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Mem # 32, The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole Without, October 1983

A bedroom for two children: near the door a three-year-old Ron lay in bed, hugging his teddy. He blinked, not quite awake yet, at the grey morning light seeping through the thin curtains.

On the other side of the room, the tidy side, seven-year-old Percy muttered the sticking charm and carefully attached another shell to his model of an owl. It was nearly finished. The shells he'd collected over the summer and sorted into groups by colour and size, lay in careful piles on the floor between the two beds, near to the patch where the carpet had worn down to the floor boards.

And then the door flew open and the peace was gone; the twins moved quickly. George sprang at Percy, roaring into his face and blocking his view as Fred leaned over little Ron's bed.

"Get out! You're not allowed!" Percy screamed in impotent fury, scrabbling to try to save his shell collection.

The terrified scream of a small child filled the room. Percy pushed the laughing George out of the way, to get to his youngest brother. A huge, black spider lay over Ron's face and chest. With Fred trying to swipe away his hands to stop him, Percy threw the disgusting oversized arachnid to the floor.

Then he picked up tiny, shaking, red-faced Ron and wrapped his arms around him. He sat down on the bed and muttered some nonsense about how everything would be all right. Fred and George were bent double with laughter, like Ron they had tears running down their faces. Ron pushed his face into Percy's shoulder and made strange choking, snuffling sounds. Percy tried to rock him from side to side the way he'd seen their mother do with Ginny.

Percy whispered, "I'll look after you, Ron. Don't be scared."

The twins heard and laughed harder.

The sounds of their mother's voice and heavy footsteps came from the stairs. Fred and George looked at each other. Fred shot for the door but, before George ran away, he looked straight into Percy's face, sniggered and stamped on his model owl.

THE JOURNAL OF PERCY I WEASLEY, MARCH 6TH 1998.

The Ministry, or the organisation currently behind the Ministry (being He Who Must Not Be Named and his Death Eaters) has employed three Legilimens in total. They patrol the offices alternately employing random spot-checks and systematic departmental investigations.

I was the subject of a random spot-check in the lift this afternoon. A man previously unknown to me, of aristocratic bearing and dressed in magenta, suddenly took hold of my chin in his strong hand. He then stared deeply into my eyes. It was almost as though he were about to kiss me, which would, of course, have been both absurd and inappropriate.

He seemed to be satisfied by what he found in my thoughts. This was unsurprising as I have only Ministry-approved thoughts. It has subsequently occurred to me, however, that it may be possible to bring to the fore - that is to say, highlight - those memories and opinions of which the current regime might particularly approve.

I could achieve this by concentrating on memories which throw a damning light on my relationship with the other Weasleys. The first occasion which comes to mind is the argument with my father which resulted in my leaving home.

Minister Fudge had just appointed me to his personal office. This was news of which I was rightly proud and which I hoped would provoke the same emotion in my parents. This promotion was recognition for the competent manner in which I had deputised for Mr Crouch the previous year.

It now seems likely that my superior that year had, in fact, been under the Imperious Curse and had not been having a nervous breakdown after all. My failure to observe any strangeness in Mr Crouch's behaviour does not therefore reveal any weakness on my part. The power of Imperious comes from the fact that it is famously difficult to detect.

Minister Fudge believed that Mr Crouch was suffering from insanity, but did not blame me for continuing to accept the man's authority. He was impressed by the loyalty to the Ministry I displayed in my continued willingness to follow the orders of my Head of Department without question. He also recognised my organisational abilities.

This was not how my deluded father chose to view the situation. He was cynical and insulting, not to say ego-centric, in his suggestion that my new position was no more than a ruse through which Minister Fudge intended to spy on him. This showed me beyond doubt that Arthur Weasley has no faith in my abilities.

My father's lack of both ambition and application had already condemned me to a childhood of near-poverty. His lack of attention had enabled an uninterrupted bullying campaign by two, no three, of my brothers. Their belittling and physical abuse of me was either ignored or condoned by the other members of the family.

I was forced to protect my own future and could not afford to be dragged down again by his peculiar opinions.

I enlightened my father as to his worthlessness and pointlessness. In turn he ranted nonsense at me until I was forced to flee the family home. It was a relief. I miss none of them. My mother tried to send me one of her appalling, spend-thrift, home-made jumpers at Christmas. I returned it. That would be another good recollection on which to focus.

At the appropriate time I can conjure my most powerful feelings of hatred towards the Weasleys very simply. I shall think about Fred and George. They demeaned all my achievements, destroyed my few possessions, deliberately injured me and made me the butt of their jokes. I fervently wish that they had never been born.

Only one boy in each year is chosen to be Head Boy. I was. That must mean that I am the most well-regarded wizard of my age. I was denied any praise for that and was mocked for my understandable pride in my position. They called me 'Bighead Boy' and altered my badge of office so that it read 'Humongous Bighead'.

This was viewed as a joke by the rest of the family.

NOTE TO SELF: Consider changing surname? To what?

Mem # 8, The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole Without, early January 1986

The sky was white and heavy, the yard covered in dirty slush; Percy lay sprawled, face down. Charlie pulled back the foot with which he had tripped him. The twins laughed until they choked.

Four tiny red Wellington boots ran splashing forward.

Two of them were worn by four-year-old Ginny who stamped one and started to scream, "You don't do that! Poor Percy! You are three horrible boys who are not my brothers any more!"

The other two were Ron's. He quietly handed Percy his broken glasses.

Charlie tried to answer his sister, but she didn't give him the room, continuing, "Only bad wizards hurt people on purpose. How would you like it? It's only 'cos he's cleverer and gooder than you …"

The twins stopped laughing. Ron put out his hand and helped Percy to stand up. He squeezed the hand and did not let go. Percy wiped the slush off his face with his other hand.

"… I'll tell Mum and you big bullies will be in big trouble. And I'll tell Bill and he won't think it's funny!"

Ron reached up and pulled a frozen chicken dropping from Percy's hair. They walked into the house together.

Ginny's voice was still clear behind them: "He'll say 'Charlie grow up!' and Father Christmas will take back all your fudge and give you coal!"

She stomped in after Percy and Ron.

Fred's giggles started up again, quickly joined by George's and Charlie's.