comment replies:

courgette96: i love how much you love these two! that's a great compliment. sometimes, when you write two people together, they don't work out too well and this Audrey is a little different from the others... well, they all have stuff in common, but as for Percy getting professional help, you'll just have to wait and see. Gloria and Stephen have... interesting personalities so to speak. they're really regimented people.

Phoenixx Rising: i hope so... i can make it line up but the way i considered makes me want sad. it'll be too boring for me to write!

Muggle Me
Chapter Twenty: Percy is Dead?

"Well, Arthur, you know I wouldn't want to be the one breaking this to you. I'm sure that one of your Auror mates are far better equipped than I to deliver such a delicate piece of news, but I feel obliged to, especially since… well… of the—um…" Fudge cleared his throat and was glancing at the papers on his desk. "There's no point in dancing around it. We both know that the Aurors have launched a manhunt for your son. Percy had to answer to some very shocking accusations. I'm sure you've read them in The Daily Prophet… or some of the owls I've heard you've been receiving down in your department!"

"Yes, Mr Minister," Arthur was not here to butter the Minister's arse. "I'm aware of the accusations."

"I bet it's a change," Fudge let out a laughter and Arthur stiffened. "You've been getting more owls than me these days!"

Arthur cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Mr Minister, but did you bring me here to talk about owl post?" he asked. He was going to get fired if he kept this up. "Because I have some work I would like to get back to… if you don't mind."

"Yes, yes, well…" Fudge ruffled through the papers on his desk. "I have some unfortunate news about the investigation."

Arthur's heart skipped a few beats looking at the Minister's desk. There were wanted posters with Percy's face on them amongst the stacked papers and broken quills. He hated looking at them. He couldn't get over how young Percy actually was. Barely out of Hogwarts! But here they were… wanted posters for a just-barely-twenty-year-old that were battered with red ink. And a warning about approaching him with caution! He'd seen better treated crups.

"Do you want to talk about a bad picture, or do you want to hear about the investigation?" Fudge sneered. "Because I, too, have some work I would like to get back to. And I'm sure you noticed that none of it involves tinkering with toys."

If this wasn't so serious, he bet that Fred and George would find it hilarious. This was just a big fat disgusting joke.

"I'm sorry, Mr Minister," Arthur was angry. They used his favourite picture. "Could you tell me about the investigation?"

"Well, YES! Thank you for asking!" Fudge's tone couldn't be more condescending if he tried. "Well… after Miss Clearwater relayed her concerns to us—as she should've, the Aurors scrutinised this muggle alleyway based on her intuition. Their inquiry, as you can imagine, was very thorough. Although not as thorough as Percival's would've been!" he laughed.

Arthur grimaced. He hoped the Aurors proceeded with caution in case Percy attacked with a mop!

"But unfortunately, the magical forensic wand analysis confirmed that Percival had been in that alley that day," when Fudge said that, Arthur's heart sank. "We think that Miss Clearwater's theory is correct. She believes that he created a fire with cigarettes and leaky cleaning products as a failed escape route after discovering he was wandless. The Auror department's working theory is that the Death Eater have probably tried to confront him after he's been spotted in Diagon Alley. Well, we assume that it's happened after he'd been seen. Because the timings on both muggle and wizarding papers are the same, so it must've happened within seconds. Oh… that's the problem with apparition, isn't it? Makes it hard to know which is first. I suppose that your son made several impudent mistakes. I suppose I did too by hiring—"

Arthur cut Fudge off, which irritated him. "There was no body?" he felt empty.

Fudge tried to maintain his composure. "No, Arthur, we didn't find a body. But although, there was no body recovered—"

"No offence, Mr Minister... sir," Arthur didn't even feel satisfied cutting him off, or seeing how much it bothered him. "But I'm not about to tell my wife that my child died in a fire in an alley all alone just on your theory that—"

Fudge cleared his throat, and then puffed his chest. "BUT ALTHOUGH there was no body recovered at the scene, the products themselves were very telling. Your son… had a particular infatuation for Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover!" he smiled. Arthur wanted to break his teeth because he was right. Percy bought industrial-sized tubs of it. "Oh, and everyone knew that kid could barely get through a few hours without shaking from that nicotine withdrawal."

Arthur was emotionless on the inside. Everyone knew, he echoed in his mind. Even the sodding Minister knew.

"And as if he needed that incentive!" Fudge waved a fist in the air. "That boy of yours is so unhinged that I'm not even completely sure that he started that fire as an escape route! I wouldn't be shocked if he tried to set himself on fire. Godric, his healer was sure he'd been fantasising about it. And he only knew your kid for three months!"

Arthur looked like he'd just been smacked by the Minister. "No, no, no, no, no," he said, though he doubted that any healer would tell the Minister of Magic that Percy was a lunatic in quite those words. "You don't understand."

"I understand perfectly well," replied Fudge. "You aren't thinking straight, Arthur. You're in shock."

He couldn't believe he just said that to the Minister. But Fudge practically looked like he thrived off Arthur's vulnerability.

"No, no, no Percy… he wouldn't have died like that," was Arthur's weak retort. "There's no way that he would die in a dirty alley. He'd-he'd rather… he's rather…" What would he rather do? Die? That was what he did.

Merlin, what was he doing? Making a fool of himself in front of the Minister of Magic?

But would you believe the same Minister that thought that Dumbledore was the root of all evil and that Harry Potter, the same bloke that saved them all from the war, was a crockpot?

Arthur shook his head; all he could think about was how white he got when part of the gravy of the Sunday roast landed on his clothes. As a seven-year-old, that would mean an hour-long temper tantrum until he was practically red in the face.

"I'm sorry, Mr Minister," Arthur said, and he truly meant it. "It's just… you don't understand," he pathetically argued.

"In light of the events…" Fudge began, standing up from his seat and puffing up his chest. "Of course, I'm sure your department will be able to survive a few days without you. You don't seem in a state to work and need time to mourn."

"I don't want a few days to-to mourn," Arthur said, his lip trembling. Mourn? Arthur's head was pounding. Mourn what? "I want you to take him off the Death Eater registry," he finally demanded. "There's no proof that he'd been a Death Eater."

He didn't even believe that You-Know-Who might be back until the Death Eater sighting a few months ago!

"I can't do that," Fudge said. Arthur resisted the urge to challenge that. "I know that it must be a shock for you—given your son's death, but there's nothing to suggest that he isn't, is there? He was found in a very compromising position and although we will never get answers for it, it's unfair to the public to let them believe that they're in no danger. Besides… didn't Rita Skeeter give you enough reasons for why people truly believe that your son is a Death Eater?"

Skeeter's rubbish had destroyed their house! "You can't destroy his reputation on a hunch, Mr Minister," Arthur's voice was stern. "He's just a child. He never hurt anyone, and he doesn't deserve this-this public outcry. There are people that did real crimes that are being protected by you," his hands were shaking from pure rage.

He couldn't believe that he was talking to the Minister like this. He was sure if Percy was alive and standing here, listening to this, he'd bet that that'd be mortified that Fudge would just throw him in Azkaban!

"I will not reply to that, Arthur. I know that you're in a difficult situation," Fudge must be chuffed with himself for being so considerate. "You know better. I do not protect anyone. And if you don't have anything else to say, I would prefer if you'd leave now because I really do have other things to do besides being your grief counsellor."

"Of course, Mr Minister," Arthur said, realising that he might as well be talking to a brick wall. "Thank you. I apologise for… my behaviour," he said through gritted teeth, as he turned around to walk out the door.

Instead of giving him any answers, the Minister tried to soothe him the same way he soothed a five-year-old having a temper tantrum because you wouldn't give them custard creams for breakfast. Contrary to popular belief… just because he had a lot of children did not mean that he could replace them. Most people didn't replace their own crup when they passed away, so how dare he act like Percy's life was so… so expendable?

Arthur took a deep breath. Godric… he couldn't have died. If Percy died in an alley, then he would never forgive himself.

He stopped at the door and realised something. "Did he take all his things?" Arthur suddenly blurted out. "When he came to…clean up his office to move up here, did he clear up all his belongings?"

Fudge said that he wasn't sure and that he should go to the Department of International Magical Cooperation to ask them.

Arthur didn't know how to feel when a thin, blonde woman at Percy's old desk bought out a box. She looked relieved. He saw the papers on the desk, and she enthusiastically talked to him about how she'd read the research that Percy had on cauldron bottoms and how good it was. She fiddled with her ponytail more than he blinked. She said that she didn't believe The Daily Prophet, and that she was happy to hear when he'd been promoted. Arthur's throat felt dry. He wished that he could've let Percy meet her. He suspected that his gloating would be a dream for her.

"Thank you," he said, taking the box that she had labelled. "I'll see you around," and then he walked out.

As he left the Ministry that day, all he could think about was what Fudge just told him. The nerve of him! Arthur knew it was nothing personal. Fudge's position was dangling by a thin second-hand thread. As if he'd risk his position to tell the public about some redheaded nobody's innocence. The rumours would spread like wildfire.

He didn't trust Fudge, but he also knew that it had been a long time since anyone had seen Percy.

To him, it was as clear as the scars that disfigured Remus' faces. He knew deep down that he'd been clutching at broken quills for the past few months. He'd only ever had a shard of vestige of hope that kept fleeting by the day. But he still couldn't have died like that, could he? Percy was so sick that he couldn't even imagine how he must've felt, dying in one of the filthiest places he could think of. Arthur couldn't even begin to imagine what his last thoughts must've been!

It couldn't have happened, right? Even without a wand, he would've disapparated. He would've run off. He would've saved himself. Unless he was injured, hexed, poisoned or…—but Arthur had been catching up on hospitals all over wizarding Britain… Merlin, did you know how many O. he'd had? He had an N.E.W.T in Defence Against the Dark Arts!

The other thought was worse. What if Percy didn't run away because he wanted to die?

The worst thing was that Arthur didn't know if this fate was a worse one than the one that was awaiting him.

If Percy was alive, he'd be found and send to Azkaban without a fair trial by the Wizengamot. They didn't owe Arthur any favours either! Why would they try to give him a just trial when there were far more political parties that would take advantage of the fact that there was a Death Eater Weasley? Horrible. In fact, Arthur was sure that You-Know-Who himself could appear in court and state that there was no way that he'd take a paper-pushing Weasley into his innermost circle and they still wouldn't believe him. In the past few months, Skitty Skeeter had destroyed Percy's reputation to the

point where Molly could barely buy eggs without people acting like she was the one that birthed You-Know-Who himself!

That night, he copped out and let Kingsley tell his own wife about the investigation. Arthur didn't know how he was going to tell his children that Percy was in that alleyway. That Percy practically got cremated in that alleyway.

A few days before he'd been called to Fudge's office, Arthur read as many articles about the London alleyway fire as he could. Even before Fudge told him about the investigation, Arthur could barely sleep. He kept imagining Percy dying there. Because it explained why a body hadn't turned up. It explained why he didn't write back to his mother (though he doubted she cared about that now). If that was true, that meant that he died alone. In one of the most inhumane ways to die. All because Arthur let him leave the sodding house. Because of the stupidest fight in the history of the world.

Trying to imagine his own flesh and blood being set on fire made him nauseous. All he could think of were the times were Percy was just a child, sitting there in his couch minding his own business. Alone. What was he thinking about?

Arthur felt even more nauseated when he thought of planning a funeral. The thought of having to bury his child destroyed him, but the thought that he had nothing to bury was even more devastating than he could ever imagine. His hands were shaking the more that he thought of the fact that the last things that Percy heard him say weren't even true. He'd forgotten how he sounded like already. It had only been a few months, but he couldn't even remember what he was wearing at the fight. He didn't have the leisure to forget. Percy was not forgettable. So, how bloody dare he forget? In four months…?

He refused to even face his family after the news was out. He didn't want to talk about it.

Arthur didn't know how he was supposed to deal with this. All he wanted to do was retreat into his shell. He didn't want to think about what each one of his children must be going through. He didn't want to think about what Molly thought. He didn't want to think about how cheated he felt. Percy's wand was sat on Arthur and Molly's room, mocking him. He should owl Ollivander and let him know that Percy could be the first person he personally knew with a pine wand to die so bloody young!

As Arthur stood in the kitchen, he could hear Kingsley tell his family about what Arthur already knew. The sickly-sweet smell from Molly's homemade treacle tart was giving him a headache. He could practically hear his family giving up.

He had the scare of his life when the kitchen door was slammed shut. His heart rammed straight through his ribcage and was probably lost somewhere between the Persian carpeting and Sirius' leather pants. Arthur was even more surprised to see that standing there, holding more suitcases that Molly did on holiday to Egypt—Clarence Francis Prewett.

He was six-foot-two and had the body of a snake on a steady diet of air and Primpernelle potions. He usually donned on a pair of gloves, hiding an incident with dragon-fire in the late 1980s. He used to work as a Magizoologist and almost reminded him a little bit of Percy… well, if instead of Percy giving an overconfident reply, he had a mental breakdown. But when Arthur voiced out to Percy that he had similarities to Clarence, he had not spoken to him all that summer. It was strange, since they spent so much time together when Percy was young! Perhaps, they had a row, didn't they?

Seems like there's a lot of that going around, Arthur reminded himself bitterly.

"I'm… I'm sorry for your loss, Artie," Clarence told Arthur, his voice softer than a pot of chocolate pudding. "I…I can't believe it! Mol's never acted like this before. It's…it's horrible." Arthur didn't want to think this, but he was sure that Molly was only close to Percy because of the fact that he reminded her so much of her favourite brother. "I-I didn't expect this."

"Nobody expected it," Arthur said, his heart clenching in his chest. "Even though his body didn't turn up for months."

"Merlin, he-he… he was just a kid!" when Clarence said that, Arthur felt even more ill. He really was just a kid. Percy didn't even know who he was He spent his whole life in Hogwarts, earning top marks for a death like this. It was enough to make you give up. "Last time I saw him, he was just f-f-fif…fifteen! I didn't even get to talk to him after the twins.. um…"

Clarence looked like an anaemic ghost, looking at the tart on the table. "Did… did they find his-his body?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head. "It was a fire," he said stiffly, and Clarence looked disgusted.

"Oh Godric," he went whiter. "That's horrible! You can't even bury him! What… what could you even do for his funeral?"

Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but he didn't know how to answer. He didn't know how he was going to bury his son. For all intent and purposes, Percy had received his own cremation in muggle London. And here Arthur was, feeling like he'd just splinched his body apparating here. What was he going to do?

"I don't know," he answered. "But maybe not having a body is for-for the best. Percy would've hated being in the dirt."

Then Arthur laughed, like it was hilarious. He wanted to cry but the tears wouldn't fall. "Merlin, he was obsessed," he said.

"You can't… you can't blame him, Arthur. He was… uh, sick," Clarence's eyes bulged. "Everyone c-c-c…could see that."

Suddenly, Arthur felt extremely lightheaded. When was the last time he ate or drank anything? Did you know that he had barely been able to cope with how wrecked Molly was after Fabian and Gideon died? What about her own son? That undercooked aubergine that nearly killed her during the labour process.

How did that stubborn little thing survive only to die in a fire? Why did he die? Why not the ones that deserved it?

"Do you know I've discovered more things about him now that he's dead than I ever knew about him when he was alive?" Arthur felt cheated. "Do you know how many times I used to wonder how many days and months and years Percy must've wasted just washing himself up? But we watched him do it. We were just as bad."

"You're too…uh… hard on yourself," Clarence tried to calm him. "I d-d-doubt there was very much left of Percy by then."

Arthur scoffed. "His girlfriend told me the same thing," his eyes were glossy as he remembered seeing Penelope in the Ministry just as he was leaving. She was there to testify in open court about a case and didn't seem very perturbed by it. They ate lunch together. She cut her toasties the same way Percy did. "She said that the Percy I knew was so deep in his own illness she didn't think that he was much of Percy anymore. Shockingly, it didn't make me feel any better."

Arthur just sighed in exasperation. "I wish he would've said something," he said. "He never said anything."

He knew that Percy had played his part in how dysfunctional all this had become. How was he supposed to know how much this was killing him? Why didn't Bill tell him about Percy's self-harm? Why didn't Penelope tell him? And why in Godric's name did Percy not think to talk to anyone about this and would rather distort his mum's knife? He remembered Penelope thinking that there could've been something in his childhood. He hoped she was wrong. Because he could talk about miscommunication all he wanted, but he couldn't blame six or seven or ten-year-old Percy for what he did.

He felt his chest tighten even more when he saw Bill, Charlie, Fred and George walk into the kitchen. They'd obviously come here for the treacle tart. From the look on their face, they'd just digested the news. Bill was as stern-faced as ever and angrily eating crumbs off his mum's tart. Arthur was a little taken away by how Fred and George looked like. The twins rarely looked miserable. What did you expect? Arthur told himself. That they'd be jumping off the walls, celebrating the fact that their brother just died? Their red hair looked limp and dry, falling into their confused dark-brown eyes. They looked at Clarence with a blank facial expression, like they were trying to make sense of something.

"It-it wasn't your fault he never… uh… said anything to you, Arthur," Clarence continued their conversation. He gravitated to the tart now that Bill had started cutting it. "Percy didn't talk to anyone about anything. I just don't really think he's ever felt… um… close to anyone in his life. His personality is so different from-from-from the rest of you th—"

None of that made Arthur feel any better. "His personality is different, so that excuses it!" he huffed.

Bill flinched, and Charlie's cheeks reddened. Before they could say anything, Arthur felt extremely lightheaded because his wife decided to walk into the room. Molly looked like a cauldron just exploded into her face. Not that he'd notice, but her hair was so dishevelled that it was defying all forms of gravity. It also seemed to have the texture of overcooked rice pudding. Suddenly, there were too many people here and Arthur felt slightly claustrophobic.

Clarence grabbed the knife from Bill and cut a perfect slice of tart. "Um… alright. Okay. Um… let's say in a perfect world that you-you… try to approach him about it," he managed to magically put the tart slice into the plate and then took a deep breath. His face looked blue. He was so overtly anxious that Arthur didn't know why he never saw a healer about it. "Do you r-r-really think that Percy would've talked to you about… about it? Even if you really tried?"

Arthur's first instinct was no. But he wanted to believe that he would. "Well, that still doesn't…"

He could understand why Molly loved having him around when her life felt a little dreary. He made a lot of excellent points, but it didn't take away the guilt that he felt. He watched Clarence heat up the tart with his wand and then decorated it with a perfect scoop of vanilla ice-cream.

"Here-here you go, Mols," Clarence gave her the plate and then flashed one of the goofiest grins that Arthur ever saw. He wondered how Clarence even managed to survive his day-to-day life. He'd practically disintegrated into liquid the second that anything went wrong. When Scabbers ran across the table last Christmas, Clarence shrieked like a first year in their first Potions' class. Which made Arthur wonder how did obsessive-compulsive Percy keep a rat as a pet anyway?

Molly accepted the plate graciously, as if she wasn't the one that made it. "Thank you."

Fred and George were staring at Clarence with a look that he'd seen in Ron when he was contemplating a chess move. It was so serious that it was unnerving. Bill and Charlie seemed to be shuddering about it.

"Why-why are you looking at me like that?" Clarence said, looking more than just a little paranoid. His eyes were so large that he looked like he was about to give a house-elf a run for its money… well, not that house-elves had that much. He picked up a mirror from his bag and then looked at his face, as if he was trying to see if his freckles turned purple. His hands were shaking. Not being able to see himself well made him even more distressed. "Is there-there something on me?"

"No, it's just we remembered your wedding and—" Fred was cut off, not by George but by Molly.

"The one where you've destroyed Percy's expensive dress robes?" Molly acerbically asked. Arthur remembered how Percy looked like coming back. His dark blue dress robes were mangled to the point where you'd think a manticore attacked it. But he still didn't seem too upset by the fact that the twins managed to burn through Arthur's life savings. Wonderful. "Of all the boneheaded things that you've ever done—"

"Mum, um…" George's face was dead serious. "We probably should've said something but—"

"—Percy paid us to ruin his dress robes," Fred explained. Charlie almost choked on the tart that he'd been scoffing—when did he get a slice? Arthur didn't even notice. But the smell of golden syrup and shortbread pastry was still nauseating. Arthur made a mental note to save some for Harry later, because it seemed to go down well.

"He bribed us," George corrected his twin. "He told us not to tell anyone that we did, and we needed the money for our joke shop, so we never really thought much about it then but now…"

"It really makes you think," Fred's eyes were on Clarence's face, who looked eerily confused. Arthur didn't look interested and Fred knew that. Maybe him huffing and looking away was the hint there. "You have to admit that it's more than a little weird that Percy would ask us to prank him on purpose. Plus, he paid us to do it!"

Molly looked a little confused now too. Obviously, the twins wouldn't be lying about something like that… just a few minutes after they received the news that Percy was… not alive anymore, Arthur thought sordidly.

"I…I don't know," Molly said softly to Clarence, who just nodded his head.

"That-that might be… my fault," Clarence said, not meeting anyone's eyes. "We don't see-see eye to eye on… things. He is... was... unnerved by-by my existence. He cannot tolerate how… nervous I am. As a person!" he flushed, his cheeks red.

"I'm sure that's not true," Molly said to Clarence, her voice was soft. "He wasn't himself most of the time."

"How do you know, mum?" Bill snapped and Fred and George flinched at how cold his tone was. Charlie looked like he was choking on the piece of tart shell that he'd swallowed too quickly. "This is so stupid. Nobody actually knew him," he grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"He h-h-hated me but I…I miss him too," Clarence told Bill and gave him a stern look. "It's…it's alright."

Oh Godric, Arthur remembered now. They used to be really close when Percy was just a little kid. Clarence used to love having him around in his house, especially when Percy was around five or six. They let him spend a great deal with Clarence when he was growing up. Arthur was sure that the war had an effect on him. If he had to think about where Percy's obsessive-compulsive disorder came from, it had to be around the time that the war was at its peak. But when he came back from Clarence's, he seemed to like being around the Burrow more. He clung onto his mother in a way that was almost unnatural after, and he seemed to be less moody when the twins pranked him. But it was like something changed overnight, especially after he went to Hogwarts. He went from being soft-spoken to such a critical, cynical character that Arthur didn't know how to deal with him. Percy butchered Clarence at Christmas parties, to the point where Arthur was sure that man had burst into tears. He treated Clarence like he was subhuman. Once Percy was about to cross a street in muggle London and Clarence grabbed his arm and pushed him away from a speeding car and Percy chewed him out for touching him.

It was interesting to see Molly try to balance her feelings for her favourite son against her feelings for her favourite brother.

She couldn't yell at Percy as hard as she tried. He was so miserable all the time, and obsessive. Molly spent most of the time trying to console Clarence, reminding him that Percy was ill. As if his obsession with cleaning had anything to do with the fact that if he could, he'd probably claw Clarence's eyes out with a set of sterilised scalpels.

Right now, Clarence cheeks were hot and red, and he was trying to busy himself by cutting the treacle tart into very specifically made segments. Arthur sometimes wondered if Clarence had some variant of obsessive-compulsive disorder. He knew that the type that Percy had was very common, but it wasn't the only type. He wished he'd read more about it. But it… it just seemed so harmless at the time! It was so much easier to let him indulge in his disorder than to confront him about why he felt the need to wake up at two in the morning to wash dishes that were already clean.

When Arthur walked out of the kitchen, he went up to his room to look through the box. Bill trailed after him, his eyes on the ground. The whole house felt so quiet, and Arthur felt like time had somehow stood still.

"What's that?" Bill asked when Arthur pulled the box to himself.

"I went to the Department of International Magical Cooperation to get Percy's things," Arthur explained.

It was a kind of run-down box. It couldn't possibly have been stuffed by Percy because he would never put anything in a box that looked like this. Just looking at the inside confirmed that the new blonde at his desk had probably just stuffed whatever she found in the office that was taking up space. To most people, it looked pretty tidy. To Percy, it looked like it might as well have been wrecked by the Knight Bus. He almost laughed thinking of how white Percy would look like if he was alive, if he was giving him that box right now… if they didn't have such a stupid row. Arthur opened the box, and then felt his heart sink into his chest. They were filled with multicoloured papers that had been folded into neat little squares, and five book references about cauldron thickness. There was nothing here that was even slightly personal.

"Books and scrap paper! Of course!" Bill looked like hoping for something personal too.

Scrap paper? Arthur looked at the neatly folded triangles. He was sure the only reason that blond didn't throw it out was because Percy would have a coronary before turning scrap paper into paper balls. He knew that Percy probably was solely responsible for the environmental crisis. He would toss a piece of paper solely because he didn't like how he'd scribbled down his y. Arthur grabbed one of the scrap papers and opened them up, expecting to see Percy writing long lengthy notes about cauldron bottoms. "What is it?" Bill asked, looking already a little frustrated.

Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat. The first part was the first part of his report. He could see that Percy misspelled the last word and probably chucked it out. That meant that the rest of the parchment should be empty, but it was filled.

I don't recall the last time I've slept…. Which in itself is not too uncommon for me. Wonderful. How is it that nobody seemed to notice that I'm sleep-deprived to the point where I'm acting like I'm intoxicated is beyond my twelve O.W.L knowledge. This is… so stupid. I know I'm particularly careless about my own… state of affairs, but this is just pushing the proverbial envelope. I'm sure this might have something to do with the fact that I have the personality of watery porridge served in a hospital at six in the morning. It drives me mad sometimes, but what am I supposed to do? Try as I might, I can't change my personality. As bland and boring as it is, it's what I am. I can't be spontaneous and interesting. Merlin, I can't even stop myself from washing my hands sixteen times over the span of an hour. Every time I suppress the compulsion, I want to tear my hair out at its best. At it worst, I'm climbing up the walls, wishing I was dead.

How am I supposed to be exciting? And why do I have to try so hard to attempt to alter my personality for everyone else's needs?

The only thing in my life that gives me any purpose is the work that I do. And I cannot even do that without having a meltdown of epic proportions. If I had to chuck more than four papers in a row because the lines on the parchment paper weren't even, I feel like I'm about to double-over from a heart attack. It's exhausting! I can finish all my work in an hour, but I spend the whole bloody day sharpening my quill, lining my paper, washing my hands, cleaning my desk, and changing my Ministry robes (I always pack more than one. I am not wearing the same robes for a whole day. That is disgusting). My paycheck that's supposed to help my family is used to buy cleaning supplies that I do not need, by quantities that even the dragon reserves would not consider using. The level of concentration and energy I put into things that nobody even cares about depresses me. And what use is my efforts when my own boss doesn't even know my name? When I am so shockingly lonely? When everyone thinks I am such a joke? I might as well be invisible—or dead. I doubt anyone would care. I have no purpose in life. My cauldron bottom report is a joke. Nobody cares about cauldron bottoms. It's laughable what I spend hours writing about. And the pathetic thing is that I do have an interest in it too! But what I believe in means nothing.

I have trouble eating anything. Every time I eat something, all I think about is getting food poisoning. I am probably deathlier afraid of undercooked chicken than I am of You-Know-Who coming back. In fact, I'm not at all afraid of anything related to the war except the… mess. My fears are completely mounted on being filthy. I bet Neville Longbottom thinks I'm so logical, with what happened to his poor parents. Even though I'm so frustrated with mine, I still have them. That's more than a lot of people can say. I'm ridiculously ungrateful I'm aware… but it doesn't change how I feel. It doesn't change that I am paralysingly afraid of things that don't seem to matter to anyone else. Things that I know are ridiculous. My whole family has gone through a war. My father has probably seen things that change a person. What would I say? That I have a problem? Everyone knows I have a problem. But they can't understand how debilitating it is. They think that I want to do this. Nobody wants to do this. I'm completely Sleeping Draught dependent, but I still wake up in the middle of the night for Godric's sake, thinking about… that. I take enough Sleeping Draught to kill a dragon, and it's because of how much tolerance I've developed. I did not fight in wars, or lose a loved one right before my eyes. I have no right to be this distressed. Who is supposed to help me in the middle of the night? Perhaps, mum? Who lost both of her brothers in the height of the worst war documented in wizarding history? Bill, who has literally seen people succumb to decade-long curses that has left them empty shells? Charlie, who has a friend that is burned to a crisp from head to toe? Ron, who's best friends with Harry Potter? The boy who also lost his parents and is forced to live in that dreary house all summer with people that hate him? This… this is ridiculous.

Arthur swore he'd seen Percy looking so tired he sounded like he was muffled and drunk on several occasions. Most of those memories were when he was still in Hogwarts. Usually, Arthur would've walked into Percy's room to borrow a quill (he always had spare), Percy would be sat on the edge of his bed, trying to squeeze the last bit of Transfiguration knowledge in his brain. He absolutely hated Transfiguration with a passion, even though it was Arthur's easiest subject in Hogwarts. Anything that involved even a millimetre of imagination left Percy in a state of confusion. Arthur tried not to imagine how Percy was like during the exams if he was like this on holiday! Now remembering this, the thought of Percy living alone was mind-numbingly horrifying. He had absolutely no regard for his most basic necessities.

Rereading that, Arthur felt at such an impasse. He felt like all Percy looked like he really needed was someone to talk to, someone to notice that he was working too hard that wasn't his mum… Godric.

Knowing that Percy was Sleeping Draught dependent immediately raised up red flags for him. He didn't know that Percy had such trouble falling asleep in the first place, much less that he'd been having such trouble that he had to drink sleeping potions just to turn off his massive brain. Why didn't he notice these things? Was Percy that great of an actor that he'd managed to convince everyone else he was perfectly fine as he got up at three in the morning, washing his hands until they were practically red and swollen? Percy said it was debilitating. It had to be—yet why didn't he consider how bad it must feel? Arthur could only imagine how bad he'd feel like if Merlin himself told him to get up and wash his hands sixteen times every hour of the day and woke him up from bed to do it. It sounded like a twenty-four-hour-bloody-job!

In seconds, Bill took the paper from Arthur's hand and read it. His facial expression softened.

"Oh, Godric," Bill whispered. He rubbed his eyes, because he didn't want to cry. "Merlin, when-when… when he died, he died thinking that nobody would've cared if he…" Arthur's head was pounding at the thought.

He didn't want to think about it. It was too painful. Then he picked up another piece of scrap paper and then felt his heart fill up in a completely different way.

Penny,

I am in absolute crisis. Ginny absolutely loathed her birthday present. I could tell because she made the same face when she'd opened my gift that she did when she'd eaten a bowl of mum's quinoa-pomegranate salad because there was nothing else in the fridge. Perhaps, you were… correct in this occasion that Ginny might not appreciate Five Hundred Tips to Excel in Your O.W.L's, or the follow-up excellent read Five Hundred Tips to Excel in Your N.E.W.T's. I have considered your suggestion that her displeasure of my choice is not related to the fact that I did not splurge on the Five Thousand Tips series. However, now, I am at an impasse. I bought her this bottle of perfume, but I am sure that she would throw it at my face. Please take this bottle, identify the three base components and send me your analysis on the likelihood that Ginny would use this. Please respond immediately,

Percy.

Arthur looked through the box and he found the most neatly tied present that he'd seen in his life.

It was almost a work of art if he didn't know just how much effort and concentration that Percy put into just tying the bloody thing. Percy always removed wrapping so carefully that he could package gifts with old wrapping paper. This one reminded him of Bill's gift to Percy last year, which might as well be a lump of coal. Fred and George always joked that they should just give him soap and dishwasher fluid. Arthur felt depressed thinking about those jokes now…

"I think he doesn't have to worry so much about Gin now," Bill was reading over Arthur's shoulder. "Whatever he's got her, she's going to bloody use and refill like mad."

"I suppose," Arthur was such a coward. He didn't know if he could talk to Ginny about this. "Merlin, he was so…"

"I know, Dad," replied Bill with a weak voice. "I know how he was like."

Knowing Percy, Arthur would wager that whatever he got her was probably something much too feminine for her. Arthur knew because last year, he'd bought her a giant pink dress with bows that looked more suited to Primpernelle's infant. He was sure it was obviously because Penelope would've probably worn it… after she'd cut off most of the material. That woman dressed like she was living in a dragon reserve! Next to a fireplace!

"He even wrote her something," Bill said, bringing Arthur back to reality.

Even though he wanted to so badly, Arthur refrained himself from opening the little card Percy attached to Ginny's gift. He knew that he'd probably written about how she should try to be a proper lady now and put down her Quidditch shorts. It was so sad really. Arthur was sure that Ginny would've hated this gift any other time. But… given the fact that Percy just died, it was so hard not to savour what he'd written. What he said. What he believed. Arthur was sure that even Ron was stuffing old letters that Percy sent to him, and rereading him, even though he'd rather burn them. You never really think that you'd lose that person when you threw away their owls, their clothes, their socks, their papers, their books…

Right now, Arthur wished he hadn't chucked out Percy's favourite threadbare jumper from when he was six. Or his old pair of glasses that used to make his eyes hurt. Just knowing that there wasn't going to be another one of Percy's things again was hard to cope with.

Then last few pieces of scrap paper were even better.

There were pieces of scrap paper he'd discarded after he'd botched up the dates from what it looked like… because Percy added a clumsy seven for his one. For him, this was enough to discard a nearly finished piece of work.

Dear Fred and George, I am proud of

He'd crossed that out.

Dear mum, I love that

He'd crossed that out too.

The last one was the one he sent, and Arthur knew that because it was the one that Percy sent him. Dear father, I would not be home for dinner until late tonight. You do not have to stay up for me because your yawning at the coffee room at seven in the morning is embarrassing me. Please save me stuffing. Then he crossed out the following—and never sent it: I appreciate your concern. Thank you.