Characters: Percy, Arthur
Summary: A reality he just wants to die, but won't. Percy, after Arthur is attacked.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: I don't always attempt to defend Percy's actions. Here, I only attempt to explain them.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
The reality that yawns out before him, rearing an ugly head with blanks for eyes, is one that Percy wants so badly to shrivel up and die, and have never existed at all. Failing that, Percy wishes he could cover his eyes, hide somewhere and curl up in a ball until it's all over. He wishes he could just deny the pain and the terror.
He can't deny them any more than he can deny the reality of the stench of blood in the hospital room and the evil smell lingering half-hidden beneath.
Why was it someone from the Ministry? Why wasn't it Mum, or someone else? It never occurs to Percy that it's too soon for any of his family to know and that, in all reality, he probably is the first one to know anything about anything. Percy's tendency to overlook minor details that later become major details does not spare him here.
There is resentment. And that resentment is quickly swallowed up by fear.
Percy doesn't think he's ever seen his father look so small.
It's somewhere between midnight and three in the morning, but Percy didn't dare wait until morning. When morning comes, someone else who claims the same blood as him will surely be here. When morning comes, Arthur Weasley might well be awake.
And Percy can't stand to think about facing him when he's awake. He can't stand the thought of Arthur Weasley's blue eyes possibly being open when looks at him.
Even if Percy knows that he may never see his father's eyes open again.
Confusion owns him and his terror grows in his stomach because Percy doesn't know why this has happened. He only knows the circumstances that have brought his father, comatose and unresponsive, to St. Mungo's doors.
—Arthur Weasley was in the Department of Mysteries—his mind is misrepresenting, chopping words off, shortening, distorting—when he was attacked—snake—poisonous fangs—great deal—blood—in a bad way—
And so the words go on from there, continuing to confuse and confound him.
Wait, the Department of Mysteries? What on Earth was he doing there? Percy turned to Penelope after the Ministry wizard divulged that bit of information, but she, bundled in her dressing gown, only shrugged helplessly; she had no explanation for why a wizard from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office would be in the Department of Mysteries, or what he would be doing there.
The Ministry wizard soon saw fit to inform him of exactly what his dad had been doing there, though.
"Dumbledore's business."
Ah, Dumbledore's business. That explains everything, Percy reflects bitterly, staring down at his father's face, unnaturally pale and stretched. Of course Arthur would have been doing Dumbledore's business, Dumbledore, who takes lives in his hands and distributes them out to Danger's hand without flinching. Dumbledore, whom Percy knows all too well plays with the lives of others. The spider weaving at his web, catching flies to send out like soldiers, shedding nary a tear when they die.
They don't even have to be the old man's soldiers. They just have to be there.
Arthur Weasley, his son Percy decides, is a fool if he doesn't see after this that Dumbledore is dangerous, that Dumbledore will play him until he dies without remorse.
He'll only have a chance to see it if he wakes up, though, that treacherous little voice whispers in Percy's mind. That's the only way Dad'll ever see it. And what's the chance of that?
The chance is very good, thank you, Percy retorts before he can stop himself. His throat, already wound again and again into vicious little knots, won't permit him to scream the words to the opposite wall where the shadows lie.
Percy can't exactly pinpoint just what it is about this situation that is so terrifying. Arthur Weasley, though no one would see it just looking at him, is ridiculously durable, and the Healers of St. Mungo's are known for their competence. The chances that he'll live definitely outweigh all chances of death.
They're supposed to be estranged. They're supposed to not be speaking to each other (And they're still not). They are supposed, Percy registers numbly, to not care about each other anymore. Arthur Weasley and Percy Weasley are supposed to be perfectly indifferent to each other, to the extent that their eyes stare straight through when the two men have occasion to be walking down the same hall (And that happens far more than Percy would like).
Estrangement…
That's what's so terrible about all this. That's the worst thing about looking down at Dad's face and not knowing if he'll wake up in the morning or not. It's that Percy isn't going to be able to talk to him. It's that he won't be able to visit in the daylight hours, because Arthur will be awake and his family will be there (Percy has no desire to be jeered, to be glared at, to be cursed silently to his back and snarled at to his face; there's too much self-respect in him for that). It's that Percy won't be able to ask after him at any point, won't be able to come find his mother or send letters to her to see how Dad's doing (His pride won't let him, and he has no idea the sort of welcome he'd receive if he was suddenly to show up at the Burrow, asking about Dad—more likely than not, he wouldn't receive any welcome).
And his father might die, without them ever being on speaking terms again. Staring down at his father's ashen face, Percy suddenly finds himself utterly uncaring of who would be proven "right" or "wrong" in the settlement of disputes. All he wants, for one agonizing moment, is to be able to be here when Arthur wakes up—if he wakes up.
But he can't. Percy just knows that he can't.
I wish I could cover my eyes. I wish I could wish this all away. I wish it never happened. I wish I could take it all back.
I wish I could cover my eyes, and make it all go away with blindness.
A woman's voice, followed with that of the Healer who showed Percy inside, echoes in the hall through the open door.
Molly.
Mum.
Another one he can't face—Right now, the number of people Percy can face are severely outnumbered by the number he can't.
Percy flinches. His cloak is pulled more closely about his bony shoulders as he starts to leave, slipping out the door and heading out at the exact opposite direction he hears Molly's voice emanating from. If he doesn't look at her, he doesn't have to acknowledge her.
"Percy?" Molly's voice is at first uncertain, even confused. There's a horrific fatigue to it, the voice of a woman who has completely given up. "Percy?" Her voice rises now, growing more insistent. She's calling him back.
He doesn't answer. His feet don't stop.
I wish I could cover my eyes, and make reality die.