Time Yet by Anya

Author: Anya (LJ handle: dancinggoldfish)
Email: Lady.Irelynne@gmail.com
Story Title: Time Yet
Rating: PG-13 (Language, Violence)
# Words: 4149
Summary: Percy Weasley has made several bad choices in his life- choices that have resulted in a complete lack of communication between himself and his family.One holiday evening, he finds himself reflecting on those choices, and new ones.
Other: Won Best Dramatic Entry in the July 2005 Scrivenshaft Challenge hosted by the Unknowable Room

“And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces you meet;
There will be a time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days or hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.”
-The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

The slim figure hunched over his desk, scribbling madly with a quill as he fought to keep up with the mountains of paperwork piled up on the wooden piece of furniture. The last of it had arrived almost four hours ago; that was the hour that the last occupants of the building- including him- had left, leaving the redheaded man alone with the reports he was determined to finish before he left.

He finished the report he was working on, leaned back in his chair, stretched. Stared at the middle right-hand drawer of his desk for a couple short moments, then shook his head and went back to his papers. But still it called to him, a siren’s song he hadn’t given into in a long time.

They’d all be home now, he mused. All of them redheads, plus two lacking the trademark copper locks, but no less members of that tight-knit group. Perhaps they were all ten clustered around the kitchen table, enjoying the warmth and security family brings. A quick glance at the chrono revealed the folly of that thought, for it was nearly one in the morning. They were probably all snuggled in their beds.

The tip of the quill pressed too hard and ink splattered across the report, covering the carefully chosen words. “Merlin’s staff!” he swore as he reached hastily for his wand to spell off the damage, the words shattering the dead silence that had hovered over the office for several. The extension of his arm revealed a bandage covering pale freckled skin, the remnants of an attempted escape by a Death Eater.

His lips tightened as he glanced at his wound. If he’d been one of the others, she’d have clucked over him like a mother hen and worried and done everything she could to make it heal. As himself, she didn’t even know. None of them did.

His mind wandered over the memories he had with them, wondering what had led him down a path to a point when his own family didn’t know what happened to him. Strange how those little steps made his progress down such a road inevitable, though at the time, he’d considered them inconsequential.

The siren’s song called to him again, stronger, louder than before. Percy Weasley gave in and opened the middle right-hand drawer. Buried under a thick stack of papers, it lay, a single snapshot of happier times.

Fred and George were busy pulling whacky faces and putting their fingers up behind the heads of the people they could reach. Ginny smoothed her hair in an awkward gesture, mirrored by the expression on her face as she stared at the camera. Bill grinned easily as his fang earring caught the sunlight, and Charlie stood in front of him, an easy, protective hand on his sister’s shoulder. Ron fidgeted, all gangly limbs and pale freckled skin. His parents stood in the center with their arms wrapped around each other, smiling as if they had the most valuable item in the world in their possession. And him. His younger self pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and a silver Head Boy’s badge glinted on his chest. And all the people in the photograph had flaming red hair. At the time it had been taken, he’d been ashamed of the connection, of being associated with the poor, foolish Weasleys. He’d been determined to make a respected, powerful name out of Percy Weasley, only to discover that those he had wanted the respect from had already given it to him, and then he’d lost that gift by his subsequent actions.

He stared down at the report he’d been writing, then shoved the paperwork aside. He could scarcely believe that there had been a time when such trivial matters as cauldron thickness had gained such importance in his life. He looked about his office. In his trashcan rested a newspaper from that morning with headlines screaming across its front page like “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Strikes Again: 19 Dead”, “Aurors Make Progress Against Death Eaters”, and “Will This War Ever End?” Empty desks, empty chairs, Wanted posters all filled the room.

His family, the almost-but-not-quite-family-since-they-were-missing-the-red-hair members, the Order of the Phoenix- they had all been right. They had stood by their convictions despite the opposition that they had faced. His face flamed at the memory of the letter he’d sent Ron in his brother’s fourth year, giving him advice on Harry Potter. Oh, how he’d thought he’d known everything then. His baby brother had ignored his advice and remained friends with the Boy-Who-Lived, and ultimately time had proven Ron to be right.

He glanced at the photograph again, and then at the one that had rested beneath it in the desk drawer. This one was more recent, taken just a couple of weeks after Ron’s- and Harry Potter’s and Hermione Granger’s- graduation. He was missing from the photo, replaced instead by the black haired boy and the bushy haired girl. Ron had his arm around her waist while Harry was grinning widely at Ginny. Another thing he’d missed in his deliberate separation from his family: his siblings growing up. An ache grew in him. An ache to know how serious things were between his little brother and the Know-It-All, how business was going for Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes- he’d seen a new store open up downtown, how Ginny was doing in school, if she’d made Head Girl. If Fleur Delacour was still making eyes at Bill, if Charlie had found anyone to settle down with. He wondered what paths their lives had taken- and desperately wanted to know the answer.

He could almost imagine his sister- who could be a bit of a Know-It-All when she wanted to be- bossily informing him of what to do. For someone who’s supposed to be so smart, Percy Adrian Weasley, you sure can be dumb sometimes. It’s possible to find out the answer to those questions- why don’t you just go visit?

Her tart voice echoed in his mind, and he scarcely realized what he was doing as he put away his quill, neatened the papers on his desk. The reports could wait, he decided. For now, there was something much more important to take care of.

A glance out the window, out at the palely lit world of a winter night, revealed it was still snowing outside, and he made sure the brown wool scarf was wrapped securely around his neck. He wished he had one of his mum’s handmade ones- something to bolster his courage as he faced the lion’s den.

“They’re not that bad,” he scolded himself, slipping into his brown woolen overcoat. He knew he was both right and wrong. His family- well, his parents, at least- had never given up on him in the last four years. They’d never stopped trying to push themselves back into his life. And he knew that his brothers and sister hadn’t given up on him either. They might act like they hated him- Merlin knows that he’d given them enough reason to do so- but they- he hoped at least- would forgive him. They might go out of their way to humiliate him, but he accepted that. It was part of the deal that came with being their brother.

As he made his way downstairs, lights flickered off. He was the last person to leave the building- even the cleaning staff was done and gone. Stepping outside, he found himself under a streetlight, fully lit. The brightness, especially in comparison to the pale office light he’d been struggling under inside, made him wince and hurried step away, towards the Burrow.

He kept his red hair short, but recently it had grown long- not as long as Bill’s but getting there- due to inattention. He wasn’t dressed in wizarding robes, but in a black Muggle suit, the only clean piece of clothing in his closet. His dark brown overcoat kept him warm against the chill of the January night. Thick bootheels raised him above the half inch of snow that was struggling to accumulate on the sidewalk as he took long strides in the direction of the Weasley home.

His home.

His walk froze for a second, and he stood there, stock-still, in the middle of the sidewalk. What if they didn’t forgive him? With a quick spin, he turned around and headed in the opposite direction. What if four years had killed any chance of the reconciliation he was hoping for? His pace quickly grew more and more rapid as he headed away from his family. His breath quickened as well as he fought down panic, and he found himself practically sprinting inside his apartment building, up the stairs to his flat.

The heater was on- the warmth damn near suffocating him. He dropped his coat, scarf, gloves on the floor, kicked off his shoes so that he could pad around his rooms in his socks and think. What to do?

Get dinner, for one thing, his stomach reminded him with an angry rumble. With a flick of his wand, he heated up one of those pizzas one can buy at a Muggle supermarket and warm up with one of their mackenits. No, that didn’t sound right. What was the word? Machines. That was it. He didn’t know what the specific machine was called, but he could always look it up later.

Or ask Harry or Hermione, his mind chose to remind him as he took a big bite of the food. If he ever got around to getting his family to forgive him.

He winced again as the cheese on top of the pizza scalded the top of his mouth with its too hot temperature, despite the bottom being a bit cold, the difference in temperatures feeling even more extreme in his mouth. He mentally shrugged as he chomped down on another bite of his dinner. Heating charms couldn’t be perfect, and he was more than just a little stressed at the moment. Perfectly viable reasons for a less than perfect pizza, he told himself.

A quiet beep from the clock on the table informed him that it was two o’clock in the morning. “That decides it,” he announced to the room- empty of life but for himself. “I can’t go over there now; they’re probably all asleep. No sense waking them and causing them to be upset with me before we even start. It’ll be bad enough as it is.”

He headed for his bedroom, stripped off his work clothes, reached for his pajamas, but ultimately found himself deliberately grabbing hold of a pair of worn, very comfortable Muggle jeans and a dark green sweatshirt. “More comfortable for lounging anyway,” he decided as he pulled them on. He knew enough to be honest with himself that there was no way he was going to fall asleep now. “Maybe if I read…” he murmured, trailing off in thought.

He sat down on the beat-up navy blue couch, propped his feet up on the equally worn coffee table, and tried to concentrate on The Power of the Druids by one Gloria Myrkleburg.

But he couldn’t. He found himself staring at the same page- sometimes even the same sentence- for several chimes of the clock, each denoting a half hour period. Once, he found himself waking up as he crashed to the floor, apparently having lost his balance in his sleep. And through out it all, a steady stream of images ran through his mind. The images were memories, and possibilities of what could happen if he showed up on the front step of the Burrow.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said, staring straight at his reflection in the mirror. “No, that doesn’t sound r-”

“That’s nice dearie,” the mirror muttered sleepily, interrupting him mid-sentence.

“-ight. How about- oh, bugger- I’m awful at this,” he moaned, sitting down on the floor. “Here goes: This is something that’s really hard for me to say, but I owe you all apologies. You were right, and I was wrong. And I was even more wrong for not being able to admit that and say I’m sorry for the last four years.” A short pause then, “Hmm, not good enough. Percy, you sounded like a bloody ten year old asking to be forgiven for falling off his bike and scraping his knee.”

He paced the floor of his living room, arms clasped behind his back. “How the hell does one say sorry to their family after four years?” he demanded of the empty air. Frustrated, he ran his hand through his red hair, wincing as his fingers got tangled in snarls before he jerked them through.

Plopping down on the couch, he rested his head in his hands. “Think, Percy,” he ordered himself. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

Time clicked by so slowly, until, finally, the clock chimed four thirty in the morning. If it had been a week day, his father probably would have been awakening at this time, doing his best not to wake up Mum as he tiptoed around the room, gathering his clothes to get dressed. And if he knew Mum, she probably would awaken soon after, share breakfast with him. Perhaps they would be joined by one or several of their children, biological or adopted. But it was Saturday. Perhaps everybody was still asleep at this hour.

He rose from the couch, groaned as the muscles in his back protested their abuse by the lumpy piece of furniture. Too lazy to bother changing out of his sleep-wrinkled clothes, he stood in the middle of his flat, debating what to do. He looked up at the ceiling. He stared out his windows. He glanced down at the ground and realized he needed to change his socks.

“Black? White?” he wondered, standing before his color-coordinated sock drawer. He knew it didn’t matter, knew he was stalling, but he couldn’t find a way to stop. He gave the decision of what color socks to wear the same weight he would to consider a new job offer or renting a new flat. He knew it was cowardly, but couldn’t stop himself.

Sock color decided- white- he knew there was little else he could use as a delaying tactic. He couldn’t even use coffee as an excuse since he knew his mum would press some on him the minute he walked into the Burrow. If she decided to forgive him, that is.

“Alright, Percy, time to face the fire,” he counseled himself, lacing his trainers and picking up his coat where he’d dropped it the night before. A glance at the clock revealed that he’d been successful in wasting nearly an hour- it was five twenty-six on that bright Saturday morning.

He Apparated to the Burrow- well, to a point a mile away- and walked the rest of the distance. A glance at his watch revealed that it was five forty-eight. The house looked better than he remembered, expected. The glass in the windows gleamed- from newness or a particularly thorough cleaning spell, he couldn’t tell- and there was a porch that looked like it had been recently added on. The aura of shabbiness was gone as well.

He shifted from left foot to right foot, then back again. You can turn around now, he told himself, walk away. No one will ever know except yourself. But he didn’t. He pushed himself up the steps, raised the knocker, lowered it with a resounding clang. Forced himself to stand still, not run, as the sound echoed through his former home, as he heard footsteps padding around inside. He didn’t know who would be up at this hour, but the evidence suggested that multiple people were.

“’Mione, can you grab the door?” he heard his baby brother ask, Ron’s voice just barely audible through the thick wood.

“Why don’t you get it- oh, fine,” the former Head Girl snapped. The door swung open. “You’re here early, Ch-” She cut herself off the second she realized it wasn’t who she was expecting. Her brown eyes slowly turned into chips of flint, and he watched the transformation hesitantly, preparing to duck if she decided to deck him. “You’re not Charlie,” she said flatly.

How does one reply to a comment such as that? “No, I’m not,” he returned quietly.

Her lips twitched, as if she was hastily controlling a smile. He nearly smiled in return, although the urge was destroyed by her next harsh comment. “What do you want, Weatherby?”

The dig hurt and he flinched before he could help himself. Despite that, he opened his mouth to defend himself when footsteps warned of a newcomer.

“Who’s there?” Ron’s voice called again, just before he came into view. At the sight of his older brother, his grin disappeared from his freckled face as if it had never existed and his brown eyes mirrored Hermione’s. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded belligerently.

In the face of his brother’s obvious animosity, Percy felt himself slowly gain bravado. He had no idea where it was coming from, or why, but he wasn’t stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Well, to come in for starters,” he began pleasantly. “And to talk to- Mum, if she’s here.”

The two filling the doorway glanced at each other, gauging the other’s opinion. Finally, ever so slowly, they stepped back and let him pass.

“Thank you,” he stated calmly, taking off his coat and hanging it on a rack that hadn’t been there the last time he’d been in the Burrow. “It’s a sight warmer in here than it is out there.” He received no answer to his comments, just the measuring gaze of the two teens. “Congratulations on graduating, by the way.” The two, along with Harry, had the previous year. Unlike the twins, who had never received a graduation diploma, the Golden Trio had returned to Hogwarts and worked for four months to catch up so they could graduate with their class. It was six months after the date, so Percy should have felt like a fool, yet, somehow, he didn’t.

The two eyed him uncertainly. “Thank you,” Hermione said hesitantly. As if making a decision, she asked him, “Do you want some coffee? We have fresh sticky buns as well, if you’re hungry.”

“That sounds wonderful,” he told them honestly. Silently, they led him to the kitchen, where he was surprised to see most of the family up. In fact, the only ones missing from the cluster in the room were the twins, and Charlie. Bill sat with Fleur in his lap, the palely blond woman slowly smoothing his hair. His mum stood at the stove heating up breakfast, and next to her stood Harry Potter, helping her turn the bacon. Ginny was standing on her tiptoes to get silverware and dishware out of the cupboards, and his dad was seated next to Bill, talking animatedly.

“Hey, guys, look what the cat dragged in,” Hermione called out. The easy chatter in the room stilled as every occupant turned to look at the newcomers.

Percy felt his borrowed bravado escape him as he was suddenly pinned by five hard gazes, and it was all he could do to stop himself from fleeing from the house. “Hello,” he muttered weakly.

A deafening pause descended upon the room following his words, and he mentally resigned himself to a not so pleasant couple of hours before he could run. He’d tried- too late, obviously- but, he had tried.

“Would you like some breakfast, Percy?” his mum finally asked, and he fought not to get too excited. Was it not too late?

“Breakfast sounds wonderful,” he replied, allowing a smile to skitter across his face. “Would you like some help?”

Something clattered to the floor at his words, and he angled his head to catch sight of his sister diving to the ground to pick up fallen silverware. When she emerged, her face rivaled the sun for heat. “What the hell is wrong with you, Percy?” she demanded, angrily, dumping the silverware and dishaware on the table with a loud clang.

“Wrong with me?” he asked, more than just a little confused. Was he wrong?

“Do we have something you want? Why the hell are you being so fucking nice to us? You hate us, remember Percy?” she shouted. “So what the bloody hell do you want?”

“Ginny! Language!” his mum protested, her eyes not leaving his face.

“What? It’s not like everybody else isn’t wondering why Perfect Prat Percy suddenly showed up on our front doorstep,” she spat. All of a sudden the occupants of the kitchen seemed to make themselves very busy with anything that kept their gaze from his.

The words he’d practiced seemed to fly from his mind, and he found himself wincing over the plain apology. “I came to ap-”

The words, so hard to say, were cut off by a sharp crack of someone Apparating into the Burrow’s kitchen. “You all didn’t have to get up for me,” Charlie said with a grin, shaking rain water out of his hair. “Sorry about being wet- it’s raining in Romania.”

Hermione conjoured him a towel out of mid-air with a flick of her wand. “You could say hello,” she teased.

“Hello, Hermione. Hello, Bill. Hello, Fleur. Hello, Mum. Hello, Harry. Hello, Ginny. Hello, Dad. Hello, Percy. Hello, H- Percy!” Before he could say anything, Charlie crossed the kitchen floor in several large steps and landed a hard punch on his jaw. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” he shouted.

Percy slowly got to his feet, keeping a careful eye on Charlie’s fists. “I was just getting around to explaining that when you Apparated in.”

“Will you all shut up?” a harsh voice demanded from the top of the stairs. Percy looked up to see one of the twins standing there, clad in blue-striped pajama bottoms.

“Good morning, Fred,” he replied with as obnoxious a grin as he could make.

“Nothing good about it, Percy,” his brother shot back.

At his words, his twin’s head zipped out the doorway of the twins’ room. “Perfect Prat Percy is here!” he exclaimed. Fred was knocked down seconds later as George darted down the stairs at breakneck speed to tackle Percy in an outrageously tight hug- when did the twins get so strong?

“Good morning, George,” Percy squeaked out, gasping for air. “Air? Breathing?”

“Good morning to you too, my dear brother!” George exclaimed cheerfully. How was he so awake when he’d apparently gotten out of bed only moments before? “And how are you? Enjoying your first family breakfast- heck, family get-together in four years? Hiding from the Minister of Magic as he tries to drive you batty? Or did he send you here because he decided he needs something from us?”

Percy was wrong- George wasn’t cheerful. George was mad as hell. “He doesn’t know I’m here,” the bespectacled Weasley retorted, finally getting out of his brother’s tight grip.

“The Perfect Prat was just getting around to telling us why he was here when Charlie Apparated in and decked him,” Ginny informed her brother. “So we’re still waiting to hear the answer.”

Eleven heads swiveled to lock him in their gaze, and he swallowed. It shouldn’t be this hard to apologize to family, he thought wildly. “I wanted to-” he took a deep breath and swallowed again nervously. “I came here to apologize. You were right, and I should have trusted and believed in you. So, I’m sorry,” he rushed out.

The dead silence was unnerving as everybody continued to stare at him. Finally, Fleur got off Bill’s lap and wrapped her arms around him. “We are so ‘appy to 'ave ze 'ere,” she told him solemnly before stepping back.

His mum shrieked and rushed him in a giant bear hug, tears dripping down her face. “Percy, oh, Percy, we missed you!”

“Welcome home, Percy,” Bill said simply, not getting up from the kitchen table. “We’re glad to have you.”

“So, you want that coffee now, Percy?” Hermione asked with a grin that plainly told him Welcome back.

“Coffee would be wonderful.”