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Content Note: This chapter contains panic attacks

Chapter 3: Inveterate

The Death Eaters took Percy from his office at the Ministry. He has no impressive or harrowing story of his capture. He was eating lunch at his desk when someone knocked on his office door, and he had just enough time to meet Yaxley's cold gaze before the Stunner struck his chest.

Which is why he's surprised to find his flat torn apart, with the epithet Blood Traitor seared into the wall. He's also somewhat surprised to find his flat still his flat, with his belongings present, if plundered, after his six-month absence.

Whatever the reason, Percy is infinitely grateful to be able to stumble into the flat and slam the door shut behind him. There are so many people in London. The walk from the Floo Office to his building is only fifteen minutes but feels like hours, too bright and too loud and with too many people looking at him, their eyes wide, some shuffling away from him, others inching closer, too close, as though they might try to touch him—

Percy collapses on the floor on his flat, shaking, cold sweat pooling on his palms. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the uneven stutter of his heart slamming against chest, and waits until the urge to vomit ebbs away.

When Percy finally opens his eyes, he almost expects to be back in his prison. Instead, he's staring across the tattered remains of what, six months ago, had been his life. Books with their pages ripped and scattered about, torn scraps of parchment carpeting the floor like fallen leaves. His stomach tightens when he sees the state of his desk.

That big, beautiful desk of burnished wand-grade wood had been the first expensive item he'd purchased with his Junior Undersecretary salary. Now, ink stains cover the surface, its drawers have been ripped out and thrown aside, and one leg has been snapped, spilling the books and papers and instruments onto the floor.

After a lifetime of hand-me-downs and second-hand goods, Percy had been so pompously, stupidly proud of that now ruined desk.

Percy hauls himself to his feet, gripping the doorknob for support. He picks his way across the messy floor until he reaches the window. The glass is clear, if a little dusty, and Percy can see through to the alley behind his building. He used to find the view dull, but after months of the opaque window in his prison—a window to nowhere, revealing nothing—this grungy pane of glass is magnificent.

With trembling hands, Percy reaches up to the window latch and, after a moment tugging on the rusty bit of metal, he manages to open the window. Cool air wafts into stale room. Percy closes his eyes and breathes in the dirty city air.

Something brushes past his face, and Percy gasps, falling backward. There's someone crashing through his flat, and Percy throws his arms over his head. He won't go back, he won't go back, he can't—

A familiar chirp breaks through Percy's panic. His eyes fly open, and then fill with tears.

"Hermes."

Perched on his kitchen table, hooting happily, is Percy's beloved screech owl, Hermes. The owl looks worse for wear, his face dirty and his feathers ruffled and sticking out at odd angles, but he's alive.

"Hermes," Percy repeats. He scrambles back to his feet, reaching out to pet his friend. "Hermes, thank Merlin you're okay. I missed you—" Tears spill down his cheeks, and his voice catches in his throat. "I missed you so much."

Hermes hoots and chirps. Percy's hand is shaking and he can't stroke the owl's feathers smoothly, but Hermes doesn't seem to mind. He rubs his beak against Percy's hand.

Percy hadn't dared to hope he would ever see Hermes again. Even if the owl hadn't been killed, Percy assumed that, with no one to feed, him he would have left the flat and never come back. But Hermes had stayed, fending for himself in the city and waiting loyally for Percy to return.

After a few more minutes of petting, Hermes hops a step back and holds his wings open, feathers puffed out and bright yellow eyes looking at Percy expectantly. Percy's heart sinks as he realizes what his owl wants. Hermes was almost as fastidious as his owner when it came to his personal appearance. When he returned from long flights, Percy would cast a thorough grooming charm on the owl to keep him looking neat and handsome.

But now, wandless and pathetic, that bit of magic is beyond him. "Sorry, Hermes," Percy whispers, stroking the owl's head again. "I can't." Hermes's wings droop in disappointment. "But I do have something!"

Percy begins to stumble through the debris of his belongings on the floor, searching for the owl grooming kit Penelope had given him for his birthday years ago. "It'll take a little longer, but we'll still be able to get you looking nice and—"

And then the door to Percy's flat opens, and his heart stops.

Leaving Fleur in France to gather more information, Charlie and Bill return to England and head to Percy's flat on the outskirts of Wizarding London. Charlie had gotten permission from the landlord to enter, and he lets them in. They both freeze in the threshold at what they see in the ransacked flat.

"Percy!"

If Charlie had seen Percy on the street, he wouldn't have recognized him, but he may have called a Healer to help the poor sod. Percy looks awful—he's painfully skinny, his hair dark and messy, unfamiliar glasses sitting crooked on his nose. Percy's raggedness now is all the more jarring in contrast to his characteristic neatness. But Percy is alive, and right in front of him.

Charlie starts forward, arms open to hug his little brother. "Merlin, it's so—"

Before Charlie can close half the distance between them, Percy jumps away, his back slamming into the wall. There's a shrill screech and for a horrible second Charlie thinks Percy made the noise, and then an owl starts flapping around the room.

"Hermes?" Bill walks in, holding his hands up, palms outward. "Hey, Hermes, remember me? It's Bill."

The owl—Hermes, Charlie now remembers, Percy got him for making prefect, right after Charlie moved to Romania—perches on a cabinet, eyeing them dubiously. Charlie turns his attention back to his little brother. Percy seems to shrink under his gaze, pressing himself further back against the wall.

"Percy…" Charlie smiles, fighting the urge to try to hug him again. "It's so good to see you."

"Hey, Perce." Bill says. "Long time, huh?"

Percy stares back at them through chunky glasses, unlike the smart horn-rimmed ones he'd worn since he was eight years old. There are dark purple circles under his eyes, contrasting with his pale, greyish skin. "Hello." His voice is quiet and hoarse. Charlie waits for him to say more, but he just continues to watch them, wide-eyed.

"Uh…how are you?" Charlie breaks the silence. He winces at ridiculousness of the question—he was held captive by Death Eaters for six months, how do you think he is, idiot—but what else can he say?

Percy's throat works as he swallows. "Fine, thank you." His sunken eyes are darting around the room, not settling on either of their faces. "I was just about to clean up."

Charlie blinks. Was that a joke? Or is Percy actually trying to pretend everything is fine, and he just needs to do a quick sweeping? Charlie glances sideways at Bill, willing his older brother to know how to handle this situation.

But Bill looks just as uncertain as Charlie feels. "That can, uh, probably wait a bit, don't you think, Perce?"

Percy's pale face flushes pink. "I need to find my owl grooming kit," he mumbles. He reaches out to open a kitchen cabinet, but his hand is trembling frighteningly hard and he struggles to grip the knob.

Charlie's stomach plummets; what was making Percy shake like that? Was he scared, or sick, or curse-damaged? Charlie wishes there were a Healer to answer that question, and clearly Bill feels the same way.

"You were supposed to go to St. Mungo's, Percy." Bill takes a step toward Percy, who again shuffles away. "Do you, er, want to go there now?"

Some emotion flashes across Percy's face, his waxy features tightening. "That won't be necessary," he says stiffly. His eyes fix on the open window, and then he flinches. "If you'll excuse me."

Charlie picks his words carefully, watching Percy's face. "We just thought it might be a good idea for a Healer to take a look at you."

Percy's jaw tightens. "I saw several Healers in France, thank you."

"Right," Bill says slowly. "And they said you were supposed to go to Mungo's. But instead, you…left."

Percy doesn't respond. He's given up on opening the cabinet and is now grabbing and stacking books. He can barely get the piles straight, and books are toppling back to the floor as he works.

"Percy," Bill says, and Charlie knows it's worry for their little brother, not anger, that adds a hard edge of exasperation to his voice. "You need to go to hospital."

Percy stops, and his gaze locks on the open window again. Charlie can't tell what he's looking at; there's nothing outside the window but the gray wall of the next building, so why is Percy so focused on it? Is he thinking of running away again?

"No, I don't believe I do." Percy's trying to sound firm, but his voice breaks on the last word.

Charlie's heart aches. Percy had annoyed them all to no end with his arrogance, but he would trade this brittle version of his brother for that know-it-all prat in a heartbeat.

Charlie's trying to think of a delicate way to move forward when Percy leaves the haphazard stacks of books and turns to clearing away some scattered dishes. He tries to pick up a broken shard of plate and then gasps, clutching his hand to his chest. Drops of blood splatter over the floor.

"Percy—!" Bill dives forward, grabbing for Percy's injured hand. In an instant, he's got a steadying grip on Percy's arm and is drawing his wand to heal the injury. It's pure instinct for Bill—he's been tending to his little siblings' cuts and bruises for decades now—which is why it's so jarring when Percy panics.

Percy doesn't scream, which almost makes it worse. He jerks backward with a strangled gasp and drops to the floor. He doesn't try to run or even get up—he just sits there, huddled on the ground. His eyes are huge and staring at nothing, his body tense and trembling, heaving with fast, stuttering breaths.

"I…I didn't…" Bill trails off.

Charlie feels ice creeping through his veins, because he recognizes the way Percy's holding his body, the desperate but resigned look in his eyes. He's seen that look on only one other living being: the abused dragon that Ron, Harry, and Hermione had freed from its prison below Gringotts. The blind dragon had been taken to Charlie's sanctuary after the war. When he heard a noise that reminded him of his cruel captors, the dragon had frozen like Percy is doing now, terrified of the punishment to come but knowing he was powerless to stop it.

A wave of nausea wracks Charlie's body, and he swallows the bile rising in his throat. Everything he'd been trying to deny was now staring him in the face. Percy had been taken. Percy had been tortured. And now, Percy was back, and he was not okay.

"S-sorry," Charlie forces the words out. "Sorry, Percy, we're just trying to help, we didn't mean to…upset you."

His words seem to snap Percy out of it. A final shudder runs through his frail body, and he staggers to his feet. "I'm fine," he gasps. "It's fine, I'm fine."

"I was just going to heal your hand," Bill says lamely. He's obviously at a loss for how to help.

"It's a scratch." Percy balls his fist, hiding the cut. His face is bright red now, the way it used to get when the twins were needling him. "I'll be fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to clean up here."

Charlie doesn't know any better than Bill how to help their clearly traumatized little brother. All he knows is how they treated that abused, terrified dragon: they'd stepped back. They'd given the dragon space, and hadn't attempted to treat his injuries before he felt safe.

"Okay, Percy," Charlie says. "We'll let you clean up."

"But—"

Charlie grabs Bill's arm, squeezing him sharply. His brother gets the message and falls silent. "We're really glad you're okay, Percy. We've been—" he swallows "—we've been so worried, and I can't tell you how happy we are you're back."

"Th-thank you." Percy eyes them, surprised by the turn in events. "I…I am as well. To see you."

"Bill and I are going to talk outside for a minute," Charlie continues, thinking fast. "We'll let you know before we take off."

Charlie has to half-drag Bill out of Percy's flat, but he gets them into the hallway and shuts the door behind them.

"What are you playing at?" Bill demands. "He looks awful, he needs to go to St. Mungo's!"

"I know, I know," Charlie says. "Listen to me, okay? I'm not saying he shouldn't see a Healer, but does it seem like it's a good idea to drag him off somewhere he doesn't want to go?"

Bill considers it, then sighs. "I guess you're right, but…do you really think it's a good idea to leave him here alone, either?"

Charlie hesitates. Percy didn't seem well, but he didn't seem as bad off as the Longbottoms, like he would wander off the roof if left unsupervised. "I don't know," he admits. "But I definitely don't think it's a good idea to try to force him into anything."

"Right." Bill rubs the back of his neck, brow furrowed. "What about Mum? She's not gonna stop until she gets him back to the Burrow."

Charlie feels a squeeze of guilt—he hadn't thought about Mum, no doubt frantically searching Mungo's for her missing son, or about Dad or any other member of the family. "We'll go talk to her, right now." But then Mum would insist on coming straight to Percy's flat; how would Percy react to Mum's inevitable smothering, if Bill trying to heal his hand had caused a complete shutdown? "We'll try to convince her to…take things slow."

Bill nods, and they stand there silently for a moment. Eventually, Bill murmurs: "This is bad, isn't it. Percy is…this is bad."

Charlie rubs his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "C'mon," he says. "Let's go talk to Mum."

"And Dad," Bill adds quietly.

"And Dad," Charlie repeats. The meaning behind the words is obvious; the trouble with Percy, the rift between him the rest of the Weasleys, didn't start when he was taken by the Death Eaters.

Charlie gently knocks on Percy's door, waiting for a response. Nothing. He knocks louder, waits for a minute, and then, sharing a concerned glance with Bill, opens the door. Percy is still in the kitchen, moving books and plates from one surface to another.

"Hey, Percy?" Charlie calls softly. "We're going to go tell Mum you're here, alright?"

Percy slows, but again doesn't look at them. "I'd…I'd prefer to have time before any…visits. To tidy up."

"Sure, Perce." Charlie's heart throbs again. "We'll let everyone know."

"Unless, er, you want one of us to stay with you?" Bill adds, with equal notes of hope and dread in the question.

"No!"

The sharp denial is the loudest Percy's spoken. His thin hands are clutching a book tightly, his eyes glued on the defaced cover. "That is, that won't…be necessary."

"'Course," Charlie clears his throat awkwardly, trying to think of something else to add, something to make this messy, awful situation any better. Nothing comes to mind. "Bye, then."

"Bye, Perce," Bill adds.

Percy has his back turned toward them, staring at the window again. "Goodbye."

The older brothers leave, and Charlie eases the door shut behind them. He's unable to shake the feeling that Percy's homecoming has so far been a failure, and he has no idea how to fix it.