Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May 1998 – Great Hall, Hogwarts

It was over.

The air inside the Great Hall hung heavy with smoke and silence, broken only by the occasional sob or the scrape of boots against stone. The battle had ended, but the war had left its mark on every wall, every face, every breath.

Percy stood near the edge of the hall, unmoving. His robes were torn, streaked with ash and blood—some of it his, most of it not. His wand dangled loosely at his side, forgotten. Around him, the world shifted into something unrecognizable. Cheers had erupted when Voldemort fell, but they had faded quickly, swallowed by the weight of what had been lost.

He had watched his mother strike Bellatrix down with a scream that didn’t sound like her. He had seen Ginny shield a fallen classmate, George stagger with a broken arm, Charlie curse through gritted teeth, Bill fight side by side with Fleur. His father had fought like a man possessed, casting with a precision Percy had never seen before.

And Fred—Fred had smiled, just before he fell. 

And Percy had held him. Had felt the warmth leave his brother’s body. Had pressed his forehead to Fred’s and whispered apologies he should have said years ago. He had screamed, maybe. Or maybe the scream had only lived in his chest, too deep to rise.

Now, he stood in the aftermath, surrounded by the living and the dead, and felt nothing but the hollow ache of survival.

Fred had died laughing. That was the part Percy couldn’t stop circling back to. Not the blood, not the rubble, not even the way his brother’s body had gone limp in his arms—but his words. How he turned laughing, mid-battle, not believing Percy had just told a joke. And then the explosion. And then—

He hadn’t even finished his sentence.

Percy’s throat tightened. He couldn’t look at George. Couldn’t bear to see the mirror of Fred’s face, cracked and hollow. George had always been the louder twin, but now the silence around him was deafening. Percy had tried, once, to meet his eyes. George had looked away first.

A voice cut through the haze—sharp, commanding. “We need help moving the bodies. Into the Hall. Gently.”

Percy didn’t know who had spoken. It didn’t matter. The words gave him something to do, something to hold onto. He moved. His legs carried him forward before his mind caught up. Around him, others were already lifting, levitating, guiding the fallen with reverence. He bent down beside a young man—barely older than a student—and slid his arms beneath the shoulders. The body was heavier than it should have been. Or maybe Percy was just too tired to tell the difference.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just moved.

Each step across the stone floor echoed with memories. His mother’s scream. Ginny’s wand flashing in the dark. Charlie’s bloodied grin. His father’s hand on his shoulder, steadying him after Fred fell. The way the world had narrowed to a single point of pain, and then kept going anyway.

He passed by a shattered suit of armor, a scorch mark on the wall, a broken wand snapped clean in two. All of it remnants. All of it real.

He moved bodies. The smaller ones he carried—arms hooked gently beneath shoulders and knees, careful not to jostle what no longer felt pain. The larger ones he levitated, lips pressed into a thin line as he guided them through the broken corridors and into the Great Hall. His wand hand shook, but the spells held.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look anyone in the eye.

Faces passed in a blur. Some he recognized—Terry Boot, pale and still, a smear of blood across his temple. Lavender Brown, her chest unmoving, her hand curled as if still reaching for something. Colin Creevey, impossibly small, impossibly young. Percy paused only a moment before lifting him. Others were strangers. A man with greying hair and a torn cloak. A girl with a Hufflepuff tie and a shattered wand clutched in her fist. A witch with burn marks across her arms and a peaceful expression that made Percy’s stomach twist. He didn’t let himself think about them. Didn’t let himself wonder who they were, who they’d left behind. He couldn’t. There wasn’t room.

The Great Hall was filling with the dead. Rows of them, laid out with quiet reverence. Someone had conjured white sheets. Percy didn’t know who. He didn’t ask. He kept moving.

He was lifting another student—Ravenclaw, maybe fourth year—when he saw them. A small group near the entrance to the Great Hall, moving with the same grim purpose. Angelina Johnson had a limp. Alicia Spinnet was levitating two bodies at once, jaw clenched tight. And at the center of them, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand steady, was Oliver Wood.

Percy froze for half a second. Not out of surprise—he’d known Oliver had been here, had seen flashes of him during the chaos—but because something in him twisted at the sight. Oliver’s face was streaked with soot, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes hollow. But he moved with the same fierce determination Percy remembered from the Quidditch pitch, years ago. Only now, there was no game. No glory. Just grief.

Their eyes met. It wasn’t long. A flicker, a breath. Percy didn’t speak. Neither did Oliver. There was no room for words. Instead, Percy adjusted his grip on the student in his arms and stepped forward. Oliver shifted to make space. Together, they laid the bodies down—side by side, gently, reverently. Another student. Another name Percy didn’t know.

They moved again. Another body. Another trip.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.They kept moving.

Bodies from the courtyard. From the stairwells. From the shattered entrance hall. Percy didn’t know how long they worked—time had lost all meaning—but Oliver stayed close, never far from reach. They didn’t speak. Just moved, lifted, laid the fallen down with care.

At some point, Percy noticed another familiar face—Marcus Belby, he thought, or maybe Graham Pritchard. It was hard to tell through the grime and blood. A few others from their year were helping too, faces drawn and silent. He couldn’t remember all their names. He didn’t try.

But Oliver—he remembered Oliver. They’d shared a dorm for seven years. Percy had always admired his focus, even if he found the Quidditch obsession exhausting. Oliver had been loud, passionate, impossible to ignore. And yet, in this moment, he was quiet. Steady. Present. Of course he was here. Of course he had fought.

Percy hadn’t thought of him once during the battle. Not until now. And now, he couldn’t stop noticing him. The way Oliver’s jaw clenched when he lifted a student no older than fourteen. The way he paused, just briefly, to adjust a fallen boy’s collar before stepping back. The way he glanced at Percy—not with surprise, not with pity, but with something quieter. Recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

They didn’t speak. Just nodded, once, and kept moving.

Eventually, Percy’s body gave out before his will did. Percy found himself drifting toward the far end of the Great Hall, where a few professors and older witches and wizards—parents, maybe—had gathered in silence. No one spoke much. Some sat with their heads in their hands. Others stared blankly at the stone floor, as if trying to make sense of the blood still staining it.

Near the wall, a group of house-elves had returned. They moved quietly, reverently, laying out trays of food and pitchers of water on conjured tables. Sandwiches, fruit, biscuits—simple things. Comforting things. Percy didn’t know if they’d come back on their own or been summoned. He didn’t ask.

He sat down on the edge of a bench, hands trembling slightly as he reached for a cup of water. It was lukewarm, but he drank it anyway. Then a biscuit. Then half a sandwich. The bread turned to ash in his mouth. He swallowed once, twice, then pushed the plate away. His stomach twisted. The scent of food—so normal, so out of place—hit him all at once. He stood abruptly, turned from the table, and doubled over.

He retched.

Nothing came up. There was nothing left in him. Just the dry heave of a body that had seen too much, done too much, and still wasn’t allowed to stop. No one said anything. A few glanced over, then looked away. There was no judgment. Just the quiet understanding of people who had all broken in their own ways.

Percy wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and sat back down, breathing through his nose. The biscuit still sat on the plate beside him, untouched. He sat alone at the edge of the bench, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The nausea had passed, but the hollow ache remained—settled somewhere behind his ribs, heavy and unmoving.

He didn’t hear the footsteps until they stopped beside him.

Arthur Weasley didn’t say anything at first. He just sat down, slow and careful, as though the bench might break beneath him. He didn’t look at Percy. Just let out a long breath and rested his hands on his thighs. For a while, they sat like that. Side by side. Silent.

Then, softly, Arthur said, “You did well today.”

Percy didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he could.

Arthur nodded, as if he hadn’t expected an answer. “Your mother… she’s with Ginny now. They’re both all right. Shaken, but whole.” A pause. “George is with Charlie. He’s not speaking much. And Ron is with Harry and Hermione.”

Still, Percy said nothing.

Arthur turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at him. “You don’t have to say anything, son. I just wanted you to know… I saw you. Out there. Fighting beside us.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He stared at the floor.

“I know it’s been… hard,” Arthur continued, voice low. “And I know we haven’t always made it easy for you to come back. But you did. When it mattered most.”

Percy’s hands trembled. He pressed them tighter together. Arthur didn’t reach for him. Didn’t try to pull him into a hug or offer platitudes. He just sat there, steady and warm, like a hearth that hadn’t gone out.

After a long moment, he added, “Fred would’ve been proud of you.”

That broke something. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just a small, silent crack in the numbness Percy had wrapped around himself. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. But he let his father’s words settle into the space between them, and for the first time since the battle ended, he let himself feel the weight of being seen.

They sat in silence for a while. Maybe a minute. Maybe ten. Time had lost its shape. Eventually, Arthur shifted. He stood slowly, knees cracking faintly as he rose. He didn’t say anything more—just placed a hand briefly on Percy’s shoulder, warm and grounding, before turning to rejoin the others. Back to the work. Back to the aftermath.

Percy didn’t move. He stared ahead, eyes unfocused, watching the flicker of torchlight on the stone walls. The Great Hall, once a place of feasts and laughter and exams and arguments, now held rows of the dead. The ceiling above, enchanted to mirror the sky, was still dark—clouded and heavy, as if even the stars had turned away.

He couldn’t imagine the world spinning after this. Couldn’t picture tomorrow, or the day after, or anything beyond the next breath.

Fred was gone.

And yet people were still moving. Still speaking in hushed voices. Still eating, drinking, comforting one another. As if life could simply continue. As if the world hadn’t cracked open.

Percy sat there, hands limp in his lap, and tried to remember how to feel like a person again. Eventually, Percy stood. His legs protested, stiff from stillness, but he moved anyway. There were still bodies to carry. Still things to do. He didn’t know what else to be, if not useful.

He rejoined the quiet procession, lifting, levitating, laying the fallen to rest. The Great Hall filled slowly, row by row, until there was no more room. Until the last of them had been brought in from the rubble and the dark. Then, at last, the work stopped.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward. Her robes were torn at the hem, her face pale and drawn, but her voice—when it came—was steady. “This is a day of victory,” she said, and the Hall fell silent. “But it is also a day of mourning. We have lost friends, family, students, colleagues. We have lost too much.” She paused, eyes sweeping the room. “And yet—we are here. We are alive. And that means something.”

A hush settled over the crowd. Percy stood near the back, arms crossed tightly over his chest, listening.

“I urge you all,” McGonagall continued, “to see a healer before you leave. Even if you feel fine. Especially if you don’t. Go home. Rest. Hug your loved ones. Eat something warm. Let yourselves grieve. Let yourselves heal.” Her voice softened. “You have done enough for today.”

There was no applause. Just a quiet ripple of breath, as if the Hall itself exhaled.

Percy didn’t move. Not yet. He wasn’t sure where to go.

As the crowd in the Great Hall began to thin, Percy drifted forward, pulled by instinct more than intention. He moved through clusters of people—some hugging, some weeping, some simply standing in stunned silence—until he found them. His family. They were gathered near one of the side walls, close enough to the healer’s station to be seen but far enough to keep to themselves. Ginny sat on the floor, her head resting against Charlie’s shoulder. George stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes distant. Molly was to the side, silently crying. Bill and Fleur were speaking quietly with a healer. Arthur looked up first and gave Percy a small nod.

They were alive.

He joined them without a word. No one said anything. They didn’t need to. Just being there—together—was enough.

A healer approached, a middle-aged witch with kind eyes and a clipboard charmed to float beside her. “Let’s have a look at all of you,” she said gently. “No heroics, please. If you’re standing, you’re still hurt.”

They obeyed. One by one, she checked them over—scanning for curses, burns, broken bones. Percy stood still as her wand passed over his ribs, his shoulder, the gash on his temple he’d forgotten about. It was only then, watching her work, that he really saw them. Ginny’s arm was in a sling, a magical injury. Charlie’s robes were scorched and torn. George had a cut across his cheek that hadn’t been healed properly. His father’s hands were shaking. His mother’s eyes were red-rimmed and raw. They had all fought. They had all bled. And somehow, they had all survived. All but one. 

The healer finished her scans and gave them a tired smile. “You’re stable. But I’d recommend seeing a mind-healer in the coming days. All of you. There’s no shame in it. What you’ve been through… it doesn’t end when the fighting does.”

No one argued. They stepped away from the healer’s station together, moving slowly, as if unsure what to do next. The castle was still standing, but it didn’t feel like home. Not yet.

“Do we… go home?” Ginny asked quietly.

No one answered right away. Percy looked around at the faces he’d nearly lost. He didn’t know what home meant anymore. But he knew he couldn’t leave them again.

They stood in a loose circle just outside the healer’s station, the silence between them heavy but not empty. The question hung in the air: Where do we go now?

“The Burrow,” Arthur said finally, his voice soft but certain. “We go home.”

There were nods. Quiet, tired, unanimous. They didn’t discuss how. They simply began pairing off, instinctively, as if some part of them still remembered how to protect one another. No one would Apparate alone. Bill took Fleur’s hand. Charlie offered his arm to Ginny, who didn’t argue. George hesitated, then let Molly take his hand without a word. She squeezed it tightly, her other hand brushing his arm like she still couldn’t believe he was real. Arthur turned to Percy. “Ready?” he asked. Percy nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. Arthur held out his arm. Percy took it.

There was a moment—just a breath—where they all stood together, battered and bruised and broken in ways they hadn’t yet begun to understand.

Then, with a series of soft cracks, the Weasleys vanished from the ruins of Hogwarts.

They went home.

Chapter Text

July 1998 – Ministry of Magic

The Ministry looked the same.

That was the first thing Percy noticed as he stepped through the Floo and into the Atrium—the same polished floors, the same golden statues, the same faint scent of parchment and polish and something faintly metallic. But the sameness felt wrong. Like a photograph of a place that no longer existed.

It had only been six weeks since the battle. Forty-six days, to be exact. Percy had counted. But it felt like a lifetime had passed. Or maybe several. The world had cracked open and rearranged itself, and somehow the Ministry had remained untouched—gleaming and orderly, as if war hadn’t clawed its way through every corridor of their lives.

He adjusted the collar of his robes, too formal even by his standards, and stepped forward. His shoes echoed against the marble, too loud in the quiet. There were fewer people than usual. Most departments were still operating on reduced hours, and the ones who remained moved with a kind of hushed urgency—like they were afraid to speak too loudly, in case the silence shattered.

Percy’s fingers twitched at his sides. He resisted the urge to smooth his robes again.

He was here to give a statement. A formal account of his time with the Ministry under the regime. Names, dates, decisions. He had prepared for it the way he prepared for everything—meticulously, obsessively, with ink-stained fingers and sleepless nights. But now that he was here, standing beneath the towering ceiling of the Atrium, he felt like a child again. Small. Exposed.

He hadn’t been back since before the battle. Not properly. He’d sent owls, answered inquiries, even helped draft a few internal memos from the Burrow. But this—this was different. This was stepping back into the place where he had once believed he belonged. And now, he wasn’t sure.

The war had taken Fred. That was the truth that lived in his chest like a splinter. Fred, who had laughed in the face of danger. Fred, who had died mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-life. Percy had held him. Had felt the warmth leave his body. Had whispered apologies too late.

The family was still reeling. Molly cried in the garden when she thought no one was looking. George barely spoke. Ginny had thrown herself into helping rebuild Hogwarts, her letters clipped and careful. Charlie had stayed longer than usual, lingering at the Burrow like a tether. Bill had taken on the role of quiet protector, steady and unshakable, always nearby but never pressing. Arthur had taken to fixing things that didn’t need fixing. Ron—Ron was the hardest to read. He didn’t yell, didn’t accuse, but there was a distance in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. A wall Percy wasn’t sure he’d ever be allowed to climb.  And Percy—Percy had buried himself in paperwork and guilt, because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

He didn’t know if he belonged here anymore. Not at the Ministry. Not at home. Not anywhere.

A witch in deep blue robes passed him, offering a polite nod. Percy returned it stiffly. He could feel the weight of the folder tucked under his arm—his statement, neatly organized, cross-referenced, annotated. It felt like armor. Or maybe a confession.

He took a breath. Then another. Then stepped toward the lifts. The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and Percy stepped inside, adjusting the folder under his arm like it might anchor him. The brass grille clanged shut behind him, and the lift began to rise with a gentle lurch.

He wasn’t alone. Oliver Wood stood near the back of the lift, one hand braced against the wall, the other tucked into the pocket of his robes. His hair was shorter than Percy remembered—less windswept, more deliberate—but still unruly at the edges. There was a faint bruise along his jaw, half-faded, and his eyes were shadowed with something Percy couldn’t name.

Their eyes met for a moment. Just a flicker. A nod. Percy looked away first.

They didn’t speak. The silence in the lift was thick, humming faintly with the magic that powered it. Percy stared straight ahead, watching the floor numbers tick upward in glowing gold. He could feel Oliver’s presence beside him—solid, quiet, unspoken—but didn’t dare break the silence.

What was he doing here? Percy wondered. Giving a statement? Supporting someone else? A witness? A trial? He didn’t know. Didn’t ask.

The lift slowed. The grille clattered open. They stepped out onto the same floor. For a moment, they walked side by side, their footsteps echoing in tandem down the corridor. The Ministry’s war tribunal offices were quiet, the air heavy with the scent of ink and old magic. Doors lined the hallway, each one marked with a brass plaque: “Testimony Room A,” “Wizengamot Review,” “Records and Evidence.” At the junction, they paused.  Oliver glanced at him again. Not cold. Not warm. Just… present. Percy gave a small nod. Oliver returned it. Then they turned—Percy to the left, Oliver to the right—and the moment passed.

Percy’s footsteps quickened. His palms were damp against the folder. He hated how his heart was racing, how his mind kept circling the same thought: What if they blame me? He had followed the Ministry. Had believed in it, even when it twisted into something unrecognizable. He had enforced rules that hurt people. Had turned his back on his family. Had sat in meetings while others suffered. He had come back. He had fought. But was that enough? Would it ever be?

He reached the door marked “Testimony Room B” and paused, hand on the handle. He took a breath. Then another. Then he stepped inside.

The room was colder than he expected. Not physically—though the stone walls and lack of windows gave it a chill—but in atmosphere. The kind of cold that settled in your bones, that made you sit straighter, speak softer, question everything.

Percy arrived early. Of course he did. He took a seat near the back, his folder clutched tightly in his lap. The room was long and narrow, with rows of benches facing a raised platform at the front. A single chair sat in the center, flanked by two Aurors and a small table with a vial of clear liquid resting in a silver holder. Veritaserum. He swallowed hard. He had known it was coming. His position during the war—his proximity to the inner workings of the Ministry, even under the puppet regime—meant his testimony would be scrutinized. He had signed the consent form without protest. It was the only way to prove he had nothing to hide. But still. The thought of it—of sitting in that chair, of having his thoughts laid bare—made his stomach twist.

He wasn’t the only one giving a statement today. That much was clear as others began to trickle in—former Department heads, junior clerks, Magical Law Enforcement officers. Some he recognized. Some he didn’t. All of them wore the same expression: wary, exhausted, uncertain. A few nodded to him. One or two avoided his gaze. He didn’t blame them. He wondered who would be called first. Whether the Wizengamot would be present in full, or if this was just a preliminary review. Whether anyone would ask him why he stayed so long. Why he didn’t see what was happening sooner. Why he didn’t leave. He had answers. He just didn’t know if they were good enough.

The room had filled slowly. Quietly. Like a courtroom of ghosts. Percy kept his eyes on the front, but he could feel the weight of the others around him—former coworkers, supervisors, interns who had once fetched tea and now sat with stiff shoulders and pale faces. Some looked nervous. Others looked numb. And then there were the ones who didn’t look either.

“Percy Weasley,” a voice drawled beside him. “Didn’t expect to see you here so early. Still the overachiever, I see.”

Percy turned. The man sliding into the seat beside him was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smirk that hadn’t changed since their days in Magical Transportation. Adrian Travers. He had worked in the Floo Regulation Panel—efficient, ambitious, and always just a little too eager to please whoever was in power.

Percy gave a tight nod. “Travers.”

Adrian leaned back, arms crossed. “Bit of a circus, isn’t it? All this fuss. Statements, hearings, truth potions. You’d think we were the ones who started the war.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “Some of us enabled it.”

Adrian shrugged. “We followed orders. Kept the lights on. Someone had to. Besides, it’s not like we were torturing Muggle-borns in the basement. I did my job. Same as you.”

Percy didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The words sat like stones in his throat.

Adrian chuckled. “You worry too much, Weasley. They’re not going to throw us in Azkaban for filing paperwork. Just say your bit, drink the potion, and walk out clean. That’s what I plan to do.”

Percy turned away. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t believe he had once shared lunch breaks with this man, had nodded along to his jokes, had trusted him. He felt sick.

The door at the front of the room opened with a soft creak. A woman entered—tall, silver-haired, with sharp eyes and deep lines etched into her face. Her robes were deep violet, trimmed in silver, and the air seemed to still as she stepped forward.

“Witches and wizards,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. “I am Madam Octavia Rowle, Senior Inquiry Officer for the Post-War Accountability Tribunal. You are here today to give sworn statements regarding your roles within the Ministry during the period of Voldemort’s occupation.”

The room fell silent. Percy sat straighter, folder clenched in his lap, heart pounding.

Madam Rowle’s gaze swept the room. “You will be called one at a time. You will be administered Veritaserum. You will speak truthfully. This is not a trial. It is a reckoning.” She paused. “And it begins now.”

The first name was called, and Percy flinched. A young woman stood—barely out of school, by the look of her—and made her way to the chair at the front. Her hands trembled as she sat. The Aurors administered the Veritaserum with practiced efficiency, and Madam Rowle’s voice was calm as she began the questioning.

Name. Department. Role during the occupation.

The girl answered in a thin, shaking voice. She had worked in the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Filed reports. Took dictation. She hadn’t known what was happening, not really. She had heard rumors, but— Her voice cracked. She apologized. For what, Percy wasn’t sure. For not knowing? For not doing more? She was dismissed gently. A healer escorted her out.

The next was a man from Magical Law Enforcement. Older. Stern-faced. He answered crisply, without hesitation. He had followed orders. Had enforced curfews. Had detained Muggle-borns “for questioning.” Percy’s stomach turned. The questions grew sharper. Madam Rowle’s tone never changed, but the air in the room did. The man’s answers became clipped. Defensive. He insisted he had no choice. That he was protecting his family. That he didn’t enjoy it. But he had done it. He left without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Another. Then another. Some wept. Some raged. Some sat in stony silence, their truths dragged into the open by the potion’s pull. Percy tried to listen. Tried to take note of the questions, the patterns, the tone. Tried to prepare. But his mind kept drifting. To Fred. To the way George had looked at him like a stranger. To the way his mother’s hugs still made him flinch. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. What if they asked why he stayed? Why he enforced policies he knew were wrong? Why he didn’t leave sooner? What if the truth wasn’t enough? His name hadn’t been called yet. But it would be. Soon. He gripped the folder in his lap like it might hold him together.

The next name called made Percy’s breath catch.

“Mr. Reginald Avery.”

Avery. Not the elder Avery—one of Voldemort’s known lieutenants—but his son. Reginald had worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Percy had shared a desk with him once. They’d exchanged memos. Laughed, even. Reginald had always been polite, efficient, unassuming. A little smug, perhaps, but never cruel. He walked to the chair with the same calm expression he’d worn in staff meetings. Sat down. Took the Veritaserum without hesitation.

Madam Rowle began. “State your name and department.”

“Reginald Avery. International Magical Cooperation.”

“Did you remain employed at the Ministry during the occupation?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware of the regime’s use of the Department to manipulate foreign magical governments?”

“Yes.”

Percy’s stomach twisted.

“Did you participate in any such manipulation?”

A pause.

Then: “No.” The word rang out, clear and confident. Too confident.

Madam Rowle’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Avery, under Veritaserum, you are compelled to speak the truth. I will ask again. Did you participate in any such manipulation?”

Another pause. Longer this time. Then, faintly: “Yes.”

The room went still.

Madam Rowle’s voice didn’t change. “Did you knowingly pass false information to the French Ministry regarding Muggle-born refugees?”

Reginald’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

“Did you do so under orders?”

“Yes.”

“Whose orders?”

Silence. Then, barely audible: “The Dark Lord’s.”

Gasps rippled through the room. One of the Aurors stepped forward. Reginald didn’t resist. He didn’t speak again. Percy sat frozen, heart pounding. He had worked with him. Had shared tea breaks. Had once complimented his handwriting. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t known.

“Percival Weasley,” Madam Rowle called.

The room blurred. Percy stood on legs that didn’t feel like his own. The folder in his hands felt suddenly absurd—useless against the weight of what he carried. He walked to the chair. Sat. The Auror approached with the vial. Percy didn’t flinch. He opened his mouth. The Veritaserum burned cold on his tongue. It wasn’t painful—just strange. Like swallowing ice that never melted. Percy sat rigid in the chair, hands clenched in his lap, folder resting on the table beside him like a relic from another life. He could feel the potion settling in. A slow, creeping clarity. His thoughts sharpened, but his control slipped. He couldn’t lie. Couldn’t deflect. Couldn’t protect himself with careful phrasing or bureaucratic precision. He was exposed.

Madam Rowle’s voice cut through the silence. “State your name and department.”

“Percival Ignatius Weasley. Department of Magical Transportation, later reassigned to the Minister’s Office.”

Her quill scratched across parchment, recording every word. “Did you remain employed at the Ministry during the occupation?”

“Yes.”

“Were you aware of the regime’s alignment with Voldemort?”

A pause. Not hesitation—he couldn’t hesitate. Just the weight of the truth pressing against his ribs. “Not at first. I suspected. I ignored it.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to believe I was doing the right thing. Because I was proud. Because I was afraid of being wrong.” The words spilled out, unfiltered. Each one felt like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the room.

“Did you enforce policies that targeted Muggle-borns?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe those policies were just?”

“No.”

“Then why did you enforce them?”

“Because I thought I could fix things from the inside. Because I didn’t know how to leave. Because I was a coward.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Percy’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel sweat at the back of his neck, the tightness in his throat. He wasn’t numb anymore. He felt everything—shame, regret, fear. But he didn’t cry. He didn’t break. He endured.

The questions continued. Dates. Names. Meetings. He answered them all. Truthfully. Exhaustingly. The potion didn’t let him forget, didn’t let him soften the edges. Every mistake, every compromise, every moment he had looked away—it all came out. It felt like hours.

Finally, Madam Rowle looked up from her notes. “That will be all, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy stood slowly. His legs ached. His hands trembled. But he kept his back straight, his chin level. He picked up his folder, though he no longer remembered why he’d brought it. He walked out of the room without looking back. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. Percy stood still for a moment, just outside the testimony room, as if the air had thickened around him. The corridor was empty. Quiet. Too quiet. He exhaled. It wasn’t a sob. Not quite. But it caught in his throat like one.

His hand tightened around the folder, crumpling the edge. He didn’t notice. His legs moved without instruction, carrying him forward in a slow, uneven rhythm. The polished floor blurred beneath him. He had told the truth. Every word. Every shameful, necessary word. And still, it didn’t feel like enough. He had enforced policies that hurt people. Had sat in meetings while others suffered. Had convinced himself that order was more important than justice. That loyalty to the institution meant something. He had been wrong.

He reached the lift and pressed the button with more force than necessary. The golden grille slid open, and he stepped inside, alone. The doors closed, and the lift began to descend. Only then did he let himself lean back against the wall. His knees didn’t buckle. He didn’t cry. But something in him cracked—quietly, deeply. A fracture he couldn’t name. He stared at the floor numbers as they ticked downward. Level Nine. Level Eight. Level Seven. Each one felt like a descent into something heavier. By the time the lift reached the Atrium, Percy had straightened his spine again. His face was composed. His hands still trembled, but he tucked them behind the folder. The doors opened.

He stepped out into the golden light of the Atrium, and for a moment, he just stood there—surrounded by the familiar gleam of the Ministry, and feeling like a stranger in his own skin. Percy moved on autopilot. The Atrium was bright, too bright after the dim stone of the lower levels. The golden light from the enchanted ceiling glinted off polished floors and gilded statues, and Percy squinted against it, blinking like he’d just stepped out of a cave.

His mouth was dry. He hadn’t had water in hours. His stomach ached—not from hunger exactly, but from the hollow, gnawing emptiness that came after too much adrenaline and not enough food. He needed something. Water. A biscuit. A place to sit. He turned toward the small café tucked near the far wall, barely registering the movement of people around him. His thoughts were a blur—fragments of questions, memories, the echo of his own voice under Veritaserum.

He didn’t see the figure in front of him until it was too late. They collided—shoulder to chest, a solid thud that knocked the folder from Percy’s hands and sent a few loose pages fluttering to the floor.

“Oh—bloody hell, sorry—” the other man said, reaching down at the same time Percy did.

Percy looked up. Oliver Wood. Of course. He was dressed in casual robes, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a satchel slung over one shoulder. His hair was still damp from a recent shower, and there was a faint smudge of ink on his wrist. He looked like he’d just come from somewhere important and hadn’t quite realized it.

Percy froze.

Oliver blinked. “Percy?”

Percy opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Oliver straightened, a few of Percy’s papers in hand. He didn’t offer them immediately—just looked at him, brow furrowed, concern softening the edges of his usually bright expression. “Hello, Percy,” he said, voice low. “Are you alright?”

Percy opened his mouth. Tried to answer. Nothing came. He shook his head. Not a dramatic gesture. Just a small, helpless shake. His throat felt tight, his chest hollow. The words were there—he just couldn’t reach them.

Oliver’s expression shifted. Not surprised. Not pitying. Just… understanding. “Alright,” he said gently, like they were already mid-conversation. “Come on. You look like you’ve been wrung out and left to dry.”

He handed Percy the folder—neatly stacked again, somehow—and turned toward the café without waiting for a reply. Percy hesitated. Then followed. They walked in silence, side by side. Oliver didn’t press. Didn’t ask questions. Just moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to lead without making it feel like leading. At the counter, Oliver ordered two waters and a pair of biscuits—one oat, one ginger—and handed Percy the ginger without asking. Percy took it automatically, fingers brushing Oliver’s for a moment. They found a quiet corner table. Percy sat slowly, the water cool in his hand, the biscuit untouched on the napkin in front of him.

Oliver took a sip of his own drink, then leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said casually, “I once threw up in this very Atrium after a disciplinary hearing. Nerves. Thought I was going to be banned from Quidditch for life.”

Percy blinked at him.

Oliver grinned. “Turns out, I wasn’t. Just got a warning and a very long lecture about broom safety.”

A beat passed. Then—quietly, unexpectedly—Percy huffed a breath. Almost a laugh.

Oliver’s grin softened. “There he is.”

The biscuit was dry, but Percy ate it anyway. It gave him something to do with his hands. Something to focus on besides the hollow ache behind his ribs and the lingering taste of Veritaserum at the back of his throat. Oliver didn’t push. He sipped his water, leaned back in his chair, and let the silence settle between them like an old cloak—familiar, worn, not unwelcome.

After a while, Percy spoke. “I’d forgotten how loud this place is.”

Oliver glanced around the Atrium. “Yeah. All marble and echo. Like Hogwarts, if Hogwarts had more paperwork and fewer secret passageways.”

Percy huffed again. Almost a laugh. “And fewer exploding cauldrons.”

Oliver grinned. “Speak for yourself. I shared a dorm with you, remember? You and your self-heating ink experiment nearly took out my Charms textbook.”

Percy blinked. “That was third year.”

“Mm. Still have the scorch mark on my copy. I kept it. Proof of survival.”

Percy shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You were always dramatic.”

“Says the bloke who color-coded his revision schedule and hexed it to sing if anyone touched it.”

“That was a privacy charm,” Percy muttered.

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “It sang Celestina Warbeck.”

Percy looked away, but his ears turned pink. They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, the noise of the Atrium washing around them—footsteps, murmured conversations, the distant whoosh of the Floo Network.

Then Oliver said, more gently, “I was here for a meeting. Quidditch safety regulations. They’re trying to standardize concussion protocols.”

Percy nodded. “That’s… good. Necessary.”

Oliver tilted his head. “And you?”

Percy hesitated. Then, quietly: “Statement hearing.”

Oliver didn’t react. Didn’t flinch or frown or ask for more. Just nodded. “Long day, then.”

Percy let out a breath. “Yes.”

They sat in silence for a while. Not the heavy, strained silence of the testimony room. This was something gentler. Looser around the edges. Percy sipped his water slowly, letting the coolness settle the tightness in his throat. The biscuit sat half-eaten on the napkin beside him. He could still feel the echo of the Veritaserum in his chest—like a bell that had been rung too hard and hadn’t quite stopped vibrating. But it was fading. Slowly.

Oliver leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the enchanted ceiling above. Then, without warning, he started humming. It was soft, tuneless at first. Then Percy recognized it—an old Quidditch chant from their school days. Something the Gryffindor stands used to shout during matches. It was ridiculous. Loud. Rhythmic. Completely inappropriate for the Ministry Atrium. And somehow, it made Percy’s chest ache in the best possible way. He didn’t laugh. But he smiled. Just a little. Oliver caught the look and grinned, still humming.

Percy looked down at his robes, suddenly self-conscious. He smoothed the front of them with one hand, brushing away a wrinkle that wasn’t really there. “You’re… very good at this,” he said, voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Oliver tilted his head. “At what?”

Percy hesitated. “At… making things feel less awful.”

Oliver’s grin softened. “Well. I’ve had practice.”

Percy nodded, eyes fixed on the table. He didn’t know what else to say. But he didn’t feel like leaving just yet. They lingered at the table longer than either of them probably meant to. The biscuit crumbs had been brushed away. The water glasses sat empty. But neither moved. The silence between them had shifted—no longer heavy, no longer awkward. Just… still. Percy found himself watching the way the light caught in Oliver’s hair, the way his fingers tapped absently against the table in a rhythm that might’ve once been a Quidditch chant. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, only that it was quieter than guilt and warmer than fear.

Eventually, they both stood, gathering their things. Percy folded his napkin with unnecessary precision. Oliver scooped up the glasses and dropped them into the bin with a practiced flick of his wrist. Then he glanced at his watch.

“Oh—bloody—” Oliver’s eyes widened. “I’m late. I’m actually late.”

Percy blinked. “For what?”

“Practice. I’ve got a scrimmage with the reserve team—was just supposed to pop in for a meeting and—” He slung his satchel over his shoulder, already backing away. “I didn’t mean to—Merlin, they’re going to kill me.”

He paused, halfway turned. “Thanks for the biscuit. And the company.”

And then he was gone—disappearing into the crowd with the same whirlwind energy he’d always had at school, like a broomstick in human form. Percy stood there, still holding his empty water cup. He hadn’t even said goodbye. He looked down at the table, then toward the lift, then back again. The warmth Oliver had left behind lingered for a moment longer. Then it, too, faded.

Percy stood for a moment longer, staring at the space where Oliver had been. Then he looked down at the empty water cup in his hand. He tossed it into the bin, the soft clatter oddly final.

He should go home. The thought came not as a command, but as a quiet truth. There was nothing left for him here tonight. No more questions. No more confessions. Just the long walk to the Floo and the weight of everything he hadn’t said. He crossed the Atrium slowly, weaving through the thinning crowd. The golden light overhead had dimmed slightly—twilight, or the Ministry’s version of it. The great fountain burbled softly in the center, its statues casting long shadows across the floor.

He wondered how the family was doing tonight.

If it was a bad day for George. If he’d spoken at all, or if he’d spent the evening in silence, staring at the empty chair across the room. If Ron was at the Burrow or off with Harry and Hermione, trying to pretend things were normal again. If his mother had remembered to eat. If his father had fixed something that didn’t need fixing.

He didn’t know.

The Floo stations glowed softly ahead, green flames flickering behind wrought-iron grates. Percy stepped into one, the scent of ash and magic rising around him. He took a breath. Then he spoke the name of home. And vanished into the fire.

Chapter Text

May 1999 – The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole

Percy adjusted the collar of his robes for the third time, watching his reflection with a critical eye. The mirror in his childhood room was slightly warped—his shoulders looked uneven, his tie askew, his expression too tight. He smoothed the front of his robes again, then gave up. No amount of straightening would make him feel ready.

Behind him, the house stirred with quiet movement. The kind that came not from chaos, but from reverence. From memory. He could hear Ginny’s voice downstairs, low and steady, murmuring something to their mother. Molly’s reply was softer still, a hush of sound that didn’t quite reach the landing. They’d been like that all morning—close, quiet, orbiting each other like twin moons. Percy hadn’t been able to look at them for long.

He adjusted his cuffs. Again. The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t turn.

“You’ll wrinkle them if you keep fussing,” Arthur said gently.

Percy met his father’s eyes in the mirror. Arthur stood in the doorway, already dressed, his tie slightly crooked, his expression unreadable. But his gaze—his gaze was warm. Steady. Seeing.

“I know,” Percy said, voice thin.

Arthur stepped into the room, crossing to stand beside him. They looked at each other in the mirror—two men in dark robes, both older than they’d been a year ago. Arthur reached out and adjusted Percy’s collar with a practiced hand, then smoothed the shoulder of his robes.

“There,” he said. “Now you look like yourself.”

Percy didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he knew what that meant anymore.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Charlie’s voice called out a greeting, followed by the thump of boots and the rustle of a coat being hung. George didn’t answer. He rarely did these days. Percy caught a glimpse of him earlier—standing in the kitchen, shoulders hunched, a thin chain around his neck. At the end of it hung a single spoon, small and familiar. Fred’s. From the old family clock. The one that had always pointed to “mischief” no matter where Fred actually was. Now it pointed nowhere. George hadn’t spoken to Percy directly in months. Not since the funeral. But he hadn’t left the room when Percy entered, either. That counted for something.

Arthur clapped a hand gently on Percy’s shoulder. “We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

Percy nodded. Arthur didn’t move right away. Just stood there, hand resting lightly, like he knew Percy needed the weight of it. Then he left. Percy turned back to the mirror. His reflection stared back, pale and pinched, eyes too tired to be twenty-three. He didn’t look like someone going to a memorial. He looked like someone still trying to earn the right to exist. He took a breath. Then another. And went downstairs.

The stairs creaked beneath Percy’s feet, each step a small betrayal of his presence. He moved carefully, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance of the morning. In the kitchen, Bill and Fleur stood close together near the sink, speaking in low French. Fleur’s hand rested on Bill’s arm, her voice soft and lilting. Bill nodded along, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicked toward the hallway every few seconds—counting, maybe. Or waiting.

George sat at the table, hunched over a mug of tea gone cold. He didn’t look up when Percy entered. Didn’t speak. The spoon around his neck glinted faintly in the morning light, swinging slightly as he shifted in his seat. Fred’s spoon. Percy’s throat tightened.

Ginny leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her wand tucked behind one ear. She glanced up as Percy entered, and for a moment, their eyes met. Hers were sharp, guarded. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him like she was still deciding whether he deserved to be here. Percy looked away first.

Charlie was by the back door, pulling on his coat. He caught Percy’s eye and gave a small nod—acknowledgment, nothing more. Percy returned it, unsure what it meant. They hadn’t really spoken since the battle. Not even at the funeral. Charlie had always been the most distant of the brothers, but now the space between them felt deliberate. Not cold, exactly. Just… unspoken.

Arthur stood near the hearth, checking his watch. He looked up as Percy entered and gave him a small, steady smile. The kind that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that said, I see you.

Percy crossed the room and stood beside him, close but not touching. The fire crackled softly in the grate, casting flickers of gold across the worn floorboards.

“Everyone ready?” Arthur asked, his voice gentle.

There were nods. Quiet ones. No one spoke. Molly stepped forward, brushing invisible lint from George’s shoulder. He didn’t react. She smoothed his collar anyway, then turned to Ginny and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Ginny let her. Percy watched them all—his family, whole and not whole. Healing and not healed. Moving forward and standing still.

Ron wasn’t here. Again. He was with Harry and Hermione. Of course he was. That had become the pattern lately. The three of them, inseparable, orbiting each other like they were still in the middle of a war. Percy didn’t blame him. Not really. But the absence still stung.

Arthur cleared his throat. “We’ll apparate in pairs. No one alone.”

Another round of nods. Fleur took Bill’s hand. Molly reached for George, who hesitated, then let her. Charlie offered his arm to Ginny, who accepted without a word. Just like after the battle.

Arthur turned to Percy. “Ready?”

Percy nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. Arthur held out his arm. Percy took it.

There was a moment—just a breath—where they all stood together, battered and bruised and broken in ways they hadn’t yet begun to understand. Then, with a series of soft cracks, the Weasleys vanished from the Burrow.

May 1999 – Hogwarts Grounds

They apparated just outside the gates.

The castle rose in the distance, familiar and strange all at once. The damage from the battle had been repaired—stone walls rebuilt, windows replaced, towers standing tall once more—but the scars lingered. Not in the structure, but in the silence. In the way people moved. The path to the grounds was lined with lanterns, floating gently in the morning breeze. The sky was overcast, the clouds low and heavy, as if the weather itself had remembered what day it was.

Percy walked beside Arthur, his steps slow, measured. The others fanned out ahead—Bill and Fleur hand in hand, Ginny and Charlie in quiet conversation, Molly with George, who hadn’t spoken since they arrived. The spoon around his neck caught the light with every step.

The crowd was already gathering. Families, friends, survivors. Some stood in clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Others sat alone on conjured benches, staring at the castle or the sky or nothing at all. A few wept openly. Others looked like Percy felt—numb, worn thin, as if grief had hollowed them out and left only the shape of a person behind.

The grass was soft beneath their feet. The air smelled of damp earth and spring blossoms. Somewhere nearby, a bird sang. It felt wrong.

They followed the path toward the memorial site—a wide, open space near the lake, where a tall stone arch had been erected. Names shimmered across its surface, etched in soft silver light. No order. No titles. Just names. Fred Weasley. Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Colin Creevey. Lavender Brown. Dozens more. Percy’s breath caught as they approached. The names blurred for a moment, unreadable through the sting in his eyes. They stopped in front of the arch. No one spoke.

Molly reached out and touched Fred’s name with trembling fingers. George stood beside her, silent, his eyes fixed on the stone. Ginny looked away. Charlie bowed his head. Arthur stood quietly beside Percy, his hands folded in front of him. Percy didn’t move. He couldn’t. The name was right there—Fred Weasley—and still, it didn’t feel real. A year had passed. A whole year. And yet the ache hadn’t dulled. Not really. It had just settled deeper, quieter, like a stone at the bottom of a river.

He looked around at the others gathered. Faces he recognized. Faces he didn’t. Some were crying. Some were holding each other. Some just stood, like him, trying to remember how to breathe. The service hadn’t started yet. People were still arriving. But already, the air felt sacred. Heavy with memory.

Percy stepped forward. Slowly. He reached out and let his fingers brush the stone, just beneath Fred’s name. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I didn’t forget.” He didn’t know if anyone heard.

Arthur gently touched Percy’s elbow, a silent signal. The family began to move again, drifting toward the seating area that had been conjured near the lake’s edge. Rows of chairs—simple, conjured wood—faced the memorial arch. Some were already occupied. Others waited, empty and expectant. They found a spot near the middle. Not too close to the front, not hidden in the back. Arthur flicked his wand, and seven chairs appeared in a neat row. Fleur conjured cushions with a graceful wave. No one spoke. Percy sat between Charlie and Arthur. Ginny took the seat on Charlie’s other side, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the lake. George sat at the end, slightly apart, his chair angled just enough to suggest distance. Molly sat beside Arthur, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Percy looked around.

The crowd had grown. Dozens of people now, maybe more. Some he recognized—former classmates, professors, Ministry officials. Others were strangers, but their grief was familiar. Parents clutching photographs. Children holding flowers. Siblings standing shoulder to shoulder, their faces drawn and pale. He recognized more people than he expected. Former classmates, mostly—faces he hadn’t seen since graduation, or since the war had scattered them all like ash. Ernie Macmillan, solemn and stiff-backed. Padma and Parvati Patil, seated side by side, their hands clasped tightly. Terry Boot, pale and quiet, nodding to someone Percy didn’t know. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet stood near the back, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

And then—near the back—Harry Potter appeared. He walked beside Ron and Hermione, the three of them moving as one. Ron looked tired, his shoulders hunched, his eyes shadowed. Hermione held his hand, her expression composed but tight. Harry… Harry looked uncomfortable. Not in the way Percy remembered from school, when he’d bristled under attention. This was different. He looked like he didn’t want to be seen at all. Percy watched them for a moment. Ron didn’t look their way. He hadn’t looked Percy’s way in months. The trio found seats near the edge of the crowd. Hermione conjured their chairs. Ron sat heavily. Harry didn’t sit right away—he stood for a long moment, staring at the memorial, before finally lowering himself into the chair beside his friends.

Percy turned back to the front. The service hadn’t started yet. The air was thick with waiting. He folded his hands in his lap and tried not to think about how many names he’d recognized on the arch. Or how many he hadn’t. The crowd had mostly settled now. The murmurs had quieted, the last of the conjured chairs had appeared, and the air had taken on a kind of reverent stillness. Even the breeze off the lake seemed to hush.

Then, from the front, Minerva McGonagall stepped forward. She wore deep green robes, her tartan sash pinned neatly at the shoulder. Her face was pale, drawn, but composed. The lines around her eyes looked deeper than Percy remembered, but her posture was as straight as ever. When she spoke, her voice carried easily across the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming.”

A pause. The silence leaned in.

“Today is a day of mourning,” she said. “But it is also a day of remembering. We gather not only to honor those we lost, but to remember who they were. Their laughter. Their courage. Their kindness. Their mischief.”

A faint ripple of emotion passed through the crowd at that last word. Percy felt it like a tug in his chest.

“We remember students who never got to graduate. Parents who never came home. Friends who stood beside us when it mattered most. We remember the fear, yes—but also the light. The moments of joy. The moments of defiance. The moments of love.”

She paused again, letting the words settle.

“Hogwarts has always been more than stone and spellwork. It is a place of belonging. Of becoming. And those we lost—they shaped this place. They shaped us. We carry them with us, always.”

Percy’s throat tightened. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

McGonagall’s voice softened. “We will hear now from a few others who have come to share their memories. Their stories. Their grief.”

She stepped back, and another figure approached the podium—someone Percy didn’t recognize. A woman, maybe in her forties, with a long braid and a trembling smile. He tried to listen to the people who rose to speak. He really did. But the words blurred quickly, soft and indistinct. His gaze drifted to the lake, to the trees beyond, to the shimmer of names on the memorial arch. His mind wandered. He thought of Fred. Of the way he’d laughed mid-battle. Of the way he’d fallen. He thought of the spoon around George’s neck. He thought of the silence that had followed.

The most recent speaker at the podium finished his story with a trembling smile and a bowed head. A few people clapped softly, more out of respect than applause. Then silence settled again, thick and expectant. Minerva McGonagall stepped forward once more. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was steady.

“Our final speaker today… is someone who needs no introduction.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

“Harry Potter.”

Percy sat up straighter. He felt, more than saw, the shift in his family—Arthur’s quiet inhale, Molly’s hand tightening around her handkerchief, Ginny’s shoulders going rigid beside Charlie.

Harry stepped forward slowly, almost reluctantly. His dress robes were slightly wrinkled, his hair as untamed as ever. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he’d rather be anywhere else. He reached the podium and cleared his throat. “Er—hi.”

A few people chuckled softly. Harry didn’t smile.

“I’m not… great at this,” he said. “Talking. Speeches. I didn’t want to do this, really. But I thought maybe I should.”

He shifted his weight, eyes scanning the crowd but never settling. “I’ve been to a lot of funerals. Too many. And I’ve said goodbye to more people than I ever thought I’d have to. Some of them were heroes. Some of them were just… kids.”

A pause. He looked down at his hands.

“I don’t have anything profound to say. I just… I remember them. All of them. I remember how they laughed. How they fought. How they didn’t hesitate.”

His voice wavered, just slightly.

“I remember Fred Weasley making me laugh so hard I nearly fell off my broom. I remember Tonks tripping over her own feet and pretending it was on purpose. I remember Colin Creevey sneaking into the common room with a camera he wasn’t supposed to have.”

He looked up, finally. His eyes were red-rimmed, but dry.

“They were brave. And they were kind. And they mattered.”

Silence.

“I think… I think the best way we can honor them is to live like they did. Loudly. Honestly. Without fear.”

He stepped back from the podium, awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if he was finished. Then he gave a small nod to McGonagall and returned to his seat beside Ron and Hermione.

Percy didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the wetness on his cheeks. Molly was already dabbing at her eyes. Arthur had his head bowed. Ginny was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched. George… George had turned away, his hand gripping the spoon around his neck like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Fred’s name hadn’t been said more than once. But it had been enough.

When Harry stepped down, silence returned. Heavy. Absolute.

Minerva McGonagall rose once more, her expression composed but softer now, like the weight of the morning had finally settled on her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said simply. “To those who spoke. To those who listened. To those who remember.” She looked out over the crowd, her gaze sweeping across the rows of chairs, the bowed heads, the tear-streaked faces. “We will never forget them,” she said. “And we will never stop carrying them with us.”

A pause. Then, gently: “You are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

She stepped back. The service was over. But no one moved. Not really. A few people stood, stretching stiff limbs. Others remained seated, staring at the lake or the memorial or the ground beneath their feet. Conversations began to stir—soft, halting, full of memory.

“I remember when he turned my hair blue for a week,” someone said, laughing through tears.

“She used to sneak extra pudding from the kitchens,” another voice added, fond and broken.

Laughter mingled with sobs. Smiles cracked through grief like sunlight through storm clouds. But the sadness didn’t lift. It just changed shape.

Percy stood slowly, his legs stiff, his chest tight. The crowd felt too close now—too many voices, too many memories, too much.  He needed air. He stepped away from his family, murmuring something about stretching his legs. No one stopped him. Arthur gave him a small nod. That was enough. He moved through the crowd, weaving between chairs and clusters of mourners, trying not to look too closely at anyone’s face. His breath came shallow. His hands trembled.

He didn’t see the person in front of him until it was too late. They collided—shoulder to chest, a solid thud that jolted Percy back into the present.

“Oh—sorry—” he began, stepping back.

And then he looked up. Oliver Wood. Of course. His hair was rumpled, his robes slightly wrinkled, and there was a faint crease between his brows like he’d been frowning for hours. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Percy.

“Percy,” he said, voice low.

Percy opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

They stood there, caught in the middle of the crowd, the noise of grief and memory swirling around them like wind. Oliver didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Percy, his brow furrowed, his expression open in a way Percy wasn’t used to.

“You alright?” he asked, concerned.

Percy nodded automatically. “Yes,” he said. But his voice cracked on the word. And that was it.

The tears came slowly, silently—no sobbing, no gasping, just a steady stream that Percy didn’t try to stop. His shoulders trembled once, then stilled. He looked away, blinking hard, trying to breathe around the tightness in his chest.

Oliver didn’t touch him. Didn’t crowd him. He just stepped slightly to the side and said, “Come on,” with a quietness that felt like a hand on the back. They moved away from the crowd, toward the edge of the trees near the lake. The sounds of the memorial faded behind them—soft voices, the occasional sniffle, the rustle of robes. Here, it was quieter. Still. Percy leaned against a tree, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t speak right away. Neither did Oliver. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was space. Space to breathe. Space to fall apart, if he needed to.

“I keep thinking about the last thing he said,” Percy said finally, his voice rough. “Fred.”

Oliver didn’t move. Just waited.

“He laughed,” Percy went on. “I’d just made a joke—some stupid, awful joke—and he laughed. And then he died.”

He swallowed hard. “He didn’t even get to finish his sentence.”

Oliver’s gaze was steady. “He laughed,” he said softly. “That’s what you remember.”

Percy nodded. “He died laughing. And I—” He broke off, pressing a hand to his mouth. “I wasted so much time. I was so angry. So proud. I thought I was doing the right thing, and I left them. I left him.”

Oliver didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to fix it.

“I thought if I worked hard enough, if I followed the rules, I could make things better. But I didn’t. I just… disappeared.”

He looked up, eyes red. “And now he’s gone. And I don’t know how to forgive myself for that.”

Oliver was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You came back.”

Percy let out a shaky breath. “Too late.”

“No,” Oliver said. “Not too late. Just… not in time for everything.”

They stood there, the wind rustling the leaves above them, the lake glinting in the distance.

“I miss him,” Percy said.

“I know,” Oliver replied. “I miss people too.”

Percy looked at him then. Really looked. And for the first time, he realized Oliver’s grief wasn’t just empathy. It was personal.

Percy wiped at his face with the sleeve of his robe, not to hide the tears, but to steady himself. The worst of the wave had passed, leaving behind a raw, aching quiet. He glanced at Oliver, who was still standing nearby, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the trees. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. And suddenly, Percy realized—he wasn’t the only one unraveling.  He straightened—not with pride, but with purpose. With awareness.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice still hoarse but steadier now.

Oliver looked at him, startled for a moment. Then he gave a small, crooked smile. “No,” he said simply.

The honesty of it landed like a stone in Percy’s chest.

Oliver looked away again, toward the lake. “I’ve been telling people I’m fine for a year now. Figured I’d try the truth for once.”

Percy didn’t press. Just waited.

Oliver shifted his weight, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. “I lost a lot of people that night,” he said. “Some I knew well. Some I didn’t. But they were all mine, in a way. Teammates. Students. Kids I coached for a summer. People I pulled out of the rubble.” His voice was quiet. Not flat—just worn. “I still see them sometimes. In dreams. In crowds. In the stands.”

Percy swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

Oliver shrugged. “Most people don’t. I don’t talk about it much. Doesn’t change anything.”

There was a pause. The wind stirred the leaves above them.

“I think I thought if I just kept moving—kept playing, kept smiling—it wouldn’t catch up to me,” Oliver said. “But it always does. Eventually.”

Percy nodded slowly. “Yeah. It does.”

They stood in silence again, not because there was nothing left to say, but because they both understood the weight of what had already been said. The silence between them stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt… still. Like the kind of quiet that settles after a storm.

Percy glanced at Oliver, then away again. “We weren’t really friends at school,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

Oliver huffed a soft laugh. “No. You were always in the library. I was always on the pitch.”

Percy gave a small nod. “I remember thinking you were… loud.”

Oliver grinned faintly. “I was. Still am, sometimes.”

Percy looked at him again. “But you were kind, too. I don’t think I noticed that back then.”

Oliver’s smile softened. “You were focused. I respected that. Even if I didn’t understand half the things you were on about.”

That drew a quiet breath of amusement from Percy. Not quite a laugh, but close. They stood side by side, not touching, not speaking, just… being. The lake shimmered in the distance. The wind stirred the grass. Somewhere behind them, someone was laughing through tears.

Percy let out a slow breath. “This is new.”

Oliver glanced at him. “What is?”

“This,” Percy said, gesturing vaguely between them. “Talking to you. Like this.”

Oliver nodded. “Yeah. It is.” And then, after a pause, he added, “But I’m glad we are.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t look away, either. The grief was still there. The ache. The guilt. But in this moment, it felt a little less sharp. A little more bearable. Because someone else was carrying it too.

They didn’t say anything at first as they turned to head back. Just turned slowly, side by side, and began walking back toward the crowd. The grass was soft beneath their feet. The wind had picked up slightly, carrying the scent of lake water and spring blossoms. The voices behind them were quieter now—less grief, more memory.

Percy broke the silence first. “I took a year off,” he said, almost like a confession.

Oliver glanced at him. “From the Ministry?”

Percy nodded. “I needed time. To… think. To figure out if I could still believe in it. In what it’s supposed to be.”

Oliver didn’t interrupt.

“I’m going back soon,” Percy continued. “Not to my old department. I’m applying for a lower position. Something quieter. Less… power.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “That’s not like you.”

Percy gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “No. It’s not. But I think that’s the point.”

They walked a few more steps in silence.

“I can’t give up on it,” Percy said. “The Ministry. I know how broken it is. I helped break it. But I still believe it can be better. I just… I’m not the one to lead it there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Oliver nodded slowly. “That sounds like something Fred would’ve mocked you for. And then agreed with.”

Percy huffed a quiet laugh. “He would’ve.”

Oliver kicked at a pebble in the grass. “I’ve been playing. Quidditch, I mean. Still with Puddlemere.”

Percy looked over, surprised. “You stayed on?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said. “Didn’t think I would, after the battle. Being on a broom felt… wrong, for a while. Like I was waiting for something to explode beneath me.”

Percy nodded. “I can imagine.”

“But then,” Oliver continued, “one day I went up just for fun. No drills. No strategy. Just flying. And it felt… good. Like breathing again.”

Percy didn’t say anything, but he understood.

Oliver glanced at him. “It’s not the same, though. The team’s different. The world’s different. But it’s something.”

They were nearing the edge of the crowd now. The voices were clearer again—soft laughter, murmured stories, the rustle of robes.

Percy slowed a little. “I’m glad you’re still flying.”

Oliver smiled. “I’m glad you’re still trying.”

They didn’t stop walking. But something between them had shifted—quietly, gently. Like the beginning of something neither of them had expected.

They were just nearing the edge of the crowd again when a familiar voice called out. “Oi! Wood!”

Oliver turned. Lee Jordan was waving from a small group near the refreshments table, his voice cutting through the hum of conversation. He looked the same as ever—loud, animated, and impossible to ignore.

Oliver glanced at Percy, an apologetic smile tugging at his mouth. “Duty calls.”

Percy gave a small nod. “It’s alright.”

Oliver hesitated for a second, like he might say something more. But then he just nodded back. “See you around, Percy.”

And then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward Lee, who immediately pulled him into a one-armed hug and launched into some story that involved a lot of gesturing. Percy watched for a moment, then turned and made his way back toward the Weasleys.

They were still gathered near their chairs, speaking in low voices. Molly was dabbing at her eyes again. Arthur stood with his hands clasped behind his back, listening to Bill say something quietly to Fleur. George had wandered a few steps away, staring out at the lake.

Charlie looked up as Percy approached. “What was that about?” he asked, nodding toward where Oliver had disappeared.

Percy shrugged, smoothing his robes. “Oh. Nothing.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. Just gave a small, knowing hum and turned back to the others. Percy stood beside him, hands in his pockets, eyes on the lake. The ache in his chest was still there—but quieter now. Less sharp.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grass. The crowd had thinned, though many still lingered—some in conversation, others in silence, all of them reluctant to leave the space where memory felt tangible. Arthur checked his watch and gave a quiet nod to Molly. One by one, the Weasleys began to gather again, instinctively forming pairs. Bill and Fleur. Ginny and Charlie. Molly reached for George, who didn’t resist, though his eyes were still on the lake. Percy stood slightly apart, watching them. He felt the familiar ache of distance, but it didn’t sting quite as sharply now. Not after today.

Arthur stepped beside him. “Ready?”

Percy nodded. “Yes.”

He looked back once—toward the memorial, toward the trees, toward the place where he and Oliver had stood. The ache was still there. The regret. But so was something else. Something quieter. A beginning, maybe. He didn’t know what would come next. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t afraid to find out.

With a soft crack, they vanished.

Chapter Text

Autumn 1999 – Outside the Burrow

Percy stood just outside the Burrow, the wind tugging at his casual cloak and the scent of damp leaves curling through the air. He adjusted his cuffs for the third time, though they were already perfectly straight. It was a nervous habit, and he hated that Charlie had noticed.

“You’ll ruin it if you keep messing with them,” Charlie said, shrugging into a battered leather jacket that smelled faintly of dragon hide and smoke, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Percy didn’t answer. He was too busy pretending he wasn’t dreading the afternoon.

Arthur emerged from the house, scarf slightly askew, his expression warm and unreadable. “It’ll be good to get out,” he said gently, as if he could sense the tension coiled in Percy’s shoulders. “Bit of cheering, some fresh air. Might do us all some good.”

Ginny followed a moment later. She didn’t speak to Percy. Didn’t even glance at him. She pulled on her gloves with sharp, practiced movements and stood beside Arthur like a soldier reporting for duty. Percy’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t expected forgiveness—not from her—but the coldness still stung. She hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to him since the war. Not unless she had to. Not unless someone else was watching. He didn’t blame her.

Molly and George weren’t coming. Molly had said something about needing a quiet afternoon, just the two of them. “We’ll bake,” she’d said, too brightly. “Or garden. Or just… be.” George hadn’t objected. He rarely did these days.

Bill and Fleur were back at Shell Cottage. Ron was off with Harry and Hermione, somewhere Percy hadn’t been invited. So it was just the four of them.

Charlie clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder—firm, grounding. “Come on, then. You’ll like it more than you think.”

Percy doubted that. He hadn’t planned to go at all. But Charlie had insisted, and Arthur had looked quietly hopeful, and Percy hadn’t had the heart—or the courage—to say no.

He took a breath. The air was sharp with the promise of rain.

Arthur offered his arm. “Ready?”

Percy nodded. “Yes.”

And with a soft crack, they vanished.

Autumn 1999 – Outside the Stadium

The world snapped back into place with a rush of wind and the sharp scent of trampled grass. Percy staggered slightly as his boots met uneven ground, the familiar disorientation of Apparition lingering just long enough to make his stomach lurch.

They had arrived just outside the stadium—an enormous, gleaming structure of enchanted wood and floating banners, its towers rising like sentinels against the grey sky. The roar of the crowd was already audible, a low, pulsing hum that vibrated in Percy’s chest. He blinked up at the towering stands, the fluttering team colors, the enchanted advertisements zooming through the air. It was all too familiar. The last time he’d been to a match like this was the Quidditch World Cup in 1994. He remembered the excitement, the spectacle, the way the crowd had seemed to breathe as one. He also remembered the panic. The screams. The Dark Mark hanging in the sky like a wound. He shook the memory off before it could settle. Not today.

Charlie was already bounding ahead, calling something over his shoulder about snacks and betting odds. Arthur followed at a more measured pace, his eyes wide with quiet wonder. Ginny walked a few steps ahead of Percy, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Percy adjusted the strap of his satchel and fell into step behind them. He kept his head down, letting the noise wash over him. He didn’t want to think about the World Cup. He didn’t want to think about anything, really. He just wanted to find their seats and read his book.

The satchel bumped lightly against his hip with each step, the familiar weight of the book inside a small comfort. He’d chosen something dense and dry—an annotated history of magical infrastructure reform in post-Goblin Rebellion Britain. Hardly riveting, but it was safe. Predictable. Quiet.

They passed through the stadium gates with a quick scan of their tickets—enchanted parchment that shimmered faintly in the light—and began the long climb to their section. Percy kept his eyes on the stairs, counting each step like it might anchor him. The crowd was loud, but not unkind. Children darted between legs, waving miniature team flags. Vendors shouted about butterbeer and roasted nuts. Somewhere nearby, a group of fans broke into a chant, their voices rising in rhythmic unison.

Percy’s grip on his satchel tightened. He didn’t belong here. Not really. But Charlie had insisted, and Arthur had smiled, and Ginny—well, Ginny hadn’t said anything, but she hadn’t objected either. That was something.

Their seats were high up, near the top of the stands, with a clear view of the pitch below. Percy slid into his spot between Arthur and an empty seat Charlie had claimed for snacks. Ginny sat on Arthur’s other side, already leaning forward, eyes scanning the field. Percy opened his satchel and pulled out his book. He didn’t look at the pitch. Not yet.

Percy had barely settled into his seat when Charlie leaned over and let out a low, amused scoff. “You brought a book?” he said, grinning like Percy had just pulled out a cauldron.

Percy didn’t look up. “It’s a very thorough analysis of post-rebellion infrastructure reform,” he said, flipping to his bookmarked page. “Fascinating, really.”

Charlie snorted. “You’re unbelievable.”

Percy hummed noncommittally and began to read. The words were familiar, comforting in their density. He let them wash over him—paragraphs on wand permit legislation, footnotes on goblin-led reconstruction councils—but his focus wavered. The noise of the crowd was impossible to ignore, and Charlie, Arthur, and Ginny were already deep in conversation beside him.

“Puddlemere’s Keeper is still out with a shoulder hex, right?” Charlie was saying.

“Back this week,” Arthur replied. “They’ve got him under a new charm regimen. Supposed to be stronger than ever.”

Ginny scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. The Harpies are going to eat them alive.”

Percy blinked at the page in front of him. He’d read the same sentence three times and still couldn’t remember what it said.

Puddlemere. The name tugged at something in the back of his mind. He frowned slightly, eyes drifting from the page to the pitch below. The stands were nearly full now, a sea of blue and gold on one side, green and silver on the other. Banners waved, enchanted to shimmer and spark. A group of Harpies fans nearby were already chanting. Where had he heard that name before?

Puddlemere.

He turned back to his book, determined to focus. But Charlie nudged him again, this time with more urgency. “They’re about to come out,” he said, eyes bright. “You’ll want to see this.”

Percy sighed quietly and closed the book, slipping a ribbon between the pages. He looked up, just as the announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to today’s match between Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies!”

The crowd erupted. Percy sat back in his seat, the book resting in his lap, and tried not to look too interested. But something about the name Puddlemere still itched at the edge of his memory.

The announcer’s voice boomed again, magically amplified and full of theatrical flair. “Please welcome to the pitch… the Holyhead Harpies!”

A wave of green and silver erupted from the stands as the Harpies shot into the sky, brooms slicing through the air in perfect formation. Ginny sat forward immediately, her eyes alight, a grin tugging at her mouth. “Yes!” she hissed under her breath, already clapping.

The Harpies looped once around the stadium, then again, tighter this time, before diving into a synchronized spiral that drew cheers from every corner of the pitch. Their captain—tall, fierce, and unmistakably in charge—led them in a final arc before they descended to the field, brooms hovering just above the grass.

Percy blinked. “Impressive,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Charlie leaned in. “They’re vicious. Ginny’s obsessed.”

Ginny didn’t deny it. She was already chanting along with the fans, her voice sharp and proud.

Percy opened his book again. He managed a paragraph and a half before the announcer’s voice returned, louder this time, with a dramatic pause that made Percy wince.

“And now… your home team… Puddlemere United!”

The stadium exploded in blue and gold. Fireworks burst overhead—real ones, enchanted to shimmer and crackle in midair, forming the team’s crest in brilliant sparks. Percy flinched slightly as a particularly loud one went off just above their section. The Puddlemere players soared into view one by one, each announced with flair and accompanied by a massive magical projection of them flying across the sky. The illusions were detailed—robes fluttering, hair wind-swept, brooms gleaming—and each player struck a pose mid-flight before diving toward the pitch. Percy tried to return to his book, but the noise was impossible to ignore.

“And at Keeper—returning from injury and ready to defend the hoops—Oliver Wood!”

The name hit Percy like a Bludger to the chest. He looked up sharply, just in time to see the projection of Oliver streak across the sky—broad-shouldered, windswept, grinning with that same fierce determination Percy remembered from school. The real Oliver followed a second later, diving toward the pitch with practiced ease, his broom cutting a clean arc through the air.

Percy stared. Oh. That’s why the name had sounded familiar.

Charlie snickered beside him.

Percy turned, brow furrowed. “What?”

Charlie just grinned. “Nothing.”

Percy looked back at the pitch, heart thudding a little too fast. He didn’t know what to do with the sudden rush of memory—Oliver in the common room, Oliver shouting plays on the pitch, Oliver steady beside him in the Great Hall after the battle. He closed his book again.

The players took their positions, hovering high above the pitch as the referee floated to the center with the Quaffle in hand. The Bludgers spun in their enchanted restraints, twitching like they could already sense the chaos to come. The Snitch was nowhere to be seen, of course—just a glint of gold waiting to vanish. The whistle blew. The balls exploded into motion, and the game began. Percy tried to follow. He really did. The Quaffle zipped from hand to hand, players darting and diving with impossible speed. The Bludgers were a menace, whistling past heads and narrowly missing limbs. The crowd roared with every near-miss, every goal attempt, every spectacular save.

Charlie and Arthur were already on their feet, shouting encouragement. Ginny was muttering commentary under her breath, sharp and precise. “Did you see that feint? She’s baiting the Chaser—watch—yes! Merlin, that’s textbook Harpy play.”

Percy blinked at the sky, trying to make sense of the blur of motion. He could see the players, yes, and he could hear the commentary around him, but the logic of the game—the strategy, the rules, the rhythm—escaped him entirely. It was all noise and motion and color. Except for one thing.

Oliver.

Percy’s eyes found him easily—hovering near the goalposts, broom steady, eyes scanning the field with laser focus. He moved differently than the others. Not faster, necessarily, but sharper. More deliberate. Every shift of his weight, every turn of his head, was calculated. Percy remembered Oliver at Hogwarts—loud, passionate, always shouting about formations and drills. He remembered thinking it was all a bit much. But this—this was different. Oliver was composed. Fierce. He barked orders to his teammates with a confidence that carried across the pitch, then dove to intercept a shot with a speed that made Percy’s breath catch. The crowd roared. Charlie whooped beside him. Percy didn’t move. He watched as Oliver circled back to the hoops, adjusting his gloves, eyes already tracking the next play. There was a steadiness to him now, a kind of gravity Percy hadn’t noticed before. He looked like he belonged up there. Like he was built for it.

Percy didn’t realize how long he’d been watching until Charlie elbowed him lightly. “Thought you were reading,” he said, grinning.

Percy startled, blinking down at the closed book in his lap. “I—right.”

He opened it again, eyes scanning the page without taking in a single word. The game roared on around him. Percy tried to read. He really did. He turned the page, eyes scanning a dense paragraph on post-rebellion infrastructure charters—something about wand permit zoning and the Goblin-led reconstruction councils of 1723. It should have been absorbing. It usually was. But the words blurred.

The crowd roared again, and Percy’s eyes flicked upward—just for a second. A Harpies Chaser had just attempted a goal, but Oliver blocked it with a sharp, upward dive that sent the Quaffle spinning back into the air. Percy’s heart jumped. He looked back down at his book.

'...the Department of Magical Urban Planning was established in response to the widespread—'

Another cheer. Another glance.

He caught sight of Oliver again, circling the hoops, broom steady, eyes scanning the field with hawk-like focus. Percy frowned and forced himself back to the page. He read the same sentence three times. It was no use. He sighed, frustrated, and was just about to close the book when Charlie gasped beside him.

Percy’s head snapped up. “What?”

Charlie didn’t answer. He was too busy leaning forward, eyes wide. On the pitch, the Harpies’ Chasers were weaving through the air in a tight, aggressive formation—passing the Quaffle between them with dizzying speed, their movements sharp and deliberate, like blades slicing through the sky.

Ginny leaned toward Arthur, her voice urgent and breathless. “They’re doing the Razorfeather Weave. Oh my gosh—they’re actually doing it.”

Arthur let out a low whistle. “That’s dangerous for the Keeper.”

Percy’s eyes shot to the goalposts. To Oliver. He was hovering, tense, eyes locked on the advancing Chasers. Percy’s stomach twisted. Dangerous? The Quaffle vanished in a blur of motion—passed so quickly Percy couldn’t follow it—and then, suddenly, it reappeared behind Oliver, heading straight for the left hoop. The wrong direction. Percy stood up without thinking. Time slowed. Oliver didn’t turn. Didn’t even glance back. Instead, he kicked off his broom in a tight, backward loop, flipping upside down above the hoop just as the Quaffle reached it. With a sharp, clean motion, he kicked it away. The crowd erupted.

Blue and gold flags waved wildly. Fireworks burst overhead. Charlie whooped beside him, and even Ginny let out a grudging, “Alright, that was impressive.”

But Percy didn’t cheer. His heart was pounding, the book forgotten in his lap. He didn’t know why he’d been so worried. Percy sat down slowly, the roar of the crowd washing over him like static. His heart was still pounding, his hands curled loosely around the edges of his book, though he wasn’t reading. He couldn’t. He stared at the pitch, at Oliver circling back to the hoops, calm and composed as if he hadn’t just flipped upside down midair to deflect a Quaffle with his foot.

Percy swallowed hard. He didn’t understand why he’d stood up. Why his chest had gone tight. Why he’d felt, for a moment, like something terrible was about to happen. He didn’t even know Oliver that well. They’d shared a dormitory for seven years, yes. Passed each other in corridors. Sat at the same table. But they hadn’t been close. Not really. Percy had been buried in books and rules; Oliver had been shouting about drills and broom polish. And yet—

He felt Charlie’s eyes on him. A quiet, sidelong glance. Percy didn’t look back. He kept his gaze fixed on the pitch, on the blue and gold blur of Puddlemere’s formation, on Oliver’s steady figure at the goalposts. He didn’t know what he was feeling. Only that it was louder than it should be.

The game pressed on, fast and relentless. The Quaffle zipped across the pitch, the Bludgers were merciless, and the crowd never stopped roaring.

Arthur leaned toward Charlie. “I think I’ll go grab us something to eat. Anyone want—”

“I’ll go,” Percy said quickly, already rising. “I haven’t the faintest idea what’s happening anyway.”

Charlie chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Arthur gave him a grateful nod. “There’s a vendor stand just down the stairs—look for the floating cauldron sign. They’ve got pasties, pumpkin chips, and something called ‘Bludger Bites.’”

Percy nodded and slipped away, grateful for the excuse to move. The concourse was crowded, but not overwhelming. The scent of roasted nuts, buttered bread, and something vaguely spicy filled the air. He joined the queue behind a pair of teenagers arguing about broom models and stared up at the enchanted menu, which shifted every few seconds with animated illustrations of the food. He ordered a mix—two pumpkin pasties, a bag of charmed chips that crackled like tiny fireworks, a pair of butterbeers, and something called a “Firecracker Roll” that looked like it might bite back. The vendor handed it all over in a floating tray charm, and Percy carefully guided it back up the stairs, weaving through fans and ducking under banners.

When he returned to their row, Charlie scooted aside to let him pass.

“Hero’s welcome,” Charlie said, grabbing a pasty. “You even got the spicy ones.”

Percy handed out the rest—Arthur took the butterbeer with a warm smile, Ginny snatched the chips without a word—and then sat back down, the tray charm dissolving with a soft pop.

He didn’t even pretend to open his book this time. He just watched. The game was still chaos to him—players darting and diving, the Quaffle vanishing and reappearing like a conjuring trick—but he found himself tracking Oliver without meaning to. The way he moved. The way he read the field. The way he shouted instructions and adjusted his position with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. Percy didn’t understand the game. But he understood that Oliver was good at it.

The match had stretched into its second hour, and the tension in the stadium was palpable. The score was close—Puddlemere leading by sixty points—but the Snitch hadn’t been caught, and everyone knew what that meant. If the Harpies’ Seeker caught it, they’d win.

Percy sat forward slightly, not because he cared—he didn’t, he swore he didn’t—but because the energy around him was impossible to ignore. Ginny was gripping the edge of her seat, eyes darting across the sky. Charlie was muttering under his breath, something about formation shifts and defensive gaps. Arthur had gone quiet, watching with the kind of focus Percy usually reserved for budget hearings.

The Seekers were circling high above the pitch, weaving in and out of the clouds like birds of prey. Twice now, they’d both darted after something—once toward the south end, once near the commentator’s box—only to pull up short, the Snitch vanishing again in a glint of gold. Now both Seekers were chasing the snitch.

Percy didn’t care who won. He told himself that again. He didn’t care. But when a Bludger came screaming toward the Puddlemere hoops and Oliver intercepted it mid-dive—batting it with a sharp, clean swing of his broom—Percy’s breath caught. The Bludger veered off course and slammed into the path of the Harpies’ Seeker, who swerved hard to avoid it and lost momentum. The Puddlemere Seeker didn’t. He surged forward, arm outstretched, and a second later the stadium erupted in blue and gold as the Snitch was caught.

The match was over. Puddlemere had won.

The crowd exploded. Fireworks burst overhead. Fans screamed and waved enchanted banners. Charlie jumped to his feet, shouting something unintelligible. Even Arthur clapped, smiling broadly. Percy didn’t move. Then—just for a moment—he smiled. It was small. Barely there. But it was real. He didn’t know why.

The stands were still buzzing with the aftershock of victory—fans cheering, banners waving, fireworks trailing gold and blue across the sky—but already, people were beginning to file out. The crowd thinned in waves, laughter and chatter echoing down the stairwells as families and friends made their way toward the exits.

Percy stood, brushing crumbs from his robes and reaching for his satchel. “We should go before the crowd bottlenecks,” he said, already turning toward the aisle.

But Charlie didn’t move. “We’re staying,” he said, casually, like it was obvious.

Percy blinked. “Why?”

Charlie just shrugged, eyes still on the pitch. “You’ll see.”

Percy frowned but sat back down, arms crossed. He didn’t like surprises. He especially didn’t like being the only one who didn’t know what was going on. Ginny didn’t seem surprised. She was still watching the field, her expression unreadable. Arthur, too, looked content to wait, sipping the last of his butterbeer like he had all the time in the world. It wasn’t until the stadium had mostly emptied—just a few lingering fans and stadium staff remaining—that Percy saw them.

The teams were coming back out. Not in formation this time. No fireworks, no projections. Just players in rumpled robes, some with towels slung over their shoulders, others already laughing with family members who had made their way down to the edge of the pitch.

Percy’s brow furrowed. “They’re coming back?”

“Post-match meet and greet,” Charlie said. “Friends, family, that sort of thing.”

Percy hesitated. “We’re not—”

But Charlie was already standing. “Come on.”

Arthur rose with a quiet smile. Ginny followed, her expression softening just slightly. Percy stood last, trailing behind them as they made their way down the stairs and toward the field. He knew Charlie and Oliver had been friends at school—everyone had known—but he hadn’t realized they were still in contact. He hadn’t expected this. He wasn’t sure what he expected.

But as they stepped onto the grass and the players began to turn toward the gathering crowd, Percy’s eyes found Oliver almost immediately.

The grass was still damp beneath their feet as they stepped onto the field, the stadium now quiet except for the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from other clusters of friends and family. Oliver was near the center, towel slung around his neck, hair damp with sweat and still wind-tossed from the match. He was speaking with a teammate, but his eyes flicked up the moment Charlie called out.

“Oi! Wood!”

Oliver turned, and his face lit up. “Charlie!” he called back, grinning as he jogged over. “You didn’t say you were coming!”

Charlie met him with a clap on the shoulder and a quick, one-armed hug. “Didn’t want to jinx it. Figured I’d wait to see if you were still any good.”

Oliver laughed. “Still better than you ever were.”

Arthur chuckled warmly. “You played brilliantly, Oliver. That save near the end—absolutely spectacular.”

“Thanks, Mr. Weasley,” Oliver said, a little breathless but clearly pleased. “Glad someone appreciated it.”

Ginny gave him a nod of approval. “Even I’ll admit that was a good match. And I’m a Harpies fan.”

“That’s high praise,” Oliver said with mock solemnity. “I’ll treasure it.”

They all laughed, easy and familiar. Percy stood slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight. He hadn’t expected to be here—on the pitch, face-to-face with Oliver Wood, who had just won a professional match in front of thousands. He hadn’t even known Oliver was playing. And now Oliver kept glancing at him. Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Percy felt it—those brief flickers of attention, the way Oliver’s smile would shift slightly when their eyes met.

Percy did what he always did when he felt unsteady. He stood taller. He kept his expression neutral, polite, composed. He nodded when Oliver’s gaze lingered, but didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. He didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t know why he wanted to say anything at all.

Oliver was still talking with Arthur and Ginny, laughing at something Charlie had said about a match from their Hogwarts days. The conversation flowed easily—memories, teasing, a few questions about the team’s next match. Percy stood just outside the circle, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid. He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t part of this. Not really. He hadn’t come here to see Oliver. He hadn’t even known Oliver would be here. And now he was standing on a Quidditch pitch, surrounded by people who seemed to belong, while he—

Charlie nudged him. Not hard. Just a quick elbow to the ribs, paired with a look that said, Go on.

Percy cleared his throat. “You, um—” He paused, then tried again. “You played good.”

Oliver turned toward him, eyebrows raised.

Percy’s ears went pink. “Well. I mean—you played well.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Oliver smiled. Not the charming, public smile he’d worn during the match, but something smaller. Warmer.

“Thanks, Percy,” he said, voice low. “That means a lot.”

Percy looked away, pretending to adjust his cuffs.

The conversation began to taper off as the evening deepened. The sky above the stadium had shifted to a soft indigo, the last of the enchanted fireworks fading into sparks. Around them, other families were saying their goodbyes, drifting toward the Apparition points or the Floo stations tucked behind the stands.

Arthur checked his watch and gave a quiet sigh. “We should be heading back,” he said gently. “Molly will want to hear all about it.”

Ginny nodded, already stepping away. “I’m going to tell Mum that the Harpies were robbed.”

Arthur chuckled. “I’ll soften it a bit.”

They said their goodbyes—Arthur with a warm handshake for Oliver, Ginny with a nod that was almost a smile—and then they were gone, vanishing with two soft cracks.

Charlie lingered a moment longer. He glanced between Percy and Oliver, then clapped Oliver on the shoulder. “You were brilliant, mate. Really.”

Oliver grinned. “You’re just saying that because I didn’t let the Harpies flatten us.”

Charlie shrugged. “Maybe. Still true.”

Then he turned to Percy, his voice quiet. “I’ll be nearby. Take your time.” And with that, he strolled off toward the edge of the pitch, hands in his pockets, whistling softly.

Percy was suddenly, acutely aware of how quiet it had become.

Oliver turned to him, still smiling, but softer now. “So,” he said, “you came to a Quidditch match.”

Percy straightened instinctively. “I was coerced.”

Oliver laughed. “Still counts.”

Percy’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t even know you were playing.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oliver said, and there was no bitterness in it. Just honesty. “But I’m glad you came. Really.”

Percy looked at him then—really looked—and for the first time all day, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly.

“I suppose,” he said, “there are worse ways to spend an afternoon.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

Percy huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. But close. And for the first time in a long while, a conversation didn’t feel like a performance. It didn’t feel like grief. It just felt… easy.

The crowd had thinned to a few scattered groups, and the stadium lights had dimmed to a soft glow, casting long shadows across the grass. Oliver stretched his arms overhead, then rolled his shoulders with a quiet groan. “Mind if we walk a bit?” he asked. “Need to stretch or I’ll seize up like a cursed broomstick.”

Percy nodded, falling into step beside him as they began a slow circuit along the edge of the pitch. The grass was springy underfoot, the air cool and still.

“You really were very good,” Percy said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Even if that upside-down stunt was a bit much.”

Oliver glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “You saw that?”

They walked in silence for a few steps, the quiet between them no longer awkward, just… present.

“I didn’t expect you to be watching,” Oliver said eventually, more thoughtful now. “I figured you’d be in the stands, nose in a book, waiting for it to be over.”

Percy shrugged, eyes on the grass. “So did I.”

Percy gave a small, nervous laugh. “I was… trying to read.”

Oliver grinned. “Trying, huh?”

Percy looked away, ears pink. “It was a very compelling chapter on wand permit zoning.”

Oliver laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Well, I’m honored to have distracted you from such riveting material.”

Oliver just smiled again, softer this time. “I’m glad you stayed.”

They had made nearly a full circuit of the field when Oliver slowed, glancing toward the cluster of blue-robed players gathering near the far end. “I should go,” he said, nodding toward them. “Team debrief. Or celebration. Or both.”

Percy nodded, a little too quickly. “Of course. I should—well, I should have left ages ago.”

Oliver smiled, and for a moment, it looked like he might say something more. But instead, he just offered a hand.

“Thanks for coming, Percy.”

Percy hesitated, then took it. “You were… impressive.”

Oliver’s smile deepened. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

They let go.

Oliver turned and jogged off toward his teammates, towel swinging from his shoulder, already being pulled into a half-hug by one of the Beaters. Percy watched him go for a moment, then turned and made his way back across the pitch. Charlie was waiting near the edge, arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth.

Percy frowned. “What?”

Charlie just shook his head. “Nothing.”

Percy narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press. He adjusted his satchel, straightened his robes, and stepped up beside his brother.

They didn’t speak.

With a soft crack, they vanished.

Chapter Text

July 2000 – The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole

The Burrow had never been quiet, but today it was louder than usual—buzzing with laughter, footsteps, shouted instructions, and the occasional magical mishap. Somewhere upstairs, a charm backfired with a sharp pop, followed by Ron’s unmistakable voice yelling, “I said no glitter!” and George’s equally unmistakable cackle.

Percy stood near the garden gate, just out of sight of the main path, watching the chaos unfold like a guest in someone else’s life.

The Weasley men—minus Bill, who was officiating, and George, who was allegedly in charge of Ron’s hair—along with Neville had taken over the sitting room and spilled into the kitchen. Arthur was trying to keep everyone on schedule. Neville was charming Ron’s shoes to shine and Charlie was charming Ron’s cuffs to stop wrinkling. Fred’s absence hung in the air like a missing note in a familiar song. Percy hadn’t been asked to help. He hadn’t been told not to, either. He just… wasn’t sure where to go.

Hermione’s side of the preparations had taken over the orchard, where a white tent shimmered between the trees. Her parents were there, along with Molly, Fleur, Luna, and a few old Hogwarts friends Percy didn’t recognize. Ginny moved between the two camps with the ease of someone who belonged in both. Harry did the same, though he looked more harried than helpful, his tie askew and his hair even worse than usual.

Percy had tried to offer assistance once—something about seating charms—but Ron had blinked at him like he’d forgotten Percy was even there. “Er… yeah. Sure. Thanks.” He hadn’t asked again.

Now he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the garden fill with chairs and floating lanterns, wondering if anyone would notice if he left. He wouldn’t, of course. That would be dramatic. And Percy Weasley did not do dramatic exits. He did quiet, awkward arrivals and even quieter disappearances.

A breeze stirred the tall grass near the fence. Somewhere behind the house, music started—faint, warm, the kind of string arrangement that made Percy’s throat tighten for reasons he couldn’t name. He adjusted his cuffs. Again.

“Looking very Ministry-chic, Perce,” came a voice behind him.

He turned. Ginny stood there, barefoot in the grass, her copper bridesmaid robes hitched up slightly to avoid the mud. Her hair was pinned with tiny white blossoms, and she looked more like Mum than she probably realized.

“I wasn’t sure what the dress code was,” Percy said stiffly.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “It’s a wedding. Not a tribunal.”

Percy flushed. “I didn’t want to be underdressed.”

“You’re not,” she said, and then, more softly, “You’re just… tense.”

He didn’t answer.

Ginny sighed and stepped closer, nudging his arm with her elbow. “You’re allowed to be here, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looked away. “It’s Ron’s day. I didn’t want to… intrude.”

Ginny snorted. “You’re his brother.”

“Yes, well. That hasn’t always meant what it should.”

She didn’t argue. Just looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Come on. You can help me charm the lanterns. They’re being fussy.”

Percy hesitated. Then nodded. It wasn’t much. But it was something. Ginny led him toward the lanterns with the same brisk confidence she used on a broomstick, wand already out, muttering under her breath about flickering charms and uneven levitation. Percy followed, careful not to step on any of the delicate floral arrangements that had begun to float into place.

As they worked, Percy found himself watching her more than the lanterns. It hadn’t always been like this—this ease, this quiet understanding. After the war, Ginny had been colder than the others. Not cruel, never cruel, but distant in a way that stung more than outright anger. She hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t cried. She had simply looked at him like she didn’t know who he was anymore. And maybe she hadn’t. But over the past few months, something had shifted. It started with small things—passing him the salt at dinner without being asked, asking if he’d read a particular article in the Prophet, rolling her eyes at one of George’s jokes and glancing at Percy like he might be in on it too. She never said it outright, but Percy suspected she understood something the others didn’t. What it meant to feel like an outlier in your own family. Ginny, the only girl in a sea of brothers. Percy, the one who had left and come back with too much guilt and not enough words. They didn’t talk about it. Not directly. But she had started talking to him. And that was enough.

Now, as she adjusted the height of a lantern with a flick of her wand, she glanced sideways at him and said, “You’re overthinking again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Your eyebrows do that thing.”

Percy huffed. “What thing?”

“That thing where they try to escape your face.”

He gave her a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll make a note.”

Ginny smiled, then stepped back to admire their work. The lanterns hovered in a neat arc, glowing softly in the late afternoon light.

“Not bad,” she said. “You’re not completely useless.”

“High praise.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly. “I’ll be back. Hermione’s veil is apparently ‘misbehaving,’ and Mum’s threatening to charm it into submission.”

Percy nodded, but something in his chest tightened.

Ginny hesitated for a second, then added, “You’re doing alright, Percy. Really.”

And then she was gone, disappearing around the corner of the house in a swish of copper robes and purpose.

The quiet rushed in behind her like a tide. Percy stood alone in the garden, surrounded by floating lanterns and the distant hum of wedding preparations. The warmth Ginny had left behind lingered for a moment—then faded. He adjusted his cuffs. Again.

The lanterns were done. The chairs were arranged. The aisle had been charmed to stay dry, even if the clouds overhead decided to misbehave. There wasn’t much left to do, not really—but Percy couldn’t stand still. He moved through the garden with the air of someone looking for a task, straightening a ribbon here, adjusting a charm there. None of it needed doing. But he needed to do something. It was Ron’s wedding. And Ron was still his brother. Even if he didn’t like Percy. Even if he didn’t love him. 

Percy stepped back inside the Burrow, the familiar creak of the floorboards underfoot grounding him for a moment. The house smelled like flowers and parchment and the faintest trace of Mum’s perfume, though she was outside now, directing the seating chart like a general preparing for battle.

The sitting room had been transformed into a makeshift dressing area. Robes hung from every available surface. Ties floated midair, waiting to be claimed. A mirror was arguing with itself about lighting. And in the middle of it all stood Ron. He was adjusting the collar of his dress robes, frowning at his reflection. His hair had been tamed—mostly—and someone had managed to get his shoes to shine. He looked taller than Percy remembered. Broader. Older. This was the second brother Percy had watched prepare for a wedding. And the first one who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Percy cleared his throat. “You look… well put together.”

Ron startled slightly, then turned. His expression flickered—surprise, discomfort, something unreadable—but he didn’t look away.

“Thanks,” he said, after a beat.

Percy nodded. “I hope it’s a good day. For you. For Hermione.”

Ron shifted his weight. “Yeah. Me too.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the noise of the house muffled around them.

“I know I’m not…” Percy began, then stopped. He adjusted his cuffs. “I just wanted to say congratulations.”

Ron looked at him. Really looked. And for a moment, Percy saw something soften in his brother’s face. Not forgiveness. Not warmth. But maybe the beginning of something less brittle.

“Thanks,” Ron said again. And this time, it sounded like he meant it.

Before Percy could say anything else, Harry appeared in the doorway, tie in one hand, wand in the other. “Ron, your mum’s threatening to come in here and finish your hair herself if you don’t hurry up.”

Ron groaned. “Tell her I’m coming.”

Harry gave Percy a quick nod as he passed. “Hey, Percy.”

“Harry.”

Ginny swept in a moment later, already halfway through a sentence about boutonnières and last-minute seating changes. Arthur followed, adjusting his glasses and looking vaguely overwhelmed. The room filled quickly—movement, voices, the rustle of robes and the clink of cufflinks. Percy stepped back, letting the others take over. He didn’t belong in the center of this. But he could still be useful.

Charlie appeared at his side, already dressed, his sleeves rolled up and his hair windblown. “Guests are arriving,” he said. “You coming?”

Percy nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

Bill joined them near the door, calm and composed in his officiant robes. “Let’s go make people feel welcome.”

And so they did—three brothers, side by side, stepping out into the garden to greet the guests. The guests began to arrive in earnest just as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting the Burrow in a warm, golden light. The garden filled with the rustle of robes, the shimmer of dress cloaks, and the occasional pop of Apparition just beyond the wards.

Percy stood beside Charlie and Bill near the entrance to the garden path, offering polite smiles and practiced greetings. It was a role he knew well—structured, predictable, safe. He recognized some of the guests immediately—former classmates of Ron’s, mostly. Dean Thomas, tall and easygoing, gave Percy a warm handshake. Seamus Finnigan arrived with a date and a grin, already laughing about something before he’d even crossed the threshold. Others were less familiar—faces Percy had seen in passing at Hogwarts or in the Ministry corridors. A few offered cautious nods, unsure of their place in the Weasley family’s orbit. Percy returned each greeting with quiet precision, cataloging names and connections in the back of his mind. Then came the Muggles. They arrived in small clusters, dressed in bright summer suits and floral dresses, their eyes wide with wonder. Percy could tell immediately which side they belonged to—Hermione’s relatives. Some had her hair. Others had her teeth. All of them had the same open curiosity, the same quiet awe as they stepped into a world they’d only heard about in whispers.

One older woman gasped softly as a lantern floated past her shoulder. “It’s like something out of a storybook,” she murmured.

Percy smiled. “That’s rather the idea.”

Hermione, ever meticulous, had only invited Muggles she trusted—people who could be counted on to keep the secret, to respect the magic without exploiting it. And so, for today, there was no need to hide. No need to pretend the floating candles were tricks of the light or that the garden’s sudden bloom was anything but enchantment.

Percy found himself watching them more than he expected. The way they marveled at the charmed decorations, the way they whispered to each other with wide eyes and delighted laughter. It reminded him, faintly, of what magic used to feel like. Before it became paperwork and protocol. He was halfway through explaining the difference between a self-filling goblet and a bottomless one to a curious uncle when he caught sight of Charlie again—this time walking across the garden with someone at his side.

Oliver.

He was dressed in dark blue robes, simple but well-fitted, his hair slightly tousled in a way that looked deliberate. He laughed at something Charlie said, head tilted back, and Percy’s eyes lingered for a moment longer than they should have. Then he looked away. There were more guests to greet. More names to remember. More smiles to offer. He didn’t have time to think about Oliver Wood. Not right now.

The last of the guests trickled in just as the sky began to shift from gold to rose. Percy offered a final nod to a pair of elderly witches from Hermione’s department—one of whom had brought a Muggle partner who kept marveling at the self-pouring wine decanter—and stepped back with a quiet breath.

The garden was full now. Laughter drifted through the air like music, mingling with the soft rustle of robes and the occasional pop of a conjured flower blooming midair. The chairs were nearly all filled, the aisle lined with floating petals that shimmered in the evening light.

Bill, already in his officiant robes, stood near the front with a calm, steady presence. Harry was beside him, adjusting his cuffs and glancing toward the house every few seconds. Ginny stood with Luna and Fleur, all three radiant in soft copper and cream, their bouquets floating obediently at their sides. Neville and George flanked behind Harry, all three looking slightly uncomfortable in formalwear but determined to do their part.

Percy lingered at the edge of the garden, watching as the family began to take their seats. Those not in the ceremony moved toward the front rows—Arthur and Molly, already dabbing at their eyes; Andromeda Tonks with little Teddy on her lap; a few cousins Percy hadn’t seen since before the war.

He hesitated. Then Charlie appeared at his side, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve earned a front-row seat.”

Percy followed him gratefully, the tension in his spine easing just slightly. They ended up settling into the second row, just behind Arthur and Molly. Percy folded his hands in his lap, his posture straight, his expression composed. He glanced once toward the aisle, where Oliver now sat near the middle of the guest section, chatting with Angelina and Lee. Percy’s eyes lingered for a moment—just a moment—before he looked away.

The music shifted—subtle, orchestral, and unmistakably magical. The kind of melody that didn’t just fill the air but seemed to hum through the ground itself, as if the Burrow had taken a breath and was holding it.

Then, with a soft shimmer of golden light, Ron stepped into view.

He didn’t walk so much as glide—his feet touched the ground, yes, but the path beneath him lit with each step, a soft copper glow blooming beneath his shoes and fading behind him like embers. His robes were deep russet, tailored but not fussy, with a subtle pattern of interlocking vines embroidered in bronze thread along the cuffs and hem. A cream waistcoat peeked out beneath the open front, and a single sunflower—Hermione’s favorite—was pinned to his lapel. His hair had been tamed, but not too much. Still Ron. Still a little rumpled. Still real.

Percy watched him walk, and something in his chest twisted. This was his little brother. Taller now. Stronger. A man. And Percy wasn’t sure when that had happened—when Ron had grown into someone who could stand at the front of a ceremony like this and look like he belonged there. 

Ron reached the front and turned, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression somewhere between nervous and awestruck. 

Then the music changed again. And Hermione appeared. She stepped into the garden on the arm of both her parents, and for a moment, the entire crowd seemed to still. Her dress was simple in shape but rich in detail—ivory silk that shimmered like moonlight, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves and hem that looked like runes if you stared long enough. The bodice was fitted, the skirt flowing, and the train trailed behind her like a whisper. It was elegant, timeless, and unmistakably Hermione. Her hair was half-up, pinned with tiny copper leaves and cream blossoms that matched the bouquets. The rest fell in soft, voluminous curls around her shoulders—untamed, beautiful, and entirely hers. She hadn’t hidden it. She hadn’t needed to.

Percy felt something catch in his throat.

Hermione’s parents walked slowly, their expressions proud and a little overwhelmed. Her mother’s hand trembled slightly against her daughter’s arm. Her father kept glancing around the garden like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real. When they reached the front, they each kissed Hermione’s cheek—first her mother, then her father—and Percy saw her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. Then they stepped back, taking their seats in the front row, and Hermione turned to Ron.

She smiled. And Ron—who had faced Death Eaters and dragons and the end of the world—looked like he might cry.

Hermione took his hand.

Bill stepped forward, wand lowered, voice steady. “We are gathered here today,” he began, “to witness and celebrate the union of Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Bilius Weasley.”

The words were simple, familiar—something even the Muggle guests could recognize. But there was a weight to them, a reverence that settled over the garden like a soft enchantment.

“This is a day of joy,” Bill continued, “but also of choice. A choice to love, to grow, to stand beside one another through all that life may bring. Ron and Hermione have chosen each other—again and again—and today, they choose to bind that love in front of all of us.”

He turned to them. “They’ve written their own vows.”

Hermione went first. She took a breath, her hands trembling slightly in Ron’s, and then she began. “Ron,” she said, her voice soft but clear, “you once told me that I was scary when I was angry, and that you liked me anyway. You’ve seen me at my worst—when I’m stubborn, when I’m anxious, when I’m convinced I have to fix everything myself. And still, you’ve never asked me to be anything but exactly who I am.” She smiled, eyes shining. “You make me laugh when I forget how. You remind me that being brave doesn’t always mean being loud. And you’ve always, always stood beside me—even when I was wrong. Especially when I was wrong.” A soft laugh rippled through the crowd. “I promise to keep learning with you. To keep arguing with you. To keep choosing you. Every day.”

Ron swallowed hard. His ears were pink. Then it was his turn.

“Hermione,” he said, and his voice cracked on the first word. He cleared his throat. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You’re also the bossiest, the most brilliant, the most terrifying when you’re holding a book and a wand at the same time.” Laughter again—louder this time. “But you’re also the kindest. The bravest. The one who believed in me when I didn’t. The one who made me want to be better—not because you asked me to, but because you already thought I was.” He looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “I promise to keep making you tea when you forget to eat. To keep letting you win arguments—sometimes. And to never, ever leave your side. Not even when you’re wrong about cauldron thickness. Which you are.” Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling through tears.

Percy didn’t understand all of it—the cauldron joke, the tea, the way the crowd reacted to certain lines with knowing laughter or soft sighs. But he understood the feeling. The weight of it. The truth of it. This was love. Not perfect. Not polished. But real.

And then Bill raised his wand, his officiant robes catching the light like woven parchment, embroidered with runes that shimmered faintly in copper and cream. He raised his wand—not to cast, but to signal silence—and the music faded into stillness. “Family, friends, honored guests,” he began, his voice steady and warm, “we are gathered here not just to witness a union, but to weave one.”

A hush fell over the garden. Even the wind seemed to pause.

“In the magical tradition,” Bill continued, “marriage is more than a promise. It is a bond—an enchantment of choice, of trust, of shared magic. It is not taken lightly. It is not easily broken. And it is never, ever ordinary.”

He turned to Ron and Hermione, who now stood facing each other, hands clasped.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” Bill said, “do you enter this bond freely, with heart and wand and will?”

Ron nodded, his voice rough but clear. “I do.”

“Hermione Jean Granger, do you enter this bond freely, with heart and wand and will?”

“I do,” Hermione said, and her voice didn’t waver.

Bill raised his wand again, and this time, he cast. The spell was ancient—older than Hogwarts, older than the Ministry. The words were in a language Percy didn’t recognize, but the magic was unmistakable. It shimmered in the air like heat, then coalesced around Ron and Hermione’s joined hands. A ribbon of light unfurled from their palms—soft gold and warm rose, twining around their fingers like silk. It pulsed gently, in time with their heartbeats, and as it wrapped around their hands, it left behind a faint, glowing thread that lingered in the air between them. The Muggles gasped—soft, awed sounds of wonder. One of Hermione’s cousins clutched her partner’s arm, eyes wide with delight. Even Percy, who had seen more magic than most, felt something stir in his chest. The ribbon of light settled, then faded, leaving behind a faint shimmer on their skin. Bill lowered his wand.

“Then by the old magic and the new,” he said, “by the bond you have chosen and the love you have built, I declare you bound.”

Ron and Hermione leaned in, and when they kissed, the garden bloomed. Literally. The flowers along the aisle opened in unison, petals unfurling in a wave of color—copper, cream, soft blush, and gold. The lanterns brightened, casting a warm glow over the guests. Somewhere, a string quartet picked up again, the music swelling like a held breath finally released. The crowd erupted into applause. And Percy, sitting beside Charlie in the front row, found himself smiling. Not because it was perfect. But because it was real.

The ceremony concluded with a final swell of music and a soft shimmer of light that lingered in the air like stardust. Bill lowered his wand, smiling at the couple before him.

“You may go forth,” he said, “as bound hearts, as chosen family, as partners in all things.”

Ron and Hermione didn’t wait for further instruction. They turned to the crowd, hands still clasped, and broke into a run—laughing, radiant, utterly unbothered by tradition. The aisle lit beneath their feet again, copper and rose gold blooming in their wake as they sprinted toward the reception garden, Hermione’s train floating behind her like a banner.

The guests erupted into cheers. Behind Ron and Hermione, the wedding party followed in pairs, more composed but no less joyful. George offered Fleur his arm with a dramatic flourish, and she rolled her eyes fondly before taking it. They walked with easy grace, George cracking a quiet joke that made Fleur laugh despite herself. Next came Luna and Neville, both glowing in their own quiet ways. Luna’s bouquet floated beside her, orbiting gently like a moon, and Neville looked like he couldn’t believe his luck to be part of something so beautiful. Then Harry and Ginny, hand in hand. Ginny’s smile was fierce and proud, and Harry looked like he’d just won a Quidditch Cup and a quiet life all at once.

Once the wedding party had passed, the families rose. Arthur offered Molly his arm, and she took it with a tearful smile. Andromeda followed with Teddy, who waved enthusiastically at the floating lanterns. Percy stood with Charlie, grateful for the solid presence at his side, and together they walked down the aisle behind their parents. Hermione’s parents joined them—her mother dabbing at her eyes, her father still looking around the garden like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real. They walked beside the Weasleys, not behind them, and Percy felt a quiet warmth at the sight. Two families, now one. Together, they made their way toward the reception garden, where the celebration would begin.

The guests followed in a gentle tide, laughter and conversation rising like birdsong as they made their way toward the second garden—transfigured for the evening into a glowing, enchanted space of long tables, floating candles, and soft music.

The ceremony was over.

The celebration had begun.

The reception garden had been transformed. Long tables curved in gentle arcs around a central dance floor, their surfaces draped in soft cream linens and scattered with copper and blush blossoms. Floating candles hovered above like fireflies, casting a warm, flickering glow over the space. The air smelled of honeyed wine, fresh bread, and something floral Percy couldn’t quite place. He found his name on a small, hand-lettered card tucked into a copper ring at the edge of one of the front tables. The seating wasn’t exactly assigned—more like gently suggested. Hermione’s doing, no doubt. Organized chaos. A system that looked like structure but left room for improvisation. N ot quite how Percy would have done it. Still, he understood. It was for Ron and Hermione. And it worked.

The Weasley family had been placed near the front, closest to the dance floor and the head table where Ron and Hermione would sit. Hermione’s parents were nearby, seated with Andromeda and a few of the more magically-inclined Muggle guests. Percy’s seat was at the edge of the family section—close enough to be included, far enough to feel peripheral. It didn’t bother him. Much. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, posture straight, eyes scanning the garden as the guests began to settle in. The Muggles, bless them, were the only ones actually paying attention to the place cards. They moved carefully, politely, murmuring names and checking cards like they were decoding a puzzle.

Everyone else? Chaos.

Dean Thomas had already swapped seats twice. Luna was sitting cross-legged on a bench that wasn’t hers, chatting with a pair of elderly witches who seemed utterly charmed by her. George had abandoned his assigned seat entirely and was now orchestrating a game of “guess the magical creature” with a group of children near the dessert table. Percy watched it all unfold with a kind of detached amusement. It was messy. Loud. Unstructured. And somehow, it was perfect.

The clinking of glasses signaled the start of the speeches, and a hush fell over the reception garden. The floating candles dimmed slightly, casting a warm, intimate glow over the tables. Harry stood first. He looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather be facing a Hungarian Horntail than a crowd of wedding guests, but his voice was steady when he began.

Percy tried to listen. He really did. But the words blurred a little—something about Ron being a terrible roommate, about Hermione’s patience being a miracle, about how they’d all nearly died a dozen times and somehow ended up here, alive and in love. The crowd laughed in the right places. Hermione wiped at her eyes. Ron looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and also never leave it.

Percy caught the important parts.

“…he’s always been there when it mattered…”

“…Hermione, you’ve made him better. You’ve made all of us better…”

“…I’m proud of you both. And I love you.”

Percy blinked, surprised by the lump in his throat.

Harry raised his glass. “To Ron and Hermione.”

The crowd echoed the toast, glasses lifted high, and then Harry sat down, cheeks pink but smiling.

Arthur stood next. He didn’t have notes. He didn’t need them. “I won’t speak long,” he said. “But I will speak from the heart.” He looked at Ron and Hermione, his eyes soft behind his glasses. “Family,” he said, “isn’t just about blood. It’s about choice. About standing by each other when things are hard, and laughing together when they’re not. It’s about growing, and forgiving, and learning how to be better—together.” He paused, his voice catching just slightly. “I’ve watched my children grow into people I admire. And today, I get to welcome another daughter into our family—not that she hasn’t been part of it for years already.” Hermione smiled, eyes shining. Arthur raised his glass. “To love, to laughter, and to the family we choose.”

The toast rang out again, warm and full. Percy didn’t raise his glass right away. He just watched his father, and felt something settle in his chest—something like gratitude, and something like longing.

After Arthur sat down to warm applause, another figure rose from the front row—Hermione’s father. Percy straightened slightly, out of habit more than interest. He didn’t know much about Mr. Granger beyond what he’d gleaned from brief introductions and Hermione’s occasional mentions. A dentist, he thought. Muggle. Quiet. The man cleared his throat and smiled, a little nervously, before beginning. “I’ll admit,” he said, “I never imagined giving a speech at a wedding where the candles float and the wine pours itself.” Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Percy’s attention drifted. He caught a glimpse of a dessert table being restocked by a levitating tray, and his mind wandered to the logistics of the charm. He wondered if the enchantments were Hermione’s or Molly’s. Probably Hermione’s. More efficient.

“…but what I did imagine,” Mr. Granger was saying, “was seeing my daughter happy. And today, she is.” Percy blinked, tuning back in. “She’s always been brilliant. Always been determined. And, well, let’s be honest—she’s always been a bit terrifying when she sets her mind to something.” More laughter. “But Ron,” Mr. Granger continued, turning toward the groom, “you’ve never been afraid of that. You’ve matched her, step for step, and you’ve made her laugh in ways I didn’t know she could. You’ve made her feel safe. And for that, I thank you.”

Percy didn’t catch every word. But he heard the bits and pieces from the rest of his speech.

“…we’re proud to call you our son…”

“…you’ve built something strong together…”

“…we’re honored to be part of this family.”

The applause was warm, heartfelt. Hermione dabbed at her eyes. Ron looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Percy sat quietly, watching the way Hermione reached for Ron’s hand beneath the table. And for a moment, everything felt very far away.

As the last of the speeches faded into applause, the garden began to stir again. Conversations resumed—soft at first, then louder, more animated. Laughter bubbled up from different corners of the reception, and the clinking of glasses returned like a familiar rhythm. Then, with a gentle shimmer of magic, the food appeared. Plates filled themselves with warm, fragrant dishes—roast chicken with rosemary, charmed vegetables that shimmered faintly with seasoning spells, golden rolls that steamed when broken open. Bottles of wine uncorked themselves with polite little pops, and pitchers of pumpkin juice and elderflower fizz floated from table to table.

Percy picked up his fork, but didn’t eat right away. He watched the garden instead—the way the candles flickered above the tables, the way the Muggles marveled at the self-serving platters, the way Ron and Hermione leaned into each other, laughing at something Harry said. It was noisy. Joyful. Alive.

Halfway through the meal, just as Percy was beginning to eat, a chair scraped back near the head table. George stood.

The noise didn’t stop immediately. It took a few seconds for people to notice, for the laughter to quiet, for the garden to still. No one had expected him to speak.  George didn’t raise a glass. He didn’t clear his throat. He just looked out at the crowd, then down at his hands, then back up again.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said. “Didn’t plan to. Didn’t write anything down.”

His voice was rough. Not loud. But it carried.

“I just… I wanted to say something. About Ron.”

He paused, and Percy could see the effort it took to keep going.

“You’re my little brother,” George said, looking at Ron. “And I’ve given you a lot of grief over the years. Still will, probably. But I’m proud of you. I don’t say that enough. None of us do.”

Ron looked stunned. Hermione reached for his hand.

George’s gaze drifted, just for a second, toward the empty space beside him. The space where Fred would have stood. “I wish he were here,” George said. “Fred. He would’ve had something wildly inappropriate to say. Probably would’ve hexed the cake. But he would’ve been proud too.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just full.

George took a breath. “Hermione, you’re already family. But now it’s official. And I’m glad. You make him better. You make all of us better.”

He looked down again, then back up. “That’s all.”

He sat. No one clapped right away. No one moved. 

Percy blinked, and only then realized his eyes were wet. He wiped them quickly, quietly, hoping no one noticed. But something in George’s words had hit him hard. Not just the mention of Fred. Not just the pride. But the effort. The vulnerability. The way George had stood up and spoken when no one expected him to. It had taken something out of him. And Percy felt it like a weight in his chest.

The silence after George’s speech lingered like mist—soft, reverent, full of feeling. But slowly, gently, the garden began to stir again. Someone at the next table made a quiet joke. A few guests laughed. A cork popped somewhere near the dessert table. The music picked up again, light and lilting, and the hum of conversation returned like a tide rolling back in.

Percy exhaled, long and slow, and returned to his plate. He was halfway through a bite of roasted squash when, without warning, every plate on every table vanished with a soft pop of magic. Forks clinked against empty air. A few guests were startled. One of the Muggles yelped in surprise. Percy blinked at the sudden emptiness in front of him.

Then a voice rang out—clear, cheerful, magically amplified. “Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, honored guests—if we could direct your attention to the dance floor, it’s time for the first dance!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, and the music shifted—slower now, richer, threaded with something warm and golden.

Ron and Hermione stepped onto the dance floor, hand in hand. The candles above them dipped lower, casting a soft glow around their figures. They moved awkwardly at first—Ron stepping on her foot, Hermione laughing—but then they found a rhythm. A quiet, swaying sort of rhythm that wasn’t polished, but was entirely theirs. Percy watched as he finished the last bite of his meal, chewing slowly, his hands suddenly unsure of what to do now that his plate was gone.

The dance ended to applause, and then the music changed again—faster, brighter. Guests began to rise from their seats, drifting toward the dance floor in pairs and clusters. Laughter echoed across the garden. Shoes were kicked off. Robes were loosened. Someone conjured a trail of floating petals that followed them in a spiral. Percy stayed seated. He folded his hands in his lap. Adjusted his cuffs. Smoothed the edge of the tablecloth. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t feel like he could join. Not yet. Maybe not at all. The music swelled again, and more guests flooded the dance floor—pairs spinning, laughing, weaving between tables with flushed cheeks and glowing smiles. The garden was alive with motion and joy.

Percy sat still.

He watched his family—Charlie twirling a cousin with exaggerated flair, Ginny laughing as Harry dipped her too low and nearly dropped her, Arthur clapping along to the beat with Molly’s hand in his. He wished he could join them. He wished he could feel what they felt—lightness, ease, the kind of happiness that didn’t have to be earned or justified. He wished he didn’t feel like a guest at his own family’s celebration. He wished he didn’t feel like he was watching life happen from the outside.

His gaze drifted, unfocused, as the music blurred into background noise. He stared past the flickering candles, past the dancing guests, past the edge of the reception garden where the lanterns faded into the trees. He didn’t notice the shift in tempo. Didn’t hear the laughter nearby. Didn’t see the way the crowd parted slightly near the center of the floor. Until someone laughed—bright, familiar, and just a little too loud. Percy blinked and looked up. Across the dance floor, Oliver Wood was dancing with Angelina Johnson. They moved easily together, laughing as they spun—Angelina graceful and sharp, Oliver loose-limbed and grinning. It wasn’t romantic, not really. But it was close. Comfortable. Intimate in the way old friends could be.

Percy’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what he was feeling, only that it was sudden and sharp and unwelcome. A flicker of something that felt like jealousy, though he wouldn’t have named it that. Not out loud. He looked away. But the feeling stayed. Percy stayed seated for a while longer, unsure of what he was feeling or what to do with it. He wasn’t upset. Not exactly. But he wasn’t fine, either. He didn’t know what to call the tightness in his chest or the way his eyes kept drifting back to the dance floor, to Oliver and Angelina, to the way they moved together like they’d done it a hundred times before. He didn’t know why it bothered him. He just knew he didn’t want to sit there anymore.

So he stood. Straightened his robes. Adjusted his cuffs. And walked.

He didn’t have a destination. Just the vague sense that if he looked like he was doing something, he wouldn’t feel quite so out of place. He circled the edge of the reception garden, nodding politely to guests, pretending to check the dessert table, pretending not to be pretending. And then he nearly walked straight into Charlie.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “You alright?”

Percy blinked. “Of course. Just… stretching my legs.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced. He glanced toward the dance floor, where Oliver was now laughing at something Angelina had said, his hand still loosely in hers. Then he looked back at Percy.

“You know,” Charlie said, voice casual but pointed, “you’re allowed to loosen up. Talk to people. Maybe even dance.”

Percy frowned. “I’m fine.”

Charlie gave him a look. “You’re standing next to the cake table like it’s a Ministry security post.”

Percy flushed. “I’m just—”

“Percy,” Charlie said, more gently now, “you don’t have to prove anything tonight. Just… be here. With us.”

He clapped a hand on Percy’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and then wandered off toward the drinks table, whistling. Percy stood there, uncertain, the music swelling behind him. He didn’t move. Not yet.

Percy stayed by the cake table long after Charlie had wandered off, the music pulsing softly behind him, the laughter of his family rising and falling like waves. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He wanted to be part of it—the joy, the dancing, the warmth that seemed to radiate from every corner of the garden. He wanted to laugh without thinking, to move without calculating, to feel without questioning. But he didn’t know how. Not really. He’d spent so long trying to be useful, to be composed, to be forgiven. And now that the world had softened around him, he didn’t know where to put his hands. Or his heart. He glanced toward the dance floor again, toward where Oliver had been. Gone. Percy’s stomach dropped, inexplicably. He turned, scanning the crowd, and—

“Hiya, Perce.” Oliver was right there. Close. Smiling. Bright-eyed and flushed with just enough firewhisky to be charmingly unfiltered.

Percy startled, blinking at the sudden proximity. “Oh—hello.”

Oliver grinned, swaying slightly on his feet. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You looked like you were thinking very hard about that cake.”

“I wasn’t—well, I was just—” Percy floundered, then cleared his throat. “I was observing.”

“Observing,” Oliver repeated, nodding solemnly. “Very important. Very noble. But also very lonely.”

Percy opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Oliver tilted his head. “So. How are you doing?”

The question was simple. But Percy had no idea how to answer it. Percy blinked at Oliver’s question, still caught off guard by his sudden appearance, his warmth, his nearness. “Oh. Um.” He cleared his throat. “Fine? I suppose.”

Oliver gave him a look—eyebrows raised, mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “Sure you are,” he said, but didn’t press. Instead, he launched into a cheerful ramble, his words tumbling out with the easy momentum of someone who’d had just enough firewhisky to forget to be self-conscious.

“I’m doing amazing,” he said, gesturing broadly to the garden. “This wedding is brilliant. The food? Incredible. The music? Surprisingly good. And Ron and Hermione—Merlin, don’t they look good together? I mean, I always knew they’d end up together, but seeing it? Like this? It’s just—” He made a vague, sparkly gesture with his fingers. “Perfect.”

Percy nodded, unsure what to say. Oliver’s energy was like a gust of wind—warm, disarming, a little overwhelming. Then Oliver went quiet. The silence stretched between them, not awkward, but full.

Percy was just about to say something—anything—when Oliver spoke again, softer this time. “You don’t have to disappear to make them feel better.”

Percy froze. “I’m not hiding,” he said quickly, too quickly.

Oliver gave him a look. Not unkind. Just… knowing.

Percy sighed. The words came before he could stop them. “I just… I feel like I need to. Like I’m not really part of it. Not properly. Not the way they are.”

He looked down at his hands. “Sometimes I feel like I replaced Fred. Like there was this hole, and I stepped into it, and now I’m supposed to be something I’m not. I can’t be what he was. I can’t give them what he gave them.” He paused. “And I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Oliver didn’t say anything right away. But he didn’t look away. And Percy didn’t regret saying it. Not really. Because Oliver was still there. Still listening. Oliver didn’t rush to respond. He just stood there for a moment, watching Percy with that same open, steady expression that made Percy feel both seen and slightly unmoored. Then he said, gently, “You don’t have to be Fred, Percy. You don’t have to be anyone but yourself.”

Percy looked away, jaw tight.

“I know it’s hard,” Oliver continued. “But you’re allowed to be here. You’re allowed to laugh. To have fun. You don’t have to earn it.”

Percy let out a breath. “Fun isn’t exactly my specialty.”

Oliver grinned. “Lucky for you, it’s mine.”

Before Percy could protest, Oliver clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Come on.”

“What?”

“Come on,” Oliver repeated, already turning toward the dance floor. “You don’t have to dance. Just… stand near the dancing. It’s less tragic than standing by the cake.”

Percy hesitated. Then, inexplicably, he followed. They reached the edge of the dance floor, and Oliver didn’t hesitate—he dove right in, spinning and laughing and somehow managing to make even the most ridiculous moves look charming. Percy stood just off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard not to smile. It didn’t work.

He rolled his eyes as Oliver did a dramatic twirl, nearly knocking over a floating lantern. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re uptight,” Oliver called back, grinning. “We all have our burdens.”

Percy shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He didn’t dance. But he stayed. And he laughed—quietly, but genuinely—when Oliver tried to moonwalk and nearly tripped over a gnome. Then, after a moment, Percy asked, “Shouldn’t you be dancing with Angelina?”

Oliver blinked, then laughed. “Angie? Oh—no. We’re not… well, we’re not.”

Percy’s ears went red. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t implying—I just thought—”

Oliver laughed harder. “Relax, Perce. She’s like a sister. She’d hex me if I tried anything.”

Percy muttered something unintelligible and looked away, but he didn’t walk off. And Oliver didn’t stop smiling.

The music shifted again—something upbeat and a little ridiculous—and Oliver turned to Percy with a gleam in his eye. “Alright,” he said, “you’ve stood on the sidelines long enough. Come dance.”

Percy blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Oliver said, already reaching for his hand. “You don’t have to waltz. Just move a little. You’ve got rhythm, right?”

“I don’t dance,” Percy said firmly. “I don’t know how.”

Oliver grinned. “Perfect. Neither do I.”

Before Percy could protest further, Oliver tugged him a few steps onto the dance floor. Not far. Just enough to be surrounded by movement and music and laughter. Percy stood stiffly, arms at his sides, looking like he’d been dropped into a foreign country without a map. Oliver started dancing—if it could be called that. It was more like bouncing, spinning, flailing with charm. He pointed at Percy. “Come on. Just a little shimmy.”

“I don’t shimmy.”

“You do now.”

Percy sighed. Looked around. And then, with the air of a man accepting his fate, gave the smallest, most reluctant shimmy imaginable. Oliver lit up like a lantern. Percy rolled his eyes, but… he didn’t hate it. Not entirely. For a moment, he forgot to be self-conscious. Forgot to calculate. He just… existed. In the music. In the moment. With Oliver.

Then someone called Oliver’s name—Angelina, maybe, or Lee—and Oliver turned, laughing, and was swept away into another dance.

Percy stood there for a beat, suddenly alone in the middle of the floor. And then the realization hit him. He was in the middle of the dance floor. Alone. He turned sharply and made a beeline for the cake table, trying to look casual and not like he was fleeing a battlefield. He nearly collided with George. They both stopped.

George looked at him, then glanced back toward the dance floor. “You and Wood, huh?”

Percy flushed. “It wasn’t—he just—”

George held up a hand. “Not judging.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Then George said, voice low and a little rough, “I’ve been a jackass. To you.”

Percy blinked. “I—well. I haven’t exactly been easy to like.”

George shrugged. “Still. I was angry. At everything. You were just… there.”

Percy nodded. “I’m sorry, too. For everything.”

George didn’t say anything else. Just gave a short nod, clapped Percy once on the shoulder, and walked off. It wasn’t a reconciliation. But it was something.

At some point—Percy wasn’t sure when—Ron and Hermione had made their way to the cake table, laughing as they cut the first slice together. Hermione had charmed the knife to sing softly as it sliced through the tiers, and Ron had pretended to be horrified, which only made her laugh harder. Now, the cake was fair game. Percy helped himself to a slice—vanilla with a hint of almond—and retreated to a quiet corner of the garden. The music was still going strong, the dance floor full of spinning robes and flushed faces, but here, at the edge, it was quieter.

He ate slowly, watching. His family danced. Arthur and Molly swayed together, smiling like they were the only two people in the world. Ginny and Harry were locked in a fast-paced duel of footwork, laughing breathlessly. Even George had returned to the floor, twirling someone with flair. Percy smiled, just a little. He was happier than he’d been earlier. Lighter. But still… apart. He didn’t quite know how to step into that kind of joy. Not fully. Not yet.

“Look at you,” came a voice beside him. “Cake in one hand, dignity mostly intact. I’m proud.”

Percy turned to see Charlie grinning at him, a drink in hand and his sleeves rolled up.

“I saw you on the dance floor,” Charlie said. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t,” Percy muttered. “It was more of a… reluctant shuffle.”

Charlie laughed. “Still counts. You looked like you were having fun.”

Percy hesitated. Then nodded. “I think I was.”

Charlie bumped his shoulder lightly. “Good. You deserve to.”

They stood there for a moment, watching the celebration unfold. Then Charlie took a sip from his goblet and held it out to Percy with a grin. “Here. Try this.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t usually—”

“It’s a refilling goblet,” Charlie said, wiggling it slightly. “Charmed to only give you a limited amount of firewhisky. After that, it switches to water. Can’t get that drunk on it, just… pleasantly warm.”

Percy hesitated.

Charlie nudged him. “Come on. It’s a wedding.”

With a sigh that was more theatrical than reluctant, Percy took the goblet and sipped. It was sweet and spiced. Not bad. Charlie clapped him on the back, nearly making him spill it. “Atta boy.” Then he wandered off again, disappearing into the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who belonged wherever he went.

Percy stayed where he was, sipping slowly, not really paying attention to how much he was drinking. The goblet refilled itself with a soft shimmer each time it emptied, and Percy let it. He wasn’t drinking to forget. He wasn’t even drinking to celebrate. He was just… thinking. About George. About Fred. About the way Oliver had smiled when Percy shimmied. About how strange it was to feel both included and apart at the same time.

He didn’t notice how much time had passed until a familiar voice rang out beside him.

“Heeeyyyy—I found you again!”

Percy looked up, startled—and then grinned, wide and unguarded. “Yup.”

Oliver beamed at him, cheeks flushed, hair a little messier than before. “You disappeared on me.”

“I relocated,” Percy said primly, still smiling.

Oliver laughed. “Well. I’m glad I found you.”

And Percy, still holding the goblet, still warm from the inside out, realized he was glad too.

Oliver flopped down beside Percy with all the grace of a falling broomstick, nearly knocking over a nearby lantern in the process. “Merlin’s beard,” he groaned, stretching his legs out in front of him. “I forgot how exhausting dancing is when you’re trying to impress absolutely no one.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I was,” Oliver said brightly. “Still am. This wedding is brilliant. Did you see the enchanted napkins? One of them tried to fold itself into a badger and then gave up halfway through. Very relatable.”  Oliver continued to ramble at Percy for about the next few minutes about people he’d run into on the dance floor and things he’d seen throughout the night. 

After a while, Percy huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re a bit of a gossip when you’ve had firewhisky, aren’t you?”

Oliver gasped, mock-offended. “I am not.”

“You are. You’ve told me three different people’s middle names in the last five minutes.”

“Important context,” Oliver said, waving a hand. “You never know when you’ll need to know that Seamus’s middle name is Aloysius.”

Percy gave him a look. “That’s not true.”

“No, but it should be.”

They both laughed, and for a moment, Percy forgot to feel awkward. Then Oliver turned to him, eyes bright. “Come on. Let’s go back out there.”

Percy hesitated. “I don’t—”

“Please?” Oliver leaned in, grinning. “You already shimmied. You’re halfway to being a menace.”

Percy sighed, but it was theatrical this time. “Fine.”

Oliver jumped to his feet, then offered Percy a hand. Percy took it, and as he stood, his head wobbled slightly—not spinning, exactly, but pleasantly light. Percy took his goblet and downed what was left to finish it before he set it aside. He blinked, then looked down at the goblet in his hand as it refilled itself with a soft shimmer.

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Refilling.”

He set it down carefully on a nearby table, then let Oliver tug him back toward the dance floor. The music was loud, the lights warm, and the air full of laughter. And Percy—against all odds—was smiling. The music had shifted again—something with a steady beat and a cheerful rhythm that didn’t demand much coordination. Percy could manage that. Probably. He swayed. Not dramatically. Not with flair. Just enough to move with the music, to not look entirely out of place beside Oliver, who was once again dancing like the floor was his personal stage.

“You’ve got moves, Weasley,” Oliver said, grinning. “That sway? That’s advanced-level restraint. Very elegant.”

Percy gave him a flat look. “I’m trying not to fall over.”

“Exactly,” Oliver said, nodding solemnly. “Grace under pressure. It’s inspiring.”

Percy huffed a laugh. “I’ll be sure to add it to my résumé.”

They danced—if it could be called that—for a few more minutes. Percy never got too close, never quite let himself forget where he was, but he was smiling. Genuinely. And Oliver kept talking, kept teasing, kept pulling laughter out of him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Every so often, Percy would excuse himself and slip back to the edge of the garden, where the goblet Charlie had given him still sat on a table, waiting. He took a sip. Then another. Then, after the third trip, he stumbled slightly on his way back to the dance floor and bumped into Oliver, goblet still in his hand.

“Whoa there,” Oliver said, catching his elbow. “You alright?”

Percy blinked. “Yes. I just—” He looked down at the goblet in his hand. It shimmered and refilled itself again.

He frowned. “Charlie said this would turn into water.”

Oliver peered at it. “Still tastes like firewhiskey?” 

Percy took a cautious sip. His eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Oliver burst out laughing. “Oh no. Charlie got you with the ‘responsible enchantment’ trick, didn’t he?”

Percy’s ears went red. “He said it was limited.”

Oliver grinned. “It is. Limited to how much you can handle before you start quoting Ministry bylaws in the middle of a wedding.”

Percy muttered something under his breath and set the goblet down with great dignity. Oliver just laughed harder. And Percy—despite himself—smiled.

The music played on, and somehow, Percy was still dancing. Not well. Not gracefully. But he was moving—swaying, stepping, occasionally stumbling—and he wasn’t thinking about how he looked. Not much, anyway. Oliver stayed close, never too far, always ready with a steadying hand when Percy’s foot caught on uneven grass or when he turned too quickly and nearly lost his balance. He didn’t tease. He just smiled, warm and wide, like Percy was doing something remarkable. And maybe he was.  Percy couldn’t remember the last time he’d had fun. Real fun. Not polite amusement or the quiet satisfaction of a well-organized file, but actual, unfiltered joy. The kind that made his chest feel lighter and his face ache from smiling.

He thought about the beginning of the night—how he’d stood at the edge of the garden, unsure if he even belonged. And now here he was, dancing. Laughing. Letting go. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected Oliver.

The crowd on the dance floor had thinned. A few couples still swayed to the slower music, but most guests had drifted toward the dessert tables or begun saying their goodbyes. The lanterns above had dimmed slightly, casting a softer glow over the garden.

Oliver checked his watch and groaned. “Oh no.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“I have practice in the morning,” Oliver said, rubbing his face. “Early. Like, ‘why does the sun hate me’ early. I need at least five hours of sleep or I’ll fly straight into a goalpost.”

Percy chuckled. “That would be… unfortunate.”

“Tragic,” Oliver agreed. “But worth it.”

He smiled at Percy again, and Percy felt that same strange warmth bloom in his chest. He didn’t want the night to end. But he was glad it had happened. 

Oliver checked his watch again and groaned. “Alright. I really have to go. If I show up to practice looking like I danced through a thunderstorm, my coach will hex me.”

Percy nodded, suddenly unsure of what to say. Or do. They stood there for a moment, both hesitating. Handshake? Hug? Neither moved. Then, at the exact same time, they both reached out—Percy for a handshake, Oliver for a hug—and ended up colliding in a confused tangle of limbs that somehow turned into a high five. Or maybe a fist bump. It was hard to tell. They both laughed, a little too loudly.

“Well,” Oliver said, still grinning, “that was… something.”

“Indeed,” Percy muttered, ears pink.

Oliver gave him one last smile—bright and genuine—and said, “Thanks for dancing with me, Perce.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the night with a wave and a bounce in his step. Percy stood there for a moment, staring after him. The goodbye had been awkward. Embarrassing, even. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. All he knew was that Oliver had made the night… good. Better than good. Enjoyable.

Percy turned toward the Burrow, the music still echoing faintly behind him. The lanterns were dimming now, the garden emptying, the celebration winding down. He was halfway to the house when he ran into Charlie, leaning against the fence with a smug grin.

“You look like you had a good night,” Charlie said.

Percy tried, and failed, to scowl. “No thanks to you.”

Charlie winked. “You’re welcome.”

Percy rolled his eyes and kept walking. Inside the Burrow, the house was quiet. The warmth of the evening still clung to the walls, the scent of flowers and cake lingering in the air. Percy climbed the stairs to his old room, changed into pajamas with slow, deliberate movements, and slipped beneath the covers. His head hit the pillow.

And he was asleep before he could think another thought.

Chapter Text

March 2002 – Ministry of Magic

The ink on Percy’s quill had begun to feather.

He frowned at the parchment in front of him—half a draft of a diplomatic memo to the French Ministry regarding cross-border Portkey regulations—and tapped the quill against the rim of his inkwell with more force than necessary. The words weren’t coming. Or rather, they were coming in the wrong order, tangled and stiff, lacking the precision he usually prided himself on. He rubbed at his temple with ink-stained fingers and glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly half past one. No wonder. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and even that had been a rushed affair—toast, jam, and a mouthful of lukewarm tea before Apparating in. His stomach gave a quiet, traitorous growl.

With a sigh, Percy set the quill down and pushed back from his desk. The office around him hummed with quiet activity—quills scratching, memos fluttering, the occasional pop of a Disillusionment charm being lifted as someone returned from a classified meeting. It was a familiar rhythm now. Comforting, even. He stood, stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders gave a satisfying crack, and reached for his robes. The deep navy ones today—less formal than his usual black, but still crisp, still proper. He smoothed the front with practiced fingers and stepped out into the corridor.

“Taking a break, Weasley?” came a voice from the next office over.

Percy turned to see Marietta Edgecombe leaning against her doorframe, a mug of tea in hand and a knowing smirk on her face.

“Briefly,” he said. “Before I start drafting the Portkey compliance addendum.”

“Thrilling stuff,” she said dryly.

Percy gave a faint smile. “Try to contain your envy.”

He passed a few more familiar faces on the way to the lift—Nadiya from Magical Trade, who gave him a cheerful wave; Mr. Ogilvy from Portkey Placement, who nodded with the solemnity of a man who took corridor etiquette very seriously; and a pair of junior clerks who straightened their postures as he walked by, as if his presence alone demanded better posture. He didn’t mind. Not anymore.

The lift arrived with a soft chime, and Percy stepped inside, alone for the moment. The brass grille slid shut, and the lift began its gentle descent toward the Atrium. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, and let his mind drift—not to the memo, not to the regulations, but to the thought of a warm pasty and a cup of tea that hadn’t been reheated three times.

The Ministry had changed since the war. So had he. But in this moment, descending toward the scent of roasted nuts and the low murmur of lunchtime chatter, Percy felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. At ease.

The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and Percy stepped into the Atrium. It was quieter than usual—midday lull, most likely—but the scent of roasted coffee beans and warm pastries still lingered in the air, curling around the marble columns like a familiar spell. The café tucked into the far corner of the Atrium was modest, but efficient: a curved counter, a few floating menus, and a scattering of small tables charmed to clear themselves between customers. Percy joined the short queue, already scanning the options. He didn’t need to. He ordered the same thing most days—cheese and onion pasty, black tea, no sugar—but the ritual helped him feel grounded. Predictable. Safe.

“Afternoon, Mr. Weasley,” said the witch behind the counter, already reaching for the pasty tongs.

“Afternoon, Miriam,” Percy replied, offering a polite nod. “The usual, please.”

She handed over the wrapped pasty and a steaming cup of tea with a practiced flick of her wand. Percy tapped his wand to the payment rune, murmured a quiet “Thank you,” and turned to leave.

And then he saw him.

Oliver Wood sat at one of the corner tables, hunched over a parchment-strewn folder, a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling beside him. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just come in from the rain, and his robes were rumpled in a way that suggested he’d either been in a rush or had stopped caring halfway through getting dressed. He looked tired. Not just physically, but in that deep, bone-heavy way Percy recognized all too well.

He hadn’t seen Oliver since Ron’s wedding. A year and a half ago, maybe two. They’d danced—well, Percy had shuffled, and Oliver had danced around him—and then Oliver had vanished into the night with a grin.

Percy hesitated.

He should go. He had fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if he stretched it. His desk was still covered in parchment, and the Portkey memo wasn’t going to write itself. He could take his pasty back upstairs, eat at his desk like he usually did, and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. Oliver hadn’t seen him yet. He could still walk away. But he didn’t. Instead, Percy adjusted his grip on the tea, squared his shoulders, and crossed the café.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice even.

Oliver looked up, startled. His eyes widened slightly, then softened into something Percy couldn’t quite name.

“Percy,” he said, like it was both a question and a relief. “No—no, it’s not. Please.”

Oliver gestured vaguely at the seat across from him, brushing a few stray parchment scraps aside. “Didn’t expect to see you down here.”

Percy offered a small, polite smile as he sat. “I could say the same. But I suppose even Quidditch stars need caffeine.”

Oliver huffed a laugh. “Stars. Right.”

There was a beat of silence, not quite awkward, just… tentative. Like they were both trying to remember how to speak to each other after so long.

“How’ve you been?” Percy asked, unwrapping his pasty with careful precision.

Oliver shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “Busy. Tired. Still breathing, so I suppose that counts for something.” He glanced at Percy. “You?”

“Well enough,” Percy said. “Work keeps me occupied.”

Oliver nodded, then tilted his head. “What are you doing these days, anyway? Still Junior Assistant to the Minister?”

Percy shook his head. “No, I transferred when I came back from hiatus. I’m with the Department of International Magical Cooperation now. Senior Liaison for European Portkey Compliance.”

Oliver blinked. “That’s… a lot of words.”

Percy’s mouth twitched. “It means I write a great deal of memos and occasionally argue with the Swiss over Portkey altitude regulations.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“It’s more interesting than it sounds,” Percy said, and to his own surprise, he meant it. “And I’m good at it.”

Oliver smiled at that—genuine, warm. “I bet you are.”

Percy took a sip of his tea, then glanced at the folder still spread across Oliver’s table. “And you? What brings you to the Ministry? I didn’t think Quidditch players needed to file paperwork.”

Oliver let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t. Not usually. But I’m here for a… thing. A meeting. About safety regulations.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Safety regulations?”

“Yeah.” Oliver shifted in his seat, suddenly looking much less confident. “There’s been push to standardize concussion protocols across the league in the last few years. I’ve been helping draft some of the proposals. Or—I’m supposed to be helping. Mostly I’ve just been panicking and rewriting the same paragraph for three days.”

Percy blinked. “You’re writing policy?”

“Trying to,” Oliver muttered. “They asked for player input, and I opened my mouth one too many times at a press conference, and now I’m apparently the face of Quidditch safety reform.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Percy. I’m not a Ministry type. I don’t speak fluent memo.”

Percy looked at him for a long moment, then down at the folder, then back up. “Well,” he said, voice dry but not unkind, “you’re in luck. I do.”

Oliver hesitated, then slid the folder across the table. “You really want to look at it?”

Percy took it without hesitation. “If you’re going to submit something to the Department of Magical Games and Sports, it might as well be legible.”

Oliver blinked. “That’s… fair.”

Percy opened the folder and began to read. The parchment was covered in Oliver’s handwriting—bold, slightly slanted, and full of crossed-out lines and margin notes. The first paragraph alone was a tangle of half-formed thoughts, passionate but disorganized, like Oliver had tried to write everything at once and hoped it would sort itself out later. Percy’s brow furrowed. He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out a self-inking quill, and began annotating.

“Your opening is too vague,” he said, not looking up. “You’re trying to appeal to emotion, which is fine, but you need to establish the problem first. What’s the current standard? Why is it insufficient? Give them something concrete.”

Oliver blinked. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

Percy continued, flipping to the next page. “This section—‘players are getting hurt and no one’s doing anything’—is a bit dramatic. You need to cite examples. Statistics, if you have them. And instead of ‘no one’s doing anything,’ say ‘existing protocols vary widely between teams and lack enforcement mechanisms.’ It sounds more credible.”

Oliver stared at him. “You just… know how to say that?”

Percy didn’t look up. “It’s my job.”

He kept going, marking up the margins with quick, precise notes. “This part here—where you talk about the long-term effects of repeated head injuries—that’s good. That’s your strongest section. You’re speaking from experience, and it shows. Keep that. Build around it.”

Oliver leaned forward, watching him work. “You’re kind of amazing at this.”

Percy paused, quill hovering mid-air. “I’m competent,” he said, a little stiffly.

“No,” Oliver said, smiling. “You’re brilliant.”

Percy didn’t respond. He just kept annotating, eyes scanning the page, quill moving in neat, efficient strokes. Oliver watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back in his chair, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Oliver was quiet for a moment, watching Percy’s quill move with steady precision across the parchment. Then, softly: “Why are you helping me?”

Percy didn’t look up. “Because your proposal is a mess.”

Oliver huffed a laugh. “Right, but… you didn’t have to. You could’ve just nodded politely and gone back to your desk.”

Percy paused, quill hovering mid-sentence. He frowned slightly, as if the question had only just occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “You looked like you needed help.” He glanced up, meeting Oliver’s eyes. “And… Quidditch players deserve to be safe.”

Oliver blinked. “That’s very noble of you.”

“It’s not noble,” Percy said, returning to the parchment. “It’s practical. You’re trying to fix something that’s broken. That’s worth supporting.”

He finished his final note with a flourish, then set the quill down and slid the folder back across the table. “There,” he said. “It’s not perfect, but it’s a solid start. You’ve got the right instincts—you just need to organize them. Focus on clarity. Structure. Let the emotion come through in the examples, not the language.”

Oliver looked down at the annotated pages, then back at Percy. “You really think it’s decent?”

Percy nodded. “I do. You just need to polish it.”

Oliver smiled—slow, warm, a little stunned. “Thanks, Percy. Really.”

Percy gave a small, awkward shrug. “You’re welcome.”

He reached for his tea, now lukewarm, and took a sip like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t notice the way Oliver was still looking at him. But Oliver didn’t stop.

Percy glanced down at his tray and blinked. His pasty sat untouched, the crust now slightly cooled. He frowned at it, as if it had personally betrayed him, then picked it up and took a bite. It was still good—flaky, savory, just enough onion—but he chewed with the distracted air of someone who’d forgotten he was hungry until the food was already in his mouth.

Oliver, meanwhile, had gone quiet again, flipping through the annotated pages Percy had returned to him. His fingers traced the margin notes like they were something delicate. Then, without looking up, he said, “You know, I’m not doing this just because someone asked me to.”

Percy swallowed. “No?”

Oliver shook his head. “I had a teammate. A few years back. Keeper for the reserve squad. Took a Bludger to the head during practice—nothing dramatic, just a bad angle. He was back on the pitch two days later. Said he was fine.” He paused, fingers tightening slightly on the parchment. “He wasn’t. Started forgetting plays. Getting dizzy mid-flight. Couldn’t focus. But the team didn’t have a protocol for it. No one told him to sit out. No one even knew what to look for. He kept playing until he couldn’t anymore.”

Percy set his pasty down, appetite fading. “What happened to him?” he asked quietly.

“Retired,” Oliver said. “Early. Still has headaches. Can’t fly for more than ten minutes without getting sick.” He looked up, eyes shadowed but steady. “He was twenty-three.”

Percy didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Oliver let out a breath. “So yeah. I care about this. I’m not good at writing it down, but I know what needs to change. And if this proposal helps even one player avoid what he went through…” He trailed off, then shrugged. “Then it’s worth it.”

Percy nodded slowly. “It is.” He picked up his quill again, tapped it once against the edge of the tray, then looked at Oliver. “You’ve got the heart of it,” he said. “That’s the hard part. The rest is just… translation.”

Oliver smiled, a little crooked. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

Percy didn’t answer. He just took another bite of his pasty and kept reading. Percy glanced at his watch and nearly choked on the last bite of his pasty. “Oh—Merlin,” he muttered, already standing. “I’ve been down here at least ten minutes longer than I meant to.” He vanished his plate and mug with a flick of his wand, smoothing down his robes with the other hand. “I’m sorry, I have to go—I’m going to be late.”

He turned to leave, already halfway to the lift, when— “Wait!”

Percy stopped. Turned. Oliver was hurrying after him, his parchment tucked under one arm, hair still slightly mussed. He caught up just as Percy reached the lift.

“Sorry,” Oliver said, a little breathless. “I just—um. Are you free after work?”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“I mean—” Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “Would you maybe want to meet up? After work? There’s a pub in Diagon Alley—The Silver Cauldron? It’s quiet. Good chips. I just thought—if you’re not busy.”

Percy stared at him. He hadn’t expected this. He liked knowing what to expect. He liked schedules and structure and knowing exactly where he would be at any given hour of the day. This wasn’t on the schedule.

But for some inexplicable reason, he heard himself say, “Alright.”

Oliver’s face lit up. “Yeah?”

Percy nodded, still a little dazed. “I finish at six.”

“Great,” Oliver said, already backing away with a grin. “I’ll see you there.”

Percy stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut behind him. He stood very still as the lift began to rise, the soft hum of magic filling the silence. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. But he was smiling.

Later That Evening – Diagon Alley

The air in Diagon Alley was cooler, touched with the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and chimney smoke. Lanterns floated above the cobbled street, casting soft golden light over the shopfronts and the handful of witches and wizards still lingering after work.

Percy had Apparated just outside Flourish and Blotts with a soft crack. He adjusted his robes, took a breath, and began walking.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come. He told himself it was just a drink. A polite follow-up to an unexpected conversation. Nothing more. But as he passed the familiar storefronts—Madam Malkin’s, Quality Quidditch Supplies, the shuttered window of Fortescue’s—he found himself second-guessing every step. He didn’t do this. He didn’t meet people after work. He didn’t say yes to spontaneous invitations from charming, disheveled Quidditch players who made him dance and forget to check the time. And yet here he was.

The Silver Cauldron came into view just past the apothecary—a narrow, two-story pub tucked between a bookshop and a wand repair kiosk. Its sign swung gently in the breeze, etched with a silver cauldron bubbling over with steam that shimmered faintly in the lamplight.

Percy hesitated outside the door. He could still leave. He could go home, make tea, finish reviewing the Portkey compliance draft he’d left on his desk. He could pretend this had never happened. Instead, he opened the door.

The pub was warm and dimly lit, with low wooden beams and a scattering of round tables. A few patrons sat tucked into corners, murmuring over drinks. The bar stretched along the far wall, polished and worn, with a row of floating lanterns bobbing gently above it. And there, leaning against the bar, talking animatedly with the bartender, was Oliver. He looked relaxed now—jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbows, one foot hooked around the leg of the barstool. He laughed at something the bartender said, then turned at the sound of the door closing behind Percy. His face lit up. 

He waved Percy over with a grin. “Hey! You came!”

Percy exhaled, smoothed down his robes, and crossed the room.

Oliver turned to the bartender to order as Percy approached. “What’re you drinking?”

“Not firewhiskey,” Percy said quickly, with a slight grimace.

Oliver grinned at Percy. “Still recovering from the wedding?”

Percy gave him a look. “I maintain that the goblet was enchanted irresponsibly.”

“Sure it was,” Oliver said, clearly enjoying himself. He turned back to the bartender. “Two pints of the blackberry mead, please. Light on the fizz.”

The bartender nodded and set to work. Percy slid onto the barstool beside him, smoothing his robes as he sat. The pub was warm, the lighting low and golden, and the quiet hum of conversation filled the space like a comfortable blanket. He felt… not relaxed, exactly, but not tense either. Somewhere in between.

“So,” Oliver said, accepting the drinks and sliding one toward Percy, “how’d the rest of your day go?”

Percy took a sip—sweet, crisp, not too strong—and nodded. “Fine.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more.

Percy hesitated, then sighed. “I finished the diplomatic memo to the French Ministry regarding cross-border Portkey regulations. The one I meant to send before lunch. But then I got distracted with another Portkey issue—someone tried to register a route through a restricted zone in the Alps, which is a whole separate nightmare—and I forgot to send the memo entirely. So now I have to do it first thing tomorrow morning.”

He paused, realizing he’d been talking for longer than he meant to. “Which is… not terribly interesting, I suppose.”

Oliver was smiling. Not laughing—just watching him with that same quiet, open expression he’d had earlier in the café.

Percy cleared his throat and looked down at his drink. “Anyway. How are you?”

Oliver grinned. “I’m great, actually. Your notes on the proposal helped a lot.”

Percy blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said, turning slightly on his stool to face him more fully. “I went back to the draft after you left to go back to work, and it just… clicked. The way you broke it down, the structure, the phrasing—it made it all make sense. I’m almost done with the rewrite. I think I’ll be ready to submit it by the end of the week.”

He paused, his grin softening into something more earnest. “I’m excited. This might actually work. It might actually help people.”

Percy looked down at his drink, suddenly very interested in the way the mead caught the light. “Well. Good.”

“No, really,” Oliver said. “Thank you, Percy. I mean it.”

Percy shifted in his seat. “It wasn’t— I just annotated a few things.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “You annotated half the proposal and rewrote the introduction.”

Percy cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It needed it.”

Oliver laughed, but didn’t push further. He took a sip of his drink, then leaned back against the bar, letting the moment settle. “So,” he said, more casually now, “do you still alphabetize your bookshelf by subject, then author, then publication date?”

Percy blinked. “Of course. How else would you find anything?”

Oliver grinned. “Just checking.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “If your side of the dormitory was any indication, you wouldn’t recognize organization if it hexed your broomstick.”

Oliver laughed, loud and unbothered. “Fair. I think I once found a sock in my cauldron and just left it there for a week.”

“A week?” Percy said, incredulous. “It smelled like burnt dragon hide. I remember because I filed a complaint with McGonagall.”

“You filed a complaint about my sock?”

“It was contaminating the airspace.”

Oliver grinned. “Merlin, you really haven’t changed.”

Percy took a sip of his drink, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I like order. Some of us didn’t have the luxury of flying around on broomsticks to avoid our responsibilities.”

“Some of us were keeping Gryffindor from losing every match,” Oliver shot back, mock-offended.

“Some of us were trying to revise for O.W.L.s while someone was shouting about defensive formations at six in the morning.”

Oliver laughed again, shaking his head. “I forgot how much you hated that.”

“I didn’t hate it,” Percy said, then paused. “I just… didn’t understand how anyone could be that loud before breakfast.”

They both chuckled, the sound easy and familiar. The pub around them faded into the background as they slipped into the rhythm of shared memory—old dormitory squabbles, Quidditch matches, late-night study sessions, and the strange, chaotic magic of being seventeen and thinking the world was still something you could plan for.

By the time their third round of drinks arrived—this time something light and citrusy that Oliver insisted Percy try—Percy was laughing. Not politely. Not the restrained, professional chuckle he used in Ministry corridors or at family dinners. But actual, unguarded laughter. Oliver was halfway through a story about a Puddlemere United match in which a rogue Bludger had gotten stuck in a referee’s robes, causing a full minute of chaos before anyone realized the official wasn’t just dancing in panic.

“And then—Merlin—our Beater, Jules, she tries to knock it loose, right? But she’s laughing so hard she misses and hits the ref’s hat clean off. It lands in the stands. Some kid caught it and wore it for the rest of the match.”

Percy snorted into his drink. “That can’t be regulation.”

“It wasn’t,” Oliver said, grinning. “We got fined. Worth it.”

Percy shook his head, still smiling. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the edge of his drink cool against his fingers, and realized—he was comfortable. Not just tolerating the evening. Not just being polite. He was enjoying himself. The realization hit him like a soft jolt. He didn’t feel the usual tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t calculating the time or mentally drafting memos. He wasn’t trying to be anything other than exactly who he was. And Oliver—loud, warm, ridiculous Oliver—was just… easy to be around. Percy didn’t know what to make of that. 

He took another sip of his drink, letting the citrus bite distract him, and glanced at Oliver, who was still grinning, clearly pleased with his own storytelling.

“I’m not sure whether to be horrified or impressed,” Percy said.

“Both is an option,” Oliver replied. “That’s usually the right response to Quidditch.”

Percy smiled again, and this time, he didn’t question it.

Oliver took another sip of his drink, then tilted his head slightly. “So… what do you do when you’re not fixing international Portkey disasters?”

Percy blinked. “What?”

“You know,” Oliver said, gesturing vaguely. “For fun. Hobbies. Interests. That sort of thing.”

Percy stared at him for a moment, genuinely caught off guard. “No one usually asks me that.”

Oliver shrugged, smiling. “Well, I’m asking.”

Percy hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I’ve been reading, actually. A series on the history of international cooperation in the wizarding world. Not for work,” he added quickly. “Just… for myself.”

Oliver didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. He just nodded, interested. “What’s it about?”

Percy relaxed a fraction. “It’s a comparative study of magical treaties and alliances across different regions—how they’ve evolved, how cultural differences shape magical law. There’s a fascinating section on the 1791 summit between the French and Romanian Ministries. They nearly hexed each other over wand registration clauses.”

Oliver grinned. “That actually sounds kind of amazing.”

Percy blinked again. “You think so?”

“Sure,” Oliver said. “I mean, I don’t understand half of what you just said, but you clearly do. And you like it. That’s what matters, right?”

Percy looked down at his drink, a little stunned by the lack of mockery. “I suppose it is.”

Oliver nudged his shoulder lightly. “Besides, someone’s got to keep the magical world from imploding over paperwork.”

Percy huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s a full-time job.”

Oliver took another sip of his drink, then leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the bar. “You know, I used to think playing Quidditch was the only thing I’d ever care about.”

Percy looked at him, curious. “Used to?”

Oliver nodded. “Don’t get me wrong—I still love it. Always will. But lately, I’ve been trying to figure out who I am when I’m not on a broom.”

Percy blinked. That wasn’t something he’d expected to hear from Oliver Wood.

“I’ve been coaching a bit,” Oliver continued. “Youth leagues. Nothing fancy. Just helping kids learn the basics, keep their heads up, that sort of thing. It’s… different. Slower. But it’s good.”

Percy tilted his head. “You enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said, smiling faintly. “More than I thought I would. There’s something about watching someone figure it out for the first time—how to hold the broom, how to trust their balance. It’s not about winning. It’s just… joy.”

Percy was quiet for a moment, processing that. He’d always known Oliver as the loud, driven, Quidditch-obsessed boy from their dormitory. The idea of him finding joy in something quieter, something gentler, was… unexpected. But not unwelcome.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Percy said softly.

Oliver shrugged. “Neither would I. But I think I needed it. Something that wasn’t about pressure or performance. Just… flying for the sake of it.”

Percy nodded slowly. “That sounds… nice.”

Oliver looked at him, eyes warm. “It is.”

Percy swirled the last of his drink in the bottom of his glass, watching the way the light caught the rim. He wasn’t sure why he said it—maybe it was the warmth of the mead, or the way Oliver had spoken so openly, or maybe it was just the quiet comfort of being seen without being judged.

“I used to think,” he said slowly, “that if I worked hard enough, I’d stop feeling like I didn’t belong.”

Oliver looked at him, the easy smile fading into something softer.

Percy didn’t meet his eyes. “At the Ministry. At home. Even at Hogwarts, sometimes. I thought if I followed the rules, if I did everything right, eventually I’d feel… settled. Like I’d earned my place.”

He let out a quiet breath. “But it doesn’t really work like that.”

There was a pause. Not heavy—just still. Oliver didn’t rush to fill it. He just nodded, like he understood.

Percy glanced at him, then looked away again. “I don’t usually say things like that.”

“I know,” Oliver said gently. “But I’m glad you did.”

Percy didn’t answer. But he didn’t regret it, either.

Oliver was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “I get that,” he said finally. “The not-belonging thing.”

Percy looked at him, surprised.

Oliver gave a small, lopsided smile. “Everyone always thought I had it all figured out. Quidditch captain, obsessed with the game, shouting plays at breakfast. But half the time I was just trying to prove I deserved to be there. That I wasn’t just some loud bloke with a broom and a dream.” He shrugged. “Even now, with the team, with the league… I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Alright, Wood, fun’s over. Time to go home.’”

Percy didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything. He just nodded. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Then Oliver glanced at him, a little sideways. “You know, I never thought we’d end up here.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “In a pub?”

Oliver laughed. “No—I mean, yes, but also… talking. Like this. You and me.”

Percy considered that. “We weren’t exactly close at school.”

“You thought I was loud,” Oliver said, grinning.

“You were loud.”

“And you were terrifyingly organized.”

Percy smirked. “Still am.”

Oliver nudged his shoulder lightly. “Yeah. But now I know it’s not just about rules. It’s about care. You care. You always did.”

Percy looked down at his drink, unsure what to do with that.

“I’m glad we kept running into each other,” Oliver said, more softly now. “Even if it took a war, a wedding, and a concussion policy to get here.”

Percy huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s not the most conventional path.”

“No,” Oliver agreed. “But I think it’s a good one.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t disagree.

The pub had thinned out around them. The bartender was wiping down the far end of the counter, and the lanterns overhead had dimmed to a soft, amber glow. Their glasses were nearly empty, and the conversation had slowed—not awkward, just… settled.

Oliver glanced at the time and sighed. “We should probably call it.”

Percy nodded, though he didn’t move.

Oliver stood and stretched, then reached into his pocket. “I’ve got this.”

Percy blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“It was my idea,” Oliver said, already placing a few Sickles on the bar. “And you annotated half of my proposal. Consider it a consulting fee.”

Percy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. “Fine. But next time—”

Oliver grinned. “Next time?”

Percy hesitated. “Hypothetically.”

“Right,” Oliver said, still smiling. “Hypothetically.”

They stepped out into the cool night air. Diagon Alley was quieter now, the shops shuttered, the lanterns casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Most people had already gone home. But neither of them turned to leave. Instead, they started walking—slowly, side by side, no particular direction in mind. They talked about little things. The new café that had opened near Flourish and Blotts. A ridiculous headline in the Prophet. A Ministry memo that had been charmed to sing when opened and caused a minor panic in Magical Records. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just… talking.

Percy didn’t know why he hadn’t said goodnight. He didn’t know why Oliver hadn’t either. But the quiet between them felt easy. Familiar. Like something that didn’t need to be named to be understood. And so they walked, the sound of their footsteps soft against the stone, the night stretching gently ahead of them.

They were laughing as they reached the edge of Diagon Alley, where the cobblestones gave way to the designated Apparition point just beyond the last flickering lantern. Oliver had just finished recounting a story about a Puddlemere teammate who’d accidentally enchanted his broom to sing the team anthem every time he turned left.

“It was fine until he tried to dodge a Bludger,” Oliver said, wiping at his eyes. “The broom started belting out the chorus and he flew straight into the commentator’s box.”

Percy chuckled, shaking his head. “That sounds like a disciplinary hearing waiting to happen.”

“Oh, it was,” Oliver said. “I had to give a statement. Nearly lost it when the broom started humming during the testimony.”

They slowed to a stop at the Apparition point, the laughter still lingering between them.

Oliver glanced at him. “You good to Apparate after three drinks?”

Percy straightened slightly, smoothing his robes with mock dignity. “Please. It takes a refilling goblet to get me stumbling.”

Oliver grinned. “Noted.”

They stood there for a moment, the quiet of the alley settling around them. The night was still, the lanterns casting soft pools of light on the cobblestones. Neither of them moved. Percy looked at Oliver, and Oliver looked back. It wasn’t a long look. Not dramatic. Just… still. Something passed between them—something Percy couldn’t quite name. Not yet. But it settled in his chest like warmth, like the echo of laughter, like the feeling of not wanting the night to end. He didn’t know what it meant. But he didn’t look away.

The silence stretched—not uncomfortable, exactly, but uncertain. Like both of them were waiting for the other to say something first.

Oliver shifted his weight, then glanced at Percy. “Maybe we could do this again sometime. Or, you know… keep in touch.”

Percy blinked. “Oh. Yes. I suppose I could write.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, amused. “You suppose?”

Percy cleared his throat. “To check on the proposal’s progress, of course. It would be a shame if all that annotation went to waste.”

Oliver grinned. “Of course.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the quiet settling between them again. Percy looked away first, glancing down the alley like he’d forgotten where he was. He didn’t know why it suddenly felt awkward. It hadn’t a moment ago. Oliver didn’t say anything else. Just smiled—soft, genuine—and gave a small nod.

“Goodnight, Percy.”

Percy met his eyes, just briefly. “Goodnight.”

And then, with a soft crack, he Apparated home.

Chapter Text

April 27, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Mr. Wood,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your recent schedule has not been too demanding. I imagine the spring training season brings with it a fair amount of travel and, if memory serves, unpredictable weather.

I am writing—though I hope not intrusively—to inquire about the status of your concussion protocol proposal. I recall you mentioned, during our last conversation, that you were in the process of revising it for submission. I trust the notes I provided were at least somewhat useful in that regard.

I do not mean to impose, of course. I understand that your time is likely spoken for, and I would not wish to distract you from more pressing matters. Still, I found myself wondering whether the Department of Magical Games and Sports had responded, and whether the process has been as labyrinthine as it so often is.

Please do not feel obliged to reply at length. I merely wished to express my continued support for the initiative and to offer any further assistance, should it be required.

With best regards,

Percy Weasley

May 2, 2002

My flat (still standing, somehow)

Hey, Percy!

Didn’t expect to get a letter from you, not gonna lie. Nearly dropped my toast when I saw your handwriting—looked like it was about to lecture me on wand safety or something. But it was good. Really good. Thanks for writing.

So—big news. The concussion proposal? It’s actually moving forward. I know. I’m shocked too. The Department didn’t bin it! They liked it. Said it was “well-structured” and “surprisingly coherent,” which I’m taking as a personal compliment and also as proof that your edits worked some kind of magic. They’re talking about league-wide protocols now—baseline testing, post-match checks, maybe even mandatory rest days. It’s early, but it’s happening. And that’s mad. In a good way.

Honestly, I would not have got it this far without your help. You made it sound like I knew what I was on about. So—cheers. Really. I owe you another pint. Or three.

Anyway—how are you? And don’t give me that “well enough” rubbish. What’ve you been up to? Still buried under Portkey paperwork? Still alphabetizing your bookshelf by wand core or whatever it was? (I’m still not over that, by the way. That’s not normal.)

Also—are you eating properly? Taking breaks? Sleeping? You looked like you hadn’t blinked in a week when we met up. Just checking.

Write back if you want. Or don’t. But I hope you do.

Cheers,

Oliver

P.S. I keep thinking about that night at the pub. Not just the concussion stuff. The rest of it too. You were… I dunno. Different. In a good way.

June 6, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Dear Oliver,

Thank you for your letter. I apologize for the delay in my response—I had not anticipated how difficult it would be to find the appropriate moment to reply. I’m pleased to hear that the concussion protocol proposal has been received positively. It is no small feat to move anything through the Department of Magical Games and Sports without it becoming hopelessly entangled in red tape. You should be proud.

I did, in fact, see the score of Puddlemere’s most recent match. Congratulations on the win. I heard your save in the second half was particularly well-executed—though I imagine you’ve already been told that by people far more qualified to comment on Quidditch than I am. Still, I saw the save in the paper and was thoroughly impressed.

As for me, I am—well enough. Work continues at its usual pace, which is to say, relentless. I’ve been reviewing a new set of Portkey regulations from the Danish Ministry, and while I hesitate to call them “incomprehensible,” I will say that their definition of “non-urgent travel” appears to include dragon transport, which has raised several questions.

I’ve been sleeping less than I ought to, but that seems to be the norm these days. I’m sure I’ll catch up eventually.

Thank you again for writing back. It was—unexpected. But appreciated.

Sincerely,

Percy Weasley

June 20, 2002

Still my flat (still a mess, no clean socks)

Percy—

You read the match report?

That’s somehow even more surprising than you watching it live. You, voluntarily reading the sports section. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or worried you’ve been cursed. Either way—cheers. That’s more effort than most of my teammates’ families make.

And yes, that save was a bit of a miracle. What the Prophet didn’t mention is that I only caught the Quaffle because my left glove had come half-unstitched and I couldn’t grip properly. So I sort of… elbowed it. And then it bounced off my shoulder. And then my face. Technically still a save, though the mediwizard said I looked like I’d been hexed by a Bludger with a grudge. Worth it.

Next match is in two weeks. Home game. You should come. I’ll even make sure you get a seat with minimal risk of head trauma. (No promises, though. It is Quidditch.)

Also—don’t think I missed the bit about you not sleeping. “I’m sure I’ll catch up eventually” is not a reassuring sentence. You need rest. Even your quills will start staging a rebellion if you keep this up.

Write back, yeah? I like hearing from you. Even if your letters sound like they’ve been edited by a team of goblin archivists.

Cheers,

Oliver

P.S. If you do come to the match, I’ll try not to get hit in the face again. Try.

June 27, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Dear Oliver,

Thank you for your letter. I’m pleased that the Department is continuing to move forward with the concussion protocol initiative. It’s encouraging to know that your efforts—and the safety of players—are being taken seriously.

That said, I must strongly advise against using your face as a primary method of defense. While I understand that Quidditch is, by nature, a contact-heavy sport, I suspect there are more effective (and less concussive) ways to intercept a Quaffle. Please do try to be more careful.

As for your invitation—I appreciate it. I can’t make any promises, but if I can find the time, I may consider attending the upcoming match. I make no guarantees about post-game socializing, however. I imagine the pitch is rather chaotic after a win (or a loss), and I’m not entirely convinced I’d blend in among the crowd.

I hope your training continues without further injury. Do let me know how the match goes if I cannot make it—preferably without any additional incidents involving your face.

Sincerely,

Percy Weasley

June 30, 2002

Still my flat. (Still no clean socks. Send help.)

Percy—

You might’ve said “maybe,” but I’m taking that as a “probably.” So—check the envelope. There’s a ticket inside. Front row, decent view, minimal Bludger risk. (I pulled a few strings. Don’t tell the manager.)

It’d be good to see you there. No pressure, obviously. But if you do come, I’ll try my best not to block anything with my face this time. (No promises. The Montrose Magpies are beasts. Their Chasers move like they’ve been hit with a speed charm and their Keeper’s got reflexes like a Niffler in a vault.)

Honestly, I’m a bit nervous. It’s a big match. We’ve been training like mad and I’ve already gone through two pairs of gloves and one broom polish meltdown. But I’m excited too. The good kind of nerves, I think.

Anyway—hope you’re well. Hope you’re sleeping. Hope you’re not buried under Danish Portkey legislation or whatever fresh hell the Ministry’s cooked up this week.

And—well. I hope to see you in the crowd.

Cheers,

Oliver

P.S. If you do come down after the match, I promise not to be too sweaty. Probably.

July 5, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Dear Oliver,

I debated whether or not to write this so soon after the match, but I thought it best to say something before you assume I left mid-game.

I took the seat you arranged (thank you, by the way—though we’ll return to that in a moment), and I stayed for the entire match. I did not, however, come down to speak with you afterward. I left rather quickly, and I apologize if that seemed rude. It wasn’t intended as such. I simply wasn’t sure what I would say, or if I’d be expected to say anything at all. I’m not particularly adept at post-match etiquette, as you may have guessed.

Now, about the seat.

You placed me directly in the line of fire. Not literally, thankfully, but close enough that I could see the whites of your eyes every time you made one of your increasingly reckless saves. I assume this was intentional. I also assume the wink you gave me after nearly colliding with your own Beater was meant to be charming. It was not. It was alarming. And distracting. I nearly dropped my book.

Speaking of which—I only managed to read one chapter. One. I had brought the entire volume of Magical Infrastructure and International Boundaries: A Comparative Study, fully expecting to get through at least five chapters. Instead, I spent most of the match watching you hurl yourself through the air like a man possessed.

You played well. Exceptionally well, in fact. Even though the team lost, your performance was—impressive. I’m not an expert, but I know enough to recognize skill when I see it. And you have it. In spades. I just wish you’d use it with a little more regard for your own safety.

Despite everything, I’m glad I went. The atmosphere was… different than I expected. Loud, certainly. But not unpleasant. And it was—nice, I suppose, to see you doing something you clearly love. Even if it gave me heart palpitations.

I hope you’re recovering well. And that you didn’t, in fact, get hit in the face again. (Though I wouldn’t be surprised.)

Sincerely,

Percy

P.S. The ticket was very thoughtful. I kept it. I’m not sure why.

July 18, 2002

Flat that’s still standing. Barely.

Percy—

You only read one chapter?

I’m sorry, but that might be the highest compliment I’ve ever received. You, bringing a book to a Quidditch match and not being able to focus on it? I’m framing that sentence. I mean, I knew we were playing well, but I didn’t think we were distract-Percy-Weasley levels of good.

(Also, I knew you’d brought a book. I saw you pull it out before the first whistle. You had that look like you were about to settle in for a very long, very polite endurance test. And then you didn’t even make it through five pages, did you?)

Anyway—glad you came. Really. Even if you bolted the second the match ended. I get it. Crowds are a lot. And I probably looked like I’d been through a wind tunnel. Still, it meant a lot. Having you there.

Also, I’m very happy you noticed I didn’t get hit in the face again, thank you very much. Just the shoulder. And the ribs. And a bit of a scuff on the knee, but that was from tripping over my own broom during warm-ups, so it doesn’t count.

What were you reading, by the way? Something Ministry-related? Or was it one of your “for fun” books that still somehow involves treaties and footnotes? I’m genuinely curious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so serious while holding a book with a title that long.

Write back when you’ve got time. Or don’t. But I hope you do.

Cheers,

Oliver

P.S. I didn’t mean to wink. It just sort of happened. Reflex. Like dodging a Bludger. Or breathing.

August 1, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I wasn’t going to respond to the wink comment, but since you brought it up again in the postscript: no, I didn’t drop the book, but I did lose my place. And no, it wasn’t necessary. I was already watching. You didn’t need to make it worse.

(Also, you absolutely meant to wink. Don’t pretend it was a reflex. You’re not that subtle.)

As for the book—it was technically a “for fun” read, though I realize that’s a relative term. It was a comparative analysis of magical border policies across Europe, with a focus on post-war treaty enforcement. So yes, it had footnotes. And yes, I enjoyed it.

I’ve been reading more of that sort of thing lately. Not just because I like it (though I do), but because I’ve been getting hints—nothing official, just murmurs—that there might be a promotion coming. Something with more responsibility. Possibly something international.

I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but if it’s what I think it is, it could mean actual policy work. Not just Portkey routing and compliance forms, but real international cooperation. The kind of work that matters. The kind I’ve always wanted to do.

So I’m trying to be ready. Just in case.

Anyway. I’m glad you didn’t get hit in the face again. And I’m glad you’re still writing. I didn’t expect this to become a regular thing, but I’m not complaining.

Write when you can.

Sincerely,

Percy

August 21, 2002

Flat (clean-ish, for once)

Percy—

Right, so I’ve been meaning to write back for ages but I kept starting and then scrapping it because I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say without sounding like a total idiot. Still don’t, really. But here we are.

I just—look, I think you’d be brilliant at that promotion thing. The international stuff. You’re already good at what you do (even if I don’t understand half of it), but the way you talk about it? You actually care. You want it to mean something. That’s rare. Most people I know just want to get through the day without setting anything on fire. You want to make things better. That’s... I dunno. That’s something.

So yeah. I hope they give it to you. And if they don’t, they’re daft and I’ll write a very strongly worded letter. (I won’t. I’m terrible at letters. You know this.)

Also, I can’t believe you were reading about magical border policies “for fun.” That’s the most Percy thing I’ve ever heard. Was it at least a good chapter? Did the treaties get spicy? (Do treaties get spicy?)

Things here are fine. Quiet. We’ve got a break between matches, so I’ve been coaching a few kids’ clinics. One of them asked if I was “the old Keeper from the posters.” I’m only 26. I nearly retired on the spot.

Anyway. I’m glad you wrote. I like hearing from you. A lot, actually.

Write back when you feel like it.

—Oliver

September 14, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I wasn’t expecting your last letter to hit me the way it did. I don’t mean that in a bad way—it just caught me off guard. In a good way. What you said about the promotion, and about me caring… I don’t know. It helped. More than I thought it would.

I’ve been second-guessing everything lately. Wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m even the right person for the work I want to do. It’s easy to get stuck in your own head about it. But hearing someone else say they believe in you—someone who doesn’t have to—it makes a difference. So thank you. Really.

Things have been a bit busy on the family front. Ginny and Harry have finally started talking about their wedding. They’ve been engaged for what feels like forever—year and a half, I think?—but now they’re actually planning. Looks like it’ll be late spring next year. I’m excited. And nervous. Watching your youngest sibling get married is… strange. But they’ve been practically married since the end of the war, so I suppose it’s just making it official.

I’ve also been wondering if Ron and Hermione are thinking about kids. I’ve caught them giving Teddy these long, soft looks whenever he visits. You know the kind. Like they’re imagining something. I haven’t asked, obviously. Not my place. But I wouldn’t be surprised.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble about family things. I suppose it’s just been on my mind lately.

Hope you’re well. Write when you can.

—Percy

October 3, 2002

Flat (now with clean socks, thanks to laundry magic and desperation)

Percy,

Don’t apologize for writing about your family. It’s nice, actually. Hearing about good things. Makes the world feel a bit less mad.

I don’t really talk to mine much. Not for any dramatic reason—it’s just sort of… faded. I’m an only child, and Mum’s a Muggle, so she doesn’t really follow Quidditch or anything magical. I send her letters sometimes, but I think she still thinks I work in “sports equipment.” Which, fair enough.

My dad passed not long after the war. Quietly. It was quick. I didn’t really talk about it much. Still don’t. But I guess what I’m trying to say is—I’m glad you’ve got your family around. That you get to be part of those things. Weddings, maybe babies, all of it. You deserve that.

Anyway—enough of that. Let’s talk about people who are still alive and causing trouble.

Lee’s doing well. He’s working with a wizarding radio station now—some late-night slot where he plays weird music and rants about Quidditch stats. It’s very him. I think he’s trying to get a segment where he interviews players mid-match. I told him that’s a terrible idea and he said, “Exactly.”

Angelina… I think she’s seeing someone. I don’t know who. She hasn’t said, and I haven’t asked. But she’s smiling more lately. Laughing like she used to. After Fred—well. You know. It’s good to see her like that again. I just hope whoever it is is good to her. She deserves that too.

Write back when you feel like it. Or when you’ve got more family gossip. I’m invested now.

—Oliver

October 16, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I didn’t know about your dad. Or about your mum being a Muggle. I suppose I never thought to ask, which feels rather poor of me now. I apologize. And I’m sorry you’ve had to carry all of that mostly on your own. I know you said it wasn’t dramatic, but still—it matters. I’m glad you told me.

And I’m glad you’re still writing. I’ve come to look forward to your letters more than I expected.

I was also glad to hear about Angelina. I didn’t know she might be seeing someone, but if she is, I hope they’re good to her. She’s been through enough. I still remember how she looked at Fred’s funeral—like she was holding everyone else together just so she wouldn’t fall apart herself. If she’s smiling again, that’s something.

Speaking of people who might be seeing someone—George. I don’t have proof, but I have suspicions. He’s been going out more, and he’s been… lighter, somehow. Laughing more. He still wears the spoon necklace, but he doesn’t rub it as much. Used to be he’d reach for it without thinking, like a reflex. Now it’s just there. Quiet. I think that means something.

Maybe we should investigate. Discreetly, of course. I’m sure between the two of us we could manage a subtle inquiry on who each of them are seeing. (Though I suspect you’d be better at the subtle part than I would.)

Anyway—how are you? I feel like I’ve been doing all the talking lately. What’s going on in your world? Any more kids calling you “old”? Any new bruises from flying face-first into things?

Write soon.

—Percy

October 28, 2002

Flat (now with suspiciously few clean socks again)

Percy—

Alright, so you’re not going to believe this, but I definitely caught Angelina reading a letter the other day. I was with her at her flat, she was sitting all casual, pretending to stretch, but I saw the parchment. And when I tried to sneak a peek at the name on the envelope, she vanished it. Just—poof. Gone. Like she knew I was looking.

So now I’m even more curious. I mean, who writes letters that make Angelina Johnson blush? I need answers. Have you had any better luck with George? I’m hoping you’ve uncovered something scandalous. Or at least mildly interesting. I’m starting to feel like we’re in a very tame mystery novel.

Things on my end are good. Actually—big news! I got invited to play in an international exhibition event next spring. It’s not official yet, but it’s looking likely. I’d be traveling for a bit—March through early summer, maybe. I’ll be back by mid-July at the latest, but I’m worried it might overlap with Ginny and Harry’s wedding. I really hope it doesn’t. I’d hate to miss it. Or, well. Miss seeing you there.

Anyway, I’ll keep you posted. I might be a bit rubbish at writing while I’m traveling, but I’ll try.

How’ve you been? Read anything interesting lately? Any more treaties with footnotes that made you emotional? (Still not over that, by the way.)

Write soon, yeah?

—Oliver

P.S. If we ever do investigate George or Angelina properly, I’m bringing disguises. I’ve always wanted an excuse to wear a fake mustache.

November 15, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

You asked if I’ve read anything interesting lately, and the answer is—yes, actually. I’ve been going through a series of case studies on international magical correspondence—how different Ministries handle diplomatic communication, especially in times of crisis. There’s a whole section on how the Spanish and Belgian Ministries nearly caused a trade collapse over a mistranslated owl dispatch. It’s more fascinating than it sounds. (Though I realize that’s a low bar, coming from me.)

I won’t go on about it—I know it’s not exactly thrilling if you’re not the sort of person who gets excited about cross-border policy—but it’s been… invigorating, in a way. Like I’m finally reading things that might actually be useful someday.

Now. On to more pressing matters.

You’re not going to believe this, but I caught George firecalling someone last week. He thought no one was around—he was in the back room at the shop, and I only heard it because I’d come in through the side entrance. I didn’t see who it was, but I heard him laugh. That kind of laugh that’s not just about something funny—it was warm. Familiar.

And then yesterday, I saw him and Angelina talking outside the Leaky. Just talking. But there was something in the way they looked at each other. And I realized—our investigations are one in the same. It’s them. George and Angelina.

At first, I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I mean, she and Fred… well. You know. But watching them—it didn’t feel wrong. It felt… right, somehow. Like they’d found something in each other that made sense. George is lighter these days. He smiles more. He hasn’t touched the spoon necklace in weeks.

I just hope—selfishly, maybe—that she doesn’t see him as a replacement. George isn’t Fred. And I think she knows that. I hope she does.

What do you think?

Also—congratulations on the international event! That’s incredible. I hope it works out, and I hope it doesn’t overlap with the wedding. But either way, I’m proud of you. You deserve it.

Write soon.

—Percy

P.S. If we do end up investigating anyone else, I’m holding you to the fake mustache plan.

December 5, 2002

Flat (snow outside, socks now missing)

Percy—

Mate. George and Angelina??

I was absolutely floored. Like, jaw-on-the-floor, dropped-my-tea shocked. I wasn’t expecting that at all. I mean, I knew they were close, but I thought it was just the old Gryffindor crowd sticking together. Turns out I’m oblivious.

I managed to corner Angelina the other night—we were hanging out at her flat, catching up, and I just asked. Blurted it out, really. She laughed and said, “Finally.” Apparently I’m one of the last to know. She said it’s been going on for a while now, quietly. She didn’t want to make it a thing until she was sure.

She talked about George like—like she really sees him. Not as Fred’s twin. Just as George. She said she loves him. Properly. And I believe her. So you don’t have to worry about that. She’s not trying to replace anyone. She’s just… happy. And he is too. I’m happy for them. Truly.

Now—bit of news on my end. The international exhibition got finalized. I’m going. I’ll be gone from March 10 through July 23. We’re doing a whole thing—France, Germany, a few matches in Romania, and then a closing event in Canada. It’s mad. I’m excited. A little terrified. But mostly excited.

The downside is—I won’t be able to make Ginny and Harry’s wedding. The date on the invitation is the same day as a Romania match. I’m gutted. I really wanted to be there. You’ll have to say hi for me. And tell me everything. Every awkward toast and every bad dance move.

How’ve you been? Still reading about magical diplomacy? Still keeping an eye on George like a nosy older brother? (Not judging. I’d be doing the same.)

Write soon, yeah?

—Oliver

P.S. If you do end up giving a toast at the wedding, I expect a full transcript. Footnotes optional.

December 19, 2002

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I have news. Big news.

As of this week, I’ve officially been promoted to Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

I’m still trying to believe it myself. I thought it might be a joke at first—some sort of elaborate end-of-year prank—but no. It’s real. I have the office. The title. The responsibility. All of it.

I’m thrilled. And terrified. What if I do it wrong? What if I miss something important or make a mess of a negotiation and accidentally start a minor diplomatic incident with Luxembourg?

But mostly—I’m excited. This is the kind of work I’ve always wanted to do. Real policy. Real collaboration. It feels like I’ve finally stepped into something that matters. And I wanted you to know.

Also—congratulations again on the exhibition being finalized. That’s incredible. I hope it’s everything you want it to be. I’ll make sure to update you on the wedding while you’re away. I’ve already been asked to help, which I suspect is a trap.

Since it’s nearly Christmas, I’ll end here. I hope you have a warm, restful holiday—even if you’re training through most of it. I’m sending something your way on the 25th. Just a small thing. No need to send anything back. Really.

Take care of yourself.

—Percy

December 29, 2002

Flat (snow outside, now new clean socks)

Percy—

Okay FIRST OF ALL—CONGRATS!!!!!

Head of the Department?? Percy, that’s massive. That’s huge. That’s—Merlin, I don’t even have the words. (Shocking, I know.) I knew you could do it. I knew it. You’ve been working your arse off for years and now you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. I hope you’re proud of yourself. You should be. I’m proud of you. So much.

And listen—don’t worry about messing it up. You won’t. You earned this. You know what you’re doing. You care, and that’s what makes the difference. You’re not just some Ministry suit pushing parchment around. You think. You feel. You’re going to be brilliant.

Now. Socks.

Thank you for the gift. Self-cleaning self-folding socks are actual magic. I mean, I know that the socks are technically magic, but I mean that this is next-level. I swear my old socks just kept vanishing into the void, so now I don’t have to keep replacing my socks every few weeks. You’ve saved me from a lifetime of mismatched ankles. Heroic, really.

Christmas was good. Quiet, but nice. Lee sent me a singing Quaffle (it's loud, and it only knows one verse). Angelina gave me this fancy broom polish that smells like ambition and pine. And one of the kids I coach made me a glitter card that’s now permanently fused to my kitchen table. I’m not even mad.

With this letter is your gift. I know it’s late. I panicked. I almost sent you enchanted biscuits that shout compliments when you eat them. (I didn’t. You’re welcome.)

I hope your Christmas was lovely. And I hope the new year brings you even more good things. You deserve all of it.

Write soon, yeah?

—Oliver

P.S. If the socks ever start talking, I’m naming them after you. One Percy, one Weasley.

January 15, 2003

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I don’t even know where to begin. My gifts, the first edition of the book The Statute of Secrecy: A Global Analysis and the personalized stationery set—thank you. Truly. I don’t know how you managed to find something so perfectly suited to me, but you did. I’ve already used the stationery set more times than I care to admit, and every time I do, I think, “I should have gotten him something better.” You were far too thoughtful. I’ll have to try harder next year.

Christmas was—chaotic, as expected. All the Weasleys and their spouses crammed into the Burrow like a very loud, very affectionate avalanche. There were at least three separate arguments about pudding, and someone (I suspect Ron) charmed the tree to sing Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits on loop. It was a lot. But it was good.

New Year’s, though—that was something else. The best one since the war, I think. George was the one who lit the fireworks this year. Properly lit them, I mean. Not just stood off to the side while someone else did it. He was laughing. Really laughing. And Angelina made a short appearance—just long enough to steal a drink, kiss George on the cheek, and vanish again. But it was enough. It felt like something healing.

I hope your holidays were just as good. And that the socks are still behaving.

Write when you can.

—Percy

P.S. I still haven’t figured out how you knew I’d like the gifts so much. I’m starting to suspect you’re better at reading people than you let on.

February 3, 2003

Flat (still cold, socks still working miracles)

Percy—

You don’t have to thank me for the gift. You deserved it. And honestly, the socks you gave me have saved me from at least three last-minute laundry disasters, so I’d say we’re more than even. (Also, they haven’t started talking yet, which is a plus.)

So. Valentine’s Day.

People keep asking me who I’m taking out. “You must have a girl lined up,” they say. “Single, good-looking Quidditch player like you?” And I just—ugh. I hate it. Makes my skin crawl a bit. I know they mean well (mostly), but it’s weird. I don’t like the way they say it. Like I’m supposed to be someone I’m not. Or like I owe them some kind of answer.

Anyway. I’m ignoring it. Or trying to. What about you? Doing anything for the holiday? Or are you hiding from it like me?

Also—international trip’s coming up fast. I’m excited. Really excited. But I’m also a bit sad, if I’m honest. I won’t have much time to write once I’m on the road. Training, travel, matches—it’s going to be nonstop. I’ll try, but it might be a while between letters.

Just wanted to say that now. In case I don’t get to say it later.

Write soon if you can.

—Oliver

P.S. If anyone asks, I’m spending Valentine’s Day with my socks. They’re loyal, quiet, and don’t ask nosy questions.

February 20, 2003

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I didn’t do anything for Valentine’s Day. It was… strange, honestly. Everyone around me seemed to be paired off—Bill and Fleur, Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Harry. Even George and Angelina made an appearance at the Burrow, which was unexpected but nice. Charlie, of course, remains blissfully uninterested in romance and spent the evening in Romania with dragons, which I admit sounded preferable at certain points.

I suppose it just left me feeling a bit out of place. Not sad, exactly. Just—aware. But, oh well. It passed.

And for what it’s worth, I think people should mind their own business. Your love life isn’t a public event, and it certainly shouldn’t be treated like one. You don’t owe anyone an explanation, least of all people who only see you as a headline or a position on a team roster.

I’m excited to hear about the exhibition once it begins. I know you said you might not have much time to write, but I hope you’ll send updates when you can. I’d like to hear about it. All of it.

Take care of yourself.

—Percy

March 9, 2003

Flat (bags packed, nerves buzzing)

Perce—

Alright, so—leaving tomorrow. Early. Like, before-the-sun early. First stop’s France (Lyon-ish? I think? The schedule’s a mess), and then it’s Germany, Romania, Canada. Whole thing’s a blur already and I haven’t even left yet. I packed my boots twice and forgot my wand once, so that’s where I’m at.

But I’m excited. Really excited. It’s big, you know? International. I’ve never flown outside the UK before, not properly. And now I’m going to be playing in front of crowds that don’t even speak the same language and still somehow know all the chants. It’s mad. I love it.

I read your last letter twice. I’m sorry your Valentine’s Day was weird. Mine was too. Everyone kept asking who I was seeing and I just sort of… laughed? Changed the subject? Hid behind a biscuit tray? (All of the above.) It’s strange, isn’t it? Being surrounded by people who are all paired off and still feeling like you’re standing in the wrong room. Not lonely, exactly. Just… yeah. Aware. You said it better than I can.

Anyway—I’ll write when I can. Might be short. Might be messy. Might be on the back of a broom polish receipt. But I’ll write. I want to. I like writing to you. A lot.

Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t let the Ministry eat you alive. And if it does, at least make sure your memos are alphabetized.

More soon,

Oliver

March 21, 2003

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,

I saw the results of your first two matches in the Prophet—Bordeaux and Montpellier, if I’ve got the order right? It all looks rather thrilling, though I imagine the articles only capture a fraction of the chaos. Based on the write-ups, it sounds like you’ve been playing harder than ever. I hope you’re not exhausting yourself, though I suspect that’s a lost cause. You’ve never been particularly good at pacing yourself.

Things here are considerably less exciting. The most dramatic event in my department this week was a minor disagreement over the phrasing of a trade clause with the Norwegian delegation. (They insisted on using the word “harmonize.” I countered with “align.” Riveting stuff.)

Wedding planning, however, is another matter entirely. The date got out—unsurprisingly, given that Harry is involved—and now we’re in full containment mode. Ginny is furious, Hermione is trying to stay calm, and Ron is pretending not to care while clearly caring a great deal. They’ve put me in charge of managing the guest list and security protocols, which I suppose makes sense. I’m “good at logistics,” apparently. (Translation: I’m the only one who won’t lose the seating chart.)

It’s a bit stressful, but manageable. And it’s nice, in a way, to be trusted with something so personal. Even if it does involve more owls than I care to count.

Work has been going smoothly otherwise. People have accepted me in the new position more easily than I expected. There’s been no major upheaval yet, which I’m sure means one is coming. But for now, I’m enjoying the quiet. Or what passes for quiet in international diplomacy.

Write when you can. I know you’re busy, but I do like hearing from you.

Take care of yourself.

—Percy

P.S. If you get a chance to try the spiced honey rolls in Germany, do. They’re absurdly sweet and completely impractical, but oddly satisfying.

April 29, 2003

Das Zauberhaus, Schlangengasse

Hey Perce!

France was amazing! I got to see so many places. Place Cachée is like the Diagon Alley of France, and the shops along the street were so unique and fun. Straight-up labyrinth of crooked streets, shimmering veils of enchantment over old courtyards, and cafés where the tea brews itself in your cup. I left my broom sitting outside one of those tea shops, and some enchanted pigeons tried to steal it. Pigeons. Bloody menace.

I got to see Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in the Pyrenees mountains, and I even got a chance to go out and see some muggle places. And the buildings—mate, the architecture is so cool. My mother always went on about the Eiffel Tower when I was little, and I got a chance to see that. It lights up at night using electricity, which your dad would probably find interesting.

Now I’m in Germany, and let me tell you—spiced honey rolls? Absolute perfection. Might just stay here forever just for those. They’ve got this old wizarding square in Berlin called Schlangengasse, which means snake road, where every building is enchanted to shift slightly every day, like some kind of living puzzle. Almost got lost looking for my room last night, but hey, makes things interesting.  

Next match is against the biggest German team here, the Heidelberg Harriers, they are proper giants. Some of these blokes look like they wrestle trolls for fun. Should be an absolute riot.  

Hope all the wedding planning isn’t driving you mad. I’m assuming there’s enough paperwork involved to make you happy, at least.  

Oh—meant to mention, I reached out to Charlie. He’s got a ridiculous schedule but says he’ll find time when I’m in Romania. Looking forward to catching up, though it’ll probably just be me listening to a bunch of dragon stories while he laughs at me.  

Write back soon, yeah?  

Oliver 

May 10, 2003

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,  

It’s been a mostly smooth few weeks on my end—well, aside from a minor disaster with International Cooperation. You’d think highly trained diplomats could read a schedule, but apparently, that’s too much to ask. Managed to untangle the mess without anyone hexing each other, though, and for once, people actually liked my solution. I’ll take the win where I can. 

I heard about the Germany match while I was working—the radio commentary was absolute chaos, but even through that, it was obvious how intense it was. I’ll grant that I was skeptical when the commentary began describing their defensive strategy as “brutal precision,” but after several hours of listening to your team navigate their formations, I was rather impressed. I was impressed. Exhausted just listening to it, mind you, but impressed. The victory was well-earned. Congratulations.  

How’s Germany treating you? Aside from excellent pastry choices, of course. I recall reading once that their Magical Archive has entire sections enchanted to repel inattentive researchers—I assume you won’t have much trouble there, but I’d be curious if you’ve ventured into it. I have this theory that you’d find it fascinating for about five minutes before getting distracted and trying to befriend some enchanted artifact that absolutely shouldn’t be touched.  

Oh, and when you see Charlie, let him know I said hi. Try not to let him rope you into anything too reckless. 

Looking forward to hearing more about your travels.  

Percy  

May 22, 2003

Strigoi Dormi, Balaur Stradă

Perce,  

MATE—Germany? Best time of my life. I don’t know how anyone gets anything done there, everything’s enchanted to keep you lost or entertained. I swear those streets are alive. Never made it to the magical archive—don’t even ask. You knew I’d get distracted. First it was some bonkers enchanted broom shop, then a wizard duel almost broke out in a café (no idea why), then suddenly I was sitting in a pub with a live goblin jazz band?? You’d have a field day trying to make sense of my itinerary.  

Now, Romania. Don’t know what to think yet—haven’t been here long enough, just a couple days. It’s beautiful, though. Older than anywhere I’ve been so far, like everything here’s watching you, but not in a creepy way. Just… ancient, aware. The wizarding town Balaur Stradă is quieter, less flashy, but feels different. Can’t explain it yet. Gonna figure it out.   

Met a few players already—Perce, I am not prepared. Romania plays Quidditch like it’s a war zone. If I don’t make it back, tell my mum I fought bravely.  

Charlie and I set June 8 to meet up, so that’ll be after the wedding—how’s all that going? You drowning in wedding details yet? Tell me you haven’t volunteered to do paperwork for it.  

Glad you sorted out the ministry thing. You need to write me more so I know you haven’t physically become a stack of paperwork.  

Write soon, yeah? Before I end up in some ridiculous dragon incident.  

Ollie

June 6, 2003

Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon

Oliver,  

I sincerely hope Charlie doesn’t let you get eaten by a dragon. I’ve heard he has a worrying habit of finding the least safe parts of his work the most entertaining, and I imagine his influence will not help your self-preservation instincts. Try not to come back missing a limb.  

As for Quidditch—Romania plays with brute force, but from what I hear, they can be picked apart with enough tactical planning. If anyone can do it, it’s you. Good luck against the Brașov Balauris. If they start breathing fire mid-match, I assume that’s a foul?  

The wedding has officially concluded, and, despite the utter madness of planning it, I’m pleased to report that it went off without a single security breach. The ceremony was beautiful—enough to have half the guests in tears, apparently. Not me, of course. Absolutely not.

If you thought Ron and Hermione’s magical bonding ceremony was intense, you wouldn’t believe Harry and Ginny’s. You could practically feel the magic settling into place around them—solid, absolute. I don’t even know how to describe it.  

Dancing, thankfully, did not happen. There was no one present who dared to drag me onto the dance floor, and I had no complaints about that. That said, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening.  

Congratulations again on your matches—I expect a full report on your first impressions of the dragons and how meeting up with Charlie unfolds.  

Write soon, preferably before your Quidditch match turns into a full-blown endurance trial against a team of fire-breathing lunatics.  

Percy 

July 12, 2003

White Winter Inn, Lutin Lane

Perce,  

Alright, dragons.  

Charlie is the luckiest bloke alive, I swear—he gets to work with the most terrifyingly majestic creatures on the planet daily. And the worst part? He’s so bloody casual about it. Just—“Oh yeah, that one over there nearly set fire to my boots yesterday. Happens.”  

And I actually got to FLY around them, Percy. FLY. Thought I was going to get roasted alive, but apparently, there are a few calmer ones that barely glanced at me. Still—how the hell did Harry survive that tournament? Absolute madness. I have a whole new appreciation for him.  

Sorry I didn’t write sooner—been bloody swamped. Canada’s team plays like nothing I’ve ever seen before—because, honestly, who the hell teaches this style of Quidditch? They blend tactics from EVERYWHERE. One second it’s old-school British technique, the next it’s Brazilian speed, then suddenly someone’s pulling a move I swear I saw in some obscure Scandinavian league. It’s unreal.  

Canada itself? Nothing like I pictured. It’s huge. I mean, obviously I knew that, but actually being here makes it feel endless. The wizarding communities are tucked away in the forests and mountains—proper hidden pockets of magic. Had to find one of them first, but once you get there, it’s like stepping into an entirely different world. 

Anyway—I'm probably not going to have time to write again ‘til I’m back, but just know that we are absolutely meeting up when I return. I expect updates. Lots of updates.  

Oh, I got to go. Someone’s calling for me—probably about another ridiculous Quidditch tactic.  

See you soon!  

Ollie

Chapter Text

August 2003 – Archives, Wizarding Library

The Wizarding Archives were quiet in the way Percy liked best—deep, deliberate quiet, the kind that settled into the bones and left no room for anything but thought. The scent of old parchment and spell-dried ink clung to the air, and the only sounds were the occasional creak of a shifting shelf or the soft rustle of a turning page.

He was tucked into a narrow carrel beneath a flickering enchanted lamp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, quill in hand. A stack of documents leaned precariously beside him, organized by region and year—France, 1996; Belgium, 1997; Norway, 1998. He’d been combing through diplomatic correspondences and Ministry memos for the better part of the afternoon, tracing the slow unraveling of international cooperation during the war. It was tedious work. He found it oddly comforting. His notes were precise, as always. Bullet points, cross-references, the occasional underlined phrase. He paused only to sip from a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, eyes scanning the next folder’s label: “Internal Communications – 1998.” 

He liked this part of the job. The research. The learning. The knowing. There was something steadying about it—about tracing the shape of a policy through footnotes and marginalia, about finding the thread of logic in a tangle of bureaucratic language. It made sense. It had rules. And Percy had always been good at rules.

He reached for the next folder without thinking, eyes scanning the label: “Internal Testimonies – 1998.” He didn’t pause. Didn’t think. Just opened it. And froze. The parchment inside was thinner than the others, slightly curled at the edges. The ink was dark, precise. Familiar. Too familiar. He stared at the first line.

'State your name and department.'

'Percival Ignatius Weasley. Department of Magical Transportation, later reassigned to the Minister’s Office.'

His breath caught. No. He turned the page.

'Did you remain employed at the Ministry during the occupation?'

'Yes.'

'Were you aware of the regime’s alignment with Voldemort?'

'Not at first. I suspected. I ignored it.'

The words blurred.

He remembered the room. The cold chair. The way the Veritaserum had settled in his chest like frost. The way his voice had sounded—too loud, too honest, too much. He hadn’t thought about this in years. Not really. Not like this.

His hands were shaking.

He didn’t understand why it was hitting him like this. He’d said these words. He’d lived them. He’d survived them. He was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to be over it. But the words were still here. Still sharp. Still waiting.

He pressed his palms flat against the table, trying to breathe. The silence of the archive, once comforting, now felt suffocating. Like the walls were listening. Like the shelves were watching.

He closed the folder. Then opened it again. He couldn’t stop looking. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t had this happen in years. He turned another page.

'Did you believe those policies were just?'

'No.'

'Then why did you enforce them?'

'Because I thought I could fix things from the inside. Because I didn’t know how to leave. Because I was a coward.'

His eyes skimmed the lines, but the words didn’t feel like words anymore. They felt like echoes. Like ghosts. He remembered the meetings. The memos. The way he’d sat in rooms full of people who were afraid and angry and complicit, and said nothing. The way he’d told himself it was for the greater good. That he could make it better. That he was helping. He remembered the silence.

The folder slipped from his hands. Parchment scattered across the table, some fluttering to the floor. He didn’t move to pick them up. He just stood there, hands trembling, breath shallow. He needed air.

He pushed back from the table too fast, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. A few heads turned from distant aisles, but no one said anything. No one stopped him. He walked quickly—too quickly—through the maze of shelves, past the reference desk, past the enchanted lanterns that flickered as he passed. His footsteps echoed. His heart pounded.

He found the restroom and ducked inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. The mirror above the sink was slightly fogged from a recent cleaning charm. Percy gripped the edge of the basin and stared at his reflection. He looked different than he had then. Older. His face was thinner, sharper. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were red. There were tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was crying. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, once, twice, again. The shock of it grounded him, just barely. He gripped the sink tighter, knuckles white, water dripping from his chin.

He was better than this. He was past this. He had done the work. He had made amends. He had survived. So why did it still feel like this?

He took a breath. Then another. When he was sure his hands had stopped shaking, he straightened. Adjusted his glasses. Smoothed his robes. He looked at his reflection one last time. Then he turned and walked out.

The walk back to his table felt longer than it should have. Percy kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor tiles as he moved through the aisles. His robes were still damp at the collar from where he’d splashed water on his face. He hoped it wasn’t obvious. He hoped no one looked too closely. He turned the corner toward his carrel—and stopped.

Oliver was at the reference desk.

He was leaning slightly against the counter, chatting with the archivist in that easy, affable way Percy had always found both enviable and mildly infuriating. He had a folder tucked under one arm and a quill behind his ear, and he looked like he belonged here far more than Percy felt he did in that moment.

Oliver looked up.

Their eyes met.

Percy froze.

Oliver’s expression shifted instantly—concern flickering across his face, subtle but unmistakable. He straightened, took a half-step forward. Percy gave a small nod. It was all he could manage. Oliver didn’t push. He just nodded back, slow and steady, and turned back to the archivist to finish whatever he was doing. Percy kept walking.

Percy reached his table and stared down at the scattered parchment. The folder still lay open, its contents fanned out like a wound. He crouched to gather the pages, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to put them back in order. A shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” Oliver said, voice low.

Percy didn’t look up. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Oliver said. “I’m not here to hover.”

He crouched beside Percy and reached for a few of the fallen pages. His hand paused as he caught sight of the text. He didn’t say anything. But Percy saw the way his eyes moved across the lines. The way his brow furrowed. The way his fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the parchment. He knew.

Oliver looked at him, quiet and steady.

Percy didn’t speak. He didn’t trust himself to.

Oliver didn’t speak right away. He just helped gather the parchment, his movements careful, deliberate. He didn’t rush Percy. Didn’t press. Just waited.

When the last page was back in the folder, Percy sat down heavily in his chair, the file resting in his lap like something fragile. He stared at it for a long moment, then closed it with a soft, final sound.

Oliver sat across from him, elbows on the table, hands folded loosely. “You want to talk about it?” he asked, voice low and quiet.

Percy didn’t answer at first. He adjusted his glasses. Smoothed the edge of the folder. His hands were still trembling, just slightly. “I wasn’t expecting this,” he said finally, his voice thin. “This reaction.”

He didn’t look up.

“I’ve read these words before. I said them. I lived them. I thought I’d made peace with them.”

Oliver stayed quiet.

Percy swallowed. “I’ve worked to move past this. I’ve done the work. I’ve rebuilt everything I broke. I’ve earned back trust. I’ve—” He stopped. Took a breath. “I thought if I worked hard enough, I’d stop feeling like a traitor.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Percy’s voice was steady, but only just. “But I read it again, and it was like I was right back there. Like none of it mattered. Like I was still that person.”

He looked up, finally. “I don’t know why it still feels like this.”

Oliver was quiet for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his voice low and steady. “I get that,” he said. “More than you probably think.”

Percy didn’t move.

Oliver glanced down at the folder between them, then back up. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about who I was at school. How I acted. I was so wrapped up in Quidditch, in winning, in being the best—I didn’t always see what it was doing to the people around me.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “I pushed people too hard. Ignored injuries. Told myself it was for the team, for the game. But really, it was about me. About proving something. And I hurt people because of it.”

Percy looked at him, eyes still red, still wet.

“I’ve had moments,” Oliver continued, “where I’ve looked back and thought, ‘Was that me? Was I really like that?’ And the answer is yes. I was. But I’m not anymore.”

He met Percy’s gaze, steady and sure.

“And if I’m not that person anymore, then neither are you.”

Percy didn’t speak. But something in his posture shifted—just slightly. Like a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding had finally been let go.

Oliver didn’t reach for him. Didn’t offer a joke or a distraction. He just stayed.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was still. Settled. Percy sat with it, letting the weight of Oliver’s words sink in. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just breathed. And for the first time in what felt like hours, the breath didn’t catch in his chest. He looked down at the folder in his lap, then closed it carefully and set it aside. His hands had stopped shaking. He glanced up at Oliver, and though his voice was quiet, there was something steady in it now.

“Thank you,” he said.

Oliver didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just met his eyes and said, “Anytime.”

They sat like that for a moment longer, the quiet stretching between them—not awkward, not tense. Just… present.

Eventually, Percy cleared his throat. “What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked, the question soft, almost hesitant. “I didn’t think the archives were your usual haunt.”

Oliver gave a small, sheepish smile. “They’re not. Usually.”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “After the Canada matches, I started thinking. Their style was… different. Unpredictable. They pulled moves I’d never seen before—stuff that looked like it came out of a textbook no one reads anymore.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “So you came here to read the textbook?”

Oliver shrugged. “Something like that. I figured if I can’t outfly them, maybe I can out-research them. Dig up some old strategies, forgotten formations. See if there’s anything I can use.”

He glanced at Percy. “I know it’s not exactly my usual approach, but… I don’t know. It felt worth trying.”

Percy blinked. “You’re researching.”

Oliver grinned. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

Percy huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. But close. Percy let the silence linger for a moment longer, then cleared his throat softly. “So,” he said, voice still a little hoarse, “how was the rest of Canada?”

Oliver looked at him, head tilting slightly.

Percy didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The question wasn’t really about Canada. It was about breathing. About not thinking. About letting someone else carry the conversation for a while.

Oliver seemed to understand. He leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest. “It was… a lot,” he said. “Good. But a lot.”

Percy nodded, eyes fixed on the table.

“I didn’t write about all of it,” Oliver continued, voice softer now.

Percy didn’t speak. But something in his posture softened—just slightly. Like the weight of the moment had settled, but not crushed him.

Oliver seemed to sense it. He leaned back in his chair, giving Percy a little space, and after a beat, his voice shifted—lighter, warmer. “There was this one village—tiny place, tucked into the edge of a forest. You couldn’t see it unless you walked through a waterfall. Actual waterfall. The whole thing was hidden behind a veil charm so old it shimmered like glass. And once you were through, it was like stepping into a storybook. Floating lanterns, treehouses, magical snow that never melted.” He smiled, eyes distant with the memory. “They had this bakery that made these ridiculous honey rolls—like, the kind that stick to your fingers and your soul. I think I ate six in one sitting. No regrets.”

Percy let out a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but almost.

“And the sky,” Oliver went on, “Merlin, the sky. You’ve never seen stars like that. No light pollution, no spells to dim them. Just… endless. I stayed up one night after a match, lying on the pitch, just staring up. Felt like I could fall into it.”

He looked at Percy again, softer now. “It was the kind of place that makes you forget everything else. Even just for a little while.”

Percy nodded slowly, his voice quiet. “That sounds… nice.”

“It was,” Oliver said. “It really was.”

Percy looked at Oliver. Really looked at him. It wasn’t something he did often—look at people, not like this. But now, in the quiet aftermath of everything, with the weight of the transcript still lingering in his chest and Oliver’s voice still soft in his ears, he let himself see. There was a twinkle in Oliver’s eyes when he talked about the stars in Canada, something bright and unguarded. His nose had a faint smattering of freckles—just a few, barely there, nothing like Percy’s own constellation of them. His skin was tanned, the kind of tan that came from years spent outdoors, from wind and sun and flying through open skies. He looked like he belonged in the world. Like he’d carved out a place for himself and filled it with light.

And Percy—Percy felt calm.

He hadn’t realized it until now, but Oliver made the noise in his head quiet down. Made the ache in his chest ease. Made the world feel a little less sharp around the edges. It was strange, he thought, how a few run-ins and a handful of letters could do that. How someone he’d lived with for seven years—someone he’d barely known—could become this. Important. Comfortable. Safe.

He blinked, startled by the thought, and realized he’d been staring.

He looked away quickly, ears going pink. “That sounds… really interesting,” he said, a little too stiffly. Then, after a beat, “You missed an amazing wedding here.”

Oliver smiled, like he knew exactly what Percy was doing, and didn’t mind at all.

Oliver’s smile lingered. “So,” he said, nudging gently, “how was it?”

Percy blinked. “The wedding?”

Oliver nodded. “Yeah. Tell me everything. I want details. Was it chaos? Did Ron cry? Did someone set the cake on fire?”

Percy huffed a quiet breath—something between a sigh and a laugh. “No fires. Surprisingly.”

He paused, then added, “It was… beautiful.”

Oliver leaned in slightly, listening.

“It was at the Burrow,” Percy said, his voice softening. “But not like Ron’s wedding. Or Bill’s. It wasn’t a copy of anything. It was… theirs. Entirely.” He folded his hands on the table, eyes distant. “The ceremony was small. Intimate. Just family, and a few close friends. Ron and Neville stood with Harry. Hermione and Luna were Ginny’s bridesmaids. The garden was charmed to bloom out of season—roses, mostly, and these little golden wildflowers I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. The air felt… charged. Like the magic wasn’t just in the spells, but in the people.” He paused, then added, “I’ve never seen a bond like that. Between two people. It was—” He shook his head. “It was the strongest magic I’ve ever felt. And I’ve been in battle.”

Oliver was quiet, watching him.

Percy gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “Two people tried to sneak in. Press, probably. I caught them before they got past the wards. Gave them a very firm lecture about boundaries and the right to privacy, and how Harry Potter deserves a wedding without being treated like a headline.”

Oliver grinned. “Bet they regretted that.”

“I was quite proud of myself,” Percy said, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something like warmth in his voice. “Ginny deserved that day. All of it. And I was glad I could help give it to her.”

He looked down at his hands, then back up at Oliver. “You would’ve liked it.”

Oliver’s smile softened. “Sounds like I would’ve.”

He glanced at the stack of parchment still sitting on the table, then back at Percy. “You’ve been here a while,” he said gently.

Percy blinked, like he had to do the math. “Since five-thirty,” he said. “This morning.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Percy.”

“I had a lot to get through,” Percy said, a little defensively, though the edge had long since worn off his voice.

Oliver gave him a look. Not judgmental. Just… knowing. “It’s late enough that you can be done for the day.”

Percy hesitated. “I still have—”

“Perce.”

He looked up.

Oliver’s expression was open, steady. “Let’s do something to take your mind off everything. Just for a bit.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the folder in his lap, then at the scattered notes still on the table. His instinct was to say no. To stay. To finish what he started. B ut Oliver was still watching him. Not pushing. Just offering. And something in Percy softened.

“…Alright,” he said quietly.

Oliver smiled. “Yeah?”

Percy nodded. “Yeah.”

Oliver stood and offered a hand. Percy took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. His legs ached from sitting so long, and his shoulders were stiff, but the touch grounded him. Together, they gathered the rest of Percy’s things—notes, folders, quills. Oliver helped without comment, tucking parchment into neat stacks, vanishing the cold tea with a flick of his wand. Once everything was packed away, Oliver slung his satchel over his shoulder and looked at Percy.

“Tea?” he asked. “Or a walk?”

Percy considered. “Both?”

Oliver grinned. “Perfect.”

And they stepped out of the archives together, into the quiet hum of the evening, the weight of the day slowly beginning to lift.

The air outside the Wizarding Library was crisp, the kind of early evening cool that hinted at autumn just around the corner. Diagon Alley was quieter than usual—most of the shops had closed for the day, and the cobblestones glowed faintly under the soft light of floating lanterns. Percy walked beside Oliver, hands tucked into his robes, the weight of the day still lingering in his shoulders but no longer pressing quite so hard. They didn’t speak at first. Just walked.

Then Oliver said, “Did I tell you about the Quidditch pitch in Romania that’s built into the side of a mountain?”

Percy blinked. “No.”

“It’s wild,” Oliver said, grinning. “You have to take a lift—like, an actual enchanted platform—up to the top, and the pitch is carved into this massive plateau. Wind everywhere. You can see the whole valley below. It’s like flying on the edge of the world.”

Percy gave a small, surprised smile. “That sounds… terrifying.”

“It was,” Oliver said cheerfully. “But also brilliant.”

Percy shook his head, amused despite himself. “And I assume you played just as recklessly as usual?”

“Obviously,” Oliver said. “But I didn’t fall off the mountain, so I’m counting it as a win.”

Percy huffed a quiet laugh. “Low bar.”

Oliver bumped his shoulder lightly. “You love it.”

Percy didn’t deny it.

They reached the tea shop—a narrow storefront tucked between a secondhand bookshop and a broom repair kiosk. The windows were fogged with steam, and the scent of bergamot and cinnamon drifted out as they stepped inside.

Oliver walked straight up to the counter. “Two teas, please. One black, strong, no sugar, splash of milk. One green jasmine, lightly steeped.”

Percy blinked. “How did you—?”

Oliver glanced at him, amused. “You had the same tea every morning for seven years. First year through seventh. Same cup. Same seat. Same scowl if someone tried to talk to you before you finished it.”

Percy opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Oh,” he said.

Oliver grinned. “Of course I remember.”

They took their tea in to-go cups, the warmth seeping through the paper and into Percy’s hands. They stepped back out into the alley, the sky now a deep indigo overhead. They started walking again, slowly, side by side. They walked in companionable silence for a few moments, the warmth of the tea cups between their hands and the quiet of Diagon Alley wrapping around them like a soft cloak.

Then Percy said, “You know, I had to deal with a diplomatic incident last month that nearly turned into an international scandal over… biscuits.”

Oliver blinked. “Biscuits?”

Percy nodded, already sounding exasperated. “Apparently, the Belgian delegation took offense to the refreshments served at a summit with the Spanish Ministry. Someone—no one will admit who—served stroopwafels alongside churros, and the Belgians interpreted it as a deliberate slight. Claimed it was a ‘symbolic culinary undermining of national identity.’”

Oliver snorted. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” Percy said, shaking his head. “I spent three days drafting an apology that didn’t technically admit fault but still acknowledged the ‘emotional resonance of regional pastries.’”

Oliver burst out laughing. “You did not.”

“I did,” Percy said, but now he was smiling too. “I had to consult with a cultural liaison about the historical significance of cinnamon in Iberian desserts. There was a footnote. A footnote, Oliver.”

Oliver was laughing so hard he had to stop walking. “Merlin’s beard. You’re going to start a war over biscuits.”

“I prevented a war over biscuits,” Percy corrected, mock-stern. “There’s a difference.”

Oliver wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “You’re incredible.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. “I’m something.”

They started walking again, the laughter still hanging between them like a thread of light. They kept walking, the tea warm in their hands, the cobblestones glowing faintly beneath their feet. Percy was quiet for a moment, watching the way the lantern light caught in Oliver’s hair, the way the evening breeze tugged at the edges of his robes. He felt… lighter. Not entirely better, not yet. But steadier.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said suddenly.

Oliver glanced at him. “Do what?”

“This,” Percy said, gesturing vaguely. “Walking. Talking. Letting someone see me when I’m not… composed.”

Oliver didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a small, understanding nod.

Percy looked ahead again. “It’s strange. I spent so long trying to be useful. To be the one who had it together. And now, when I’m not, it feels like I’m breaking some unspoken rule.”

“You’re not,” Oliver said simply.

Percy didn’t answer. But he didn’t disagree.

They turned a corner, and the familiar storefront of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes came into view—bright even in the dimming light, its windows still glowing with soft magical hues. The shop was closed for the day, but the door was propped open, and two figures stood just outside, chatting and laughing. George and Angelina.

Percy slowed instinctively.

George looked up first. His expression didn’t shift much—just a flicker of recognition, a nod. Not cold. Not warm. But not nothing. “Evening,” George said.

“George,” Percy replied, careful.

Angelina smiled. “Oliver Wood, as I live and breathe.”

Oliver grinned. “You’re still letting him run this place?”

“Someone has to,” she said, elbowing George lightly.

Oliver and George fell into easy conversation almost immediately—something about a prank gone wrong at a Quidditch match, or maybe right, depending on who you asked. Percy stood a little off to the side, sipping his tea, unsure where to place himself.

Angelina turned to him. “You’re quieter than I expected,” she said.

Percy blinked. “I—sorry?”

She smiled, not unkindly. “I just mean, I’ve heard a lot about you recently. Oliver talks.”

Percy flushed slightly. “Oh.”

Angelina tilted her head. “You alright?”

Percy hesitated. Then nodded. “I’m… getting there.”

She studied him for a moment, then said, “Good.”

And just like that, Percy found himself cornered—gently, but unmistakably—into a conversation with someone he barely knew. Angelina leaned against the shop’s doorframe, arms crossed, watching Percy with a curious sort of ease.

“You know,” she said, “I remember you from school.”

Percy blinked. “I—well, yes, I suppose we did overlap.”

“You were always the one with the clipboard,” she said, smiling. “Marching around like the castle would fall apart if you didn’t personally keep it standing.”

Percy flushed slightly. “That… sounds accurate.”

“You were intense,” she added, not unkindly. “But you seem different now.”

Percy shifted, unsure what to do with his hands. “I—well, I suppose people change.”

Angelina tilted her head. “You’ve softened.”

“I’ve… what?”

She smiled. “In a good way.”

Percy tried to respond, but the words tangled. He wasn’t used to this kind of conversation—casual, personal, direct. He felt like he was failing some unspoken test of social grace. He glanced toward Oliver and George, who were still deep in conversation, laughing about something Percy hadn’t caught.

Angelina followed his gaze, then looked back at him. Her voice dropped slightly. “Don’t hurt him.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

She nodded toward Oliver. “He’s a good one. And he’s not as invincible as he pretends to be.”

Percy stared at her, confused. “I wouldn’t—he’s my friend. Why would I hurt him?”

Angelina’s expression softened, but she didn’t explain. She just gave him a look—knowing, careful, kind. Before Percy could ask what she meant, Oliver’s laugh rang out, bright and unguarded.

“Perce!” he called, nudging him with an elbow. “Did you hear what George just said? He told the story about the time he and Fred tried to enchant a Bludger to follow Malfoy around for a week and accidentally hit Snape instead.”

George grinned. “Best detention I ever got.”

Percy gave a small, bewildered smile. “Sounds… memorable.”

The conversation shifted after that—light, easy, full of old stories and half-finished jokes. Percy didn’t say much, but he didn’t feel like he had to.

Eventually, Oliver glanced at the sky. “We should get going.”

George gave a lazy wave. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Angelina smiled at Percy. “Take care.”

“You too,” Percy said, still unsure what had just happened.

And then he and Oliver were walking again, the shop fading behind them, the night stretching ahead. They walked in silence for a while, the kind that didn’t press or prod. Just existed.  The alley was nearly empty now, the shops shuttered, the lanterns dimmed to a soft golden glow. Their footsteps echoed gently on the cobblestones, and the only sound between them was the occasional sip of tea.

Percy glanced sideways at Oliver, then back at the path ahead. “Angelina seems…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Observant.”

Oliver chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”

Percy hesitated. “She said something earlier. About you.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt.

“She said not to hurt you,” Percy said, voice careful. “I’m not sure what she meant.”

Oliver was quiet for a beat. “She worries.”

Percy nodded slowly, waiting for more. But Oliver didn’t elaborate, and Percy didn’t press. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking. Only that the comment had lodged itself in his mind, and he couldn’t quite shake it loose. He looked down at his tea. The cup was still warm in his hands, thanks to the charm, but the liquid inside was nearly gone. He took the last sip, then vanished the cup with a flick of his wand. Oliver did the same.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. They turned a corner, and their shoulders bumped—just slightly. Percy tensed for a moment, instinctively ready to apologize. But then… he didn’t. He didn’t mind. He didn’t step away. And Oliver didn’t either. They just kept walking. They walked slowly toward the Apparition point, the quiet between them stretching long and gentle. The lanterns overhead flickered softly, casting golden halos on the cobblestones. The night had settled into stillness, the kind that made everything feel suspended—like the world was holding its breath.

Percy felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The last time they’d walked like this, it had been after drinks at the Silver Cauldron. That night had felt like something beginning. This one felt like something settling. Not ending. Just… shifting.

When they reached the edge of the alley, where the cobblestones gave way to the smooth stone of the Apparition zone, they stopped. Turned to face each other. And somehow, it was harder to leave this time. They stood there, tea long gone, hands empty, eyes searching.

They both opened their mouths at the same time.

“I—”

“Do you—”

They stopped. Smiled, a little awkwardly.

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just going to say… I’m starting back with Puddlemere next spring. Early season. First match is in March.”

Percy nodded, unsure where this was going.

Oliver’s voice softened. “You should come. And maybe… maybe we could do something after. Just us.”

Percy blinked. Then, to his own surprise, he said, “I’d like that.”

Oliver’s smile was quiet, but it reached his eyes.

They stood there for another moment, neither moving. Then Oliver stepped forward and pulled Percy into a hug. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Solid. Real. And Percy didn’t mind. He didn’t freeze. He didn’t pull away. He just… let it happen.

When they stepped back, Oliver gave him one last look—something unspoken in his eyes—and then, with a soft crack, he was gone.

Percy stood there for a moment, staring at the space where Oliver had been.

Then he took a breath, steadied himself, and Apparated home.

Chapter Text

March 2004 – Quidditch Stadium, Puddlemere United Home Pitch

The book lay forgotten in Percy’s lap, its spine tilted awkwardly against his knee, pages fluttering in the wind like they were trying to escape. He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Below him, the pitch roared with motion—blue and gold blurs streaking through the air, Chasers weaving in and out of formation like a flock of birds mid-dive. The crowd surged with every near-goal, every intercepted pass, every whistle from the referee. Percy barely noticed them. His eyes kept going back to Oliver.

Puddlemere’s Keeper hovered near the goalposts, robes rippling in the wind, eyes sharp and unblinking. He moved like he was part of the air itself—fluid, precise, utterly focused. Percy had seen him play before, of course. But this was different. This was now.

A Harpies Chaser broke through the midfield line, Quaffle tucked tight under her arm, and Percy’s breath caught. She was fast—too fast—and the Puddlemere Beaters were a second too slow. The Quaffle arced toward the left hoop. Oliver dove. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was effective. He caught the Quaffle with the edge of his glove, deflecting it just wide of the post. The crowd erupted. Percy exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

He adjusted his glasses, tried to look casual, and failed. His fingers were clenched around the edge of the book, knuckles white. He forced himself to relax. It didn’t help. Oliver circled back to the center hoop, adjusting his grip on the broom, jaw set. He didn’t look up at the stands. He didn’t need to. Percy was watching enough for both of them.

Another play. Another dive. Another save.

Percy’s stomach twisted every time Oliver moved. He knew Oliver was good—brilliant, even—but that didn’t stop the worry from curling in his chest like smoke. Every time a Bludger came too close, every time a Chaser feinted too sharply, Percy felt it like a jolt behind his ribs. He wasn’t sure when watching Quidditch had become this personal.

The Quaffle was back in play. Percy barely registered the crowd’s roar as the Harpies’ Chasers surged forward again, their formation tight and aggressive. The Puddlemere Beaters scrambled to intercept, but they were a second too slow. A Bludger came screaming out of nowhere—fast, vicious, aimed straight for the goalposts.

Oliver moved.

He always moved like he knew the pitch better than anyone else. Like the air bent for him. But this time—this time, he saw it a second too late. The Bludger struck Oliver square in the shoulder. The sound was sickening. A dull, heavy thud that echoed even over the roar of the crowd. Oliver jerked sideways, nearly thrown from his broom. He caught himself—barely—his broom wobbling under the force of the hit. Percy shot to his feet. His book tumbled to the floor.

Oliver hovered, one hand clutching his shoulder, his face twisted in pain. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t call for a sub. Didn’t even look toward the sidelines. Another Chaser broke through. The Quaffle arced toward the left hoop. Oliver dove. It was a bad angle. Percy could see it before it happened. The dive was too shallow, the broom too slow, the pain too much. Oliver caught the Quaffle with his forearm—barely—but the force of it knocked him sideways, and this time, he didn’t recover.

He fell.

The crowd gasped. Someone screamed. Percy couldn’t move. Oliver’s body twisted midair, limp, uncontrolled. A referee’s wand flicked just in time to slow the fall, but it wasn’t enough to stop it. Oliver hit the ground hard, skidding across the grass before coming to a stop near the base of the goalpost. The whistle blew. Sharp. Final. There was shouting. A foul had been called—Percy didn’t hear the details. Didn’t care. He was already moving. He shoved past knees and bags and startled fans, barely registering the protests as he pushed his way down the stands. His heart was pounding, his breath shallow, his mind a blur of panic and memory and the echo of that awful sound.

He saw them gathering around Oliver—mediwizards, a stretcher, someone casting diagnostic charms in rapid succession. Oliver wasn’t moving. Percy’s stomach twisted. He reached the edge of the pitch just as they levitated Oliver onto the stretcher. His face was pale, eyes closed, one arm bent at an unnatural angle. Percy’s throat tightened.

“Where are you taking him?” he asked, voice sharper than he meant.

One of the mediwizards glanced at him. “St. Mungo’s. Emergency ward.”

“I’m coming,” Percy said, already moving.

He didn’t wait for permission. He just Apparated.

Later that Day, St. Mungo’s Hospital

The waiting room was too quiet. Not silent—there was the occasional rustle of parchment, the low murmur of a healer passing through, the distant chime of a spell being cast—but quiet in the way that made Percy’s skin itch. Like the walls were holding their breath. He sat in a stiff-backed chair near the far wall, hands folded tightly in his lap, eyes fixed on the floor. The tile was scuffed. Someone had tracked in a bit of mud. He couldn’t stop staring at it.

Oliver was probably fine. Probably.

He’d been conscious when they’d taken him through the emergency ward doors. Or at least, Percy thought he had been. It was hard to tell. Everything after the fall had blurred—shouting, movement, the rush of magic and panic. Percy had followed without thinking, without asking if he was allowed. He’d only stopped when a nurse gently, firmly told him he’d have to wait.

“Family only,” she’d said.

He hadn’t argued. He’d just sat.

And now he was still sitting. Waiting. Not family.

He didn’t know why he was so worried. Oliver had taken worse hits before. He was a professional. He knew how to fall. He knew how to land. He knew how to—

The image flashed again. Oliver, limp in the air. The way his body had twisted. The way his arm had bent.

Percy closed his eyes. Pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. Time had lost its shape. The tea in the waiting room had gone cold. The Daily Prophet on the table beside him was two days old. He hadn’t touched either.

Then—footsteps. Soft. Purposeful.

He looked up.

A nurse stood in the doorway, her robes crisp, her expression kind. “Mr. Weasley?”

He was on his feet before she finished the sentence.

“He’s awake,” she said. “And he’s asked for visitors.”

Percy didn’t speak. Just nodded. Too quickly.

“Follow me,” she said, and turned.

He followed. The corridor was long and quiet, lined with softly glowing sconces and the faint scent of antiseptic and spellwork. Percy’s footsteps echoed behind the nurse’s, his heart pounding louder than his shoes on the tile. Oliver was awake. Oliver had asked for him. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t know what he was going to feel. He just knew he had to see him. Now.

The door creaked softly as Percy stepped inside. The room was dim, lit only by a pair of floating orbs near the ceiling and the soft glow of a monitoring charm pulsing above the bed. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and spellfire—clean, clinical, too quiet. Oliver lay propped up against a stack of pillows, his hair damp with sweat, his skin pale beneath the bruises blooming along his jaw and collarbone. His right arm was wrapped tightly in a sling, the shoulder heavily bandaged. A bottle of Skele-Gro sat on the bedside table, half-empty, the label curling at the edges. Percy’s stomach twisted.

Oliver looked up. His face lit up—not much, not brightly, but enough. Enough to make Percy’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Oliver said, voice rough but warm.

Percy didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room in three quick steps, dragging the visitor’s chair closer to the bed with a scrape of wood on tile. He sat, knees nearly touching the edge of the mattress, hands clenched in his lap.

“You look like hell,” he said quietly.

Oliver gave a weak grin. “Feel worse.”

Percy exhaled, sharp and shaky. “I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m alright,” Oliver said, but it came out too fast, too automatic.

“No, you’re not,” Percy snapped. Then, softer: “Don’t lie to me.”

Oliver blinked, surprised.

Percy looked down at his hands. “I saw you fall. I saw your arm. I thought—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Don’t you ever dare do anything like that again.”

Oliver’s smile faded. “Perce—”

“I mean it,” Percy said, voice low and tight. “You scared me.”

There was a pause. Then Oliver said, quietly, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Percy said. “But that doesn’t make it better.”

He looked up, finally, and Oliver was watching him with something unreadable in his eyes—something soft, something steady.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Percy said. “Really. But next time you decide to throw yourself in front of a Bludger, maybe think about the people who might be watching.”

Oliver didn’t answer. He just reached out—slowly, carefully—with his uninjured hand, and let it rest on the edge of Percy’s sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Percy didn’t pull away. Percy stayed quiet for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. Oliver’s hand was still resting lightly on his sleeve, the contact grounding, steady. Percy glanced at the sling again, at the bruises darkening along Oliver’s collarbone, at the half-empty bottle of Skele-Gro on the bedside table.

He cleared his throat gently. “What did they say? About the injury.”

Oliver’s expression shifted. He looked away, jaw tightening. “Dislocated shoulder. Fractured humerus. Bruised ribs. Mild concussion. Nothing permanent.”

Percy nodded slowly. “That’s good.”

Oliver didn’t answer.

Percy waited.

Then, quietly, Oliver said, “They told me I was lucky.”

Percy looked at him.

Oliver’s voice was flat. “Lucky it wasn’t worse. Lucky I didn’t tear the joint. Lucky I didn’t hit the ground harder. Lucky I didn’t break my neck.” He let out a breath, sharp and bitter. “And then one of the nurses—kindly, gently, like she was doing me a favor—said I might want to start thinking about retirement.”

Percy’s stomach dropped.

Oliver laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Retirement. Like I’m some old man who’s overstayed his welcome. Like I haven’t been training since I was eleven. Like I don’t still have more to give.”

Percy didn’t speak. He just listened.

“I knew it was coming,” Oliver said, voice quieter now. “I’m not stupid. I’m twenty-eight. That’s ancient in Quidditch years. I’ve been playing professionally for nearly a decade. I’ve seen teammates go down for less. I knew it was coming.” He looked at Percy, and there was something raw in his eyes. “I just thought I had more time.”

Percy’s chest ached. He reached out, slowly, and rested his hand over Oliver’s—careful, gentle, but firm.

“You’re not done,” Percy said. “Not yet. And even if—when—that day comes, it won’t be because you weren’t good enough. Or strong enough. Or fast enough. It’ll be because you chose it. On your terms.”

Oliver didn’t answer. But his fingers curled slightly under Percy’s.

“I’m here,” Percy said. “Alright? I’m here.”

And for a long moment, neither of them said anything at all. They didn’t need to. Oliver’s fingers were still curled under Percy’s, his grip loose but present. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not since the words 'retirement' and 'not yet' had settled between them like dust.

Percy watched him for a moment, then said, gently, “You know… just because you stop playing professionally doesn’t mean it’s over.”

Oliver looked at him, brow furrowed.

“I mean it,” Percy said. “Quidditch doesn’t vanish the moment you leave the pitch. It’s not just about the matches or the league or the title. It’s part of you. That doesn’t go away.”

Oliver didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened slightly.

Percy pressed on. “You remember those little league clinics you used to run? The ones you told me about? You loved those. You were good at them. You made those kids feel like they mattered. Like they belonged on a broom, even if they couldn’t fly straight yet.”

Oliver’s expression shifted—just a flicker, but enough.

“You can still do that,” Percy said. “Coach. Mentor. Teach. You can still be in Quidditch. You can still go to matches, still fly for fun, still talk about it like it’s the most important thing in the world—because it is, to you. And that’s alright.” He paused. “You’re not done yet. I know that. But when the time comes… it won’t be the end. It’ll just be different.”

Oliver looked at him, eyes shining with something Percy couldn’t quite name. Grief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or both. “I don’t know who I am without it,” Oliver said quietly.

Percy gave a small, sad smile. “You’re still you. With or without the broom.”

Oliver didn’t speak. But his hand tightened around Percy’s.

They sat like that for a while. The room was still, save for the soft hum of the monitoring charm and the occasional creak of the bed frame as Oliver shifted slightly. Their hands remained joined—Percy’s resting lightly over Oliver’s, fingers curled just enough to hold on, but not enough to press. He hadn’t meant to keep holding it. He just… hadn’t let go. And he didn’t mind. For once, he didn’t feel the need to pull away. To tidy the moment into something more proper. He just sat there, letting the quiet settle around them like a blanket.

Then the door opened.

Percy startled, his hand jerking back like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His ears went pink. He folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very interested in the hem of his sleeve.

The nurse—an older witch with a kind face and a clipboard floating beside her—arched an eyebrow but said nothing. She carried a tray in one hand, which she set down on the table beside Oliver’s bed with a practiced flick of her wand.

“Dinner,” she said cheerfully. “Such as it is. Don’t get too excited—it’s hospital food, not a feast.”

Oliver gave her a tired smile. “If it’s not Skele-Gro, I’ll take it.”

She chuckled. “No potions tonight. Just soup, bread, and something that claims to be pudding. Eat what you can. And don’t make that face—I’ve seen you block a Quaffle with your ribs, you can handle a spoon.”

Percy huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.

The nurse turned to him. “You staying a bit?”

Percy nodded. “If that’s alright.”

She smiled. “It’s more than alright. I’ll bring you something too. Can’t have you fainting from worry.”

Before Percy could protest, she was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Oliver looked down at the tray, then back at Percy. “I don’t think I can open half of this with one arm.”

Percy stood and moved to the table. “Let me.”

He peeled back the lid on the soup container, then unwrapped the bread and set it neatly on the tray. The pudding wobbled ominously in its dish, but Percy left it alone for now.

Oliver picked up the spoon with his good hand and tried to maneuver it into the soup. It sloshed. He winced.

Percy took the spoon gently from him. “Let me,” he said again, softer this time.

Oliver didn’t argue. Percy dipped the spoon into the soup, blew on it once, and held it out. Oliver leaned forward slightly and took the bite without complaint. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

A few minutes later, the nurse returned with a second tray—tea, a sandwich, and a small bowl of fruit. She set it down beside Percy with a wink. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Percy blinked. “Thank you.”

She smiled. “He’s lucky to have someone here.”

Then she left again, and the room was quiet once more. Percy sat back down, picked up his tea, and looked at Oliver.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. And he meant it.

They finished eating slowly. Oliver managed most of the rest of the soup on his own, though Percy helped with the pudding—carefully peeling back the lid and handing over the spoon like it was a peace offering. Oliver made a face at it, but ate a few bites anyway.

When the tray was mostly empty, Oliver leaned back against the pillows with a quiet sigh. “Were you going to do anything else today?” he asked, voice low.

Percy shook his head. “No. I’d cleared the day.”

Oliver blinked. “For what?”

Percy looked at him. “To spend it with you. After the match.”

Oliver’s expression shifted—something soft, something sheepish. He looked down at his lap. “Oh. Right. Sorry. This isn’t exactly how I meant the day to go.”

Percy snorted. “Yes, I assumed the plan wasn’t to get flattened by a Bludger and spend the evening on pain potions.”

Oliver gave a tired laugh. “Not exactly.”

They fell into silence again, but it was easier now. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. Every so often, one of them would speak—Percy mentioning a ridiculous memo he’d read that morning, Oliver recalling a teammate’s pre-match superstition involving a lucky sock and a jar of marmalade. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just… small things. Shared things.

At one point, the nurse returned, a clipboard floating beside her. She smiled as she stepped into the room. “Just thought you’d like to know,” she said, “Puddlemere won. Final score came through a few minutes ago.”

Oliver blinked. “We won?”

She nodded. “By twenty. Your backup Keeper held the line.”

Oliver let out a breath and gave her a faint, crooked smile. “Thanks.”

She winked. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’ve still got pudding on your chin.”

Oliver wiped at his face with his good hand, and Percy handed him a napkin without a word. The nurse chuckled and left them again, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

Oliver looked at Percy. “Well. At least I didn’t get knocked out for nothing.”

Percy gave a small smile. “You never do.”

And they sat there, the quiet stretching between them again—warm, steady, and full of things neither of them needed to say.

The room had settled into a kind of quiet rhythm. Oliver was dozing lightly, his head tilted slightly toward Percy, who sat beside the bed with a book open in his lap—though he hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. The soft glow of the monitoring charm pulsed steadily above them, and the only sound was the occasional creak of the bed frame or the distant murmur of footsteps in the corridor.

Percy wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. He didn’t know what this was—this quiet, this closeness—but it felt like something. Something he didn’t want to disturb.

Then the door burst open. Percy jumped. Oliver startled awake with a wince, his good hand flying instinctively to his ribs.

“Oi, Wood!” came Lee’s voice, loud and unmistakable. “You absolute maniac, what the hell was that save—”

“Lee,” Angelina hissed, stepping in behind him, still in her Harpies uniform, hair damp with sweat and wind. “He’s in a hospital bed, not a locker room.”

Lee blinked. “Right. Sorry.”

Percy stood quickly, the book slipping from his lap and landing on the floor with a soft thud. He bent to retrieve it, ears pink. For a moment, no one spoke.

Lee’s eyes landed on Percy. “Wait—Percy?”

Percy straightened, brushing imaginary dust from the cover of his book. “Hello, Lee. Angelina.”

Angelina gave him a nod, her expression unreadable. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Lee looked between Percy and Oliver, eyebrows raised. “You two—uh—”

Oliver cleared his throat. “Percy came to the match.”

Lee’s eyebrows climbed higher. “Did he now?”

Percy felt like he’d walked into a conversation he hadn’t meant to be in. For some reason, it felt like they’d interrupted something. He didn’t know what. Only that the air in the room had shifted. Oliver didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. He just leaned back against the pillows, his expression tired but content. Percy sat back down, carefully, and tried not to look like he was bracing for interrogation.

Angelina crossed the room and perched on the edge of the windowsill, arms crossed. “You scared the hell out of us, you know.”

Oliver gave her a crooked smile. “Didn’t mean to.”

Lee shook his head. “You never do. But you always manage it anyway.”

And just like that, the room filled with the familiar rhythm of old friends—teasing, concern, affection wrapped in sarcasm. Percy sat quietly, listening, his hand resting lightly on the edge of Oliver’s blanket. The room had taken on a different energy since Lee and Angelina arrived—louder, looser, full of the kind of banter that came from years of shared locker rooms and post-match chaos. Percy sat quietly, watching the three of them fall into rhythm like they hadn’t missed a beat.

Angelina leaned forward, elbows on her knees, recounting a moment from the match with sharp, clipped precision. “You should’ve seen the look on your Seeker’s face when I faked left and went right. Poor bloke nearly flew into the stands.”

Oliver chuckled, wincing slightly as he shifted against the pillows. “You always were terrifying on a broom.”

“Still am,” she said, smirking.

Lee chimed in from the foot of the bed, arms crossed. “You should’ve heard the commentary booth. I nearly lost my voice trying to keep up with the last ten minutes. And then you—” he pointed at Oliver, “—decided to take a Bludger to the shoulder like it was a love tap.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “Didn’t exactly plan that part.”

As they talked, Percy noticed something. Oliver kept glancing at him. Not constantly. Not obviously. But enough. A flick of the eyes between jokes. A glance when the laughter got too loud. A look, quick and quiet, like he was checking to see if Percy was still there. He was. After the third time, Percy raised an eyebrow. Oliver caught the look and gave a small, sheepish shrug. Percy didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away, either.

At one point, Lee turned toward him, clearly trying to bridge the gap. “So, Percy,” he said, drawing out the name like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. “When’d you get into Quidditch?”

Percy blinked. “Who said I did?”

Lee paused. “Well, you were at the match.”

“I was invited,” Percy said, tone even. “I didn’t bring a banner.”

Angelina snorted. Oliver coughed into his good hand, clearly trying not to laugh.

Lee held up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just making conversation.”

Percy gave him a polite nod, then looked back at Oliver.

Eventually, Lee and Angelina began to gather themselves—Lee with a dramatic stretch and a muttered complaint about hospital chairs being “designed by sadists,” and Angelina with a more graceful rise from the windowsill.

“We’ll let you rest,” she said, brushing a loose curl from her forehead. She looked at Oliver, her expression softening. “Don’t be an idiot next time.”

Oliver gave her a tired smile. “No promises.”

Lee clapped a hand gently on Oliver’s good shoulder, then turned to Percy. “Good seeing you, Weasley.”

Percy nodded. “You too.”

Angelina lingered a moment longer. As she passed Percy, she gave him a small nod—subtle, but unmistakable. A quiet thank you. Percy returned it with a slight incline of his head. Nothing more.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And Oliver… decompressed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the moment they were gone, something in his posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased, the corners of his mouth dropped, and the strain in his eyes disappeared just a little. He let out a breath he hadn’t seemed to realize he was holding. Percy watched him, and something in his chest ached. He was grateful—deeply, quietly—that Oliver didn’t feel the need to pretend around him.

“Do you need anything?” Percy asked softly.

Oliver looked at him, eyes tired but clear. “Just you being here is enough.”

Percy didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything. He just stayed.

They talked, now and then. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just this and that. Percy mentioned a new regulation draft that had been sent back to his office three times because someone kept spelling “cooperation” with a K. Oliver told him about a teammate who once tried to play an entire match with a broken toe because he didn’t want to lose his lucky socks. They laughed, quietly. They sat in silence, comfortably.

And Percy stayed. Because Oliver had asked. Because he wanted to. Because it was enough.

The room had gone quiet again. Now that Lee and Angelina were long gone, the soft hum of the monitoring charm was the only sound left. Oliver had drifted off slowly, his head tilted slightly toward Percy, his breathing even and deep. The tension that had lingered in his shoulders all evening had finally eased, and his face—usually so animated, so expressive—was calm now. Peaceful.

Percy stayed.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the rise and fall of Oliver’s chest, the way the light from the charm above cast soft shadows across his face. He didn’t know how long he sat like that. Time had blurred again. At some point, his own eyes began to drift shut. He was half-asleep when the door creaked open.

A nurse stepped in, her voice gentle. “Mr. Weasley?”

Percy blinked awake, straightened slightly in the chair.

“Visiting hours are over,” she said kindly. “You should get some rest too.”

Percy nodded, stretching slowly. His back ached from the chair, but he didn’t complain. He stood, brushing a hand down the front of his robes, and looked down at Oliver. He considered waking him. Just for a moment. Just to say goodbye. But then he saw the way Oliver’s face looked—soft, unguarded, at ease in a way Percy rarely saw. And he couldn’t bring himself to disturb it. Instead, he reached for the notepad on the bedside table and pulled a pen from his pocket. He wrote carefully, neatly, the way he always did.

Oliver,

Visiting hours are over, and I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful. You deserve that.

I’m glad I got to be here today. I’m glad you let me.

Owl me when you’re feeling better. We should plan something—something to make up for not being able to spend the day together after the match. I’m still holding you to that.

Take care of yourself.

Perce

He folded the note once and left it on the table beside the empty Skele-Gro bottle, weighed down with the cap. Then he turned, nodded once to the nurse, and followed her out into the corridor.

The hallway was quiet, the lights dimmed for the night. Percy walked slowly, his footsteps soft against the tile. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. When he reached the Floo station near the front of the hospital, he paused. He thought about the match. The fall. The way Oliver had looked in that bed. The way he’d said, ‘Just you being here is enough.’

Percy stepped into the hearth, took a breath, and tossed in the powder. “Home,” he said. And vanished into the green flame.

Chapter Text

May 2004 – Wizarding Museum, London

The entrance to the Wizarding Museum loomed ahead, all polished stone and enchanted glass, its tall archway etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Percy paused just outside the threshold, adjusting the fall of his robes with a few quick, practiced swipes of his hands. The fabric had bunched slightly at the shoulders—he smoothed it down. Then he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, twice, and ran a hand through his hair in a motion that was meant to be casual but felt more like a nervous tic.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. It was just Oliver. Just a museum. Just a Saturday.

Still, his heart was beating faster than it ought to be, and he’d checked his watch three times on the way over, even though he was precisely on time.

He stepped through the doors. The museum’s atrium was bright and airy, sunlight filtering through the enchanted ceiling in soft, dappled patterns. The air smelled faintly of parchment and polish, with a hint of something floral—maybe from the enchanted topiary near the gift shop. Percy barely noticed. His eyes had already found Oliver. He was standing just inside the entrance, leaning casually against one of the rune-carved columns, two tickets in hand. He looked... good. Comfortable. His robes were open over a soft grey jumper, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair slightly tousled in a way that looked unintentional but probably wasn’t. He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just waiting—but he looked like he belonged there. Like he belonged anywhere. Percy’s stomach did something odd.

He crossed the atrium, trying not to fuss with his robes again.

“Hello,” he said, a little too formally.

Oliver looked up and smiled, and Percy felt something in his chest shift. “Hey,” Oliver said, holding out one of the tickets. “Got these ahead of time. Figured it might be busy.”

Percy took the ticket carefully, as if it might vanish. “That was... thoughtful.”

Oliver shrugged, but his grin didn’t fade. “You said you’d never been. Thought we’d fix that.”

Percy nodded, tucking the ticket into his pocket. “I’ve been meaning to come for years. Just never found the time.”

“Well,” Oliver said, stepping toward the main exhibit hall, “you’ve got time now.”

And Percy followed.

They approached the ticketing archway, where a tall, bored-looking wizard in navy robes stood beside a floating brass turnstile. Percy handed over the ticket Oliver had given him, and the wizard gave it a cursory scan with his wand before nodding him through. Oliver followed, offering his own ticket with a grin that Percy couldn’t quite place.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Wood. You’ve got three hours until you need to be there,” the wizard said, directing the comment at Oliver.

Percy blinked. Be where? He didn't ask aloud. Oliver just nodded like he understood perfectly, and the wizard waved them both through.

Percy glanced sideways at him, brow furrowed. “What was that about?”

Oliver shrugged, casual. “Later.”

That was not an answer. But Percy let it go.

They stepped into the museum proper—and Percy stopped walking. The atrium had been impressive, yes, but this—this was something else entirely. The ceiling soared above them, impossibly high, supported by sweeping arches of carved stone that shimmered faintly with preservation charms. The floor beneath their feet was a mosaic of magical history—tiny tiles forming shifting images of ancient spells, dueling wizards, and enchanted creatures that moved when you weren’t looking directly at them. The walls were lined with towering windows, each one etched with scenes from different eras of magical civilization, glowing softly in the filtered sunlight. It didn’t feel like a museum. It felt like a cathedral.

Percy’s breath caught. “Oh.”

Oliver stepped up beside him, hands in his pockets, looking around with a quiet sort of reverence. “It’s Romanesque,” he said, nodding toward the arches. “Rounded vaults, thick walls, symmetry. Reminds me of this old wizarding chapel I saw in southern France. We played a match nearby once—tiny village, but the buildings were incredible.”

Percy turned to look at him. “You know architectural styles?”

Oliver shrugged, a little sheepish. “Mum used to talk about them all the time when I was little. She’s a Muggle architect. Used to drag me to old buildings on weekends. I hated it at the time. Thought it was boring. But I guess some of it stuck.”

Percy blinked. “That’s... unexpected.”

Oliver grinned. “What, you thought I only knew how to shout about Quidditch formations?”

Percy opened his mouth. Closed it. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Oliver said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “Come on. Let’s go find the Hall of Magical Law. I figured we’d start with your favorite.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. And as they walked deeper into the museum, side by side, he felt something settle in his chest. Something warm. Something he didn’t have a name for.

The Hall of Magical Law was quieter than the main corridor, its high ceilings and arched windows casting long, dappled shadows across the polished stone floor. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and preservation charms, and the walls were lined with glass cases and enchanted portraits that flickered to life when approached.

Percy stepped inside and immediately slowed, his eyes scanning the displays with a kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. “Oh,” he breathed, already drifting toward the nearest case. “That’s the original draft of the Goblin Reconciliation Accord of 1812. Look at the ink—it’s still intact.”

Oliver followed, hands in his pockets, watching as Percy leaned in to read the plaque beside the document. Percy’s brow furrowed in concentration, lips moving silently as he read. Then he turned, clearly about to say something, and paused. Oliver wasn’t looking at the exhibit. He was looking at him.

Percy blinked. “What?”

Oliver smiled, easy and unbothered. “Nothing. You just get this look when you’re excited about something. It’s... intense.”

Percy frowned slightly, unsure what to do with that. “I wasn’t aware I had a look.”

“You do,” Oliver said, still smiling. “It’s a good one.”

Percy turned back to the exhibit, ears faintly pink.

They moved slowly through the hall, pausing at each display. Percy lit up at the sight of a set of enchanted courtroom robes from the 1600s, enchanted to change color based on the verdict. “They were banned after a mistrial in 1674,” he explained, “when the robes turned green instead of red and caused a riot.”

Oliver laughed. “That’s brilliant.”

“It was a disaster,” Percy said, but he was smiling.

At another case, Percy pointed out a wand used in the drafting of the International Statute of Secrecy. “That’s elder wood,” he said, almost reverently. “Not common. And the core—dragon heartstring, I think. You can tell by the way the wand tapers at the end.”

Oliver didn’t respond right away. When Percy turned to look at him, he found Oliver watching him again.

“What?” Percy asked, more curious than annoyed this time.

Oliver shrugged. “Just listening.”

Percy looked away, flustered, and pretended to be very interested in the next plaque.

They spent nearly an hour in the hall, Percy moving from artifact to artifact with the quiet enthusiasm of someone who had finally found a place that spoke his language. Oliver stayed close, asking questions now and then, but mostly just watching—content, it seemed, to let Percy lead.

Eventually, they reached the end of the exhibit, where a wide archway opened into the next wing. The archway was carved from pale stone, etched with delicate runes that shimmered faintly as Percy and Oliver stepped beneath it. Above them, a sign read: Magical Architecture: Foundations of Enchantment in elegant, floating script.

Oliver’s face lit up immediately. “This is the one I was excited about.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Architecture?”

Oliver grinned. “Trust me.”

Percy followed him in, skeptical—but curious.

The exhibit opened into a wide, vaulted gallery, the ceiling enchanted to resemble a star-strewn sky. The walls were lined with scale models of famous wizarding structures—some rotating slowly in midair, others unfolding like pop-up books to reveal their inner enchantments. Floating diagrams traced the evolution of magical building techniques, from ancient rune-bound cairns to the soaring spires of modern wizarding cities.

Percy blinked. “Oh.”

He hadn’t expected to recognize anything. But as they moved deeper into the exhibit, he found himself pausing more and more often.

“That’s the foundation layout from the original Ministry building,” he said, pointing to a glowing floor plan suspended in midair. “They used a layered ward system—three concentric circles, each keyed to a different magical signature. I read about it in a reconstruction report after the war.”

Oliver looked impressed. “You read reconstruction reports for fun?”

Percy flushed. “Not for fun. For context.”

Oliver laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. “You’re incredible.”

Percy pretended not to hear that.

They moved from display to display, both of them growing more animated as they went. Oliver pointed out the curvature of a flying buttress on a floating model of a Romanian wizarding cathedral. “That’s classic Gothic influence,” he said. “Mum used to go on about those. Said they were like spells in stone.”

Percy nodded, eyes wide. “And look—see the way the enchantments really are layered into the stonework? That’s a binding charm woven into the mortar. It’s subtle, but it holds the whole structure together magically and physically.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of a massive, rotating model of Hogwarts, watching as the castle unfolded itself layer by layer—foundations, walls, towers, enchantments. Percy leaned in, pointing out a hidden passage he remembered from school. Oliver leaned in too, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away.

They spent over an hour in the exhibit, completely absorbed. Percy had forgotten to be nervous. Oliver had stopped watching Percy quite so obviously. They were just... there. Together. Talking. Laughing. Discovering. And Percy, without realizing it, was having one of the best afternoons he’d had in a year.

They were standing in front of a floating model of a wizarding amphitheater—its stone arches layered with illusion charms that shimmered like heatwaves—when Oliver glanced at his watch. His eyes widened. “Oh—Merlin. We’ve only got forty minutes.”

Percy blinked. “Until what?”

Oliver didn’t answer. He just gave a vague, distracted wave and turned toward the exit of the exhibit. “Come on. We’ve got to move.”

Percy followed, still confused, but not entirely surprised. Oliver had been cryptic since they arrived. He’d assumed it was just Oliver being Oliver. Now he wasn’t so sure.

They were halfway down the corridor when they passed a wide, open archway lined with golden banners. A sign above read: Quidditch Through the Ages: A Living History. Oliver slowed. He didn’t stop, not exactly—but his steps faltered, his head turning toward the exhibit like it had called his name. Percy noticed.

“You want to go in,” he said.

Oliver hesitated. “We don’t have time.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “You’ll regret it if we don’t.”

Oliver looked at him, torn.

Percy gave a small, knowing smile. “Five minutes.”

Oliver caved instantly. They stepped inside. The Quidditch exhibit was a riot of color and motion—banners fluttering overhead, enchanted brooms hovering in midair, old uniforms displayed in glass cases that shimmered with protective charms. A massive, rotating timeline floated along one wall, each era marked by a different style of broomstick and a looping highlight reel of famous plays.

Oliver lit up. Percy had seen him excited before—on the pitch, in letters, even in the architecture exhibit—but this was different. This was joy. Pure, unfiltered, boyish joy.

He darted from display to display, pointing things out with the enthusiasm of someone who had grown up dreaming of this place. “That’s a Cleansweep One—look at the bristle binding, it’s still intact! And that—Merlin, that’s a signed jersey from the 1964 World Cup. I had a poster of that team on my wall when I was ten.”

Percy followed, watching more than he listened. He didn’t mind. He liked seeing Oliver like this—animated, alive, completely in his element.

They lingered longer than five minutes. Percy didn’t notice at first. He was too busy watching Oliver explain the evolution of Keeper gear, hands moving as he described the shift from leather padding to enchanted fabric. But then he glanced at his watch. His stomach dropped.

“Oliver,” he said, sharp. “We have to go. Now.”

Oliver blinked. “What?”

“You said we had forty minutes. That was thirty-five minutes ago.”

Oliver’s eyes widened. “Oh—bloody hell.”

And without thinking, he grabbed Percy’s hand and took off. Percy barely had time to register the contact before he was being pulled down the corridor, past startled museum-goers and enchanted exhibits, Oliver’s grip warm and firm around his fingers. He didn’t ask where they were going. He just let himself be pulled along. They moved fast—Oliver still gripping Percy’s hand as they weaved through the museum’s quieter corridors, past velvet ropes and “No Entry” signs, until the crowds thinned and the lighting shifted. The walls here were plainer, the exhibits fewer. The air felt different—cooler, quieter, like the museum itself was holding its breath.

Percy slowed slightly, glancing around. “Oliver, where are we—?”

But Oliver didn’t answer. He just kept walking, purposeful now, until they reached a tall, unmarked door tucked between two display cases. A small brass plaque beside it read: Staff Only – Authorized Personnel Beyond This Point

Percy stopped. “Oliver—”

Before he could finish, the door swung open. A witch in deep green robes stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unimpressed. “You’re three minutes late.”

Oliver winced. “Sorry. Got caught up in the Quidditch wing.”

She sighed, stepped aside. “You’ve got an hour. No touching. No casting. No exceptions.”

Oliver nodded quickly. “Understood.”

Percy blinked. “What is going on?”

Oliver turned to him, suddenly sheepish. “Right. So... I didn’t just bring you here just for the exhibits.”

Percy stared. “You didn’t?”

Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “I, um... I know someone who works in Collections. Pulled a few strings. Got us access to a special archive. Stuff that’s never been on display. Probably never will be. It’s all high-security—rare documents, enchanted artifacts, Ministry records, international magical treaties...”

Percy’s mouth opened. Closed. “You—what?”

Oliver smiled, a little nervous now. “I thought you’d like it. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Percy was stunned. He looked past Oliver, into the dimly lit corridor beyond the door, where he could already see the faint shimmer of protective wards and the glint of glass cases. “You did this... for me?”

Oliver shrugged, but his voice was soft. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

Percy didn’t know what to say. He just nodded, once, and stepped through the door. And Oliver followed.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, sealing out the rest of the museum. The air inside was cooler, stiller—thick with the hum of protective enchantments and the faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood. The room was long and dimly lit, lined with tall glass cases and floating display panels. There were no crowds here, no plaques with lengthy explanations. Just small, handwritten labels in neat, spidery script. The kind of room that didn’t need to explain itself. The kind of room that assumed you already knew.

Percy took one step forward—and stopped. His breath caught.

There, in the first case, was a scroll he’d only ever read about in footnotes. The original draft of the Unified Magical Trade Charter of 1421, its ink faded but still legible, the wax seal intact. Next to it, a wand—slender, dark, carved with runes he recognized from a treaty negotiation manual. And beyond that, a set of robes embroidered with the crest of the first International Confederation of Wizards.

He couldn’t move. It was too much. Too much history. Too much meaning. Too much care. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected any of this. His eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway—quiet, unannounced, slipping down his cheeks before he could stop them.

“Percy?”

Oliver’s voice was soft, uncertain.

Percy turned, embarrassed, and tried to speak. His throat tightened. “I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m fine. I just—” He looked around again, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so happy.”

Oliver’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

Percy nodded, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. “I didn’t know it would be like this. I didn’t know you—” He stopped. “Thank you.”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He just smiled, warm and quiet, and stepped closer. They walked slowly through the archive, side by side. Percy moved like he was in a dream, pausing at each case, reading the labels, sometimes not even needing them.

“That’s the original wand used in the signing of the 1752 Magical Borders Accord,” he said, pointing. “They used a dual-core wand—unicorn and phoenix feather—to symbolize unity between magical traditions. It was controversial at the time.”

Oliver leaned in, eyes wide. “You just know that?”

Percy gave a small, sheepish smile. “I’ve read a lot.”

They moved on.

“That’s a diplomatic seal from the first magical embassy in Cairo,” Percy said, reverent. “It was enchanted to only open for someone who spoke three languages fluently. They believed diplomacy required understanding, not just magic.”

Oliver whistled. “That’s brilliant.”

Percy nodded, eyes shining. “It is.”

They spent the full hour in the archive, Percy moving from artifact to artifact with growing awe, Oliver following close behind, asking questions, listening, watching. And somewhere in the quiet between them, something settled. Something unspoken. Something real.

The witch returned precisely on time, her clipboard floating beside her and her expression as unimpressed as ever.

“Time’s up,” she said, glancing at Oliver. “You didn’t break anything. That’s a first.”

Oliver gave her a mock salute. “We’re very well-behaved.”

She rolled her eyes but stepped aside to let them pass. Percy lingered for a moment, casting one last look at the archive behind them—the soft glow of the display cases, the quiet hum of magic, the history still whispering from every corner. Then he turned to Oliver. He was smiling. Percy didn’t say anything. He just smiled back.

They walked slowly through the museum’s quieter halls, the crowds thinner now, the light softer. Their footsteps echoed gently on the stone floor.

Oliver glanced sideways. “So... did you enjoy it?”

Percy nodded, still a little dazed. “I did. I really did, Ollie.”

Oliver blinked. Then he smiled—wide and warm and a little surprised. Percy didn’t notice. He was too busy looking up at a floating tapestry of the Ministry’s founding, still half-lost in thought.

They stepped out into the sunlight a few minutes later, the museum doors closing behind them with a soft hiss. The park just beyond the museum grounds was quiet, the paths winding through patches of enchanted wildflowers and softly rustling trees. A few families lingered on benches, and a pair of students sat cross-legged on the grass, flipping through a spellbook. Percy and Oliver walked without speaking for a while, the breeze tugging gently at their robes.

“That was...” Percy began, then trailed off.

Oliver glanced at him. “Yeah?”

Percy shook his head, smiling faintly. “More than I expected.”

Oliver nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “Good more?”

Percy nodded. “Very good more.”

They reached a fork in the path, and Oliver slowed. “You hungry?”

Percy blinked. “A bit, actually.”

Oliver grinned. “There’s a muggle place not far from here. Quiet. Good sandwiches. Want to go?”

Percy hesitated for half a second. Then: “Yes. I’d like that.”

And they turned down the path together, the museum fading behind them, the afternoon stretching in front of them like something waiting to be written. The streets ahead were quieter now, winding toward the edge of the Muggle district.

Oliver slowed as they reached a small alley tucked between two buildings. “We should change,” he said, glancing down at their robes. “Muggles don’t usually go for the wizard-chic look.”

Percy blinked. “Oh. Right.”

He reached for the clasp of his robe and shrugged it off, folding it neatly over one arm. Underneath, he wore a pressed button-down shirt, tucked into dark slacks, and a navy waistcoat. He looked... well, like Percy. Crisp. Structured. Slightly overdressed for a casual lunch.

Oliver turned to look at him—and smirked.

Percy frowned. “What?”

“You look like you’re about to give a lecture on magical tax reform.”

Percy flushed. “This is perfectly acceptable Muggle attire.”

“It is,” Oliver said, already pulling off his jumper. “Just... maybe a bit much for a sandwich.”

He held the jumper out. “Here. I was getting warm anyway.”

Percy hesitated. “I don’t need—”

“Perce,” Oliver said, gently but firmly. “It’s just a jumper.”

Percy took it. It was soft. Still warm. Smelled faintly of broom polish and something citrusy. He pulled it on over his shirt, the sleeves a little long, the hem brushing his hips. It was far too casual for him. He didn’t hate it.

Oliver grinned. “Much better.”

They vanished their robes with a quick flick of their wands and stepped out of the alley, blending into the Muggle street with surprising ease.

The café was just a few blocks away—a narrow little place with ivy climbing the brick walls and a chalkboard sign out front that read: Today’s Special: Tomato Basil Soup & Toasted Cheese. They found a table near the window, tucked into a corner where the sunlight pooled across the wood grain. The waitress brought them menus and water, and Oliver ordered without hesitation. Percy took a little longer, scanning the unfamiliar options with a furrowed brow.

“You’ll like the soup,” Oliver said. “Trust me.” Percy did.

They talked as they waited—about the museum, the exhibits, the archive.

“I still can’t believe you arranged that,” Percy said, stirring his tea. “You didn’t have to.”

Oliver shrugged. “I wanted to. You light up when you talk about that stuff. I figured... why not give you more of it?”

Percy looked down at his cup, unsure what to say. Oliver didn’t press. He just smiled and leaned back in his chair, watching the people pass by outside.

When the food arrived, they ate slowly, the conversation drifting from magical history to Quidditch to the absurdity of wizarding bureaucracy. Percy found himself laughing more than he expected. Oliver talked with his hands, animated and bright, and Percy—still wearing his jumper—felt oddly at ease. He didn’t realize how much he was enjoying himself until he caught himself smiling for no reason at all. They lingered over lunch longer than either of them meant to. The plates were cleared, the tea gone cold, and still they sat—talking, laughing, letting the afternoon stretch around them like a soft charm.

Eventually, they stood. Neither of them said it was time to go. They just... knew.

The walk back toward Wizarding London was slow. The streets were quieter now, the sun dipping lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. Every so often, their arms brushed. Then their shoulders. Neither of them moved away. Percy wasn’t sure when that had stopped feeling accidental.

By the time they reached the hidden alley that led back to the magical district, the air had cooled. The city felt quieter here, like it was waiting.

They stopped just in front of the Apparition point. They always ended up here—at the edge of parting, standing just a little too close, saying just a little too much with their eyes. Percy turned to look at Oliver. Oliver was already looking at him. And then—without a word—they both stepped forward.

The hug surprised Percy. Not because it happened, but because of how natural it felt. How easy. How right. Oliver’s arms were warm around him, steady and sure. Percy froze for half a second—then leaned in. He didn’t know what it meant. Not yet. But he didn’t want to let go. When they finally stepped back, Oliver was smiling.

“We should do this again,” he said, voice soft.

Percy nodded, smiling so wide it almost felt unfamiliar. “Yes. We should.”

Oliver held his gaze for a moment longer. Then he smiled—bright and a little mischievous—and winked. Before Percy could respond, Oliver turned on the spot and vanished with a soft crack. Percy stood there, blinking at the space where he’d been. And then he laughed. Quietly. To himself. He couldn’t stop smiling.

It wasn’t until he shifted to Apparate that he realized—he was still wearing Oliver’s jumper. He looked down at it, fingers brushing the hem. It was soft. Still smelled faintly like Oliver. He shook his head, still smiling.

Then he Apparated home.

Chapter Text

July 2004 – Ministry of Magic, Atrium

Percy arrived precisely on time. Not early—he’d learned that lesson after too many events where he’d stood awkwardly near the refreshments while the caterers finished setting up—but not late either. Just... punctual. Respectable. Expected.

The Ministry Atrium had been transformed for the evening, though Percy suspected “transformed” was a generous word. The floating banners had been replaced with shimmering drapes in deep navy and gold, and the fountain had been charmed to bubble more quietly than usual, its statues polished to a gleam that bordered on aggressive. A string quartet played softly near the far wall, their instruments charmed to glow faintly with each note. It was elegant. Tasteful. Dreadfully impersonal.

He adjusted the cuffs of his robes as he stepped inside, the fabric brushing against his wrist with the faintest whisper of charm-pressed silk. The color—deep forest green with silver detailing—had been chosen by a very patient shop assistant who had insisted it brought out the warmth in his skin tone. Percy hadn’t argued. He hadn’t had the energy to argue. He’d simply nodded, paid, and left with the robes folded neatly in a box that had felt heavier than it should have.

He didn’t know what the gala was for. Not really. Something about interdepartmental unity. Or maybe international cooperation. Possibly both. The invitation had been vague, the kind of bureaucratic flourish that said everything and nothing at once. All he knew was that he was expected to attend. As Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, his presence was required. His enthusiasm, thankfully, was not.

He stepped further into the room, scanning the crowd with the practiced eye of someone who had spent far too many evenings navigating Ministry functions. He recognized a few faces—colleagues from other departments, a handful of foreign dignitaries, someone who might have been on the Portkey Compliance Board three years ago. No one he particularly wanted to speak to.

A witch in plum robes caught his eye and offered a polite smile. Percy returned it, equally polite, equally hollow. She turned back to her conversation before he could remember her name.

He made his way toward the refreshments table, not because he was hungry, but because it gave him something to do. Something to hold. A glass of sparkling elderflower fizz appeared in his hand with a soft pop, and he took a sip, letting the bubbles distract him for a moment.

This was going to be a long night.

He’d just nodded his way through a conversation about international cauldron thickness standards—something he was fairly certain had been resolved in 1993—when he spotted a familiar figure near the far wall. Percy blinked. Was that... Lee?

Lee Jordan stood half in shadow, half in the glow of a floating chandelier, sipping something dark from a glass and looking entirely too amused by the whole affair. He wasn’t dressed like a Ministry official—his robes were sharp, yes, but there was a casualness to them, a deliberate looseness that said he hadn’t come here to network.

Percy excused himself from the conversation with a polite murmur and made his way across the room, weaving between clusters of diplomats and department heads.

“Lee?” he asked, stopping just short of him. “What are you doing here?”

Lee turned, grinning. “Percy Weasley. Fancy seeing you at a party.”

Percy frowned. “This is a Ministry gala.”

“Still a party,” Lee said, raising his glass. “Sort of.”

Percy didn’t smile. “Why are you here?”

Lee’s grin widened. “Do you know what this event is for?”

Percy hesitated. “It’s... a Ministry function. Interdepartmental something. I was told to attend.”

Lee snorted. “Merlin’s beard, you really don’t know.”

Percy’s frown deepened. “Know what?”

Lee leaned in slightly, voice low and gleeful. “This is a celebration for the concussion protocol reforms. You know—the ones that finally passed after two years of Quidditch league stonewalling?”

Percy blinked. The words clicked into place like a charm slotting into a wand. Concussion protocols. Oliver.

Lee saw the realization dawn and laughed outright. “There it is.”

Percy straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of his robes with both hands. “I see.”

“You do,” Lee said, still grinning. “And I’m guessing you’re about to go see if a certain Keeper is somewhere in this room.”

Percy cleared his throat. “I should... excuse myself.”

Lee raised his glass in a mock toast. “Good luck.”

Percy didn’t answer. He was already moving.

The atmosphere inside the Atrium had shifted. The music had softened into something elegant and forgettable, the kind of string arrangement that floated just above the conversation without ever demanding attention. The crowd had thickened, clusters of Ministry officials and invited guests forming and reforming like drifting clouds. Laughter rose in polite bursts. Glasses clinked. Someone nearby was discussing international Floo regulation with far too much enthusiasm.

Percy moved through it all like a ghost.

He wasn’t trying to be rude—he nodded when spoken to, offered the occasional “Yes, quite,” or “That’s very interesting”—but his eyes kept scanning the room. He wasn’t looking for conversation. He was looking for Oliver.

He passed a pair of witches from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, one of whom tried to draw him into a discussion about the logistics of expanding the Gobstones League. He offered a tight smile, murmured something about needing to check on something, and kept walking. A wizard from the Department of Magical Transportation stopped him next, hand already extended, voice booming. “Weasley! Good to see you—how’s the Portkey situation with the Danes?” Percy shook his hand, nodded politely, and excused himself before the man could launch into a monologue about altitude thresholds.

He was halfway through the crowd when he saw him.

Oliver stood near the center of the room, surrounded by people. Not Ministry officials, Percy realized, but Quidditch people—players, coaches, journalists. They clustered around him like moths to a flame, laughing, gesturing, leaning in to speak. Oliver was smiling, animated, his hands moving as he talked. He looked completely at ease.

Percy stopped.

He could only see Oliver because Percy was tall—taller than most of the crowd—and even then, it was just glimpses. A flash of brown hair. The curve of a grin. The line of his shoulders in a perfectly tailored set of dress robes. There was no use trying to get to him now. The crowd was too thick, the conversation too lively. Percy would have to elbow his way through half the room just to say hello, and he wasn’t about to do that. Not here. Not like this. He turned away.

The refreshments table was mercifully quiet. Percy picked up a small plate and filled it with a few things he didn’t really want—cheese, a few crackers, something that might have been a miniature quiche. He nibbled at the edge of one, chewing slowly, eyes still drifting toward the crowd. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. That Oliver would be waiting for him? That he’d spot him across the room and wave him over like something out of a novel? Ridiculous. He took a sip of elderflower fizz and tried not to look disappointed.

The music shifted again—slower now, more formal. A hush began to ripple through the crowd as someone tapped a spoon against a glass. The lights dimmed slightly, and a soft voice echoed through the Atrium, magically amplified.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your attention, we’ll begin the evening’s remarks shortly.”

Percy set his plate down and straightened his cuffs. Time for the speeches.

The speeches began, as they always did, with a clink of glass and a polite hush that rippled through the crowd like a charm settling over the room. 

Percy stood near the edge of the gathering, hands clasped behind his back, expression politely neutral. The first speaker—a senior official from the Department of Magical Games and Sports—launched into a long-winded monologue about “visionary leadership” and “cross-departmental synergy.” Percy tuned out halfway through the second sentence. He’d heard it all before. Rich voices in rich robes, taking credit for work they hadn’t done, smiling like they’d personally rewritten the concussion protocols with a quill made of gold. He sipped his elderflower fizz and let his mind wander, eyes drifting across the crowd, searching again without meaning to. The next speaker was even worse—an Undersecretary who used the word “innovation” five times in one paragraph and mispronounced the name of the reform committee chair. Percy resisted the urge to correct him aloud. He was just beginning to wonder how many more speeches he could endure before slipping away unnoticed when he heard a name that snapped him back to attention.

“…and now, we’d like to invite one of the individuals who helped bring these reforms to life. Please welcome Oliver Wood.”

Percy’s head jerked up.

Oliver stepped out from the crowd, weaving through the sea of robes and champagne flutes with a smile that was just a little too tight. He looked good—formal robes in deep navy, hair neatly combed but still slightly unruly, like he hadn’t quite managed to tame it all the way. He climbed the small platform at the front of the room and turned to face the crowd.

Percy took a step forward. Just one. Just enough to see better.

Oliver looked nervous. Not terrified, but clearly aware of the eyes on him. He cleared his throat, adjusted the edge of his sleeve, and began. “I’m not really a speech person,” he said, and a few people chuckled. “I’m more of a ‘shout from the goalposts’ kind of person. But I’m really glad to be here tonight.”

His voice steadied as he went on, and Percy could see it—the shift. The nerves didn’t vanish, but they settled. Beneath them was something stronger. Passion. Purpose.

“These reforms matter,” Oliver said. “They’re not just about rules or paperwork. They’re about people. About players. About making sure that the next kid who takes a Bludger to the head doesn’t have to wonder if they’ll be allowed to rest. Or if they’ll be expected to get back on the broom before they can see straight.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. Oliver pressed on. “I’m proud to have been part of this. But I didn’t do it alone.”

Percy blinked.

“I had help,” Oliver said. “Help that came when I least expected it. From someone who didn’t have to care. Who didn’t have to listen. But did.”

He paused. Looked out over the crowd. And found Percy. Their eyes met.

“I want to thank Mr. Percy Weasley,” Oliver said, voice clear. “For helping me write the initial proposal. For guiding me through the process. For believing in this when it was just a mess of notes and frustration. This never would have happened without him.”

Percy froze.

The room didn’t erupt into applause—this wasn’t that kind of speech—but there was a ripple of polite clapping, a few surprised glances, a few murmurs of recognition. Percy didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, heart pounding, eyes locked on Oliver.

Then the next speaker was called up, and the moment passed.

Oliver stepped down from the platform, slipping back into the crowd as another official took his place and began to drone on about “interdepartmental cooperation.” Percy barely heard it. Oliver was walking toward him. And Percy had no idea what he was going to say. Percy barely had time to collect himself before Oliver was there. He moved through the crowd with purpose, weaving between clusters of Ministry officials and Quidditch personnel like he’d done it a hundred times. When he reached Percy, he didn’t say anything at first—just gave him a look. Something between a smile and a question.

Percy opened his mouth, but Oliver was already reaching for his sleeve.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice low. “Let’s not do this in the middle of everyone.”

Before Percy could respond, Oliver was tugging him gently toward the edge of the room, past the refreshments table and into a quiet area near one of the tall windows. The sound of the speeches faded slightly, muffled by distance and the soft hum of a privacy charm someone had likely cast earlier in the evening. Oliver turned to face him, still holding Percy’s sleeve like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Percy said, voice quiet. “The speech. The thank you. It wasn’t necessary.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t it?”

Percy looked away. “Anyone would’ve helped.”

“No,” Oliver said, firm. “They wouldn’t have. And besides—anyone didn’t help. You did.”

Percy flushed. “Still. It was too much.”

Oliver shook his head. “It wasn’t enough.”

That made Percy pause.

Oliver softened. “You didn’t just help me write a proposal, Percy. You made me believe it was worth writing. You made me believe I could do something that mattered. That’s not nothing.”

Percy didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t say anything. He just nodded, once, and let it go. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said instead, adjusting his cuffs.

Oliver smiled. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He looked sheepish. “I thought you’d figure it out.”

Percy gave him a look. “You thought I’d deduce your presence from the vague wording of a Ministry invitation?”

Oliver grinned. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Percy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. They stood there for a moment, the quiet between them easy now. The speeches were still going on, but neither of them seemed particularly interested in returning to the crowd just yet.

Then Oliver glanced over Percy’s shoulder and brightened. “Hey—Angelina and Lee just got here. Come say hi?”

Percy hesitated. Then nodded. “Alright.”

And together, they stepped back into the crowd.

The atmosphere had changed. As the final speaker stepped down from the platform and the polite applause faded, the tension in the room seemed to exhale. The lights softened, the music swelled—no longer background strings, but something warmer, richer, threaded with rhythm. The kind of music that invited movement. Conversation. Laughter.

Percy followed Oliver through the crowd, the two of them weaving between clusters of guests now loosening their collars and refilling their glasses. The air smelled faintly of champagne and citrus, and the low hum of conversation had risen into something more natural, more human.

They found Angelina and Lee near one of the tall windows, where the light from the chandeliers caught in the gold thread of Angelina’s robes. She was laughing at something George had just said—George, who stood beside her with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a glass of something amber. Percy blinked. He hadn’t realized George was here. He supposed that meant things were serious now.

Lee spotted them first. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour,” he said, raising his glass toward Oliver. “And his very tall shadow.”

Angelina turned, her smile widening. “There you are. Thought you’d vanished after the speech.”

George looked up, and for a moment, Percy wasn’t sure what kind of greeting he’d get. But George just nodded, casual and easy. “Evening.”

Percy nodded back. “Evening.”

“Speech was good,” Angelina said, looking at Oliver. “You didn’t even trip over your words.”

“I almost did,” Oliver admitted. “But I had a good reason not to.”

Percy flushed, but no one commented.

They stood in a loose circle, the conversation resuming easily. Lee was recounting a disastrous attempt to interview a Quidditch coach mid-match (“He hexed my quill. It still won’t stop writing insults.”), and Angelina was teasing George about his refusal to dance at the last family wedding.

Then George turned to Oliver and Percy, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “So,” he said, “how are you two doing?”

Percy blinked. “We’re... doing well?”

It came out more like a question than he intended. Oliver didn’t say anything, but Percy could feel the warmth of his presence beside him, steady and close. George just nodded, like that was answer enough.

Then the music shifted again—brighter now, with a lilting rhythm that made the chandeliers sway slightly in time. The first few couples were already stepping onto the dance floor, laughter rising as someone spun too quickly and nearly knocked over a floating tray of drinks. George turned to Angelina and offered his hand with a mock bow. “May I have this dance?”

Angelina giggled—actually giggled—and took his hand. “You may.”

They disappeared into the crowd, her gold robes catching the light like fire.

Lee watched them go, then turned to Percy and Oliver. “Well,” he said, draining the last of his drink, “that’s my cue to leave.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

Lee was already walking away. “You’ll be fine,” he called over his shoulder. “Try not to combust.”

Percy stared after him, confused. Then he realized: he and Oliver were alone. And he didn’t mind. Percy stood still for a moment, watching Lee disappear into the crowd.

He didn’t know what to do.

The music had shifted again—something slower now, smoother, threaded with soft strings and a gentle rhythm that made the chandeliers sway like they were breathing. Couples were already drifting onto the dance floor, laughter and conversation giving way to movement. The lights had dimmed just slightly, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. Percy felt the familiar tug of awkwardness creeping in. The kind that curled in his chest and made his hands feel too big, his posture too stiff. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He was afraid—absurdly, irrationally afraid—that he was going to ruin this. That he was going to go back to being the version of himself who stood at the edge of rooms and watched life happen without him.

Then Oliver turned to him. “Do you want to dance?” he asked, voice quiet but steady.

Percy blinked. “I—what?”

Oliver smiled, a little crooked. “Dance. You know. That thing people do when music plays.”

Percy hesitated. “I don’t... I mean, I had formal lessons. Years ago. For Ministry events. But I can’t remember much beyond the basic steps. And even then, it’s hazy.”

Oliver laughed, soft and warm. “Perfect. I don’t know much either.”

Percy looked at him, uncertain.

Oliver held out a hand. “We could not know together.”

Percy stared at the offered hand for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it. Oliver’s fingers curled around his, warm and sure. They stepped onto the dance floor. The music swelled around them, low and lilting, and Oliver turned to face him, one hand still holding Percy’s, the other settling lightly at his waist. Percy placed his free hand on Oliver’s shoulder, a little stiffly at first, but Oliver didn’t seem to mind.

They began to move.

It wasn’t perfect. Percy’s steps were cautious, measured, like he was waiting for the floor to fall out from under him. But Oliver was steady. Patient. He didn’t lead so much as invite, guiding Percy with gentle pressure and the occasional whispered, “Left,” or “This way.” And slowly, Percy relaxed. The crowd faded. The music wrapped around them like a charm. And for the first time that evening, Percy wasn’t thinking about how he looked. Or what he should say. Or whether he belonged. He was just dancing. With Oliver.

They moved slowly across the floor, the music curling around them like smoke—soft, steady, unobtrusive. Percy kept his gaze fixed somewhere over Oliver’s shoulder, not because he didn’t want to look at him, but because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. Still, he noticed things. The way Oliver’s hand rested lightly at his waist—steady, warm, not possessive but present. The way his other hand held Percy’s with a kind of quiet confidence, fingers curled just enough to guide, never to press. The way he moved—not with the precision of a formal dancer, but with the ease of someone who trusted his body, who trusted Percy to follow. And Percy did. He followed without thinking, without counting steps. It wasn’t perfect—he stumbled once, and Oliver murmured, “Left,” with a grin—but it didn’t matter. They were dancing. Together.

It was the closest Percy had been to someone in a long time. Maybe ever.

He let himself look, just for a moment. Oliver’s face was lit by the soft glow of the chandeliers, his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, his mouth curved in a faint smile. There was a freckle just beneath his left eye that Percy had never noticed before. His hair was still slightly tousled from earlier, and Percy had the absurd urge to reach up and smooth it down. He didn’t.

Every so often, Percy caught someone watching them. A glance from across the floor. A whisper behind a raised hand. His chest tightened. But then Oliver would say something—soft, low, just for him. “Doing alright?” Or, “You’re better at this than you think.” Or, once, with a grin, “If you step on my foot, I’ll just pretend it was part of the choreography.” And Percy would laugh, quietly. And the tension would ease. It was like Oliver knew. Like he could feel the moment Percy started to retreat into himself, and pulled him gently back out. They kept dancing. Percy stopped thinking about the people around them. About the music. About the steps. He was almost in his own world—just him and Oliver, moving together in a space that felt carved out of time. He’d never felt anything like it. And he wasn’t sure he wanted it to end.

The music faded into the background. Percy wasn’t sure how long they’d been dancing. Minutes? Hours? It didn’t matter. The world had narrowed to the space between them—the warmth of Oliver’s hand in his, the soft rhythm of their steps, the way Oliver’s voice occasionally brushed against his ear when he murmured something just for him. He was enjoying it. More than enjoying it. He felt... light. Like something inside him had unknotted. Like he could breathe more easily here, in this moment, with Oliver’s hand at his waist and the rest of the world held at a polite distance.

And then it hit him.

He liked Oliver.

Not just liked. Not just admired. Not just enjoyed his company or his letters or the way he made Percy laugh when he least expected it. He liked him. Maybe even loved him.

His breath caught. His eyes widened.

Oh.

It was like someone had pulled the floor out from under him. The realization landed with a quiet, seismic weight, and suddenly everything felt too close. Too bright. Too much. He stepped back.

Oliver blinked. “Percy?”

“I—” Percy’s voice caught. “I need a moment.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed, concern flickering across his face. But he didn’t reach for him. Didn’t press. He just nodded, slow and careful. “Alright.”

Percy turned and slipped away from the dance floor, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, though his heart was pounding now, his thoughts spiraling faster than he could catch them. He didn’t stop until he found a small alcove tucked behind one of the tall columns near the edge of the Atrium. It was dim, quiet, half-hidden by a velvet curtain and a potted plant that looked like it hadn’t been watered in weeks. He stepped inside and leaned against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest like he could steady the rhythm of his heart.

This wasn’t expected.

This wasn’t planned.

He hadn’t set out for this.

He didn’t know what to do.

He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to think. But all he could see was Oliver’s face—smiling, laughing, looking at him like he mattered. Like he was something more than a name on a memo or a title on a door. What does he do with this?

He was still trying to untangle the question when he heard it—a soft knock on the wall beside him. He looked up. George stood just outside the alcove, one hand resting against the stone, his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said.

Percy blinked. “George?”

George stepped inside, not quite all the way, but enough to be present. Enough to be there.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

Percy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded. “I don’t know.”

George didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. He just leaned against the opposite wall and waited. Percy sat down hard on the stone bench tucked into the alcove, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. George didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching him with that unreadable Weasley expression that meant he was listening.

“I didn’t expect this,” Percy said suddenly, voice low and fast. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t even see it coming. How did it sneak up on me? How did I not notice?”

George blinked. “Woah, alright—slow down. What happened?”

Percy looked up, eyes wide. “I think I like Oliver.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“No, I mean—” Percy ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I think I might be in love with him.”

George’s expression shifted—surprise, maybe. Something flickering behind his eyes.

Percy saw it and immediately filled the silence. “I know. I know it’s strange. I’ve never—this has never happened before. I’ve never had a crush on anyone. Not really. Well—Penelope, back at Hogwarts, but that was different. That was... structured. I knew what it was. I knew what I was supposed to do. This—this is chaos. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He was spiraling now, words tumbling out faster than he could catch them. “I didn’t even know I could feel like this. I didn’t know I—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t know I was—”

George held up a hand. “Percy.”

Percy froze.

George stepped forward and sat beside him, not too close, but close enough. “I’m not surprised you’re gay.”

Percy blinked. “You’re not?”

George shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me. Never did.”

Percy opened his mouth. Closed it. “Oh.”

George looked at him, steady. “And I’m not surprised you like Oliver, either.”

Percy stared. “You’re not?”

George gave a small, crooked smile. “I thought you knew. Honestly, I thought you’d figured it out ages ago. Since Ron’s wedding, at least.”

Percy’s breath caught.

The wedding. He thought back— the way they’d danced, the way Oliver had laughed at Percy’s awkward shuffle and made it feel like something worth smiling about. The way he’d looked at him across the garden, soft and steady, like Percy was something worth staying for. The letters. The museum. The way Oliver had thanked him in front of a room full of people. The way Percy had felt, standing there, frozen in place, heart pounding.

“Oh,” Percy said again, quieter this time.

George didn’t say anything. Just let him sit with it. And Percy did. He sat there, heart still racing, thoughts still tangled—but something inside him had shifted. Something had clicked into place. Percy sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a too-heavy cloak. His hands were still clasped, his shoulders tense, his thoughts spiraling in a dozen directions at once.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Am I supposed to follow this? Am I even allowed to?”

George nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “You’re allowed, Perce. You’re allowed to like him.”

Percy looked down at his hands. “It’s just... I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t expect it. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” George said. “Not right away. But maybe stop trying to fit it into a box. You’ve spent your whole life doing what you’re supposed to do. What you think should happen. Maybe it’s time to ask yourself what you want.”

Percy was quiet.

George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You and Oliver... you look good together. Like you balance each other out. He makes you laugh. You make him steady. That’s not nothing.”

Percy swallowed. “I’m scared.”

George nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

Percy looked at him. “That’s it? No advice? No joke?”

George smiled, small and real. “You already know what you want. You’re just scared to want it.”

Percy didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away. Percy sat in the quiet of the alcove, George’s words still echoing in his mind.

You already know what you want. You’re just scared to want it.

He didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the floor, hands folded in his lap, heart still thudding like it hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of him. He thought about the way Oliver had looked at him on the dance floor. The way he’d smiled. The way he’d waited. He thought about the museum. The archive. The speech. He thought about how easy it had been to talk to him. To laugh with him. To feel like he could breathe. He didn’t know what to do. But he knew what he wanted.

George stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “I’m glad you figured it out,” he said, voice quiet. “Took you long enough.”

Percy looked up, startled.

George didn’t say anything for a bit. He just looked at Percy—really looked at him—and something in his expression softened. “You know,” George said, settling back against the wall, “this is the first time we’ve talked like this since... before.”

Percy blinked. “Before?”

George nodded. “Before the war. Before everything went sideways. You and me, sitting in a corner, talking like brothers.”

Percy didn’t know what to say to that. He hadn’t realized it either. But now that George had said it, he felt it. The quiet between them wasn’t strained. It wasn’t brittle. It was familiar. Steady. Like something that had been broken was slowly, carefully being put back together. George smiled—small, real—and reached out to rest a hand on Percy’s shoulder. It lingered for a moment, warm and grounding, and then he turned and walked away, leaving Percy alone in the alcove. But not alone, not really.

Percy sat for another moment, gathering himself. Then he stood. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have the right words. But he had a decision. He was going to find Oliver. He stepped out of the alcove—

—and walked straight into someone. Someone solid. Someone familiar. Percy stumbled back a step, blinking.

“Oliver?”

Oliver looked just as surprised. “There you are.”

Percy stared at him, stunned. “I—what—how—?”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “Are you alright? I saw George walk out of here and figured... I don’t know. Thought I’d check.”

Percy didn’t answer. He just reached out, grabbed Oliver by the wrist, and pulled him into the alcove. The curtain fell shut behind them, muffling the music and the laughter and the rest of the world. They stood in silence. Oliver didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He just waited, his expression open and steady, like he knew Percy was trying to find the words. Percy looked at him. The silence stretched.

Percy could feel Oliver watching him—waiting, patient, steady—but it only made the pressure worse. He opened his mouth. “I—” he started, then stopped.

Oliver didn’t move.

“I’ve been trying to—” Percy tried again, but the words tangled in his throat. “I don’t know how to—”

He let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to say something and I can’t—Merlin, I just—”

He looked at Oliver, eyes wide, voice tight. “I just want to get it out, and I can’t—”

The tension snapped.

Percy stepped forward, hands rising before he could think, before he could stop himself. He cupped Oliver’s face—one hand on each cheek, fingers trembling—and kissed him. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t perfect. It was quick, and a little clumsy, and entirely closed-mouthed. But it was everything. It was five seconds of everything Percy hadn’t been able to say. Five seconds of every letter, every glance, every moment that had built to this. Five seconds that said: I see you. I want you. I’m here. When they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together for a second, breath mingling in the quiet.

Percy’s voice was barely a whisper. “I want to be with you.”

Oliver’s grin bloomed slowly, like sunlight breaking through cloud. “I’ve been waiting,” he said, and he sounded like the happiest man alive.

And for the first time in a long time, Percy felt like maybe—just maybe—he could be happy too.

Oliver didn’t say anything. He just looked at Percy—eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between surprise and something softer. Something warmer. Then, slowly, he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just... sure. Oliver's arms slid around Percy’s waist, slipping beneath the edge of his formal robes. His fingers found the belt loops of Percy’s trousers and hooked there, gentle but firm, pulling him forward until their hips met. Percy’s breath hitched. They were close now. Closer than they’d ever been. Closer than Percy had ever been to anyone. He looked up, met Oliver’s eyes—and something in him broke loose. Without thinking, without planning, Percy reached out and grabbed the front of Oliver’s robes, fingers curling into the fabric like he needed something to hold onto. It was clumsy. Undignified. Entirely un-Percy.

And then he kissed him.

This time it was deeper. Longer. A little more certain. Still soft, still careful, but threaded through with something new—something that felt like promise. Like hope. Like everything Percy hadn’t been able to say, poured into the space between them. He felt it everywhere. In the way Oliver’s hands tightened at his waist. In the way their mouths moved together, slow and searching. In the way his skin tingled, like magic humming just beneath the surface.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless, foreheads pressed together, eyes still closed. And then they laughed. Quiet, breathless, disbelieving laughter. The kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep and warm and real.

Percy smiled, wide and unguarded. Oliver grinned back, like he’d just been handed the world.

They were still close—arms around each other, hips pressed together, the music outside the alcove a distant hum. Percy’s hands had slid up to rest on Oliver’s shoulders, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his robes. Oliver’s hands were still hooked into Percy’s belt loops, thumbs brushing gently against the fabric, grounding and warm. They weren’t kissing anymore, but they hadn’t moved apart either. They just stood there, smiling, breathing, looking.

Percy couldn’t stop looking.

He took in the curve of Oliver’s mouth, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. He felt like he was seeing him for the first time and also like he’d been seeing him all along—he just hadn’t known what it meant. Oliver’s gaze was just as steady, just as full of something Percy didn’t have a name for yet, but felt all the same.

It was quiet. It was perfect. And then—

Someone coughed.

They startled apart—just a little. Not far. Oliver’s hands stayed at Percy’s waist, and Percy’s hands slid down to rest lightly on Oliver’s arms. They turned, blinking into the light. Lee stood at the entrance of the alcove, grinning like a madman. Angelina stood beside him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in a look that said ‘seriously?’

“Well,” Angelina said, “Lee’s been looking for you.”

Lee nodded, still grinning. “We couldn’t find you anywhere. And then George said, ‘Try the alcove.’” He waggled his eyebrows.

Percy’s ears went red instantly. He opened his mouth—probably to say something mortifyingly formal and defensive—but Oliver beat him to it. With a grin that was entirely too pleased, Oliver slid an arm around Percy’s waist and pulled him in close again, casual and warm and entirely unbothered. “We’ll be out in a minute,” he said, voice light.

Angelina gave them both a long, flat look. “Right,” she said, drawing the word out like she was already regretting her life choices. Then she turned to Lee and smacked him lightly on the arm. “Come on. Be mature.”

Lee laughed, rubbing his shoulder. “I am mature. I’m maturely leaving.”

Angelina rolled her eyes and turned, tugging Lee with her as they disappeared back into the crowd. The curtain swayed behind them for a moment, then stilled. Percy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Oliver looked down at him, still smiling. “Well. That could’ve been worse.”

Percy groaned softly and buried his face in Oliver’s shoulder. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Oliver chuckled, his hand rubbing slow circles at Percy’s back. “Probably not.”

But Percy didn’t pull away. And Oliver didn’t let go. They stayed like that for a while. Still close, still wrapped around each other, the rest of the world held at bay by velvet curtains and soft shadows. The music outside had shifted again—something slower now, something warm—but neither of them moved. Percy’s hands rested lightly on Oliver’s shoulders, thumbs brushing the fabric of his robes. Oliver’s fingers were still hooked into Percy’s belt loops, his touch gentle, grounding. Their hips were still pressed together, but the urgency had faded. What remained was something quieter. Something steadier.

Percy tilted his head slightly, studying Oliver’s face in the low light. “When did you know?” he asked softly.

Oliver blinked. “Know what?”

“That you liked me.”

Oliver smiled, slow and fond. He looked like he was thinking, but not for long. “Probably just after the war,” he said. “Maybe the first anniversary. That memorial at Hogwarts. You were standing by yourself, looking like you didn’t know if you were allowed to be there. And I remember thinking... you were so much more than I ever knew at school.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “That long?”

Oliver laughed at his expression. “I thought I was the oblivious one.”

Percy flushed, but it wasn’t embarrassment, not really. It was something warmer. Something that felt like joy.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t even think I could feel like this. I’ve never—well, there was Penelope, back at Hogwarts, but that was different. That was... structured. I knew what it was. I knew what I was supposed to do. This... this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Oliver’s smile softened. “But it did.”

Percy nodded, eyes still searching Oliver’s face like he was trying to memorize it. “And I’m glad.”

They stood there a moment longer, neither of them quite ready to let go. But eventually, they knew they had to.

“We should go back out,” Oliver said, though he didn’t move.

Percy sighed. “I know.”

They didn’t move.

Then Oliver leaned in and kissed him again—soft, brief, smiling against his mouth. Percy kissed him back. And then again. They laughed, breathless and happy, foreheads pressed together.

And when they finally stepped out of the alcove, they did it hand in hand.

Together.

Chapter Text

August 2007 – Their Flat, London

The flat was quiet, save for the soft clink of a teaspoon against porcelain and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Percy paced. The scent of cinnamon and tea—Earl Grey, strong—hung in the air, mingling with the faint trace of Oliver’s aftershave and the warm, familiar smell of parchment and old books. The cinnamon came from the apple tart cooling on the windowsill, and the garlic from the casserole dish Oliver was currently trying to charm into not bubbling over.

Percy adjusted his collar. Again. Then he crossed the room, picked up his mug, set it down without drinking, and adjusted the collar again.

From the bedroom, Oliver’s voice floated out, amused and fond. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to wear a hole in it.”

Percy didn’t answer. He was too busy smoothing the front of his robes, then frowning at the way the hem sat. Or maybe it was the sleeves. Or—

Oliver appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair still damp from the shower, a faint smudge of flour on his cheek. He was holding a tea towel in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He set down the wine bottle and picked up the cup of tea.

“You look great,” he said, not even pretending to hide the smile. “And the casserole’s not going to explode. Probably. It’s just dinner.”

Percy turned. “You know it’s not just dinner.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow, then crossed the room and handed Percy the tea. “Alright. It’s not just dinner. But it’s still the Burrow. Still your family. Still the same people who’ve seen you spill soup on your tie and argue with Ron and Hermione about cauldron thickness for twenty minutes.”

Percy took the mug, but didn’t drink. “What if it goes wrong?”

Oliver stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “What if it doesn’t?”

Percy looked down at the tea. “What if they don’t understand?”

Oliver reached out, brushing a bit of lint from Percy’s shoulder. “Then we explain. And if they still don’t understand, we give them time. But I think they will. I think they’ll be happy.”

Percy didn’t answer right away. He just looked at Oliver—really looked at him. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his hair still refused to lie flat even when he tried, the steady warmth in his gaze.

They’d lived in this flat for nearly three years. Shared mornings and late-night tea and arguments about sock drawers and wand polish. They’d built something here. Something real.

Percy exhaled. “Alright.”

Oliver smiled. “Yeah?”

Percy nodded. “Yeah.”

Oliver turned back toward the kitchen. “Grab the tart, will you? I’ve got the casserole.”

Percy vanished his tea, carefully lifted the tart from the windowsill and wrapped it in a stasis charm. “You remembered the wine?”

Oliver held up the bottle with a grin. “I’m not a complete disaster.”

They met at the fireplace, arms full of food and nerves and something else—something steadier.

“Ready?” Oliver asked, reaching for the Floo powder.

Percy hesitated. Then: “As I’ll ever be.”

Oliver tossed the powder into the flames. “The Burrow!”

And with a soft whoosh of green fire, they vanished.

The Burrow

The green flames whooshed them into the Burrow’s sitting room with a soft thud and a swirl of ash. Percy stumbled slightly, clutching the tart in one hand and steadying the casserole with the other. Oliver landed beside him a beat later, brushing soot from his sleeve with practiced ease.

The familiar scent of Molly’s cooking hit them immediately—rosemary, roasted vegetables, something sweet and bubbling in the oven. The kitchen was alive with motion, pots stirring themselves and a stack of plates floating in a neat spiral above the table. Molly Weasley moved through it all like a conductor, wand in one hand, tea towel in the other, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the heat on a simmering stew.

Percy and Oliver barely had time to catch their breath before they were spotted.

“Percy! Oliver!” came Ginny’s voice from the living room.

They turned to see her lounging on the sofa, one hand resting on her very round belly, the other holding a cup of tea. James, three years old and full of energy, was zooming a toy broom around the coffee table, while Albus, two, sat beside him with a stack of picture books. Hermione was perched in the armchair, baby Hugo cradled in her arms, while Ron sat cross-legged on the floor, helping Rose (two and determined) stack enchanted blocks that kept trying to rearrange themselves into rude words.

“Hello, everyone,” Percy said, voice a little tight.

Oliver grinned and waved. “Evening. We brought food.”

“Of course you did,” Hermione said, smiling. “You always do.”

“Smells amazing,” Ron added, not looking up from the blocks.

“Uncle Percy!” James shouted, abandoning his broom to run over and hug Percy’s legs.

Percy crouched awkwardly, balancing the tart as he patted James on the back. “Hello, James.”

Oliver leaned down and ruffled Albus’s hair. “Hey, mate.”

Albus blinked up at him, then held up a book. “This one has a dragon.”

“Excellent choice,” Oliver said solemnly.

Percy gave Ginny a nod. “You’re looking well.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I’m the size of a small hippogriff.”

“You’re glowing,” Oliver said, and she snorted.

“Go put the food in the kitchen before Mum comes in here and panics,” she said, waving them off.

They obeyed. The kitchen was even warmer than the rest of the house, the air thick with steam and the clatter of magic at work. Molly stood at the stove, wand flicking between three different pots, while Harry leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, chatting with Charlie, who was already halfway through a butterbeer.

“Mum,” Percy said, stepping carefully around a floating ladle. “We brought the tart and the casserole.”

Molly turned, her face lighting up. “Oh, wonderful! Set them on the sideboard, dear.”

Percy did, and before he could straighten, Molly was there, wrapping him in a quick, warm hug—brief and light, the kind she knew he didn’t mind. “Good to see you, love,” she said softly. Then she turned to Oliver and beamed. “And you! Come here.”

Oliver laughed and let himself be pulled into a much tighter hug.

“You’re too thin,” she said, patting his cheek. “Are you eating properly?”

“I’m trying,” Oliver said, grinning. “Percy’s been feeding me soup and structure.”

Molly laughed. “Well, you’re both here now. That’s what matters.”

Oliver glanced at the stove. “Need a hand?”

Molly waved him off. “Never mind that. You should be out there when more children arrive—keep them from sneaking biscuits before dinner.”

Oliver gave a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

They said hello to Harry and Charlie—quick hugs, a few jokes, a promise to catch up later—and then slipped back into the living room, where the noise had grown louder and the children had somehow acquired glitter.

Percy glanced at Oliver, heart thudding. Soon. They’d tell them soon.

The living room had grown louder in the few minutes they’d been gone. James was now riding his toy broom in increasingly tight circles around the coffee table, Albus was trying to climb onto the sofa with a book nearly as big as he was, and Rose had somehow convinced Ron to let her paint his fingernails with a glittery charm set. Hermione looked on with the resigned patience of someone who had long since stopped trying to control the chaos.

Percy and Oliver stepped back in just as Ginny waved them over from her spot on the sofa. “Percy,” she said, patting the cushion beside her. “Come sit. I need a break from being a jungle gym.”

Percy obeyed, carefully lowering himself beside her as she shifted to make room. Her belly was unmistakably round now, the fabric of her dress stretched taut over the curve of it. “You’re glowing,” Percy said, because it was true and also because it was safe.

Ginny snorted. “I’m sweating. And swollen. And if one more person tells me I’m glowing, I might hex them.”

Percy smiled faintly. “Noted.”

She leaned back, resting a hand on her stomach. “We’re due in about four weeks. Maybe sooner, if this one’s as impatient as James was.”

Percy nodded, unsure what to say.

“We’ve picked names,” Ginny added, glancing at him. “If it’s a boy, we’re naming him Arthur.”

Percy’s throat tightened. “That’s... that’s lovely.”

“And if it’s a girl,” she said, softer now, “Lily.”

Percy looked at her. She was watching him carefully, her expression open and steady. He nodded again. “They’re perfect.”

Before Ginny could say more, the Floo flared green. With a soft whoosh, George stumbled out of the fireplace, a squirming toddler in his arms. Little Fred—just over a year old and already full of mischief—let out a delighted squeal as they landed.

“Oi!” George called, brushing soot from his robes. “We’re here, and we brought the chaos!”

Fred wriggled in his arms, kicking his feet until George set him down. The moment his feet hit the floor, Fred made a beeline across the room—straight for Percy.

Percy blinked. “Oh—”

“Unc’ Perce!” Fred babbled, arms outstretched, wobbling on unsteady legs.

Percy barely had time to set down his tea before Fred collided with his knees. He scooped the boy up instinctively, settling him on his hip with practiced ease. Fred babbled happily, patting Percy’s face with sticky fingers and pointing at nothing in particular.

“Hello, you,” Percy said, voice softening. “You’re getting heavy.”

Fred giggled and buried his face in Percy’s shoulder.

Across the room, Angelina stepped out of the Floo, brushing soot from her sleeves. George was already there, steadying her with a hand on her back before she could stumble. She smiled at him, then looked over to where Percy stood with Fred in his arms. Her smile deepened. Percy glanced up and caught her eye. She gave him a small nod, one hand resting gently on her stomach. Percy’s breath caught. He looked down at Fred, who was now babbling about something that might have been a dragon, or a biscuit, or both. He held him a little tighter.

Oliver stepped up beside him, brushing a bit of glitter from Percy’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Percy nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Percy shifted Fred in his arms as the toddler babbled happily, one chubby hand patting Percy’s cheek and the other gripping a fistful of his robes. Across the room, George and Angelina had slipped into the kitchen, their laughter trailing behind them like a familiar tune.

Charlie wandered in from the hallway, brushing flour from his shirt. “Bill here yet?”

Hermione, still cradling baby Hugo, shook her head. “Not yet. But I’d bet anything they’ll be here any minute.”

As if summoned by her words, the Floo flared green. Bill stepped out, holding the hand of a small, golden-haired child who blinked up at the room with wide, curious eyes.

“Victoire,” Bill said, crouching beside her. “Go on, love.”

The moment she spotted the other children, Victoire let out a delighted squeal and took off at a wobbling run, her curls bouncing as she joined James and Rose near the toy chest.

Bill straightened, brushing soot from his robes and smiling at the room. “Evening, all.”

“Where’s Fleur?” Ginny asked, shifting to make room as Percy sat beside her again, Fred still nestled in his arms.

“She’ll be along in a minute,” Bill said. “She’s alright—just a bit queasy. The potion’s kicking in, but she didn’t want to risk the Floo until it settled.”

Hermione nodded knowingly. “Five months?”

“Just about,” Bill said. “She’s already worrying about the six-month mark. You know how she is—wants to be here, but she’s not going to risk anything.”

Percy glanced down at Fred, who had gone quiet, his head resting against Percy’s shoulder. “You want to go play with Victoire?” he asked softly.

Fred perked up immediately, wriggling until Percy set him down. He toddled off toward the other children, arms outstretched, already babbling about something that sounded suspiciously like “broom.” Charlie followed, muttering something about “keeping the chaos contained,” and settled near the toy chest, where he could keep an eye on the growing crowd of toddlers.

Oliver, who had been chatting with Ron and George near the fireplace, caught Percy’s eye and gave him a small nod. Percy stood, smoothing his robes, and made his way back into the kitchen. Harry passed him in the doorway, carrying a tray of drinks and laughing at something George had said. Percy gave him a polite nod, then stepped inside. Molly was at the stove again, stirring something thick and fragrant. Angelina stood nearby, one hand resting lightly on her belly, chatting with her in low tones.

Molly looked up as Percy entered and smiled. “There you are, love.”

Percy smiled back, a little tight. “Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”

Molly shook her head. “Everything’s under control. You just enjoy yourself.”

Angelina gave him a warm smile. “Fred’s been asking for you all week, you know.”

Percy’s heart twisted. “He’s a very persuasive toddler.”

Molly chuckled. “He’s got good taste.”

Percy hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Mum... can I talk to you for a moment?”

Molly turned, her expression shifting instantly to something softer. “Of course, dear.”

Angelina gave them both a knowing look and quietly excused herself, slipping back into the living room.

Molly wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned to face him fully. “What is it?”

Percy took a breath.

The kitchen had quieted slightly, the chaos of arrivals giving way to the gentle rhythm of Molly’s cooking. The stew simmered with a soft, contented bubble, and the scent of rosemary and thyme hung in the air like a memory. Molly stood at the counter, slicing bread with a charm that hovered the knife just above the loaf, her wand tucked behind her ear. Percy lingered near the pantry, pretending to inspect the spice rack.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Everything alright, dear?”

Percy nodded. “Yes. Just... thinking.”

Molly hummed, not pressing. She knew better than to rush him.

He stepped closer, hands folded behind his back. “You’ve always made it look easy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Made what look easy?”

He gestured vaguely toward the living room, where the muffled sounds of laughter and children’s voices filtered through the walls. “All of this. Family. Being a parent.”

Molly smiled, soft and a little tired. “It wasn’t always easy. But it was always worth it.”

Percy nodded, eyes on the floor. “Did you ever think... I mean, when we were younger... did you ever wonder what kind of parent we’d all be?”

Molly paused, the knife hovering mid-slice. “Of course I did. Every mother does.”

Percy hesitated. “And... me?”

She turned to face him fully now, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she stepped closer, reaching up to brush a bit of lint from his shoulder. “You’ve always been careful,” she said. “Thoughtful. You take things seriously. Sometimes too seriously.” Her eyes softened. “But you care, Percy. Deeply. And that’s what matters.”

He swallowed. “Even if... things don’t look the way they did for you and Dad?”

Molly’s smile didn’t falter. “Love doesn’t have to look the same to be real. Or to be right.”

Percy looked at her, something tight in his chest loosening just a little.

She reached up and cupped his cheek, briefly. “You’d be a wonderful father.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But he nodded, once, and she patted his arm and turned back to the bread like nothing had happened.

Percy stood there for a moment longer, the warmth of her words settling into his ribs like sunlight. Then he turned and quietly slipped back into the living room. Percy stepped back into the living room just as a burst of laughter erupted from the corner where Charlie was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by toddlers and toy dragons. James was trying to ride a cushion like a broomstick, Victoire was chasing Albus in circles, and Rose had somehow acquired a glittery wand and was attempting to “fix” Ron’s hair.

Percy caught Oliver’s eye across the room. Oliver smiled—soft, steady—and gave a small nod, the kind that said everything’s alright. Percy smiled back, a little more confidently this time, and moved to join Charlie and George on the floor, settling beside a pile of enchanted blocks that kept rearranging themselves into increasingly rude shapes.

The Floo flared again. Fleur stepped through, one hand braced on the mantle, the other pressed lightly to her stomach. She looked a little pale, but composed as ever. Bill was already at her side, steadying her with a hand on her back. “You alright?”

Fleur nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oui. The potion is working. I just needed a moment.”

She looked around the room, her gaze sweeping over the chaos with a faint smile. “Where is Arthur? I would like to speak with him.”

“Workshop,” Ron called from the couch, where Rose was now trying to braid his hair. “He’s been fiddling with some Muggle contraption all afternoon.”

Fleur sighed, already moving toward the hallway. “I will try to bring him out.”

Percy watched her go, then turned back to the children just in time for Fred to tackle him with a delighted squeal. “Unc’ Perce!”

Percy laughed, catching him before he could fall. “Hello again, you.”

Fred babbled something about biscuits and possibly a flying cat, and Percy nodded solemnly, as if it all made perfect sense. He didn’t notice Oliver had slipped out of the room until he reappeared beside him, crouching down and offering a hand to help Percy up.

“Dinner’s ready,” Oliver said, smiling.

Percy blinked. “You were just—?”

Oliver shrugged. “Had to check something.”

Percy didn’t ask. He just took Oliver’s hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.

Molly’s voice rang out from the kitchen doorway. “Dinner’s on! Everyone to the table!”

The room stirred like a spell had been cast—children scooped up, toys abandoned, conversations paused. They all filed into the dining room, where the table had been expanded to its full, sprawling length, chairs charmed to fit just right, candles flickering above platters of food that smelled like home. Percy stepped into the dining room with Oliver just behind him, the two of them pausing near the doorway as the familiar chaos of a Weasley dinner unfolded around them.

The long table stretched from the kitchen door to the far window, chairs charmed to fit just right, candles flickering gently above platters of food that were still being magicked into place. Children darted between chairs, arguing over who would sit next to whom. James and Victoire were locked in a fierce negotiation about seating proximity, while Albus clung to Ginny’s leg, insisting he had to sit next to “both Mummy and Uncle Percy.” Fred, already in his high chair at the corner between George and Arthur’s seats, was loudly protesting that he was too far from his cousins.

“Fred,” George said, trying not to laugh, “you’re one and a half. You don’t even know what ‘too far’ means.”

Fred scowled and kicked his feet.

“Alright, alright,” Angelina said, adjusting his tray. “What if we turn your chair just a little so you can see everyone?”

Fred considered this. Then nodded solemnly.

Even the adults were still sorting themselves out—Bill helping Molly levitate a stack of plates to the table, Charlie trying to keep the children from knocking over the bread basket, Ron and Hermione juggling Rose and Hugo while Ginny tried to coax Albus into his chair.

Percy and Oliver stood back for a moment, watching it all. Oliver leaned in. “Still think we should’ve brought name cards?”

Percy gave him a look. “Don’t tempt me.”

Molly bustled in from the kitchen, levitating a large tureen of stew ahead of her. She paused, scanning the table, then frowned. “Where’s Arthur? And Fleur?”

Percy opened his mouth, but Oliver was already stepping forward. “I’ll go fetch them.”

Molly gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, dear.”

Percy caught the look that passed between them—brief, quiet, maybe nothing. But maybe not. He wasn’t sure.

Oliver turned to Percy, leaned in, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Be right back.”

The room was still bustling, Molly weaving between chairs with floating platters, laughter rising and falling like a tide. After a few minutes, Fleur stepped into the room, brushing something that looked like wood dust from her sleeves and smoothing her robes. 

Fleur sighed. “Arthur and Oliver will be just a minute.”

Percy glanced toward the kitchen door, then back at the table. He didn’t think much of it.

Percy took his seat at the long, expanded table, settling into the middle of the side closest to the living room. To his left, the chair he’d saved for Oliver remained empty for now. Beyond that sat Angelina, already helping Fred with his spoon, and then George at the end closest to Arthur’s seat. To Percy’s right, the seats filled in quickly—Charlie first, then Bill, and finally Fleur at the far end near Molly. Percy glanced down the line, watching as Charlie leaned over to say something to Bill, who was pouring water into Fleur’s glass without a word.

Across from Percy, was Ginny’s seat. Ginny was helping Albus into his own seat, smoothing his hair and tucking a napkin into his collar. To the left of her seat, closest to Arthur’s end, sat Victoire, already whispering something to Albus, who sat next to her, with a mischievous grin. Then after Albus came James, bouncing in his seat beside Ginny, and on her other side sat Harry, who was trying to keep James from knocking over the butter dish. Next to Harry was Ron, holding Rose in his lap, and at the far end by Molly sat Hermione, gently rocking Hugo in the sling across her chest.

The table was a soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses, the children still squirming and the adults still settling. Percy watched it all with a quiet kind of awe.

Charlie leaned toward him. “You alright?”

Percy nodded. “Yes. Just... taking it in.”

Charlie smiled. “It’s a good view.”

Angelina was smiling across the table at something Albus had said, while George was trying to keep Fred from launching a carrot across the table. Charlie and Harry were deep in conversation about something that involved dragons and Muggle fire codes. Ginny was laughing at James, who had somehow managed to get mashed potatoes on his nose before dinner had even started.

It was chaos. Familiar, comforting chaos.

The kitchen door opened. Oliver stepped through, Arthur just behind him, both of them brushing dust from their sleeves. Arthur looked pleased, if slightly bewildered, and Oliver caught Percy’s eye with a small, steady smile as he crossed the room and slid into the seat beside him. Percy smiled back, heart thudding.

Molly, now at the head of the table near the kitchen, clapped her hands once. “Alright, everyone. We’re all here.”

She looked down the length of the table, her eyes soft. “It’s so good to have everyone together. I know it’s not always easy to find the time, but these dinners mean the world to me. To all of us.”

There was a quiet murmur of agreement, a few nods, a few smiles.

And then—with a flick of her wand—the food began to serve itself. Bowls and platters floated gently from hand to hand, ladles dipping themselves into stew, rolls passing from one end of the table to the other. The wine Percy and Oliver had brought uncorked itself with a soft pop and poured into glasses with a graceful swirl. There were roasted vegetables—perfectly seasoned, just the way Percy liked them. A thick, savory stew that Ron immediately claimed as his favorite. A tray of tiny, buttery rolls for the children, and a delicate salad with citrus dressing that Percy was fairly certain had been made just for Fleur. Even the wine—dry, crisp, and just a little floral—was exactly what Oliver had hoped for.

It was perfect.

Percy looked around the table again, at the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of conversation. And for a moment, he let himself breathe. Percy noticed, absently, that the only people not drinking the wine he and Oliver had brought were the children and the pregnant women—Fleur, Angelina, and Ginny. Everyone else had a glass, and from the murmurs of approval and the second pours, it was going over well. He let himself relax into the moment.

Victoire was telling Albus and James about a butterfly she’d caught in the garden that morning, her voice high and proud. James interrupted to say he’d seen a dragon—which turned out to be a very large moth—and Albus solemnly declared that he wanted to ride one someday.

Across the table, Ginny and Harry were laughing with Ron and Hermione, trading stories from the playdate last week. Something about Rose trying to “organize” the toy shelf and James turning it into a fort. Hermione was bouncing Hugo gently in her arms, while Ron tried to keep Rose from dipping her bread into his wine.

To Percy’s right, Charlie was telling James and Albus a story about a dragon in Romania that had once mistaken a broomstick for a mate. The boys were wide-eyed, hanging on every word. To his left, Angelina was talking to Oliver about the little leagues—how the new training program was going, which kids had promise, which ones needed more time. Oliver was listening intently, nodding, occasionally chiming in with a suggestion or a laugh.

And Percy—Percy was happy.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t need to. He just listened, soaking in the warmth of it all, the clatter of forks and the hum of voices, the way the candlelight flickered off the wine glasses and the way Albus kept trying to sneak peas onto Victoire’s plate when he thought no one was looking.

Dinner slowed, the pace easing as plates emptied and conversation softened.

Molly stood, brushing her hands on her apron. “Alright, I’m going to go fetch dessert.”

There was a collective murmur of approval, a few cheers from the children.

Oliver nudged Percy gently under the table. Percy turned, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll go help,” Oliver said, already rising.

Percy blinked. “You don’t have to—”

Oliver leaned in, voice low. “It’s easier to get everyone’s attention when you’re holding the pie.”

He kissed Percy’s cheek, quick and warm, then followed Molly into the kitchen. Percy watched him go, heart thudding. It was almost time.

As the last of the dinner plates cleared themselves and the conversation settled into a warm, contented hum, Percy found himself staring at his wine glass, watching the way the candlelight caught in the rim. He wondered, briefly, if this was going to go well. If they were doing the right thing. If maybe—just maybe—it would be easier to wait. To say nothing. To let the moment pass and try again next month. Or the one after that. He even considered, for the briefest second, standing up and excusing himself. Saying he needed air. Saying he’d forgotten something in the kitchen. Saying anything. But then he looked around the table. At the children, sticky-fingered and sleepy-eyed. At the laughter. At the way Oliver’s empty chair waited beside him like a promise. And he brushed the thought away.

The kitchen door opened. Oliver stepped through, carrying a tray of desserts—some magical, some Muggle. Behind him, Molly followed with a second tray, and a few dishes floated gently behind them, weaving between chairs and settling themselves on the table with practiced grace. There were treacle tarts and chocolate mousse, a lemon drizzle cake that Percy recognized from his childhood, and a plate of delicate almond biscuits that Fleur had once mentioned in passing. Even a bowl of fruit salad for the children, charmed to sparkle faintly with edible glitter.

Oliver set the tray down and slid into the seat beside Percy, his hand brushing Percy’s knee under the table. Molly was just about to sit when Oliver cleared his throat. The room didn’t go silent, not immediately—but the shift was noticeable. A few heads turned. Conversations paused. Oliver nudged Percy gently as he sat down, and Percy straightened, heart thudding.

Oliver’s voice was steady, but there was a faint waver at the edges. “Percy and I—well, we have something we’d like to say. And now seemed like a good time to just... get it out there.”

He looked at Percy.

They’d talked about this. About who would say it. And they’d agreed—if it was going to be said in front of the Weasley family, it should be Percy. Percy looked around the table. At his siblings. At their spouses. At the children. At his mother, still standing, her hands resting lightly on the back of her chair. At his father, watching him with quiet curiosity.

He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly with Oliver’s under the table. Oliver squeezed his hand. Percy smiled.

He looked up. “Oliver and I,” he said, voice clear, “are thinking of having children.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then it exploded.

“Oh my—Percy!”

“Wait, really?!”

“Are you adopting? Fostering? Surrogate?”

“When did this happen?”

“Is it going to be a girl or a boy?” That one came from James, who was now standing on his chair.

“Do you know when?”

“Do you need help picking names?”

Percy blinked, overwhelmed by the sudden wave of voices, questions, and laughter. Everyone was talking at once—leaning across the table, reaching for their wine, gesturing with empty  forks.

Molly looked like she might cry, her hands pressed to her mouth, eyes shining.

Charlie reached over and clapped Percy on the back, nearly knocking the spoon from his hand. “That’s brilliant, Perce. Absolutely brilliant.”

Arthur beamed, his whole face lighting up. “Well, that’s just wonderful news. Wonderful!”

Fred, oblivious to the announcement but delighted by the noise, banged his spoon against his tray and shouted, “Baby!”

Percy laughed—helpless, breathless, a little stunned. Oliver squeezed his hand again, and Percy turned to him, smiling.

As the noise began to settle, Percy cleared his throat. “We don’t have all the answers yet,” he said, voice raised just enough to carry. “But we’re hoping for surrogacy. If we can find someone we trust.”

“We don’t know when,” Oliver added, “and we don’t know if it’ll be a boy or a girl. Or both.”

“But we’re happy,” Percy said. “And excited.”

The room hummed with warmth—smiles, nods, a few misty eyes.

Molly finally found her voice. “You’ll be wonderful parents,” she said, her voice thick. “Both of you.”

Percy looked around the table—at his family, at the children, at the people who had seen him at his worst and still welcomed him home. And for the first time in a long time, he felt completely, undeniably seen.

The room was still humming with warmth, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and chocolate, the flicker of candlelight dancing across smiling faces. Percy sat with Oliver beside him, their hands still loosely clasped beneath the table, as the family buzzed around them—talking, laughing, congratulating. Every so often, someone would catch Percy’s eye—Hermione, with a soft smile and a nod; Ginny, beaming across the table; Charlie, raising his glass in a quiet toast—and Percy would feel it again: that deep, quiet thrum of being loved. He leaned slightly into Oliver’s shoulder, and Oliver leaned back. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The moment held.

Then, from the head of the table, Molly gave a little hum and sat, brushing her hands on her apron. “Well,” she said, voice bright, “a baby can wait—but this dessert certainly can’t!”

Laughter rippled through the room, and forks were lifted with renewed purpose.

The treacle tart was passed down the table, followed by the mousse and the lemon cake. The children were given tiny plates with sparkling fruit and biscuits, and Fred managed to get jam on his nose within seconds. Percy helped pass the almond biscuits down to Fleur, who smiled and murmured a quiet thank you. Conversation shifted—back to work, to Quidditch, to the latest antics of the children. The excitement of the announcement softened into something gentler, woven into the fabric of the evening like a thread of gold. Percy didn’t mind. He was still glowing.

After dessert, the table began to clear itself, and those who weren’t pregnant or wrangling toddlers rose to help. Percy and Oliver joined Charlie, George, and Harry in the kitchen, stacking plates and vanishing crumbs, laughing as Fred toddled in to “help” by handing them spoons one at a time.

The kitchen was warm and full of motion, but at one point, Percy felt a gentle hand on his arm. He turned. Molly and Arthur stood together, just inside the doorway. Arthur’s eyes were misty behind his glasses. Molly’s smile trembled at the edges.

“We just wanted to say,” Arthur began, “how proud we are of you both.”

Molly nodded, her voice thick. “And how happy. Truly.”

“If you need anything,” Arthur added, “anything at all—we’re just a Floo call away.”

Percy swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Oliver stepped beside him, slipping his hand into Percy’s.

Molly reached out and took Percy’s other hand, squeezing it gently. “You’re going to be wonderful parents.”

Percy didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded, eyes stinging. And in that moment—in the warmth of the kitchen, in the quiet support of his parents, in the steady presence of Oliver beside him—Percy felt loved again.

The kitchen had finally quieted, the last of the dishes vanishing into the sink with a soft clink and a shimmer of magic. Laughter still drifted in from the living room, where the children were chasing enchanted bubbles and the adults were trading stories over the last of the wine.

Oliver nudged Percy gently with his shoulder. “Come outside with me?”

Percy glanced at him, surprised. “Now?”

Oliver smiled. “Just for a bit. I want to be with you. Just us.”

Percy hesitated only a moment before nodding. They slipped out the back door and into the garden, the night air cool and soft against their skin. The grass was still warm from the day’s sun, and the stars above shimmered like scattered spells across the sky. The garden was quiet, save for the distant hum of conversation and the occasional chirp of a cricket. Oliver led them to a familiar spot beneath the old pear tree, where the grass was soft and the view of the stars was unobstructed. They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the scent of earth and summer blossoms curling around them.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

Then Percy let out a quiet breath. “It went well.”

Oliver nodded. “Better than I hoped.”

“They were happy,” Percy said, almost in disbelief. “Really happy.”

“Of course they were,” Oliver said, bumping his knee gently against Percy’s. “They love you.”

Percy looked up at the stars, the sky impossibly wide above them. “It’s a beautiful night.”

Oliver turned to look at him, his voice soft. “It is.”

Percy smiled. “It’s been a perfect day.”

Oliver looked at the sky, and whispered softly. “Yeah, it has been.”

The stars above them shimmered like scattered spells, and the garden was hushed in the way only summer nights could be—soft, warm, and full of promise. Percy leaned into Oliver’s side, his head resting lightly against his shoulder. Oliver’s arm curled around him, drawing him close, and for a while, they just sat like that, listening to the breeze rustle through the tall grass and the faint laughter drifting from the house.

“I keep thinking about what comes next,” Percy said quietly.

Oliver turned his head slightly. “Yeah?”

Percy nodded. “Not just the baby. Or—well, the idea of the baby. But everything. The life we’re building. The quiet mornings. The messy ones. The birthdays. The bedtime stories. The... everything.”

Oliver smiled. “I think about that too.”

Percy tilted his head to look at him. “What are you most excited for?”

Oliver was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “I think... I’m excited to see you as a dad.”

Percy blinked. “Me?”

Oliver nodded. “You’re going to be brilliant. You already are, in all the ways that matter.”

Percy flushed, looking down at their hands. “I’m excited to see you, too. You’ll be the fun one.”

“I’ll be the one who lets them eat dessert before dinner,” Oliver said with a grin.

“And I’ll be the one who makes them eat vegetables after,” Percy replied, smiling.

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the kind that didn’t need filling. Then Oliver shifted, gently untangling himself and rising to his feet. He reached down, offering Percy his hand.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s walk.”

Percy took his hand and let himself be pulled up. They began to walk slowly through the garden, the grass brushing their ankles, the stars above them like a canopy of light. They talked as they walked—about names they liked, about what kind of books they’d read to their child, about whether they’d be the kind of parents who packed elaborate lunches or forgot the field trip form until the last minute. And all the while, Oliver’s fingers stayed laced with Percy’s.

The garden path curved gently beneath their feet, the grass soft and cool in the night air. Oliver led Percy toward the far end of the garden, where the path narrowed and dipped slightly, winding toward the small pond Arthur and George had put in a year and a half ago. It shimmered now under the moonlight, still and silver, the surface like glass. They stopped at the edge, the water reflecting the stars above and the soft glow of the lanterns strung along the fence line.

Percy let out a quiet breath. “It’s beautiful.”

Oliver leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm.

Percy smiled faintly but didn’t look over. His eyes were fixed on the pond, on the way the moonlight rippled across its surface. “It’s like something out of a dream.”

Oliver’s voice was soft. “It’s been an amazing day.”

Percy nodded. “It really has.”

“I’m glad everything went well,” Oliver continued. “I’m glad you got through the nerves. Because in the end... it turned out beautifully.”

Percy turned slightly, just enough to glance at him.

Oliver smiled. “I know you like things to go according to plan. And planning our future together—it’s been the best kind of plan. Every step of it.”

Percy’s heart fluttered.

“I want to keep planning our future,” Oliver said. “For the rest of our lives.”

Percy opened his mouth to respond—but then paused. Tiny lights were drifting down from the sky. Soft, glowing orbs, like magical sky lanterns, floating gently through the air. They shimmered faintly, casting a warm, golden hue over the garden path, the pond, the curve of Oliver’s smile.

Percy blinked. “What...?”

Oliver didn’t answer. Not yet. “I love you,” he said instead. “I’ve loved you for three years now. And I don’t want to spend another day without you.”

Percy’s breath caught.

Oliver’s voice wavered, just slightly. “Thank you. For being there when I retired, even when I didn’t think I was ready. For being there when my mum died. For letting me be there for you—when you panic, when you doubt yourself, when you let me in.”

Percy’s eyes stung.

And then—just as he noticed the magical flowers blooming around them, glowing softly in the grass like stars fallen to earth—Oliver took a step back. “I know you hate surprises,” he said, voice trembling now, “and things you don’t plan. But please... give me this one.”

Percy gasped as Oliver dropped to one knee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

“Percival Weasley,” Oliver said, eyes shining, “Perce... will you be my—” He laughed, breathless. “The ink to my quill. The Snitch to my Seeker.”

He opened the box.

“Will you marry me?”

Percy stared down at Oliver, at the ring glinting in the soft light. His hand flew to his mouth. Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop them, spilling over as he let out a soft, broken laugh. “Oh—oh, Merlin—” He started nodding, his whole body trembling with it, and reached down to pull Oliver to his feet.

The moment Oliver was standing, Percy kissed him—fierce and full and utterly unguarded. Their tears mingled between them, and Percy didn’t care. He didn’t care that they were both crying, that his hands were shaking, that his heart felt like it might burst.

He nodded again into the kiss, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes. Yes, Ollie. Yes.”

He laughed, breathless. “Oliver Wood, I will marry you.”

Oliver let out a choked sound—half laugh, half sob—and pulled Percy into a hug so tight it would’ve made Percy flinch from anyone else. But not from Oliver. Never from Oliver. Then, with a joyful whoop, Oliver lifted Percy off the ground and spun him in a circle.

“Oliver!” Percy gasped, laughing through his tears. “Put me down, you ridiculous—” But he was laughing, truly laughing, even as he clung to Oliver’s shoulders.

When Oliver finally set him down, Percy kissed him again—softer this time, but no less full of love. Then he looked down at the ring still nestled in the box in Oliver’s hand. Oliver took it out carefully, his fingers trembling, and slid it onto Percy’s hand—delicate and perfect, like it had always belonged there.

They were both grinning like madmen.

They stood there for a moment, just breathing, just holding each other, the pond glowing behind them, the magical lanterns still drifting lazily through the air.

Then Oliver let out a sharp whistle.

The back door of the Burrow burst open. The entire Weasley clan came pouring out—Ginny leading the charge, followed by George, who was already pulling something from his pocket.

“Did he say yes?!” James shouted.

“He said yes!” Oliver called back, beaming.

A cheer erupted from the family, and George let off a burst of fireworks that exploded into a heart-shaped shower of gold and red sparks above the garden. Percy laughed, wiping at his eyes as Molly rushed forward, already crying, and Arthur followed with a proud, misty-eyed smile. They were surrounded in seconds—hugged, clapped on the back, kissed on the cheeks, congratulated a dozen times over.

And through it all, Percy held Oliver’s hand.

He didn’t let go.