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Oliver palmed the small key in his pocket, allowing the cold metal to distract himself from the butterflies in his stomach. Although he hadn't expected to be nervous about his impending request, the fluttering sensation said otherwise. Another thirty seconds passed before Oliver finally shouldered his Quidditch duffel and Flooed to Percy's flat, unable to determine if his subsequent dizziness was due to his nerves or means of travel.
He stumbled out of Percy's fireplace and quickly made to brush himself off, but he needn't have worried about looking silly—though Percy was seated mere feet from the hearth, he seemed to be engrossed in a book.
Oliver studied his boyfriend for a moment, smiling at the way the other man's glasses slid down his nose. The expression on Percy's face was one of immense concentration, and even the movement of his glasses wasn't enough to break it.
Oliver cleared his throat. "Er, Perce?"
Percy let out a sigh, a sigh so soft that Oliver thought he might have imagined it. A moment later, he convinced himself that he had as Percy carefully marked his page and placed his book on the end table beside his armchair. Startlingly blue eyes turned to him, and the butterflies in his stomach became augureys.
"Hello, Oliver," Percy said. "Did you have a good practice?"
Oliver nodded and carefully set his bag down on the polished wood floor before taking a seat on the couch.
"Aye, it was pretty good. I saved a tricky shot from Mulligan, that was probably the highlight for me."
The key seemed to be burning a hole in his pocket, and not even Quidditch talk could distract him from it. He needed to get his question out of the way, fast.
"Anyway," he continued, "I didn't stop by to chat about Quidditch. I actually wanted to, er, talk to you about something."
Percy stared expectantly at him, and he quickly wiped his hands on his robes before pulling out the key. It was small, brass-colored, and engraved with a tiny Snitch—his boyfriend would recognize it immediately as a key to Oliver's own flat.
"So." Oliver's throat was dry, drier than it had been before the last match of his Hogwarts career, and drier than it had been before he kissed the man seated across from him for the very first time. "I've been thinking—"
The rest of his sentence died in his throat as he took in Percy's frown. A frown was a bad sign, and one that he honestly hadn't anticipated.
"Percy?" His voice came out as a croak. "Perce, what's wr—?"
"I think we should break up." Percy didn't quite look at him as he delivered this monumental blow—he kept his gaze fixed at a spot on the floor near Oliver's feet. "I know you were going to ask me to move in, Oliver, and I couldn't very well sit here and let you go through with it—not when I can't give you the answer you want."
The key suddenly felt very heavy in Oliver's hand, and he had to work hard to keep from dropping it.
"What do you mean, you think we should break up? I thought everything was fine. Is it—is your family giving you grief about me or something?"
Percy shook his head. "No, it's not that."
"Then what is it?" Oliver pressed. His fingers curled around the metal object so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. "Please help me understand."
Percy let out another sigh, and this time, he made no effort to hide it. Oliver's insides twisted at the sound. A horrible thought had just occurred to him—maybe it was his fault that Percy wanted to split up.
"It's just..."—Percy ran a hand through his curls, still avoiding Oliver's eye—"I don't feel like you've been very supportive lately."
Oliver blinked. "How so?"
"When I tried to talk to you about my campaign ideas the other day, you abruptly changed the subject," Percy replied, as if the answer was obvious.
It took Oliver a moment to recall the interaction that his boyfriend was referring to. When he did, though, he began to laugh.
"Aye, because you were talking about campaigning for Minister of Magic," he said. "I thought you'd given up that dream ages ago."
"Well, I didn't." Percy folded his arms and fixed Oliver with a hurt look. "It's not just some silly pipe dream, you know. It's a real possibility for me, yet you don't seem to think it is."
"Oh no, I think it's a very real possibility," Oliver said, still chuckling. "I just don't know why you'd want it, considering…"
"Considering what?" Percy demanded.
It was Oliver's turn to heave a sigh.
"Considering how corrupt the Ministry turned out to be. I know you worship bureaucracy and order, but c'mon, Perce—you can do so much better. There are a ton of other places that would kill for your expertise, and you want to waste it on the government that pretended Voldemort wasn't a threat for years, risking hundreds of thousands of lives?"
As Oliver spoke, Percy's face had slowly grown redder and redder.
"This is my dream, Oliver. Did you really think I would give it up just because the Ministry turned out to be corrupt? I know it was corrupt—I saw firsthand what was happening, even if I was powerless to do anything about it—but this could be my chance to turn things around. As Minister, I plan to restore the Ministry's image and re-establish trust with the wizarding world."
"That's great, Percy, but it's a tall order. I know a lot of people who would find it hard to trust the Ministry after everything the institution put them through." Oliver was thinking of Harry Potter in particular, but he was confident that many of Harry's classmates would feel the same way.
Percy didn't respond right away, and Oliver wondered if he had gone too far. His stance was irreversible, however—he wasn't going to sugarcoat his feelings about the Ministry and about Percy striving for its top position.
"I supported you ," Percy said at last, his voice cracking. "I thought that playing Quidditch professionally was an inane goal, but I came around, didn't I? I talked you through your tryout nerves. I celebrated with you when you were signed to Puddlemere. I even go to matches when you ask me to. Why can't you support me the way that I supported you?"
Oliver's heart sank. He loved Percy, but he was never going to be able to encourage his ambitions. The way he saw it, the Ministry needed a complete overhaul. One man couldn't enact the necessary changes all by himself, even if that man was Percy Weasley.
"I—I wish that I could, honestly, but I can't get over how terrible the Ministry was to Harry, to your dad—hell, even to you ."
"Then I suppose we have nothing more to say to each other." Percy grabbed his book and opened it to the bookmarked page, then settled back in his armchair. This was Percy's way of signalling that the conversation was over, even if he hadn't just said as much.
Oliver shoved his flat key back into his pocket and stood. He hovered awkwardly, waiting for a further remark from Percy to send him on his way. Hearing none, he cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't...I'm sorry, Percy. You deserve someone who will support you wholeheartedly."
He reached down and unzipped his duffel. A quick rummage later, he found what he was looking for—the "lucky t-shirt" that he had swiped from Percy years before. Oliver had always joked that Percy would get it back only when he was dead. Giving it back now was a fitting way to symbolise the end of their relationship, but this, too, was irreversible. Oliver allowed himself a moment to absorb the magnitude of the situation.
Percy was still reading when Oliver draped the t-shirt over the arm of the couch, shouldered his Quidditch duffel, and Flooed away from Percy's flat, unable to stifle the smallest of sobs.