Percy Take the Wheel

one

Everything was quiet. That was Percy's first thought in the hours after the funeral. He couldn't remember the number of times he'd once shouted, begged, cajoled for quiet before. Now, he felt like begging someone to speak.

Quiet was abnormal. Quiet meant there was something deeply wrong in the Burrow.

Fred and George were sitting dully on the couch, Ginny leaning into one of their sides without garnering a hint of a reaction. Ron was almost trembling, ensconced on Percy's lap, something he hadn't done with their parents for months now. Even Bill and Charlie were there, but somehow not.

Percy found himself glancing at the taller figures of his older brothers- for comfort, maybe, for direction, for what next what do we do- but they were in their own reality, murmuring quietly to each other, hopefully trying to figure something out.

Figure this out.

Mum was dead.

The thought brought a lump back to Percy's throat and he shut his eyes, curling tighter around Ron's warm form, almost too big to fit on his lap anymore.

Their dad had been tinkering in the shed on that Anglia again, that stupid illegal car, and their mother had gone in for a habitual scolding. Something, obviously, had gone wrong and the vehicle exploded.

The Aurors hadn't been clear on the specifics, but Percy figured how didn't matter. He'd seen the aftermath. When he'd run to the shed, he'd anticipated finding his parents sooty and annoyed, but whole, safe. They were talented, after all, they were magic, and who dies from a little explosion? Fred and George might have survived a hundred of them.

But Mum was in large, messy pieces, and Dad wasn't much better.

Percy had slammed the door shut, aware of his siblings just on his heels. As calmly as his shaking voice could manage, he'd told Fred, if he had been Fred, to floo St. Mungo's. The addressed twin hadn't mouthed off for once, maybe taking in Percy's tone, maybe just the mention of St. Mungo's, but whatever it was, Percy could only spare a silent flash of gratitude before ordering his other siblings out. 

Out.

That had brought up the usual protests, but Percy did not have time to argue and one quiet, furious repetition of the demand had them turning tail.

Leaving him alone.

He'd broken the rules, then, whipping out his wand and running inside, trying not to look at the mess- at his Mum- and focused on his father. His still breathing father. He'd patched up Fred and George by hand after some of their stupider ideas, sometimes by wand after they'd joined the Quidditch team, but this was so far beyond-

Percy had squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and breathed in the sharp tang of blood and done what he could.

His hands were shaking, and a part of him was furious rather than scared, and he clung to the anger, because at least the anger let him act.

Your stupid obsession made you break the law and look what it's done, Percy had thought, trying to stop the bleeding from what had once been a leg, Why doesn't anyone in this family understand there are rules, laws for a reason? Why didn't you- But even the anger was beginning to cloud, eyes blurring with unshed tears, and Percy angrily wiped them away on his arm, careful not to get blood in his eyes, and pushed on. Just keep on, he'd told himself then, pushing back fury and fear alike, keep on.

When the healers finally, finally made it, they'd praised his efforts, told him his father wouldn't have had a chance at all without him, promised to clear up the use of magic while underage just this once, and they were all so calm as they bustled around, a sort of tranquil chaos, that Percy had been able to let go of his father, settling back on his haunches among the mess, and try to breathe. The assistants cooed and soothed at him, but the words were meaningless. Eventually, they pulled him from the room and told him to go wash up.