The Mother Who Cried Werewolf
Chapter One
Coming Back Home
It was the Christmas holidays again—the time for festive cheer, too many awkward celebrations and a couple of cheeky tipples. Twenty-two-year-old Bill Weasley checked on his shrunken coming-back-home-and-Christmas presents in his recyclable cotton shopping bag. Every well-meaning second year knew that you needed coming back home presents. And no, they didn't count as Christmas presents either! Two separate categories that he and Charlie had firmly agreed on when they set off to Egypt and Romania, respectively. He hadn't been to the Burrow in the summer holiday in lieu of a horrific staff shortage when his best mate had refused to come into work after his Egyptian fiancée jilted him at the altar to elope with a Norwegian dragon tamer that spoke only three words of Arabic.
It was just the beginning of the English winter and Bill already felt underdressed. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, now used to the scorching Egyptian sun. His bones had turned to rubber by the time that he'd portkey-ed himself from customs to the Burrow (the sneaky coffee he'd had then hadn't done anything for his frostbite, sorry to say).
The Burrow was covered top to bottom with more bells and whistles than one of Father Christmas' reindeers. The slightly distasteful cardboard elves looked festive too, in their red-and-green wellies and snowflake-themed sacks. The house was strung up with bright fairy lights, glistening pearly white like the snowflakes that had melted on Bill's shaking hands.
It was nearly seven in the evening when Bill had arrived at the Burrow. Arthur had answered the door, beaming. He wrapped his arms around Bill as tightly as he could, taking in his musky Arabian cologne. "Good to see you, son."
Bill grinned back at him. "Dad, I missed you too, but I have to get in now. Think my toes are about to fall off."
"You do look a little chilly," Arthur chuckled as Bill made a mad dash to the roaring fireplace. "Reckon there was a lot of heating charms at customs then?"
"I've seen people set their brochures on fire," Bill admitted. "Think I've caught pneumonia."
"Well, don't let your mother know," Arthur warned. "She won't let us go for a Quidditch game tomorrow."
"She wasn't going to let us anyway," Bill was plenty sure. "She'd want us to go to Diagon Alley for a bit of shopping now that we're all here. Probably leave me stranded outside of Madam Malkin's with the twins."
You'd think for a family that was struggling so much financially that they didn't need to go to the shops every week!
He was glad to report that he had regained all the lost sensations in his hands and feet and that he found out that your face didn't remain frozen in time forever if you just happened to stay outside in the torrid weather for more than thirty minutes. He stayed there until he felt comfortable enough to throw off his jacket—too thin now, he knew—and was just sitting by the fireplace in a thin charcoal-grey Henley and ripped black jeans.
"Oh, love," Molly tsk-tsk-tsked at him. "I told you to wear those gloves I've sent you in the post."
Bill was sure he'd rather have lost his hands to frostbite than wear his mum's ghastly red-and-green Christmas gloves. It didn't exactly go with his fashion. "I've just taken them off," he lied before he stood up to kiss her cheek. She looked well, with her curly hair pulled back into a loose twist over her head. Her massive plastic floral earrings terrified him.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," said Ron from the stairs.
"I wish, mate," Bill replied. He wouldn't mind being set on fire. "How's my favourite second year?"
"Great," Ron mumbled in annoyance. "If you know any other second years, mate, then I'd be owling the Aurors."
"Ronald," Molly gave him a hard look, but honestly, Bill thought that Ron was being quite clever and cheeky. "Where are the twins and your sister?"
"I don't know."
"Well, call them downstairs then!"
Ron shrugged and ran upstairs to call them down for dinner.
"You look well, mum," then Bill smelled the warm scents of rosemary coming from the kitchen. "Is that a roast?"
"Of course, it's a roast," Molly frowned at him. "Proper food to welcome you and Charlie back home, of course," she stated. Bill and Charlie tried to coordinate their dates together so the whole family could be in at the same time. Usually, he was the last one to be in. "I won't have any of my children starving half to death," then she sighed deeply when she caught sight of his hair. It was longer than ever. "I hope you have some grooming tips for your sister."
His mum had moved on from bothering him about his hair to flinging her anger at poor unsuspecting Ginny. Ginny had cropped all her hair off with a pair of scissors last week. She'd sent him pictures and he thought that she looked rather cool.
"Mum, I think she likes how her hair looks like."
"She looks like a boy," Molly said it like she was saying a slur.
"What's wrong with looking like a boy? Scares all the other boys away."
"Fine by me," Arthur agreed.
Bill smiled at his mum. He doubted that Ginny cared about 'looking like a boy.' Beyond the girlish crush she had on Harry Potter, she seemed to like all the other things 'boys' were supposed to like too.
"I'm sure she doesn't, mum," he tried to cajole her, before turning his head away to look at the clock. Charlie was probably still in Romania but meant to join them soon. "I'll go see what's taking them so long then."
"Well, don't be late for dinner," Molly reminded him. "And I think you get them enough presents last year!"
"Oh, Molly, let him spoil them," Arthur said.
His mum had pegged him right. He'd managed to hoard more presents than usual this year. Ginny and Ron were standing outside in the hallway, and Bill was happy to report that Ginny's haircut looked so much better in real life than it did in the photos. It really sorted her, the cropped look and her jumper was three times her size. She wouldn't be winning any Witch Weekly contests, but she'd rather Avada Kedavra herself than read that drivel anyway.
"Bill!" Ginny ran up to him and hugged him so tightly he swore she broke a rib. "I didn't think you'd be home before Charlie," she looked at him excitedly. "Mum's been complaining all day about how bad the portkey services are around the holidays and how she doesn't think you'd really be in." This, Bill could confirm, was true.
"Yes, asking for a portkey during the holidays is like asking Snape for an extension on an essay," Bill admitted.
"Like you needed an extension on a Potions essay," Ron complained. "They think the sun shines out of your arse."
"Well, it'll be warmer than it is here, I'd tell you," Bill shivered.
"What's wrong, Bill?" Ron sneered. "Can't handle the cold anymore? Mum will be livid. Say you're not English anymore."
"You've even started to lose the accent," Ginny agreed.
He was supposed to be there a week ago. Charlie had less luck than him and was battling on with all the other portkey problems as well. Well, at least he was here now. He'd let Charlie complain about his portkey issues when he came in.
"Well, I suppose I'll just be taking these presents back then," Bill joked as he reached up to his bag and enlarged Ron and Ginny's gifts to their proper sizes. He'd done red-and-green for the Christmas gifts and silver-and-gold for the regular gifts. He was organised like that. Knowing Charlie, he'd chuck anything at them. He'd probably get their things confused.
Ron lit up. "Cheers, mate."
"Such a surprise," Ginny sarcastically replied, but had ripped into her gift.
"Did anyone say—"
"—presents?" Fred and George had come out of their room, both grinning at him.
Without even so much as a hello, the twins managed to ring him out of their presents. "Hello to you too," Bill said.
"Oh, don't act like that, William," Fred said in the snootiest tone he could muster.
They huddled up together, faces lit up as they opened their gifts. New Exploding Snap cards (Ron), exclusive Egyptian Zonko's collection (Fred and George) and a hair-growth serum and a comb (Ginny, who had thrown it at him). He'd give her a real gift on Christmas, he promised, but it was just too fun to take the mickey out of his little sister.
"These are old now!" Ron frowned. Bill smirked at him. "I've already got these."
"That's not funny!" Ginny shrieked. "You've been talking to mum!"
"We have no complaints," George said in a sweet voice. "Because we appreciate everything you do for us." Bill was plenty sure that one of those products were going to end up in his shower or in his room at some point.
"Yeah," Fred nodded his head. "We're not like our—"
"—spoiled little brother and sister."
"Who are you calling spoiled?!" Ron yelled at them, though he didn't actually sound angry despite the yelling.
Bill smirked at them, and he felt a twinge of uneasiness form into his stomach. "Hey guys, I'll go see Percy now."
Their bickering came to a halt. It felt like talking about him was like talking about You-Know-Who sometimes, like just the mere mention of him would be enough to send him rushing back into A&E for the fifth time that month.
"He's not really sick, you know," Fred felt the need to tell Bill.
Bill heard that before in the letters his siblings sent him to him. That they were pretty certain that Percy was not as ill as he kept claiming to be and that he was somehow getting their mum to take him to the hospital all the time.
"Think he just drinks so much Pepper-Up he upchucks it," Ron admitted.
"He hasn't actually upchucked in ages. He looks pretty chuffed with himself with his new feeding tube," Ginny snorted.
"Yeah, it's how he gets mum to avoid sending him to Hogwarts," Ron mumbled. "Lucky sod."
"He's made them put in a tube into his stomach," George shuddered. "He is ill. He's mentally ill. Why would anyone want some kind of tube in their stomach so that people could feel sorry for them?"
"I'm sure that he doesn't want it," Bill said uncertainly.
"Yeah, and the last time you've had to talk to Percy is when?" Fred challenged.
"Good luck, mate," George said, and he sounded like he really meant it. Bill nodded his head.
Ever since he was a baby, Percy had been in and out of hospital for as long as Bill could remember. He spent more days in the hospital than Bill had spent in Hogwarts he reckoned. He'd never been into Hogwarts himself, always just listening to the stories and absorbing them second-hand. There was something wrong with him. Bill wasn't sure what exactly but his mum took care of him. And no matter how many healers they went to, none of them could discern exactly what condition Percy had. They all agreed that maybe he had something genetic, but his mum always came back home, claiming that the healers couldn't find out what was the matter with him. He barely left the room these days, and every time Bill came to see him, he just looked worse and worse. Bill couldn't even remember the last time he'd really sat down and talked to Percy.
But over the past few years, he kept getting letters from his younger siblings that Percy was practically doing it to himself. But Bill didn't feel like that could be true no matter what they've said. Why would someone make themselves so horrifically sick they needed to be in the hospital all the time?
But then again, why were all his siblings so sure about it? And why did his father seem so evasive about it too?
He opened the door to Percy's room and stepped inside. The crack of the door was not enough to wake him up, because his mum walked in and out of the room about a hundred times a day. Immediately, Bill was met with the smell of antiseptic solution and the whirs of the magical machinery that his mum had kept in his rooms. They ran on wand currents and diluted potion solutions. This was standard issue, normal, Bill was used to hearing the buzz of the monitors. He wasn't sure why Percy needed a monitor, but he didn't know how to approach anyone about questions related to Percy's health anymore.
He hadn't seen Percy out of bed for a few years now. He wasn't sure why either. He never really looked like he aged to him. He might as well still be a first year. He was in a pair of pyjamas and taking a nap. Bill supposed he did that a lot.
A couple of years ago, Percy had been in the hospital sick for so long that they'd had to cut a tube into his throat so that they could get him off the ventilators. That was the one time that Bill remembered that Percy really was ill. He'd been fighting for his life. They knew what was wrong then. He had a horrific case of double pneumonia that left him on a ventilator in intensive care for ages. He had been about five years old then, right after the war. He now had a tracheostomy tube that got changed every month at the hospital. And George just mentioned that he also had a new tube now, one that was in his stomach. But this was not surprising. Percy hadn't eaten over the past year, and he'd been on a nasogastric tube then. Seeing his face for the first time in a year without the tube sticking out of his nose was strangely unsettling.
There really wasn't much of Percy. He supposed he could understand that, given how he didn't eat anything, but he was so painfully thin, and it was so hard to look at him that even if Percy had done this to himself, Bill still felt rather bad for him. Nobody could live like that and not be absolutely miserable. He didn't do anything all day.
"Hey, Perce," Bill stroked his hair a little bit, which was brittle and weak.
"Hello," Percy slurred from sleep. He clung to his pillow; his mouth wet from the drool. His eyes looked glassy, and if Bill didn't know any better, he'd assume that Percy had taken something to get that glossy effect to his eye.
"I've got you something," Bill didn't really know what to get him besides books. He was holed up in his room all day long. Bill pulled out a hastily wrapped present and Percy took it into his hands. "Will you be down for dinner?"
"I don't know," Percy answered. He supposed that was up to their mum.
Bill helped him up. If Percy was faking it, he didn't know if he was encouraging it by playing into his hands like that.
"How are you doing?" Bill was sure Percy heard that question a lot.
Percy didn't look like he wanted to answer the question. "I'm alright."
"The twins said that you have a new tube."
"Yes. A feeding tube."
"Not doing its job well, is it, mate?" Bill joked. Percy said nothing to this. Well, what was he going to say? Yes, I look absolutely horrible. Thank you for pointing it out to me?
When the twins, Ginny and Ron tore through the wrapping like it was nothing, Percy took his time and laboured over it. He slowly extracted the wrapping paper like each square-inch cost Bill a Galleon or two. Bill didn't know why he bothered to wrap it anyway. He had never given Percy anything behind books because he didn't know what Percy liked. Percy leaned back and stared at the book in his hands. "Thank you," he said.
Bill should've stayed there and talked to him a little bit, but he heard Molly call out, "Bill! Come help set the table!" he knew he could escape.
He squeezed Percy's shoulder and left the room. On his way out, he noticed a stack of books on Percy's shelves. And that was when Bill realised that Percy already had the book that he'd just given him.