The Halloween Party

                                    

                                          
Percy wakes up from his nap feeling worse. He's drenched in sweat, and he feels so shaky he doesn't know if he can stand. He manages to get to his Vitamix potion. It's really not supposed to be used like this, but he can't think of anything else to do. As soon as he starts to drink, his stomach rolls and he vomits on the floor. Unfortunately, he hasn't actually eaten anything recently, and his stomach is empty. First, bile comes up. But his body won't stop, and now he's vomiting bile with unmistakable streaks of blood.
                          
Finally, his body is done upchucking, and Percy trembles on all-fours, feeling impossibly weaker. He stumbles to the bathroom, drops into the tub fully-clothed, and turns on the water with a wave of his hand. At least he's the son of Poseidon, and the bathtub filling with cool water invigorates him. He's still weak, exhausted, and ill, but no longer in danger of fainting or vomiting.
                          
He manages to bathe, change, and keep down the Vitamix as well as his medicinal potion. Percy checks the time. It's late afternoon, so he still has a while before he has to make it to the Halloween Party. Should he even go? He still feels like a wreck. He'll have to spend the entire evening trying to not look ill.
                          
Yeah, he needs to go. It will be good for him to see his friends, and his cousin, and his girlfriend. Besides, they all just saw him. And Hermione saw him collapse earlier. If he disappears, she'll know for sure that something is wrong. That it wasn't low blood sugar.
                          
Percy spends the next few hours combing through law books from the library in preparation for his Monday trial. He still hasn't figured out what his approach should be. Denial? Avoidance? For now, he's still just trying to educate himself on what laws they'll use against him, where he can slip through loopholes, and maybe even codes he can flip around against the Wizengamont. How is Percy meant to defend his Dark Magic if he doesn't even believe in his own innocence? He cannot definitively say he believes himself to be good--how can he hope to convince the Wizengamont then?
                          


                          
Later that evening, Percy walks to the seventh floor. He's just taken more Vitamix, but he still feels just as horrible as earlier. He's been getting progressively worse throughout the day, which is the opposite of how it should be. That thought stresses him out. 
                          
Shut it off. He pushes the worry from his mind.
                          
His head pounds with every step, but Percy's too eager to see his friends to care. He paces in front, thinking hard of the party, and then slips inside the door that appears on the wall.
                          
Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville are already there. Harry and Ron are wearing jeans and Gryffindor sweaters like normal, but Neville's actually dressed nice in a cream-colored shirt. Ginny's wearing flared jeans and a cheetah-print tube top. Luna's got on a combination of a light blue dress and a pink cardigan, and has some unidentified objects dangling from her ears. Percy's glad no one actually dressed up for Halloween--he totally forgot. He's got a black turtleneck tucked into his slacks--it's an outfit Ginny picked out for him a while back. He's hoping to employ the Lady Gaga technique--if he looks good and put together, perhaps they won't notice how sick he is.
                          
"Percy's here!" Ron announces cheerily as the demigod ducks through the doorway. The room has dim lighting, and there are couches and cushions arranged in a circle. It's clear someone's raided the kitchens, because Percy immediately eyes a pile of snacks and drinks in the middle of the floor, where everyone is sitting.
                          
He settles down next to Neville and pulls out his wand. "I've brought drinks," he says with a flick of his wand. A number of bottles of firewhiskey--and some other Muggle contraband--appears. Technically, they're all of age, so Minerva can't really be mad. His flask of purple medicinal potion is in the pile, and Percy pulls it to his side before anyone else mistakenly drinks it. He'll need to sip it throughout the night. The day of the spells is always the best for the medicine to work.