Authors Note: Sequel to 'Love from Mummy' why does Percy send the sweater back? Challenge from aviatrix.
Disclaimer: All belongs to Jo Rowling
*
He loved that sweater.
The grape cotton candy color, the big embossed 'P.' It was the epitome of home and comfort and love. Real love. Not the sort of love he had with Penny, which wasn't quite love. And not like his love of language and power.
It was love that was forever and never all in one.
He received it days before Christmas and opened it straight away. It was of course, an odd Weasley superstition--don't open the Weasley sweater until Christmas Day. But he did anyway; he was in a bucking tradition mood. But opening the brown butcher's paper seemed wrong and awkward. Still he carried on.
The young man unwrapped it in Penny's abandon flat, and saw the cloth pour out of the paper. It was sewn to perfection. He took it out and looked at it in front of the large oval shaped mirror.
He looked at himself and the sweater held up to his body and he looked perhaps like he had when he was fifteen. A bit more cynical, a bit wearier, but still Percy. Just Percy.
And it was nice.
Very nice. It reminded him of home and Hogwarts and his ever-present although ever-absent family. And it reminded him of everything good and nothing evil.
His siblings weren't around to force him to wear it or to say in annoyed voices: "You'll be cursed! It isn't Christmas Day yet, you prat!" And if they would've been there, they would've said that too.
But they weren't there. And he missed their voices and how obnoxious and incompetent they were. And he missed the chaos. And he wallowed in the silence, too. But one can only wallow so long.
And it was just Percy and the sweater. And it didn't even seem like his.
He picked up the note that said:
'Love from Mummy' in purple ink and messy cursive.
And he rolled his eyes and raked a pale hand through his hair.
One might think it would be tough to send your Mother back the sweater she made you. That it would be awful and degrading and dehumanizing, after all, she is your Mother. But Percy Weasley was at ease.
But it still hurt.
He wrapped it back up in the paper it came in. Wondering why on earth he even opened it to begin with.
And he knew why--of course he did. He had to see it, he had to know that they still loved him and wished him well. And the sweater it was like a peace offering.
But he didn't want bloody peace.
He sealed the butcher paper with clear thick tape, and put the letter in his pocket. He took out a separate piece of immaculate, unwrinkled parchment and his black inkwell and feathered quill.
And he wrote, in the most consistent writing he could:
'Tell them I think the sweater rather lovely.
From, Perce.'
And he sent it off.
And he would never admit it, even to the imagined bystanders that tears were leaking from his eyes.
But he didn't have to admit it.
The Weasleys' knew.
*
Disclaimer: All belongs to Jo Rowling
*
He loved that sweater.
The grape cotton candy color, the big embossed 'P.' It was the epitome of home and comfort and love. Real love. Not the sort of love he had with Penny, which wasn't quite love. And not like his love of language and power.
It was love that was forever and never all in one.
He received it days before Christmas and opened it straight away. It was of course, an odd Weasley superstition--don't open the Weasley sweater until Christmas Day. But he did anyway; he was in a bucking tradition mood. But opening the brown butcher's paper seemed wrong and awkward. Still he carried on.
The young man unwrapped it in Penny's abandon flat, and saw the cloth pour out of the paper. It was sewn to perfection. He took it out and looked at it in front of the large oval shaped mirror.
He looked at himself and the sweater held up to his body and he looked perhaps like he had when he was fifteen. A bit more cynical, a bit wearier, but still Percy. Just Percy.
And it was nice.
Very nice. It reminded him of home and Hogwarts and his ever-present although ever-absent family. And it reminded him of everything good and nothing evil.
His siblings weren't around to force him to wear it or to say in annoyed voices: "You'll be cursed! It isn't Christmas Day yet, you prat!" And if they would've been there, they would've said that too.
But they weren't there. And he missed their voices and how obnoxious and incompetent they were. And he missed the chaos. And he wallowed in the silence, too. But one can only wallow so long.
And it was just Percy and the sweater. And it didn't even seem like his.
He picked up the note that said:
'Love from Mummy' in purple ink and messy cursive.
And he rolled his eyes and raked a pale hand through his hair.
One might think it would be tough to send your Mother back the sweater she made you. That it would be awful and degrading and dehumanizing, after all, she is your Mother. But Percy Weasley was at ease.
But it still hurt.
He wrapped it back up in the paper it came in. Wondering why on earth he even opened it to begin with.
And he knew why--of course he did. He had to see it, he had to know that they still loved him and wished him well. And the sweater it was like a peace offering.
But he didn't want bloody peace.
He sealed the butcher paper with clear thick tape, and put the letter in his pocket. He took out a separate piece of immaculate, unwrinkled parchment and his black inkwell and feathered quill.
And he wrote, in the most consistent writing he could:
'Tell them I think the sweater rather lovely.
From, Perce.'
And he sent it off.
And he would never admit it, even to the imagined bystanders that tears were leaking from his eyes.
But he didn't have to admit it.
The Weasleys' knew.
*