Pigeonhole

Pigeonhole

Percy Weasley liked to pigeonhole things. He preferred to be able to sort things, with no overlapping. His desk was meticulously organized, with a place for everything and everything in its place. He refused to let the food on his plate touch anything else on the plate. He classified people, put them into categories. He even analyzed his family.

In a family as large as his, Percy Weasley felt that it was next to impossible to occupy more than one niche in his parents' affections. As such, he intended to occupy his niche to the best of his abilities. The problem was, he had practically no idea which niche was his to fill.

Percy was a person who valued stability, order and security. He liked to know where he stood in the grand scheme of things. He liked to know what was coming next for him every day. And, most of all, he liked to know that, no matter how hard times got, there would always be something there to catch him if he fell. Living at the Burrow, Percy couldn't find the stability, order and security he needed.

He'd always been known at Hogwarts where he fit. He was a star student, a prefect, eventually Head Boy. He knew the rules, and knew that the students generally followed them. He knew that his good marks and recommendations from professors would ensure him a good, respectable job when he graduated. But at the Burrow, with his family, Percy had none of these things.

He didn't have a category to fill. Bill was the smart, likeable one. Charlie was the athletic, charming one. The twins were the funny but smart ones, and Ron was the goofy but friendly and loveable one. Ginny was the independent one who marched to her own drummer. So what category did that leave him?

Living in the Burrow was chaos. Especially with the twins around, anything and everything was liable to happen. People turned into canaries, useless Muggle plugs and batteries showed up at the dinner table, owls crashed into the kitchen window. Nothing was predictable, nothing.

And the family was poor. There was no nice way to say it; no euphemism to get around the fact that they struggled for money, that every single thing they owned represented another small blow to their meager bank account. Arthur Weasley was a good man, but he lacked any respect at the office. Percy had heard the snickers and mutters that rippled through the room whenever his father passed through, and he wondered how his father could feel secure in his job as an underling, a very minor official in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.

That is why Percival Prewett Weasley created his own pigeonhole, his own order, his own security.

Percy's mother and father expected him to come home with top marks. They expected the prefectship, the perfect discipline record, the glowing words from the teachers. For years after Percy had first started attending Hogwarts, they had waited in breathless anticipation for the Head Boy badge that came in the mail the summer before his seventh year. However, they did not expect him to be likeable. They did not expect any charm from him. They expected no sense of humor, no obvious hints of affability and friendship. And they certainly expected no imagination from him.

Very well. That is what they would get.

So he worked. He put all of his energy into creating his perfect world at home. He became the overachieving, academically successful son that they expected. He got the Head Boy badge, he came out at the top of his year, he graduated with honors, he landed a prestigious job with the Ministry of Magic. When he'd lapsed in judgment and failed to notice any anomalies in Bartemius Crouch's behavior, he put extra effort into his work and had earned the attention of the Minister of Magic himself. And when he was promoted, he jubilantly hurried home to tell his parents.

Look, he planned to say. Look! I've become all that you expected me to be! Isn't it wonderful? All my hard years of work have paid off! Are you proud, Mother and Father? A promotion! This early in my career! Can you believe it?

But something had gone horribly wrong. Somewhere his calculations had slipped and he'd made another error in judgment. As his father calmly explained his view on the situation with Dumbledore, the Ministry and the Weasley family, Percy's mind danced back and forth, desperately, frantically trying to find where he had messed up.

And to his horror, Percy had heard himself shouting things he'd never known he thought. Things about his father holding him back, his father irresponsibly keeping the family in poverty. Things about loyalty to the Ministry and not to the crackpot headmaster of Hogwarts.

Later, in the privacy and silence of his own room, Percy sat down on his bed and cried. He hadn't cried this way in years, and intended to never do so again; but tonight, Percy sobbed into his pillow like a broken child.

Where do I fit in, in this patchwork family? He'd screamed silently to himself. Why can I not fill the niche that I need to fill? They've expected excellence from me, and that's what I've given them. What more can I do?

They think you're a prat, a nasty little voice muttered in the back of his head. 'Big Head Boy,' remember?

That little reminder had been enough to send Percy over the edge. If that's what his family really thought of him, after all of his hard work, then he would leave. One hour later, he'd packed his bags. He left all familial items in his closet, and taken only the things he would need. He walked down the stairs, bid his parents a very chilly farewell, and walked out the door. And after eighteen years, Percival Prewett Weasley found himself a new niche in life.

Percy Weasley liked to pigeonhole things. He preferred to sort things, with no overlapping. Someday, he thought to himself, I'll create my own pigeonhole. And it won't overlap with theirs.

Back at the Burrow, there was an empty niche that would never be filled again, and the stability, order and security of the Burrow was gone forever.