The Hidden Child
To Whomever May Read This,
Before I properly begin this memoir, I thought I might clear a few things up.
Firstly, I am not looking for sympathy or pity or any other sad and wasteful emotion you may care to shed. That is not my purpose for putting to paper the major events that shaped my life.
In fact, I don't believe that anyone will ever read my writings because this book will not be published. (Unless, of course, I die and this journal is found among my possessions but even then I'm not convinced that anyone will be so inclined to read this unless said individual has a morbid sense of curiosity.)
Right, getting off topic.
As I was saying, I'm penning this memoir for personal fulfillment, not because I believe it will bring me fame and fortune. I've read several self-help books by notable authors who all agree that writing one's own memoir is an important and healthy step towards self-actualization. According to these notable authors, journaling will improve my self-expression and in the process, provide me with an enhanced sense of innate self. As I could use a bit of understanding; this memoir idea certainly seems to have merit. Other accomplished wizards, such as Gilderoy Lockhart, have successfully penned memoirs. While I may not be so accomplished as they, I am just as capable. After, all how hard can it really be? Therefore, I have decided to undertake this rather daunting task.
I am not poetic (though my grammar and punctuation are impeccable) so don't expect any striking passages or epic drama. I am a Ministry worker and the third-eldest child in a family of nine. My life is mundane.
There, now you've been warned. Let's begin this properly, shall we?
My name is Percival Ignatius Weasley.
This is my story.
England: Pre-war
A baby howled. Molly Weasley sagged against the pillows gratefully. "Is it a girl?"
"Sorry to disappoint Molly, but it's another boy." Arthur Weasley smiled apologetically at his wife before handing her a small bundled form. "And a lovely one, he is."
"Oh Arthur." Molly sighed. "It doesn't matter if it's a boy. " She looked down at the small form and smiled. "You are lovely." The baby snuffled loudly before blinking inquisitively up at her. His eyes were the clearest blue she had ever seen. "You gave us quite a scare, didn't you?"
The baby's face scrunched up as though affronted by her words before releasing a loud puff of air. Molly giggled at the baby's apparent indignation. "Oh, Arthur! Let's call him Percival!"
"Percival?" Arthur leaned over his wife's shoulder to eye the baby skeptically. "But Molly, I thought we agreed that if it was a boy, we'd name him after my great-uncle Bestor?"
The baby scowled and Molly laughed again. "I don't thing he wants to be called Bestor."
"Quiet little thing, isn't he?" Arthur ran a careful finger down the baby's cheek. "Not like Bill and Charlie at all."
"At least he's breathing." Molly unconsciously held the baby tighter, earning yet another scowl. "I thought we'd lost him."
Arthur squeezed his wife's shoulders. "But we didn't. And he certainly doesn't look like a Bestor."
Molly kissed her new son's forehead. "Welcome to the family, Percival."
Five Years Later: The War
That Man was visiting again. Mummy said that he should call him Daddy, but Percy thought she was mistaken. That Man didn't act like a proper Daddy. The Daddies in Percy's picture books carried briefcases and wore suits. Those Daddies brought their Mummies flowers and played baseball with their sons. And most importantly, they lived with their families. That Man only visited once a month and he never brought Mummy flowers. This annoyed Percy. If That Man were any sort of Daddy, he would certainly bring Mummy flowers. Mummy deserved flowers after all. If he was allowed to go outside, Percy would bring Mummy flowers everyday. Percy wanted to tell That Man he should give Mummy flowers, but he supposed that would be considered impolite and would set a bad example for Fred and George. They were very little and had yet to learn their manners.
Percy scrunched up his nose as That Man patted him awkwardly on the head and told Mummy that it was all right, Percy did not have to call him Daddy. Mummy frowned at this but didn't say anything. Percy wondered if she was angry with him. He hoped not.
Free from the scrutiny of the adults, Percy retreated to his favorite reading chair. It was the only comfortable chair in their new home. The chair was wide and the red material soft. It wasn't as nice as the chair in their old house, but nevertheless, Percy enjoyed curling up on the cushion and reading. He peeked over the edge of his book to observe his Mummy. Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that Mummy smiled more and yelled less when That Man was around. Percy decided this was a good thing even if That Man was rather silly and smiled too much. Percy didn't understand why That Man always had to smile. Really, what was there to smile about? Percy rested his chin on his fist and stared pensively at the red-haired stranger.
He was drinking evening tea with Mummy and talking VERY loudly about some kind of muggle thing. Percy knew what muggles were. Bill had told him last summer that muggles were just like wizards except that they didn't have magic. That Man liked muggles a lot. Percy had heard him telling Mummy that Death Eaters had hurt a whole family of muggles. Percy also knew what Death Eaters were. No one had told him specifically, but he had heard the adults talking. He wasn't stupid, he knew that Death Eaters were the reason his Mummy and brothers couldn't go outside or speak loudly or look out the windows. It was because of the Death Eaters that they'd had to leave their last house in the middle of the night.
Stupid Death Eaters.
Sighing, Percy looked down at the book in his lap. It wasn't like his other books where the pictures moved and the characters spoke. This book was special. It was a muggle book, something That Man called a classic. He'd brought the book for Percy and his brothers, but Fred and George wanted no part of it.
"Boring!" They'd announced after inspecting the leather bound cover with only a title. "Boring, boring!" They'd declared upon seeing stationary pictures in black and white. "Boring, boring, boring!" They'd dropped the book and rushed off to play with their train that whistled and chugged and moved on its own.
Percy had picked the book up from the floor and decided that he rather liked the boring book. He especially liked it when That Man had sat with him on the soft, red chair and helped him to read several pages. Percy had learned how to sound out words and to his surprise, quite enjoyed the sound of hearing his voice, and not that of the characters, saying the lines. He'd said as much to That Man, who had laughed and said that what Percy was feeling was a sense of accomplishment.
Percy had quite liked that feeling. He'd continued to read the book-on his own, and had nearly finished the third chapter. Percy thumbed through the book's pages, searching for his bookmark. Though he would never admit it, Percy thought that That Man was maybe not so bad. And maybe, just maybe, he would bring Percy another classic to read.
Percy decided that he would ask, but later. He couldn't possibly ask for another book until he discovered whether Alice escaped Wonderland.