Author: yue kato
Written: 020502
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter books, characters, movies are not mine.
Warnings: deathfic, angst, no slash :p
Notes: This is partly inspired by Cairnsy's absolutely brilliant "Sins of the Father", partly by the U2 song "Peace on Earth". I've been meaning to do an Arthur POV fic about Percy ever since I first read Cairnsy's wonderful fic, so, if the great writer (ie. Cairnsy ^_~) ever happens to come across this little piece of writing, thank you for the inspiration and I hope she does not mind my taking parts of the concept she came up with and using it for this fic. This is the first time I'm attempting to write anything that deals directly with the aftermath of war, so any inaccuracies or lameness is solely due to my own immaturity. Please do leave a comment after reading – I would really like to know how the fic came across to you. Thanks! ^_^
It was like a scene from a nightmare. It was a scene from a nightmare. A nightmare that has been haunting me for the past twenty, thirty years, ever since anyone in the Wizarding world understood the significance of sickly, luminous green.
Green… such an innocent colour. Such a universal colour. It's supposed to be the hue of nature, of life, of colour. Yet all I can think of when I see that ghastly shade is abomination, death and destruction. A colour twisted way too much, past innocence and redemption, at least in my lifetime.
At least in my life.
***
heaven on earth
we need it now
i'm sick of all of this
hanging around
The first thing that greeted my vision as I Apparated with the reinforcements into the semi-ruin of my home was the blinding flash of green, sending me back three decades in time. The curses and counter-curses flowed automatic, and my wand moved as if it had become an intricate extension of my hand.
The Death Eater squad retreated, but they had already wreaked their destruction. I stumbled over and dropped to the ground, on my knees next to the battered, bloody body of my son.
His work robes were in tatters, and the pristine white shirt he always wore under them had become nothing but rags soaked through with blood. There was red, so much red everywhere. Red on his clothes, his pants… His hands were painted. His hair seemed damp, and I couldn't be sure if it was from sweat or something else.
Only his face was left untouched, a ghastly gash of white skin against the horrific riot of red. His features were drawn in a tight grimace, and he was obviously struggling to stay conscious.
Finally, his eyes fluttered open and he spoke – those words that cut deeper than any wound Voldemort or his minions could possibly inflict. I wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek, to reassure him for once with a simple touch, and yet I couldn't bear to mar the pale softness with even the faintest streak of crimson that coated my fingers.
"I'm so, so sorry, Percy." I let my hand rest upon his hair instead, but he was already gone somewhere beyond sound and sensation.
We brought him back, and the doctors have already done their best.
***
sick of sorrow
i'm sick of the pain
i'm sick of hearing
again and again
that there's gonna be
peace on earth
The others are secure for the moment, hidden away in one of the safehouses.
No one had expected truly expected the attack, in the wake of Voldemort's defeat and utter destruction. In the midst of the celebration and merry-making, those desperate and vengeful few that still remained were deliberately overlooked, forgotten. What they hoped to accomplish by assaulting a civilian home with just women and children we will never know, for they had killed themselves when finally cornered, offering their lives as a final defiance against the 'forces of good'.
By some miraculous stroke of fate, Percy had managed to get back to the Burrow in time when the warding spells set around our home were triggered. In time to send them via Floo Powder to Ministry Headquarters where the Portkeys to the safehouses were.
But not in time for him to leave.
"Don't worry, they're safe. Your children are safe…" The last words that escaped his gasping lips before his eyes closed and his head fell back.
But he's my child too, and he's the farthest thing from safe.
***
where i grew up there weren't
many trees
where there was we'd tear them down and use them on our enemies
they say that what you mark will surely
overtake you
and you become a monster so the monster will not break you
and it's already gone too far you said that if you go in hard
you won't get hurt
He believed me unaware, indifferent to his existence, wrapped in my fascination for the Muggle, bathing in the proud glory of my other children. He thought I was not conscious of how close he was to me, yet ever so far away.
I wonder if he believed I did not love him.
And I will continue wondering till the end of my days.
***
We stand at the edge of the rectangular hole dug out in the ground, the vibrant red muted by black and dark colours. I watch blankly as Bill and Charlie levitate the coffin down, their faces stony reflections of mine. The rest of them stand a few paces back, close together in a huddle, as if their solidarity would make the loss less empty. I flick a glance over my shoulder, taking in each of them.
Molly, her face white and streaked with tears, clutching our only daughter, who is clinging back equally strongly, holding each other like they were each other's lifelines. Ginny's expression is ravaged with grief, aged far beyond anything a teenager should look. The twins have their arms around each other, shock outlining their features, and a hint of denial, as if they are expecting it to be a trick somehow. Ron is standing at their side, bitter remorse and pain in his eyes, like he is regretting every single insult and gibe he has ever said. He blinks suddenly, and moisture trickles down his cheek. A hand rests upon his shoulder, squeezing gently in condolence, and he turns to bury his head against Harry's shoulder.
I bring my attention back to what is in front of me. There are others here as well – Hermione Granger, Ron and Harry's friend; Oliver Wood, and a few others from his years in Hogwarts; some colleagues. But I have seen enough.
Some might say we were very lucky. In a war like this, with a family as large as ours, it was inevitable for casualties to occur. That virtually all of them survived should be a blessing we are thankful for. Like we should be thankful for the peace that has now been granted to us with the Dark Lord's passing.
Peace bought and bartered with the blood of my son, and countless others like him.
***
Sometimes I think about the irony of it all, and it consumes me until my head buzzes and I want to cry so much it makes me laugh. He was the one we worried about the most during the First War – he was still too young for the protective walls of Hogwarts, yet old enough to supposedly chafe at the restrictions imposed by one hiding place after another. The one we were most likely to lose track of – the twins were still babes, unable to run off far. If there was anyone at the greatest risk of being attacked or kidnapped by the Death Eaters, it would be him. But even he managed to remain unharmed for the entire duration of that endless regime.
All the repeated warnings and admonitions Molly and I agreed to drill into him had paid off. He was such a good little boy, never gave his mother any trouble, didn't try to grab one's attention when one was on the brink of exhaustion, didn't pester his elders or throw tantrums or demand to be let out. Too well-behaved, too understanding, too mature.
No longer a child. Perhaps never a child?…
When did it start? When was it that I began to go off on irrelevant rambles, tried to deny reality with empty jokes and hollow laughter, immerse myself in the joy and innocence of the twins and Ron and Ginny, so that I could avoid the solemn, knowing gaze of too-old eyes in a face too young. Eyes that always pierced my conscience, reminding me of my inadvertent sins, making me want to cringe and just run away.
They told the story of childhood lost – at the hands of war being such a convenient excuse. But I don't want to carry on with the masquerade, not when in my heart of hearts I know the truth, am aware of who was the ultimate culprit.
I robbed him of the child he should have been, with every touch withheld, every gaze evaded, every platitude uttered. And left him an empty shell, striving not for himself, but for what he believed we would have wanted him to be.
What breaks my heart most of all is that he never stopped trying. Trying to reach a place that had been impossibly distant, even if it was only three doors away.
***
jesus can you take the time
to throw a drowning man a line
peace on earth
It's uncharacteristically sombre and quiet at breakfast, even though almost everyone is at the table. The family hasn't got together for the longest time. I had always imagined the occasion to be one of joy and laughter, shouts and chatter, with everyone trying to outdo each other to be heard.
Everyone would be happy, and there would be genuine smiles on every single face. But even as the thought enters my mind, I realise it for the fantasy it would have been. Even if Percy were to sit at this table, he wouldn't have been truly glad. Someone would have been poking fun at him, most likely the twins, and the rest of us would join in the accompanying snickers and giggles – at his expense. He would stiffen and sniff in wounded dignity, and retreat ever further into himself.
And I sit at the head of the table, smiling benevolently, condoning the subtle mental and emotional abuse that he has always had to suffer.
What is the point of cursing oneself a million times over when it has become far, far too late?
***
tell the ones who hear no sound
whose sons are living in the ground
peace on earth
no who's or why's
no one cries like a mother cries
for peace on earth
she never got to say goodbye
to see the color in his eyes
now he's in the dirt
peace on earth
"I wish he was here." Ron's soft whisper suddenly cuts into the awkward, grieving silence, voicing out what is certain to be on everyone's mind. "I'd take back every bad thing I ever said about him. As long as he—"
He stops abruptly, a hitching sob overtaking him, and he lowers his head, scrubbing furiously at his cheek.
"Oh, Ron…" Molly stands up and goes to him, placing a gentle kiss on the top of his head. "He knows you didn't really mean it."
"Really?" His eyes look up at his mother, wide and hopeful, like he was a little four-year-old again, and that as long as his mother said so, the world would be right.
Percy never did that – he knew that for the lie that it was.
"Yes, really." She gave him a tremulous smile, and turned away, walking into the kitchen. I think I see a shadow descend over her face as she lets down her mask, thinking that no one can see. But I recognise it, for I have one of my own as well.
I wonder if she blames herself like I do, but I do not dare to ask her. Not yet. I'm so afraid that she will accuse me for letting him die, not saving him in time, not ever letting him be young and careless, not ever giving him the chance to be these things and more. So I just hold her through her tears, providing what comfort I may through my silence, and we each hold our secret recriminations close to our hearts.
***
they're reading names out over
the radio
all the folks the rest of us won't get to know
sean and julia
gareth anne and peter
their lives are bigger than any
bigger than…
His name is in the Daily Prophet once more, along with the others listed as war heroes, martyrs who gave up their lives in the name of good and peace. Maybe he died content, thinking that Molly and I would be proud of him.
I am proud of him, so proud. I have always been proud of him, just that I never ever managed to let him know. It wasn't enough, the off-hand pat, the simple mutter of 'congratulations'. How could it have been enough?
I wish I had told him that he didn't need to announce his accomplishments, to show them off so desperately, blindly trawling for some sort of acknowledgment. But if I had, that would have been admitting to the fact that he was desperate, and to face the reasons behind why he was so desperate.
It is a sad, bitter day when one finally sees how much his son had to pay, sacrificed on the altar of pride and cowardice.
***
jesus in the song you wrote
the words are sticking in my throat
peace on earth
hear it every christmas time
but hope and history won't rhyme
so what's it worth
Christmas is a solemn affair this year. The Burrow had been repaired in the space of two days – one of the advantages of living in the magical world. For once, the whole family is back together again, or, as whole as we will ever be again.
But even through the starkness, I can sense the laughter again, biding their time like fresh green shoots beneath the loam of spring. They are recovering, gathering hope from their memories of him, the good memories.
Time is an inexorable tide, filtering out pain, dulling the agony, leaving only the bits we cling to. And from these grains of wet sand that we hoard, we build the sandcastles of our daydreams and fantasies, peopling them with the beautiful memories, erroneous and accurate alike.
I'm glad for that, at least. I think that would have been what Percy would have wanted as well, he who spent so much of his life trying to bring some good to others, even if they never really saw it that way.
Molly and I have decided to keep his room the way it is – our own form of personal memorial for him. Some might say that it is a bit excessive, that we are not letting go, not allowing the closure. But we want it there.
It is a reminder, of bravery and courage, of impossible odds; of denial, fear and irresponsibility – the sins of the father meted out upon the child.
A testimony to the cost of peace.
this peace on earth
peace on earth
peace on earth
peace on earth
fin