Chapter Text
Sunday, 30th August 1987
Percy Weasley was never actually busy, but that was always the excuse he used when six-year-old Ginny asked, “Can I braid your hair?” To most people, Percy was annoying, unusually quiet, and anxious to the point that it made others uncomfortable. So, it was not a difficult concept to grasp that he had utterly and absolutely no friends. No matter where he went, whether that be the Ministry events Arthur had taken him to throughout the year, no one was saying to him, “Hey, I like you. Be my friend.” Even at home, everyone at the Burrow already had someone: Bill had Charlie, Fred had George, and that leaves Ron to be close with Ginny. But Percy never had that sort of stability; he was lonely, not to the point it was bothersome, but still he felt like the odd one out, the black sheep, someone unique, but not in a good way. It's not that he wasn’t loved, he was, but he wasn’t the favorite.
Percy had almost no belongings that weren’t hand-me-downs. For example, his shoes, well, Charlie’s old sneakers, had worn down to frail soles, and they carried the type of dirt that would never come out of the mid-sole after years of Charlie wearing them out on muddy days. He had some of Bill’s old jackets, which were either way too big or way too small; there was no in between. But that’s alright, he never minded the cold.
As an eleven-year-old boy who grew up in a world of overbearing poverty, with a perfect family that had a not-so-perfect relationship with him, Percy promised this year would be different. He would talk more, not stay so quiet, still, stiff-backed; it was his first year at Hogwarts, and he had to make friends; he had always been terrified of being forever alone. They had all his supplies: Bill and Charlie’s old first-year textbooks, ones that he had to sort through, dust off, and choose the ones he wanted. He had an old cauldron that Molly had pulled from Charlie’s old hoard; he would have gotten Bill’s, had it not rusted. He had plain black, thick robes, which were just an unused hand-me-down from Charlie, too big, as they were for Charlie his first year; they had to get him a second pair when he was starting. They would have gotten nice ones just for him, had they not been low on money that week, but that was just fine. Too big of robes never hurt anyone. Finally, he got his own wand, not something that was wand-adjacent, like a stick.
He thought back to stepping into Ollivander’s Wand Shop, the place he’d been dreaming of getting something just for him. Something personal; he remembered smiling the whole time, his eyes bright as Ollivander had brought him box after box of wands, he went through almost 5 wand types before they found one. His wand, one made of Vine wood with a Demiguise hair core, was 12 inches and thin, with a light brown color that had twists and engravings at the handle of the wand. And it was his, something no one could take from him to give as a hand-me-down to the twins, or Ron, or even Ginny, even though she was a miracle in their parents' eyes.
He had grown up scrawny. He was somewhat tall for his age, but he was sure that he’d stopped growing months ago. He had parsnip pale skin. He was slightly freckled, with short, curly, ginger hair. His silver, thickly prescribed glasses clung to his nose; they were the same frames he almost didn’t get because they were “Too expensive,” as his mother, Molly, had said several times before deciding the positives outweighed the negatives.
They arrived exactly one hour early at the Ministry of Magic’s atrium, and crowds were bustling through, most not here for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts event. This was the exhibition Arthur Weasley, Percy’s father, had spent weeks talking about. “Percy! Are you following?” he asked as he shoved through another assemblage of Ministry families and professionals, Percy trailing closely behind. “Yes, Father!” he chimed, grabbing the strap of his father’s dirty brown, stained messenger bag that hung diagonally across his body, to make sure he didn’t get lost. His trousers hung off his legs awkwardly in a wide-legged style, and they had been rolled up twice to fit his legs; he looked messy even though his shirt was somewhat close to his size. He would have changed three or four times just to pick out the perfect outfit if they hadn’t woken up too late for his father's preferences.
The Muggle Artefacts department, often underpaid, understaffed, and unappreciated, finally had the chance and funds to host an event. The Daily Prophet called it “1987’s Muggle Marvels Exhibition.” Most people called it “An absolute waste of funding and time,” whereas Arthur said it was “A bright and fun learning experience.” Then he was thrilled to have convinced Percy to come. And Percy couldn’t disappoint his father when he looked so excited. Now, with a grin, Arthur moved through a small crowd to show Percy the bewitched, flying lawnmower exhibit. Why it was flying, Percy had no idea. In his opinion, a lawn mower should be on the lawn, not in the sky. Arthur slipped to the front and held Percy’s shoulders, “Ah, Son, this one is my favorite.” Then he went on, for what felt like ten minutes, animatedly explaining bits and pieces of the motor. Percy asked questions, feeding into his father’s delusions that he was enjoying that he was here.
As they moved to the next exhibit, Arthur got caught up talking to a colleague, a man with tan skin and a mole right below the left corner of his lip, Percy stood there, hands twisting the hem of his sleeve in his fist, watching as his father stood there giving a polite chuckle when the man with the mole talked about his family and how he loved to see the Ministry giving the Muggle Misuse Department some appreciation. When he finally glanced over to the boy that was all limbs, Percy, Arthur introduced him by saying, “Oh— Gods, yes!” Arthur cackled as he remembered he had his child with him, “This is my son, Percy.” He then leaned closer to the man with the mole, voice low, “He’s going to be a Ministry man one day.” Which made Percy beam with pride.
Though it wasn’t just pride, it was whole-hearted ambition. He wasn’t there yet, he was still young, and scrappy, and definitely not Ministry material. Not yet at least, but if he got to be a prefect, like Bill is, that would merely tell that he was capable of doing something well enough to be rewarded.
“Is that so?” The man with the mole raised an eyebrow with a smile. Percy grinned up at the man, he opened his mouth to respond, but a wave of nervousness washed over his body, and he gripped his green sweater tighter and nodded, suddenly feeling very nervous. The man, as if sensing his anxiety, smiled awkwardly and nodded. With an uptight sigh, the man looked back to Arthur, “Well, I should leave you to it. Nice meeting you, Percy.” The man shook Arthur’s hand and headed on his way. Arthur led Percy to the next exhibit, but he couldn’t shake that anxious nerve from his face. His face formed an almost permanent scowl, one that made Arthur ask if he was alright. Percy nodded every time, but the face didn’t leave.