is acting weird.”

“Acting weird?” Percy repeated carefully.

Ron nodded, glancing toward his bed. “He’s thinner, twitchy. Barely eats.”

Something cold crawled down Percy’s spine.

Peter Pettigrew. The rat.

He forced a calm smile. “May I see him? I know a few healing charms for small creatures.”

Ron hesitated. “He’s fine...! Just scared of Crookshanks...!”

“It might help,” Percy pressed gently. “Some of those charms are… delicate. I’ll need quiet.”

After a pause, Ron relented and picked up the trembling grey rat from under his pillow. Percy took him with careful hands... too careful, almost reverent.

The moment Scabbers’ tail brushed his palm, Percy whispered a subtle, nearly soundless stunning charm. The rat went limp.

Ron jumped. “Percy! What...?!”

“It’s all right,” Percy said quickly, forcing his voice steady. “Healing spells for animals can look alarming. I’ll take him to my dormitory... it’s quieter there.”

Harry and Neville exchanged uneasy glances, but Percy gave a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He turned, the unconscious rat cradled in his hands, and left before they could ask more questions.

Back in his dormitory, he shut and sealed the door again, every movement trembling. He conjured a small brass cage with a flick of his wand and gently laid the rat inside.

The creature lay still, whiskers twitching faintly in sleep.

Percy stared at it for a long time, the truth crashing against his ribs like thunder.

“Peter Pettigrew,” he whispered.

“What in Merlin’s name are you doing alive?”

The map, the curse, the Animagus revelation... everything began to twist together into something dark and vast.

And Percy, alone in his locked dormitory, realized he was now holding one of the wizarding world’s greatest secrets in his hands.

Chapter Text

Percy stared down at the small, sleeping shape in the cage. His pulse roared in his ears. It was impossible. It had to be impossible.

And yet the truth sat before him... small, unassuming, breathing softly, like it hadn’t stolen everything from the world.

Scabbers.
Peter Pettigrew.

His mind reeled back, to the afternoon he first found the rat. He’d been twelve -- tall, awkward, already dreaming of Prefect badges and exam results... and there, near the back garden wall, he’d seen the scrawny thing huddled in the cold. The rat had been shivering, half-starved, missing a finger in front leg. Percy had crouched, murmured softly, and it hadn’t run. That, even then, had felt like trust.

He could still hear himself begging his mother. Please, Mum, I’ll look after him. I’ll feed him, clean him, you won’t even notice he’s here.

He’d made good on every word. Warm milk, crumbs from his plate, even tiny bits of cheese sneaked from the kitchen. He’d mended Scabbers’ first cage himself, sanded down the splinters, and lined it with old parchment so the metal wouldn’t be too cold. The little creature used to crawl up his sleeve to sit on his shoulder while he read. It would doze off there sometimes, whiskers twitching against his neck.

The memories hit like a blade turned inward. All those years, he had fed a murderer. Sheltered him. Let him sleep beside his pillow.

His breath came unsteady, a dry sound escaping his throat. “You were mine,” he whispered. “You were safe because of me.”

And then... worse. The next memory came, he’d been so proud the day he’d given Scabbers to Ron. It was after he’d gotten his owl, Hermes. He could still see Ron’s freckled face, wide-eyed and delighted, clutching the rat like it was treasure. Percy had told him, He’s a good companion. Doesn’t need much care. He’ll keep you company at school.

He’d meant it. He’d meant every word.

Now, his stomach twisted violently. “Merlin...” The word broke off into a tremor. His hand shook as he pressed it to his mouth. You gave him your pet. You gave him your murderer. You handed your baby brother a criminal wrapped in fur.

The rat stirred faintly in the cage, as if mocking him with its stillness. Percy’s face hardened. His mind felt split between disbelief and fury, between guilt and calculation. He wanted to crush the cage, to see it crumble under his magic. But the rational part of him, the part that always whispered over panic, spoke instead:

No. Think. Breathe. Use this.

He drew in a ragged breath, steadying himself. He needed time. Proof. Understanding. Pettigrew’s existence wasn’t a story to be shouted... it was an opening, a key to something bigger. If Percy handled this right, if he planned carefully, this secret could become his greatest leverage yet.

And for that, he needed the rat alive.

His fingers flexed around his wand. The anger in his chest cooled into something sharp and deliberate. “You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice low, trembling but sure. “Not until I decide what happens next.”

The rat’s small chest rose and fell, soft and steady, inside the gleaming cage. Percy stood over it, wand raised, lips moving in careful, quiet rhythm.

Each word sank into the air like molten metal. Runes of containment, shielding, tracking, and silence wove into the structure -- invisible but potent.

By the time he finished, the air hummed with magic so dense it prickled against his skin.

Percy let out a long breath. “There,” he murmured. “No one’s opening you without me.”

He flicked his wand once more, weaving in the final spell... one of his own design, delicate and intricate. The cage glowed faintly gold, and a small rune symbol shimmered above the metal: Locare.

Now, wherever he was in the castle, he’d know exactly where this cage lay. Like a pulse on the map of his mind.

Peter Pettigrew wouldn’t be running anywhere.

That evening, sunlight poured through the castle windows, turning the corridor floor to gold. Percy stood outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, brass cage in hand. Inside it, the rat shifted lazily, whiskers twitching against the bars.

But Percy’s expression was tense... jaw tight, movements precise in a way that drew attention. Too precise.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione approached, their chatter dimming the moment they saw the cage.

“Scabbers?” Ron asked, confused.

Percy didn’t look at him. “Inside,” he said quietly. “There’s something I need to discuss before we start.”

The three exchanged glances, uneasy, and followed him in.

Down the corridor, Fred and George rounded a corner... both slowing when they spotted their brother.

“Why’s Percy carrying a rat like it’s top-secret?” Fred muttered.

“Because that is his rat,” George replied. “You know, the one he gave Ron. Maybe it bit him again.”

“Yeah, and that explains why he looks like he’s about to duel it.”

They watched him disappear into the classroom, brows furrowing. Something was off. Percy didn’t just look strict. He looked haunted.

Fred slipped a hand into his pocket. “Lucky I brought these, then.”

George grinned as he pulled out the end of a thin, fleshy-colored string. “Extendable Ears... prototype number seven. Let’s see what the golden boy’s hiding.”

They crept closer, crouching by the classroom door. Fred fed the end of the string under the gap while George held the listening end, grin fading as Percy’s voice came through... low, deliberate, almost trembling with control.

“Before we begin, there’s something important I need to show you,” Percy said.

When the door closed, Percy cast several silencing charms - layers upon layers - until the hum of the spells pressed faintly against their ears. Only then did he set the brass cage on the table.

Inside, the rat stirred. Its dull fur caught the glow of candlelight, and for a moment, the small, ordinary creature looked… wrong. Too still. Too watchful.

Harry frowned. “That’s... Ron’s rat?”

Ron nodded, bewildered. “Yeah. Scabbers. What about him?”

Percy didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a folded parchment from his cloak and laid it flat. His wand tapped once against the surface.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Ink bled and spread like veins, unfurling the living map of Hogwarts.

Hermione leaned closer, breath catching. “It’s... beautiful,” she murmured.

“The Marauder’s Map,” Percy said quietly. “Created by four students... pranksters, yes, but brilliant ones. They signed their work, see?”

He turned the map so they could read. Four names shimmered at the corner, curling in old ink.

Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

Hermione frowned. “Moony… we already know that’s Professor Lupin.”

Percy nodded once. “Correct. And ‘Prongs’...” he looked at Harry “...was your father.”

Harry blinked, eyes fixed on the name. “Prongs,” he whispered. “He… called himself that?”

Percy didn’t answer. His finger hovered over the next names. “Padfoot,” he said softly. “I’ve reason to believe that’s Sirius Black.”

Ron stiffened, unease rippling through him.

Then Percy pointed at the last name. “And this one. Wormtail.” His tone sharpened. “The one who supposedly died twelve years ago.”

Ron frowned. “Wormtail? Who’s that supposed to be?”

Percy didn’t answer. Instead, he tapped the map again, the image shifting - the moving dots rearranging - until it showed their very classroom.

Four names glowed clearly.
Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Ronald Weasley. Peter Pettigrew.

A stunned silence filled the room.

Harry leaned closer, frowning. “Wait… that can’t be right.”

Hermione’s eyes darted between the map and the cage, her lips parting in disbelief. Ron only stared, color draining from his face.

But Percy’s gaze lingered a moment longer... not on the classroom, but on the two faint names just outside the door.

Fred Weasley. George Weasley.

Of course. He should’ve known.
The corners of his mouth twitched -- not amusement, not quite annoyance -- just a weary understanding.

Always listening, aren’t you?

He sighed quietly through his nose and shifted the map slightly, the movement so small the others didn’t notice. Let them listen. They’d find out soon enough.

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. “No... that’s... he’s dead. Peter Pettigrew died years ago.”

Harry leaned closer, disbelief widening his eyes. “I think this map shows the living. So... how... ?”

Percy’s voice stayed level. “Yes... that’s the point.”

Ron swallowed hard, staring at the cage. His voice came out hoarse. “You’re saying...!”

“Think about the names,” Percy cut in softly. “Moony. Padfoot. Prongs. Each one tied to an animal form. So what would ‘Wormtail’ mean?”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “They're Animagus,” she whispered.

Percy gave a single nod, “Yes. Moony, the werewolf… Prongs, the stag… Padfoot, the dog… and Wormtail...”

Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth. 

The realization crept over them like frost. Ron’s face drained of color.

“Then Scabbers…” Harry began, his voice shaking.

Percy’s gaze fell to the cage. “Isn’t Scabbers,” he finished. “He’s Peter Pettigrew.”

The words dropped like stones into silence.

Ron staggered back a step, shaking his head. “He... he’s been... he’s been in my pocket for years...!”

Hermione’s whisper came fragile and horrified. “Ron, you’ve been sleeping next to a murderer.”

Percy said nothing more. He only looked down at the cage - the rat that wasn’t a rat - and for a fleeting moment, his expression broke, grief and fury flickering beneath the calm.

“Then Hermione broke the silence. “You have to tell the professors,” she said, her voice tight and high with urgency. “Percy, this is...! This is Pettigrew! He was a Death Eater! He betrayed Harry’s parents...!”

Percy shook his head firmly. “No.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “No? You can’t keep something like this to yourself!”

“I can,” Percy said, his tone even but cold, “and I will.”

Ron’s chair scraped back sharply. “Percy... bloody hell, are you mad?!” His face had gone red, a mix of fury and fear. “That thing...! He slept in my bed! You knew, and you’re just... ! What. Keeping him in a cage like some trophy?!”

Percy turned to him, gaze sharp as a blade. “I’m keeping him contained, Ronald. Safe... from us, and from himself.”

“Safe?” Ron’s voice cracked. “He’s a murderer!”

Harry stepped forward before Hermione could speak, his expression stricken. “Percy… this isn’t a prank, is it? You’re serious about this?”

Percy met his eyes. “Deadly.”

Something in the calmness of the word made Hermione flinch.

She pressed on, desperate. “Percy, listen to yourself! This isn’t your decision to make! We have to go to Professor Dumbledore...!”

Percy’s voice cut through hers like a blade of glass. “Tell me, Hermione... who hired Gilderoy Lockhart? Who let a basilisk roam the castle for months? Who let an identified werewolf still teaching and stay on the school ground?”

Hermione froze, words dying in her throat.

Percy’s tone softened, but his eyes stayed cold. “The professors aren’t infallible. They’ve missed things before. Things that nearly killed you.”

Harry frowned, anger beginning to spark. “But Professor Dumbledore...!”

“Even Professor Dumbledore,” Percy interrupted quietly, “makes mistakes.”

He kept his tone even, but inside, the words tasted like iron.

He had to believe that once... that Professor Dumbledore couldn’t fail. That Hogwarts was safe, that the professors knew best.

But Ron had almost died in first year. His little brother, lying motionless in the hospital bed, skin too pale, breath too shallow ... all because “the safest place in the world” had turned into a battleground for children.

And then Ginny.

He could still hear Mum’s scream the day the owl came. Still remember the way his hands shook as he waited inside Gryffindors dormitory, useless, powerless, while the professors whispered about ancient magic and “protocol.”

Safe. They’d called this place safe.

He swallowed, jaw tightening. Safe for who? For the professors? For the ones who kept pretending it wasn’t their fault every time a child nearly died?

The fury rose, slow and familiar... the same kind he’d buried years ago. Back then, he’d called it discipline. Now, it just felt like hate.

And the Ministry... they were worse. The people he’d admired, the system he’d planned to serve... all of it rotten. He’d spent nights reading case files, every inconsistency about Sirius Black’s arrest, every missing record, every unanswered question.

No trial. No defense. No truth.

Just a name condemned, a family destroyed.

The Ministry that claimed to protect their world had become something else... a machine that devoured mistakes and called it justice.

He drew a slow breath, steadying his voice before speaking again. The fury was buried, but not gone.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The cage’s golden light flickered across Percy’s pale face, making him look older... haunted.

He straightened slowly. “If I go to them, this could be buried quietly. Covered up, in the name of safety. But if we make it public... if we make noise... they’ll have no choice but to act.”

Hermione shook her head, horrified. “Make it public? Percy, that’s insane! If Pettigrew’s alive, if You-Know-Who finds out...!”

Percy leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “Sirius Black’s name is still branded with murder. If Pettigrew is alive, then it’s time someone reopened that trial.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “You mean...!”

“Yes.” Percy’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “We bring the truth out ourselves. Through other channels.”

Harry’s voice was barely a whisper. “What channels?”

Percy hesitated, then said quietly, “There’s a girl in Ravenclaw. Luna Lovegood. Her father runs The Quibbler. It’s small, eccentric, but it prints what the Prophet won’t.”

Hermione’s voice trembled with outrage. “The Quibbler? Percy, that’s not journalism... it’s fiction!”

“Exactly,” Percy said simply. “And they print the unbelievable. Pettigrew alive, Sirius innocent... it’ll be unbelievable until it’s not.”

He glanced toward the cage. The rat shifted, a soft, wet squeak breaking the stillness.

Percy’s expression hardened. “We’ll make it impossible for the truth to stay buried.”

The three students stared at him... not as a brother or a mentor, but as something they could no longer quite recognize.

Harry’s expression was a storm... disbelief, anger, and the fragile edge of hope.
Hermione’s eyes glistened with horrified understanding.
Ron’s face had gone white, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched.

Outside the classroom, Fred and George exchanged a silent glance, their faces pale for once.

For the first time, they realized Percy wasn’t just breaking rules.

He was preparing to break history.

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, the library shimmered with sunlight that fell through the tall windows in dappled gold. Dust motes drifted like tiny galaxies between shelves. Madam Pince’s sharp heels clicked somewhere distant, out of sight but always near enough to make anyone whisper.

In one secluded corner, behind a stack of rarely touched Arithmancy tomes, Percy Weasley waited.

His parchment was spread neatly across the long table... copies of The Daily Prophet, excerpts from the Wizarding Penal Code, and a few older clippings about the fall of You-Know-Who. Each article was carefully annotated in tight handwriting, red ink underlining phrases like “without trial”, “security priority over due process”, and “Ministry decree.”

Across from him, Ginny, Harry, Hermione, and Ron waited quietly... though “quiet” might’ve been a stretch for Ron, who kept fidgeting with a quill.

“She’s coming,” Ginny said finally, glancing toward the entrance. “I told her we wanted to talk about Nargle migration. She seemed… excited.”

“Of course she did,” Ron muttered.

Hermione shushed him, though even she looked uncertain. “Percy, are you sure this is wise? If anyone finds out we’re...!”

“They won’t,” Percy said calmly, eyes fixed on the parchments. “Now hush.”

A moment later, a light, airy voice drifted over the shelves.
“Ginny? Oh, there you are.”

Luna Lovegood appeared, her wand tucked behind her ear and her silvery eyes wide with curiosity. Her hair floated as though caught in a gentle breeze that no one else could feel.

“Hello, everyone,” she said dreamily, before turning to Percy. “Heya Percy.”

Percy blinked, caught off guard. “Er... yes. Hey.”

She smiled faintly. “You have Wrackspurts around your head.”

“Do I,” Percy said dryly, then remembered himself. “Ah. Thank you.”

“They’re not bad,” Luna added absently. “They like clever people.”

Ginny hid a laugh behind her hand.

Percy cleared his throat. “Miss Lovegood... Luna. Thank you for coming. I was hoping to speak to you about your father’s newspaper.”

“The Quibbler?” she asked, perking up. “He always likes new stories. Especially the ones people are afraid to print.”

“Good.” Percy leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Because I have one.”

He gestured to the parchment spread before him. “Tell me, Luna, do you know that every witch and wizard accused of a crime has the right to a trial before the Wizengamot?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Though Daddy says the Ministry often forgets its own laws. He wrote about it last year when they arrested a goblin for sneezing too loudly near the Minister.”

Percy allowed himself a small, approving smile.

“Yes. Well, they forgot again... on a far larger scale.”

He tapped one of the Prophet clippings. “Sirius Black. He was sent to Azkaban without a trial. No witnesses. No evidence presented. Just the word of one surviving wizard... Peter Pettigrew.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but Percy continued before anyone could interrupt.

“Now,” Percy said carefully, “if a man from a powerful old family, a pureblood ancient family, can be denied a trial, what does that say about the Ministry’s justice? What about the rest of us?”

Luna’s gaze drifted from the parchment to Percy’s face, eyes wide but not in surprise. “You want to make people question it.”

“Exactly,”

Percy said, and for a brief moment, his voice carried a spark of something that reminded Harry of Professor Dumbledore. “We’ll make the public remember the law. And then we’ll ask them what happens when the law is ignored.”

He spread out a strategy outline he’d written in crisp, efficient script:

CONFIDENTIAL STRATEGY OUTLINE — FOR TRUSTED EYES ONLY
Objective: To bring public attention to the inconsistencies and injustices surrounding Sirius Black’s case; and, by extension, expose the Ministry’s systemic failures, without direct accusation or traceable involvement.

1) The Quibbler Series

Title: “Historical Injustices in the Ministry’s Justice System”
Format: Three-part investigative feature to be submitted anonymously through The Quibbler’s editorial owl route.

Part I – The Law Itself:
Present the legal framework for trial and sentencing under the Wizengamot. Cite sections on “Conviction Without Testimony” and “Imprisonment Without Veritaserum Use.” Neutral tone. No names, only precedents.

Part II – Forgotten Cases:
Introduce real, lesser-known examples of cases “lost in paperwork.” Suggest patterns; “rapid convictions during times of panic.”
(Margin note: underline connection between 1981 cases and sudden Azkaban transfers.)

Part III – The Open Question:
Pose the question of whether justice remains justice when due process is abandoned. End with a call for readers to respond with their own examples or questions about “unreviewed trials.”
(Margin note: subtly direct discussion toward Sirius Black’s imprisonment, without naming him outright.)

Closing Phrase (for every issue):
“Justice demands light, even for the darkest name.”

2) The Open Question Format

Concept:
Rather than accuse the Ministry, invite dialogue. Frame articles and letters as citizen inquiries, not challenges.

Method:
Encourage readers to send letters addressed to The Quibbler for forwarding to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Behind the scenes, I (Percy) will write and submit additional “public letters” under pseudonyms, each carefully phrased to push the right questions:

• “Was a trial ever held for Sirius Black?”

• “Can a man be condemned without Veritaserum testimony?”

• “If truth is absolute, why does no record of it exist?”

(Margin note: Tone = curious, not accusatory. Aim to embarrass, not attack.)

3) The Debate Proposal

Origin:
Luna Lovegood initiated an “Open Debate: What Defines Justice in the Wizarding World?”
A harmless-sounding academic event under Ravenclaw’s study society.

Purpose:
To draw professors’ attention and student involvement, making the topic public within Hogwarts itself.
Once questions begin circulating inside the castle, even the Ministry’s silence will sound like guilt.

As Percy finished, the others stared at him in silence. 

“Percy…” she breathed. “That’s...”

“That’s dangerous,” Harry said. “The Ministry’ll come after anyone who prints that.”

“They won’t,” Percy said calmly. “They’ll laugh at The Quibbler. Which is precisely why we’ll use it. No one fears what they think is ridiculous.”

Luna smiled faintly. “Daddy will like that very much. He always says truth hides better when it’s dressed like madness.”

Ginny grinned. “Then it’s perfect.”

But Luna tilted her head, her expression softening as she studied Percy. “You’re glowing, you know.”

Percy frowned slightly. “Pardon?”

“Your magic,” she said simply. “It’s bright. But frayed around the edges, like it’s… fighting itself. There’s something very old clinging to you. Something hurt.”

Percy froze. For a heartbeat, it felt like the air thinned.

Ginny looked between them, confused. “Luna, what do you mean?”

Luna just shrugged lightly. “Only that he’s a good person. The Thestrals follow people like that sometimes. The ones who see too much.”

Percy blinked, caught somewhere between discomfort and awe. “I… thank you, Miss Lovegood.”

“You’re welcome,” Luna said serenely. “Daddy will love this story. He’s always said the Ministry’s too fond of its own shadows.”

When she left, her arms full of annotated parchment, Ginny lingered behind.

“You really think this’ll work?” she asked softly.

Percy calmly answered. “If the right questions are asked by the wrong people, the Ministry will panic. And when people panic, they make mistakes. That’s when the truth slips out.”

Ginny gave a small, proud smile. “You sound like Bill.”

Percy looked away, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Let’s hope I can be half as brave.”

Chapter Text

The Weasley twins had never been known for silence.

So when Percy entered the empty classroom one evening -- fresh from the library, quills and parchment in hand -- and found both Fred and George already perched on desks, identical grins plastered across their faces, he immediately knew something was off.

“Evening, Perce,” Fred greeted.

“We thought we’d pay our ever-busy brother a visit,” George added.

“In this very suspiciously secretive classroom,” Fred finished, eyeing the papers in Percy’s hand. “Plotting a coup against the Ministry, are we?”

Percy froze mid-step. “What are you two doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” Fred said lightly. “Exploring. Eavesdropping. Family bonding.”

“And we might’ve noticed,” George continued, “that you’ve been meeting Harry, Hermione - even Luna Lovegood - at strange hours. So naturally...! ”

“...we assumed the worst!” Fred concluded cheerfully.

Percy sighed, placing his parchment neatly on the desk. “It’s nothing. I’m working on something important. It doesn’t concern you.”

George crossed his arms. “See, that’s the thing, Perce. When a Weasley says that, it always concerns the rest of us.”

Fred leaned closer, his grin slipping into something more serious. “You’ve been jumpier than a Niffler in Gringotts. You don’t even scold us anymore. Either you’ve gone soft or you’re hiding something.”

Percy didn’t look up immediately. “Perhaps I’ve matured,” he said mildly.

“That’ll be the day,” George muttered. “So what’s this important thing, then? Looks like a lot of late nights for someone who claims to worship the rule book.”

For a moment, Percy just watched them... two faces he’d known all his life, mischievous and loyal in equal measure. He remembered their names glowing on the Marauder’s Map that night, hovering just outside the classroom door. Of course they’d listened. Of course they thought they’d gotten away with it.

“You’re hiding something big,” Fred said finally, voice quiet now.

“You’ve barely slept, you jump at shadows,” George added. “You’re not denying it, either.”

Percy smiled thinly. “I’m not confirming it.”

The silence that followed was taut, uneasy.

Then Percy leaned back, voice low but clear, “You remember Sirius Black?”

Both twins straightened immediately.

“The escaped prisoner?” George said.

“The one who betrayed Harry’s parents?” Fred added.

Percy nodded. “That’s the story we were told. But it doesn’t hold up.”

Fred frowned. “Meaning?”

“I checked the archives,” Percy said, his tone clipped, precise. “There’s no trial record. No witness transcripts. Nothing. A man accused of mass murder... sent to Azkaban without a hearing. Everything pushed through under Bartemius Crouch’s wartime authority.”

George blinked. “That’s… insane.”

“It’s incompetence,” Percy said flatly. “The Ministry was terrified, desperate to look decisive. They didn’t want truth. They wanted a scapegoat. And Sirius Black was convenient.”

The words hung in the air, colder than before.

Fred’s grin was gone. “You’re saying he’s innocent?”

“I’m saying,” Percy replied, calm as glass, “the people in charge were blind with fear and arrogance. They abandoned the very laws they were meant to protect.”

The twins exchanged a look. A flicker of disbelief, maybe fear.

Fred gave a short, shaky laugh. “You’ve really lost it this time, Perce.”

Percy ignored the jab. “If the Ministry could condemn a man without trial, what else have they buried? If they could ignore that oversight, then their entire foundation of justice is compromised.”

He reached for the rolled parchment beside him and unrolled it across the desk. The candlelight flickered over the inked lines; neat columns, numbered points, red annotations crowding the margins.

“This,” he said, matter-of-factly, “is how we expose it. Not with accusations, but with questions. Questions they can’t ignore.”

Fred and George leaned closer. Their eyes followed the headings written in careful, structured handwriting:
The Quibbler Series.
The Open Question Format.
The Symbolic Hook.

At the bottom, in crimson ink, one line stood out:
Justice demands light, even for the darkest name.

Neither twin spoke for a while. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, George let out a low whistle. “Merlin’s beard…”

Fred looked up, his face oddly pale. “You’re… you’re planning to publish this?”

Percy didn’t answer. He only met their eyes -- steady, unflinching.

Fred exhaled shakily. “Blimey. You’re serious.”

“Extra serious,” George said softly, the usual mirth gone from his tone.

Percy gave a faint, weary smile. “I need your help.”

The words landed heavily. An admission, a risk, a bridge extended after years of distance.

The twins exchanged a long look, something unspoken passing between them.

For once, neither of them laughed.

“Our help?” they said in unison.

“Yes,” Percy said. “The Prophet won’t touch it. But gossip travels faster than the owls. I want students talking... just whispers, questions. Nothing traceable.”

George grinned. “Ah, weaponized gossip. That’s our specialty.”

Fred leaned back with a gleam in his eye. “We’ll make Sirius Black the most mysterious man at Hogwarts since the Bloody Baron.”

Percy nodded, eyes weary but steady. “Good. Keep it subtle. And don’t mention me.”

“Of course not,” said Fred cheerfully. “We’d never betray our source.”

“Even if he is our brother,” George added.

As they left, Percy felt a strange mix of exhaustion and pride. For once, their chaos would serve purpose.

Two nights later, The Quibbler printed Luna’s article.

It appeared under the headline:
“JUSTICE FOR THE FORGOTTEN: A QUESTION FOR THE MINISTRY."

It was everything Percy had hoped for... quiet, questioning, framed as eccentric curiosity rather than accusation. And yet, it stirred something.

Students whispered.

Professors frowned.

Even The Daily Prophet printed a small, mocking rebuttal. Which was exactly what Percy wanted.

That same night, Percy sat by candlelight in his dorm, quill hovering above parchment.

Dear Mr. Lovegood,

I commend your courage in printing the truth when others shy away from it.
I have enclosed additional notes on the ancient runic codes that once adorned the Ministry’s court records. You may find certain patterns... revealing, if you know how to read them.

Enclosed is a small charm embedded in the corner of the letter. Should the Ministry attempt to trace or silence you, the rune will glow red. Burn it immediately if so.

- A Friend of Justice

He folded the parchment carefully, sealed it with a soft wax rune, and sent it with a quiet flick of his wand.
The rune glowed briefly -alive, aware- and vanished into the night sky with the owl.

By the second day, Hogwarts was humming with speculation.

Some said the Ministry faked Black’s arrest.
Others claimed Pettigrew had been seen alive.
Fred and George were, naturally, the loudest sources of rumor -- though no one could pin the origin to them.

The Quibbler sold out in Diagon Alley before noon.

The headline appeared on a crisp Friday morning, right between the Prophet’s self-congratulatory column about “Ministry Security Excellence” and a full-page advert for Madam Primpernelle’s new anti-wrinkle tonic.

THE MISSING TRIAL - MINISTRY SILENT ON BLACK CASE.

The Quibbler was never known for subtlety. Its letters sprawled in bold, unashamed script, a mixture of accusation and curiosity, as if the headline itself dared the reader to deny its truth. Beneath it, the byline glittered faintly: “By Xenophilius Lovegood, with contributions from Hogwarts Correspondents.”

The first paragraph cut sharper than any hex.

“How can one of the oldest pure-blood families in Britain have its scion imprisoned for twelve years without trial, record, or verifiable evidence? The Ministry refuses comment, offering only ‘classified for security reasons.’ Classified justice; is it still justice?”

Percy read the line three times, heart hammering so hard he could feel it pulse behind his eyes.

He was in the library, the morning light spilling in cold and clean between the shelves, a Quibbler issue trembling faintly in his fingers. Across from him, Hermione’s eyes widened. Ron let out a low whistle. Harry said nothing... but his knuckles tightened around the edge of the table.

“Bloody hell,” Ron murmured. “They actually printed it.”

“They did,” Percy said quietly, his voice oddly hollow. His plan... the whispers, the articles, the slow push toward questions no one dared ask, it was working.

The Quibbler spread faster than a hex gone wrong. Students whispered about it over pumpkin juice and toast; professors frowned over it at the staff table. Copies appeared mysteriously in every common room -- stacked, folded, left carelessly on armchairs.

No one admitted to distributing them. No one needed to.

The next morning, the headline had mutated in the corridors.

“Did Sirius Black ever get a trial?”

“Maybe he was never guilty at all!”

“If they can do that to him, who’s next?”

The twins had done their work well.

Fred and George had slipped enchanted leaflets into every post owl’s mailbag... harmless glamour charms that would briefly display the headline each time a student received a letter. Even Filch had ended up slapping one off his nose. It was chaos.

Beautiful, deliberate chaos.

Percy had expected some reaction. He hadn’t expected this.

By Sunday, even the Daily Prophet couldn’t ignore it. Their headline that morning tried desperately to sound composed:

“MINISTRY REAFFIRMS FAITH IN JUSTICE SYSTEM.”

It only made things worse.

In the Great Hall, the noise was deafening.

Percy sat beside Oliver, who was trying to eat porridge with grim determination while two Ravenclaws nearby argued loudly about due process and political bias.

“...and I’m telling you, my dad works at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he said there wasn’t a record...!”
“Maybe they destroyed it, then! You know how the Ministry covers things up...!”

Percy’s spoon hovered halfway to his mouth.
It was surreal. Just days ago, he’d been lying in bed fighting for breath, wondering if he’d live long enough to do anything meaningful. Now, the entire school was questioning the institution he’d once sworn to serve.

“Percy?” Oliver’s voice cut through the din.

He blinked. “Hm?”

“You’ve been staring at your porridge for five minutes. It’s getting cold.”

Percy forced a faint smile. “Just... thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated. “Justice.”

Oliver raised a brow. “Right. That’s your kind of breakfast topic.”

Percy gave a small huff of laughter, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

The next few days were a blur of rumors and revelation.

The Ministry, under pressure, tried to issue a statement --bland, evasive, and dripping with bureaucratic gloss. “All prisoners at Azkaban are lawfully convicted individuals.”

The Quibbler responded with another article titled “CONVICTED BY WHOM?”

This time, Luna herself contributed a follow-up column, quoting unnamed Hogwarts sources and presenting carefully “found” excerpts of old Wizengamot procedures. It questioned how easily due process could be bypassed during wartime.

Students ate it up.

Adults argued over dinner tables.

And somewhere deep within the Ministry, the tension began to hum like static before a storm.

For Percy, each hour felt like walking a tightrope.

His conscience swayed between pride and dread... pride, because the truth was forcing itself into light; dread, because he knew exactly what became of those who embarrassed the Ministry.

He’d read it before.

Quiet disappearances. Careers ended overnight. Reputations rewritten in the Prophet by morning. Department heads who asked too many questions suddenly transferred. Junior clerks reassigned to remote offices. The Ministry never punished rebellion directly; it buried it under bureaucracy until the world forgot it existed.

And yet, Percy continued.

He didn’t tell anyone the whole truth... that he was the one who had compiled the anonymous report sent to Xenophilius Lovegood, citing public records laws and the missing trial documentation. That the calm, logical arguments now being repeated in political offices across Britain were his own words, disguised and reframed.

He told himself it was worth it.

That for once, he was doing something that mattered.

Evening fell early that week, a drizzle of sleet tapping against the dormitory windowpanes.
Percy sat by candlelight, notes spread before him -- documents on magical law, old copies of the Daily Prophet from the year of the attack, and a small stack of parchment with his own handwriting, every line meticulous and sharp.

The public pressure was growing. Wizards began sending letters to the Ministry demanding proof... records, transcripts, evidence. None came.

The more silent the Ministry remained, the louder the wizarding world became.

Small gatherings formed in pubs and cafes; in Diagon Alley, a protest even broke out outside the Prophet office, chanting for “truth and transparency.”

For the first time in years, distrust toward the Ministry had a voice... and that voice had started with Percy Weasley’s carefully placed seed of doubt.

But he couldn’t shake the unease that had begun coiling in his chest.

Was this truly justice… or ambition in disguise?
Was he serving the truth, or chasing the approval of a world that valued order over honesty?

He told himself it didn’t matter... that facts were facts, and the truth deserved to stand on its own.

But sometimes, late at night, even he wasn’t sure anymore.

That night, a faint knock came at his dormitory door.

Percy froze. Then a muffled voice called, “It’s us.”

Fred. And George.

He opened the door, heart still racing from his thoughts.
The twins slipped inside, looking unusually serious.

“Alright,” Fred said. “We’ve been thinking.”

“That’s dangerous,” Percy murmured automatically.

“Ha. Very funny.” George crossed his arms. “You’ve started something big, Perce. The Prophet’s losing its mind, the Ministry’s in denial, and you’ve got fifth years quoting legal statutes like bedtime stories.”

Percy frowned. “That was the idea.”

Fred leaned against the bedpost. “Yeah, but what’s the next idea?”

Percy blinked. “Next?”

George nodded. “People are asking for proof, yeah? Records. Testimonies. Something official.”

“There aren’t any records,” Percy said quietly. “That’s the point.”

“Exactly,” Fred said, his eyes glinting. “So let’s make the absence impossible to ignore.”

Percy’s stomach turned. He already knew where this was going.

The twins’ plan was audacious -- even by their standards.

They wanted to use Hogwarts itself as the next stage: enchanted posters that appeared on every notice board overnight, not vandalism, but perfect replicas of Ministry formatting, each reading:

“PUBLIC NOTICE: The Trial of Sirius Black - LOCATION: UNKNOWN. DATE: UNKNOWN. RECORDS: MISSING."

Percy’s first instinct was to say absolutely not.

But something inside him, something small and dangerous, whispered yes.

“Do it,” he said finally. “But make sure it can’t be traced.”

Fred’s grin widened. “Knew you’d see reason.”

“Merlin help me,” Percy muttered.

They didn’t need Merlin. They had mischief.

By morning, Hogwarts woke to pandemonium.

The posters gleamed on walls, doors, even the library’s quiet corners -- each one written in perfect bureaucratic formality, signed ‘By Order of the Ministry of Magic.’

Filch tore them down in fury.
Students just conjured more.

McGonagall’s nostrils flared so sharply it could’ve sliced parchment. Dumbledore, however, seemed... amused. He said nothing, only instructed the caretakers to remove them “discreetly.”

Percy stayed silent. No one suspected him. Not yet.

The Prophet was forced to respond again. This time, they published a defensive editorial titled “Sirius Black: Justice Was Served.” But their argument rang hollow. They couldn’t present trial records, because none existed.

And that absence - that silence - became louder than any denial.

Within three days, the wizarding world was buzzing.

Floo Network discussions turned political. Wizengamot members faced letters demanding inquiry.

At the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta reportedly refused to serve two Ministry officials until they “answered the question.”

In Diagon Alley, a new pamphlet circulated: “If It Could Happen to Him - It Could Happen to Us."

Percy read that line in a whisper of horror and pride all at once.

He had unleashed something he couldn’t control.

That night, an owl tapped on his window.
The bird was unfamiliar... sleek, black, and silent as shadow.

It dropped a small, folded piece of parchment on his desk before disappearing into the dark.

Percy unfolded it with trembling hands.

“You’ve made yourself visible, Mr. Weasley. Visibility is dangerous.”
- A Friend of the Truth.

Percy stared at the message until the candle burned low.

He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a threat.
But either way, he knew one thing: the game had changed.

Chapter Text

Percy stared at the letter, the ink seeming to pulse in the candlelight.

“You’ve made yourself visible, Mr. Weasley. Visibility is dangerous.”

He read it again. And again.

His throat felt dry. The words were so precise, so calm -no threats, no accusations - and yet they struck harder than any curse.

Visible.

He had worked so hard to remain invisible. To bury his traces behind official citations, careful phrasing, and the convenient eccentricity of The Quibbler. Yet someone had seen him. Someone knew.

He sank into his chair, staring at the parchment like it might answer him if he looked long enough.

'What have I done?'

He was a student. A schoolboy. He wasn’t supposed to be meddling with government archives, or crafting political traps in his dormitory after curfew.

The thought came sharp and shameful... I should tell someone.

An adult. Someone who could actually do something. Maybe Bill. Or Charlie. They’d know how to handle this...

But no. Bill was halfway across Egypt, and Charlie somewhere in the Romania. Even if he sent an owl, it would take days. Weeks.

And Professor Lupin? The thought unsettled him. Professor Lupin was kind, yes; but he’d seen the man’s face when Sirius was mentioned. There was doubt there, fear… and something darker. If Professor Lupin truly believed Sirius Black was guilty, what would he do if Percy told him Peter Pettigrew was alive?

'He’d hunt him down, Percy thought grimly. And then it would all unravel.'

He rubbed his temples, frustration mounting.

'I only wanted the truth out. I wanted people to question, to think...'

But the truth wasn’t a clean, shining thing. It was heavy, sharp-edged, political. It cut both ways.

'Maybe I should stop before it goes too far', he told himself. 'Before someone really gets hurt.'

But then another voice - colder, quieter- whispered back:

'It’s already gone too far. The articles are printed. The rumors are spreading. You can’t unlight a fire once it’s burning.'

He shut his eyes, pressing a hand over his mouth as if to hold the thoughts in.

'I’m not the one who’s wrong here. The Ministry failed first. They built this lie. I only showed the cracks.'

He looked again at the letter on his desk.
The flame flickered, and the ink shimmered faintly, as if mocking him.

Visibility is dangerous.

He wasn’t sure if it was a warning or a promise.

Either way, he knew one thing for certain...
he was in far deeper than he had ever intended to be.

Percy let the letter fall onto his desk, watching as it curled slightly at the edges.

For a long moment, he simply sat there, staring at it. Then, with a slow exhale, he folded it neatly and slipped it into the bottom drawer of his desk, beneath layers of old prefect reports and unused quills.

No trace, no signature, no magical residue. Whoever had sent it, they would find nothing that led back to them. Just the same way he had sent his letters to The Quibblers. Because if they tried,

'They’d find a tangle of half-truths and harmless students,' he thought. 'The Quibbler. A few curious Gryffindors. Nothing worth a trial.'

He was careful. Always careful. Every parchment copied by hand, every name disguised or omitted. Even Fred and George didn’t know how much of it he’d done alone.

Still, he rubbed at the crease between his brows.
Being careful didn’t feel like enough anymore.

Then his gaze fell to another letter on the table... the one that had come that morning, sealed with a blotchy red wax and a familiar, looping hand.

Mum.

He opened it, half-smiling despite himself.

Her words spilled out in their usual anxious flurry: how the Ministry was in turmoil, how there were whispers in The Prophet about old cases being questioned, how Arthur’s department was being “unfairly dragged into conversations it had no business being in.”

And then, of course, the motherly advice:

“Don’t get involved in debates, Percy, dear. Just focus on your studies. You’re not part of this mess, thank heavens.”

Percy’s lips curved faintly. The irony of it all almost made him laugh.

He reached for his quill.

Dearest Mother,
Please don’t worry. Everything at school is perfectly ordinary. I’m keeping out of trouble, and I’m sure Father will be fine. The papers like to exaggerate things, you know how they are.
Love, Percy.

He paused, quill hovering. 'If only you knew.'

He sealed the letter with a small sigh, setting it aside to send in the morning.

Then he leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window, where the dark stretched wide and endless. Somewhere out there, words he’d written - words no one would ever know were his - were stirring fires he couldn’t control.

And in a few days, he knew how it would go.
Bill would write from Egypt.
Charlie from Romania.

Letters full of worry and half-joking reprimands.
The same refrain: “Don’t get involved, Perce.”

He smiled faintly at the thought. Calm. Composed. Every inch the responsible son.

But inside, a small voice whispered,

'It’s far too late for that.'

When Marcus Flint arrived at their usual classroom for their private Defence revision, Percy was already there, pale under the torchlight, eyes shadowed.

The room hummed faintly -- wards layered thick over stone walls, a precaution Percy insisted on every time they met.

“Overprepared as ever,” Marcus drawled, letting the door close behind him. “You sure you’re not planning to teach here next term? ‘Professor Weasley, savior of lost Slytherins’... has a lovely ring, don’t you think?”

Percy didn’t rise to it. “Mock all you want. I’d rather be prepared than sorry.”

Marcus snorted, tossing a coin pouch onto the desk between them. “Payment. Since you’re running such an academic enterprise.”

The pouch hit with a clink, and Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I told you, Marcus...!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marcus cut in. “You don’t take charity. But I don’t take favors. You’re getting paid, end of story.”

Their eyes met, a brief, sharp clash. Slytherin challenge against Gryffindor pride.

Then Percy sighed, conceding, and tucked the pouch aside without another word.

The lesson began like all the others: controlled, precise, almost clinical. Percy recited Defence theories and wand movements with the calm rhythm of someone who lived by order. Marcus followed with grudging competence, all swagger and sarcasm, throwing in comments that needled at Percy’s patience.

“Maybe next time,” Marcus said lazily after deflecting a charm, “you can lend me your study schedule. Then I’ll finally know what it’s like to be boring.”

Percy exhaled through his nose. “Or successful.”

“Touché.” Marcus smirked, lowering his wand. “Still, you’re wound so tight, Weasley, it’s a wonder you haven’t snapped.”

“I’m fine.”

The lie came too quickly.

In truth, Percy’s magic had been whispering under his skin since morning... restless, agitated, too strong for his body. Every spell sent ripples through him, every breath felt shallow. His chest still ached from nights of coughing, and exhaustion dragged behind his eyes like fog.

But he had to push through. He couldn’t falter now, not when the world beyond these walls was teetering toward chaos... and he’d helped push it.

The public had taken the bait. The Quibbler’s article, the twins’ whispers, the open question of Sirius Black’s trial... it was spreading like wildfire. Letters flew daily between journalists, parents, and Ministry workers.

For the first time in years, the public was questioning the Ministry’s authority.
But now that the fire was burning, he wasn’t sure he could control it.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Marcus’s voice broke through his thoughts, sharper now. “You’re slow.”

Percy’s wand trembled. He steadied it. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Marcus scoffed. “Right. You look like you’ve been hit by a Bludger and haven’t noticed.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley. I just don’t want you dying mid-lesson. Then I’d have to explain to McGonagall why her star Prefect keeled over while trying to impress me.”

Percy’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re pale as a ghost,” Marcus retorted, stepping closer. “Maybe you should...!”

The air shifted.

The faint hum of layered wards around the classroom deepened, as though something had pressed against them from within.

The light flickered.

Percy’s wand hand shook -visibly this time- and the spell he’d been forming fizzled into nothing.

He swayed on his feet.

Marcus frowned. “Weasley?”

No answer. Only a ragged sound; half-cough, half-gasp. Percy’s fingers went to his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

“Oi.” Marcus reached out, but Percy stumbled back, breath tearing in and out. “Bloody hell, what...?!”

Then the world...

CRACKED.

Blue light exploded from his body, wild and blinding, streaking across the room in jagged bolts.

Wind howling through stone.

Papers and chairs flung skyward.

The walls vibrated as if the castle itself was recoiling.

Marcus staggered, grabbing at a desk as the air rippled with wild energy. Every torch guttered out, plunging the room into a storm of blue light and shadow.

The runes Percy had drawn -- the same ones meant to contain their spells -- flared gold, then red, sealing the storm inside.

Percy was choking.

Doubled over.

His glasses clattering to the floor.

The mark beneath his robes burned white-hot, alive, its shape crawling up his spine like fire under skin. The scent of scorched fabric filled the air. His vision blurred; every heartbeat sent agony lancing through his body.

“W... Weasley!” Marcus shouted over the roar. “What’s happening to you?!”

Percy’s only answer was a strangled gasp. His magic convulsed again, bursting from his fingertips in another flare of blue that shattered glass and seared the stone walls.

He tried to speak, to breathe, to control it... but the curse was burning through every barrier, clawing out of him. It wanted to be free.

A cough wracked his body - violent, endless - until he spat blood, dark and thick.

The pain tore through his chest like lightning. He dropped to his knees. Blood flecked his lips.

Marcus shouted something, but the sound drowned beneath the roar of raw magic.

Percy’s thoughts were fracturing... pain, breath, light, fear. His own fear. His magic pulsed through him like molten glass. Every nerve screamed. Every breath scraped raw against his lungs.

'Not now,' his mind begged. 'Not yet. I can’t...! Not yet... !!'

The runes burned brighter beneath his clothes, visible now through the thin fabric — glowing lines crawling up his back and chest, red at the edges, searing his skin open.

He’d pushed too far. Held the curse down too long.

The air crackled; his body convulsed. A cry tore out of him, half-human, half-magic. Blue light spilled from his mouth like smoke.

The classroom was collapsing in on itself -desks overturned, wards groaning- but Percy barely saw any of it. He could only hear Marcus shouting, and the sound of his own heartbeat hammering like a countdown.

He coughed again.

And again.

Harsher each time.

Until blood splattered across his hand, dark and heavy.

Marcus lunged forward, but the magic’s backlash threw him back.

Then something inside Percy tore. He felt it... a lump of wet, impossible weight.

Blood surged from his throat, and he caught the shape in trembling hands before throwing it aside with a cry of horror.

Marcus’s voice broke through at last: “Weasley!

Hey...!

Weasley...!

...

... PERCY!!”

He looked up, vision flickering, everything sharp and distant. Marcus’s face was pale, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear.

Percy opened his mouth... but no sound came, only a whisper of air and the shape of two words:
Don’t tell.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm died.

The wards shuddered once, like an exhale. The blue light faded to nothing.

Marcus Flint stayed frozen amid the ruin - breathless, trembling - staring at Percy Weasley collapsed on the floor, bloodied and still.

The silence that followed was deafening.

For a long, suspended moment, Marcus Flint could only hear his own heartbeat... heavy, ragged, and animal.

The air around him still shimmered faintly with residual magic, thick as heat haze. The classroom smelled of singed parchment, iron, and something like static.

And Percy Weasley lay crumpled against the cold flagstones, blood blooming beneath his cheek, his hand still clutching his wand like a lifeline.

“Bloody hell…” Marcus’s voice came out rough, scraping against the silence.

He pushed himself upright, every muscle trembling with leftover adrenaline. Chairs were overturned, quills split open, and books fluttered weakly in the wake of what had been... Merlin, what had that been?

Magic that wild, that suffocating, that alive... it wasn’t just a spell gone wrong. It had felt like a creature, clawing to be freed.

And as the air settled, Marcus’s mind lurched back to that day in Herbology. The vines. The blue light. The way Weasley had nearly collapsed then too. But this...!

This was worse.
This was so much worse.

He staggered forward, boots splashing through the thin pool of crimson spreading from Percy’s side. His stomach turned, but he forced himself closer.

“Per... ! Weasley.” He crouched low, voice hoarse. “Oi. Come on. Wake up n...!”

He broke off.

Because the bloodied robes had torn open at the collar -- and underneath, faint lines moved.

Marcus froze. Then, slowly, he reached forward and tugged the fabric aside.

What he saw made his breath catch.

Marks - runes - carved into skin, glowing faintly blue beneath the blood. They pulsed like veins of molten light, crawling up Percy’s chest and shoulder, burning with every heartbeat. The skin around them blistered, charred in places. It wasn’t ink. It wasn’t a tattoo. It was alive.

“Merlin,” Marcus whispered. “You’re cursed.”

The realization hit like ice water. He knew that kind of magic... old, forbidden, the kind that tore from the inside out if not contained. And Percy’s pulse... was fading.

“Bloody hell...! No...! No, no, no...!” Marcus’s words tangled into panic.

Percy Weasley was dying. Right here. In this classroom.

He didn’t think; just moved. He tore open his satchel, rummaging through quills, parchment, and spell drafts until his hand closed around a small, stoppered vial of deep green glass. His family’s tonic -- a relic of the old Flint line, brewed generations ago, meant to stabilize shattered magical cores after dueling mishaps.

Dangerous in the wrong hands, but powerful enough to pull someone back from the brink.

Marcus unstoppered it with his teeth, muttering a curse under his breath. “Don’t make me regret this, Weasley.”

He tilted Percy’s chin up, forcing his lips open just enough to pour a few drops of the tonic in. The liquid hissed faintly as it touched his tongue... ancient magic meeting chaos. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then Percy’s body jerked violently, as if struck by lightning. His chest arched, breath catching. The blue lines flared, bright enough to burn shadows onto the wall...

Then dimmed.

Marcus grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse. Weak. Erratic. But there.

“Come on,” he muttered, tightening his grip. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare bloody die.”

Seconds stretched into minutes. Slowly, painfully, Percy’s breathing began to even out. Each inhale steadier than the last. The light beneath his skin softened, flickering once before fading into dull scars.

Marcus sagged forward, exhaling shakily. The tension in his shoulders broke like a snapped bowstring.

“Bloody Merlin…” he muttered, dragging a sleeve across his forehead. His heartbeat still thundered, but the air no longer crackled with danger.

The room, though... the room was a disaster. Blood smeared the floor, desks overturned, scorch marks staining the walls.

And Percy...

Percy was a ruin. His face ghost-pale, robes soaked through with blood, chest still rising only shallowly.

Marcus stared down at him, jaw tight. The smell of iron filled his lungs.

“Damn it all,” he whispered. 

For a moment, he just stayed there, torn between fury and disbelief. Then something in him gave way... the part that cared about appearances, reputation, swagger. This wasn’t the time.

“Alright,” he muttered. “No time for pretense.”

With the quiet precision of someone who had done this before, Marcus flicked his wand. His expression hardened into focus.

“Scourgify. Reparo. Evanesco.”

Blood vanished from the flagstones in neat swirls. Shattered glass mended itself with soft clicks. Desks straightened, quills lifted, parchment floated back into place. Within minutes, the chaos was gone -- only faint scorch marks and the sharp scent of ozone remained.

He glanced down at Percy again. The Gryffindor looked fragile in a way Marcus had never thought possible... head bowed, lips parted, a faint tremor running through him even in unconsciousness.

Marcus crouched again, resting one hand briefly over Percy’s sternum to feel the faint warmth beneath. The curse still lingered there, sleeping now but waiting.

He frowned. “You’re one reckless bastard, Weasley.”

He conjured a cloth, wiped the blood from Percy’s face as best he could, put his glasses back, then sat back beside him, exhaustion settling in.

Don’t tell, Percy had mouthed.
That image burned in Marcus’s mind; those lips forming the words with that insane, fading stubbornness, as if pride could keep him breathing.

Marcus cursed under his breath, low and vicious. “You stupid, bloody Gryffindor.”

He ran a hand through his hair. Think, Marcus. Think. He paced the classroom once, then twice.

If he took him to the Hospital Wing, there’d be questions. McGonagall. Pomfrey. The bloody Headmaster. And if they looked too close... whatever Percy was hiding, whatever this curse or madness was... it would surface.

And Marcus knew, with the kind of reluctant respect one holds for an enemy, that Percy Weasley would rather die than let anyone see him weak. 

“Don’t tell,” Marcus muttered again, kicking the nearest desk. It crashed against the wall, and the sound grounded him just enough to act.

He knelt beside Percy again. 

The faint shimmer of defensive magic still wove around the room. The air was still humming, the layers of containment flickering faintly. At least those spells were holding. Percy Weasley had built a fortress and collapsed inside it, he had known what he was doing, even at the edge of madness.

The wand was still in Percy’s grip. Marcus pried it loose with effort; the fingers stiff, as if death itself was unwilling to separate the wizard from his weapon. He slipped it inside Percy's robe.

Then he waited.

Each shallow breath from Percy felt like a clock ticking down, and Marcus’s mind spun... not with empathy, but with a kind of furious disbelief. He wanted to shake him, to shout in his face.

He sat back hard, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re a lunatic.”

And in the silence, Marcus Flint felt the smallest, most inconvenient ache settle in his chest -- not pity, but something close.

He looked at the redhead slumped beside him, and it hit him that Percy Weasley wasn’t unbreakable after all.

He was just breaking quietly.

For the first time, he really looked at Percy. The lines of his face were too sharp, the hollows beneath his eyes dark, exhausted. Every inch of him looked stretched thin; a man wound to breaking.

And Marcus thought of all the snide remarks, the arrogance, the self-control... all the layers Percy built between himself and everyone else.

It wasn’t pride, not really. It was armor.

“Fine,” Marcus exhaled, long and slow, staring up at the flickering magic wards... “You don’t want anyone to know, they won’t. This doesn’t leave this room.”

Marcus hesitated, then lifted Percy... awkwardly, carefully. The Gryffindor wasn’t heavy, but he felt like dead weight, limp and cold.

He didn’t know what curse could do that to a person. But he knew one thing with chilling certainty: whatever Percy Weasley was fighting, he was losing.