A/N: Prompts for this one were "ridiculous," "forgetful," and "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." - To Kill A Mockingbird, Harper Lee. Written for round 5 of QLFC
He knew that something was off before he ever opened his eyes – the firmness of the bed he had slept in, the angle from which the sunlight was hitting his face, the fact that he was sleeping with only one pillow instead of two. This was most definitely not his room, and this had certainly not been where he had fallen asleep.
When he finally did manage to look, there was a sudden sinking sensation pooling in the pit of his stomach. The room was very familiar, and it should have been. He had grown up at the Burrow, after all, but why would he have been there? It had been nearly two years since he had associated with his family, having only seen them briefly around Christmastime when he had been required to escort the Minister there. Even then, he had spoken only briefly with his mother. So why was he here now? And furthermore, he noted, the bed he was sleeping in was not even his own.
With a great sigh, he threw the raggedy blanket from his body and sat up, turning slightly so that he was sitting at the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he did. He had no idea what was going on here, but whatever caused it was likely the result of some sort of prank, and he did not find it even the slightest bit funny.
Just then, the door opened and his theory was confirmed. His younger brother had just walked in, sporting one of Molly Weasley's signature Christmas sweaters, a large 'F' stitched across the front of it. Obviously, George had been attempting to fool their mother into believing he was his twin. He wouldn't have been caught dead willingly wearing that ghastly sweater otherwise.
George smiled at him. "Better start waking up, mate. Mum's gone on a bit of a rampage this morning. Not too happy about those things you said about Percy last night."
His ears perked at this.
What was going on here?
How odd, he thought, as he eyed his reflection with piqued interest. He wondered what in the world had happened. There was no bloody good explanation for why he, Fred Weasley, looked like Percy the Traitor.
Fred took a good look around the studio flat he had awoken in, his face alight with surprise. Percy's home wasn't very big, but that didn't really come a shock. The place was a disaster, worse than anything he and George had ever lived in, and they weren't exactly known for their cleanliness. There was a mound of dirty dishes in the sink, the hamper was overflowing with clothes that needed washed, and there was all manner of personal items scattered all over the end tables and the floor. It was like whoever was living in this place couldn't care less about any of it, and that in itself was decidedly un-Percy-like.
There was scruffy looking stubble on his chin, and his eyes were shadowed by large bags. Normally, Fred would have been thrilled at the possibility that his brother was miserable after everything he had done, and the endless possibilities that could come from being inside his skin should have been intriguing, but somehow, the guilt resonating within him brought him back to reality.
Fred may have been bloody furious with Percy, but what in the hell had happened to him?
Percy headed down to the kitchen, George following in tow. His brother hadn't noticed anything peculiar about how his "twin" was acting, but this was not particularly reassuring. Aside from the fact that Percy was certain that the twins had caused whatever had happened to happen, the twins were always completely in sync with one another – constantly finishing each other's thoughts as easily as they were able to express their own. Percy, on the other hand, had not had that type of relationship with anyone, least of all the twins and especially now that he had been estranged for so long. Even if he believed for a moment that the twins had not been the cause of his current predicament, he was certain that any "twin" interaction he shared with George would be terribly awkward and he would be found out immediately.
His mother did not appear happy to see him, but of course that made perfect sense. She spent a good amount of time furious with the twins for their reckless antics, and George had already stated that his mother was having herself a morning. This was a relief for Percy. At least it gave him a slight opportunity to be a little bit quieter.
What really saddened him, though, was the thought that he couldn't have pretended to be his boisterous, lively little brother even if he tried. He just didn't know him anymore.
After rummaging through Percy's depleted closets for what had felt like hours, Fred was finally able to scrounge up an ensemble that was at least mildly fashionable to wear to work. Not that Percy was particularly known for his sense of style, but Fred at least assumed that a cushy Ministry position like Percy's would have at least made a reasonable enough pay so that he could afford some decent clothing. But from the looks of the wardrobe, this was not actually the case.
It had taken awhile for Fred to find the office designated for the Minister's assistant, but he eventually managed it. He could have asked for help, of course, but not without rousing suspicion. And he didn't want that. At least not yet. The idea of getting Percy into trouble – or at least causing it – was incredibly exciting to Fred, but he decided that it would be better for him to lay low at first.
The Minister didn't appear to be happy that day, and nothing that Fred said or did seemed to be satisfying for him. He was called "lazy" and "forgetful" and "useless," and while the part of him who wanted to see Percy's career go down in flames, the sympathetic half wondered if his brother had days like the one he was having often. He almost felt bad, even though he knew Percy didn't deserve such feelings after betraying his family. In the end, Fred decided against sabotaging his brother's career. After all, throwing mashed parsnips at someone was one thing. Life-ruining was another thing entirely. And Fred was just better than that.
Percy, truth be told, was happy to be away from his stressful job at the Ministry. He had begun to see the War for what it was, the corrupt Ministry for what it was, and his family for who they truly were. He felt more guilty than he ever had about how horribly he had treated everyone.
And it was only getting worse.
It was late, and Percy couldn't sleep. He could hear from below him the muddled sound of someone crying and trying to hide it. It had to have been his mother, he realized. She was the only female in the house while Ginny was away at school. Unbidden thoughts of returned Weasley sweaters and slamming his front door in his own mother's face entered his mind.
She was sitting alone on the floor beside the fireplace, sobbing quietly as she clutched onto a large black book. Without thinking, he settled himself next to her. "Mum?" he croaked, his voice both full of emotion and tired from having been asleep. "What's wrong?
Her son startled her. "Oh, Fred, dear," she said, putting her hand to her heart as she fought to control her emotions. "I was just looking through this old photo album."
"Oh?"
"Yes." She continued to attempt to mask her emotions with a false smile in her voice. "Would you like to see?"
"Sure." He said, although he desperately wanted nothing more than to ask his mother to look at something else, something that wouldn't have made her cry.
He sat rigidly beside her as she began flipping through the book. Photos of all of her children littered the pages, and with each picture, she told a story about it. Percy found himself really enjoying being near his mother again, especially since she was so warm after he had been so cold. Even if she believed herself to be talking to Fred, it didn't much matter. She was still his mother, and he needed to be close to her.
It wasn't until she pointed to a picture of him, brushing her fingertip longing against the outline of his face, that she finally began to lose control again. He could feel his own heart sinking into the pit of his stomach as she talked about his picture, which had been taken just after he had been named Prefect.
"I'm sorry, dear," she said, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. "I know that you… that you're glad he's gone, but I just wish he'd come home."
A lump began to swell in his throat. "I wish he would, too," he said, finding in his heart that those were words he really did mean. "I wish Percy could come home, too."
With another cry, his mother threw her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder. Despite his normal tendency to feel uncomfortable about such open affection, Percy found himself returning the embrace and kissing his mother's hair as she sobbed.
He realized then how much he missed her – his family – and it finally began to register just how horribly he felt for being the cause of her tears.
A few days had gone by, and still both boys remained in each other's skin. Fred found that he was even further from understanding his brother than he had been initially. He just couldn't understand what Percy found to be so appealing about his job – the people weren't friendly, the Minister was a bloody nightmare, and no matter how much work he was able to complete despite his distinct lack of training, the stack of papers on his neck seemed to double by the hour.
It wasn't until one particularly hectic afternoon that Fred had found himself halted in his tracks.
He had had a lot of work to finish and had gone digging through Percy's supplies for a fresh quill and a new pot of ink when he had found them. There, sitting precariously at the bottom of his drawer, was a stack of letters, each of them addressed to a different Weasley.
Fred, enthralled, began to read through them with unabashed interest, finding that, for the first time in his life, he had actually felt bad for Percy.
He tucked the letters away in his robe pocket, no longer sure of anything anymore.
Diagon Alley was nearly deserted, but somehow the twins' joke shop had managed to flourish for quite some time. In the end, though, they had been forced to close its doors and to operate only by mail order.
Percy had known all of this, of course, before he had ever woken up that fateful day in Fred's bed, but the reality of it had begun to strike him after living at the Burrow for a few days and becoming re-acquainted with George. Somehow, Percy had managed to keep quiet enough to not arouse suspicion. Or maybe George had known all along. It didn't really matter. The fact was, Percy felt bad that the war had had such a negative effect on his family, and this guilt only worsened by the fact that he had not been around to help as much as he could.
He wandered down the desolate streets and stood before the fruit of their labor. It only took a moment before he heart the approaching footsteps. He didn't have to turn around at all to know who was there, but he did. He looked into his own eyes briefly before averting his glance. He was too ashamed to match Fred's eyes.
"Hey, Perce," Fred said with a grin. "How's it going? Anything interesting happen lately?"
"Did you have something to do with us switching, Fred?" Percy asked, both trying and failing to sound angry and disproving. The Percy of two years ago would have been appalled at such a thought, but the Percy of that moment couldn't find it in his heart to be angry. Not after he had gotten to go home, not after he had gotten to hold his mother.
"Don't be daft. I'd never willingly become a family-abandoning, Minister's boot-licking ponce."
"It's not?" Fred asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"That's not me anymore," Percy protested. "Fred, I…"
"No," Fred interrupted, although not unkindly. "There's no excuse for what you've done to us, no justification for the pain you've caused Mum." Fred shook his head. "Perce, you and I have never been that close, you know? But I at least always treated you like you were my brother. But you… you abandoned us – you denounced us publicly. You disowned us."
"That doesn't… I mean… I know it was harsh, but…"
"But we believed in Harry, not the Ministry."
"Yes." His cheeks turned pink.
Fred reached inside his pocket, producing the stack of letters he had found earlier that day. "These were in your desk. I know that you regret the things you've said." He stepped closer, his eyes fixed and intense."But writing these letters while you sit around and hope for forgiveness is not going to help you. You have to do something."
There was a pregnant pause. Percy still couldn't look Fred in the eye. "Could you ever forgive me?" he asked, his voice croaking just a little.
He was silent for a moment as any trace of his silly humor was replaced by an unfamiliar seriousness that neither man recognized.
"I already do."
Percy awoke the next morning in his own bed, not entirely sure if what had happened to him had been a dream. But as the days passed and began turning to weeks, he found himself more and more disheartened by the world around him, more and more disgusted by the Minister and his actions, and all he wanted was out. And months later, with the war raging, he found his way back home, back into his mother's arms, and back into his family's good graces.
He didn't think it was a coincidence that Fred was the first person to forgive him.
He fell to his knees beside Fred as the battle going on at Hogwarts became a blur. Fred was dead, and nobody even noticed as everybody – both light and dark – continued to fight and battle and die for their own causes.
But Percy was stunned and refused to let go. After all, his brother had never really let go of him.