Work Text:
Percy nearly died third year.
It was the defense professor. Of the seven defense professors Percy eventually had, one had let a vampire into the school, one was only there to sell cosmetics as part of a pyramid scheme, one had turned out to be a muggle, one had been the Dark Lord, one had been a fraud, and one had been a werewolf.
(The werewolf had been a blessing, an actually competent professor; that was akin to winning the lottery. He had gotten Percy through his NEWTs and Fred and George through their OWLs, and everyone in those years would be forever grateful and defend werewolves from that point onward, not that the man ever knew.)
His professor third year, though, had come to the school for one and only one reason: to steal a time turner.
And Percy, Percy had perhaps been indiscreet. He couldn’t help talking about all the interesting things he was learning. And it was so rare for someone to actually listen.
He could hardly be blamed for not realizing yet that you stayed away from defense professors. He hadn’t actually seen the vampire, and he wasn’t the target market for cosmetics. So, he’d let his professor hold him back to talk and had not even registered the threat of the door being closed and locked.
So.
He kind of nearly died.
He laid bleeding on the floor and felt as though he were falling--
No, as if he were drowning--
Suspended in space, between life and death, its claws dragging him down into the dark.
Percy Weasley had been born August 22nd, 1976. Incidentally, Regulus Black had died August 21st, 1976, the day after his 17th birthday, almost exactly a year after he had become a Death Eater.
It was what his parents had wanted for him, just as Slytherin (Gryffindor) was what his parents had wanted for him. He had taken the classes he was supposed to take, and gotten the grades he was supposed to get. He talked to the people he was supposed to talk to, and he accepted that there was a lot about people that he just didn’t understand.
People lied a lot, for one thing, they said things they didn’t mean (”It’s all right, I’ve got you”). They puffed themselves up and bragged, they joked, they insinuated.
There was very little people were clear about, so it was nice to meet expectations in the rare cases it was possible.
(”You will get into Slytherin, you will not disgrace this family like your brother--”)
And if Regulus considered his real friends to be the house elves instead of his house mates, well, no one had ever expressly forbidden it and he wouldn’t listen if they did.
His house mates talked about killing muggles the same way they talked about getting laid, but Regulus knew they were all virgins. The way Bella talked was a bit more convincing, but no one had ever accused Bella of being normal or restrained. Of course, she was a bit more unhinged about it, she was like that. It would be ridiculous to think that any of them really meant any of it, or that the Ministry would really ignore it if such things happened.
The Ministry did not oppose Voldemort, not really, obviously realizing it would be best if someone with sense were in charge.
… he was a fool.
He had known he was Marked young because his parents feared he’d run away, like Sirius did. He had even known it was an honorary title; he was in school, after all. He couldn’t do anything, hadn’t proven himself.
It was for that reason he had volunteered Kreacher. It was all that he could do.
Kreacher returned tortured almost entirely to death. It took months for Regulus to heal him, and he’d probably never recover. He described such horrible things …
Regulus sent him on other missions, to spy on his own. No one paid attention to house elves.
Soon, he was putting together the things said, and the things not said. It was more and more obvious by the day; the war was ramping up, and the Ministry no longer could hide it. Voldemort was no salvation from muggle corruption, but corruption of a worse, more lethal sort.
He was a fool.
He was everything Sirius had accused him of.
He’d repeated his parents’ beliefs thoughtlessly.
He’d been caught up with petty house rivalries and his own hurt feelings.
He was facing a madman who’d made a horcrux.
He bore a slave brand to a killer.
People mistook Regulus for the sane Black brother, but there really wasn’t such a thing. Once he understood his mistakes they were all he could think about. All he had were excuses.
He’d chosen to be ignorant. He hadn’t wanted to believe. He’d signed up to be enslaved and eagerly sent Kreacher off to be tortured.
He had signed up with monsters, signed up to be a monster as if he didn’t have a brain in his head. His brother was right about everything. He was wrong about everything. It wasn’t that he was lied to or even that he was a fool.
He’d chosen to be a fool.
Chosen to believe he could ever make his parents proud or that this was something to be proud of. Chosen to believe there was sense in their beliefs when he couldn’t even imagine why they cared so much about what muggles were up to in the first place. Chosen to go along, time after time, telling himself it would make sense someday.
There was no coming back from a mistake like that. It was better to just die.
Die and have it mean something; die and never have to deal with the consequences; die and forget.
He was stupid, he was guilty, he was--
(A Black)
--insulted.
How dare, how dare, how dare.
Anger carried him through, not Slytherin cunning. Pride drove his steps and guilt chose his actions.
He drank the poison, and everyone he’d ever cared about spat on him and echoed his thoughts in his ears.
The last thing he (didn’t) hear was Kreacher telling him, “Drink it all, Master, you deserve it.”
Regulus deserved to be left there, frankly. Reduced to the unthinking idiot he was, drinking on all fours like an animal--
Drowning--
Suspended in space, between life and death, its claws dragging him down into the dark.
Percy awoke to the vast, dark emptiness of the hospital wing disgusted with himself. He’d been a Death Eater.
No, that was a dream. Had to be a dream.
(He didn’t want to believe.)
He didn’t know anyone named Kreacher. He didn’t know about Dark Magic or horcruxes. He’d had a nightmare, that was all.
(He’d chosen to be ignorant.)
He received his mother’s teary hugs in a daze, and failed to return his father’s searching look. He insisted, against all evidence, that he was fine and should return to class.
But …
He knew the material already, somehow. Not Muggle Studies, but he knew …
Percy gave up his time turner. He got twelve OWLs anyway.