Characters: Percy
Summary: The most miserable Christmas of Percy Weasley's life is about to get a whole lot miserable.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: Here is the sixth installment of the Prodigal Son series. I hope you all like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

December the twenty-second of 1997 found Percy Weasley sitting in a dingy little pub (catering to and visible only to wizards, of course) in Dufftown, shifting his cloak more closely about him and wondering if it would kill the barkeeper to just light a fire in the hearth; he was sure he was on the verge of getting frostbite. Looking out the window, Percy was sure he'd never seen so much snow in his life—it nearly came up to the window itself and the continuing flurries blurred everything into a dappled silvery smokescreen. If an army of Death Eaters headed by Voldemort himself stormed the town, he'd never see it until they barged into the pub, looking for victory drinks.

The sort of unpleasantness that would have arisen had Percy come face to face with a gang of Death Eaters rabble-rousing in the pub wasn't something Percy liked to think about.

The previous two Christmases endured, rather than enjoyed, by Percy were fairly miserable in themselves; he was more than willing to admit that.

1995: Christmas had been spent, utterly alone, in a tiny flat in London (a nice, clean flat, but still a place that wasn't yet familiar enough to be home to him), staring out the window at the snow. Penelope had gone home to Lincoln to visit her family and despite her best efforts to drag Percy north with her, Percy couldn't be budged from the flat. His argument for her ears was that their 'relationship' (he couldn't believe he was still blushing when he used that term) hadn't progressed quite to the point that he could be paraded in front of her family. Penelope had rolled her eyes and remarked that she felt differently, but humored him.

Percy had spent the entire day and the day after Christmas alone. Then, sometime during the day, he'd received a lumpen package from a very familiar elderly owl.

He knew what it was. He knew what it was without even opening it. One of Mum's Weasley Christmas sweaters, almost certainly the same shade she'd made for him the last year and every year before that. Percy stared at the package for a moment, crumpling the light brown paper in his fingers, and the decision he made a second later was a fateful one: He sent it back.

It was a fit of pique that made him give the package back to Errol, briefly stroke the increasingly decrepit bird, and send him back to the Burrow (That was where Percy had thought his family was staying over Christmas). He still hadn't quite gotten over the fact that he had learned from a Ministry worker, and not one of his own family, that his father was in the hospital. Of course, Percy felt guilty about it the second Errol flew away, but he wasn't about to send a note after the bird saying he was sorry. It had been guilt that had made him tell Penelope; she, predictably, was absolutely furious when she heard the story. The word "idiot" was probably the kindest she'd used to describe him, but knowing Penelope's opinions on the whole thing he hadn't been expecting understanding.

Percy had to wonder though, after their discussion on the importance of maintaining some level of decency when it came to interacting with one's family, whether or not he had a masochistic streak hidden beneath all the perfectionism. It wouldn't surprise him if he did.

1996: He'd gone home that Christmas, though he had only half-wanted to. Truth be told, Minister Scrimgeour had been all but dragging him there, but there had been something that had drawn him back: the lure of possible reconciliation. Percy would have been lying to himself if he tried to deny that some part of him wanted nothing more than to be able to come home.

Mashed parsnips convinced him that this was not to be.

The past two Christmases were plenty miserable, but this one had to take the cake.

That it was so miserable, Percy supposed, could have a great deal to do with what had been happening to him over the past four months, what he had been doing.

Personally, Percy had been able to look objectively at the situation and knowing that finding himself in the Order of the Phoenix after the coup at the Ministry would be neither a safe nor comfortable occupation. Only an idiot would assume otherwise, and whatever his family liked to maintain, Percy was not an idiot.

The past four months had been occupied almost entirely by never staying in the same place more than a few days at a time (Dufftown currently held the record; Percy had been there for exactly a week, partly because of all the blasted snow). Between serving as a courier and relaying messages and dodging Snatches and even—admittedly minor in the ranks—Death Eaters (certainly not something Percy had expected; he honestly thought they would go after people in the higher echelons of the Order, like Kingsley or Remus Lupin), Percy had barely had enough time to breathe, let alone think. His formerly sedentary life had been turned completely upside down.

Percy tried not to think about Penelope, or the baby. When he gave even a single thought to them, to either of them, his bones would start to feel heavier like lead and sleep was impossible to come by at night. The itch to write a letter to his mother to see how little Molly was doing became nearly unbearable, even though Percy knew he could risk breaking silence, for fear that the owl he sent the letter by would be intercepted. And thinking about Penelope was even worse; when he did finally get to sleep (if he slept at all) all he was capable of dreaming about was her. Even if the content was pleasant, the effect the dreams had on him were invariably to leave him dangerously close to tears. Percy couldn't afford to shed tears.

Of course, if Percy did get himself started on thinking about his late wife or his young daughter, soon, painfully soon he discovered that he couldn't stop thinking about them. Inevitably, anyone working with him at the time would find Percy in a darkly dour, morose state of mind, for him unnaturally quiet, and damn near impossible to work with. The only thing, an Order operative had once joked, that made him different from the typical somber drunkard was the complete lack of alcoholism in Percy's makeup.

So he didn't think too much about them if he could help it. Percy honestly didn't know how long he was going to be able to keep that up, and he didn't really want to think about how it would affect him in the end, but it was what it was and that, along with the boatloads of work (not too different from the Ministry, really), allowed him to function.

Another thing Percy didn't like to think about was his family. That was an uncomfortable topic of thought to touch on, for more than one reason, so he tried not to think about the faces, his parents especially, but his siblings played prominent among them as well. He was beginning to wonder whether he hadn't been wrong, and the thought that he was wasn't one that Percy found pleasant.

There was unjustifiable behavior both on my side and theirs. But is that enough… A true Weasley, Percy didn't like the thought that he might have to suck it up and discard his pride and say to them that he had been wrong. Especially when Percy knew that if he had been wrong, his family had been too.

Now, Percy found himself brought out of the abyss of his thoughts, in a chilly, dingy little pub, waiting for his next contact from the Order to show up. The barkeeper, who was—secretly—also in contact with the Order, had let Percy stay in one of the upstairs rooms. They were just as decrepit and dusty and dingy as the pub itself and when things settled down again Percy had every intention of giving the barkeeper the number of a reliable cleaning lady.

He had made some of his opinions known to the bartender—purely by accident, of course—and as a result, their "relationship" had turned at times vitriolic.

"Oi!" Percy looked up when the bartender made that shout to the general population of the pub. He had opened a window at the opposite end from where Percy was sitting, cloaked in shadows, and was in the process of ushering in a half-frozen, snow-coated owl. He took the letter from the owl. "Anyone here by the name of Weasley?"

Percy narrowed his eyes and frowned. A letter from the Order, perhaps? "I am," Percy answered him, standing up and waving with one hand.

The bartender looked as though he figured he shouldn't have been surprised, and handed Percy both the letter and the owl, before returning to his work.

Percy let the shivering owl settle on his little table in the corner. Then, he recognized him.

"Hermes!" When he had vacated his flat in London, Percy had sent Hermes out the window, telling him to go to the Burrow—the Fidelius Charm didn't register to animals—where he would be recognized and cared for. The Screech owl ruffled his wings a little bit when he straightened and turned yellow eyes on Percy, attempting to look dignified as always. "Sorry, haven't got any food for you." Hermes couldn't help but look a little disappointed at that.

When Percy looked at the envelope, turning it over in his hands, he felt his stomach clench a little when he read 'Percy Weasley' on it and recognized his mother's handwriting. A little tremulously, Percy ripped the envelope open and unfolded the paper inside.

Dear Percy,

I dearly hope this reaches you before Christmas, as I don't think you'll be getting mail from anyone else this year. When I told your father I was going to write you he told me to keep it short, so I'm afraid I won't be writing you a book.

Percy nodded a little bit; Arthur was showing sense, it was true. A short letter would be easier to remember, since he would almost certainly have to let the paper burn after he read it so it wouldn't be found on his person if he was killed and used to trace back to his family. He read on.

Everyone's well. Well, I say that, but I haven't heard a word from Ron since he and Harry and Hermione took off. If you see them, will you please let me know or have Ron write to me?

He could see the slightly shaky letters at that and imagined how much Molly's hand must have shook when she wrote that.

Bill and Fleur are staying at Shell Cottage for Christmas this year; it's their first Christmas as a married couple and I suppose they wanted to spent it together, privately. It will be a little quieter than I'd like at the Burrow without them, but I suppose they have that right. Charlie's gone back to Romania, so he won't be here either. And Hogwarts isn't allowing students to go home over Christmas anymore, so Ginny is still at school.

Percy frowned when he read the last sentence; not only was attendance at Hogwarts now mandatory, but they weren't letting the students out at Christmas. Plainly someone was afraid of losing their grip.

Arthur is at work as we speak. He's up to his neck in work and The Powers That Be have been breathing down his neck like mad. He says hello.

Fred and George are perfectly well. In fine form, in fact. They're quite miffed that they had to abandon the shop in Diagon Alley—it was raided and closed down by the Ministry—but they've more than compensated for that by running a mail-delivery system out of their bedroom again here at home. There are days when I'm sure they're trying to get us all killed, but then they're just behaving the way they always have, and I have to admit that they both are being more careful about it than they used to be.

And now, I come to the part I'm sure you are far more interested in hearing about. Little Molly is quite well. Her eyes have recently started turning brown, but her hair's still just as red as when you last saw her; don't worry about that.

Percy smiled just a little bit. The feeling felt odd on his face. He wondered when he had last smiled, and winced when he realized how long it had been: since he last saw little Molly.

She sleeps a great deal, displays a healthy appetite, and apart from when she is tired is of a fine temperament. I would write more, but as I said earlier, I have to keep this short. She's grown greatly.

Have a Merry Christmas Percy, and as I said, I do hope Hermes finds you before Christmas.

Love,

Mum

P.S. Look in the envelope.

Percy frowned again when he read the postscript, and reached for the envelope, turning it upside down.

Something fluttered out onto the table.

When Percy took the something into his hand and looked at it, he felt his heart catch in his throat. It was a picture of Molly Weasley and her young namesake, smiling up at him, the elder Molly occasionally taking her granddaughter's hand to have her wave.

Molly was right. Young Molly had grown a great deal.

And again, Percy smiled.

He found himself looking up, wondering where he could get his hands on some parchment and a quill in this place.

For Mrs. Weasley's letter, I think it would be like her to try and write a normal letter without referencing the War or Percy's estrangement as much as she possibly can. She seems the sort to try and preserve a sense of normalcy.

Next up is Whatever Remains.