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The house was silent.
Not truly silent, of course. No house ever was.
The old clock in the hallway ticked steadily through the darkness. Rain tapped softly against the bedroom window. Somewhere downstairs, one of Oliver's retired racing owls let out an offended hoot in its sleep.
Percy Weasley was blissfully unaware of all of it.
He was asleep.
Deeply asleep.
For the first time in three weeks, he wasn't dreaming about Ministry reports, budget meetings, or the stack of paperwork currently occupying half his desk. Instead, he was enjoying a particularly satisfying dream involving perfectly organised filing cabinets and a promotion that came with its own office.
At precisely three in the morning, he was dragged from a perfectly pleasant dream about Ministry filing systems by the sound of his bedroom door creaking open.
Percy's brow furrowed. The dream-office disappeared.
The door creaked again. Percy groaned into his pillow.
There was only one person in Britain who entered rooms like a burglar despite owning the house.
"Oliver," he mumbled, voice muffled by blankets. "If you've broken another broom and require emergency medical attention, please know that I am not a Healer."
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
There was a pause.
Then Oliver's voice drifted through the darkness, "Would you still love me if I accidentally adopted seven children?"
Percy's eyes snapped open. "What?"
For a moment he simply stared into the darkness. Surely he had misheard. Perhaps he was still dreaming. That seemed significantly more reasonable.
Slowly, Percy rolled over.
Moonlight spilled through the window, painting silver stripes across the floorboards.
Oliver Wood stood beside the bed.
His hair looked as though he'd spent the last hour wrestling a hurricane. He wore an old Puddlemere United shirt, mismatched pyjama trousers, and the expression of a man who had either committed a crime or was about to confess to one.
Percy stared.
Oliver stared back.
Neither spoke.
Finally Percy blinked. "Oliver," he mutters.
"Yes?" Oliver answers quietly.
"Babe, it's three in the morning," Percy whispers at once.
"I know," Oliver said as he glanced at their bedside table analogue clock.
"Go to sleep," Percy whispers tiredly. "Come back to bed."
"Answer the question, Perce."
Percy closed his eyes. Merlin, give me strength.
When Percy had married Oliver Wood, he'd known exactly what he was getting into.
He'd known Oliver was impulsive.
He'd known Oliver frequently made decisions with the same level of forethought as a charging Hippogriff.
He'd known Oliver possessed a dangerous tendency to see living creatures and immediately decide they belonged in his home.
That was how they'd ended up with three Kneazles, two Crups, a retired owl, and, briefly, a goat.
The less said about the goat, the better.
Still.
Seven children seemed like a substantial escalation.
Percy sat up slowly, the blankets pooled around his waist. "What," he asked carefully, "have you done?"
Oliver shifted his weight. The floorboard creaked beneath him. "Technically nothing..." he admitted slowly.
Percy's eyes narrowed, "...Oliver," he sighed.
"Nothing permanent," Oliver added.
"Oliver!" Percy said, his voice rising.
"Nothing that can't be discussed."
Percy's stomach dropped. That particular tone never meant anything good.
It was the tone Oliver had used before revealing he'd accidentally purchased a racing broom worth more than their car.
The tone he'd used before explaining why a baby dragon had briefly been living in their shed.
The tone he'd used before informing Percy that he'd volunteered them both to chaperone a junior Quidditch camp.
Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. "The question," he said quietly.
Oliver nodded. "The question."
"Would I still love you?"
"Yes."
Percy sighed, "Obviously."
Oliver's entire face lit up and suddenly Percy knew. He knew with the same horrible certainty that one knows a storm is coming.
"Oh no," he mutters.
Oliver smiled nervously, "Oh, yes."
"No," Percy said and he froze when he noticed that smile. "Why are you smiling like that?"
"No reason," Oliver said quickly.
"...Oliver."
"No reason at all!"
"Oliver!"
Oliver shifted nervously and Percy's stomach dropped.
"Oliver!"
"The papers are in the drawer," Oliver declared softly.
Silence.
Percy's heart stopped and he blinked. "The what?"
"The adoption papers," Oliver said, pointing across the room to the dresser.
"...The adoption papers," Percy muttered.
"Yes."
"The adoption papers?" Percy said again, this time flatly.
Rain pattered softly against the glass.
Somewhere downstairs, the owl hooted again.
Oliver nodded.
Percy stared.
Oliver smiled weakly.
Percy stared harder.
Percy took a very slow breath. "How," he asked carefully, "does one accidentally adopt seven children?"
Oliver sat on the edge of the bed.
A terrible sign.
Whenever Oliver sat down voluntarily during an argument, it meant he intended to explain himself.
And when Oliver intended to explain himself, things somehow became worse.
"Well..." Oliver started.
"No."
"You haven't heard the story yet," Oliver protested.
"I don't need to hear the story," Percy mumbles tiredly.
"It's actually quite interesting," Oliver added proudly.
"It isn't."
Oliver ignored him. "So I was at a charity Quidditch event-" he began.
Percy pointed a finger at him, "No."
"But that's where it starts."
"Every disaster in our marriage starts with a Quidditch event," Percy reminded him faintly.
Oliver looked genuinely offended. "That's not true," he said softly.
"Last year you accidentally bought a dragon."
"It was for charity!"
"You accidentally bought a dragon," Percy repeated himself.
"The dragon was lovely. It needed support."
"The dragon needed a zoo."
Oliver crossed his arms. "We disagreed."
Percy laughed once. A short, disbelieving sound.
Then Oliver's expression softened and immediately, Percy felt his irritation begin to crack. Because this was the other thing about Oliver.
The thing that had made Percy fall in love with him years ago.
For all his recklessness, Oliver's heart was impossibly, painfully huge. He cared too much about everyone, about everything, about injured animals, former teammates, random strangers, children he'd met five minutes ago.
Especially children.
Percy closed his eyes, bracing himself. "Continue," he added softly.
Oliver brightened immediately. "Right. So there was a charity event. Then there was an auction. Then there was a raffle. Then there was a youth outreach programme."
Percy already hated every word of this story. "And?"
"And there were these kids."
Percy opened one eye. "What kids?" he asks curiously.
Oliver's face softened. "The ones nobody wanted," he said weakly.
Percy's irritation faltered.
Oliver leaned back against the headboard. "There were seven of them," he said. "Brothers and sisters. They'd been together for years."
"Oh no."
Oliver winced. "Yeah," he muttered.
"You saw sad children," Percy said softly.
"I saw sad children," Oliver said with a sad nod.
"And then?"
"They liked Quidditch."
Percy dropped his face into his hands. "Oh, Merlin."
"They recognised me."
"Of course they did."
"They asked for autographs."
"Naturally."
"They said they always watched Puddlemere matches."
"Mm-hmm."
Oliver's voice became suspiciously quiet. "And then the youngest one asked if I could be their dad."
Percy slowly lowered his hands.
Oliver looked genuinely devastated. "I couldn't stop thinking about it."
The room fell silent and seemed smaller somehow. The rain quieter.
Oliver swallowed.
Percy knew that expression. It was the same expression Oliver had worn when rescuing injured Kneazles. The same one he'd worn when insisting they foster a retired racing owl. The same one he'd worn before bringing home three stray Crups.
Oliver Wood collected living things the way Percy collected reports. "You adopted them."
Oliver nodded. "I might have signed something," he admitted quietly.
"...Something," Percy murmured.
"Several somethings," Oliver added.
"Several?" Percy whispered, horrified.
"There were witnesses."
Percy groaned.
Oliver hurried on, "They'll have a home."
Percy sighed.
"They'll have a family."
Percy's expression softened despite himself.
"And I know it's ridiculous and insane and probably the most irresponsible thing I've ever done-"
"Top five, certainly!"
"-but they were going to be separated."
Percy looked at him. Really looked at him. At the exhausted concern in Oliver's brown eyes.
At the nervous twisting of his fingers.
At the man who had somehow reached adulthood without ever learning how not to care.
Merlin help him, Percy loved this idiot. His idiot.
He loved every reckless, impossible, catastrophically kind part of him.
Percy watched his husband's face. Watched the sadness there. The helplessness. The determination.
And suddenly the entire situation made perfect sense. Because of course Oliver Wood would do something absurd for seven frightened children.
Of course he would spend one afternoon with them and become emotionally attached.
Of course he would decide they deserved a family.
That was who Oliver was. The same boy who had once sacrificed sleep, sanity, and probably several years of his life trying to win a Quidditch Cup.
The same man who still cried during children's Christmas pageants. The same man Percy had loved for years.
Merlin. He was doomed.
Percy looked toward the ceiling, then back at Oliver, then toward the ceiling again. As though perhaps divine intervention might still be possible. It was not.
So instead Percy reached across the mattress and took Oliver's hand.
Oliver immediately squeezed back. His fingers were warm, hopeful, nervous.
"You adopted seven children."
Oliver nodded, "Accidentally."
"Accidentally," Percy sighed. Then he pulled Oliver down into a slow, loving, and passionate kiss.
When they separated for air, Oliver looked relieved enough to cry. "So you aren't angry?"
"Oh, I'm furious."
"Oh."
"I'm going to spend the next decade being furious."
Oliver winced. "But?"
Percy squeezed his hand. "But we'll make room."
Oliver stared at him, "Really?"
"Really," Percy said with a firm nod and he smiled despite himself. "We will."
The relief that flooded Oliver's face was almost painful to witness. His shoulders sagged, his eyes brightened, and for one ridiculous second he looked as though Percy had handed him the moon.
Then Oliver launched himself forward and wrapped Percy in a crushing hug.
Percy barely had time to brace before a six-foot Quidditch player crashed into him. He nearly lost a rib.
"THANK YOU."
"Oliver-"
"I love you, muffin."
"I know."
"You're amazing."
"I know."
"The best husband ever."
Percy rolled his eyes. But his arms wrapped around Oliver anyway.
Because really. What else was he supposed to do? He loved him.
Even when he was impossible. Especially when he was impossible.
"Go get the papers," he whispers to his husband's ear.
"What?" Oliver asks as he leant away from their loving embrace.
Percy pointed toward the dresser. "The papers."
Oliver brightened, "Oh, pure dead brilliant!" He leapt off the bed and practically sprinted to the drawer.
Percy watched him go, then he looked up toward the ceiling. "Mother was right," he informed the universe.
The universe did not answer.
A moment later Oliver returned carrying a stack of paperwork nearly six inches thick.
Percy stared. "Why are there so many forms?"
"There were eight copies of everything."
Percy took the stack.
Read the first page.
Read the second.
Read the third.
Then looked up.
"Oliver."
"Yes?"
"These children arrive tomorrow."
Oliver froze. "...Surprise?"
Percy buried his face in the paperwork.
From somewhere above him came Oliver's cheerful voice, "They all play Quidditch, by the way."
Percy stared. Oliver smiled nervously. Percy stared harder.
And then, at three o'clock in the morning, the entire house echoed with a very dignified Percy Weasley-Wood scream.