Repetition, Muted
Percy's lucky he's a powerful wizard. More powerful that most people give him credit for. And the Wizarding world is quick to find explanations that suit their needs, so investigations are rare. Just ask Black.
They bury her in the children's section, even though Ginny's no longer a child. She never was, really. But Molly failed to notice, so her plot's between a stillbirth boy and a toddler who ran out in front of one of the city buses when her mother wasn't looking.
It was raining at first, but it's stopped by the time the casket is lowered. Now that air's just humid and the mist is rising off the tops of the gravestones with an almost audible hiss. People's black umbrellas remain open even after the downpour has ceased because the click of the safety latch would be rude. Percy looks down at his perfect black shoes and becomes inordinately occupied with cleaning off the mud and grass bits.
Molly is tearless, having spent all her sorrow over the past days. She stands stoic, and Bill puts his hand on her shoulder. The only person actually sobbing is Harry, and Arthur embraces him tightly. Ron turns away and clutches the top of a gravestone to catch his breath.
There's nothing like a funeral to bring a family together, or so one would like to think. Physically they are all there, but no matter how sad and depressed and pained they are, the twins are still doing inventory in the back of their minds, and a Charlie is worried about a new hatchling. Not all the time, of course. That would be heartless.
Percy stands a ways off, as always, and feels cold. He remembers her warm body, and feels even colder. He's so sick of the cold.
They sit around the same kitchen table later, one chair that should be empty filled by Harry, fingers curled around chipped mugs filled with amber tea. Molly serves tuna sandwiches, but there aren't enough plates to go around so the twins share. The empty cans are stacked in the wastebasket and threatening to topple over.
Percy studies each set of hands intently. Bill's are dull, the hands of somebody who doesn't take much notice of themselves. Charlie has calluses and scratches over every bit of exposed skin, forever marred by his choice of profession. The twins have exactly identical hands, right down to the dips and ridge of their knuckles. Ron has uneven cuticles, and this repulses Percy because he takes grade pride in his, keeping them neat and well manicured, in case the Minister might take notice during an office meeting. Percy, unlike the others, knows that people are watching him constantly. He is smart, to be aware of this fact of life. He knows the moment he forgets to trim his nails will be the exact day Fudge looks at his hands and decides he is no longer fit to be an employee.
His hands have been so dirty recently. He's scrubbed them red and raw, and today is the first time he's felt they are clean again. Even after tossing the handful of brown soil onto Ginny's casket.
Molly sets down the tea kettle and the only way to describe her hands is motherly. Arthur reaches for the handle, and Percy's immediate desire is to break every bone those freckled fingers. Instead he drops two more sugar cubes in his cup and swears he can see a streak of perfect black hair shifting through the window. He stands and goes outside to look.
He closes the door behind him, and then the screen bounces shut with metal finality. The wind starts up, and something else too. It envelopes him and settles, heavy and oppressive, into his soul. And yet Percy knows there is nothing, no one there. The name Tom keeps coming to mind, however.
Percy's lucky he's a powerful wizard. More powerful that most people give him credit for. And the Wizarding world is quick to find explanations that suit their needs, so investigations are rare. Just ask Black.
They bury her in the children's section, even though Ginny's no longer a child. She never was, really. But Molly failed to notice, so her plot's between a stillbirth boy and a toddler who ran out in front of one of the city buses when her mother wasn't looking.
It was raining at first, but it's stopped by the time the casket is lowered. Now that air's just humid and the mist is rising off the tops of the gravestones with an almost audible hiss. People's black umbrellas remain open even after the downpour has ceased because the click of the safety latch would be rude. Percy looks down at his perfect black shoes and becomes inordinately occupied with cleaning off the mud and grass bits.
Molly is tearless, having spent all her sorrow over the past days. She stands stoic, and Bill puts his hand on her shoulder. The only person actually sobbing is Harry, and Arthur embraces him tightly. Ron turns away and clutches the top of a gravestone to catch his breath.
There's nothing like a funeral to bring a family together, or so one would like to think. Physically they are all there, but no matter how sad and depressed and pained they are, the twins are still doing inventory in the back of their minds, and a Charlie is worried about a new hatchling. Not all the time, of course. That would be heartless.
Percy stands a ways off, as always, and feels cold. He remembers her warm body, and feels even colder. He's so sick of the cold.
They sit around the same kitchen table later, one chair that should be empty filled by Harry, fingers curled around chipped mugs filled with amber tea. Molly serves tuna sandwiches, but there aren't enough plates to go around so the twins share. The empty cans are stacked in the wastebasket and threatening to topple over.
Percy studies each set of hands intently. Bill's are dull, the hands of somebody who doesn't take much notice of themselves. Charlie has calluses and scratches over every bit of exposed skin, forever marred by his choice of profession. The twins have exactly identical hands, right down to the dips and ridge of their knuckles. Ron has uneven cuticles, and this repulses Percy because he takes grade pride in his, keeping them neat and well manicured, in case the Minister might take notice during an office meeting. Percy, unlike the others, knows that people are watching him constantly. He is smart, to be aware of this fact of life. He knows the moment he forgets to trim his nails will be the exact day Fudge looks at his hands and decides he is no longer fit to be an employee.
His hands have been so dirty recently. He's scrubbed them red and raw, and today is the first time he's felt they are clean again. Even after tossing the handful of brown soil onto Ginny's casket.
Molly sets down the tea kettle and the only way to describe her hands is motherly. Arthur reaches for the handle, and Percy's immediate desire is to break every bone those freckled fingers. Instead he drops two more sugar cubes in his cup and swears he can see a streak of perfect black hair shifting through the window. He stands and goes outside to look.
He closes the door behind him, and then the screen bounces shut with metal finality. The wind starts up, and something else too. It envelopes him and settles, heavy and oppressive, into his soul. And yet Percy knows there is nothing, no one there. The name Tom keeps coming to mind, however.