Chapter Text
Oliver Wood slammed the door on his shared house and hurried down the steps. Even from the pavement outside, he could hear the sounds of his housemates shouting, singing, playing music, and staccato thumps that might have been a quaffle hitting a wall. He sighed heavily as he pulled on his Muggle jacket. Cut in a popular bomber style, he knew it made his broad shoulders look even broader, and his long, jeans-clad legs appear even longer. Wizarding clothes were binding and fussy, and Oliver much preferred Muggle attire. Altogether, he cut a fine figure as he set off down the street in the general direction of the Ministry of Magic. He wasn’t intending to visit the Ministry itself. Oliver was a pro Quidditch player for Puddlemere Utd, and as such had no reason to busy himself in those halls of paperwork and red tape. However, the person Oliver most wanted to see was someone who loved those halls dearly, and lived as close by as he could manage. Oliver had winkled the address out of Hermione Granger of all people, the last time he had visited the Burrow.
The loss of Fred Weasley last year had hit the Weasleys hard and they were all, even Hermione and Harry, currently staying at the Burrow and keeping close to each other. Percy had returned alone to London and to his job at the Ministry shortly after the funeral, spearheading the effort to rebuild Hogwarts and get it ready for another school year, and then throwing himself into repairing the rest of the wizarding world. Molly confided to Oliver that Percy was too thin and too tired, working all hours and not making time for anyone or anything else.
Oliver couldn’t help but snort. No one knew better than he how Percy got when he had something to work towards. They had shared a dorm for seven years. Those seven years seemed both long and drawn out, and gone in a flash. The other chaps in their year had little time for either the Quidditch-obsessed Oliver or the studying-obsessed Percy. Their mutual drive and ambition had driven away even the most well-meaning Gryffindors to a respectful distance, and so Oliver and Percy had made an odd couple throughout their time there. Percy only went to games that Gryffindor played in once Oliver made the team. Oliver was vaguely proud of this fact – that he was more important in Percy’s mind than his own brothers. Both Bill and Charlie had been incredible players and Oliver looked up to them, but he also saw their casual dismissal of their younger brother. He didn’t go after them with stars in his eyes like many of his classmates.
When the twins came, they were at first an annoyance because they upset Percy so much. Later Oliver made Captain, and he was glad to have such a perfectly-matched pair of beaters. Oliver’s heart hurt as he thought of Fred and George flying through sunny Scottish skies in perfect formation. He rubbed his chest a little as he walked on in busy Muggle streets. Percy had never held it against him that he was so deeply enmeshed with Percy’s family, that Oliver fit in with them better than he did himself. But Oliver, in his own distracted, quiet way, held it against the Weasleys. He wasn’t good with words and emotions, and said nothing, but he noticed. Ron and Ginny were always there with a snide remark, the twins teased Percy mercilessly, and Harry, eager to belong to any family that would have him, never noticed that he had effectively replaced Percy. Oliver did what he could in his own boyish, careless way. He brought food up to the dorm for Percy when his revision timetable precluded necessities like meals. He knowingly walked into traps set by the twins for their quietest brother. Sometimes he coaxed the prefect out for a walk in the sunshine. And if Oliver treasured those walks more than all the giggling and hero-worship the other students had for Hogwarts most strapping, handsome Quidditch star, well, that was no one’s business but his own.
He remembered the hours Percy spent tutoring Oliver through essays and exam prep, making flash cards and even getting him to run laps of the quadrangle in some complicated exam-revision technique. He said Oliver learned better on the move. He was probably right, as Oliver had scraped the marks he needed to start in the professional league, straight from school. They had been together when their results were delivered by Hogwarts owls, sitting alone in the Head Boy’s room. As mere Quidditch captain, Oliver was expected to continue to room with the other lads as before. However, on the first day of seventh year he carried Percy’s second trunk (filled with books) up to the school like he always did. They went up to the Head Boy’s room, and looked around the large empty space. Percy murmured something about there being plenty of room. Oliver had simply grinned and dropped his own trunk. By that night, a second bed appeared. The two boys went to sleep with Oliver by the window and Percy to his left, like they had done for 6 years previous. When their results came, they sat on their own beds, opened their letters, and grinned across at each other. Percy came over eagerly and snatched Oliver’s letter, tutting with a smile over the short list of As and Es. Oliver ran his eye over the perfect set of eleven Os on Percy’s letter and said, “Ha!”
It went without saying that they were proud of each other.
Oliver looked up at Percy from his sitting position, and thought the slim redhead had never looked prettier. He kept his thoughts to himself like he always did, and just admired the way the sun caught Percy’s bright curls. He was young and strong and happy, and Oliver was so proud.
Offers for both of them came from everywhere, and soon they were both caught up in their own plans for the future. They said goodbye at Kings Cross for the last time, without words. Percy nudged Oliver gently, smiled up into his eyes with all the sweetness that no one else saw, and then he was gone.
Oliver kept in touch with the other Weasleys and Harry. He heard through them that Percy and Penelope had broken up. His brothers were scathing of Percy’s ability to keep a woman entertained, even one as pragmatic as Penelope, but Oliver’s heart leapt a little. A couple of times Oliver thought Hermione Granger was regarding him with quiet, clinical interest. He knew she was the brightest of them all, and wondered if she had guessed his secret. But they never had cause to talk, and the moment always passed. Hermione was busy keeping Harry and Ron alive, and surpassing Percy’s perfect academic record at the same time. Oliver was busy as a reserve for Puddlemere, and moved in with a host of other young players and hangers-on as was expected of him.
Then the war came.
Oliver considered wailing about cancelling Quidditch just because of a poxy war, but he had already learned his lesson there. Percy was the only one who had never mocked his obsessive interest, even wordlessly pulling Oliver out of the showers that time after the ignominious defeat by Hufflepuff. But now Oliver’s world was falling apart, and even Quidditch couldn’t distract him. People were disappearing. The children came back from Hogwarts bruised and traumatised, and their parents were forced to send them back for more of the same. The English wizarding way of life as they had known it was collapsing. Oliver’s father was one who disappeared, to the private relief of both Oliver and Mrs Wood. She had refused to leave Wood Snr through a lifetime of abuse, but she didn’t search for him once he was gone. Oliver didn’t either. They both quietly said that there wasn’t much to be done about it, and Oliver went to join the war effort. “Just wait,” was the answer from the Order, and that was that. Harry was gone again, along with his faithful sidekicks. Oliver saw Draco Malfoy in the distance once, and he looked like he had seen some shit. The blond was practically a wraith. From nowhere Oliver had the thought that Harry wouldn’t like to see him like this. More recently, he hadn’t been very surprised to find Draco at the Burrow also, plastered against Harry’s side and being cajoled to eat more by Molly.
When the call to battle came, Oliver went. He didn’t see the Weasleys at all, having being directed by Kingsley to another part of the fight. By the end of it, by luck alone he escaped with pretty minor injuries. His strength was useful after battle too, and he wiped his tears while he carried the bodies of children and adults alike back to the Great Hall. He expected to see Percy then, perhaps directing others, running about on Ministry business, bringing calm and order to the chaos that reigned. But Percy and the Weasleys were nowhere to be seen, and somehow, carried on the wind, Oliver understood that Fred was gone.
The memories punched Oliver in the gut all over again.
Quidditch had resumed, as had most parts of life. Oliver was now a reserve keeper, his final growth spurt giving him the bulk and weight he needed for that position. Sometimes it was hard to believe he was barely in his 20s. He felt much older, an affliction he shared with all the young people who had lived through the second war. He got on the field occasionally, and he was popular with the fans. He knew this was part of the game too, and made sure he gave the squealing girls something to ogle, showed off for them a little when things were slow. He still loved it. He loved flying, the competition, the fun of the thing, loved feeling his strength and power brought to bear on something as simple as blocking a quaffle. It wasn’t like blocking deadly spells on a battle field – he would leave that sort of nonsense to Ron and Harry, who apparently hadn’t had enough of it yet and were in Auror training. Oliver knew his limitations, and he didn’t have any more battles in him. Nights often saw him pacing, shaking, unable to sleep. The rowdiness of his housemates had been fun for a while, and the steady stream of nubile bodies offering themselves to him was lovely too. Oliver liked bright hair and slim hips, milky skin, freckles if he could get them. He didn’t even bother looking for a sharp mind wielded like a lance, a prickly demeanor that hid sudden sweetness deep within. Fun had been had, but more and more Oliver wished he could have the calm, steady presence that had carried him through his school years. Often, he would wake from nightmares and look instinctively to his left. But there was nothing there; no soothing splash of a low-strength lumos as Percy studied late into the night, wrapped up in heavy blankets and Weasley wool against the cold Scottish nights.
With a start, Oliver realised he had arrived at the address Hermione had provided him. She had smiled and given him a piercing look. His own eyes had drifted over to Harry and Draco, the blond draped over his lover lazily. Oliver’s eyes came back to Hermione’s kind gaze, and she had nodded. “He needs you,” she murmured.
Oliver had scoffed then and he scoffed now. Percy never really seemed to need anyone. His family had fostered independence in him to the highest degree, and he was always able to stay calm and focused in the madness of Gryffindor house. By the sounds of it, his post-war efforts had now raised him to being part of Kingsley’s personal staff. Every time he was mentioned in the paper, it was with glowing tones: the quiet hero who was turning the wizarding world around. No, Oliver was here because he needed Percy. It had taken a war to make him understand, but the redhead was the only one for him. He didn’t know if Percy could accept him the way Oliver wanted, but he would take what he could get. Maybe Percy would like a flatmate? Oliver wasn’t very tidy or good at remembering to buy milk, but he knew where Percy liked to keep everything and he wasn’t a bad cook. He couldn’t keep up with Percy’s brilliant mind, but then, neither could most people. Percy wouldn’t be looking for cleverness. Oliver breathed deeply, and reminded himself that he was a Griffindor. He walked through the main entrance area of a block of modest flats, found the right one, and rang the doorbell.
A thump sounded behind the door, and Oliver felt a scanning spell hit him. The feeling of Percy’s magic washed over him, along with a sense of intense nostalgia. He had often felt it in the form of cleaning spells, but Percy also healed him after training and matches, and their dorm was always full of his warming charms.
Now the door opened wide, and inside stood the man of Oliver’s imaginings. He was at once so different from the hopeful young lad who had walked away at Kings Cross, and still so achingly the same. His hair had been brutally short, but now curled a little longer to his neck. His eyes, once so bright and full of ambition, were dull and tired. Percy was thin, thinner than he had been even at the height of the NEWTs. He stood in the doorway and stared at Oliver with unguarded eyes. Oliver stared back. Percy’s mouth trembled and this galvanized Oliver into action. He stepped through the door firmly, wrapping his arms around Percy’s thin waist and slamming the door shut behind them just before Percy burst into tears. The sobs were soft, contained, quiet, like everything else about Percy. Oliver rocked him gently in the hallway, and then once he was a little calmer, walked them to the sofa. He arranged Percy on his lap, tucked that bright, bright head beneath his own scruffy chin, and to his surprise and delight Percy allowed the liberty. Oliver promised him he would stay, that Percy would never be alone again, that Oliver would look after him and make sure everything was ok. Percy finally raised his head and looked at Oliver with disbelieving eyes. “But you could have anyone, Ollie,” he murmured in watery tones. Beneath the tears there was that sweet voice that only came out for Oliver, because Oliver never mocked or teased, never brushed aside what Percy had to say.
Oliver smiled like the sun.