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Close your eyes
Have no fear
The monster’s gone
He’s on the run and your daddy’s here
-Beautiful Boy, John Lennon
Arthur considered himself a good man. A good father. A good husband. He considered himself good.
It was something that he had always prided himself on from a very early age, coming from a family that once had so much and yet because of one very simple reason was turned away from society.
Love.
The Weasleys were big on love, he knew. Growing up he had reasoned that love was all around; because he lived in it, he believed the world to be filled with love.
However, he soon learned that love wasn’t all around when his older brother, Ernie, turned eleven and he didn’t receive a Hogwarts letter.
Many decades later and he could still remember his family spending the entire day looking out the window for an owl that would never come. The shocked expression on his father’s face, the strangled cry from his mother’s lips, the tears in his brother’s eyes.
The Weasleys. Dejected, rejected, and shunned. All because of love.
Arthur grew up on stories of his great great-grandfather who rejected a Malfoy heiress to instead marry a muggleborn and that was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. He was raised to despise the Malfoys for ruining their reputation, for spreading rumors hundreds of years before he was even born that his ancestor tried to poison the Malfoy patriarch to get out of the marriage contract, for poisoning almost the entire line of Weasleys, save for a little wizard only nine years old who somehow survived because he had been a fussy eater.
He had used to think the entire thing was rubbish; a scary story told on Halloween to spook him. But then his older brother turned eleven years old and they went to Diagon Alley and Lucius Malfoy had pushed his brother to the ground and shouted at him to leave the Alley because he didn’t belong there.
He had to watch his own Hogwarts letter come while Ernie, who he had always looked up to, watched from the other side of the room with a muggle textbook in front of him instead of a potions book.
He had to hear his older brother crying from the bathroom because all of his friends he’d had practically from birth had stopped talking to him all because he couldn’t do magic.
Arthur had to listen to his parents late at night yelling at each other about what they were going to do about Ernie.
He had to watch as his brother was sent away to a special school for squibs that prided themselves on being an institution to make the magic appear.
He had to experience sending owls to his brother but never receiving a letter back.
He had to watch Ernie come back quieter, angrier, jumpier.
Arthur had to walk into Ernie in the bathroom and see bruises and scars all over his older brother’s back and arms.
His older brother who he had always regarded to be his personal hero; someone who was so incredibly brave and strong, who if he had magic would no doubt be in Gryffindor, broke down crying and told Arthur he wished he was dead.
Arthur had to watch his older brother be sent away to a distant cousin who lived in some sleepy muggle countryside because living in the wizarding world was too hard.
He had to feel the pain of sending letters but never receiving any back, not knowing how his brother was for the longest time until his parents’ funeral almost ten years later.
He had to blink in confusion when he saw Ernie all grown up because he didn’t recognize him, until he saw the very same crooked smile that had never failed to make him laugh.
He always wanted to be good. He never wanted to be the cause of such self-loathing, such hatred, such pain that his older brother had to endure for years.
So he tried to do his best; he tried to be the best husband he could be, the best father he could be, the best colleague and worker he could be.
Sure, he got distracted a little too much by muggle things, but who could blame him when for years it was the only connection he had to his brother?
Sure, some people might have pointed out how loyal he was to Dumbledore, but back when Death Eaters were murdering anyone who even slightly alluded to enjoying muggle things, the man had protected his brother.
Sure, he didn’t make much money to provide for his family, he almost never talked to his brother, and his job was looked down on by the very same men who bullied Ernie relentlessly and believed that squib institutions were doing more good than harm.
But the Weasleys were a family filled with love.
And sometimes love was the best thing one could provide.
Arthur believed this.
He believed this the more his finances became thin but looked at the way Molly smiled at him and told him they had another baby on the way.
He believed this when he spent all of his children’s eleventh birthdays distracting them from the windows just in case a letter wouldn’t come.
He believed this when he set up muggle contraptions in his home and tried teaching his kids on what they were so they could respect the non-magical.
He believed this when Bill, and then later Charlie, left in hopes of making their own way in the world.
He tried his best to believe this when Percy yelled at him about his station in life, about the ruined reputation of the Weasley name, about how little his job made and didn’t he want more , and why would he put his kids through all this?
It became a little hard to believe when Percy cut off all communication and left.
It became almost impossible to believe when Molly would refuse to mention his name and burst into sobs at night.
But he trudged on, with the hope that Percy would understand one day that love really was sometimes the best thing one could provide.
Until one day during work he overheard something he had never thought he’d ever hear.
He was getting lunch at the cafeteria, usually something he never did because Molly’s cooking was so much better but regretfully he was too forgetful to bring.
He was going through the Daily Prophet, frowning at the newest article on what a fraud Harry Potter was, when he couldn’t help but overhear a couple younger coworkers gossip.
“-I heard Fudge is going ballistic,” one said, grabbing a plate of sandwiches. Always interested in bringing a little gossip from work home to share with Molly, Arthur sat up a little straighter.
“I don’t blame him! Good assistants are hard to find. My father had to go through at least five before he found the perfect one,” the other said, and Arthur found himself going stiff.
He didn’t spend much time on any other floors besides the one his department was on. He didn’t really have a need to, and he didn’t necessarily care for it, since he found that the higher departments were full of idiotic, privileged arseholes.
But they were talking about his boy . His Percy, who he hadn’t heard a single peep from since he left all those months ago with a slam of the door and a scowl.
“Well, of course they are. Important people need responsible people of high standings, not a waste of perfectly pure blood!”
Arthur told himself to remain calm as his grip on the Prophet tightened. These blokes, despite being at least ten years his junior, could most likely get him fired if he took one step out of line.
“Well said, mate. But you have to agree that it’s not his fault, just look at who his father is!”
Arthur shut his eyes and tried to block out all the tauntings he’d received at Hogwarts by purebloods who made fun of him for having a squib brother.
“Oh, come on, like it’s his father’s fault that he’s such a pathetic assistant. If I had his job- of course, I would never be caught dead being an assistant, even if it were to the Minister- I wouldn’t do what he was doing!”
“Are you guys talking about Pathetic Percy? Fudge’s assistant?” another man spoke up, his voice holding a posh kind of tone that somehow all purebloods other than him had.
“Pathetic Percy, that’s genius!” one laughed.
“Pathetic is right, I heard he spends most of his time crying in the loo,” the other laughed.
“Merlin, what a complete waste of space. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got fired one of these days. I heard he keeps messing up Fudge’s orders.”
“I heard he barely shows up to work these days.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed himself one of these days, with the way he’s going about it.”
“I’ll take that bet. Fifty galleons for him to off himself before December.”
Arthur had enough. He scraped back his chair and stood up, his heart beating in his chest. Flashes of Ernie sobbing in his arms, blood still seeping from the lashes on his back running through his mind as he shakily made his way out of the cafeteria.
He distantly heard one of the men laughing, “oh, bollocks, I think that was Pathetic Percy’s dad!”
Pathetic Percy.
His son was a lot of things. Stubborn, strong-headed, and persistent. But he was never pathetic.
Arthur made his way to the lift that he usually loved spending time on since it was modeled after muggle technology, but today he berated it for being so slow.
It felt like an eternity as he waited for the lift to enter the floor he’d never personally been to before, but knew his son- his son, oh Merlin, please be okay- worked on almost every day.
His body felt detached from himself as he navigated the floor, looking for the bathrooms. It didn’t feel all that different from fighting for his life on the battlefield, really.
He hoped with everything he had that the outcome wouldn’t be the same.
He thought about the last thing he’d said to Percy; awful, horrible things that no father should say to his son let alone yell. Percy just wanted to feel what he had wanted to feel when he was younger; he just wanted to feel important.
It was the feeling he knew all of his children felt. Cursed with a tarnished name, they didn’t have the same opportunities that other purebloods had.
He knew Bill had felt it, and even Charlie. He knew that despite Fred and George’s confidence and disdain for things like authority and status, they felt it. Ron, Arthur knew, felt it, and perhaps had the most difficulty with it since his best friend was the Harry Potter.
But Percy, Arthur knew, felt it down to his bones. The indignity of once having enough status, enough power, enough money to do whatever one wanted was thrown away with the promise of love, something that Arthur knew Percy didn’t really understand.
His little Percy, who always thought with his head rather than his heart.
Arthur, with a beating heart and a shaky demeanor, walked into the bathroom and hoped with everything that his son wouldn’t be in there.
He hoped that if he was in there, he wouldn't be crying or bleeding, but instead taking a break before doing the job he loved so much. He hoped that Percy would find Arthur’s presence confusing and ridiculous, yelling at him to leave him alone.
But what he found wasn’t Percy getting on with his job. But thank Merlin and Morgana and magic that it wasn’t him bleeding, either.
Arthur pocketed his wand as the sounds of sobs filled the loo, settling his heart in his chest so he could do what a father did best.
Part of him wished that Molly was here. She was the best at comforting. But he didn’t want her to have to hear their son cry like this, like the entire world was too much and it was the only way to go about it.
He walked forward to the stall and knocked on the door.
“Percy? It’s Dad, can you open the door?” Arthur called out, trying to calm his body down so he wouldn’t be a complete failure at comforting his son.
He had thought love was enough.
Percy’s breath hitched and his cries halted.
“F-father?” Percy asked, voice sounding so young.
Looking at his kids was the easiest way to tell that time had passed, Arthur had realized. No more was he twenty years old with a baby on his hip. That baby had grown up, as did all his other babies. But Percy didn’t sound very grown-up just now.
He and Molly used to laugh with fondness whenever Percy used big words in his sentences, words that made Fred and George annoyed and little Ronnie confused. Percy was always trying to act older than he actually was.
When he was eight years old, he would dress as the Minister and make everyone call him Minister Percy. Molly embroidered a patch for him and everything and he’d wear it every single day. Arthur would step in line and ask Percy what the minister would like him to do that morning at breakfast. Percy would smile and say with as many big words as he could fit in his lexicon that he wanted Arthur to do his best.
“I’m here, Percy, please open the door,” Arthur pleaded, rapping softly on the door with his knuckles.
He tried to think back on when Percy had started pulling away from him and Molly. Was it as early as when he had started Hogwarts? Was it when he received his prefect badge and realized that he could do so much better than be a Weasley?
“I can’t do this anymore, Dad,” Percy sobbed.
“I can’t do this anymore, Artie.”
Love was supposed to be enough.
“Percy, open the door, now,” Arthur said, prayed, hoped, wished. He knew he could just spell it open. It would be so easy . But he was afraid that if he did so without Percy’s help, Percy would just push him away further.
He rested his forehead against the door and shut his eyes as he tried not to cry when Percy’s sobs turned louder.
He’d never let his children see him cry before. Molly, the light of his life, was extremely emotional and she never resisted the urge to let her feelings known. It had been that way since they were younger at Hogwarts, when Molly still hadn’t experienced the kind of loss that they’d all feel just a few years later, when she spoke with as much wit to strangle someone and then smile merrily like she hadn’t just crushed your soul.
When he was still a moody little thing, angry at the wizarding world for what they did to his brother, angry at his parents for not trying hard enough, furious at people like Malfoy who thought they were better than everyone because of who they just so happened to be born into.
When he aced every single muggle studies test and pinned his test scores to his robe in the middle of the great hall when the board threatened to get rid of the course and Molly, who had barely spoken to him before then, sat next to him and took one of his tests and pinned it to her own robe, her younger brothers hooting and cheering for her bravery in the background.
That was the moment he’d first fallen in love with her. She managed to surprise him every single moment when her emotions drove her after then, being as bright as the bloody sun as she was.
But he knew what it was like to stare directly into the sun. It hurt, and it shocked your body, and his children understood that, and they couldn’t have two suns as parents.
So Arthur took a deep breath that seemed to go on for miles, and swallowed down his urgency, and pressed a hand against the door.
“Percy, dear, please let me in. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Love should be enough, he thought. Love had to be enough.
But it wasn’t enough for Ernie, who had been burned too many times.
It wasn’t enough for Molly’s brothers, who died too young.
It wasn’t enough for little Harry, who was so angry at the world for treating him like he was disposable, the same way he had felt at fifteen.
It wasn’t enough for Percy, who Arthur could barely understand on a good day, who Arthur was so extremely afraid of losing, who was sobbing his heart out for a job that he’d wanted since he was in nappies.
The door unlatched and opened a little, and Arthur thanked the heavens.
He was met with his little boy sitting on the ground, knees to his chest, face red and blotchy and wet. He looked skinnier than ever, the bones in his wrists jutting out, his robes hanging off his frame, his cheeks hollowed out.
Arthur didn’t hesitate to wrap him up in arms and cradle him back and forth.
He didn’t understand why Percy was so sad , why he wasn’t showing up to work, why it looked like he hadn’t been eating or sleeping.
He didn’t understand what it took for his son to spend his days sobbing in the loo like all the life had seeped out of his body.
He didn’t understand why, even after Percy had yelled and berated him with all he had all those months ago, was now holding onto him for dear life as he sobbed into his chest.
It didn’t matter, really. Not now. Not while Arthur had him and he was breathing and alive and he was going to be fine.
Arthur rocked the two of them like he had when Percy was just a babe, the tiniest baby he had ever seen and yet the loudest.
He remembered when Percy had gotten his wand, eleven and already feeling so important, as he pestered Ollivander on what every wand core meant, where to get the wand cores, and why some went to some wizards and others didn’t.
He remembered the bet he had made with Molly, secretly of course, on what house Percy would end up at. Molly had insisted on Ravenclaw, but Arthur thought about Percy’s big, bright smile and his persistence and wouldn’t shake on Gryffindor.
And now, not even two years after he graduated from the red and gold tie for a more sophisticated black one, he was still that little boy who needed his dad to kiss his bruises and heal his cuts with a pat on the head and a hug.
Arthur would always be there for him. Percy was his beautiful little boy who pushed himself too hard and needed a helping hand to guide him back to himself.
Love was going to be enough. He was going to do whatever it took to make sure that love was enough.