Repetition
He comes to them in the night, because who in their right mind would seduce his son in the daytime. But perhaps seduce isn't the right word; one would say "teach," and yet another would say "rape."
Or maybe it's a little bit of both.
He comes just after each finishes their fourth year, just old enough to have the inkling of sexuality, but young enough that it lies untapped.
During the summer holidays, when they've stripped to next-to-nothing and sprawled themselves on thin cotton sheets, he enters their room. Tells them to be quiet, tells them that everything is fine. Rocks them to sleep a little too closely for comfort.
And it continues for the whole summer, and they don't get a decent night sleep the whole time, waiting in the predawn for his strong hands and even stronger arms. And the pain and the pleasure and tears and sweat and the belief that they'll never need love again. And then it stops. They each come back at Christmas expecting more, but never again. Never after that summer.
All the hugs and smiles and scrimmage Quidditch matches in the backyard are just for show. All because they think kindness is a good way to stop it from happening again, to the next child. The saccrine sugar sweetness and Gryffindor courage is the icing on a cake that's empty at the core. And it doesn't help anyways.
Percy remembers coming down to the kitchen after the first night. Bill and Charlie are in town, sipping coffee from oversized mugs. Percy looks into their eyes and knows. Knows this is why they turned up for an unexpected visit. Knows he's not the first. Or the second.
Two years later Percy watches the twins from the same table. The others didn't come back this year. He wonders how it would be possible with them. But it's true: Percy is not the last.
Or the second to last.
And now Ginny has finished her fourth year, and the brothers sit around the table in nervous anticipation. The unanswered question reflected in each set of eyes. Molly is cooking bacon, happy to have all her children under one roof for the day and oblivious the nonexistent dialogue that hang in the greasy air.
Then the youngest walks into the kitchen and six sets of eyes suddenly find their coffee to be the most interesting thing in the world. Molly asks her if she'd like some juice, and Arthur strolls in with a kiss to his wife and a nod to the children before Apparating to work. Percy knows he must follow soon.
She sits.
No one dares look. In fact, no one ever looks into Ginny's eyes again.
He comes to them in the night, because who in their right mind would seduce his son in the daytime. But perhaps seduce isn't the right word; one would say "teach," and yet another would say "rape."
Or maybe it's a little bit of both.
He comes just after each finishes their fourth year, just old enough to have the inkling of sexuality, but young enough that it lies untapped.
During the summer holidays, when they've stripped to next-to-nothing and sprawled themselves on thin cotton sheets, he enters their room. Tells them to be quiet, tells them that everything is fine. Rocks them to sleep a little too closely for comfort.
And it continues for the whole summer, and they don't get a decent night sleep the whole time, waiting in the predawn for his strong hands and even stronger arms. And the pain and the pleasure and tears and sweat and the belief that they'll never need love again. And then it stops. They each come back at Christmas expecting more, but never again. Never after that summer.
All the hugs and smiles and scrimmage Quidditch matches in the backyard are just for show. All because they think kindness is a good way to stop it from happening again, to the next child. The saccrine sugar sweetness and Gryffindor courage is the icing on a cake that's empty at the core. And it doesn't help anyways.
Percy remembers coming down to the kitchen after the first night. Bill and Charlie are in town, sipping coffee from oversized mugs. Percy looks into their eyes and knows. Knows this is why they turned up for an unexpected visit. Knows he's not the first. Or the second.
Two years later Percy watches the twins from the same table. The others didn't come back this year. He wonders how it would be possible with them. But it's true: Percy is not the last.
Or the second to last.
And now Ginny has finished her fourth year, and the brothers sit around the table in nervous anticipation. The unanswered question reflected in each set of eyes. Molly is cooking bacon, happy to have all her children under one roof for the day and oblivious the nonexistent dialogue that hang in the greasy air.
Then the youngest walks into the kitchen and six sets of eyes suddenly find their coffee to be the most interesting thing in the world. Molly asks her if she'd like some juice, and Arthur strolls in with a kiss to his wife and a nod to the children before Apparating to work. Percy knows he must follow soon.
She sits.
No one dares look. In fact, no one ever looks into Ginny's eyes again.