Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Oliver/Percy, Percy/the-loo
Summary: And you will be reborn as Percy the Conqueror.
Notes: My sister has a terrible stomach-bug and so I wrote her this, because her medicine isn't working and we both like Percy and oh gosh, this is the most terrifying fic ever oh, oh, oh. BLIMEY.
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"You're not vomiting, Perce, are you?" George's voice resounded from the bathroom-wall. The outside-world was a thousand days and three packets of chewable tums away from him and Percy was never going to escape the tremble of his intestines shaking with his hands (besides this, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, harmonious about your body right now--, you are an insult to anything even remotely symphonic, you are death to elegance, and your face is not too far off from the color of Professor Snape's inner-thighs, you are most sure, if only you were to ever see them).
George did not ask this out of concern, or brotherly love, or even the ounce of human-compassion that Percy was desperately aching for in the moment. It was, quite likely, that this was the first time in his life that he was rejoicing the fact that the Weasley bathroom was so dreadfully tiny--, in his time of need, throwing-up into the bathroom sink would not be a very literal stretch at all (you utter a small prayer to your Weasley-lankiness in your tiny Weasley-bathroom with your lactose intolerant Weasley-stomach--, there is no space of square inches too large for you to conquer when you want to puke).
(Which is sadly often in this God-forsaken death-trap your mother calls a home. Fred and George have slipped enough things into your drinks over the years for you to have vomitted up half the Atlantic ocean by now, if indeed so little--, Ginny and Ron and their sickly, sticky-fingered friends have given you too many stomach-bugs to count, and your father likes to delight in picking-up Muggle flus around his forays into non-wizarding populations which no potion can ease, God help you, because he likes to think of himself a martyr for the Muggle-cause (all of your complaints will bring about his brisk reply of 'but they have no potions of their own which can fix their viral disturbances, so perhaps this will give you just a bit more sympathy to them, yes?')--, you are unsure if your body is merely one gastritic episode away from certain death or not, but you would maybe like to believe it. nothing is good. there is nothing so important as to require your assistance enough to remove you from the idea of death, which seems sweet and sure and makes your esophagus swoon just a little bit. everything is wrong.)
Instead, George was continually knocking on the door and fearfully questioning the state of Percy's digestional tract. It was not out of love, but out of morbid desperation to warn his bladder to shrink back into his body. George knows by now that Percy is not vomiting (even if he might). George knows that nobody will occupy the Burrow's only bathroom for maybe a week.
Percy gives a little sob into his hands as George continues knocking for reaffirmation. Ginny's voice chimes in, 'would you like some tea, Percy?', and Ron tentatively asks if he needs to get Molly. Arthur yells from down the stairs that Percy should drink more water, or, perhaps, the Muggle product Gatorade which is said to absently help the shrivelling dead thing that is now Percy's stomach.
Percy would like to be melodramatic and perhaps quote some Shakespeare, like, 'and all our yesterdays have lighted fools, the way to dusty death...out, out, brief candle, life's but a walking shadow', which would confuse at least Ron enough to force him to retreat back into his room, and possibly make himself feel less like an amoeba. At least he can be an amoeba that can quote Shakespeare.
There is always this.
He decides against it when he opens his mouth and he can only moan. Bill knocks softly and reminds him that Oliver will be arriving any moment. He can hear a short, tiny blast of Fred's laughter before it abruptly stops and changes into a cough (Fred, too, can occasionally be startlingly subtle, and it is funny how, like now, your urge to hex him into a house-elf and send him into Malfoy-manner for them to do as they wish to him with your blessings does not either reduce nor regret its existence in your chest, somewhere deep next to the rumble of your duodenum curling itself into a tiny ball against your spine and weeping as very much as you are).
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Somewhere three hours into Oliver's visit Percy curls himself over his own knees in the bathroom, gags a little in his mouth, and sleeps sadly perched on top of the toilet.
For a moment before he loses consciousness he wonders if still yelling that Macbeth quote would impress Oliver. Then he is just glad that he didn't do it.
(Secretly, nobody ever informs that he did, in fact, weakly cry out 'I am slain!' from inside the bathroom. Oliver had tentatively peeked at the bathroom door and had not spoken to Percy for three months, a thing which Percy had liked to imagine was because of his obvious attraction to his new Headboy-badge. In his reminsicing during the summer of his seventh year, Ginny pats his hand softly after his retelling of these thoughts and says that he is probably exactly right.)
He wonders if Oliver ever read Macbeth before he sleeps for another weak three hours.
- - - -
.accio death, and all manners of avada kedavras
Percy stares down at his stomach, wand poised carefully above his belly-button, and wonders if 'stupify' will do him any good.
Ginny slides him a note under the door that tells him that Oliver asked about him and they all told him, even Fred and George, that Percy was vomitting uncontrollably in the bathroom, had been for hours, and was making a frail and noble effort to remain conscious in his delicate state of life, but would probably stumble out of the bathroom in a few days to drown himself in blue-raspberry Gatorade and enough rice to sink a ship before continuing the honorable fight and hopefully eventually being reborn as Percy the Conqueror and living happily with his mildly-strengthened-stomach of steel (or maybe more of sticks, and cotten, and gelatinous vomitting-prone inner-walls which is perhaps the more accurate metaphor for Percy's digestive system in the moment).
Percy is incoherent enough to believe this letter and thinks, quietly, to himself--, 'Oliver, I will wait for you', before leaning-over into the sink with every ounce of his proud Weasley-dexterity in his long limbs and vomiting uncontrollably.
George sighs and clutches his lower-abdomen, bladder softly weeping.