Little Glass Houses

Chapter Seventeen: Cemetery

Sunday morning came with memories. Baby blue envelopes with celebratory cursive writing from Penelope's mates. They'd received them the sixth of August. Photographs of a baby wearing fresh nappies and little booties. His first small smile. His first real smile. His first smile where he recognised his father, his mother. Him mouthing toy wands. His first footprints on a piece of parchment paper, in sunflower yellow. Him crawling all over the carpet at six in the morning whilst Percy was having a coffee. Him wearing sleepsuits that were too big for him; that he was supposed to grow into. His gurgles. His pacifiers that he threw across the room. His soft hair. His persistent diaper rash that nicked two hundred Galleons off of him.

The owl for Victoire's birth had come in cream and white, like a wedding invite more than an invitation to a Welcome Baby party. It had been a small envelope, fitting into the palm of his hands. It had been written in both English and French and smelled nice. He couldn't tell what perfume it was, but it was light, airy. Pretty.

Victoire was a beautiful baby. Bill tried to get him to hold her, but Percy was afraid if he did, then he wouldn't have been able to give her back.

The Welcome Baby party had been months after Percy had come back into the family. Months after he'd tried to get used to Bill's battered face. Months after George stopped scoffing at him and started laughing. Months since he'd stuffed his mum's Christmas jumper at the back of his closet, along with the-things-he-didn't-use-anymore. Month since he'd been to St Mungo's Emergency Room. Months of silence, silence, silence and then the odd Chinese takeaway at eight in the evening all alone in front of a fire he just lit so that he could feel the warmth, even in the hot humid months. And yet when he saw that baby, he was normal. He wasn't a mental bloke that had a breakdown the second he saw someone else's baby. He was just…there.

In the end, he supposed it was because he didn't want Victoire. He wanted Peter, with his misshapen nose, chubby cheeks and beautiful brown eyes, that were more like chocolate shells; glossy and his.

But on Sunday mornings, he remembered setting all the photos on fire except for one, the one in his battered copy of Prefects Who Gained Power. He remembered hoarding sleepsuits away from the Penelope two hours after the funeral, where he kept hidden in the closet with the-things-he-didn't-use-anymore. Every Sunday morning when Penelope was crying in the tub (he couldn't hear her, but he knew—he'd known for ages what she did in there), he took one sleepsuit and put it underneath his pillow, like it was his little secret. Some days, he did it without thought, without thinking about it, without thinking about him, because he was so numb on the inside. He did it until he realised that it didn't mean anything at all to him, until this hole inside of him just got bigger and bigger, until he could hear her sobs echoing into his ears even when the whole flat was silent.

That morning, Percy could barely read The Daily Prophet, or eat his porridge. He could barely drink his coffee, barely look at her. She barely looked at him. She put on three coats of mascara.

But just before they left, a POP! sounded out and Percy looked up to see George standing there, in black trousers and a jumper. Percy felt disillusioned. This was not a normal Sunday morning and he felt anxious.

"George," Percy's voice was filled with surprise and trepidation, although George hadn't picked up on it.

"Hey, Perce," George shuffled uncomfortably from where he stood. An intruder. Percy felt his chest tighten as he stared at Penelope's face. She held onto her flat keys so tightly her knuckles went white.

"I told you," she said rather slowly, as if George was dim, "Sunday's. Are. For. Peter."

"It'll…it'll be best if you'd leave," Percy decided to say, his cheeks reddening. "Please."

"I know, Perce," George nodded his head. "Sunday's are for Peter," he agreed quietly. Then he showed her his peace offering, a bouquet of lilies, yellow, plump, and beautiful. Like the yellow in Peter's footprint. Like the yellow in his hair, in the sunflower bag that he'd bought Penelope when they were fifteen, when they were in love. "We got these for him. We just thought…" he cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Oh," Penelope sounded out, dropping her shoulders in defeat. "They're… beautiful."

"Perce, we're here for you," he said quietly. Percy could feel the anger in her, the jealousy, because her parents wouldn't give up a Sunday morning for Peter. "For both of you." He said that last part desperately.

"We?" Percy felt hot, like he did last night when he'd measured his fever of thirty-eight-point-nine degrees. An infected forearm wound seeping pus. He had no hospital he could go to where they wouldn't recognise him by sight. Potions and salves he took by the pound, of varied colours, barely reading labels these days.

All it took was a moment to make a decision, and then spend the rest of your life regretting it.

"Yeah, Perce. You're marrying her, aren't you? You're practically family," George offered her a comforting smile and then looked over at Percy. "Come-come on." He grabbed his hand.

Percy didn't choose his clothes today. He and Penelope were in black, like everyone else in the Weasley family. When Penelope left, he could hear his mum's voice, talking to hre, but Percy couldn't leave.

"We already went to see Fred," he said quietly and led him out even though Percy wanted to collapse and cry. "We just…we thought that…it'll be nice to not be alone, wouldn't it?"

I am alone, was all that Percy wanted to say.

The full weight and realisation of what was going to happen had hit him. He didn't want anyone to know about Peter, to see him and look at Peter, to see him and know what he had lost because he was so scared of this overwhelming hole in his chest, this chasm, this emptiness, this feeling of loss. If they saw just how vacant he was on the inside, they would never be able to see him the same way again.

"A baby," George sounded sick of it himself. "Merlin, Perce," his voice dropped. "It makes sense. Why you're like this. Merlin, I don't know how you cope..." his voice trailed off. "And Fred too."

"I haven't," Percy wasn't doing anything with it. It was just there. And he wasn't. "Haven't coped."

George nodded his head. "Yeah, I can imagine," he paused. "Perce, you don't feel like Fred died, do you?"

He didn't feel anything. Percy shook his head. "Not…" he paused. "I don't understand it either."

"Yeah," George agreed, like he understood. "Cause I noticed," he explained. "I noticed yesterday. The way that you were like, it was like…like the first time someone told you that Fred was gone."

"Yes, well, I…" Percy couldn't digest the words that George had said. He couldn't feel his hands, his body.

When he got out of the flat, Penelope was already waiting for him. Ginny was giving her a look that pretty much read that she didn't trust her. Arthur watched Percy struggle to close the door against the heavy carpet and practically jumped up to help him. "Let me help," Arthur said, shutting the door in seconds. "Here."

"Thank you," Percy looked up at him. They were a couple of inches of height difference between them, but he felt like a child looking up at his father again, waiting for him to tell him exactly what to do.

"Hey, dad," Bill's voice was broken and teary. Bill just had a baby. He probably couldn't fathom something like this happening to something so innocent. "The rest of us are heading downstairs."

"Alright," Arthur replied quietly. "Alright." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'll catch up with you."

Percy barely got a real look at Ron's messy hair or Charlie's face before they left.

Arthur was stood there, awkwardly staring at his hands as if he could find the answers written in them, like there was a cheat on what to say. He'd lost a child too. He'd lost Fred. But it wasn't the same. He didn't think any loss was the same as the next. They were different people. Fred and Peter.

"Percy, I…" Arthur looked down again at the floor. "George told us." Percy knew that he did.

Percy nodded his head. "I know," his voice dropped down to a whisper. He wrapped his arms over his torso, hugging himself almost but like he could protect himself. He was past the point of protection.

"Why don't you tell me about Peter?" Arthur had asked him, very tenderly, as if just saying the name was wrong. Was a delicate thing, and Percy realised that it really was a delicate thing, to say his name.

Percy closed his eyes. "He was…" he knew so much about him. He knew he was born at three-thirty pm on the sixth of August and had spent three days in the hospital for neonatal jaundice because he and Penelope had different blood groups. "He was almost a year old." He still tried to make sense of that day. It had stolen a year from him, and he still didn't understand. "Penny was on call, away from home for thirty-six hours…and I was…" he shuddered, feeling the coldness fill his blood, his soul, touching him.

How did you tell someone something horrible like the death of a child? When a part of you really believed that it was all your fault? When you felt like the only way you could survive what had happened was believing that you were deserving of the pain and suffering you were enduring? Your penance?

Percy could still remember how Peter felt like in his arms, where he started, where he ended, what he smelled like, how much space was between his eyes, the shape of his nose, the curve of his lips… some days, it was so clear that it was painful and other days, it faded and became blurry and the forgetting was even more tragic.

If you forgot how your dead infant looked like, smelled like, was, what kind of a person did that make you?

"The way he was screaming for those few hours, it was…" Percy shook his head, remembering the piercing shrieks that left his son's mouth. The emergency visits. He'd never been to the emergency room that often in one day. "It must've been the fourth emergency room visit when they'd refused to see him. Colic, they said, but he'd never had it. He was…a quiet baby." He was so sure that it had been different. "I tried to put him to sleep, but he just became more and more irritable, crying so much, and then he had a fever." Percy remembered how hot his skin felt like. "I felt like the worst person in the world, because when he was screaming at me, I wanted to throw him off the window." His screaming was painful, but he hadn't slept that whole night. "I took him back, and they'd seen him when-with the fever. He'd started getting spots everywhere, out of nowhere. Wasn't there an hour before, and there it was." He admitted. "He was very irritable that they'd asked me to do this-this lumbar puncture. And when they were putting the line into him to give him the antibiotics, he'd stopped-stopped breathing. They had to shift him to the resuscitation room, and they wouldn't let me see him." He remembered Penelope coming by. She'd seen what had happened, but he was just standing outside, imagining what they were doing for an hour with his baby.

Percy wondered what it was he could've done differently all the time. There was always this sinking feeling inside of him that if Penelope had been there instead of him, his son would still be alive.

"Bacterial meningitis," Percy explained, although he didn't really care what had killed their baby when they'd said that he was gone. What did it matter? Their baby was gone. Knowing what had killed him would never bring him back. "After-after that, I… I suppose I could never cope with anything loud." He'd been so quiet, they'd lived so well, so much in bless, with that silence for so long. With the shrieking, the sounds of the A&E, the glare of that fast-paced rescuitation room… Percy shuddered, thinking about his own stint in that room. Those white walls that held a thousand screaming dead souls, trapped, each with their own story.

"It had been so loud in that room, I couldn't think," Percy still couldn't think. It was as of the world had become too loud, and the sky had become too bright behind his heavy-lidded eyes. He'd already changed by then, turned into this, but that had probably killed off the last part of the old Percy. "I felt like I couldn't f-feel anything. I still do. Like…I couldn't think anymore," he whispered softly. "I'm not normal anymore. I don't think I would ever be, and that's…"

He had been in a room that most people died in, and he had survived. And that was unfair when they took away Peter's life, when he lay there limp and blue and cold. He hadn't even had his first birthday.

Never walked, never met his grandparents, never showed his first magic, never knew how special he was…

"Why did you do this horrible thing?" Percy's voice cracked. "Why-why did you come here?"

"Percy, we can't let you go through this alone anymore," Arthur said weakly. Percy's eyes met with his, and he didn't feel any better. He wondered how horrible it was, learning you had a grandchild that had died that you've never met. This person that had meant so much to Percy and Arthur was never going to see him now. How could Arthur mourn him? Feel sorry for him? All he could feel was what he'd lost, the time, the memory, having to see this child before he'd been ripped away from him. "Let's go see him," he placed a hand on Percy's hand, and all Percy could feel was a crippling guilt.

Going to the cemetery was even worse with his whole family there, forming a circle on a tiny grave.

Percy had memorised that plot of land so much that it was seared into his brain. He could still remember the shoebox coffin that they'd put his baby, still wanted to tear him out of there just to make sure that he was really gone, just to see him one last time… and then the rest of the day was blank. He couldn't remember anything, who was there, what they wore, what the sky looked like, what Penelope had said to him.

After that, they'd gone to a café in Diagon Alley, whose name he couldn't really remember, at one o'clock that afternoon. Ron gave him a nod, the first sign of recognition from his side, even after all the rage had gone away. The whole table was full of the family, of his parents, of Bill, of Charlie, of George, of Ginny, of people that had no longer hated him and every bit of bad blood had been squeezed out of their bodies until they were rosy and full. But there was a tension in the air that you wouldn't expect with people that you loved. A tension that let him know that he was not safe, that he would never be safe, that there was something bubbling under the surface and one day, everyone was going to know about. But you couldn't imagine that day being today, and you wouldn't until it was that day.

The world suddenly felt real and sombre and cruel. In the back of his mind, he thought of bridal magazines that strewn about his flat, with dresses that cost more than the Burrow's maintenance plan, and flower bouquets with more promises than Percy would ever want to keep. A wedding in a glass house, which Percy didn't like the idea of. A wedding that Penelope still talked to their mum about. He could hear them sometimes, outside his room, talking about him, their voices echoing and settling into his cold, achy bones.

"I haven't seen him in an awfully long time," Molly had told Penelope one night a few days ago.

"He'd just been busy at work," Penelope answered. He went to work only four days out of five most days. Kingsley wanted to sack him, told him off a few times, told him that he was being nice to him. His father already knew this. His mum already did too. "You know how he could be like when he's busy.

More questions came usually. "Doesn't Percy want to be involved in any of the wedding plans…? Shouldn't you both discuss this?" followed by "I suppose he isn't the type for wedding preparations" and "Are you sure he's not around? I would really like to see him. He looked so…stunned last time. It's all my fault, of course. What kind of mother believes that her child would do something so horrible to anyone? He has a right to be mad at me. At all of us. He doesn't talk about it, we haven't but I know." Hearing his mum speak made him want to see her, but he feigned sleep just in case she walked into the room. It was all a lie, of course.

He didn't sleep without Dreamless Sleep. He hadn't been able to for years.

That morning before they left for the funeral, Percy had showered for the first time in ages, and was brought to tears when he had to wrap his bandage around his thigh. The wound that he had gotten from tripping over a wet floor after Penelope had slept with him. His fault, his fault, his fault, seeping and red, white and hot. He wrapped it until he couldn't see it anymore, and then tried to forget about the pain. He'd been practically limping the whole day. It felt like everyone was staring at him, or had it just been so long since he'd been out that he'd become so sad inside?

Percy knew how he looked like. Pale, with heavy circles under his sunken eyes and thinner than he had been in years. He didn't feel like someone. He felt like a vestige of someone.

It was so warm outside. His black jumper was too thick. The café smelled strongly of coffee beans and baked biscuits fresh out of the oven. His stomach twisted at the noxious sweet-sweet-sweet smells hitting him all at once. Then there was Bill, looking ten years older, beside him. The tables and chairs were wooden and beautiful. Arthur and Molly sat across from them. Both of them were wearing shades of black that looked closer to grey. Percy couldn't remember the last time his mum wore that shade of grey. It looked strange on her. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be there.

He had gotten up to fetch the coffee orders, and George had followed him, staring at him.

"Merlin, look at you," he heard George from behind him. Percy turned around to see George holding a cup of coffee in his hands. Since when did George drink coffee? He hated that stuff. "You look horrible. Is this how you look like without your nap?" he asked, and Percy just smiled. He actually smiled, a real genuine smile. "But I can imagine that you would be…given you know, what we've just been to."

George placed a hand on his arm. "We can see Fred tomorrow. If…if you want." Why would he want to?

If this was a question on an exam, he would've failed it. Failed doing the right things, saying the right thing. Just like he failed when it came to anything really important. Anything that was worth anything. There was an ominous silence between him. There was an impending something-horrible about to happen. Percy just knew it, but he couldn't tell what it was. His heart was doing tiny Chaser loops.

"I… I don't know if I can see Fred," Percy finally admitted. He'd felt like he had no heart anymore, like it had just been torn out the second that he'd seen his baby die right in front of his eyes.

George nodded his head. "Okay," his lack of anger made Percy feel relieved.

When Percy collected the tray of coffees, he took a deep breath. His cheeks coloured in, heating up.

"Do you know what I think, Perce?" George rubbed his eyes. Was he about to cry? "I think…I think he's lucky," Percy felt sweat running down his neck. "It would kill him to see you like this… I wish I didn't have to. Cause I don't know if you're ever going to be…like you were. And I wish that you were, you know?"

Percy nodded his head slowly. "I'm… I'm sorry," what was he supposed to say to that?

"The old Percy would've never said sorry," George sounded wistful. He picked up one of the drinks that Percy wasn't even sure it was his and started sipping from it. There was cream on top of his lip.

"Well, it's my favourite word nowadays," Percy replied back with a small smile. It didn't feel fake either, or forced, but it did feel awkward and misplaced.

They walked back to the table. Percy placed the tray down. Penelope looked up at him, puffy eyed and still gorgeous. Even in the ruins of mourning, her waterproof mascara held. The usual conversation about how horrible the prices were didn't seem to be fitting, nor any chatter about Victoire, or the wedding. They just sat in silence for the first few minutes. Percy supposed it was one of the last times that George had mentioned that he'd changed. That he wasn't like what he was before. Then it stopped, and everyone had accepted it.

Ron was staring straight across from him. "Did you actually get anything?" Percy was flustered a little and Ron snorted. "Thought so." He offered a cup of coffee that smelled nice and warm. "I got this for you then, you bloody cheapskate." Percy accepted it. He felt rather grateful. It was just…a nice gesture.

"What? You can face Voldemort, but you can't buy him a coffee without bitching about it?" Charlie asked.

"Charlie," Molly gave him a warning glare. "That was a very nice thing for you to do, love."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Mum, I'm Harry's best friend! I am nice!"

"Thank you," Percy told Ron, staring at the coffee. The right amount of milk, the right amount of sugar. He could smell it, feel it into his hands. He was overwhelmed by the gesture. "You're an Auror now." He said airily, as if it was a surprising notion rather than something that had really happened. Ron nodded. "The Minister said that you seem very promising." He also said that he was impulsive, but Ron already knew that.

"Oh, that's not what he was telling me last time I've gone on an Auror mission," Ron scoffed. "Can you imagine that there was a bloke that ran a domestic violence charge? Said his wife hit him when he'd refused to do the washing up." He laughed, like it was really just a joke. Arthur even started chuckling.

Percy nearly dropped the coffee all over himself. "Oh," his voice dropped. "That's…um…"

"It's probably the only way they could get a bloke to do the washing up," Molly replied, staring at Arthur, who just flushed deeply. "Not that I'd harm a hair on this gorgeous little head…"

"What hair?" Bill asked, and Arthur just nudged him into the side.

It wasn't like that they'd just gone out to see a dead eleven-month-old. Yet, Percy was okay with this. It helped lessen the pain that was in his stomach. The pain that got a little better with kind gestures and people acting normally, because life really did go on. Being miserable was never going to bring him back.

Ron nodded his head. "Apparently, he's not the only bloke that tried to run a domestic charge before." He shrugged. "There was another bloke ages back that tried to file a domestic abuse charge." He scoffed. "But couldn't remember half the details of the alleged crime. Tried to say his girlfriend raped him." Percy had never used the word rape, not ever. But he knew they were talking about him, knew it with every fibre of his being. That they were still talking about him, still laughing about him. "Well, he'd said she'd forced him to have sex with her, but he refused to say it. What a nutter."

"Is this really an appropriate conversation to have right now?" Molly's voice was a little high.

Penelope met his eyes. She knew that they were talking about him. About the charge he'd started to file the first time that it had happened. He knew better now. He was never going to tell anyone.

"Percy," Ginny beamed at him sweetly. "I'd need you to be at my flat for the next few days to help me with some paperwork for the Holyhead Harpies. Can't make sense of any of it." She looked over at Penelope and with a bright smile, she asked, "You wouldn't mind if I borrow Percy for a few days, would you?"

"Of course not!" Penelope grabbed his hand underneath the table and pinched him, as if to warn him not to do anything stupid during the time that he was away. "I'll be busy with Molly looking at flowers for the wedding. For the centrepiece and the wedding décor and…" she sighed dreamily. "It'll be wonderful."

Percy couldn't miss Ginny's mouth pressing into a thin, angry line. As if she was making a note of something. But Percy knew his face was about as indifferent as always. He knew it. So, what was it about Ginny that made him look like that? And then a sinking feeling formed into his stomach because he didn't think that she wanted to talk to him about the Holyhead Harpies at all. He was sure it was about something else.