The End of All Things

Chapter 7: Family Matters

“He's back!” said George. “Dad's home!”

They hurried through the garden and back into the house. Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children's. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned....”

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, “The Burrow,” first paperback edition, American edition, page 38.

Once back inside the courtroom, Scrimgeour took his place at the front of the stand and fell into whispered conversation with the others. Harry watched in vague interest from the chair in the center of the room. He wondered if those on the stand now were the ones who had persuaded Scrimgeour to this ploy in the first place, and how they would react to Harry's offer.

Despite what Scrimgeour said, I think there'll always be those in the Ministry who don't want to see me as a hero.

McGonagall leaned over and whispered to Harry, “Potter, what on earth did you and the minister say to each other?”

“We were right about one thing. He did try to bribe me, but we were wrong in thinking it was his idea. Apparently the ministry was grasping at straws when they concocted this. I did give the minister reason to believe that it would be in the ministry's best interest not to bother me again, and help me if I ask for it, but I didn't reveal anything important.”

“And the minister accepted this?”

Harry looked away, embarrassed. “I might have forced his hand a little.”

Through the door, none of them heard the muffled sounds of triumph from those assembled there.

I knew he could do it, Hermione thought proudly.

McGonagall stared in silence at the boy sitting next to her.

He really has grown up quite a bit. Almost a different person entirely from the little boy I've lectured so many times.

When Minerva McGonagall first spoke to Molly Weasley that morning, the first thing that occurred to her was her conversation with Dumbledore after he had defended Harry in his previous trial.

McGonagall felt certain that if Dumbledore hadn't been there to support Harry, the boy would surely have been expelled. Dumbledore seemed worried that Harry, normally able to deal with extreme situations effectively (if not entirely calmly), had seemed so unnerved by his trial that he hadn't been able to defend himself to the Wizengamot properly.

McGonagall had immediately decided that if Dumbledore wasn't there to support him this time, she certainly would be. She'd managed to mask her concern for him under criticism for arriving so soon before the start of the trial, and felt guilty now for not speaking up in Harry's defense, being eager herself to see how much Harry would reveal.

She'd been hoping that he would tell the whole story, because then she, as the acting head of the Order of the Phoenix, might also have a better idea of what course of action to take next. She'd been planning on speaking up in his defense if, and only if, the Wizengamot directly accused Harry of murdering Albus Dumbledore.

But Harry, it seemed, had dealt with that threat--and likely many others, in the hallway behind the court—all on his own.

She sat back in her chair, feeling unexpected, yet not entirely unfamiliar pride in her student.

Next time, I'll know better than to just assume he needs help.

Harry's gaze had turned to Percy.

For the life of him, Harry couldn't figure him out. He wondered if Percy was like Scrimgeour, in that he was doing what he thought was best for the greater good. But if that was the case, shouldn't he at least be showing a little more consideration for his family?

Unless he really doesn't care about them, Harry thought. He immediately shook this thought off. Percy may be a lot of things, but Harry was pretty sure heartless wasn't one of them. But if that's the case, then Percy must be pretty miserable right now too. So what's keeping him from coming back, then? Pride? If that's the case he really is an idiot.

Harry sat there in the chair, the feeling from earlier rising in his chest again as he watched Percy, idly twirling his quill in between his fingers, waiting to be called upon to take notes. Scrimgeour and the others were still whispering to each other, but while Scrimgeour looked relieved, even excited, the others' expressions were doubtful, even a trifle ashamed.

Some minutes later the conference broke up. Scrimgeour announced, “Case dismissed,” and the Wizengamot started to file for the door in the back of the courtroom. Scrimgeour waved down at Harry, gave him thumbs up, and then beckoned to Percy.

Percy rose immediately, strode quickly to Harry, and said briskly.

“You are excused. Doubtless they're all waiting for you.”

Maybe it had been his imagination, but something in Percy's tone made Harry snap. He'd sounded so disdainful, but Harry would have sworn it was forced.

Before Percy could usher him out the door, Harry stepped forward and punched Percy in the nose with all the force he could muster.

A loud crack echoed through the courtroom. The Wizengamot, Scrimgeour, McGonagall, and the Weasleys, still listening outside the door, all heard it.

Those outside the door wondered what the sound had been, those inside stared in amazement as Harry Potter stared down at Percy Weasley, sitting on the floor where he'd fallen, trying to staunch a bloody nose.

Harry stepped forward. Putting all the disdain he could muster into his tone, he asked,

“What do you think you're doing?”

Percy stared dumbly back at him.

“What do you think you're doing to your family?”

Maybe the shock had worn off; maybe he'd realized the oddity of his present situation. In any case, Percy found his voice.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he looked back at Harry with growing contempt.

“Who are you to lecture me about families?”

Outside the courtroom, the Weasleys winced as one. When Harry had asked his second question, they'd had an inkling of what had just happened. When Percy answered, it confirmed their suspicions. Harry had likely just punched the estranged member of their family, and from what they all knew about Harry's temper, he wasn't going to take Percy's answer very well, especially when that answer was a subtle insult to Harry.

None of them would have dreamed that Harry would say what he'd say next.

What Percy didn't know was that his words had finally given Harry the outlet he needed. He'd been puzzling over Percy ever since he had learned Percy had left his family. He'd been alternately disgusted and puzzled as Ron had told him what Percy had said to their father, and that Percy had slammed the door in his mother's face when she'd gone to see him two Christmases ago.

It took Percy's words, suggesting that Harry didn't know anything about families, for all Harry's arguments to fall into place. Without another second's pause, Harry finally gave them voice.

“I may not know much about families, Percy, but I do know this. If the only thing keeping me from being with my family was my pride, I would get down on my knees and beg them to forgive me. And if they had done something wrong, and asked me to forgive them, I wouldn't hesitate.

“Just what are you trying to prove by acting like this? Like a child throwing a tantrum because he didn't get his way? Do you know your mum still cries over you? I can't believe you actually had the brass neck to tell your father that your family was poor because of his lack of ambition! Your father worked every day of his life to put clothes on your back and food on your table. Compared to Ron you were treated like a prince!

“Your parents bought you new robes more often than anyone else, you were the only one to have a decent owl for a number of years, and then you try to pin guilt on your dad for not giving you as much as you thought you deserved! Percy, YOU IDIOT!

“Do you have any idea how badly that must have hurt your father? Put yourself in his position. You go every day to do a job no one else wants, that no one really cares about except you, but you do it because it's important to you, and because it's the best job you can hope for, in spite of all your talents, and also because it pays just enough to keep your family happy and healthy.

“And all the reward you ever want or even feel you deserve is to see your family smiling back at you, grateful to you for what you've done for them.

“But then one of your sons, the son that was always trying to make you proud of him, the son that wanted to follow in your footsteps and the son that you were so proud of, basically tells you that you're a disappointment to him, that you shame him at work, that he has to fight against your `lousy' reputation, when the only reputation that you had ever cared about in the first place was the one you had with your family. Your mother's cried over you, Percy, and I think your dad has too.

“Think about it Percy. Forget your ambitions for a moment and think about what you've done. Think about the people you've hurt in pursuit of some selfish goals that only benefit you. You may say that your work helps people, and that's true. But that's a poor excuse to hide behind considering that the people you've hurt should be more important to you, especially when you only want to help people in the first place because you will get recognition for it.

“Percy, is that really what you want? If someone had told you five years ago that you would trade your relationship with your family in exchange for making your selfish dreams of glory come true, would you have believed them? And why is that very scenario reality right now?

“Percy, listen, I know you're a better person than this, and your parents also know you're a better person than the one you're acting like right now, otherwise they wouldn't miss you so much. If all their efforts to raise you right had truly gone to waste, don't you think they'd have breathed sighs of relief when you left, instead of crying for hours each time you turned them away, like your mother did?

“They still love you Percy. And if you're half as smart as I think you are, you'll realize that being able to return that love is worth far more than any recognition you could gain in the workplace.”

Turning on his heel, Harry strode briskly towards the door he'd entered through.

Funny. I feel better. He realized as he reached the door and strode through.

The Wizengamot looked at each other uneasily, the same thought running through their minds. I wonder if he chewed out the minister like that.

Scrimgeour couldn't help but be amazed as he watched Percy Weasley's eyes grow wet. Something Harry had said must have struck home with him.

I felt the same way after talking to Dumbledore many times.

Harry stepped out of the courtroom to meet the stunned faces of all who were gathered there. Hermione, Mrs. Weasleys, and Ginny's eyes appeared a little moist.

Harry blinked. “What?”

Arthur spoke up, his voice rather shaky. “We heard you, Harry, what you said just now, through the door. We heard everything.”

“Oh.” Harry turned red. “Um, I'm sorry?” he offered, abashed.

Arthur stepped forward, took Harry by the shoulders, much as Scrimgeour had done, and looked directly into Harry's eyes.

“Don't. Ever. Apologize for that,” he said firmly.

The next thing Harry knew, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had both engulfed him in a hug. He dimly sensed the other Weasleys press close.

Hermione stood watching the group hug, a proud smile on her face. Surreptitiously, she wiped her eyes.

Someone nearby cleared their throat.

The Weasley's looked around to meet Percy's gaze. His eyes appeared red (as was just beneath his nose from the blood he'd missed); his voice shook slightly as he said, “Mum? Dad?”

Neither adult answered.

“I'm so sorry.”

Harry sank bank in his accustomed chair at the Weasleys kitchen table later that evening. True to plan, they had all gone out to celebrate, an extra member added to the group.

Percy hadn't said much that evening. It seemed he was content just to listen to everyone talk, while Mrs. Weasley fussed over his throbbing nose, though Harry had the feeling neither of them blamed him for it. If anything, both seemed grateful that there was something that could break the ice between them.

After returning home, full of good food and ice cream, the Weasley's had retired to their beds. Percy had seemed only a little sad at no longer having his old room to himself, but being expected to share it with his two elder brothers. Harry had heard their voices coming through the floorboards, and from the tones and occasional laughter, gathered that the three had probably been quite close, before Bill and Charlie had left home.

Harry heard someone come behind him. He sensed it was Hermione, and his suspicion was confirmed when she wrapped her arms around his neck from behind, leaning her head on his shoulder—her hair tickling his neck.

He turned his head swiftly. Framed once again by brown curls, her smiling face looked gently at him.

“Mrs. Weasley changed it back for me,” she said in response to his silence.

“I'm glad,” he said softly.

“So am I.”

He closed his eyes and leaned back, his head now resting on her shoulder.

“Why did you change it back?”

“I missed it too much.”

“I thought you hated it.”

“Not recently. I used to when it was bushier, but right before I'd cut it, I couldn't help but notice that it was curlier than I'd thought. It seemed too late to change my mind by then, being in the barber's chair and all.”

“I liked it, too.”

“You did?”

“Mmm. I was so disappointed when I noticed you'd cut it. I didn't even realize it was you when you first hugged me after I got here, until you spoke.”

“Really? Why?”

He smiled. “There are two things I associate with hugs from you: my ribs feeling like they are going to crack, and your hair in my face. I never stopped missing you until I'd experienced both those things after we met up again during the holidays.”

Hermione blushed, glad that Harry couldn't see. “You know what I associate with your hugs?”

“No. What?”

“The smell of freshly cut grass. You always smell like that whenever we meet up again. It's a smell I've associated with you for a long time.”

Harry smiled. “It's probably because I do most of the Dursleys yard work during the holidays. Sort of makes sense that I'd smell like I'd just been mowing the lawn.”

“You don't smell like Ron, that's for sure. Can you imagine him using a lawnmower, even if he was a Muggle?”

Harry laughed—briefly. “Wait, you know what Ron smells like?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“One of two things: like he needs a bath, or cheap cologne. Though I suppose they could mean the same thing…”

Upstairs, Sirius raised his head sleepily at the laughter from downstairs. Recognizing who it was coming from, he lowered his head to the blankets again, satisfied that all was well.