chase away the darkness by patchworkteddy
The little flame flickers, its resolve never weakening, as it battles against the all-consuming darkness that threatens to swallow up the room. Percy stares into the dancing flame, a performance artist balancing on a delicate string, and finds himself absorbed by the metaphor, as his eyes start to drift away from the sheets of parchment lining the desk.
Back then, he would have scolded himself for getting distracted from his work. But now, his work is the distraction. It is just something to immerse himself in, so he will not feel the hollowness inside him, as though someone has emptied him out. Or the hollowness in this house, without its usual mess of laughter and… Fred.
Fred. Percy shuts his eyes against the darkness, only to drown in a different, more terrifying kind of darkness. His mind is where the real haunting takes place.
Things are so different now. Before the war—no, before everything, he would have yelled at the twins for playing some pranks to disrupt his work. Now? He will give anything just to hear their laughter one more time. Just once.
He opens his eyes to the sight of the candle flame, greeting him cheerily. It is so wrong—how can it be so cheery in this house? Fred may be dead, but the real ghosts are not the ones buried under six feet of dirt and rubble.
The closed door creaks as, a presence manifests in his room, and footsteps echo with a dull 'thud' throughout the room. A chair leg scrapes against the floor.
"Percy?"
He tears his gaze away from the merrily bopping flame (he resists the urge to stamp on it), and finds himself staring into the George's face.
Percy swallows. Some part of him, some tiny part of him, speculates and fears that George might blame him, blame Percy for Fred's death—because Percy does, after all, blame himself. If only he had believed them from the start, maybe things would have been different.
(For once, Percy is not proud of the red painting his hair, because unlike the rest, it screams guilty every day.)
"What is it, George?"
Not hostile, but not overly gentle either. Just straightforward, maybe slightly hesitant.
"I just… I… couldn't sleep," the younger boy mutters, eyes burning holes into the carpet. The unspoken words hang in the air, waiting to fall like a guillotine blade—because Fred's not here.
Percy does not know what to say. He had never been very close to the twins (if only, if only, if only…), and he wonders if George is seeking him out for comfort, and why. So he studies George instead.
The war—and with it, Fred—only ended a mere week ago, but it looks as though George has been through all the stages of grief and more, and even aged many years. His eyes are hollow and empty, shards of broken glass poorly patched together. His cheeks are sallow; his face looks wan and pale. He has thinned remarkably, looking like stringy flesh randomly attached to a structure of flimsy plastic bones.
Percy is afraid for George. While one brother lies sleeping in the dirt, another is building his own coffin.
"May I… May I just sit here and… watch you work?"
Percy's teeth dig into his bottom lip. George looks fragile now, and he doesn't feel like the right person to patch him up. But he lets him stay anyway, and returns to his work, quill scratching against the parchment as the flame beams at him from the corner of his eye.
(Stupid candle.)
Ink bleeds onto the paper, sentences unfolding like tiny black ants marching across the page. Percy has always liked the process of the transfer of intelligence from mind to paper. It is not mechanical for one thing, and he feels like he is etching a piece of himself into every word he writes.
"What are you writing, anyway? I mean, surely you can't have been assigned work yet…" George trails off. Neither wants to talk about the war—the word slithers with the waters in the pipes, is scrawled across the walls in bold letters, but they never bring it up.
"A proposal to dismiss the anti-werewolf legislation."
George reaches across the table, the resolute flame illuminating his face, highlighting the dark shadows under his eyes. His fingers clamp around another stack of papers, and he pulls them towards himself, turning the pages as his roamed the numerous papers.
"A proposal for a reform in the curriculum of Muggle Studies, a proposal for regular correspondences with the goblins, a list of people you demand to step down in the Ministry, because they helped enforce the Muggle-born Registry… Merlin, you've been really busy, eh, Perce?" George lets out a short laugh. Percy blinks, surprised, and then laughs along with a startled George.
He basks in the sound of George's laughter. The candle flame seems to brighten, too.
"It's necessary, George. It's best to expel all that tosh—I mean, prejudice—ASAP. Change is enforced by people, after all. We've just… just—" here Percy stops to take a deep breath, before continuing, "—lived through a war, George. And I look at all… that and think, 'This? This is what mindless prejudice brings? All this destruction, this bloodshed?' It just seems so ridiculous, that something that could be so easily changed is the downfall of an otherwise well-built society—"
He stops again, abruptly, because George is staring intently at him with an expression he cannot read. He realises he must have automatically launched into (as the rest call it) 'pompous speech mode'. Frantically, he tries to think of what to say, but his train of thought gets cut off as George laughs again. And it sounds less… empty somehow, but more real.
Percy could cry, really.
"Percy, you should win an award! I mean, your little speech just made me feel an itsy bit sorry for all those pranks, and you're a first!" he proclaims, in a squeaky, awed voice, but Percy grins anyway, because he knows George means it.
His heart lightens.
"One thing, though," George says.
"What?"
"What in Merlin's name is ASAP?"
Percy rolls his eyes and explains, "As soon as possible. Audrey, a Muggle-born witch working with me on these proposals, told me."
A smirk graces George's lips, and he leans in, stage-whispering, "Is she pretty, Percy boy?" Percy turns scarlet and his features morph into a scandalised expression. "Not like that, George!" He doesn't admit the reason, that it doesn't feel right to be happy when the whole house is grieving, and with Fred…
This feels good, though, Percy realises. It's a different sort of teasing from the usual, the kind Harry does to Ron when the latter and a certain bushy-haired girl came back from Australia holding hands. It is nice, really nice.
The door opens again. Percy's head whips up, and his eyes land on Ginny, balancing a plate of chocolate cookies. George jumps up, and croons exaggeratedly, "Cookies! Oh, Ginny, you sweet, dear little—"
"Yeah, yeah," the redheaded girl cuts him off with a wave of her hand, but her face totally betrays her—happiness lights up her features. She glances at Percy appraisingly, before raising the corner of her mouth in a smile.
"And, they're not for you, anyway, George. They're for Percy," she scolds the boy, whose mouth slackens disbelievingly, as she slides the circular treat-laden platter over to a stunned silent Percy.
"Mum says you've been holed up in here since lunch, so I thought you'd be hungry, Perce. It's practically past midnight," Ginny elucidates. Then she frowns, and scrunching up her face to imitate their mother's stern expression, she commands him, "Now eat."
Percy is more than happy to oblige.
"Aw, you two are having a touching family moment without me!" George whines over-dramatically. "Fine, I'll go look for Mum, she'll give me cookies, and we'll gossip about Celina Warbeck's latest break-up!" George gets to his feet and promptly walks out, door swinging shut behind him.
"He's not as thick as he pretends to be sometimes, huh?" Ginny says, settling into the now unoccupied wooden chair opposite Percy.
"What do you mean?"
Ginny rolls her eyes. Propping her elbows on the table and cupping her chin, she gazes straight at Percy and pointedly states, "Unlike some people." She pauses, as Percy frowns, before elaborating, "I want to talk to you, Percy." She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, before sighing.
"I know you blame yourself for… Fred's… Fred's death," she manages, before choking on her words. Twisting an errant strand of vivid red around her finger, she carries on speaking, "But you shouldn't be. It isn't your fault, you couldn't have done—"
"Is that why you're here? To talk me out of feeling guilty?" Percy interrupts her. Talking about it makes it worse; it makes the guilt eat into him like acid.
"Yes!" Ginny suddenly stands up, eyes flashing accusingly. A part of him welcomes the sight of those eyes—this is how it was before the war. "This is what you're doing, isn't it? Feeling guilty though it isn't your bloody fault! Then holing up yourself into your room because you 'don't deserve us', is that right?"
Percy casts his gaze at the door that would open to the rest of the house. Where the rest of his family are.
"I think you know the real reason, Ginny," he answers softly, struggling to keep his control.
His sister deflates, slumping back down into her seat, looking away from him. Yes. They both do. To retreat into himself is what Percy does because Percy does not have the strength like the rest of them. He does not have the strength to pass by George's room and see an empty bed, to walk in a house where grief and coldness engulfs it like thick fog. It is so much easier to grieve alone and hurt yourself, then to see your loved ones grieve and hurt themselves.
Silence wraps around them both. The candle flame whimpers and blinks. Ginny's eyes roll up to the fiery, determined orange flame.
Maybe that's why they came here; Percy contemplates the idea, because there is a candle for warmth.
Some part of him used to resent Ginny a little back then, he remembers, when they were young and innocent and naïve. Being the youngest and the only girl, their parents lavished her with the affection Percy worked so hard to attain. But now, Percy understands, that for some bizarre reason, both of the people whom he used to resent more in this family, are the ones who need him most now.
Just as he needs them.
"Hey, Percy, did I ever tell you that you were my favourite when I was a kid?" Ginny shatters the silent with an abrupt change of subject, catching Percy off-guard. Guilt floods him again, as he asks why.
Drumming her fingers against the table top, the witch says, "Well, you still are, actually. I mean, back then, I was the spoilt, pampered little 'princess'. You were really the most independent among us all, getting around on your own and stuff during the hols with all that Muggle transport, and washing all the dishes and doing the chores on the weekends, and when Mum was sick you had to cook for us, remember? And even now, you're always so passionate about your work."
"Well, if I am your favourite, you sure do have an odd way of showing it," Percy tells her dryly.
She laughs, a lovely sound. "It's called tough love, Perce. And, well, I guess I didn't want the twins to tease me." She stops, looking shocked.
Percy gulps, too. The conversation lapses into silence for a while. Percy wonders again, why do they come to him, when he cannot do anything for them?
Maybe because he wants to, wants to fix them all up to atone for his mistakes. Nobody can want to do so more than him. Maybe they can sense that, somehow.
"Why do people light candles, Percy?" Ginny's voice sounds so lost. Percy looks at her, and the image blurs and shifts, until he is staring down at a five-year-old Ginny, biting her lip in an attempt not to cry as tears fill her eyes.
His reply rings out in the darkness, an answering call to a drowning sailor.
"To chase away the darkness."
Is it the right answer? He does not know. He just…
The flame flickers and winks at him, keeping the darkness at bay.
"Ginny, stop. Just… cry if you need to. It's no use trying to stop it," his voice sounds strangely disembodied. Inside, the word hypocrite snarls at him. Ginny laughs, but it sounds strained and hollow.
"Then, Percy, let the darkness in. It's no use lighting the candles. A candle can't fight, not against this all," she stretches out her arms, gesturing. Percy does not refute her, lets the metaphor sink in.
The flame sighs and flickers again. There is a knock on the door, and the door opens. George stands in the corridor, shadows cast onto his face by the moonlight filtering through the windows, making him look like an angel frozen in marble.
"Hey," he says, distantly, faintly. "Why're you lot still up? It's late."
Ginny's brow creases in worry. She crosses the room in a few strides, closes a hand around George's wrist, and says lightly, "Well, then, come on George, join the Society of Insomniac Liasons."
The stocky boy grins. "And here I thought only Hermione did stupid acronyms." Ginny whacks him, protesting, "What? At least it's not D. I. R. T. You'll have to agree, S. O. I. L. is much better."
Percy smiles behind the hand covering his mouth. Ginny is right—the bright flame of the candle will blow out one day, surrendering to the darkness that will creep up on him. But there is beauty is darkness, and if he stops being able to see, he will just have to light more candles.
And what better way to start with a group of certain flaming-haired people?
"Well, come on, then," Percy says, getting up and stretching. His younger siblings turn to him, puzzled. "We could sleep together."
Fred and George used to sleep together a lot when they were younger, if either had nightmares, Percy remembers with a sudden pang.
George pumps his fist into the air. "Yes! A rare opportunity to vandalise Percy's face!" Ginny grins and slips back into the room, dragging a cheering George with her.
They pile onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. George in the middle, because he needs two pairs of hands to hold. Percy watches over them, and as George's eyelids start to flicker and Ginny succumbs to sleepiness, he feels thankful that he had planned to burn midnight oil today.
He grips his wand and extinguishes the candle flame, which concedes defeat with grace. There is no need for it anymore. Daylight will bring bright rays of sun that the ghosts fear so much, and on the dreariest of nights, there are eight of the brightest candles in the world to light up faces.
Percy falls asleep to the soothing chorus of his younger siblings' snores. Waking up the next morning, he finds words scrawled onto his arm in ink.
Thank you.
Years later, when Audrey steps in and asks why he always leaves his work so late, Percy says to her that he likes to work by the candles, that it brings back great memories, and would she like to sit a while with him?
A/N: Written for Aurors of Olympus' Fanfiction's Next Top Writer Competition (Round One). I'm supposed to use at least three Weasleys. I used the phrase prompt 'burning the midnight oil'.
Oh and, I think my portrayal of Percy and Ginny is a bit... odd (they seem somewhat OOC?) but I can't quite figure it out, so would be eternally grateful if you tell me what's wrong.
Do not own Harry Potter or any other affiliated material. Please review!