The Perseus Complex

-Child-like, no-one understands,

Jack-knife in your sweaty hands.

Some kind of innocence is measured out in years,

You don't know what it's like to listen to your fears.

-"Hey Bulldog"

John Lennon and Paul McCartney

3

Ron had been trying to read the page in the textbook for the third time when Ginny knocked on his door.

Mad-Eye Moody (the real one, that is) had, in his final and only moments as a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, managed to assign what was promising to be a very unpleasant essay for summer schoolwork. Ron's much neglected responsible side had thought it might be a good idea to get a head start. The other more fainéant side had been too bored to protest.

The assignment was "to discuss one of the three unforgivable curses, considering its development, purpose, uses, and limitations." He was almost interested until, of course, he noticed the part that read: "Must be at least two feet in length."

"The Imperius curse," he began to read out loud, "is one of the most useful and yet restrictive dark curses yet developed. The caster, in a successful attempt, gains complete control over the voluntary movements of the victim. (Involuntary actions, such as respiration and circulation, continue as normal unless affected by a voluntary act.) The curse can be resisted, however, and thus loses some versatility.

"The greatest limitation on its use is ironically the complete loss of free will on the part of the victim. The victim must be monitored constantly and accurately as an unexpected variable could easily lead to suspicion. Uncharacteristic behavior is another common fault of the curse. Many trials following the reign of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named used such behavior as evidence in defense of those accused of illegal activity.

“It is believed, though unconfirmed, that the dark wizard Grindlewald was attempting to develop a more practical control spell prior to his defeat in 1945. The only records of any such activity disappeared decades ago, shrouding the event in mystery…."

The text went of for several pages more, but Ron's engagement had waned. And when he finally finished complaining about the sheer injustice of it all, he had forgotten it entirely and had to start back at the beginning. Ginny interrupted him just as he reached "the complete loss of free will" for the third and final time.

"'M busy."

"It's important."

"No, it's not."

"I'm serious."

"What is it then?" Ron crossed the room and opened to door. Ginny's face stood out deathly pale amid the long, brilliantly-colored hair.

"It's Percy."

"Percy what?" Ron groaned. "Have the twins poisoned him yet?"

"No." She looked frantic. "They're at Lee's, remember? Come look. Quick." She grabbed his wrist and dragged him down the stairs. If she had let go for a moment Ron would have scrambled back up the stairs. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a tiny twin-driven voice yelling advice like “run when she isn’t looking,” but she knew him too well.

They arrived, Ginny’s knuckles white as she clenched Ron’s bony arm.

And they were standing in front of the family clock.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sick. He felt sick. Not ill. Sick. Ill was a stomach ache after too much potatoe salad or a headache after one of the twins' pranks. Sick was this, this twisted, horribly wrong feeling without a source that made him wish for death. But was he even alive? He couldn't remember. Something was wrong, vaguely yet horrifyingly wrong as he plodded after, who were they? His brothers? But they weren't at all though. Was this melting place hell, his punishment? Or only a warning like in that muggle book? What muggle? He stumbled on air and fell, searching for something, anything at all familiar.

"What is it now?"

"He's fallen."

"Oh, hell, Percy, don't be a prat."

His lips trembled. Something slid between them and he reached out to catch it.

"What was that?"

"Dantay, he said."

"Oh. What's dantay, Perce?"

He heard the voices, his own even, answering distantly, and his body slowly convulsed and contracted, closing in on itself, reaching in for the comfort and oblivion that wasn't there, dying.

Something was wrong, and yet it all seemed exactly right at the same time, off-kilter but in perfect rhythm. Things he knew couldn't be enveloped him in a sickly haze. He tried desperately to think, to reason, but the mustard-colored fog filled his lungs and blotted out his thoughts.

But no, it wasn't fog at all but water, almost viscous with salt and bile. Everything in his mind was dulled but for the instinctual drive to reach the light and air waiting for him at the surface. It was there, taunting him; he could see the sun glancing off the water while the air whispered in his ears. He struggled hopelessly, and his muscles screamed in his mind when his mouth wouldn't open.

The pain numbed his thoughts. He would die now, surely. But what was death even? If he went limp, if he just left himself to the pain, would he die faster? Would it come easier? If only, if only. Head spinning. Colors- green? No, orange. Sick, sick. Home? Mum. Da. Good boy, good boy. Don't cry. Hush, hush. Must be good, good boy. Air? No. Move now, yes, yes. Breathe, good boy. Try, good boy. Step. Light. Close. Closer. Good, good. Almost. Not gone, not gone yet. Mummy, mum, wet and sticky. Almost home. Home. Home. All the way home.

And just for a moment, he broke free.

For a hair-thin fraction, it was all there. He was Percy. He was real. He remembered.

He fell.

~~~~~

How many times had he seen this before? It was all so familiar, the red hair defiantly stretching out in every direction, the expression not so much blank as solemn. As he watched, the chest began to heave under the restraints.

Wormtail stood across the room from the body, white with death but writhing, turning.

And then it stopped.

He turned to glance at the others. Lucius was still salvaging his notes. Avery stood at a bookcase moodily setting curses on each book. Both were occupied.

He was cornered, trapped inside his mind with only one way out; a few desperate tears welled up around his eyes with nowhere to go. Something caught Wormtail's eye at that moment, and he walked to the table where the body lay as though compelled. Somewhere inside of him there was a slight twinge, and some part of him- perhaps the part that had once been called Peter- felt sorry for someone else for the first time in many years. Suddenly he was reminded of a small boy with glasses too large for his face that brought him bits of food and told him all the things that he wanted to do and be. So Peter, as he happened to be at that moment, took one last look at the glasses, which by then did fit much better, and pulled out his wand to do something he would later try to desperately explain as being the fault of Crabbe or the like.

He was gone, mad in his brain. What would loosening a few things do? Peter nudged the ties around the boy's wrists with his wand. Just a little looser. Just a bit. He looked at the flesh under the bindings, red and raw, burned with the pulling. But he was still now. What could it hurt?

He stood back, and found something inside him other than guilt. But as he cast around his mind for what it was called (he had known it before), the boy began to turn, slowly at first, but then faster, more violently. The table rumbled with desperation and fear, and then....

Peter gazed in horror as two pale blue eyes burned brightly in the empty room. There was a gasp for breath. And the eyes were gone.

He glanced around desperately. Had the others seen? But they hadn't. They had remained, as always, absorbed in their own private business. He needn't mention a thing.

Finally, Lucius found what he sought. His pale hand plucked the paper from the table and held it at arm's length. It still dripped, and an internalized respect for finely tailored clothing kept it from the spilt India ink that had been captured in his flowing robes.

"Avery. Come. I've found it."

Avery's lip curled at the now recovered superiority of his tone, but he said nothing. There was nothing he might say.

The prepared spells were activated carefully and delicately, Lucius doing most of the work, but Avery, caught in an unintentional rhythem, doing small bits where he might. Wormtail looked on sulkily.

Soon they were finished, and the two sat down in the chairs that had been prepared with the spells. Lucius reclined the back of his slighty, but Avery, in defiance or simple ignorance of the gesture, declined to do so. The final words were whispered and they were gone from their bodies as much as the boy was from his. What Was Avery slumped forward, the spine stretching suddenly as the face hung down towards a slowly rising chest.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly so, a smile slid across the other's face, turning the corners of lips that were thin and pale towards eyes that that were closed with a magical sleep and fair hair that curved around a sharply cut jaw.

~~~~~

He had stared at clock for what felt like an eternity when she put her hand on his shoulder. But he couldn't look away. Not then. He stood there, willing the hand to move. But it didn't. He should have said something. He should have tried harder. He should have listened. But he didn't. He let him slip away. And why? Because they disagreed over stupid things? Because he had been mean to mum? Because they had both said things they hadn't meant? Because they were idiots really.

The letter, that last letter, between all the anger there had been concern. He did care. Somewhere. Why hadn't he noticed? He wasn't really a prat. Not really. He was his older brother. Hadn't he always looked out for him at school? So why did he let him die?

Arthur Weasley sighed and leaned back in his chair, weary with the memory of a brother that had died, whose name was carried by Arthur's own son. That day, that day. The hand had finally moved, but it wouldn't stop anywhere. It just spun and spun, searching for the place that wasn't there. He hadn't thought, when he had built the clock for a special seventh year assignment, that looking into its face would ever sicken him. But it did.

He couldn't think why he had remembered it all so suddenly. No idea at all.

~~~~~

“Gin,” Ron began slowly with the long, exasperated breath that was his trademark and a meaningful look at the arm she was clinging to. “Let g-“

“Shut up and look!” She let go only long enough to cuff him on the back of the head. She knew him too well.

His gestures were slightly exaggerated for a moment with moody sarcasm as he turned his gaze to the clock. He was concerned, of course. Ginny rarely fussed so, but he was still wary of the possibility that maybe Fred and George had rubbed off on her too. But when he finally looked, finally focused his eyes, it was the sort of eyes-wide, mouth-dropped look that never looks quite sincere that flooded Ron’s pale, freckled face.

~~~~~

It was as though a giant eraser was scraping him away. Realization suddenly faded into wispy memories. He had known, he had seen, but all he knew now was that there had been something there before. He searched his mind, and he felt like he had walked into a room and found that it had been changed when he wasn't looking. Only he couldn't quite pinpoint what it was that was gone. His mind was slipping through his hands like water, and there was nothing he could do. The futility was sickening, but there was nothing left in him to vomit.

He bobbed up and down on the waves. The sun hit him hard and then bounced back up from the water with a cruel uppercut. He wanted to drown but found he couldn't. Sinking is the kind of thing that's very easy to do until you want to. Even when he swam down as far as he could, he still floated back to the surface before he could suffocate. Thus, he resigned himself to floating corpse-like on the surface while the light rang behind his eyes even though they were shut.

He was pretending not to exist and enjoying it most thoroughly when something made him very indignant. But then, being prodded with a stick is enough to make anyone indignant.