Chapter 1
My bedroom door nearly flew out of its hinges as I slammed it shut. How dare he? He has been running around with fools and traitors for years now, and even after the hideous lies that boy came up with, he still wouldn't admit that maybe, maybe Fudge could be right about him. Foolish, stupid, idiotic, disgusting, filthy lies, and he just bought it like a four-year old! No way I was going to stand for that. And now, the die was cast. I needed to get out of there, and as quickly as I could.
Sure, I may have said some awful things. I saw the look on my father's face, and I heard his voice tremble when he shouted at me. His fists were balled and I was sure he was going to hit me at a certain point. But of course, he didn't. Just like he never acknowledges other people's faults. This was not a fault of mine, but still. No wonder he was still in the league with Dumbledore. He believed every lie the old crackpot told him, and never questioned the wildest stories. I was through with it. No way I was going to be associated with someone who could not recognise a lie when it had a huge red identification stamp on it. No way I could go to work the next day and tell my boss, the Minister of Magic himself, that I just put up with the lies and manipulation that the old sneak infested my family with.
I took a few deep breaths. I needed to calm down and I knew it. I never lost my temper like that before, and it should not be happening now. I needed to think clearly, make the right decisions, and eventually, make up for the background I have, in a world that was so different from the world that I grew up in, in which the old crowd was trustworthy and loyal. I scanned my room, tidy as always, and found what I was looking for: a bottle of Indian ink I like so much, a quill, and some parchment. The letter came first, and then I would have time to pack my bags while I waited for a reply. I sat down at the tiny desk under the window and started to write.
Dear Mr. Bobbin.
I have recently been informed of the fact that the room above your apothecary is for rent. I am in need of housing, and I would like to move into the residence as soon as possible. I will await your answer by returning owl.
Yours sincerely,
Percy Ignatius Weasly
There. It was short, but it would have to do. I just hoped that the room was still available, and that the price would be reasonable. Because there was no way I could find a different house on such short notice. I needed to get out of the Burrow today, and I needed it to be permanent.
I called Hermes over. The owl held out his foot obediently. At least he can manage with what is expected of him, I thought wryly. I tied the letter to his foot, gave him the correct address, and opened the window to allow him to take off. I turned to find my trunk, but hesitated. When I looked around at Hermes, who looked like no more than a tiny black spot against the blue sky, I realised that this made things final. As final as they could be, and things would never be the same.
I shrugged off the feeling of unease that crept over me. Don't chicken out now, I told myself. This was a necessary measure and I needed to follow through with it. There was no way I could stay after what had been said down in the kitchen, and there was no way I could go back to work the following day reporting that I would go back to the Burrow after a long day of trying to improve the situation; something some people desperately tried to stem. No, I needed to get out and start my own life, uninterrupted by the foolish decisions made by my father. What a shame he was to the family. To wizardkind, even! The hypocrite. The fool. The blood-traitor…
My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds from downstairs. My Dad, talking in a high-pitched voice, and Mum, sobbing and moaning, no doubt sitting at the kitchen table, her tears falling on her knitting. I never made Mum cry before… Not that she cried quickly. I only saw her cry on a few occasions, and nearly every time, somebody had gotten himself in some real danger. But not this time. I was not in danger. Dad was not in any immediate danger. He could get himself into some if he wasn't careful though, buying every fairy-tale the old headmaster told him. But no matter, he was safe for the moment. There was no time to feel guilty about this now.
I started when I heard the door to the parlour being thrown open. "If I need to beat some sense into that boy…" I heard my father yell from downstairs. He was interrupted by Mum's whimpering. I could not understand a word she said. I looked down at my hands and noticed that my knuckles had turned white. I had been holding the window frame tightly, and my heart was beating at a quick pace. I bit my lower lip. What would I do if Dad actually came up to my bedroom? Would I fight him? Take the beating and then leave? Run for it? Maybe he would not even hit me at all. He never has, and it would be just like him to make idle threats.
But the voices retreated into the parlour again. Mum was sobbing harder than ever, and my Dad's voice became softer. Soothing, like he always sounded when I had scratched my knees or fallen off Charlie's broom when my brother was out and left his broom unattended. I took a deep breath and squeezed my eyes shut, blinking back the tears that started to push their way out.
I got my trunk from under my bed and started packing. Socks, underwear, robes I only bought months ago… New robes, the kind my younger brothers did not have. And neither did I when I was younger. Bill's old clothes always fitted me perfectly by the time he grew out of them, and the season allowed me to wear them. I always grew just a little bit faster than all my brothers.
I opened the bottom drawer of the old wardrobe. There they were: Bill's old robes. I had been wearing them without complaints. I looked good in them, always seeming more mature than in any of my school robes, or the Muggle outfits that I wore when I went anywhere during Summer Holidays. I picked up one of the bundles, neatly folded and smelling of Mum's detergent. It still looked all right. The fabric felt smooth, even though the colours had faded and the hemming on the left sleeve started to fray. I wondered whether they would still make me feel more grown-up, like they always used to make me feel. But no, I would not take them. It would be something to leave behind. Something that was part of my old life, like a token of change. With a sigh, I put it back in the drawer and turned back to the trunk, that seemed almost empty.