The Long Way Home

The Burrow looked exactly like it always did at Christmas—crooked, cluttered, warm in a way that seemed to leak out of the bricks. Percy stood at the garden gate, breath fogging, and wondered if he could still turn back. The gravel path stretched ahead, snow-dusted gnomes lining it, and beyond, the kitchen windows blazed with gold light. Voices muffled through the glass. Dishes clattering. Home.

He hadn't been home in nearly two years.

His hand shook as he pushed open the gate. The hinges groaned, but the wind swallowed the sound. It echoed in his chest anyway—a warning. Each step made the weight of his travelling cloak heavier, the cold sinking into his bones. He hadn't eaten properly in days. Sleep? Months.

The back door swung open before he reached it. Molly Weasley stood there, flour dusting her apron, her face caught between joy and shock. "Percy?" Her voice cracked. "Oh, Percy, is that really you?"

"Hello, Mum." He tried to smile. It came out thin and brittle.

Molly rushed forward, arms out, but stopped short when she got close. Her eyes swept over him—the pallor, the hollows under his cheekbones, the way his robes hung loose. Something sharp flickered across her face. Worry. Maybe fear. Then she wrapped her arms around him, and Percy had to clench his jaw to keep from flinching.

"You're freezing," she said into his shoulder. "And far too thin. Have you been eating? Come inside. Arthur! Arthur, Percy's here!"

The kitchen erupted. Fred and George looked up from Exploding Snap, identical expressions of surprise and cautious welcome. Ron, home from Hogwarts, dropped a biscuit he'd been about to dunk. Ginny sat curled by the fire, a book open on her lap, but she closed it slowly as Percy stepped into the light.

And Arthur emerged from the parlour, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead, smiling. "Percy, my boy. Wonderful to see you."

Percy nodded. Throat too tight for words.

The warmth of the kitchen hit him like a wall. Fire crackling. Kettle singing. The smell of mince pies and roasting chicken. It should've been comforting. Instead, it made the hollow inside him feel deeper, darker, because he didn't belong here anymore. His siblings had moved on. They had lives. Futures. And he had nothing.

"Sit down, sit down," Molly insisted, bustling him toward a chair. "I'll get you some soup. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks."

"I'm fine, Mum," Percy said, but his voice came out too quiet, and he sat anyway because his legs were unsteady.

Fred and George exchanged a glance. Ron studied his tea. Ginny watched Percy with a thoughtful, searching look he couldn't meet.

"So," Fred said, breaking the silence, "what brings you back to the bosom of the family after all this time? Miss our charming company?"

"We sorted out the Ministry owl post?" George added. "Realised you were missing out on Mum's treacle tart?"

Percy forced a tight smile. "I had some leave saved up. I thought… It's Christmas."

Nobody seemed convinced, but nobody pressed. Molly placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him, and Percy stared at it, the smell making his stomach turn. He lifted the spoon. Took one sip. It tasted like nothing.

The conversation around him continued, light and easy. Ron talked about Quidditch tryouts. Ginny mentioned an essay for Charms. Fred and George traded jokes about their latest inventions. Arthur recounted a story about a Muggle washing machine. All so normal, so warm. And Percy sat in the middle like a ghost, nodding, taking small sips of soup he didn't want.

Across the table, his mother's eyes kept drifting toward him. She saw the bruises. He knew she did. Dark yellow patches fading on his jaw, the edge of a purple mark peeking from his collar. She said nothing, but her mouth tightened.

"Percy, dear," she said finally, "are you sure you're feeling all right? You look quite pale."

"Just tired. The journey was long."

"You should go up to your old room and rest," Arthur suggested gently. "We can talk more in the morning."

Percy nodded, relief and dread twisting together in his stomach. He stood too quickly, chair scraping the floor. "Yes. That would be… yes."

He made his way up the crooked staircase, hand sliding along the banister, feeling the worn wood. Every step heavier than the last. The door to his room was ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Exactly as he'd left it—small, tidy, bed against the wall, desk by the window where he once studied late into the night. Sheets clean, smelling of lavender. A pile of old Spellotapes on the desk. Prefect badges. A family picture from years ago, all of them squished on the sofa, his younger self beaming.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and the memory crashed over him like cold water.

The Ministry was quiet in the evenings, hallways empty except for the occasional janitor. Percy had stayed late, as always, sorting reports for the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. His desk was neat. Quills arranged by size. He took pride in that order.

Head Auror Smith appeared in the doorway without a sound. Tall man, greying hair, face carved from granite. He held a file and a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Weasley. A word."

Percy followed him into the small, windowless office on the lower level. The door clicked shut behind them. The room smelled of stale pipe smoke and ink.

"Your reports from last week," Smith said, tossing the file onto his desk. "Sloppy. Incomplete. You missed a cross-reference on the Whitby case."

Percy's heart hammered. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll redo them immediately."

"That's not enough, Weasley." Smith stepped closer. "This is the third time. Do you think standards have slipped just because Scrimgeour's gone? Do you think I won't hold you accountable?"

"No, sir. Of course not."

Smith's hand landed on Percy's shoulder, heavy, squeezing. "You need to learn discipline. A lesson in attention to detail."

And then his hand moved up, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of Percy's neck, and Percy froze, because he didn't know what was happening, didn't know why his body was screaming at him to run, but his legs wouldn't move.

"You want to get ahead, don't you, Weasley?" Smith's voice low, almost a whisper. "You want to be somebody."

Percy nodded, mouth dry.

"Then you'll take your lessons, won't you?"

The memory fractured—fragments of pressure, pain, skin against skin, a voice that crooned and threatened in the same breath. Darkness. The click of the lock. And later, alone, curled on the cold floor of the men's lavatory, uniform torn, face wet, wondering if he'd done something to deserve it.

Percy blinked, and the Burrow's bedroom swam back into focus. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the mattress, trying to steady himself. The bruises on his neck throbbed. He'd covered most of them with his collar and a scarf, but he knew his mother had seen. She always saw.

He thought he could escape. Thought that if he came home for Christmas, he could pretend for a few days that everything was normal. But Smith had made it clear—there was no escape. The threats came in whispers. You will never be believed. You'll lose your job. I'll ruin you. And who will want you then, Weasley? A failure. A nothing.

He was nothing. Spent years trying to be perfect, trying to earn his family's respect, trying to prove he wasn't the absurd, rule-bound brother his siblings teased. And that need for approval led him straight into a monster's grasp.

Slowly, Percy reached under his pillow and pulled out the small brown bottle he'd hidden in his luggage. Sleeping pills. Dreamless Sleep, the label read, but he hadn't bought it from a proper apothecary. Bought it in Knockturn Alley, from a man with yellow teeth who asked no questions. Instructions said two drops. The bottle held enough for an overdose.

He held it in his palm, the glass warm from his body heat. Fingers closed around it.

It would be easy. Quiet. He could slip away while the family was sleeping, and in the morning they'd find him, and it would be over. No more fear. No more shame. No more waking up in the middle of the night with Smith's voice in his ears, with his own voice screaming soundlessly.

Tears spilled down his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them away. He unscrewed the cap.

Footsteps in the hallway.

Percy's head snapped up. He shoved the bottle under his pillow, heart beating so hard it hurt. He tried to compose his face, but the tears were still falling, hands still shaking.

A knock at the door.

"Percy?" Arthur's voice, low and gentle. "May I come in?"

Percy opened his mouth to say no, but the word got stuck. He swallowed. "Yes."

The door opened. Arthur stepped inside, face soft with worry. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, eyes taking in Percy's dishevelled state, the tear tracks, the way he was curled on the edge of the bed.

"Son," Arthur said quietly, "I'm going to sit, all right?" He moved to the desk chair and sat down, keeping a careful distance. "I've been worried about you. Your mother, too. We've thought about you every day since you left."

Percy shook his head. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Arthur's voice firm but kind. "I see those bruises, Percy. I see the way you flinch when people touch you. And I see you're not eating, and you look like you haven't slept in a year. Something is wrong."

"I said I'm fine." Percy's voice cracked. He hated it. Hated how weak he sounded.

Arthur didn't push. Just sat, waiting, hands resting on his knees. The silence stretched. The clock in the hallway ticked.

And then Percy's composure shattered.

"I can't—I can't do this anymore," he said, the words spilling out in a sob. "Dad, I—I don't know how to—I'm so tired. I'm so tired."

Arthur moved then, crossing the room quickly and kneeling in front of him. "Percy, what is it? Tell me. Whatever it is, we can fix it. We can help."

"You can't help." Percy's voice barely audible. "I'm not worth it. I let him—I let him do it to me. I let—"

He broke off, choking on the words. His hand went to the pillow, and before he could stop himself, he pulled out the bottle and thrust it toward Arthur.

"I was going to take them. All of them. I had it planned. I thought—I thought if I was gone, it wouldn't matter anymore. The shame would be gone. The pain would be gone."

Arthur took the bottle. His hand was steady, but his face was ashen. "Percy. Percy, look at me."

Percy raised his eyes. His father's face was wet too, tears cutting tracks through the lines of his cheeks.

"I love you," Arthur said. "Your mother loves you. Your brothers, your sister. We love you. Do you understand me? There is nothing—nothing you could ever do or say that would make us stop loving you."

"You don't know what I did," Percy whispered. "You don't know what he made me do."

"Then tell me. Tell me everything."

And Percy did. The words came out in a flood—the late nights, the locked office, the threats, the hands, the pain, the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare that never ended. He'd told no one. Been too ashamed, too afraid. But now he spoke, and Arthur listened, and when Percy finally fell silent, his father wrapped his arms around him and held him tight.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur said, voice rough. "I'm so sorry you suffered alone. But you're not alone anymore. We're going to get you help. We're going to report him. And no matter what happens, you're coming home. You're staying here."

Percy sobbed into his father's shoulder, the tension of months finally breaking. He heard the door creak open, and through blurry eyes, he saw his mother, standing in the doorway with tears running down her face. Behind her, Ginny, Ron, Fred, George—all of them, their faces stricken and fierce.

"We're here, Percy," Ginny said softly. "We're not going anywhere."

Fred stepped forward, voice rough. "What he said. You're our brother, you berk. Nothing changes that."

"We're going to help you," George added. "Every step."

Percy looked around the room, at the faces of his family, and for the first time in what felt like forever, a small, fragile warmth flickered in his chest. Hope. Terrifying and small, but there.

He nodded, throat too tight for words.

Arthur held him a little tighter, and the Weasleys gathered around, a circle of love and protection. In that moment, Percy began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could survive.