Archive of Our Own ^beta

For Percy, there is no “during” the war. There is only before and after.

It is not that he did not go through the war. He lived it just as much as everyone else did. But Percy can only remember snippets of it, and every single memory is covered in fog. Even the big moments--his father’s attack, Fudge’s sacking, Scrimgeour’s take over, Dumbledore’s funeral, Scrimgerour’s death, Thicknesse’s installation--are remembered in grey.

And there are holes, so many places where Percy has missed. Ginny’s first Quidditch match at Hogwarts. Christmas dinners. Bill’s wedding. Empty, gaping voids in Percy life, to perfectly match the gaping holes in his memory caused by alcohol and potions and far too little sleep.

The first color memory he has is Fred’s blood. The way it coats the flagstone; the way it coats his hands, the way it coats the handle of his wand as he rushes off, desperate to find Rookwood, desperate to get any sort of revenge.

Revenge is the first thing Percy feels in a long time.

It doesn’t last, of course, but the courage and hatred flows through him long enough to hex Rookwood six ways to Sunday and then some. When he comes down from the adrenaline high, everything is still in color. Even with the dust in the air, the soot still settling, there is no fog across Percy’s memories.

Or across Percy’s emotions. For the first time since Crouch, the Draught of Peace has worn off. The anxiety is thrumming, fluttering over his pulse. His mother is still screech sobbing over Fred’s body, her tones filling his ears. Fred’s blood is still under his fingernails. His lungs get tight.

Before Percy can dismiss himself, someone does it for him.

There’s a warm hand on his shoulder, sinking in through the cold the rest of his body feels. His feet move without him thinking, steered by that warmth, until he’s slumped against the wall of the men’s bathroom off of the Great Hall.

“--breathe Perce, breathe, that’s it, get it out, that’s it.” The warmth spreads, an arm wrapping around Percy’s shoulders. Percy realizes that he’s crying.

“I--I’m s-s-sorry, I sh-sh-shouldn’t--” He brings a hand up to his cheek, wiping the tears away. They don’t stop.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, you’re okay.” Percy swallows the lump in his throat, closes his eyes for a few seconds, and then reopens them. He glances sideways.

Oliver Wood looks completely exhausted, and there’s a smudge of soot on the side of his nose and stubble on his jaw. Percy, through the tears, actually laughs. It echoes off the stone, high pitched, just on the wrong side of sane.

“Th-thanks,” Percy says, wiping his tears again. Oliver gives him a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Percy’s not sure the last time he’s seen a smile that reached someone’s eyes.

“Not our first rodeo,” Oliver replies. Percy remembers--in quick, fast, blurbs--the times this exact situation happened when they were in school. He nods.

They sit in silence for a few long minutes as Percy composes himself. Then, the reality they’re living in hits him again, cold as a Disillusionment charm.

Fred is dead. His younger brother is dead.

A new wave of tears and panic doesn’t start. Instead, Percy wipes his face again and clears his throat.

“I should get back. My family.” Oliver nods.

“I know.” He stands up and offers his hand to Percy. Percy takes it and lets Oliver haul him up.

They walk back to the Great Hall together. Just outside the doors, Percy freezes just to compose himself. Oliver squeezes his shoulder. Then, they head back in, and go their separate ways.

May 7th marks Fred’s funeral. The scheduling is abysmal, the funeral home is a disaster to work, and the days beforehand are dotted with too many funerals to keep track of.

They run out of chairs at the service. Molly wears black, and so do most of the family, but George is there in robes of magenta just a few shades off of the store’s. Per his request, there are boxes of shop wares--not to be peddled, but to be played with. Someone sets off dungbombs underneath chairs of Fred’s oldest, stuffiest relatives; someone else neatly lays out a tray of canary creams at the reception. The entire thing should be a disastrous mess, but instead, it’s the perfect balance of “fuck you” to the establishment and petty hijinks that Fred would have loved.

Somehow, Percy doesn’t see Oliver until he runs right in front of him. Percy’s pressed against an alcove inside the Burrow, while everyone else is outside in the garden for the reception. Oliver turns the corner, presumably coming back from the bathroom, and stops mere inches from Percy.

“Oh, sorry, I--oh, Perce,” he says, wiping his hands on his robes. They’re dark green, almost black, but compliment the olive in his eyes.

“Hey.” It’s all that Percy can come up with. After all the talking he’s done today--all the placating, all the greetings and “thank you for your condolences”--he doesn’t feel like saying more.

“How’re you holding up?” Oliver asks. ‘Fine’ is on the tip of Percy’s tongue, but it doesn’t come out. He just opens his mouth and stands there for a half second like an idiot. “That bad?”

Percy shrugs. He hugs his arms, crossed in front of himself, a little bit closer. Finally, he settles on, “It’ll be better once this dies down.” Oliver cringes at the exact moment Percy realizes what he said.

“Bad--”

“Bad--”

“--Wording,” they finish at the same time. Percy feels a corner of his mouth twitch up. Oliver returns the small smile. A few quiet seconds pass.

“If you need anything--”

“I’m fine, thank y--”

“Bullshit. You just lost your brother.” Percy shrugs. He doesn’t look at Oliver.

“A lot has changed. Between me and my family.” Oliver studies him.

“Well, when things… quiet down… maybe you can tell me about it. Catch up?”

Percy agrees, and he really does mean it.

The thing is, things don’t ever really quiet down. His resignation to Thicknesse is, of course, far from binding, and when Shacklebolt comes in as temporary Minister, he needs someone familiar with the system to do documents and recordings and filings. Percy, having kept meticulous records, and copies of records, during the past three Ministers’ tenures, including the complete take over of the Ministry, is called in before the work can even start.

Three months fly by. They’re in color, but only barely, only because Percy doesn’t have enough time to brew and the work requires more work and longer hours than perhaps anything he’s ever done. They only get in touch when, by chance, Percy has a Saturday night where he gets off early, just after eight, and heads to the bar.

Percy’s two and a half drinks in when Oliver comes in. He’s with a group, and so Percy doesn’t even realize it’s him, until he approaches the bar to order drinks. Oliver doesn’t realize it’s Percy either, until he’s squished up against the redhead’s side and turns to apologize.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to--Percy Weasley?” Percy looks up from his drink.

“Guys,” he turns to his friends, “You head back to the table.” Oliver reaches for the stool next to Percy, and pulls it up close. “How’ve you been doing? You look--” He studies Percy for a few seconds, “Well, kinda like you did our seventh year. Except worse.”

Percy laughs, without mirth. “Yeah, that’s kind of how I feel,” he admits. Percy sees Oliver’s still without a drink, and waves the bartender over. “Ogden’s okay? Or do you prefer something else?”

Oliver never makes it back before his friends leave. He and Percy close the bar, a few drinks too deep, catching up for hours.

It only takes another week for them to talk again. Percy is planning to work through his lunch break, because there are still plenty of Muggle-Born Registration Commission cases to sort through and get expunged, when Oliver pops up on his floor.

“Hey Percy,” he says, looking cheerful, if a little windblown. “I--well, I can’t say I didn’t mean to disturb you at work, but I was just in the area and, well, after last week, wondered if you might want to grab lunch? My treat.” 

Percy almost says no. He is busy, after all. But catching up last week was pleasant, and he’s never been one to pass up free food, so he says yes.

Lunch lasts past his lunch hour, on Percy’s decision. They make plans again for the next week. And just like that, seeing each other becomes clockwork.

His life all changes on September 17th. The plan is to meet Oliver in the next half an hour for drinks at the Silver Serpent (a mixed community bar). He just dips into the potion cabinet for a quick nip to his anxiety. But the next thing Percy knows, he wakes up in St. Mungo’s.

Oliver’s at his bedside. “Merlin, Perce. You scared me. How are you feeling?” Percy rubs his temples: his head is throbbing, though he can’t really feel the rest of his body.

“‘M fine,” he says. It comes out scratchy. He coughs and tries again. “I’m fine. What happened? Why am I here?”

Oliver looks away from him. He’s drumming his fingers on his knee. “You overdosed.” Percy swears under his breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe that happened, it shouldn’t have, I’m usually so good about making sure but I must have--have double dosed, or something, and--”

“You were barely under the lethal limit,” Oliver says. He sounds almost… angry. “They said that any more helleborn in your system would have killed you. You’ve been out for four days.”

“Four days ?!” Percy yelps. Oliver nods. “Merlin, Minister Shacklebolt must be--”

“Screw your boss, Percy. You almost died ,” Oliver repeats. Both go quiet for a moment. Oliver is still fidgeting.

“I… wasn’t sure who to call,” Oliver continues, sounding less angry. “I figured you probably didn’t want me to contact your, um, parents, but…”

“You didn’t ,” Percy says. At the same moment, there’s a knock on the door. It opens a second later to reveal Percy’s second older brother, Charlie, carrying two styrofoam cups. When he sees Percy’s awake, his eyes widen.

“You’re awake.” He strides over and hands Oliver one of the cups. “About time.” Unlike Oliver, Charlie’s anger is burning. There is fire in his eyes. Percy licks his lips, finding them cracked and dry.

“Charlie, I--”

“You what , Percy?” The words die on Percy’s lips. He looks down at his hands. Feeling’s started to come back to some of his body; his fingers ache in their joints.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Charlie’s expression doesn’t soften.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says. “Apologize to him.” He gestures to Oliver.  

Percy’s saved from having to make a response by a Healer entering his room. Anything his brothers want to say will have to be saved for later.

The hospital feels like a liminal space. They assign Percy a counselor, and make him attend sessions both one-on-one in a group. They don’t allow him free Floo access; they don’t allow him laces in his shoes; and they definitely don’t allow him potions. For Percy, it feels like a completely pointless exercise.

The only upside Percy holds on to is the fact that neither Bill nor Charlie tell their parents. “You’re an adult,” Bill says, and Charlie just frowns but mutters something about “making your own mistakes.” Percy knows they both want him to choose to tell them, but that’s an idea further than space, so he sits good on the knowledge that his parents will, Merlin willing, never know.

After a week of grumbling, groaning, and gagging through appointment after appointment, Percy is allowed visiting hours. Charlie doesn’t make it, but Bill checks in and, more surprisingly, so does Oliver.

Oliver’s there before Percy arrives, peeling bits off his empty styrofoam coffee cup. When Percy comes in, he looks up, rather like a deer in headlights. Percy finds himself smiling, the first real smile he’s given since being admitted to this damn place. He pulls out the rickety chair and sits down, and together Percy and Oliver go through the pleasantries. Finally though their smalltalk lulls, and Oliver asks what he’s been wondering most.

“Did they say when they were letting you out?” Oliver asks. He sounds genuine, but Percy can’t help but flush.

“Soon,” he says. “The.... counselor … says they can’t hold me longer than two weeks.” He wrinkles his nose. “But if I agree to live under supervision, they’ll consider letting me out sooner.” He sighs and pushes his glasses up, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes. “Obviously it’s not convenient, but I figure Charlie might let me stay. Maybe even Bill, though obviously he and Fleur are living together, so…” He shrugs. Oliver takes this in for a moment.

“Move in with me,” he says, as if that’s the logical course of action. Percy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I couldn’t possibly--”

“Why not? We’re friends, yeah? I might not live in central London, but at least I’m in the same country.” Percy considers.

“I couldn’t impose like that.” Oliver shrugs.

“Wouldn’t be. I’ve got a spare room I never use, and I could use the company.” He shrugs. “Besides, this way you won’t have to worry about Portkeys, or the time difference, or, well…” The ‘your family’ gets left off, but Percy hears it loud and clear.

“I’ll… consider it,” Percy says, finally, tentatively.

Less than a week later, Percy is released, under the guidelines that he’ll be living with one Oliver Wood.

Surprisingly, living with Oliver is not a horror story. Perhaps it’s because they lived together for seven years in school, or because Percy has his own room, or because both of them keep schedules that are odd hours, but Percy finds that he settles in pretty quickly. Minister Shacklebolt, only informed he was ill, is keen to let him resume his position and work. His family, none the wiser except for his older brothers, do not pester him outside of their usual Sunday lunch shenanigans.

Somehow, Percy and Oliver see less of each other now that they live together than they did before. Their schedules pick up. Their weekly lunches lapse.

The weekend heading into Halloween, Percy gets off on Friday halfway through the day, because Shacklebolt has an event to attend. He heads home (what he’s only recently taken to calling Oliver’s flat), looking forward to having a few drinks and curling up with a book he hasn’t touched in ages.

What he doesn’t bank on is Oliver being home instead of training. This in itself would usually be fine: the problem is that Oliver is not alone. Judging by the noises from his bedroom, where the door is cracked, he’s very not alone.

Against all instinct, Percy cannot help but be curious. He creeps forward and angles himself until he can see through the cracked door.

What he sees cannot be unseen.

Oliver is lying on his back, legs dangling over the side. Over him is a bloke Percy doesn’t recognize, one with dirty blond hair and a build that could rival Oliver’s. Most noticeably, though, is the fact that Oliver’s cock is in the guy’s mouth; Oliver’s head is thrown back, whole body taut like a bowstring; and he’s… well… whimpering.

The bed creaks loudly and startles Percy out of it. He pulls away from the doorframe, chest tight, half hard, but completely and utterly mortified. Before he can think, he Apparates out. He is not sure if the telltale crack interrupts them, but he finds he doesn’t really care.

When Percy returns, it’s a tad past midnight, and he’s a little bit drunk. Hoping not to wake Oliver, he uses the Floo. Unfortunately for Percy’s luck, Oliver’s asleep on the couch. Thankfully he’s dressed, but the image of him from this afternoon still freshly conjures in his mind. The tips of Percy’s ears go red.

Whether because he senses Percy’s presence, or heard the noise of the Floo and Percy coming in, Oliver wakes. He blinks sleepily and yawns before his eyes focus on Percy. Then he looks… sheepish.

“Hey,” he greets, and jumping right in asks, “were you… here, this afternoon?”

Percy wants to deny. To say he saw nothing, to forget what he saw, to apologize and have that be that.

What comes out of his mouth is, however, “yes.”  

Oliver flushes, dark skin going darker. “Shit. Ah, okay. Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be home early. Um…” He wrings his hands together. “We should probably talk.”

“It’s fine,” Percy says. “We certainly don’t need to. This is your flat, and I intruded.”

“Hey, now.” Oliver’s brow furrows. “Don’t say that. This is your place too.” Percy averts his eyes.

“I honestly shouldn’t have troubled you for this long,” he says. “I’ll start looking for a new place in the morning, and I’ll make sure to keep my hours--”

“Perce, c’mon. This isn’t just my flat. You don’t have to leave.”

“No, no, I really should, it’s clear this isn’t going to work out anymore, so--”

“What, because I’m gay?” Oliver says it so plainly, Percy can’t pretend to mishear. “If… I get if that makes you… uncomfortable . But it doesn’t change who I am.”

Percy swallows. “No, it’s not that,” he says, voice a little shaky, but totally honest. “I just… realize I’ve inserted myself into your life more than I should have.” Oliver’s mouth presses thin.

“What if I want you in my life?” Percy shakes his head.

“You don’t.” Nobody does . Oliver studies him, his eyes heavy on Percy’s face. Percy looks everywhere but at him. He knows, if he does, the image of this afternoon will return. He clears his throat. “I’m going to bed.”

“Perce--”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, and just like that, their conversation is over.

They don’t see each other in the morning. Oliver’s gone for practice before Percy wakes up, and Percy keeps to himself for the entire day and the next. Monday morning, their routine takes over, neither sees each other, and their lives continue.

November brings the heart of the Quidditch season, which means Oliver’s schedule involves a lot more travelling. He and Percy don’t see each other for a solid two weeks.

Until, suddenly, they do. Percy comes home one day and Oliver’s on the couch listening to the radio, arm in a sling and iced up. He smiles a little at Percy as Percy brushes soot off, but it doesn’t look right.

“What happened?!” Percy tries to keep the hysteria out of his voice, but doesn’t fully succeed. Oliver sighs.

“Double bludger to the shoulder--broken scapula and dislocated shoulder.” Oliver’s brow furrows, his mouth curving down. “The fuckers scored on it too, right before halftime, and took our lead ‘til the last minute and a half. Complete bullshit because--”

“Could they heal it?” Percy cuts Oliver off, knowing he’ll never hear the end of match commentary if he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Oliver says. “I’m out for like a week while the bruising heals and the bone hardens up again, but it’s not awful.” As he says this, he pushes himself up, jostles the shoulder, and immediately hisses. “Well, all right. Not as awful as it could be.”

Percy sighs and shakes his head. “Can I get you anything?” he asks, finally taking his shoes off. Oliver opens his mouth to clearly protest, but Percy continues, “Don’t say you don’t need the help.” Oliver looks a bit bashful.

“Um, I. Left my pain potion on the counter?” he admits. Percy rolls his eyes at how Oliver could forget something so basic, but strides toward the kitchen. The potion is, in fact, sitting on the counter; Percy reads the direction and snorts.

“When did you last eat?” he calls, because the directions on the label clearly read take with food .

“Uh…”

“Right, I’m heating up dinner,” Percy answers, and digs through the cupboard for a double instant meal from a local cafe Oliver frequents. The warming charms on them activate as soon as he’s opened the package, and less than five minutes later Percy returns to the couch with everything.

“Food first,” he orders, handing Oliver the bowl of pasta and beans. Good shoulder busted, Oliver reaches for his wand with his off hand, gives it a few flicks, and the spoon levitates over. On the other side of the sofa, Percy sits with his food, feet tucked up underneath him.

Half an hour later both men have eaten, Oliver’s taken his potion, and they’re relaxing in front of the fire. Percy’s just sitting with his eyes closed, trying to take his mind off the day’s work, when Oliver speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, sounding sleepy. Percy opens his eyes; Oliver’s looking at him, his warm brown eyes glistening in the firelight. Percy smiles, eyes sleepy, then yawns.

“It’s not a problem,” Percy answers, and he means it. Oliver, though, won’t accept it as an answer.

“No, for real,” Oliver insists, “you’re so helpful an’ kind an’ funny and--you live with me . ‘M a disaster zone and you live with it anyway.” Percy goes to disagree, because Oliver is the generous one in this situation for living with Percy, when something clicks.

“How much potion did you take?” he asks, a little tentative, a little amused. Oliver thinks, the effort clear on his face.

“Jus’ as much as the bottle said,” he replies. Percy doesn’t doubt that, but he can tell from Oliver’s cadence that the dose is strong.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Percy suggests. Oliver tries to protest, but Percy hauls him up anyway. Oliver leans heavily into Percy, despite the injury being to his shoulder, unsteady on his feet from the potion. His hair tickles Percy’s neck.

Together, they stumble-walk toward Oliver’s bed. Percy, who rarely enters Oliver’s space, is surprised to find it mostly clean. Percy does his best to be mindful of Oliver’s shoulder as he gets him into bed. He’s thankful Oliver’s already in track pants and a t-shirt; the idea of changing him into nightwear makes something in Percy flush.

Oliver all settled in, Percy turns to walk away. Before he can even take a step, Oliver reaches out with his good arm and grasps Percy’s hand.

“Perce,” he says, words a little soft and slurred, “than’s. Y’r the best.” Percy can’t help but smile despite himself.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” he says, squeezing his hand once before letting go. He flicks his wand once to turn off the lights, but even when he shuts the door behind him, Percy can still feel the warmth of Oliver’s hand in his.

Christmas sneaks up quickly. The snow starts mid-December and doesn’t stop. Despite the fact that both are busy, Percy and Oliver find time in their schedule to put up string lights and wreaths. They opt out of getting a tree, because neither intend to spend the holiday at home, but the whole place is quite festive regardless.

On Christmas morning, Percy heads to the Burrow, the only Weasley to not spend Christmas Eve. It is his first Christmas with his family in three years.

Shockingly, it goes well. There is still a Fred-shaped hole in their family, dampening the cheer a degree, but everyone is so grateful to actually make it to this Christmas that they celebrate extra jubilantly. There’s a fresh layer of snow on everything, crunching pleasantly under his feet as he has a smoke in the garden after their late family lunch. He leans against the garden wall, fingers a little bit numb, and stares out at the landscape.

He senses Bill before he sees him. His oldest brother comes up next to him, propping both arms on the top of the wall to support his weight. They stand in the quiet for a few minutes, gazing out on the horizon where the sun is starting to set.

“It’s good to have you back,” Bill says, his voice quiet and deep. Percy nods slightly, taking a final drag from his cigarette.

“It’s good to be back,” he says eventually, and it’s mostly the truth.

“How’ve you been doing? Since… everything.” Percy knows he means the overdose. He tries not to tense so much.

“Better,” he answers, because he hasn’t been dipping into the potions cabinet twice a day anymore. “Not… perfect, but better.” Bill nods. He drums his fingers on his arm.

“I know I’ve said it before, but it means the world to mum that you’ve thrown yourself back into the family. What with losing Fred…” Both men feel the loss acutely between them.

“I know,” Percy says quietly. “I know.” Bill nods. Then he turns and heads back inside.

Despite being the last one to the Burrow, Percy is the first to leave, citing work in the morning. Though Molly protests, Arthur actually defends him, and so Percy returns home just past nine in the evening.

He doesn’t expect Oliver to be back yet, knowing the other man has the next few days off. But as he steps out of the Floo into their living room, he can hear someone muttering to themself in the kitchen. Brow furrowed, Percy enters, wand raised.

As he’d hoped, it’s just Oliver. However, the picture is far from one of Christmas cheer. Oliver’s sitting on the floor, back against the cabinets, drinking straight out of a bottle of brandy. Percy cringes.

“Oliver?” Oliver looks up immediately, a little bit startled, but as soon as he sees it’s Percy, his posture relaxes.

“Oh, Perce, it’s just you.” He takes another swig. “S’rry,” he starts, “Christmas was… not great.”

Percy hesitates for a moment, before he sits down right next to Oliver. The handle of the cabinet digs into his back, but he doesn’t really care. Not right now.

“What happened?” he asks, sounding almost as concerned as he feels. Oliver laughs without mirth.

“M’ younger cousin brought her boyfriend. As did… approximately everyone.” He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “So of course m’ dad got on me about ‘was I seeing anyone?’ and ‘when would I bring a nice girl home?’” Oliver shakes his head. Percy grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he’s not really sure what else to say. Oliver closes his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths from his nose.

“‘M just--’m done with it.” He takes another drink. Percy chews on his lower lip. Carefully, Percy puts a hand on Oliver’s leg.

“You don’t have to be what they want,” he says quietly. Images of himself and family fly through his head. He doesn’t know what they expect from him, but he knows he’s failed them in most ways.

Oliver snorts. “I do ,” he says. “‘Least if I want them to keep me.” He sighs again. “I told them once, y’know. About the--the gay thing.” Another drink, a long swallow. Oliver tilts his head back the bit the cabinet will allow. “Da’ basically said I was ‘confused’ ‘n’ mum said I just ‘admired’ men.” He chuckles, but it’s without humor. Percy feels himself chewing a hole in his lower lip.

Oliver looks over at Percy, eyes a little glazed, and sighs. Percy thinks it might be one of the most tragic thing he’s ever seen--this incredible man reduced to tears by his own family . It’s a feeling Percy’s quite familiar with--a feeling he felt all too often during the War years--and he hates that Oliver is feeling it now.

Percy isn’t sure what to say. Thankfully, Oliver changes the subject.

“How was y’r holiday?” he asks. Percy gives a small smile and his posture sinks a little.

“It was all right,” he answers truthfully. “It was… weird though.” It’s an admission, and one he hasn’t wanted to make. After three years without them, Percy is supposed to only be feeling relief and joy. But inside, part of him feels some annoyance, that these people have come back into his life and continued like his leaving was nothing, like he was the only one who was incorrect, like they’ve done nothing wrong .

Oliver is quiet, contemplative almost. Eventually, he says, “I was always jealous of you.”

Percy’s eyebrows shoot up. “What? Why?” Oliver shrugs, takes another drink.

“You’ve got this… huge family, where you could kind of blend in. I dunno, just. As an only child, it’s like I’ve got all this pressure riding on me.” Percy actually laughs.

“Believe me, there’s plenty of pressure with siblings. You’ve got to live up to their legacies.” Oliver hums, contemplative.

“Guess ‘ve never thought of it like that. Still, seems like bein’ bent would be less of an issue.” He takes a long, long drink, finishing the bottle. He sets it down next to him with a clang. Percy shrugs.

“Never thought about it,” Percy admits likewise. Oliver gives a few small nods. Then, he leans over and puts his head on Percy’s shoulder. He closes his eyes.

“Y’r a good friend, y’know that?” he says softly, but in the quiet kitchen and next to Percy’s ear, it sounds loud. Percy chews his lip again. “No, really. Y’ are.” Percy wants to protest, but it doesn’t seem appropriate so he stays quiet. Then, Oliver drops a bombshell.

“Y’know, I had such a crush on you at Hogwarts.” He says it like it’s casual, like it’s nothing at all. Percy flushes.

“You don’t mean that,”  he says quietly. Oliver nods.

“You’re a catch,” Oliver says. “Just look at you.” Percy cannot help but snort.

“Perhaps you’re thinking of one of my brothers?” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d had a crush on Charlie, back in the day.” Oliver actually flushes, though he stays nestled against Percy’s shoulder.

“Did,” he admits. “About Charlie. But you… well…”

It’s enough for Percy. He shifts. “Time for bed, yeah?” Oliver, even drunk, can sense perhaps he’s gone a bit too far.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and together the two of them drag their stiff bodies up, and curl up in different beds.

The next morning, Percy feels fine, though he suspects Oliver will be rather hungover. As anticipated, he’s actually awake first, and so he brews his tea and sets up with the Prophet . About an hour later, as Percy’s on the last few pages, Oliver sits down to his morning coffee. He looks rather sheepish.

After he’s added sugar to his coffee, the first real words out of Oliver’s mouth that morning are, “Sorry about last night.”

“It’s quite all right,” Percy responds, not looking up from his paper. “Holidays are… difficult.” Oliver sighs but nods.

“That’s one way to put it.” He takes a sip of his coffee. As he is Percy can’t help but give in to his own curiosities.

“Did you… mean it?” he asks, so quiet that part of him hopes Oliver can’t hear. “What--what you said. About me.” Oliver stares into his coffee. Percy wonders if he even remembers their conversation.

“Yeah,” he says softly, after a few beats. “I did. You’re a catch, Weasley.” Percy shakes his head, trying to deny. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” That catches Percy by surprise--it’s definitely not what he expected.

“No one’s ever described me that way before,” Percy admits. Oliver looks up from his coffee and makes tentative eye contact.

“Well I am,” Oliver replies. Percy actually smiles. Oliver smiles back.

The days between Christmas and New Years drag on. Work is busy as ever, even with most of the Ministry on vacation, but each hour slowly slogs on. Percy is actually grateful when he gets off early new Years Eve, something he’s not used to in his line of work.

When Percy gets home, Oliver’s getting ready for what Percy’s been told is going to be a “superbly excellent time”. Despite Oliver inviting him, Percy has intentions to curl up with a book he picked up recently (one of many that he rarely has time to read) and count down the new year by himself.

Oliver knows this, but it doesn’t stop him from pestering Percy again.

“You sure you don’t want to come? Everyone’s bringing friends; it wouldn’t be weird,” he calls from the other room.

Percy shakes his head, then realizes Oliver can’t see him, and calls back, “Quite sure, thank you.”

“Your loss,” Oliver says, emerging from his room. He’s wearing dark blue Muggle jeans rolled up at the cuff, a cream button down, and--Percy actually does a double take--a leather jacket. Then he laces up his boots and heads out the door, leaving Percy to his evening.

Percy’s not sure when he falls asleep in the armchair in front of the fire, or what time the knock at the door comes, but it’s certainly some time past midnight. The knocking actually startles him, because no one has knocked at their door in quite a while. Without even finding his glasses, he stumbles over to the door of their flat to answer.

Instead of a dangerous stranger in the hallway though, Percy just finds one supremely drunk Oliver Wood along with a slightly taller, dark skinned man who also appears intoxicated to a lesser degree.

The taller man does a double take at Percy, then looks to Oliver. “This’s yours, right?” Oliver nods.

“Ye, ye, heya Perce!” Oliver grins, a little lopsided. The taller man seems to find that convincing enough as he helps Oliver through the door. Oliver leans most of his weight against the wall, eyes closed; the taller man dips down and gives him a quick kiss, before dipping out and shutting the door behind him with a wave.

Percy feels like a spell’s just backfired on him.

He doesn’t get long to sit with the feeling though, because drunken Oliver is on the move. With a bit of a stumble, he flops down in Percy’s armchair, boots still on. He grins, looking rather cheeky.

“Y’ missed a great night,” he tells Percy. “Shoulda come, Perce, shoulda come.” Percy rolls his eyes, but drops down to his knees in front of Oliver so that he can start to unlace the drunken man’s boots.

“I’m sure,” he says sarcastically. That sour feeling is still in him, and he can’t help but the words that come out of his mouth next. “So… is that your boyfriend?” Oliver’s brow furrows slowly, thinking hard.

“No, no, n’thin’ like that. Taylor’s jus’ a friend.” He snorts. Percy pulls off one boot, then starts on the other. “Not m’ type, either.”

His mouth a bit dry, Percy says, “What is? Your type, I mean.” He’s not sure what’s compelled him to ask it, but the answer feels incredibly important. Oliver goes quiet.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have--”

“You.” Oliver’s voice, though low, cuts through the living room, over the crackle of the fire and Percy’s own voice. Percy’s eyes widen. He’s grateful Oliver can’t see his face. Carefully he removes Oliver’s other boot.

Percy stands up. “Time for bed, yeah?” His voice is a few tones too high. Oliver’s eyes are closed, and for a second Percy thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then he opens his eyes slowly, blinks a few times, and focuses his gaze on Percy’s face.

“Yea,” he says, voice soft and practically sober, “Guess it is.” It takes two tries for him to stand up, but he does, and Percy gives him a shoulder for support. Together, they get Oliver to bed; Percy even conjures a glass of water for morning Oliver. Yet Percy can’t help but hesitate in the doorway.

Percy isn’t sure whether it’s the shadows playing tricks on him, but something about Oliver--sprawled out atop the covers, mouth open, hair rather windswept--makes a warm thing bubble up in Percy’s chest. He can’t help the small smile that creeps up his face.

“Happy New Year, Oliver,” he murmurs as he flicks his wand to turn out the lights. Even as he’s falling asleep, Percy is still smiling.

The next morning, Percy wakes to the smell of eggs, bacon, and something a little bit burnt. Upon further investigation, it’s the toast, but Oliver’s grin, paired with food he hasn’t had to make himself, wins Percy over. But just as Percy’s cut into his eggs, Oliver drops a rather sheepish question.

“I didn’t, erm, do anything embarrassing last night, did I?” Oliver asks, his cheeks darkening. Percy almost spits out his coffee and immediately shakes his head.

“No, no, nothing like--that,” he insists. “You were--rather tame.” Oliver’s posture slackens a little bit.

“Good, good. Not that--I mean, I just tend to get a little drunker than I mean to when I go out with the team.”

The word you echos through Percy’s mind. Percy pushes it down and gives his best reassuring smile. “No, you didn’t even track mud in,” Percy says, and Oliver laughs, and their conversation is back to normal just like that.

Though Oliver might not remember it, the words he spoke on New Years stay wedged in Percy’s mind. It’s a secret just for him, and it warms part of Percy from his core. He’s not so foolish as to think that Oliver’s into him, per se, but knowing that he’s attractive to somebody again is more than enough. The fire inside Percy’s been stoked and it isn’t going out any time soon.

February brings grey and slush. Arthur’s birthday is the sixth, a Saturday. The entire family comes round for the party, instead of Sunday lunch that week, and Percy is no exception. The place is packed, as it tends to be. Percy’s small gift, a Muggle book on mechanics, is slipped into a tall pile of oddly wrapped gadgets.

The anxiety starts small, with no triggering event. It’s just suddenly there, and Percy finds himself doubting why he’s even at the party. Why he’s even seeing his family, especially his father; why he’s even bothering them with his presence.

He goes out into the garden between dinner and cake to smoke, but his hands are shaky, and the nicotine doesn’t soothe him. When he comes back in, his nose and fingers are cold, but the rest of him feels all too warm.

He doesn’t actually remember them cutting the cake. It’s clear from his family’s reaction that it’s a grand thing, but it tastes like sand in his mouth, and Percy barely finishes a few bites. Beneath the table, he drums his fingers on his thigh. Charlie looks at him from across the table, frowning slightly, but Percy gives the best smile he can muster and settles for taking another bite. How he manages to swallow is a mystery.

The group can’t break up soon enough. Somehow, Percy is not the first to dismiss himself: George is. He breaks up the festivities with news that he’s got to leave because he’s opening tomorrow, which gives Percy a clear shot to hug his father rather awkwardly, kiss Molly on the cheek, and Apparate home.

It takes less than a minute from the time Percy crosses the threshold for him to be elbows deep in his potions cabinet. The fact he took some Draught of Peace earlier doesn’t render to him until he’s already downed a dose and a half of calming draught and collapsed onto his bed.

There is a gentle knock on Percy’s door frame--he must not have closed the door all the way in his haste--and Oliver stands in the doorway. His brows are knitted together, warm brown eyes shining with concern.

“You okay?” he asks, even though the obvious answer is sprawled on Percy’s bed. Percy closes his eyes. He pushes his glasses up to his forehead and presses his thumb and middle finger to his eyes for a few long moments. Already he can feel the potion start to take effect.

“No,” he eventually answers. There’s a shift next to him as Oliver sits down on the bed. Then, Oliver takes the vial Percy didn’t realize he was still holding. When Percy opens his eyes, he sees the distaste spread across Oliver’s expression. “Don’t lecture me. Please,” he tacks on, hoping it will work. He is too exhausted to deal with shit from anyone tonight. Oliver sighs.

“Just worried about you,” Oliver says quietly. Percy shrugs.

“Don’t be,” he says and actually laughs. There is just something about the fact that Oliver--that anyone --would worry about him that is ridiculous. Him, Percy Weasley, the least deserving of worry.

“Maybe I want to be.” Oliver’s words are quiet, and far more careful than his usual speech. Percy wonders if it means something. Before he can ponder on it though, Oliver asks, “Is this your first potion of the day?” Percy’s stomach sours.

“Yes.” He practically spits the lie. It hangs heavy between them for a few seconds, before Percy rectifies it: “...No. But the Draught of Peace was hours ago. Well before I left for my parents’.” Oliver nods, gaze still on the vial of potion in his hand. Despite appearances, Percy knows he’s not stupid--knows Oliver can see it’s self brewed, not prescribed; knows Oliver is aware that he’s explicitly not supposed to be using after September’s incident. Thankfully, Oliver tucks the potion back into the cabinet and closes it.

“Someday, you’re going to have to get help,” he says quietly. Percy feels a jolt of anxiety try to swell up in him, but it is muffled by the potion. He takes a deep breath.

“Someday is not today,” Percy replies. He hears Oliver sigh. Then, a warm palm cover’s Percy’s hand.

“No, it’s not,” he concedes. “If you want to talk about it…”

“Thanks,” Percy breathes out. He doesn’t, but somehow the offer from Oliver feels real, genuine, unlike when anyone else asks him to talk about his anxiety. Together they sit in silence, only the ticking of Percy’s clock and their own breathing between them.

Many, many minutes later, Oliver speaks. “Would you mind if I…” He lets it hang, but Percy is unable to fill in the blank.

“If you what?” When Percy looks up at Oliver, he registers the flush on the other man’s dark skin. Oliver swallows, and in the silence between them, it’s audible.

“I know you said you didn’t… overlap doses, but I’d just… I’d feel better if…” He stumbles over his words, eyes darting everywhere but at Percy. For his part, Percy is nonplussed, calming draught firmly coursing through his veins.

“Yes?”

“If I… spent the night near you,” Oliver spits out quickly. Percy feels his surprise register, sluggish. Oliver must see it, because he immediately backtracks: “Of course, I’m more than comfortable to sleep next to your bed, I just… know I’m going to worry about your breathing all night and I’d rather not risk waking you every half an hour by coming in and out…”

Somewhere inside, Percy knows he should feel touched. But his general “feeling” of emotions is dulled right now, so instead he just thinks, Oh .

After letting Oliver stew longer than he means, he simply says, “Okay.” Oliver’s shoulders sag. He squeezes Percy’s hand.

Percy isn’t sure how long the two of them just sit there in the quiet with one another’s company. But eventually, his eyes start to close, breathing already slowed, and Oliver shakes him back awake.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s get you ready for bed.” Percy should be insulted at the implication he needs help, but he just lets Oliver’s warm, steady hands sit him up and peel off his sweater. He even undoes Percy’s tie and the buttons on his shirt, then hesitates.

“I’ll just let you--yeah?”

His movement is sluggish, and a little bit uncoordinated, but Percy manages to strip down to his briefs. It takes all his energy, and he collapses back on the bed. Oliver makes a noise, then clears his throat.

“Um, Perce? Pajamas?” Percy blinks up at Oliver. Vaguely, he registers the way Oliver’s dark skin has flushed, but he doesn’t understand the urgency.

“‘M comfortable,” Percy answers like that’s enough. He doesn’t understand why Oliver is still standing there instead of lying next to him. He does register he’s cold though, so with a bit of effort he crawls under the covers. Oliver shakes his head.

“Right, well, I gotta get my wand, I’ll be right back,” Oliver says. Percy isn’t quite sure why, but he doesn’t want Oliver to leave, not even for a moment. So he does the first thing that comes to mind: he reaches for his own wand, flicks it, and turns the lights out. He drops his wand back to the end table and pats the spot next to him.

“Perce--”

“Come here,” Percy says, eyes closed again. Oliver hesitates. He’s so close to the bed Percy can feel his presence, but he’s still standing there. Percy blinks through the darkness a few times until he focuses on Oliver, still dressed. His brow furrows. “Are you staying?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just--figured you’d be more comfortable if I went and fetched pajamas.”

“I’d be a lot more comfortable if you were lying next to me.” He’s not sure what possesses him to say it, but the words are out. Oliver chuckles. Percy can’t tell if it’s strained or not.

“Right, well. Guess I’ll just…” He pulls off his long sleeved t-shirt. “Yeah?” Percy’s already closed his eyes again. Thankfully, Oliver doesn’t hesitate anymore, and a few moments later he’s in a pair of Percy’s too long pajama pants and sliding under the covers. Yet Percy can still feel Oliver’s gaze on him. When he opens his eyes, Oliver is propped up on an elbow, looking at him. His brow is still furrowed, but not as deeply as earlier. There’s something deep in his eyes that Percy, still slow and calm, cannot quite work out.

“Sorry,” Oliver says softly and blinks a few times. A thought that he is gorgeous flits across Percy’s mind, and he doesn’t analyze it.

“I’ll be fine,” Percy reassures. Oliver chews on his lip. He finally drops down so he’s lying on the pillow.

“You don’t have to be,” Oliver says. “Fine. All the time.” Percy’s hums quietly between them. “Just… consider it.” Percy nods, slow, feeling slow overtake him.

When Percy next wakes, the first thing he notices is his head aches a bit. The second is that it’s not light out. The final is that he is particularly warm. When he turns over, he figures out why. Parts of the evening come flooding back to him.

Oliver is fast asleep next to him. His breathing is slow and steady, his hair rather ruffled, with one arm splayed out to the side of the bed Percy’s not lying on. The covers are pushed down just a bit, so that Percy can see the lighter skin and smattering of hair on Oliver’s chest.

Percy swallows. Hard.

He recognizes the feeling building in his chest. He’s felt it before, for exactly one person.

Fuck , he thinks, I’m attracted to Oliver Wood.

Percy promptly turns back over so his back is to Oliver. Thoughts run through his head-- when and how and I’m not even gay --and Percy can barely grasp them. He takes a few deep breaths. The reality washes over him.

He’s attracted to Oliver Wood.

Before this, he’s never honestly been attracted to anyone except his ex girlfriend. He’s certainly never looked at a man before, though he supposes he hasn’t not looked at them either. Still, it should be a massive shock.

But it doesn’t feel like one. Instead of panic, warmth is spreading inside from his chest to his belly to his toes.

Then Oliver’s voice echoes in his mind: You .

Percy is his type.

He feels almost light headed with the reminder, and he savors the moment, until a yawn catches him by surprise. He finally looks at the clock: half past three. He’s not sure how he can sleep after this realization, but eventually he must, because when he opens his eyes next, weak winter sunlight is filtering in through Percy’s blinds.

Percy flips so he’s facing Oliver. Oliver is, once again, propped up on his elbow looking down at Percy. This time, Percy sees the flush that spreads across his cheeks and ears.

“Sorry,” he says with a cough, “Um, good morning.” Percy smiles.

“Good morning.” It comes out more tender than it should, but Percy’s realization last night is still coursing through his veins. Without thinking about it, he looks at Oliver’s mouth. I want to kiss him is the first thought that registers.

Perhaps it is the last vestiges of calming draught in his system. Perhaps it is the fact that Oliver is half naked in Percy’s bed. Perhaps it is the fact that he never does anything wild. But Percy Weasley sits up, cups Oliver’s head with one slim hand, and presses their lips together.

Oliver gasps. Percy actually feels Oliver’s eyelashes as his eyes flutter shut. Then Oliver responds, kissing back with both skill and ferocity. Percy melts. He moves his hand so it’s cradling Oliver’s neck, and presses in, so focused he forgets to breathe. Percy’s other hand slips to Oliver’s neck, trailing featherlight touches across his collarbone and down his shoulder until settling on his chest. Oliver pulls away.

“Whoa whoa whoa.” Oliver, breathless, slows him down. Percy frowns, the anxiety spiking. Before he can apologize though, Oliver says, “You just had a really stressful night.”

“I’m fine,” he says, brushing off Oliver’s concern. He trails a hand down Oliver’s side. Oliver actually captures his wrist and pulls it away.

“Percy…” The use of his full name, not the nickname, hits Percy hard. He stops trying to touch. He look Oliver in the eye. Oliver swallows; Percy tries not to let his gaze be drawn to Oliver’s gorgeous throat. “I’m… worried. After last night…”

“It’s worn off,” Percy insists. “And I’m not--”

“I really, really like you,” Oliver blurts out. “Like. A lot , Weasley. I’m not… I can’t handle being used as an… emotional event.” Oliver closes his eyes for a long moment. “I’m going to go take a shower. Maybe we could get lunch in a few hours and talk this through?” And before Percy can say anything, Oliver extricates himself and leaves the room.

Percy deflates. His stomach and chest tighten, body buzzing and tight like being doused in ice water. He reaches for the potions cabinet, but Oliver’s words--Oliver’s concern --from the previous night runs through his brain. He puts the vial back and gets up for the day. It’s just until lunch, after all. He can do that.

They go to lunch at a little Italian joint. As soon as their server attends them, Percy orders a glass of the house red. Oliver just orders water, eyeing Percy.

“Should you be--”

Percy cuts Oliver off. “I’ll be fine, thanks,” he says tersely.  Oliver swallows and nods.

“Okay. Sorry. Um… right. I said we’d talk, so I guess, let’s talk. What… happened this morning?”

“I realized, last night. Well, middle of the night,” Percy clarifies. “I’m… attracted to you.” Oliver lets out a breath. He gives a small nod.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s it, yeah?” Percy shrugs.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you find my physically attractive, yeah?” Percy nods. “Right. Okay. I--I can’t, do that. This.” It feels something like betrayal.

“I thought I was your type ,” he says, before he can stop himself. Oliver’s eyes go wide, his whole face darkening.

“What did you--when did I--how--”

“New Years Eve,” Percy clarifies icily. Oliver drops his head to his hands. They sit like that for a long, long moment. Then, Oliver speaks.

“You are. My type, I mean. But Percy….” he looks up, meeting Percy’s eyes. Holding his gaze is uncomfortable. “I’m stupidly in love with you.”

Percy’s jaw drops. Oliver continues.

“Have been since--Merlin, fourth year? Maybe? I mean, it’s come and gone, but it’s always…  been there , in the background.”

“Oh.” It’s all Percy can think to say. Oliver nods, like Percy’s finally grasped the reality of what he’s saying.

“Yeah.”

Percy contemplates. “What if I loved you too?” Oliver laughs, shaky and strained.

“You don’t.”

“How would you know?” Percy challenges. Oliver licks his lips, mouth dry. It draws Percy’s eyes.

“Because…” Oliver continues. Then he shakes his head. “No, you know what, I’m not doing this. Not right now. I—I need some fresh air.” He stands, chair scraping the floor, and grabs his jacket. “I’ll see you later.” Just like that, he’s out the door.

Percy does the only thing he can think to do: he drains his wine and orders another glass.

Oliver is right, of course. Percy doesn’t love him. But… could he? Percy lingers on the thought. He realizes he doesn’t know.

If it was a matter of just working harder, Percy knows he’d be able to. He’s never failed at something he set his mind to, after all. But it’s… not.

The idea plagues him. Percy calls for the bill without ordering food. Once he pays, he takes to the street. The afternoon is bright and clear, with just a little bit of wind: what Oliver would call “decent Quidditch weather”.

Percy ducks into a Muggle bookshop at the next intersection. It’s completely stuffed with works of literature, some Percy even has interest in, but he barely sees the titles as he wanders through the aisles. When he comes to, Percy finds he is standing in the “Romance” subsection. Percy actually laughs, manic. Then, he closes his eyes, leans against the bookshelf, and slides down to the floor. He pushes his glasses up and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He thinks about Oliver. About love. He loves the way Oliver laughs. He loves the way Oliver goes on and on about Quidditch, even when Percy isn’t listening. The way he only puts marmalade on his toast. The way he sings in the shower. The way he puts his feet on the coffee table when he’s icing. The way he wears mismatched socks, and never wears his robes in the flat, and leaves one boot by the fire but the other by the door.

Percy hopes it will all be enough.

When Percy gets home at half two, Oliver isn’t there. Neither are his old boots or his broom. The wine Percy had this afternoon has worn off. He, briefly, considers pulling out the bottle of red he keeps stashed in his desk, but the look of distaste Oliver gave him at lunch is enough to put him off, this and the potions. Instead, he puts the kettle on, retrieves a tome he’s been working through from his room, and settles down.

Oliver returns at quarter to seven, clearly windswept and exhausted. He brushes past the sitting room to his own, but Percy knows it is just to put away his broom. Only a few minutes later he emerges. He’s still glistening with sweat, his face looks windburned, and his hair is completely messed up. Percy smiles tightly. Oliver returns it, just barely.

It takes a few minutes for Oliver to settle in. He gets some ice for his bad shoulder, and a water bottle, and props himself in between a mound of pillows on the sofa as is his preference. Finally, looking down at his feet propped on the coffee table, he speaks.

“Sorry about lunch.” Percy shakes his head.

“You shouldn’t be. I was an idiot. Am.” Oliver shrugs. He doesn’t deny it.

“You were right, too,” Percy continues. “I don’t love you.” There’s the flash of a grimace across Oliver’s face. “Not yet, at least. But… I think, if you gave me the chance, I could love you.” Oliver swallows. He bobs his head a few times.

“I’d love to say yes, Perce.” Oliver’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “I really, really would. Believe me.” He tips his head back, eyes closed. “There’s just… it’s…. Complicated.”

Percy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”

Oliver shrugs. “I mean, for starters, you’re not even gay,” he points out. “And you’re--you’ve got a family, and my family’s not exactly supportive of me, and it would clash with both of our careers. I mean,  c’mon, famous Quidditch player bein’ queer doesn’t sell well. Don’t imagine contender for Minister does either.”

“I don’t care,” Percy says, words practically flying out of his mouth. Oliver laughs bitterly.

“Yeah, that’s what you say now. Now you don’t care. But when you get passed up for that promotion you deserve? When you don’t get to have kids? When you disappoint your entire family--again?” Oliver sighs. “I thought about it this afternoon. I really did. And I just can’t see it working.”

Surprising even himself, Percy feels anger boil up. He scrunches his nose. “I do believe that you are in no position to be making decisions about my life.”

Oliver snorts. “I know you , Perce.”

The anger sticks. “Maybe not as well as you think.” Percy closes his book with a snap. It startles Oliver. Percy speaks again.

“Why can’t you just give this a chance ?!” Color is rising up Percy’s face, tinting his ears pink. He has to force himself to take a few deep breaths.

“Because,” Oliver says, so quiet Percy barely hears it, “it’s easier than getting hurt.”

Percy’s heart hits the floor and shatters.

“Oliver…” Oliver shakes his head.

“I think… I think I need some space.” He starts to sit up, but Percy beats him to the punch.

“I can take off. For a few days.” The nervous energy is practically radiating off him. Oliver worries his lip.

“It’s my idea--”

“It’s your flat--” they say at the same time. Both laugh uncomfortably. Percy rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s no trouble,” he says. “I’ll just… call round. I’ve got enough siblings.” Before Oliver can argue, Percy’s up from the armchair and heading to pack his things. Only a few minutes later, he comes back, everything neatly pressed into an expanding briefcase. He retrieves his umbrella from next to the door, and slips on his loafers that are by the fire.

Then, before Percy heads out, he does one bold thing: he drops a kiss to the top of Oliver’s head.

“Please. Just… think about it,” he says, and then he’s through the Floo, leaving a stunned Oliver sitting behind.

Admittedly, Percy doesn’t know where he’s going to stay. Bill’s is not an ideal option, unless he wants to explain himself to Fleur; travelling to Charlie’s would require some paperwork that would take days to process; and he certainly doesn’t fancy staying with his parents. He Floos straight to The Leaky Cauldron, thinking perhaps he’ll rent a room, but then his feet are moving and the next thing Percy knows, he’s outside Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The bright posters in the window and warm glow of light from within should both entice Percy. Instead, his anxiety is amped up to an eleven. This is, after all, the first time has ever been here. He tries to open the shop door twice, but fails both times; eventually, a group of Hogwarts-aged kids leaving hold the door open for him, and he is forced to enter. The little bell above the door rings as the door closes behind Percy.

“Be with ya in just a sec,” George calls. Percy winds his way around displays of joke boxes and trick wands until he reaches the counter. He has to hand it to them--the store is stocked with an impressive range of products. He’s just looking at what appears to be at orange-sized marbles in a kiosk by the counter when George clears his throat. Percy jumps.

“Sorry, I was just--”

“It’s fine,” George says quickly. “What’re you… doing here?” Percy shrugs. He finds the words do not want to come.

“I was in the area,” he says loftily. “I’ve never properly stopped by, so I decided to rectify that.” George studies him, then shrugs.

“Well, be my guest. Or customer. Doubt you take after Ron in the ‘knicking things’ department.” He picks up a stack of purple boxes and comes out from behind the counter, moving quick. Percy tails him from afar.

“Isn’t Ron helping out sometimes?” he asks George as his brother climbs a ladder.

“Yeah, part-time. Still thinks he’s gonna be an Auror.” The distaste in his voice is apparent. Percy’s brow furrows.

“I think it’s a noble pursuit.”

George snorts. “You would.” Percy ‘ hmfp’ s.

“What is that supposed to mean?” George descends the ladder. When he gets down, Percy’s right there. George raises an eyebrow.

“What’re you really doing here, Perce?”

“Excuse me?”

“Somehow, I really doubt you just decided today in particular was a great day to browse.” Percy frowns. He takes a deep breath and rubs his temples.

“I… had a row with my flatmate,” he admits. It feels like too much vulnerability to be expressing to his younger brother. “I…” He swallows. “I need a place to stay. Just for a couple of nights, nothing long term--”

“Ah, so I’m of service to you,” George says. Percy’s anxiety ticks up another notch.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“Let me guess,” George continues, brushing past Percy and heading toward the front of the store, “Fleur’s with Bill, Charlie lives too far away, Ron and Ginny live at home, so you’re stuck with me?” Percy feels his nails dig into his palms. When he doesn’t reply, George says, “I’ll take ya, of course, but you owe me.” George flicks his wand, and the sign in the shop window flips so the front reads ‘closed’. “C’mon, let’s get upstairs then.”

At first glance, George’s flat is smaller than Percy and Oliver’s, and completely packed. There are boxes of products everywhere. The kitchen is to the right, and it smells acrid. The counter tops are full of cauldrons, simmering away. Percy doesn’t miss the empty bottles of Firewhiskey pushed together toward the end of the counter.

“Sorry,” George says, but he doesn’t look embarrassed. “Haven’t really cleaned up in… well, ages. Mostly just sleep and work here.” He leads Percy a bit further. “You’ll have to take the couch, because we don’t have an extra room. Um…” George swallows and stops walking. Percy sees why.

There are two doors down the hall off of the living room. Two rooms, one right across from the other. Percy is immediately, acutely aware of the fact that it is Fred’s room.

His anxiety amps up to a fourteen. He closes his eyes, hard. Takes a few deep, steadying breathes. Chooses to focus on the kitchen.

“When did you last eat?” he asks, because he knows it’s neutral territory. George fidgets.

“Had--well, something, for lunch.” Percy raises an eyebrow.

“What did ‘something’ constitute?”

Now George looks sheepish. “Banana? Bit of toast this morning, half an egg?” He shrugs, trying to brush it off.

“Let me take you to dinner?” Percy asks, bordering on gentle. George looks acutely uncomfortable.

“Look, Perce, you don’t have to--”

“I’d like to,” he answers quickly. George rocks back and forth on his heels.

“All right,” he finally says. “What the hell. Why not.” Percy smiles, even though it feels forced. “Just… let me change.” Percy nods. As George heads into his room to change out of his magenta shop robes, Percy sets his briefcase by the edge of the couch. His shoes are muffled against the carpet. He cannot help but look around.

Mismatched frames atop the mantle catch his attention. He takes a closer look: they are pictures. There are a few Percy recognizes--a full Weasley family photo, to which he’s returned; a picture of Ginny and Ron making goofy faces after playing Quidditch during the summer; one of Arthur and Molly slow dancing at Christmas. There are, however, other’s he’s never seen: a picture of Gryffindors in George’s year, gathered around the fireplace in Gryffindor tower; Bill and Fleur kissing at Bill’s wedding; and then, of course, there is a picture of Fred and George.

Everyone has always said they were identical. Percy’s mixed them up countless times. But looking at Fred’s face now is somehow so different from looking at George’s. Even with both ears intact in the picture, their eyes convey different things. Percy’s chest tightens.

“All right, I’m good,” George calls. It snaps Percy out of his reverie. He steps back, smile firmly in place, and together the two head out into the alleyway next to George’s apartment before hitting the main street.

“So,” George says as they stroll, “I didn’t know you had a flatmate.” It’s not safe territory, but it’s safer than any other topic they might broach. Percy lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Yes,” he says. “Well it’s a...  rather recent acquisition.” George actually laughs at that.

“What, d’you pick ‘em up at a shop last week?” Percy rolls his eyes, but his smile is genuine.

“I did say ‘rather’ recent, did I not? It’s been a tad bit longer than that.” He hmms softly as they cross over into The Leaky Cauldron. George is, apparently, thinking similar things, because they head out the front door and into Muggle London.

“Yeah?” says George. “Well… good for you. Makin’ friends and all.”

Percy wants to retort that he’s not quite sure they’re friends, before he realizes he can’t . They are, after all, friends. Percy flushes. The cold disguises it well.

“Yes, well…” Percy coughs. They side by side in silence for a while. Eventually, George speaks again.

“You ever had Thai?” Percy blinks.

“Of course I’ve had Thai. I live in Muggle London.” George looks pleased.

“Excellent. Then that’s what we’re having.”

Five minutes later and the pair of them are sitting across from one another in a room where the windows are fogged with steam and the air is thick with spice. Orders are in, drinks are ordered (Percy opts for water this time, though George has a beer), and they are left alone with one another.

George is staring out the window when he asks, “So, what’d you fight about?”

Beneath the table, Percy is curling and uncurling his toes in his shoes, trying to work out some of the tension radiating through him. “Pardon?”

“You, your flatmate. Must’ve really done something to piss them off if you’ve been told to clear out.”

“As a matter of fact,” Percy begins, “I opted to clear out.” George rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t hurt Percy.

“Yeah, sure,” he responds. “So, you ‘opted’ to clear out. Still doesn’t tell me why.”

Percy pauses. He draws a slim finger through the condensation on his glass, tracing idly. Finally, he says, “We had a difference of opinion.” George snorts.

“Oh yeah, that’s real informative. Fine, don’t tell me.” He takes another sip of his beer. “So, what’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Percy says. “Work, more work. Nothing particularly exciting.”

George actually sighs. “Perce, I’m really trying here. I am. But I cannot make conversation out of nothing.” Percy flushes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“I know you didn’t mean it, but that’s sort of the problem.” George studies him, fiddling with the label on his beer. Percy goes quiet.

After a long moment he says, “Things have been… difficult.” George raises an eyebrow, almost expectant. “Not as difficult as I’m sure they’ve been for you,” he quickly continues. “I’m certainly not lying when I say it’s just a lot of work you’d consider, well, ‘dull’, for the Ministry. Minister Shacklebolt’s more adept than any of our past three Ministers of course, but somehow I doubt you want to talk politics.” George shrugs.

“Do like Shacklebolt,” he concedes. “Good guy. Worked with him a little bit, here and there, during the War.” He takes a long swig. Percy nods.

“I know,” he says. George’s brow furrows. “I… listened. To you guys, during the War,’ Percy admits. It’s the first time he’s actually said it to any of his family. “Every week.”

“Oh.” George puts his beer down. He runs a hand through his hair. His skin looks paler than usual.

“I’m… sorry. I know things between us have been… haven’t been repaired,” Percy continues. George shrugs, but looks uncomfortable.

“Not entirely your fault,” he replies. “Can’t pretend I’ve been overly busy.”

They sit in silence until the waitress interrupts with their food. George orders another beer. Percy frowns.

“How much are you drinking?” he asks, thinking back to the bottles on George’s counter.

“Not sure it’s any of your business,” George replies cooly, picking up his chopsticks. Percy has to take a breath to stop himself from snapping that of course it’s his business, given he’s the older brother. Instead, he opts for a completely different approach.

“I overdosed this past fall,” Percy says, nonchalant, as if he were discussing weather.

George’s head snaps up. The noodles halfway to his mouth pause. “Excuse me?”

“End of September,” Percy goes on, pretending his hands aren’t shaking like crazy. He takes a mouthful, chews, letting George’s shocked expression sit with him. “Not--not alcohol, though I don’t doubt it was making the problem worse. Potions,” he explains. George gives a descending whistle.

“Merlin, Perce, you can’t just drop that on someone. Are you okay? Were you?” The concern etched in his voice is genuine, and though he probably shouldn’t, it makes Percy feel a little bit warmer.

“I’m fine. Now, I mean. Mostly.” It’s the most Percy can bear to say. “St. Mungo’s wasn’t… keen to release me by myself. Hence, flatmate.” Percy notices that, in George’s shock, he hasn’t touched his second beer yet.

“Why didn’t you stay with one of us?” It’s half inquisitive, half accusatory. Percy takes a sip of his water.

“I considered it,” he admits. “But I couldn’t inconvenience Bill or Charlie like that.” The fact he could not have gone to George, Ron, or Ginny, hangs in the air. George doesn’t question him on it though.

“Right, so you picked a stranger?” he asks. Percy looks aghast.

“Of course not!”

George raises his eyebrows. “What? I do have friends, you know.” The skeptical look continues for a moment. Then, George drops it and sighs.

“Well, more than I can say for myself,” he admits. Percy’s gaze softens.

“That’s not true,” he admonishes. George shrugs.

“Is,” he says. “I’m… not great at maintaining contact. And after a while, when you forget to reply, people, well… stop writing.”

“George…”

“It’s fine.” George’s smile is tight. Percy lets the subject drop.

After dinner, they retire back to George’s apartment. Like most Wizarding homes, its fire is stoked, and so while George withdrawals to his room, Percy makes himself comfortable on the couch. Staring into the flames, it’s hard for Percy not to drop to his knees and call Oliver. Thoughts swim through his head--everything he wishes he could say, and everything he knows is not enough to convince the stubborn other man.

He falls asleep that night thinking about Oliver, and wakes up with him in the forefront of his mind as well. 

It takes Oliver four days to think. They are excruciating. When the owl comes, Percy’s at the office; it takes everything in him not to just take off for the rest of the day. Thankfully, his resolve holds, so he pens an letter to George thanking him for his hospitality, and sits through the rest of the day’s meetings on the edge of his seat.

Percy Floos home that evening, not allowing himself the hesitation at the door that Apparating will create. Oliver is there, just as expected, bustling about the kitchen. He gives a small, wane smile when he sees Percy. Percy can’t help but think he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Percy responds. There is some tenseness in the air between them. Oliver coughs. Percy peers past him to the stove. “Pork chops?” Oliver nods, lips pressed together. Percy crosses the small space.

“You don’t look well,” Percy finally says. “Go, sit. I’ll finish dinner.” Oliver clearly wants to protest, but Percy’s already slipped past him and picked up the tongs. Oliver pulls out the kitchen chair, but Percy tuts. “Couch,” he instructs, feeling more in his element from this control than he has at all the past few days. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

Oliver obliges without protest.

Percy is not a stellar chef by any means, but he has learned enough from Molly to make food palatable. Minutes later, he is levitating both plates along with water to the coffee table. Oliver politely takes his plate. He barely touches the food.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver says into the open space. He doesn’t look up. “I’m a right idiot, and I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Loathe as he is to admit it, Percy knows it’s right. Oliver, far from doing anything wrong, did everything by the book. Percy is the one pushing the envelope here.

“Maybe not,” he continues, “But it certainly feels like it.” He sets his plate down on the side table, then pulls a leg up on the touch. Percy sets his cutlery down.

“You look awful,” he finally says. Oliver nods.

“Think I’ve gotten nine hours of sleep since you left. Spent more time drunk than sober.” He shrugs. “Skipped practice. Didn’t seem to matter. That’s the thing though…” He raises his gaze to Percy’s. “Without you here, it felt… meaningless.” Percy opens his mouth, words rushing through his head, but Oliver continues.

“‘Course, I called just about everyone. At least, everyone who knows I’m gay.” He drops his head to his hands. “Their consensus was all the same.” Percy takes in a breath. His eyes are fixed on Oliver.

Oliver looks up. He makes eye contact. “That I was being a blithering idiot, and I’d been pining for you for so long, and if I didn’t at least give it a chance they’d hex me four ways to Sunday.” His smile is slight, still strained, but Percy can’t help his own ear-splitting grin.

“Oh,” he says in a woosh of breath. Oliver licks his lips.

“Yeah. So…” Oliver shrugs. “I don’t… really know where we go from here. I’ve never properly dated someone.” He laughs, a little hysterical, and runs his hands through his unruly hair. Percy sets his plate down on the coffee table. He scoots over toward Oliver’s end of the couch. Then, in one quick motion, he takes hold of Oliver’s hand. It’s cold, and a little bit clammy, but Percy couldn’t be happier.

“Well,” Percy says into the quiet, “For starters, you should probably get some sleep.” Oliver nods, skittish. Percy rubs circles on the back of Oliver’s hand with his thumb. Oliver doesn’t make to move.

“Could you… would it be weird…” Oliver looks at him, expectantly.

“Not a Legilimens,” Percy reminds softly. Oliver bites his lip.

“Maybe… spend the night? In my bed? Nothing--nothing weird, or anything, just. I’ve… missed having you around.”

If possible, Percy’s smile grows. “I’d quite enjoy that.”

True to Oliver’s word, “nothing weird” happens. Oliver barely hits the pillow before he’s asleep, and Percy doesn’t blame him, if his week was anything like he said. It does, however, give Percy a bit of time to spend just admiring Oliver, without worrying about coming off as strange. Yet even he falls asleep sooner than anticipated, and the next thing either knows, they’re waking up next to each other.

Far from relaxing, Friday mornings are hectic in their flat, and so Oliver’s up before the crack of dawn, and Percy just after. They run into one another in the kitchen, and dance around who’s using the bathroom, but aside from one hesitant hand squeeze and a pair of shy smiles, their morning is anything but romantic.

Much to Percy’s surprise though, Oliver shows up at his office right before lunch. He’s just showered, and looks far fresher and more relaxed than he did last night.

“Hey,” he says, hands in the pockets of the Muggle jeans he’s wearing. Percy smiles, feeling his insides flutter.

“Hey.”

“I was… wondering if you wanted to grab lunch? I know we kind of stopped doing that but--”

“I’d love to.” Percy puts down his quill and picks up his briefcase. Just a few minutes later, he’s changed into Muggle clothes more appropriate for the neighborhood, and he and Oliver are heading to lunch.

There is still a lingering wariness in the air between them, but as they walk to lunch, it starts to fade, transitioning into something more comfortable. By the time they’ve made up their mind on Indian, they’re both actually laughing. Percy feels rather giddy.

Despite the status change between them, Percy and Oliver fall back into their comfortable routine from lunches before. Percy barely remembers he has to go back to work, and when he does, he finds he isn’t looking forward to it. Oliver hesitates.

“Could I… walk you back?” he asks. Usually they part ways at the restaurant.

Percy doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d quite like that,” he says softly. Oliver smiles, and it reaches his soul.

They’re just outside the door to the Ministry’s street entrance, but Percy finds he doesn’t want to go back. Instead, he pauses at the top of the steps. He and Oliver look each other in the eyes.

“This was… nice,” Oliver says, quiet compared to the strangers bustling around them. Percy nods. Then he pulls his hands out of his pockets and takes Oliver’s own. He squeezes. It is a small display of affection, but in feels like a leap.

“I’ll see you at home,” Percy says. Oliver looks like he wants to say something, but whatever it is gets caught in his throat. He just nods.

Oliver watches until Percy enters the underground toilets and completely slips from view.

Unfortunately for both of them, there’s a major mishap at the Ministry involving multiple departments, a fire, and a whole slew of Muggles. Percy is up to his ears in paperwork, and by the time the Minister lets him go, the clock’s hit one. At home, Oliver is fast asleep. Hes a heavy sleeper, so even when Percy crawls into bed next to him, he does not stir.

Percy wakes the next morning first, which is rare, because Oliver gets up before dawn most days to train. But he doesn’t mind being up first; in fact, he uses the time just to admire Oliver’s features. His nose--a little crooked, with quite a bump, clearly broken multiple times; his skin, dark from his mother’s side and even darker from the sun; his hair, thinner than Percy’s unruly curls, and straighter, falling like feathers across his forehead and sticking up on the side. Percy smiles. He’s gorgeous, even like this. Perhaps especially like this.

When Oliver does wake up, it is slowly, not all at once. He tosses and turns a little bit, snuffling louder than before, before eventually blinking into the orangey brightness of the morning sun streaming through the window. (Why he has no curtains, Percy does not understand.) His expression is blank, almost frustrated, until he catches sight of Percy. In his waking haze, there is no worry. There is only softness and a smile.

In this moment, brilliantly in color, Percy realizes that for perhaps the first time, everything is going to be just fine.