I love Percy Weasley because...

For some reason, I am on a Percy kick lately. ^__~
The following is blamed entirely on devoted to mauraders, a fellow Percy fan who asked why we, personally, loved Percy.
#huggles mauraders# ^__^
Btw, I don’t know how coherent this came out, so, sorry for anything that makes absolutely no sense! =o) I’d usually do a better job of deleting/rephrasing anything that looked too bizarre, but I’ve got to run to class! #rushes#


I love Percy because he’s human, and he’s fallible, and he tries too hard.

I love him because he always does what he thinks is the right thing; because he’s smart and he’s brave, and obsessive and dysfunctional and naïve, and people don’t give him the respect and affection I whole-heartedly believe he deserves.

I love Percy because he’s not a cookie-cutter character of “Good” in a poster-family of hot-headed virtue.

I love Percy because he’s complex, and uptight, and I think he deserves to be able to relax and be truly happy for once in his life.

I love him because he’s a misfit and he’s awkward and he gets dumped on and dismissed by everyone he knows, yet still runs, terrified, into the lake to make sure his brother is okay—even when he knows he must be, the rules say so, but—he just has to make sure, because he loves his family so much, even when I sometimes honestly think they might not deserve it.

I love him for his innocence, and his loss of innocence, and his convictions; I love him for, for the first time in his life, taking a chance by sticking to what he believed in—even if it did backfire—because that, whether you want to admit it or not, took guts. It was brave and stupid and painful and justifiable, and he did it—he went through with it, that brilliant, beautiful kid, and people need to stop having hissy-fits about it and start judging their own favorites by those same, harsh standards if they want to go around pointing fingers and crying foul.

I love Percy because he’s focused and neurotic and hard-working and prim; I love that he’s priggish and prudish and misjudged, and so entirely human in his self-imposed and outwardly-inflicted ordeals that it just might tear you apart.

I love him because he’s repressed and alone, and really, really just needs a big hug and a listening ear and someone’s solid shoulder to cry on, if he could ever actually allow himself to break down and let that part of him out—though he never would; it’s too painful, too frightening, and he’s sure it’ll go away with enough reports on cauldron-bottoms, so long as he doesn’t think about it, and I love him for that, too.

I love him because he’s so fucked-up, and that’s so real—I can relate to that; I can let him inside my heart and take the chance that that might hurt me, because, what else can I do? I can’t harden myself to someone so impossibly familiar by the very virtue of his perfect imperfections. I haven’t the heart to refuse this persecuted man-child; I can’t deprive him of my sympathy/affection/understanding. That seems far too cruel for my tastes.

I love him because there’s a definite chance he won’t get a happy ending.

I love him because loads of people don’t want him to have a happy ending.

I love him because he’s been taught to always follow the rules, and he did, and it’s not fair that devoting yourself to doing everything you were brought up to do could still make you so miserable.

I love him because he gets locked up in pyramids during family vacations and bratty second-years challenge his authority, and does anyone see something fundamentally wrong with that?

I love him because he needs love; he needs someone with no expectations or insincerity to appreciate and care about him for no other reason except that he is himself, and that’s more than enough, and I love that he needs that, and that he tries to earn it by working himself to the bone.

I love him ’cause I bet he’d be stiff and cool and confused and uncomfortable yet still polite if you ever tried to hug him, and if you kept it up I think he might just melt, because he needs that, and I think a lot of people forget that. I think he forgets that.

I love him because I want to see the stern, terse/disapproving line of his mouth curl into a smile.

I love him because he really has no clue at all about what he’s doing; because I bet he’s all alone in an empty flat, and probably has a wilting plant named Murphy set out on the windowsill to look nice for the company that never comes, and I think he talks to it at ten o’clock at night (when he finally tears himself from work and Apparates home) as he searches for something to eat in his empty kitchen, just to hear the sound of someone’s—anyone’s—voice. And why not? It’s better than that thick, disturbing silence.

I love him because I want him to have something—someone?—that he’ll leave work early for. A hobby or a girlfriend (boyfriend?), or maybe a cat. Something like that.

I love him because I don’t want to see his character bastardized or chastised or desensitized and empty or dead. Not that—never that.

I love him because he’s too easy to sacrifice—he’s too susceptible to being “made an example of,” and it’s terribly important to love him now before the next book or the book after that comes along and ruins everything. Just in case.

In short, I love Percy because he’s human; his strength/fragility is precious, and it’s okay that he’s not “perfect,” even though he tries so hard. I love him for his faults and for his virtues—for his mistakes and his accomplishments and his devotion. And I love him, also, for the simple fact that so very, very few people do. And he deserves better than that.