Author Notes:

 

Many thanks to SpookyKat, my beta

 

Disclaimer:

 

It’s all JKR’s

 

~*~

 

Test of Affection

 

 

 

~*~

 

The wind blew an invocation. It wisped through the windows, gusting right inside him. Percy remained perfectly still, not out of fright, but in a freezing disbelief. The only words that managed to rasp through the tightness in his throat were a resounding, “You’re wrong.” Far more than the glass in his frames separated the windows of his soul from the likewise shuttered ones staring back. The being before him felt instantly, yet immutably, disconnected from him. Percy observed the figure of his father, seeing parts rather than a whole. Or rather, there was no whole he could now identify with.

 

Mere hours, fragile words, tenuous circumstances. Suddenly, a fabric so tightly woven was unraveled by those seemingly unimposing pricks. And yet, looking back, the threads had long since become frayed.

 

“We’re so proud of you, Percy.” Molly Weasley’s face stretched wide, her rounded cheeks crinkling from her spread, upturned lips. Exuberantly she hugged him close, his prefect notification from Hogwarts still clutched in her hand. Her grip was firm and warm, like the mother she was. Through the bright sunshine stretching through the dining room, Percy could see the rest of his family over his mother’s head. In the corner was a lopsided mirror that caught his own expression. His smile was one of infinite pride, satisfaction, and also, an odd hint of relief.

 

“Well, there’s a shock,” George said jovially. Helping Fred set the breakfast table, he added, “Congrats, Percy.”

 

“Yes, congrats,” Fred added. With a bright smile and laugh, he added, “I don’t suppose this is the right time to discuss the benefits this might have for the rest of us?”

 

A roll of his eyes was Percy’s response, though his smile remained in place. His eyes drifted to his father, finding the man smiling as well, with one hand resting atop Ginny’s small head. With a nod, Mr. Weasley added, “This is definitely worthy of a celebration.”

 

The smiles on the twins’ faces suddenly brightened. “Quidditch tickets!” they simultaneously roared, ducking from the mild glare of Mrs. Weasley over their loudness.

 

“Unicorn rides!” Little Ginny’s voice caught hold of her brothers’ excitement, and she turned a hopeful look at Percy to agree with her choice.

 

Percy began to open his mouth when his mother’s voice barged in. “Now, now, that’s quite enough. It’s Percy’s day, he gets to decide what we do. And we’ll have NONE of that,” she added, reprimanding the sudden groan from the youngest members of her family.

 

“Bill chose Quidditch tickets,” Fred said. In a suddenly wheedling tone, he added, “It’s a family celebration, really. I say we vote on it.“ George nodded solemnly, finally diverting Ron’s absorption with his own Hogwarts’ acceptance letter. Heading over to his youngest brother, with a sound rap on the table he said, “quit dreaming. Wouldn’t you rather see a REAL team play, as opposed to deluding yourself that now at Hogwarts you’ll snag the Quidditch Cup?” George gave a teasing, knowing look at Ron’s indignant expression, adding, “Come now, we need your support.”

 

Ron glanced about the room, finally saying, “I’d vote for Quidditch.”

 

“Nobody is voting,” Mr. Weasley said in a firm voice. Finally turning back to Percy, he said, “What do you want?” All eyes shifted back upon him, some as if just noticing he was still there.

 

Percy paused. Some of the immediate excitement had begun to seep out of him as he’d listened to his family’s banter. It wasn’t that he’d somehow slipped out of the focal point of the conversation. With such a large family it was bound to happen, even at times to ones as loud and active as Fred and George. No, it was more the awareness of how difficult it was to reenter any conversation with them. Or do anything with them. As much as it meant to have his family’s congratulations, the thought of spending the day with them made his stomach almost clench. Memories of the most recent embarrassing family outing at a restaurant came flooding back. Fred and George trying to tip trays to amuse Ginny and each other, Ron sneaking in Percy’s pet rat and dropping him, Mrs. Weasley shouting at them all to be quiet, as Mr. Weasley tried to clear up some reservation mistake. Once they’d finally been seated half an hour late, only Percy seemed to notice the odd looks they received from the other diners. He’d flushed in embarrassment, then ducked his head in conflicted guilt over feeling that humiliation.

 

He couldn’t bear another day like that, seeing his family as others did and being unable to fully convince himself otherwise.

 

And besides…it wasn’t as though they seemed thrilled to share time together when he finally suggested a personal owl. Blank faces, then puzzled smiles or annoyed expressions were his answer. Through it, Mr. Weasley finally said, “Of course, son. It’s your day.”

 

This was his day. Though framed, his Hogwarts’ prefect letter was a pitiful memory of childish excitement compared to this. Mr. Fudge’s words still rang in the back of his mind.

 

“Mr. Weasley. It has come to my attention of late that your performance here has been…very helpful to the Ministry. And with the current situations at hand, well…we need all the able bodies we can in positions of authority. Now, this might seem a bit sudden, but I trust you’ll believe me when I say that I have full confidence in my decision to promote you to my Junior Assistant.”

 

Those words had only been heard by Percy in his deepest bouts of fanciful hope. It justified himself in his own mind, and made all his toil at work worth it. It validated the times when he’d slavishly worked over files and forms in the Department of International Cooperation, only to have the credit go to Weatherby. The times when taking the initiative and assisting any and all still merely resulted in condescension by some such as Malfoy.  Even, he wasn’t sorry to say, times of defending his father’s eccentric habits and likes to others. Part of that was from an undeniable distaste over how his father was viewed by some at the Ministry. Yes, it was also to make his own past look more positive to his superiors, but still…he’d never denied his relation to his father. Mr. Weasley decidedly had more positive points than, say, Lucius Malfoy, in Percy’s eyes.

 

Or so he’d thought.

 

From the moment he’d stepped inside his family’s house after his meeting with Fudge, Percy had sensed the tinge of unease that permeated through the air. It wasn’t uncommon of late. For the past few weeks, a deafening though unspoken tension had pervaded the Burrow. Both his parents bore faces pinched with worry, though they tried to conceal it as best they could. What his brothers and sister had kept busy with, Percy wasn’t sure, though they didn’t seem underfoot. But then, Percy hadn’t been home all that often of late. He felt useless and stifled there; he was much more at ease with his nose in a book or his mind working on a filing error at work.

 

But at that moment, his mind wished to be no place else. In a voice almost giddy, he called out, “Hullo? Anyone home?” Daft question, he thought.  His voice was lost in the commotion ringing in the dining room. Almost tripping over the mountain of old newspapers piled up near the door, he caught himself on the edge of a cluttered countertop with only a slight exclamation of surprise.

 

Mrs. Weasley leaped up at that, crossing over towards him and bending to gather the scattered papers. Bold pictures loomed on the print, needless of the captions to express their meaning. A child’s face this time on the cover - a subtle manipulation by the editor, perhaps, but one that worked. Regardless of the cause, his vision tunneled to blind emotion at the sight. It took a moment for reason to push through enough so he could gather his bearings. He gently took his mother’s arm, helping her snap back to the reality around them. She gave him a weak smile, turning her emotional concern then onto something she would deem fixable.

 

“Percy!” she crowed delightedly, “finally we see you and your father for dinner. Imagine that.” She gave his back a brisk rub, frowning when she reached his poking ribs. Her expressive concern made him uncomfortable, so he was relieved when she said, “Sit now, and get something inside of you.” Standing, she hustled him to the table. His plate was there, but from his long absences the silverware wasn’t set anymore. He noted this, but barely so, because his mother soon enough shoved fork, knife, and spoon into his hands.

 

The utensils trembled slightly in his hand with an unconcealed excitement inappropriate for his age and position. And yet, strive as he might for a dignified expression, the giddiness was practically uncontainable. It treacherously lifted up one corner of his mouth the moment he straightened the other from curling up to his eyebrow. His family seemed to sense the odd lightness and unrestraint in their normally prim relation and eyed him curiously.

 

 It was only when he finally caught sight of his father that Percy managed to sit still. Breathing deep, he sternly made himself appear calm and composed as soon as the door opened. He wasn’t a child. He was on his way, as an adult, to achieving everything he’d ever wanted. Yes.

 

The darkly ringed eyes of Mr. Weasley lay upon his son. Wearily raising his voice, he said, “A day to end all days.” He seemed to be trying to commiserate over the workload at the Ministry.

 

“Yes…though, not in the way you might be thinking…” Percy let his voice trail off with a dramatic flair. It seemed only right that he held the foreground for as long as he could, considering the enormity of his news. He waited until Mrs. Weasley had shushed his siblings and all attention was upon him. Then, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, he said, “I have been promoted.”

 

A moment of silence ensued as Percy studied his family, letting the news sink in. Ginny gave him a hesitant smile, but it was the odd looks that his parents shared that captured Percy’s focus. Perhaps he’d been a bit rash to think his father would leap for joy – really, his father never leaped – but the growing tension was wholly unexpected. As much as he’d grown to love the rare silences at the Burrow, at times it was deadening. Percy hated uncertainty, and not knowing where everyone stood set him on edge.

 

He tried again. “Did you hear what I said? A promotion –“

 

“I heard,” his father repeated. Percy detested being interrupted, finding it uncivilized, but at that moment the fact that his father just had cut in went unnoticed by him. His heart beat in time to the unenthused words his father had just spoken. I heard. I heard. 

 

He obviously hadn’t. None of them seemed to. Percy looked around, finding odd features on each member of his family. Did his mother really have that many wrinkles? Had Fred always bitten his lip like that? Perhaps it was pure fancy, Percy was rational enough to admit that, but suddenly it was like none of them were familiar to him. Again.

 

Mr. Weasley said, “It’s not that we’re not proud, Percy.” That felt like placation to Percy as his father continued in an unsettled tone, “But you must admit that, after that business with Crouch, this is a bit…shocking.”

 

A heat rose in Percy’s cheeks, a dizziness floated to his head as the unwanted memory and doubt crept into his consciousness. “That was unfortunate,” he said stiffly. “But I’ve worked hard since then.” Staring around the table, ready to shoot daggers at any who mentioned Weatherby, he added, “I have. And it’s been noticed.”

 

“Yes, son. It’s just…” Mr. Weasley sighed, leaning on his elbows and staring carefully at Percy as he said in a low voice, as if the words were sour enough to spoil the food, “I think Fudge might have another motive. He could only want you, Percy, for, erm, another reason.” Exchanging a clearly discomforted look with Mrs. Weasley, he continued slowly, “Fudge knows how close I am to Headmaster Dumbledore.” His eyes showed some compassion but he was resolute as he said, “I think it the most likely explanation, son.”

 

Percy sagged back, feeling himself deflating under his father’s grip. In contrast to how malleable he felt, his voice came out brittle as he hoarsely managed, “And you accuse me of being pompous and conceited?”

 

A throaty noise came from Mrs. Weasley, one filled with indignation and surprise at him. “Percy! How –“The sound of a chair being thrust back and Mrs. Weasley rising reverberated throughout the kitchen. The dishes, seeming to sense her mood, rattled in the drawers.

 

Her step only halted after she shared another glance with Mr. Weasley, words unnecessary in their bond by now. A huff escaped, but from the sounds behind him Percy assumed she settled back into her seat. Mr. Weasley’s grip on his shoulders’ tightened, but his voice remained steady as he said, “I’ve never called you that. Your mother certainly has not. And I’m not trying –“

 

“No, you just let them do it, smiling as you gave them a tap on the wrist.” Percy jerked around, twisting enough to point at his siblings, specifically the twins’, direction. He felt childish for doing so, but Mr. Weasley’s words had reduced him to practically nothing. All that was left of him was a sharp point that flailed about defensively.

 

Silent too long, Mrs. Weasley’s voice broke out sternly and loudly before either twin could open their mouths, “You know that isn’t true, Percy Weasley!” After that she paused, and then added less severely, “Now stop this behavior and sit back down so we can all be together and eat.” Hearing those words from her directed at him was as unusual for Percy as it sounded like it was for her. He stood still, a picture of her face being painted in his mind with a mixture of exasperated, angered and pleading strokes. He knew her desire. She wanted him to brush this argument off for everyone’s sake. To suck it up and shove it down among the ruins of his pride and hope.  None here seemed to realize he had just been dealt such a crushing he could fit nothing else inside. He refused to.

 

Irritation seemed to tighten the exhausted contours of Mr. Weasley’s face. His sole respite of late, the oasis of home, was now wrecked with nerves and discontent. Voice matching the rigid lines of his posture, he added, “As your mother said. You know that is not the case, nor is it the point. I am well aware that my reputation is hardly held in high esteem with Fudge, considering my Muggle obsession as he says it.” Mr. Weasley’s tone deepened to a rumble as he mimicked Fudge’s tone on the punctuated words. Under other circumstances it might have produced levity, but right then it merely stoked Percy’s fury. He, too, had never fully understood his father’s obsession. Nor had his father, or any of his family, understood his. Truthfully, Percy felt more at home at the Ministry with his papers than he did at his own dining room table. Mocking Fudge, the Minister, was perfunctory to mocking Percy himself now. But none seemed sensitive enough to catch the cruelness he found in his father’s words.

 

Percy’s face purpled the more the rest of his family enjoyed Mr. Weasley’s jest, seemingly about to explode. “I’ve had to struggle against your reputation ever since I joined the Ministry,” he erupted. His escaped words blew about the room, filling it with a figurative mass that seemed like a malicious and untamed beast. Stepping back, he addressed the entire family in one gaze. “Have you any conception of how hard I’ve worked for this? Doubtful. All I hear is how awful I look for my effort, or how drab I am.” His eyes came back to settle on Mr. Weasley, struggling to ignore how sallow and haggard his own father’s face had been for…years, really. It wasn’t hard, considering he knew he now appeared the same and received less sympathy. Even now, the expressions on their faces were of annoyance, shock, some concern, but no empathy or comprehension.  Was it so very wrong of him to want the best? Was it a bad thing to work for an eventual outcome, as opposed to immediate gratification? To be happy and proud when that payoff came? Burning indignation drove him to sniff, “Forgive me for being the one to have ambition. I see how just doing what you want has provided so well for us in the past.”

 

It was a frosted, pointed outburst. At the pained, disbelieving look that crossed his father’s face, a wave of guilt rose. And then, it was followed by a harsher wave as Percy realized he did not really want to take back his remark. It was more than that he’d released the family temper he normally held at bay. There was merit to what he’d said, though not softened with tact. His family did everything with disabandon, going on emotion and whim, temper and passion. While they loved greatly, Percy felt they could hurt terribly, even themselves. His father’s stubborn refusal to try and climb the ranks at the office while having a larger family than anyone Percy knew of was not responsible and selfless. While at times Percy had admired his father’s heart and stoutness to stand by his desires and beliefs, Percy’d never fully been able to discard the bitterness and confusion over his family’s life choices. But why should he hold it inside, when they all were so careless with their own opinions, regardless of his feelings?

 

Anger renewed along with a stubborn, wild defensiveness. “You’re a fool to run around with Dumbledore. He’s heading for big trouble. Everyone is in danger with him. He’s the one who’s against the Ministry, and has provided no real proof in any accusation. Reckless social unrest, however he intends it, is not the answer. Though it seems glamorous, it is anything but productive. Yes, yes, you won’t listen to me. You have faith in him, your gut tells you so. Well, my gut is in line with my head. If you want to go down with him without question, fine. I know where my loyalty lies. If you and Mum are going to be traitors to the Ministry than I’m going to make sure everyone knows that I don’t belong to our – this – family any longer.” Was it a threat or a plea? Percy hadn’t time to analyze, for once he was on a role, he found it difficult to stop. Partly from his cursed sporadic temper, partly from his refusal to cease anything until he was through, he went for his closing.  It was a summation, an accusation, an analysis dusted off from years in a drawer filled by now with locked-away discontent.

 

Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley had been retorting back at him, his voice rising as his own anger obviously increased. Percy tried to shut out his father, but some of the counter arguments seemed – or slammed – through. “This family? You – you can’t possibly…” his father’s words caught in his emotion. It was a trait Percy was glad wasn’t as prominent in himself. However, occasional stutters aside, Mr. Weasley drove on with his point. “I will not stand for you making such accusations to this family, Percy Weasley! Treachery is obviously something you’ve never truly seen. You haven’t a clue what we’re fighting against, or what the Ministry is about. I’ve worked there longer than you’ve been alive, and if you had any idea what Dumbledore has for the wizarding world in comparison to what the Ministry has of late –“

 

“Reason, establishment and caution aren’t the antithesis of goodness, righteousness, or truth.” Percy’s voice rose to counterbalance. “On the contrary, they are quite the opposite, most of the time. Your emotional, ego-driven actions are simply the idealism of rebellion in the absence of responsibility.”

 

Ceaseless.

 

“In the lack of responsibility for the good of them all… of good itself.”

 

Then silence.

 

Relative silence. In the background, the twins, Ron, Mrs. Weasley, even Ginny… their loud voices nearly shook his back with the forceful vibrations. Percy panted, finding it hard to keep staring at his father, though impossible to look away. Belying his tone, his stomach lurched. It was as if his insides had been a rag saturated with emotion, the excess of which was being wrung out through his mouth and expelled as coldly dripping words.

 

Mr. Weasley’s face paled. Everyone situated around him knew that rare occurrence meant anger beyond flushing cheeks and heated ranting. The blow was a strike aimed at the heart of his character. What pride Arthur Weasley had was not found in tangible things like expensive brooms or robes of silk. Nor was it nurtured on the approval of strangers, or awards that could decorate an office or den. No, his ego was grounded in a morality both inborn and cultivated. It was a foundation so strong that only one thing was powerful enough to shake it – those he loved. Percy knew his father cared about what the family – what he – thought of him. A small, tingling recognition of that face eased the tension in Percy’s chest while simultaneously adding a dull weight to it.

 

However, there was little time for Percy to ponder his being. Mr. Weasley abruptly pushed his chair back and stood, words finally boiling to the surface. “If you don’t wish to take pride in this family – in me or any of us – then I won’t shove it down your throat by force!” Turning, he seemed indecisive of whether to leave or just pace. His quick steps balanced the slow stoop of his shoulders as he strode from the room, pausing at the door. “I raised you to be better than this.”

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

That – that was the invocation, Percy realized. The words blew the wind harsher than the breeze from the windows. Mouth working to find moisture, Percy repeated, “you’re very wrong.” Pushing his own chair back, he stood and approached his father, trembling from far more than fright. The lines and planes of his siblings’ faces barely registered as his periphery vision caught them. If they spoke, he did not hear them. Later, when alone but still pained, he would find satisfaction in that.

 

But for now, his gaze rested solely on his father. Mr. Weasley turned, his mouth opening, lines around the edges crinkling, deepening.

 

For reasons Percy fervently claimed had nothing to do with fear, pride, or anger, he cut in before his father could speak, “You raised me to be like you, in the areas you deem important!”

 

“I raised you to see what is good in people, to see that some things are more important – “

 

“Well, I’m not like you! Any of you.” For once, he did not turn and face those he addressed, though he had learned that was how one drove home a point. He’d learned that from books and public figures, and it had served him better than any chess move Mr. Weasley taught.

 

It had earned him a promotion. It.

 

Him.

 

He blindly pushed past his father and up the cluttered steps to his room. Once at his room he paused, ready to slam the door shut when on a sudden whim, he forced himself to primly close it. Then, realizing only he would understand the subtle jibe of him being mature enough not to slam things, he spun and threw himself down on his bed. Breathing heavily, he gazed around the shadows of his bedroom, replete with neat stacks of books and even rows of shelves. He’d even painted the inside of his haven a different color than the rest of the Burrow. It never seemed to mesh that well, but now suddenly was glaringly unfit. 

 

His hand thrust itself beneath his bed and he dragged out a suitcase. Noises below caught his attention and he had to fight not to creep to the door to listen. In his mind he could imagine his mother desiring to come to him, to scold him, to wail, to punish… and then to feed.

 

No one came. No sibling to hex him, no mother to guilt him, no father to shame him.

 

Nor did they come to throw him out.

 

And neither would he go to them.

 

The wind blew as he quietly exited the Burrow scant hours later. But now, no words were carried upon it to reach inside of him, or to gust out in his exhale.