Sins of the Father

Dear Father,

I would be lying if I tried to convince you that I have any idea why I am writing this or even what I'm writing at all. I would have more of an idea if I actually believed you would ever receive this in the first place. No fault of the owl post here at the Ministry, of course. Not even that twittery owl of Ron's could possibly misplace a message that had to be delivered 3 doors down.

Did you ever realise that I find it natural to babble away about petty things so as to avoid dealing with issues that cut beneath the surface? Or have you always thought that there was nothing beneath the superficial layers that I wrap around myself?

I'm doing it now. I can't even write the opening paragraph of a letter that you will never see without trying to divert attention to things as unimportant as Pigwigeon or myself. Please forgive my selfishness. You will never see this letter, because I lack the bravery to ever show it to you, am too frightened to reveal my soul and flaws so openly. One could ask why I'm then writing this letter at all, and in all honesty, there isn't an easy answer. Perhaps these are simply words I've wanted to say for years, yet I have let my own cowardliness get in the way of saying them, as I have done with so many things in my life. Perhaps it is my subconscious craving your understanding, needing you to know this pitiful son of yours, even if it is only from a piece of parchment you will never lay eyes on. Perhaps it is just me being selfish, again. My need to have you to myself for a moment, even if you are not actually here.

I'm making little sense, aren't I? But then, I've never been talented with words that weren't structured and planned and practised. Essays and cold speeches about the smuggling of illegal artefacts or International relationships are easy to deal with, for they are words that never hold any meaning, are as empty as they are rigid. They are words anyone could say, given the right opportunity.

Words from the heart are far harder to speak, especially when one has no experience in that area. But I'll try my best, for both of our sakes.

Do you know what my first memory of you is, father? I must have been about 4, cooped up in one of those many safe houses that you had shipped us all off to when you became Lucius Malfoy's primary target during the war. It had been two years since our first safe house, but it was the twins second birthday that I first recall you ever actually stopping by. Oh, I know you must have been there on some other occasion of course, the twins had to have been created somehow, after all. And while I may possibly sound bitter, I do understand. War is a horrible time, and the horrors that haunted you were not ones you wanted to share with your young family. There were others who needed you, and it would have been selfish of you to not have done all you could for them.

It's just, just that I needed you as well. And you were never there. You see, Father, you were not the only one who dealt with demons during the war, and while I'm sure the terror that I lived with each day paled greatly in comparison to what you must have faced out on the battle fields, it is still a period of my life that blackens my dreams, that still has the power to lend to many sleepless nights.

That is another aspect of me you don't know of, isn't it? But then, that is because of my own pride, really. I never wanted you to ever see me as weak, how could someone who was weak stand up to the reputation of Bill and Charlie?

I was talking about the twins and the first time I met you. I'm sure it must have been, for I remember many things that I wish time had let me forget that happened before that birthday party, but there exists not a single memory of you. I suppose you could hardly call the twins birthday a party, we were still in hiding, after all. How many people did I ever see in total during those years? 6, maybe 7? If there had ever been any more than that, they must have sneaked in after I had gone to bed for the night. But at the 'party', it had only been the twins, myself, mother and eventually you. Bill and Charlie had been stashed away up at Hogwarts, which of course was far superior in both safety and comfort. I can remember the anticipation - not from the twins of course, they had no idea who you were, who any of us were, really. But to me, you were this brave, dashing man that mother always spoke of, this wonderful man who was supposed to love me more than life itself, and was as eager to meet me as I was him.

Except, it wasn't me you came to see, was it?

I've never been able to compare to the twins, if there is a single person who prefers my company to theirs, I would be the first to suggest that they have their heads examined. Even back then, the attraction of the twins was undeniable: two perfect, beautiful babies that were all yours. Why would you want to spend time with the strange, gangly child who hid shyly behind his mother, a hesitant smile on his face?

I shouldn't blame you, not really. After all, to place blame on you would be to place a similar blame on the countless others who have shunned my company since then. Perhaps even then you saw in me something so undesirable that branded me unworthy of much attention, and it simply took the rest of the world a little longer to catch up.

Whatever you saw, it was enough to warrant me a brief pat on the head, before you turned warm eyes on the twins, smiling widely at the mischievous antics that they begun to show even at an early stage. You barely spoke a word to me, that night. I craved your attention, but didn't know how to gain it. So I simply watched, wishing more than anything that you would involve me in those childish games you were playing with the twins.

I later asked Mother, long after you had left, why you had spent so much time with the twins when it was unlikely that they would even remember you had been there at all the next day. I didn't ask her why you didn't seem to love me the way you did the twins, the way mother had promised you would. Even then the beginnings of the masks I wear on a daily basis now were beginning to form. She told me that you had wanted to bond with the twins, that a special relationship that would last a lifetime formed between a child and their father at a very early age.

We never had that bond, did we, Father? You never had time, never cared enough to forge one with me. There I go again, making it sound like it is all your fault, when I'm sure I've already said in this letter that I acknowledge that the fault was all mine. But I made a promise to myself when I began this, that the lies that I surround myself with like socialites around a handsome bachelor at some wealthy party, wouldn't plague this letter. Lies serve only to protect, not to heal.

So it is honesty that forces me to admit that I was jealous of the relationship you then had with the twins, and that I still remain jealous of the relationship you seem to have with everyone in the family apart from me. Ginny. Ron. Fred. George. Charlie. Bill. They are all so much like you, so full of life and vigour. They approach life in the same laid back manner, and are forever ready with a witty remark or a warm smile. They are your children, Father, in every sense of the word.

I, on the other hand, am clearly my mother's child. She is the one who taught me everything from how to tie my shoelaces to what was important in life. It is from her - not you, as I'm sure many people in the Ministry believe, that my drive to achieve came from, as well as my utter fear of failing to always meet the impossibly high standards that the two of us would set for myself. I could not stand to have my mother look at me disapprovingly as well, not when everyone else seemed to always look at me in disdain.

What of you is there in me, Father? There isn't a single aspect of our personalities that I can think of that we share. Mother was all I knew for the first 6 years of my life, and you took no interest in the years after that. Why would you? Four new children to shape in your name, two older ones that were the apple of your eye - I believe that is the correct muggle term. It seems I was lost in the shuffle, the child who was really nothing more than a stranger.

I never mentioned the promise I made back on the twins birthday, did I? Watching as you held them close, laughing at their cute antics, I promised myself that one day I would make you love me. At 4, I was already convinced that you didn't. I never thought of myself as a cynical child, just one with little reason to think positively of myself.

Have you ever noticed that I've tried to mould myself after you, even though our temperaments are as different as day and night itself? Oh, I know what everyone thinks, just because I pretend to not be affected by the cruel words that often flow from the lips of your children, doesn't mean that they are not felt. They believe I wanted to work in the Ministry because it gave me power. No-one ever bothered to ask me, they just assumed that they knew why. Would you like to know, Father? Really know?

I wanted to be close to you. For you to be proud to have me as your son. I could think of no better way. I still can't, even though that route obviously failed miserably, for you are still three doors down, and I am writing a letter that while addressed to you, is being written for myself.

Surely you must be surprised? After all, the hardships I went through at school to become a member of the Ministry were torturous and incredibly lonely, although I suppose you really have no idea how painful my years were at Hogwarts were, do you? There is little chance that you know how many nights I would stay up until dawn, revising and studying because I was not as naturally intelligent as Bill or Charlie had been. And how were you to have known that I never had friendships on any level that weren't superficial, or how hurt the constant taunting and teasing made me.

It all seemed worth it, at the time. What was friendship if it meant I could gain your love, your respect? It became almost obsessive, my desire to earn your affection. But no matter how highly I achieved, it was never enough. It was always never enough. Top grades didn't sway you, nor did becoming Head Boy. For a brief moment, when you would show pride over each of my individual successes, I held out a blinding hope that finally I had created a catalyst for our relationship. But that hope only ever lasted a brief moment, as always you would then turn to one of the others.

It is something that still has yet to change. I work endlessly at the Ministry, many days keeping far longer hours than yourself. You never notice, only Mother ever does. I thought, I thought that I was trading the insults of the twins back at Hogwarts for the respect and comradeship of you at the Ministry, but I found that your tongue could be just as painful as theirs. It should have come as no surprise really, that you would often joke and join in the 'gentle' ribbing I faced at work, for merely trying to do my best. You had always laughed at the twins pranks and jokes at home, at times even joining in. Always for fun. Always in jest.

Always, always heart breaking.

My pillow holds many of my tears, an uncountable amount coming from your moments of humour. Just once, once! I wish you would be the saviour, not the instigator or partner in crime, when it came to humiliating or 'bringing me down a notch or two'. But to do so is to deny yourself moments of pleasure, even if it is at the sake of your own son's sanity, your own son's heart. You've never once told the others to treat me better, perhaps because that would mean that you would have to as well.

Forgive me, I did not mean to imply in any way that you are not a good man, for you are one. I just can't understand how you can let the others hurt me as they do, why you join in! Can you really not know me that badly that you can't notice the pain it causes? I am a brilliant when it comes to hiding my feelings, Father, but that has not always been the case. And maybe, just maybe, if you actually truly looked, you would see the crevasses in my facade.

But you don't look, you've never looked. And it is my fault again, because I've never given you an actual reason to in the first place.

I promised myself not to lie, but these next words are hard for me - please forgive me if they flow about as coherently as a bogged marsh. There are times when I blame you for a lot of things: our non-existent relationship that has brought me nothing but pain, the trials that I went through to try and earn your love. During those times, I wonder why you can't love me for simply who I am, although when you look at how I turned out, I suppose asking even that is to request a lot. But reason is never far behind in moments such as those, quickly there to remind me that you get along wonderfully with your 6 other, far from perfect children, that it is only me that you don't have a relationship with.

Only me.

I'm sorry, father. I'm sorry for never being someone that you could cherish and care for. It must be hard for you, dealing with a child who is so unlike the others, who is unsociable and stiff and proper. I wish more than anything that I was everything you had always wanted me to be, however I've failed you miserably in that aspect, as I've failed you all my life.

Sins of the son. Maybe one day I will become someone whose flaws are not so huge that they prevent you from being able to share your love. It will be a long road, for if I am known for anything, it is my many faults. But until then, know that you always have been in my heart, and that I will forever be your loving son.

May you never see this.

Your Son,

Percy Weasley.

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