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One of Percy's favourite sounds is the rustling of book pages.
He mastered the spell that helps him to turn pages without even touching them years ago, as long as his wand is within three meters, of course. That little bit of magic allows him to enjoy a good read without freezing his hands, because instead of holding the book, he can simply wrap himself in a blanket on cold afternoons like this one.
Silence is another of his favourite sounds (they can call him a grumpy old man all they want, he wouldn't object). Silence is enveloping, comforting, and helps him get the most out of his concentration.
"Small clouds, like cumulus, can weigh up to 500 tons," Percy reads aloud, his words almost a whisper. "However, they manage to float because the warm air on land offers opposing resistance."
He shifts his position in bed, pulling the floating book closer. The cover of it is blank, and the mossy green colour gives no hint of what lies within. Percy has found it in the Astronomy section of the library earlier that day, but instead of discussing outer space (as Percy had imagined), it somehow dedicated an entire chapter to all kinds of clouds.
Coherent or not, it qualified as an interesting read.
"Air friction is so great that clouds appear motionless high above, when in reality they are constantly falling, centimeters per second."
Percy stares at the paragraph for a moment, but his mind is elsewhere, far from the room. The Gryffindor quidditch team is playing against Ravenclaw at that very moment, in a match that has already been going on for three hours. Percy has mentioned he wouldn't be watching because he obviously prefers to stay in their room to keep his body temperature within normal ranges. Besides, it isn't even the semifinals, Oliver.
The silence drags on, and Percy can only read the same paragraph over and over.
Clouds appear motionless high above.
In reality, they are constantly falling, centimeters per second.
Centimeters per second.
Centimeters per second.
Percy's mind keeps reminding him that he knows a variety of facts on every subject, except when it comes to Oliver Wood, because words fails him in that beautiful abyss that is his brown eyes and his smile that makes him look like a kid about to take off for the first time on a broomstick.
Because, of course, Percy Weasley knows everything, except whether the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw match has even finished, except whether Oliver is still uninjured, except if, except if…
The sound of hurried footsteps climbing the stairs to the bedroom interrupts his train of thought, and before he can process what is happening, the bedroom door is thrown open with a bang.
“We won, Perce, we won!” exclaims the Gryffindor captain, his breath still ragged from the sprint he seems to have made from the quidditch pitch straight to their bedroom; his keeper uniform is still on, sweat and all, almost carrying his broomstick and everything else up too. He arrives before the rest of the red-and-gold sea of people, who are surely heading to the House common room to throw a well-deserved party for the winning team.
Weasley looks up from his book as if he's actually been reading it for the past four minutes.
His name, spoken by Oliver, is another one of his favourite sounds. Perce. Perce. Perce. It's a word tinted with affection, warm and bright like the sun after a looked forward rain. Oliver is too good to be true, but there he is, existing, smiling, triumphant.
We won, we won.
Percy puts on his "how could you even doubt it?" face, but the indifference vanishes the moment Oliver pounces on him, pulling him to his feet so he can wrap him in a hearty hug. The boy is immensely happy that the Cup is getting closer and closer to becoming a reality, but also immensely grateful for the strategies and advice Percy has once offered him.
"We won, we won," Oliver repeats like a mantra, trying to convince himself of the fact, with Percy in his arms, spinning them slower and slower until they stand motionless in the center of the room.
The redhead isn't a huge quidditch fan like the rest of his family, but he always wishes Oliver good luck before every match, ever since their friendship began in their second year, in those first official games where the reserve keeper was a tangled mess of nerves.
Then Oliver breaks the embrace and looks at him with an expression that makes Percy's stomach flutter with butterflies, because his hazelnut eyes are looking at him with that intensity so characteristic of him; a passionate, vehement, almost palpable gaze.
Like the sun of spring, of summer, of autumn, of that cold winter that revealed a victory Gryffindor has waited for so, so long.
"Can I kiss you?" Oliver asks in a whisper that threatens to go unheard over the growing noise of celebration rising from downstairs. People are slowly filling the common room, chanting and singing about proud, brave, fearless lions.
Percy wants to say so many things.
I think they're shouting your name downstairs. You should go celebrate with them; you're the captain, after all. Why would you think I want to kiss you? They'll come looking for you here, and that'll be awkward for everyone. Please go away. Please don't go. Don't go through the door. I want to kiss you. I never thought this moment would come.
Instead, he says:
"I thought you were the kind of person who just kisses, without asking first."
Oliver smiles and shrugs, his eyes never leaving Percy's lips. His smile is beautiful, and Percy wants to wipe it off with the affectionate kisses he's been dreaming of for so long.
"I'm more careful with what matters most to me," Oliver replies, implying: I care about you, Perce. I don't want you to think this is just a kiss in the heat of the moment.
Can I kiss you? Will you let me? Would you kiss me back if I did?
Another of Percy's favourite sounds is Oliver's laughter. It's as bubbly as butterbeer and as contagious as the roar of cheers after a goal was saved during a close match. Yes, Percy isn't a huge quidditch fan, but he's been in love with the Gryffindor keeper for a while now, because, well, how could he not be?
That afternoon, Percy discovers that another of his favourite sounds is that same laugh he adores, breathed against his lips in a kiss that feels like a sigh of relief mixed with a stifled gasp of surprise.
"Do you really like me, Perce?" Oliver whispers, never moving more than a millimeter from his friend's lips.
Percy cups his face and kisses him again, and again, and again.
How could you even doubt it?