Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Studious, bookish, twelve year old Percy sits in the chilled shade of the Burrow’s oak tree. Blotted sunlight rolls over his skin and the inked pages of his book; Required summer history reading for seventh years. He’s five years too early to be reading it, but it’s never too early to get a head start. 

A pitched shout startles him mid-sentence. Squinting across the thick grass he looks just in time to see Fred be scooped up into Charlie’s thick arms. There’s a broken broomstick and dirt is clinging to Fred from his knees to his face, bright green staining a thricely handed down sweater. 

A cry, then laughter. The ten year old has a gap where there was previously a front tooth, and Charlie is brushing the dirt out of his hair. Fat tears roll down Fred’s cheeks- a pink trail that gets wiped away by the older brother. 

Percy looks back at his book.

.

.

.

Nobody had asked Percy if he’d want to be the head interrogation and trial scribe. It was just assumed, rightly so, that he would be, in the aftermath of it all. A demotion and promotion rolled into one easily packaged deal; He had the skills required of a scribe, and the loyalty of someone who’d-

He unfurled another parchment scroll.

Interrogations were slow moving activities. Lots of pauses, hesitations, sharp inhales of breath when a particularly sensitive question was proposed. Awkward strained gaps of silence where an answer was fought before the Veritaserum ripped it from an unwilling throat. Sessions lasted hours and took months- would take even longer once the criminals of lesser importance had been wrung out for their information. They’d come here, be questioned, and filed away for a later trial. 

Each one would arrive and be seated at the wooden stage in the center, a vial of truth serum standing alone on the table in front of them. Most took it willingly. Most. Occasionally someone would have the substance poured down their throat; The new administration had no time or leniency for stragglers. The majority of those on the stage would be wearing a handcuff of sorts if they were believed to be volatile, but the occasional one would be free of restraints. Percy recognized what this meant; A person of interest lacking physical chains was instead bound by sharp social structures.

By bloodline. By family.  

By reputation. 

By a family's reputation.

Yes, Percy understood this. The worst people being questioned in this room were not those who’d cut down Hogwarts students, or bore tattooed flesh. Not those who’d participated in blood traitor hunts or switched their allegiances in the face of terror. No, the trials had yet to cover the more heinous people who’d been on the battlefield or were one of the ones who’d participated in the coup- They had to start with the most dangerous people. 

The ones who stood by and did nothing. Those who saw the writing on the wall and chose to turn a blind eye to it.

Narcissa Malfoy sat not ten yards away from him. Ankles, unbound. Wrists, unbound.

With her head held high, she levelled with him. Not with the committee in the seats above and behind him, but rather directly at him. 

Percy stilled. Often they’d look at him and their eyes would pass right over him; Maybe, for a moment, they’d look at him and think Weasley. They’d duly note the disowned bloodtraitor-but-not before training their eyes on the true enemy above, the wizards and witches who’d decide if they’d spend the next fifty years or so rotting in Azkaban. 

Except for, Merlin knows why, Narcissa Malfoy. 

She straightened her posture. Cleared her throat. 

“I request a plea deal.” 

As the dutiful scribe, Percy copied the words down. He dipped the quill again and hovered over the fresh parchment, waiting. Above him, a councilier’s voice boomed. 

“Explain yourself, Mrs. Malfoy.” 

The quill scratched against the parchment. Percy dipped and hovered. 

“I am willing to provide information in exchange for a pardon,” She continued, “For me and my son.” 

Several harsh whispers broke out above Percy’s head, and someone’s bench seat creaked. He dipped and hovered. 

“A pardon? Tell us, what information could be so pertinent that you would be open to, or even believe that you have the ability to bargain in these circumstances?”

Percy dipped and hovered. 

And hovered. 

And hovered. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, answer the question.” 

Percy kept his gaze down, waiting. 

“Mrs. Malfoy, answer the question now.” 

Briefly glancing over the nearly empty parchment, Percy looked up. 

Narcissa was staring at him. Staring directly at him, her eyes boring into him like he was the one asking the questions. Like he was her addressee, not the others above them both- or rather, for the briefest second, like he was the one on trial. In the recessed area of the interrogation stage, it seemed as if there was no distance between them at all. 

Percy saw her jaw clench. With a cold rush to the gut he realized; she’d been waiting for him to look at her before answering.

“Oubliettes,” She said, “My information pertains to Oubliettes.” 

He hesitated before breaking eye contact and scribbling the admission down. Indeed, whatever effect Narcissa had been aiming for took immediate control. The seats above them erupted into startled sounds; Gasps, and a hushed whisper of curse words that Percy did not note down. 

He gave a quick glance up only to see that Narcissa had closed her eyes. 

A shrill voice boomed around this time. “These Oubliettes, are they currently in use?”

Something in Narcissa’s face strained. “I wouldn’t offer the information if I thought otherwise.” 

Noting it down, Percy’s stomach churned. An Oubliette was nasty business. A topic briefly touched upon in his Defense Against the Dark Arts classes- not a subject that the average witch or wizard would ever have to dwell upon, so not something ever extensively covered. Few books in the non-restricted section of the library even acknowledged their existence. Actually, the only person who’d ever mentioned them was Bill, who’d given brief answers to Percy’s questions.

Up above them, the whispers became more vocal. Hushed discussions flew over his head as he strained to hear any part of them. They couldn’t be genuinely considering this, could they? An exchange of a prison sentence for something that might be true- and if it was, well.

Well. 

Another voice rang out. “How many of them are there?”

Would the council consider it? 

“Five,” Narcissa responded, “To the best of my knowledge, five.”

One of the council members sucked loudly on their teeth, an abnormal sound in the otherwise resounding silence. Five hypothetical Oubliettes, if Narcissa was telling the truth, meant five hypothetical people. Five lives in exchange for two- 

“Location?” Said the previous shrill voice.

“Do I have a guarantee of a pardon?” 

Looking up at her, Narcissa was squinting somewhere above his head. That harsh gaze was now centered on the council members. 

“How can we expect to trust you? If you’ll not tell us the location of these supposed Oubliettes, our decision-”

“I am their secret keeper.” With a harsh squeal of wood on tile, Narcissa pushed back in her chair. Her hands splayed out across the black of the table, pale skin cutting through the dark of her robes. 

“If you grant Draco and I our pardons, this-” She grabbed the Veritaserum, the crystal vial glinting under the cool lighting, “Will tell you everything you need. But, only with the council’s guarantee of a pardon. Otherwise the information stays with me.”

A beat of silence- a splotch of ink fell from the quill poised in Percy’s hands. 

“The information dies with me, and their existence is gone forever. Their deaths won’t be on my head then.”

The stomach churn returned with a vengeance as Narcissa’s gaze dropped from the council to him. He couldn’t fathom why- again, he was not the one holding her fate. But something in her eyes, the cold and steely posture of someone who held all the cards, all the pieces on the wizard chessboard; The vial in her hands was her equivalent of a Queen’s piece. She held his gaze, and the vial glinted, and Percy felt a lead-like weight drop in his gut. 

“Their deaths will be yours, and you won’t even know them.” 

The hushed silence fell again, and Narcissa remained standing. He genuinely couldn’t tell how long she stared at him, but it was long enough that the whispers from above both gained volume and died back down into quiet.

He’d seen her expression before, carved into his mother’s face. Begging him to come back to their family and please won’t he answer her letters? His father’s face as he closed the elevator doors, stopping the older man from getting in with him. His sibling’s faces, angry at him as they stood outside the Burrow, shame hot in his stomach. He’d even seen it in Harry’s face years ago as he sat in a larger interrogation room and Percy pretended not to recognize him, like he hadn’t passed the boy butter over the family dining table, or hugged him as he pulled Ron’s unconscious body from the lake-

Desperation. Pure, unguarded desperation flickered through Narcissa’s features before she shoved it down. 

“The council acknowledges your plea deal, Mrs. Malfoy.” The booming voice returned, “We will consider it and convene again tomorrow.” 

There was a solid thud as Narcissa put the Veritaserum down, and with a start, Percy realized he’d not recorded the last several minutes. 

.

.

.

He traveled by the Floo network home, for no reason other than liking the brief walk it took for him to get from the interrogation room to the fireplaces. He shuffled his feet against the mat he’d laid in front of the fire for this express purpose- he didn’t care to sweep the ashes from the living room rug. 

His wing-tipped shoes clacked as he crossed the floor. Already he could tell he was alone; The tea set on the kitchen counter was as immaculate as he’d left it the night before, and no cheery radio announcer was recounting the recent Quidditch scores.

All was quiet as he took off his coat. Oliver wasn’t meant to be back for at least a month. 

Percy tried to hide his gratitude at the other man’s absence; Things with Oliver had been, well- 

Setting the kettle on, Percy dug through various tea tins. He pointedly ignored the stack of letters that sat on the edge of the counter until he’d selected an Oolong to steep. Something earthy, a touch sweet- something that’d keep him up, but not fully awake. 

He’d been putting off the letters for too long. The latest was maybe a day old, but others easily went back weeks. Months, in the case of a letter signed with soft, loopy handwriting; Ginny’s handwriting. In the event of his mother’s letters, he’d leave them sealed, but send a note with Errol the next morning thanking her for the note. 

Occasionally, he’d include a carefully wrapped bundle of flowers from the muggle store beneath his flat. Flowers he knew wouldn’t grow out near the burrow; Roses or lilacs. Something temporary, so it wouldn’t linger as an ever-present reminder of his own absence from his family’s lives.  

The letters would be stacked there in the morning when he’d leave for work, and they would be stacked there when he returned in the evening. They’d sit there while he made tea and buttered his morning toast; They’d sit there while he went over the day’s notes and listened to the Quidditch scores of both Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies. In fact, the last time he’d moved them (besides adding to the stack, of course) was when Oliver had been on recovery for a broken leg. 

Percy’s flatmate had been apperated into the living room by one of the team medics after a clash during routine practice had left him immobile. He’d been flown into head first by a fellow player and free-fallen thirty or so yards- it was actually much more miraculous that it was just a broken leg.

Two weeks downtime before Oliver could play again had left the man restless on the couch, and Percy had moved the letters in the event that, for possibly the first time in his life, Oliver might suddenly develop a knack for reading. Twelve years of living with Oliver had convinced Percy that unless the subject of a book was Quidditch, Oliver wouldn’t be interested.

Percy had a suspicion that Ginny’s letter may have a brief passage or two about the sport. 

When people asked, Percy told them he lived alone. Often it felt like he did; It was his perishable food in the kitchen, and his modest furniture in the living room. Technically he and Oliver lived together as flatmates; Percy, so that he could live in London and possibly retain some savings, and Oliver, as the Quidditch league required a permanent home address when not travelling with his team. They’d been dorm mates for seven years at Hogwarts and hadn’t tried to kill each other; Sharing a central flat made sense. 

The practice schedule and active game season often kept Oliver from coming home more than a handful of days a month. Percy was less likely to see Oliver in the flesh than he was to see evidence of Oliver’s existence; A used teacup in the sink or the radio left playing softly, as Oliver so often forgot it was on. Sometimes there would be an item on the countertop left for Percy specifically- gifts of sorts, trinkets, from Oliver’s team travels. 

The Oolong tea had been one such gift. Perhaps they were small ‘ Thank you’ items in exchange for Percy’s attention to the apartment’s cleanliness. As he was the only one who truly lived here, he was the only one who did the daily upkeep. The dishes, the dusting, the laundry. When Oliver had been stuck on their couch for those two weeks, Percy was the one who brought him hot tea and the food he requested. Good will, he supposed. 

Good will that perhaps went a nudge too far one night as Percy sat next to Oliver on the couch. He’d been reading a muggle book on bones he’d bought from a shop a few streets away, coincidently a day or two after Oliver’s injury, trying to find the similarities between muggle healing and magic healing when he was interrupted by a wet sniffle. 

“Sorry, Perse,” Oliver said in response to Percy’s concerned glance, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your reading.” 

The man gave Percy a weak smile before grossly sniffling again, trying to hide his eyes. Percy stilled. Broken limbs had never given Oliver trouble before- he’d broken both ankles in third year after slamming into one of the goal posts, and Percy hadn’t seen him cry once. He’d complained, and complained loudly , but never cried. 

Percy instinctively knew what this all had to be about and set his book down. “It’s alright, Oliver. I understand.” 

“What?” Oliver made a sound somewhere between a teeth-clenched sob and a gasp, eyebrows furrowed. “You know?” 

“Of course,” Percy huffed, “The anniversary. You were in Prague, right?”

The one year anniversary of the battle of Hogwarts had come and gone not even a few months previously, and Oliver had spent it far from home. Percy himself had spent it in a graveyard with George-

Oliver barked a wet laugh that transitioned into stifled sobs as he shoved a hand over his face. Tears rolled over his fingers and violently the memory of a young, crying Fred surfaced in Percy’s mind. A younger brother, crying, and a caring older brother with him- and Percy removed from it all. 

He’d never been good at comfort, or frankly, emotions. But Oliver- Percy’s friend, perhaps his only friend, was in dire need of something comforting. So Percy did what he could; He reached out a hand like Charlie had all those years ago, and wiped a tear off Oliver’s cheek. 

Oliver froze. Before Percy could recoil, clearly mistaken in his attempt, Oliver grabbed his hand with a force that frankly hurt- the man was a professional athlete, after all. Taking Percy’s hand with him, Oliver doubled over, bending in on himself until his forehead rested against his leg cast. Percy could feel the contour of Oliver’s cheek and the soft damp of his eyelashes, moisture pooling in his palm as Oliver cried into it. 

He had no idea what to do. Clearly, he’d broken something in Oliver, who was now silently shaking. Percy, at a complete loss, simply used his free hand to press against Oliver’s shoulder blades. He rubbed soft circles with his thumb, feeling the ridged fabric of Oliver’s team sweater. He wondered if this was the first time Oliver had cried since it all happened; Percy could hardly bring himself to-

He’d made them tea after, and Oliver had left the next day while he was at work. Percy wasn’t even certain his leg was fully healed yet. 

So yes, things were… quiet.

Percy took a sip of tea and turned to the letters. He should respond to them- it was well past time. Something about Narcissa Malfoy’s behaviour earlier had unsettled him into a state of motion. All the talk of Oubliettes left him feeling hollow. 

He started with Ginny’s letter. 

Percy,

I hope you’re alright. I’m sure Mum’s already sent you a copy of the game schedule, but I wanted to pass one along just in case. If you’d like to come to a game, let me know, I can send you a family pass. Ron and George come to every game. 

Let me know. 

Love, Ginny

Short and to the point. True to her word, a schedule was tucked into the envelope. Unfolding it revealed that he’d missed a number of games, a given since the letter was months old. He’d try and make the next one, possibly, if he could. The same hot shame he’d felt years ago bubbled up within him.

Grabbing a quill and ink, he jotted down a response. 

Ginny,

I apologize for missing your games. I’ll let you know in advance the next one I can attend. I’ve been listening to your scores on the radio- Oliver says you’re the best chaser they’ve had in a century, and based on your scoring, I agree. 

I also heard about your broken nose against the Swedish team- has it healed alright? Oliver recently

He hesitated. 

Oliver recently sustained a broken leg during practice. I picked up a book you’ll perhaps find interesting about Muggle healing methods for broken bones- it takes months and is often career ending in muggle sports. I’ll include it.

I’ve been busy with the interrogation process at the Ministry. As scribe, I have to record it all. Don’t tell Mother this, but it’s taxing. I hope you’ll understand that my missing of your games was not intentional. 

Stay healthy,

Percy

In previous years, his letters would be long-winded and frankly, pompous. Now he tried to keep them short and direct- his words had considerably less weight than before, if they ever did at all. The picture perfect image of a letter he’d penned to Ron in the past flashed in his mind; Hot bile rose in his throat. 

He had not been immune to the Ministry’s propaganda against Harry Potter. In fact, he’d been less than immune- he’d bought into it fully, and supported it despite knowing better. He, unlike those at the Ministry, had known Harry. 

God he’d been a prat. 

Setting Ginny’s letter aside, he picked up one of Molly’s. There were four letters from her, each later one increasing in thickness. He debated starting with the earliest one, but settled on the latest. Likely, the latest one would explain the earlier ones. 

Dearest Percy,

Thank you for the flowers, but I do wish you’d send an actual response. As your Mother I’d like to think I know you better than anyone else. I imagine you must be feeling guilty about your behaviour in years past, and this refusal to respond is a way to deal with that. 

I know it’s hard for you to believe, but both your Father and I have forgiven you. We love you, endlessly. It’s difficult to put it into words, but

Percy couldn’t read this. Every word made his throat burn. He thumbed through the pages instead, glimpsing random sentences out of paragraphs. 

your Father and I have been replanting the

Bill and Fleur are expecting 

remember to eat full meals, toast is not a meal

have you been listening to Ginny’s

Ron and Harry have moved into Grimmauld place, Hermione will be joining them as soon as she

she and Ron are together, it’s very scandalous 

I’ll be making you a new jumper, what colors would you like

of course Charlie will be back and George is doing well, Lee is with him 

And finally, at the end of it all, 

Please come to Christmas dinner. We’d all love to see you

He strongly doubted that. 

We’d all love to see you this holiday season. We’ll be meeting here- if you’d like, please come early. See you then, 

With all my love, 

Mum

There was one last letter; small, with a plain, unadorned envelope. So plain in fact that Percy could only tell it was addressed to him via the sloppily written P on the cover. 

Dearest Prat,

Respond to Mum, or Ginny and I will beat your door down, and 

A large ink blot covered whatever threat had been penned. It almost seemed purposeful-

Toodles, 

Ron

Nothing from George, Charlie, or Bill. He supposed that was just about right- what was there to say to him? He who’d coolly cut them out, he who’d gotten Fred-

Dear Mum, 

I’d be happy to join you all for Christmas. Thank you for the invitation.

Your dearest, Percy.

.

.

.

This time, as Percy sat himself at the Scribe’s desk beneath the council seats, Narcissa Malfoy did not look at him. She didn’t pay him any mind as he set up his ink and quill, or unfurled various parchments for that day’s records. She sat perfectly still, rolling the Veritaserum vial in her fingers, like she was genuinely contemplating taking it of her own accord. 

He recorded the day’s date. Less than two weeks until Christmas. Twelve days, accurately, until he’d be back home for the first time since they’d been burying-

“Mrs. Malfoy,” A voice cracked through the room, “Welcome back.” 

She huffed, keeping her eyes trained on the vial. If he wasn’t sitting so close to her he probably would’ve missed it; A haughty, sharp exhale holding an emotion he couldn’t identify. It wasn’t a laugh, certainly, for all her worth Narcissa wasn’t insane like her sister. Or at least, certainly nowhere near enough as to laugh directly in the face of people choosing her fate. In the few times Percy had seen her throughout his life, she’d always carried an air of regality about her; A pureblood, most definitely not a bloodtraitor. 

“Regarding your quest for a pardon, The council has come to an agreement.” 

A chair creaked. The vial stilled in Narcissa’s hands, and gleamed under the sharp overhead light above her. 

“We agree to pardon both you and your son, Draco, under the terms that you tell us everything relating to the Oubliettes.” 

Percy copied the words down while Narcissa remained still. 

“I want it in writing.”

“Once we’re finished, a copy of the-”

“I want it in writing, now.” Narcissa interrupted. “Or nothing.” 

Someone above sighed, and a different voice rang out. “Fine. Mr. Weasley, please record that the council has deemed Narcissa Malfoy worthy of a pardon in exchange for the lives of those held in Oubliettes, of which Narcissa Malfoy is the keeper.” 

Doing as he was told, Percy copied the words down on a blank sheet. He even stamped it as proof of authenticity. 

“Mr. Weasley, please bring the agreement to Mrs. Malfoy.” 

While technically not his job, Percy followed instructions. Typically all he did was record and file, he was not a delivery boy, thank you. But in this context he supposed it made sense- they couldn’t risk a lower level employee being privy to such sensitive information. What didn’t make sense in context, however, was the stare of Narcissa Malfoy as he moved to stand. 

Again, he found himself at the end of her sights. Like he was being studied. The cold weight in the pit of his stomach returned as he crossed the floor, shoes clicking across the tiles. 

Approaching the table, Percy got a better look at the older woman. Unlike his mother she lacked the tell-tale laugh lines in her cheeks others her age often sported. Her hair was pulled up into a neat, slick bun, her grey-white highlights pulled back. It gave her a halo-eque effect; The white practically glowed under the cold lighting. 

Had that been part of her plan? To present herself not as the dutiful wife of a sworn Death Eater, but instead the angelic mother- an apologetic figure, forced to play a role to protect her son. 

Her eyes were cool and steely as he held the paper out to her. She grasped it but did not take it, rather holding onto it like- like- something. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but she was scanning his face like he had brought her information she hadn’t been privy to before; That the written pardon in their hands was a means to an end, and the true information was written on his skin. She met his eyes, scanned over his hair, gave him a miniscule squint when she looked at his nose and the freckles that were dotted there. 

Percy was incredibly and deeply unsettled by her. Practically throwing the parchment at her, he retreated.

“The council has granted your request, Mrs. Malfoy. Now for our part of the deal: Obviously there are many topics we need to discuss, from your husband’s connection to Voldemort, to your son’s participation in the Battle of Hogwarts, so on and the like. Your questioning stands to cover quite a range of subjects that we’d be interested in knowing about.”

A different voice convened. “However, given the nature of the pardon and our… circumstantial evidence, we’ll be holding off on those topics for a later session. If you’ll please take the Veritaserum, we’ll begin with the time-sensitive topics.” 

The announcer hadn’t even finished his sentence before Narcissa had popped open the vial, shooting the liquid back like she’d done it a dozen times before. She grimaced and set the now empty vial upside down on the table to prove it was empty. A thin bead of liquid gathered where the glass met the table, and Narcissa delicately wiped the excess liquid from her lips.

Percy wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not. Maybe just a bit taken aback- there’d been zero hesitation in Narcissa’s actions. The counselor hadn’t even finished speaking. Evidently, just as they were desperate for the information of the whereabouts and well-being of five people who may or may not exist, Narcissa was desperate to get the information out. 

Perhaps people on both sides felt guilt.

“Do these Oubliettes truly exist?” Someone asked from above. 

“Yes.” Narcissa scrunched her face like the Veritaserum had been sour. 

“And are they actively in use as of today, the eleventh of December?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long have they been in use?”

“Seven,” Narcissa stalled, “No, six years. Since my son was a second year at Hogwarts.” 

Percy recorded it all down, including the pause where Narcissa’s eyes had fluttered open. If he hadn’t been looking he would have missed her eyes once again before she shot her gaze above his head towards the council.

“Where are the Oubliettes located?” 

“Under the groundkeeper’s shed, adjacent to the mausoleum on the Malfoy Estate. Southwest corner of the yard. The entrance is behind a brick wall.”

“How long have they been there?” 

“Since the twelfth century. I believe to the best of my knowledge that this is the first use since the Eighteenth century.” 

“Was their use your own idea?” 

 She huffed again. “No, I would never.” 

“Who’s idea was it?”

“Quirinus Quirrell’s, although he passed before the plan was implemented.” 

At the mention of his old professor, Percy paused. The man appeared perfectly in his mind; The purple turban and hunched posture. A ferocious stutter that left fifteen year old Percy feeling incredible pity for him. Of course, Ron had later told him what had actually happened to the professor when Percy had gone to visit him in the hospital wing. The events that’d truly taken place on the forbidden third floor. 

Harry Potter had turned that man into dust.

“Deceased follower of Voldemort and then teacher at Hogwarts, Quirinus Quirrell?” A voice from above asked, “What exactly was his plan?”  

Actually, now that he was thinking of the man for the first time in almost a decade, with new and relevant information- perhaps being dusted by an eleven year old was not a harsh enough punishment for the professor.  Anyone who could consider the possibility of putting school children into an Oubliette deserved, in his line of thinking, the warm and friendly embrace of a Dementor.

It was sick.  

“His plan was to use pureblood students, picked from his classes. Those who came from families that had opposed the Dark Lord, and those that had been reluctant to pick a side. Placing them in the Oubliettes as blackmail, to sway them to Voldemort’s cause.”

Percy recorded the words, not fully comprehending them until they were reflected back at him in his own handwriting.

“How did Quirell’s passing affect the plan?”

“Adjustments had to be made. A few of the students he’d considered had graduated and were no longer in reach. Replacements would be chosen, but it’d have to wait for the new school year.” 

His blood felt heavy. Charlie had graduated that previous year. Ginny was going to start her first year that following fall. Had Quirell been watching them? Studying them, wondering if their family would care enough about them to betray their beliefs? 

“How many had been considered by Quirell?”

“Eight.”

How many times had he himself sat in class with Quirrell? Stayed behind late to help the professor tidy up after a demonstration session, or move unneeded equipment? How many times had he or Charlie in their prefect duties gone to pick-up homework assignments for sick students? 

Had Quirell been watching all of them? Percy couldn’t call to mind a more obvious choice of a blackmail victim; An openly pro-muggle family, with more than enough children who’d be easy to single out amongst the Hogwart student body. Did Quirrell look at an eleven year old Ron and consider holding him hostage in a dark chamber beneath Malfoy Manor? Third year Fred and George? Gods, Percy couldn’t fathom losing a twin- more than losing, in fact; Never even knowing they’d existed.

They may have lost Fred, but at least he existed still in their minds, in their memories . Forever seen in George’s now rare smile.  

Because that was the true purpose of the Oubliettes. Erasure from existence. 

“How many of the students who were taken were from Quirrell’s original plan?” 

“Three.”

“Their names?”

Percy’s insides felt hollow. He prayed to someone, anyone, any entity or celestial being that could possibly hear him. 

Not a Weasley. Please, not a Weasley.

“Archie Macmillian, a Hufflepuff second year. Chrysanthemum Brown, a Ravenclaw third year. And Patrick Cattermole, a Gryffindor fifth year.”

He recorded the names, dread dwelling deep within him along with a sick sense of relief at the lack of recognition. He had to have known this Patrick Cattermole- they’d been in the same year. In the same house. 

Had Percy spent the first five years of his school career sleeping only feet away from a boy who was currently being held hostage? Had they been friends? He had no memory of the boy if so- no memories of an empty dorm bed in the following two school years. No memory of a Patrick Cattermole being sorted on that first night. 

Because whoever Patrick Cattermole was (or is ) was eaten by the Oubliette. His living memories erased; Gone, like he’d never even existed. A quick runthrough of his memories left Percy nauseous-

There was no space in his memory for the boy he could only presume he’d spent half a decade sharing a dorm with. 

Had they studied together? Taken their O.W.L.S together? Had Patrick cheered alongside him for Charlie, Fred, and George in that last Quidditch game of the season, decked out in red and gold? 

“So the other two students- they were taken later, Correct?”

“Yes, a year later. After the opening of the Chamber of Secrets.” 

Perhaps the first year that, when he thought back during weak and lonely moments alone in his flat, his downhill trajectory as a sibling had begun. Ginny- tiny, little Ginny who’d been so desperately lonely, and all he could offer her was quiet study sessions in the library, or hot chocolate in the common room. Ginny with her shining brown eyes and that stupid, bloody notebook-

He’d encouraged her to write in it. Had given her one of his better quills to do so.

“Who were the two that had been originally selected and passed on?”

Please, please, please, not a Weasley-

“Neville Longbottom, first year Gryffindor, and Percy Weasley, fifth year Gryffindor.” 

If there was any reaction from the council above to the mention of their scribe’s name, Percy couldn’t hear it. Blood pounded through his ears and his heart was in his throat, like it was making an attempt to physically leave his body. Maybe, if he let it, his heart would crawl out and scamper away, hiding amongst the council benches.

Like the rotten little creature it was.  

He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth so hard it hurt, and wrote his own name down on the parchment. Sickly sweet relief bubbled within him again. 

There was a pause before the next question. Something above creaked, and Percy got the feeling that someone from the council was leaning over the bannister, looking down at him. He wasn’t going to turn to look. 

“And who instead were their replacements?” A voice asked, significantly closer to Percy’s level, “Who was taken in their place?”

“Cecil Longbottom, sixth year Ravenclaw, and Cordelia Weasley, fifth year Gryffindor.”

Percy wrote half the name down before he even realized he recognized the surname. He stared down at it and the name seemingly stared right back up at him, glistening in wet ink. His heart had stopped; Blood pounded in his ears and the sickly sweet feeling of relief still bubbled up inside him because-

Because he didn’t recognise the name . 

He looked up from the parchment. Black dots flooded his vision, waves of shadow that blotted out the lights in the room, but not Narcissa Malfoy.

Not Narcissa Malfoy, who sat there staring back at him with those steely eyes. She’d known the whole time. She’d known the whole time, had known the past six years- She looked at him the same way he’d look at Professor Quirrell-

With heaping pity.

.

.

.

Rain trailed down the dimpled window panes. Percy watched it until it blurred into the foreground, the buildings outside coming into clear focus. The grey London sky hung above their flat rooftops with thick, water-logged clouds; Pleasantly normal. An average dark London day, although he was home hours before he typically should have been.

He wasn’t certain how he’d gotten home. Wasn’t sure it was him who’d brewed his now tepid cup of tea. Perhaps an incredibly helpful ghost had spirited him out of his own body and operated it for him; Had taken his shoes off before he curled up on the sofa. 

He took a sip and let the liquid sit in his mouth, pooled behind his lips. He wasn’t sure he could swallow it.

This all had to be a joke. An elaborate prank to rival any ever performed by his younger siblings; There wasn’t any other way. Some sort of terrible joke as punishment for him being such an awful sibling- to not notice one of them missing? In the same year as him?

The implication of which meant- if this Cordelia had been in the same year as him- 

Either Molly had gotten pregnant the same day she’d given birth to Percy, or they were-

No, it wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. This was an elaborate set-up to make sure his ego was still in check; To make sure that he hadn’t forgotten the depth of his betrayal of his own family, stabbing them all in the back year after bloody year. 

No, he would have noticed. Perhaps it was a curse of some sort- some transmissible curse that Narcissa had passed onto him when he’d been handing her the parchment pardon. Why else would the council have made their request afterwards to him, when he’d been pale and shuffled out of the room? Given him the message to pass along to Bill at his earliest and most prominent convenience? 

He’d been given a formal request tightly sealed with red council wax; To Curse-Breaker William Weasley, on request of the Ministry of Magic. 

It sat in Percy’s briefcase somewhere in the flat living room- he wasn’t sure exactly where. A small part of his subconscious that donned Fred’s voice told him he should stand, Perse and find the letter; See exactly what is is that the Ministry wants with the eldest Weasley Child, who by all means should be relaxing with his wife-

Stand up, Perse.

When he brought the letter to Bill, would the older man be angry at him for missing his wedding? 

Percy. Stand up.

Would it help Bill to know at all that Percy had, in fact, desperately wanted to go? But was restrained by a metaphorical cage he had welded himself into?

“For Merlin’s sake- Percy!” Something grabbed Percy’s elbow and lifted him, “Get up!”

His weight was shifted to his knees as he was yanked upwards, his teacup tumbling from his hands. 

“I have been talking to you for ten minutes!” Oliver’s strong face appeared in front of Percy’s own, “Are you okay?” 

Percy blinked at him. Took a mental note of the scar running above the other man’s right eye and the way it dipped down through the brow. How the man was squinting at him, scanning Percy’s face in an almost identical yet entirely different way than Narcissa had only hours before. 

“Oliver? You’re not supposed to be home for another month, shouldn’t you be in Nice?” 

“Yes! However, I got a wonderful letter from the Ministry this afternoon,” He let Percy’s elbow go to ruffle through his coat pocket, and Percy felt his knees sink down into the couch cushion. Oliver cleared his throat before reading: 

“Oliver Wood, this is an official Ministry emergency alert sent on behalf of Percy Weasley, who has established you as an emergency contact. Percy Weasley has been sent home for the purpose of Grave Emotional Disturbance, to the address located at-”

While Oliver listed off the address of their flat, the one they both currently stood in, Percy realized he had not been the one to brew his tea or floo himself home. Someone else had, someone who’d walked him to the fireplaces and- had removed his shoes? 

He glanced behind him only to see that his shoes were firmly still tied on, and the grey sky he’d been staring at had changed to an inky black. How long had he been sitting here?

“You fainted, Percy, did you know that?” Oliver asked, letting the note fall to his waistside. “Someone carried you home.”

Percy most certainly did not remember that.

“Apparently during your scribe duties you slid off your chair and went completely unresponsive. They wanted to treat you for shock, Perse.”  The man sounded exasperated, Percy noted, “Why? What happened, Percy?”

He duly noted that Oliver was still dressed in his leather training gear, covered by a black coat that hung to his boots. His brown hair, cropped shorter now as adults than when they’d been students, needed a good wash- had Oliver come straight from the playing field? 

“Right, yes, that whole thing.” Percy took the opportunity to stand from the couch, knees creaking from supporting him for so long, “It’s nothing. Just got caught a little off guard from an …unexpected piece of evidence.” 

Percy dusted himself off; When Oliver had lifted him, the remaining tea had spilt all down the front of his Scribe’s robes. Evidently the Ministry really had sent someone to take him straight home.

Oliver stared at him, making Percy feel small. It was the same look he’d given to countless students who he’d caught out after curfew- a look that said I know you’re lying so incredulously well that Percy almost wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell Oliver exactly what had happened; How Narcissa Malfoy had studied him and how relieved he’d felt when his name was called and replaced with a Cordelia. 

Should he? Betray what little of a career he’d rebuilt in the new Ministry and tell Oliver the confidential secrets he was sworn to? 

He could. He’d done it once before to the Ministry, and countless times before that to his own family. 

“Just a little off guard, Merlin-” Oliver scrunched up the note in his hand and pressed it to his forehead, closing his eyes to Percy. “Right. Of course, yeah, don’t know what else I was expecting. Right, anyways- Percy, get changed, we need to go.”

Percy blinked. “What? Go where?” 

Oliver moved away from him, grabbing up Percy’s briefcase from where someone had left it on their armchair. In one swift movement he produced his wand and turned towards the fireplace, sending a quick spell that set the wood inside ablaze. 

“The Burrow, Perse. I’m not your only emergency contact it seems, and frankly-” He turned to regard Percy with a cursory glance. “Your mother scares me.” 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Percy was hanging onto Oliver’s elbow when they stepped into the fireplace together, Oliver clutching a handful of floo powder. Being moderately taller than the considerably better built Quidditch player, Percy had to duck to avoid scraping the top, noting how their apartment slighty swam in the edges of his vision.

He wondered briefly if his hair looked alright. He’d started to let it grow out again, longer as it had been in his earlier school days. Perhaps it was some sort of subconscious plea. 

“Ready?” Oliver asked, holding out the powder with the same arm that Percy gripped. “I’d apperate us there but-”

“You’ve never been there before. I know,” Percy interrupted, “You wouldn’t know what to imagine.”

Oliver laughed. “Actually, I’ve imagined it plenty. No, I just think that if I brought you to Molly Weasley splinched, I won’t live long enough to see the next World Cup.” 

Percy hummed. He’d forgotten that Oliver was there to witness what his mother had done to Bellatrix.

Oliver slipped his free hand over Percy’s own, enforcing the grip on his elbow, and threw the powder at their feet.  

.

.

.

They stumbled out of a roaring fireplace, and Percy was already trying to think of a way to get the soot out of his pants. When Oliver had instructed him to change, Percy had done so without considering exactly where they were going, and if his chosen outfit was exactly right for the occasion. He wore a casual pair of charcoal grey house pants and his oversized christmas sweater from seventh year; a soft, periwinkle color with his initials embroidered over the left breast in a pearly white. 

He supposed he’d just wanted to be in comfortable, familiar clothes; He would never get the soot out of the sweater.

“Mrs. Weasley! Happy to say that-”

Percy felt Oliver get pushed to the side, his arm pulling from Percy’s grasp with a jerk. For a second Percy stood there, considerably light headed and cold from the sudden lack of both the fire around his ankles and Oliver-

“Percy Ignatius Weasley!”

Molly Weasley barreled into him, trapping his arms at his side. He felt himself sway in her hold, her head coming up to his chest, cheek pressed against his embroidered name. 

“Do you have ANY idea how scared we were? No response from you for hours after that dreadful note -”

Percy had forgotten he’d made his mother an emergency contact all those years ago; Back when he’d started at the Ministry as a scribe the first time, believing that nothing would ever occur that was bad enough that he’d need his mum . 

Of course, that was before he’d-  

“I’m sorry, Mother,” He started, knees threatening to buckle under their combined weight, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

As if she didn’t believe him, Molly kept a tight hold on him. Percy was at a loss- with his arms pinned at his side he couldn’t return her hug or pat her on the head; he was stuck being firmly held by his mother. The face resting against him had numerous more wrinkles than in his memory; Crow’s feet and a slightly heavier set jowl, and far more blotted freckles than he could count. 

His mother’s ear pressed painfully into his chest, and Percy could feel his heartbeat against it. 

Was she listening for it? Making sure it was still there and ticking?

Something sharp inside his chest reared it’s head- the same feeling of bile burning up his esophagus that he’d felt in the interrogation room. Was this the first time since the war ended that Molly Weasley had had to worry about one of her children? Had he truly scared her?

Of course he did. Who else but him? 

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Percy whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his mother’s head, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, honest.” 

With a firm nod against his chest, Molly relinquished him. She gave him a firm pat on both of his shoulders before stepping back. Wiping the tears from her face with the thick palm of her hand, her eyes lingered on Percy’s sweater. 

Percy prophesied what was going to happen before it did, and raised his arms in preparation. 

“ Oh- You’re wearing the sweater I made you!” Molly sobbed, the composure immediately leaving her face as she grabbed him again, face nuzzling right back against the embroidery. 

Sighing, Percy wrapped his arms around her, returning the hug. He gave her a small press on the back and hoped it was a more reassuring gesture than the one he’d given Oliver. Speaking of which-

Oliver stood with his hands on his hips, staring up at the ceiling like it contained something simply fascinating . Perhaps the schematics for the next Puddlemere United playoff were up there, written in a color identical to the wood. He drummed his fingers against the leather of his chest guard, giving a cursory look around everywhere except at the two people in front of him. He even twisted to take a peek over his shoulder only to be faced with a bookcase and a framed photo of the Weasley family in Egypt, grinning.

It was, in short, surreal all around. Not only to be back home- a place that a Percy from just a few years ago would’ve sworn he’d never come back to, but to be back home with Oliver Wood in tow. Oliver, who Percy was certain he wouldn’t be seeing for at least another month, who had apparently apperated all the way from southern France to their London apartment when summoned via emergency means.

Percy didn’t want to think about such things, so simply, he wouldn’t. He went to unwrap his mother’s arms from around his ribcage when he finally noticed, over the top of her head-

Charlie sat at the kitchen table, slowly watching the scene play out. He was slightly hunched, braced on his elbows as he lifted a spoonful of what Percy could only surmise to be slop of some sort. His wild, sunbleached orange curls were pulled back in a short ponytail that splayed out in a thousand directions; a new, unrecognizable scar ran over the bridge of his nose.

The bite hovered halfway to Charlie’s face. He looked at his brother, then at Oliver, before going back to Percy. 

“Heya, Perse,” He gestured with the spoon. “And… Oliver.” 

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but had the vocal tilt of someone significantly confused. 

“Charlie! Good to see you, mate!” Oliver responded, beaming and taking the invitation to stride away from Percy and his mother, “How’re the dragons?” 

“Dragon-y. Fiery. Pretty exciting, all around. Well actually, most of them are hibernating now, so opposite of fiery- calm, if you will.” Charlie responded, food still uneaten, “Hope you don’t mind me asking, Wood, but why’r you here?” 

If there was any hope in Percy that Oliver wouldn’t immediately bow to his old Quidditch captain, it left the second Oliver sat himself down at the Weasley’s kitchen table. 

“Oh, right,” Oliver twisted to gesture at Percy and Molly, “I’m just the messenger owl. Did I bring him home in alright condition, Mrs. Weasley?” 

Molly finally let go of him, but not before grabbing his face and firmly inspecting it. Her hands were particularly warm on his temples; A part of Percy still felt cold and clammy under her touch.

He wasn’t certain it was related to his fainting spell. 

Worry surfaced in his mother’s eyes as she skimmed him, reading something in his features. She stroked her thumb along one of his cheekbones and pursed her lips. For some unknown reason she nodded at him, eyes still glittering, and whispered:

“You don’t have to tell us until you’re ready, Percy dear.” 

He didn’t know what to make of that, exactly; How does one go about telling their  mother that she’s missing a child she doesn’t know exists? 

A daughter, possibly robbed from her? 

A sister, from Ginny?

A twin, from him-

Molly gave him a light slap to the cheek, startling him out of his thoughts. 

“Quite alright enough, Mr. Wood,” She replied to Oliver, louder than her whispered message to Percy. “Have you eaten yet?”

Percy found himself steered into the kitchen by his mother’s hand firmly placed on the small of his back, and plopped into the seat next to Oliver. Across from them sat Charlie, who was now squinting between the two of them as he slowly chewed. He looked between Oliver’s rough, soot covered hands and Percy’s nearly spotless ones-

“So, Perse,” Charlie said, clearing his throat, “Something at the Ministry gave you quite a shock, huh?”

“I suppose, yes.” Percy responded. His mouth felt terribly dry. 

“Grave Emotional Disturbance, y’know, I don’t think I’m too familiar with that term,” Charlie went on, spinning his spoon around in his bowl aimlessly, “Care to enlighten me, little brother?”  

Percy opened his mouth, the words hardly finding their way out. “It’s… complicated. Confidential.” 

“Right, right. Course it is.” Charlie nodded. “You’ve got soot in your hair.”

He wondered if Cordelia took more after Charlie, like Fred and George had, or like Bill, as he had. Did she have Charlie’s bright hair and complexion, like sunshine? Or did she have his own pale skin, privy to noticeable eye bags and darker red hair? All hypothetically, of course, since she couldn’t be real and -

Something was touching his head. Someone was touching his head, fluffing at his soft curls; Percy jerked away from the motion like it burnt. Too many years of teasing brothers had perhaps inflicted an inherent muscle memory within him- no touch was ever intended to be comforting. 

Oliver simultaneously jerked the other direction, holding his arm out like Percy was some spooked animal attempting to bite. “The soot- was just trying to get it out for you.”

“With your own soot-covered hands?” Percy questioned, tone flat. “How gracious.” 

Oliver gaped at him and whatever response he had must’ve died in his throat. Molly chose that opportune moment to bring over two filled-to-the-brim bowls. 

Spoons already swimming in the bowls, she set them down with a thunk. “Here you two go, lamb stew fresh from the pot. I heard your stomach growling, Percy, eat up now, love. Charlie, dear, is something the matter?” 

Charlie was staring at Oliver, eyebrows tightly knit. He was further hunched over the table, weight fully on his forearms. 

“Oh no, Mum, everything’s fine. Oliver just has…” Charlie stalled, apparently unable to find suitable words, “Oliver just had something on his face. Trick of the light, I guess.” 

“Yeah, must’ve been.” Oliver responded, “Thank you for the supper, Mrs. Weasley.” 

Percy poked at the stew, drowning a lamb chunk with his spoon. 

.

.

.

Sometime in between the debate on Ginny’s strongest team position on the Holyhead Harpies ( Chaser, definitely and are you genuinely stupid, Charlie) and Oliver desperately trying to convince Charlie to take a decades early retirement from wrangling dragons so that he could join Puddlemere, Arthur joined them. 

His father looked older; Tired, and a bit rounder about the middle. All things that Percy could only determine from the corner of his peripheral vision. His hands were wrinklier, nails short and clean. 

Percy couldn’t bring himself to look directly at him.

He hadn’t visited his Father in the hospital. Not once, after Nagini’s attack- how many times had the snake bitten him? Half a dozen? Was Nagini responsible for the twisted and thick scar that ran from his father’s wrist to his elbow?

Percy gave his father a quick nod, pretending that his mouth was full so he wouldn’t have to speak.

.

.

.

Oliver left after dinner, which had stretched into far too long of an affair for Percy’s tastes. He’d given Charlie a hug as he bid his departure, both men patting each other on the back. “For real though, Charlie, just send the word and I’ll get you into the Puddlemere reserve, quicker than it’d take you to apperate from-

Charlie laughed. “I’ll let you know, Wood, but don’t keep your hopes up.” 

Percy saw the balled up note Charlie held in his hands. Watched as it transferred from his brother to Oliver’s coat pocket as casually as two muggle-born first years attempting to cheat on their History of Magic quiz. 

Which truly meant- incredibly obviously, despite intentions. Had they learnt nothing from Fred and George?  

“Right, Perse,” Oliver addressed him next, sharply turning on his heel. He reached out as if to hug Percy, but upon seeing Percy’s reluctant and unmoving figure, awkwardly transferred the notion into a gruff grip on Percy’s shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you, then. Won’t be back from Nice for a while yet.”

“Right, well… show them your best, Oliver.” 

Oliver’s thumb dug into Percy’s collarbone before he let go; Then he was gone, and Percy still felt on his skin the phantom pressure of Oliver’s thumb. It’d been right against where the yarn had frayed in his sweater- a moth hole where there was once periwinkle.  

He felt awkward standing there, dumbly staring at the spot where Oliver’s face had been. For the first time in a very, very long time, Percy was home, and it looked and smelled the same as it always had. His mother’s cooking, a hint of firewood- nothing felt different.

Well, that wasn’t true.  

Percy felt different. He still felt cold from the day’s events- physically cold, as Molly had insisted on taking his temperature after he’d finished eating. She’d held her hand to his forehead like he was still a child and declared that he was positively not well enough to go back to his apartment, London is no place for the sick to be-

“Perse?” 

With a start Percy realized he was still staring at the spot Oliver had been in. He glanced at Charlie instead and noticed for the first time that evening that his brother was dressed in a simple white shirt and boxer briefs. 

“Sure you’re feeling alright?” Charlie asked, coming over and wrapping an arm around Percy’s shoulder, jostling his younger brother from his stupor, “You didn’t eat much at dinner. Mum’s cooking not up to your refined taste?” 

Charlie was teasing him, but he wasn’t wrong. Percy supposed he hadn’t eaten much- had gnawed a few lamb chunks down when he felt Molly’s keen eyes on his back. For nutritional sake he’d eaten the potatoes that’d bobbed around and had a few sips of the broth. 

The food had been delicious. It was incredible, really; Rich and hearty, tangy in a way he couldn’t describe. He’d gotten maybe a third of the way through it before the desire to eat left him; Had just felt unbearably full.  

He just hadn’t been a fan of the whole activity lately- everything tasted vaguely the same. No meal kept his attention for more than a few minutes; He’d have his buttered toast in the morning, then whatever light meal the Ministry commons offered for lunch, and then would subsist on various sandwiches as he went over the day’s work. Cucumber and tomato sandwiches most frequently. 

“Stomach is a bit upset, that’s all.” Percy responded, “It’ll pass.”

“Right. Well, up for a game of Wizard chess before bed?” Charlie asked, squeezing Percy’s arm, “Dad and Mum have already turned in and I believe you owe me a game or two.”

He had so much work to do, but Charlie seemed to be the sibling least bothered by Percy’s presence- maybe, for once, he would take the hand offered to him. He could play a round of chess with his brother and let the strategy of the game distract him from Oubliettes, interrogations, and abandoned siblings. 

Perhaps he’d even win. 

.

.

.

Percy won two out of three rounds, which turned into three out of six. Charlie got up suddenly, coming back moments later with a plateful of thumbprint jam cookies and two small mugs of wine. 

Percy won four rounds out of six, which had Charlie carding his fingers through his hair in frustration. The wine glasses refilled on their own and Charlie shoved a cookie into his mouth whole, crumbs littering the table beneath him.  

When Percy won six rounds out of ten, he started to suspect Charlie was letting him win, as he was getting drowsy and was playing nowhere near as difficult as Charlie was making it out to be. 

Percy maybe tied on round eleven out of twenty-two ( Can you even count that high, Charlie and Shut it, my dragons take shites bigger than you are tall) and laid his head down on the tabletop to celebrate. He closes his eyes- had his eyelids always been this heavy? His sweater, so cozy?

He was vaguely aware of Charlie getting up from the table, judging by the squeak of a chair; Was even less vaguely aware of the weightless sensation of being lifted from his seat and hoisted up into the air. Charlie was carrying him like one might a small child-

Something was scratching at the back of Percy’s brain. He tried to scratch back at it, only for Charlie to bat his hand away. 

“What’r you doing that for? Worse than the hatchlings, you are. Just try and get some sleep, Perse.”     

.

.

.

Eight year old Percy sits in the backseat of the family’s blue Ford Anglia. He’s sweating and slightly nauseous as Arthur backs them out of their parking spot; It’s all the same things he doesn’t like about broomsticks- too jerky and unpredictable, the harsh movement upsetting his stomach. It’s making his throat burn and his mouth water, the first telltale signs of something Percy desperately does not want to experience again. It feels as if they’ve left his stomach behind at Platform nine and three quarters, not just Charlie and Bill in their school cloaks. 

Hot sunlight fills the car as their Father navigates the muggle traffic symbols and turns. A man’s voice crackled over the radio, discussing a steel working plant which Percy had not even the slightest idea about; Maybe if it wasn’t so hot in the car he’d be able to listen in, gain some knowledge on the things his Father found interesting. 

A start, a stop, another sudden start- 

Percy is now wildly nauseous, gripping onto the leather seat cushioning for dear life. His little hands are clammy- it’s not helping that Cordelia is hyperventilating next to him, seemingly trying to inhale their stuffed lion, Godric. Maybe, if he wasn’t busy focusing on the terrible cramping in his stomach, Percy could comfort her in some way. 

She’d held it all in at the station alright, hadn’t started crying until Charlie leaned out from one of the carriage windows and beamed at her. He smiled and waved, and Bill appeared next to him and, of all things, blew Percy and Cordelia a kiss. 

Cordelia had started bawling on the spot and buried her face in their father’s jacket. 

“Cordy, it’s alright,” He says, straining, “They’ll be back in a few weeks, remember? Christmas break and all?” 

She sniffles grossly, and lifts her head up from the stuffed lion’s mane. Her nose is running and her cheeks are puffed rosy red- strands of her loose curls stick to her tear tracks. 

It’s gross. He’s terribly grossed out by the sight of her snot.

“I know, I know. Only a few weeks,”  She sniffles again, “Only a few weeks.”

Her cheeks redden as she attempts to hold the crying in, blue eyes watering needlessly. The whites of her eyes are pink too- She lasts all of twenty seconds before letting out a wail that isn’t muffled by the lion. 

Percy wishes he could cover his ears, but he’s digging his nails into the seat. 

“You two managing alright back there?” Their father asks, catching Percy’s eyes in the rearview mirror.  The action costs Arthur a fraction of his attention. 

They hit a pothole, and Percy can’t fight it anymore. Partially digested porridge spews across his legs. 

“Oh, evidently not. Alright then.” 

.

.

.

He doesn’t know where he is. The air around him is cold and biting, his skin chilled with sweat. His heart is racing, it’s in his throat-

He doesn’t know where he is , and his limbs are far too long and gangly- 

He fumbles, fighting wildly against a quilt before he’s able to rip it off himself; The freezing air immediately goose pimples his skin. He tries to stand, to right himself amidst his panic, but his head is pounding and where in the hell am I, and in a blind moment of desperation: 

Lumos wordlessly and wandlessly shoots out of his palm, brightening the room so quickly and intensely that his head spins. 

Percy blinks, wincing against the cool light. It hurts his eyes for the room to be thrown into stark contrast so suddenly. 

He blinks again for confirmation once his eyes have adjusted. 

He’s in his bedroom. Safe, at home, in the Burrow. His parents are only a few floors below and his siblings even closer than that. He’s not in a hot car and he’s not nauseous and Cordelia isn’t crying. She’s probably asleep right upstairs in the room that she shares with Ginny-

Percy flops back on the bed, head still spinning. With a mumbled curse he slams his hand down on the bed, dismissing Lumos. 

.

.

.

The only thing on Percy’s mind when he woke up was water. He was absolutely and completely parched- his throat felt like his stomach acid had tried to crawl it’s way up and out of his body via his esophagus. 

He felt, frankly, grimy; He could feel the thick drool caked onto his lips and cheeks. 

Somewhere in the foggy haze that was his just awoken brain, Percy surmised that Charlie had carried him to bed after the younger bother had fallen asleep at the table. They’d been playing wizard chess and Percy had been winning- winning consistently. How many rounds had they ended up playing? There was the blurriest mental image of one of Percy’s knights bashing in a bishop using a jammy cookie-

Had Charlie really carried him to bed? 

How embarrassing. Like Percy was still a child, falling asleep under the oak tree after dinner, needing someone to come grab him from his books. If Charlie had just woken him up instead he could’ve floo-ed home; Left a note apologizing to their parents for his sudden departure while they slept, could’ve written that he urgently needed to get home-

He just didn’t want to be here longer than necessary. In the home where he’d always felt like a ghost, trying to study while the others played Quidditch and Exploding Snap. In the room where his downward trajectory changed into a rapid downward spiral- the same room where he’d shoved the few nice pieces of clothing he owned into a suitcase and where he’d shouted down at his siblings for being too loud. 

Of course they were too loud- there were seven of them. Eleven, if he counted the extra children that’d latch onto a Weasley child and join their ranks for a summer or two or five. Harry, Hermione, Luna, Lee; He’d never had one. A friend to bring home and have Molly gush over-

Oliver, maybe. Penelope, definitely not. 

Percy dug his fingers into his temples. It was too early for all this self-loathing.  

Muscle memory carried him from his room to the small bathroom, helped by the lack of siblings trying to push past him first. The nostalgia tasted sour. 

He peed without turning the light on, only setting on the light when he realized the soap dish had changed location.

Blinking, he rubbed the crust from his eyes with his palm and turned the water on so he could wash his face, cupping the water in his hands. Stared down at the small pool and seeing his own tiny, blurry reflection against the pink of his skin-

Why was it so dark?

He looked up at his reflection in the mirror, promptly dropping his hands. Water splashed and pooled against the counter.

Blood. It wasn’t drool caked across his face, it was blood. Crusted dark red ran along the apples of his cheeks and the curve of his chin, sticking in the folds of his nose. It stained his lips. Made the pale pallor of his skin stick out even more. A weightless, tingling sensation shot through his legs, the same kind that raced through him when Narcissa had listed the names-

Cordelia sniffles grossly, and lifts her head up from the stuffed lion’s mane. Her nose is running and her cheeks are puffed rosy red- 

Black spots roll across Percy’s vision. His knees buckle under him.

strands of her loose curls stick to her tear tracks. 

A noise was happening to his right- something that demanded attention Percy couldn’t provide. His right temple was exploding and if eyes could ring like eardrums, his definitely were-  

For a moment Percy could’ve sworn he was back in bed-

And as quick as the feeling came, it was over.

The stinging in his face stopped and he was left shaking in its wake, gripping the sink for support. Blood pounded through his ears; It sounded and felt like he was underwater. The ability to breathe came back slowly and Percy gasped for a breath that was more dried blood than air. 

He’d knocked the towel rack over at some point, littering the floor with towels sporting varying embroidered names.  

“Percy, mate, you all good in there?” 

Of course it was Charlie knocking- in true Burrow fashion, Percy couldn’t have five minutes in the bathroom without someone needing to use it. In pure frustration Percy yanked the door open, letting it slam against the wall. 

For the briefest sliver of a second, Percy wondered why Charlie wasn’t in his black first year school cloak.

“Blimey, I was just checking on you-” Charlie started,  “Hell, Percy, the fuck happened to your face?”

Charlie leaned out of the carriage window, beaming at Cordelia and Percy back on the platform. 

Percy stared at him. His brother’s face was now so different than it’d been back then; Charlie had so many freckles that his skin looked like blotted, spilt walnut ink. What was he supposed to say? Charlie would think Percy was crazed if he answered- answered-

Well, any answer. Perhaps it’d be better to not answer at all, and instead ask:

“There used to be a stuffed lion,” Percy said, bracing himself against the doorframe, “What happened to it?”

Charlie gaped at him. He knew what he looked like, it wasn’t that bad- “What?”

“The blasted lion, Charlie,” Percy responded, exasperated. He tried to mime the invisible shape of the stuffed animal, “It’s orange and it’s got a fuzzy mane and it’s- it’s lion shaped. ”

Charlie stared at him, gap-mouthed and entirely useless- “D’you mean Ginny’s old stuffie?”

Finally, something he could work with . Percy practically launched himself from the spot, ducking under Charlie’s outstretched arm. The lion, Godric, if Percy’s… episode was accurate, would’ve been passed from sibling to sibling like everything else.  It’d offer no answers or secrets, but at least it’d be something tangible that Percy’s mind could grasp onto. 

Maybe he was losing it, truly. Vividly hallucinating an imaginary sister crying into orange fur- 

Ginny’s room was a flight up from his own, so Percy took the stairs two steps at a time and nearly twisted an ankle on the landing. He didn’t have the Quidditch-trained, lightning fast reflexes the rest of the them had, but he had pure speed and fear pushing him; Charlie’s footsteps were right behind him, thundering up the old steps. Percy fumbled with the doorknob when he got to it and practically tripped into the room. 

Pink walls and a lace bedspread. Ginny’s room was just as dainty and pink as Percy remembered it being, and he suddenly felt like he was trespassing into a space he shouldn’t be. Well, it’s not even that he felt like it- he shouldn’t be in here. This was a private space that didn’t belong to him, a sacred space for the girl of the family-

Godric the stuffed lion sat slumped on top of Ginny’s dresser. Percy took a quick stride across the small room and snatched the lion up like he was apprehending a criminal, digging his fingers into the lion’s body. 

It was old. Percy didn’t remember it looking like this, but when he thought about it, of course it looked old. Godric was a faded orange now and had lost the glossy sheen of his eyes via years of scratches. His mane was no longer frizzy and fuzzy but rather matted in thick clumps that Percy knew would never come untangled, even with the strongest of charms. 

“Perse?” 

Oh, right. He’d forgotten about Charlie. 

Percy turned to face him, gripping Godric by his tiny lion body. The lion seemed so much larger in his memory- but Percy wasn’t in the body of his eight year old self anymore. He was twenty two and a fully grown adult, standing in his little sister’s room, covered in his own blood, clutching a stuffed animal. 

His brother looked at him like he was one of Fred and George’s inventions: Unpredictable, likely to split in a thousand directions, and barely held together with spellotape. 

“Percy, tell me what’s happened to you.” Charlie said, approaching with his hands up. The man dealt with wild, magical creatures for a living, sure, but Percy must have sat in on a hundred or more Ministry interrogations by now; He knew what trying to keep a rapidly declining situation under control felt like. 

Part of him was hurt. Charlie seemed incredibly wary of him, like he was one of the twin’s Whiz-Bangs about to spiral in on itself. Percy didn’t want to dwell on the fact that he was actively in the process of ruining the one positive sibling relationship he had left, by making Charlie think he was…

Going crazy? Haunted? 

Another part of him desperately wanted to tell Charlie the truth. He hadn’t told Oliver for fear of his job, but Charlie was his brother - if Cordelia really, truly existed at any point in time, Charlie deserved to know. Needed to know, rather. 

But what would he say? Charlie, did you know we have another sister, older than Ginny? Indeed, she’s been trapped in an Oubliette for years now if you can believe. But also don’t tell anyone as it’s confidential information related to the review council, but also this isn’t like before when I chose my job over you all-

“Percy, should I go get Mum?” Charlie asked, a strange and wavering plea in his voice, like they were children again, “Will you tell her what happened?” 

It was the strangest role reversal. Never in his life had he been on the receiving end of someone threatening to go tell Mummy. 

“It’s okay if it’s not me you want to tell, you can’t hurt my feelings.” 

Right. Percy hadn’t directly done anything to Charlie besides hurt their siblings and swear off the family. Maybe not visiting their Father in St. Mungo’s. But he hadn’t turned Charlie’s friends over to the former Ministry, or written a scathing letter telling him to abandon his best friend, or- hell , he’d never given Charlie detention like he had Fred and George.

Charlie wasn’t taking Percy’s silence well. The floor creaked under him as he shifted his weight from one side to the other; He curled his fingers into loose fists and released them, hands still up. Repeated the action until Percy tore his eyes away. 

Charlie cleared his throat in a way that almost implied nervousness. “Don’t actually think there’s anything you could say that’d hurt my feelings, Perse.”

Percy stared down at Godric again, if only to have a place to look that wasn’t his brother. The lion had a dingy, threadbare look; Evidently, he’d been well loved over the years. A loose stitch hung out from one of the paws; A shiny gold.

What was he supposed to say?

“Alright, yeah, we both know that’s not true. I think if you told me you hated us all again- wished that you weren’t part of-” Charlie gulped, and Percy thought it sounded painful, “I mean-  Shit , I’m not Bill, this sorta thing makes my hands sweaty. Dragons are easier, you know? They can’t speak so it’s really all fire and biting.” 

As Charlie started to ramble. Percy’s eyes drifted across Ginny’s wall decorations; Photos of her friends and siblings, little paper notes with inside jokes written across them. Nothing from him, not that he hadn’t given her things over the years- just nothing she’d found worthy of hanging up. 

Of having to see everyday. 

A harsh memory from that year before the war bubbled. How, if Percy didn’t maintain himself in their new government- didn’t play nice for a controlled Pius Thicknesse when he was required, Ginny would suffer. He suffered, too, in various different ways, but Ginny-

He stared into Godric’s beady little glass eyes. Actually, one was a small button. 

“So, I guess what I’m actually trying to say, Perse, is that you’re all our brother, but, y’know, you’re my little brother, and I… I’m not great with expressing these things verbally-”

Percy cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” 

“What?” Charlie asked, speaking so quickly that the words jumbled together. “Why? What for?” 

Percy kept his eyes trained on the lion. “I can’t tell you what’s wrong.” 

There was so much, so much wrong. If Percy told about Cordelia or any of his guilt, it’d all come spilling out. He wouldn’t be able to hold together the dam of emotions he’d been building for years. The dam he’d constructed specifically to keep Ginny safe; It held back all the memories and thoughts of Thicknesse and Umbridge and betrayal .  

“I want to, I do. Please don’t think that this is…” He couldn’t find the words, “That I don’t want to tell you.”

Percy’s head throbbed. Throat still burning he realized he’d never actually accomplished his goal of drinking some water from that morning.

He looked at Charlie once more. Heard his voice crack as Charlie opened his mouth to say something-

Percy didn’t want to hear it, whatever it was. 

“I’ll see you at Christmas, Charlie.”

Then, Percy apperated. 

.

.

.

He washed the blood from his face in the comfort of his own apartment. Drank lukewarm water straight from the tap and changed his clothes without having to worry about someone bursting in or knocking. Not in His apartment; Not his and Oliver’s as it may be legally deemed, but His apartment, the one that didn’t have the smell of warm pottage wafting through it, or the crackle of firewood in the background. 

He’d accidentally kidnapped Godric, so it was in his apartment that he propped the lion in an armchair and it was with one of his pillowcases that he tucked Godric, like a very small blanket. 

Percy felt bad for the little chap; A life, surrounded by Weasleys, only to find yourself entirely alone? He could empathize. Perhaps it was incredibly silly, and virtually pointless as Godric looked like he’d been chewed up and spat out; Percy felt similar.

If Godric were sentient, would he remember Cordelia? Could he recount to Percy the experience of being held in the back of a flying Ford Anglia, or gripped by a bloody man in a pink bedroom?

He wondered when Godric had lost his eye. Was it before or after Percy’s (and supposedly, Cordelia’s) sixth year? Before or after a Weasley child went into an Oubliette?

He could feel the thought turn over in his head, like a child flipping over a stone to see if there were any interesting bugs underneath. 

.

.

.

The next morning saw Percy dressed in a sharp wine red suit, scribe robe folded neatly in his charmed briefcase. Godric was in there as well- the thought of leaving him alone in the apartment was saddening. 

Plus, if Oliver came home for whatever reason, what would Percy have to explain Godric with? A dingy, matted lion with a button eye?

No, Oliver would certainly laugh. He’d tell George or Charlie, who’d tell Ron, who’d tell Harry, and then eventually one of them would tell Ginny, who’d in turn cast a charm on him that’d undoubtedly cause numerous skin abrasions. 

No, Godric stayed with him. Safe, somewhere in the pocket charm of Percy’s briefcase. 

The heels of Percy’s shoes clicked through the dark Ministry halls. He wasn’t taking his time to get to the interrogation rooms, certainly not- he just happened to be in no particular rush. Acquaintances would pass by him and the both of them would exchange quick nods- or, at least, that’s how it’d typically go.

Now Percy found himself on the other side of some puzzled looks, from people he knew had absolutely no business being puzzled. Certainly not about him, anyways. 

He thought maybe Godric’s head or paw or something had gotten caught on the latch of his briefcase, but no. A quick double check reassured him the lion was safely floating in the void space that Percy had shoved him in. Maybe it was his tie or something; A social faux pas he hadn’t caught.

He thought he looked rather dashing in the red outfit, but perhaps it clashed with his hair? 

Coming up on the wooden doors that would swing open into the interrogation room, Percy had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that everyone else knew something he didn’t. Rodney, a particularly sociable guard on lend from the Auror-in-Training department, stood right outside. He also did not nod. 

Percy stilled. “Rodney?”

The guard looked at him, baffled shock running across his face. “Percy! Wasn’t expecting you- what are you doing here?”

“My job?” Percy replied, intensely gripping the cross-shoulder strap of his briefcase. His fingernails dug into the welted leather.

Rodney, for all his pleasant lunch break chatter, knew that Percy was the scribe. There was no way he didn’t. 

But Rodney just looked at him, leaning in like he was passing on sensitive information. “Aren’t you, uh, on leave, Percy?” 

What? 

“What?” 

“The council told us that you’re on paid personal leave, mate,” Rodney sort of shrugged his shoulders, “After the whole, well, you know, Malfoy thing.” 

What? 

…Personal leave?

“Personal leave?” 

“What with the whole- the collapsing bit and what not, remember?” Rodney replied, “Said you’d taken immediate holiday. I figured you’d be in France right now watching Puddlemere play.”

Percy didn’t know what to do with himself.     

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Percy had been doing an awful lot of staring recently. Felt he had good reason to, given the everything of the last twenty-four hours.   He was staring right now, actually, at Rodney’s stupid, pocked face; Simply the backdrop for his brain’s processing.

“Think they’ll make the Premiere this year? I’ve already sunk twenty galleons into them winning against that bloke from legal-” 

Immediate Paid Leave.  Immediate Paid Leave. Immediate Paid Leave.

Percy spun on his heel, leaving Rodney babbling about whatever nonsense he had going for him. 

Immediate Paid Leave. Leave. Leave. Leave.

Leave that he’d personally asked for? Absolutely not. He would never. 

Before the dust of the war had even settled, Percy had returned to work. He’d personally followed Kingsley Shacklebolt into the black lined hall of the Ministry; Watched as the man ushered out the term mudblood and brought down the propaganda posters that had burned their image into Percy’s skull. Had stood by as Kingsley swooped into the Minister’s office.

Kingsley had, for some baffling reason, offered Percy his old position back; To be the right hand man of the new Minister as he restructured  the government from top down. It’d be a lie and a failing to his personal character to say that he hadn’t considered it at least for a second. That he hadn’t been tempted by the personal power Kingsley offered. 

He’d asked for a day to think it over, but knew he didn’t need the time the second he stepped out of Kingsley’s office.

Percy had spent a good portion of his life craving exactly what the new Minister was offering on a silver platter; Thus, Percy absolutely could not accept it. He’d done terrible things in the name of rank and advancement, clearly had a broken moral compass-

No. His new position had to be something thoroughly unenjoyable; Nothing that’d tempt him down a path he’d eagerly sprint down again. So Percy had returned to Kingsley with a proposal that, if he had declined, would have a far more adverse effect:

Percy had wanted to be the scribe again. It was, he felt, the only thing he could do to lessen the guilt- it was the only possible way for Percy to go on living. He’d gotten Fred killed, betrayed everyone who loved him and who he loved back; was unspeakably cruel to them for no reason other than he could be.

So Percy proposed being the scribe again. Said that he’d listen to every terrible thing done during the war; Would write it down, record it for future generations. It wouldn’t matter the crime or the person, Percy would write it. Heinous things that he’d never have dreamt of in a million years, things that made his skin crawl until he only felt clean by taking a boiling shower and scrubbing until his skin was raw and stinging. Maybe one day someone would look back on his notes and think Gods, what horrors, we’ll never let something like this happen again.

And if Kingsley didn’t make him scribe again, he’d kill himself.

Not right there on the spot, of course, as dramatic as that’d be- but he’d made clear to Kingsley that it wasn’t an if, but rather a when type scenario he was proposing. The guilt he carried was just too much to bear. He hoped he’d made it clear in no uncertain terms; If Percy Weasley was not the scribe for every war crime trial and interrogation, then Kingsley or whoever Kingsley hired in his place, was guaranteed to find him dead.    

Hell, maybe he could’ve done it on the spot. Percy hadn’t been one for flair like the twins, but the part of his brain that constantly thought about Fred was occasionally (frequently) dominating the rest. This was the dramatic part; perhaps a Weasley trait that simply had been dormant in him up until Fred’s death. 

(Sometimes, in the dark of night, he thought maybe it was actually Fred, a portion of his spirit that’d attached to his own. Perhaps it was because Fred had died laughing at his joke-)

Did he enjoy being the scribe? Not particularly. But whatever feeling he got from it was infinitely better than the guilt he would be constantly lugging around if he worked the normal job he’d wished for. He probably wouldn’t be able to truly focus on work with the guilt always there, hounding him in spirit and soul. 

And if Percy wasn’t working, then what? What was he?

Just a brother killer? A betrayer, a deserter, a back-stabbing twat with red hair and glasses? What had he done all those terrible things in pursuit of?

So, paid leave? Percy would never. 

He was tearing down the halls, holding his head high and spine straight, just as he always did. Typically people stayed out of his way as he usually towered over them- only once had someone stopped him on his path; A Ministry visitor, who’d asked if Percy had ever considered modeling as a career.

“Are you joking? ” Percy had responded, pushing past the man.

Percy had no such interactions this time around. If anything, people jumped from his path, like he’d mow them over if they didn’t get fast enough. Maybe he would’ve, actually. 

The Minister’s office was fast approaching, and Percy had no idea what he was quite going to do once he got there. The normal, rational part of his brain told him to stop and think this through , but the dramatic part was begging him to burst through the doors and-

And-

And what? 

Off himself right in front of the Minister? He likely wouldn’t get that far before Kingsley would stop him. Percy would find himself magically bound on the floor of the Minister’s office for, unfortunately, not the first time. 

He simply wouldn’t think about that. Nor would he think about how cold the tiles had been against his cheek, nor how hard they felt when he’d been thrashing against them-

Percy rounded off the last corner before the Minister’s office like he was trying to outrun something. Wished that he hadn’t worn his nice new suit, because now it’d be forever tainted by this day.

The door to the Minister’s office was open, just a sliver. Light cracked out from it and Percy stilled his hand in it’s glow as he took in the sound of voices. Evidently, the Minister had visitors already. And while Percy’s body ached to rush in, he instead forced himself to slow. Hovered his hand over the black wood until his fingertips brushed against the grain. 

“And what would you have us do instead?” Percy heard Kingsley’s loud voice; Loud because that’s simply how the man spoke, not because he was angry. “What would you prefer for him?” 

He recognized the second person from their sigh alone; The way that Percy’s body reacted, tensing up on subconscious command. 

“I don’t know, Kingsley. Anything else. You know how capable Percy is- he’s a brilliant boy.” 

Arthur Weasley was on the other side of the door. Percy’s hand ghosted against the door handle. 

“I don’t know. I just don’t.” Percy could hear Arthur pinching the bridge of his nose. “Put him somewhere vital, but harmless. Something like, er- the Department of Magical Transportation?”

Vital, but harmless. 

Put Percy somewhere he couldn’t cause damage. 

“I’ve never understood his thinking or drive. I reckon that if Molly’s brothers hadn’t- Well, she’s always said he’s just like them. Headstrong. Dedicated. I think it’s his worst flaw in fact, loyalty to the point of blindness. Doesn’t even realize who he’s really hurting.”

His fingers felt made of needles. They were discussing moving him somewhere where he wouldn’t hurt people. 

Shuffle him about the Ministry until they found a nice broom closet to stuff Percy in; A place to hide the bad, non-war hero Weasley out of sight. 

Kingsley chuckled. “He’s a Gryffindor, through and through. Without a doubt.”

There was a moment of silence. 

“You know I offered him this position originally.”

“… Did you?” 

It was asked like a surprise. 

Had he been expecting Percy to gloat about it? Come home to the burrow, Fred’s body still warm, and brag about being the Minister’s assistant again? About how he was still the minister’s assistant, even after Arthur had said he was only promoted because he was a Weasley?

Arthur went on, “But he didn’t take it?” 

“No. He turned me down.” Kingsley responded. 

In his mind’s eye Percy could see the man perfectly, leaning with crossed arms in front of his desk, ankles crossed. Could see his father in front of him, seated in one of the office armchairs with a slight slouch. His cane would probably be at his side or perhaps between his legs, supporting his upper body as he leaned forward. 

“Why?”

Percy braced himself-

“He had his reasons.”

He waited for Kingsley to elaborate. To tell his father about how he’d weaponized suicide to get the scribe position.  

And he waited. 

And waited. 

“Right.”

Was- was Kingsley not going to elaborate? Or had he thought Percy was bluffing a year ago? 

“He can’t stay where he is, Kingsley. Unlike Molly and the children I know what Grave Emotional Disturbance means. I was able to blessedly convince Molly that it just meant shock, but…” 

It was just shock.  

“He was supposed to come home, Kingsley. Molly is in a state, Charlie took extended leave-” 

Percy knew realistically that he shouldn’t be hearing this. The office door had been closed. This was, in every legal definition he could think of, a conversation Percy should not be hearing. His legs felt constructed of gelatin and a burning in his chest informed him that he’d stopped breathing. But the ice cold feeling to know more, understand more kept him still.  

He’d been unconsciously holding his breath since Arthur’s first sigh. 

“Oliver brought him right to us, and we- we still- he wouldn’t even look at me, Kingsley. Sat right at the table with me and, Merlin, it felt like he wasn’t even there.” 

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I can’t imagine.” Kingsley's voice was firm, but soft. Gentle in a way Percy didn’t quite recognize. 

“I just want my son back. We already lost Fred-“

Percy’s head was thrumming.

Oliver brought him right to us. 

“Kingsley, we can’t take another loss. I can’t, Molly certainly,” Arthur’s voice cracked, “It feels like he’s already gone. Never even came back to us. And I can’t help but to blame-“

Percy’s hands moved of their own accord, palms smashing against his ears so fast that he’d boxed them. Sudden deafness thundered through him, completely shutting down his senses. He felt himself stumble back, eyes watering from the pain-

He had to go. He had to go now. But he couldn’t hear anything and everything felt terribly fuzzy; Percy felt himself fall to his knees, hitting the hard tiles. Everything swam in a distinctly different way than it had before with Cordelia’s memory-

Percy was so, so, so vaguely aware of someone touching him. Patting his shoulder, gripping his knee- keeping him upright. Percy opened his eyes.  

“Percy? Can you hear me?” 

Rodney’s pocked face swirled in Percy’s vision. Percy blinked once- twice- then Rodney’s face was in full focus and far too close. When the hell had he gotten here?

And as soon as Percy could make out the details on Rodney’s face (Brown hair, brown eyes, an odd permanent reddish color on his cheeks) something happened- the Minister’s office door was thrown open. Both he and Rodney were bathed in the warm glow of the office as it spilled out.

“Percy? Percy!” It was his father’s voice. He could tell through the soft rumble and cadence of speech, even though Percy could barely hear. 

Arthur was kneeling to Percy’s level, shadowed by what could only be Kingsley’s dominant form. They cut through the light and Percy’s eyes were struggling to keep up. They were saying something- it seemed everyone was talking, and Percy felt it’d be easier to understand them if his ears didn’t feel underwater. 

“What happened, Rodney?”

“I don’t know, Minister, Sir, I swear,” Rodney was answering and Percy realized it wasn’t Rodney gripping his knee anymore, it was his father, “I was following him from the trial rooms and only just caught up-”

“He was in the trial room?” 

“No, Sir, I didn’t let him in, but he took off sprinting and he’s bloody fast-”

Arthur’s hands were ghosting over Percy’s own, cane laying abandoned between them. 

“How long was he here?” Arthur’s voice, “Percy, can you hear me?”

Did it matter how long he’d been here, listening?  Even if he’d missed all the earlier context, he’d never get the last bit out of his brain-

“And I can’t help but to blame-“

Him. Percy. His father blamed him because who else?

Percy was, by all means, to be blamed for every bad thing that’d been done to the Weasley family in the past years. 

He hadn’t mauled Bill’s face, but if he’d been there, perhaps he could’ve fixed it. He hadn’t been there when the burrow burned, but maybe if he had been, he could’ve helped mediate the damage. He hadn’t been at the wedding, but maybe if he had been, his absence wouldn’t have felt like such a gaping hole between him and the rest of his siblings. 

It didn’t matter. Percy could flay himself alive in front of them all and it wouldn’t undo the damage or change the fact that he was the worst of them all. 

Percy opened his eyes. Looked up into his father’s face and for the first time finally saw the toll the man had taken from the past few years; His father looked like he hadn’t slept a day in his life. He looked like someone who’d once gained and lost a significant amount of weight, his features heavy and creased. 

Percy’s ears still rang. Sitting here on the Ministry floor, his knees ached with future bruises. 

“Dad.” Percy said. He went with dad and not father. 

Arthur looked at him and with a sick drop in his stomach, Percy realized he could no longer read his father’s expressions. 

“Percy?”

“Dad, I’m sorry I never visited you in hospital. In St. Mungos, after your attack.” He considered adding an apology for their big fight all those years ago, “I’m so, so sorry, Dad.”

Arthur sighed. Closed his eyes, which Percy took as an avoidance- a thought that’d never occurred to him before was suddenly echoing in his skull. 

Maybe his father was glad Percy had never come to visit.  

That morning, Percy had had a piece of toast and butter for breakfast. A black coffee with two teaspoons of sugar. Not the food for apperating when someone had repeatedly fainted or been bleeding. Nor was this the place to be apperating- Kingsley’s office had been coated in anti-apparition charms that Percy had helped set. 

But it wouldn’t be impossible to get past them. 

“Percy,” His name sounded heavy in his father’s mouth, “I-“

The second that Arthur pulled his hands from Percy to fold in on his lap, Percy jumped. He threw Rodney’s hand off of his shoulder and grit his teeth until they cracked-

Percy apperated. 

.

.

.

Miraculously and most confusingly, Percy landed in his bathtub. A good spot, he jokingly supposed, since he’d been splinched in the jump. 

Both his left ring finger and pinkie were gone, blood pouring down from where they once were. 

Actually it was leagues better than what he’d been anticipating. A few fingers were a fine trade, in his book, for getting the fuck out of there as soon as possible. And it was a complete bonus that he was in the bathtub; Cleanup would be incredibly easy. 

He fumbled for his wand and grabbed it from the slick pouch of his briefcase, trying his best not to coat the leather in his own blood. He had documents in there that he’d rather not turn in with blood stains, and somewhere within Godric still floated about. That poor lion had probably seen a lifetime of Weasley child tears, snot, and drool- Percy wasn’t antsy to add blood to the mix. 

A quick tourniquet spell stopped the flow of blood significantly, but not completely. His fingers were gone to the base knuckle, so once he was able to heal them it’d be almost like he’d never had them at all. He prayed that the adjustment period would be quick. For now though, the tourniquet spell would have to do; Percy was cramped in the bathtub, legs bent at the knees under his body. All of the various soap and shampoo bottles had fallen on top of him, and something that smelled like rosemary was running down his chest.

He was damp. The water hadn’t fully dried from his shower that morning. He could feel his own blood soaking into his coat and his ears still rang from the accidental boxing. 

And yet Percy couldn’t find the will within himself to move. Not just yet. He liked the safety the tall tub walls had to offer. 

.

.

.

He kept dropping things, including himself. Getting out of the tub an hour or so later had been ridiculously difficult; he kept leaning for support on a hand only half there. He’d stumbled into the toilet and had dropped the kettle when he went to put it on, and very nearly lost a teacup Oliver had brought him from abroad. 

Alright yeah, Percy could admit he was a bit of a mess. His suit was probably irreparable- it’d somehow ripped when he’d apperated, the entire back of his coat sporting a tear from shoulder to shoulder. In addition to the detached fingers he’d also gained a rip through his forearm that wrapped down his hand; Mostly just aesthetically damaging, but still painful and ugly. He’d tried to stem the remaining blood flow from his now stumpy hand with a tea towel. Blood seeped through the towel’s decorative spotted owl pattern.

It was now the thirteenth of December. He had a little under two weeks until Christmas- maybe if he bought some fast acting healing cream, he could reduce the scar damage before seeing his family. Play it off as a wound they just hadn’t noticed- not that he thought they’d particularly care about a scar on Percy’s body. 

Hell, George only had one ear. Ron’s shoulder looked like it’d been reattached with razor wire. 

The fingers though; What was he to say about that? 

What was he going to say when he saw his father next? Perhaps he should apologize for the fingers he’d left behind- apologize for the mess that Percy was sure had pooled up on the ministry floor tiles. It wasn’t fair for them to have to clean up his splinching mess. His father and his boss and the random auror-in-training that’d been assigned to him.

He idlily imagined what they did with the severed digits as he waited for his tea to steep. Had Arthur picked them up and tossed them in the bin? Did they wait for a janitor to sweep them up? Percy didn’t like the mental image of his fingers being swept up and dumped, like they were someone’s spilt crisps. 

At least Percy could take solace in knowing that none of them knew where he lived. No one could just show up here except for Oliver; The only way the other Weasley’s could contact him was via owl post. All they needed for that was his name- not an address. So Percy relaxed in his house clothes, having changed out of his ruined suit, with a hot cup of tea in his non-mangled hand. 

Of course the only thing Percy hadn’t considered was Oliver.  

Had Oliver told them where Percy lived or even that they lived together? Percy had gone out of his way to avoid the subject of him and Oliver living together- nothing to be embarrassed about, but he didn’t want the teasing that’d inevitably come with. He was the first Weasley child that’d moved out with a roommate; Percy had been glad when Oliver asked to live with him, as that meant he didn’t have to ask Oliver himself. 

Percy could only imagine the teasing from Fred and George and Ginny if they’d known-

Percy and Oliver, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

The tea burnt his lip. Earl grey with the tiniest dash of cream. 

It’d always been just him and Oliver. Percy had no working memory of the oubliette boy Patrick, so he was hesitant to try and force the boy into his memories. All seven years at Hogwarts it’d been just Percy and Oliver; The third Weasley boy and a half-blood boy with a Scottish accent thicker than a morning’s fog. Two beds in a room that’d held dozens in previous Gryffindor generations; The previous wizarding war had decimated the child-producing generation. 

Percy and Oliver would share mealtimes and study sessions, attended classes in rooms that were fit to hold thirty Gryffindor students. But it was always just them. The year above them, between Percy and Charlie, contained three Gryffindor boys. The year below; Four. Fred and George had five including them and Lee, and Harry and Ron also had five. Ginny’s had six or maybe seven- Percy couldn’t remember.  

But Percy and Oliver had been alone. Just the two of them in their Gryffindor tower. They’d figured out similar schedules and when Percy made Prefect and later Head Boy, Oliver had adjusted his schedule to fit Percy’s. Together they’d go to the library so Percy could study while Oliver drafted Quidditch plans; Together they’d go to Hogsmeade and look at books, and Oliver would buy them butterbeers with the allowance his mother sent him. 

Percy would write letters to Oliver’s mother when Oliver would win a game, but also when he’d take a bludger to the head. Percy would bring Oliver his homework in the hospital wing when he’d miss class, and would recite the notes he’d dutifully taken for them both. Percy would do his homework on the Quidditch pitch up until fifth year, when he found himself performing prefect duties instead. 

If Percy were sick, Oliver would bring him food from the kitchens. They’d eaten breakfast and dinner together almost every day since they were eleven; They’d occasionally snuck down to the kitchens together at night when they were going through growth spurts. 

Of course it hadn’t been idyllic- they’d gotten on each other’s nerves every so often. Occasionally Oliver would sleep in the common room on one of the couches, like Percy was his wife who’d exiled him from the bedroom. Percy would get annoyed and would make the excuse of prefect duties to go for a long walk after curfew. Their fights had been few and far in between; Usually centered around one keeping the other up too late from studying, or something so asinine that Percy would forget in a few days. 

Occasionally Percy would come into their dorm after a long library night or patrol round and find Oliver still awake. He’d be clearly exhausted from captain duties but’d play it off as I wanted to go over the last Puddlemere formations anyways. Sometimes, mainly in their last year when Percy would patrol at night and the Dementors were making the castle seem so much colder, Percy would get back to the room around dawn. Oliver would be so tired that his accent would slip fully back into an almost indecipherable Scottish timbre, but he’d stay adamant that he wasn’t staying up for Percy’s sake- he was just so focused on winning the Quidditch Cup that he’d lost track of time. 

Occasionally on those nights, Oliver would say something entirely in Gaelic once Percy was in bed and the lights were out:

“Oiche Mhaith, M’eudail.”

Percy had always taken it as a goodnight- so he’d respond, properly wishing Oliver a good night’s rest in the dark of their dorm. 

He missed Oliver, now, in the kitchen. The other man’s Quidditch practice schedule was so tight and rigorous after the sport had resumed post-war that Percy hardly saw him- and before, Percy had been so busy at the Ministry that he’d barely come home. He’d hated it, Oliver had hated it, and Percy knew that the hardest nights of them all were the ones where Oliver had had to carry Percy home from his office.

It’d never been because Percy was exhausted. 

They don’t talk about those nights. 

And now Percy was alone and lightly mutilated, drinking a hot cup of tea while Oliver played as starting keeper for Puddlemere somewhere in Nice. They’d been playing against the french teams recently; the whole league was trying to catch up for the games they’d missed during war time, meaning Oliver would be gone for a while.  

And that was fine. 

Percy was fine. 

.

.

.

Percy is eleven and scared of the boats bobbing in front of him. They look so flimsy and Charlie’s stories about the giant squid in Black Lake has firmly set Percy’s nerves alight- he’s scared of the boats. He won’t say this, of course, because it doesn’t seem like any of the other first years are frightened. Just him. Cordelia had broken away from him somewhere in the tiny crowd of eleven year olds; It’s too dark for him to see her matching bright red curls, and his glasses keep slipping down the bridge of his nose. 

“ Halò?” 

A boy has approached him, startling Percy. He’d been so busy staring at the waiting boats that he’d forgotten there were other children here. 

“Ciamar a tha thu? Is mise Oliver.” 

Percy, forgetting all of his manners, stares at the boy. He’s got huge brown eyes and long lashes, and soft looking hair cut straight across his forehead, tucked under a dark beanie. He’s blinking at Percy expectantly, and then:

“Oh, right, Da said most of you’d be English. Sorry,” He’s sticking his hand out to Percy now, “‘m Oliver. Just wanted to ask if you’re feeling alright? You look a bit… off.” 

Percy shakes his hand for only a second, then wraps his cloak around himself tightly. He’s wearing Cordelia’s christmas sweater and she his- her’s is made of a softer fabric that doesn’t make his skin itch, but it’s not as warm as the wool. “I’m just cold.” 

It’s the wrong answer evidently, as suddenly Oliver is taking off his beanie and pulling it over Percy’s head. It covers his eyes until Oliver adjusts it; Percy is too shocked to move.

“Brought all my hats with me, if you want to borrow this one.” Oliver is smiling, a crooked thing that instantly warms Percy’s chest, “Da’s a fisherman, so I’ve got ‘bout a hundred.” 

Percy’s about to respond, stutter out a thank you to Oliver when a whistle blows- “Everybody on the boats!” 

“Oh, damn,” Oliver says, turning towards the water, “We’re the only ones left! C’mon!” 

Together they dash hand-in-hand to the last boat in the lake. Oliver clambers in like it’s something he’s done a million times before, and then holds out his hand to help Percy step down from the dock. “Here, sit at the front, It won’t make you as sick.” 

“Last call! All expecting first years, get on the boats!” 

“Oy!” Oliver shouts, running to the back of the small boat. He’s shouting at a sprinting figure still out on the rocky beach, “C’mon, we’ll hold for you!”  

As the other boats are pulling away from them, the figure is sprinting and stumbling, tripping over their shoes. Briefly they’re on the ground and there’s a sharp cry- then they’re up again and running. They’re on the dock and panting, then they’re flying at the boat, grabbing Oliver’s outstretched hand. The boat violently rocks as a tiny body hits it with full force, collapsing and dragging Oliver with them.  

“Percy!” The child shouts, and Percy instantly recognizes Cordelia’s voice, “Percy, I couldn’t find him! I looked everywhere!” 

Then Cordelia is up and grabbing him by the shoulders. The boat is pulling away from the dock of it’s own accord now, “What? Find who?” 

“What do you mean, who, Percy, the SQUID! I couldn’t see the squid anywhere!” She’s looking at him as if he’s completely missed the point of this whole journey- She’s got a sharp gash on her chin and her tights are ripped at the knees.

He’s embarrassed of her- heat flushes his cheeks even in the cold night air. 

Just past her Percy can see Oliver standing and resettling himself. “Are you a friend of Percy’s?” 

Cordelia stares at Oliver, like she hadn’t noticed him there before, hands still gripping Percy’s shoulders. Her hair is everywhere, the thick curls like his own blowing in the lake wind. 

“Oliver, this is my sister, Cordelia,” Percy says, since Cordelia isn’t saying anything, “Cordelia, this is Oliver.” 

Oliver holds out a hand to her but Cordelia doesn’t take it. Instead she just looks at it, then back at Percy and the hat upon his head before slowly and robotically shaking Oliver’s hand. 

“Hullo, Oliver.” She says, “Thank you for catching me.” 

“Oh, it was no problem.”

She squints at him as he smiles back- she hasn’t released his hand. 

“So, Oliver,” She says, gripping his hand with both of hers, “Do YOU know anything about giant squids?”

When Oliver says no she lets out an exasperated huff and turns away from the both of them. She clambers over the opposite side of the boat and stares down into the water, and tentatively sticks a hand in. 

.

.

.

By the time they make it into the castle Oliver and Cordelia are arguing, and Percy feels the familiar sense of nausea from the lapping waves. Oliver had asked him what house he’d be sorted into; Percy confidently and coolly responded with Gryffindor, of course. 

But what if it wasn’t Gryffindor? What if he was the first Weasley in however many generations to be sorted into a different house? Ravenclaw, maybe, he was smart- 

“A broom being made of birch would definitely NOT be faster, Oliver. It’d snap under your weight and you’d fall and probably break all your stupid Scottish bones-” 

“Oh, because you’re such an expert on flying? You JUST said both you and Perse get broom-sick- Also my surname is literally WOOD, I think I know what I’m-” 

He didn’t want to risk being separated from Cordelia. As long as they went together, it wouldn’t matter what house they were in; If she went into Ravenclaw, He’d go into Ravenclaw. They could be the first Weasleys in however many generations to not get sorted into Gryffindor, together. Hell, maybe they’d be sorted into Slytherin- Charlie and Bill always joked that Percy would fit into the house perfectly with his pompous attitude.  

Percy just hoped it was the same house as Oliver.

They grouped in front of the doors to the Great Hall, and Percy’s heart was in his throat. He looked at Cordelia-

She looked back at him. Smiled. Grabbed his hand and gripped it so firmly in her own that it hurt. “It’ll be okay, Percy. I promise. You agree, right, Oliver?” 

Percy flipped his head and Oliver was right there next to him, smiling his crooked smile. “Absolutely.”

Cordelia doesn’t let go of his hand as they walk through the doors. The group of first years isn’t large- maybe twenty if Percy had to estimate. They go through all the motions of being awed by the ceilings and the candles and the tables full of older students, and then the first among them is being called up to the sorting hat. Percy feels so small amongst them all and tightens his grip on Cordelia’s hand.  

It’s funny, Percy thinks, that they’ve managed to befriend the one person whose name comes later in the alphabet. All the other students have been sorted and sat by the time Cordelia’s name is called. Her hand sweatily sticks to Percy’s as she pulls away, and then she’s wiping it on her cloak as she approaches the stool. 

She sits, and Percy finally sees her under the light. Her skin is scraped and bleeding along her chin and she has a split lip from her sprint to the boat, and her tights have laddered up her thighs. She looks at him as the hat is placed on her head- she only looks at Percy, not even bothering to look around for their brothers in the crowd. 

She’s scared. He can’t tell if she’s even breathing- maybe it’s finally occurred to her that they might not be sorted together.

“Hmmm, a Weasley girl, interesting!” The hat says, “Haven’t had one of you in ages.”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t emote in any way beyond clenching her jaw and gripping the stool edges until her knuckles are white.

“I see… intelligence, yes, but also an extreme propensity for foolishness… Best be GRYFFINDOR!” 

She takes off the hat as the table erupts into violent cheers- she’s the first and only Gryffindor girl. There’d only been three girls in the whole group of first years; Hufflepuff would be going without any new female students. 

And then it was Percy’s turn. He got up on the stool and squinted behind his thick glasses; Cordelia was fighting against Bill to look at Percy as the older brother fought to look at her busted lip, she was maybe biting him- Charlie was looking at Percy with a huge lopsided grin, his hair flopping down around his ears. 

The hat didn’t even touch Percy’s head. 

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

Percy practically sprinted down the aisle into the seat next to Charlie. 

Which left Oliver Wood as the last to be sorted. He walked up to the stool and hesitantly sat on it. Percy felt he was finally getting a good look at the boy- he had high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes. The sorting hat dwarfed him as it was placed upon his crown. 

He looked at Percy, then closed his eyes. 

“Ah, a scotsman! I see an analytical mind, dedication, and a lack of a proper fear response. GRYFFINDOR!” 

Oliver beamed, his smile crooked. 

It was just them.

.

.

.

It was a howler that woke Percy up, not the piercing pain behind his eyes.

“PERCY FUCKING WEASLEY-” 

Blood dripped from his nose- he could feel it pooling in the couch cushion beneath his face, wet and warm.

“WHEN I FIGURE OUT WHERE YOU BLOODY LIVE-”

Was that Ronald? Interesting. It sounded like Ronald. 

“YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING SHIT ASS GIT OF A BROTHER-”

Definitely Ronald. Briefly, Percy wondered how Ron’s auror-in-training lessons were going. Was he enjoying them? Percy hoped his brother would find fulfillment in them.

“WELL I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’LL DO ONCE I GET THERE BUT SO HELP ME MERLIN-”

Hmm. Ron clearly hadn’t thought the whole Howler message through. There was an odd sniffling sound in the back of Ron’s voice. 

“PRACTICALLY GAVE DAD A FUCKING STROKE- FINGERS? LEFT BEHIND YOUR FUCKING FINGERS-”

Percy was vaguely aware he was missing some of the words- his head felt heavy. His whole body felt like lead. Something in the back of his skull was pinging, and each ping brought a new wave of pain, and each wave of pain made Percy’s body shudder.

“- HAD TO TAKE HIM OUT OF THE MINISTRY MYSELF, AND CHARLIE’S GONE BLOODY RABID-

Hmm. Genuinely, Percy had not meant for this to happen. He pulled one of his decorative cushions over his head in an attempt to drown out Ron’s voice. 

“AND ONCE WE’RE ABLE TO GET OLIVER-”

Oliver?

Oliver, Oliver? 

Oliver, he brought Percy right to us, Oliver? 

Fuck. 

Percy made a mental note to send Ron a thank you note for the tip off. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Percy did not want Oliver to be seeing him like this; Mangled and bleeding. In their darkest days before the final battle, Oliver had seen Percy in this state countless times. When he’d carry Percy home from his Ministry office, one leg looped under Percy’s knees and the other around his back. Percy’s brain would be scrambled from hours of the Cruciatus curse after one of Thicknesse’s personal interrogations; He could barely remember the feel of his forehead resting in the crook of Oliver’s neck; how Oliver’s chin would be rough with stubble.

How he smelled of rosemary. The memory is potent, yet blurry.

Percy had sworn to them he didn’t know Ron or Harry’s location. He’d told them he hadn’t had any contact with his family in two years at that point; That he was effectively and immediately ex-communicated that fateful day outside the burrow. Told them that he hadn’t even seen his own father, who worked in the same building in the time after. 

It hadn’t made a difference. They hadn’t been after answers, just pain, which actually had worked incredibly in his favor. He’d done what he could trapped behind enemy lines; Swapped records and burnt memos, blanked out registries of muggle-born names. He’d sent what slim information he could to Aberforth and Kingsley hidden in the form of invoices and bills, but none of that was enough. It would never be enough for Percy to justify his actions, and-  

It wouldn’t be fair for Oliver to have to come home to yet another broken Percy Weasley. Not after he’d finally gotten to play Quidditch again; It was not Oliver Wood’s eternal responsibility to patch Percy up. It wasn’t his job when Percy was tortured by his bosses, or when Percy tortured himself night after night .   

With a very unbecoming groan, Percy dragged himself up. The couch cushion tried to follow him. Shreds of Ron’s howler laid across Percy’s nice rug. They were curled and slightly burnt from the letter’s implosion- bright strips of scarlet everywhere he looked. One stuck to Percy’s bare foot. 

He couldn’t stay here. 

Percy wasn’t ready for Oliver to be here; His strong and strikingly handsome Oliver Wood, who Percy was certain must’ve been getting at least slightly frustrated at Percy’s gross incompetence. Oliver was an athlete, one of the up-and-coming rising stars of the Quidditch world; and Percy was his flatmate that kept pulling him from the game. He should’ve been focusing on becoming the star keeper of Puddlemere United now that Quidditch resumed, so that he could one day be their unanimous captain. 

Percy, frankly, was quite excited to proofread Oliver’s future team-rallying speeches. He’d done it for all the ones Oliver had given in school to the Gryffindor team. Had bristled with unspoken pride every time his siblings complained about Oliver keeping them up all hours of the night, especially when they’d mention a phrase that’d been one of Percy’s addendums. That he wrote words that Oliver found inspirational enough to share; It was a wonderful feeling.

But those future speeches would never get written if Percy kept needing Oliver to sew him back together. 

He should pack. Yes, he should be packing. 

Furthermore, if Oliver came and saw Percy, he’d bring Percy straight home to his parents. And, apparently, a rabid Charlie Weasley (frightening) and a Ronald Weasley intent on serving Percy his own arse on a silver platter (barely frightening). He had no idea about the others; If they’d even care at all really that Percy seemed to be having some kind of traumatic breakdown. Maybe Ginny would send him a note telling him to pull himself together. 

It was suddenly occurring to Percy that he didn’t own any suitcases. He had his briefcase, magically enhanced to fit all sorts of things, but nothing to carry a good amount of clothes with. Perhaps he could borrow one of  Oliver’s duffels-

If Percy went back to his parents, he’d have no choice but to explain Cordelia and her oubliette. He wouldn’t be able to look at Charlie without feeling vomit on his legs. Wouldn’t be able to look at Bill without thinking of him clutching at fat cheeks, trying to restrain them long enough to repair the split lip between them. Those were the only memories Percy had had so far, but more were coming, he knew. And he still wasn’t certain they were real. Were they real events that’d happened and been altered? Or were they part of the whatever-the-fuck Narcissa had done to him in the trial room? 

Was Cordelia real? Part of Percy felt she had to have been real- not once had he ever, ever, tried to find out if the giant squid was real. It was, for a fact, real, but he’d never gone out of his way to confirm such a thing. 

And if Cordelia was real, what was Percy to do? If he did manage to explain, would his siblings start having violent memories the same as his? Would his siblings start waking up with bloody noses and splitting headaches? What if one of these memories happened during something important; One of Ginny’s games? If she fell from a significant height-

Percy couldn’t let that happen. He could never let that happen. Of all the things he’d done and hadn’t done- No. Percy would protect them. He’d protect them this time, instead of leaving them. 

He grabbed one of Oliver’s old Quidditch duffles, yanking it free from the depths of Oliver’s closet. It smelled strongly of wet grass and rosemary soap even though Percy was certain the man hadn’t touched it in years. Percy didn’t mind the smell of course; He was about to sleep someplace other than his apartment for the first time in years. He was glad it smelled of Oliver. 

The bag was one of the only things in the closet, actually. A box full of objects that Oliver had labelled Hogwarts Shite and some of Percy’s spare dress robes were the only other occupants. At some point in time Oliver’s presence in the apartment had become so infrequent that his room was no more than a spare study- Oliver hadn’t even furnished it out completely. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to Percy that he had no clue where the man slept when he stayed over.

Perhaps he really and truly was just Percy’s flatmate on parchment alone.  

There was a sharp throb of pain in his hand where there were now raw joints, and at some point in his rummaging of the apartment, his arm had ripped back open. Blood leaked from the wound, but he was busy, so he ignored it. He was grabbing random objects that he thought he would maybe need in the coming days; His extra quills and ink, books on dark magic he’d picked up over the years, and anything else he could stuff in next to his clothes. He hadn’t taken any of his nice clothing- didn’t want to ruin another expensive suit with his stupidity. 

Various teas gifted from Oliver made it into the duffle, as did Godric. A puzzle box that George had given him in the quiet hours they’d spent together at Fred’s grave also made the short list of items taken. 

When he’d moved the first time- No, when he’d deserted them all after that fateful argument, Percy hadn’t taken anything sentimental with him. All the gifts he’d ever gotten at Christmastime or for his birthday were still at the burrow, and that was maybe the true difference for Percy between then and now. He was allowing himself to be sentimental. 

He had no idea how far out Oliver might be. It’d take an owl likely two or three days to make it from Ottery St. Catchpole to Nice, unless somehow his father was able to utilize the Ministry’s quick alert system. Or Ron, now that he was there. And Percy had fallen asleep after his cup of tea earlier- the sky was quickly becoming a dark, dusty blue through the windows. 

In short; Percy wasn’t cleaning up any of his messes as he went. He’d left the bathroom covered in bloody pools of water, and left a mostly empty teacup on the coffee table. A large bloodstain had accumulated on the couch where he’d taken his face-down nap, surrounded by the red strips of a howler. The kitchen looked like it’d been the scene of something awful; The bloody tea towel he’d used to stem his blood lay in a heap on the counter. He could track exactly where his arm had ripped back open via the blood smears across the cabinet doors. 

He didn’t have time to clean it. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep and how his family was getting ahold of Oliver; Every minute Percy stayed was another minute he risked Oliver popping into the room, or flooing through the fireplace. 

He scribbled a quick note on a piece of scrap parchment- Apologies for the mess, Oliver. He contemplated adding an I promise I wasn’t murdered, just splinched, but when he thought about it, that sounded suspiciously like something a murderer would write.

Percy didn’t want to frighten Oliver, but couldn’t give him any crumbs of information. For all his worth Oliver was practically a trained tactician, so Percy just left it at that: 

Apologies for the mess, Oliver. 

With love, Percy. 

And then Percy was sprinting from the apartment, door slamming behind him. He tore down the stairs with Oliver’s duffle bag tossed over his shoulder. If he’d left anything behind that was important, well, fuck it; He’d deal with the fallout of this decision when he absolutely couldn’t avoid it any further. But right now, with a duffle of books and clothes and tea tins bouncing against his back, Percy’s job was to get as much space as possible between him and anyone he cared about.

.

.

.

By the time night had fully draped across the city, Percy was exhausted. His bag was heavy, his left arm burnt and ached, and he didn’t know where the hell he was going. Even with all his intelligence and dedication and proficiency in quick map memorization, Percy was lost. Lost on exactly how to go about removing himself from the picture, but also physically lost, dragging a duffle bag down a London sidewalk. He’d patch it up before returning the bag to Oliver, of course.

Seemingly every place he’d ever been before in his whole life was exposed in some way; Unsafe, or at high risk of a Weasley or Weasley-adjacent person travelling through it. The Leaky Cauldron had been one of his first considerations- but that’d put him in Diagon Alley, only a few turns away from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes . The Hog’s Head was an option, except Hogsmeade was still full of people who’d recognize fiery red hair as distinctly Weasley, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near Hogwarts. Plus, even though he’d been instrumental in Percy’s miniscule rebellion, Aberforth did not make for good conversation.

So Percy sat in a public muggle park, exhausted and reclining on a bench with the duffle as his pillow. A large, waterfalling fountain bubbled only a few short feet away and, given the fountain’s proximity to multiple apartment buildings, it probably doubled as some sort of entrance to the Ministry. So Percy wasn’t exactly safe here, either. Not that sleeping in a public park was a dream of his, but-

He wished he were at home. He wanted a cup of hot tea, and he wanted to brush his teeth, and he wanted to listen to the Quidditch report on the radio. He desperately wanted to know if the Holyhead Harpies had won their match against the Chudley Cannons; If Ginny had scored more goals than she had last match, so that he could record it in his journal. He liked to tally both her and Oliver’s averages; Just a small hobby he kept up on in his free evening. Percy was so, so, so proud of her. She didn’t know and probably didn’t care, but he hoped she was having fun up there in the air, wherever she was.

With a pang, Percy remembered he’d left his hobby journal behind. It’d remained on the small end table between the couch and the windows, not mentally important enough for his short list.

Ah- well, he wouldn’t be gone for long.  

He stared up at the stars. Rather, he stared up at the void where stars would be if it weren’t for London’s light pollution. Astronomy was one of the classes he’d taken in seventh year; A cold and hefty course located at the top of the aptly named astronomy tower. The cold up there was absolutely biting- not unlike it was now, with Percy still dressed in his house clothes in the December air. He hadn’t bothered to change; The internal timer he’d set simply wouldn’t allow for it.

Had Oliver made it to the apartment already? Had he found Percy’s note and set about quik-cleaning spells to take care of the blood? Percy could vividly see it; Oliver standing in their apartment, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he’d be in his Quidditch uniform still- Percy had always found the smell of the leather comforting, ever since Oliver had gotten on the team in their second year. Charlie had brought the young boy on the team after Oliver’s first try-out. 

Maybe Charlie would come by just to confirm for himself that Percy wasn’t there. Ron too, maybe.  

Someone passed by Percy’s bench. A muggle man, presumably, walking a mutt on a short leash. The dog sniffed at Percy’s injured hand before being yanked roughly away.

Oh, if only his pompous seventeen year old self could see him now. Luxuriating on a park bench, head resting on a stolen duffle, forearm oozing, missing two fingers and forced to leave his Ministry position. That Percy would be aghast- incapable of thinking himself capable of causing such a mess. He almost missed that Percy; The one who’d taken an assignment about cauldron depth and made it his whole personality. The one who’d so firmly believed that if he just followed the rules, everything would work out in his favor. Percy with an unwavering belief that the forces-that-be would reward him for his dedication and devotion to order. 

That’d been before Fudge, Scrimgeour, and Thicknesse had done him the favor of robbing him of such daft innocence. Fudge had embarrassed him in front of his family at the Quidditch World Cup. Scrimgeour had proven to anyone with eyes that Percy’s dedication to law and order was not because of any sense of moral rightness, but rather an attraction to power. And Thicknesse-

Thicknesse. 

Percy blinked. He hadn’t really known Pius Thicknesse at all - he’d just known the Death Eater controlled puppet version of him. Thicknesse had been relocated after his initial interrogation; The man had provided what he could and, to his credit, seemed genuinely remorseful for his involuntary actions. Before he’d become Minister, Thicknesse had been a renowned Auror. He’d been Head Auror for going on twenty years before being drowned in his own head-

He had been, quite respectably, one of the best informed people on Dark Arts in the world. An expert in magical crimes.

And Percy knew where he’d been relocated. Technically he was sworn to privacy as a scribe, but this was directly related to interrogation business. Just like he’d fudged false snatcher reports, he could fudge this as well; Call it an official scribe follow up report.  

Adrenaline rushing through him, triggered by the possibility of getting some bloody answers, Percy was up. With a wave of his wand he was summoning the Knight Bus; It practically ran over him when it pulled up seconds later. 

The doors opened. Percy had never been a fan of the bus for the same reason he wasn’t fond of Father’s car; His stomach couldn’t handle it. 

“Gooooood evenin’, Sir, do ya got a ticket?” The conductor was still Stan Shunpike; He and Rodney had similarly pocked faces. 

“No,” Percy replied curtly, “But I’d like a bed.”

“Right, ‘m sure we could do that for ya. Destination?” 

Percy hesitated. He knew that there were rumours that Stan Shunpike was worse than a gossip; The man was a compulsive liar. But still- Percy was in no mood to take chances. He reached out with his mangled hand and grasped Stan’s elbow, yanking him forward. 

“If anyone, ” Percy hissed, “Finds out about my destination, or where I’m going, or that I was ever even a passenger at all, I’ll make sure this charmed death trap of a bus won’t last long enough to see the new millennium.”

Stan stared at him. “Are you threatenin’ me, Sir?” 

“No, I’m just guaranteeing the end of your livelihood.” It occurred to Percy that perhaps Stan didn’t know what millennium meant. “Do we have an agreement?” 

“Right as rain, we are. Lucky for you, the Knight Bus has a bran’ new No Questions Asked policy- I’ve just decided. Now, destination?” 

.

.

.

Percy didn’t know how long he’d been on the bus for when he woke. He’d gotten his bed and taken an almost pleasant, dreamless nap. He’d even kept his loafers on, just collapsing on the bed in an exhausted heap and clutching the duffel bag. It smelled so wonderfully of grass that Percy could almost put it out of his mind that he was on a bus at all.

Percy had never been much of a traveler. He’d gone with the family to Egypt (fun until Fred and George trapped him in a tomb) and the World Cup (fun until the Death Eaters showed), but other than that Percy Weasley had stayed relatively put. He knew where he belonged; Somewhere among the halls of the Ministry, writing reports and, as the muggles say, being a pencil pusher. 

He liked staying where he knew exactly what surrounded him. Typically that’d make him one of the smartest in the room and the most prepared in an emergency. It gave him a sense of authority . He knew quite a few London neighborhoods like the back of his hand, had memorized the Marauder’s map in a single glance when he’d once confiscated it from Fred and George, and he could tell you the majority of hidden entrances to the Ministry. 

But those places were all easy because they were dense. Populated. 

Edale was not a populated, dense area. In fact it was about the least populated place he’d ever seen; Which actually made very practical sense. Where else would a publicly disgraced, pureblood, former Minister for Magic go? It’s not like the man had his pick of living places. 

But Edale? It wasn’t personally for Percy Weasley. He decided that the second he stepped out of the Knight Bus and found himself wandering an entirely sparse field, dragging a duffel bag through tall grass . There were rolling hills all around, quaintly bushy trees that lined the edges of muggle properties, and absolutely not another human being in sight. 

He was somewhere in the Derbyshire Peak District, whatever that meant. He was looking for a man who’d tortured him multiple times. He was missing two fingers. He was a little nauseous and a touch hungry and somewhat cold. 

Percy Weasley had never been more lost. So he did what any self respecting lost person would do; started walking. 

.

.

.

Blood loss, hunger, and an overwhelming sense of hopelessness kicked in when the blisters that’d developed on his heels started bleeding. 

If he was in a better headspace he would’ve stopped walking. He would’ve cast any number of charms that would have allowed him to not feel pain in every step; Maybe he could’ve used a spell that’d lighten the load on his back. Hell, maybe he could’ve called for help in some silly way. 

But Percy Weasley was not in a good headspace. And every few feet he’d catch himself stumbling over the uneven terrain. 

.

.

.

As it would turn out, Percy Weasley would not find Pius Thicknesse. 

Rather, Pius Thicknesse would find him. 

Former Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse would find Former Assistant to the Minister Percy Weasley drowned in a shallow creek at the bottom of a small hill, a damp duffel bag tangled around his body. One of his shoes had floated away in the stream. 

He’d evidently rolled down from a great height, marked by the gashes on his skin and tears in his clothes- like he’d lost a scrappy fight in a rose briar. A branch of some sort had gotten caught in his hair, and it softly bobbed in the stream’s current. 

.

.

.

The tea was stronger than Percy would’ve preferred it. The rich tannins gave the liquid a distinctly silky mouthfeel. He took a sip and let the hot liquid pool in his mouth, warming his teeth and cheeks. It was bitter. 

Swallowing took great effort. With the tea it was easier- he could let it run down his throat of its own accord, unobstructed in its path to his stomach. The bread was an entirely different story; Unless he chewed it to the point of a soft mash, he could feel every crumb of it going down. Induced vomiting was not kind to one’s esophagus. 

If his brain was capable of forming thought, Percy would’ve made himself feel grateful. He’d been pulled from an untimely and somewhat pathetic death by a man who had absolutely no bearings in the matter; But since his brain was incapable of stringing two words together, Percy instead felt nothing at all. His mind was almost blissfully empty-

Drowning had perhaps been the best thing Percy had done in days. He didn’t think about a girl in an oubliette, siblings who hated him, or Quidditch players in general. 

Tea ran down his throat. 

Whatever he’d come here for could wait. Time seemed endless in Pius Thicknesse’s cottage; Percy was in seemingly no rush. Not for information and not for himself.

Everything was quiet. 

Pius had left the windows open, letting the cold December breeze flow through the living room. Gingham curtains fluttered; Branches of a shrub scratched against a windowpane. There was a simple grey cozy on a white kettle, and a young child’s paper drawings decorated an otherwise sparse room. When the breeze blew through, it was almost as if there were no walls at all; Just a thatched roof over a patch of land.

Percy took another sip. He didn’t know what day it was. It both felt like he’d just left his apartment and that he’d been here, on this pillowed sofa, for a lifetime. But if the day calendar left on Pius’s coffee table was correct, it’d only been three days since the first interrogation with Narcissa. 

Three days. Only ten days left until Christmas. Would he still be welcome home? Forget his siblings- would his mother still want to see him? Her drowned rat of a son. 

Out of the corner of his eye Percy could see movement. He didn’t actively watch as Pius closed the windows and drew the curtains, nor did he move when the man passed in front of him. He was blurry across Percy’s field of vision- it occurred to him that he was not wearing his glasses and he did not know where they were.

Pius crouched down in front of the familiar style hearth and retrieved a pack of matches from an apron pocket. He took a moment to prod at a piece of firewood and to jam a piece of crumpled paper in between it and the brick; Percy could recognize it as the font laden front page of The Daily Prophet even without his glasses. It took Pius two strikes until the flame caught on. 

“Doesn’t get any easier without magic,” Pius said, voice soft, “Just takes a touch longer.” 

Percy hadn’t asked. The tea grew cold in his mouth. 

Pius’s knees cracked as he stood. “Most things, I’ve noticed, aren’t easier without magic. But they’re certainly not as difficult as the greater wizarding society would have you believe.”

The man had aged considerably since Percy had seen him last. His black hair was longer and held back with a loose band. Wrinkles Percy had only noted were now the prominent feature of his face; His eyes were sunken back into his skull, giving him a hollowed appearance. He’d shaved his beard off- Percy thought he looked significantly better without it. 

“Muggles have existed concurrently with us for thousands of years.” Pius said, idly tossing a few thin pieces of wood into the fire, “Lately I feel that magic itself sometimes feels less like a natural-born gift, and more of a crippling overspecialization.”

Percy didn’t respond and let his eyes go out of focus as he watched the fire. He’d been wrapped in layer upon layer of blanket and a beanie had been tugged over his head. A curl sprang out from under the brim and tickled the bridge of his nose- the part typically covered by his glasses. Percy had been practically swaddled like an infant. 

He’d resorted to breathing entirely manually; Each breath took the foremost thought in his mind. He was acutely aware of his lungs expanding and compressing in his chest, wrapped around the faint beat of his heart. 

“Eat more bread, Percy.”

So he did.

Pius, apparently suited with how the fire was coming along, turned away from it. He sat in the loveseat to Percy’s left and poured himself a cup of the tea he’d brewed them, topping off Percy’s own cup. He took a long sip, cradling the cup in his lap, before turning to Percy. 

“I’m glad I was able to resuscitate you, Percy. The spells I needed to use were… unkind to your system.”

If he’d had the mental cognizance, Percy would’ve snorted. He felt burned from the inside out; Perhaps he was finally gaining firsthand knowledge of the phrase death warmed over. He thought he’d gotten intimately acquainted with the phrase well enough during his torture sessions, but it seemed he had more to learn.

“I’d extend an invitation for you to stay here while you heal, but I can surmise that staying here was your plan from the start. You don’t seem like an avid hiker.” Pius smiled thinly,  “I would like you to know that I am incredibly… that I am glad to have this opportunity to genuinely make your acquaintance, Percy. And given the state I found you in, I would be reluctant to refuse to house you amid whatever crises lead you here.”

Percy’s eyes watered from staring at the fire, unblinkingly watching the flames lick at the hearth. He couldn’t make himself look away. 

“The last time I saw you,” Percy’s voice was brittle and it took active thought to push the words out, “My brother died.” 

There was a soft clinking sound; Pius was running his fingernails over his teacup. “Yes. One of the younger ones-”

“Don’t say his name.” Percy said. “I don’t ever want to hear you say his name.” 

If he heard it, Percy thought he’d stop being able to breathe manually. Air would never reach his lungs and he’d suffocate right here on Pius Thicknesse’s couch, wrapped in the man’s quilts. 

Pius let out a sound like a stiff sigh. “Understandable.”

Something in the fire popped, and for a whisper of a second, Percy wished he could crawl into the flames. They looked warm and inviting; An entrance to Hell that he’d gladly enter. 

“I made a joke. A stupid-” He felt himself choke, “A joke. And it distracted him. And he died.”

Percy could no longer lie to himself- it wasn’t the fire’s blazing heat making his eyes water. He was crying in front of Pius Thicknesse for possibly the dozenth time in his life. 

At least this time it was of his own will. 

“You hold me accountable for this.” Pius said. It wasn’t a question. 

Maybe the flames would burn so hot he wouldn’t feel it after the first layer of skin burnt away. “I got him killed.” 

“You hold yourself accountable for this?” Pius said- this time, it was a question. “That’s hardly fair to yourself, Percival.” 

A laugh cracked out of him; His throat burned. “Fair? Nothing is fair. Life isn’t fair. It takes and it- it leaves people like me alive.”

Pius was entirely still and quiet. “Percival, who would it have been fair to if you’d died instead? Your statement implies that there was another option in all this that would’ve been better.” 

Another sharp laugh that ranged dangerously close to a sob. Percy did not want to sob in front of Pius Thicknesse. “It would’ve been better if it had been me. Now that- that would be fair. Fair to our mother, fair to his twin, and fair to me.” 

To his credit, Pius said nothing. Some part of Percy appreciated that acknowledgement. It made him feel like his statement was correct; Pius was giving him the affirmation he sought. It would, for everyone, be better if he died. 

A minute went by, then two. Something sharp stung inside of Percy’s nose; He would not sob. He could admit death, but he wouldn’t let it break what remained of his composure. 

“Percival, how long do you think you’ve been here?” Pius asked, setting down his teacup to instead pick up the tabletop calendar. It was a cute thing; Paddington the bear walked along the bottom of the page with a jolly red balloon. Percy recognized him from the stack of muggle children’s books Father kept in the potting shed. 

Percy guessed. “A few hours?”  He wasn’t wholly familiar with drowning and drowning recovery. Percy knew he’d been at least out for a few hours, judging on the crust of his eyelids. He didn’t feel cold anymore, nor did his blisters scream- so perhaps a day?

Pius silently thumbed at the calendar pad, eyeing Paddington with a heavy gaze. Then, quickly and efficiently, he ripped the paper labelled December fifteenth off. 

“So a day?” Percy asked. 

Pius didn’t respond. When Percy didn’t react, he went ahead and pulled the page off for the sixteenth, then again for the seventeenth. Three pages flitted in Pius’s grasp, and when he tossed them into the fire, Percy saw Paddington burn up the way he wished he could. 

“Three days, Percival.” Pius said, setting the calendar back down. “For three days you’ve laid here on my sofa, unresponsive to even the most remote stimuli.” 

Percy stared. “Is that supposed to mean something?” 

Somehow that felt like the wrong answer, if Pius’s reaction was anything to go off of. Percy hated being wrong; He hated feeling stupid more than anything else. Whatever Pius was trying to tell him through his thick brows and stern expression gave Percy the gut-curdling feeling that he was missing something; It was eerily close to the same look his own Father had given him time after time. The stinging look of an older man who had more wisdom, but couldn’t be fucked to communicate it in a way that didn’t make Percy feel inadequate and shamed. 

Again: “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

Pius’s face scrunched, then quickly smoothed out. He looked like the same Pius that’d tortured Percy, and he sounded like the same Pius, but this man was wholly different. Strain bled across the man’s face, evident in his tight lips and firm jaw. When Percy closed his eyes at night it was this face he saw- Pius Thicknesse struggling to communicate.

“Percival,” And Percy hated the way he sounded just like his Father, “Why are you here?” 

The gears in Percy’s brain were finally moving of their own accord. He hadn’t even fully noticed that he no longer needed to breathe manually- thoughts were bubbling up like a freshly opened fizzy pop drink. Something fell into place that Percy had jammed away; He had come here with a reason, right? He hadn’t just come here to drown and hate himself, right?

Pius was eyeing him with something close to concern; Arthur’s tense face in the Ministry hallway flashed in the forefront of Percy’s mind. Where his Father’s face was doughy with age, Pius’s was hallowed. Where Father’s face curved upwards with frustration, Pius’s arched down.

Percy looked down at his teacup. He was still missing two fingers.

“I-” He cleared his throat and it felt oddly crisp, “I need help. I came here for help.” 

Now it was Pius’s turn to stare. “Help? You sought me out for… help?” 

Why else would he have come here? Holiday? 

“Yes. You were head of the auror department before, correct?” Percy was unsure of why he asked, because he knew it as fact. Thicknesse had been the head of department for years before someone evicted him from his own body.

Pius looked baffled, fully turning in his seat to face Percy better. Evidently he thought Percy was here for a far different reason- maybe to kill him? That made sense, Percy supposed. But did Pius think Percy had brought a stocked duffle bag and worn loafers to his first murder attempt?

“Indeed I was,” Pius responded, his eyebrows still knit with visible confusion, “But what could I possibly provide you with that the current department can’t?” 

He took a moment to think it over; In truth, he could’ve gone to the auror department; Technically that probably would’ve been better in a bureaucratic way. He also could’ve gone to the library or perhaps a niche bookshop for the answers he wanted-

Neither of those options would’ve gotten him away from his family. Neither offered him the chance to escape the pit of guilt he’d dug for himself in that London apartment. He was here in the remote countryside, apparently days deep into living an escapist fantasy, and Pius had saved him from a watery death.

“Convenience.” Percy stated.  “Pius, what do you know of oubliettes?” 

Pius’s inhale was sharp and quick. He took a sip of tea and stared somewhere in the distance over Percy’s shoulder, eyes glazed. The tea cup clinked when he set it back down.

“A fascinating topic. Might I ask why, before I answer?” 

Percy considered it. “No.”

“I see. They’re a terrible subject, Percival. Heinous in every sense of the word, and not something to be learned of lightly. Tell me, what do you believe or know of oubliettes?”

The handle of the teacup was smooth under Percy’s thumb. “I know that they’re a form of torture and imprisonment. I know that they alter the living memories of the person placed inside, and that they’re an archaic relic of pure-blood supremacy.” 

“Is that the extent of your knowledge?” 

“Yes, I believe so. They’re hard to find information about, and almost impossible to research without being an auror. All I know of them is what I was able to procure at school; I imagine that my idea of an oubliette is far from the reality.” 

Pius pursed his lips. “I see.” 

The fire popped; Percy could faintly see its glow behind his shut eyelids. Apparently he’d slept for three days, but was still so tired. 

“I am hesitant to get into the conversation now,” Pius said, holding up a hand to calm Percy’s retort, “As you have only just returned to lucidity. An oubliette is not a topic one just develops a spontaneous inquiry towards- I will not ask, but instead assume that you are not asking for curiosity’s sake.”

Percy glared at him, even though his eyelids felt heavy and drooping. 

“So I am correct? This is no schoolboy's curiosity.”

Pius reached out for Percy’s teacup, relieving him of its delicate weight. It’d begun to feel like lead in his hands.

“Please allow yourself a night of rest, Percival. I will answer your questions, but those answers would be lost on you right now.”

“I’m not tired, I can handle it.” Merlin, that sounded pathetic. Like he was a child asking for another bedtime story. 

Pius gave a thin smile that Percy could only barely see. “I’m sure you’d be capable, but you shouldn’t. We can discuss this tomorrow once-”  

Percy fell asleep halfway through the sentence, slumping over on Pius Thicknesse’s sofa, wrapped in a bundle of quilts. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Eleven year old Percy is trying to not trip over his own feet as Oliver pulls him along. They’re stomping up the Quidditch stands, wool mittens clamped together tight, and Oliver’s breath is puffing into small clouds. They’re minnows in a sea of excited Gryffindors.

“Oh, Perse, I see them!” Oliver remarks, keeping Percy’s hand firmly in his, “Oy, Cordy! Bill!” 

He can barely see Bill’s fiery red hair from this distance, but Oliver is pulling them closer, so Percy just trusts that the other boy’s sight is accurate. As they draw near Percy can see for himself; Bill is reclined against the stand behind him, and Cordelia is bundled up next to him. They’re both sporting handknit Gryffindor scarves to match the one around his own neck.

Percy gladly lets Oliver push through the tightly packed seats, tunneling forward through the sea of red, gold, and black. He’s busy making sure his school bag stays firmly in his grasp; It’s filled with important supplies for the game. He’d empted it out on his bed and repacked it twice, and had Oliver do a double check for him before they’d left the dorm. 

“Glad to see you two are so chummy,” Bill laughs, watching as Oliver settles Percy down before sitting himself, “Charlie and I were worried you’d be attached to our sides the whole year, Percy!” 

Bill reaches over to rub a noogie against Percy’s head; The younger Weasley huffs and straightens his hat after, fussing with how it lays on his curls. 

“Have yae got everything, Perse? We’ve got ten minutes until toss up, we cannae afford any fumbles.” Oliver asks, squishing in close to Percy. 

“When have I ever fumbled the supplies?” Percy responds, “Don’t be ridiculous, here-” He produces a bundle from his bag, “Your binoculars, Oliver.” 

“Many thanks, Perse.” 

A variety of objects follow suit; A small tapered quill, a thick journal that takes up the majority of Percy’s lap, and a folded fabric that Cordelia takes straight from Percy’s hands. 

“Thank you, Percy!” Cordelia chirps, unfolding the fabric. It drops into a neat burgundy square with shimmering gold letters. The words GO CHARLIE GO! practically glow off the fabric. “Do you think Charlie’ll see it?” 

Bill whistles and brushes a hand over the sparkling letters. They phase around his hands. “How could he not? Where did you even find something that bright?”

“The International Confederation of Wizard’s Quidditch allows for a maximum of three lighting charms to be applied to any fan produced sign,” Percy responds, creasing open a blank notebook page, “Any more than that and you risk blinding the players.” 

“Oh, only three? What a shame.” Bill snorts, “What have you got there, Perse?” 

“I’m recording a transcript of the games’ actions on a play-by-play basis. For later review, of course.” 

“Erm- right, of course,” Bill says, watching as Percy records the date in the corner. He leans in to stage whisper in Percy’s ear: “You know, Perse, you don’t need to take notes at a Quidditch game to have fun.” 

Percy looks up from the journal and blinks at Bill. He pushes his glasses up. “I am having fun, Bill.” 

Bill slowly nods, reclining back once more. “Mm, Of course you are.”

“And he absolutely has ta’ take notes!” Oliver quips, turning to look at Bill through his binoculars, one arm gesturing wildly at the pitch, “What if something unprecedented in Quidditch history happens out there today?” 

“Oh, I see,” Bill says, looking between the two and nodding sagely, “So you’re both like this. Cordy, do you-”

Cordelia’s arm shoots out, brushing the front of Bill’s nose as she points at Percy. Alarm briefly flashes across Bill’s face at their sister’s sudden intrusion.

“Percy, do NOT forget to record the weather conditions this time.”

“Oh, of course not,” He ducks his head back down to the journal, “Should I categorize this as light snowfall or flurries?” 

Oliver hums for a moment, one hand holding up the binoculars, the other resting on his hip as he looks to the sky, “Flurries, definitely. Right storm approaching, there is. Oh! Percy, brace yourself- toss up in five, four, three, two-”

.

.

.

Whatever he’d been expecting from Pius Thicknesse, Percy’s expectations are not being met. He’s sitting in the soft clover right past a tidy yet frost-tipped garden; Various plants are reminiscent of his mother’s own vegetable garden, hardy and dense. The landscape around the cottage is grey-blue and dark plum, glittering with white crystals under a cloudy sky. It’s practically serene.

The ground is solid under Percy’s body even with the heating charms he’s applied. The mug in his hands is warm through his gloves and steam rolls off the liquid in wispy waves. This morning’s tea is some sort of warm, spiced cinnamon plum; He’d requested something caffeinated, preferably an earl grey or even better yet, a black coffee-  Pius had refused.

“Your mind is unwell, Percival,” Pius said, “It’d be best to avoid anything that may contribute to your… condition.” 

Percy hadn’t bothered to ask if nicotine was something Pius would allow; He’d simply taken a cigarette from the man when offered one in the place of caffeine. It’s been a while since he’d last indulged, but the way Percy’s nerves melt away is nothing short of blissful.  

The act had vaguely reminded Percy of Professor Lupin and his habit of forcing dark chocolate squares into the hands of any student that’d gotten too close to a Dementor- perhaps this was Pius’s way of coping with the darkness. Percy had never noticed the faint smell of smoke that lingered on Pius before this, but it was unmistakable now, permanently braided into the fibers of Pius’s clothing. 

Maybe the Death Eater that’d controlled Pius hadn’t thought to keep up the habit. Did one still feel addiction under the invisible binds of the Imperius curse? Had Pius Thicknesse, buried deep in his own subconscious, desperately craved a cigarette?

The series of events that’d led Percy here were too abstract to fully wrap his mind around; They’re sitting together like old friends or former classmates, looking out over a crisp landscape. Pius’s hair is neatly braided back, stiff and short, and Percy had awoken with his bandages having been rewrapped in his sleep. His hand no longer aches- presumably a quick heal salve lays beneath the white gauze. The skin of his forearm is sealed tightly together.

Percy has so many questions to ask of the man next to him. Each one is vying for attention in his head ( How does an oubliette work, are my memories real, what is the point of blackmail if you cannot recall a person-) but the only one that makes it out past his chapped lips is:

“Who’s the child, Pius?”

Pius makes a sound that could be interpreted as a laugh, if Percy thought the man capable of laughter. There’s a long pause as Pius lifts a cigarette to his mouth, breathes the smoke in, then releases it back out through his nostrils in a dragon-like fashion. He does not turn to look at Percy when he answers:

“My nephew.”

The real reason they’ve been sitting outside in the cold morning air is far in the distance, a black blob amongst a sea of wild grass. He’s moving at a slow rate and ducking down every few steps, and everytime the boy disappears for more than a second, Pius’s hands clench. Percy had barely noticed the boy until this morning; He doesn’t recall seeing the child at any point during his brief lapse back into lucidity last night, but someone had to be responsible for the childish drawings in the cottage. And, despite not truly knowing the man, Percy finds it difficult to imagine that Pius Thickness is an avid collector of muggle children’s media. The man is not Arthur Weasley.  

Hell, the mug he’s currently holding has Winnie the Pooh on it, and a chip in the lip that Percy runs his thumb over. It’s been well loved. How many hot chocolates has this mug served over its lifetime?  

“Your nephew?” Percy asks. 

Out of the corner of Percy’s eye he can see Pius’s hand relax against his knee- the blob in the distance is moving back towards them and slowly morphing into the shape of a boy. “Yes, my nephew. My brother’s son.”

“I don’t recall you having any young family when you were…” Percy struggles to find the answer, instead taking a long sip of tea. Pius can finish the thought however he’d like. 

“Neither did I. He was only five when Voldemort returned. I knew things were going to become… precarious, at the Ministry. I had a young auror-in-training who’d been retired for injury take him up to Scotland after obliviating me. I’d been his primary caretaker since he turned three.”

A question bubbles out of Percy before he can even think it over; It’s unlike himself to blurt out things without cross-examining them for intent and purpose, but the social construct that usually keeps him from being rude has been dismissed. He does not care for Pius Thicknesse’s feelings.

“What happened to his parents?” 

Pius’s jaw clenches. “They’re alive and well, presumably. For my brother’s sake, it’s a good thing I don’t know where they are.”

The boy is shuffling through grass in their direction; He’s wearing a mustard yellow knit hat. It’s similar to the hats Molly made for them all growing up, thick and somewhat knobby, but undoubtedly warm. There’s a sting to the thought, but Percy will not allow himself to be jealous of a child. 

“Pernell is a squib,” Pius says, softly, the end of his cigarette barely brushing against his lips, “He would’ve been killed. I would’ve killed him. Now he’s all I have left.” 

Percy stares at him. This man, wearing the skin of someone who’d once held Percy down in the Minister’s office, inflicting him with the pain of a thousand needles and burnt skin and cramping that still haunts him in the dead of night. This man, who’d sent hundreds of muggle-borns to Azkaban to die for the pertinent and heinous crime of existing-

This man is the sole caretaker of a squib.  

“Harrowing, is it not?” Pius says, turning towards Percy, “I can see your distress, Percival. Please keep in mind that I am not the same Pius Thicknesse you experienced. I love Pernell more than anything in the world- more than myself, certainly. May I ask a favor of you, Percival?” 

He hadn’t realized how short his breathing had become; Percy nods his head, and practically inhales his cigarette. 

“Do not answer his questions about me. He’s a curious boy and certain to ask; I’m sure you know what a burden information can hold.” 

Loose tendrils of smoke escape from Percy’s open mouth. Part of him senses an opportunity- if Pius holds back on his promise of information, Percy could tell Pernell of his uncle’s place in the war. But what would that accomplish beyond traumatizing an ostracized child? If Pius is being truthful, what would taking out Percy’s frustration on a squib do? Besides, of course, cementing the part of his brain that insists upon his statute of being one of the worst people to have ever lived-  

He shoves that part of himself down, disgusted. He’d be no better than Severus Snape had been to his wards.

“I won’t.” Percy responds. “I promise.” 

Pius gives him a grateful nod. 

The boy, Pernell, is only yards away now. He’s got a high-sided woven basket tucked in his arms that seems quite heavy, laden with leafy bits that poke out the top. Shaggy brown hair sticks out from under the hat’s brim, and his eyes are large and dark just like Pius’s. He comes right up to them and sets the basket down at their feet.

Pius stamps his cigarette out before addressing the boy. “A good haul today, Pernell?” 

“Yes, Uncle. There were lots of elf cups and wood blewits just down the way,” Pernell kneels to sift through the basket, “And the fields are covered in sow thistle and nettles. I think I’m the first one out foraging since the frost fell.” 

“Excellent to hear. Would you like to use the elf cups in dinner tonight?” Pius smiles. The expression makes Percy’s stomach sick. “We could prepare that risotto, if you’d like.” 

“Yeah, that’d be nice, I think.” Pernell finds what he’s looking for and turns towards Percy, “Glad to see you’re awake, Uncle Percy. Do you feel any better?”   

Air fails to make its way into Percy’s lungs. He stares blankly; Pernell stares back, expectantly. 

“Why don’t you head inside, Pernell? Put the kettle on for us. Give us just another minute out here, alright?” 

Pernell makes a worried face at Percy, lips tight under his frost-nipped nose. “M’kay, Uncle.” The boy picks the basket up once more and swings it in his hands, shifting under it’s weight. Percy calmly waits until the crunching of Pernell’s footsteps stops before he turns to Pius.

“Uncle Percy?” Percy hisses.

“I dragged you in, bloodied and hysterical and nearly dead. You’re here looking for answers, are you not?” Pius responds, standing up, “What should I have introduced you as? A random man I found on the street? A stranger?” 

Percy doesn’t justify it with a response- definitely not because he can’t think of one. 

“Play along, Percival. It’s in your best interest.”

.

.

.

Playing along seems to have a different meaning to Pius Thicknesse than it does Percy Weasley. Percy had mulled it over and come to the conclusion that yes, it’d probably be best for Pernell to think of him as some odd waylaid uncle, rather than Pius’s personal morality pet. He’d never actually gotten to meet his own uncles, but perhaps he could pull off aloof relative well enough to make Pius happy. The man has since abandoned them both to do simply fascinating chores, such as chopping firewood like a muggle.

Pius seems to believe that playing along means genuinely playing along and indulging Pernell’s lonely child behavior. Percy has been thrust into a role that’s less aloof distant relative and more uncaring older brother; Perhaps he can emulate Bill well enough that Pernell will get bored and scurry off to read muggle books as Percy once had. 

“Checkmate.” Pernell says, trapping Percy’s black king. 

Unfortunately for them both, Percy has pride. He will not let his arse be kicked in chess by a mere child.

“Reset the board,” Percy responds, swiftly standing from his sitting position. “We’ll play again in five. Would you like more tea, Pernell?”

“Yes, thank you, Uncle Percy.”  

.

.

.

Perhaps there had been some flaws in the plan, Percy laments. Showing up at Pius Thicknesse’s house and demanding answers seemed well enough when he’d been bleeding out on a park bench in London, but in practice? In person? Percy’s hardly had more than five minutes alone with the man since their first conversation this morning. Pernell has practically attached himself to Percy’s sweater, clinging and desperate for attention like a puppy.

“Uncle Percy, do you do a lot of reading?” Pernell asks, sitting opposite Percy. He’s in the same armchair that Pius had been in last night, curled up around a throw pillow. 

“Yes.” Percy curtly replies. 

“What kind of books do you like to read?” 

“Books with words.” 

Pernell laughs. It’s a soft laugh, radically unlike any of Percy’s siblings. “Uncle lets me read Sherlock Holmes. Do you like Sherlock Holmes, Uncle Percy? You sound like you would.”

What the hell does that mean? 

“What do you mean by that, Pernell? I’m unfamiliar with this Sherlock Holmes. ” 

Again Pernell laughs, and it sounds like a delicate chime. He’s wearing bumblebee striped socks and a brown jumper the same color as his shaggy hair. “The way you talk, Uncle Percy. You sound like Detective Holmes. It’s like Uncle, but you’re much younger. Are you a detective?” 

“No.” Frowning, Percy wonders exactly how long it’ll take Pius to finish hanging the laundry to dry. He’s abandoned Percy to Pernell’s whims once again.

“So what do you do?” 

“I’m a… um-” Percy purses his lips; He can’t tell this literal child that he’s an interrogation scribe, but none of his previous jobs are removed enough from Pius to reference. The voice in his head that sounds like Fred hisses lie to the bloody kid, Perse. 

“I’m a Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet. ” Yes, that should work. “I cover Puddlemere United. Did you know they’re currently in Nice?”

“Oh! Uncle lets me listen to the games on the wireless- I wish I could play Quidditch. Do you get to meet many players? What about that keeper Oliver Wood? He’s my favorite, he’s so funny with his stories and accent.” 

Shit.   

“Unfortunately I’ve never met him.” 

.

.

.

By the time Pius returns from choring, Percy has successfully navigated the conversation away from Quidditch entirely by boring Pernell into a nap. The boy is snoozing against Percy’s side in a way so similar to Ginny that it makes Percy’s eyes water.

“I didn’t come here to be your new live-in nanny, Pius.” Percy whispers, running a hand along Pernell’s hair. Not a single freckle dots the boy’s face.  

“No? Shame. Pernell simply adores you, I see.” Pius brushes past them to kneel in front of the hearth, “How are you feeling, Percival?” 

“Used.” 

Pius huffs. “Appropriate, I suppose. Pernell has difficulties making friends. But no, how is your mind?”

His mind? “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’d like to discuss the oubliette now.”

A match is struck, fizzing into life. Pius crumples the first page of that day’s edition of the Daily Prophet before Percy has a chance to read it. 

“You are as fine as you are intelligent, Percival. Which is to say, politely, not as much as you think you are. A sane man does not allow himself to fall as deeply into escapism as you have.”

Pernell’s hair is as soft as duck down. It reminds Percy of a very young Ron, clinging to Percy’s leg after a bludger knocked the wind out of him. Had they once seen Percy as Pernell sees him? Had Percy once been-

Did Pius just call him daft? Casting a sharp look at the man, Percy sees the faintest hint of a smirk on Pius’s face. 

“Percival, do you doubt that you are loved?”

“Doubt?” Percy huffs, “I do not doubt , I know that I am difficult to love. I’m seemingly the only Weasley that didn’t inherit a general aura of warm, fuzzy feelings.” 

Even in the few drafty memories he has of her, Cordelia seems to boast the same warmth of the others. Some sort of irresistible Weasley love that’d skipped right over Percy. An innate sense of muchness.   

“Warm and fuzzy feelings wouldn’t have kept you alive in my ministry.” The fire flickers to life and Pius stands. He turns to face Percy the same way he always has: Slightly slouched, his hands crossed behind his back. “But not exuding such emotions does not mean you are incapable of being loved. Do you think that your being here is inconsequential? That your absence is unnoticed?”

Pernell’s hair slips right through Percy’s fingers. It’s impossible to imagine that anyone is losing sleep over Percy Weasley. “I’m not sure I follow, Pius.”

Pius sighs as he passes by, gathering a blanket from an armchair. It’s one of the ones that Percy had been wrapped in; A thick navy flannel, lined with fleece. He drapes it over Pernell’s sleeping form. 

“Come along, Percival.” 

Gently lifting Pernell’s head, Percy replaces his lap with a throw pillow. The boy doesn’t seem to stir at the loss of Percy’s body next to him.  

Together Percy and Pius leave the warm sitting room. The kitchen is a room Percy is not acquainted with yet; Pius seems to prefer preparing water for tea on the hearth. 

“Do you have experience trimming sow thistle, Percival? Pernell is still learning the manner of foraging. If you’d be so kind as to remove the spines,” Pius holds out a thin paring knife, taken from a drawer, “I’m certain he’d be grateful.”

Taking the knife from Pius is like brokering an unspoken agreement; Do as I say, and you’ll get your answers. Percy takes it and sits at a rounded wooden table. Pernell’s basket and its leafy contents are already laid out in front of him; Percy takes one of the short sprigs of thistle. 

Molly often used foraged materials in their cooking growing up. When they couldn’t supplement from the vegetable garden and Arthur’s paycheck, Percy was typically sent out to retrieve whatever edible bits and bobs he could. Percy, of course, because Fred and George may well have poisoned them all on accident by mistaking hemlock for a dandelion. There’d been futile attempts to teach them what to pick and how to harvest, but it had quickly become apparent to Molly that if she wanted her ingredients, Percy was the only option. 

He was the only one who’d truly listen- with thistle, one has to remove the spines. Most people (Read: People without seven children) would simply discard the plant at this late of a stage, but Percy’s always been adept at making do. 

He trims the leaves. They sit in silence at the table until Pius clears his throat and busies his hands with brushing the dirt off of Pernell’s mushrooms. 

“Do you know the identity of someone in an oubliette, Percival?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

There’s a small and growing pile of thistle spines between them. 

“And your nosebleeds, do they come nightly?”

“Yes.”

“So, you are familiar with the person in the oubliette. How close is the relationship?”

Percy looks up at Pius through his eyelashes; The other man does not look at him. The knife stills. 

“How do you know I’m close with them?”

One of the wood blewits is being examined under Pius’s steady gaze. “The purpose of an oubliette is torture. The stronger the interpersonal relationship between someone within and someone outside, the stronger the reaction the magic has. An oubliette rewrites memories. The more memories, the stronger the effect. If you did not know this person, or perhaps had only had a casual acquaintanceship, you would not be getting nosebleeds.” 

Percy was suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. “So the torture is for the person on the outside?” 

“It’s a possibility, but not always.” The wood blewit passes inspection, and is quickly replaced. “A common practice from centuries ago was to place the children of prominent figures within an oubliette. This could have been to influence the political decisions of their parents- inform the parents of the child’s existence after being placed, and you’d have a very controllable person who’s desperate for the pain to stop. Who wouldn’t do anything for their child?” 

“So-“

“Silence, Percival. I do not recall you being so brazenly rude as my assistant. Another reason may have been to impact the child directly- threaten them with isolation and loss of all love they know, and you have someone willing to agree to do anything. I believe a common purpose for this was to settle an arranged marriage if one of the participants was… unwilling to go forth with the proposal. Tell me, how long has this person been inside an oubliette?”

The knife hovered above a thistle stem, pressing in against the pad of Percy’s thumb. His skin is white against the blade. “Six years, give or take.”

“My, that is an awfully long time. And forgive my bluntness, but I do not believe the Weasley name is of such prominence that your family’s political leanings are worth such an act.” 

Percy agrees; No one has ever attempted to broker a marriage with a Weasley child. Maybe if Weasley weren’t their surname and instead Prewitt; But his parents had never been the type to engage in pureblood traditions, thankfully.

“Perhaps it wasn’t about political power- maybe they just wanted to hurt us.”

“There’d be far easier and more painful ways to hurt your family.” Pius replies. He’s selected another wood blewit. “The death of a child is certainly more grievous, as there’d be no hope of getting them back if you play along. No, I’m inclined to believe that your family was not the intended target at all.”

Technically, Percy is sworn to secrecy regarding the trials. In reality, he no longer gives a shit what the council thinks of him. Had he stopped caring upon being sacked? Or did this go all the way back to the root of it all; Sprinting down the hidden Honeyduke’s passageway the night of the battle?

“Narcissa Malfoy said that the use of the oubliettes were for blackmail; To sway those who were hesitant to join Voldemort.”

Pius glances at him. “Interesting. I’ve always found her a fascinating and intelligent woman. This statement was admitted under the use of Veritaseum, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“What were her exact words? I recall you having an excellent memory, Percival.”

It’s a fact about himself that he likes to keep hidden; Nothing takes Percy more than a few glances to memorize. A muggle textbook once described it as having a photographic memory or eidetic memory- It’d been one of the books he’d contemplated buying from the bookstore down corner from his apartment. He’d chosen the one on bones instead. Seemed more relevant given the amount of Quidditch players in his life.

“‘His plan was to use pureblood students, picked from his classes. Those who came from families that had opposed the Dark Lord, and those that had been reluctant to pick a side. Placing them in the Oubliettes as blackmail, to sway them to Voldemort’s cause.’”

“I’ve always thought the use of Veritaserum in official contexts was a bit… funny. Any auror worth their salt knows their way around the truth; You cannot outright lie under it’s influence, but you can navigate away from the complete and total truth. I always told my trainees that it’s rather like a waltz. You’re certain she said ‘them’ and not ‘their families’? ”

Thinking back to the trial room, Percy can see Narcissa’s scrunched face as clear as day. The shiny silver halo of her hair.

“Yes, I’m certain.” 

“So the real question here is not why, but who is this ‘them’? Personally, if I were to make an educated guess as someone with a vast amount of experience in the field, the ‘them’ referenced in the oubliette is a different set of people than the ‘them’ that needed to be swayed to the cause. So, not lying per say, but not providing the whole of the story. The blackmail purpose was never meant for you.”

There’s a lull between them. Percy cleanly slices a leaf from it’s spine.

“Percival, what can you tell me of the students taken?”

“There were five taken. There was an original selection of students and a redux selection after Quirell died. Of the original selection, three were taken. Archie Macmillan, Chrysanthemum Brown, and Patrick Cattermole.”

“Any details about them?”

“A second year Hufflepuff, a third year Ravenclaw, and a fifth year Gryffindor respectively.”

Not a single Slytherin is among the list, but Percy supposes that’s just about right given the circumstances.

“And what of the other two? Do you know who was supposed to be taken and who was chosen instead?”

“Yes.”

Now there’s an awkward, forced silence. At some point he figured he’d have to tell someone about what he’d learned about himself and Cordelia in the trial room. but he hadn’t been expecting that someone to be Pius Thicknesse. 

It’s private. It’s a terribly private series of details that Percy wants to keep hidden within himself, but he’s too far in now. One cannot find a solution without knowing all sides; He must be autopsied by Pius Thicknesse if he wants his answers.

“Why are you hesitating? If you’re worried about me having a reaction like yours, I promise that it’s incredibly unlikely I’d ever have interacted with those other students. Knowing their names will not affect me.”

Perhaps an actual autopsy would be preferable to this, Percy thinks. 

“Out with it, Percival, unless you’d prefer never knowing.”

Yes, there’s not a doubt in his mind. An autopsy would be merciful compared to rehashing these details.

The words come out thick from Percy’s throat. “The students taken were Cecil Longbottom, a sixth year Ravenclaw, and Cordelia Weasley, another fifth year Gryffindor.” 

“Longbottom?” Pius stills, “As in Frank and Alice Longbottom?” 

“Yes. An older son, if I had to guess based on my own relationship to Cordelia.”

“The… effects of an oubliette on the person outside are typically immediate, depending on the closeness of the person. I personally trained aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom. From what I’ve studied-” The mushroom in Pius’s fingers cracks under sudden pressure, “Percival, how soon after hearing the names did you faint?”

A leaf hangs half cut from Percy’s hand. “How did you know-“

“Immediate effects, boy, keep up. How soon?”

“Maybe a minute? Thirty seconds approximately?” Percy says, “But I felt sick the second I heard the name.” 

“And who did these students replace? Who was supposed to be originally taken?”

“Neville Longbottom, a first year Gryffindor, and-” Percy chokes on air for a second, “Myself. A fifth year Gryffindor. I believe Cordelia and I must be-”

It’s so, so, so much worse saying it outloud than Percy could’ve imagined. His heart is stuck in his throat just as it was in the trial room, large and making his mouth dry.

“I believe we must be twins. There are no Weasley cousins under the age of forty, and based on my returning memories-”

Violently and with a screech of his chair, Pius stands. He takes a pace away from the table before seemingly changing his mind, flipping back to face Percy. 

Then he just stands there. His dark eyes bore into Percy, one hand clasped over his mouth so tight that it emphasizes his hollowed cheeks. Percy isn’t sure either of them are breathing- Pius is staring at Percy with an unreadable expression that prevents either of them from speaking. 

Time passes. A minute, at least. A thousand years, possibly. 

“I do not feel faint, Percival.” It’s strained. 

“Should you?”

“I was Neville Longbottom’s godfather, and I personally trained Alice and Frank in their auror training. I had a terribly close relationship with them both, right up until their admittance to St. Mungo’s.”

“So what-“ His mouth is so dry , “What does that mean?”

Pius stares unflinchingly. 

“Pius? What does that mean?”

The hand across Pius’s mouth drops to his hip. In the few short minutes that have spanned between this moment and Percy’s reveal of Neville’s name, Pius has gone pale. Paler than Percy would’ve thought possible for him- but the man is steady on his feet. 

“Pius-“ Percy begins.

“Uncle?”

Percy starts when the kitchen door opens, cracking right through the tense atmosphere. Pernell totters in, a loose fist wiping at one of his eyes, blanket dragging behind him.

“Uncle, what was that noise?” He asks, before looking at Percy and the table. “Oh! Uncle Percy, were you trimming the thistle for me?”

Pius, in a moment so fast Percy hardly registers it, scoops Pernell into his arms. The boy is practically buried in his chest and lets out a mouse-ish squeak at the sudden action, his bumblebee socked feet dangling in the air. 

It’s an odd feeling, Percy thinks, watching a man who tortured you hide his tears in a child’s hair. Sitting in that man’s kitchen and for his sake pretending that the sniffling sound you hear is no more than a sniffle; That the sound he makes into the boy’s scalp is not a clenched sob, but rather some sort of terrible cough. 

Percy fiddles with one of the thistle spines in a polite effort to not look stunned. 

“Apologies, Pernell, I did not mean to wake you,” Pius says after an eternity, setting the boy down, “Did you have a pleasant nap?”

“Quite! I dreamt Uncle Percy and I were hunting for strawberries along the creek.” 

There’s a moment where Percy, after a second of silence, looks at Pius and sees his own father. He sees Arthur in the tightening of Pius’s lips and in the furrow of his brow; The awkward stance of a man who is at a loss for words. He gives Percy the same look Arthur did a lifetime ago, when tiny Ginny had walked in on an argument about money and her upcoming schoolbooks- 

“Hunting strawberries?” It’s as easy as flexing a muscle is, the ability to retreat into being an older brother. “I was unaware strawberries had to be hunted at all.” 

“Well they had legs, you see.” Pernell turns towards Percy, who can see Pius closing his eyes in his peripheral vision, “They were rather chunky and could pluck themselves from their stems. We had to chase them, of course.” 

“Of course. We wouldn’t want to lose any of them- are you particularly fond of strawberries, Pernell?” 

The boy smiles and breezes right past Percy, taking Pius’s vacated chair at the table. He picks up the remains of Pius’s crushed wood blewit. “Very much so, Uncle Percy. Are you?” 

“Indeed I am. I’ll have to make strawberry ice cream for you come summer, my mother’s recipe. It’s absolutely brilliant.”  

When Pius leaves the room, unlit cigarette in hand, he gives Percy’s shoulder a firm squeeze. It’s the exact same motion Arthur had once done. 

.

.

.

They eat elf cup risotto in silence later in the evening; It’s the first real meal he’s had since spending the night at the burrow. Percy’s job had been to slice the mushrooms, as directed by Pernell. 

They each have a cup of hot and freshly brewed nettle tea after dinner, and Percy falls asleep as the uncle and nephew play chess. Whatever it was Pius realized about Cecil Longbottom will have to wait. 

.

.

.

In the dead of night as he stares at the thatched ceiling above, tissue pressed to his nose, Percy thinks of how close he’d gotten to inflicting the same pain upon Charlie. 

Chapter Text

Studious, bookish, twelve year old Percy sits in the chilled shade of the Burrow’s oak tree. Blotted sunlight rolls over his skin and the inked pages of his book; Required summer history reading for seventh years, He’s five years too early to be reading it, but it’s never too early to get a head start. He’d been hesitant to ask Bill if he could have his old textbooks now that he’s graduated, but Cordelia had had no qualms about marching right up into Bill’s compartment on the train home and liberating their older brother of his books. 

“Why even be worried about it? They’re going to be ours anyways, once we’re older.” She says, flopped down on the grass next to Percy, “Charlie won’t mind a bit if you want to spend our summer being a swot, Percy. He’s busy with Quidditch.”

Her curly copper and wine red hair matches his own in all but length. It’s split into two thick braids that curl to her waist: One of them is draped over Percy’s ankle as she wiggles next to him, unable to stay still for more than a second. Her elbows are locked as she holds a book up above her, casting a blocky shadow across her face. She, unlike himself, does not need glasses, but she wears a prescription-less pair anyways. It’d been a trial at the optometrist’s office when Percy had gotten his and they’d tried to leave without a pair for her; Her’s are wiry half moons to contrast his tortoiseshell. 

A pitched shout startles him mid-sentence on a paragraph regarding elven trade disputes. Squinting across the thick grass Percy looks just in time to see Fred be scooped up into Charlie’s thick arms. There’s a broken broomstick and dirt is clinging to Fred from his knees to his face, bright green staining a thricely handed down sweater. 

“Everything okay over there?” Cordelia asks, unmoving from her spot. She hasn’t even glanced over at their brothers, engrossed in her book. “All limbs attached?”

A cry, then laughter. The ten year old has a gap where there was previously a front tooth, and Charlie is brushing the dirt out of his hair. Fat tears roll down Fred’s cheeks- a pink trail that gets wiped away by the older brother. 

“Seemingly so,” Percy responds, “But it seems Fred’s lost a tooth.”

“It was bound to happen eventually.” Cordelia says. “You could try and fix it.”

Percy looks back at his book.

.

.

.

The oubliette is not a topic to bring up around Pernell, as decided by a silent agreement between Percy and Pius. Magic itself is also not a topic to discuss, and if possible, something to avoid doing entirely. Percy finds himself manually scrubbing the floor of the Thicknesse’s cottage, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

It’s December nineteenth now. Six days until Christmas. Eight days since Narcissa. A single night since he and Pius had broached the subject of oubliettes. Roughly two hours since Percy’s last nose bleed; His head still thrums from the sharp pain. 

Seeing as he is not a guest and frankly does not want to become Pernell’s devoted nanny, Percy has taken it upon himself to clean. It’s a series of tasks that he’d once truthfully believed to be easy, but is now realizing that the easy part had actually just been magic. The skin of his hands is cracking under the intensity of the muggle floor cleaner. 

Scrub the floor, dip the sponge, squeeze the excess liquid out. Scrub, dip, squeeze. It’s rather like his scribe work, but far more damp. Repetitive and calming; Percy knows exactly what to expect and how to do it. His shoulders are sore from the repeated movement. His knees hurt from the stone flooring. He wishes Oliver were here, if only to be a comforting presence in the quiet. 

His twin sister is trapped in a medieval torture chamber. 

Scrub, dip, squeeze. 

.

.

.

Pius returns mid-morning with a fresh pint of milk and a carton of eggs. When he walks into the cottage there’s a brief moment where he and Percy make eye contact; Percy mid-scrub and Pius with his hands full. It’s another silent conversation. Pius has something to share, but Pernell is reading that day’s copy of the Prophet on the couch, so nothing comes of it. 

“How do you take your eggs, Percival?” Pius asks, stepping delicately around Percy’s scrubbed floor. 

“However. I’m not picky.” He’s actually incredibly picky; Scrambled eggs are a textural nightmare. 

“Soft boiled?”

Percy squeezes excess liquid out from his rag. “That’s fine by me.”

Time passes slowly as Percy finishes the floor. When he stands his knees pop- his sweater vest is slightly water logged around his stomach. Pernell prods over to him, socked feet crossing right over the damp floor. His nose is buried in the paper. 

“Uncle Percy, are you-“

“Pernell, come chop vegetables for me.” Pius interrupts, voice louder than it needs to be for them both to hear, “And toss that blasted rag in the fire.” 

Pernell looks up at Percy, then towards Pius’s stiff form in the kitchen. “Sure, Uncle.”

The boy flips around, beelining to the hearth. He separates the pages of the paper and methodically crumples them, tossing them into the simmering flames. When he gets to a section that Percy is firmly familiar with, he hesitates-

“Uncle?” Pernell calls, “May I keep the sport section? We’ve missed the last few games on the wireless.”

There’s a distinct lack of sound before Pius responds. “I suppose.”

Pernell removes the section and casts it aside. The rest of the paper goes up in flames well before Percy can catch any of the headlines. 

Part of him is glad for this, truthfully. It’s unfathomable that there’s anything regarding him in there; No journalist would write about Percy Weasley and his sudden departure from the wizarding world. None with any intelligence, that is. Hell, the only reporter Percy even knows of currently is Lee Jordan-

There’s not a chance in hell that Lee Jordan gives a singular fuck about Percy. Not after what he did to Fred and George. Or Ron. Or Ginny. Or Harry. But it’s almost nice to not have the confirmation that his disappearance hasn’t mattered. It allows for the smallest bit of… something to linger in Percy’s chest, settling right behind the breastbone. Not guilt, and not sadness, but something. 

Remorse? Peace? Acceptance? It’s impossible to tell. 

Pernell is tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Are you alright, Uncle Percy?” He asks. There’s a nervous waver in his voice, similar to Charlie’s, and he’s worrying his bottom lip- “Breakfast is ready.”

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine, Pernell. You go on ahead, I- I’ll just dump the mop water. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Pernell nods, bottom lip still between his teeth. He retreats to the kitchen while Percy heaves the mop bucket outside. Hopefully, Percy thinks, he isn’t watching as Percy lights a cigarette he’d nabbed from Pius. 

The dirty soap water floods a clover patch; It bleeds into the dry clumps of earth. Percy lets his lungs burn. 

It’s a calming feeling. The sky is grey, and the air is cold and blunt. It makes Percy’s bones feel heavy. The cottage is situated right on the the brim of a quaint pond and a heavy mist is draped across the water’s surface. It’s all very peaceful; Far different than London. He could probably spend a lifetime here, making nettle tea and reading muggle books. Smoking a cigarette in the early dawn light. Just him on his own; Maybe Oliver, if the other man would be willing to take a break. It’d be like seventh year again, when Oliver would drag Percy out of the library to study by the lake or on the Quidditch pitch.

(“Humor me, Percy, and get some much needed sunshine on yer skin. Can hardly see your freckles no more.” And “C’mon now, Perse, can’t have you developin’ a vitamin D deficiency. Wee bit o’ sun won’t kill you.”)  

Percy stamps the cigarette out and heads back inside. A nice thought, indeed.

Back inside the cottage Pius has laid out a plate for him, right beside his and Pernell’s at the kitchen table. As Percy approaches, Pernell perks up, waving a skewered breakfast sausage at him and beaming. The boy’s hair is braided back just like his uncle’s. 

“Uncle Percy! Thank you for preparing the thistle for us!” The boy all but shouts at Percy, kneeling in his seat, “Here, try it, I blanched it myself just a few minutes ago.”

Pernell is scooping a pile of limp leaves onto Percy’s awaiting plate before he can even consider the offer. A peeled, soft boiled egg follows and by the time Percy sits, Pernell has layered thick tomato slices and is in the process of cracking fresh pepper on top. 

“I believe Percival is capable of feeding himself, Pernell,” Pius chuckles, “In case you were considering spoon feeding him.” 

“Oh, um- Sorry, Uncle Percy,” Pernell flushes, “It’s just- no one but Uncle has tried my cooking.” 

“It’s quite alright, Pernell.” Percy responds, giving the boy what he genuinely hopes is a reassuring smile. 

Percy pokes at a tomato slice. He slices open the egg and lets the yolk squish out around the breakfast sausage. He’s fiddling with the thistle when Pius clears his throat- Percy glances up.

Pernell’s huge, dark eyes meet his. The boy is staring, quickly glancing down expectantly between Percy’s face and the thistle; It’s rather puppy-like, Percy thinks. Like a dog politely inquiring about starting a game of fetch. 

Percy takes a bite of the thistle. It’s incredibly salty, slightly bitter, and somewhat slimy, but the egg yolk helps cut through it.  

“It’s delicious, Pernell,” Percy smiles, taking another mouthful. “Thank you for making a plate for me.” 

Pernell’s face goes pink and Percy imagines the boy’s cheeks must hurt from smiling. “It was no problem, Uncle Percy. Do you really enjoy it?”

“Quite!” Percy responds. He pointedly avoids meeting Pius’s eyes as he gulps down the entirety of his milk glass after.

.

.

.

After breakfast Pernell takes it upon himself to decide that the three of them are going on a hike. It’s hardly noon when he finally and successfully ushers the two grown adult men from the cottage. 

His mustard hat is pulled down to his eyebrows creating an easy focal point for them to keep an eye on; The boy is considerably faster than them on the trail. He is evidently hunting for something, but Percy is at a loss as to what . He and Pius have each slowed their gait, a good dozen paces back from Pernell. 

“It’s snails, if you’re curious,” Pius says, breaking their uneasy silence, “He believes them to be lucky.” 

Percy hums. He and Pius are step in step, crossing the gravel trail in unison. Percy cannot recall much about snails or their magical subtypes, but they’d been a common ingredient in school potions-

“Right, straight to it, no point in dawdling,” Pius says, clearing his throat and derailing Percy’s train of thought, “I believe Cecil Longbottom to be dead.”     

The air leaves Percy’s body. He looks at Pius who does not look back, hooded eyes and sharp nose pointedly facing Pernell. It’s only when Pius’s hand is on his shoulder and pressing him forward does Percy realize he’s stopped walking entirely. 

“Keep up, Percival, or Pernell will worry. You said you felt ill the moment Narcissa mentioned the other Weasley’s name, correct?” 

“I-” There’s a lump in his throat, “Yes, I did. I fainted shortly after.” 

“And every night since you’ve had a nosebleed accompanying a memory?” 

“Yes, and something akin to a migraine. It feels like splitting, right behind my eyes.”

The memories he’s remembered so far haven’t passed their second year of school; When he pictures Cordelia in his mind’s eye, she’s small and ruddy faced. She, like himself, is barely more than a bundle of thin bones and loose curls and baby fat. Apparently neither of them had inherited their mother’s definition or father’s stoutness; She’s closer to Bill than Percy is to the twins. 

Pius’s jaw tenses. “I did a cursory recap of the auror training courses- at least, the ones I still have access to. The Ministry has little information on oubliettes, and what we do have on them isn’t based on understanding them.”

Percy runs the thought through his mind, mentally chewing on it. “It’s based on destroying them, presumably?” 

“Dismantling is the correct terminology, but yes,” Pius says, “Getting rid of them.”

That made sense, Percy supposed. A magic so terribly upsetting- it’d probably been a heavy discussion when the concept of an oubliette made its way into the public wizarding consciousness. Perhaps it was rather like time turners; An ancient magic long gone to the public, whose negative consequences far outweigh the slim positives. It was best for the whole of the world to not remember how they were created.

Percy couldn’t think of a single positive reason to use an oubliette. Not even a single neutral reason to use one.

“Why do you believe Cecil to be dead?” Percy asked.

Pius gave him a quick look. “I did not faint or feel ill. Not in the slightest, Percival. No nosebleeding, no migraine, no…” 

He looked Percy up and down quickly, flourishing his hand at Percy’s mid-section. “None of… all that you seem to be experiencing.”

Percy chose to ignore the gesture. “Perhaps you simply didn’t know the Longbottoms-”

“I officiated their wedding, Percival.” Pius snapped, “I babysat Alice when she was too young for Hogwarts, and Frank and I are first cousins on his mother’s side. I knew them. Do you think their expenses at St. Mungos are free? Someone has to pay their yearly fee.”

Percy didn’t respond.

“They were tortured under my watch, Percival. I gave them the assignments that led to them becoming…” A vein bulged on Pius’s temple and he trailed off, teeth clenched.

There was a long beat of silence wherein the only sound was the wind in the grass. Ashes from Pius’s cigarettes danced around them. 

“I’m sorry.” Percy stated. He left it at that because what else was there to say?

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Pius adds, “I apologize for snapping, it’s just all rather… distressing.” 

Perhaps Percy did care for Pius Thicknesse’s feelings on some level. This man who’d both tortured him and not; This man who’d changed his bandages and now offered him a cigarette. 

Percy took it, grateful. He wanted to ask the obvious question that lingered between them; He caught the question on the tip of his tongue and pressed it to his teeth. For days now he’d wondered the wrong thing, perhaps-

Not if Cordelia was real, but if she was alive. 

Turns out he wouldn’t need to ask. Pius lit Percy’s cigarette for him, a small flame flickering between his fingertips when Pernell’s back was turned. 

“I don’t know, Percival.” Pius said, and Percy wondered if the man had simply been born looking so tired, “About your sister.”

“But you believe she exists? Or,” Percy inhaled and smoke flooded his lungs, “ Existed.”

“I’m almost certain she did.”

Did. 

“But I couldn’t find information on the relationship between family members as close as,” Pius gestured and tapped the cigarette against his lips, an apparent nervous tic of his, “Well, as close as twins would be. It’s probable that it’s such a niche subject that I simply don’t have access to the information. It’s also probable that you’re one of, if not the first set of twins to be inducted into an oubliette.”

And how lucky he is, Percy thinks, to finally be first in something. That there’s something he’d achieved without Bill setting the standard before him- getting a family member murdered. He’d already gotten one accidently killed; Can one put sibling killer on their resume? Could he get a new position at the Ministry if they thought him responsible for not one but two Weasley deaths? 

“Family members and familial magicks are, admittedly, not a topic I’m particularly well versed in. It’s simply not a field I ever believed important before this. The only true case of familial magicks that I can recall regards Lily and Harry Potter. I’m certain you’re familiar with that story. A mother’s love and all that. Before them I considered most of it to be hogwash. A quaint idea about familial bonds; That there’d be anything stronger than a killing curse. But now…”

Silence falls between them. Pernell is so far ahead of them on the trail that he’s morphed back into the blobby shape. 

Familial magics. A dying mother’s love for her infant son, strong enough to redirect a killing curse. Strong enough to doom said son to martyrdom and celebrity for the rest of his life.

“If your sister is anywhere near as strong of a wizard as you, Percival, then… I’d still advise you to not put much faith into survival, given what the oubliette does to a physical body. But perhaps something else will come of it all.”

Percy pauses. His curls catch on the wind and the frame of his glasses. “As strong of a wizard as me?”

Pius gives him a thin smile, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “You turned me into a sea urchin, Percival. Have you forgotten?”

Actually, yes, Percy had forgotten. The memory had been immediately written over by a loss so jarring and painful and raw- Percy inhaled smoke until it filled the void in his chest. Tried to rub the blood off his hands only to find there was none, and that his hands are clean and dry. 

“You must think it terrible of me, but I don’t consider the killing curse as the worst thing to happen to a person. I saw so many things during my career, and did so many things during my stint as Minister.”

Percy snorted. “Hardly. The killing curse is, at it’s core, more of a torture for the people who were left behind. Practically a mercy for those who were on the receiving end.”

Pius looks at Percy, meeting him directly. They’re standing in this cold and grey landscape, and Pius asks him:

“Should I have killed you, Percival? Would it have been a mercy?”

A beat. They’re on the same page, Percy thinks. But when Percy thinks of death and it’s forgiveness he also thinks of Ginny-

He’d been five when Ron was born. Six with Ginny. He remembered how small and pink they’d been; How Ron was born with thick hair but Ginny was practically bald. 

When she was just a babe, Percy would hold Ginny on his knees. She’d clutch at his fingers with her chubby hands as they’d watch Charlie teach Fred and George to fly. Bill would be at school by the time Ginny could identify the world, so Percy would take her outside and point out their siblings in the air, alternating between them so she’d learn their names. 

He’d help feed her when Molly couldn’t- would break up the flesh of a soft fruit and hold it up to her mouth as she babbled. Percy would wipe her face with a damp cloth when she’d squish blueberries to her cheeks and would bounce her when she cried because she hated carrots. 

She had been so small. So frightfully tiny-

Percy could easily imagine giving himself up to save her. And part of him knows he won’t be able to rest without her forgiveness. He craves it from them all, every sibling, but Ginny is the one that haunts him the most. Death would be a mercy, yes, but-

“Percival?”

Percy blinked. He’d been a thousand miles away. Ginny abruptly leaves his mind, and Pius is looking at him with the same furrowed brow he’s always had. 

“Enlighten me. Where were your thoughts just now?”

“I was just…” He needed to deflect; To launch the thoughts from his head like a bludger from its casing. “It’s a rather idiotic way to kill an infant. A curse. The whole war could’ve been avoided if Voldemort had simply…”

Percy tried to mime something. Not fully certain what, simply waving his hands about, half-burnt cigarette dangling from his remaining fingers. 

Pius stared. Then, slowly, before all at once doubling over-

Pius Thicknesse was laughing. 

.

.

.

Pernell found no snails on their hike. He dragged his feet all the way back home. When Percy inquired about playing a round of chess the boy simply responded:

“No, thank you, Uncle Percy.”

.

.

.

“This is the best collection of books related to the dark arts that you’ll find south of Hogwarts,” Pius states, “All collected over decades of my career.”

Running a finger over a dust-coated shelf, Percy pulls away to find a thick pile of grey on his fingertips. 

“For obvious reasons I cannot risk Pernell getting into these books, so they’ve been charmed to read as a variety of muggle-written manuals and texts. I actually got the idea for a number of them from items within your Father’s office.”

Car Engines and Their Bits, How to Maintain Your Plumbing in 1-2-3, and An Accordian Master’s Guide to Folk Music are among the titles. Percy removes the book on plumbing and thumbs through it- it’s actually a record of interrogation techniques employed by the Ministry. Some of them are recognizable to him not from previous readings but from lived experience-

Percy shoves the book back on the shelf and tries to forget the bubbling memory of tile against burning skin. 

“And those?” Percy asks, referring to the stack of books under Pius’s hand. 

“These are the books that mention oubliettes.” 

It’s only five books out of the dozens around the room. They’re stacked on a modest desk that Pius is leaning against, drumming his fingers along the cherry wood surface. Pius’s study has a charming view of the pond from its window. From where he’s standing Percy can see Pernell at the water’s edge, clutching a small bowl to his chest; Peas are bobbing up and down on the water’s surface. Two small ducks are floating right through them and occasionally dipping their heads. 

“Is there a point to me reading them?” Percy asks, still looking out at the water, “Or would you be able to summarize their information?”

Pius’s lips thin into a tight line. “I could, but frankly, I don’t wish to. I’d rather not fully dwell on the subject and if I recall correctly, you’re a very analytical person, Percival. I do not wish to answer your questions.”

Fair enough, Percy supposes.  

“If you’d like to peruse these, be my guest. I’ll supplement what information I can if you’re left with questions. I’ve charmed these texts to read as Hungarian if Pernell were to look at them. I think it goes without my asking, but-“

Percy cuts him off. “I won’t let Pernell know of the subject.”

“Thank you, Percival.” Pius makes to leave and lingers in the doorway. “If I brewed some tea, would you like some?” 

“I’d appreciate it, thank you.”

And then Pius is gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. 

When he sits at the desk, Percy notes how deliberately empty the space feels. There’s a quill and an ink pot and a tidy stack of blank parchment, but nothing to imply that this study is actually used as a study. There are no little notes like the ones Percy has by his own desk- no reminders of bits to buy or important dates. There’s no soft rug beneath his feet or decorative pieces around the space, and a brutalist looking ashtray sits in the window. Aside from that there’s  just the books, the desk, and perhaps the world’s least comfortable chair facing out over the water. 

It’s all very practical and direct. Detached. Efficient. This is not a place that Pius retreats to for comfort. 

The first two books in the stack offer little information. Book one’s information on oubliettes are simplistic throw away lines on how awful a creation they are, and how the author prays that the reader (A frustrated and annoyed Percy Weasley) never has to interact with one. Book two offers little more than an abstract definition of oubliettes that Percy can summarize in a word and a phrase-

Avoid. If unavoidable, kill yourself at the first opportunity.  

He is thankful for the ashtray, suddenly. It itself is a source of comfort as Percy lights a cigarette. Normally smoking while being indoors is something he avoids- but perhaps that’s the true intention behind having the desk centered beneath the window. How many packs have been consumed in their entirety at this desk?

Book three initially appears as a dud to Percy. It’s a muggle history book, and that’s not a part of the Pernell-resistant charm; It’s just a genuine book on the history of European castles. It’s interesting, but a touch boring as Percy’s knowledge of muggle history is admittedly missing some important chunks-

Oubliette: [From French: Oublier; ‘To Forget’] An oft forgotten dungeon found throughout castles throughout western Europe. Primarily found within the United Kingdom and France, these dungeons consist of a tight space beneath a sealed iron hatch. Typically oubliettes are located within the bottom depths of a castle, deep underground, in order to ensure a lack of sunlight and fresh air. Many scholars believe these dungeons to be purposefully placed to align with castle drainage systems, ensuring that the occupants are kept in a consistently damp and unhygienic environment-

Percy ashes his cigarette before continuing, and allows himself the luxury of skipping the rest of the paragraph. 

A prisoner or ward placed within an oubliette is not expected to live long; Oubliettes are commonly shaped in a rectangular space designed to restrict movement and posture. As a bottle dungeon, the only entrance is the hatch above, barring any chance of escape for those within. Such a design is intended for prisoners to be dropped or lowered into, and to be ‘Forgotten’ by the world above. Pictured below (Diagrams 1.5 & 1.7) illustrate a prism shaped oubliette, likely designed to act as a funnel and ensuring the castle drainage system leads past the prisoner. Various castles, such as Warwick Castle on River Avon in Warwickshire-

“Ah, I see you’ve decided to delve right into the technical terminology of muggles.” 

Percy violently jumps at the sudden sound of Pius’s voice behind him. 

“Apologies, I didn’t intend to startle you. Chamomile?” Pius asks. He’s carrying a tray laden with a delicate tea set and a honey jar. 

With a nod Percy takes the cup offered to him. It’s hot and delicate under his fingertips; The bone china has a dainty green floral pattern. In the tea itself Percy can taste the faintest hint of dusty citrus- it’s an incredibly familiar and nostalgic taste. He’s undoubtedly certain that Pius has no context of Percy’s history with calming draughts.

“Does this contain a calming draught?” Percy asks. He knows the answer already. 

“Would you prefer it without? 

Percy considers it. He’s surprisingly alright with the idea. “Actually, no. Thank you.”

In his third year at Hogwarts Percy had developed a bit of a problem with calming draughts; He’d been stressed trying to juggle all of his electives and the twin’s first year and Charlie’s final year. It wasn’t against the rules by any means and his anxiety had been practically killing him- he’d maybe gotten a combined three hours sleep a night in-between cold sweats and nightmares. He’d switched to cigarettes in fourth year after a brief stint in the hospital wing after Christmas-

Oliver hadn’t spoken to him for weeks following that.  

When Pius leaves the door clicks behind him; An unopened pack of cigarettes lays on the tea tray. 

Book four is a hot mess of scribbled words and notes. It’s not been well-loved but rather well- used ; Entire paragraphs are underlined in red ink. The pages are thick with crinkles from being frantically flipped through, and quite a few have been dog-eared in the corners. 

Percy downs the rest of the tea. 

.

.

.

The setting sun casts the study in a warm glow, but the room stays as frigidly cold as it’d been when he first entered. In the hours he’s been studying, Percy has created a definitive list of facts that he’s recorded on a parchment. 

• Oubliettes: Bad. No good. 

He preferred to get the obvious out of the way first. 

• The difference between a magical oubliette and a muggle oubliette is intent; In a muggle oubliette, death is the point. In magical, the point is gaining something? 

• Technically speaking, an oubliette is a cursed object, not a room. Different than Room of Requirement. The curse works inwards by wrapping around the person. (Cursebreaker Bill Weasley letter?)

• Technically falls under Department of Curses and Magical Afflictions, not auror department. (Lack of information because of this?) 

• A person in an oubliette is not affected by starvation/hunger/dehydration in the same manner as a prisoner. Curse extends the degradation of the body; Natural death still possible after extended period. 

• One person is responsible for the maintenance of the prisoner(s) within, maintaining memory of them until obliviated after prisoner death. (Narcissa Malfoy?)

• Learning identity of person in oubliette causes pain based on relationship (obviously). Fundamentally unexplored area of study. 

Of course, the paltry amount of information he’s gained has lead to a dozen questions:

• Why was I selected originally?

• Why was Cordelia taken instead?

• When was Cordelia taken?

• How?

• What is the connection between her and the other students?

• What is MY connection between myself and the other students (Not yet Head Boy, but Prefect when they were taken.)

• Was Cordelia a Prefect? (Who else would’ve been? Off-topic.)

• Will the pain cease if she dies? Or is the pain caused because she’s already dead?

• Ghost sibling? Schrödinger’s sibling?

• Am I being haunted? (Further research required.)

• Why did Narcissa look at me like that?

• Contents of letter to Bill from council- Relevance to trial?

He had barely remembered the letter until book four enlightened him on oubliettes technically being cursed. The letter addressed to Curse-Breaker William Weasley had been pressed into his clammy hands as he’d been lead out from the Ministry that day- who the hell thought that was a good idea? Giving a letter of importance to a man who’s clearly undergone distress? Simply because, what, he and Bill were related? 

Idiots. There were official channels for a reason. 

Actually- shit, where is that letter? He could hardly remember getting home that day, let alone the assortment of objects he’d taken with him. The letter would’ve gone into his bag, then home, then left behind as Oliver took him to the burrow-

The last rays of sunlight turn the study into a vibrant, bloody scarlet. Percy’s stomach churns violently; He knows exactly where the letter for Bill is- It’s in his apartment. Tucked away in the expanding pocket of his briefcase, floating around somewhere with paperwork he’s unsure he’ll ever finish. He’d been wearing it in the bathtub right after he’d splinched. 

.

.

.

Pius does not allow him anymore calming draught by the time dinner rolls around. The three of them are seated back at the kitchen table; Dinner tonight is beef stew and potatoes. Pernell had spent the afternoon making Yorkshire puddings, youthfully ignorant to Percy’s dilated eyes.  

“It was a temporary measure, Percival,” Pius says, spooning a thick ladle of stew on his pudding, “Such potions are not meant to be taken for extended periods.”

Percy is intimately acquainted with that fact. Madam Pomfrey had made him go cold turkey, even when the withdrawal had made his thirteen year old self shake and sweat. Actually, he remembers Oliver sitting there with him at his bedside-

Cordelia dabs at his damp forehead. In her hands is a bundled cloth, wet with Percy’s own sweat. “Absolute muppet you are, Perse, I wouldn’t have made those if I thought you’d-”

“You maede them? I’d thought you’d said-” Oliver is on the other side of the hospital wing bed. He’s clutching Percy’s arm and it hurts, and he’s practically spitting at Cordelia. 

“I didn’t know he’d drink all of them! He’s supposed to be the swotty smart one!” 

“Uncle Percy!” 

The pain radiates through his skull, sharp as a knife. There’s a dull pressure against his temple- it’s the heel of his palm, having moved of its own accord. He might be holding a fork, but he’s uncertain, too blinded by the pain to notice.

“Head forward, Percival, or the blood will run down your throat. Pernell- Pull yourself together, boy, and grab a dishrag-”

Percy shakes his head and bats off the hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s fine, I’m fine; It’s passing.”

His vision is blurry beyond belief when he finally pries his eyes open. He’d dislodged his glasses in the excitement of it all. Pius’s hand is hovering right outside his field of vision and Percy swats at it, annoyed.

“Percival, I do not think that this condition falls under the confines of fine.”

Pernell is back now- Percy can’t make out the boy’s features, but the dishrag he’s thrusting into Percy’s face is perfectly visible. Percy takes it and gently presses it to his nose before readjusting his glasses.

Uncle and nephew are staring at him, matching dark eyes that bore into Percy. If he looks anything like he did back at the burrow, then the two of them are just as dramatic as Charlie. 

“It is fine. It’s passed now, see?” Percy swipes at the blood, hoping that it’s nothing more than a small amount. “Just something that happens occasionally.”

Pernell isn’t looking at him anymore. Percy’s blood has dripped onto the pudding, coagulating with the oily surface. Pernell looks petrified; Guilt floods Percy’s body.   

“Here, I, um- I made extras.” Pernell stutters and takes the bloody pudding away, quickly disappearing into the kitchen. While he’s out of sight Percy seizes the opportunity and leans in close to Pius-

“I have to go back to my apartment, just for a few minutes,” Percy says, muffled through the rag, “I left something behind. Something that I think could help with understanding the oubliettes better.”

Pius’s face is stony. If he has any thoughts on Percy’s suggestion, it’s hidden behind a veneer of stoicism equivalent to concrete. He’s staring so intensely that Percy feels fidgety under his gaze; It’s the same expression he’d held Percy with during any number of interrogations. 

Do you know Ron Weasley’s location? Do you have any information on Harry Potter’s whereabouts?

“You’ll go tonight. Five minutes, in and out, three a.m.” 

It’s an order, Percy realizes. Pius is ordering him. 

Before he can ask for an elaboration, Pernell is back, sliding a fresh pudding under Percy’s face, and reclaiming his seat. 

.

.

.

Pernell is asleep, once again tucked closely into Percy’s side. Percy had eaten more than his fair share of yorkshire puddings to try and compensate for the one he’d bled on; They sat heavy in his gut now as they sit together on the couch. Pernell had watched him eat them the same way Molly had watched Harry eat that first morning at the burrow; Badly pretending he wasn’t watching every bite. 

Pius is sitting right across from them, reclined in an armchair, seemingly unconcerned about Pernell’s attachment to Percy. It’s a quarter to three now, and both adults are watching the fire lethargically flicker through its last dregs. 

“I hate using magic on Pernell. Despise it, really.” Pius sounds hoarse. 

Pernell had been worried about Percy to the point that he refused to leave his side. Pius had taken it upon himself to read aloud to the boy until he’d drifted to sleep. Percy had spent the evening thinking about Oliver and Cordelia and week-long stays in the hospital wing.

Percy hums into Pernell’s hair. “It’s a simple silencing charm. I think he’d be understanding.”

Percy plans to apparate in just a few minutes. For Pernell’s sake Pius has placed a silencing charm on the room, so the crack of apparating doesn’t wake him.

“To use magic on a squib,” The fire reflected off Pius’s eyes with a flicker, “It’s disgusting. Despicable. If I had actually been Minister for Magic, I’d-”

“Pius.” Percy doesn’t actually have any words to follow up the name with. But when Pius looks at him, the message silently transfers between them: It’s not worth imagining. Pius hadn’t, and would never, be Minister for Magic. And Percy just doesn’t have the strength in him to humor the man. 

The fire pops. 

“You’re believed to be missing, Percival.” Pius says.

“Believed to be?” Percy huffs, “I wanted to be missing. I had better be bloody missing. I’m worried-”

Pernell kicks a foot out and Percy bites his tongue. It’d taken so long for the boy to fall asleep; When they were seven and Percy was nine, the twins had gotten terribly sick. Percy had sat with them for hours until his legs had fallen asleep and his back ached from slouching against the wall. They’d curled up against him in his own bed, one on either side, his shoulders their pillows, and he’d read stories to them until his throat was raw. They’d been so fussy all day, in such obvious discomfort that it made Percy’s heart ache- So he’d stayed, unmoving, but unable to sleep as they rested. 

“I’m worried I’d tell them about…” Percy says, once he’s certain Pernell is still soundly asleep, “About Cordelia. I almost did. I really, really wanted to, but-”

“You don’t wish to inflict this pain you’re experiencing upon them. I understand. I sent many of my aurors to certain death; The guilt is… madness. You’re a dedicated man, Percival. I’ve always appreciated that about you. You made an excellent assistant.”

Percy holds in a snort, just in case it wakes Pernell. Pius doesn’t know how many muggle-born names Percy wiped from the records.

“I’m going to send you in disguise, Percival. Nothing complicated, but on the off chance that anyone sees you-”

“If they saw me, I’d have to explain.” He thinks of Ron’s howler, left behind your fucking fingers- “I didn’t exactly leave in a clean way.”

“And you cannot be traced back to me, here. It’d be best if no one saw you at all.”

Percy fights the urge to smile. “I really don’t think that’ll be a problem in the slightest. They hate me, Pius. I got our brother killed.”

Pius says nothing. The clock ticks- ten minutes until three. As gently as possible Percy stands, once again replacing his body with a pillow in Pernell’s arms.

“What is this disguise then?” 

There’s a creaking sound as Pius stands, and it’s difficult to tell if it’s the old flooring or the man’s bones. “A standard issue auror disillusionment charm. It requires a source to base the appearance off of; I figured you wouldn’t oppose using my own.”

“Certainly not,” Percy stretches and his hands come fairly close to the thatched ceiling, “We don’t look similar at all.”

“Right. Hold still, Percival. Voltus Cutis.”

It’s like an egg being cracked over his head. It’s not an instant transformation, but Percy feels the effects gradually sink in. The thatched ceiling is significantly further away than it was a moment ago- he’d never really thought about how much taller he was than Pius. 

His bones feel thicker. Dense. The curls around his face are no longer red but instead a murky brown and falling in limp waves. He’s not a fan of the way his hair now tickles his neck- it’s itchy, like a wool sweater. His fingers feel short and stubby.

“Here, turn around.” Pius directs him to spin and Percy does. Pius is taller than him now, and braids Percy’s hair back. 

“Right, am I good to go?” Percy asks, turning back to Pius. 

“Brown hair looks terrible on you, Percival.” Pius gives him a clap on the shoulder in an odd moment of camaraderie, and Percy rolls his shoulder back at the touch. “Best of luck. Five minutes.” 

Percy nods, then apparates. 

.

.

.

He pops back into existence under the cool street lamp in front of his building, and gives the windows of his apartment a quick glance. They’re dark.

Percy heads inside.  

.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

They lived on the top floor of their building, which meant four flights of stairs for Percy to trudge up. When he and Oliver had set out to find a flat together, Oliver’s only real requirement had been tall- he liked to feel up in the air, even with both feet on the ground. At the time Percy hadn’t cared much; He took the Floo to work and, in the period after the battle, had developed a minor case of agoraphobia. There simply weren’t many times he’d needed to take the stairs.

He cared now, however. Pius’s spell had shrunk Percy considerably, and had these stairs always been so deep? His pants were also far too long, perfectly tailored to a body at least a head or two taller. He rolls them up and performs a quick-hem spell that’d been essential learning for any Weasley child. Maybe, if Oliver wasn’t home, Percy could take the time to grab a few of his warmer suits. Perhaps also some shoes- he’d left his behind at Pius’s suggestion, along with his glasses. 

“They clack, Percival. Honestly, you’d have made a terrible spy.” Percy had almost laughed. At least the spell had fixed his vision.

The stairs creak under his weight. He passes his neighbor’s flats with the knowledge that he hardly knows any of them. A few names, but nothing concrete.

He approaches his front door like it’s an explosive. It might as well be; Percy’s incredibly anxious and coping by biting the inside of his cheek. Maybe the bloody and ransacked environment he’d left behind had festered into some sort of tangible force; One that would pop open like a shaken fizzy drink. Presumably someone had come by in the past week-

The doormat is askew. Percy takes a moment to nudge it into place before casting three spells: A muffling charm on himself (just in case), a silencing charm on the door hinges (very squeaky), and Alohamora, because his keys are in his briefcase. The door opens without a sound, just wide enough for Percy to squeeze his new short and thin body through.

It’s dark; Muscle memory has him halfway stretched to the lightswitch before he catches himself. He turns to shut the door behind him, slowly, so it doesn’t make a sound- He even turns the handle and releases it at a snail’s pace. 

The ambient street lighting is just bright enough for him to see without Lumos. Percy can make out distinct shapes in the kitchen. There’s a lack of reflection on the island that suggests it’s covered in something; Paper, perhaps? He resolves not to touch anything, just in case. There’s an overabundance of light refraction near the sink- stacked dirty glasses, if he had to guess. 

The briefcase isn’t in here. He’d changed in his room. At least there are obvious signs of life in the apartment. 

He drags his socked feet past his barstool seats; Someone’s coat is dangling over one of the backs. It looks heavy and thick, but is slim enough that it could’ve belonged to Percy himself. He’d never been one for leather coats, so it’s certainly not his. 

His room is right past the couch, opposite Oliver’s. He puts one foot on the rug, holding himself like the floor is covered in broken glass-

Someone is on the couch. He can see the light reflecting off the long hair that’s strewn across the cushions. There’s a shadow cast from the way that their hand dangles mere inches from the floor; Their arm is their pillow and their gangly legs are sticking out over the armrest. Percy had only anticipated one person possibly being in the apartment; Oliver. This person is not Oliver.

It’s Bill. Percy can tell from the combat boots and the incredibly uncomfortable sleeping position; It was never a challenge for Bill to fall asleep anywhere, however he wanted. Bill’s sleeping arrangement in Egypt had been hardly more than a cot and blanket- Percy’d just thought Bill’s rugged toughness was just part of the coolness that the eldest Weasley extruded. He’d just never dreamed that that charm would one day grace their London flat.

When he strains to listen, Percy can hear Bill’s soft and slow breathing. Bill has always slept like he’s dead, but personal experience has taught Percy that his brother wakes at the gentlest sounds. A hummingbird could wake Bill; Percy is not a hummingbird. He’s a full grown man tiptoeing shoeless-ly across his own apartment. 

He holds his breath as he passes behind the couch. For some reason he also holds his hands in the air, keeping himself facing Bill. It feels like an eternity has passed by the time Percy’s shoulder blades are pressing against his own door.

To his surprise the door to his room is already cracked open, but is just as dark as the rest of the apartment. The windows in his room are less bright, but Percy can still see; He’s been in this bedroom everyday for the past five years, so even if he couldn’t he’d still be able to-

There’s someone in his bed. A lump slowly rising and falling with their breath. 

Someone curled up in his comforter, their face in his pillows. He can’t even tell who it is- Someone shorter than him evidently, based on how little bed space they occupy. They’re clutching one of his pillows like a child would their teddy bear, curled around it in a tight ball, and the blanket is pulled up and over their head.

They’re snoring. Probably drooling.

For a moment, all Percy can think is They better have showered first. Then, for just a second, he wonders if he’s maybe in the wrong apartment, because suddenly this feels much more like a home invasion than him coming by to grab something. 

Oh, right, he’s here to grab something. This person- this whoever will have to wait. 

Percy scans the room and in the dark. His furniture is all in the same spot and a few things on his desk-vanity combo have been moved, but nothing else seems different. His briefcase is dangling by its welded strap off his desk chair. Maintaining the same stance he’d approached Bill with, Percy edges his way around the bed. He approaches the vanity and gently, so gently, sets on lifting his briefcase from the chair.

Then he makes the mistake of looking up at the mirror. Even in the dark Percy can see the telltale differences of his appearance. It’s unmistakably his nose and his freckles. The lips are his even if they’re a little shorter, a touch more plump. But everything else is a different mix of himself and someone else:

His red curls are chocolate brown and hanging in limp waves to his collarbone. His eyes are shining and dark and far too big for his face, and his cheeks are round in a way they hadn’t been since second year-

He’s petite and short. The sweater he’s wearing has a neck hole far too large for him. His hands have a softness to them that his own had grown out of-

Pius hadn’t used himself in the charm. He’d used Pernell. 

Percy looks like himself mixed with a child. He stares at the reflection, bag hanging loosely from his tiny child-sized hand and-

.

.

.

Cordelia is sitting up now, twisting to look at the scene between Charlie and Fred. She holds a hand up to her eyes to block out the sun- Her nails are shiny and seashell pink, matching Ginny’s. 

“Oh, looks like Charlie’s got a handle on it. Fred’ll be fine,” She flops back down, rolling onto her stomach, “Probably.”

Percy says nothing. 

“Must be some fascinating trade disputes you’re reading about, Perse. Do you think I could have a glance?” 

Percy huffs and kicks her braid off his leg. “Are you not engrossed in your fairy tales?” 

“Oh, this?” Cordelia lifts her book up and drops it in Percy’s lap. She grabs his book straight from his hands; He tries to follow and she bats him away, readjusting her glasses. “I’ve finished it a dozen times now. I’m trying to memorize it before Dad asks for it back.”

Percy flips through the book. It’s old and paperback- A terrible format for a book, in his opinion. They always get ripped and bent. This particular book is waterlogged, its pages wavy, thick, and clumped together. “What’s happened to it?” 

“Oh, I dropped it in a cauldron. It’s got those potions in it and I was trying to recreate them-”

He interupts her and she huffs. “This muggle book has got potions in it?” 

“Yes! I- Merlin, you never listen to me, do you? Do you think I just make sounds to hear myself talk?” She kicks him, “I told you about them earlier. The two potions? One makes the girl small and the other makes her big? Well, actually, it’s technically a cake, but I assume it’s been baked in. I’ve read that there are some potions that are much more potent if they’re consumed via a solid form rather than a liquid.”

“I didn’t realize you cared for potions so much.” Percy says, voice quiet. 

“Well if you and Oliver stopped flirting for a minute, maybe you’d notice that I have interests too. I’m not just you but a girl, after all.” 

Percy’s cheeks heat, and not from the blotted sunshine above them. “We don’t flirt.”

Cordelia lifts her glasses to look at him. “Gods, Percy, I was just joking. Sorry, I- I’m sorry, Percy. I forgot that stuff goes right over your head.”

He bites his cheek. Cordelia rolls her eyes and rolls onto her back again, staring up at the branches above. Her arms lay outstretched and Percy’s (Bill’s?) book lies on her chest.

The way she constantly moves and fidgets is frustrating. He goes to tell her-

“I just feel left out sometimes, alright?” It’s hardly more than a whisper, and she’s refusing to look at him. “I know we’re all friends. But all year it was just me in my dormitory, and you two would come down in the morning talking about something or whatever, and it’s just…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. The shade dopples her skin. Percy is at a loss for what to do- Cordelia’s emotions have always been so much bigger than his or their sibling’s. Sometimes he wondered if she maybe absorbed his emotions in the womb; That she has twice the emotion a normal person should contain, and that he has none at all.

“I’m sorry, Cordy.” And he uses Cordy, not Cordelia.

Her eyes slide to him for but a moment before back up at the tree. His chest aches and his eyes have that telltale blurriness to them that he hates. 

“Can I borrow your book?” He asks, voice high. “I’d like to read it, if that’s alright.” 

She doesn’t move. A bird takes off from the tree above. 

“If you really love it so much, I’d like to give it a proper chance.” 

Cordelia moves so fast that Percy doesn’t register it until the ground is meeting him. She’s hugging him and making a sound he can only categorize as a squeal, loudly and right into his ear. “Oh, thank you Percy! You’ll love it too, I promise. You’re so much like the main character, I think.”  

Percy’s laughing even though Cordelia’s elbow is in his ribcage. “Am I? How so?”

“Well, she’s very matter-of-fact and calm and completely tactless and questions all of these fantastical things she sees. But it’s just because she wants to understand them! Even though it makes her seem rude or like a know-it-all.”

“You think I’m tactless?”

“Sometimes! But not intentionally, I don’t think. She’s very polite and well-mannered and very much pushy oftentimes-”

“You think I’m tactless and pushy?” 

“Yes!” She laughs, pushing off of him. Her book had fallen in the commotion and now she’s brushing the dirt off of it. “You’re practically identical, I think.”

She violently shakes the book to rid it of dirt and Percy winces before she thrusts it into his hands. The poor thing; Waterlogged and covered in dirt.

“Here, read it, it won’t take you long at all. It’s quite short! And then you’ll see what I mean, how you’re just like her,” She pokes at the book cover, tapping at the illustration, “How you’re just like Alice.”

“Just like Alice?” Percy straightens his glasses. The book has grass stains on it, marring the black and white illustration with bright green. “‘Alice in Wonderland’? This is one of Father’s muggle books?” 

“Yeah, I took it from his shed. Don’t think he’ll miss it yet.”

Percy frowns at her. “You should ask before you take someone’s things, Cordelia.” 

She blinks at him, then screeches: “Just read the bloody book, Percy! Gods! And once you finish I can point out who everyone else is. Gin’s this little dormouse in a teapot-”

.

.

.

  His head is reeling. The pain blots across his vision like an oily red film. Hot blood- his blood- runs across his lips and into his mouth. He grabs for something, anything to steady him as he stumbles-

“Percy? Is that you?”

Something is happening to his right but he can’t register it, even though he knows it’s important; His mind is screaming at him, everything is so noisy and blurry and loud-

“Wait, you’re not- who the fuck-”

He’s no longer supporting his own body suddenly, moving- No, being moved. Through some miracle of strength Percy keeps the briefcase in his grip as he’s shoved, violently pulled away from the chair and pinned to the wall. Someone’s forearm is braced across his now petite chest; It’s tight and uncomfortable.

The pain drains away all at once, like it’s being expelled from his body. Percy takes a deep breath, or at the very least, tries to take one. The air smells like rosemary and salt; No, the person pinning him smells of rosemary and salt. 

It’s Oliver, he realizes. It’s Oliver that’s pinning him by the chest .

Had Oliver always been this strong? 

The bedroom door bangs open. There’s not a doubt in Percy’s mind that that’s Bill, based on the sweeping height alone, but it’s confirmed by the wand suddenly in Percy’s face. Bill hadn’t needed to say Lumos for the spell to light up the space. It’s suddenly jarringly bright right in Percy’s eyes and he flinches, turning away and straining under Oliver’s grip. 

“The- the hell?” It’s Oliver, and Percy can’t bring himself to look, “You’re just- You’re just a lad.”

He feels like a small prey animal. Percy’s heart is in his throat and when he opens his eyes he sees Oliver’s wand a mere inch from his nose. Is this what a dormouse feels like in the maw of a housecat? Helpless and small?  

“Or someone that just looks like a kid.” Bill says.

Percy looks at Oliver. Oliver looks back, looking between Percy’s now dark eyes. A few things become obvious at once.

Firstly, Oliver looks like hell warmed over. His eyes are puffy and there’s dark bags where there should be golden skin. Despite smelling of the rosemary soap he looks haggard and unshowered, and he’s wearing one of Percy’s Christmas jumpers. It’s laughably long on his short frame, ending mid-thigh.

Secondly, he’s much taller than Percy now, something that they’d grown out of in third year. It’s while noting this that Percy realizes he’s not touching the ground- his feet are dangling, because Oliver is keeping him suspended against the wall. 

Thirdly, it’s still dark in the room. Bill seems to notice this at the same time and hits the lightswitch, throwing the three of them into light.  

Oliver’s hair is cowlicked. Percy’s comforter had tried to follow him from the bed, and is tangled in a pile on the floor. The clock on the nightstand shows that it’s 3:07, which means Percy is now two minutes past the deadline Pius set him.

He has no idea how long this charm will last. 

Oliver drops him, but keeps his wand only a few inches from Percy’s face. One thick hand is still braced on the dip of Percy’s collarbone. Oliver considers him a threat, even in this child’s body. Well, actually, Percy supposes that’s fair enough. 

Percy notes how the sleeves of his sweater are too long for Oliver’s arms and they’re rolled up to accommodate him. The periwinkle of the sweater seems so dull in comparison to Oliver’s tan skin. 

“Who are you?” Oliver asks, eyes flitting between Percy’s rapidly. His wand is practically poking Percy’s cheek. 

It’s probably not a grand idea to answer that, but even if Percy wanted to- he has no idea what his voice will sound like. Will it be his adult voice in this child-like body? Or will it be some mismash of him and Pernell, soft and high? Doesn’t matter, really; An angry Oliver is terrifying this close up, and Percy’s not sure if he’d be able to form actual words.

“Oliver, watch yourself,” Bill steps into view. His wand is raised to Percy’s frame, and a soft yellow is radiating out from the tip, “Examen Quaesitum.”

Percy recognizes the spell; It’s a common curse-breaking spell, one that exposes hidden or disguised items. Technically he’s a disguised item, and as the yellow passes through his body Percy tenses. He can’t look away from Bill’s furrowed face, but- 

But nothing happens. He’s still Percy-Pernell, still vastly shorter than the other two men. Oliver’s hopelessly searching his face. The pressure on Percy’s chest increases.

Bill steps back, face furrowed. “Keep him here, Oliver. I’ll wake Charlie.”

There’s a sharp crack of apparition, but Percy is still staring at the spot his eldest brother had occupied because-

Because- 

Cordelia is standing right behind where Bill had been, a shimmery and ghostly figure. Her hair hangs in braids to her waist and she looks exactly as she had in his memory; Half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose and seashell pink nails. She’s looking at him, one hand on a cocked hip and the other held up, like she’s checking an invisible watch.

“You’re running out of time, Percy.” She says, rolling her eyes. “Do I have to do everything for you?” 

Oliver’s head turns to look over his shoulder, straining to see whatever Percy is staring at. His eyes skate over the spot before he sharply turns back to Percy, confusion etched in his face. Or is it concern? 

“What is it? What’s there?” Oliver asks, his breath hitching, “Do you know where Percy is?” 

Percy tries to wet his lips but his mouth is too dry. 

“Oh my Gods, you’re incompetent, Percy,” Cordelia says, exasperatedly gesturing at Oliver’s backside, “Kick him in the bollocks and run! C’mon, now!”

The hand on his chest lightens just a fraction, but Percy is transfixed by glossy tears welling in Oliver’s eyes. 

“Please? Can you-” And Merlin help them both because Oliver sounds broken, “Can you at least tell me if he’s alright?” 

Behind him Cordelia is frantically pointing at Oliver’s hips. “PERCY! BOLLOCKS! KICK! NOW!”

Something cracks in Oliver’s voice, and Percy’s certain a part of him dies at the sound, “Please?” 

“NOW, NOW, NOW, NOW!” Cordelia is screeching , her eyes clamped shut and hands balled into fists, “YOU STUPID BOY, DO IT NOW!” 

Percy is splitting into a thousand pieces; He’s practically hyperventilating under the pressure-

“I’m so sorry,” Percy gasps, gripping Oliver’s wrist and thankful the voice doesn’t sound like his, “I’m so sorry-” 

The tears push over in Oliver’s eyes; His tense jaw goes slack. “What-”

Percy has no idea how Oliver’s question ends. With all the strength he can muster in his petite leg Percy kicks, his new short stature allowing him perfect aim. He throws Oliver’s hand off of him as the man cripples. 

“I am so, so sorry-” Percy says, looping the briefcase strap around his shoulders and tripping over himself to leave the room, “I am so, Merlin, I’m so sorry-”    

Despite knowing the apartment like the back of his hand, Percy keeps stumbling on things, hip-checking the couch as he sprints past. He chalks it up to this new body and it’s impracticalities; He’s never so clumsy in his real body. 

He’s just barely in the kitchen when there’s the ever classic crack of apparition from behind- 

“Oliver!” It’s Charlie’s voice, meaning Bill must be the sound rapidly approaching Percy. 

Percy tries to take the sharp corner around the kitchen island, forgetting he’s in only socks. The hardwood floor rushes to meet him and Percy scrambles for structure; He takes a barstool out with him, both of them crashing into the ground. It hurts and Percy is tangled in something- The coat that’d been on the stool, whoever’s coat- 

Fuck it, Percy thinks, mine now it’s my bloody apartment as he’s balling the fabric and forcing himself up through sheer willpower. Bill is right behind him, legs possibly longer than Percy’s whole body. 

For the second time in a week Percy launches himself from his front door. Impossibly fast mental math goes through him; Instead of taking the stairs Percy hops over the bannister, praying to anyone that might be listening that this body is equipped with Pernell’s young cartilage and joints and not his shoddy adult ones. 

And someone must be listening, Percy thinks, because his ankles don’t shoot up into his arse when he lands. He sprints down the hall and jumps the bannister again because Bill is thundering down the steps above.  Once more and his ankles burn and scream along with his knees from catching himself. Thrice now the coat in his hands has somewhat cushioned the fall for his wrists, and he keeps it pressed to him as tears through the front building entrance. 

The sidewalk is rough and slightly damp from rain, giving Percy a firm running grip for the first time in what feels like hours; He takes off down the sidewalk, socks dampening. The front door slams again- Bill is only slightly behind him, and Percy wonders:

Is he not using magic because he believes Percy to be a child? Bill certainly could’ve stunned him by now, he was definitely fast enough. It’s smart, Percy thinks, if not wholly unethical in nature to be disguised as a child. No self-respecting wizard would fire upon a child. 

He’s just passing by the alleyway bordering his apartment building and the next when something grabs him. He lurches to the side painfully, body still desperately trying to move forward in lieu of the firm hand on his arm. He’s flipped around and for the second time that evening someone’s arm is around his chest, holding him close. 

“You fool.” Pius hisses, pulling Percy tight. He can tell it’s Pius based off the harsh cigarette scent alone, even though the voice is entirely different, “I told you five minutes.”

Before Percy can answer there’s the sound of boots against concrete. They come to a sharp stop in front of the alleyway- Bill is standing there, panting. Percy only makes the briefest eye contact with him, seeing the way his eyes widen at the sight of an unknown child gripping Percy Weasley’s briefcase like a lifeline. 

Then, an equally disguised Pius Thicknesse apparates with a sharp crack, taking Percy with him. 

.

.

.

For a moment it’s all jumbled limbs. Then it’s Percy’s smallish fist making contact with Pius’s new teenaged face. They’re not inside and it’s cold as all hell, and wet snowflakes are melting into Percy’s skin. 

“A child? You sent me in there as a child?!” 

Pius reels from the impact. Part of Percy almost feels bad, but the part of him that he suspects is Fred is cheering him on. 

“You said,” Percy is pointing at Pius indignantly, the words burning his throat as he spits them out, “You declared that doing magic on a squib is detestable! Despicable!”

“Yes, I did.” The teenager wipes at his lip- Percy’s punch had split it and he’s proud . “Have you ever considered playing as a Beater in Quidditch, Percival? I think it’d be a formidable career choice for you.”

Percy gapes at him. Both stunned and disgusted Percy bends to gather the coat he’d kidnapped from its fallen pile in the snow. The audacity of Pius is too much to bear.

“Would you have rathered I sent you in as myself?” Pius is standing now, still in the form of a gangly adolescent, “I’m not so certain Oliver would have appreciated seeing me in your room, after what he witnessed me do to you at the Ministry.”

Percy stomps away with the coat and his briefcase, leaving Pius unanswered. 

“I can recall all the times he came to retrieve you from my office. A strong one, that Oliver Wood; A touch on the short side. Is he why you were late coming back? Took one look at your handsome friend and decided to just dash the whole plan?”

Pius is right behind Percy, who’s practically jogging to get away from him. “Perhaps you are not as unattached as you believe yourself to be? Plenty of men find themselves falling folly to-”

As Percy enters the cottage he doesn’t bother holding the door open for the other man, slamming it shut behind him. Snowflakes flutter in with each of them; Percy’s feet are freezing from the combo of wet sidewalks and frozen ground. 

Pius speaks to Percy’s retreating form. “Sweet dreams, Percival. We’ll debrief in the morning.” 

Percy doesn’t justify it with a response. He doesn’t slam the door to the guest bedroom as he’d like to do, because Pernell is sleeping a room over, but he strongly thinks about it. He peels off his clothing and sees a purple blush of bruising across his chest- it aligns with where Oliver’s forearm had been. 

Best not to think on that. 

It’s 3:27 if the clock is to be believed. Percy’s still in his smaller form; If the charm doesn’t wear off in his sleep then he’ll address it in the morning. The brown hair is damp from snow and drips water onto his nightshirt, which is absolutely swimming on him. His ankles hurt.

Percy draws his sheets and wonders what Bill did after they’d apparated away. Fluffs up his pillow and wonders why Bill had been sleeping on his couch, knowing full well that there’s a warm bed and a wife waiting for him at Shell Cottage. 

It’s not exhaustion taking over Percy as much as it is just just the effects of being cold; His movements are sluggish. He’s incredibly tired. The briefcase falls to the wayside of the bed and he goes to hang the coat up. It’s a soft, supple leather under his fingertips- Percy holds the coat out; He’s too short for the coat to fully fall, so excess fabric puddles on the floor. A toasted dark brown, the leather is weathered in appearance. 

There’s a tiny golden lapel pin of two crossed broomsticks; The Puddlemere United logo. 

He’d stolen Oliver’s coat. 

Percy keeps it outstretched for a moment longer. Then he pulls it in, gathers it in his arms and nuzzles his face right into the collar. It certainly smells of Oliver: Broom grease and rosemary and salt. This had to be one of his go-to jackets, as the leather is just starting to fray on the shoulders. It's not his sports coat, but it’d been the same one Oliver had worn when he’d come home to check on Percy. 

And while Percy knows the polite thing to do would be to hang it up, he simply doesn’t want to. Instead he crawls into bed and brings the coat with him, and falls asleep cocooned inside of it. 

.

.

.

Percy’s dreams are fruitless and uninteresting, and when he wakes the sun is still hidden in the sky. He doesn’t even get out of bed before stretching over the width of it and grabbing up his suitcase, immediately setting out on rifling through his items. 

Evidently neither Bill nor Oliver had noticed the slim, charmed pocket within the svelt lining. They’d gone through his paperwork, flitted through his scribe notes- someone had crumpled a page detailing snatcher information. The letter labeled Curse Breaker William Weasley is unopened and just as perfect as it’d been that first day. 

Percy rips it open. 

Attn: William Weasley

Delivered on Behalf of the Wizarding Crimes Department; Council for War Participation; Inner Council for Heinous and Grievous Crimes by Head Council Scribe Percival Weasley:

The Council regrets to inform you of a grievous act committed during the Second Wizarding War in regards to the Weasley family. Information regarding pureblood Oubliettes has been brought forward to the Council in exchange for a Council Pardon, which has been granted to the provider. 

A member of the Weasley family has been discovered to have been victimized via imprisonment within an oubliette, located within the boundaries of Malfoy Manor. We ask that you do not reveal this information beyond yourself and the Head Scribe. Given your formidable record of engagement and handling of cursed objects, we request for your assistance in regards to this case. 

Percival Weasley has unfortunately and unintentionally been exposed to this information through his position as Head Scribe. As the handling of this information needs to be taken care of through proper channels, we are releasing him into your immediate care. The council will provide funding for Percival Weasley’s care until it is no longer necessary or wanted. If you are unwanting of this task please let the Department of Cursed Artifacts know at your earliest convenience, and we will have a warded room set aside for Percival at St.Mungo’s within the Special Circumstances unit. In the event of this we request that you have your memories of this letter Obliviated in accordance with Ministry Code. 

Proper handling of Oubliettes does not deem informing family members of imprisoned persons as ethical, nor necessary. As such we will not inform you of the identity of the Weasley member involved. However, it is pertinent to explain that the Council has significant reason to believe that Percival Weasley maintained a strong, personal relationship with the victim. During the events of the trial itself Percival underwent a process that the Ministry identifies as ‘Grave Emotional Distress’: The sudden and rapid emotional degradation onset by a cursed object. 

In accordance with Ministry code Percival will be temporarily removed from his position until he is deemed mentally fit enough to resume. The Council will require his memories of the victim to be Obliviated for Percival to be reinstated to his prior role. 

We thank you for your cooperation. Please direct your response to:

Ministry of Magic; Wizarding Crimes Department; Council for War Participation; Inner Council for Heinous and Grievous Crimes; Secretary Brown. 

The letter crinkles under Percy’s clenched hands. When he crawls out of bed he feels some crumb of relief that his legs are the normal length. The cottage floor isn’t particularly warm as he storms across it, breezing from his room across the living room, and into the kitchen. 

He says nothing as he walks right up to Pius. The man is buttering a piece of toast as the letter is shoved into his face, and he gives Percy a cursory up and down glance before taking it. It takes him the duration of two bites to skim the letter.

“Mm, standard operating procedure,” Pius hums, “A touch casual for them to enlist a non-ministry member, but I suppose they’d trust your war hero brother to keep to his word. Were you able to find what you were looking for, otherwise?” 

Percy scoffs. “This is what I was looking for.”

“This?” Pius looks at him from over the top of the letter. “You thought a standard issue G.E.D. letter would crack your case open?”  

“Standard issue?” Percy grits out. The floor is too cold to remain standing, so Percy folds himself onto one of the table benches. “I wasn’t even aware there was an existing protocol for oubliette dealings.” 

Pius folds up the letter and passes it back to Percy. He follows this by filling an empty teacup with steaming liquid from the kettle between them, and holding it out to Percy expectantly. Percy doesn’t take it. 

“So that first day last week when I found you,” The teacup is set down in front of Percy anyways, “When you sought me out- it was not because you obtained memories of the victim and wanted to keep them?” 

“No, I- I didn’t. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I fainted in the trial room, was escorted home, then started having these episodes.”

“So this letter never made it to its intended target?” Pius asked. Percy shakes his head. “I see. The Ministry continues its proud tradition of only employing fools, apparently. Trusting a G.E.D. recipient to do anything…” 

Pius tutters off, lost in his tea for a moment. “Percival, when you fainted in the trial room, it was not from simple shock. It was a transference of power from the oubliette to you; You, Percival, are now cursed. Ministry protocol regarding this transfer is to remove and destroy the memories of the one contained within, thus erasing their existence all together.” 

So Narcissa had done something to him that day. “The Ministry's way of handling an oubliette is to do the oubliette’s job for it?” 

“Yes.” Pius drums his fingers, “Given that getting information from you was equivalent to getting a tantruming child to calm down, I naively assumed that you knew this. That your quest for information was both a way of hiding yourself from the Ministry’s erasure requirements, allowing yourself more time to retrieve your memories, and also some sort of late term adolescent defiance for authority.” 

“I didn’t know where else to go.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. Pius’s toast lies untouched. 

“Percival, what would you like to accomplish with all this research?” 

“I’d like to save Cordelia. Release her from the oubliette and… ” Percy trails off. He hadn’t really considered what would happen once he freed Cordelia; Would he bring her home to their parents? Present them their forgotten child? Or would she be doomed to a life within St.Mungos like Alice and Frank Longbottom, irreparably scared from what she’d been through?

Pius closes his eyes. “That’s not possible, Percival.” 

None of the above, apparently. “But you said that there’s a possibility she’s still alive!” 

“I did not tell you that so you could get as infantile of an idea as a rescue in your head. Perhaps you are not as bright as I remembered; Evidently you are just as blinded by Gryffindor headiness as the rest of your family. I believed you wanted to break the curse without losing your memories, so that the oubliette would not kill you as well.” 

Percy stares at him. The letter feels like solid lead in his hands. “So, what? I’m just supposed to leave her in there? Let her rot-” 

“She has already rotted, Percival. A wound as festered as this cannot be healed. Do you recall what you said to me on our hike yesterday morning? And what I told you about your initial inquiries on Oubliettes?”

Percy takes a moment to study his fingernails. As he starts to pick at one it peels into a hangnail; It stings as he rips the top of it off. Blood wells in its spot.

“They’re a torture for the person on the outside, and…” He doesn’t want to say it, “Death is a mercy for those within.”  

Avoid. If unavoidable, kill yourself at the first opportunity. 

Pius nods. “I believed that you wanted to preserve your memories, so that you might keep your sister’s spirit alive.”

There’s a silent moment where Percy bends the detached fingernail, and Pius retrieves something from his chore coat. He produces a vial containing a soft purple liquid and uncorks it, leaning forward to pour some of it into Percy’s full teacup. It smells citrusy; It’s the same calming draught that Pius had given him yesterday. 

Percy takes a grateful sip.

“I believe that you can, for what it’s worth. You are of exceptional intelligence, Percival.”

Percy downs the tea once he’s determined it’s not so hot as to burn him.

“I’ve already told you that I lack information on familial magicks. I believe that that is the path we should explore in regards to this; The human spirit’s connection is no small thing. Perhaps, if you’d be up to it after some breakfast, we can discuss making a venture to Diagon Alley. I believe that Florish and Bott’s will have some books on the subject.”

A piece of buttered toast is held out and Percy takes it, nibbling at the crust. He nods- or, at least, believes himself to nod at Pius. 

“I feel secure in sending you out in disguise again. There can be unintentional side effects with the auror charm, but seeing as you’ve returned to your former stature relatively unchanged, I believe it’d be safe to extend it’s duration.” 

The calming draught has taken effect, but Percy still has the ability to put two and two together. “Relatively unchanged?” 

“Your hair, Percival.” Pius smiles as Percy’s hand shoots up to his curls, “Well don’t fret too much now, it’s still red if you’re concerned. But it is rather long, don’t you think?” 

Curls thread neatly through Percy’s fingers and fall delicately back down to his collarbone. 

.

.

. 

Chapter Text

.

.

.

“You could cut it, if you’d like. But I believe the side effects will be recurrent. It may be that you’ll just have to adjust.” 

Percy’s hair has never been so long in his entire life. At its longest it’d been just below his chin, oiled back during his first years at the Ministry. He’s not a fan of the new length but he’s even less of a fan of idleness; A haircut can wait. Percy’s too busy occupying his hands with tissue pressed against his nose, stemming a soft flow of blood.

Upon seeing Percy’s new hair Pernell had asked if he could braid it like he often did with his Uncle’s; It’d stirred up something in Percy’s mind. 

Cordelia sits at the kitchen table, head craned over the back of her chair. Five year old Ginny is lacing her fingers through Cordelia’s curls and separating it into dense chunks, wiggling on a footstool behind Cordelia’s chair. 

“‘It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking’- Ow, Gin!”

“Sorry! Sorry, Cordy.” Ginny laughs, a sweet giggle as Cordelia swats at her with the book suspended in her hands. 

Cordelia is holding the book up above her face, parallel to the ceiling. It’s a soft spring day- the others are degnoming the garden. It’s just them inside; Percy flips through a book on chess techniques in their mother’s rocking chair. 

“It’s still attached to my head then, isn’t it?” Cordelia clears her throat, resuming her narration: “‘It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself ‘The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers!’” 

Ginny giggles at the high tone Cordelia assigns the White Rabbit.

So now Percy sits on the floor, Pernell perched up on the couch above him. He stretches out one of Percy’s curls, apparently fascinated with how long Percy’s hair is when pulled taut. 

“Now I am no curse-breaker, but if I’ve narrowed it enough we should be able to find the entirety of what we’re looking for in Diagon Alley, research wise,” Pius is sitting on the other side of the couch from them- Percy can see his legs in his peripheral vision, “Florish and Bott’s has a varied selection on curses, but we may need to duck into Knockturn Alley for some of the more… invested pieces.” 

At this Pernell turns: “May I come with you to Knockturn Alley, Uncle?” 

“Pardon me?” Percy snorts at the sound of Pius’s newspaper swishing down, “Absolutely not, Pernell. Where did you- Whatever gave you the idea that I would even entertain such a thing?”

Percy can feel Pernell’s shrug through the way his hair moves. “I read about it in the paper; Thought it sounded interesting.”  

“Sounded interesting? Honestly, Boy, where do you get these macabre interests from?” Pius pauses, “Is it your uncle Percival? Is he a bad influence on your developing mind?”

.

.

.

Percy’d gone to change his clothes once Pernell had solidly determined his hair as finished. It felt odd having a braid- a weight upon his neck. A good amount of curls had fought to stay loose and hung around his face, wisping about as he changed. He was going to dress as inconspicuous as possible; A simple black cashmere turtleneck, olive slacks, and his gold accented patent loafers. 

With great hesitation Percy pulled Oliver’s coat from between the bedsheets. It was undoubtedly a terrible idea to wear it. What if the coat was custom made for Oliver, or some sort of Quidditch league exclusive leather? Perhaps it had an identifier that Percy was uneducated on; Some sort of special stitching or lining that’d reveal its true owner- Oliver Wood, starting Keeper for Puddlemere United. 

Definitely not Percy Weasley, flatmate and pain-in-the-arse. 

But Gods above; It’s a nice coat. It’s a touch short on Percy (Probably tailored specifically to Oliver) and the shoulder seams are lower on his upper arms than they should be (Again, Oliver), but it’s supple and warm. And it still smells of rosemary and salt, even though Percy had slept in it.

It’s a very, very, very bad idea to wear the coat. Percy knows this; But taking it off feels like stripping a layer from himself that leaves him naked and vulnerable. So he leaves it on and runs his hands over the breast, pulling at a button. He straightens the collar and fiddles with the Puddlemere lapel pin-

“Wearing a jersey with his name on it would be perhaps a touch less inauspicious, Percival.”

Percy violently starts at the voice, spinning on his heel. “I wasn’t going to wear it.”

Pius is practically unrecognizable, boasting sleek auburn hair and a taller, straighter stature. He does not appear amused with Percy’s reluctancy, nor do the highlights of Percy’s appearance suit him particularly well. They’d agreed beforehand that this time Pernell would not be involved in the disguise charm; Percy would be cloaked with Pius’s features and Pius with Percy’s and ideally the charm will provide them with two distinct appearances.    

“Of course you weren’t. We’ll Floo into the Leaky Cauldron- be ready in ten.” 

Pius goes, leaving Percy standing there in the coat. He has to take it off now. Brushing his hands over it to knock off unexisting dirt, Percy takes just a moment longer. How many Quidditch pitches has this coat seen? 

He puts his hands into the pockets out of simple curiosity; Perhaps Oliver keeps some kind of memento in his pockets- a lucky charm of sorts that Percy can knick away for the time being. He surely won’t mind if Percy borrows something? There’s an odd assortment of items within and Percy grabs them all, unceremoniously dumping them onto the bed quilt. 

A couple of loose galleons bounce against the fabric. A muggle chapstick tube. A small tin tub of restorative hand butter, which makes sense because ever since he’d made the team in second year, Oliver’s always struggled with cracked hands from the fast winds. There’s also some sort of folded device that Percy quickly discovers to be a pocket knife, and a tightly crumpled ball of paper, softened immensely from being squeezed. 

.

.

.

The Leaky Cauldron feels the same as it ever has; A bit dingy, dark, and somewhat damp, but familiar. Last time Percy was here it’d been with Oliver as they discussed his plans regarding the pending Puddlemere Reserve offer. 

Oliver had been severely hungover after a night of celebration. Of course he was going to take the offer, but Percy wanted him to at least compare all of them before jumping into Puddlemere’s arms. Puddlemere made good promises; A reserve keeper position with upward mobility into the starting lineup in only a few years. A solid pay — certainly not as much as Oliver deserves— and a thorough plan for international accommodations when required. There were also vague whispers of the National team if Oliver proved himself. 

Oliver would undoubtedly prove himself. 

Percy crossed past the table where they once had sat, coffees in hand. He’d personally been revising his cauldron report in between analyzing Oliver’s offers and Oliver had been eating his breakfast, head bent and a noise reduction spell around his ears. 

“Of course the depth is currently unregulated-“

“Oy, Perse, Mo ghràdh— gimme ten before you start with full sentences. Here,” Oliver brandishes something at Percy’s face, “Eat ma toast. Smell’s makin’ me ill.”

Now as Percy walks past he’s completely different; Dark, long and wavy hair. Pius’s appearance had meshed with his to give Percy a slouch and an older face- he could probably genuinely pass as Pernell’s uncle now. Well, actually, their cover story was far worse; Percy is Pernell’s stepfather, and if anyone asks, Pius and Percy have been together since 1989. It’d be easier to explain their hushed whispers, and puts Percy’s fake age as far older than his actual age. If someone decides today is the day to be homophobic, well, Gods help them- the two of them are strung tighter than wires.  

(It is comforting in a strange way, however, to realize that his attraction to men does not include Pius Thicknesse, and the feeling seems mutual. It is worlds different than how Scrimegeour had once used hushed whispers as a way to get close to Percy- at no point is Percy worried about Pius being too close for the wrong reasons.) 

Every step further from the Floo point makes Percy’s stomach clench. It was just another step closer to the twin’s shop. Diagon Alley is just as bustling as it’s ever been for a dreary winter day; Adults skirting past him in warm robes and teenagers on holiday break loitering around the corners. It’s snowing down on them as they make their way down the street, Percy lingering behind Pius and Pernell. 

Pius has a tight grip on Pernell’s mittened hand. If anyone looked it’d seem like a father figure wanting to keep his son close; Percy knows better. Pius was terrified to let Pernell drift even a foot away from him, his whole body leaning in towards the boy. Whatever fear of magic Pius had tried to instill in him was failing, however, as Pernell kept stopping to peer in shop windows.

“Uncle Percy, look!” 

Percy nearly bowls right over Pernell as the boy suddenly stops. They’re in front of- to Percy’s surprise- Quality Quidditch Supplies. Pernell is tapping against the glass at a flyer within: 

OFFICIAL SUPPLY SHOP OF PUDDLEMERE UNITED!  

Beneath the title is a moving photograph; Three Puddlemere players arm in arm, smiling on a sunny day. They’re in uniform and Percy can see the shine of sweat across their brows. It’s two taller men, beaters by the look of it, lifting a third by his elbows as he barely comes to their shoulders- Oliver. He’s fit, and beautiful, and laughing. 

For a moment Percy thinks Oliver must have summer nymph heritage somewhere in his family tree; There’s no possible way any human could be that radiant.

Pius is arguing with Pernell now. 

“Why should we go inside? Pernell you can’t even play Quidditch-” 

“Uncle, please! Just for a moment? There’s books-” 

On paper, Percy agrees with Pius. Things like this were difficult with squibs; Technically they may be able to fly on a broom equipped with the standard issue flying charm, but Quidditch was such an involved part of the magical world. It’d be against every recommended regulation regarding squibs to encourage such a hobby- 

“And Uncle Percy is a Quidditch correspondent!” Pernell points at Percy, like it’ll change Pius’s mind. “He knows loads!”  

“Oh?” Pius squints, “Is he now? How quaint.” 

Pernell looks at Percy like a kicked puppy, and it’s remarkable how similar to a young Ginny he is. He might as well be begging Percy to not tell Mum after being caught with his sibling’s brooms. 

“Pernell we’ve discussed this; It’s fine if you listen to the games on the wireless, but I’ll not let you break your own heart by indulging these fantasies.” Pius says, “It’s not right-”

Percy blinks. Pernell’s hand is planted against the Puddlemere flyer, heating the cold glass. The frost is melting away around the boy’s hand, allowing the inside of the shop to come into view- 

That’s when Percy sees her. Bouncy red curls and a slightly larger palm pressing against Pernell’s on the opposite side of the glass. Cordelia is laughing at the boy, then sticking out her bottom lip in a pout as she turns to Percy. It’s the exact same puppy expression as Ginny-

“C’mon, Perse, we’re not going to tell on her! Just because you’re jealous she can fly a broom and we can’t-”

“I’m not jealous.” 

He feels the warm trickle of blood and presses his sleeve to it. It’d be a direct dismissal of Pius’s parental authority to take Pernell inside, but perhaps Percy can navigate the rules. 

“Pernell, how about this instead?” Percy squats to his level, “There’s an excellent selection of Quidditch texts at Florish and Bott’s. I’ll buy you whatever book you’d like from there, alright?”

Pernell looks hesitant and in the background Cordelia rolls her eyes, shooting a look of disgust Percy’s way. 

“And, how about this, once I’m better,” Percy gestures at his sweater stuffed nose, “I’ll even see about getting it signed by Oliver Wood for you, I promise.” 

This seems to placate Pernell, and relieves the stress built up in Pius’s younger face. They press on- Percy looks back at the window. It’s empty, except for the moving photo of Oliver. Percy has half a mind to steal the flyer. Another good reason for them to not go inside, frankly.

The dread tightens within him every step they take. He knows it’s inevitable; Unless something drastic has happened, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes will still be occupying the corner building across from Gringott’s. It’ll still have the ridiculous and gaudy puppet of Fred and George on top. Instinctively Percy falls back behind the other two, cowardly hoping that somehow he won’t be able to see the shop from behind Pius’s back. 

The action accomplishes nothing. Pius shoots a glance back at him over his shoulder- “Pull yourself together, Percival.”

The purple top hat comes into view. Percy might genuinely vomit, his stomach violently churning as an unnatural cold stings his body, and his arms fold in on his chest of their own accord- 

“I can’t do this,” He hears himself say, like someone else is speaking- “I can’t-”

Not-Pius is suddenly very close to him. Percy can’t tell if he’s saying something or doing anything, because Percy’s eyes are squeezed shut and all he can feel is sick bubbling up. He’s not even sure he’s occupying his own mind. Red blots are swimming across the inside of his eyelids. 

“Percival, c’mon, get a hold of yourself. In and out, ready? In.”

Percy feels himself take a breath in, gulping down the cold air. He holds it, letting it strain his lungs-

“Out now, slowly,” Percy releases the air with a hiss, “Good. Again.” 

So he does it again. The red behind his eyelids blink away. His muscles feel tight and he tries to relax into them. He focuses on the snowflakes melting against his nose, and the heavy spot on his shoulder where Pius’s hand lays.

“Are you composed now?” Pius asks. Percy nods. 

Actually, Percy craves a cigarette, but doesn’t voice this. When he opens his eyes Pius is now a step back, also looking like he’s craving a cigarette. The man is stressed and Percy can’t tell if it’s for himself or Percy. They’re both nervous as shit and using Pernell as a tiny, human shield; Pius is still a top-rated public enemy,  Percy is currently held together with calming draughts that’ve worn off, and their disguises are a bit hit-or-miss if someone asks them too many close questions. 

Percy hopes they’ll never discuss whatever this is ever again, and just chalk it up to him having a delicate composition as of late. 

“We’ll press on then, if you’re steady. There’s nothing to worry about, Percival, it doesn’t even seem like their store is open today.”

But that in and of itself is something that worries Percy. Closed? This close to Christmas? George had contemplated staying closed that first Christmas after the war but ultimately decided Fred would never forgive him for denying leagues of young people the means to annoy their families. Let off some much needed post war steam. 

He leans around Pius to make sure- and sure enough, the lights are dimmed inside of the twin’s shop. The doors are closed and window displays shut down. The large puppet on top is unmoving. It’s particularly sad to watch the snow fall across the window awnings and pile on the steps out front. Percy wants to get a closer look, but Pernell is clinging to his arm and pulling him the opposite way.

Pius flanks Percy’s other side. “We’ll get through this efficiently and systematically; I’ll drop you and Pernell off in Florish and Bott’s. Find the most promising books on familial magicks and curse breaking that you can while I tuck away to Knockturn alley. Pernell knows not to wander off, so grab him a Quidditch book and one of those armchairs by the fire. If Pernell gets fidgety and I’m not back yet, take him to get some hot chocolate at Florrin’s, but he’s not to have too many sweets-” 

“I know how to babysit a child, Pius,” Percy says, “I’ve done it before.” 

Many times. Many, many, many times. Unpaid, like it was simply a debt he owed for being the oldest. Of course Charlie and Bill had been there and older, but not really. Bill had been in school by the time Ron and Ginny could walk, and Charlie’d never disciplined or shown restraint to the youngers. They were the cool and distant and exciting older brothers. 

So it was Percy. Ever the bad guy, always the boring one. He couldn’t be fun because fun led to broken teeth and skinned knees. Fun led to Ron developing arachnophobia so deliberating that Percy had to go a full winter remaking his bed everyday, to prove there were no spiders within. 

It hadn’t been Pius’s intention to piss Percy off, but he’d succeeded. Percy’s no longer panicking because he’s too busy being bitter. He’s practically dumped at the doorframe of Florish and Bott’s by Pius, who promptly vanishes around a corner. It’s the same bookstore it’s always been. The same one their father had resorted to fisticuffs in against Lucius Malfoy. Percy had been embarrassed, despite agreeing with Arthur, because then they were poor and ruffians. 

Pernell is immediately zooming off between the bookshelves. If he’s anywhere near as talented at book finding as he is at foraging, Percy’s wallet will be significantly lighter at the end of the day. He himself makes his way over to the section on uncommon magicks and their subdivisions; Kitchen, family, musical, etc. Kitschy subjects for the bored housewitches and artists amongst them. 

He grabs a random book and opens it- quickly shutting it when he reads fertility magicks. Not a subject he’s keen on, at the moment. Eventually he sifts through enough shelves to come up with a thick stack of books on both familial and magical bonds. He hesitates before leaving the aisle to find Pernell, and grabs up the book of fertility magic. 

It’s an interesting subject; His curiosity is piqued. 

It takes a few minutes to find Pernell- the boy is sitting on the floor in the reading area, surrounded by books. He looks like a literary Roman sun dial. 

“Find something interesting, Pernell?” 

Pernell doesn’t seem to register his existence, nose buried in a book. The bell above the front door chimes, letting the store occupants know that someone else has just entered the shop. 

“Pernell?” Percy tries again. Nothing; The boy is absolutely lost to the world of Famous Seekers and Their Secret Lives.

Percy takes the airchair next to Pernell and cracks open a book on magical bonds. 

“Would you be willing? I’m sure you’ve seen them everywhere else, but-“

It takes Percy all of a second to register Oliver’s voice. His head snaps to the front counter, at the back of the man who’d just entered. 

“Of course not, be my guest. Notice board in back of shop is yours too.”

It’s undeniably Oliver who ducks his head in thanks to the shopkeep; He’s wearing a puddlemere branded coat. There’s a stack of papers tucked into the crook of his arm- one is pulled from the top and Oliver affixes it to the door window with a strip of spellotape. The tiny tape roll is looped around his thumb, like an oversized ring. Oliver turns and heads deeper within the shop. 

Pernell still hasn’t lifted his head up. Percy nudges him with a kick. “Pernell, stay here until I get back, alright?”

“Oh! When did you get here, Uncle Percy?” 

“Stay put, Pernell.” Percy waits for an affirmative nod before standing. 

He walks down the aisles after Oliver, slowing once he sees him. Oliver is pinning one of the papers up and leaving a small stack on the table beneath. They’re right between a stack of pamphlets on beginner’s flying lessons and upcoming book signings. Oliver looks over his shoulder and Percy’s heart jumps. 

He’s both the Oliver from the Puddlemere flyer and not; He’s both Percy’s Oliver and not. This Oliver is not the bronzed summer nymph, but rather the dying embers of a summer bonfire; He looks tired. 

Oliver shoots him a wary smile and a quick “Hiya” before he turns away, because Percy is not his Percy. 

Percy stands there and stares. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and finds himself shoving them into his pockets. He doesn’t look anything like himself, he knows this, but part of him still expects Oliver to realize it. (Because, if he realizes it, it’ll be a future step that Percy won’t have to take himself.)

Then Oliver looks at Not-Percy again. Looks him up and down, then rolls his eyes. He closes them like Not-Percy is an annoyance and hangs his head before straightening. 

“Oh, you’re one of those… just my luck.”

One of what? Oliver lifts his head and faces Percy head on. 

“One of what?” Percy asks, feeling stupid. Apparently whatever he was was obvious to Oliver. 

Oliver bundles the remaining papers against his chest. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I- listen, I’m flattered, really. I am. I know my reputation probably precedes me, and it’s not because you’re not a handsome bloke and all, but I’m not really doing that anymore.”

Percy’s not sure his brain is functioning as it should. 

“Not doing… what anymore?” 

Oliver shoots him a knowing look- or, what Percy assumes is supposed to be a knowing look. 

“Shagging random men.”

What-

What?

… What?

“Huh?” Is what comes out. 

Oliver approaches Percy with a sort of pitiful expression, awkwardly clapping Percy on the back- they’re weirdly the same height. Oliver steps back and the look he’s wearing is apologetic. 

“Listen, mate, you’re bonnie and all, and I appreciate the notion, but it’s a for sure no. Am just not like that anymore.”

What? What? 

“What?”

“Here,” and then Oliver is holding out one of the papers, “He’s why. If you see him, please, get a hold of me or George over at Weasley’s . If not, don’t waste my time.”

Percy takes the paper with his right hand-

It’s Percy. Actual Percy, his face and red curls and freckles and glasses. Him, in a muggle photograph he could barely remember ever being taken: His own smile as he badly tries to hide behind a coffee mug. It’s from before the war, when Oliver had taken Percy up to Scotland for a weekend- the half-blood man had excitedly showed off his film camera collection and insisted on taking photos of Percy. 

The words HAVE YOU SEEN ME? are in full blocks above the photo. Details of Percy’s info are listed beneath:

Name: Percival “Percy” Ignatius Weasley. 

Hair: Curly Red. Eyes: Blue. Height: 6’3” (190 cm). 

Missing left pinkie and ring fingers. Two inch scar on right cheekbone, one inch scar on bottom left of chin. 

Last seen in burgundy suit with brown loafers. Last known location was central London, financial district. 

A cold sweat has broken out across Percy’s skin. His left hand feels clammy as he clenches it in his pocket, running his thumb over where there used to be fingers. 

He’s going to be sick. He looks at Oliver-

“I love him, aye.” Oliver is staring down at the paper, oblivious to Percy’s reaction. He doesn’t meet Percy’s eyes. 

Percy is going to be sick. 

Oliver doesn’t say goodbye to Not-Percy as he turns away, swiftly heading for the shop exit. He gives a quick “Thanks again” to the shopkeep before the doorbell chimes again. 

Thankfully Percy remembers where the bathroom is; He drops to his knees against the tiled floor and barely makes it to the toilet before vomiting. His own missing poster is crumpled in his hands. 

.

.

.

He stays in the bathroom long enough that Pernell seeks him out. Upon seeing the bathroom door slightly ajar the boy walks in, finding Percy glassy eyed and clinging to a public toilet like it’s a life raft in the ocean. 

“Uncle Percy? Are you alright?

Percy feels Pernell press a handkerchief to his forehead. 

“Simply stellar, Pernell.” 

Pernell doesn’t laugh, but Percy hadn’t expected him to. 

“Should I go get Uncle?” 

“No, no need. I just need a moment.” Percy responds. He thinks of everything he’s learned in the past… He thinks of everything he’s recently learned and gathers it in his mind. 

First, he likes to address things at face value. There’s no quill and parchment in the depth of the toilet bowl, so instead he lists things off on his fingertips. 

One. Oliver loves Percy Weasley. Oliver loves Percy Weasley enough to find a photo of him and have it printed out dozens of times; Loves him enough to make missing posters and run them throughout Diagon Alley when he should be abroad. 

Two. He is Percy Weasley. He is who Oliver loves. His Oliver, his longest non-relative friend, his flatmate, the comforting presence he’d clung to in the war— that same Oliver. The boy who’d helped him into the first year boat and the man who’d found him after the battle of Hogwarts; He’d held Percy’s face so softly and rested his hand at the nape of Percy’s neck; Pressed their foreheads together, just feet away from Fred’s body. 

Three. Oliver apparently has a habit of shagging strangers— male strangers. Men. So often in fact that he has a reputation for it; A reputation so strong that apparently he can recognize such a thing from the way someone approaches him, because people regularly approach him. No, men regularly approach him. 

With these three facts, Percy is out of fingertips on his left hand. The second step after identifying these facts is easy: He simply would not think of them. He’d shove them down so far into his mind that they’d become nothing more than mental cobwebs. Thoughts he’d once had, put somewhere so deep that Percy would need to have his mind excavated to remember them. He will not be thinking on it any longer. There’s too much work to be done. 

Percy takes a deep breath before releasing the toilet. He stands and brushes his knees off, and looks down at Pernell. The boy’s beanie is pulled down to his eyebrows. 

“Shall I purchase our books then? It’d be impolite to crowd the bathroom for much longer.” Percy takes a moment before following Pernell out to wash the inside of his mouth. 

He buys their books: Percy’s solid stack and three for Pernell, along with a journal so that Percy can teach him how to keep score. They each take one bag and head back out into the snow. It’s delightfully cold still, which means Percy can blame his flushed cheeks on the weather. Snowflakes swirl around them the moment they’re back on the street and trudging towards Florrin’s. 

Florrin’s is not busy on a snowy day in the lead-up to Christmas; he and Pernell are able to grab a table by the window corner so they can keep an eye out for Pius. Pernell gets a hot chocolate laden with thick whipped cream and sparkling crystal sprinkles; Percy gets a peppermint tea because his stomach feels wobbly.

Pernell is seemingly fascinated by the crystal snowflakes on his drink- they twinkle and glitter, each one individually unique. They’re light blue and purple and Pernell picks one off the top. It melts into the tip of his small finger. 

Percy’s own face is smiling at him from a missing poster above Pernell’s head, taped to the window. In an effort to avoid it Percy stares out past it— his brother’s shop is just down the street. It looks so… sad without the glowing interior. A small group of Hogwarts aged children walk up to the doors and pathetically pull at them.

Pernell clears his throat. “Are you enjoying our trip, uncle Percy?”

“What?” Percy looks at the boy— he has a faint whipped cream mustache, “Fun?”

Pernell nods, avoiding Percy’s eyes. Fun wouldn’t be the exact term Percy would use to describe the day so far; Perhaps whiplash would be better. Harrowing. Unnerving. 

“I know that, um, you weren’t feeling well earlier, but I’m enjoying Diagon Alley so far.” Pernell pauses, “Thank you for getting me these books.”

“You’re welcome, Pernell. Do you and your uncle visit often?” Percy can’t imagine the answer is yes. 

Pernell gives a tiny smile. “Actually it’s my first time here. In Diagon Alley.”

Ah. Suddenly Percy feels bad for convincing Pernell to not go into Quality Quidditch Supplies. Had the hallucination of Cordelia known?

“It’s different than I imagined it might be,” Pernell adds, breaking the head off the snowman sugar cookie he’d bought, “There’s so many people.”

Actually the alley is decently empty compared to previous seasons; But Percy too had once been a child overwhelmed by the busyness of Diagon Alley. 

“The photos in my books move,” Pernell flips through one of the Quidditch books to show Percy, as if he’d never seen a moving photo before, “None of the ones Uncle has gotten me do that.”

There’s a deep feeling of sadness settling into Percy. Everything that he’d grown up with, every bit of magic he’d taken for granted- to Pernell, it’s a whole new experience. One he’ll never fully be able to immerse in. 

Percy’s also no longer just concerned about the twin’s shop not being open; The idea that Pernell wouldn’t get to experience the shop, given the unlikely chance of Pius bringing him back here, is nothing short of heartbreaking. There’s not a doubt in Percy’s mind that if Fred were here and alive, he’d be giving Pernell a no-expense-spared tour. Even better if he knew of their relation: Fred would send the boy home with an endless supply of annoying things so he could torture Pius Thickness via proxy. 

Pernell takes a bite of cookie and seems amazed that it still maintains its fresh-from-the-oven warmth courtesy of a simple baking charm. The way the boy’s eyes widen when the snowman cookie blinks at him is endearing; He’d probably lose his mind over a chocolate frog. The Fred part of Percy that’d threatened to off himself in front of Kingsley is telling him that it wouldn’t be too difficult to break into the twin’s shop. 

Or, at least, make his presence known loudly by banging on the front door. 

It’s a terrible idea. It’s an idea so bad he would’ve given his siblings detention for simply considering it. He’d seen those kids walk up the door and give up on entering— but he has something they don’t:

Information on Percy Weasley’s disappearance. Information being asked for by the missing poster above Pernell’s head. He could tell them something; Nothing vital, but something. 

Percy opens one of his books and pretends to read a passage until Pernell has finished his cookie and drink. They get bundled back up, and make their way over to the storefront; Percy carrying the majority of their books except for Famous Seekers and their Secret Lives , which Pernell is clutching like a treasured item. 

Percy’s not quite sure what to do once he gets to the locked doors. The inside of every window has one of his missing posters— his panicked episode earlier had stopped him from getting close enough to see them. 

He knocks on the door. Nothing happens. 

Pernell looks up at him, his black coffee eyes narrowed in concern. “Uncle-“

“Just squeeze my hand if you need my attention, Pernell. Don’t refer to me at all.” Percy interrupts. He waits for a nod, then knocks again. “Excuse me? I have information on Percival Weasley.”

The circular door window sporting a glittering purple W transforms. Pernell grabs Percy’s hand tightly, trying in vain to hide in Percy’s sweater-- the window is now a giant eyeball. It’s blue and blinking, and switches between Percy’s disguised form and Pernell. If he had to guess the owner, he’d guess Ron.

“Who are you?” A disembodied and obviously disguised voice asks.  

The name is a combination of people; A fellow Minister’s assistant who’d fled the country, and a common wizarding name. “Archie Brown.” It’s delightfully boring, and Percy can claim a connection through the council secretary Brown. 

The eyeball blinks and vanishes. Pernell’s hand doesn’t leave his before the eye is back and roaming. “What is your connection to Percy?” 

This is, by far, the stupidest interrogation Percy’s ever witnessed. He’s not going to justify it with a response. 

“Answer the question.” The voice demands. 

Percy quirks an eyebrow. “Or you’ll do what, exactly? Blink at me?”

The eyeball indeed blinks. Multiple times, like the owner can’t help themselves. “Fine. Just stay right there.” Then the eyeball disappears. 

Percy swallows the hot ball of anxiety that tries to jump up his throat. Actually, maybe it’s not anxiety, and instead just normal acid reflux. Hard to tell anymore. Maybe his esophagus is just completely ruined and is now permanently like this. 

The door opens hesitantly. At first just a crack, enough for Ron’s arm to stick out and brandish a wand at Percy. “You didn’t say you weren’t alone.” 

“Are you threatened by a child?” Percy says, indignant. It hadn’t been Ron he’d kicked in the bollocks after all, but if the opportunity presented itself-- maybe the Fred portion of his brain was taking up far more real estate than previously. “You’re right, let me leave my son out alone in the cold so that maybe we can both have missing family members.” 

It’s a bit fucked to say, Percy realizes. But he’s anxious and Pernell is gripping his hand so hard it temporarily makes Percy question himself; Why is he doing this? Why is he here again? Oh right-- his bleeding heart wants to show a squib child the wonder of magic, because his dead brother might’ve enjoyed it. 

Brilliant. 

Ron looks awful as he beckons them inside. Based on the look he gives Percy he is not a fan of Archie, but he doesn’t need to be. Lee Jordan is also not a fan apparently, as he briskly asks for them to follow. They’re led past the entryway of the store and into the main room; It’s just as alive as the last time Percy had seen it. The bright overhead lights aren’t on and instead the room is glowing with a dim, warm gold. Everything is twinkling and, honestly, magical.

Within the center of the room the checkout area has become some sort of Percy-themed central area; His posters litter the space. Lee breezes right past and beelines to an exhausted looking George; Percy almost hadn’t recognized him. If Ron looks awful, then George looks- Lee comes right up to George’s chair and whispers something in his ear; Percy tries not to blatantly stare as he presses a quick kiss to George’s hairline and tangles their hands together. Clearly, obviously, Percy’s missed some important Weasley going ons in his year as dedicated scribe.   

George looks at him in the dimmed lighting. Same as Oliver, his eyes skirt right over Not-Percy, but they stop at Pernell. Percy looks at the boy-

His mouth is hanging open as he stares around the room, sparkling eyes following various spinning bits and bobs. His hand is limp in Percy’s.

“So?” Ron clears his throat, “Tell us what you know about Percy.” 

Percy misses Hermione, because he can’t press Ron for his brash rudeness. “I worked with him at the ministry. Both before and… after the fall. I believe I can provide some information on his position there.” 

It’s tense in the room, but Pernell doesn’t notice. A soft trail of bubbles are flowing from somewhere above and as he pops them they release a soft chime sound. Percy almost wants to apologize for the intrusion. 

“He was assistant to the Ministers, plural.” Pernell’s hand slips from his grasp, “I witnessed him, um- He smuggled-”

He’d never planned on telling anyone about these things; Penelope knew, because she’d been one of the few he’d helped; A muggle born witch and her family. Their relationship had ended on good terms, but even if it hadn’t he wouldn’t have let her be put in Azkaban. Percy fortifies himself by staring at the back of Pernell’s head- 

George says something to Lee that Percy doesn’t quite catch, then stands from his seat. He looks listlessly from Lee to Percy, then approaches Pernell. Percy trusts his brother but the panic still pushes at his lungs; He bites his tongue to stop himself from snapping at George. 

George kneels down to Pernell’s level. “Neat, aren’t they? You should try catching one on your tongue.” 

He demonstrates, but Pernell turns to Percy before copying the motion. Cordelia is next to him, once again pouting and blinking huge eyes at him.

“Go ahead, try it.” He finds himself saying.

Pernell looks shocked when he eats the next bubble. “It’s sweet!” Cordelia next to him tries to catch a bubble, and looks confused when it instead phases through her tongue. 

“Maybe, if it’s alright with your father, “ George snaps his fingers and the lights above flicker on-- Pernell’s eyes nearly bug out of his head, “I could give you the grand tour?” 

At this Pernell bites his lip and looks at Percy. “Would it be alright? Even though I’m a squib?” 

Percy sees a whole lifetime where this boy will never experience doing magic; He’ll never get his Hogwarts letter, nor will he do magic beyond squib-specific items built to help with basic necessities. But he’ll still experience magic. He’d see Hogwarts if he walked the grounds, and he’ll see Thestrals once he’s lived more. He could eat sugar quills and send owls and watch Quidditch; He’ll still know magic exists and will still desperately want to be a part of it, even if he’s different from the rest-- it’s an entirely familiar feeling to Percy of otherness. 

“It’s fine by me,” And when Percy’s voice cracks it practically echoes, “If Mr. Weasley is offering.”

George gives Percy a polite smile and a tip of his head. He gives Pernell a deep bow and extends his arm, offering it like the boy is a prince. “Come along then, young man, right this way to wonder and amazement.” 

Cordelia blows Percy a kiss from her spot between George and Pernell, and when Pernell passes in front of her she vanishes. 

Distantly Ron fake coughs, and Percy is yanked back to the conversation. He quickly wipes at his cheeks- there’s wetness there that wasn’t present minutes ago. 

“Apologies, I-” 

Lee interrupts him. “No need.” 

“Right.” Percy clears his throat, “Percy Weasley. I witnessed him alter documents regarding muggle born records.” 

“Alter?” Lee asks. He’s casually leaned against the counter now, arms crossed. 

Percy shrugs, which feels like a very unnatural motion for him. “Alter, erase, reformat, misplace- However you’d like to put it. I could give you some names of people who he… relocated. The ones that I believe to be more relevant to you.”

Ron sits legs spread in his chair, hunched over and balancing his elbows on his knees. His wand is loosely held towards the floor and Percy can’t see his face from the way his head is hung. “Please.”  

Percy swallows thickly. If it had been anyone else in the world he’d refuse, but it’s his baby brother asking; He lists the names coldly and robotically, like they’re facts and not people: “Penelope Clearwater, her siblings and parents. Quidditch player Oliver Wood’s parents, Malcolm and Lucy Wood. Dennis and Colin Creevy, and their parents. Justin Finch-Fletchly and his--”

There’s a sound from Ron. Some sort of cough. Has he caught a cold recently? Is he stupidly not wearing a winter coat again when he goes out, so that he looks tough? 

“We believe you. You, er, you don’t have to go on.” Lee says. “Would you like some tea? Historically the grand tour takes a while, so… I’m going to go make some.” 

And then Lee sort of totters off in the direction of the back, leaving Ron and Percy alone. Percy absent-mindedly fiddles with his gloves; No one seems to have noticed the glamour charm he’d cast over his missing fingers. Ron’s leg is bouncing from how quick he’s tapping it. 

Evidently, Ron’s auror training hasn’t covered questioning yet. 

Ron clears his throat again , and Percy wants to ask if he’s alright, “Do- do you know where he is?” 

“No.” Percy lies. When people tell the truth in interrogations, part of what makes it believable is how bluntly they answer. Liars draft extreme details to cover the truth; They pretend to remember a thousand details about the day that one would normally never recall. 

“Did he help you with your son?” 

“No,” Ron’s leg stops for a moment, “He never knew. We sent him to Scotland and had him obliviated from our minds.” 

“Were you involved with the break-in yesterday?” 

“No.” ( No , because what break-in is foolishly oblivious.) 

“Are you telling the truth?” 

What an idiotic question. Just as idiotic as making tea off in the back, where one could slip Veritaserum into a teacup and be none the wiser. “You’re not particularly good at this.” 

Ron’s leg stops mid-bounce. The words have hit exactly where Percy was expecting. He may be a war hero, but Ron Weasley is still Ron Weasley. No amount of guilt over his years past letter will let him watch this- he’d rather Ron be angry and hate him even in disguise than remain doing… whatever this was.

“You radiate stress. Your leg, refusal to make eye contact, the poor posture-” He wants to say pull yourself together, Ronald, but the goal is to not be discovered as Percy, “At least treat your interviewee with respect.”  

So Ron looks at him. Puffy-eyed, face blotchy, eyes pink- Ron looks at a disguised Percy Weasley, and snarls: “Fuck you.” 

Ah. Upsetting family members is what he’s best at, after all. Percy looks at Ron and says nothing, and after a moment Ron storms away from the table. He almost takes out Lee, who’s carrying a tea tray. The tea tray makes it to the table unharmed and Percy takes the tea offered to him, pre-poured. He takes a sip, preparing to throw the whole thing back just as Narcissa had in the trial room: 

It tastes plain. There’s no Veritaserum in it-- 

It’s just tea. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Percy wishes Pius would shout at him the same way Arthur once had. Percy could tolerate being screamed at or told he was hated or, even better yet, having mashed parsnips flicked at him from across the room. He was used to that. Hell, he could take it in stride and pretend it didn’t bother him one bit.  He could not, however,   handle whatever this sick torture was that Pius was doling out currently. 

When Percy and Pernell had left the joke shop, Pernell’s hands full of candies and miscellaneous bits, they’d promptly walked straight into a stone-faced Pius. He’d been standing there with small piles of snow gathering up on his shoulders, indicative of a man who’d been still as a statue for many minutes. He’d made eye contact with Percy, an unspoken promise, before leaning forward to pull Percy into a hug. 

He pressed a quick chaste kiss to Percy’s cheek, because Lee was watching from the doorway, and hissed into Percy’s ear: “Unexcusable.”

(And a part of Percy’s brain adds the brief smooch to an existing record; He has now been kissed by not one but two Ministers for Magic.) 

Now they’re in Pius’s study again, and Pius is staring Percy down. He’s just standing there, expressionless and menacing-- He looks like the Pius who’d tortured him, and neither of them has said anything for several minutes now. Percy is seated and Pius is standing with his hands behind his back; All that’s missing is the black tiles and skin crawling.  

Percy’s fingernails are short out of habit; In a similar situation he’d once punctured right through the skin of his palm. He wonders if Pius remembers that. He also wonders if this whole thing is maybe some sort of psy-op; If Pius repositions them the same way they’d been when Percy was tortured, it’d send a clear enough message all of its own. There’d be no need for a vocal reprimand when the physical memory would do better.

Percy’s body keeps the score; Pius grinds his teeth and Percy involuntarily flinches. When the older man paces across the floor, hands tight, Percy keeps his eyes trained on his face. He’s never sat up so straight in his life. The skin of Percy’s knuckles cracks from his clenched fists- winter has always given him dry skin. 

When the pacing stops Pius is directly in front of him. Percy’s imagination does him the favor of replicating the Minister’s desk. 

“I will not have Pernell become a statistic.” Sharp and direct. 

Percy bites the inside of his lip and tastes blood. Squib deaths were rarely, if ever, from old age or natural causes. 

“He is safe, here, and magicless. Exposing him to such things- letting him know of a life he can never have- I have never felt so sickened.”

Sickened in Percy’s mind translates to afraid. Fear is valid, but fear also keeps people locked in their own minds. It stops a four year old from sleeping with his teddy bear because his brothers had turned it into a spider once; Fear keeps one from leaving their ministry job after their boss is tortured and killed, and their sister held hostage.

(Fear makes one abandon their life and run in whatever direction possible.)

If he could only show Pius the way Pernell’s eyes had gleamed in the shop-- even though he couldn’t preform magic, the boy shouldn’t be afraid of it. And if he is to be afraid of it, then he should at least understand it.

“You said something to me, once,” Percy says, much more confidently than he feels, “ ‘Know Thy Enemy’. Do you recall?” 

Pius’s nostrils flare, but he says nothing. 

“In those first days after you replaced Scrimgeour, you told me ‘Know thy enemy and know thine self-‘“

“‘And In a hundred battles you will never be defeated.’ Yes, I can recall the phrase, Percival.” Pius says hotly, “It’s a quote from a powerful military strategist named Sun Tzu.”

Pius sweeps away and pulls something from a bookshelf- it’s a much smaller book than Percy had been expecting. “The only way to win a war is to understand both your opponent and yourself.”

“How is Pernell to ever defend himself from magic if he’s not familiar with it?” 

“I’d hardly consider noisy trinkets and flashy jokes magic he should be knowledgeable of.”

“So you’d have him only know the bad? He can’t learn about Bertie Bott’s beans or Quidditch supplies, but the cruciatus curse-“

“ Beans cannot inflict pain upon him-“

“It’s not about the beans, Pius,” Percy is standing, “It’s about isolating him from a world he was born into. Do you wish him to be resentful of you, Pius? To let his feelings of magical rejection fester until it culminates in him hating you?”

“At least if he hates me he’ll be safe-“

“Was I safe? I hated my father and look where it got me. Was I safe, Pius, when you were torturing me?”

Pius is silent. Percy continues: “Was I safe when Scrimgeour kissed me and my only option was to go along with it, because I’d already burnt all the bridges I could at nineteen?”

Pius pales- he hadn’t known, but Percy doesn’t blame him for that. Hardly anyone knew. “Your vapid illusion of safety will only ensure that one day, when Pernell is in trouble— because he will be in trouble one day— he won’t turn to you for help. He’ll seek it out in whomever offers him what he’s looking for, and then he’ll be too far out of reach to ask for you when he needs you most.”

The tension is palpable. 

“You can sit here in this cottage and play dutiful, loving uncle all you want, but know that the moment Pernell finds out about what you did— the role you played in the war, it’ll shatter him. You’re all he has, Pius. He hasn’t got muggle friends because your own actions have deemed you incapable of living in a populated area. He hasn’t got wizard friends because you’re afraid he’ll be a target because of your relation .” 

Percy takes a much needed breath; “You don’t want him to become me, Pius, because the person that’ll hurt most is him.”

Percy’s done now. He feels oddly lighter in the chest. 

Pius opens his mouth and closes it. Nothing happens. Nothing happens for so long that Percy thinks maybe he’s broken Pius the same way he’d broken Oliver. 

“You’re right. I apologize, Percival,” Pius’s voice is soft, “If Pernell is to do more than exist in this world- if he’s to live in it… he must understand it.”

He hadn’t really expected an apology- when he’d fought with Arthur, they’d verbally spared until the grass around them had practically burst into flame. 

“Thank you, Pius.” 

And that’s that. Pius Thickness is not his father, after all. 

.

.

.

Percy dreams of Oliver that night. He dreams of soft lips and rough hands and safety. Safety to Percy is feeling the warm skin of Oliver’s neck against his forehead as he’s carried. But this is not a memory, he’s absolutely certain, because no curse could make him possibly forget this. 

Lips brush against his temple; They’re so soft, so gentle. Percy sees them reddened and plush and when Oliver pulls away Percy tries to follow him-

“Aye, mo leannan, there’s no rush,” Oliver laughs,”Am not going anywhere.”

They’re in Percy’s bed; Their bed. Soft sunlight streams through the windows in long strips that run over the curve of Oliver’s body. They highlight his tanned olive skin and lovely brown locks; His eyes have flecks of green and gold that Percy’s never noticed before. 

“Definitely not if I have any say in the matter,” Percy responds with a smile. He flattens his hands against Oliver’s broad chest, digging his fingers into the soft hair there. 

Percy rolls them both so he’s on top of Oliver, straddling his hips. He rolls his own and takes the advantage when Oliver sighs, leaving his neck exposed. He makes the softest sound when Percy kisses the underside of his jaw and another as Percy licks down to his pulsepoint, nipping gently. 

“Someone’s in a mood today,” Oliver’s laughing again as Percy sucks at his collarbone, “Highly suspect.”

Strong hands find Percy’s hipbone, pressing there like they were designed to fit. Rough thumbs dig into his thigh- Percy responds by firmly rocking himself back, Oliver’s hips following in kind. The rhythm they set is slow and smooth as his breath hitches, and Percy finds himself kissing a trail all the way back up to Oliver’s lips.

“I just miss you is all,” Percy sighs against Oliver’s cheek, which is soft as a peach, “I think I miss you more every minute.” 

Oliver is hot under his fingertips. Percy nuzzles into the fluff of his hair and lets out a contented hum.

“You miss me? Have I gone somewhere, Mo ghràdh?” Oliver bites at Percy’s earlobe with another laugh,“Gradh geal mo chridhe?”

One of Oliver’s hands delicately drags up Percy’s spine; He’s ticklish. It’s Percy’s turn to laugh, imitating Oliver: “Nay, it’s me that’s gone.” 

“Gone?” And Percy goes to kiss him, but Oliver is frowning, brow furrowed, “Marbh agus air siubhail?” 

Hips stop moving, and Percy doesn’t understand- whatever that phrase is, he doesn’t know: “What?”

Oliver looks up at Percy’s face and Gods help him because Oliver should never look so sad, not when Percy is here, not when they’re doing this-

“This is a dream,” Oliver says, bringing Percy’s face close to his, lacing his strong fingers into Percy’s hair, “Aye? I’m dreaming?” 

Percy doesn’t know. If this is a dream, isn’t it his? Who else would have a dream so wonderful?

“You’re not actually here, are ye?”

He wants Oliver to kiss him again, less talking; When he goes to press their lips together the world goes fuzzy. It’s like he doesn’t have his glasses on and he can’t see properly and he blinks-

He blinks.

It’s the thatched roof of Pius Thicknesse’s cottage guest room. Percy’s in bed, sprawled out across the blankets. 

.

.

.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. When Pernell trots in carrying the day’s copy of The Prophet Percy catches a glimpse of the front page:

MINISTRY WORKER STILL MISSING;

IS MINISTER SHACKLEBOLT HIDING SOMETHING?

Well that’s very sensational. Percy quickly weighs the pros and cons of reading such an article, and comes to the conclusion that his breakfast tea would be better enjoyed privately outside. He needs to focus if he’s to get through his books. 

With a quick warming and bubble charm, Percy has a toasty pocket of air to work in the garden. Snowflakes that fall on it melt away- Percy begins his reading with a hefty tomb on family based magicks and finds it practically useless, unless he plans to charm his next baked goods. His book on fertility magic however, proves surprisingly helpful. 

Centuries ago twins were regarded as something of an anomaly in the magical community; Wizards and muggles alike suspected the work of fae creatures, and their beliefs intertwined. Twins, magical or otherwise, were commonly thought to be the product of trickster fae-- which, actually, made decent sense in the case of Fred and George. Only a devious fae could create a pair as volatile as them. The text is subjective however; It only touches down onto the topic of twins in regards to mythology. Nothing about the actual magic between them (if there is any) and all too much about what ingredients should go where, and what position would be best for producing a twin pregnancy-

Percy lights a cigarette because he’d abandoned his toast at the kitchen table. 

Identical male twins had been lauded in the pureblood communities since Merlin’s time, apparently, a blessing or good omen. The medieval idea that a pureblood child contained a spirit so strong it had to be split between two sons- It’s just a touch too close to the idea of horcruxes for Percy to feel comfortable.  He sets the book aside and trades it for one of the ones Pius had bought in Knockturn Alley; It’s heavy with a title that Percy translates to A Compendium of Curses: Allegories for Pain and Punishment. Its contents are inscribed entirely in runes. 

It takes time for Percy to translate a few paragraphs before he realizes that the book is not just a collection of curses, but rather an instruction manual. Each thin page grants more information on curses and their structures: Pureblood curses that Percy’s never even seen published by name elsewhere. Half of the names can’t even be translated to modern words, so he’s going off of rough interpretations-- there’s instructions on applying curses and drafting cursed objects, and references on which objects are best used to maim the most people or -- 

It’s awful. There’s diagrams. It’s the trial room in book form. Percy chokes down his cigarette and lights another, because he can’t stop skimming the pages even though his hands are starting to shake. There’s devices that should never see the light of day illustrated in front of him; Traps for muggles and muggle borns (his brain mercifully refuses to translate the term any other way) that’d at best kill the person. They’re all relics of a long-passed era, and Percy tries to keep that at the forefront of his mind. These things had been created during a time when witches and wizards were burned at the stake, or worse. 

He thinks of that impossible test: If she floats, she’s a witch, if she sinks, she’s innocent; But either way it ends in death. And Percy prays that just once things won’t end in death. 

Of course there’s also the fact that this book was probably recorded before witch hunts had decimated the wizarding population of Europe; A very, very long passed era. There’d been blood wars and feuds between families that’d ended not because of pureblood unification, but because the death toll had risen so high that wizarding families were practically culling themselves. 

(He can faintly recall looking through the Hogwarts student census of 1300; There’d been almost no half-blooded students, let alone any muggle borns.)     

It takes so long for him to find any mention of memory within the runes that he needs to recast the heating charms twice, and the snow is piling up around his bubble. He’d mistranslated memory for remembrance, an amateur's mistake, especially disappointing since he’d gotten an O in Ancient Runes. There’s another series of equally disappointing translations before he realizes his problem-

He’s starved. He’d had a few bites of toast that morning and soup the night before, but he’s absolutely famished; Percy’s stomach is cramping out of pain. How had it taken him this long to notice? 

When he stands the world swims-

“Uncle Percy?” 

Something warm is in his hand now, tugging him from his bubble. He simply lets it until he feels himself walking, then being pushed by a tiny shoulder-

.

.

.

It’s much warmer in the kitchen where Percy blinks back into focus. 

“Better? Here,” Pernell is pressing a mug into Percy’s hands, “I hope you don’t mind crab apples, they’re all I can find once the snow falls.”  

Percy takes a sip- it’s a spiced apple cider, tart and loaded with cinnamon. He whispers his thanks to Pernell, who’s now pushing a bowl full of porridge his way. It’s heaving with pools of melted butter and brown sugar; He can see the reflection of the kitchen lights above. 

Pernell stares at him; Percy stares back. Then the boy does the same thing he’d done with the blanched thistle (Which Percy feels must’ve happened a lifetime ago)- he looks quickly and obviously down at the bowl, then back at Percy. Does he- Does he expect Percy to eat that? One could practically swim in it. 

“Well it’s not going to eat itself, Percival,” Pius says- Percy hadn’t even noticed him across the table, “Did you enjoy your fainting spell?” 

“Did I enjoy-” 

“I presume you must get some sort of satisfaction from treating your body this way, given your condition,” Pius tuts, “Honestly, eat your porridge. Twenty-two and still such a child; Pernell, do not follow your Uncle’s example.” 

“My condition?” Percy prods at the food with a spoon. He blinks and-- Cordelia is there next to him, reclining lazily against the table.

She’s older now and different; Gone are the dual braids, instead replaced with a short bob that curls around her ears. Gone also are the fake glasses, her face now adorned with shimmery eyeshadow and a severely glossy lip balm. She’d never seemed so girly in his memories. Without the glasses her face seems a little wider- she cradles her cheek in her palm and taps a seashell pink nail against her temple.  

“Yes, Percival, your condition- we discussed this yesterday. The curse? The oubliette? Tsk- honestly, unbelievable.” 

“I told you about this already, for fuck’s sake, Percy.” Cordelia is now stirring the porridge for him- she’s much more corporeal now, no longer transparent. It still seems the others can’t see her, but Pernell’s eyes go wide at the sight of the spoon moving. “ Gods, I do actually have to do everything for you.”

Percy watches her lethargically scoop the porridge. “Told me about what?” In his defense, yesterday felt like a week long affair. 

There’s an upsetting sound as Pius sets his mug down with more force than necessary. It makes Pernell jump, but Cordelia doesn’t flinch.

“You’re dying, Percival,” Pius says firmly, “The oubliette is eating you.” 

“Right on the money, he is. Anyways, open up,” Cordelia hums and lifts a heaping spoonful of porridge. “You’re out-eating a curse.” 

The spoon pokes at Percy’s closed lips, and Pernell looks dumbstruck. 

“C’mon, the owl has to deliver a letter now,” Cordelia’s smirking and poking him, a teasing tone to her voice as she waves the spoon, “The howler isn’t gonna open itself.”   

Percy eats the porridge like a toddler, too exhausted to put up a fight. It’s sickly sweet and Cordelia waits for him to swallow before grabbing another spoonful. 

Percy manages to get a question out between bites. “How long do I have?”

“Depends,” Pius says, “How old is the astral projection looking? I’m presuming there’s one- not actually your sister, mind you, just a creation of your memory and the oubliette’s magic. Probably. I’m not certain, I’m an auror, not an encyclopedia.” 

He studies Cordelia- she’s certainly older than the twelve year old in his memories. She’s dainty and thin just as he’d been at that age; Limbs just a little too long for her torso, because the sleeves on the Gryffindor cardigan she’s wearing don’t reach her wrists.

“Tell him fourteen,” Cordelia responds, “I started wearing blush after mum said only harlots wear it.” 

Percy certainly doesn’t remember that. But after hearing from Bill what she’d apparently said about Fleur- it didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility. “Fourteen, roughly.” 

“And when did she go into the oubliette?” 

“Sixteen.”   

Percy eats another spoonful while Pius folds his hands on the table. “We have a very limited timeframe then. Your living memory is catching up to the oubliette age. Once you hit the final memories, well… I’m actually not certain what’ll happen. Death, hopefully.” 

“Hopefully?” 

“Would you like to hear my other theories? They’re much less hopeful, but very aspirational in regards to the implications of being consumed.” 

Images of torture diagrams flash through Percy’s mind. If he’s able to find more information in that book- Avoid. If unavoidable, kill yourself at the first opportunity. 

“I’d rather not, actually.” 

Cordelia disappears when the porridge is finished. When Pernell asks halfway through if it’s a ghost that’s feeding Percy, she snorts; “Tell him I’m the Cheshire Cat. What a cute little button of a boy!” 

.

.

.

.

.

.

He’d forgotten he’d emptied the contents of Oliver’s coat pockets on his bed. The friendly chat about Pernell between Pius and himself had taken up the rest of last evening, pushing them into night; Pernell had fallen asleep on the armchair clutching a pygmy puff to Percy’s amusement, and he’d been so charmed he’d fallen asleep on the couch. When his back started to ache he’d gotten up and blindly limped to the guest room, collapsing into the bed and tunneling deep into the blankets. 

It’s just sheer coincidence that leads him to finding the balled paper from Oliver’s coat when he goes to nap. After Cordelia fed him an army’s worth of buttery porridge, Percy had felt a wonderful combination of somewhat ill and tired- rather than jamming the paper back into Oliver’s coat pocket, he unballs it to read while he falls asleep. 

He expects it’s a prep speech for the Puddlemere team; Frankly, Percy could use the nostalgia. 

Ollie- 

It’s Charlie’s handwriting. It’s also, presumably, Charlie’s coffee ring staining the corner. Percy also can’t imagine who else Oliver would let take the piss like that, addressing him as Ollie. 

Ollie- 

Thank you for telling Bill and I. We’ll take good care of him, I promise. I can’t help but believe that this incident he’s had at the Ministry is nothing short of a stroke of luck- what a coincidence, eh? Like Merlin himself must’ve agreed with us. I mean it’s terrible he’s had some sort of shock, but none of us wanted him to become the war trial Scribe, y’know? George was so angry at him for going back to the Ministry- Well I’m sure you’ve heard all about it. But Percy’s never been a very reliable narrator, hell, he probably walked away from that thinking George was just mad about him going back to work and not the whole blaming himself wank-off he’s going through.

He came back in the end. We didn’t need anything more than that. All siblings are shit sometimes. Can’t believe I was ever grateful, thinking he was at least safe there during the war. Harry’s on his whole forgiveness pedestal and I can’t say I blame him, but after what you told us? If I ever see Thicknesse, I’ll  not be held accountable for my bloody actions. Maybe we can share a cell in Azkaban, you and me, Ollie.  

Percy still thinks we all hate him, the absolute tosser. Thick fuck. I know he does- keeps us all at arm’s length like we hold him accountable for the stupid shite he did as a teenager. He’s intelligent, but has about the same smarts as a newborn Norwegian Ridgeback; All head, but a brain the size of a knut. Too bloody up his own to remember that Bill and I were the original trailblazers- I mean, shite, I told Mum to piss off before I left for Romania. And he was bloody there! Where’s my glory? 

Anyways, Percy’s home now, thanks to you. I’ve got an extended paid leave from work and lucky the babes are all in hibernation for the season. We’ve let Percy fester for too long now- complete mistake on our part letting him go back to that pisshole of a Ministry. At least they were able to supply us a better cover story than surprise family holiday? Truthfully we didn’t know how bad a state he was in- not like he lets any of around to see him. Harry tell you Ginny bought him season tickets? Out of her own paycheck, too. 

You’re a good friend, Oliver, to me. I’m grateful to have you, even if you’re Scottish. And you’re a good friend to Percy too, if that’s what you want to call it. Batting your eyes at him, picking the soot out of his hair, holding hands through the Floo- whatever the fuck that was you did at dinner where you didn’t blink while staring at him. Try not to mind-shag my brother in front of me, if you don’t mind. 

Anyways, I’ll Floo you tomorrow with an update on Percy. I think we’ll wait until after Christmas for the big family bonding trip. I’m assuming you’ll be there, right? Would be rude to eye-shag him in front of Mum like that and then not come to Christmas, I think. Keep those spots reserved for us in Nice. Might just be Perse and I and the youngers, I’m still waiting to hear back from Bill given the whole future-father thing. But I imagine Fleur will be jazzed at the chance to go back home for a bit. Personally I think she and Perse are going to get along like a pair of beaters on a sunny day.

Ta-Ta for now, your ever dutiful Quidditch Captain, 

Charlie 

Percy stares down at the letter. Reads the words, rereads them just to confirm that he’s not hallucinating-

They don’t hate him. They don’t wish him dead in Fred’s place. 

They miss him. Oliver, Ginny, George- they miss him. 

They miss him? He misses them. 

He then, promptly, loses his fucking mind. 

.

.

.

There was a period after he’d abandoned his family where Percy’s first and foremost goal hadn’t been to survive, but rather to not die. He actually found it a bit comical in hindsight, since the definitive definition of survival is doing whatever it takes to not die in a given situation. 

If he was dead, no one could vanish the muggleborn names from the lists. But if he survived and he found out one of his siblings didn’t, and the last thing he’d said to them could be any one of his angry phrases outside the burrow? 

Well, Oliver’s muggleborn mother one summer had told them that suicide was a sin, and who was Percy to question his host’s religion? 

Of course now his goal once again is to not die. Maybe he’d been naive to think that once the war ended his life could be calm; He thought he’d pay his penance by being the scribe and wish wash his way through life with a low stakes clerical position at the Ministry. Not anymore. Not that he’s now turned Pius Thicknesses’ living room into his own personal St. Mungo’s looney room. 

On one wall he’s pinned any page he could find in A Compendium of Curses that could roughly translate to information about memory. He’d also ripped out pages that contained words like consumption or erase or absorb , just to cover his bases. Together the pages made the eggshell wall look dirty and dark, and Percy has used an illumination spell to highlight any passages that seem particularly relevant. 

Godric the stuffed lion sits atop the coffee table. He’s limp on top of the chessboard. Next to him are slips of parchments with runes that Percy is convinced he’s mistranslated.

The conjoining wall has pages torn from any of the other books they’d collectively bought. If a page contained twins or fae or familial magicks it went up on the wall. Percy no longer possessed the luxury of flipping through pages, consuming paragraphs and smoking cigarettes like it’s an average school break and he’s studying for his NEWTS. This is not him drafting a proposal for standardization of cauldron thickness, no-

This is him sprinting down the Honeydukes passageway, praying he makes it before the battle. He is going to do whatever it takes, because he wants to go home. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

Oliver Wood thought he had fallen in love at eleven years old. He’d believed it the second he looked out from under the sorting hat at his new friend; His older brother waved him over, and it was like Oliver was seeing the sun for the first time. Maybe it was the ginger curls, or the lingering sunburn across his face-- 

Whatever it was, Oliver was simply a minor moon caught in Charlie Weasley’s orbit. Of course it hadn’t worked out, as romances between eleven years olds and fourteen year olds so often do, because Oliver had been too nervous to ever ask if liking blokes was even an allowed thing— let alone if Charlie Weasley liked blokes. 

(As it’d turn out, no he did not. Nor did Charlie like women. He liked, in a completely normal way, dragons above all other things.)

But what had developed out of a schoolboy crush on his Quidditch Captain was irreplaceable to Oliver: A friend and the older brother he’d never had. Someone who went to bat for him (Evidenced by the Slytherin Captain lying only a few beds away from Oliver in the hospital wing, once he’d woken up from the coma following his first official Hogwarts Quidditch match) and someone who’d listen when Oliver needed advice. Where Percy would listen to Oliver’s anxieties, Charlie would give him constructive feedback and needed criticism; He’d been Oliver’s captain, after all. 

Charlie could see Oliver’s flaws just as much as his strengths, and well, shite, sometimes it seemed like Charlie knew what was best for Oliver before Oliver could voice it. He could point out that Oliver favoured his right side during a game and how to train himself out of it. He’d also successfully redirected Oliver’s childhood infatuation with him ( I’m flattered, honestly Ollie) to someone he thought significantly better suited Oliver: Percy. 

Percy Weasley. What was Oliver to think about him? Percy was the bluebell to Charlie’s daffodil; Far softer, far more delicate. He didn’t play Quidditch like Charlie because brooms made him nauseous, and he’d spent the boat ride to Hogwarts clutching Oliver’s hand. They studied together, ate breakfast together, and Percy spent a few weeks every summer break at Oliver’s home on the Isle of Sky. 

After his gentle rejection of thirteen year old Oliver’s feelings (in which Oliver had presented him a bundle of picked daffodils with dirt clumps still hanging off) Charlie had made a suggestion: That Oliver think over exactly what he liked about Charlie. When Oliver had tearfully said ‘Yer smile’ Charlie had beamed and laughed: 

“Well, bully for you then, Ollie- it’s genetic.” 

Charlie had suggested that Oliver take his time and really think it through- and at no point in time did he make Oliver feel wrong for his feelings. He didn’t embarrass him over being attracted to boys, nor did he make Oliver feel ashamed. Oliver’s mother still attended church even after finding out she was a witch, and had taken a young Oliver with her- and, well, while the priest had said that such things were no longer illegal in the Scottish Isles, he’d encouraged Oliver to keep his heart open for a fair young lass. 

And as it’d turn out, Oliver was not in love with Charlie. He’d fancied him, sure, and thought him absolutely beautiful when Charlie (then seventeen) would drop down onto the Quidditch pitch, sweat shining on his skin and hair in a messy knot. It’d taken a long night of hopeless studying the week after Christmas break before Oliver would make his list of reasons he’d liked Charlie:

Ginger, Curly hair, bonnie, freckles, lets me ramble, helps me keep focused, driven, always has notes on the matches, feedback, put together, smells good, a good laugh, tall-

It was tall that tipped something in his brain. Charlie was not particularly tall; What he lacked in height he made up for in stockiness and a wide frame. Even on the verge of fourteen Oliver was matching Charlie in height. But- wide frame hadn’t made the list. It wasn’t something Oliver particularly cared for, and actually, when he thought about it, he liked the idea of being able to hold a boy solidly in his arms. To date a boy he could pick up and spin after he’d won the house cup, someone whom he could wrap around in his sleep. It was nice to think of someone who Oliver would have to get on his tiptoes to kiss-

Oh. 

Percy sat just a seat down from him in the library, bent over a book, the feathered tip of his quill brushing against his lips. He absentmindedly played with one of his curls, letting the hair twist around his finger before pulling it straight. It bounced back in a delicate coil and Oliver’s whole body tensed. 

Oh. 

.

.

.

What Charlie had given Oliver was something so important that, when the opportunities presented themselves, Oliver tried to repay the kindness. When it was his turn to help train the new chasers Angelina and Katie, he did his best to be not just a teammate but a brother. He made it clear they could come to him about anything; It was the same thing he’d impart upon the twins and later Harry Potter. 

He loved them the same way Charlie had loved him. 

Angelina had queued into his Percy crush sometime around his fifth year. She’d been thirteen and skirting around Oliver, trying to get him to pair her and Fred up for flying practice-

“Oh, Oliver, you never once asked Charlie to game the system for you?” 

“No need, I know where my priorities lie. Quidditch comes first.”

Probably would’ve helped if he hadn’t been staring Percy down from across the Great Hall. He was sitting with Penelope at the Ravenclaw table, respectfully and properly not holding hands and making googly eyes over breakfast- but their legs were intertwined under the table. Ankles crossed, and Oliver noted how even the back of Percy’s neck turned pink when he blushed.  

Angelina had twisted to look at what was interesting, then looked back at Oliver. 

“Oh.”

.

.

.

By the end of their fifth year, Oliver had wrangled an eleven year old Harry Potter onto the Quidditch team much to Percy’s dismay (But to Fred and George’s utter delight.) He was funneling all his energy into Quidditch, and Percy was upset he’d pulled a young student from his classes to get him onto the Quidditch pitch-

Well Oliver was upset he’d walked into Penelope and Percy kissing one afternoon. Oliver’s hair had been dripping wet from his post-Saturday morning practice (the same Saturday practices that Percy had always attended until that year), and walked into their dorm room to find them tangled together. Penelope’s hands had been against Percy’s face and Percy’s arm around the small of her back-

Oliver had just stood there and stared, water seeping into the shoulders of his shirt. When they finally queued into his presence they split apart, like they’d been caught by a teacher-

“Apologies, Oliver,” Penelope said breathily, “I’ll see you on patrol then, Percy?” 

Percy ran a hand- the hand that’d been on Penelope’s back- through his hair. “Of course. Later, then.” 

When she left, the room felt utterly different than it ever had before. Like it was no longer Oliver’s and Percy’s dorm that they’d spent five years personalizing, but rather just any random dorm room they’d been assigned. 

It was no longer just them. 

Percy’s lips were red and slightly swollen. As he stammered out an apology, Oliver thought he was beautiful. That he was more beautiful than Charlie had ever been; Percy’s hair slightly mussed, his cheeks blaring pink under his light freckles. 

And it’d never be him that’d make Percy like that. 

.

.

.

He’d tried dating other people of course. He’d funneled his upset over Percy into Quidditch trainings, so that he could still be able to spend time around him without actually losing his mind-

It didn’t matter though. Whenever Marcus Flint and him would rut against each other in the locker rooms after games, Oliver’s legs around his waist; It didn’t compare to how he felt when he and Percy would share a table at the Three Broomsticks, drinking butterbeers. 

Snogging one of the male Hufflepuff chasers in the broom storage shed didn’t compare to studying with Percy in the library. Getting head from an upperclass Ravenclaw wasn’t any better than walking the grounds with Percy after dinner, sunset rays making his hair glow. 

The only two things Oliver knew about himself with unwavering certainty were these: He loves Quidditch and he loves Percy Weasley. But, also these: He is fifteen and he is fucked. 

.

.

.

Sixth year brought an undue amount of stress to the situation. Ginny Weasley came to school and it seemed Percy was losing his mind between her, NEWTS, Ron’s grand entrance via flying car, and keeping the twins from finding out about Penelope. 

Oliver tried to help- he’d keep the twins occupied and exhausted with practice so that they’d cause fewer problems and be too tired to notice Percy seated at the Ravenclaw table. But then Quidditch was canceled, and Oliver suddenly had a lot of time on his hands. His… relationships had become excessively important, since he no longer had Quidditch to vent through- he’d started exclusively wearing turtlenecks because Flint didn’t understand no marks meant no marks. 

He’d gotten so caught up in the distraction of it all that he’d stopped keeping tabs on Percy. He knew Percy was unsettled by all of the things that’d been happening- the dead chickens, the quidditch cancellation, the Penelope secret. But it was probably time for Oliver to take a step back from Percy related things- to think about what a less Percy Weasley dependent future would look like for him. If Penelope was really going to become a staple in their world, Oliver would have to adjust. 

Percy wasn’t his alone anymore. 

The beginning of the end for Oliver had been just a quick late night shag with a very kind Hufflepuff fifth year who hadn’t settled on his sexuality yet- he’d awkwardly approached Oliver after herbology and asked if Oliver really did go about these things with no strings attached. They’d done it up on top of the astronomy tower (Where Oliver failed at not picking out Percy’s favorite constellations mid-act) and Oliver had snuck back down to the Gryffindor common room. 

He thought he’d been subtle and that it was late enough that Percy would be out like a light already- he wasn’t. Oliver entered the room and Percy had dumped the contents of his own dresser out across his bed. He was refolding every piece, back to the door. It had to be at least two in the morning-

Percy froze when he heard Oliver; The shirt he’d been folding fell limp in his hands. “Where have you been?” 

Oliver could admit that Percy was a bit of a hardass prefect, but never when it came to him. 

“Studying.”

Percy snorted- the shirt fabric wrinkled as he clutched his hands. “Funny. Curfew was four hours ago, Oliver.”

Percy sounded… wrong. He sounded the same way he always did in spring, when his allergies would act up. 

“Aye? What’s it to you then?” Oliver stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You’re always pushing me to spend my newfound free time studying.”

Percy didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. There’d been some sort of resentment building up between them for a few days now- like an unspoken thing had happened between them that’d made everything taut . Everything Oliver did was up for critique apparently; If he was late coming back from class, Percy would chastise him. If he didn’t tell Percy that he was going for a jog before morning classes? The redhead would give him the silent treatment. 

Angelina had jokingly told him it was sexual tension and that he should just tell Percy-

“I was worried.”

Oliver huffs. “Yer always worrying.” 

“I was worried about YOU!” Percy snaps. The cloth in his hands strains as he clenches it tight. 

When he looks at Oliver, Oliver can’t catch his breath. Percy’s face is red, eyes glistening, and silvery trails run over his cheeks. 

“They found Penelope this morning,” He says, “Petrified.”

Oliver lets his arms unfold. “Oh, Perse, I had no idea-“

“And when I got back here you weren’t here. I thought- I know you’re not a muggleborn but I was frightened, Oliver-“

Oliver doesn’t let him finish, instead rushing forward and grappling Percy into a hug. He hugs him so tight Percy wheezes- then Oliver feels him relax into it. 

“‘Am so sorry, Perse.”

Percy’s arms wrap around Oliver’s lower back and he buries his face into Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver feels his shoulder dampen and prays that Percy can’t somehow tell that someone else’s face had been in the exact same place not an hour prior. 

“‘Am absolutely fine, dinnae fret about me,” Oliver says, petting a hand down Percy’s back. “‘Am not going anywhere.”

Percy nods, entirely silent, but Oliver can feel how his shoulders tense. 

“You’ve had a long day, aye?” Another nod. “Let’s get some sleep, Perse.” 

Percy pulls away with a loud sniffle. “Oh, my clothes-“

“Leave em’. Sleep in mine for the night.” 

Percy doesn't even argue. He just walks over and tucks into Oliver’s bed like he’s done it a million times before. When Oliver follows he mentally wills himself to stay prone the entire night- there will be zero hanky business tonight. 

It takes just a minute before Percy has snuggled up to his side, and Oliver lets him use his bicep as a pillow. It gives him the opportunity to thread his fingers through Percy’s curls-

“Thank you, Oliver.” Percy whispers. 

He brushes his thumb over Percy’s ear and selfishly presses his lips against Percy’s hairline. “‘Am always gonnae be here for you, mo ghràdh, I swear.”

Percy doesn't hear it because he’s fast asleep. 

Oliver knows deep down that he is absolutely and completely fucked over Percy Weasley. 

.

.

.

When Percy tells Oliver about breaking up with Penelope that summer, Oliver does his damndest to look sympathetic. 

“Why’s that then, Perse?”

Percy flicks a bug off his trousers and his knee brushes against Oliver’s. They’re laying in the heather field outside Oliver’s home, and Oliver thinks maybe the purple-pink tones of the flowers were created specifically to complement Percy’s pale skin. 

Percy shrugs. “Just didn’t feel right, I suppose.”

Fluffy clouds roll in the sky above them. 

.

.

.

He doesn’t like to talk about or think about or acknowledge the war. It’d been bad when Percy had split from his family. He had no idea the amount of letters Oliver received (asking, pleading, begging, yelling) and how many howlers he fielded for Percy’s sake. After Percy returned Molly’s sweater, Oliver’s life became a delicate balance of Puddlemere reserve training and owl intercepting. 

They came from everyone: Molly, Ginny, Ron, the twins, Angelina on Fred’s behalf, Lee Jordan on George’s behalf, Charlie, an oddly supportive one from Hermione- they weren’t all letters though. Bill had once sent a very peculiar fruit basket congratulating Percy on growing a pair. 

It’d featured an upsetting amount of kiwis. 

Fred and George started out sending individual letters, then conjoined packages that’d explode into glitter and whistle. When those went ignored by Percy (who didn’t know they existed) they escalated to sending smelly things that should’ve been classified as war crimes- they only stopped because Oliver took the initiative and told them that they lived together, and to please stop. Of course then they sent howlers that Oliver cast into flames before they even had a chance to voice themselves. Fred sent Oliver a particularly sad note on his own, unconjoined with George. All it said was please. 

The week after Arthur was attacked was possibly one of the worst in Oliver’s entire life: the twins sent objects that shrieked so loud they shattered windows. 

Oliver wasn’t thrilled with Percy, but he understood. He’d watched Percy parent his siblings in Molly’s place at Hogwarts and over summers- such was always the problem with big families. Parents get spread too thin and over-rely on whatever child is desperate for attention the most; It’d happened to his mother and her four sisters, and was the reason Oliver was an only child. None of Percy’s personal accomplishments truly mattered. He loved the Weasleys and was endlessly grateful for the children they produced- 

But he’d always side with Percy. He didn’t agree with Percy’s thoughts on Harry or Dumbledore, but he’d never leave him. He knew how much Percy loved them all. At his core Oliver only understood two things: Quidditch and Percy Weasley. 

.

.

.

It got worse when Scrimgeour became minister. Oliver had been busy traveling with Puddlemere most weeks, and very rarely came back to the apartment. But it seemed that every time he saw Percy, something was off with him. He was stressed, obviously. 

Oliver never really stuck around long enough to find out why, and more often spent the night in stranger’s bedrooms than his own. He’d never even bought a bed. 

.

.

.

Then they canceled Quidditch across the UK, and Oliver found himself at their flat with entirely too much free time. He maintained contact with his teammates, and vocalized his support for Harry to them-

Then what was left of Rufus Scrimgeour’s body was dumped on the front doorstep of The Daily Prophet. When Percy came home that evening he was ungodly pale, and his hair was ruffled from him having run his hands through it countless times. 

“I can’t leave, Oliver,” Percy said, panting against the front door, “I waited too long, I can’t leave.”

Oliver just looked at him. 

“You need to go or you’ll-“

“Go where, Percy?” 

“Anywhere far from me. Anywhere you can get to. If you’re going to fight, it has to be somewhere other than here. We can’t be connected, it’ll be too obvious. They’ll torture you to get to me or- or-”

Oliver stood. Percy remained crowded against the door, like he was considering running out of it. Sweat banded his curls to his forehead. 

“Are ye going to fight, Perse?”

Percy closed his eyes, face strained. “I can do more from the inside than I ever could out there.”

“But you’re going to fight, aye?”

Softly, with a nod: “Of course.” 

Oliver nodded back. “Then I’m staying. You’ll just have to fight for the both of us.”

“Oliver, you can’t stay, please,” Percy was sliding down against the door, collapsing in on himself, “You’re all I’ve got left.”

Crossing the floor to him Oliver kneeled. He grabbed Percy’s hand, squeezed it, and held it to his chest. 

“In for a penny, mo ghràdh, in for a pound.”

He couldn’t tell if it was relief or grief that crossed Percy’s face. 

.

.

.

Percy had been right, of course; They had tortured Oliver. Their combined crime of being a half-blood and a former blood traitor meant that every day he’d watch Percy walk into the fireplace, and everyday Oliver would pray to a god he no longer believed in that Percy would walk back out that evening. 

The longer everything went on, the worse it became. They’d taken to sleeping in the same bed in the event that they’d receive a random check in the night- Percy had managed to convince the right people that he and Oliver were in a genuine relationship. Oliver’s celebrity in the Quidditch world worked well for this; When asked, he just claimed that the relationship had always been on the down low since Percy didn’t want the attention. 

(Apparently Voldemort had no issues with queer people if they had the right blood type; Perhaps the circle of pure blood wizards was just too small to discount any based on sexuality. And Oliver had never made a notion of his personal feelings; He’d rather have no relationship than one built on stress and fear.)

When it’d all amped up to Snatchers and muggleborn kidnappings, they almost stopped talking entirely. He knew what Percy was doing and that Percy was doing it well; Penelope’s whole family made it to Belgium alive. Oliver’s own parents had been recorded as dead from a car accident; They’d actually been staying with one of his muggle aunts in Inverness. Oliver himself had helped the Creevy boys and their father make it across the British Channel to France-

(Part of him wishes he couldn’t remember how light Colin’s body was compared to Percy’s.)

Percy would get home from work and sit and stare out the window. Every evening he’d come in, take off his shoes, and go entirely silent until he’d go to bed. On days where he was too exhausted (as Minister Thicknesse so kindly put it) to bring himself home, Oliver would retrieve him. 

Oliver would Floo into the Ministry and refuse to make eye contact as he made his way to the Minister’s office. He’d scoop Percy up as gently as possible under Pius Thicknesse’s gaze and make sure to cradle his head against Oliver’s neck, so that no one could see his face as they left. Oliver would always, always press a kiss against Percy’s sweat beaded forehead in front of Pius, because the clammy feel of Percy’s skin was the only thing that held Oliver back. If he went to Azkaban, who would take care of Percy? Who’d make sure he ate?

The longer that Harry, Ron, and Hermione went unfound- the more frequently Percy would be too exhausted to leave the office on his own two feet. Oliver had run across Arthur Weasley exactly once during this procedure; He’d turned down a hallway to avoid a group and found himself feet away from Arthur. He clutched the third eldest Weasley son in his arms and made direct eye contact with his father; Neither said anything. 

.

.

.

They’d split up close to the end of it all so that Oliver could rally Quidditch players for the battle.  

The last few weeks seemed impossibly short. Then it’d been the battle. 

He hadn’t seen Percy the entire time until those last moments, when Oliver was carrying Colin’s body into the great hall; Colin, to Oliver’s speechless horror, wasn’t even the youngest of the fallen Gryffindors. He surveyed the others and saw the Weasleys gathered together in the corner around one particular body- a tall redhead with straight hair. Oliver cried, both because Fred had died and because Percy hadn’t. He walked right past the bloodied body and silent Weasleys, and dropped to his knees in front of Percy; No one would be looking at them. It hurt to feel the floor rush up to him like that, but every part of Oliver hurt; The last few hours had been nothing but adrenaline and instinct. 

Percy’s head hung in his hands. His beautiful hands and long fingers were coated in dirt and blood; When Oliver gently pulled them away they left behind dark splotches on Percy’s skin. Oliver’s own hands were no cleaner as they replaced Percy’s and he ran his thumbs over damp and dirty cheeks:

“I lost him, Oliver,” Percy whispered, “Fred’s gone.” 

Oliver pulled Percy’s forehead down to meet his own, closing the gap between them. He was afraid to close his eyes until Percy’s skin was against his own- he was convinced that if he didn’t hold onto Percy, that when he opened his eyes again, it’d be Percy on the ground and Fred in his hands instead. 

(Oliver doesn't think Fred would’ve handled it any better if it’d been Percy.)

“I know, mo ghràdh,” Oliver said, “I know.” 

.

.

.

Twenty two year old Oliver thought he understood Percy Weasley. Percy had been going through something after the war that Oliver couldn’t fathom; Losing Fred had felt like losing a sibling himself. 

But Percy blamed himself. Not the Death Eater that’d caved Fred’s head in, the very same one Percy had charged after apparently only minutes later; Nay, he blamed himself. And then he had the audacity to go back to the Ministry afterwards, like it wasn’t the most obvious self-flagellation Oliver had ever seen. Oliver knew self-flagellation very well in fact; Trying to drown himself in the showers after that infamous, Dementor swarmed Quidditch game in his last year, and cursing himself for liking a boy by shagging anyone that moved. He was practically an expert, thank you very much. 

Oliver dealt with his problems via sex, and Percy dealt with them by pouring salt directly into open wounds. 

When Oliver had gotten his offer to rejoin Puddlemere as their starting keeper with the reinstatement of Quidditch he’d shared it with Percy over breakfast, and it was the first time Percy had smiled in ages. 

He’d win every goddamned game if meant Percy kept smiling. He’d even promised it to himself by going out and buying the loveliest notebook he could find so he that Percy could keep score of his games, just as he had in school. It was a beautiful journal and Oliver had overpaid for it in a muggle luxury shop on Bond street; The Quaffle red tone matched Percy’s coloring nicely. 

Oliver paid extra to have the cover embossed with a delicate bluebell emblem, and got Angelina’s help charming it to faintly glow blue in the dark. 

.

.

.

.

.

,

.

.

.

Sweat clung to the inside of his Quidditch leathers; Even in winter the weather in Nice was warm. When flying it was briskly cool against his skin. 

Something blotted over the sun above. If it was the snitch, he wouldn’t care; It was not his job to worry where the snitch was. But since it could be a bludger he took the liberty of looking up at the object, squinting to get the sun from his eyes-

It hit him in the face. Pointy and somewhat sharp and definitely not a bludger. Of all things- a paper airplane?

“Hold it! Unidentified object on the pitch!” Came from one of the chasers, “Wood, you alright?”

“‘M fine! It’s a, uh-“ He pulls the paper apart, “A ministry memo?”

It takes a moment for the words to read as words. 

MINISTRY EMERGENCY ALERT:

ATTN: OLIVER WOOD & MOLLY WEASLEY

OLIVER WOOD & MOLLY WEASLEY: This is an official Ministry emergency alert sent on behalf of PERCIVAL WEASLEY, who has established you as an emergency contact. PERCIVAL WEASLEY has been sent home for the purpose of Grave Emotional Disturbance, to the address located at-

Oliver’s broom (and himself) fall from the sky, cold wind whipping around them. At the last moment he pulls up just feet from the ground and drops off the broomstick, letting it clatter to the grass behind him. 

“Wood, what’s the problem?”

“It’s an emergency alert from the ministry, Coach,” Oliver holds out the paper- his coach takes it and flattens it out, “I have to go-“

“Go, we’ll have Dean cover your place for today’s practice.”

Oliver nods- a hand catches him by the shoulder. “Wood?”

“Coach?”

The coach gives Oliver’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “I hope he’s alright. Floo me tonight with an update.”

“Aye.” 

It’s against multiple laws to apparate as far as Oliver proceeds to- the risk of splinching increases tenfold the further one is from their target. 

.

.

.

By the grace of God, Oliver does not splinch from his multi-country apparition. He’s maybe a little winded but all his parts are attached and in the right place; Good enough for him. 

“Percy?” For some reason Oliver is in Percy’s bedroom, where Percy is obviously not. He bolts out the door- “Percy!”

Percy’s on the couch, staring out the window. His legs are tucked under him and his shoes still on- there’s no reaction in him as Oliver crosses the floor. He’s in the exact same position he’d been in time after time during that dark year; The same position he’d stay in for hours, unresponsive to anything. 

“Percy, are you alright?” 

Nothing. Oliver could be dressed as a Pygmy puff and Percy would be none the wiser. 

“Percy.”

No response. Oliver drops his palms to his knees and takes a few deep panting breaths. Maybe, if he tells Percy about the law he’s just broken, it’ll stir him out of his trance. 

“Just Apparated, if you’re curious, all the way from France. How many kilometers is that over the legal apparition amount?”

Surely- yes. Percy moves slowly, like a puppet being maneuvered: He takes a sip of tea and then holds the cup in his hands. Alright, not exactly what Oliver’d been going for, but shite at least it was something. 

“Okay, great, yeah- good hustle, Perse. Good form.” 

Oliver drops to a squat. He releases the tension in his fisted hands; He hadn’t even noticed he’d been clenching them. 

“Stand up, Perse.” But he knows it won’t do anything. “Percy. Please, stand up.”

Absolutely nothing. As lively as a brick wall. 

“Aye, fuck it, for Merlin’s sake-“ Oliver was up and crossing the space, gripping Percy’s elbow, “Get up!” 

He hoists Percy like he’s a downed teammate, dragging him up to his knees. The teacup in his hands falls and shatters- Oliver had gotten it for him for Christmas maybe two years ago? They could both afford a million replacements. 

“I have been talking to you for ten minutes!” And Merlin’s Beard Percy looks bad, “Are you okay?” 

Percy blinks at him. Has the audacity to cock his head like he’s confused to see Oliver, like he’s a confused pooch being told to perform a trick he doesn’t know. “Oliver? You’re not supposed to be home for another month, shouldn’t you be in Nice?”

“Yes! However I got a wonderful letter from the Ministry this afternoon-“

After reciting the letter, Oliver studies Percy. He certainly hadn’t looked this rough when Oliver had come home end of November. Percy’s skin is sallow; Far paler than it’d been weeks ago. He has dark eye bags that bring a heavy purple to his face. He looks dull and unpolished. He’s just as beautiful as he’s always been to Oliver, but it’s as if someone’s stolen the light right out of him. 

Percy seems surprised that it’s night out. 

“You fainted, Percy, did you know that? Someone carried you home.”

He wishes he knew who. Which unidentified ministry worker also now kept the memory of carrying a fainted Percy Weasley? Oliver wishes it’d been himself again- did they keep Percy’s face tilted so no one would see? Did they tuck his glasses into his suit pocket to keep them from falling, as Oliver always had?

“Apparently during your scribe duties you slid off your chair and went completely unresponsive. They wanted to treat you for shock, Perse.” He watches Percy bite his lip, the berry pink turning white under the pressure, “Why? What happened, Percy?”

“Right, yes, that whole thing. It’s nothing. Just got caught a little off guard from an… unexpected piece of evidence.” 

And well, Oliver knew that was a fucking lie. He’d seen the trial photos that occasionally made it to The Prophet; Black and white images of crime scenes. They never published the truly bad things— the bloody, the mangled, or the violent— but he knew Percy saw them. 

Just as he’d helped move bodies from under rubble at Hogwarts, Percy saw them. Acknowledged them, then went about his day like he hadn’t just seen something unspeakably awful. No one else who’d been directly involved looked at these things if they could help it; Percy practically sought them out. Like they were his burden to bear, like he was their martyr. 

Oliver wanted to both shake him and hug him. Yell at him for torturing himself and hold him close enough to ensure he’d never see anything terrible again. Slap him; Kiss him. 

“Just a little off guard, Merlin-“ He didn’t do any of the things he wanted to do, “Right. Of course, yeah, don’t know what else I was expecting. Right, anyways- Percy, get changed, we need to go.”

“What? Go where?” 

It’d been the plan for about a week and a half now, but conceived maybe three months ago- Oliver would bring Percy to the burrow. Percy would spend a few days with his parents and Charlie and Bill, venting and being distracted and getting rebuilt by his older family. They’d play chess and do renovations; Charlie and Percy would be asked to be the Godfathers to Bill’s future child. 

They were going to crack through the outer exterior Percy had built for himself, and break it enough that Percy would agree to the planned family vacation in January. A whole month of the Weasley family in Nice; they’d share a villa Oliver had reserved in Nice on one of his off days. It hadn’t been as difficult to plan as they anticipated; No employer wanted to tell the venerated war hero family no, they can’t take a holiday. With dragons in hibernation, Quidditch on winter break, all siblings and significant others on board, and a clueless Percy successfully indoctrinated into believing he deserves a break- 

Everything was going to go swimmingly. Oliver would make sure of it; Percy deserved it. He’d finally tell Percy he loved him under the warmth of the Mediterranean sunshine, and snog all the sensibility out of him. 

(All of his teammates would take this piss out of him of course; He hadn’t shut up about Percy from day one of Quidditch Reinstatement.) 

“The burrow, Perse. I’m not your only emergency contact, it seems, and frankly-“ Oliver lit the Floo flames, “Your mother scares me.”

When Percy re-emerges from his room a few minutes later and steps into the floo, Oliver takes his hand. It’s delicate under his own and Oliver greedily lets his thumb run over Percy’s knuckles. 

.

.

.

The burrow looks exactly as he’d always expected it would. Warm, cozy colors and a heavy smell of stew; It’s all Oliver ever wanted out of a big family home. Plush seating everywhere where he could curl up and where Percy could curl up with him. Oliver could pet his hair while they listened to the other siblings discuss Quidditch, Oliver chiming in occasionally. 

He lets Percy be yanked from him by his mother and pretends like it’s been eons since he’s last seen Charlie. When Molly captures Percy’s attention fully for a moment Charlie leans across the table to Oliver, harshly whispering:

“We’re solo until tomorrow- Bill’s squaring things off at work. What’s happened to Perse?” 

“Nothing good,” Oliver whispered, “Think it might be something different than yer standard issue PTSD.”

“Why’s that?” 

“He looks like shite, Charlie, look at him-”

“We all look like shit, Ollie-”

“Nay, Charlie, he looks worse-” 

Molly’s voice cuts in and Charlie pulls away. “Quite alright, Mr. Wood. Have you eaten yet?”

Percy’s sat right next to him. He looks… not good. 

“Right, right. Course it is. You’ve got soot in your hair.” 

Oliver casts a glance at Percy; Indeed there is soot in his hair. A streak of black stains the perfect copper curl right in front and smears into Percy’s hair line. Oliver goes to brush it, a wish developed over years of pointedly staring at Percy’s curls; The moment Oliver’s hand touches the golden strands he can’t help himself. He fluffs them. 

Percy bolts away. Oliver involuntarily mimics the motion, startled by how fast Percy moved; Man could’ve been a chaser. “The soot- was just trying to get it out for you.” 

“With your own soot-covered hands?” Percy dryly responds and Merlin , he’s beautiful when he’s cheeky, “How gracious.”  

Oliver tries to wipe the soot off his hands and onto his knee pads- it’d be unbecoming of an upcoming potential Percy suitor to dirty his mam’s tablecloth. He’s so excited to try Molly Weasley’s cooking that Oliver’s practically buzzing out of his seat. Five Weasleys and Harry Potter have attested to her expertise- 

Lamb stew! When he takes a bite it’s possible the world stops. It’s phenomonal. Oliver involuntarily closes his eyes- Would it be inappropriate to moan? Hmm, yes, likely- 

“Percy, eat up now, love. Charlie, dear, is something the matter?” 

Would it be wrong to ask for seconds? Thirds? For Molly Weasley to make all of his meals? 

“Oliver just had something on his face.” Oliver looks up as Charlie answers and- shite. “Trick of the light, I guess.” 

Charlie’s always read him like a book. Oliver feels thirteen again, clutching a handful of rooted daffodils and embarrassed. 

“Yeah, must’ve been.” Oliver responds, “Thank you for the supper, Mrs. Weasley.” 

Charlie keeps staring and the cheeky shite gene must also be genetic along with the smile, because Charlie smirks. 

.

.

.

When Arthur joins them Oliver shakes his hand. He looks between Percy and Oliver, and mouths ‘thank you’. Oliver winks at him. 

.

.

.

Once it’s time for Oliver to leave, he’s hesitant. Charlie had offered for him to stay during their goodbye hug, but- Oliver only wanted to stay if Percy asked him. Maybe he needed time away from their apartment and also Oliver; Just an entire reset. 

“For real though, Charlie, just send the word and I’ll get you into the Puddlemere reserve, quicker than it’d take you to apparate from-”

Charlie laughs. “I’ll let you know, Wood, but don’t keep your hopes up.” 

The note passes from Charlie’s hands directly into Oliver’s coat pocket during their final hug. There’d been too much to say during their brief interaction, and not enough subtly disguised Quidditch terms to discuss it all over the dinner table. 

“Right, Perse,” Oliver turns towards Percy, intent on hugging him. But Percy’s got that same nervous look he’s always had around the more rambunctious Quidditch types; He’s awkwardly playing with the edge of his sweater as he meets Oliver. 

Oliver diverts the hug into a clap on the shoulder like Percy is any other teammate, but he selfishly lets his thumb press into the exposed skin through a moth hole near Percy’s collarbone. “I’ll be seeing you, then. Won’t be back from Nice for a while yet.” 

Won’t be back because Percy will be there in short enough time. 

“Right, well…” Percy’s ears are pink, “Show them your best, Oliver.” 

Over Percy’s shoulder Charlie makes a gesture that makes Oliver’s cheeks flush; Mimicking a blow job and pointing at Percy, Of course he’s not wrong, Oliver would very much like to- but Percy would be embarrassed at the vulgar implication if he knew. 

Oliver apparates immediately so Percy doesn’t see him blush. 

.

.

.

When he Floos his Coach back at the apartment, it’s brief.

“Wood, everything alright?” 

Oliver sort of shrugs. “Not as bad as I was expecting, but… not great.” 

The Coach nods. “Why don’t you stay there for a few days, Wood?”

“What? Nay, Sir, I can play-”

“It’s not about you playing, Wood. I know how the war… it did a number on us all. We’ve got a single practice left before winter break- why don’t you take a few days to yourself? Get some needed rest.”

Well- he’s not opposed to rest. Before he can answer, Coach is speaking again: “We’ve had back-to-back games for months now. Stretch your muscles, get some rest- no junk food, of course, and keep up on your dailies. We’ll see you again come first post-break practice, alright?” 

Oliver considers it. “Aye.”

“Oh and, Blayney wants to speak to you before we end. I’m sure it’s completely official business only.” 

It’s definitely not, but Oliver doesn’t fight it when Blayney’s face replaces the coach. He’s a handsome man and a good chaser- blonde hair and a soft smile. He doesn’t make Oliver’s heart flutter, but he’s a solid bloke and they have fun.

“Hey, Wood,” Blayney smiles at him, “You alright?”

Oliver cricks his neck. “I’ll be fine.” This is awkward. 

“I’m guessing we’re no longer on for tonight then?” Blayney asks- but he doesn’t sound sad as Oliver had been expecting. 

“Don’t think so, sorry. I- er,”

Blayney laughs. “No pressure, mate. We’re just having fun is all, I’m not upset you’ve run off to your princess.” 

Percy would hate Oliver if he knew the team had a nickname for him. 

“I wish you and him the best, Wood.”

It means quite a lot to Oliver to hear that. “Thank you.” He responds quietly. 

“Good luck, Oliver.” Then Blayney’s gone.

He can’t remember the last time he was in the apartment alone. He strips off his Quidditch leathers and falls asleep right on the couch. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

One of the worst days of Oliver’s life would begin with him having, arguably, one of the best dreams of his life. 

“‘Oy-uhl-brys,’” Oliver laughed, “Oilbrheis. C’mon now, Perse, you can do it.” 

“Oil-bries?” 

Oliver ran his fingers along the shell of Percy’s ear. “Too much emphasis on ‘Oil’, not enough on the ‘Uhl’.”

Percy buried his face in his hands- Oliver pried them off with a smile. “Cannae get out of it like that again, Perse.”

“Can we not just write me off as a lost cause? Posh is what you said, I believe-“

“If it were a spell you’d have nary a problem-“

From where Oliver lay between Percy’s legs, there was no hope of hiding from him. He kept a tight grip on Percy’s hands squished between their bare chests, and when the redhead tried to bury his smile into the pillow instead- Oliver nipped at him. 

“I’m butchering it, Oliver, it sounds terrible coming from me-“

“I dinnae care, say it again.”

“Oyl-briess?”

Oliver kissed him. Percy was always so warm under him, soft and willowy. Bare skin on bare skin; Compared to his own rough hands, Percy’s skin felt like rose petals. 

“Not even a wee bit close, Perse.”

“Really? I thought I’d-“ Percy inhaled sharply as Oliver dragged his hips up, aiming into the warm heat between them,“I thought I’d gotten closer with the first syllable.”

Oliver traced his name into the skin of Percy’s throat with his tongue. He released Percy’s hands so he could instead use them to spread Percy’s legs apart further, and elevate his hips up. 

“Can we,” A hip roll left Percy momentarily speechless, “ Can we give it another go later?”

Well the plan had actually been to get Percy to repeat the name and every time he pronounced it wrong, Oliver would thrust into him. He wanted to hear it broken and tumbling from Percy’s lips; But he looked so cute with his red ears and hands twisting into the sheet beneath him-

“Later,” Oliver smirked into the soft joint of Percy’s knee, conveniently propped up on Oliver’s shoulder,  “later then.”

.

.

.

Oliver’d gone home to see his parents; He hadn’t anticipated having a few free days off between Quidditch and the Weasleys. They were getting older, their farm smaller; What’d once held a dozen sheep and chickens was now home to a small handful of animals: A few chickens, the elderly sheep who hadn’t sold years ago, and the various working pets that Oliver had named as a wee (Quidditch-obsessed) lad. 

Land that’d had lambs born to it and countless skeins of wool spun from it; It’d never quite recovered from their sudden abandonment during the war, but his parents had stayed out of Azkaban. Survived with all limbs and their minds intact. Oliver couldn’t have asked for more than that. His childhood of sheep with black felt faces and cozy wool was a thing of the past, but his parents lived. 

Oliver joined Malcolm, his father, in mucking through the slushy combo of mud and snow. Quaffle, an aging sheepdog, shuffled around them and lazily stuck his head up into Oliver’s palm when the opportunity arose. Despite being Oliver Wood, the war hero and Quidditch star, at home he was Oilbrheis Wood : Scrubber of water buckets, spreader of fresh hay, and petter of sheepdogs. 

Percy had been gobsmacked the first time he’d heard the name. “But you introduced yourself as Oliver?”

“Easier for English speakers to pronounce,” He’d responded, “Dinnae fancy being called Oil-Hess or Oil-bry on accident.” 

After time it’d just become so much easier to be Oliver than to try and get his classmates to say Oilbrheis. They’d trip over the syllables- two months at Hogwarts was all it took to define himself as Oliver . Once he joined Puddlemere it was still easier for the team’s legal and promotional side to write him as Oliver; It’d caused a bit of riff between him and Malcolm, but nothing permanent. 

Besides; He rather liked it being just something for his family. Olibrheis for him and Percival for Percy; Oliver and Percy. Oliver for his Hogwarts alumni, Wood for his professional teammates and coaches, Ollie exclusively for Charlie because… just because. He didn’t need a reason for that one.

Quaffle licked at Oliver’s face as he bent down to crowd an ewe away from the water trough. “Urgh, you smell like shite, Quaffle!” 

Malcolm laughed from the other side of the barn. A lamb bleeted- likely the last one they’d have.

All was calm. Malcolm asked if he’d want to consider a spring fishing trip and whether Puddlemere was treating him well enough. Quaint things; Easy things to answer. Nothing that’d touch on the night two years ago when Oliver had shown up in the middle of the night and ordered his parents to pack their bags-

Quaffle’s head shot up, nearly knocking Oliver over. He was an aptly named dog- his fat head was roughly the same size as a Quaffle. 

“Oy, what’s getting at you, then?” Oliver asked. Quaffle ignored him, alerting at the barn door, and Oliver paused mid scrub.

“Very well could be the wind,” Malcolm said, “He’s getting on in his years. Cannae bring myself to retire him-”

A low growl right next to Oliver’s head cut Malcolm off mid sentence- Quaffle bared his teeth at the door. Repositioning himself in front of the crouched Oliver like Oliver was one of his livestock, Quaffle’s tail stuck straight out. 

Neither man moved. It was wildly unlikely that there’d be any predators and certainly not any that’d be able to stand up against two experienced wizards.

“Ollie!” 

It sounded distant, but growing closer. Quaffle let out a loud bark and stood firm in front of Oliver. 

Only one person called him Ollie. “Charlie?” 

“Ollie!” 

Something burst through the barn doors- three somethings that tumbled over a bundle of hay and fell as a group. Oliver moved faster than he ever had; Lurching forward he grabbed onto Quaffle’s collar and practically threw his whole body over the dog-

Charlie, Ron, and Harry scrambled as Quaffle fought Oliver to remove their faces from their skulls.

“Quaffle, Stad! Stad!” Oliver shouted, “Sàmhach!”  

The dog yielded, if only because Oliver was squishing him. “Gahb fois, Quaffle, you fat oaf- dinnae eat the saviour of the wizarding world!” 

Quaffle settled into a low bow that allowed Oliver to put his knees on either side of the dog, and just enough pressure on his back to ensure he wouldn’t wiggle out. He looked up at the three- Charlie was oddly positioning himself over the other two, ready to take the burden of being mauled.

“Explain.” Oliver said, looking between the three.  

“Your- your mum told us you were out here,” Ron started, holding onto Charlie’s back. 

“Lovely woman, Oliver-” Harry chimed in. He was buried beneath the other two.

It was Charlie who offered anything of substance. “It’s Percy, Ollie, something’s happened.” 

“What? What’s happened to Percy?” 

Quaffle whined as the three guests brushed themselves off. 

“He was splinched at the ministry-“ Harry said. 

“Splinched?” 

“Minorly splinched!” Ron finished for Harry. Harry sort of shrugged in a way that implied minorly splinched was a gracious way to describe what had happened. 

Oliver looked at Charlie. The man had hay stuck to his knees. He was the most serious looking of the three and Oliver narrowed his eyes at him. 

“What was Perse doing at the ministry?” Oliver asked. 

“He, uh-“ Charlie ran a gloved hand through his hair and hay caught in his curls, “He ran, Ollie.” 

“ Fuck you mean he ran?” Oliver asked, keeping his grip tight on Quaffle’s collar, “And you dinnae think to catch him?”

“I tried! I- he’s bloody fast, Ollie, you think I just let him stroll away?” Charlie was up now, “Maybe if you’d been so kind as to tell us where you two bloody live-“

“Aye, so it’s my fault?” Oliver spat back, “You were the one who promised-“

Someone cleared their throat. His father stood there unnoticed by the others, a wee lamb wiggling in his arms. 

“Is this about your… friend, Oilbrheis?” Malcolm asked. “The one you brought to visit?”

Oliver looked at him, then to Charlie. He pointedly skipped over the two in the middle. “Aye, Da, my… friend.” 

His parents had never asked, so Oliver had never explained. Somewhere along the way they seemed to have figured it out. Ron also seemed to have figured it out in the past ten seconds, looking at Oliver with furrowed brows. 

“Go to him, Oilbrheis. Your mother and I are fine.”

“Fuirich, Quaffle.” Oliver fluffed the dog’s bangs. “Fine then, let’s go.”

.

.

.

Words left Oliver barely louder than a whisper. “You said he’d been splinched, not…”

Percy had to have been murdered. Blood coated almost every surface. The cabinet doors, the countertops, doorknobs, couch— everywhere. 

“He’s lost at least two fingers,” Harry said, following behind Oliver, “Maybe it got him the same way it did Ron.” 

They drifted across the flat while Ron and Charlie sat in their armchairs; Neither wanted to sit on the couch with an obvious bloodstain. 

Oliver knew that Percy was no longer in the apartment, but he was still scared to open the bathroom door as it had a notable smear on it. When Oliver faintly touched it the blood stuck to his fingertips— it wasn’t old enough or thin enough to have dried down completely in the hours between Percy’s last known sighting. 

He didn’t even turn the bathroom light on. The dark stains were obvious enough on their own, covering the bathtub and floor tiles. He shut the door. 

“What the hells happened? Charlie-“ Oliver approached the brothers. 

“I don’t know, Ollie, I don’t know.” Charlie was uncharacteristically quiet, hand in his hair, “He wouldn’t tell me. Just apperated away- he had blood on his face at the burrow, but he used to get nosebleeds as a kid-“

Oliver took a step towards him and something crunched under his foot. “What is all of this?”

“I, uh-“ Ron looked pale, “I sent him a howler after I brought Dad home.” 

The silence was palpable. 

Charlie looked up and made a steeple out of his fingers, pressing them against his lips. “You sent a howler to him.” Not a question. 

“You sent our brother, who’s known for making rash decisions under pressure, a howler? The same brother that,” Charlie made a weird frown, “When something of this magnitude happened before, didn’t talk to us for two years?”

Ron sheepishly responded. “I was angry.” 

“You were angry, right.” Oliver said with a chuckle. Percy had once sent Ron an angry letter- it was just worry disguised as anger. “Right.”

“Er- I don’t meant to interrupt, but,” Harry entered the scene, paper in hand, “I’ve found this.”

Oliver took it from him- eight words. 

Apologies for the mess, Oliver. 

With love, Percy. 

Was he taking the piss? Oliver flipped the paper— no more was written on the back. He even tapped it with his wand just in case something had been concealed: Nothing. 

Just these eight words. 

“Is that cunt fucking joking?” 

He’d momentarily forgotten he was in the presence of people who found the word cunt scandalous, and not an everyday term used appropriately to describe people acting like cunts . Ron looked traumatized. 

“What is it?” He asked, “Harry, what’s it say?” 

“There’s not much on it-“

Oliver interrupted him. “‘Apologies for the mess, Oliver. With love, Percy.’”

Ron looked sick. Charlie’s head went back into his hands. 

.

.

.

Since the original plan had been to convene at the burrow pre-trip, they went ahead and did just that. Aurors were coming to sweep the apartment; They all had to be elsewhere. Oliver hadn’t been happy waiting for the rest of the Weasley siblings to show in the living room. Molly kept looking at him- he went outside. 

Even in winter the garden was neat. He milled about it in the dark, letting the warm lights of the burrow grow further and further away. He passed an old potting shed and peeked inside; Obviously it doubled as Arthur’s workshed. Oliver took a moment to poke around.

Above an odd assortment of broken muggle appliances-- a coffee pot, a VCR, a stand mixer with no bowl-- rested a series of old books. Muggle books he recognized from his aunt’s shelves, both for children and adults. The Adventures of Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh was arguably his favorite among the bunch; It lay rested next to a much worse-for-wear copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. 

There was something about it that flickered something in Oliver’s mind. He grabbed it- it was coated in a thick layer of dust that poofed as he flipped the pages. They were stuck together, and the book had certainly seen better days. Inside the front cover was a loopy script- 

Property of             Percy Weasley. 

Not quite a young Percy’s handwriting, but hell, he hadn’t known Percy before eleven. Beneath it was a list: 

Characters: Ginny- Dormouse, Fred- The Mad Hatter, George- The Hare, Bill- Caterpillar?, Charlie- ???, Ron- ???, Mum- ???, Dad- The white Rabbit, 

Then, most confusingly:

Percy- Alice, Oilbrheis- Dinah

Maybe he had taken too many bludgers to the head. Nay, wait- Oliver held his wand to the paper and cast Lumos-

It was his name. Oilbrheis, pencilled right in next to Percy. Dinah was apparently his assigned character; But Percy had never been a big fiction reader. Actually, he’d been actively against fiction- he only read textbooks and memoirs when he could. Young Oliver had tried to introduce him to the world of Narnia- Percy had politely declined. 

How odd. How odd. How incredibly and un-Percy-esque of him to not only read a muggle’s children book but to cherish it enough to write his name in it; Claim it as his and compare his siblings to it. To write Oliver’s gaelic name in it-

How very… odd. 

“Oliver? Mate, you in there?”

Oliver looked up. George leaned casually against the door, hands in his pockets. 

“Didn’t take you for a reader, Captain.” 

The book went back to its space on the shelf. “Not really. Just couldn’t…” 

“No need to explain. It’s not exactly cheery in there right now.” George crossed his arms, “How are you?” 

Oliver looked at him. 

George laughed, “Yeah, erm- wrong question. Not sure how I am myself, honestly. I… came straight here.”

He was still in his purple shop outfit. Oliver took a step towards him- he’d been here before, in this situation. An upset Weasley who needed a hug but was too emotionally constipated to ask for one. 

It’d been a bit since he’d last seen George, but he remembered it well enough. Had shared a fire whisky with him during one his Puddlemere breaks; They’d shared stories of Fred and Quidditch in the living space above the joke shop. Then it’d gotten quiet, and George was lost in the depths of his whisky while Oliver sat next to him on the couch. Quietly, so quietly that Oliver almost hadn’t heard him:

“I think I’m in love with Lee.”

He didn’t look up at Oliver, instead focusing on swirling his thumb along his glass rim. 

“I don’t know what to do, Oliver. You’re the only person I know that’s… I have no idea what to tell Mum.”

‘Gay’ went unsaid. Oliver understood the hesitation- it was like looking into a bottomless pit, and willing yourself to jump in.

“Do you want honesty or reassurance, George?”

“Honesty.”

Oliver had hummed. “You need to tell Angelina. That’s the first thing you need to do above all else.”

“I know.” George had looked pained, “I know.”

“She’ll understand. Grief is… it gets to us all differently. Maybe she feels something similar, but you’ll never know if you dinnae ask her.” He couldn’t imagine dating the identical twin of your dead boyfriend; Especially so soon after their passing. 

“Do you think she’ll hate me?”

Oliver had snorted. “Definitely not. Maybe hurt but… she’s a tough lass, George. Remember when she smacked into that stand pillar and broke her ribs? Don’t think it’s in her to be capable of hate.”

“She hated Percy when he left. I hated Percy-“

“Dinnae say that ever again, George. You dinnae hate Percy, you love Percy. When he left it hurt you- don’t mix hate with hurt. Besides, she dinnae hate Percy strictly on yours and Fred’s behalf. She had her reasons.”

George had looked at him, confused. “What other reasons did she have?”

Oliver had smiled at him; Fred had been the first person he’d ever actually vocalized the thought to. It made sense that his twin would be the second. 

“I love Percy. I’ve always loved Percy, George.”

“What?” No joke, no funny banter. Just shock. 

Oliver had had far too much firewhisky that night, which felt much longer than just a few months ago, because he remembered crying. “Aye, since our third year.”

Now he and George stood in the dim potting shed. 

“Was it bad, Oliver? Charlie and Ron won’t say anything.”

“It dinnae look… good.” Understatement of the damned century.

“He wouldn’t respond to any of mum’s letters. I didn’t bother sending any, I was so caught up in Lee and the shop-“

“He’ll be fine, George,” And Oliver wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, “He’ll be fine. He’ll come home again.”

“We should’ve made it a rule: No more packing up and leaving without discussing things.” 

George had meant it humorously, but all it did was point out exactly how little they’d known about Percy during the war. Percy was no longer bound to rules as he’d once been; Even if they’d made such a rule? Percy wouldn’t have followed it.

.

.

.

He hadn’t noticed the clock during his first visit. All of the Weasley faces ticking around, their names and tiny faces correlating with their location. Most of them were on Home. One was on Lost; Another hung straight down, not pointing at anything. 

Molly had poured him a cup of tea even though he hadn’t asked for one. She’d poured one for everyone, obviously looking for a way to fill her hands- she’d begun fiddling with Charlie’s hair, tsk- ing when she pulled out a straw of hay. 

Percy was the only one missing now. Everyone else had assembled already; Lee sat hand in hand with George only a few feet away. Fleur with Bill, Harry with Ginny, Hermione with Ron-

Oliver sat alone, desperately trying not to remember the bloody handprints in the apartment. Charlie sat next to him, arms crossed tight, leg bouncing under the table. Oliver didn’t feel the need to move as Charlie did, but something boiled underneath his skin. He was mad, worried, scared- it felt like his skin was moving and his insides were writhing. He’d never been as composed as Percy could be in these situations; Oliver wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes in Voldemort’s puppet Ministry. He’d have thrown caution to the wind and done something foolish- those muggleborns Percy saved would’ve been absolute toast if Oliver had been in his place. 

They were waiting all here waiting for Kingsley and none of them truly knew . None of them knew exactly what Percy had been through or what he’d done for them. He told Bill and Charlie about the torture, but not the people Percy’d saved. And it wasn’t Oliver’s place to tell them- it was one of the many things Percy had told him to never tell them. Percy was too bloody proud to accept anything other than the worst thoughts about himself. 

“I know what they think of me, Oliver. Always have. I’m annoying, grating, big-headed, insufferable and-“

Oliver had told him to shut it and piss off. It was admittedly difficult to be around Percy when he was too deep in self-hatred for Oliver to follow; Sometimes the best response was to tell Percy to fuck off for a spell. Take a nap or something. 

Dear Gods above, I pretty promise to never tell Percy Weasley to fuck off ever again and I’ll tell him that I love him and I’ll take a million naps with him as often as possible and kiss every freckle-

Kingsley appeared with a crack. Oliver jolted. His prayer cut off mid-thought. 

The air was denser than his Mam’s poundcake. Kingsley, with his imposing stature, stood at the head of the table. So many things were happening at once, Oliver’s Quidditch senses were overcompensating for the stress: 

George’s fingers tapped against Lee’s knuckles under the table, where only Oliver could see. Ginny fussed with a strand of long hair, braiding it and then pulling it out. Bill looked at Fleur; Fleur looked back at him, indecipherable (Oliver had never spent enough time around Bill to get a good read on him.) Inexplicably Ron and Arthur sat in the exact same position, both pale and staring into something far beyond the room. 

Exactly twelve seconds passed before Kingsley cleared his throat.

“The leading theory is suicide.” 

No one said anything. Nobody said anything. George closed his eyes and squeezed Lee’s hand. Bill joined his father and Ron in their distant stares while Fleur leaned on him and Hermione hid her face. Ginny buried her head into Harry’s shoulder and Charlie’s leg stopped bouncing. 

He’d expected… something. Gasps, shock, denial- not full, mutual, silent agreement. Anything other than group resignation that yes, of course Percy-

Oliver jolted like he was trying to stop a quaffle from scoring. “Yer fucking joking.” 

Everyone else at the table ceased to exist to Oliver. He had his mid-game tunnel vision on, and Kingsley was the opposing team. 

Kingsley looked him up and down with a sigh. “We have good reason.”

“And yer a cunt?” Oliver said, “Ye cannae be both daft and a cunt, Minister.” 

Every miscellaneous movement stopped. Had they expected him to just sit there, like they were? Oliver’s veins felt like fire ran through them. 

“Ollie!” Charlie started, reaching for Oliver’s elbow. Oliver smacked him away and stood. 

“Dinnae Ollie me, Charlie-”

“I understand you’re upset about your friend, Mr. Wood, but-”

“He isn’t my fucking friend, Minister.” Oliver spat.  “There’re slurs for friends like us.”

Perhaps vaulting over the table and punching Kingsley right in the jaw would’ve been less of a shock to the table. George stared at him, eyes huge. This wasn’t exactly how Oliver imagined outing himself or his love for Percy to his family, but to hell with it- he’d say whatever he could to cement his authority as the leading Percy expert in the room.

“And I know exactly what ‘ evidence’ you think ye have-” Oliver went on, miming quotation marks, “And yer wrong. Percy’d never.” 

He knew about Percy’s… threat towards the Minister. Offing himself if he didn’t get to be the scribe again; But Oliver knew Percy better than he knew himself; The guilt he carried would never let him attempt such a thing. He’d sabotage himself all the way down, sure. Percy would find himself at rock bottom and accio a shovel so he could keep digging. But if he had chosen to go that way? There was one surefire, ironclad sign that Oliver held that said otherwise.

Kingsley opened his mouth and Oliver intercepted him. 

“Ye want to know why I think that?” He fumbled through his coat, before remembering he’d turned the note over to an auror, “The note he left. The one that-” 

“I read the note, Mr. Wood.” 

“Aye, I’m glad yer not so daft as to not be able to read, Minister,” Oliver could probably take Kingsley in a barehanded brawl if it came down to it, “Cannae tell me how many words were on the bloody note?”

Not a single person existed outside of himself and Kingsley. “Eight.” 

“Aye, eight. Eight words and tell me, Minister,” Oliver asked, “When has Percy Weasley ever written something that encapsulated all his thoughts in eight fucking words? You read his reports, his notes- look me dead in the eyes and tell me Percival Ignatius Weasley would wrap everything up neatly and tidily in eight words. ”  

Kingsley opened his mouth and closed it again; Oliver took that as the equivalent of himself catching the snitch. 

“I’ve lived with Percy Weasley longer than anyone at this table,” He vaguely waved a hand at Molly and Arthur, “Thirteen fucking years, Minister. And to think, even for a moment, that Percy Weasley would leave this world with anything less than a fucking novel is just… insulting.” 

Percy always had so much to say. Any topic, even frightfully boring ones like cauldron thickness- Percy would script whole novels. 

For some reason, Oliver knocked on the tabletop. “I cannae take sitting here and hemming and fucking hawing about whether you all think Percy Weasley is dead or nay, because he’s not. My Percy is one of the thickest cunts to have ever graced this planet, but he’s not cruel, and especially not to me . He’s never been cruel ; And leaving like this? I cannae imagine anything crueler .” 

Ron made the unfortunate mistake of opening his mouth. “Sometimes Percy could be-” 

“If yer about to bring up that fucking letter, Ronald,” Oliver was practically burning up, “I want you to know; I dinnae care what he put in there. I dinnae care if he wrote that Harry was fucking Satan incarnate and that he thought Dumbledore was a fucking crackpot- He wrote that letter because he loves you and wanted the best for you- even if he went about it in the dodgiest and thickest way possible.” 

Maybe he’d get so hot that the burrow would burst into flame around him. 

“I cannae take it anymore, from any of you- Percy did this, Percy did that- Oh, Percy, he’s such a prat-”

Charlie stood and reached a hand out to Oliver’s shoulder. “Ollie, listen-”

“I said dinnae touch me!” Oliver slapped at the hand on him, and then suddenly Charlie was the target, “Do ye even know how many people he saved? How many innocent people lived because Perfect Prefect Percy told ye all to fuck off?”

Charlie just looked at him, forehead wrinkling. “What are you talking about?”

“The fucking-” He glanced at Kingsley. He was the only other person in the room who knew.

Something silent transferred between them. A quaffle passed from one player to another. 

“Percy and I had communications throughout the war.” Kingsley announced. “It was always up to Percy’s indiscretion if he wanted this information to be shared.” 

 Now it was Bill and Ginny leaning forward in unison. "“What?””

“Thanks to Percy’s position in the Ministry, he had access to information that the Order never would’ve gotten otherwise. Locations of watch parties, information on private meetings, and the names of those on snatcher priority lists-” 

“One-hundred and fifty-two. One-hundred and fifty fucking people avoided a death sentence in Azkaban because Percy Weasley was in the exact position to help them. Because Percy Weasley stayed exactly where he was,” Oliver said, spitting the words out, “My parents, the Clearwaters-” 

“Oliver.” Kingsley said. The verbal quaffle was being thrown back to Oliver, but the fire was dying inside of him. He couldn’t look up into Charlie’s wildly searching eyes. 

“He wouldn’t do this to me, Kingsley, even if he hadn’t done all those things-” Oliver responded. He was trying to stare a hole through Molly’s table, “He wouldn’t. I was with him everyday- everyday I watched him walk into hell and come back out of it- Do ye know what it’s like to watch someone you love be tortured, Kingsley? Day after day-” Oliver gulped or gasped or something ; He wasn’t sure he was making sense anymore. “He’d go in there and I’d carry him back and-”

Charlie was grabbing him again, gripping his shoulders painfully. “Why didn’t you tell us, Ollie, we could’ve-”

Oliver pushed at him, sending the other man stumbling. “Ye could’ve what? Could’ve fucking what, Charlie? Percy dinnae want you to know about the spying for yer own safety- Do you think I dinnae try-” 

“You told us about the torture, not the-” Charlie started.

Now there were sounds from the others. Some sort of switch had been flipped; Chaos erupted across the table. 

“You knew?!” Ginny shouted, “You knew, Charlie?” 

“Torture? They tortured Percy?” Ron started-

“Of course they tortured him!” Oliver snapped, “They wanted to know where you were! Did ye think Percy could just walk into the Ministry, kin of one of the most wanted- And a sister single-handedly carrying the fight through Hogwarts-”

“I never wanted him to be tortured-“ Ron.

“I thought it was because of Ginny-“ Charlie. 

“What?” Ginny and George.

Everyone was shouting over each other. The dining table had become a battlefield of who was to blame for Percy’s actions- five shouting Weasleys, and their entirely silent parents and significant others. The proverbial quaffle was no longer in Oliver’s hands- which was good, as he was a keeper and not a chaser.  

“So you knew?” George was squaring up to Bill, “You knew as well what they did to him? And you just let Fred and I bad mouth-“

“I didn’t let you two do anything-“

It was loud; Almost overwhelming. Lee had joined in on George’s side against Bill and it seemed everything was ramping up- No wonder Percy sought refuge at his house every summer. Oliver would go mad too; Who could find time to focus on Quidditch plays with all this noise?

He made eye contact with Harry through the gap between Ginny and Ron. They seemed to be firmly rowing with Charlie; Harry threw a nod at the door and Oliver returned it. Nobody seemed to greatly mind when they both left and Kingsley followed. 

It was nice and chill outside. Hurt his skin a bit in the way an upcoming frost always did. They could still hear yelling, but dampened by the space and walls between them. Oliver led them through the garden to the underside of a large Oak tree, whose branches were lit up with twinkling fairy lights. 

Kingsley wasted no time. “You firmly believe Percy wouldn’t kill himself?”

“Aye,” Oliver said, “I’d bet my own life.”

He leaned against the tree trunk. How many times had Percy done the same?

“I understand. You knew that he threatened suicide to get me to give him the scribe position?” 

“Aye,” A chunk of bark dug into his back, “He told me about it. I told him he was a dense fuck for it, but…” 

“But?” Kingsley cocked an eyebrow. 

“The guilt weighs on him. I understand why he wanted it so bad. When Fred…” 

The sentence fell apart before he could finish it. Remnants of it hung in the air between them and Oliver figured they could fill in the gaps. 

Harry buried his hands in his pockets. “It weighs on me too.”

“I’ll see what I can do to change the investigation. I’m not privy to the trial notes as the council is a separate body from the Ministry,” Kingsley said, “Not until they pass through the scribes, at least. I’ll do what I can to mitigate speculation. But Oliver?”

Oliver looked at him. 

“Suicide will be the number one theory from the public, unless what Percy did during the war comes to light.”

“Aye, I can handle that- just not you all thinking it.”

Kingsley didn't say goodbye before leaving; But he did tell Harry to keep thinking it over— Oliver didn’t ask for context. But from the way Harry was standing, hands in pockets and gnawing at his bottom lip— context was coming whether or not Oliver wanted it. 

“Out with it, Harry.”

“Seems like a bad time, no offense-“

“Well unless Percy comes walking up that drive in the next thirty seconds,” Oliver said, “I don’t foresee a lot of better times in the near future.” 

Harry nodded and kicked his foot in the snow. He was so young still- hardly an adult. He looked the exact same as he had that afternoon almost a decade ago, when Oliver plucked him out of class to play Quidditch. 

Now he looked like a boy who needed his Quidditch captain. 

“I- er,” He twisted to look at the burrow, then back to Oliver, “I don’t think I want to do this anymore; Being an auror.”

“Alright, so don’t. Quit.” What was the problem exactly?

Harry snorted. “I’m not sure it’s that easy, Oliver.”

“What’s so complicated about it then?” Oliver folded his arms, “Are ye having fun, Harry?”

Harry laughed. “No, I- I hate it. I thought it made the most sense given my lot in life. And I think one day, in the future, maybe I could consider it again-“

“Is that what Kingsley was referring to? With his ‘Think it over’ bit?” A nod. “What’s not to like about it then? Being a wizard cop not as fulfilling as you thought?” 

“I-“ Harry stalled. He dug up a small snow pile with his foot and patted it back down. “I’m just so… tired, Oliver. The war is over, right? We won?”

Oliver pushed off the tree. “It’s over, Harry.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m still in it?”

Snow drifted down from a branch above. Someone inside the burrow was viciously pacing in front of the window, their body casting a long shadow across the garden. 

“I can’t guarantee you a spot on Puddlemere off the bat, Harry-“ 

“Oh, I wasn’t-“ 

“Aye, lemme finish,” Oliver smirked at him and Harry smiled, “Lad saves the whole world a mere handful of times and thinks himself too good to listen to his old captain?”

Harry laughed. It felt good to Oliver, knowing that he could cause laughter as easily as he could start a fight. 

“I know for a fact that we’re still looking for a reserve seeker- ours had the audacity to get pregnant, if ye can believe.”

“What nerve!” Harry quipped. 

“And I’ve got it on good authority that you’ve got a glowing resume regarding seeking. Lemme talk to my coaches- I’m sure they’d be happy to open a spot for the boy wonder.”

Harry smiled at his feet and quickly wiped at his face. “Thank you, Oliver.” 

Oliver stood there expectantly. “I dinnae get a hug now? I hand you the Quidditch world on a platter-“

Harry knocked the wind from his lungs. The hug was brief but solid- to Oliver’s dismay, he and Harry were practically the same height. By the time they separated ( Are ye crying, Harry? and Fuck off it then) a lone figure was stomping across the garden towards them. 

Bill came right up to them. He puffed a lit cigarette that he ashed directly into the snow. 

“Oliver.”

“Aye?”

Another puff. “We’re going to find Percy.” 

“Absolutely we are.”

“Wonderful, glad we’re all on the same page.” 

Bill shuffled from foot to foot. 

“Is it safe to head back inside now?” Harry asked. 

Bill huffed. “You won’t be scalped on sight, if that’s what you’re asking. Mum’s trying to remove the bat bogey hex from Charlie right now.”

“Do they all, “ Oliver started, “Are we all on the same page? I cannae go back in there if we’re not.”

“Yeah. Oliver-“ Another puff, “Did you mean what you said in there? About you and Perse…”

“About us being more than just mates?” Oliver finished. Bill gave a nod. “Aye. I did. But we’re not… it’s complicated.”

They didn’t need to know he and Percy weren’t actually together- not yet, at least.

Bill nodded again and blew smoke out towards the tree branches. “Good. We’ll find him.” 

.

.

.

Oliver slept in Percy’s room at the burrow, as he couldn’t go home until the apartment was cleared. He’d expected the others to go home- for Bill and Fleur to, at least. But none of them left. None of them went anywhere. They’d dispersed after the argument, but Oliver didn’t find himself alone for the rest of the evening. 

When Molly made dinner she pulled him into the kitchen and tied an apron around his waist. It was yellow and covered in a cheery green frog pattern- Percy was embroidered onto one of the pockets. She’d thrust a bowl of potatoes into his hands and told him to peel: “Doesn’t have to be perfect, dear, just get all the eyes off.” 

No matter where he turned it seemed Ron was around every corner- he practically jumped Oliver when he stepped away to use the bathroom.

When they ate dinner he was sat, forcefully, right in the middle spot at the table. George and Harry flanked either side of him, and his plate seemed to fill itself.

After eating he’d politely informed them he was going to take a walk- Bill decided he wanted to take one as well, so he could smoke away from Molly, and Fleur joined; She had many questions about Scotland and hung onto Oliver’s elbow the whole way.

Sitting on the couch in the living room he saw Charlie and Ron playing chess, while Ginny, Molly, and George crowded around him. There was a photo album pulled out and dropped on his lap- they made him inexplicably sad, and he kept that to himself.

When he went to bed, dressed in a pair of Percy’s pajamas, Hermione pulled him aside. “I wrote him a letter, years ago; Did he ever receive it? I always- well, don’t tell Ron or Harry, but- I’ve always had a soft spot for Percy. He was so kind to me as a first year and kept me company in the library-” 

The door to Percy’s room had barely clicked close before someone knocked on it.

“Oliver?” It was Ginny, “Can I come in?” 

When she entered she shut the door behind her. She looked small in her house robe, hair wet from a shower. She looked at him flatly.

“Do you love my brother?” She asked, “Truly?” 

“Yes.”

She grabbed something from her pocket and gestured for him to stick out his hand; He did. The sister of the man he loved slipped something from her fist to his.  

“Luna gave this to me years ago, when Harry went into hiding.” 

She kept a firm grip on his hands, and he noted how doe like her eyes were. He’d never doubted Percy’s devotion to his family; Maybe if he’d had a sibling like Ginny, he would’ve put up with torture as well. 

“I don’t really need it anymore, but… it’ll help, if you really love Percy as you say. Just put it under your pillow while you sleep.” 

“What is it?”

“It’s a, um… it’s a fae charm,” She blushed, and her ears went red just like Percy’s, “If you dream of him and he dreams of you at the same time, it’ll connect the dreams. I don’t know how it works so don’t ask for more details than that.”

Her face was red. 

“Aye,” Oliver smirked, “Cheeky, I see.” 

“I- oh- Piss off about it!” She replied, “Just be careful with it, alright? It’s delicate.” 

Then she was gone before Oliver could even say thank you, door slamming behind her. He unclasped his hands-

It was a dried bluebell, pressed between two thin pieces of wax paper. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

Pius leniently allows Percy to drink coffee again and it’s like pouring fuel on a fire; Percy is already dying, so might as well. Caffeine can’t really do anymore damage than what’s already been done. Mixed with a calming draught the effect crafted means he no longer needs to sleep-

Two days until Christmas. If the oubliette weren’t already eating him alive, his guilt would be instead. He’s running out of memories. 

That being said- the taste of calming draught mixed with coffee is disgusting . 

.

.

.

Fifteen year old Percy is ecstatic; His Hogwarts letter feels heavy. He’d been expecting this, had been working hard for the recognition— 

The shiny prefect badge shakes right out into his palm from the envelope. He doesn’t grin as he’d like because he wants to be proper; He sits up a little straighter in his seat at the kitchen table. Vainly he wishes he had combed his hair or changed out of his pajamas. 

“Oh, Percy! A prefect, oh-“ Molly is hugging him, kissing his cheek, “We never expected anything less of you.” 

Of course they hadn’t. Percy had never given them a reason to expect less. He’d gotten sick from over consuming calming draughts in third year from the stress of his extracurricular classes; He’d convinced Madam Pomfrey it was just a one time thing. An allergic reaction. She hadn’t told his parents of the weekend he spent shaking in the hospital wing. 

Cordelia had brewed the potions for him when he’d asked. She’d been happy to brew something outside of class; To have something she could use in her tutoring lessons to the younger students. Percy thinks she would’ve done it if he asked regardless. 

When she comes downstairs halfway through breakfast, Cordelia’s hair is poofed out like his. It’s short- a French bob cut that hangs heavy over her forehead. For their birthday last month she’d asked for makeup; Even though she’s in pajamas like him, she’s got dark eyeshadow on her eyelids and berry red lips. They match the dainty rosebuds on her clothes. 

She comes right up to the table and hesitates when she sees the letter waiting for her. 

“Percy got his prefect badge, Cordy!” Ginny chirps, alerting their mother to Cordelia’s presence. 

“Cordelia, dear-“ Molly starts, stopping when she looks at the elder daughter, “Oh for Merlin’s sake, dear, wash that grime off your face. It’s too early for all that.” 

Cordelia ignores them both, staring daggers down at the letter. Percy’s just pinning his badge on when Cordelia picks up her envelope and rips right through the middle— the entirety of the letter rips in half. There’s a distinct clang of metal on porcelain as her prefect badge lands on her plate. 

“Oh, two prefects, both of my twins! But the dramatics weren’t necessary, Cordy-“

“I don’t want it.” Direct. Flat. 

Fred and George both hesitate with their spoons in their mouths. The table goes still at her admission. 

“What do you mean you don’t want it?” Percy asks- Cordelia has always picked the worst moments to be dramatic and embarrassing. Why can’t she just this once be proud of them both? “We worked hard for it.”

“You,” She says flatly, “You worked hard for it Percy. I don’t want it- I don’t want the responsibility.”

“Cordelia-“ Molly starts.

“No. Who else was it to be? I’m the only girl in my class. There are no other options. It wouldn’t have mattered if I worked hard or not- and I didn’t. I don’t want to be a prefect.”

The prefect badge remains on the plate. 

Percy grits his teeth. “Regardless, it’s an honor to be picked, Cordelia. You should be grateful, it’s a big responsibility. We’re becoming adults.”

She looks up at him from under dark eyelashes. Her natural ones are blonde, same as his own; So light they almost don’t exist. 

“I’m not grateful. I think it’s stupid and a waste of time.” 

“Cordelia!” Molly says, “Think before you speak, you’re setting an example for your siblings.” 

“A Prefect should conduct themselves with dignity.” Percy responds, haughtily. 

“With dignity?” Cordelia asks. 

She snatches the badge up and before Percy can move, she hurls it at him. The metal sails over the table and right into his jaw, stinging on impact. 

“Cordelia!” Molly cries. 

Percy touches the spot on his jaw- his fingers come away wet with blood. 

“You’re so childish,” He snarls, “When are you going to grow up and act like an adult?” 

“When I’m an adult and when I want to be.” Cordelia snaps back, “You’ll just have to be prefect enough for the both of us until then.” 

As Percy presses a napkin to his face, Cordelia stomps away and back up the stairs. She hadn’t eaten breakfast at all. 

.

.

.

He wonders what caused Cordelia’s disdain for responsibility. 

Cordelia had seemed so alive in his mind. His chin practically burns from the memory of the metallic slice. The mark it’d left is just a scar now. White and barely there, but it’s on his missing poster, so it must be noticeable to others. He’d look in a mirror if one were available, or ask Pernell if he was around—

No. He’s busy. He needs to focus. 

Muggles used to burn witches at the stake. Bound them by their ankles and wrists and lit a fire beneath them; Most of the ‘witches’ they burned weren’t even real witches, but instead wildly unfortunate muggles. As Percy glosses over this fact, translating it from runes on pages so old that they disintegrate under his fingertips, he tries not to think of the forty-two muggles that’d died the same way in the last few years. Their names had been listed in the trial room, uttered by various Voldemort-inclined witches and wizards—

Purebloods who’d wanted revenge. 

.

.

.

They haven’t spoken since the morning they got their badges. Percy refuses to budge first, even though he’s carrying the burden of their prefect duties. Cordelia actively breaks dress code by rolling her skirt and consistently lets student problems slide- Fred and George always buckle when Percy approaches, but Cordelia refuses to do anything disciplinary. 

“They’re foul, Percy, but they know what they’re about. How is it different than you knowing what you want to do with your life?” 

Percy’s escorting Penelope to her common room after rounds. Always her common room and never his anymore; Not after their unfortunately timed display of affection in front of Oliver. It’d been so hotly embarrassing to Percy that he’d rather stay away from the other boy for a bit. After all, Oliver hadn’t said anything after catching them. Penelope had left and Oliver had just… stood there. 

Stared. 

They’re just rounding the top of the stairs to the Ravenclaw common room when Penelope overtakes Oliver in his mind. 

“Isn’t that Cordelia? What’s she doing here?”

Since their summer growth spurts, Cordelia and he are only a few centimeters apart in height. To most students Percy just comes across as taller than average; He’s heard those same students call Cordelia a freak for her height. Too tall to be truly feminine; There’d been a rumor that she was secretly a boy all along, or that Percy was actually a girl given his petite frame-

The person she’s talking to, however, makes her seem small. He’s incredibly tall, certainly more than Percy, with neatly combed black hair and high cheekbones. His uniform is perfectly pristine and his blue tie is knotted perfectly under the navy of his sweater, and the two of them are tucked into an alcove down the hall. The boy stands ramrod straight and proud, while Cordelia looks up at him with arms crossed and legs stanced apart. 

“Who’s that she’s with?” Percy asks, leaning into Penelope. Vaguely he notes that her perfume is clean and soapy- he likes it and wishes he smelled the same. 

(That’s definitely the thought one should have towards their girlfriend.)

Percy doesn’t recognize the male student. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws don’t take many classes together- but he and Cordelia seem to know each other. He reaches out to tuck a piece of Cordelia’s hair behind her ear and Cordelia slaps his hand away. 

“That’s Cecil Longbottom. His younger brother is in your house, I believe.”

“Neville,” And yes, he recalls the boy mentioning his brother before. Percy’d found him crying outside the portrait door one night and Neville had told him how he wished he weren’t too thick for Ravenclaw, because he wants to be with Cecil. “I’d forgotten he had an older brother.”

“Cecil is very… reclusive.” Penelope smiles, “I’d be too, if I were him. The other girls call him Darcy- they practically chase him all around the castle. I think leaving the common room in the morning is a half an hour affair for the poor boy.”

“Darcy?” It makes him ill how similar his own name and Cecil’s nickname are. Percy, Darcy.

Is he why Cordelia refuses to speak to Percy?  

“Have you ever read Pride and Prejudice, Percy?” He shakes his head and Penelope giggles. “You’d hate it. It’s a muggle romance novel; All the Ravenclaw muggleborns call Cecil ‘Darcy’ because of his mannerisms and, well…”

Down the hall Percy finally catches a glimpse of Cordelia’s face. She looks upset- she looks just as angry as she’d been at the kitchen table before chucking her prefect badge. 

“Well what?” Percy furrows his brow. They may not be speaking, but if someone is bothering Cordelia-

“His money. You know, you’re rather like my own personal Mr. Darcy.”

Money? Ah, Longbottom. Right. Wealth. Something the Weasleys are notably famous for not having. 

“My name is Percival, thank you. Are he and Cordelia…” It feels wrong to ask about his sister’s dating life. He wishes she would’ve told him instead- but he won’t be the bigger person in this scenario. For once in his life he doesn’t want to be the bigger person; He deserves a proper apology. 

Penelope snorts, hard.  “Definitely not. Your sister hates him. He’s terribly awkward and hides it behind this air of snobbishness- I heard he once complimented her by implying the rest of your family looks slovenly.”

Cecil does look like the snobby type; Takes one to know one, Percy supposes. They may not come from a rich family, but Percy does his best to hold himself with an esteemed presence. Surely he hadn’t been referenced in the insult. 

“She tutors Neville in potions, if you’re curious how they met.” 

Cordelia turns away from Cecil and stalks down the hall, muttering under her breath. “Stupid fucking prat-“

When she spots Percy and Penelope she stops dead in her tracks, pivots on her heel, and heads the opposite direction. Cecil watches her go before turning towards Percy, and the once over look Cecil gives him conveys a personal vendetta to which Percy is not privy. 

.

.

.

Lily Potter had wanted to protect her infant son. She’d stepped right up to Voldemort and took a point blank Avada Kedavra to the chest. She’d already been dead by the time Voldemort turned to kill Harry. 

Lily had wanted.

It’s Christmas Eve. 

Percy Weasley wants to know why Cecil didn’t like him. What he and Cordelia were discussing outside the Ravenclaw common room. 

He wants to go home. He wants Cordelia back. He wants Oliver in every possible way. He wants to apologize to everyone for… everything. He wants a warm cup of tea and to write in his journal and to listen to Ginny’s game on the wireless. 

Percy wants. 

.

.

.

Part of his Prefect duties means being a tutor for struggling students. Cordelia is already a tutor for potions, which is good because Percy can’t deal with Snape’s incompetence as a teacher very well. Every time he goes into that classroom he’s fully focused on getting his work done and leaving- He wants his O, but Snape’s thinly veiled verbal abuse is exhausting. Whatever precedent Charlie set for Snape has been exasperated by the other Weasley twins; Fred and George have personally ensured that every time Percy walks into potions, he’s top target. 

The abuse, to Percy’s relief, seems to skim right over Cordelia. With her… reactivity, if she weren’t Snape’s model student, she’d probably guarantee no Weasley would ever get a better grade than an A for the rest of Snape’s career. Or, frankly, be allowed on Hogwarts grounds at all. 

“I suspect he’s got a thing for redheads,” Cordelia had joked to a Slytherin prefect,“He’s also kind— well, less sadistic anyways— to that redheaded first year in Hufflepuff. Susan, I believe?”

But poor Neville- he seems to bear the brunt of Snape’s ire from what Percy’s observed. Tough luck. Cordelia helps Neville in potions but Percy’s decided to take up the mantle of helping him in the rest of his classes; If Percy is going to be Head Boy one day, it helps to have a documented and demonstrational history of going above and beyond in his Prefect duties. Neville seems apt enough in the softer subjects; Charms and Herbology mainly. He’d already given up on flying which is good for Percy’s stomach’s sake- but his worst subject beyond potions is Defense Against the Dark Arts. 

“Professor, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to request permission to utilize the classroom after hours,” Percy says as he flips through student papers, “Neville Longbottom seems to be struggling with this class in particular.”

Quirrell looks at him. “O-oh! Y-y-young Longbottom? You- you believe he requires ex-extra attention?”

“Yes, Professor.” Percy isn’t quite a TA for Quirrell, but he seems to have taken over some of the man’s responsibilities by reading over student work, “He’s struggling with some of the basic concepts. Would it be possible for me to use the classroom in the evenings?”

“Longbottom- h-he’s that p-p-poor boy whose parents were aurors, c-correct?” 

Percy can’t imagine why that’s at all relevant to his request. “I believe so, Professor, but what does that matter?”

Cecil’s image flashes in his mind. How old had he been when their parents were robbed of their sanity? Terribly, Percy wonders- had he been there? His imagination won’t let him theorize on anything worse that could happen to a young child. To see your parents broken before you- 

Percy has his own vague memories of the war, remembered through the haze of a young child’s mind. Sharing a bed with Charlie and Cordelia while Bill kept watch, saddled with far more responsibility than a seven year old should’ve had; Pretending to sleep while their mother birthed another set of twins, their father absent- 

Professor Quirrell is speaking to him. He’s missed the answer, but Percy suspects it was mostly stuttering anyways. It might be better to start Neville off with theory first, to ensure he has a grasp of the subject before they delve into actual spell casting. 

“D-does he d-d-do well in his other s-subjects?” 

“My sister tutors him in Potions, Professor.” Percy pauses- the man isn’t the brightest, but Quirrell is still a professor. “Actually, Professor, I’ve noticed something about Neville and Professor Snape.”

“O-oh?” 

Percy has an obligation to report any cruel behavior he sees. “It seems Neville is something of a… favorite of his.” He assumes Quirrell understands his meaning, given the tone with which he laces the words, but there’s the possibility that Quirrell is dull enough to take the words at face value. 

“I s-see. And you, P-Percy? You- you’ve seen this f-f-favoritism?”

Percy snorts. Cordelia is the true favorite in terms of class work, but in terms of verbal abuse?

“Yes, I’m also one of his… favorites.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

No. 

It’s not possible. It’s not possible. Percy had been entirely sarcastic-- There’s no possibility that that conversation with Quirrell— implying that he and Neville were Snape’s favorite students— 

He and Neville had been chosen by a dead man to manipulate another now dead man—

.

.

.

Who were the two that had been originally selected and passed on? 

No. 

.

.

.

Neville Longbottom, first year Gryffindor, and Percy Weasley, fifth year Gryffindor. 

No. 

.

.

.

And who instead were their replacements? Who was taken in their place?

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

.

.

.

Cecil Longbottom, sixth year Ravenclaw, and Cordelia Weasley, fifth year Gryffindor. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He can’t recall Cordelia’s face. She’s forever fifteen; Hair short and nails pink. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Was this how it’d felt for Lily Potter? The icy fear, the suffocating clench of inoperable lungs—

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

A complete rejection of reality; It felt so similar to drowning. 

He wasn’t anywhere anymore. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

“Did you have any dreams last night, Oliver?”

Ginny’s voice is soft, because she already knows the answer. He doesn’t need to poke his head out from under the blanket to know that she’s hovering in the doorway of Percy’s room. Oliver’s dreams are their only connection to him. 

“No.” 

His voice is weak. It’s barely audible; This is the first and only thing he’s said in days. He’s been sleeping nonstop in the event that Percy is sleeping during the daytime. 

There’s a dip on the end of the bed. He knows it’s not caused by Ginny by the way the weight is distributed near his feet. It’s the only other person Oliver has let enter Percy’s room in the apartment since the break in. The only other person that Oliver has let look at Percy’s things: Percy’s collection of textbooks, Percy’s tidy dresser, Percy’s meticulously cared for plant collection that Oliver hasn’t watered. 

Charlie rests his hand on top of Oliver’s blanketed calf. “It’s Christmas, Ollie.”

“Aye.” (Read: “I dinnae give a fuck, Charlie.”)

“I know, mate,” Charlie sighs, “I know.”

Oliver hasn’t dreamt in days. The last dream— that beautiful, terrible dream— had been his last confirmation that Percy was alive. He’d been so warm and so real in Oliver’s arms as he failed to pronounce his name; Oliver craved his touch. He wanted to curl his hands in Percy’s hair and settle against him, into him— 

He’d do anything to get him back. Trade anything. 

Charlie is patting Oliver’s ankle now. Dully Oliver notes that Charlie doesn't sound much better than him, but he doesn’t seem as despaired at the idea of Percy being gone as Oliver is.  Oliver’s impromptu speech in Percy’s defense at the Weasley kitchen table had been effective in rallying them to the cause. He’d gotten the backing of the Weasleys in his search for Percy--  

“We’re going home for Christmas dinner, Ollie.“

“Aye.”

“I mean all of us, Oliver,” Charlie says, squeezing Oliver’s leg, “Mum really wants you there.”

He’d last interacted with Molly at the pseudo-funeral they’d held for Percy. An odd variation of a candlelight vigil; It’d been entirely for her benefit and likely where Percy’s absence had been the most obvious. During Fred’s funeral she’d clasped onto Percy like he was going to leave them again, and without him she floated from sibling to sibling and eventually to Oliver.

They’d buried Percy’s fingers in lieu of a body. Halfway through the evening Hermione and Ginny had drifted to Oliver’s side and practically attached themselves to his arms.   

“…Aye.”

George had temporarily closed the joke shop. Lee had had the idea that if someone… implicated in the trials knew something about Percy, there was a good chance they wouldn’t go to the aurors directly. Opening the joke shop up as a safe space had brought people in who they never would’ve heard from otherwise, but none of the tips had panned out:

A man claimed to have seen Percy aboard the Knight bus, but Stan was adamant he’d never boarded the bus— not once in his whole life had Percy Weasley ever gotten on the bus, apparently. 

Someone else had come forward and bluntly admitted that they’d seen Percy be tortured by former minister Pius Thicknesse— they hadn’t done anything because it was easier for them to avoid notice, if Percy acted as some sort of sacrificial lamb for them all. They’d said sorry for your loss though and George had dragged them out of the shop by their collar.

Multiple people came forward to talk about how Percy had saved their family members from a fate worse than death; A lifelong sentence in Azkaban. These interactions had to be taken care of by Lee; He was far gentler than Oliver remembered him being in school. 

Someone had listed off names of multiple people Percy had saved, including Oliver’s own parents, but Ron hadn’t gotten their personal information. Oliver didn’t blame him; Ron was handling this all just as bad as himself. It’d apparently never occurred to him that Percy cared about him before; No one had ever pointed out that he was the sole family member Percy had contracted after his defection from them. 

Oliver didn’t regret being the person that brought that fact to light. For as much as he loves them— the Weasleys are deeply flawed people. Percy included. Probably himself too, if he could be considered an honorary Weasley like Harry or Hermione or Lee. But they’d stood behind Oliver the past two weeks. He owed them, or Molly, at least, a Christmas dinner. He could do that.

He could do that.

Oliver doesn’t make an announcement when he sits up. It’s maybe two in the afternoon. Percy’s bed sheets no longer smell like Percy because Oliver hasn’t left them in days, and he feels… like shite. Unwashed, greasy, and his teeth need a good brushing; It’d been a struggle for him to use the same bathroom that’d been covered in Percy’s blood. 

“There we are, Ollie.” Charlie pulls a face, “Merlin, you reek.” 

“Piss off.” There’s no malice in it. 

Ginny’s already gone from the doorway once Oliver is pulling back the covers. 

.

.

.

Oliver stepped out of the shower and squeezed the water from his hair, letting it flop across his forehead. The only pants he had readily available were grass-stained jeans; They fused to his skin as he pulled them on over his wet legs. The less time spent in this bathroom, the better.

He’s brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink-- Bill had done the dishes before he left the previous night --when Ginny speaks up.

“Oliver, what is this?” 

Glancing over his shoulder he sees the bluebell journal in her hands. She’s thumbing through the pages and running a seashell pink nail over the columns within. The Holyhead Harpies have no uniform restriction on makeup or body adornments as long as they don’t interfere with playing.

“Quimdditch-” His mouth is full of toothpaste and he spits, “Quidditch. Perse keeps all of our scores.” 

This seems to unsettle Ginny. “He keeps… our scores?” 

“You and me, aye, always has,” Maybe she’s confused by the organization system Percy keeps, “Left pages are me, right pages are you. Since yer a chaser he writes them different; He counts your scores and my blocks. Notice the middle column between us both?”  

She nods. “Nose, elbow, front incisors?”

“Injuries,” He smiles at her, tapping his new front teeth, “He tallies our injuries to keep track of the healing. I’ve told him we have a medi-wizard that does that for us, but it seems to bring him some sense of ease. I think it’s the closest he can get to actually being able to participate in a game.” 

The journal shuts with the slap of paper against paper. Ginny rewraps the leather cord that binds it shut and drops it back on the table, like the journal has personally offended her. “I, um, I didn’t know he did that. Actually listened to my games and all, I figured he just… read the scores in the paper.” 

Oliver’s spit swirls in the sink as he washes it away. “He’s never missed one, far as I know.” 

“I got him tickets,” She’s rubbing her thumb against her wrist in an un-Ginny like manner, “Did he mention that? They’re no longer valid since the season is over, but-” 

“I saw ‘em, aye,” Using the collar of his shirt, Oliver dries his mouth, “They’re in the box in the other room. He left some things about that Bill was worried would get mixed up when we were going through his stuff. Didn’t know what was important.”

If Bill hadn’t decided to briefly take up residence in the flat, Oliver may well have never cleaned it. He and Fleur both had come by; Fleur had insisted on taking up the task of scrubbing dried blood from the walls. She’d worn old overalls and a floral headband, her blonde hair braided back, and asked Oliver questions about Percy and him. 

“It is nice,” She’d said, dabbing at the blood splotch on the couch, “To not be ze only one anymore. You and Per-cy, you’ll come to dinner, oui?” 

“Sounds grand, I’m sure Perse would be happy to.” 

“Is all you own Quidditch related, Ollie?” Charlie laughed as he entered the room, carrying Oliver’s sole set of dress robes, “Mum won’t be happy if you come to dinner in a Puddlemere sweater.” 

Oliver’s brewing up a smart response when Ginny whips into the room-- she’s brandishing a black button that Oliver had no explanation for. It’d been on one of the armchairs when he’d gotten home; He’d never have ordinarily noticed it, but the aurors had. Percy was so particular that the loose button may very well have some significance. 

“Why is this here?” She demands, shoving the button in Oliver’s direction, “Why does Percy have this?” 

The sarcastic response is on the tip of his tongue, fuck all do I know, but Ginny looks genuinely distraught. She waves the button aggressively at he and Charlie both.

“Oh, I think that’s-- The morning before he…” Charlie swallows, “He’d had his nosebleed and he kept asking about your old stuffie, that ratty lion one-” 

“Why?” 

“Fuck, Gin, I dunno! He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong and he sprinted to your room-”

“He was in my room?!” Ginny looks livid, “Why?!” 

“I don’t know, Ginny!” Charlie shouts back. He shoves one of the dress shirts into Oliver’s chest, “He wouldn’t tell me anything! I fucking begged him, Ginny, and he just left! Said he couldn’t tell me anything!”

Oliver puts the shirt on without looking away from the siblings. Today’s been the first day Ginny and Charlie have been in the same room since their first screaming match at the burrow two weeks ago--

Ginny’s shouting now too, clutching the button so intensely in her fist that her knuckles are white. “What exactly did he say, Charlie?!”

Charlie must’ve repeated this conversation a dozen times with a dozen different people now. Asking him to relive the last few moments he’d seen his brother before he’d disappeared off the face of the planet-- it doesn’t seem easier to Oliver now that he’s repeating it while being yelled at. 

Oliver hasn’t spent much time around Ginny beyond seventh year, when it seemed like she’d taken up permanent residence in their dorm room. Just a wee lass who’d had a horrific first year and coped by sleeping in her older brother’s bed with him.

“I-- Merlin, ” Charlie wipes his hands on the other unworn dress shirt, crumpling it in his fingers, “Fuck, Ginny, he seemed mad. Said that he wanted to tell me what was wrong, but he couldn’t-- Said it wasn’t like last time, but it sure fucking felt like last time.” 

“And what about Godric?” Ginny’s eyes are glassy, “Why did he take Godric?” 

“Fucking hell, I don’t know! He was covered in blood and just ignored all my questions, I don’t know anything about your fucking lion, Gin!”

Three former Gryffindor Quidditch captains in the same room; Each used to being listened to and followed without argument.     

“So what, he just woke up and suddenly felt the need to take him?” Ginny spits, “That’s it? That’s all you have to offer?” 

“What the hell is it you want to hear then, Gin?” Charlie says, heavy with exasperation. “Yeah, that’s exactly what happened. It was like he’d had some sort of epiphany-- didn’t even care that I was begging him to stay, just kept staring at that lion like it held the bloody secrets of the universe.” 

Ginny’s face falls flat at this. She looks down at the button, flipping it over in her delicate fingers. It’s nothing more than a button, Oliver thinks; A glossy black, marked with tiny scratches from years of being clutched. But Ginny stares down at it like it’s a treasured object.

“You’re doing it,” Charlie says, “That’s the exact same look Perse had. What is it about the lion, Ginny? Is there something-- something obvious about it I should have noticed? Something that I didn’t catch? Could I have-- could I have helped Perse?”

Ginny is silent. She opens her mouth. 

“It’s nothing, Charlie.” She closes the button in her fist, “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”  

.

.

.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

It was not the first Percy devoid Christmas that the burrow had seen. There’d been four on record: Their seventh year, when Percy stayed at Hogwarts to study; those two years there in the middle of it all, spent at Oliver’s parent’s farm; and this current one. Percy had gone last year but hadn’t stayed longer than dinner-- the wound was still too fresh and weepy on both sides. 

The gifts exchanged between them were outdated; Percy bought items based on pre-war versions of his siblings, and they’d bought Percy items that would’ve suited an entry-level administrative assistant. He’d arrived bearing books and study gifts; He’d gotten a nice fountain pen and various haberdashery accessories in return. Perfect for siblings who’d never finish school, and for a man who no longer strove for political aspirations.

And that was fine, because it was the intent that mattered.  

The Weasley family still wanted him and Percy’d shown up. Mousy and nervous and strung tighter than a violin; but he’d been there. He had accepted the olive branch extended out to him and returned it by arriving on the burrow’s doorstep, clad in Molly’s periwinkle sweater. He’d sat quiet and anxious through dinner, jumping whenever someone pulled him into conversation, but he was there. 

Now he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t at the burrow and he certainly wasn’t clad in Molly’s sweater, as Oliver had become inseparable from it. The last time he’d seen Percy he’d been wearing this exact sweater-- Oliver had found it tightly folded in the depths of Percy’s dresser. He wouldn’t ordinarily have worn it without asking, but--

Someone had stolen his coat during the break-in at the apartment. The left pocket of the leather coat had had Charlie’s letter within, becoming an emotional crutch; Oliver had taken to crushing in his fist, squishing it into a tight ball every time someone said sorry for your loss or I hope you find him or even just looking at the missing poster with pity . Without the letter he found himself tensing his fists in his lap; the Weasley siblings had a tendency to talk around Percy’s existence, unlike they did Fred. 

Maybe it was from years of experience. 

“Oh, like that summer where George hit that bludger right through Percy’s--” Ron had started, awkwardly veering off course when Harry nudged him. Ron instead speared a potato and avoided Oliver’s eyes.

Maybe the difference was that Fred had the absolution of death behind him. They knew exactly what happened and where; They knew where Fred’s body lay and could sit with him during the sunset. The most they had of Percy was two decaying fingers buried next to Fred’s tombstone-- Oliver didn’t know exactly what Percy would think of that. 

He wished he could ask him. Instead, he clenched his fork so tight it bent. 

Dinner was nice, but Molly had sat him right next to her, insistent on spooning more food on his plate whenever it appeared slightly empty. It was like she was attempting to fill Percy’s absence through Oliver; Somehow making him eat two grown men’s portions was better than simply making less food. His coach would blanch if he saw the carbohydrate intake of Molly’s cooking; Shite, Oliver was intimidated. Halfway through dinner George had kicked him under the table and given him a cheeky wink; Molly was doing the same to him. Oliver watched as George dropped a spoonful of curried greens into his napkin, vanishing it once his mother wasn’t looking. 

Presumably this was something also developed from years of experience. Not acknowledging Percy’s existence went hand in hand with refusing to eat one’s vegetables. 

A shame; Oliver loves vegetables. 

Oliver missed his dog. At home, anything he didn’t want to eat went straight into Quaffle’s bottomless maw of a stomach. Sometimes things Oliver did want would also disappear if he didn’t pay close enough attention. Charlie was sort of Quaffle-like in the way that he consumed dinner rolls: Ripping them in half, dolluping a thick pad of butter, then cramming them in his mouth whole.    

Charlie and Ginny hadn’t spoken after the whatever-the-fuck had happened over apparently the world’s most interesting button; But she laughed just the same as the rest of them when Molly smacked the back of Charlie’s head. He spat roll out across his plate and Oliver snorted. 

Percy would’ve been revolted.  

It was nice. In another reality perhaps Oliver was the third Weasley son, and Percy was an only child of an aging Scottish couple. A reality where Oliver would grow up with brothers and a sister who drove him to the brink of madness; Those who would’ve played Quidditch with him, as he’d never had a team growing up. And maybe that’d be the same reality where Percy would get the peace he craved, with the familial pride and attention he deserved. Perhaps that’d be a world where Percy would look upon Oliver’s brothers and feel jealous, as Oliver often had. 

Maybe they would’ve been in Gryffindor together still, and Oliver’s only ever crush would’ve been on Percy. And he could’ve told him years earlier-- Perhaps they could’ve dated before ever leaving school. He could’ve been the one snogging Percy after practice and the one to hold Percy’s hand in Hogsmeade. They could’ve looked for one-bedroom apartments instead of two, and Oliver wouldn’t have a sexual body count in the dozens. 

Maybe in another reality it’s Oliver that’s missing, and Percy at Christmas dinner in his place. 

Would Percy look for him? Wear his Weasley sweater and sleep in his bed?

Would Percy love him? 

Across the table George vanishes a handful of potato wedges. The energy is all too much.  

“I’m gonna run to the loo,” He tells Charlie, “Watch my plate for me?” 

Charlie nods, mouth full, then goes back to joking with Lee across from him. 

.

.

.

He’d accidentally taken a wrong turn down a hallway and ended up outside. Accidently and completely and totally unplanned. It’s also just pure coincidence that he meanders his way away from the garden and under the oak tree, milling about under its heavy and snow-laden branches.

Oliver’s crying and oh, it’s as pathetic as it’s always felt. He’s thirteen and Charlie doesn’t like him back; He’s fifteen and Percy’s snogging Penelope; He’s twenty and his career is paused and his best friend doesn’t talk to anyone anymore; He’s twenty-one and Fred has died and Colin Creevy is weightlessly small in his arms. It’s not the same tears as winning the house cup or getting on the Puddlemere reserve, or even losing a game by five points.

Oliver’s twenty-two and Percy is gone; the tears are hot and salty. The sleeve of Percy’s sweater easily absorbs them.

“Fucking hell,” The cold goes straight and painfully to his brain when he sniffles, “ Pull yerself together, Wood. Fucking wopper.” 

He’s cried in front of others before— winning the Quidditch Cup, notably. Getting offered the lead Keeper position in Puddlemere. Watching Titanic with his aunt Irene and watching Trainspotting with his muggle cousins. When his muggle uncle died of a disease that’s completely curable in the Wizarding World, and when Quaffle’s predecessor got too old to hop up onto Oliver’s bed. 

This feels… not different, but not the same. Maybe it’s because the Weasleys have been so good to him these past two weeks— like they’re trying to make up for not always being good to Percy. 

But he’s not Percy. He’s Oliver. 

Oliver grabs a fistful of fresh snow and shoves his face in it; the cold is a nice shock against his hot cheeks. 

.

.

.

When Oliver steps in through the back door, the energy is noticeably different. There’s no laughter or sounds of cutlery on plates, and a heavy atmosphere of silence practically fills the hallway. An emotional fog hangs in the air— admittedly he’s not the most emotionally astute person around, but the way the voices are terse doesn’t sound… peaceful. Nor particularly merry. 

“Listen, I’ll go,” Charlie, and the sound of a chair squeaking, “You lot just… stay here.” 

A sharp and humorless laugh. Ginny. “Gonna go after Oliver the same way you did Percy then? Get him to run off and get splinched as well?” 

Ringing silence. Oliver stands entirely motionless in the hall and stifles his sniffle in a sleeve. He’s not crying anymore- just sniffly. 

“Gin-” Charlie.

“Gin,” Ginny mocks, “Go on then, since you did such a good job with Percy. Maybe Oliver’ll lose his whole hand instead of just fingers.” 

“Fucking hell-” Ron.  There’s other exclamations, but his is the loudest. 

“What the fuck is it you want, Ginny?” Charlie, on the verge of losing his shit, “What is it you want me to say? I tried, Ginny, I did the best I could do! You weren’t there! You’ve been doing this all day, I don’t understand!” 

Another hard laugh. “The best you can do is shit.” 

“Ginny?” Harry, oddly. 

“I don’t know what it is you want me to do-” Charlie.

Another squeal of a chair. “Just fuck off back to Romania!” 

Jesus Christ .  

“Just fuck off back to Romania like you always have, Charlie! Leave as soon as you possibly can like you always do because it’s easier to be around dragons than us!” 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

Oliver stands on the precipice of the dining room, afraid to go in. And apparently everyone else is afraid to leave, because the only sound is of Ginny’s heavy breathing. 

“Ginny, why don’t we all just take a step back? Take a moment.” Arthur. 

Ginny burns just as hot as Oliver had, evidently. “Fuck you.” 

A screech. “Ginny, that’s enough!” Molly. 

Not even a second passes. “Fuck you too, Mum.”

Weird, hostile silence. Oliver peeks around the corner: 

Ginny stands alone at her end of the table. Molly, Bill, and Charlie are standing on the other side, and everyone in between looks like they’re being held hostage. When the floor creaks under his foot Ginny’s head snaps to him; She stares and Oliver stares back. Her jaw is clenched as she takes his appearance in, and he sees the button in her fingers. 

“You alright, Oliver?” She asks. It’s not the same venomous tone she’d wielded at the others. 

He nods, and Ginny’s head snaps back to her parents.

“We had a funeral for Percy, Mum. We don’t even know if he’s dead yet, but we’ve already said our goodbyes? Percy’s the only one-- the only one, out of all of you, and that includes you, Harry,” Ginny’s shoulders are hunched, “That didn’t think I was just fine after Tom. And now we’re having Christmas dinner? Like Percy isn’t possibly dead in a ditch somewhere?” 

Bill presses his palms to his forehead. “Gin-”

“Save it, I don’t care. I’ll be in my room.” 

She spins on her heels to face Oliver. Marches right up to him and grabs his forearm so hard it hurts. “We need to talk.”

Oliver is dragged down the hallway before he can even look back at the table. No one seems eager to intercept them. 

.

.

.

To Ginny’s credit, no one comes up to her room after them. Oliver wishes they would; There’s something deeply upsetting about how she’s singled him out. Is it because she believes he and Percy are in a relationship? 

Seems like this might be the worst possible time to tell her they’re not. Ginny’s pacing the short room after having flung Oliver at the only available seating in the room; the end of her bed. Now he’s sitting and watching her pace-

She holds the button out. “Do you recognize this?” 

“From earlier?... Aye?” She nods, “It’s from yer… bear?” 

“Lion, but yes. It’s--” 

She stops mid sentence, dropping the button into Oliver’s hand. She turns, stomping to the door and flinging it open-- a pile of Weasleys lay on the other side. George is trying to shove an extendable ear through the crack of the door while Harry, Ron, and Lee freeze above him, crouched like they’d had their ears to the door. 

“Oh hullo, Gin! Fancy seeing you here?” George attempts to joke. Ginny responds by squishing the extendable ear under her heel until it’s nothing but gummy paste on the hardwood, and slams the door in their faces. 

She wordlessly places a silencing charm on the door and another on her window, apparently just in case. When she faces Oliver again, she hesitates: 

“You have to promise me something.” 

Oliver nods because, frankly, Ginny is scaring him. 

“You won’t think I’ve gone mad. You won’t,” Ginny bites her lip, “You’ll hear me out, alright?” 

“Aye,” He says, “I’ll hear ye out.” 

Now she looks nervous. For a moment she’s a twelve year old girl again, nervously asking if Oliver knows where Percy is, and could he please walk her to potions if she can’t find her brother? 

“I just- I don’t want to go to the dungeons alone.” 

“‘Course, Ginny. And I’ll let yer brother know ye were looking for him.” 

She takes a deep breath and shakes the anxiety out of her hands. “Okay, I- I’ve never told anyone this, but you have to believe me. When I… When I was little, I had an imaginary friend.” 

“...Aye? That’s not so-”

“I’m not done,” She says, irritatedly. “I had an imaginary friend named Cordelia.” 

The button is warm in his hand. 

“When I was six, I accidentally knocked Godric’s eye off.” She adds at Oliver’s confusion, “I couldn’t fix it on my own. I thought- I thought I’d made Cordelia up or something, because no one ever talked about her or mentioned her after my first year. After Tom and the diary, all my memories were so… scattered and gone. I could hardly remember that year at all and huge chunks of time were gone- I thought I’d imagined Cordelia because nobody cared about what Tom had done to me.”

Oliver frowns. “Percy cared. Ye slept in his bed nearly every night-” 

Ginny sits next to him on the bed. “I know! I know. Percy cared. But when I asked him where… she was, he didn’t know who I was talking about. I thought it was just him being a prat because they weren’t speaking, but she even had friends I asked after and no one knew who I was talking about; Ravenclaws. She was friends with some Ravenclaw students. I could never remember their names, but I remembered their siblings— Neville and Lavender. And I know Neville doesn't have any siblings. And everyone else was so scared by the things I’d done, the chickens and the blood— I didn’t want to frighten Percy more by asking about people who didn’t seem to exist. Then there was Sirius Black and everything just got so…” 

She drifts off for a moment, then blinks it off. 

“I didn’t know what to do. I think I convinced myself I imagined her; Created… Cordelia. For Percy.” 

He’s not sure he likes the sound of that. “Created… what for Percy?”

A nervous smile. “A sister. I’ve always wanted a sister—- it was so lonely being both the youngest and the only girl. I wanted someone who could help me with my crush on Harry and someone who’d teach me how to wear makeup— I imagined having an older sister.” 

She toes at a spot on her rug. “Percy was my favorite brother growing up. He was short with Fred and George, but not me. And yeah, he had a bit of a stick up his arse but… he would read stories to me and would fix my scraped knees without telling Mum— most of the time. He’d make hot chocolates and wouldn’t laugh when I’d cry, and he always humored Luna’s rambling. Mum used to say he liked being… helpful. Like her.” 

“I think the reason I was so upset when he left— I thought I meant more to him. That no matter how upset he’d get with the others, he wouldn’t leave me.” A moment passes, and Ginny absently fiddles with the sleeve of her sweater, “But he did. I think that that’s why I imagined Percy having a sister, like Fred and George? A twin. Easier to hate him if I imagined it was someone else who did all of that nice stuff. So— an imaginary sister older than me, but not so old that I wouldn’t have Hogwarts years without her. They even have similar names, don’t you think? Percival and Cordelia; Percy and Cordy. Thought I was really clever for that.”

It’s not really a relevant question that Oliver wants to ask. “Why not your own twin?”

Ginny snorts. “I already had Ron.” 

“What’s this all have to do with,” He flips the button in his fingers, “This?”

“Godric. Apparently Percy gave him to me when I asked Mom, but I remember Cordelia being the one to do it. One of his eyes was always a little wobbly, and finally fell off one morning. I was so upset, but Cordelia helped me find a replacement. She pulled that button off of a pair of trousers she’d gotten from Bill. We sat right here,” She gently pats the bedspread between them, “And she showed me how to sew it on.”

This whole situation is odd. He’d never been close to Ginny; There was no reason to be. What possible friendship could there be between a man and his friend’s five years younger sister? But she came to him. She’s dating the saviour of the wizarding world, is a venerated war hero herself; but here they are, sitting in a pink bedroom, talking about the eyeball of a stuffed animal. 

 “Oliver, I’m scared.” She falls silent for a moment. “I'm really, really scared. No one believed me about Tom or seemed to care afterwards. They just assumed I was fine. That I’d… grow out of it. But, Oliver?” 

He looks at her; The younger sister of the man he loves. And- oh. Oliver’s the closest she can get to Percy. He’s a stand-in. A reserve Percy, if you will.  

“Oliver, Tom was real. Tom was Voldemort. What if Cordelia is, or was, real?” She takes the button from him and flips it as if she’s inspecting it. 

What would Percy do in this situation?

“Is there anything other than Godric, Ginny?” He asks. Whenever he develops a risky play in Quidditch, he’ll ask Percy to run through it with him verbally. 

“Anything I might be missing, Perse?” 

“What’s your plan if the opposing seeker swaps with their reserve? Seems like you’ve got a lot banking on this one personal weakness--”

“Anything else?” She bites her lip, “No, I don’t think so. It’s like nothing exists of her outside of my mind. I remember things about her, but there’s not any physical evidence.” 

“So,” Oliver tries smiling at her, “Paint me a picture of this Cordelia.” 

Ginny tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and clicks a nail against the button. “Well, um, she always had pink nails. I painted mine similar when Percy… She said she invented a charm to keep them from chipping. She fought with Mum a lot about, well, everything; Makeup, clothes, hair— everything Mum ever said was made for harlots or Veelas and that I was never allowed to use. Taught me how to roll my skirt to be shorter and how to dry my hair so it won’t frizz, even though her hair was curly. She once tried to hex Marcus Flint after he called Percy a poof-”

He laughs. “Sounds like a lass after my own heart.”  

He reclines back, crosses his legs at the ankles. Body language is half the battle according to Percy, and Oliver agrees; Easier to schmooze Quidditch sponsors if they think you’re relaxed and full of it. 

It’s a soft laugh that Ginny lets out, but it’s a laugh regardless. “We shared a room— this room. She could be quite mean to others, sort of rude and brash, but in a funny way. Once called Charlie a dragon wanker because she was upset he left for Romania, and said Bill’s a mummy— um, lover.” 

She blushes, same as Percy. Same as Fred or George. Differently than Charlie, whose whole face goes tomato red. 

“Dragon Wanker, aye?” He quirks a smile at her. “They must’ve been close.”

“Definitely,” And there’s a smile; Oliver’s caught the proverbial snitch once again, “She was closer to Charlie than Percy. He was closer to Bill. Probably wanted to be Bill. She was only a bit shorter than Percy, definitely taller than you-- and, oh, she loved books. Loves books, just like Percy, just as much of a swot. Muggle books, specifically, like the ones Dad has out in the shed. She’d read them to me while I’d--” 

Oliver feels his smile dissolve. There’s something tense in him; it works its way through his limbs. His arms feel light and his rate drops—

Ginny- Dormouse,

“Oliver?”

Percy- Alice, Oilbrheis- Dinah

“Oliver, your nose—“

Oliver tries to look at Ginny, but she’s entirely blurry. “She loved Alice in Wonderland, aye?

Ginny’s eyes grow huge. She’s unbelievably pale— "How did you--"

Oliver’s mouth tastes of iron. Forming words is a struggle, and actually saying them is like running through mud: “Said yer like a… dormouse? And that Perse is… like Alice?”

Ah. Shite. He knew that wasn’t Percy’s handwriting, fuck all—

Ginny is speaking, begging? And maybe grabbing his shoulders? Or is she shouting— Did he get hit by a bludger indoors and at night? 

Fuck if he can tell. Feels like it.

.

.

.

Oilbrheis is eleven years old and no longer Oilbrheis. He is now solidly Oliver Wood, and currently he is being reprimanded by perhaps the tallest redhead on the planet. Bill is pulling Cordelia by the tip of her ear while Oliver scuttles behind, hands wringing in his cloak. 

“Cannot believe— Mum’s going to fume,” Bill is muttering half to himself and half to Cordelia, who’s crying and scrambling on her tiptoes to keep up pace, “I’m going to catch so much shit for this, Cordy.”

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t—“

Their destination is an empty classroom; Bill slams the door shut behind them. 

“Were you bloody joking, Cordelia? A skin-crawling hex?” Bill’s hair is just long enough to dust over his shoulders, and it flutters as he spins to face them. 

It’s very pretty. Wait- they’re in trouble. This is not the time. 

“I didn’t know it’d make his skin do that! The book said nothing about it rippling,” Cordelia cries, “I just thought it’d make him feel like bugs were in him!” 

“Madam Pomfrey is going to have to reattach all the skin to Flint’s arm— what the hell made you do that? What could possibly—“

“He called Percy a poof!”

Bill's expression is stony, but softens as he places his hands on his hips. “What?”

“Percy let me paint his nails like mine, and Marcus called him a poof. I couldn’t just let him, could I?” 

Bill pinches his nose. “Percy will have to fight his own battles one day, Cordy, you can’t always be there to hex his opponents. That being said, yes, it was wrong of him to call Percy that.”

Oliver shifts from side to side, nervously. The oldest Weasley is Head Boy, and when Bill looks at him, he cracks. “He called you one too, cause of yer earring and all.” 

There’s a long moment of silence. Cordelia sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. It’s an eternity before Bill sighs and drops to his knees, holding an arm towards her. Cordelia launches herself into him, burying her face in his neck. 

“I don’t need you to defend me from eleven year old pricks, Cordy.” He pets her hair, “Neither does Percy.”

When she pulls away, a single copper coil snags on Bill’s earring. “He just lets them, Bill! He lets the others walk all over him- I can’t let him be—“

“You can, and you must, Cordy. Percy needs to learn to stand up for himself, unless you two want to be like Fred and George. Always together, always the same? Mum will have to knit you initial sweaters to tell you apart?”

“No.” She sniffs. Bill brushes her hair back and pulls a band from his wrist, bundling her hair into a tail. 

“So you’ll let Percy handle things on his own, right? I won’t have to give you detention, because you’re not going to remove Marcus Flint’s skin again?”

She sniffs and kicks at the stone floor. 

“Cordelia.” Bill warns. 

The only thing Oliver truly knows about Cordelia is that she loves her brothers and dreads detention; She hates sitting in one place for too long, constantly full of wiggles and squirming in her class seats. He gets it; He’s the exact same way when he looks out at the Quidditch pitch during charms. 

“I won’t. We’re not identical.” 

“Absolutely right, you’re not. You,” He gives her a firm pat as he stands, “Are much cuter than Percy. And scarier.” 

She laughs and shuffles out of the room, hair in a ponytail. She peeks back from the hall at Oliver when Bill turns away; Cordelia winks at him, tears immediately ceasing. Oliver is left standing there in her wake as Bill looks at him. 

“Well, I’m certainly not giving you a hug.” Bill holds open the door, “Get lost, Oliver.”

Oliver books it. Cordelia grabs his hand as he passes her and together they fly down the hall. When they round a corner adorned with a heavy tapestry, Cordelia yanks him behind it and presses a hand to his mouth. 

Bill’s shadow passes by under the tapestry; She waits until the count of twenty after the sound of his footsteps peeter out. 

“I told you I’d get us out of detention, didn’t I?”

He squints at her. “Did ye know what that spell would do to Flint?”

“Definitely not- I really thought it’d be bugs. I swear, Oliver,” She frowns, “Next time I’ll just punch him, promise. I’m rather sad it wasn’t bugs.”

That spell hadn’t been part of the plan. It’d obviously caught Cordelia off guard when Flint insulted Bill as well. “If we get detention—“

“‘If we get detention’— as if, Oliver.” She mocks him with a high pitched and terrible rendition of his accent. “We’re not going to get detention as long as it’s Bill that catches us.”

.

.

.

He comes back around on the floor of Ginny’s bedroom. Obviously the floor, because it’s uncomfortable and the amount of people staring down at him would be far too heavy a load for such a small bed. 

For a moment he struggles to recall falling off his broom— but none of these people are his coach. 

“He’s back, give him some space, all of you.” 

“Get lost, Oliver.”

It’s the same voice. Bill’s leaning over Oliver’s face and his wand is pressed into Oliver’s temple. The tips of his hair brush across Oliver’s forehead; It’s so much longer than it’d been a decade ago. 

“Welcome back, Oliver,” Bill says, face stern, “Mind telling me who the current Minister for Magic is?”

“…Kingsley,” Oliver says, voice scratchy, “Cunt said Percy offed himself.”

Maybe he hates Kingsley. Maybe he hates every Minister Percy’s ever worked under. Scrimgeour hadn’t seemed the worst— at least he’d remembered Percy’s actual name. 

“Oh, thank Merlin.” Charlie sighs. He’s looking down at Oliver in a way far too reminiscent of that first Quidditch game, when Oliver took a bludger directly to the skull. He looks—

Charlie looks scared. It’s not a natural expression for him. 

“ Hell, Ollie, you scared the shit out of us. Merlin , you looked exactly how Percy—”

Ginny is further away, hovering by the doorway. Oliver doesn't know her well enough to firmly recognize her expression. 

“Oliver,” Bill looks tense and there’s a distinct wrinkle between his brows, “You’ve been cursed.” 

Bill’s wand is still against his forehead. He looks so different- heavy scars run along his face. There’s no longer a youthful plush to his cheeks, and he has smile line wrinkles in the corners of his mouth. 

“Bill,” Oliver responds back, “When I was in first year, who hexed Marcus Flint?”

“…What?” 

There’s a soft wetness on Oliver’s lips. Not tears, from either him or Bill. It’s blood; Oliver’s had plenty of broken noses to be able to tell. 

“Someone hit Flint with a skin crawling hex. Who?”

Bill’s face tenses again, not that it’d really untensed before. “I… some random kid, I think— weren’t you there? Ginny, did Oliver hit his head when he fell?”

Ginny doesn't answer. Oliver gives her a quick glance— her free hand is clasped over her mouth, but she meets him face to face. He doesn’t look away from her as he asks:

“Why would a random lass hex Flint?”

Concern is heavy in Bill’s face, and he casts the concussion spell. “I don’t recall, maybe they lacked a reason?”

“Aye,” Oliver says softly as Ginny stares, “I know her reasoning. I remember it.”

Bill asks him more questions that Oliver ignores— well, no, he answers, but they’re the standard concussion protocol questions. Oliver could answer them with earmuffs on. He’s answered them with no front teeth and a dislocated hip, splayed out on a Quidditch pitch. 

Cordelia hadn’t hexed Flint just over Percy; it’d been because of Bill. “So I’m cursed, am I? Sounds mint, cannae say I’ve been cursed before. What with?”

“Something heavy. Something dark,” Bill seems satisfied that Oliver is concussion-less, “What happened?”

Charlie tries to protest as Oliver pulls himself up, but Oliver waves him off. “‘M fine.”

“Is this what happened to Perse?” Charlie’s never sounded so gentle, “How do you feel, Ollie?” 

“Bad.” He’s never liked being crowded when injured, “Ginny?”

“Yes?” 

When Oliver looks at her, she removes the hand across her mouth. The nails, the petite fingers; He can practically taste the salty sweat of Cordelia’s hand after dragging him behind the tapestry. 

“Yer… imaginary friend. I dinnae think she’s imaginary. All those things you told me about her; I think they’re real,” He pauses, “I believe you. And far be it from me to make an educated guess but…” 

Ginny and Cordelia have the same eye color. Big and brown, far warmer than his own. Not like Percy’s grey blue at all. 

“I think Perse might as well.” 

Percy has never handled stress well. He got addicted to calming draughts, or smoked, or cut off his whole family. He’d stopped speaking for almost a year, and he’d thrown himself into being the Scribe like it was all he had to live for. 

Oliver isn’t Percy; But he’s pretty good at understanding Percy. 

“When I said Percy wasn’t cruel, I meant it. If I had to take a stab at why Percy left… maybe he also remembered yer imaginary friend.” 

“Care to enlighten the rest of us?” Bill asks. 

Oliver answers, because Ginny is staring down at her nails. “I think that this might be a whole family affair, Bill.”

.

.

.

They’re in the living room. Ginny is standing alone in front of them all, picking at a chipped nail. She seems to be struggling to find the words; was this truly the same sixteen year old girl who’d led a resistance group within Hogwarts? She’s now barely legally old enough to practice magic on her own or apparate. She hadn’t been able to join in on the Holyhead Harpie without Arthur or Molly signing her health waivers.

Oliver’s face is damp from washing the blood off. Charlie’s hand is loosely gripping his shoulder like at any moment Oliver’s going to take off— after all, Percy had. 

“Right, so…” Ginny starts, then fizzles out. She’s got a sort of nervous tick; She keeps rubbing her earlobe when the sentences die halfway through. “I… Er, I--” 

It must’ve been so disorienting for Percy, Oliver thinks. If Ginny hadn’t explained it to him first, would Oliver have panicked too? Probably. What were the differences in their situations? For starters, Oliver had had the immediate support of the Weasleys.

“When I was little, I had an imaginary friend.”

Secondly, Ginny hadn’t told Percy. Somehow, of his own accord, Percy had learned of Cordelia through a separate vein of information.  

“Not Tom, Harry. Ron, honestly, put your hand down.”

But they’d both had the same reaction. Percy had had a nosebleed; Oliver had had a nosebleed. The commonality between them wasn’t Ginny, it was Cordelia. They’d both learned of this Cordelia, and they’d both had violent reactions. 

Thirdly, Ginny is about to tell all of them. Would they all have the same violent reactions? Well, probably not Fleur.

Oliver feels the silencio build in his chest, but before he can fully draw his wand, something happens. 

A knock reverberates through the front door of the burrow. Not a polite knock; A hard and solid sound more akin to someone kicking the door than knocking. When it stops the silence is heavy; Oliver’s hand stays hovered over his wand.

Another hard kick jolts something through the room. It’s Bill that responds, wand pulled. He places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to pause the man’s movement towards the door. For having been on the winning side of the war, they all retained a hesitancy that went unsaid and shared between them all; Oliver’s certain he and Bill aren’t the only ones with a hand on their wand. 

“Wait here.” Bill orders the room. He paces to the door and opens it. 

It’s an unfortunate design flaw of the burrow that the front steps are obscured from view in the living room; but the voice is loud enough for them all to hear.

“Merry Christmas, Weasleys,” It’s a voice Oliver recognizes off the bat, because he hates the man it belongs to, “I come bearing gifts. If it’s no trouble, would you mind? He’s rather gangly.” 

Bill lurches forward; He falls back into view clutching a limp figure, grasping at the coat the man wears. He wraps his arms under Percy’s and pulls him from the other man’s grip-- Percy limply moves forward and Bill instinctively props his brother’s head on his shoulder. 

It’s Percy. It’s Percy. Unmoving, limp, and shadowed by a completely healthy looking Pius Thicknesse.

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Perhaps Charlie Weasley is so interested in dragons because he’s part dragon; or at least, to Oliver, he seems to be, as the speed at which Charlie launches himself into Pius Thicknesse’s chest is inhuman. One moment he’s standing next to Oliver and Ginny— then he’s jumping over a couch to get to the front door. 

Bill had caught Percy’s unconscious body. The younger brother was bowed in Bill’s arms, his feet caught on the doormat. Pius had shifted just enough to be visible from the living room; He’d looked at Arthur and greeted him with an overtly casual:

“Evening, Mr. Weasley. Full house for the holiday?” He rubbed his hands as if he was knocking them free of dust, “Percival’s invitation must have gotten lost in the post.” 

And then Charlie had landed a punch that sent Pius spiraling back and down the front porch steps. He took out a flower pot as he went— Bill was still pulling Percy inside, aided by Molly and George. 

Taking a quick note from Bill that Percy was in fact alive, Oliver took off after Charlie. While the notion of sharing an Azkaban cell was sweet, Oliver wasn’t keen on the idea; He also really, really wanted to see Pius Thicknesse’s face caved in. 

It was a mess. Pius had taken out a series of flowerpots and tripped right through a shrub, terracotta and branches littering the snow around them.  Charlie’s fist met Pius squarely in the chest again; they were equally matched in height, but Charlie held all the advantage; He professionally wrangled creatures that could eat Pius whole.  Pius stumbled, his hands feebly trying to slow his fall and failing— he hit the tamped snow hard.   

Oliver involuntarily winced as Charlie jumped on Pius. His knees hit the ground on either side of Pius’s waist and he grabbed a fistful of Pius’s jacket, lifting him up so his face could more easily meet Charlie’s fist. It was brutal: the sound was terrible , and Pius clearly lacked the pure strength Charlie had. Charlie also obviously had some sort of inner turmoil he was addressing via violence —

Oliver decided he would step in once they veered into Azkaban life sentence territory. 

Another raise of Charlie’s fist resulted in a pause and Pius hung bloody from the grip Charlie had him in. He wasn’t unconscious by the way that he seemed to be clawing at Charlie’s hand, but Charlie was hardly bothered— his attention had been momentarily caught by a small form huddled on the edge of a garden box. 

A child. A young boy, clutching a stuffed animal and staring at Charlie. His knees were shaking as he watched the scene play out, a stuffed animal hanging from his hands. 

Charlie stopped, fist still raised in the air. Blood coated his knuckles. 

“Percival came to me of his own accord,” Pius said sluggishly and thickly, still hanging in Charlie’s grip. His breath sounded wet, “I’d suggest healing my face if you’d like to know more than that. And please, restrain yourself from traumatizing my nephew further.”

.

.

.

They’d hauled Percy onto the couch they’d all been sitting on not twenty minutes prior. He looked awful and his wounds seemed treated in a muggle fashion— his left hand was bundled in a thick white bandage and a cut on his forehead was sealed with a butterfly closure. Aside from physical injuries, Percy looked like someone had put him into Azkaban; Sallow skin,  deep eye bags, and a heavy purple bruise visible along his collarbones. Percy had been inflicted with some sort of wound, and his hair was no longer sleek curls.  

Instead, Percy’s hair is  considerably frizzy and long, bundled back in a tight ponytail that ended approximately mid chest. It rested against his prominent collarbone, where Oliver finally noticed: Percy is wearing his coat. His stolen leather coat with the Puddlemere lapel. He was somewhat swimming in it and the coat bundled under his knees instead of the calves, where it ordinarily ended on Oliver. 

Oliver didn’t know what to do with himself. To fawn over Percy as Molly and George were, or to stare down Pius with wands drawn as Bill was; He wanted to do both. Moreover he wanted to know who the kid was— he stared unblinkingly at Percy from next to Pius, hands burrowed in a lumpy stuffed lion. Undoubtedly this had to be the same child that had woken Oliver the previous week; He had the same eyes and hair. The brown of his eyes were so dark they blended into his irises— he rather resembled one of Aunt Irene’s porcelain dolls. 

Oliver squinted; The stuffed lion was missing an eye. Maybe that was why Ginny looked shell-shocked.  When Pius reached a hand down to the boy’s shoulder, he shrugged it off harshly. 

“I brought Percival back to you because I honestly did not know what else to do with him,” Pius announced, “And I must commend you, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley— you’ve raised a child of extraordinary courage and determination. Vast stupidity, as is the fault of most Gryffindors, but intense dedication to his will.”

It was Lee of all people that had tended to Pius’s face enough for the man to speak coherently, a mirror to George wiping at Percy’s face with a damp rag. 

“I recall what you did to my son, Pius.” Arthur responded, gravely, “You—“

“Tortured him? Indeed. I inflicted him with unforgivable spells as often as one would brew a spot of tea. I believe Mr. Wood here can attest to the frequency.” 

The boy shifted nervously from side to side. When Pius placed his hand upon the boy’s shoulder once more, the boy ducked from the hold, sprinting across the room to Percy. He buried his fingers into one of Percy’s leather coat sleeves as he dropped to his knees.  

Oliver took the obvious verbal bait and looked at Pius: Older, tired Pius, whose brow furrowed at the child. “Don’t ye dare—“

Maybe Charlie shouldn’t have stopped beating the life out of Pius. Oliver was close enough to spit in Pius’s face when Charlie grabbed his arm and pulled Oliver back. Oliver was vaguely aware of the others in the room; the entirety of the Weasley family scattered in various places. Potential witnesses. Would Puddlemere still let him play if he put Pius Thicknesse in St. Mungo’s for the rest of his natural life?

Pius scoffed. “I believe using magic for revenge, even as an act of passion, is still an Azkaban sentence, Mr. Wood. Especially in the case of grievous bodily harm.”

“Aye,” He tried to step up to Pius despite Charlie; They were of similar heights and Oliver cracked his knuckles before speaking, “But I won’t be needing magic. And here ye are, despite doing that exact thing to Percy.” 

Pius’s face was unchanging and unreadable. Oliver’s eyes flickered to a jagged cut in the man’s lower lip—- one that’d obviously begun to heal and had been reopened. Pius noticed:

“Ah, this?” Pius touched the broken skin of his lip, “Courtesy of Percival. Your… Percy is quite capable of defending himself.” 

And Oliver hated the inclination Pius used in pronouncing Percy. 

“Evidently, despite his best efforts, Percival is still alive. You’re welcome.” Pius smirked, “You’ve done a spectacularly bad job of taking care of him, Wood. I honestly expected far better of you— I was lead to believe you actually cared for him all those times you retrieved him. Was it simply all a ruse? Terrible if so— Percival cares for you a great deal.”

“He’s baiting you, Oliver.” Harry said. The voice came from vaguely behind Oliver somewhere. 

“Aye, I’m aware. But why?” 

“Oh, I simply find it humorous,” Pius answered, “You see, I quite like Percival. He’s a dedicated and studious man, and far funnier than I would’ve expected from a Gryffindor or, frankly, a Weasley. I’m simply ensuring that I’m leaving him in the correct care. He’s been a delight to host, and my nephew is simply taken with him, as you can see. Percival is bright and has been so dutifully protecting you all from a terrible fate— and all you do is play Quidditch? How dull.”

Like they were the ones needing to be evaluated. Hostile energy boiled throughout the room. 

“I’m certain you’ll be able to offer Percival an intellectually stimulating courtship,” Pius smirked, “Maybe you two could discuss… bludgers? The new line of Puddlemere merchandise?”

Bill tried to take over, sticking a hand out in front of Oliver. “Percy’s cursed, isn’t he? That’s why he left?”

Oliver ran right over Bill’s words and past his arm. “Why’d he go to you? Out of everywhere—“ 

“Where else was he to go, Wood? It’s not as if Percival has a great many number of friends.” Pius seemed to be on Oliver’s wavelength. “I was more than happy to take him in. I was actually hesitant to bring him back here at all.”

Bill. “The curse—-“

“Dinnae explains you.” Oliver spat, “Last time he saw you, he turned ye into a sea urchin. He quit. ”

Pius laughs. A sharp, hearty laugh— the kid looked away from Percy for the first time since walking into the house. “Indeed! I was trying to kill him, after all. It’s rather funny that you mention that— I had to remind Percival himself of that event. He’d forgotten given the… immediate events following.”

Charlie. “Oliver, don’t.” 

“May do you well to listen, Wood. After all, I’m not responsible for any Weasley deaths, and neither is Percival, despite his personal beliefs. And I’m more than willing to debate this stance with anyone in this room if they believe otherwise. Now, it seems this young man wishes to discuss something of relevance.” Pius gestured at Bill. “And given Percival’s life is at stake, let us get to the topic.”

Oliver let Charlie and Harry pull him back from Pius. It was Fleur who took a hold of his hand, her slim fingers braiding into his; She gave him a silent and pleading look. He gave her a nod in response, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. Instead of looking at Percy he chose to focus his thoughts on Fleur’s hand in his. Percy was too overwhelming a thought. 

Bill shot Oliver a firm look before turning back to Pius; Fleur squeezed his hand.

“The curse,” Bill started, “It’s why Percy left, isn’t it?” 

“Presumably.”

“Was he trying to protect the rest of us?”

Pius didn’t answer, instead pinching the bridge of his nose. “You cannot all be so daft, can you? No, obviously Percival left because he fancied a holiday with me. The curse was entirely coincidental! Nonsense.”

“Whatever dark magic that’s inflicted Percy has spread to Oliver,” Pius gave Oliver a curious glance, “What is it caused by?” 

Despite being moved away from Pius, Oliver found himself face to face again with the man. “Explain. How is it you came across the information?” 

“…What information?” Oliver asked, Fleur’s hand clasped in his. She felt delicate. 

“I am assuming that you know of… a certain person’s existence.” Pius drawled, “It is her acknowledged existence that plagues Percival; his knowledge is what’s killing him. Given his position as scribe, it’s easy to know exactly how Percival learned of such things— but how did you?” 

“So he was cursed through his scribe work?” Bill. “He knows of an… existence he shouldn’t?”

Pius turned towards Bill momentarily, clicking his tongue. “No, he was cursed via owl post. Honestly— get a hold of yourself. Your brother works the wizarding position equivalent to the Nuremberg Trials, and you can’t put together that perhaps that was a dangerous position for him?”

Bill opened his mouth— Somehow, even with every person wielding their wand and expressing open hostility towards the man, Pius had turned the room into his own. He strolled from Oliver to Bill, hands clasped behind his back and with a definitive slouch. 

“Percival informed me of your career path, William. A curse-breaker, for pay? Acquiring artifacts from cultures not your own for monetary purposes; How quintessentially British of you. Since you seem to have some sort of expertise on the subject of curses, or at least I presume you do, let’s see if you can figure this out.”

Pius circled Bill the same way a condor might a corpse. “Your brother knows of knowledge he shouldn’t. An existence that he, nor you, nor anyone else in the room, should have any idea about. One that was sent to be erased entirely from living memory; Said knowledge of this is killing Percival. Eating him, as a parasite would a woodland creature. So, enough hints? Have you any guesses?” 

Bill furrowed his brow and looked at Percy. Percy’s head was cradled in Molly’s lap and George stared back at Bill, damp cloth hanging in his hands.

Hermione raised her hand. Ron and Harry smacked it down in sync.  

“No? Nothing? Genuinely, you haven’t even a guess? Merlin’s beard— I was right in reassuring Percival of his mental fortitude,” Pius scoffed, “None of you would’ve lasted half as long as he when I was Minister. You know, I tried incredibly hard to break him; Crucio and blood quills and the like. You, young man--” Pius addressed George, “Kindly take a look at Percival’s wrist for me, will you?”

“Like hell I’ll do that.” And maybe George would be sharing an Azkaban cell with Oliver and Charlie, if looks could make one drop dead. 

George didn’t have to do anything, in fact; The boy clutching Percy’s arm pulled back his sleeve. He ran a set of tiny fingers over impossible to see scars; Perhaps if Oliver were closer he could make them out from the paleness of Percy’s skin. He never had before.

“ I will obey the… doctor?” 

“Doctrine. An established set of rules; Ones that I set as Minister. Alas,” Pius faced the child’s back, turning away from Bill, “Percival understood the rules far better than any of us expected. Enough to bend them to his wishes-- to break the rules without notice, one must firmly comprehend them.

Looking directly at Percy was too much for Oliver. He squeezed Fleur’s hand and she squeezed back. 

“Know thy enemy and know thine self,” Pius stated, briefly closing his eyes, “And in a hundred battles you will never be defeated.”

The tension in the room ebbed away from them all against Pius; Pius was now staring at the back of the boy’s head like he’d forgotten he was surrounded by people who could and would throttle him. The boy half turned to face Pius, still clutching at Percy’s wrist. The stuffed lion fell from his hands and lay in a pathetic pile. 

He sounded so… small. “Did you really do all of this to Uncle Percy?”

“‘ Uncle Percy? ’” Oliver, Ron, and Hermione, in unison. 

Before Pius could respond, the boy continued. “I heard you two, in the study. Uncle Percy said your actions are the reason I can’t have any friends. He talked about-- he said I’d hate you, didn’t he? Because I’d find out about what you did during the war?” 

For the first time that evening, Pius was silent. He was entirely still and unmoving; He didn’t even appear to be breathing. 

“Yes, Pernell.”

The boy was gripping Percy’s wrist. “Did… did you really do all of that? Torture Uncle Percy? Is that what you did when you were his boss?”  

“Yes.”

“Would you have done that to me?” Softly, like a whisper, “That why you sent me to Scotland?” 

This felt like too private of a conversation for them all to be witnessing like this. At some point Fleur had squeezed Oliver’s hand and hadn’t unsqueezed. 

“He’s the only friend I’ve ever had.” The boy’s-- Pernell’s voice came out in a higher cadence than moments before. It was upsettingly familiar; A child winding himself up. “He shows me magic and he plays chess with me, and answers all of my questions.”

Pius looked sternly upon Pernell’s half-turned, kneeling form. “Pernell--” 

“He was right.” Pernell’s voice cracked something awful, “I do hate you, Uncle.” 

The burrow had held many heavy silences this evening, but this was the worst yet. They were spectators on a private matter; It almost felt to Oliver like he was watching a play. 

“Pernell-” Pius reached a hand out. 

“I hate you!” Pernell fully faced Pius, clutching Percy’s arm to his chest. His face was red and throat thick with tears as he yelled: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” 

Pernell flipped back to Percy and buried his face in Percy’s chest, sobbing into Oliver’s leather coat. He was practically hyperventilating, little pitched sounds that broke off with hard sobs. 

Fleur turned away from the scene, tucking her face into Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver responded by wrapping his arms around her and placing a hand on her hair; He simply didn’t know what else to do. This was awful. He spared a glance in Charlie’s direction-- Charlie was watching Pernell with some sort of abject horror. He seemed just as lost as Oliver.

“I see. Percival did me the justice of warning me about this from personal experience, and I…” Pius cleared his throat over the sound of his crying nephew. “Well.” 

He turned to face Bill once more, head ducked. “It’s an Oubliette. Percival knows the identity of someone within an oubliette, and had a close relationship with them. Now, if you’ll do me the courtesy of alerting Minister Kingsley to my presence here, I think I’ll await my formal questioning outside.” 

Someone followed Pius outside; It took Oliver a moment to register the person as Arthur. Bill summoned a patronus that leapt out the door in their wake and disappeared out into the night. He made eye contact with Oliver over Fleur’s head, delivering a grateful nod before taking his spot in consoling his pregnant wife. 

.

.

.

Percy had been carried up to his bedroom by a person that was not Oliver, decided by what seemed to be a unanimous and silent vote among them. Looking at Percy— getting close to Percy at all would mean having to directly see Percy’s physical unwell-ness and Oliver simply didn’t want to; For the first time since the war had begun or ended, he let someone else carry Percy. Someone else could carry the metaphorical game for him; Oliver’s job was to be a keeper; Defense.

It could not always be Oliver’s job to fix Percy. Oliver had tried and failed, time and time again-- countless nights of sleeping with an arm over Percy’s shoulders and fixing him cups of tea. Oliver could keep score just fine; But perhaps for the first time, someone had pointed out an irrevocable truth: Oliver had never fixed Percy. Oliver had only ever kept Percy alive. He scored no goals and beat no bludgers-- he’d just kept the other team from scoring . 

Something akin to bile burned in him; What if this Percy, damaged and unreachable, was different than the Percy that Oliver had grown up with? They’d survived the battle— but was Percy, just like Harry, still in the war? Oliver missed him; The Percy from before it all. The one without an ever present, haunting gaze. The one that got sunburn even under an overcast Scottish sky.  

And fuck , he hadn’t even had time to think of Cordelia. When he tried to think of her it was like trying to make out an image in static— something was there, but lacked definition. 

A mug of hot chocolate sat in front of Oliver. Harry had set it there; it seemed that it was only them left in the kitchen. Well, them and Pernell, who was a real mouse of a boy, and who didn’t look much better than Oliver felt. It’d taken a while for someone to pry Pernell off of Percy. Now the boy sat at the Weasley dining table, looking entirely miniscule in the wooden chair. A hot chocolate waited in front of him, same as Oliver; He seemed to have little interest in it, same as Oliver. 

Somewhere outside Arthur discussed things with Kingsley, Bill, and Charlie. Somewhere else Percy lay surrounded by siblings. 

For a second Pernell looked up and Oliver looked back at him. His eyes were puffy, and thin strands of hair frayed out around his face. He looked like the same lad from the apartment; Had Oliver pinned this child to a wall and begged him for information?

Had this lad kicked him in the bullocks?

Wee fucker. 

“Are you, um,” Pernell’s fingers looped around a mat in the stuffed lion’s mane, “Are you really Oliver Wood?”

Quickly glancing at Harry, Harry shrugged. If either of them were to be recognized, it ordinarily wouldn’t be Oliver. 

“Aye, that’s me.” Oliver was typically great with kids, “Are ye a Quidditch fan?”

Pernell nodded. He tried to pry the matted mane apart with his fingers. Even for a child, his fingers were nimble. It was something Oliver’d noticed about Harry years ago— this kid had the unmistakable build of a seeker. 

“Let me guess,” Oliver smiled and loosely gripped his mug, “A future seeker? Yer built to be one.” 

Pernell blushed and nodded. Then: “Do you know my Uncle Percy? He’s a Quidditch correspondent.” 

Now was not the time to ask why this boy called Percy uncle, nor about Percy’s illustrious yet fake career. “Aye, I know him very well. Have for a very long time.” 

“He told me he didn’t know you.” Pernell responded. “That you two have never met.”

Oliver could play off whatever invisible story Percy had rattled off to this boy. 

“I’ve asked him to keep our relationship on the down low, for privacy,” Oliver winked when Pernell looked up, wide-eyed, “Cannae have the greater Wizarding community think I’m not a bachelor, aye? Bad for optics.” 

“Oh! Oh, I— I didn’t, um…” Pernell’s face was entirely red, “I didn’t know that, um—“ 

Oliver laughed; Pernell was an adorable boy. “You’ll keep our secret, aye?”

“Of course!” 

Awkwardly Pernell let go of the lion and replaced it with his hot chocolate. He looked into the mug and watched the liquid swirl around, then side eyed Harry. 

“…And you’re… Harry Potter?”

Harry fiddled with the remnants of someone’s Christmas cracker that lay abandoned on the table; Christmas felt as if it’d been days ago. 

“Yeah, that’s me.”

It was hard for Harry to do anything or go anywhere nowadays; People mobbed the boy that lived. The times that Oliver had treated him to dinner always became a crowded event— this table was probably the last place Harry’d expected to have this happen again. 

Pernell jumped into action. He’d worn a small backpack that’d gotten tossed aside in all of the night's dramatics; Heavy and lumpy. Now he fished it out, unveiling a thick book from its depths. He gently set it down on the tabletop— the gold embossed title glinted under the Weasley’s lighting. Then he performed what Oliver had once coined as a Percy-ism; Pernell opened the book by resting it on its spine, slowly opening it from the center. 

It keeps the spine from cracking, Oliver. 

Flicking through the pages, Pernell ran a finger over an illustration of Hogwarts. 

“You were the youngest seeker since the 1800’s!” 

And Oliver decided he loved Pernell, like the boy was his own kin. Even if he had kicked Oliver so hard that Oliver'd gone down like a sinking ship.

“I read in this that you accidentally ate the snitch once— is that true?”

Harry looked dumbfounded before belting out a laugh. “Yeah! I’m that Harry Potter!”

“Swallowing that snitch is Harry’s main claim to fame.” Oliver smirked, poking the table for emphasis, “Hand picked him for the Gryffindor team myself.”

Stars sparkled in Pernell’s eyes. He splayed his hands out over the book pages. “You played together in school! Oh, I bet you were an incredible captain, Mr. Wood.” 

“Ye can just call me Oliver, Pernell.”

Harry sniggered. “ Uncle Oliver.” 

“Can I really?” Pernell’s eyes were akin to a glittering night sky. 

Well, piss. Another step in the wrong direction— maybe once Percy woke up, Oliver could head him off on the idea that they were not only dating, but had been dating long enough to be uncles together. 

Ah, fuck it. Oliver would deal when it came to it. 

“Aye, call me whatever ye like.” Oliver beamed at Pernell, “Say Pernell, ye look to be coming up on Hogwarts age. Got a guess on what house ye will be going into?”

“Oh, I won’t be going to Hogwarts.” Pernell’s smile faltered and he slid back down in his chair. “I’m a squib, Mr… Uncle. Oliver. Uncle Oliver.”

Harry took a sudden and long sip of Oliver’s hot chocolate, pointedly looking away from the table. 

Shite. Shite, fuck— what does one even say to that? Bullocks, fuck, fuck—

“Aye, I see.” Oliver’s brain scrambled for something. Anything. 

Pernell would never play Quidditch. He’d never go up on a broom unless someone with magic took him; He’d certainly never be a seeker. 

Fuck him, this was sad. The only prominent squib Oliver had ever heard about was through a few of his muggle cousins, when they’d taken Oliver to a rugby game during summer break— a violent, broom free version of Quidditch that obviously favored less balls, but the same amount of potential fistfights and injuries. Oliver had sat with them in the stands and watched as men lined up on a field far below them. 

Two teams, same as Quidditch, and most players lined up in straight lines facing each other. A single player in yellow hung back behind the line— apparently Oliver and his cousins were rooting for yellow— and kicked hard at the ball tossed his way. It sailed over the field and through two white poles; Oliver’s cousins went mental. The whole stadium did, cheering the same way Quidditch fans would’ve. 

He’d come away from that match remembering the name Angus Buchanan, which had jogged some memories from Malcolm that evening— there’d been a boy at Hogwarts during Malcom’s seventh year that’d somehow snuck in, infiltrating the group of first years waiting to be sorted.  He’d plopped himself down on the stool beneath the sorting hat, cutting right through the crowd, only for the hat to declare him unable to do magic. 

Of course, now Angus Buchanan was famous in the muggle world. The train trip back to Oliver’s home always seemed full of people heading to his games, sporting the name Buchanan on the backs of their jerseys. One couldn’t flip through the television channels without coming across an analysis of the man’s recent and daring plays. Maybe if he’d been born a squib, Oliver would’ve gone the same route. 

“Pernell, have you heard of Angus Buchanan?” When Pernell shook his head, Oliver continued. “He’s a squib too, wildly famous. He plays rugby back in Scotland; I think maybe it’d be something for ye to look into.”

“Rugby?” Pernell asked, running his hand over the book once more. “Is it similar to Quidditch?” 

“I think so. No magic involved.” Oliver said. “Dinnae think there’s a seeker equivalent, but ye could be a fantastic runner.”

Oliver glanced at Harry, who looked perplexed—

“Angus Buchanan is a squib?” He snorted. “Dudley used to have a poster of him. Think it was even signed.”

.

.

.

Molly came downstairs eventually. Upon seeing Oliver and Harry she stopped solidly in her tracks; She stared at the back of Pernell’s head. 

“Hey Pernell, have you ever played Gobstones?” Harry asked, scooting back from the table. Pernell shook his head: “Ron’s got an old set we can use.”

Together they left the kitchen, and Oliver swiftly made his way to Molly. The hug was immediate, but deep down he was unsure who exactly it was for; Himself or her. She was short and squat and hugged at Oliver’s waist, burying her face in Percy’s sweater. Her face came up to his collarbone, and he could rest his chin right on top of her head.

“Oh, Oliver,” She sniffed, “I’m so glad my son has someone like you.”

Ah. “Aye.” 

When she let him go it was with a hefty sniffle and a quick caress of his face. “He’s injured, but he seems stable. If he’s not up by morning, Arthur would like to take him to St. Mungo’s.”   

Molly passed him to reach the sink. The empty mugs from the table floated over, and she handed Oliver a dishrag. He wasn’t sure where in the hug he’d silently agreed to help with dishes, but he wasn’t about to say no. 

The water flicked on and soon a plate was held out to him. Oliver took it as Molly went on: “An oubilette, oh- my poor Percy. My poor, poor Percy.” 

“‘Am afraid I don’t know much about those, Molly.” Oliver hesitantly responded, rubbing a plate, “Am a bit hesitant to ask.” 

“Oh-- Oh, of course you don’t know, Oliver,” She responded, “They’re old, dark magicks. Nothing that any of you children should have to worry about--” 

She stopped. Water ran from the faucet as Molly hung her head. The mug she’d been washing loosely fell from her wet hands and clattered into the sink. 

“They’re terrible. A terrible thing, devised by terrible people; God--” 

Oliver set the plate down, approaching the shaking woman with hesitation. Molly wasn’t his mother, certainly-- but he’d seen this behaviour before. When his uncle passed and his Mam stopped doing dishes entirely. He could be Oliver Wood, Therapist for Molly Weasley. 

“Ye dinnae need to tell me, Molly,” He said, putting a hand out to her shoulder. “But Perse will be okay, ‘am certain of it.” 

Molly looked at him, eyelashes dewy and cheeks pink. Her hair was pulled back into something akin to pigtailed loops; One loop had fallen free of its band, and locks of Molly’s hair hung down. 

It was reminiscent of… something.  

.

.

.

Oliver is thirteen and standing in the shuddered girl’s bathroom. Cordelia next to him is staring into the mirror above the sink, and one of her dual braids is held in his hands. The other lies on the floor, bluntly cut at the base. 

The scissors shake in his hands. 

“Are ye sure—“

Cordelia snaps, gripping the sink with a bloodied hand. The pink of her nails stand out in contrast, and her fake glasses whine as she crushes them against the porcelain. 

“Well I can’t very well go back to class with just the one, can I? Do it.”

She closes her eyes as Oliver starts in on the second braid. Her hair is thick like Percy’s; Cutting through it is like trying to saw through rope. His hand aches from the repeated motion of seesawing the scissors. When he finishes he holds the braid like it’s a snake— at arm length away, by his fingertips. Blunt hair puffs around her neck. 

“Let’s see Flint try and yank them now.” She says. 

The end of the braid in his fist is saturated with black ink; The back of Cordelia’s white shirt is covered in ink splotches and stains. They’d been in class and Cordelia had taken Percy’s usual spot at the front so she could take notes for him— after all, he’s in the hospital wing because of her potions. 

Oliver opens his mouth, but someone else’s voice rings through the bathroom. 

“I think punching him may have gotten the message clear enough, Cordy.” Charlie says. He’s leisurely leaning against a stall door. “Sweet of you to defend Percy’s honor, but he’s going to get more picked on because of you.”

It’s not her own blood on her hand. In unison the two flip towards Charlie; He doesn’t move. Arms crossed, tie done haphazardly, shirt untucked— he cocks an eyebrow at the braid hanging from Oliver’s hand. 

Oliver blushes and awkwardly fiddles with the braid. 

“Oh, Mum’s gonna blow, Cordy. Hell have you done to your hair?”

“Look at my shirt, Charlie!” She turns— her hair is nowhere near long enough to cause the same stains if dipped in ink again. “Oliver and I—“ 

Looking at Oliver, she squints at the way his cheeks are red, and how the braid runs through his nervous fingers. It’s her hair running through his hands; She watches him. Looks at him, then Charlie, then back at Oliver, and disgust tinges her face. 

“Ew, Oliver, that’s foul!” She yanks her braid right from his hands and tosses it on the floor next to her other one. “Do you fancy him?”

The shame is immediate. She looks revolted. 

“Cordy, there isn’t anything wrong with—“ Charlie starts, pushing off of his lean on the stall door. His voice is deeper; A captain’s voice. Serious. 

“What? Oh, bloody hell, It’s not because you fancy a bloke, Oliver,” She huffs and gestures at her brother with her broken glasses, “It’s because it’s Charlie!” 

Oliver blinks at her as Charlie lets out a wheezy laugh. 

“Yer not… upset?” He’d expected her to be. He’d tried his damnedest to have a crush on her instead; A nice lass was what his Mother’s priest had said.

Cordelia was a lass, but nice? Debatable. Percy was nice. Well, no, Percy was polite—

“Yes I’m upset! He fancies dragons, Oliver!” 

“Oy, I do nothing of the sort—“

Cordelia glares at him. Her hair flares out now, short and choppy. It’s completely lopsided from Oliver’s cutting. 

When the glasses are thrown at him, Charlie catches them. 

“Really a shame you don’t like flying, Cor. Think you’d make a swell beater.” Charlie laughs. 

Oliver doesn't laugh— Cordelia is crying. It’s not the same tears she’d wielded at Bill. There’s no trouble to escape from here. No way to weasel out of a detention they haven’t received. 

“He’s leaving us for Romania, Oliver.”

“Cordy-“

“No!” She’s angrier than Oliver’s ever witnessed her be. “Bill left and now Charlie’s going to leave too.”

Charlie runs a hand through his hair. He and the older set of twins share the same curls. “Hell, I thought we had a few more years before you got all teenage-girly.”

“And after Charlie, it’ll be Percy.” She’s looking at Oliver again, “And you too, Oliver.”

“Merlin, Cordelia,” Charlie’s voice floats over, “It’s not the end of the world. People grow up, people change— that’s normal. That’s life. I’m not leaving for Romania because I hate you lot, I just want to… I don’t know, experience something different. See where my interests lead me.”

She looks so sad with her lopsided hair and inky shirt. 

“I think dragons are incredible and I want to study them, help preserve their species— is that so bad?” Charlie sighs, “I know you’re passionate about something too, Cordy. Same as Oliver is about Quidditch. Same as Percy is about politics.”

Cordelia is still looking at Oliver. He feels as if he shouldn’t be hearing this. He’s going to play Quidditch when he’s older; That’s always been the plan. Percy would be Minister. And Cordelia? He looks away from her gaze down at the braids by their feet. Chunks of wine colored curls spread out across the tiles. Cordelia kicks at one. 

“Percy’s not interested in politics just for politics sake. He wants to make changes; He wants to help people. He’s passionate about helping people.” She raises her voice at Charlie, finally looking away from Oliver. “He’s got plans for the way things could be different. When he’s Minister, it won’t matter if anyone is pureblood or not.”  

Charlie crosses his arms again. “Oh? I hadn’t realized he’d thought it through so much. I’ve wanted to study dragons since third year myself.”

Percy is currently in the hospital wing because Cordelia had brewed him calming draughts. 

Oliver clears his throat. “You like to help too, Cordelia. The potions?”

“What potions?” Charlie. 

Cordelia flattens a chopped braid under her shoe. 

“And ye get good marks in transfiguration, like Perse.” Oliver kicks at her braid with her, lightly tapping his shoe against hers. “Could be a healer. Help people, just like Percy.”

“Don’t ignore me, what potions? Cordelia? What potions?” 

“A healer?” She asks, ignoring Charlie. Together they fully unravel one of the chopped braids. “Like at St. Mungo’s?” 

“Aye. My Mam’s a nurse, remember? A muggle nurse, but maybe she could help you learn.” 

“Knock it off, both of you. Cordy—“

Cordelia fiddles with a strand of short hair. “I hadn’t considered that before.” 

“Ye always fight Flint when he calls Percy bent or faggy— You like to help, Cordelia. We could talk to McGonagall about what you’d need to become a healer.”

“Flint called Percy a what? Ollie, when did-“

“I wouldn’t want to be a nurse, I don’t think. Would rather be an elixir maker. Or maybe something like Bill? Help heal people with curses?” She pauses, “Maybe I’ll write Bill and ask his advice. Of course he just breaks curses, but what about people afflicted in the long term? Maybe there’s some sort of path I’ve not read about—“

“Alright it’s not funny anymore, either of you. Cordy, why didn’t you tell me about Flint?”

Cordelia suddenly latches onto Oliver’s wrist. “Do you think McGonagall is in her office right now?”

“Possibly?” Oliver responds, giving in as Cordelia tugs at him. 

“Cordelia! Oliver!” Charlie shouts at them as Cordelia goes to sprint past him. 

“Oh, right. Forgot about Dragon wanker.” Cordelia looks at her brother and pulls her wand out of a cardigan sleeve. “Nodus.”

Charlie’s shoelaces tie themselves together— a spell Oliver has watched the younger twins perform on Percy countless times. 

.

.

.

He’s miraculously still standing somehow, bent over the kitchen counter. His head swims and eyes burn— Molly is rubbing his back. 

“Is the person in the oubliette worth all of this, Oliver?” 

“Aye,” Oliver mutters, “Absolutely.”

He stays there and lets Molly pet his hair. 

.

.

.

Oliver was supposed to be sleeping in Fred’s bed that night. George had offered it— he and Lee were sharing George’s old one.  

Instead Oliver laid below them on the floor, while Pernell slept on the bed, clinging to the stuffed lion like it was his own. When they'd decided on sleeping arrangements, Oliver’s original plan had been to go back to the flat— definitely not happening with Percy’s arrival. Then it’d been to sleep on the couch— He couldn’t handle the ticking of Molly’s clock. So instead he laid here, on the floor of Fred and George’s childhood room, because Pernell didn’t want to sleep in a room without Uncle Oliver. 

.

.

.

One of the room occupants snored— Lee, as it turned out. Oliver was no stranger to snoring, as Percy was an avid snorer; His flatmate could make the Hogwarts express sound quiet. But Oliver had gotten used to Percy’s snoring through years of conditioning; It’d grown to be a comforting sound somewhere around second year. 

Rolling out of his makeshift blanket bed, Oliver groggily marched himself out of the room. He found his way to the bathroom with Lumos and took a detour on the way back; Percy and the twins had rooms on the same floor. 

It must’ve been torture for Percy growing up. His spic-and-span room only steps away from the habitat of Fred and George? Percy had probably gotten stuck with cleaning duties when the twin’s room tried to invade on their shared hallway. Oliver just wanted to check on Percy. He was not going to sleep in Percy’s room again, unless Percy woke up. Oliver softly opened the door and popped his head in—

Percy was not the only one in the room.  Someone small was curled up in Percy’s side, and judging on their long hair it was probably Ginny, unless Bill had miraculously shrunk. She had an arm over Percy’s chest and the other loosely held one of Percy’s hands. On top of her head was yet another hand— George’s. Oliver hadn’t even noticed him missing from his own bedroom. George had a hand looped in Ginny’s hair and was drooling a considerable puddle onto the shoulder of Percy’s shirt. He was stretched awkwardly around Percy, seemingly trying to cocoon him in and trying to utilize bed space. 

It seemed very crowded on the bed. So crowded that someone had taken to the floor, and Oliver lowered his wand at them. He’d almost stepped right on them— Charlie lay sprawled out at Oliver’s feet, dressed in thick pajama pants and a tank top. He squinted when the light from Oliver’s wand passed over him, making a low sound. 

“Ollie, you mind?” Charlie groaned.

“Oh, sorry, Knox . Was just checking on Perse.” 

Charlie made a sort of grunt, then rolled onto his chest. He didn’t have a pillow of any sort, or even a blanket; He was just laying on the rag rug of Percy’s bedroom floor. 

Percy seemed… alright. He’d been babied by Molly and put in fresh bandages. He was cuddled by siblings and tucked in with approximately twenty blankets. 

When Oliver finally stumbled his way back to George’s room (sans George) he flopped back into his blanket bed. A realization came to him moments before he drifted back asleep: 

Percy had not been snoring. 

.

.

.

Chapter Text

Well, Percy’s not nowhere, that’s for certain. He surely must be somewhere , given the bush-like thing he’s swallowed up in, even if it’s so dark he can’t see his own hands. A thick and dense bramble— the stems scrape at his skin and tug at his clothes. The fabric of his turtleneck catches in a new spot every few seconds, and Percy cannot for the life of him figure out which way is up. 

Sky, ground, air— it’s all branches and stubby leaves and impenetrable darkness. 

Whether or not he’s thankful that rain begins to trickle down is debatable; But at least he’s able to determine which way is up. Water is dripping down onto him from above, and using his newfound direction sense, Percy starts yanking and kicking at branches. The bush doesn’t seem to be fighting back; Eventually one of Percy’s hands breeches into air that’s devoid of branches. The rest of him follows slowly as he kicks himself free, rolls himself on top of a more dense shrub, and spits out a concerning amount of leaf bits. 

The rain comes down hard on him; He’s damp, cold, and his skin aches— everything is dark. Presumably the sky is far above, entirely devoid of stars.  

But he’s not dead. So really, things seem grand all around. 

He’s held aloft by uneven shrubbery that stabs through his wet clothing. Balancing himself awkwardly, Percy peels his wet jeans from his lower leg-- his wand is tucked into his sock. There’s nothing for him to dry his hands on as he grips the wet wood.

First, a Lumos adjacent conjuring spell. A small blue flame flickers from the palm of his hand, heatless and painless-- it’s a simple enough spell that he can use his wand for something else. 

Second, an umbrella charm. Holding his wand straight up casts a silvery shimmer that separates him from the rain. 

He doesn’t even bother with a heating or drying charm; From what he can see in the pale blue light, he’s got quite a bit of shrubbery to haul himself through. The flame offers little in actually determining his surroundings. It’s not strong enough to light up more than a few feet around him, and as far as he can see it’s all shrubbery. Blackthorn flowers sprinkle the leaves around him and their overgrown, uneven branches nick at his skin— he picks a direction based off the most astute possible way:

Guessing. He’d gotten his O in Divination the very same way. He guesses he should go the path of least resistance, where the blackthorn branches seem thinner. 

.

.

.

He’s lost. 

The darkness does not disperse at any point. It’s still solid black even when the rain lessens. Everything’s still flowered shrubs that surpass him in height. Since the rain is no longer coming down in sheets, he presses more magic into the flame charm— it’s still heatless, but now brightens a larger radius. Just enough for him to see that there’s trees beyond the bush line. Towering trees that fade together against the black sky; He can either try and crawl his way to them or turn and retreat to where he’d originally woken up in the bush. 

Percy does not want to go into the trees. 

He chooses the bushes. 

It’s a repeat of the past few hours trying to crawl through the shrub. Arduous, painful, trivializing— Percy’s not a nature fan. This was Charlie’s arena, traversing through foliage for dragon’s eggs and possibly dragon dung, to ensure that his precious flying babies are eating well enough. Care of Magical Creatures was the only class Percy had needed his brother’s tutelage for; Percy had gotten that O by the skin of his teeth. He then promptly dropped the class for advanced transfiguration. 

But none of that matters now; He’s crawling through bushes. Damp leaves catch on him. Every few feet he flattens himself out along the top of the shrubbery so his weight is dispersed enough for him to not fall through branches; The light flickers over the blackthorn flowers, casting tremendous shadows. 

Percy surmises he must be back where he began; there’s a gaping space filled with broken branches in the middle of it all. As he crawls near— yes, this is certainly where he’d fought his way out. He resolves to go the opposite way he’d originally gone. 

It feels like forever passes until he hits solid ground not obscured by shrubbery. Certainly hours? Days? Curious, he looks behind him—

The tree line is hardly more than a room’s length away, an impossibly short distance. The blackthorn flowers retract to tight buds in the light; While the shrubs remain thick, they now curl in on themselves. He couldn’t climb back over them even if he was desperate— thick thorns protrude from their stems and branches. 

He turns away, but not of his own accord; There’s an overwhelming dread arising from the bushes. The same that he’d felt looking at the trees— The blood in his body wants him to turn away from them. It feels as if it’s squirming under his skin, urging him forward. 

There’s nothing good beyond these bushes. 

Percy steps into muddy grass. It squishes around his shoes and his heels make a pop as he breaks the suction. It’s beginning to rain again; He pulls Oliver’s coat around himself as tightly as possible. Rather than redrawing his umbrella charm he lets the fire in his palm flicker out, replacing it with a Lumos Maxima. The pale blue blooms from his wand, illuminating the space around him. It reflects off the raindrops coming down and the wet grass at his feet— and the wetted stone of Hogwarts in the near distance. Entirely dark, shrouded in the same blackness of the sky, but unmistakably Hogwarts. 

There’s no familiar ambient lighting from various lampposts or shining stars above; The Astronomy tower leads into a pitched black void. It’s not the same Hogwarts of Percy’s memory— 

This is a Hogwarts from before the battle. It’s also, undeniably, a Hogwarts that Percy’s never seen. The windows of the Gryffindor common room should be a hazy orange from the ever present fire within. Instead there’s just inky black glass. The familiar sconces that line the entrance courtyard are blown out. 

And it’s completely, upsettingly silent beyond the rain. No wind, no lapping from the lake, no croaks of frogs— silence. 

Percy steps towards the castle because— well, what else is there for him to do?

.

.

.

The sconces don’t flicker to life when he walks through the courtyard. It’s funny and terrible all at once; a young Percy had read Hogwarts: A History in the very same courtyard Harry had faced Voldemort. Percy and Penelope had once snogged in the alcove where Oliver had dug Colin Creevey’s body out from rubble. The feelings are not going to get better once he passes through the castle doors. Already the bodies of the battle shuffle through his mind— no wonder Ginny and Ron hadn’t come back here. Could they have walked through the same corridor where Fred had died, pretending to focus on their NEWTS? Would they have been able to go to the Great Hall and eat breakfast, knowing that their friend’s bodies had laid on that very floor?

He couldn’t have done it. He’d declined working on the restoration of the castle when asked. Oliver had participated; Percy wanted no part of this place ever again until it was time to send his own children to school— and even then? Well, there’s an independent magic school in Wales that seems promising, if he can afford the tuition. 

Now he’s pushing the doors open. It’s even darker inside. Lumos somewhat helps, in the same way that dress robes a size too large can somewhat fit; It’s like a sheet has been pulled around his wand, stopping the light from going more than a few feet. It’s eerily similar to the atmosphere of Percy’s seventh year, when he’d patrolled the halls completely assured that his seventeen year old self could face a mass murderer in the dark. He had been Head Boy after all; Surely a supposed murderer would recognize his authority. 

For the first time since waking up, he hears something other than just rain— voices. They float down the cavernous entrance hall; Ghoulish, echoing, and distant, but at least it’s something . They’re sing-songy and almost as soon as Percy can hear them they’re gone, replaced by a monotonous sound. Not a human sound, no, something much more akin to a drum. Quickly navigating his way through the entrance hall (in which all four house point hourglasses are entirely empty, their glasses shattered), Percy rounds the corner to the doors of the Great Hall. 

The sound is coming from within, as is a sliver of light that stretches under the doorway. Percy approaches hesitantly— but really, what even would he do if there’s something dangerous within? The only choices are opening the door and finding the source of the noise, or tucking a metaphorical tail between his legs and shrinking into the shadows. The warmth of the light casts the shine of his shoes in a rusty orange color. The sound is now back to a voice; it’s clearly music of some sort. Nothing that Percy has ever heard before— it neither sounds like his Mum’s records or Oliver’s father’s records. 

Percy pushes the door open. The wood is smooth under his hands from generations of students passing through. 

Candles cover every surface and golden tones flicker throughout the room. Shadows dance on the walls and atop what would ordinarily be the Hufflepuff table is an old record player— it’s the same one McGonagall has kept in her office for decades. It spins a vinyl that’s clearly been played countless times, resulting in a tune full of skips and crackles; This does not seem to bother the boy dancing across the table in the slightest. 

His white blonde ringlets puff out as he spins, a shimmering halo against warm brown skin. He has his hands in the air and shakes his head— he’s completely gone in the song. A quick beat, a broken voice from the singer, and the boy sings along word for word as his shoes clap across the table.

“We can go for a walk where it’s quiet and dry,” The boy croons along, mid-spin, “And talk about precious things—“

The door slams shut behind Percy. 

The boy startles. For a brief second he smiles at Percy, evidently expecting someone other than Percy Weasley to be standing there; His smile melts off. He looks at Percy; Percy looks at him. The boy’s eyes are seafoam green and he’s wearing a yellow and black striped sweater; He’s a young Hufflepuff. Water drips from Percy’s jacket and his glasses are dappled with rain; Percy’s a grown adult. 

The music plays between them until the record starts to skip. The boy dives to stop it, shooting quick glances until he’s able to pull the needle off. Once they’re in silence they go back to staring. 

Percy— Percy knows this boy. Recognizes him. He’s twelve— he’s still twelve. 

He’s been twelve. 

Archie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff second year. 

“Pardon me,” Percy apologizes to the silence between them, the thick energy of his presence, “Are you— Are you Archie Macmillan?”

Archie blinks. His face is rather fox-like; wide-set eyes and sharp lips. His light hair hangs around his ears in coils similar to Percy’s own hair, but in a softer contrast to his skin tone than Percy’s. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Archie responds, “You’re Percy Weasley.”

Not a question. 

“Indeed.” Percy leaves his mouth ajar expecting to say more— nothing of intelligence comes out. “And you’re… Archie Macmillan?” 

“That’s me, yeah… Wow, you’re really Percy Weasley?”

Why is it suddenly a question now?

“Yes.” This conversation is going nowhere, “We’re settled then? I’m Percy Weasley and you’re Archie Macmillan?”

“My name is actually Archibald— You’re Percival?”

For fuck’s sake—

“Where are we?” Percy snaps. He’s tired, his skin burns, worst of all he’s damp-- 

Archie blinks and twists, gesturing at the open space around him. “The Great Hall?”

Percy turns on his heel, throws open the heavy door, and stands in the dark. He counts to ten before turning back into the hall.

“Obviously we’re in the Great Hall, but where are we on the grander scale?” Percy asks. “Are we in the oubliette? Are we dead? Are we alive?”

Is my sister here? Do you know where she is? Is she dead? Is she dead? Is she dead?

Archie cocks his head, pulls a face, and shrugs. 

Percy’s got a hand on the door once Archie speaks again. The gesture had been hollow anyways; Whatever this boy has gone through, he appears to be coping via humor. Maybe his brain has been shattered from torture and inhumane living conditions. Maybe he’s a living fragment of a memory of Archie Macmillan-- 

“Lee’s always saying you’re funny.” There’s a touch of laughter in the words. 

Maybe he’s just dim-witted. 

Percy fully turns back towards Archie, who’s since sat down on the tabletop. His legs are crossed, and the vinyl flips in his hands. 

“Lee Jordan?” Percy asks— he can see a resemblance in Archie’s face. Lee’s wide cheekbones and coiled hair. If Lee were blonde, maybe Percy would’ve seen it sooner. 

Archie nods. His hair is springy. “We’re cousins.”

“Were you friends with my brothers?” There’s nothing to stop the question from bubbling up and out; Percy is standing maybe fifteen from where Fred’s body had been laid, “Fred and George?”

Archie laughs; the record flips. “I want to be. Lee makes them sound so… but I don’t think they like me very much.”

Do you know where Cordelia is? Can you take me to her? Are we in the oubliette? Is this Hell? Am I dead? Did I die in those bushes? Are you Archie Macmillan? Are you aware it’s been six years?

“No? Why do you suppose that is?” 

Am I still Percy Weasley? 

“I don’t like breaking the rules.” Archie responds. He slips the record into the dust cover, “And I like staying out of trouble. I’m a Hufflepuff, not a Gryffindor.”

The tense in Archie’s words is telling: Saying you’re funny, I want to be, I don’t think they like me. 

Does he know? Does he know, does he know, does he know it’s been six years--

Percy takes a seat on the bench opposite Archie. The need for answers is clawing at his insides, desperate and painful, but he will not shatter what remains of this child’s psyche. It’s impossible to tell anything beyond Archie’s lack of time comprehension. Percy needs something to calm his racing heart or it’s probable that whatever panic he’d felt in Diagon Alley a week ago will make a resurgence.

“Those certainly sound like dealbreakers for Fred and George.” Percy replies smoothly, slipping a cigarette from Oliver’s coat pocket. He lights it-- he can smoke in the Great Hall, who’s going to stop him? He’d watched people bleed out in this room and witnessed his mother kill Bellatrix not twenty feet away. 

Hogwarts is not a sacred space; Percy inhales as Archie stares.

“You’re a prefect that smokes?” 

Percy’s lungs burn from holding the smoke in. Archie wasn’t around long enough to see Percy as Head Boy. 

“On occasion.” Percy responds, “Is it just you here?” 

“In this part of the castle? Sometimes. I like the acoustics best here.” Archie kicks against the bench seating, “Are you here to get us out? I’ll be honest, you don’t look anything like I remember.”

Smoke furls from Percy’s lips. “Out of… The oubliette?” 

Archie nods. It’s at least confirmation of Percy’s suspicions. How he ended up in here is still a mystery, but--

“Cordelia said you would. That you’d get here eventually,” He pauses, “That you’d come to get her, at least. But since you’re a good person, you’d get all of us out.” 

Ash falls on Percy’s hand and he lets it burn his skin. Anything to distract from the way his blood pressure drops; He loosely bites the cigarette’s filter. 

“Had she?” Percy clenches his fist so hard that his nails break flesh. “Is- Is she here?”

Please. 

Archie nods. “Want me to take you to her?”

“Please.” His chest burns. He’s ready; He’s not ready. 

“Alright. We’ll have to come back from my records though, before we leave for good.”

.

.

. 

Archie holds a candlestick out as he leads Percy down familiar hallways. The stone walls are slick; What appears to be moss or mold grows in the crevices, twined with thick ivy. They pass windows-- some are shattered and glass crunches under their shoes. The panes that survive hold back a new barrage of rain and darkness. If it weren’t for Archie’s candle and Percy’s Lumos, they’d be in pitch dark. 

It feels as if they’re the first people to walk these halls in centuries. Reasonably Percy knows that’s not possible; But Gods, it feels like it. The endless questions buzz in his head-- Is this a version of Hogwarts? An illusion? Is he physically in the oubliette with them, or is this some form of third space, timeless and false?

There’s no ghosts. No ambient sound of students walking or portraits chattering; Even when he’d patrolled at night Percy could make out the snores of various portraits. No one is drifting through walls or asking him to put out his light. It’s just Archie’s and Percy’s footsteps, rain against glass, and the earthly drone of the castle. 

“The staircases don’t move, either.” Archie speaks into the silence, “The only magic that works is in odd things; Professor McGonagall’s record player for one. I found all those records in Filch’s office-- makes sense they wouldn’t have sealed that with magic. There’s loads of random objects around.”

“How do you get upstairs if the staircases don’t move?” 

Archie kicks a chunk of castle wall that’s fallen apart. “Climbing. When we first got here, we all stayed in the Great Hall. Cordelia and Patrick would try and see how far they could get by scaling the walls and whatnot.”

Patrick. Patrick Cattermole, Gryffindor fifth year. 

Percy still has no memory of the boy. 

“They made it up to the Gryffindor common room eventually and couldn’t get past the portrait door. Just doesn’t open without magic. Cordelia tried to cut through the painting, but apparently there was just stone behind it? Same thing with the Slytherin common room—“

To put it mildly: The mental image of his sister desperately climbing wet stone in the dark and slashing at canvas is… upsetting. Had she ripped with her bare hands through the empty space where the Fat Lady once resided? Or had she picked up a glass shard from a window, and slashed with the desperation of a trapped animal? She’d been gone by the time Percy’d found the Fat Lady hiding portraits away, shaking in fear of Sirius Black. Had the canvas slashings happened near the same time?

Had it taken her over a year to scale her way up the tower? Had she and Patrick worked in unison, lifting each other up to doorways that they’d once effortlessly walked through?

Percy lights another cigarette. He’s only got four left. “I don’t remember Patrick.” 

Archie suddenly stops; Percy ends up slightly ahead of him. The seafoam color of his eyes seems more yellow in the solo candlelight. 

“He died.” Archie says, bluntly. “A while ago. A long while ago.” 

Percy inhales until his throat protests. He lets the smoke out, slow and smooth.

“He was killed by the oubliette?” 

“No,” Archie averts his eyes for a moment and looks down at his feet. Kicks at a mossy patch. “He had an asthma attack. It wasn’t so bad at first, but Cordelia couldn’t find more of the ingredients for his weekly potion after a while… Don’t bring him up again, please.”

Asthma. A completely common human condition; Not even purebloods are immune from their own humanity. There hasn’t been a wizard death due to asthma… ever, maybe. Certainly not in Percy’s lifetime. There isn’t even a wizarding equivalent term to it; it’s as trivial a term as concussion or femur. 

Patrick Cattermole had died in the Oubliette from something human. No curse, no magic-- just a bodily function. 

An asthma attack. 

Fuck.

“I’ll be candid with you, Archie,” Percy says, “That’s…” 

There’s no words to describe it. Percy would never remember Patrick Cattermole beyond his name; Unlike Cordelia, Patrick’s memories are gone as he is gone. As awful as it is-- it’s confirmation that neither himself, Archie, or Cordelia are dead. He remembers Cecil as well; Percy doesn’t care enough about him to ask.

“I know.” Archie sounds as stern as a twelve year old boy can, “Don’t mention it to Cordelia.”

“She blames herself?” 

Percy doesn't need to ask; they’re twins. The answer is immediate to him, clear as day— Cordelia blames herself for Patrick, as Percy blames himself for Fred. Even with the little information Archie’s provided, Percy can draw the logical conclusion that this occurrence is not Cordelia’s fault. It’s entirely different than what happened between himself and Fred—

“Cecil tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t get more of the pixie wings, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Of course she hadn’t; Percy hadn’t. Charlie, George, Oliver, Pius— Percy refused to listen at every turn. He was right, regardless, but Cordelia?

Could she not see how wrong it is to assign herself undo guilt? 

They’re walking along the corridor that Percy had often used to get to the library until Archie crawls on top of a cabinet. He flits behind a tapestry; Percy hesitates to follow. 

Archie senses this and pokes his head back out. “Not all shortcuts are magic, some are just boring stone.”

“Why not continue on this floor? There’s a hallway that dips into the dungeons—“

“Dungeons are flooded,” Archie interrupts, “No way through.”

Percy frowns. “What do you mean the dungeons are flooded? They should drain out into the lake.”

Archie nods. “Yeah, but it’s never stopped raining here. Sometimes it lightens, but not completely; No lake, no drainage. Didn’t used to be that way.” 

Following the younger boy’s lead, Percy hoists himself up on top of the cabinet. Archie holds open the tapestry for Percy to crawl through. 

“What happened to your hand?” 

Percy’s too tall for the passageway; He crawls on his hands and knees while Archie stoops. He’s mostly adapted to having half a hand— he’d almost forgotten about it entirely. 

“Splinched.” 

“Ouch. During a side-along?”

Archie believes Percy to be too young to Apparate and still a prefect; There’s no way to answer the question without revealing that it’s been far longer than he thinks. Not even silence is a good response. 

“Something like that.” Percy eventually says. 

When they exit the passageway Archie offers Percy a hand down; He accepts the help. They drop onto dry stone flooring only a few meters from the library doors, and warm candlelight shines from their gap.

Percy’s never been afraid of the library before. Not once in his whole life-- he is now though. Scared? Nervous? Of a set of doors he’s personally walked through thousands of times? Archie doesn’t wait for Percy to come out of his stupor. He simply walks right up to the doors and enters-- Percy practically floats after him. His limbs don’t feel real; the light of the library is warm and flickering as he passes through the doors. 

It feels like walking into a heavenly realm; the soft smell of books and sound of rain. There’s a distant bubbling sound-- a potion foaming away in a glass vial. What was once Madam Pince’s round table is now a work station of sorts: A cauldron, open books scattered about, and lit candles melting on every possible surface. It’s a delicate set-up and in the middle of it all stands--

“Cordelia?” Archie asks, sitting himself on a stool.

Facing away from them both Cordelia makes a sort of non-commital sound; Her attention is drawn to a blackthorn flower that she holds with a pair of forceps, suspended above  the light of a candle. The white petals glow; in her other hand is a liquid filled vial. Her hair is ever so slightly dusting her shoulders. 

Leaning forward on his elbows, Archie quips: “I’ve brought you a gift!” 

“That’s wonderful, Archie.” Cordelia turns the flower over to examine it a different way. Her skin is porcelain in the candlelight. “Just leave it on the table, alright? Bit busy.”  

Archie gives a cheeky grin: “I don’t think he’ll fit, honestly.” 

Cordelia sets the flower down, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. She looks so startlingly like Bill; His nose, his blonde eyebrows. Even the way she sighs, frustrated as she turns towards them--  

“Cecil, I’ve not changed my mind for fuck’s… Sake?” Her voice drops off. 

She looks at him; Percy. His missing fingers, his long hair, Oliver’s coat. He looks at her; Wine curls, thin limbs, Gryffindor cardigan. She’s sixteen and as small as Ginny, but taller than Charlie, carved in a willow branch physique just like Percy. Always more focused on studies than food—

The glass vial slips from her fingers and shatters, but neither of them startle. 

“Percy?” Glass crunches under her shoes as she slowly walks from the station. “You’re here? Do you… remember me?” 

There are no words in him. Nothing that fights up and out-- no questions that vye for his mental attention. What is there to say, besides--

Percy’s voice cracks. “Hullo, Cordelia.”

It’s impossible to tell which one of them reaches out and who pulls the other in. The hug is so tight his back cracks; Cordelia’s hair is in his mouth and sticking to tear tracks he wasn’t aware he had. She’s taller than their Mum and Percy presses a kiss to her scalp, the same as he had Molly. He tries vainly to say something, as does she; All that comes out is a hard sob that he buries in the fluff of her hair. It’s possible they’re mutually trying to crush the other; Cordelia is making a sound comparable to her wails in their father’s Ford Anglia outside of King’s Cross.

And that’s all there is; Cordelia hyperventilating into his collarbone and Percy holding her to him. When she eventually shrugs him off and steps away, there’s a distinct Puddlemere United logo imprinted on her cheek from Oliver’s lapel pin. 

“Took you long enough,” She laughs, voice thick and cheeks puffy. “You look bloody awful.” 

He chokes on his laugh. “I’m aware.” 

They laugh until it verges back on crying. Percy yanks the collar of his shirt up over his face in a twisted way of gaining composure. He has so much to ask, so much to say-- 

“I’d offer you a cuppa,” Cordelia says, “But, um, there’s none. Hot rain water, if you’d like?”

“Sounds divine.” 

He’d forgotten Archie was there at all until he brings Percy a chipped teacup, warm to the touch and filled with clear water. It’s flavourless, but nothing has ever tasted nearly as good.

.

.

. 

Hufflepuffs-- even cursed, youthful ones-- are well-mannered. Archie pulls out a stool for Percy to sit on opposite Cordelia’s table, then promptly leaves the library. Not through the doors, of course, that’d be too simple for this nightmare realm of Hogwarts; Archie leaves by scaling a knocked over bookcase to the upper balcony, and straddling an open window. 

“Easier to get back this way,” He’d explained, even though Percy hadn’t asked, “Faster. One-way trip though.”  

Then he’d jumped, followed by the distinct sound of splashing water. 

“I hate it when he does that. He always smells like mildew after.” 

Percy doesn’t tell Cordelia that she too smells of mildew. It’d been strong in her hair and clothes; an inevitable symptom of being slightly damp constantly. The four of them remaining must be nose blind to it-- Percy sips his hot water and prays he too becomes noseblind soon. 

Cordelia seems less phased by their reunion than Percy. Once he’s sat down across from her work station, she immediately returns to her flower observation. She asks over her shoulder: “So, what’s your first question?”

Do you know how long it’s been? “Where are we?” 

“That’s difficult to explain. Physically our bodies, meaning Archie, Cecil, Chrissy and I, are in a dungeon under Narcissa Malfoy’s rose garden. Although,” Cordelia pauses, “She’s told me she’s growing some lilies too, ironically.”

That alone opens up so many questions that Percy is at a loss: “You… speak to Narcissa? Is she here?”

“She’s not here here,” She gestures widely at the castle around them, “if that’s what you mean. It’s only our minds here-- well, and your’s too now. Think of it as a pensieve, but rather than reliving memories, we’re currently occupying a stasis of our combined memory. We’re all in this oubliette together, so we’re all here.”

“I don’t remember the castle looking this… neglected.” Percy lies. He lets his fingertips press into the heat of the hot water until it burns. It’d looked similar after the battle, but does Cordelia even know a battle occurred here? 

Does she know a whole war started and ended while they’ve been in here?

“We’re neglected. Forgotten, tossed aside, erased-- pick whatever word you like. Hogwarts looks like shit because our minds are collectively shit.” She pulls the petals from the flower, and burns one in a candle flame. “Just like in a pensieve, we can withdraw from here and return to our physical bodies, but… it’s better in here. Archie never leaves, Chrissy doesn’t either. Rarely does Cecil leave. No point in returning to a physical body that’s trapped-- None of us feel starvation in this pensieve space. No thirst, either, but it’s nice to have some sort of habit.”

Percy lets this roll in his mind. “The oubliette won’t let your physical bodies die, but you’ll still feel the bodily sensation of starving.”

He’d been starving those last few days at Pius’s. Cordelia had had to feed him-- Percy wishes he could connect their brains together, so that he could take all the oubliette information at once. How had she done that? How had she projected herself to him?

Could he project himself if he tried?

“Usually it’s just me that leaves here. I’m the only one she speaks to.” 

Narcissa had passed the curse to Percy. She’d been on speaking terms with his imprisoned twin sister. “Why’s that?” 

Cordelia stares down at the remaining flower petals in her palm. Idly she rolls one between her fingers. “She’s like Mum in some ways. A mother, wanting a daughter-- wanting that connection. When Mum had us, she got… well, us. We were twins first and foremost. We were closer to each other than to her; Then she had Ginny, who could be the daughter she actually wanted. ”

Oh, Cordelia, honestly-- wipe that grime off your face and not my daughter, you bitch. Cordelia doesn’t know.

She lifts her head towards Percy and levels with him. 

For a haunting moment she holds the same expression Percy had years ago, staring himself down in a bathroom mirror, after--

After Scrimgeour.  They’re entirely different situations, but gut-wrenchingly similar.

Percy; Scrimgeour. Cordelia; Narcissa. There’s a vague awareness that within this space he can’t feel physical sensation, but if he could? Nausea. 

“And with Narcissa I was this… discarded, secret doll. Something separate from her husband and son, someone that only existed because of her. The others were there too, but I made Chrysanthemum and Archie stay in here-- they’re younger than the twins. I couldn’t let them take on that responsibility.”   

Abuse of power. Percy had nowhere to go, and Cordelia couldn’t leave. “A quid pro quo?”

“Basically.” She takes his silence as inquisitive and not horrified , “I leave here and wake up in my actual body. After being in here for so long it’s like operating a marionette; it feels so different. Narcissa doesn’t tell me any current events or the date even if I ask, but I listen to her talk about how shit of a husband Lucius is and how difficult it is to be… rich. He never pays attention to her interests; She’s been cross breeding roses to try and-- ”

He interrupts her. “Yes. That’s what’s terrible about Lucius Malfoy; He has no interest in his wife’s hobbies.” 

She laughs and picks at a cuticle. Her laugh is innocent and innocuous; She has no idea Lucius Malfoy is serving a life sentence in Azkaban for his crimes. She does not know of the damage he personally inflicted upon Ginny via diary. Percy knows; Cordelia would not laugh if she knew.

“Right. So, can it be my turn now?” She asks. “What’s happened to you? Your hair and your hand?” 

He gives her the honest answer. “I splinched.” 

“You… during a ride-along, right?” It’s a nervous smile that flickers on her face. “You’d never break the rules to apparate before legal age.”

This is very well the first time Cordelia is learning of time passing her by. The longer the second stretches out, the more the smile falls.

“Percy?”

“No, not during a ride-along. We’re-- I’m old enough to have my license.” 

She looks at him. The recognition dawns on her face; Percy is reexperiencing the trial room all over again. He feels cold and electric and faint--

“It’s been two years?” Cordelia laughs. Her voice sounds strange and small. 

“No, Cordy. It’s been six.”

She drops the flower petals she’d cupped in her hands. They float slowly to her shoes, patent leather Hogwarts dress shoes. 

“Oh.”

She leaves, quickly excusing herself from the table and into the depths of the bookshelves. It feels wrong staying in the space without her; He leaves as well, cigarette number three already lit. 

Percy’s emotions boil over somewhere down a disintegrating hallway. He desperately wishes he could feel sick, if only so he could have physical confirmation that this is all far, far worse than he’d imagined. Narcissa has done more than rip these students out of existence; She has hidden the destruction of the world they once knew.

Soon he’s pacing around what remains of a classroom, as far as he can get from the library. Nobody’s followed him and it’s been at least a solid chunk of time: Percy can’t cope. He’s not collected enough to be able to handle this barrage of information. At least with the muggleborns he knew they’d be safe. At least with Minister Pius, he knew that the sessions would end. The emotion he’d felt at seeing the twin’s store in Diagon Alley is clawing its way out— 

.

.

.

.

.

.

Percy blinks; He’s in his flat, but not really. And Percy knows he’s not really there based on the astute observation that he is standing inside the kitchen island. His torso is phasing right through the countertop; He feels nothing. It’s the same as Cordelia trying to catch a bubble on her tongue in the twin’s shop.

The sky is a milky purple out the windows. A soft prelude to sunrise.

This is very obviously a dream. 

Testing his newfound incorporeal self, Percy walks through his bar stools and coffee table. His shins pass right through the table and objects on top: His Quidditch journal and a book bag with dainty patches— Ginny’s. He has no idea why her bag is here. Nothing of hers has ever been in his apartment before, but honestly? He doesn’t care. He wants no mysteries, no thoughts, no raw edges, no guilt, no siblings.  

Percy walks right up to and through his bedroom door. It’s a bit funny how the place he wants to go when panicked is a place he used to take for granted: His bed. Oliver. And wow, wouldn’t you know it? Here they both are. He fully anticipates his incorporeal body to go right through the bed— it doesn’t. His shin hits the edge of his bed frame and Percy hisses. 

Oliver jerks awake, blearily looking at Percy. For all of a moment he looks alarmed—

“Aye, Percy?” He blinks, voice heavy with sleep. He gropes under the pillow, “Oh, ‘am dreaming. Dinnae think this would be happening anymore.”

Oliver flops back down and pulls the blankets back, inviting Percy into his own bed. Percy accepts; He drapes Oliver’s coat over the nightstand before crawling in, leaving his glasses behind. The bed is as soft as he remembers, but the sheets certainly need to be changed— No. Now is not the time to be fussy about clean bedding. 

He just wants safety. 

Percy settles right into Oliver’s arms. Oliver wraps around him: One leg twines in between Percy’s, and the other hooks over Percy’s hip. One arm is Percy’s pillow, and the other pulls him against Oliver’s chest. 

“Cannae tell you a secret, Perse?”

Percy hums. Oliver gently scratches his scalp. 

“Dinnae like your new hair. Does not suit you a bit.”

Percy laughs because he’s also not a fan, but his hair has been the least important thing happening. “Not a fan?”

“Yer not a Bill,” Oliver combs through the length of Percy’s hair, words mumbling against his skin, “Yer a Percy. And Percy’s should have posh haircuts— sharp. Clean. Like you always had before.”

“Posh, right.” Percy tucks his hands up the front of Oliver’s shirt, as he would in any dream. “Any other requests of my physical appearance?” 

Oliver smiles. “Nay.”

“Glad to hear it. I meet all standard issue Percy requirements, then?” He asks into the crook of Oliver’s neck. 

“Mmhm. Ginger, freckles, bonnie… aye, you’re up to spec. Oh, but actually—“ Oliver uses his hold in Percy’s hair to tip his head back, “You’re terribly behind on yer quota for this week.”

“Quota?”

Oliver kisses him sleepily; Percy laughs: “Oh, I see.” 

It feels different than the other dreams. Warmer, softer; like Oliver’s physical presence is more real. It’s almost overwhelming to Percy. It’s been a very, very time since he’s been kissed in such a way. 

When Oliver tries to go in for another kiss he instead yawns into Percy’s cheek. The aborted attempt at turning this into a sleepy snog doesn’t go unnoticed; Percy gives Oliver a quick peck before settling against him. The other man feels so alive and Percy desperately wants to touch him. 

“Oliver?” Mainly he wants to see if Oliver is still awake enough. “I want to say thank you.”  

Oliver gently slaps his hand around until he finds one of Percy’s, then locks their fingers together tight. He presses his lips to the back of Percy’s hand in what may be the world's most chaste kiss, and uses the leg looped over Percy’s hips to pull him close. This space here against Oliver is safe . It’s not dark or raining or mildewed; It’s warm, lit by the pastel glow of sunrise, and smells of rosemary soap. 

“Thank me another way, Perse.”

It’s just a few moments before Oliver is kissing at Percy’s neck, slow and languid. The desire is there but the energy is not; Percy rubs soft circles into Oliver’s shoulders. He feels tense and his muscles are knotted; when Percy finds a particular spot close to the base of Oliver’s neck, the man heavily sighs. 

“Is that good, Oliver?” Percy asks in a whisper. 

Breathily: “Aye.”

Oliver adjusts them so he’s resting on top of Percy, sunk into the gap of his legs. Oliver’s weight is far greater than Percy’s own in a denser body, crafted by professional athleticism and not hours of studying. It’s actually the perfect calming aid that Percy had wanted; His limbs don’t feel so disconnected with Oliver’s body on his.

“What’s all this tension from?” Percy asks, kneading what he can of Oliver’s back. 

“Floor. Slept on it.”

Before Percy can ask more, Oliver’s kisses die off into a soft sleep. 

.