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At first glance, Percy could maybe see how people kept forgetting about him. He was the middle son of a family with frankly too many children to keep count of, he was quiet and not as adventurous as his brothers. He wasn’t a leader like Bill, or a genius quidditch player like Charlie. He wasn’t funny like the twins or courageous like Ron. He wasn’t even as fiery as Ginny; he was just… normal.
So yeah, he could understand why his mother never seemed to have time for him, she had six other children, all ready for pranks and chaos at any time.
That didn’t mean Percy wasn’t hurt by her continuous lack of attention.
Arthur was barely better, but at least his main job wasn’t caring for his children. The fact that all of them knew they could’ve been leading a better life, which his father continued to reject for his own selfish enjoyment, that sat deep though.
Everything Percy owned was second hand, even the love from his parents, and it made him bitter. He could recognize his own faults, he could rationalize and catalogue all of them, but it didn’t change a thing.
He knew he was considered annoying and rule abiding, but he never saw the sense in acting out, just one more problem his parents would have to deal with.
Instead, he modeled himself into the perfect student and son, and when that wasn’t enough he finally let go.
Moving out had been one of the most freeing decisions he’d ever made, but it also meant he followed his fathers footsteps to a certain point.
Working in the ministry certainly wasn’t the most fun thing he could think off, but it paid the bills and he was somewhat appreciated for his work.
Crouch could barely remember his name on a good day, and it kind of stung to be dismissed like that, but it was still so much better than Percy had ever felt before.
Of course, it was just his luck, that as soon as he finally moved up in the ministry, the war would break out, effectively killing all pride he could harbor for his promotion.
His father seemed to share this sentiment and also felt the need to share it with him and the world. It felt like a backhand to all his achievements, to be disregarded like that, to be told that all his work meant nothing and it made him boil with rage.
Rationally speaking, he could see how his father interpreted things and sure, he could see why it maybe wasn’t the best time to announce his success, but he felt he was still owed some praise as a son…
Or not.
Because suddenly, he was no longer a son of the Weasley clan, he was ousted and couldn’t claim his name as his own.
(He hadn’t considered himself part of the family for a while, but he had taken some pride in his identity-now ripped from him)
Just another thing that came second hand. And all the drama, simply because he refused to quit the first job he ever had.
Things were different now, in the ministry. Everything was quiet, everyone was fearful for their future. It was not right, what the Dark Lord was doing, even Percy could tell. He justified his own lack of protest with the fact that he could do far more help from within the system than from the outside.
Because he might not legally be a Weasley anymore, but he did have the morals he was brought up with, and he could tell right from wrong. It was dangerous, yes, to quietly forge documents, to help Muggleborns escape to France and other countries and it was draining to conjure so many Portkeys that he could be sure everyone had a chance to leave.
Every day, he was left in fear of what might happen to him, should someone at work recognize his magic, but it was worth it, even if he only saved one innocent from the tyranny of the regime.
In some ways, the fact that his family had publicly disowned him helped keep the vultures off his back. He was no longer connected to those ‘Bloodtraitors’, but he would’ve valued a little support far more. Later, he would get letters upon letters, thanking him for all that he’d done, for saving a little girl from the kiss and a grown wizard from losing his wand. It was worth it, he hoped, the happiness of others, even if it meant leaving his own luck behind. The longer the war went on, the more people died, the less Percy felt.
All his former friends had distanced himself from him, understandably, and he went back to a cold one-bedroom every night.
Perhaps it was understandable, normal, to build a shell around yourself, to protect your mind from all the horrors one witnessed during such troubling times. It wasn’t like Percy could ask someone else, revealing such a weakness would surely be deadly in the wrong persons hands.
And if he’d thought, it was bad before, oh it got so much worse. When the Ministry fell and his brother fled, all inhibitions fell with them. Suddenly, it wasn’t just herding Muggleborns and snapping their wands, stealing them from their families and homes, no, it was openly torturing those deemed lesser, Half-bloods and public Bloodtraitors and anyone who had a reputation of disagreeing with the Dark Lord’s ways. It took everything Percy had, not to flee on the spot, the first time he witnessed a poor secretary be held under cruciatus for nearly a minute, simply for forgetting a paper.
Nobody stepped in and nobody said a word afterwards, everyone just went right back to working and Percy had to excuse himself to the loo, to vomit up all he’d eaten that day, shaking unbearably.
Worst, he couldn’t even go and look for the secretary, making sure she could recover, because that would surely raise suspicion and then he’d be able to help even less people.
Maybe it made him a monster, but humans really can get used to anything. The first week of constant unforgivables and dark curses sat heavy in his bones, but by the second week he’d already hardened his stomach and by the first month, he could actually manage to work right through the cries of the innocent.
It disgusted him, how quickly he became desensitized, but he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Besides, what did it matter how he felt about himself, if he could manage to send just one more victim across the pond, far away from the ministry.
And don’t get him wrong, despite his status as a pureblood, it didn’t mean he was safe from the violence everyone else was subjected to. He got his fair share of curses and crucios, to the point were his hands had yet to stop shaking, even some years after the war. ‘Permanent nerve damage’ is what the healers told him, incurable.
An unluckily placed hex to his knee shattered it completely, leaving him to sound not unlike Moody, with his prothesis clicking and clacking with every step he took.
(Nobody came to visit him in St. Mungus, that was fine, he hadn’t expected anyone anyway)
He regretted the way he’d parted from his family, how he’d acted out of anger instead of rational, but he couldn’t very well turn back time, and besides, what he was doing now was so much more important.
He was pretty sure he knew the signature of the minister far better than his own, and it was just his luck that he rarely got checked.
Late at night, at home, Percy would take out a secret radio, listening intently to the names of the victims, his heart clenching every time he heard someone he’d tried to help escape, and always fearful to hear of someone he knew more personally.
Tune in to Potterwatch, todays victims the Daily Prophet didn’t deem worth mentioning are:
Octavius Pepper (Muggleborn, dead)
Sage Patridge (Half-Blood, dead)
Omar Sterling (Bloodtraitor, dead)
Blair Cups (Half-blood, missing)
Wade Fauns (Werewolf, dead)
Priscilla Mallow (Bloodtraitor, presumed dead)
Clay Polliwog (Muggleborn, dead)
Karl Rubble (Muggleborn, missing)
And, and, and…
(It was terribly dangerous and hurt Percy’s mental health more than even the work he was doing, but he had to know)
Between close calls and recovery from curses, his work had stopped being tedious and turned into something actively dangerous. Maybe he’d been wrong to think he wasn’t as brave as his siblings, maybe the hat did have a reason to sort him into Gryffindor. Not that anyone would know about it now.
(Percy woke up every morning, fully ready to die today. It wasn’t a rare occurrence in the ministry anymore and he valued his life far less than he perhaps should)
His correspondence with the last living Dumbledore proved to be beneficial when he got a surprising call, early one morning. The battle of Hogwarts was about to start.
(Fighting alongside his brothers had been a wish of his for as long as he could imagine- now he would give anything to simply fight in their stead)
(Fred died- oh god, Fred died whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy)
Percy never told anyone what he’d done, afterwards. It barely felt worth mentioning in the shadow of his brothers far more active roles.
Even if he’d proclaimed during the battle that he was resigning (ohgodfredfredfred), it was far less permanent than even Percy himself could’ve expected. The Ministry needed capable workers without deatheater connections, and he’d never really stopped working anyway. He was needed and he wouldn’t refuse his duty, even if it meant returning to a place so filled with trauma, that he could barely sleep the first few months, so haunted by his experiences.
His correspondence with his family, whilst certainly more than during the war, remained sparse, well wishes and happy birthday cards and the occasional awkward meeting. He wasn’t sure if any of them were aware of how many he’d saved, or where his leg came from, but they never asked and he never told.
Shacklebolt knew, somehow, someway, maybe one of the lucky ones to escape had told him, either way, he received a medal in a quiet ceremony, with only the Minister to witness.
Afterwards, he put it in the very back of his closet, never to think of it again. What he’d done wasn’t worth a medal or honor, it was what everyone would’ve (should’ve) done, and he didn’t earn praise for the bare minimum.
Surprisingly, the person he connected with most was Harry Potter himself. He was just as self-conscious about his honors and preferred to go about his work quietly. Not that many people allowed him to forget what he did- at least not as easily as Percy could. He’d never asked about Percy’s leg either, but the first time they’d met in the elevator, he’d mustered Percy from top to bottom, nodded and smiled. He’d patted him on the back before exiting on the DMLE level and the interaction had felt like a stamp of approval.
The war would never leave those that witnessed it and Percy had never been a soldier strong enough to protect his soul. His life had to go on, anyway.