Clark Kellogg: [narrating] There's a certain kind of relief in knowing you're completely screwed. It's because you know that things can't get worse.
~ A Movie
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It was absolutely no surprise at all.
Percy Weasley had done an entirely Percy Weasley-like thing and he had done--by the standards a treacherous, despicable thing.
But it's what Percy Weasley would have done.
He was the essence of self righteous--with little pity for the human condition and less for the incompetent and the poor. Intelligent, perhaps the smartest person you could have had the chance to meet. Cynically intelligent with a keen knowledge of History of Magic...the past...the shadows.
The man had a girlfriend--a young lady by the name of Penelope Margery Clearwater. She wasn't particularly pretty--by any means--but she was Penelope. And she did things that Penelope did--she fell in love with man who already had a broken soul--she fell in love with Percy Weasley. She had an old soul. They were prefects first, son and daughter second, and perhaps lovers third. Perhaps.
He'd always been rebellious and when he told his parents of his upgrade at the Ministry they were very roundabout. Instead of praising him (as he, at the time needed) they shot him glares and proclaimed Fudge was--well, many awful things.
A part of him died that night.
Forgetting about magic--forgetting he could apparate he merely stormed out of the door. Briefcase and rusted orange cloak in hand. He sat on the steps all that night. No one came after him. It was cold.
Penelope came 'round at about three--in the morning. She handed him a cup of hot tea--vanilla. "What'd you do this time, Weasley?" She said, chuckling dryly and sitting beside the tired boy. "Oh Penelope," he said, rubbing his cold hand against her warm one. "I suppose I went and got myself abandon."
She laughed--rather nonchalantly--"You did the abandoning, Perce. Go back in there--talk to them."
"I would never--"
No tears came from his eyes--no suggestive smirks--no rare winks. Percy Weasley was a stone. He sat up straightly upon the cement, continued brushing his hand up against the girl's and said curtly: "I'm going to go now. Time to leave for the Ministry."
"You, walking?"
"Yeah," he said, she made a move to follow him. "Don't," he said, "it's no bother. Go back home--get some sleep--you've been up half the night."
"It's not me I'm worried about," she said earnestly.
"Well, you should be."
And he left. He felt like William Jasper--after the man lost his kingdom. Empty. The young lady-stood upon the steps her eyes filling with warm tears as she watched him walk off down the road in the distance. He seemed so empty, so alone. His green buckled shoes padding quietly along through the dirt. A swirled mist surrounding him. Then, with a brief movement she grabbed her woven purse and ran back to her home, her feet tripping on the high grass.
His family thought about him sometimes--here and there when they could manage, and sometimes when they couldn't. Vague memories of hot summers and lemonade--memories of Quidditch games in the front yard and the young man's solid will. Memories that none now speak of.
--He was a survivor and he did what he had to do and he worked like he didn't need the money. He loved what he did. He loved working and the feeling of accomplishment. He loved being needed. Penelope visited him in the old hotel room that he stayed at--"Percy, you can come to my flat," she said. "Penelope," he said coolly, "that's unbecoming." It was lonely in the hotel--cracked flowered wallpaper and bedside tables littered with Bibles and breadcrumbs. He made his own bed and tucked in the sheets--sometimes fluffed the pillow like his Mother did.
Penelope dropped by--for she loved him even if it wasn't evident or blatant or even real. It was something frighteningly similar to love and he used to always ask her: "Did you buy me the strawberry doughnut?" She took out a white greasy bag. "As always," she said, "now eat up or you'll be late for work, dear."
Sometimes Ron would owl him and say very vague things about hurt and pain and misery and it was all very vague. Ron would write in messy cursive with Percy's old quill--Percy knew so because he knew his quill.
That was his quill.
He'd usually respond with a few dirty words and most of these letters said odd things about "my side" and "my right" and "the right thing." He heard his Mother cried and bits of his broken heart went out to her--not because he felt sorry but because she was ignorant.
His life went on, as lives usually do and it was neither particularly easy or particularly fun but he did what Percy does--he sighed, grumbled, had another doughnut, threw the Bible at the wall and moved on.
And moved on.
Sometimes Penelope would spend the night in the tiny bed made for one--plaid bed sheets that had become threadbare and noises outside the window from the bar-goers. People busy. People busy being young. He'd put his arms around her and she'd notice the smell of strawberry on his breath.
"Percy," she'd say quietly, "go back home. Go where you belong." Her voice was almost sobbing and choking and he ran a finger through her tangled diamond-onyx hair
"This is where I belong."
"Okay," she said, moving uneasily under the covers. "--Percy--do you remember that History of Magic exam in our fourth year?"
He laughed, very dryly and commented: "Well, Penelope, my favourite, it was quite easy. Wasn't it?"
"Yeah," she'd say, memorizing this conversation from years long past. "I suppose it was."
"Okay," he said, "time to go to sleep now."
"Well-" she said as though searching for tales and stories
"Look, I'm tired," he said coldly, "and I have work tomorrow so I can pay for your flat in the best area! I have work tomorrow so I can keep this room. I have work tomorrow to show myself I'm worth a bit more than a useless bloody maggot!"
She looked at him her vicious eyes peered through his, but she muttered, coldly: "That's bull, anyway," she told him savagely, "I love you Percy--but I don't love you like that."
"I'm never going back."
And he wasn't.
For the times were older, and so was he. The house was the same--messy and chaotic and smelling of cinnamon and fairy dust--but he was not the same. His pride had become all the more solid, his heart more bitter.
He was but a young man.
A son. A brother. A companion. A prefect.
So he did what Percy Weasley does--he moved on.
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