You Can't Go Home Again

You Can't Go Home Again

Standing in the all-too familiar kitchen of the all-too familiar Burrow, Percy can't help but notice how little has changed. A mountain of vegetable peelings in the sink (carrots, how he loathes carrots, because it's not as if their family needs to be around any more orange) is on the verge of toppling over. It's Christmas Day, so everyone's wearing those horrid sweaters that his mother insists on knitting (though interestingly, the blond beauty next to Bill, whose name he can't quite remember, doesn't seem to have one). And there's a motley collection of pariahs sitting at the table (well, just one, but surely a werewolf counts double, and the Potter boy has never been quite right in the head, either).

But it's the things that have changed that prick his conscience, and because he's always been detail-oriented, he notices them immediately. The nine-handled clock, which used to be in the sitting room, is now propped up on the counter. It looks a bit battered, as if it's been moved around a great deal. Exhaustion bruises his father's eyes, and he's thinner than the last time they met, purely by accident in the Ministry hallways. The stress of the war seems to have hollowed him out. And Fred and George are glaring at him as if he were a Death Eater, though he supposes that's an improvement over the smirks that used to warn him of their impending shenanigans.

"Oh, Percy!" His mother looks like she's about to cry for joy, simply because he's standing here. Despite the worry lines that now crease her face - the war hasn't been kind to anyone, he notes dispassionately - she looks remarkably well in a midnight-blue hat that sparkles like the evening sky, and an elaborate gold necklace that's probably worth more than their house and all the furnishings in it.

It's what you should've had all along, Mother, he thinks. If only Father had had more pride in our pureblood heritage -

No, he tells himself firmly. He will not go there: his family is nothing to him now. They've cost him enough in life, yet he's still managed to succeed. He's still the assistant to the Minister of Magic - think of it, assistant for two different Ministers! Surely he'll have his pick of positions after this - and who knows how much higher he would be now, if he hadn't believed his family's prejudices?

The Sorting Hat had tried to warn him, he remembers.

Are you sure? it had asked as he quivered beneath its tattered brim. I see talent here, and ambition, oh yes, plenty of that... Slytherin could help you there, you know.

Not Slytherin, he'd thought desperately, wondering what his parents would say. They'd be dreadfully disappointed, he was sure; and Bill and Charlie would never forgive him. His mother might even send him a Howler. Please, anywhere but Slytherin.

Well then, if you're sure, better make it... the Sorting Hat had murmured, and shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

It was a mistake he'd been paying for ever since. He'd never fit in there: he wasn't popular like Bill, he wasn't a Quidditch hero like Charlie, he wasn't funny like Fred and George, and even his baby brother Ron had the distinction of being Harry Potter's best friend, while he... he worked, and slaved, and tried to be perfect, but no one ever noticed except his mother.

He should've been in Slytherin.

He knows now that they aren't all Dark wizards, that there are plenty of upstanding witches and wizards who've graduated from that House. Look at the Baddocks, the Greengrasses, the Pritchards... Look at Horace Slughorn, who he wished had been the Potions Master when he was in school. Surely Professor Slughorn would've noticed his talents. Surely, if Ginny and Hermione were members, Percy would've been part of the Slug Club, too. It would've been such a great help for his career; all of Slughorn's protégés have done well for themselves.

The man behind him interrupts his self-indulgent introspection. "You must forgive this intrusion. Percy and I were in the vicinity - working, you know - and he couldn't resist dropping in and seeing you all."

Minister Scrimgeour, he knows, is doing his job: smiling, flattering, and doing his best to smooth over this extraordinarily awkward moment. Percy doesn't want to be here; the Minister knows that. But it's important for the war effort that the Minister speak to Harry, and Percy is nothing if not a patriot. So he stands patiently while his mother fawns over him, Fred and George scowl, and his father sits in stony silence. It's his duty, and he always does his duty.

The Minister manages to get Harry to go for a walk in the garden, and Percy finds himself at a loss as to what to do, now that he's alone with his family. He has no desire for rapprochement, no desire to associate himself again with these... these... His fine vocabulary deserts him, and with a flash of anger he wonders what is so wonderful about being a curse-breaker, or a owning a joke shop, or having a scar on one's head. Why are they popular, and he is not? Shouldn't he be loved just as much, if not more, because he's perfect? His anger fades as abruptly as it came, and he imagines he's merely looking at seven redheaded strangers who happen to be in the Burrow kitchen.

"Er," he says.

The silence, as they say, is deafening.

"How's your job, Perce?" Bill asks at last. "Keeping you busy, I hear, even over the holidays?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he says stiffly. "You can't imagine how much we have to do, now that You-Know-Who is back."

His father's lips tighten, and belatedly Percy remembers the promotion to the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Fred and George elbow each other and snort, Ginny rolls her eyes, and the werewolf has the gall to look mildly amused.

"Really, Perce?" says George with mock seriousness. "I thought the Ministry didn't believe Lord Thingy was back."

He feels his face redden. He huffs, "That was the honest mistake of a previous administration, but the Ministry is very interested in rectifying its errors and is working hard to ensure the continued safety of the Wizarding population."

"Yeah," says Ron, too loudly. "You know, I'm sure the Wizarding world would be happy to accept a full apology now that the Ministry has realized how mistaken it was."

His younger brother's pointed glances leave no doubt that he's not talking about the Wizarding world, but about their parents. Percy flushes again, remembering the letter he'd sent last year to the ungrateful wretch. He's surprised that Ron, ordinarily so heedless, remembers any of his well-meant advice, though he himself has not forgotten his efforts.

He says coldly, "As I said before, that was the mistake of a previous administration. This administration has nothing to apologize for."

Looking furious, Ron opens and shuts his mouth a few times, but can't seem to think of a retort. His mother watches miserably as the family reunion rapidly unravels, but it's his father who finally speaks. "What about Stan Shunpike?"

"I'm afraid that's top-secret information," he says importantly. "I can't discuss it with civilians."

Ginny looks outraged. "Did you just call us civilians? We're your family, Percy! Have you forgotten that?"

"But I can't speak about the Shunpike matter -"

"This isn't about Stan Shunpike!" she shouts at him. She's pushed herself to her feet, her spoon clutched in her fist. Her long red hair crackles with the force of her wrath, and Percy is momentarily afraid of his baby sister. "This is about us! You act as if you hardly know us! Mum's been crying her heart out worrying about you for the past year, and you... you use us to cover for the Minister?"

"What do you want to hear?" he yells back, remorseful despite himself. "You're right, I didn't want to come! I don't want to be here right now! But it's my job, which I can hardly expect a little girl like you -"

"ARRRGH!"

And then something wet and indescribably unpleasant smashes into his face and glops onto his robes. From the buttery smell, he can tell it's mashed parsnips, and for a moment he's so shocked that he can't move. Of all the childish pranks... What else can be expected from Gryffindors? he thinks. They're jokesters and delusional fools, the lot of them. And in his mind, he hears that cold, familiar refrain: I should have been in Slytherin.

Harry storms inside, slamming the door hard behind him, and Percy knows it's time to leave. The Minister of Magic is undoubtedly outside waiting for him. In as dignified a manner as he can muster, he wipes the mashed parsnips off his glasses, and without another word, he turns away.

After the warm bustle in the Burrow, the air outside is jarringly cold. But Percy doesn't care.

I've made my choice, he thinks.

And he strides across the yard, and does not look back.