Orderly

Orderly. That was how he liked his life; everything had a time and a place, carefully scheduled in his planner or etched into a slot on one of his long lists. His office was meticulously tidy, desk straightened just so, each picture framed and tilted in an attractive fashion. The papers stacked in his in-box towered over the rest of the objects on the desk, though the pile was neat and no edges stuck out. Several urgent notices zoomed around the ceiling, though he took little notice of them as he sat in his chair.

Through dedication and hard work, Percy Weasley had been promoted. He now had his own office, complete with a shining sign on the door and an enchanted window. He made twice as much money as his father, though he disliked thinking of Arthur in such a familiar fashion. His father was a fool.

The pale red-head stared at the paper before him. It was centered in the middle of his desk, and he hunched protectively over it. He wrote notes in the margins with a pleasant, cramped script. The report might have been a top secret document, for all the attention he was giving it. In reality, it was a boring summary of the latest misuse of magic trial that he had been asked to attend.

A frown creased the skin between his eyebrows. Work was an escape; he devoted himself to it with an unhealthy attachment, forcing his way into the higher ranks of the Ministry of Magic. He had his own flat now; he hadn't spoken to anyone in his family for months, and Penelope Clearwater had gone and gotten herself engaged to a different man. Percy had nothing but work to keep him occupied.

He noticed that he had stopped writing. He stared at his freckled hand as though it was a foreign object. He gripped the pen tightly, his knuckles white from the pressure. He was holding on for dear life.

His brown eyes strayed to one of the photos resting on his desk. It was a picture taken at his graduation; his family had walked out of it, but every so often he saw his mother lurking in the background. Out of the corner of his eyes he would see her staring hopefully at his taut form, twisting her hands. It drove him mad.

The door opened, and two other notes flew in. Percy sighed as he watched them, then straightened as he saw he had a visitor.

"I just wanted to - hello, Percy," his father blurted, shifting uncomfortably. The man was dressed shabbily, a horrible brown jacket covering his shrunken blue shirt. His eyes were shadowed by a purple so dark it looked as though he had been punched. Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Can I help you?" Percy asked rudely, staring intimidatingly from behind his large desk. His office, he knew, was twice as large as his father's. He noticed that the other man was looking around with curiosity.

Arthur closed the door behind him with a soft click. "We need to talk." This was the most that they had spoken to each other since August

Waving imperiously at one of his receiving chairs, Percy waited for his father to speak. He inclined his chin politely to show that he was listening, masking the interest that made his stomach tighten. Funny, really. He hadn't expected to feel so - there was no help for it, it was the truth - so elated at his father's presence. It was almost embarrassing.

The older man adjusted his glasses, seating himself in a chair. He perched on the end, touching it as little as possible. He looked at his son with pain in his eyes, the expression open and honest. "Molly wants you to come home tonight. To be with us."

Percy found himself curling his lips in a snide little smile. He couldn't stop himself. "How touching. The holiday spirit seems to have gone to her head, Arthur." He spoke his father's name with a bitter tongue, brown eyes dark.

Arthur leaned forward angrily, jabbing a finger onto the desk. It displaced one of the framed photos, nudging it to the left. His son reached out automatically and re-adjusted it, looking annoyed.

"You listen to me, Percy. You can be a little prat to me, but don't you dare talk that way about your mother. Do you know what it does to her, you not talking to us anymore? The least you could have done was written a card for Thanksgiving. The least you could have done was acknowledged her presence at the Ministry holiday party!" These words had been bottled up for so long, they exploded from Arthur's chapped lips. Whenever he was angry, his voice was hushed, words clear and sharp. They bit at Percy like the doxies that had attacked him when he was seven. His mother had saved him, he recalled now. He had cried for hours.

Yelling at Percy, however, had never been wise. "You want me to apologize? If you both weren't being so bloody ridiculous, things would be different! All you ever go on about is You-Know-Who! You'll believe anything that comes out of Harry Potter's mouth!"

"You-Know-Who is back, Percy, no matter how hard you try to wish him away. He's not going to disappear!"

"You're mad! He is not back! It's not possible! This is all some scheme of Potter's. He's just looking for publicity!"

"This had nothing to do with Harry. This is the real deal, Percy! You-Know-Who is already murdering wizards directly beneath the Ministry's nose!"

"If you say another word, I'll summon in the guards! This is traitorous talk!"

"Look what you've become! You're Fudge's own parakeet!"

"Look what you've become! A poor old man with a family he can't even afford to feed. You lack ambition, you silly old fool! You're weak!"

Arthur didn't bother to answer that. Silence hung in the room for a few moments, before the man stood abruptly. The chair scraped noisily against the hard floor. There was murder in his gaze, though it was still bruised with pain. He shook his head slowly, face deathly pale. "Happy Christmas Eve, then."

"You too."

Percy watched his father - Arthur - leave with an odd sense of detachment. He was floating for a moment, nothing tying him to the world. He looked absently back down at his paper, and found himself again.

Work. This was what he cared about now. He had just been offered his life back, loving family and all, and he had thrown it away. Tossed it aside like rubbish, in place of the files that waited patiently in his in-box.

Moving slowly, as though he was under water, he selected a new file and opened it. He set it neatly in the center of his desk, replacing the paper that he had just tucked into the out-box. Arthur had left the door ajar, and Christmas music filtered into the room.

"Just two more files," he muttered to himself, closing the door with a quick spell. Later he would return to his empty flat. The only decoration he had was a small pine tree kept in the middle of his kitchen table, decorated with a forlorn strand of tinsel.

He turned the stove on quietly, turning to fiddle with the tinsel. Its silvery strands caught the light, floating silently in the cold draft fluttering in from the window.

He re-centered the tree in the middle of the table, adjusting everything within his reach. Everything had a designated place. It was lonely, standing by himself in his kitchen on Christmas Eve. He remembered Arthur's offer, and almost regretted his words. Almost.

There was no room in his life for Voldemort, or even for Harry Potter's wild accusations. There was no room for a family, or even for a mother. There was only room for work, and the Ministry, and his flat. Occasionally he found time to read a book or two, but for the most part his life was occupied.

That was the way he liked things, neat and orderly. He didn't need to toy with emotion; it was bothersome enough, and only made him less productive. This way he was happy.

Are you mad? a small voice asked in the back of his head. It pierced suddenly through his thoughts, jerking his body like a marionette on a string.

"Let me go!" The scream ripped itself from his throat, each word more painful than the last. He clawed at the table, knocking over the tree. He fell to his knees, convulsing like someone having a seizure.

Suddenly he lay still again. Do that again, and I'll kill you. This time it was another voice, smooth and low, dreadfully familiar. It was the sound of venom seeping through his overworked brain.

Percy stood, mouth working silently. He straightened the tree, placing it in the absolute center of the table. He turned back to the boiling pot, expression loose and unconcerned.

Orderly. That is the way you like your life.

Orderly. This is the way I like my life. I need perfection.

Good. Focus on your work - you can go far.

If I focus on my work, I can achieve anything I want. I could even be Minister some day.

I'm surprised that you were placed in Gryffindor. You would have made a fine Slytherin.

I'm not a Gryffindor any more.

No, you're not. A light laugh. Certainly not.

Certainly...not.

The red-head stirred his dinner, mouth still. The bubbles writhed, hot and large, boiling his pasta. This was easy and efficient. He had little time for an elaborate meal, even on Christmas Eve.

His fingers twitched rebelliously before the Imperious took hold again. He straightened impulsively and re-adjusted the position of a vase. Orderly. That was the way he liked his life. Everything had a time, everything had a place. He felt like making another list; lists soothed his thoughts, helped him set them all into their appropriate places. Things were simpler when written down.

Somewhere deep within his mind, Percy waited. There would be a proper time and place, and then he would reveal himself. For now he pretended to be a limp doll, clutched within the Death Eater's grasp. Tomorrow he would strike, and strike hard.

For now, he would continue stirring. The voice purred to him again, soothing his inner confusion. He turned the stove off, wiping his fingers on a cloth. He finished his dinner alone, meticulously scrubbing each dish. He placed them on the drying tray, smiling. The china gleamed.

He was pleased with himself. This was the way he liked his life. This was how he was supposed to function.

He was not weak, and that was all that mattered.

He was orderly.