Come Talk to Me

Come Talk to Me

The wretched desert takes its form, the jackal proud and tight
In search of you, I feel my way, though the slowest heaving night

There's a slight breeze blowing around the Burrow, and Molly has the window open to catch any air currents that might venture in. Besides, the room is stuffy and it cries out for some sort of ventilation, even as the occasional puff of wind kicks up dust and rustles papers.

Arthur has told her to leave this for another day, but Molly is a practical woman. Today will hurt, and so will the day that she finally breaks down and does this. Why prolong the pain when she has so many other duties? Get it all over and done with.

She brandishes her dust cloth at the furniture, and in short order the headboard of the bed is wiped clean and the nightstand has been tidied. The rugs are levitated out the window and vigorously shaken, and the floor is swept with a charmed broom. This is easier than she thought, she tells herself, but she doesn't remotely believe it.

Especially as she opens the dresser.

She has three sacks with her. One is for what clothes can be kept, either for Ron or Ginny, or for sentimentality, although goodness knows that Ronald has grown so much he may not fit into even Percy's cast-offs. One is for what clothes are rejects, but in good enough shape to pass on to charity, or even to sell to a second-hand shop. And the third is simply to be thrown away; she can't bring herself to think the word "rubbish".

She sings a song under her breath as she works. Jumpers can be kept. Underwear can be discarded. This robe might fit Ron, that one has a tear and a large ink stain on the cuff and was probably third-hand to begin with, anyway. He hasn't left much, and the dresser and the closet both take a surprisingly short amount of time.

Two of the jumpers she had knit herself find their way into the trash, along with an impatiently swept-away angry tear. But there isonly a moment to spare before she returns to the dresser, polishing the wood with more force than needed.

And then the only piece of furniture left is the desk.

He has taken anything to do with the Ministry, from his books and documents to every last note on cauldron bottoms. There are no quills, no ink, no scraps of paper blotted with addresses or names or simple doodles. He's taken everything that could be of use to him in his life now.

She opens a drawer, and finally, the tears that she's pent up all day begin to fall. Not hot, noisy sobs, but silent tears coursing down her cheeks and making her hiccup occasionally.
Silly things, some of them. Such silly, silly things. A charmed box that plays his favorite Broken Sneakoscopes songs. A stack of comic books, thumbed through and torn about the edges. A few bronze knuts that he'd missed in the purge. A few bookmarks, some with lurid characters on them and some with just simple, elegant designs. And some things that were not so silly, like the screwdrivers that Arthur had given him and the figurine and the bundle of pictures tied neatly with frayed string. She pulls out the pictures and picks apart the knot, and the pictures scatter across the floor.

As she looks at them, her solemn, serious boy grins and waves, makes faces, pokes his brothers, laughs and cries. From a tiny baby to a young but capable man, the face and body change but the eyes remain the same. Molly sinks to sit on the floor, crying into her hands as if she will never stop.

Percy can be an infant, a child, a Prefect, a man. He can be alone, be with that Penelope, or be standing in the shadows of his brothers, stuck in the middle. He can be in his office in the Ministry, in a tiny flat somewhere in London, in Gryffindor Tower or running over the grass, shouting at her to come see the butterfly he'd caught. He can be home or gone. He can speak to her or ignore her or anything in between. And she can be mad, be hurt, be angry, be devastated. She can miss him with every breath and he can not even think about her, but it will never change one fact that was made irrevocable on this day twenty years ago:

He'll always be her baby.

Whatever fear invents, I swear it make no sense
I reach through the border fence
Come down, come talk to me

The sun is just as bright and hot in London as it is at home, and it slants through the window of a shared flat, glinting off the metal of frames and the silver in Fleur's hair. Bill smiles as he comes in, holding up a plastic bag.

"It's too hot for you to cook tonight," he says.

Fleur looks up from the documents she's poring over. "I wasn't going to," she laughs. "I was going to make you do it."

"Good thing I got take-away then," Bill says, plopping the bag on the counter. He kisses her, and she smiles at him. "Any post come today?"

Her face darkens slightly. "Oui." He looks at her, alarmed that she's slipped back into French, and she holds out the scroll.

The unopened scroll, addressed in his own hand to Percy Weasley. The words "Return to sender" are scrawled on it in official-looking red ink and his brother's handwriting.

Bill begins to tremble.

"What ez it?" Fleur asks.

It takes three swallows before his voice will work correctly- or something approaching it. "I wrote to both Charlie and Percy. To let them know we're getting married this weekend, and to ask them to be there." She knows this, but she nods uncertainly anyway. "This is it. That's the only letter I wrote him. He sent it back."

He sits down heavily, his limbs heavy as if they were moving through molasses and time standing still. He's still shaking, and now he can feel it. Funny. He's been scared and nervous and excited and every other emotion, and he can't ever remember it bringing him to this state before. "He didn't even read it," he says, and his voice is thick and choked. "He didn't even read it. He doesn't know we're getting married. He won't be there...."

He seizes the scroll, but Fleur has the presence of mind to take it from him before he hurls it across the room.

It's not going to be a big wedding. It's going to be a quick, hurried quiet affair with family and a few friends and maybe a nice cake. Both he and Fleur would have liked something bigger- something more celebratory- but it's neither appropriate nor wise. But when he looks at her, he knows it doesn't matter what the ceremony and party are like; it's still going to be the biggest day of his life.

And Percy won't even know it's happening.

He won't cry. He hasn't cried in years; the tear ducts don't even work any more as far as he's concerned. But he buries his face in his hands, still shaking and white enough to scare the girl watching him, lost and completely aware that there is absolutely nothing she can say to make it better.

In the swirling, curling storm of desire unuttered words hold fast
With reptile tongue, the lightning lashes towers built to last
Darkness creeps in like a thief and offers no relief
Why are you shaking like a leaf
Come on, come talk to me

It's late when Charlie wakes up, heart pounding and sweat covering his brow. He's always been prone to nightmares- it's the product of an overactive imagination. And with the war in Britain, and even strange things happening out here and his work for the Order, the nightmares have only increased. But he doesn't say anything, because that's the price of being a soldier and he's certainly not the only one with fears.

Besides, real men don't have nightmares.

He slides out of bed and pads into the kitchen of the cabin he shares with three other blokes. The other three are still asleep- he can hear Wilkes snoring from out here. He makes a cup of tea and pulls out a parchment, reading over what he's written.

Charlie might be adventurous enough to travel to Romania and live this life out here, but part of his heart has always been at home with his family. Bill has been friend, tormenter, and liege ever since he can remember, and he can barely remember life without the twins (well, they are memorable). He looks forward to missives from his father, telling him about Ginny and his mother, and the smell of homemade bread still makes him intensely homesick. He's enjoyed the chances he's had to see Ron. And for the past who knows how many years, he's had his letters from Percy.

Percy's stopped writing back, but Charlie writes anyway. Ever since he can remember, Percy has been his ally against Bill. You need one when dealing with an obnoxious older brother, and two against one has always been the best defense. They don't have much in common, Percy and Charlie. Charlie loves Quidditch and animals and living here in the wild, and Percy is so neat and compulsive and obsessive and rule-oriented. But you put them together and between the two of them they could always thwart their older brother. And when Percy started Hogwarts two years after Charlie, it was always Charlie, not Bill, who looked after him. After all, Charlie wasn't a Prefect with a conscience, and had no problem pounding any first years who gave his younger brother trouble.

He's told Percy about the Horntajl that's got a deep cut in her belly and Kirke's adventures in potion-brewing, and now he can add the story of how he and Humperneckle got lost trying to track a young Romanian Longhorn and ended up caught in a violent summer thundershower. He adds as much color as he can to the story, remembering how when they were young he could always make Percy laugh.

"You writing again?" It's Kirke, staggering into the kitchen in search of a late night snack.

"Yeah," Charlie says, his quill not stopping in its steady rhythm. Kirke glances over his shoulder.

"Don't know why you bother. He never writes back."

"Maybe this time he will."

Kirke doesn't need to say anything; his snort is eloquent enough.

The truth is Charlie can't bring himself to believe it, not really. Percy always used to write long, rambling letters to him, and he can't quite comprehend that they've stopped. But he holds to one slim ray of hope, and that's that his letters are not returned. They might end up in the trash, or perhaps Penelope intercepts them and holds on to them, begging Percy to keep them because there may be a time when he wants to read them, but maybe, just maybe he does read them.

So Charlie is always careful to keep Mum and Dad and the others out of his letters. He writes as if he's a lone outpost in Romania, ignorant of You-Know-Who's return and the turmoil that rages in Britain, and as if he's never heard of Albus Dumbledore. He feels a bit a traitor, and it makes him angry.

"What have I done?" he mutters.

"Huh?" Kirke asks, looking up from the intricate process of assembling a peanut butter and jam sandwich.

"What have I done?" Charlie says, a sudden annoyance sweeping over him. "I've said nothing about this whole fight with Mum and Dad. Nothing. I haven't urged him to consider or be rational, I haven't said he's being an utter prat, and I haven't gone on about how wise Dumbledore is or anything like that! And yet he has the nerve to treat me like he treats the rest of the bloody family!

And don't they know you don't cross Percy like that? I mean, he's not that hard to figure out! He's got his pride and his career is important to him, and that's not a bad thing! I'm glad his career is important to him! He won't be a shiftless waste of talent like that Erlemyer bloke I went to school with."

Kirke blinked slowly, and Charlie realized his voice had risen to a shout. He sat back down at the table.

"Sorry. I'm just a little pissed off. Today's my brother's birthday, and I can't even be sure he'll get the card I sent him. And I don't even know what I did to have him act like this!"

Kirke nodded again, and pushed a sandwich across the table. "Sometimes you just can't tell," he said.

"Yeah. Guess not."

Ah please talk to me
Won't you please talk to me
We can unlock this misery
Come on, come talk to me

It's been going on for what seems like hours, but Hermione doesn't seem to mind. Ginny is alternating between tears and angry swearing that would either shock her older brothers, or in the case of Fred and George make them sniff with pride. But Hermione is a rock, patient and silent, with hugs and condolences and words that don't mean much but sound pretty.

"It's not me that I'm upset for," Ginny explains again, wiping her nose on her arm. "It's Mum and Dad. I mean, Percy never paid much attention to me, really. We weren't that close. By the time I was old enough to really know what was going on he was at Hogwarts."

It wasn't at all that simple, and Ginny knows Hermione knows it. They both remember that terrible year that Ginny hates to even think about, when she wasn't at all herself and Percy was so upset when he discovered....

"It's funny," she sniffs, more to herself. "He believed me that year."

"He believed it because it was an artifact," Hermione reminds her gently. "It was different."

"But he cared."

He had. To an extent. He'd cared about other things too.

Ginny knows that within the hour she'll be back to her angry swearing, and an hour later she'll try to forget the whole thing. She's not a Weasley for nothing, after all, and Weasleys are brave and Gryffindors and that means that they'll always put the best face on and go forward. And really, isn't it silly to mourn a brother that's not even dead?

It feels like he is, though.

"It's so strange to have a birthday and no cake," she tells Hermione. "It shouldn't feel that way. We haven't had a cake for Ron in five years, because he's been at school."

Hermione nods like she understands. Ginny could rant that she doesn't- after all, Hermione is an only child- but she doesn't see the point. Hermione might not have ever been in this situation, but she understands loneliness and anger and protectiveness over the people you love. And right now she slips an arm around Ginny.

"It will get better someday," she says, and even though there's nothing to prove she's right and Hermione is certainly not a prophetess, Ginny decides to believe her.

The earthly power sucks shadowed milk from sleepy tears undone
From nippled skin as smooth as silk the bugles blown as one
You lie there with your eyes half closed like there's no-one there at all
There's a tension pulling on your face
Come on, come talk to me

Neither of them feel like moving, not really. Ron lays on his back in the sun, well aware that he's likely to burn and not caring. The heat makes him lazy, and he has no desire to change that. He closes his eyes, tilting his face to the light.

Beside him Harry is restless, but quiet as he's been much of the summer. He's lost in thought, but Ron doesn't even have to look at him to know why. He can sense it in Harry's fidgets and fusses, but he doesn't worry about it. He appreciates that Harry does though.

"Erm," Harry says.

Ron ignores him. The sun really does feel nice, and there's a breeze. It's soft and graces over his skin, and it teases his lips into a smile.

"Know we should be practicing," he murmurs. "Any idea who'll be Quidditch captain this year?"

"No. Look, Ron...." Again, Harry, can't find the words, and Ron cracks an eye open to see him rubbing the back of his neck.

"It would be brilliant if we co-captained, wouldn't it? We'd be unstoppable." It's a great daydream, and with his eyes closed like this Ron can see it perfectly. Developing strategies together, arguing about tactics, flying with their red robes billowing around them, Hermione cheering them on from the stands... he likes this daydream.

"I know what today is," Harry finally blurts, and Ron still smiles.

"Tuesday, I think, isn't it?"

"Ron...."

He won't be diverted. Ron pushes himself up, sighing as he brushes the grass away. "Come on, Harry. We should get some practice in. Can't go back to Hogwarts out of practice." He meets Harry's eyes, not knowing that his own are begging silently.

But the message is received. "All right," Harry agrees. "Let's go get the brooms."

Don't you ever change your mind
Now your future's so defined
And you act so deaf and blind
Come on, come talk to me
Come talk to me

"I hate him."

It's a low growl, from Fred. It doesn't seem to really be addressed at anything, as they're in their lab, working on the production of their fake wands. Sales have exceeded even what they expected, and they've hired help.

"Who? Prevers?" George asks, looking up from measuring beetle eyes. He's talking about one of their two new employees; he's more than a bit daft at times. The Weasley twins still have a lot to learn about hiring people, they've discovered.

"No, although he's a git too." Fred flings the wand he's working on across the room. It feels good, in a way, but only like a drop of water on a burnt palm. It's not nearly enough. "Percy."

"Oh." And George doesn't know what to say, because he knows exactly how Fred feels and doesn't know what he'd want to hear, either. He sets down the spoon he's using to scoop ingredients and thinks. "You know what we need?"

"What?" Fred demands.

"We need to go out and get good and pissed. Have a good time. Get our minds off it."

Fred thinks about this, scowling. "You're right," he decides. Let's go."

Fred and George rarely drink for the sake of drinking. Usually it's a social event, with friends and laughter and good times for everyone. But when they do drink to get drunk, it's best not to stand in their way.

It's not a busy night at the Leaky Cauldron. The reappearance of Voldemort has people scared. To Fred and George, right now it means thinned lines and easier access to liquor. They find seats easily and are debating if they should get shots, or just buy the whole bottle of whiskey.

Then they spot him.

Percy is sitting at a table. It's not in the corner, but not in the center of the room, either. He's eating, and laughing at something that's been said. There's Penelope Clearwater ("she's still with the wanker?" is the first thing Fred mutters, followed by some inappropriate speculations on his brother's anatomy and skill level), and a bloke and a girl they don't know too well. It's obviously a birthday dinner, and a wrapped gift can be spotted.

It fills them both with rage. Percy is celebrating his birthday as if his family never existed.

George deliberately drops his glass and it shatters, turning every head in the place towards them. Percy is naturally included, and even from here they can see him freeze, his face going pale enough for his freckles to stand out. They both wait, breathless, as Percy watches them, an unreadable expression on his face.

And then Percy turns back to his dinner and his companions, and his pompous tone floats to their ears. "So as I was saying, I think the Ministry should only provide loans to small businesses that are to be a benefit to the Wizarding World, not something that exists solely for the amusement of the owners."

Fred and George don't even have to exchange glances before they're out the door, headed for Knockturn Alley. It might not be nice, it might not be safe, but it's far better than here.

I can imagine the moment
Breaking out through the silence
All the things that we both might say
And the heart it will not be denied
'til we're both on the same damn side
All the barriers blown away

It's late, but Arthur creeps downstairs on bare feet. Much like his second son, he needs to find solace in the kitchen, but no nightmares have woken him. For nightmares to happen, you need to be able to sleep.

There's a light on, and for one brief, crazy moment he imagines that Percy has come home and is sitting in the kitchen. Ridiculous, of course, especially when he sees that the late night guest has gray hair, not red, and is far older than Percy.

"Hello, Remus," he says, disappointed despite himself. "You're up late."

"I couldn't sleep," Remus answers casually. "You're up late as well."

"Same answer, I suppose. What brings you down here?" Remus has been staying in the room Bill and Charlie used to share, but is much quieter. He looks as tired and worn as Arthur feels.

"I figured if I couldn't sleep I could at least pretend to convince myself with warm milk. Do you want some? There's enough for two."

At times, Arthur wonders if Remus has the Inner Eye, but he realizes that the man is just intuitive enough that he knew at least one Weasley wouldn't sleep tonight. He helps himself to a mug of the stuff, sprinkling some sugar across the top. He sips it, and wonders what other ingredients Remus might have slipped in.

"Long day?" Remus asks as Arthur settles at the table.

"Yes." He scrubs his face with his hands. "You must have sensed it."

"The house has been a bit tense, yes," Remus admits with a wry smile. "How are you doing?"

It's a question no one has asked him all day. The children don't, of course, because he's Dad and therefore he's their support, not the other way around. Which is as it should be, he reminds himself. And it's a tender subject between him and Molly, because although they agree, he's the one who shouted at Percy and he's the one who made the accusations, and there's always the unspoken fear that he's the one that drove Percy away. But Remus is watching him with composed, compassionate eyes and he's able to take off his glasses and admit, "Not so good."

Remus just watches him under the warm glow of the kitchen light.

"I wish I could say I just felt one thing. That I was angry, or hurt, or guilty, or sad, or any of that. It would be easier."

Remus smiles humorlessly, and Arthur knows all too well he understands.

"I want to be angry, and at the same time I keep wishing I had done it differently."

"Could you have done it differently?"

"That's just it. I don't think so. I stand by everything I said. I just wish..." he sighs and picks up his glasses, polishing them idly on his pajama shirt. "I just wish...."

"You wish what?"

Arthur looks at Remus, with the open window behind him and the wind teasing the curtains as the light of the moon tinges the glass. He thinks of the first war and all of the losses Remus suffered then, and those twelve years he's only gleaned tidbits of information about. He thinks about Remus's latest loss, and how he can sit here in a kitchen that doesn't belong to him and ask someone who's sort of a friend what's wrong and be ready to actually listen to the answer. And so he lays his soul absolutely bare before the man across the table.

"It doesn't matter. All that matters is I miss him."

And he closes his eyes and lets a tear streak his face as the hand of someone far more experienced in this reaches out to grip his.

I said please talk to me
If you'd just talk to me
Unblock this misery
If you'd only talk to me