Percy found himself in a horrible situation he wasn't able to get out of. What was that situation? He was being cuddled by a werewolf on, what was more terrible, a highly uncomfortable cot in a tattered tent. Not for the first time, he inwardly cursed his coworker who got themself caught and most likely killed. He also inwardly cursed Voldemort for letting the Snatchers keep him as a prize for good work. Maybe he had assumed Percy would be killed, tortured, or even turned by Fenrir? Percy certainly thought one of those would have been the case, but both of them were wrong. They were treating him well enough if one ignored the concept of freedom.

He wiggled, trying to dislodge Fenrir Greyback only to immediately squeak as those arms tightened around his stomach. Fenrir's furry face rubbed against his neck and face, pawing at him like an overgrown cat, breathing evenly and with great ease. This was…uncomfortable—worse than the cot bending inward on itself. He was getting overheated!

The tent flap flicked open and he almost sighed at the push of a fresh cool breeze. Scabior wandered in like a drunk, took one glance at the cot where Percy was captured, and stumbled to it. On…

Oh, Merlin, no! Percy glared at the offending muddy boots. "Off. Take those off. I just cleaned these sheets," he quickly hissed from between clenched teeth. He figured he didn't look any ounce of scolding with his position. Scabior blinked, a hint of a smirk on his face, but he listened. He quickly kicked off his boots to reveal something just as awful. Holey socks stained by sweat. With Percy distracted by them, he failed to prepare himself for the intent of the Snatcher until it was too late.

Percy wheezed under the weight of a second man. Scabior buried his face in Percy's chest right above the entrapment of Fenrir's arms who merely grumbled sleepily in Percy's ear. Another set of legs tangled with his own, further pinning them and diving hope of scuttling free to none. A furry werewolf at his back, a furry full of messy hair at his front, he groaned and fell into an uneasy sleep. In the back of his mind, he was planning on wrangling those socks from Scabior to clean and sew them up properly.

He woke to a blissfully empty cot. What was not blissful was the smell of burning meat wafting into the tent.

Whatever fear Percy had towards the Snatchers was quick to disappear by the first week with them. They were hopeless and dirty like a band of unruly children. Taking over the cooking, the cleaning, and the mending was second nature. More than once, he had to send one off to wash their hands or their faces. He scolded them to the point where it felt perfectly normal to slap at their dirty fingers and make demands they wash behind their ears. Now, he exited the tent like a dungeon bat, jolting any of the Snatchers near the tent. "Away, get away from there!" he screamed at one standing dumbly next to the open fire. He instinctively took an apron from a creeping Fenrir and shoved it on before snatching the spatula from the Snatcher burning their lunch. He made quick work and relaxed. The food had been saved from unskilled hands. He wouldn't be a Weasley worth his salt if he let food burn. It was when he was handing over the first dished plate that he was hit with a metaphorical Quaffle. A simple comment that explained so much.

"Thanks, mum!"

Percy froze then glanced down at the apron. Pink and frilly, a homemade—messy—embroidering proudly proclaiming the one wearing it to be mummy. He then glanced up at the cloudy gray skies in sinking dread. He was not unpacking this. He refused to. Try as he might, treacherous thoughts were running through his head.

He was a Snatcher mother now. No, a Snatcher mummy. They were following him because he was taking care of them; he remembered, his knees feeling weak, how he ordered one to cut their hair because it was getting in their eyes and he hadn't wanted them to get hurt on the job. There had been another as well. A young woman Snatcher who begged for his help in braiding her hair. In the middle of his newfound crisis, Scabior slid up towards one of his sides and grabbed the back of his head. He went with it, blinking with wide and shocked eyes, and jumped at the chaste press of lips against his cheek. Scabior stole the plate in Percy's hand, skipping to a tree stump to eat with a whispered comment of 'thank you, mummy.' The bastard had the gall to wink over his shoulder like a practically brattish child.

Yeah. No. Percy was not unpacking that either. He was still blaming Voldemort for this happening, purposefully ignoring his own mother hen actions that likely aided to this dynamic.

He found himself hours later with Scabior's now cleaned socks, a needle, and thread. Unable to keep it in anymore—the realization of never being set free, of likely never seeing his family again—he sobbed. Fenrir patted his head gently with a hand that ruined countless lives and he laughed through his tears.

"Why are you crying, mummy? Do I need to bite someone?" Fenrir opened his mouth to show a visual of his sharp teeth.

Percy laughed harder, hysterical. "No, please don't do that," he managed to say, but there was a glint in the werewolf's eyes that told him Fenrir would indeed maul anyone he pointed at or anyone who looked at him oddly. This was not what he expected when he decided to work at the Ministry. He never expected Voldemort to be back, he hadn't expected to join an underground muggle-born railroad, he hadn't expected a terrifying werewolf with the love to hurt children to look him straight in the eyes and protectively ruffle his hair. He continued laughing even when he couldn't cry anymore.

He may have very cracked. When Fenrir returned with a mysterious arm without the rest of the body and rested it at his feet like it was an offering from a cat, he cackled until his throat was sore.

As the night wore on, he retreated into his tent and then had to pause. His tent. Since when did he have anything was his own? Since when did those kidnapped own things? Those that were made mothers of their kidnappers, came the unbidden realization that he promised himself he wouldn't acknowledge. With his thoughts unraveling, far too full, he went to sleep.

The next morning—the sun barely lightening the world, a haze of fog covering the ground—Percy Weasley woke with one dreadful thought.

His children were Snatchers and were horribly dirty and uncouth.

So much for not unpacking anything. He was awful at doing what he wanted. Well…if this was going to be his reality for the unforeseeable future, he might as well do it right. The first task—

"Scabior! You're getting a haircut! You look like a shabby dog with ticks!"

He felt both dread and pride that Scabior took the haircut easily.

A decent distance away, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley were wondering why the Snatchers kept showing up with well-kept hair, clothing, and carrying perfectly packed lunches. By the time they caught sight of a neat and shaved Fenrir Greyback, they decided to investigate. To say they certainly hadn't expected a pink apron wearing Percy Weasley waving around a spatula would have been an understatement. Ron, however, seemed to have had a sudden epiphany the longer they watched in silence and—at Harry's and Hermione's confused looks—simply said, "Percy's the mum."