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Percy hears the rustle of boots over grass. A swift glance is all he needs—it's Sirius Black, he'd know that rough silhouette and gait anywhere. The evening air is humid and heavy, but the coolness of the earth beneath Percy's knees contrasts it nicely—and the damp soil soothes the prickle of heat trickling through him. Why has Sirius stopped by? The only ones home are he and Mum, who is still finding corners to scrub in her grief-laden daze. It's been almost two months since the end of the war.
Percy continues to press the roots of the olive sapling into the ground with deliberate care, trying not to acknowledge Sirius. It’s an odd choice of tree. Percy is not usually one to make peculiar choices, but this magical variety—a Mediterranean Brinethorn—called out to him at the market. The breed bears fully brined, juicy olives right from the branch. When he spotted the sapling, Percy immediately imagined a bowl of them with a heap of Mum's focaccia bread on the kitchen table.
Percy doesn’t startle when Sirius speaks, but the sharp breath he releases gives him away—already bracing himself for whatever remark Sirius has decided to unleash this time.
“You’re full of surprises,” Sirius says, his voice a touch too casual.
What is the man doing here? Did he come to see if Harry was about? Sirius is watching him, and Percy reigns in the urge to fidget. Sirius assesses his work, then adds, “That's an olive sapling, isn't it? Never thought I’d see a Weasley coaxing something that requires so much patience out of the ground.”
Percy’s mouth tightens, though he disregards the tease. “I find the idea of them appealing. They take a few years before bearing fruit, but when they do, they last generations.” He brushes soil from his fingers, still kneeling and eyes fixed on the dark earth. “I thought my mother would enjoy cooking with them. And it gave me something to do.”
Percy doesn’t know what to do with Sirius’ presence, the way he just appeared, loose-limbed and easy in a way Percy never is. With the family still mourning Fred and the others, Percy wishes he could ignore the fact that he’s hyper-aware of Sirius. His attraction was always embarrassing and inappropriate, and it’s even more so under these circumstances.
Sirius sinks into a crouch, resting his elbows on his knees. His sleeves are pushed up, ink-black tattoos curling around his forearms, and Percy forces himself not to stare. “How is your family this week?”
Percy keeps his face lowered.
“We’re...” Percy hesitates. “I think we’re all trying." Suddenly, stupid, foolish words are falling from his lips. "I thought I had lost them for good. In the end, we only lost one." He takes a gulping breath, purses his lips, and tries not to spiral into his sorrow. “I suppose you understand that feeling.”
Sirius’ smile is humourless. "I never wanted to understand this much about grief. Never thought I’d be the last Marauder." His knees crack as he stands upright, and Percy can't help but follow, swaying on his feet and feeling odd to be nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with the Sirius Black.
Sirius clears his throat. "But, yeah, I did lose my family for good. My parents made that decision for me.” His gaze flickers to the trembling tree, the delicate thing Percy is trying to root in place, its survival uncertain. “Sixteen years old, and I refused to be the daughter they insisted I was. So they threw me out. And because my little brother was mixed up in their politics, they’re to blame for taking him away, too.”
Percy swallows, his throat tight. Every response that flits through his mind is inadequate. “I... that's... I’m sorry.”
Sirius shrugs, but it isn’t dismissive. Just tired. “It is what it is.” He exhales slowly. “This olive tree, though. Even if it's magical, it'll need quite a bit of care and attention to make it through a British winter. You think it will last?”
Percy forces a breath out, steadying himself. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure of it. There's a bright future before us now, after all. I intend to enjoy it to the fullest... in honour of everyone lost.”
They sit there for a while, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and summer heat. Sirius watches Percy stoop again, padding down the soil, fingers precise. "It’ll need time, but I think it will last," Percy says, his tone soft, as though he’s speaking about the tree as well as something else entirely.
***
During the height of summer at the Burrow, the air is thick with old memories—both the good kind and the grieving kind. Percy’s in the garden, working not far from where the olive tree still stands. Six years on, and it's smaller than he’d imagined it would be, but resolute. It's taller than him, its first small fruits of the season clinging to the branches, green and fragile, like the start of something that might not grow into anything at all.
When the faint crack of apparition slices through the evening air, it’s not a surprise to Percy. Sirius comes by, now and then. His work as a charmed accessories craftsman in Hogsmeade doesn't keep him too busy, but his leisure traveling does.
Sirius approaches first, of course. He always does. Percy focuses on twining the rebellious beans back onto their trellis with swirls of his wand, their fronds tinged orange in the sunset. He wishes he wasn't laced with sweat, his trousers stained and his worn-out dress shirt smudged with dirt.
“All these years, and you still haven't tired of pottering out here like an old man,” Sirius remarks, leaning casually against the garden fence.
Percy stiffens. It irks him how easily Sirius gets under his skin. “I find it relaxing after a long day at the office.” Percy can't help the edge of defensiveness. "You might want to try it—could save you from being insufferably idle."
Sirius chuckles. “I'm happy with my lazy dog days of summer, thanks very much.” He’s momentarily distracted by a squirrel, head tilted to expose his gorgeous, pale neck as he follows its path through the largest beech tree.
Percy turns away to trim a row of boxwood with precise flicks of his wand, methodical and controlled. “We can’t all be content to live in chaos.”
“Well, you're certainly dedicated to this garden. Or should I say—you're as stubborn as ever?"
Percy huffs, idly casting Aguamenti for the Tittering Tansy's his mother loves. "Stubbornness isn’t even a factor. Routines are efficient and calming."
Sirius' hands slip into his pockets. He continues as if Percy hadn't spoken. "Nothing says ‘stubborn’ like a finicky tree that takes years to bear fruit.” He tilts his head. “I’m surprised it didn’t wither under the weight of your expectations.”
“Six years is nothing,” Percy mutters.
They dance around each other as Percy shifts his wand work and nearly sprays Sirius. "Oi, watch where you're pointing that!"
When they settle, Sirius stands even closer to Percy's side, so that his next words make Percy freeze, suddenly pinned by the awareness of his proximity.
"You pretend otherwise, but you secretly enjoy how easily I can rile you up.”
“I do not!” Percy flushes. “I am perfectly capable of remaining composed, no matter how childishly you act.”
“Mm, I don’t know,” Sirius' eyes glint with mischief. “You always get that little twitch right here,” he taps his finger against Percy’s temple, “when you’re trying not to snap at me.” The touch fuels the blush blazing on Percy's face.
Percy glares warily at Sirius. His heart races, and he grips his wand for fear it might slip from his sweaty palms. Why does Sirius affect him like this, after all this time? It’s not proper. It doesn’t make sense to want a man so much older than him.
Flourishing an arm out to the nearby olive tree, Sirius asks, "Remember when you planted this little one? I stopped by the Burrow by chance. We chatted." Sirius turns his grey eyes back to Percy.
Weakened by Sirius' attention, Percy replies in a breathy whisper. "Yes, and you’ve made quite the habit of stopping by."
"You told me it would need time... but that it’d be fine. Is it time, yet?"
Percy catches the trembling hope in his words. It tugs at his heart, but even with the prospect of joy, there’s always an echo of Remus, the absence of Fred, the things they’ve all lost. These long years, Percy hasn’t figured out how to heal the hurt, what to do with the scattered broken parts between not just them, but all their family and friends.
In these six years, though, some strength grew to root them all in peace and stability, though the grief persists and clings. Some strength like... love.
Sirius reaches over, brushing his fingers against Percy’s wrist—impossibly tender. The touch lingers, and the intangible between them shifts, shuddering, heavier, but not in a suffocating way. It’s grounding.
Sirius traces slowly over Percy’s face, which is still warm, still pink.
His chest tightens. Percy hadn’t realised how much he’s wanted this, wanted Sirius to see him, to be with him, in a way that goes beyond their friendship—acquaintanceship—beyond casual shared memories. With Sirius here, so close, Percy’s desire has sharpened into clarity. It’s as obvious as if he were watching his precious olive sapling spring up tall, flower, and bear fruit in the blink of an eye under the magic of a charm. Percy is ready for Sirius—they may be ready for each other, at last.
Sirius gives him a teasing smile, gentler than ever before. “It's time to stop fussing over this little tree like it’s your firstborn. Go on, pick one.”
Percy blinks and steps up to the tree, its few, fragile olives clinging to the branches. He tentatively reaches for one, its skin softer than expected. It tumbles into his palm with a brush of his thumb. He holds out his hand towards Sirius as if offering a treat to his animagus form.
Without a moment’s pause, Sirius bends at the waist, leaning in. His lips graze Percy’s palm as he plucks the olive into his mouth. The faint scratch of stubble against Percy’s skin sends a shiver down his spine.
“Not bad,” Sirius says after a few chews, his voice low.
Percy's pulse quickens in his throat. Sirius swallows, then pulls the pit from his lips, which despite how mundane it is, absolutely mesmerises Percy. Sirius’ gaze flickers to Percy's lips before meeting his eyes again.
Without a word, Sirius crowds Percy against the old beech tree, his hand cradling Percy’s neck.
Percy’s breath catches, and he wants to say something—he should say something—but then Sirius is kissing him, soft and sure and lingering. The earthy, saline tang of the olive sharpens the moment, anchoring Percy even as he’s floating on the sensations.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Percy allows himself to be in the moment with another person, not just with the weedy soil in the garden.
They pull away, only by an inch, and Sirius adores him with his mercury-soft eyes full of vulnerability. “This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?” His voice is breathy, giddy.
The pain of the past never disappeared, but time steadied them, and peace rooted them deep into the earth. They are at last open to sharing their fragile selves; this willingness is the fruit of their long season of grief.
Percy nods. “Yes, it has.” That’s all he needs to say; sharing each other’s presence is enough. He soaks in Sirius' smile, focuses on the soothing sensation of the wind through his hair, and leans into Sirius’ chest, warm and alive.