Not a Weasley

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Yup.

Genre: angst/family

Summary: Percy reflects on why he left his family and whether he regrets it.

Characters: Percy Weasley

Pairings: None

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, I just like to play with the characters!

A/N: This takes place sometime during the last three books, Percy is missing his family but refuses to believe he's wrong. He reflects on the build up to his inevitable fight with them. I know there are some seriously Fred and George fans out there, and don't get me wrong, I love the twins, possibly my favourite characters in HP, but they WERE mean to Percy. But, as made obvious at the end, Percy loves his family anyway, despite not always getting along with them. This is Percy centric and if you leave any comments bashing him (i.e things like: I wish Percy had died) then I will report yo' ass? Comprende?

Thank you to all my reviewers, you mean a lot to me, again this story is not beta'd as they are quick little ficlets to amuse myself and nothing more. xD Kay?

Love you all! Enjoy!

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I'm not a Weasley anymore, not really. I don't really remember ever feeling like I was one.

Aside from my appearance I am nothing like my parents or my siblings – any of my family. Sometimes I lie in my bed and stare up at the peeling paint on the ceiling and I wonder what's wrong with me, what's wrong with them. Was I even born into this family? They're all so different from me. I can see glimmers of my parents in all of my siblings, but none in myself.

My mother has always been so strong. She was always a rule breaker at school, cooking up love potions and sneaking out at night with my father. As an adult she's warm and comforting but wears her heart on her sleeve. "Emotions show weakness", Mr Crouch always said.

My father is nothing special; an under-achiever, never tried hard enough to get out of his pathetic place in the ministry. Yet even as I think this, I feel guilty. He was always help when I was a child, always there...still, I'm not a child anymore and neither is he, though he barely knows it.

Bill is clever, he was head boy. He has brains, but he doesn't use them, instead dressing like a hooligan and marrying the first French women that stumbles into his work place. I sometimes think that Bill is the only family member I resemble in any way. Excluding one crucial difference. I have drive to do well, Bill has long hair and an earring.

Charlie is the sporty type, he reminds me painfully of Oliver Wood at times. I sometimes think about Oliver, I do miss my old room-mate at times, I admit it. But he too, like everyone else I ever cared about, turned to the deluded words of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. Charlie was always nicest to me, out of all my dear siblings, he never teased me for reading too much or not wanting to wrestle with my barbaric brothers, I still feel a slight wave of gratitude still when I think of him, but it soon evaporates, stifled in the knowledge that, he too, has chosen insanity and delusion over practicality and safety.

The twins and I never got along. Not even as babies. I never felt like a big brother to them. Bill had felt like a big brother to Charlie and Charlie to me, but I never got the chance because the twins didn't need me, they had each other. They had always teased me, never given me the respect I had for Bill and Charlie. But then Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian had unknowingly favoured them slightly, being red-headed twins themselves the four got along famously. After our Uncles deaths Fred and George seemed to resent me even more, like it was I that had killed them, and so, never feeling like they wanted me I tailed along behind my older brothers pretending I was invisible. But even at four years old I knew I wanted to work in the ministry, become Minister for Magic, even.

Fred and George were always so difficult, so childish, so unwilling for dedication and rules. They were unruly and rude and everything I wasn't and so when Ron was born I tried to influence him, give him some hope that he might one day become successful. But the twins liked being the older ones for once and they were the ones that played with Ron along with Bill and Charlie, the five of them always together in their own little gang. I knew my parents were worried about my welfare, they were curious as to why I never bonded with my brothers. I never bothered explaining it to them, it's not like they'd have understood.

A year later when Ginny was born, when I was about five and Ron was still pretty much a baby, I started to yearn for friends and due to the lack of young witches and wizards around our home I settled for my siblings childish games and for a while, my befuddled little mind enjoyed it. We were all quite close for a time. That is, until Bill left for Hogwarts; our leader had gone, leaving Charlie to take charge. I fought with him, complained he was ordering me around. Why should he receive the leadership? I was but a few years younger and with, forgive me, much better morals.

Charlie suggested we take a vote. Fred, George and Ron-although I'm not sure waving pudgy toddler arms in the air counts as a vote-insisted that Charlie should be the one who organised the games and picked the teams for Quidditch practice.

So I waited.

But when Charlie left I did not become the new leader, Fred, George, Ron and toddler Ginny decided they didn't need me at all and instead worked as a collective democracy. Voting on games and tricks to play on me. Some days it would get too much and I'd try to hide my steamed up glasses from the twins. Ginny did seem to notice. She'd follow me around and talk toddler babble to me, laughing at her own incomprehensible stories, receiving reproachful looks from her three other brothers. I admit it was nice to have some company and the two of us would often go hunting for gnomes in the garden while the twins and Ron practiced Quidditch. But then the twins went through a phase in which they would talk to no one but each other, they dressed identically and did everything simultaneously. Ron was left alone and Ginny, having grown up slightly went to play with the slightly more boisterous Ron. Rendering me once more, alone. I didn't care this time though. I was starting Hogwarts, a place in which my dreams could truly begin their ascent.

Years later I lie in my cold, damp, empty flat, staring at the peeling ceiling, wondering what they're doing now. I miss them. I miss their stupid freckly faces, I miss their shabby clothes and weird obsessions. I miss the jumble of green wellington boots outside the front door and I miss the big chipped oak table, taking up most of the dining room.

I miss mum, I miss Charlie, I miss Bill, I miss Ron and Ginny, I miss dad I even miss the twins.

I wonder idly if they ever think of me, if they ever miss me.

I wish they'd admit they're wrong, emancipate themselves from the Potter boy and Dumbledore and we could become a family again, back to how things used to be before the tall tales of Harry and Albus.

I stare up at the pale ceiling and wish I could be a Weasley again. But I don't think I am, not anymore.