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CHAPTER TWELVE

LAYER UPON LAYER

He sang quietly, dancing her (my little angel) gently back and forth, surprised by the sweetness of his own voice. She giggled and slobbered on him. "…you can't keep your eyes open, gosh you're awfully seepy, you can't keep your eyes open…" he sing-songed, laughing with her.

"Trying to make her deaf, are you?"

Percy cringed at the sound, holding his little girl tight. She seemed to know, and hid her face in the crook of his neck. "You're breaking rules."

(god did I just say that?)

His Master chuckled. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, my boy. Where's the lovely wife tonight?"

Percy's face became an expressionless mask.

"Pretty pathetic, Percy. You don't even know, do you?"

(I can stand it no more)

"Why did you come here?" Percy asked bravely, yet unable to hide the fear in his voice. He kissed Wendy and laid her down, spinning the mobile around for her to play with, to avoid his Master's gaze, which he could feel burning into the back of his head. "You're not to come here, to my daughter's room. I- I d-don't ever want her to have to look at your face. Please go."

While Voldermort laughed at this, Percy felt his courage wavering. He took hold of Wendy's little hand and she squeezed it tight, as if to support him (I truly don't deserve you).

"I know where Penny is," his Master taunted.

(so do I)

"I don't care. I would just like you to leave, please," he repeated lamely.

His master made a mock noise as if his feelings were hurt (what feelings?). His breath was hot and nauseating, like the smell of fresh tar, on Percy's neck. "Oh, Percy. Why do you speak to me like this? Could I not murder your daughter right now, before your eyes? Could I not have George die the same death that Fred witnessed so long ago? Could I not murder your elder brothers and destroy your home, and then make it look like you did it? Could I not murder your wife, become her, and expose you for the double-crossing, yellow, guilt-soaked little Death Eater that you are? Look at your arm, Percy. You belong to me forever now. Do not speak to me like I am-"

"Just please leave, M-master- I-I am eternally grateful," Percy stuttered (he cannot be stupid enough to believe my words), "that you have given me power… that you have given….given… give…" He trailed off. Wendy giggled, the lining of her crib blocking Voldemort from view, and Percy's stomach hurt so that he doubled over. Wendy squeezed his hand tighter. He felt a sickly mix of courage (it is time to stand up to him) and guilt; not the old guilt that festered every day within him, but a brand-spanking-new guilt…

(what the hell have I been doing? Wendy… how did I trust this monster?)

Yes, he knew where his wife was, and didn't blame her one bit. Perhaps the Other Man was a Muggle, perhaps not. All Percy knew, or even cared about, was that the Other Man had brown hair, and his daughter's was red, like his.

She was his.

At least Penny had given him Wendy before she lost interest. Now she hardly bothered to come home. If Percy had not lost his ability to feel any emotion but his guilt (its like a second head or a third eye), he might have been hurt, but that was not the case.

(guilt is all I am)

For a long time he was not even sure if what he felt for his daughter was love. Perhaps it was just another film of guilt, another layer upon the endless layers. But at the same time he realized that he would gleefully die so that Wendy would never have to frown, not once, he also realized that that feeling could not be guilt. And that brought him an ounce of joy. Somewhere in his withered, suffocating heart he was still a human being. He was still capable of love.

And Wendy's laugh was the only thing that would block out Fred's screams.

And this horrible, disgusting man, the man whom he called "Master," had spoke of killing her, his joy, his life line, the only thing he'd done in his life that hadn't destroyed everything, that hadn't caused the pain and suffering of everyone who had ever loved him…

But however horrible and disgusting, his Master could destroy her. Percy kissed his daughter's hand and let it go, then turned to face the evil.

"W-will you join me in the Great Room?" He choked.

"It seems wrong to me," Voldemort said minutes later as Percy poured him a drink, "That your entire family is probably half starving in some stink hole, all squished together in their tiny little hiding hut, and here you sit, in your enormous house, at you full sized bar, serving expensive wine to the very person from which they hide."

Percy said nothing (he is right).

"It is also very sad," Voldemort continued, "that with all this luxury, you cannot even keep your wife at home. Do you really think she went to a girlfriend's house? Do you really believe that she's painting her toenails and curling her hair, having a slumber party with other girls, perhaps chatting about what a great husband she has?"

Without taking a sip, Percy dumped the wine from his glass; let the glass drop and shatter in the sink. (I can stand no more) "Why do you taunt me? You never stop, not ever. I know where she is. She's off cheating on me and doesn't bother to make excuses. I don't care. Let her."

"Really," Voldemort agreed, "How can you blame her? If I had a perspiring bag of exposed nerves for a husband, I would certainly resort to escapism too."

"Did you come here with a purpose?" Percy was surprised at the threatening edge to his voice as the words tumbled out, "All I asked is that you do not visit me at home or go anywhere near my daughter, and yet it seems without reason you interrupt me as I put her to bed. I have signed all of your papers, I have been your loyal servant, I remind you everyday of my ceaseless gratitude, and yet you do nothing but belittle and abuse-"

"Ah ha!" Voldemort guffawed, "Here he comes! The old Percy surfaces. The Percy that is tiresome to the brain and trying on the ears. I only tell you the truth, Percy. You were a miserable person before and you are a miserable person now, but obedience works better for you. It is better the less you speak. I remember how you used to be… don't worry about turning out worse, my boy. You never had that Weasley glow to your eyes. Your nose was always too high in the air for your smile to be pleasant. At least now people can love you in the way they love an ugly dog, it's fur matted with mud, whining at their doorstep for scraps. Yes, see, that devastated look you've got on your face right now- much better than that This-Is-the-Last-Straw expression you were wearing. Ha! You look like a kicked puppy. Much more lovable."

Percy hung his head, hearing his teeth grit in despair.

"I know what you're thinking," said his Master, raising his voice to a mock, "At least my lovely and perfect daughter loves me. Well what about when she gets older, Percy? Right now she is blessed with the sweet ignorance of infancy. She loves you because without you she'd starve. But trust me, when she grows older she will see you like the rest of the world sees you; a trembling, cowardly shell of a man, and she'll be ashamed. Ashamed that she was spawned from you, ashamed of all the evil things you've done in the name of Lord Voldemort, ashamed that her mummy never comes home…"

(don't you fucking cry damn it percy you're a grown man don't you fucking cry)

The tears spilled over his eyelashes and he shook and ached with the will to keep from sobbing.

"At least she'll have her uncle, won't she, Percy? As if the one wouldn't be enough. Twins are only a mutation, Percy. It's all been in vain. That one egg wasn't supposed to split into two. They are a freak accident. And you've given everything to bring them back."

Percy's chest squeezed inward, as if Voldemort's putrid fist was closing in around it, crushing it. "You- you're- they- they- they were my brothers. You're wrong… they were two different people. They were both loved (you cannot comprehend love). The fact that they look the same meant nothing."

Voldemort snorted.

"George liked me," Percy insisted in a cracking, childlike voice, "George would come into my room and talk to me sometimes-"

"-and you murdured him."

"It was only supposed-"

"-I know, Percy," said Voldemort impatiently, "it was only supposed to make their mouths sticky and blubber blubber blubber. A lie, Percy, a complete and utter lie. You were jealous of them. You always were. Poor thing. Stuck right in the middle, between the smart, delicate, handsome Bill, strong, clever, brave Charlie, and the delightful, amusing, impossible-not-to-love twins. I can imagine how your family must have cooed and fawned over them. I bet at the needy age of two you were pushed aside to make room from them. Perhaps they even shared a room with you. And when you grew older it must have been difficult to be noticed, what with the Head Boy and the Quidditch star. I bet you suffered headaches and bruises from running into things constantly before anyone noticed that you had bad vision. I bet to this day you still ask yourself why it's only you, out of a family of nine, that has to wear glasses. Your father didn't wear them until he'd grown old, did he Percy? But even with the headaches you studied hard and worked yourself to exhaustion to be as smart as Bill and as clever as Charlie but you couldn't ever figure out how to be fun, could you, Percy? You had nothing on the twins. They carried laughter and joy wherever they went, something you couldn't even begin to compete with. Not after you'd worked so hard to point out the faults of your siblings. Not after you'd prided yourself in rule-following and law-abiding and making that, as a last resort, your special talent. The one thing that set you apart from your siblings. And you foolishly thought that was good, didn't you Percy? You thought it was a good thing, when really you were just an annoying, self-righteous, tattling, generally unpleasant, un-fun person to be around. And from deep within you your jealousy festered and festered, and your holiness made you lonelier and lonelier, and you looked at your fun- loving twin brothers, and the light they brought to other's eyes, and how much their company was enjoyed, and how they had been born with a built-in best friend and confidant, and you hated them for it. You wanted them dead, Percy. Admit that to yourself, admit that in your core there is evil, enough evil to murder your brothers, and you will be set free from your conscience forever. You wanted them to suffer as you did. You wanted them to die, Percy, admit it. You wanted both of them to die."

Percy was frozen with sorrow. His mouth worked, the muscles in his face convulsing. He stared shamefully down into the sink. His Master had described his life perfectly. Feelings he's never shared with anyone had just been rattled off to him, reducing all of that hidden pain to a petty unimportance. His life had been nothing but predictable, miserable, useless experience. For the hundred-thousandth time, suicide crept into Percy's mind (it would be a public service). But the chubby face and round eyes of his daughter suddenly came into his head and blocked those thoughts from view.

Voldemort was wrong about one thing. Percy, though perhaps he'd been a little critical of them, had loved Fred and George. They had not failed to shed their light on him, as well, though he only allowed himself to laugh inwardly. He had not put the black powder in the cauldron to murder his brothers. He knew now that he'd done it for attention, acceptance, and admittedly, a little harmless revenge.

"I loved Fred and George, no matter what they thought of me."

On Voldemort's stolen face was a crooked, sly grin. "You didn't love them, Percy. Just another guilt. Trust me. You were the constant butt of their jokes and you wished them harm ever since they were old enough to talk."

"It's not true! It's not! Why would I join the likes of you if it weren't to bring him back?" An unfamiliar emotion was wheedling its way all through Percy's body. Anger. "Master, just tell me, why did you come here and what do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

"You are in a seat of incredible power," Voldemort said calmly, "I want you to stop wallowing in your guilt and fulfill your promise as a Death Eater. I have held up my end of the bargain. Fred has a George. George has a Fred. Now do your part. It is time, Percy. By the end of the month my Dementors will be restored to Azkaban, and your fellow Death Eaters will be released. Lucias and Draco Malfoy. The Goyles, the Crabbes, the Flints, all of them. And they will show all of my pathetic new followers what it truly means to be my servant. And you, my boy, my Minister of Magic, will publicly announce your replacement… me."

Percy glared at him. "You never mentioned any of this. That was not part of the deal. You only said I must be a Death Eater. I have no other obligation."

"Doing what I say is the obligation of a Death Eater," Voldemort said viciously, "And I don't want to hear, 'and what if I don't,' because I've already told you what I will do."

(you stupid stupid bastard how could you get yourself into this how could you believe it you deserve what you get… maybe you did want them dead… did you want them dead?)

"Show me my brothers. Where are they?" Percy demanded.

Voldemort lost his temper. He stood, sending the bar stool flying backwards, drew his wand, and pointed it at Percy's nose. "I do not like your tone. Crucio!"

Percy writhed on the floor. The pain was there, excruciating, but bearable; unimportant. After all, it was only his pain (deserved). He had certainly asked for it, mouthing off to his Master.

His Master. He'd foolishly forgotten what those words meant. (I am forever a slave). The pain ended and he feebly attempted to pull himself from the ground. He could not.

"Feeling better?" Voldemort snarled, leaning over the bar.

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry."

"Yes, Minister, you certainly are. Get off the floor and come to the fireplace. I'll show you something."

Terribly weak, Percy crawled from around the bar and across the room.

"I SAID GET OFF THE FLOOR!" Voldemort roared.

Percy used the coffee table to drag himself up, his joints shrieking.

"You are worthless, Percy."

"I am worthless, Master."

"You are lucky I even agreed to give your brother a copy of his twin back."

"I am lucky you agreed- what do you mean, Master, a copy?"

"Do you not listen? Did I not tell you the other night that I would only restore George to his full self for a price?" His Master's wand was poised again. Percy didn't know if his body could handle another dose of the curse.

"I was awoken from a dead sleep, Master."

"I'll remind you in due time. Right now, open your eyes and look into the fire. Wipe the smudges off of your glasses. I want you to see this clearly."

Percy (like an obedient slave) polished his glasses. Even doing this simple operation took all of the energy from his elbows and shoulders. His legs were begging him to sit.

"Now look."

Percy looked, and gasped. It was George. He knew it was George. Sleeping (dead?), no, just sleeping, on the sofa in the parlor of his old home, the Burrow. He had to be just sleeping, because Fred was sitting near him, running his hands through George's hair, as if George was still a little boy. They didn't look alike anymore. Fred was much thinner, and his hair was cut very short. His eyes looked very weary and old. But George, George was sleeping peacefully, youthfully, innocently, as if he had not a worry in the world. Percy was surprised at how Wendy was turning out to look like the twins and their mother (better them than me).

Percy felt very ill. Very, very ill. With a soft moan he sank onto the coffee table. A pain far worse than the curse he'd just endured engulfed him.

It wasn't going away. Here he was, looking at Fred and George, alive, together, yet the guilt was sharp, and stronger than ever before.

"I'm sorry, Fred," he cried, "I'm sorry, George. I just- I just wanted…"

"Oh stop it," said Voldemort irritably, "You make me sick. What on earth is wrong now? You won't even have to sell out your family. I've… someone else… to do that for me now. All you have to do is sign a paper in a few weeks time, and step down and let me take over. Then you may go and do whatever you like. You may even go back to the Burrow and beg and whine and cry for George to forgive you for the seven years you robbed of his life. But I recommend you take your daughter and run and hide."

(because I will have served my purpose. All this… and I'll die anyway… why did I do it, Wendy? How could I?)

"I don't believe you can do it," Percy moaned (why do I persist? He'll kill me right now). "I was a fool. I know as well as you that people can't come back from the dead."

Voldemort stared at him coldly, clearly annoyed. Not to the point of anger, or any kind of outburst, no, just heartlessly irritated, in the way that a person in traffic might honk at an old woman laboring across the street. "You are really pushing it tonight, Percy. I don't know what has gotten into you, but clearly you're asking to be punished."

Percy saw his Master wave his wand before sinking into a dense cloud of fog. Almost as quickly as it blindingly thickened, it thinned out again, and he became aware that he was standing near a large rack of severed thumbs. He nearly screamed, but realized they were only fake, made of plastic and acrylic paint. He sighed with relief, but as he looked away, really did scream.

He could see himself in the next room, young and pale, in a cot on the floor, Charlie on one side, scratching his belly and yawning, and Bill, muttering in his sleep as he often did.

"It looks a little funny. I don't think we did it right."

"Nah. It looks just fine to me. Maybe a little darker than our last batch but-"

Percy spun around. "NO!"

Fred and George were standing by their big cauldron in their blue pajama bottoms, identical save for the letters on their shirts.

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Percy wailed. "DON'T TOUCH IT!"

But the twins couldn't hear him. He ran to them, tried to shake them, but his arms and fingers went right through them.

"LEAVE IT ALONE!" He cried in vain, "IT'S GOING TO KILL YOU!"

"Give it a try, then, if you're so sure," said George.

"My stomach's upset," Fred replied, shaking his head, "Remind me never to eat Muggle food ever again."

"Nothing to do with the fact the Muggles made it, Freds," George told him lightly, "Chinese doesn't agree with you, it never has, and it never will. And I did remind you, you git, just like I remind you every single damn time you drag me there, ranting and raving about their bloody crab puffs-"

"-which are excellent. Really, you should try them."

"I have, Fred, and they make me sick, like I keep trying to remind you. I swear-"

"-Georgie, shut up and test one," Fred interrupted, "you sound like bloody Percy."

It was like a stab in the chest. Percy, helpless, tugged at his hair and sobbed, moaning quietly, though he knew it would be no use, "Don't eat it, George. It's going to kill you… don't eat it please don't eat it…"
"I'm telling you, they don't look right."

"Don't eat it, Georgie! Don't!"

"Try it," Fred urged, "Worst it'll do is make us sick. Go on, then, pretend it's a crab puff."

"You wanted this, Percy," boomed an amused voice from within his head.

It was the voice of his Master.

George chuckled and smiled at Fred, plucking one of the little round balls from the cauldron. "You reckon there's a market for crab puff flavored gumballs?"

"You asked for it, Percy. My gift to you, Minister. You'll get to witness the whole thing. I don't think your nightmares are enough."

Percy pulled out his wand and desperately called out every spell he knew. The magic went right through his brothers and they didn't flinch. He turned away. He couldn't bear to watch.

"I take it by the look on your face that they don't taste very good," he heard Fred say.

"This is want you wanted, Percy."

"George?" The sound of Fred patting his brother on the back. His voice became worried. "Come on Georgie, it can't taste that bad."

"STOP THIS!" Percy howled, "PLEASE!"

"George are you alright?" Fred, trying to stay calm. "Spit it up, now, Georgie. You're scaring me."

George, wheezing, coughing weakly.

"GEORGE! GEORGE WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?"

Suddenly a baby wailed. The image of Fred and George and the cauldron shattered, like tiny bits of glass, and Percy was once again standing in his own Great Room.

"Wendy," he whispered, charging up to her room, right past his Master.

The laugh of Voldemort followed him like a rush of cold air, making his skin crawl, even as he took the stairs three at a time

"See you soon, Minister Weasley," Voldemort called after him. He sounded disappointed. With a pop! Percy knew he had gone.

The moment Wendy saw him she stopped crying and smiled, stretching out her chubby little arms to hug him round the neck. In a shaky voice, he sang to her as if nothing had happened, but in his head the seed had been planted, and he wondered if his Master spoke the truth.

Okay, don't make me spit and foam at the mouth. I paid for a month of support services (which I would recommend, it's nice), and I know since March the 24 that 51 of you made it all the way to chapter 11. How may reviews have I gotten since then? One, perhaps two. Believe me, for those one or two I am grateful, but the rest you must have something to say! I know that asking for a review from all of you is too much to ask but COME ON! ::::whines pathetically::: You read all 26,000+ words of it, it can't be that bad!! Maybe it was just one person, going back and reading the last chapter 51 times, but I doubt it ( but if so, I'd be happy to send you an autographed photo of myself, striking my best Lockhart pose). Anyway, I know I didn't visit that chapter, not once, let alone 51 times, so please, for the love of god, SPEAK TO ME!!!! ::::takes a deep breath::: Okay, I've thrown my fit. Sorry. :-D I was having one of my moments.