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If the sentimentality of it all was too much, Fred being buried in a Weasley sweater with a handful of Puking Pastilles in one hand, his wand in the other, Percy didn’t say a word. His mom wept loudly, her sobs shaking what seemed like the entire earth. If it was too close, Fred being buried in the backyard of the Burrow, where they had buried all their old pets, rabbits and owls and a Krup once, Percy didn’t say a word. Ron was still, seeking comfort on the shoulders of Hermione and Harry, their own little quorum, in their functional little ecosystem. If Ginny’s whole body shook helplessly, wracked by silent tears, Percy didn’t say a word and he certainly didn’t approach her. Percy was barely a Weasley anymore, and he had lost his Weasley rights long ago, when he had not gone to see his father in the hospital. If Arthur motioned Percy over to the rest of the Weasleys and whispered, “how are you?” to Percy, Percy didn’t say a word. He didn’t deserve to.
If George – if George – Percy couldn’t describe what George’s face was doing. Percy had never seen George’s features twist like that. Percy couldn’t say a word to that either.
If Bill and Charlie didn’t say anything to Percy, standing like tall, protective statues next to their parents, then Percy didn’t say anything either.
In short, Percy didn’t say a word the entire funeral. He stood like a stupid oaf, off to the side, and watched his younger brother being lowered into the ground. He felt hollowed out with grief. If there were words to say, Percy had no idea what they were. He was blank.
“Always was a decent Beater,” said Oliver Wood, standing next to Percy. His conversational tone was a relief.
“H-he was,” said Percy.
“Didn’t listen to a single one of my game plans,” continued Oliver. “Wasn’t much of a listener.”
“Do you have a broom here?” said Percy.
“Of course,” said Oliver. “Why Apparate when you can fly on the best darn thing ever created?”
“I’m a listener,” said Percy.
“Alright,” said Oliver.
“Will you fly me out of here?”
It was poor form, leaving his brother’s funeral, but Percy had been in spectacularly poor form for the past two years and another mistake wouldn’t change anything.
Oliver glanced at Percy and nodded.
When Percy sobbed on Oliver’s shoulder as they flew, mumbling horrible things like “they wish it was me, I know it,” and “my fault” and “he hated me,” Oliver pretended not to hear them.
When Oliver flew him back to the funeral, twenty minutes later, everyone pretended like Percy hadn’t left.
When Oliver’s warm, smooth, Quidditch roughened hand found its way into Percy’s sweaty one as he greeted his mother, Percy tried not to react.
“I’m so glad you came,” said his mother.
“I’m sorry,” said Percy. All he did lately was apologize and he didn’t seem to be able to let go of Oliver’s hand.
“Shhh,” said Percy’s mother. “You’re here now.”
“I- I love you very much,” said Percy. Then looking round, he said, “All of you. I just thought you should know.”
And then Percy let go of Oliver’s hand because his mother was reaching out to him, whispering, “I’m so proud of you, Perce, you came back.”
When he was released, overwhelmed, Percy staggered backwards. Oliver was waiting.
Percy had always been a fan of Quidditch just as much as all his other siblings. People forgot that when they told the story of how Percy was a fussy tosspot.
All the Weasleys were massive Quidditch fans. Ron in particular was a massive Chudley Cannons fan. Percy had always been a fan of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He had never played but he had always watched. Percy liked to be involved in something bigger than he was, to be a fan of something (or someone) who was much larger, figuratively, than he could be.
I should check out Puddlemere United, thought Percy, glancing sideways at Oliver, and for a moment, he was not swamped by grief.