Repetition, Repeat
Bill
Being the oldest boy, Bill had to set a precedent, something for the others to follow. He excelled in academics, was the most popular boy in his year, would eventually become Head Boy, and then be one of the best paid curse breakers at Gringotts.
But that's many years off, and no concern at the moment, because at the moment Bill is 14, lying flat on his stomach with his father's rough forearm pushed against his shoulder blades. His throat is raw from screaming, and there's a silencing charm on the room anyways. He's sweating against the pillow and he feels like he's being ripped open and completely numb at the same time. And something else, something that making him feel almost good.
Being the oldest boy, Bill has no one to explain this to him. He has no understanding eyes to look into. He only has tears, and the feeling like he's a wrong, that's he's done something to make father mad enough to make those sounds at night, to leave the purple bruises on his arms.
During the daytime, Charlie still plays chess with Dad and still smiles under his gaze. Bill sits quiet, tries to be good. But nothing he does stops what's happening.
Being the oldest boy, Bill learns quickly.
Charlie
Charlie's been noticing Bill's eyes lately. As summer holidays approached, when all the other boys were jovial and celebratory, Bill was stoic, and watching Charlie constantly.
Back at the Burrow it's the same way. While he's flying above the house in lazy circles, practicing for the next Quidditch season, Bill is on the stoop beneath, eyes always turned upwards at his younger brother.
At night Charlie learns why, when the door to his new room, shared with Bill, creaks open. His father casts an unintelligible spell on Bill, who's eyes are now glossy and staring straight over to Charlie's bed: he'd been keeping watch at night most of all.
And the bedsprings creak and groan. And father lays down next to son and shushes him, tells him pretty stories and strokes him gently, ever so gently. And when he starts to protest and whimper, father plants a reassuring hand over the little boy's mouth before continuing.
In the morning, after the breakfast plates have been cleared away, Bill is sitting quietly on the front stoop. Charlie walks outside, his Cleansweep slung over his right shoulder, but instead of kicking off for a flight, he sits next to Bill. In silence. Arthur bustles by on his way to work, patting each boy on the top of the head. Bill reaches over a hand to Charlie, after father is gone, and they sit connected by palms and pain for a few hours.
Percy
He comes home for the summer from another year at Hogwarts and he can't wait for his father to take him on a visit to the office. Visits to the Ministry define the whole of Percy's existence.
Percy remembers being seven and sitting in Arthur's big leather chair, his feet barely hanging off the edge of the seat, twisting back and forth as he stacked scrolls in neat little pyramids and weighed the ruby paperweight in his palm. The one that has "#1 Dad" etched into its glossy surface, a gift for Father's Day a few years back. Percy liked to press his little hands over it and make designs by smearing the oil from his fingertips. He would always wipe the stone clean on his shirt afterwards, and place it back on the edge of the desk, insignia facing the door.
Percy is perfection. He's good. He's quiet. He's grown up faster than one should have to; and he enjoys it. Percy wants to be loved, and he wants to be respected, but most of all he wants to be his father.
On the second day of holidays Bill and Charlie come for a surprise visit. When Arthur comes through the door he looks shocked, but Percy bombards him with questions anyways, voice a mile a minute. He asks about the workday and the regulations his department has passed and how he thinks Fudge is handling the latest media blitz on flying carpets. The evening stretches on, and Percy finally stops talking because he is waking up early tomorrow to spend the day at work with his father. Bill and Charlie have been sitting on the couch together in an unnoticed, stony silence.
It's hot that night, the kind of sweltering humidity that creeps over the land and forces every inch of fabric to stick. Heat like fingertips pressed flush on damp skin, heat you can taste like heavy silk on your tongue. Percy's on fire. Burning up from the inside out. He doesn't even know why he cries.
He comes down to breakfast sore, and all he remembers of that day are eyes. Eyes over the rims of coffee mugs, and eyes of the Ministry workers who tell him stories about when he was a little boy, his father's hand clasped on his shoulder. His own eyes reflected red in the glassy paperweight before he throws it across the room and makes a hole in the cheap wall.
Fred & George
Summer's halfway over, and the World Cup is fast approaching. You'd think Fred and George would be ecstatic, but mostly they're just tired.
They sleep in the same bed, with scarlet red sheet and a thin golden comforter that they kick to their ankles. There are two beds in the room, but the one closest to the door has always remained vacant, and they curl up together under the window, counting the stars until they drift off to sleep.
But this summer they aren't getting much sleep at all.
They're strong boys, muscles toned and defined by years of Quidditch, but father's stronger. He shows them how much night after night.
He likes George first, tells him he's his favorite while Fred is pinned under them both. Ignores Fred's screams completely.
Then, when George is half-passed out, he finds a way to keep Fred quiet.
When he leaves, passes through the moonlight briefly before vanishing down the hall, Fred vomits and George rubs his back slowly.
They hate Percy more than ever now, and they don't let him forget it.
The twins are lucky; they are practiced at lies and manipulations. They learn how to smile again, so easy it comes as second nature, and when they Floo to Harry's to pick him up, they can even ignore father's roaming hands in the dark, confined fireplace.
Ron
Ron knew this summer would be difficult, with Voldemort back and Cedric's death hanging over the Wizarding world. If he had known what else this summer meant, he would have almost wished Voldemort destroyed it all that night.
Almost.
Harry will arrive tomorrow, for his requisite summer visit. Ron wonders. Harry's like the seventh son.
He's foolish enough to ask, and as the words slip from his mouth and the bed springs sag from the added weight, he realizes his mistake. Too late. His cheek stings, pink and raw, as father teaches him not to speak out of turn.
Curled up in the sleeping bag at night in some sort of perfect stasis, Harry breathes. Pictures of the Cannons zoom overhead and Ron watches Harry's chest -- ribcage contracting and lungs expanding -- through half- veiled eyes. Then he's yanked back by fingers curled in his mop of red hair and all he can see is the oak-wood headboard.
Harry has no idea.
They leave for Hogwarts tomorrow. Trunks are packed to the brim with books and potions ingredients and extra work robes. Ron goes to his room to find father spelling the locks shut. The stand in silence before Arthur walks by him to the door and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. The train leaves in a few hours.
Bill
Being the oldest boy, Bill had to set a precedent, something for the others to follow. He excelled in academics, was the most popular boy in his year, would eventually become Head Boy, and then be one of the best paid curse breakers at Gringotts.
But that's many years off, and no concern at the moment, because at the moment Bill is 14, lying flat on his stomach with his father's rough forearm pushed against his shoulder blades. His throat is raw from screaming, and there's a silencing charm on the room anyways. He's sweating against the pillow and he feels like he's being ripped open and completely numb at the same time. And something else, something that making him feel almost good.
Being the oldest boy, Bill has no one to explain this to him. He has no understanding eyes to look into. He only has tears, and the feeling like he's a wrong, that's he's done something to make father mad enough to make those sounds at night, to leave the purple bruises on his arms.
During the daytime, Charlie still plays chess with Dad and still smiles under his gaze. Bill sits quiet, tries to be good. But nothing he does stops what's happening.
Being the oldest boy, Bill learns quickly.
Charlie
Charlie's been noticing Bill's eyes lately. As summer holidays approached, when all the other boys were jovial and celebratory, Bill was stoic, and watching Charlie constantly.
Back at the Burrow it's the same way. While he's flying above the house in lazy circles, practicing for the next Quidditch season, Bill is on the stoop beneath, eyes always turned upwards at his younger brother.
At night Charlie learns why, when the door to his new room, shared with Bill, creaks open. His father casts an unintelligible spell on Bill, who's eyes are now glossy and staring straight over to Charlie's bed: he'd been keeping watch at night most of all.
And the bedsprings creak and groan. And father lays down next to son and shushes him, tells him pretty stories and strokes him gently, ever so gently. And when he starts to protest and whimper, father plants a reassuring hand over the little boy's mouth before continuing.
In the morning, after the breakfast plates have been cleared away, Bill is sitting quietly on the front stoop. Charlie walks outside, his Cleansweep slung over his right shoulder, but instead of kicking off for a flight, he sits next to Bill. In silence. Arthur bustles by on his way to work, patting each boy on the top of the head. Bill reaches over a hand to Charlie, after father is gone, and they sit connected by palms and pain for a few hours.
Percy
He comes home for the summer from another year at Hogwarts and he can't wait for his father to take him on a visit to the office. Visits to the Ministry define the whole of Percy's existence.
Percy remembers being seven and sitting in Arthur's big leather chair, his feet barely hanging off the edge of the seat, twisting back and forth as he stacked scrolls in neat little pyramids and weighed the ruby paperweight in his palm. The one that has "#1 Dad" etched into its glossy surface, a gift for Father's Day a few years back. Percy liked to press his little hands over it and make designs by smearing the oil from his fingertips. He would always wipe the stone clean on his shirt afterwards, and place it back on the edge of the desk, insignia facing the door.
Percy is perfection. He's good. He's quiet. He's grown up faster than one should have to; and he enjoys it. Percy wants to be loved, and he wants to be respected, but most of all he wants to be his father.
On the second day of holidays Bill and Charlie come for a surprise visit. When Arthur comes through the door he looks shocked, but Percy bombards him with questions anyways, voice a mile a minute. He asks about the workday and the regulations his department has passed and how he thinks Fudge is handling the latest media blitz on flying carpets. The evening stretches on, and Percy finally stops talking because he is waking up early tomorrow to spend the day at work with his father. Bill and Charlie have been sitting on the couch together in an unnoticed, stony silence.
It's hot that night, the kind of sweltering humidity that creeps over the land and forces every inch of fabric to stick. Heat like fingertips pressed flush on damp skin, heat you can taste like heavy silk on your tongue. Percy's on fire. Burning up from the inside out. He doesn't even know why he cries.
He comes down to breakfast sore, and all he remembers of that day are eyes. Eyes over the rims of coffee mugs, and eyes of the Ministry workers who tell him stories about when he was a little boy, his father's hand clasped on his shoulder. His own eyes reflected red in the glassy paperweight before he throws it across the room and makes a hole in the cheap wall.
Fred & George
Summer's halfway over, and the World Cup is fast approaching. You'd think Fred and George would be ecstatic, but mostly they're just tired.
They sleep in the same bed, with scarlet red sheet and a thin golden comforter that they kick to their ankles. There are two beds in the room, but the one closest to the door has always remained vacant, and they curl up together under the window, counting the stars until they drift off to sleep.
But this summer they aren't getting much sleep at all.
They're strong boys, muscles toned and defined by years of Quidditch, but father's stronger. He shows them how much night after night.
He likes George first, tells him he's his favorite while Fred is pinned under them both. Ignores Fred's screams completely.
Then, when George is half-passed out, he finds a way to keep Fred quiet.
When he leaves, passes through the moonlight briefly before vanishing down the hall, Fred vomits and George rubs his back slowly.
They hate Percy more than ever now, and they don't let him forget it.
The twins are lucky; they are practiced at lies and manipulations. They learn how to smile again, so easy it comes as second nature, and when they Floo to Harry's to pick him up, they can even ignore father's roaming hands in the dark, confined fireplace.
Ron
Ron knew this summer would be difficult, with Voldemort back and Cedric's death hanging over the Wizarding world. If he had known what else this summer meant, he would have almost wished Voldemort destroyed it all that night.
Almost.
Harry will arrive tomorrow, for his requisite summer visit. Ron wonders. Harry's like the seventh son.
He's foolish enough to ask, and as the words slip from his mouth and the bed springs sag from the added weight, he realizes his mistake. Too late. His cheek stings, pink and raw, as father teaches him not to speak out of turn.
Curled up in the sleeping bag at night in some sort of perfect stasis, Harry breathes. Pictures of the Cannons zoom overhead and Ron watches Harry's chest -- ribcage contracting and lungs expanding -- through half- veiled eyes. Then he's yanked back by fingers curled in his mop of red hair and all he can see is the oak-wood headboard.
Harry has no idea.
They leave for Hogwarts tomorrow. Trunks are packed to the brim with books and potions ingredients and extra work robes. Ron goes to his room to find father spelling the locks shut. The stand in silence before Arthur walks by him to the door and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. The train leaves in a few hours.