Depression

It was bemusing how photographs could so clearly capture the essence of their subject, when they were nothing more than ink upon parchment, dosed liberally with potion.

I turned the ornate silver frame over in my hands as I pondered the subject. Could it be that upon snapping such a picture you capture a small piece of that person’s soul? What else could make inked subjects so painfully and flawlessly resemble their living counterparts?

I turned the subject around for a few more minutes in my mind, before dismissing the idea. Soul stealing, even in minute measures, was still dark magic, after all. Although the average witch or wizard may never roster enough interest in academic magic to contemplate such a fact, there would always be one such as myself to which the idea would inspire reflection. Such a practice could never be sustained if it was discovered and laid open to public slander; ergo, it must not exist.

A subtler, gentler magic must be at work within this image. Maybe, I continue to muse, as another avenue of thought strikes, the enchantment actually comes from within me. My perceptions of how these pictures should act imprint themselves upon the ink, while it is from my memories of those dear to me that their two-dimensional depictions learn how to smile with just the right amount of wickedness, how to laugh with the right amount of merriment, or how, most painful of all, to entice my battered heart with the emotion written boldly in glistening eyes.

It matters not, I suppose, how the enchantment is wrought. The intellectual distraction had been welcome, however; anything would have been had it kept thoughts of family from plaguing my mind.

They were all there, of course, standing immortal within an ornately carved frame. Well, I assumed they were all present �“ Ron was, in point of fact, nowhere to be seen, but I took that to mean he had stumped out of the picture in a pique of anger and resentment. He had, after all, been standing next to George waving merrily at me three years before, when this same picture had decorated my night stand at Hogwarts.

I slumped in my seat, and leaned my head wearily against the back of my armchair, unwilling to look upon my mother’s tear-stained face or my father’s disappointed frown any longer. My siblings were in varying states of disarray, but all managed to convey their fury towards me �“ though none quite so effectively as Ron.

Bill contented himself with glaring stolidly at me, his long, lean frame taught with tension, while Fred and George would intersperse rude gestures with fits of flurried whispering... I assumed they were hatching a plan of retribution against me, but was not unduly concerned. I had, after all, probably suffered worse from them in the past.

Charlie was perhaps the least antagonistic, although he had always been the most relaxed of my siblings, and consequently, my favourite brother. It pained me to think that he was probably the only one who could stand me when we were growing up �“ he was certainly the only one who ever bothered to listen to my stories or sympathise with my problems, even the ones that had rather laboriously centred upon long forgotten Ministry decrees. Now, he lounged nonchalantly against a wall and refused to meet my gaze, though he was clearly unhappy with the tension of the family he was encased with.

Lastly, Ginny, my little sister, sat resolutely cross-legged at the bottom of the frame with her back towards me. I couldn’t see her face, but the set of her shoulders and the furious way she repeatedly swiped a fly-away piece of hair behind her ear left me in no doubt of her feelings.

Sadly, I placed the frame face down upon the tabletop. It would do me no good to dwell on it any further tonight.

However, with nothing now to occupy my wearied thoughts the silence was oppressive. My only auditory companions were the quiet, enduring tick tock of the hall clock, and the occasional drip of a leaky tap.

This, then, was all I had to show for my life. At the end of all the gruelling hours spent studying and striving for academic success, after all the tedious, repetitive tasks I had waded through to climb the Ministerial ladder, and after all the social opportunities I had wasted in an effort to denote yet more hours to my job in the vain hope that my true potential would at last be spotted, this is all my life amounts to. A finely furnished, but crucially, empty, house. I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it a home �“ some days I barely recognised it as more than a four-walled structure I use to sleep in when my office chair has given me too much back pain to contemplate employing for the fourth night in a row.

I sighed at the bleakness of my thoughts, and in vain tried to summon up a cheerier contemplation.

Tick tock... tick tock... tick tock...

The monotony was crucifying me.

I stretched, wincing as a joint popped in my knee, and limbered myself up. Wandering over to the window I stopped briefly to re-arrange a tendril of tinsel that was hanging precariously from a forlorn branch of my beleaguered Christmas tree. I had found this tree quite by accident, but after spotting it had found myself quite unable to resist buying it.

Originally, I hadn’t intended to obtain a tree at all. There was little point really �“ I didn’t expect any gifts to lay beneath it, and its presence in my sitting room would serve only as a reminder of how alone I was at a time of year when everybody should have someone beside them. I had been returning from work last week, however, when I happened to pass by a Muggle tree shop. There had been a sign outside declaring a half price sale on the few remaining trees, and amongst the busy splendour of the others had sat my tree.

It was a bedraggled stick of a thing; its branches stuck out at odd angles and those that were still covered with needles were sparsely so. It had a crooked lean to it which gave it the continual appearance of being in danger of toppling over at any moment, and was at least a foot smaller than the very shortest of the others. The moment I saw it, however, I knew it was my tree, for it struck such a chord of empathy within me, and the thought crossed my mind that if we were both destined to be unloved and unwanted at Christmas, then we could at least be so together.

It now strikes me that I must really be more pathetic than I had been aware �“ to make my only companion a dying tree on this day, the eve of Christmas.

The soft sound of Muggle carollers drifts up to my window from the street below and all at once I am struck by a wave of longing for those cosy, comfortable Christmas’s at the burrow, surrounded by love and companionship in the bosom of a family. The pain, in fact, is so intense, so sharp, as it burrows its niggling way into my estranged heart that I turn in a wave of determination and toss my cloak around my shoulders.

The memories come to me unbidden; Fred and George’s raucous singing of those same carols sung below, and my mother’s scolding as they belted out the alternative, and rather unsavoury, joke verses. The kitchen table groaning under mountains of mother’s cooking, the ghoul in the attic decorated festively, (and rather unwillingly), with a Christmas hat, and holly wreaths strung haphazardly around the house �“ wreaths that Bill would have to periodically check for infestations of holly-harpy’s lest the cheeky Yule-time dwellers snag a Weasley victim.

Pain and loss emanated from within me in synchronicity to the bittersweet memories �“ every one like a knife’s thrust to my heart. In my desperation to assuage it I searched frantically for my boots, no thought or plan evident in my mind save the wish that I be with family. However, as I rounded the back of the armchair, thick dragon-hide boots clutched in one hand, that picture frame caught my eye again.

Something stilled within me. I cannot identify what, but I know that breathing was beyond me as I reached for the frame and gently, very gently, lifted it up to my face once more.

I don’t know what I hoped to find �“ acceptance perhaps, forgiveness and love shining out of the faces of my family as if they had sensed the change of heart I had just experienced. It seemed impossible to me that the ragged emotions raging within me were not perceptible to the people in that picture, that they did not both feel and understand my pain and forgive me the moment they comprehended my hurt.

Whatever I it was I had hoped to find, however, did not exist in reality. The picture was as unchanging in its arctic fury as it had been before, save for the appearance of Ron’s elbow on the right-hand side.

The boots fell from my fingers to thud dully against the carpet. Numbly, I slid back into my armchair my eyes never leaving those of my family. What had I been thinking? That merely returning home tonight would be enough to heal all the hurt inflicted? That they would accept me back willingly into a nest I had deserted in the harshest of manners? That I was deserving enough to have such a family surrounding me again after the mistakes of the past lay crumbling at my feet? Hardly.

A choked snort wrangled its way out of my throat at the idea that mere moments before I had been about to set off on a journey home. Raggedly I tore the cloak from my shoulders, and suddenly furious, screwed it into a ball and hurled it at the far wall. Then, exhausted by that mere effort, I slumped backwards and stamped my eyes shut against the harsh evidence of reality.

Blindly, I reached for the one source of comfort left open and inviting. Without even knowing which bottle my scrabbling fingers had found, I twisted the neck and downed the contents. Tonight, I did not even have need of a glass.

Somewhere within myself I felt that ugly creature of depression loom its gargantuan weight over me, and willingly, I fell into its gaping maw.

Fury


I awoke to a warm hand shaking my shoulder, a brush of silken hair caressing the side of my face and the unfortunate conclusion that a trail of saliva was dribbling its glistening way down my chin.

I sat up jerkily, wincing as talons raked the inside of my skull and hot pokers began stabbing at the insides of my eyeballs. My tongue felt like a half-dead and rotted animal inside my mouth; its fur sticky and matted with Merlin knows what. I swallowed convulsively, attempting to kick start production in my salivary glands once more.

There was a damp, tangy smell wafting around the room, and after some effort I located it to be originating from a rather unappealing stain upon my trouser leg. I assumed it to be the remains of my drink. The stench of alcohol drifted up to me and I gagged, swallowing back the vile taste of vomit.

Slowly, the blurred images in my peripheral vision began to sharpen, and the world kaleidoscoped wearily back into focus. As it did so it brought a very familiar, and very dear, face swimming directly into my field of view.

Maria.

Maria was a truly remarkable lady. Intelligent, too much so for her own good at times, insightful, compassionate, beautiful and gracious, she was everything I had ever dreamed of wanting in a woman. To my great surprise and delight she had, at one point, appeared similarly enamoured with myself.

We had entertained a brief dalliance at the Ministry some months ago, and I do believe I had been quite on the way to being very much in love with her. Lamentably, however, she had ended our romance in late September, claiming that, although she did indeed have a great deal of feeling for me, she could not be truly happy with someone who was not happy with themselves.

When I denounced this absurd claim, stated that I was really quite content at the present time, she claimed I was emotionally repressed and unavailable due, in part, to the pain encumbered upon me from the rift within my family. Although I argued fiercely, she remained staunch in her argument that she was not a strong enough woman to deal with the issues inherent in my seven broken family relationships, in addition to our own partnership. Furthermore, she pressed the point that it was unfair of me to burden her with such emotional baggage if I did not have the courage to at least try and repair the situation. At the time I did not take kindly to these remarks.

With hindsight, and a truly horrendous hangover, I can see that she may have had a point.

Giving my shoulder a compassionate pat with her gracefully tapered fingers, Maria squeezed herself around the coffee table and sat daintily across from me, her feet elegantly dancing across a few too many dubious stains upon the carpeting. I watched her fold her hands comfortably in her lap, but found myself unable to meet her eyes. My face heated as I imagined what I must look like; a down-trodden, pathetic, lonely, miserable man with no-where to go at Christmas and no-one to miss him.

I swatted self-consciously at the drool on my chin, and then winced as the force of it sent electric waves of pain reverberating around the inside of my skull. A similar sensation was evoked when I attempted in vain to arrange my limbs in any position that could possibly hide my rumpled appearance and the various stains upon my person. I refused to entertain the thought that I didn’t know which bodily fluid they were the result of.

I chanced a quick look at Maria. She raised an eyebrow at my shuffling, but otherwise remained mute. I uttered a pained groan. Merlin, but I hated whisky.

Maria looked disparagingly around my apartment, seeming to take in the empty spirit bottles and bedraggled remnants of Christmas decor all in one.

“I stopped by because I thought you might need... someone... today,” she murmured. When I blearily met her eyes, she sighed sadly. “I can see I was right.”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. It was obvious what I was �“ nothing but a pathetic mess, a miserable shell of a man. She had been right to end our relationship; I could offer her nothing.

Maria seemed to sense the direction my thoughts had taken, for she rose swiftly from her seat and slapped me rather more harshly than was completely necessary.

“Now there’ll be no more of that, Percy Ignatius,” she intoned, achieving a remarkable impression of my mother as she did so. A sharp beat of pain crossed my chest as I thought of Molly again. “Pull yourself together this instant!”

With that she brandished her wand and, with a few efficient flicks, banished the alcoholic remnants of my pity-party, cast an air-freshening charm, removed (thankfully) my hangover, and, lastly, vanished every shard of clothing I was wearing.

I let out a rather loud, and I’m ashamed to say, feminine, shriek.

Gaping at her in shock, it took me a moment to organise my thoughts enough to grab a cushion from the neighbouring chair. Holding it judiciously over my privates, I was still at a loss for words when Maria chuckled wickedly from the opposite chair.
“Oh, relax, Perce... it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, after all.”

I blushed and held my cushion in place more firmly than ever. “What... what d’you... why?” was all I could stammer, as the damned vixen continued to smirk.

“Well, you needed something to pull your mind out of that stupor you were dwelling in,” she shrugged, completely unremorseful. “And besides,” she added, “you stink.”

I inhaled sharply, and then winced. I did at that.

“So,” she continued, “you will go and shower, and take the opportunity to think over everything that’s happened and what you want to do about it. When you come back out, we’ll talk.”

“Talk?” I echoed, still pretty bewildered at everything that had happened.

“Yes,” she replied, her tone brooking no dissidence. She looked at me for a moment longer, and her face softened with some emotion I had no name for as she elaborated, “you can’t go on like this any longer, Percy. I won’t let you.”

I swallowed, quite unsure what to do with the emotion that had suddenly suffused the room. Maria saved me from fumbling for a solution.

She brandished her wand once more. “Shower!”

“But-“ I protested, my thoughts flying to the fact that I really only had one small cushion... and at this precise moment in time it seemed an awfully long way to the bathroom.

“Now!”

Long experience had taught me that there were some moments when you just didn’t argue with Maria. Raising my chin, I tried to ignore the blush that bloomed once more across my cheeks as I walked as proudly as I could from the room.

Maria’s laugh chased me all the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several minutes later I stood under the faucet, letting a cascade of hot water pound across my body. It was cleansing in more than the obvious way, and I found my thoughts drifting to the emotional turmoil of the last couple of days. Meditating upon the state that Maria had found me in, the state she had saved me from, I found an emotion surfacing that had been suppressed for a long time by the onslaught of misery.

Anger.

I was furious. With myself; for degenerating into the husk that I was, with my father; for letting me go so easily and with my siblings; for following blindly in their parents tread. For had any of them sought me out after that horrendous fight with my father? Had any of them bothered to hear my side of the story?

No.

Instead, they had cut all ties with me as easily as if they had been slicing open their presents on Christmas morning. It had been me, me, that had wept for their loss last night and me who had degraded himself so thoroughly in front of a woman I could very possibly have loved. I snarled at the image my head produced all too readily �“ a broken man, unconscious, and clutching a whisky bottle to his chest. This is what my family had reduced me to. Yet, had any of them spent Christmas Eve in dejected misery? I doubted it. The Burrow would have been alive, just like it had every Christmas before, with laughter, gaiety and excitement for the coming day. Not a thought would have been spared for the son missing from their midst.

I shut off the faucet jerkily, my skin pink and glowing from the scrubbing it had received. Seething, I stalked out of the shower stall and towelled myself dry with quick, harsh strokes. Today was not a morning for drying charms; I needed to expend some energy physically or I was sure I would break something.

Finally, clean, dry and presentable once more, I emerged into the sitting room, my anger held containing by a tight leash.

The room was transformed. Maria had obviously been busy in my absence, for I gasped at the sight that met my eyes. The carpet was clean and stain free, the surfaces had been dusted and all my belongings were neatly set in their rightful places. My little Christmas tree had clearly been spruced up somewhat, and was now looking in awe at the tinsel layered between its arms and the brightly coloured baubles hanging on the ends of its fingers. Every now and then it would jingle one in delight. Furthermore, it did not escape my notice that there was now a single, elegantly wrapped present hidden beneath its lower branches, upon which it was sitting like a mother hen nursing its egg.

A tantalising smell wafted out from the kitchen, and with it came Maria, emerging carrying a layered tray of bacon, sausages, beans and toast. My mouth watered at the sight and I was soon tucking in, not needing Maria’s imperious, “Eat!” in the slightest.

There was a companionable silence for a while, but as I popped the last bite into my mouth I was aware that my reprieve was over. She would want to talk, to lecture me and to make me do ‘the right thing’. She always did; how I hated it.

To forestall her, I blurted out the one question that had burning on my tongue ever since she arrived. “Why are you here?”

Maria looked at me considering, but answered simply. “I thought you would need someone.”

“So you came... to be my someone?” I asked, rather confused. “I thought you didn’t want to be with me anymore.” The old hurt rose up as I uttered that, and I ruthlessly crushed it back down.

“Oh, Perce,” she murmured softly, and a wave of sadness tinged her features. “I said I couldn’t be with you anymore �“ not that I didn’t want to be.”

“Oh.”

That was all the response I could muster, and a new silence fell, this one not as comfortable as the last.

Inevitably, she murmured the question I least wanted to hear. “Are you going to go back?”

I jutted my chin stubbornly. “I don’t see why I should. Let them come to me!”

“Percy,” she admonished, and I felt my leash snap �“ how I hated being treated like a child!

“Well, I was right, wasn’t I?!” I roared. “I said Harry Potter would be trouble! I said he’d end up bringing disaster to our family, and just look what’s happened �“ Ron injured last year, Ginny fighting for him before she’s even finished school, Bill savaged by a beast, Mum in tears, Dad having a nervous breakdown... I saw it all! I warned them, and they didn’t listen... they never listen!”

Maria just looked at me gently. “And this has been their problem all along, hasn’t it, Perce? They’ve never listened to you.”

The air whooshed out of me as I heard her words, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. How did the woman do it? How did she manage to see my so clearly, like no-one had ever seen me before?

“Never,” I whispered back. “Not when I tried to warn them. Not when I got my job at the Ministry, not even after I worked and worked every year to get the best grades possible so that I could go home and show my parents what an excellent son I was.”

I didn’t know where this bitterness was coming from. I was sure I hadn’t felt it this keenly before Maria started questioning me. It had certainly never hurt this much before.

“Your mother knew, and your father too �“ I’m sure of it.”

I considered that, and then decided that if this was a moment for baring all then I would be as honest as I could.

“Yes,” I nodded slowly. “Mother noticed. She was always proud, for a day or so at least... but then it was back to keeping Fred and George out of trouble, and cooing over Bill’s new fiancé, and making sure Ginny had everything she wanted, and marvelling at Ron’s famous friend and... and it was never about me.”

Maria came to sit beside me, and she grasped my larger hand with her smaller one. She didn’t say anything, merely listened. Somehow, though, her mere presence soothed me �“ it helped the words to flow, to tumble out of me from a dark place within that I hadn’t truly realised existed until now.

“And when Harry Potter arrived,” I spat, never before realising I harboured this much bitterness towards the younger man, “and my mother welcomed him into our family, it was like she was replacing one of her own, as if none of her sons were good enough compared to famous Harry Potter and she just had to replace us with a newer, shinier, celebrity model!”

“Percy, he’s an orphan!“ she objected.

“But he stole my parents!” I roared, my venom in full flow by now.

“I bet he’s sitting at the Burrow right now, laughing with my brothers and flirting with Ginny. They probably don’t even realise I’m gone �“ not when they have him to replace me!”

The misery was back, and I made no move to stop it enveloping me. “I bet they prefer him. Ron would probably sell his soul to have Harry Potter for a brother, instead of me.”

At this, Maria interjected. “You can’t believe that, Percy.”

I was silent for a moment, but then I sighed. “It’s true. I’m no fool, Maria; I know what they all thought of me �“ of Pinhead Percy. I worked so hard all those years, not only to impress my parents, but also to set a good example to my siblings, to show them I was worthy. I’m not funny like Fred and George, and I’ll never be as cool as Bill or as relaxed as Charlie. I’ll never have the easy comradeship that allows Ron to make friends so easily, or the feisty personality that draws people to Ginny. I’m not like them... but I thought that maybe, if I worked really hard, I could be the intelligent brother, one they could look up to and aspire to be like. I thought that might be enough.”

I sighed again, and let me head drop backwards against the chair rest. “It wasn’t. Nothing was ever enough for them.”

Maria cuddled herself into my side. “It was enough for me.” Then she looked up at me and added drolly, “and believe me, I have very high standards - so you can’t have been that bad.”

I snorted and looked down at her beautiful face. She reached a hand up to stroke my cheek, and my eyes fell closed at her gentle touch. She began talking to me, in a soft, earnest tone, and I found myself content enough to simply listen as I held her.

“You are a good man, Percy, one of the best I’ve ever found. I could sit here all day and tell you that all your assumptions are wrong - that your family are hurting just as much as you, that they wish they could take back all the cruel things they’ve said, and that, more than anything, they wish you were sitting with them today.”

“I could tell you that your mother never took you for granted, or loved you any less when Harry Potter befriended Ron. I believe, and I am ashamed that you don’t, that she simply had a big enough heart to take in one lonely, orphaned boy without it compromising the love she felt for her other children.”

“I could tell you that if your siblings never realised the truly remarkable person that you are, then they are fools. Some of the most wonderful people in life are those that stand out of the sun’s direct glare, content to watch and offer guidance from the shadows, forming quiet but lasting friendships as they go.”

“You do not have to make people laugh to be worthy, nor battle dragons to be heroic. You just need to be yourself �“ to be happy with who you are.”

I listened to her take a breath, and then I felt her hands on my face, gently coaxing my eyes open. Reluctantly, I looked at her.

“I could tell you all of this, Percy,” she murmured softly, “but I do not think you would ever believe me.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but she closed it for me before I had the chance to speak. “You will only ever believe them.”

Slowly, she removed her fingers from my lips, upon which they had been gently pressed. I took a ragged breath, and then another one, as I meditated on all she had said to me. Moments passed, and still I could not think of anything to say. Eventually, I satisfied myself by giving a shaky nod as I realised that, as always, she was right.

“Good,” she announced, satisfied, and fluidly rose to her feet. “Shall we go, then?”

“Go?” I croaked. After all my talking, my embittered bravado, the idea of seeing my family again still terrified me.

Maria held out her hand imperiously.

“But...” I stuttered, trying to find some way to forestall her. “They’ve... I’ve... We’ve both said such hurtful, hateful things to each other.“

Maria smiled at me, the smile that made me think her a very old woman and me a young child. “Then you simply have to find some kindly things to say that will wash away the hurt.”

Easier said than done, I thought to myself, skulking further into the confines of my chair. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t see them �“ not after everything that had happened.

“Percy,” she admonished me. “You are a stronger man than this. Come, together we will mend this battlefield.”

I swallowed nervously, and eyed her outstretched hand. “Together?” I repeated softly, thinking that, just now, that one word meant more to me than any other.

“Together.”

And at that, I nodded once to myself, and, shaking only slightly, joined my hand to hers.

Pride

The world is ethereal when we appear, the ‘pop’ of our apparition trespassing on hushed stillness. Only the quiet, contented hum of the wind, the sweeping rustle of branches and the occasional melody of birdsong could be heard. The beloved grounds surrounding Ottery St. Catchpole that I remember so well from my childhood are covered with crisp, white snow, which rides the rolling hills and hummocks of the land with genteel grace. The trees surrounding us are bare and gaunt, but wear robes of glittering frost even as they shiver. And all around us mist swirls and twirls as if a cloud had fallen from the sky. It is perfect: an unspoiled fairytale.

Squinting into the distance I can just make out the town itself. Light glows warmly, spilling out from within merry rooms full of Christmas cheer. Little puffballs of smoke emerge timidly from crooked chimneys, winding their way upwards to dance with the wind. There are children capering in the snow and, as I watch them, an echo of their laughter glides up the hill towards me.

I wonder why this prospect ever scared me. It feels good to be here, it feels right.

Maria gently squeezes my fingers and I sigh. I cannot watch forever, much as I would like to. My boots scuff the ground below me, and the crunching sound of gravel makes me look down. I am not standing amidst the beauty ivory of the hills as I had thought. Instead, a winding path starts beneath my feet, silver with cold, and frozen so that the encased stones within it shimmer and glitter up at me like thousands of tiny diamonds.

Somehow, I know exactly which dwelling it will lead me to.

The fear returns with this realisation �“ the cold, pulsing dread that their door will never again be opened for me.

I start to shake. What had made me think I could do this?

“In your own time, Percy,” a soft voice murmurs next to me. I turn to look at her, and she smiles reassuringly. “We won’t go until you’re ready.”

Well, that pretty much eclipsed all hope of us going at all then, didn’t it. For if there was one thing I was sure about, it was that I would never be truly ready for this!

I sensed, however, that Maria would be much more impressed with a man who didn’t snivel and quail at the thought of facing his family. I was also painfully aware that I had made a big enough fool of myself to be going on with for one day, and was not eager to add to my own embarrassment.

So, steeling my nerves, I tried to see the path below me as nothing more than solid rock, while every thought concerning the reception I may receive at the end of it was unceremoniously evicted from the confines of my craggy mind. One foot in front of the other; lift, place, step... lift, place, step... nothing terribly frightening about that. Gradually, my begrudged shuffle turned into a more confident stride, and I found that once I started walking it was much easier to continue.

We were a long way from the house �“ clearly my apparition had sensed that I was not as cavalier about returning to these co-ordinates as I had been when I placed them in my mind. The path twisted and turned languidly as it travelled down the hill, but I found that with Maria’s hand fitted snugly within mine the walk was not as arduous as I had first thought.

After a while, Maria laughed delightedly and raised one hand up to the sky. Little snowflakes were pirouetting towards us, and she delicately caught one on the end of her finger before bringing to my face.
“Look, it’s snowing!” she effused, quite unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” I replied drolly, but inspected the snowflake anyway. I needn’t have bothered; it had melted into a tiny trickle of water by this point and was now gliding down her finger.

I grumped. I had never particularly liked snow, though everyone else appeared to have an unhealthy fascination with the stuff. It reminded me of tears and I had always imagined that, somewhere above me, the sky was crying.

I drew my wand, intending to perform a shield charm that would protect us from the frozen tears, but Maria gasped and put her hand on my wand.

“Leave it be! I want to feel it on my skin.” She laughed in delight and stretched both arms out to either side, twirling around, while her face tilted upwards to catch the flakes. A couple parachuted down onto her eyelids, others onto her lips, while still more were caught by her hair. All at once my breath caught and I lowered my wand; I didn’t think she had ever looked more beautiful.

We continued on, after she had returned to my side and twinned her arm through mine, and I realised that maybe, here, now, I didn’t mind the snow so much. I felt my hair becoming sodden with it, but Maria laughed at me and ruffled my hair in return, and I found that the wetness was worth it.

Eventually, though, as all journeys do, ours had to come to an end. All at once I felt as if the house was upon us, my feet seeming to eat up the path left ahead of me even though I was sure I had slowed down.

The Burrow was exactly as I remembered it. Crooked, dilapidated, haphazard, but totally and utterly enchanting. My heart pulsed at the memories it had treasured here, and I wanted to shout and call to the people buried within that I was here �“ that I was home.

My voice seized up, however, the words dying before they had left my throat. I couldn’t stop my traitorous mind from bringing up image after image of myself, prostrate for their forgiveness, and they, in return, slamming a cold door in my face.

Even the thought of it caused shame to fill me; shame and humiliation that I had made this journey and suffered all these doubts when there was no hope they would want me back again. How they would laugh at poor, pathetic, pitiable Percy, who, alone and unloved, had returned to the only place he could ever truly had called home. How my siblings would jeer and taunt me with their own loving family relationships still intact, before coldly throwing me back outside.

I could see the scene so vividly in my head, and even as I saw it I knew I could go no further. I did not have much left of me now �“ every emotion seemed to have been wrangled away - but I did have my pride. I would not give them the satisfaction of taking it from me.

And yet... I could not envision myself going back. I had come so far, right to the very doorway of home, yet now it appeared I was stuck, unable to turn back but equally incapable of continuing forth. I laughed mirthlessly to myself - typical.

I looked once more at the little cottage. It was so inviting, so alluring to my starving heart. I almost started forwards once more, but again the doubts assailed me. What if they didn’t care anymore? What if they had given me up - a lost cause, a black sheep - and moved on, happy and content with their life as it is now? What if it was only me torturing myself with ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s?

I had no answers. Yet the questions burned on, searing me with their intensity. I turned helplessly to Maria, who moved closer to me and seemed to soundlessly discern my troubles.

“There is an old saying: ‘To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.’ “

She was quiet for a moment, and then met my eyes. “True courage, Percy, is to risk everything �“ risk pain, defeat, embarrassment, anger, shame �“ risk everything, even when you are unsure of the outcome.” She paused a moment more, and then pronounced more firmly, “A coward would knock on that door only when he is positive he would be welcomed back inside. You are braver than that, I am sure.”

I swallowed and nodded. The most painful part of love was the possibility of not being loved in return. I was certain, finally, of my own feelings �“ what remained was only to discover theirs.

I walked the last few paces to the door and raised my hand to knock. Just before my fist made contact with the wood, however, I faltered, the fear within me overriding everything else. Hoarsely, I rasped out, “Knock, you knock... I can’t.”

Maria’s voice was sad when she replied. “I cannot fight your battles for you, Percy. Find the strength.”

I nodded, and closed my eyes. I had known that all along, after all. As I had started this feud, so must I end it.

I reached deep inside me for the memories I treasured. Father, steadying me as he taught me how to ride a broom. Mother, holding me as I wept after my first term at Hogwarts, where older children had thought it amusing to bully me. All of us together at Aunt Muriel’s birthday party, laughing and groaning in turn at the old lady’s antics. Hand-me-down books inscribed with Bill and Charles’s jokes down the margins. Father’s Muggle toys, Mother’s cooking, the twins’ pranks (not always such a pleasant memory), and the laughter afterwards. Ginny on my knee as a baby, and Ron confessing to me, his older brother, that he was struggling in Charms and needed my help. Our family on holiday in Egypt, together, for once.

I felt a peace settle over me as the memories continued. It didn’t matter if they laughed anymore, it didn’t even matter if they sent me away. All that matters is that I am here, and I am trying to make amends.

With that thought floating in my mind, I raised my fist once more and, finally, knocked three times upon the door.

The wait was excruciating; every fibre of my being contracting with tension as the seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. My breathing sounded abnormally loud to my own ears, the air rushing in and out of my lungs so quickly I could hardly count the breaths. Darkness tinged the edges of my vision and I thought frantically that I might faint, but a hand entwined itself with mine and I felt anchored once more, tethered to reality by the surety of Maria’s grasp.

Suddenly, a click sounded in the stillness and the door flew open, time speeding by so quickly now that I could hardly keep up. And then none of it mattered, for there, framed in the oak doorway was my mother.

She stared at me, and I at her. Her mouth worked silently, seeming to have no response ready for the sight that had greeted her. She clutched the door handle in a vice grip, and as I looked on, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Merry Christmas, Mother,” I choked out.

She gave a little shriek, half an utterance of my name and half an exclamation of pure joy, and then she was flying towards me, her arms open.

As I was enveloped within her embrace there was only one thought left in my mind. I was home.