Chapter Seven
When Arthur heard from Charlie that Percy was safe in St Mungo's, he wasted no time in shaking his wife up even as late as it was (around three in the bloody morning) so that she could go see her son. This nightmare just had to end now.
Bill was still awake for some reason and had been instructed to watch the little tots that should be asleep by now (ahemFredandGeorgeahem).
The minute that Molly had heard that there was a chance that she could see Percy, the sleepiness in her eyes disappeared in seconds. A heedful Molly nearly dumped their supply of Floo powder to the floor in her anxiousness.
The minute that they had arrived to the hospital, Charlie led them to Percy's room. The healer did not seem to be here and neither were any nurses. This raised Arthur's suspicions, but he kept the thoughts to himself.
The minute they walked into Percy's room, they were stunned.
Molly's face fell in a way that made Arthur feel ill. The patch of blood and dried leaves that rested in place of where there son should be had left Arthur both terrified and enthralled. How was there no supervision for his child? Especially a child with a wound as bad as Percy's? The poor thing probably couldn't even walk from what Bill had told him! So, why wasn't he here?
Molly crouched down to the soiled sheets, and stared at them with agape expression.
"What is this?" she hissed. "Where is my child?"
And what could he say? What could Arthur Weasley say to his wife?
His eyes were on the sheets, marred with dark red. There was no way that he had lost this much blood in the short time that he had been here. How could Percy even walk? Did he walk? Did he fly? Just from the state of the sheets, Arthur had concluded that his son should be in critical care now at the very least.
Arthur found himself sick with disgust. He looked back at Charlie as if it was all his older son's fault and his fifteen-year-old son looked beside himself. A look of pure horror etched on his face as Arthur realised... the clock at home might be permanently stuck on Lost. Percy's empty room could not comfort them. Their little child could be dead right now, and he mightn't even get the chance to understand why this had to happen.
"Where's my baby?" Molly called out again in distress to the silence she'd received. "Why isn't he here?"
She grabbed his pillow and brought it close to her. It probably didn't even smell like him. It looked like it smelled like the fresh, clumped blood that was adorning the sheets.
"It's alright, Mum," Charlie said, sounding exhausted… they were all exhausted.
Molly shook her head, and suddenly noticed small ginger curls on the bed. She picked them up and went about pocketing them into her robes. Arthur moved to embrace her because that was all he could do. He tried to comfort her the only way he could.
"We'll find him," Arthur insisted softly. "We'll find him tomorrow. I promise. I'll bring him home."
It suddenly dawned on him – the day! It was Percy's birthday! He had turned eleven. It was three in the morning. It was their child's birthday… and all they had of him were a few red curls and bloodied sheets.
Upon Arthur's realisation – he repeated, "We'll find him... I'll bring him home for his birthday."
He then laughed and added on, "You can make him that dull banoffee cheesecake that he adores so much. I'll bring him a few books to restore his collection again… how does that sound?"
Molly only glanced back at the sheets.
Arthur honestly wouldn't be lying. He almost felt like he should be looking for a body rather than a person. The thought of his child being out there amongst strangers with no food, money or water was frightening. He did not know where Percy was, or if he was spotted outside St Mungo's. This was the magical world. He could be anywhere now that he was out of the woods. And he – he made Molly the promise that he would find their child. She didn't believe him. He could tell from the way that she kept on staring back at those sheets, as if they were his death sentence.
"This is my fault," he heard Charlie say, deadpanned. "I…I shouldn't have yelled at him."
His fifteen-year-old child glanced back at Arthur with a somber expression on his face. If Charlie had failed Percy, then what about himself? Arthur was his father for Merlin's sake. How could he even let this happen? How could his child be involved in several rumoured and confirmed near death experiences and he have nothing to say about any of them?
"We'll find him," Charlie repeated Arthur's statement. "We found him before. We'll find him again—"
A healer had entered into the room. He seemed to be just as stunned as they were. He moved towards the bed and stared at it in alarm. He hadn't said anything for the few minutes that he was there, just staring vacantly at the hospital cot as if Percy was just going to materialise out of thin air.
"Where is my child?" Arthur's tone was rarely so demanding and acerbic. "From what I've been told, he was admitted with a severe leg injury. What has happened to him? Where has he gone…? I'll also have you know that I work with the Ministry, and I will definitely file a report for departmental misconduct and I have enough friends to ensure that your practice does not continue to harm others."
The healer seemed to stutter, "I-I think I might've just lost him. I-I…"
Arthur scoffed coldly, "How could you lose a patient? One that probably couldn't even walk!"
"Please don't file a report, sir!" the healer expressed. His green eyes wide and he looked rather young. He probably just started in his field. "See, I was…I was…"
The young healer bit his lower lip and looked back at the bed. "Merlin's ghost, I didn't… see, when your son, Charlie, brought him in a while ago, and I had a look at him. I was supposed to go home but I extended my shift to look over at him. Since the war ended, a lot of healers took vacations from this sort of thing. I'm still relatively new to this. When he came in, I stabilised his bleeding. I placed him down, explained the situation to Charlie and went to tell my superiors that I was staying the night. They had me do some filing and I don't have any assistants. Your child is the first time I even attempted to control a bleeding like that."
The healer took a deep breath. He looked frightened. "I just…he was so young and so tired. I didn't think he'd just leave the hospital. When I left him, he wasn't bleeding at all but that might be my fault. Certain charms take practice for them to be effective. I've just temporarily closed the wound to control his bleeding until I could go down to get him a few dittanies. The supplies are low after the war. I had to file in some paper work regarding that as well…and-and- just Merlin, how could he even walk? I've given him a potion for his pain but I didn't think it was that effective since the poor thing still looked like he was suffering. I couldn't give him anything stronger because he's still a child. I'd need your consent for a stronger potion."
Arthur wanted to respond to that, but he couldn't.
In fact, he couldn't deny the young healer his perfectly sound explanation. The universe had simply decided to play in Percy's favour, somehow allowing him to escape before his parents could see him. He found himself looking at the trail of blood leaking from Percy's hospital cot, the trail that ended at the window. Arthur cracked open the window and stared down. He could not see a red blur, or anything that was small enough. It seemed vacant.
His child couldn't have gotten that far, could he?
Arthur's face suddenly crumpled as he remembered something he now wanted to forget, "I remember this report from the Ministry about the hospital. I remember that St Mungo's grounds have been found to be one of the biggest sites for finding and disposing portkeys because it is a relatively easy-to-remember location."
"Portkeys?" Charlie said, deadpanned. "You've got to be joking."
Arthur shook his head. The realisation had made him lose the last bit of hope of even finding Percy. His son could be somewhere in a desert, bleeding into his wound and dying. There would be nothing they could do about it. Even if Arthur ran a search on all portkeys used within the last twenty-four hours (and he will. Of course he will), what were the chances of him finding his son alive?
He glanced back at Molly, whom was staring down at the ground with a vacant expression on her face.
"This is it, isn't it?" Molly said in a soft voice, turning away from the window. "He's gone, isn't he?"
Arthur could practically feel his heart sink, hearing his wife's voice. She wouldn't even look at him. She moved away from the window. She didn't even look back at the sheets. There were tears already running down her cheeks. His hopeful wife that believed in fairytales and unlikely things no longer believed that Percy was alive. She looked like she was accepting that he was dead. He had to be dead.
"Molly, I'm sorry," Arthur said in a voice just as soft.
Molly's eyes darkened slightly, as she stated, "I don't care, Arthur. Just—just take me home. I don't want to hear about this anymore. I just…"
She shut her eyes for a few moments, steadying her breath as the tears cascaded down her cheeks. "You'll…you'll get his body to me, won't you? So we… we could give him a proper burial," her voice was wavering now, as she let sobs rake out from her body. She placed her head in her hands.
"Of course, of course," Arthur said, as he moved to hold her again.
She shied away from him and looked back into his eyes.
Molly was often too soft and rarely angry, but right now, there was an anger in her eyes that he hadn't seen in a long, long time. "So you admit it too… that our child is gone. There's nothing we could do?"
"Shhh," Arthur said, as he pulled her close. He was glad when she didn't push away again. "It's alright."
"Our child is probably dead from a wound that we could've saved him from," Molly said stoically, before adding on, "How is anything going to ever be alright again?"
Charlie sighed, "Let's go home, Mum. You're tired and you've had a long night. You need some rest, okay?"
Arthur sometimes was jealous of how well Charlie handled these situations. He saw Molly nod her head a few times. She was shaking so badly, and it was hard to see his wife like this.
"Okay," she said, nodding her head. "Let's just go. There's nothing more we can do here."
DRACO Malfoy was not happy about the sights in Brighton. His father had taken him here a few years back, and it was much nicer then. It was absolutely appalling now! He was rather unhappy with his father. He knew that his father loved him (supposedly), but Lucius obviously wasn't trying hard enough considering that their 'holiday' was effortlessly boring! The six-year-old sighed deeply. A few hours ago, he'd asked for some ice-cream. Draco had decided not to settle for anything less than what he deserved – which, of course, was his beloved dragon fruit ice-cream and oh, a chocolate-orange bun. It was three am when he had decided to wake up his parents, complaining of a hunger that could only be satisfied by specific desserts.
Lucius was cross with him at the moment, but Draco did not care as long as he had his well-awaited food.
Draco groaned, as he chewed his bun. Even these used to taste better before!
They walked down muggle Brighton with ease. Draco had had these buns and ice-creams from a shop when he was younger and had reminisced their texture and taste for so long that it surprised Draco that he'd built up his expectations far, far too much. It was the only shop that Draco had recognised in muggle Brighton, and he'd only gone in a few times. His younger self had fallen in love with it. Pathetic!
"You better eat it, you slimy half-pint," Lucius demanded, tone caustic. "And the next time you decide to have a craving for some substandard muggle treats, I will show you my cane, boy—now, hurry up before your mother wakes up and realises you're missing! All of Azkaban's dementors wouldn't be able to stop her."
Whilst Lucius always threatened to hit Draco, it never quite happened. Just the thought of it made the silver-haired boy smirk, as he continued to chew. He did admire his father – a Ministry figure that was infused with power, reputation and wealth. What wasn't to like?
Draco noticed a ginger-haired boy limping against the lamppost in the distance. It just had to be a Weasley!
"Look, father, one of those dim-witted, vile Weasley's might've sold their belongings to somehow pay for a holiday," Draco stated; voice as smooth as honey.
In reality, Draco did not know the meaning of those words, but he had heard his father say them. He felt pride for his immaculate reiteration of his father's words.
Lucius rolled his eyes. "It's doubtful it is one of those redheaded cretins…a comical thought. A Weasley heading towards wizarding Brighton? They wouldn't have enough money to buy themselves half a cup of pumpkin juice, let alone enough to sustain a holiday. If they even know what a holiday is."
"There's only the little one," Draco realised, surprised. "Where's the rest of them?"
"I suppose they reproduced so often that they had to have defects," Lucius huffed to himself, obviously amused at his own jokes. "Perhaps, this one didn't make the cut."
Draco found himself grinning maliciously at the thought.
As they edged closer to that lamppost, Draco was able to see that his suspicions were correct. The boy leaning against the lamppost had the characteristic highly freckled skin, bright red curls and robes so old that Draco swore the house elves had more extravagant clothing.
"Draco, be wary," Lucius said in a cold tone of voice. "You might get infected."
That was when the young silver-haired heir to the Malfoy name had noticed the presence of a large gash at the Weasley's foot and the trail of blood following it. The blood was gushing and pouring out of its pale, freckled body and it was shaking in a rather frightful manner.
"Are you going to help it?" Draco said in disdain. Suddenly, he saw a wand poking out of the weasel's bag. He was surprised. "Father, he's armed."
Lucius looked over at the redhead for a few moments. "So, those rumours are true. This foul creature decided that he would try to leave the genetically and mentally challenged family of his with no sense of direction. An Auror suspected he was involved in the attack against our friend, Alec Lestrange."
Draco shook his head. "He's little. He couldn't have done anything to a Lestrange."
"Alec Lestrange is an absolute loon," Lucius stated. He smoothly stared over at the quivering, poorly boy. "He's not been here for long. If we leave him here, I don't get the answers that I need and this deformity will probably die in less than an hour or so."
"We have questions?" Draco chimed. What could they possibly need from that thing?
Lucius smirked, and nodded his head. "Yes, Draco, we have questions. I'll take the mutation to the hospital in wizarding Brighton, and when he's not dying of the most ridiculous looking leg injury I've seen since the war, then we'll get the answers that we need to these questions."
Draco nearly dropped his bun when the freckled boy's body gave away and he passed out.
"Draco!" the silver-haired man called out angrily. "Eat that bloody ice-cream of yours and don't you dare waste that insipid muggle bun."
AFTER three days' worth of treatments, stabilisation and blood transfusions, Lucius Malfoy had found that the redheaded child was able to survive even after losing a vast quantity of his blood.
Currently, the curly-haired boy was slowly regaining some form of robustness in his frame and rosiness in his cheeks. He did not look as grey as previously and his skin was not tough and rubbery as before. It was softer, and far more pliable to the Malfoy's touch.
Of course, that blasted son of his had insisted on copious amount of ice-cream within the last few days.
In fact, Draco was now eating a cupful of green tea ice-cream with clumps of passion fruit. He was dully staring over at the redhead, and Narcissa seemed to be tapping the floor repetitively with her foot in complete and utter agitation.
"Why did you have to take it into the hospital? Don't we have enough problems without you having to bring that – that thing – into our lives?!" Narcissa called out; tone frustrated and exhausted.
Draco looked confused. He always was his mother's child at heart, that little crook. "Mother, Father obviously has some Ministry matters to attend to with this thing… oh, let's go back to the cabin and make fun of the house elves!"
He then added on, "I can't stay here any longer. I'm afraid that the weasel's lack of brain cells is going to affect my development."
Lucius raised an eyebrow. He had half a mind to ask his silver-haired son if he even knew half the things he said. He was getting better and better at reiterating Lucius' comebacks and comments, but obviously lacked the sturdiness that Lucius had acquired over many years of insulting others, and expressing his superiority over them. He hoped that the cretin picked up some good qualities instead of being a whiny, annoying simpleton like his mother was.
He watched his son leave, and Narcissa huff. "Lucius, you should learn from your son!"
That comment was so absurd Lucius didn't even feel the least bit offended. "He should learn from me. If Draco becomes anymore like you, I'd assume he'd morph into a woman overnight."
Narcissa glared over at him, and pulled Draco close to her as they left.
Lucius glanced back at the redhead by the bedside. He seemed to be awake. Big, blue eyes were staring back at him and probably had been for some time now. He seemed calm and content within himself. It was then that Lucius had also realised that the child was immensely weak. His hand was on his bag, which the man had, of course, confiscated previously – the collection of vials and potions that he'd seen were satisfying.
"Give them back," the redhead said, his voice tired and low. He obviously noticed how empty his bag was.
Lucius placed his cane on the bed and placed his hand atop the disfigured child's bed. "What is your name?"
"Percy," his voice still low; he then repeated, "Give them back."
Lucius kept his gaze on Percy's face for a few moments before he said, "The healers have stabilised your bleeding permanently. They had to do it the muggle way considering you have a dittany allergy. The minute you were given one, your entire body had swollen up almost instantly – to the point where you stopped breathing. You may note that you are in hospital care simply for the fact that I took you here, thus saving your useless life. You may also note that I'm paying for your expensive hospital stay, and have not turned you into the Ministry. I am not a dimwit, you characterless coward. I know what you are; a foolish runaway that's left his house probably because his mum refused to buy him that robe that he so desperately needed to attract a deformed species of female just to continue on reproducing your atypical, brainless heirs."
He took his cane back and stared back at Percy with a stern expression. "Do you still want the potions, vials and wand you stole from Alec Lestrange?"
Percy nodded his head. "Yes, they're mine."
"They were yours," Lucius sternly stated. "You see – they're mine now."
The silver-haired male paused for a while. He paced around the redhead's bedside. "You should be grateful. I could've left you to die out there with your inferior gene pool but instead, I offer you attention from top healers. I do not get so much as a thank you now, you ungrateful scum. I have half a mind to let you pay for your own bills or perhaps, throw you back into that ghastly family of yours."
Percy's eyes darkened as he stared at the Malfoy male, "I'd rather die than go back to that house."
Lucius was surprised. He'd never heard that much familial contempt in all his life. He had to appreciate any form of hatred that was towards the Weasley family. Perhaps, Arthur and Molly had done something wrong by producing a child that had more than two brain cells.
Percy then pulled up his robes, where there seemed to be large bandages and stitches covering up his leg. At the sight of his appalling injury, he glanced back at Lucius and repeated, "I'd rather die."
DOUSED with a cold bucket of water, Charlie Weasley woke up with a stat. He was staring over at his older brother, whom was toying with his earring – something he did when he was either nervous or in deep thought.
"What was that for, you bloody tosser?!" Charlie exclaimed, voice high with agitation.
Bill's facial expression didn't change as he pulled out a vial of the Draught of Sleep. "You've woken your whole bloody house with your screaming. Ginny and Ron are a mess and mum's been up since half four."
Screaming? Charlie closed his eyes before he remembered that he'd been dreaming about Percy. He soon took the potion from Bill's hand and downed it down.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Bill asked, but by then, Charlie was already asleep.