The Desk

The Desk

There was an old saying that a clean desk was the sign of a cluttered drawer.

Percy Weasley considered that saying to be absolute rubbish. His desk was immaculate, and so were all of its many drawers.

As far as he could tell, a clean desk was the sign of a sharp, well-organized mind -- which was a far more logical conclusion than that hackneyed old saw was, anyway. A clean desk meant that you knew where everything was. Percy had always believed very strongly in "a place for everything and everything in its place."

He had always known his place, for example. Unlike the rest of his family.

Percy slammed the top drawer of his desk shut with unnecessary force.

His father's desk was a right mess. It always had been, and it had always struck him as wrong, ever since the day he was seven years old and had gone to the Ministry for the very first time. Oh yes, Arthur's desk was a right bloody mess, covered in papers and memos flittering back and forth for attention and oddball Muggle artifacts and photographs and magazine clippings and rubbish, so much useless rubbish...

Percy paused for a moment, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. It seemed odd to be thinking of his father as Arthur, instead of Father or just Dad.

Then he resumed shuffling his papers. Well, why not? That was the man's name.

Percy's thoughts returned to the notion of a clean desk meaning a cluttered drawer. Did that mean a cluttered desk meant a clean drawer, and by logical extension, a clear mind?

Bollocks. Arthur's desk was cluttered, and so were his desk drawers, and so was his mind, apparently. Percy had been grimly certain of that much ever since the day he had come home with a promotion, and left home with the proverbial flea in his ear.

That was rather a nasty saying too, he reflected.

There had always been a lot of things about his family which Percy had never really understood. The way they were willing to live, for example. The line of his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be married, or if he'd have a family, but if he did he would damn well make sure that his children weren't sent to school in threadbare hand-me-downs. He'd never understood all the noise, either. Why did his siblings feel as though they had to shout all the time? No wonder he'd grown up with terrible headaches.

And as far as headaches went, he'd never understand why they were willing to swallow everything they heard from Dumbledore and Potter without even considering the possibility that perhaps there was more to the story.

Percy leaned forward and slid the quill he had been using into its proper place, between the inkwell and the neat stack of parchments in his outbox.

And even if Volde-- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really was back, there were better ways to go about fighting him than to throw the entire wizarding world into a panic and defy the Ministry of Magic by shouting it from every available rooftop. Anybody should be able to see that, and he would stick to his principles, no matter how much he missed his family.

Percy sighed, loneliness and sadness flickering over his face, and for just an instant, he looked much younger than he usually did.

Then his back snapped back to ramrod-straightness, and he adjusted his glasses on his nose before standing up and walking out of his office, leaving an immaculate desk behind.