Dollhouse

Minerva had heard tell of Molly and Arthur Weasley’s brood of children even before September of 1982. In those precious moments before order meetings when not everyone had arrived and people were chatting conversationally, it wasn’t uncommon to heard snatches of a joke Fabian or Gideon made at their busy sisters’ expense. Nor was it unusual to hear the tail end of a conversation between Frank and Alice Longbottom regarding playdates between their son and the younger Weasleys. On one particularly notable occasion, Minerva had visited Pandora Lovegood, a gifted spellmaker who Albus had tasked her with recruiting, and had been bewildered when the front door swung open before she’d even knocked. She’d been infinitely more confused when she was faced with a giggling red-haired toddler not even half the height of entryway. When she peered into the building and spotted at least two more red-haired children, she worried she’d come to the wrong home. As she'd mentally reviewed the description she'd been given of Pandora's rook-shaped home, the beginnings of panic had started to creep in at the edges of her mind. Thankfully the blonde woman had hurried into view as these thoughts began, evidently chasing the young runaway. She'd registered Minerva’s presence with an apologetic smile. As she'd welcomed her in for tea, she explained that she occasionally babysat for her neighbors.

Beyond these instances, Minerva’s duties as deputy headmistress included keeping track of the Book of Admittances and sending out acceptance letters accordingly. She’d first begun penning the letters for the 1982-83 school year in May, and had faltered when she saw a William Arthur Weasley on the list. She’d felt achingly old in that moment. Had it really been so long since a teenaged Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley had passed notes and coy looks during her classes? She still remembered the amusingly red face of a prefect who’d found them in a broom cupboard after curfew.

It wasn’t until she was giving the standard lecture before the sorting ceremony, four months later, however, that she’d caught sight of shockingly red hair and remembered that the oldest boy was starting that year. In spite of the attention his hair color brought him, he seemed to keep to himself. 

He wasn’t overly anxious during his sorting. Both sides of his family had a long history of being sorted into Gryffindor, so Minerva supposed he had little concern as to where the sorting hat would place him. He’d come to the stool on steady feet with a neutral expression when his name had been called. When he sat down, Minerva noticed his hands were clasped tightly in his lap, but had only a moment to look before the hat touched his head and immediately shouted “Gryffindor!” It was the quickest sorting of the evening, and she’d had to suppress a smile as the boy calmly trotted his cheering table.

During lessons that fall, Bill, as she learned he preferred to be called, was quiet and well-mannered. Preoccupied with wrangling the less well-behaved first years, she didn’t notice much about the boy beyond his superior performance on homework assignments. She hadn’t taken that as something of much import, though, knowing from experience that a good understanding of theory didn’t always translate into good magical performance. Until they began physical coursework in the winter, she was hesitant in judging student's capabilities. She appreciated that he sat near the front, usually an indicator of a dedicated student. She noted, however, that he didn’t tend to offer much during class discussions, even though his homework showed a good understanding of the subject matter. In her occasional musings about the boy, she postulated that his vibrant hair color or natural intelligence could have made him a target in the past. Perhaps in response he tried to keep his head down.

As the quarter went on, her theory started to seem less likely. She noticed Bill’s habit of nail biting during quizzes and the way his leg bounced when reading more difficult pieces of text. Anxious, she'd revised sympathetically. She couldn't say she was surprised. As the war had gone on, and even in the uncertain years after, overactive nerves had been a plague among students. Too many children had grown up too quickly. Others had been kept inside where their parents protective spells could keep them safe and far away from other children. Still more had been to untimely funerals or even seen those close to them die. Wearily, she made a note of it. It would be something to watch for in case it worsened, but it wasn't an issue unique to Bill. What was more striking to Minerva was the boys habit of, after mastering the material, turning to his neighbor and helping them understand. It was this, more than anything, that endeared him to her. 

Her first genuine worry came after winter break. Bill was already acting out of character when he’d been the last student to file into the classroom. What’d tipped Minerva off, however, was when he’d made his way to the very back of the room, rather than taking his usual seat in the second row. When she’d begun her lecture after welcoming students back from break, she had noted the absence of his usual polite, attentive expression. His head had stayed down. His hair, which had grown slightly past the socially acceptable length, hung down to cover his face. Minerva carried on with her lesson, but found her eyes flicking to the back corner more than usual. 

During the war, on some occasions Minerva had utilized her skills as an animagus to act as a sort of fly on the wall. Being registered with the ministry and many former students knowing her feline patterning meant that her help was quite limited, but Minerva had picked up on some of the finer points to the art of observation during her missions. She found herself unconsciously utilizing those skills as she observed Bill.

He was quieter. Before break he’d been starting to come out of his shell. She wouldn’t describe him as shy - he’d certainly never had a lack of people willing to sit with him - but it hadn't been until November that he’d gained the confidence to start helping his peers. Today he seemed to be sitting purposefully alone. She demonstrated one of the new spells they were supposed to have researched over holiday and set them loose to practice. Distractedly, she rifled through the student assignments that'd been dutifully stacked on her desk at the start of class. She peered furtively over her spectacles to observe Bill giving the spell a failed attempt and letting out an angry huff. She attempted to read Myron Wagtails' illegible handwriting as the redhead tried once more, jerking his wand far too violently, then slamming it onto his desk when nothing changed. He leaned back into his chair moodily. Some of the students around him eyed him nervously. 

Minerva glanced back down at Myron's paper. Was that an h or n? She struggled through the first paragraph before curiosity got the better of her and she looked up again. Bill seemed to have abandoned his spellwork for the time being, another uncharacteristic choice. She frowned when he adjusted to rest his head on one arm, fingers buried in his hair. He glared at the desk. Ten minutes ticked by before he tried again. By the end of class, neither he nor Minerva had made progress on their respective tasks. Bill was hardly the only one not to have managed the spell, but he'd never struggled with the more complicated magic they’d done in December. It didn’t make sense that he’d have problems now with the rudimentary spell Minerva had chosen to get students back into the swing of things.

It wasn’t until the end of class when he began exiting the classroom that Minerva saw something damning. Bill was shuffling out with the standard back-of-the-room delinquents, scuffing his shoes against the stone floors, when she caught glimpse of his hair - specifically the crusted, dried blood that was doing far too good a job of blending in. “Mr. Weasley” she called as soon as she noticed, wincing at her unintentionally sharp tone. He was halfway out the door, and looked endlessly frustrated when he paused. He seemed to consider pretending he hadn’t heard her, but she called his name again before he had the chance. He slumped his shoulders and turned slightly toward her in acquiescence. “Could you stay a few minutes?” she asked more gently.

An expression briefly crossed his face but it disappeared before she had time to discern it. Another first year cast a look over her shoulder and watched as Bill dragged his feet to her desk. Minerva couldn’t help but sigh when the girl turned and muttered something to her friends and they glanced rather backwards rather obviously. As the group trekked a suitable distance away, Minerva allowed herself a better look at Bill.

The blood in his hair was matted and mostly gone, probably washed away as he couldn't perform spells more suited to treating his injury. He looked exhausted up close, with dark circles under his eyes. She regarded him with a frown, unsure but sensing something was wrong. Her teachers intuition was screaming. He looked at her obediently, waiting, standing still with something indisputably weary in his expression. His body stayed positioned toward the door just enough to not be considered impolite, but clearly enough to show what he wanted. “Mr. Weasley” she said finally, flailing mentally as she thought about how to address her concerns. She opted for the blunt approach, “May I ask what happened to your head?” His hand made an aborted movement toward the dried blood, but he remembered himself quickly enough to send it back to his side. He must've thought he'd washed it all out. She looked at him expectantly.

“I fell off my broomstick” he said in a tone she couldn't quite make sense of. Minerva could see in his eyes, though, that that wasn’t what happened. She tapped a finger on her desk and observed him for a moment, watching him fight to keep from squirming. She thought. Why would he have reason to hide an injury?

“Your father is Arthur Weasley?” she asked. She already knew. She was stalling. 

He nodded. 

She struggled to think of anything else that made sense with Bills behavior. She couldn’t comprehend Arthur Weasley doing something like that. But she didn’t have proof toward it being something like that anyways. There was absolutely nothing but her gut to tell her that it was that. But the war had changed people. It’d changed her. Severus. Alastor. Remus… 

Even if it wasn't what she was thinking, she had a duty as Bill's head of house to have this conversation, even if it was only a suspicion.

“Bill” she said and she saw his eyes shutter again and that response - that knowing response was what made her stomach drop. Something in that response made things clear to her.

It made her realize that this wasn’t going to do anything. He knew that she now knew. She saw in his spot all the boys and girls that had come before him where she’d known. The things that had happened to some of those boys and girls flashed in her mind. She still remembered the Christmas after Sirius Black had barely escaped his home with his life. The way he flinched for weeks before he could control himself again. The shakes in the first week - tremors that had lasted for almost a month from the intensity of the crucio his mother had cast. Her throat felt thick. “If anything is going on at home-”

He nodded as she spoke like he knew this was where this was going. He clasped his hands behind his back, probably to try to seem respectful. “Professor” he interrupted, not rudely, “Nothing is going on. My parents are good people. Really. I fell off my broom, that’s all." He looked straight into her eyes as he said it and even gave her a placating smile but his eyes were a giveaway. Dull. Dead. It made her stomach churn. She hated these cases. She hated when she had a suspicion but she couldn’t do a thing about it. She hated how he'd known the direction of the conversation before she'd even made it clear.

She let his lie sit in the air for a moment; looked at Bill. He stared back at her resolutely, still smiling inoffensively. She wondered what she could do. What, if anything, she could say that would dislodge the lie.

“Very well” she said finally, “But if anything changes, my door is always open.” He nodded and gave another of those frustratingly vacant smiles and asked if he could be excused. She allowed herself to stall a little more. But then he tilted his head and opened his mouth as if to ask again, and she mutely nodded. She felt that tiredness that had periodically plagued her since the war start to rise up. She watched him go with a too-familiar sinking feeling.

The next time she saw him, he’d perfected the spell. He looked a little better but he stuck to the back row. He made a point, now, to smile when he knew she was watching. He joked and talked with his peers even more than he had before break. It weighed on her. 

She spoke to Albus about her concerns over tea. He gently reminded her of what she already knew. 

After the next break, Bill came back notably unscathed. He smiled just as much as he had before Easter holiday, and she almost wondered if she's been wrong. But then she'd looked closer and she could see a tightness in his eyes and strain in the corners of his mouth. 

She hated that she hoped for something definitive before Bill became old enough to master a glamour charm.