Marking Time

It's been two weeks, four days, fourteen hours, thirty minutes and twenty-six seconds since I found the courage to knock on the door to the Burrow to apologise to my family.

My mother - yes, my mother, always my mother no matter how much I may have tried to pretend otherwise - enveloped me in one of her hugs. Her hugs are bone-crushing, somehow managing to squeeze all the air out of my lungs even though she's so much shorter than me. Even so, I discovered I had missed them, missed the way she worries and fusses and tries to get me to eat another plateful. It occurred to me that I must have caused her to worry a great deal in the past year or so, when I was pretending I didn't care. That she turned up at my door once showed that she still thought of me, at least, and it doesn't make me proud that I shut the door on her. It makes me less proud still thinking of what she must have gone through, thinking about the rift I caused in our family. She didn't need that on top of everything else.

And now I've caused an even greater rift, by returning.

Ron saw me at the door when it opened and didn't stay to listen at all. I think he would have hexed me several times over if he could have done so without the Ministry expelling him from school. Instead he just turned and left. I could hear him going up the stairs and then slamming the door to his room.

The twins sneered at me as soon as they saw me. I never realised how ugly an expression a sneer is, especially on faces that are supposed to be laughing and grinning. I had already accepted that neither they nor Ron would forgive me for I had done just because I was going to apologise, but it still hurt to know that I had been right. I doubt if they'll ever forgive me, and I know that I don't deserve to be forgiven.

Bill was there, which I hadn't expected. I didn't know that he had stayed because of Voldemort. He always was more astute about situations than I was, about figuring out what was real and what was simply lies being fed to the masses to keep them calm. He didn't say anything; neither did he show acceptance or condemnation through his expression. Still, he listened.

My father - Arthur - no, my father was much like Bill. He looked tired and weary and there were more lines in his face than I remembered. When I finished, he simply smiled and said, "Thank you." It wasn't forgiveness, but it was acceptance. I deserve less.

I almost couldn't bear to look at Ginny. She is the baby of our family and the only girl, and she will always hold that position in our hearts, even when she's seventy. If we're around then. We're supposed to protect her and now I've failed in that twice, once in her first year of school and once again in her fourth. My little sister was battling Death Eaters while I was writing reports for Fudge. She was much like Bill, showing neither acceptance nor condemnation.

I wish you had been there. It would have been nice to know for sure that I had somebody who could and had forgiven that which shouldn't be forgiven. But I knew that I had to do that alone, by myself, as I left alone, by myself.

It's been one week, six days, eight hours and sixteen minutes since you said you loved me. I don't know the seconds because our bedroom clock doesn't show them and I was too stunned to look at my watch, but I can remember the position of the hands on the clock.

That's what this letter was supposed to be about. Or not a letter really, they start with "Dear So-and-so" and have a comment on the weather in the first paragraph. A note, then, that's long and rambling and has no structure and isn't short and brief like notes are supposed to be.

How could anyone love me? I'm skinny, pale, I have freckles from the few times I'm in the sun, I wear glasses and I have bright, flaming red hair that will always point to who my family is even when I tried to deny that I had any family.

I'm not saying that I think you lied - never that! - but I don't understand how you can mean it. How you could look me straight in the eyes, touch my cheek so gently and say that you love me in a way that leaves no doubt, that I have to believe?

And I didn't say anything. I couldn't. You didn't ask it of me, just pulled me to you, wrapping your arms around me.

"Know that I love you, Percy Ignatius Weasley."

That's what you said. I remember every word, every nuance, the tone of your voice, deep and slightly husky and your hand resting on the small of my back while the fingers of your other hand touched the bridge of my nose.

I should have said the same - or not the same, but something similar, something that spoke what I felt - in return. Except that I didn't know what I felt. I knew that I enjoyed being with you, that I counted the seconds until I'd see you again. I knew that I memorised every bit of you as well as I could. Your dark brown hair, messy because you'd been flying, your palms roughened and callused because you've held a broomstick since before you could walk, your stomach and back strong to support you each time you block the quaffle. You are shorter than me, the top of your head is at my eye level, but you are stronger and can lift me with no trouble. I knew that I lived to be with you, that you were my lifeline, that I couldn't imagine a life without your presence in it, in whatever way. Even if that presence was only in the distance as you flew around the hoops and I watched from beneath the stands, as long as it was there I could go on.

I knew all this and more, but I didn't know what to call it. I knew what you made me feel, but not how to label it, how to categorise it. That left me so uncertain, not knowing and not knowing how to research to find out. And then you said what you felt and I suddenly had a name for my feelings.

You prodded me in the ribs and told me to breathe and the moment was lost to humour. Humour can hide so much. If I had realised that in Hogwarts, I would have hidden less behind the rules and more behind humour. Fred and George use it all the time; people always like them but very few know how they think and what they feel. Ask them a personal question and they will turn it into a joke and you will think they've answered when they haven't. I never appreciated their subtlety before, I only saw the way they forever teased and tormented me. Now they don't and I miss it; that was their way of showing they cared.

One week, six days and forty-five minutes now, and I still haven't written what I want to.

I wish I could say this out loud, but I can't. I've tried so many times but the words always stick in my throat and come out asking you if you'd like a cup of tea or if you could pass the paper, please. Even when I've already read the paper cover to cover and you've got a full cup by your elbow. And even now, I can hardly write it. This note could have been four or five words long and said everything I intended to, but instead I rambled, telling you about my family's reaction, which you've asked about but I haven't been able to speak of that, either.

I can hear you getting up, which means I have to leave or else I'll be late. And I have to leave because I barely have the courage to leave this for you to read, let alone be around while you read it.

Know that I love you, Oliver Wood.