Percy is well aware of the war that is raging, even more so than his siblings, perhaps. And he is right in the middle of it.
This story is written in parallel with "First night for family" and "Their least favourite brother". As they are not really compatible, I regard them as three different versions of Percy Weasley. Characters belong to Rowling.
His flat is, just as his office, sterile. There is a table with two chairs, rarely used, an armchair never sat in, a bed with only one pillow. There is a large shelf filled with books, maps and scrolls of parchments. All about economic bylaws, goblin right regulations and old Wizengamot prejudices. Even his old cauldron bottom thickness-report is there. The desk is filled by neatly ordered stacks of parchment and papers, reports, decrees, minutes and files. That is where he spends most of his time in the flat. There is a kitchen of sorts - just a stove in a corner and a small sink - but he has never used it. He buys breakfast at the café in the corner when he goes to work, and dinner at the same place when he comes home. The food tastes dull, but that doesn't matter. It could have been made by the best house elves in Britain and still not have been anything compared to the food he used to eat. The food that is served in the Burrow.
On his beside table is the only object in the entire flat that feels personal. It is a framed picture of his fiancée, Penelope Clearwater. They don't see each other much these days, and the girl in the photo looks bored. There is only one pillow in the bed.
Every morning he goes to work with a large folder under his arm, filled with papers. Every evening he returns home with more. He sits by his desk each night and works until he is so tired that he nearly falls asleep where he sits. It has happened one or two times.
Those at work smiles when they see his ambition and eagerness. Some of them nod approvingly, other smile a bit sadly, perhaps, pitying him for his lack of a life outside work, thinking it being a waste, such a young man wasting his time with the dull paperwork of the Ministry of Magic. For him, it doesn't matter. It is just another of the sacrifices war demands. And Percy Weasley knows very well that a war is raging. He has known for three years now. He fights it himself, every night in his flat.
Every day in the ministry, while carrying out his duties, Percy keeps his eyes and ears open. Every time he finds something connected to that he is looking for, no matter how remotely, he puts it, or a copy thereof, in his special folder; the one that, should he ever be careless enough to give anything away, should have been labelled with a single word. A name. Every night he returns home with his folder and, alone by his desk, goes through it. Sorts the information. Adds, subtracts, evaluates, clears the fog and reveals the true actions, motives and money transfers that is hidden among all the insignificant details.
Every morning he returns to the ministry with his folder and his truths, and he plants them carefully in the minds of his superiors. In his own insignificant reports, in innocent comments slipped in the canteen over a cup of coffee, in randomly "misfiled" minutes; he each day spreads the word about Malfoy's treachery. He has to do so carefully, of course, because it is dangerous business. Lucius Malfoy is a common visitor at the ministry, and should he ever guess what the young, ambitious man is up to... Percy is sure that Malfoy has something to do with the tragic demise of Broderick Bode, but he can't prove it. Not yet.
Percy hates Lucius Malfoy. He hates him with a passion well beyond anything he has ever experienced before in his life.
Percy is well aware of the war that is raging, even more so than his siblings, perhaps. And if his own part in it, his endless, nocturne fight with letters, numbers and lies, separates him from his family, then it is still worth the price. Everything that gives him a single chance to put Malfoy's plans to an end is worth the price. Because three years ago Lucius Malfoy tried to kill his sister. Percy still remembers the cold lump that formed in his chest when he learned just how close to death she had been brought by that cursed diary. He still remembers what he saw his father's eyes when they learned who had given it to her.
Therefore, Percy Weasley fights his battles every night and every day. He forces himself to smile, stupidly and eagerly, when he meets Lucius in the corridors, but in his pocket he clenches his fist so hard that his nails pierce the skin of his palm. He fights his battle each day and each night, and he has vowed to fight on until he breaks, or until the creature that dared to harm his beloved little sister is destroyed for good.
"Don't worry, Ginny," he mutters under his breath as he turns yet a page, his fingers numb from writing, his hurting eyes screaming for sleep. "I won't let him harm you again. Ever."