Basically, I write book!Marcus, not movie!Marcus.
Needing a new project between chapters for 'All I Want For Christmas', I suddenly realised what it was I wanted to write, but hadn't been able to put my finger on. It's been a while since I've written Marcus/Percy. I do actually love this pairing, although not as much as Oliver/Percy. Not that I think I actually need to tell anyone that ^_^
Reviews and comments welcomed
Broken.
It is easy to pretend, sometimes.
We are all here, just like we always are. Charlie and I have always returned home at this time of the year, even when home was the last place we wanted to be. We were young once, the young don't always value family as much as they should. It is something that war changes, not as seasons fade or a painting dries, but in a heartbeat. The children would be on holiday, although I suppose I can no longer call the twins or Percy by that term, all three now work themselves. And father, always busy, would make sure he had time to spare.
Sitting here, we could be a snapshot of the past. The table is full, the clatter of cutlery and conversation mixes with the aroma of spiced gravy and tangy apricot sauce. My mother is smiling as she always does, just as father has his nose buried in the papers and scrolls he promised he would leave at work.
So easy.
But there are differences to this portrait, additions that cannot be found in ones from the past. Three years of war can strain even the closest of families, for those which hold no such bonds, it can cause them to shatter.
I'm still trying to decide which category our family lies in.
We've always been thought of as strong, the Weasley family. We're known for holding together and pulling each other through tough times, although the only troubles we've ever faced is poverty. We're known as being close and supportive, yet I know little of Ron or Ginny's time at Hogwarts, Charlie has barely been on speaking terms with father for years, yet even Arthur doesn't know it, and none of them know where Percy sneaks out to, several nights a week. They don't even realise he's gone.
Did we ever realise that we had split ourselves into groups? Charlie and myself, so far removed from the twins and Ron, with Percy floating back and forth between us for so long, and Ginny never feeling as though she belonged to any group at all. Yes, age plays a role, but we've allowed it to dictate the terms of our relationships with each other, instead of simply being a factor.
The war didn't create the gaps. It simple made us all knowledgeable of them. And it is that knowledge which has led to the easiness that has always flowed between us dispersing. It is that knowledge which has streaked my mother's hair with grey.
The perfect family isn't so perfect, after all. We're not quite as supportive as they all thought we were, when real horrors and tragedies arrive. We're still trying to get over the shock of it, ourselves.
But we pretend. I'm sure we never used to have to, in the past. Percy begs to differ, and if it is one thing this war has brought that lightens my spirits, it is that I've got to know the wonder that is my younger brother far better, even if he only originally turned to me in desperation. According to Percy, we've all spent some time pretending in the past, although he admits to being the master of it. Always happy, always fulfilled. That is our pretence. Always the perfect Weasley.
I'm not quite as cynical as Percy is. But there is some truth in his words, and not only when spoken in self-reflection. The three of us - Percy, Charlie and myself, all were the 'perfect' children. We aimed for the impossible, yet none of us where satisfied when we reached it. I can't decide who was stronger in the end, Charlie and I for fleeing our perfection, and finding our own place in the world, or Percy, who managed to cling desperately to those dreams, even when they turned up empty.
As for the others, I don't know. I simply don't know. That pains me, that I can't see if they are caught up with an image that both blinds and binds them. It pains me more, and perhaps it is selfish of me, that they never ask why Charlie gave up Quidditch so easily for dragons, or why I escaped to the other side of the globe as quickly as possible. They still simply see the allusion, the perfection. The 'cool' older brothers who don't have a care in the world, even when that world is crumbling around us.
But, we are all here. And that in itself is a miracle. How all 9 of us have survived thus far, when others have slipped away so easily in completion, confounds many, and earns us the bitterness of much more. As the twins fight over the last sausage roll, Charlie shoots a glare at our father, going unnoticed by everyone but myself and Ginny. I think it is the fact that he has never noticed, that irks Charlie. Father is the only one of us who still believes that our family is as close as we've always thought ourselves to be, and as a result he never notices the rift that has formed between himself and his second oldest son.
Charlie told me he would tell me one day, what inspired such a radical attitude towards father. I have a feeling I know, already.
"They rounded up a set of Death Eaters today." My father says it casually, and perhaps to him, such things still are. But he is the only one who is calm. The twins lean forward, a spiteful eagerness in their eyes. They drew up a list, over two years ago, of the potential Death Eaters who had been at Hogwarts. To them, it was a competition, and with greedy eyes, they seem to devour the piece of paper in father's hand. Charlie simply rolls his eyes, before playfully grabbing a piece of bacon off Ron's plate, as Ron turns his own, interest piqued eyes to the list. Ginny looks like she is ready to flee in terror, if she could have it her way, we would never mention the war, even though half of us are fighting in it. And Percy simply stills for a moment, before continuing on with his breakfast.
"I suppose you all want the names?" It is said with a smile, as though this is some innocent game played by innocent children. For a moment, I believe that Charlie is finally going to let his restraint slip, but he reigns himself in just in time, as the twins nod eagerly. Mother's smile is forced now.
"Well, let's see." He adjusts his glasses, scanning down the list, before starting back up at the top. "Andrews, Simone." He pauses, not continuing until no reaction is forthcoming. "Danda, James."
"But Danda was a Ravenclaw!" Father smiles proudly at George's indignation.
"Not all Death Eaters are Slytherins," Charlie speaks up, with a false gentleness. We both want to throttle George for still not realising that this isn't a war of old school ties. Three years, and many people still try and boil it down to Slytherin vs Gryffindor.
"Edwington, Linda."
"Ha!" Fred has obviously scored a point with that name.
"Flint, Marcus." As the twins high five, my eyes lock on Percy. No, that isn't true. I've been watching him through the entire reading of the list, just like I have done in the past. His hand freezes inches above his plate, and with a hand that barely shakes - but barely is enough, he places the fork down quietly. The others don't notice, wait, Charlie has. If the others would simply *look* ...
But they never do. Not at Percy.
His breathing is coming out slightly heavy now, and even from the other side of the table, I can tell he is desperately trying to keep it under control, just as he is, with as much desperation, trying to avoid my gaze. There is nothing else to give away his state, although to Charlie's trained eyes, it is enough to know something is wrong. I only needed to hear the name.
"Good old Marky was the first name I put down, I always wondered what took him so long to get caught ." Fred had never liked Marcus Flint, Quidditch captain of Slytherin. He'd like him less if he knew the reason why one of his older brothers was pretending to now continue to calmly eat his dinner.
"Do you think they'll give him the Dementor's kiss right away?" George adds, and this time I'm about to hit him, brother or no. Percy is paling, and now Charlie is starting to look down right concerned. "Although, I don't think even a Dementor is desperate enough to want to kiss *him*."
Several things happen at once. There are surely more than I notice, as I am not my observant self when anger takes control of my senses. With a clatter, Percy drops his knife on his plate, before bolting from the room. I glare at George, obviously saying something harsh and demeaning from the look on his face, but I've forgotten it the moment it has been said, too preoccupied with getting out of my own seat to follow Percy to concentrate on such trivial things. As I leave the room, I can hear Charlie calming them all down, preventing them following. But that too is forgotten almost instantly as I follow the path Percy has taken, down the hall, out the front door.
He's running, but it is something we're both good at. Something we've spent our entire lives doing.
We are down near the end of the road when I finally catch up to him. His legs may have been fuelled by despair, but mine are still longer. He seems to realise that, and slows down to a walk, before stopping altogether.
"Don't." he says it quietly, coldly. It's the first thing he has said all evening. He doesn't turn around, so I can't see his face in the murkiness of dusk.
I'm supposed to say something. I know I am. That is what big brothers are for. And yet, the words will not come, even though they are ones I've practised many times since I learned of their relationship. I'm showing myself to be wholly inadequate again. It is something I seem to be doing on a regular basis.
I can't tell him everything will work out. Because it won't. I should say something about how sorry I am, or how I understand or feel or know, or *something*. I should tell him that big brother is here, and he doesn't have to pretend any longer.
"This is all your fault!" He spins around then, glaring with such hate that I'm taken back, and for a moment it blinds me from the tears that are caught in his eyelashes. The marble facade has crumbled, and I fear that Percy has not simply let slip some of his control, but lost it altogether. "You said I should keep seeing him! You said I shouldn't be afraid, that I should TRY!" He's yelling now, and I take a step back, more from the smothering wave of anguish that is rolling off of him, as opposed to any real fear of this getting physical. "This is your fault, remember? Remember?!"
As he screams the last word, I do. I remember a time when things were happier, although we were all troubled still by the war, which had dragged on for 6 months. I remember the storm in Cairo which caused me to lock down the shutters, and the rain that had been like Zeus' chariots themselves were thundering on the roof. I remember the sound of the door bell, and how annoyed I'd been that someone had rung it at 1am in the morning. I remember the huddled figure, drenched past the skin and into the soul, and the desperate look in his eyes as he told me he was in trouble, and he didn't know who else to turn to.
I remember, Percy.
I can no longer distinguish what he is ranting about, although I pick up enough from the few words screamed in anger that this is still my fault. I let it go on, lord knows how long. For just as I knew the storm that night would settle, and things would become clearer in the morning, Percy's hatred for me would die also.
Or, so I hope. For he was right about one thing, I had advised him to continue the relationship, when he had asked for my help, that evening. He was expecting my anger, my fury - how could ANYONE possible accept that a Ministry Official was conducting a secret romance with a Death Eater? Especially when that Official was Percy Weasley, perfectly proper, perfectly straight, perfectly boring.
Did I have doubts? Only the soulless would not. How did I not know that this Death Eater was using my brother to get secrets from the Ministry, or as nothing more than a toy? But it was hard to look passed the look in his eyes, or the strength of his heart, even when he had laid curled up in my arms, sobbing. Whoever he was, this man was important to Percy, enough so that he would seek out council from a brother who he had never been close to. And as I heard tales of him, of their meetings that could have led to the deaths or capture of either of them, of the passion, the words that were never spoken, or even hinted at, but existed all the same, I realised that it was enough.
He needed my support, and I gave it. Even when his doubts clouded his heart, and he feared what would happen if either them were caught or if anyone should find out, when he wondered about the loyalties he was betraying or of the disdain he was earning. Even when he had convinced himself that he should end the relationship which had 'Always been about sex, nothing deeper', I'd been able to talk him out of such hasty action.
He was happy. How could I let him steal that away from himself, even when it was a sword that was jagged on both sides?
That happiness has deserted him now, what with his worst fear manifesting itself. It is this moment, I believe, which has been the inspiration for much of his thoughts regarding ending his relationship with Marcus. With great happiness, comes greater sorrow.
The anger is fading, and now the tears are in free fall. Percy turns desperate eyes on me now, and my arms are around him just as his legs collapse under him. His harsh sobs are heard only by me, for the street is abandoned, this close to curfew.
"I don't know what to do," he whispers between choked sobs. How do I tell him that I have no idea, either?
I met him, once. This Marcus Flint. It must have been 4, maybe 5 months ago. By then, we had graduated from mere brothers to friends, yet I'd still been surprised when Percy had calmly met up with me one evening, introducing the man beside him as easily as if he was an old school friend he had run into on the way over. He is an attractive man, Marcus, more so than Percy led me to believe. There was a surliness about him, an almost hinted at darkness. But there was more there, as well. Marcus Flint is certainly a complex man, and it would have taken more than the 30 minutes I spent with him to even begin to understand a tiny corner of his being. All I know is that he risked just as much as Percy by continuing the relationship, if not more. For, if the Ministry found out, Percy would be considered a traitor. If the Death Eaters found out, a quick death would be the kindest possible punishment for Marcus.
And yet, they've been seeing each other all three years of this war. Just sex, indeed.
I smooth his hair out of his face, channelling my mother. She would be far better at dealing with this kind of thing, but she is the last person that Percy would have know about this. He fears her rejection more than any of the others, and I'm not sure that this fear isn't warranted. She is a wonderful woman, my mother. But she would have to be extraordinarily so to accept that her son was sleeping with someone her family were fighting against each day.
Percy tries to pull himself together, and does a fairly good job of it. The tears are dammed for the moment, and he pulls himself from my arms, taking several moments to regain control. I'm startled at how old the man in front of me looks - he is only 21, yet the sorrow that etches his features make him look almost a decade older. I can't help but think this is a war being fought by children, and Percy and Marcus are just two of whom have had their youth stripped away for the second time by Voldemort. They shouldn't have to have all this knowledge on their shoulders, not yet.
But they do. And the weight of it has just become too much for my brother to bear. Yet, Percy has always managed to surprised me.
"I'm going to the trial." He isn't asking my opinion, or trying to make up his own mind. I shouldn't be stunned anymore over how strong he is, and part of me, perhaps, is not. He says it with such cold determination, and I wouldn't even think of talking him out of it.
I'm too damn proud to. So proud.
"Do you mind if I come with you?"
He isn't expecting that, and it shows. He knows that the trial will be humiliating and hurtful for him, that the truth is sure to become known by his determination to stand by his lover's side. The last thing he expected was someone wanting to share it with in.
Silly boy. Has he learnt nothing, these past few years?
Slowly, he nods. I wrap an arm around his shoulders as we turn to head back to the house. There are arrangements to make, people to call. Family to admit sins to.
Hearts to desperately try and mend.
It's time we stopped pretending.