Arthur had been living in a fog ever since Fred's death, and only a few things could penetrate that fog: the bright taste of alcohol, Molly's voice, the children when they made too much noise, and the tasks needed for basic survival that loomed up out of the blackness. He couldn't see very far ahead in the gloom and planning more than an hour ahead was a useless exercise; in fact, time shouldn't even have been moving forward with Fred gone. It ought to stand still, reverent, out of respect for the life that had been lost. Now, however, as Percy thudded up the stairs the fog dissipated and everything was completely, terribly clear.
He stood, stupefied, in the middle of the living room, his hands empty. Had he really just said that out loud? Had he really just said, out loud, that things would be easier if Percy had died instead of Fred? All of the children were so different, but any one of their deaths would be an equally devastating loss.
Percy came clattering back down again, carrying a suitcase.
"Percy!" This was his chance. "Percy, please, talk to me. I didn't mean what I said."
"Oh, you did."
"I didn't, Percy. I was angry, and I said something I regret now."
"Save it." Percy pushed past his father toward the door.
"Percy, please. Percy, I love you."
Percy turned around, one hand on the doorknob. "Well, Father, if it means that much to you—"
"Yes, Percy?"
"Never fucking talk to me again." Percy wrenched the door open and disapparated.
"What the bloody hell was that?" George came to the back door and watched as Percy stomped down to the bottom of the garden and disapparated.
Arthur turned slowly and looked George up and down. "Go wash that blood off your hands, son. Where's your mum?"
"Down in the village. She says the farmers' market is particularly nice this time of year. Think she took Charlie with her."
"Ok." Arthur muttered, wondering how he would ever explain this to Molly. She might turn him out on the street for what he'd said, and she would have every right to.
"He'll come back, right?" George said. "He kept telling me how he was turning over a new leaf and how he wasn't going to run out on us again."
"I don't know." Arthur muttered. He'd been pushing everyone away until this fog cleared, certain that there would be other days in the future that he could use to talk to them and spend time with them. But he'd just pushed Percy over the edge of a cliff, and thanks to the fog around him hadn't been able to see what direction he was pushing Percy until it was too late.
"He'll come back." George looked shell-shocked, child-like. "He'll come back. He has to. What are we going to tell Mum?"
"We'll tell her . . . we'll tell her there was an argument, and that Percy needed some space. We'll play it by ear. If he doesn't come back . . ." Arthur didn't finish the thought. George drifted away upstairs and returned sometime later in clean clothes, without a spot of blood on him. He did not stay in his room as he usually did but instead curled up on the end of the couch, staring at nothing.
Arthur turned to the armchair that had accepted him for more than two months, then bent down and picked up the empty bottles. This was nothing new for him. Bill was right, he'd been like this once before, when Fabian and Gideon had been killed. The alcohol numbed him, numbed the guilt and anger and powerless rage that coursed through him. It dulled his sharper edges so that he could be around the children safely. This time it was worse. The guilt was stronger, streaking its sour scent through the air like an enemy flag. Arthur was the father of all of these children. He ought to have protected them all. If anyone should have died at Hogwarts that night, it should have been him.
He took all the alcohol bottles into the scullery off the kitchen and piled them in a corner, not trusting himself to use magic right now. The muggles had a fantastic system of glass recycling that he'd been reading about during the war, but the wizarding world hadn't caught up with them yet. He remembered, vaguely, one of his older cousins telling him that alcoholism ran in the Weasley family, especially as a coping mechanism. He paused in the hallway and scrutinized a family photo hung on the wall, one from the quidditch world cup a million years ago. The last time they'd all been together, the last time summer had been golden with no trace of worry. He squinted at the photo, which he'd ask Ludo Bagman to take on his muggle camera, so the subjects were all frozen on the paper. In a family this size, odds were the alcoholism gene had been passed to at least some of them, though which ones, he couldn't say. All he knew was that someone besides him had been dipping into the stash of firewhiskey.
The back door opened and Molly and Charlie came in from the garden, just as loudly as Percy and George had come in earlier, though this was happy noise. Molly was carrying a bundle of bright flowers and Charlie followed with a bag of seasonal vegetables. Molly's eyes lit up when she saw George on the couch. "Georgie! You're out of your room! Oh, my baby!" She tossed the flowers on the kitchen table and ran to hug him. Arthur watched from the shadows, the guilt gnawing a hole in his stomach. Soon someone would have to burst her bubble of joy and tell her the bad news. With any luck she would figure it out herself and they wouldn't have to tell her.
When Molly was done squeezing the life out of George, she moved on to cooking dinner, her confident hands swiftly pulling together a simple meal. Arthur went back to his armchair but ignored the firewhiskey, resting his chin on his hand. The conversation played out over and over again in his mind. There were a thousand different ways that could have gone. He ought to have stepped in and de-escalated the situation, calming them down. He'd separated squalling siblings a hundred times; why should this be anything different? What he'd done instead was pour gasoline on a roaring fire. Gasoline was a truly fascinating muggle invention. No, actually, he'd done something much worse. He'd dropped a nuclear bomb on a roaring fire. Now that was a truly terrifying muggle weapon. The devastation wrought by the dark lord paled in comparison to the pictures Arthur had seen of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
"Dinner's ready!" Molly hollered. Charlie, George, and Arthur were already nearby. Ginny came downstairs, still quite pale, her dark eyes roving the room as if she were a rabbit in a room full of predators. Molly took a quick headcount, then went to the foot of the stairs. "Percy! Dinner's ready!" No response. "I swear." Molly muttered. "Well, if he wants to starve, he can starve."
Dinner that night was a cold, quiet affair. Arthur tried not to look at anyone, but he kept locking eyes with George. They were the only ones who knew what had happened. His eyes also would flick to Ginny, wondering what she knew and whether she had heard everything, but she kept her head down as if looking up was a crime.
Somehow Arthur made it through dinner. He retired early, claiming he was tired. Molly came up an hour later, finding her husband still awake. "Percy usually comes down for dinner." She remarked. "Oh, well. He'll come down and eat when he's hungry."
"He, uh, he and I had an argument earlier. Nothing major." Arthur lied. "He just may need some space, that's all."
Molly sighed. "Another argument? Well, all right then. He'll come down when he's ready."
Arthur nodded and rolled back over, trying to fall asleep.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
The trouble began the next morning at breakfast when Kingsley Shacklebolt's head appeared in the fireplace.
"Oh my goodness! Minister Shacklebolt!" Molly jumped up from the breakfast table. "What is it?"
"Have you seen Percy this morning? He hasn't come in for work. I'm wondering if you know where he might be."
"He didn't come down for dinner last night." Molly said. "Let me go upstairs and see. He might be sick, then." She hurried upstairs and knocked on his door. "Percy? Percy, Minister Shacklebolt's asking about you!" No response. "Percy, are you feeling all right? You didn't come down for dinner last night. And if you're going to call in sick, you really ought to send an owl to Minister Shacklebolt!" Still no response. "Percy?" A hint of fear crept into Molly's voice. "Percy, I'm counting to three, then I'm coming. I don't care that you're an adult. One—two—three!" She flicked her wand and the door flew open. She paused in the doorway, taking in the room's state: all the stuff gone, the bed neatly made, unslept in. She checked beneath the bed and saw that Percy's battered old suitcase was gone.
Molly raced downstairs as fast as she could, ignoring the confused stares from her children and Kingsley's head in the fire to grab the clock with all their hands on it. The clock was down a hand—Fred's had fallen off and was tucked away in a drawer for now. The family wanted to display it somewhere, but finding a place to display it was very low on their priority list right now. Six hands pointed to "home," Ron's hand pointed to "traveling," and Percy's hand pointed to "lost."
Molly screamed when she saw the clock. She whirled around to face Kingsley. "I—I haven't seen him since last night. Do you know where . . ."
"I haven't seen him since Friday." There was silence for a moment, then Kingsley asked, "Do you want to officially report him as missing? We can send out a team of aurors to look for him."
"No, no . . ." Molly muttered distractedly. "He and Arthur had an argument and then he left. I'm sure he'll come back . . . just give us some time . . . I'm sure he'll come back. Please, Kingsley, give us a few days . . ."
"Of course," Kingsley said, his voice surprisingly gentle for such an intimidating figure. "Will you keep me updated, please? The ministry is short on functional adults who aren't death eaters, and Percy is one of my most productive employees. I hope he's back soon." There was a faint pop and Kingsley disappeared.
As soon as he was gone Molly rounded on her husband, who was standing in the living room watching. "What happened? What happened yesterday?"
"We had an argument."
"What kind of argument? What kind of argument was it that caused him to leave and not come back?"
Arthur cringed away from her. "It was . . . it was an argument."
"Arthur Weasley, you tell me what happened right now! He was making such an effort with us; he's not going to run away like that over a small argument!"
"Actually, I was the one who started the argument." George slipped downstairs into the living room. He, Charlie, and Ginny had been watching events unfold from the stairs. "He asked me if I was going to re-open the joke shop. I panicked and started shouting at him, we argued, Dad yelled at us to knock it off, Percy freaked out and left."
"Is that it?" Molly's eyes flicked from Arthur to George. She knew that something didn't quite add up, but she let it go. "Fine, then."
"He probably just needs a bit of space from us right now. You still have his old London address, right? Why don't you go check and see if he's there?"
"Well, all right." Molly said. "That does sound like a good idea."
"Even if he won't talk to you, you could just check and see if he's there." George added.
"All right, all right." Molly said. "Let me get my cloak."
As soon as she'd disappeared into the other room, George turned to his father. "Percy will probably come back in a day or two, once he's cooled down. I didn't want Mum to worry."
"And if he doesn't?" Arthur hissed.
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it." George shot back. "But with any luck, hopefully this'll all blow over soon and we'll never have to tell Mum what we said to him."