Little Glass Houses

Chapter Twenty-Four

Muddling On

Percy soaked into his bath. The tepid pools of water warmed his skin. He felt the heat gingerly envelope his thin body, which had just been de-bandaged. He'd scrubbed away every inch of his skin, until it became red and swollen. Percy let out a sigh of contentment. He finally felt clean after spending all those weeks in that wretched hospital. After he'd walked through long white halls that smelled of death and decay. After his bath, he made his way to the sink. He splashed water onto his face and then tucked droplets behind his ear, as if for good luck. Cool, crisp and clean. His dry skin felt less scaly looking and mottled already! After his shower, he went downstairs dressed in a non-descript somewhat-loose off-white button-down and black trouser pants.

Even though he was beyond the bounds of his normal day-to-day schedule, it still felt like it was a normal day (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, whatever it be) kind of day. The sort of day where things just went on the way that they were and nothing exciting or unpleasant happened.

It was about four in the afternoon. His mum was furiously knitting away in front of the unused fireplace. His siblings bickered over Quidditch scores. The bright, neon-looking orange wallpaper near the living room sink that smelled of old cleaning solutions and dusty broomsticks. Even from the top of the stairs, the living room carpet overwhelmed him, with its bright canary yellow colour and multi-coloured stains.

Percy walked downstairs, smoothing over his top. He passed by a mirror and made the mistake of looking at it. He hated it. His ashen, unhealthy skin with more discolourations than a corpse. His arms that looked like they were one step away from an untreatable contracture. His battered, bruised, scarred body that could make Bill look like he was on the Witch Weekly cover. His unconfident stance, his knock knees and the slight inversion of one hip over the other. Percy looked like a poorly made wooden puppet that had been thrown around like a Puffskein. A wooden puppet that was beyond a Reparo that was for sure; glued together by Skele-Gro and Pepper-Up Potions by the gallon-load. He could still taste the bitter medicine going down.

"Good morning—or rather, afternoon," Percy said as he passed by them. "Almost evening really."

There it was again, the unsaid silence that came whenever he walked into the room. The smile pretty much disappeared straight off Ron's face. Ginny looked down at her hands as if she'd committed manslaughter and wasn't sure if she'd washed all the evidence away. Even the methodical over-in-and-out of her mum's knitting was starting to lose its vigour. His father, who was reading The Daily Prophet, had stopped flipping the pages.

"Hey, Perce," answered George, who had his face buried in the new issue of Quidditch Times.

Already, Percy was struggling. He didn't know what to do. If this were any normal day back at the flat, he'd be drinking pot after pot of coffee and listening to the Wizarding Wireless until he couldn't bear another word. When that happened, he'd go for a walk. He'd come back home, eat something—or buy a takeaway whilst he was out walking, and then sit down, flipping stations. Usually, he was so tired by then, that they were just sounds, muted, filling the flat. By the time that it was eight o'clock, if Penelope were on call, he'd have had his Dreamless Sleep and go to bed until she came back. He hadn't been allowed to have any mates, to talk to anyone without her permission, to do much of anything. She even knew what time he'd go out for his walk and what time he'd come back. She only gave him the three sickles he needed to buy his takeaway potato or curry. He couldn't even get any extra beans or cheese on his jacket potato because he couldn't pay for it.

Percy wandered over towards the kitchen to use his mum's radio. It was just like he remembered it to be, battered and falling apart, used to belting out Celestina Warbeck's finest. The buttons were sticky from when a young Ron kept jabbing them with his claggy marmalade fingers. At the thought of marmalade, Percy felt slightly aglow. Penelope was always on a diet, so she never kept much bread into the flat. So, whenever he wanted marmalade, he ate it from the jar, viscous, sweet and tart. She didn't mind him buying marmalade with the few knuts he'd found under the sofa because it was 'disgusting'. Well, the kind he usually bought truly was appalling he'd give her that. It was so unnatural that he could taste the jelling charms they'd used on it. But what did you expect for three lone, moss-covered knuts?

He rooted through the bread box and came up with doughy treasures. Within a couple of minutes, he'd happily smeared marmalade all over three massive crumpets and sat in front of the radio. He ate in silence, listening to the whirs and hums of the Witching Hour. By the second crumpet, he found himself relax at his usual regular-day-off-work routine. Once he was done and he'd made himself a cup of coffee just the way he liked it, his world had gone back to what it normally was. It didn't even matter that he wasn't in his flat. It didn't matter that colour of the kitchen wallpaper made him feel strange, or that he was facing the doilies that his mum had out for special occasions. By then, he'd relaxed into the smell of the beef and potato stew, shimmering away. Percy's eyes flickered towards the plates in the sink and felt his spirits brighten even more. There was an avalanche of them, dirty and clogging the sink.

He turned up the radio and started on the washing up. It took him half an hour, but by the time he was done, the plates were gleaming with a fantastical glow.

After that, he just found more things that he had to do: wipe the counters, organise the cutlery, arrange the mugs, maybe consider changing those grotesque curtains. By the time that his mum had come in, Percy was on the floor, cleaning the cupboards, no wand, like his mum used to make his younger siblings do as a punishment.

"What are you doing?" Molly pulled him up to his feet. "Merlin, Percy, you've just gotten out of the hospital! I'm not even convinced you should be out of bed—much less on your knees, scrubbing away at that Merlin forsaken cupboard! What would your healers say if they could look at what you're doing? You just were breathing on a machine a couple of hours back!" she let out a frightened shrill. "What have you done to my plates?" she gestured towards them like he'd smashed them all. "Are those even my plates…? What's-What's happened to them? Where's that-that blue bit on that one? And where's the grey one? That grey one that was just there?"

"I don't think the blue bit was part of the design," Percy replied softly. "And I don't think that plate was originally grey."

"What's going on here?" Arthur walked in, because he'd obviously heard Molly's irritated voice.

"He's washed the grey off my plates," Molly muttered in annoyance. Percy's ears went red. "I thought you were listening to the radio! W-why are you doing the washing up? You should be resting!" Percy rubbed his neck. "It might be a normal occurrence for you to be just out of the hospital and then be forced to do that cow's washing up, but not here. Here, all you're going to do for the next couple of weeks is just lie down and-and—that's it! Nothing else!" she pushed Percy out of the kitchen. "Now, go sit down and I'll make you a nice cup of tea and cut you a slice of cake!"

Percy was used to be the one doing that. His mum was right about that. Penelope rarely did much of anything around the flat, except for the occasional curry. He was the one that did the washing-up and the endless loads of laundry after work. He was the one whose job title didn't matter. He was the one that pressed Penelope's work robes and organised her closet space. He was the one that sent gifts to her family members (and she only gave him thirty or forty sickles to go do the shopping for eight ten-year-old girls with dreamy eyes and expensive taste). When Peter was alive, he was the one that changed his nappy, fed him his bottle and spent the day with him. And even with all of that, Percy felt so idle most of the day.

"But…I'd…I rather like doing all those things," Percy said quietly, as he helped shuffled uncomfortably towards the couch.

He felt so uncomfortable just sitting there, doing nothing at all. He could feel everyone sneak glances at him.

In fifteen minutes, his mum had come back with a cup of tea and a massive slice of cake that he had no interest in having. Flashes of the wedding cake debacle kept running through his head. He found himself leaning back against his couch, bringing the heaving couch-blanket to his chest. He could barely think with all the commotion in the room. He tried listening to his family talk but couldn't grasp what they were talking about. And even with the kerfuffle, he could feel their eyes on him, as if they were waiting for him to stab himself with the fork.

Percy sipped his tea, but it barely tasted of anything, so he gave up after the first few sips. He kept glancing back at the kitchen, where he could hear his mum clacking pans together nosily.

"I'm going for a walk," he could barely sit still for a couple of minutes. This was going to be difficult.

George sprung to his feet as if he were invited. "I was going to go on one too," yeah, right. He looked plenty happy plonked on his arse on the carpet, as he had been for the last few hours Percy would've wagered. George tapped on Ron's shoulder. "Ron, too." Ron looked like he wanted a bigger pillow to sit on. "Been wanting a bit of fresh air. We've just been talking about it—you know, when you were busy preparing our house for Witch Weekly's Clean the Kitschy Kitchen segment." How did George know about that segment? Percy knew Penelope used to—

Before he could even finish his thought, he was being pushed out of the Burrow with his brothers. Percy reluctantly stepped outside, feeling consumed. The air wasn't as fresh as George had hoped for. It was humid and treacherous.

After walking outside for a couple of minutes, Percy bowed his head down and clenched his bottom lip in between his teeth.

"You wanted to go alone, didn't you?" George suddenly asked him. Percy nodded his head, and then pulled out a comic book from his rucksack. It was kind of embarrassing that he'd come to this. It was the only thing he could read these days because it was mostly pictures. "Oh," he paused. "You read that?" he sounded excited.

"I don't know the full story," Percy admitted. He'd only started reading in the middle of a massive plotline, and he didn't pay attention to all the details, but he supposed that it was nice just to read something.

"Oh! I can help with that!" George said excitedly. "Really, Perce? Well, no wonder you look a bit lost. I mean you don't know the backstory, which is why you need to read volume I through III just to know the basics. But I'll catch you up on it!" he said excitedly, and then started blathering about wizarding magic that never existed in flowery details, along with an enthusiastic side-debate about evil and good splattered somewhere in the middle. Percy didn't feel like reading the comic book anymore. As George kept going on about it, Percy met with Ron's eyes, who was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the journey.

"He doesn't want to know all that rubbish," Ron explained to George, who just scoffed.

"Sure, he does," George glanced over at Percy with a keen smile. That smile faded away the second that he read Percy's face. It didn't help that Percy was rolling that comic book around like it was a wrapper he wanted to toss.

"Yes, well, I…I… don't think it's for me," Percy finally said after some time. He couldn't keep up with any of that. He tossed the rolled up, battered-looking comic book back into his rucksack, his speckled cheeks colouring in. How embarrassing. "But thank you for trying to explain it to me."

"Good going," Ron shot a glare over at George. "You probably ruined it for him."

"Did not," George didn't look like he wanted to believe that. He looked at Percy. "Wait, did I…? Seriously?"

"I…I was never that invested in the story to begin with," Percy admitted, keeping his head hung low. He was staring at his shoes, wondering why he didn't remember wearing them, or even getting his rucksack out with him. The whole day seemed muddled. He didn't know whether to think about how the carpet looked like back at the Burrow or focus on the unevenness of the ground. "Um, how's the shop?"

George looked a little surprised at the question. "It's great," he said, smiling over at him. "Do you wanna come see it? We can talk our walk in Diagon Alley, grab a couple of pints afterwards…how's that?"

Percy considered this. "Is it loud?" he asked. "The shop?"

George shook his head. "Promise I won't surprise you with anymore fireworks either," he playfully pushed Percy's shoulder. He looked like he regretted it the second that he did it, but it helped Percy calm down.

Percy nodded his head. "Alright." He placed his hands into his pocket. "But um… I don't drink anymore. I had a problem," he admitted. He could still remember how the bottle felt like in his hand, the soothing sound of the pour, the smell of the sharp liquor, the familiarity of a pub that didn't know him, all rushing back to him. "But I wouldn't mind sitting in the pub." He just didn't think he should drink when he felt the way that he did.

George didn't look like he wanted to sit in a pub with him if he wasn't going to be drinking.

"The shop it is then," George decided.

Percy felt unsettled the minute that he walked into George's shop. It was brighter than sunlight, colours splashing everywhere, in every shelf, every box, every sign. Just like the Burrow, he could barely see clearly from the pure volume of things there were to see. His eyes kept focusing in on the shadows by the counter, the corners of George's mouth, that cosy feel of many-morning-routines-with-twins happening before him. This was someone's home, just like his flat had been a home. And it was strange to realise how you missed out on those memories. How there were things there that happened that you'd never be a part of, as hard as you wanted to try. That you've missed out on something magical.

When Percy closed his eyes, he could suddenly feel the scarf he wore around his neck for the first day of Hogwarts, smell the air of a dewy day, and hear the sounds of birds chirping in the distance.

"Oh, stop gushing," said George when Percy didn't say a single thing since he'd been in.

"It's very busy, isn't it?" Percy's voice was so low you'd need an Extendable Ear just to hear it.

Ron snorted. "Looks like a portrait artist went rouge."

George walked over to the counter, and then Accio-ed a kettle, set it to boiling with a flick of his wand and levitated three cups from the topmost shelf, hidden away from the public view. He made them tea, which smelled heavenly and then brought out the biscuits he'd kept stashed under the counter. How often would he be doing this with Fred? Just having a nice little hideaway for them after a day filled with young children happily snapping up multicoloured joke products, pushing each other around. Even now, in the silence, he could hear all the laughter, all the screams and tears that they must've heard. He could hear glass products shattering, and toxic-looking chemicals spilling everywhere. He could see shiny orange-and-purple banners and could practically imagine Fred and George stood there proudly at the counter at their shop opening. This was the shop, he could imagine both Fred and George greeting him, if he'd bothered to swallow his pride, if he'd never left. And nobody's died in here or anything yet, so you can just leave that scowl at home, Perce.

At home. Percy closed his eyes. He couldn't claim the Burrow as his home anymore. Every time he'd been there, he could remember all the grim things that had happened. He couldn't even smell a roast without wanting to bolt in another direction. The thought of summer holidays without him left him reeling.

As he sipped the tea with his quiet brothers, he tried to stop thinking so much.

His eyes were on George's face, on Ron's face. Merlin, when they did become so old? When did George's hair change from that boyish cut to this tamed, controlled mane? Had he always had such long lashes? When did Ron's jaw become so angular? When had he lost the baby fat around his cheeks? Both very handsome men in their own respects, making that unsightly red hair and freckles look dashing even from afar.

Percy reached out to touch George's hair, who flinched initially but then relaxed into Percy's touch. Percy remembered the days of old when he used to stroke their hair as they slept. It didn't feel the same. Percy frowned, moving his hand away, feeling like he'd intruded on their personal space.

He placed his hand at the nape of his neck. Percy shuddered.

In his flat, the silence was something pleasant. It felt like everything in the world had settled. He could notice the smallest things; his vision didn't feel so blurred. The silence calmed that gnawing feeling in his stomach, the go-go-go feeling, that made him feel like he'd missed something. Even when he put the radio on, there was a serenity in the air that he couldn't describe. The feeling that he could do things at his own pace and the world would not combust and it would not all be his fault. The silence that was so deafening, he could not hear the shrieks of a dying infant, the sounds of a bloodied war, the threats of a young woman he may have loved. At least he did some time back. A silence that came after a glass table had shattered, finite and unrelenting, and beautiful. But in the Burrow, the silence was a prelude for distance and unfamiliarity.

And distant they were. Stood by a counter of a place with so much memory, and not a word was being said.

"Do you get a lot of customers?" Percy asked suddenly, wishing that he weren't the one that had to start the conversation.

"Yeah," Ron answered. "I've been helping out. You can't imagine the buzz around here most days."

Percy nodded his head. He wished he could think of more questions, but he felt like he was sitting an exam, one where he was sure about the answer, it was at the tip of his tongue, but no matter how hard he tried to remember, he just couldn't. "That sounds nice," he supposed. "Do you…do you want any help?"

George looked like he was considering this. "That…that would be nice." He put down the teacup and then turned to gesture towards the displays. "They're all marked, priced and all you've got to do is make sure that the first and second years that come in here don't burn the place down." He smiled weakly.

Percy nodded his head. "Alright." He paused. "I can come in tomorrow?" he asked.

Ron scoffed. "Out of intensive care and straight to work," he muttered.

Percy's ears went red. "Yes, well, um…" he didn't know what else to do. Yes, he didn't go to work every day when he was at the Ministry, but that was purely because his work days conflicted with his A&E trips.

"Merlin, mum would kill me," George muttered under his breath, but he nodded his head. "It's alright. We'll just tell her you're…you know, walking around Diagon Alley with Ron or something. Eating lots of ice-cream." Percy smiled weakly. "And obviously, you'll only be doing a couple of hours at a time. Probably with one of us. It's not that we-we don't trust you…but it'll be nice not to be alone, wouldn't it?"

Percy wouldn't know. "I suppose," was all he said. He was starting to get tired by then. His bones felt like rubber and he wasn't sure where he was half the time. "I do feel a little…" he rubbed his neck. "I would like a kip now actually."

They went back home, and Percy promptly fell asleep on the couch even though their mum insisted on having him up in his own room. The idea of being all alone in that room made him want to make a beeline for the door. It felt so small, secluded, unloved. It was someone else's room, someone that he used to be before. He'd rather have the couch, thank you, very much, and no, you didn't have to go and bring out the massive double-quilted, wool blankets from the attic. He was sure that the ghoul was using those. But when his mum had pulled it over him, the stale scent of a long, forgotten blanket had soothed him to sleep.

When he woke up, he walked over to the kitchen at around two in the morning just to see if it had been scrubbed down until it was sterile. He found a little pool of sticky raspberry syrup in the carpet and went to hunt for the bucket and mop.

As he was cleaning, his vision just flickering back to the bloodied mess on the floor, and the pungent, metallic smell of blood filling his nostrils. He remembered the way that Penelope looked at him when he'd been back, the things that she'd said, the feeling of her elegant fingers against his neck…

He'd managed to get the syrup out of the carpet. But he clutched the sponge so tightly that that red-tinged water started to pour out of it. Hot tears started to run down his cheeks, along with a few hushed sobs, inaudible, but enough to cause him to tremble. He put the sponge down and cried into his washing-up-soap-covered hands.

What was he going to do? Percy couldn't think past his relationship with her anymore. He couldn't muster up the enthusiasm for a job hunt. He had lost the spark that made him a perfect employee.

He'd tried to think of things to do, of ways to move on, but his mind had just turned up a blank. It couldn't envision a life without Penelope telling him what to do. He'd stop wanting so long ago that the thought of going into the great, big world all by himself petrified him.

He had been so engrossed in his thoughts, in his own self-pity, that he'd flinched when his father opened the door. Percy sat up at attention almost. He rubbed his eyes aggressively, trying to hide his fact that he'd been crying. Arthur looked down at him, gripping tightly onto the door frame. "Percy? What are you doing up at this time?" he asked calmly. "I can hear you scrubbing from upstairs." Thin walls, Percy had forgotten.

Percy turned his head away so that his father wouldn't have to see him pathetically crying slouched over a bucket of water. "Well, there was a stain on the carpet and well…"

"Ah," Arthur replied, as if that were a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he'd been doing it smack in the middle of the night. "Yes, well, that might have been my fault. I've been eating ice-cream straight out of the carton, but you won't tell your mum, would you?"

Percy offered a weak smile in the dim light kitchen.

Arthur crouched down beside him, though there was really no need considering that the stain was gone now. The bucket was still clean, but his mind was reeling, thinking about the never-ending splotch back at his apartment that he'd spent the whole day trying to wipe off. "If you were back at the flat, what would you be doing right now?" he'd asked, and it was such a sincere, such a harmless question.

Percy thought back to it, but he could barely remember. He could remember the nights where he'd wake up in the middle of the night when Penelope was on call. "I'm not really sure."

"There's a nice table outside," Arthur mentioned. "How about we have a little coffee and a sneaky nibble of cake outside? We can talk a little." That was the problem, the talking. Percy was horrible company.

But in a couple of minutes, there they were, sitting outside in a balmy night. The sky was a faded grey hue, unsure of itself almost. Percy could just lean back and stare at it for ages. There was about a million different shades of grey in a limitless sky, stretching beyond his eyes could see. He could smell the dampness from the rain. He hadn't even known that it had rained that day until then. Percy was so immersed that that he hadn't noticed levitating cake plates and freshly poured cups of coffee until he heard Arthur sipping.

"You quite like to look at things, don't you?" Arthur suddenly asked.

"What gave that away?" he'd probably snapped his neck trying to stare at the sky for the past ten-fifteen-something minutes. He supposed that was why he couldn't remember what he did on those days. He'd open the window and stare outside for ages, watching the scant amount of people walking on the street. He'd memorised the shape of the shops, the signs, and even the people that would be walking down London street at three in the morning without a care in the world. He noticed that runner that was always in grey jogging shorts, the red poppies that bloke always gave his mum when he visited her, and what fruit had a special two-for-one deal down at the vendors. "Oh, well, I suppose that…"

"That's what you do with your time," Arthur explained at the same time. "What are you looking at? All I can see is a rather sorry-looking sky and even sorrier weather so I can't—"

"It's nice, isn't it?" Percy's eyes drifted back towards the sky. He hadn't even noticed that he'd calmed down enough that his voice had become audible. "I'd never seen a grey like that. Can you think of anything with that particular shade?" he'd rattled it off so quickly he'd barely heard himself say it.

He couldn't even describe it. Grey sounded dull, but this colour was light and dazzling even without stars.

Arthur went quiet and he was looking up too. "Well, I suppose," he looked a little confused now. "Not that shade, no…"

"Peter's gravestone is almost white," Percy mentioned, and there was no sadness in his voice. He was just discussing it as it was, a colour. "But that was how he was like," he blew on his cup, the steam was fogging up his glasses almost. "You'd never have guessed he'd been mine. The happiest thing in the world. And he loved wearing yellow all the time, almost exclusively." He'd been changing him, feeding him, holding him for eleven months of his life for the most part. "Even when he got the sniffles, he was pretty active. Never had a dull moment in his life." Percy turned to look back at the sky. "That kind of grey. A very…unusual, uplifting kind of grey." Even with that horrible meningitis, when he'd been irritable and crying and in pain, he'd died with a smile on his face. Even in his death, he seemed alive almost.

It was then that Percy really looked down enough to notice that he'd cut in a massive looking slice of chocolate cake along with his coffee. There was a pot in between them. They could stay here for a couple of hours, Percy reckoned.

Arthur had his hand propped up on the table. It was a nice table, he'd realised, he'd really liked it. Nothing like glass tables or light cherry wood round ones that you had to sink yourself into. "Can you believe that I still can't believe that Fred's gone?" Arthur suddenly mentioned. "I keep thinking he's on holiday, that he's had to go somewhere else, or that this is a massive joke to him, and he'd back any time now."

"I can," Percy answered. He never saw Fred when he looked at George anymore. It was hard to believe that there had been another one of him. Because he could see their differences so clearly, so plainly now. "Believe it that is. I can believe it."

His father leaned back into the chair. "I do feel bad, you know," he didn't expect this kind of heart-to-heart. "Getting on without him. You wouldn't know it from looking at me, but…well, it is your child. You don't ever want to be in a world where you've managed to cope with the loss of a child. It makes you feel cold. But what's the alternative? When you've got other children too, going through the same loss? Especially when it came to George. He was…" he tried to find a word, but he didn't look like he could.

Percy nodded his head. "I understand." The lapsed into a silence again, as Percy spooned the edge of his cake, heavily frosted and smelling something like a vestige of a home.

"Listen," Arthur cleared his throat. "Your mother and I were talking…do you…do you want to see someone? We can always take you down to-to talk to someone if…"

Percy would be happy if he'd never talked to anyone about anything ever again.

"You don't have to," Arthur explained a little abruptly. "I just thought that—well, if you want to talk to someone, then we just want to offer you that. That I'd be happy to take you every day if I can. Over my lunch break, skip a few hours, work overtime…whatever you need." He said that part a little hastily.

"I'm really not a very good at talk—" Percy was cut off by Arthur.

"Are you going to be like this forever?" Arthur looked like he was mortified at the thought. "Aren't you going to…" it sounded like he couldn't bear the thought of him being so…different. Damaged, Percy surmised more than anything. He was nothing like he really was anymore. No more sternness, no more upright postures, no more thin-lipped expressions, no more. Percy couldn't imagine telling off anybody for anything. Ron could be involved in an illegal heist tomorrow and he'd just pretend he hadn't heard a word.

"It's just this isn't like you," Arthur explained. "Nothing like you."

But it had been for ages now. He was smearing chocolate sauce all over his plate, shoulders hanging low in defeat. After Peter, after Fred, it was like he'd regressed physically and mentally. He'd always walked like he could barely carry himself, as if it were almost too much effort to stand up straight. He knew how he must look like. "Um… I'm not sure."

"Can…can you tell me about the first time that it happened?" another bomb after another one. Percy was wishing he could just run off and never come back if that were all he was going to talk about. "That she hurt you?" Arthur's voice had dropped down a few octaves. "You were…you were fifteen, weren't you? Living with us? Going off to school and coming back every summer and…not telling us?"

Percy placed a hand on his cheek. "I can't remember what we were fighting about," he honestly answered. "She slapped me. In the middle of the Great Hall." He remembered the first time, the reeling shock. What a fool he'd been then, surprised that a woman could lay a hand on him. But what shocked him more was that the world went on, as if that didn't just happen. Nobody stood up in shock, but there were a few curious eyes wandering over his way, and a few mutters in between them. He still wondered what they said about him.

"No teachers got involved?" Arthur didn't understand that. Percy shook his head. "Nobody?"

Percy wasn't really the most popular person. "It didn't happen for ages after." He could remember her countless apologises the next few days, him refusing to listen to them until he just caved in. Because she always knew what was bothering him, always knew what he was thinking about. And nobody else did. He didn't have a crutch like he had her. "Nobody understood me the same way."

His eyes flickered back to Arthur's face. "Um…I understand that you love me," even he wasn't sure of that. "But you don't really understand what I'm on about. Even less now, I suppose," with that question about when he'd be back to normal. Percy wasn't even sure how he was supposed to respond to that. Next week! Count on it!

"I was embarrassed," Percy admitted. What had he been supposed to do? He only saw the rest of his family in their summer holidays. Was he supposed to have said something then? When they were talking about going off to Quidditch matches and Egypt with Bill and even if they weren't, couldn't they take a holiday up to Cornwall? Get out of Devon for a bit, see the sunshine someplace else. What was he supposed to say then? Well, I'd love a holiday. Oh, and my girlfriend smacked me across the face a couple of months back, but we're alright now! "I didn't want to be teased by anyone. I didn't want anyone to laugh at me." He could still remember how sorry he'd felt for himself the first time. How steadfastly he'd decided that he wanted nothing to do with her. But she came in right after he'd failed his first test, stroked his arm, told her that he wasn't a failure, that he was still doing great. Exactly the words he wanted to hear, and he drank them faster than an alcoholic with a pint of the world's best firewhiskey.

Arthur looked stunned. Percy put another sugar cube into another cup of something-hot-that-he-barely-tasted and let it dissolve. Round two of mum's homemade cakes and he'd already lost.

"You can't convince me that you'd have known what was going to happen then." She'd slapped him. That was all she'd done. A few times. "Mum would've been cross." Percy could imagine her huffing her cheeks out. Who did she think she was? Laying a hand on my son? He could practically imagine Arthur stood beside her, awkwardly, not sure of what to do and the twins laughing about how a girl had hit him. It would've died down in a couple of weeks, and Percy would never mention Penelope's name to their mum again because she wouldn't have forgotten. Things would've still gone on the way they did.

"And I would've done nothing," Arthur sounded affronted. "You really believe that I'd be alright with my son being slapped around by some fifth year Ravenclaw that thinks she knows better."

Percy nodded his head. "It would've died down eventually." But if he'd said something then, he couldn't imagine his mum pushing into marrying her. She'd be trying to push them apart every time they'd been together. He didn't think Penelope would've been able to coerce him in his own house if that happened. "I'd have still seen her."

"Because she understands you?" Arthur echoed.

Talking about her just resonated how badly he missed her. He hadn't seen that long blonde hair in so long that his heart ached every time he remembered how her curls looked like, what kind of expression she made and how her hands felt like on him. Even that perfume of hers was starting to waver from his mind.

"She understood that I never felt like I belonged here," Percy explained, not daring to look up. "She understood it when I felt like a test was going to end my life, or that something was a be-all-or-end-all for me." Arthur had shrugged many of Percy's so-called failures, because he just didn't seem them that way. "Comforted me when I felt sorry for myself and she knew it without having me say a word, instead of pointing at me and laughing at me and ignoring me. Which…you might not have done but it's what it felt like at times." Percy placed his hand on his lap. When he felt a strand of red hair fall in front of his eyes, his heart started hammering in his chest. His hair was getting too long for his comfort.

"It was very rare in the beginning, but after I've left, it's gotten heated," Percy could remember he didn't care then if his girlfriend smacked him across the face. He remembered being sixteen and confused about sex, not really enjoying sex with her but not really denying it when she'd asked. "Then I suppose I changed."

All the fighting was wearing him down. The fight with his parents, the fight with Penelope, the fights at the Ministry, the fights at the A&E about how he'd really smacked his head against the cover, the fight with himself…

"Couldn't argue with anyone anymore," Percy admitted. "It was just so tedious, so exhausting, so…it wasn't worth what happened afterwards. Her throwing me out onto the streets or having to sleep outside in the snow or else she wouldn't let me in or…" the sex, he'd thought with a shudder. "It was just easier to keep quiet." How could his father just expect him to snap out of that mentality?

"But you're safe here," Arthur whispered. "You don't have to worry about any of that. You can say what you like. Nobody's going to throw you out just because—"

"I did say what I like," Percy couldn't bear the idea of continuing the conversation, but it had to come out. "You didn't like it, and it's led to me living with Penelope for years. So, I don't understand why you're so insistent on getting 'me' back," he gestured towards with air quotes. "If you'd wanted to, you'd have made the effort before." His voice had been calm throughout. If Arthur raised his voice, he still wouldn't. He just let his shoulder sag. "You can't just have me living back under your roof and expect the past few years of my life to evaporate just because you think that I should be getting over someone I've shared half my life with." Percy looked sideways. "And I know what you think of her, but I don't share your sentiment. And I've been very polite about it." He didn't like hearing his family slagging her off. It hurt his feelings.

Arthur twisted his mouth and leaned backwards. "Oh, Percival, I've been very polite about her," he sounded honest too, and kept his voice just as level, just as calm. "You have no idea what I've really wanted to say."

Percy looked surprised but said nothing. He slowly nodded his head. "Okay," he whispered.

"I'm sorry that you felt like you had to get your justification from her," he truly did sound sorry. "There isn't a single day where I wish I can take back that fight. There isn't a single day where I wish that things were different." There was a flash of emotion forming into Arthur's eyes. What was that? Regret? Pain? Guilt? Happiness? "I might not understand you as much as I want to, but there is no being on this earth that could love you as much as your family does." And he'd said it with such conviction that Percy felt so stupid at all for buying into a relationship with anyone else, when he could've been at home.

Percy nodded his head. "Thank you," he didn't know what for, but it just…his words were so soothing. He looked back at the sky and it had gone lighter, a beautiful grey-grey-in-between-something-white. A sight for his eyes to feast upon as he listened to the hums of crickets and gnomes and things that just lived in the night. He could even hear their Errol hooting, softly, almost delicate, and a gust of wind ruffled his hair.

After they rested into a comfortable silence, Percy decided to say, "I'm going to get my hair cut tomorrow."

Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste. "It's just started growing out rather nicely."

Percy's cheeks coloured in. "Um…" he reached up to feel the hairs on top of his head. It had started growing out, but he'd rather have cut it into stubs. "I'd rather it be a little shorter. Less maintenance." There was another story there that he wasn't ready to depart with just yet.

"If you say so," answered Arthur in disbelief. Then they sat there quietly, until it was time for the sun to rise.