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Percy and Oliver sitting in a tree, but not really.
Hey, there's this community called ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bds_drabble, and I joined, and friended it, and contributed, and why don't you join and contribute as well, and here is my entry for this week's challenge, which is about heat.
Mmmkay.
Wait, I've got another WIP to throw in! This time it's an honest-to-god WIP. It's Harry Potter, too. Yeah. Wrote it over Christmas, then we kind of lost our steam and I was all, "Eh."
Title: My WIP has no title.
Pairing: Percy/Oliver that never gets beyond PG in this incarnation. I just wasn't sure how I would navigate their characters towards it, which was one of the reasons I stopped writing this. I was feeling iffy about HP in general at the time. So yeah, here's pre-slash.
Summary: The war, which had nothing to do with Percy, is over. He spends his days being antisocial in a tiny flat in Diagon Alley. Enter Oliver, stage right. Stuff happens, or maybe they don't.
-
For the most part, Percy enjoyed cloudy days, though perhaps 'enjoyed' was the wrong word to use. He 'enjoyed' with the kind of ‘why not?’ mentality that people have when supporting animal rights or helping starving children in Africa, or some other vague and noble cause that had nothing to do with them.
It was a cloudy day today.
Percy didn’t mind.
“That’s why you have to break it down,” Ginny was saying. She was holding a glass in one hand, scotch sloshing over the side as her movements became as erratic as her speech.
Percy, empty-handed on the sofa opposite, said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean victory. Yes, sure, victory’s a good thing but what is it? What does that mean? There’s people out there lost their homes and family and sanity and what’s victory to them? You’re living in a shithole of a box in the more questionable parts of Diagon Alley, Percy, what does victory mean to you?”
“It means the killing has stopped.”
“You never even saw the killings,” said Ginny. “The killings.” She repeated the word as if tasting a foreign delicacy on her tongue. “The killing fields. The actual battles. You never saw them.”
Ginny grew quiet, holding her glass in front of her. No one could be sure if she was looking at the drink or through it. Percy reached across the coffee table and took the glass from her fingers. He set it down on the table, next to a near empty bottle.
“That’s enough, alright?” he said, and stood up.
“I was talking to Dean the other day,” said Ginny, leaning back in her seat. “We were talking about you.”
“Ah. Lucky me.”
“Yeah, we were trying to decide if you were lucky. Lucky, smart, or just plain scared.”
“Ginny.”
“Dean, he calls it ‘dodging the draft.’ There wasn’t a draft though, was there? You had a choice. Which I guess makes it worse.”
“Gin.”
During the course of their exchange, Percy had crossed his living room and opened the front door. It opened to a hallway with peeling wallpaper the colour of muck. Percy leaned against the open door, maintaining a precarious balance that allowed it to hold a 90-degree angle with the wall.
Ginny looked at her brother, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“Come on,” said Percy, gesturing at the gaping doorway with a movement of his head. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just go.”
Ginny sighed, then picked up her purse, her coat, her shawl, and pushed herself up. Before taking the last two steps out the door, Ginny faced her brother, eyes frank and lucid with alcohol, and said, “You’re so quiet these days, y’know.”
Percy smiled. “That’s because you don’t get invited to my better parties.”
“Penelope said that the day you ran away from fighting the Dark Lord, you ran away from fighting anything at all.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Percy, bending down to peck his sister on the cheek. “No more fighting means no more war. Like a victory.” He smiled, somewhat smugly. “There. That’s what victory means to me.”
“What?”
“Victory is peace.”
Ginny seemed to mull over this new information, and Percy took the opportunity to gently herd her into the hallway. “Love you, Gin. Fuck off.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow?” she said, startled by the darkness of the corridor.
“Maybe.”
“Next wee--“
The door clicked shut.
+
Percy’s flat gave the impression of a messy room trying to be clean. It seems acceptable on first viewing, but as you navigate through its confines, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. The way old magazines are stacked up in the corner without any rhyme or reason. The insistent flatness of the sofa cushions on which crumbs and stains never quite disappear. The sticky feeling at the bottom of your shoe when you stepped on that patch of floor. The curious scent of stale biscuits. The chaos was limited to a few small areas instead of spread over the general region. It was the kind of look established by leaving a place to entropy for a few weeks before hastily, guiltily, tidying it up again.
Percy’s flat gave the impression of being very small.
Depending on the scene outside the window, Percy’s flat gave the impression of being the only abandoned room in winter, or the only room that understands the full implications of the setting of the sun. An eternal evanescence. It made Percy loathe to think of happy memories because they were just memories, and he could no longer touch them or taste them or hold them in his arms. Because he was bitter, they made him sick instead of warm.
+
Percy went out when he tired of staying in, and came back home when he remembered how alienating the outside world could be. One day he came back and there was someone sitting against the wall opposite his door, smoking a cigarette. Someone stood up and, brushing himself off, said, “Ah. I was beginning to think I had the wrong flat.”
Percy stopped in his tracks, the bag of fruits dangling from his hand.
“Good to see you again,” said someone. “I never… hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” Percy replied automatically, then looked away and, under the pretense of having something to do, fumbled for his keys. “Um. Don’t…” He found his keys and took a few steps forward, pausing to let someone take a few steps backwards so Percy could get to the door. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but, if I know you… um.” There was a click and Percy pushed the door open. “I’ve… I don’t recognise you.”
“I’m Oliver Wood.”
Percy stood in the doorway, wondering what to make of this information. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye and yes, it seemed to check out. Oliver Wood. Brown hair, brown eyes, vague but well-meaning sort of expression on his face. Gotten a bit thinner since the last time, though. Let his hair grow out a bit. Knowing it would seem inept of him to spend more than a few seconds doing nothing, he said, “Oh.”
“Your housemate? Fellow Gryffindor? I was--“
“Yes, I know.”
“--in your year. Oh. Well, then.”
Percy stepped into his flat and wondered whether he should temporarily dump his fruits on the sofa before turning to receive his guest. But no, that would be dreadfully juvenile. Should he go put them in the kitchen then? That’d take too long. He should probably just invite Wood in with the bag of fruits still in his arms anyway and Christ, he thought to himself. I’ve been out of touch with people for too long.
Wood said, “Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
And he did, closing the door behind him. “You want some help with those?” he said, looking at Percy’s bag.
Percy opened his mouth and replied, two entirely separate actions. His reply was, “Yes.”
+
Percy didn’t buy a lot of fruits in the first place. He bought enough to fill the basket in the kitchen, which at the moment only contained a few rotting bananas. Wood picked them up and tossed them in the trashcan. This struck Percy as a kind of violation of privacy. They weren’t Wood’s bananas and this was not his house, and that was most certainly not his trashcan, and never mind that this was only about rotting bananas.
“What have you been doing with yourself, Weasley?” Wood didn’t look at him as he talked, and seemed to be addressing a cupboard in the corner. He looked around Percy’s kitchen with casual interest, taking it all in, perhaps drawing his own conclusions in his head.
“Nothing so grand,” said Percy. “And yourself?”
“I’ve been getting myself some odd jobs after the war ended. I’m still trying to see what’s happening in this post-war world. The whole country’s still trying to get back on their feet, y’know?” And once Oliver had started, he kept at it with energy. “The Ministry still has a shitload of damage control to do with the Muggles up in Nottingham. Right now they’re still Obliviating, they’re Obliviating like mad, I tell you, but they’re trying to come up with a faster, more effective solution.”
“Oh. That sounds horrible.”
“Does it?”
Percy shrugged, an uncharacteristic movement. “I suppose. I mean. Yes. Changing people’s memories and all. What odd jobs have you been doing?”
Wood shrugged, and it looked more natural on his shoulders than it did on Percy’s. “This and that. I’m a bartender now though I’m shit at it. I was a delivery boy once near Bristol, and there was a time I pretended I was a Muggle and helped out some old man with his farm…”
He prattled on, telling Percy about the things he used to do and, to be honest, Percy didn’t really give a damn. What Percy wanted to know was what Oliver Wood was doing right now. Besides standing in his kitchen relating a few mildly interesting anecdotes, that is. What was Wood doing suddenly showing up on his doorstep like that and never mind that flats didn’t actually have a doorstep? Percy wanted to know this, and didn’t know when to jump in and ask after this piece of information.
“…so that probably goes on the top five things to never do to a sleeping bull, wouldn’t you say?” said Wood.
“Yes, I would. What are… um. Would you like a drink?”
“That’d be lovely.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What?”
Percy started opening cupboards, wondering where he left the last bottle of liquor. “I mean. You know.” Did Ginny drink the last bottle? “Your showing up out of the blue on my doorstep. Not that flats have… Erm. Is anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Wood. “I was just…” He shrugged again. “I happened to be in the neighborhood and I heard you were here. I asked around.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know you and I are the last survivors of our year?”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know that,” said Percy, and waited to see if he could come up with something more meaningful to say. Not to say he wasn’t moved. It was a sad thing to discover that people you knew were now dead. A sort of vague disaster that had nothing to do with Percy at all.
Percy said, “That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Wood replied without any noticeable sign of grief on his face. Maybe he had done his grieving long ago. “So I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re surviving.”
“I’m surviving just fine,” said Percy, holding a bottle of something golden in his hand. “My sister drank my liquor. I have… apple juice.”
Wood smiled. “Apple juice is fine.”
+
Percy found glasses and they went to the living room, where Percy asked him how they died.
“The war,” said Wood.
“That’s tragic,” said Percy empathically and, wanting to change the subject, said, “Your team’s still alive, though. Katie, Angelina… My brothers, George and Fred.”
“Yeah, I met your brothers, and Angelina. It’s how I got your address.”
“Ah. Did they say anything about me?”
“Not much. They said you’re holding a shit job right now, but I can’t talk. They were in a hurry, so we didn’t get a chance to really get into a conversation.” Wood poured himself more apple juice. “So where were you during the war, Weasley? I was in Scotland, near Hogwarts. A lot of the heavy stuff was happening near Hogwarts.”
“You must have seen a lot of terrible things.”
“I saw a lot of good things, too,” said Wood, and Percy wondered at his nonchalance. Must have done the grieving a long time ago.
“Like what?”
“Well, we were the first to see Voldemort fall. First to taste victory. I reckon Potter’s probably got a few words added to his title. ‘Boy Who Lived and Defeated Voldemort and Liberated Whatever’ and god knows what else. He nearly died, but he pulled through.”
“That’s good to hear. You were with the Aurors?”
“Yeah. I was with them, wand out, everything. Not bad for a Quidditch player, eh?”
“Not bad,” smiled Percy, “at all.”
“Where were you at, Weasley?”
At the front lines, wand out, shooting hexes left and right. It was Percy’s hex that took down Lucius Malfoy, that’s right. He took out half the Death Eaters. Percy was right in the thick of it when it was all happening and if Wood didn’t see, well, that was his problem. Percy was there, and always had been there all along.
Behind enemy lines, in disguise, undercover. Percy was uncovering vital information and transporting them to head honchos on his side. He fit in perfectly, suave and savvy as anyone, and the things he’d seen, Wood couldn’t even dream. The victory Wood tasted was coated in things you wouldn’t want to know about.
At home, with his mother and a particularly glib sister, who covered up their disappointment in a variety of ways. Percy was ‘taking care of them’ when he was really the one being taken care of. ‘My mother is sick’ when Mrs. Weasley was fine and ‘my sister’s so young’ when Ginny could take care of herself. ‘I have a duty to my family’ when…
“Were you afraid of death, Wood?” Percy asked. “All those times when you were fighting, when you could have been hit with Unforgivable Curse--“
“I was, a couple of times.”
“What?”
Wood sipped his apple juice. “I can’t remember the name, which is strange, considering. Can’t remember the incantation, which is a good thing, I’d say. It’s the one that makes your body hurt all over.”
“Oh my god. Wood…”
“I try not to dwell on it, “ Wood shrugged. “Which is how I deal with the whole death thing, I suppose. I never let myself think too hard about it. Or else… you know. I just don’t think about it.”
“You just… go in there with nothing in your head?” said Percy, smiling weakly.
“I guess you can say that.”
“Ah.”
“Why? Are you scared of death, Weasley?”
Percy sipped his juice contemplatively, staring at the surface of the coffee table. “I’m the worst Gryffindor ever.”
Wood laughed. “How d’you mean?”
“Well, Gryffindors are supposed to be courageous, aren’t they?”
“Well, you know what they say about courage, mate,” said Wood. “It’s not what I did, necessarily. It’s when you’re afraid to do something but you do it anyway.”
“But what,” said Percy, looking into his eyes, “if you don’t?”
+
“Hi, Mum,” said Percy, stepping through the fireplace at The Burrow.
“Merlin!” Mrs. Weasley put a hand on her chest. “Percy, you have to stop doing that. You’ll kill me one of these days. What if I was carrying some dishes?”
“Then I’d magic them whole again. Where’s Ginny?”
“She’s in her room.” Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Aren’t you going to give your mother a kiss now?”
Percy leaned forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Sorry. Love you.”
“Go say hello to your sister now. Are you going to stay for supper?”
“Is it just going to be you, me, and Ginny?” Percy asked, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Ron and the twins might be dropping by.”
“I think I’ll get supper back at the Alley, then.”
Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Heaven’s sake, Percy. I wish you boys would stop acting like such children. What with the cold shoulders and silent treatments, I feel like it’s still winter. Percy, when can I start believing I still have a family?”
“Alright, Mum,” Percy called out from the landing, and Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes.
+
The Burrow looked cluttered, had always looked cluttered, and will probably continue to look cluttered despite Mrs. Weasley’s efforts. Not that it actually was messy. It just looked messy, but there was some kind of system that prevented Percy from tripping over or ducking under anything. There was always just enough space to walk around, always just enough space to lie down. Just enough, never more, never less than you need. Economical and just this side of claustrophobic.
+
When Percy stepped inside, his sister was in a bathrobe on the bed, reading a novel.
“Hullo, Percival,” said Ginny, reaching for a bookmark on the night stand. “How are you?”
“Same as always, I suppose. I’ve got something to talk about. Why do you insist on calling me Percival?”
She set the book down on her lap and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that what you want to talk about?”
“No.”
Ginny nodded and adjusted her bathrobe, gesturing for Percy to have a seat on the rocking chair in the corner. “Wait. First, I have something to say. My behaviour when I was last at your flat. It was atrocious, I’m sorry.”
Percy laughed a little. “Ah. Ginny. It’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t give alcohol to your little sister, Percy,” she said lightly. “What a terrible brother you are.” Percy just smiled sheepishly and Ginny said, “What do you want to talk about.”
Percy wondered how to best bring up Oliver Wood.
bds_drabble, and I joined, and friended it, and contributed, and why don't you join and contribute as well, and here is my entry for this week's challenge, which is about heat.Mmmkay.
Wait, I've got another WIP to throw in! This time it's an honest-to-god WIP. It's Harry Potter, too. Yeah. Wrote it over Christmas, then we kind of lost our steam and I was all, "Eh."
Title: My WIP has no title.
Pairing: Percy/Oliver that never gets beyond PG in this incarnation. I just wasn't sure how I would navigate their characters towards it, which was one of the reasons I stopped writing this. I was feeling iffy about HP in general at the time. So yeah, here's pre-slash.
Summary: The war, which had nothing to do with Percy, is over. He spends his days being antisocial in a tiny flat in Diagon Alley. Enter Oliver, stage right. Stuff happens, or maybe they don't.
For the most part, Percy enjoyed cloudy days, though perhaps 'enjoyed' was the wrong word to use. He 'enjoyed' with the kind of ‘why not?’ mentality that people have when supporting animal rights or helping starving children in Africa, or some other vague and noble cause that had nothing to do with them.
It was a cloudy day today.
Percy didn’t mind.
“That’s why you have to break it down,” Ginny was saying. She was holding a glass in one hand, scotch sloshing over the side as her movements became as erratic as her speech.
Percy, empty-handed on the sofa opposite, said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean victory. Yes, sure, victory’s a good thing but what is it? What does that mean? There’s people out there lost their homes and family and sanity and what’s victory to them? You’re living in a shithole of a box in the more questionable parts of Diagon Alley, Percy, what does victory mean to you?”
“It means the killing has stopped.”
“You never even saw the killings,” said Ginny. “The killings.” She repeated the word as if tasting a foreign delicacy on her tongue. “The killing fields. The actual battles. You never saw them.”
Ginny grew quiet, holding her glass in front of her. No one could be sure if she was looking at the drink or through it. Percy reached across the coffee table and took the glass from her fingers. He set it down on the table, next to a near empty bottle.
“That’s enough, alright?” he said, and stood up.
“I was talking to Dean the other day,” said Ginny, leaning back in her seat. “We were talking about you.”
“Ah. Lucky me.”
“Yeah, we were trying to decide if you were lucky. Lucky, smart, or just plain scared.”
“Ginny.”
“Dean, he calls it ‘dodging the draft.’ There wasn’t a draft though, was there? You had a choice. Which I guess makes it worse.”
“Gin.”
During the course of their exchange, Percy had crossed his living room and opened the front door. It opened to a hallway with peeling wallpaper the colour of muck. Percy leaned against the open door, maintaining a precarious balance that allowed it to hold a 90-degree angle with the wall.
Ginny looked at her brother, one eyebrow raised questioningly.
“Come on,” said Percy, gesturing at the gaping doorway with a movement of his head. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just go.”
Ginny sighed, then picked up her purse, her coat, her shawl, and pushed herself up. Before taking the last two steps out the door, Ginny faced her brother, eyes frank and lucid with alcohol, and said, “You’re so quiet these days, y’know.”
Percy smiled. “That’s because you don’t get invited to my better parties.”
“Penelope said that the day you ran away from fighting the Dark Lord, you ran away from fighting anything at all.”
“That’s a good thing,” said Percy, bending down to peck his sister on the cheek. “No more fighting means no more war. Like a victory.” He smiled, somewhat smugly. “There. That’s what victory means to me.”
“What?”
“Victory is peace.”
Ginny seemed to mull over this new information, and Percy took the opportunity to gently herd her into the hallway. “Love you, Gin. Fuck off.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow?” she said, startled by the darkness of the corridor.
“Maybe.”
“Next wee--“
The door clicked shut.
+
Percy’s flat gave the impression of a messy room trying to be clean. It seems acceptable on first viewing, but as you navigate through its confines, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s off. The way old magazines are stacked up in the corner without any rhyme or reason. The insistent flatness of the sofa cushions on which crumbs and stains never quite disappear. The sticky feeling at the bottom of your shoe when you stepped on that patch of floor. The curious scent of stale biscuits. The chaos was limited to a few small areas instead of spread over the general region. It was the kind of look established by leaving a place to entropy for a few weeks before hastily, guiltily, tidying it up again.
Percy’s flat gave the impression of being very small.
Depending on the scene outside the window, Percy’s flat gave the impression of being the only abandoned room in winter, or the only room that understands the full implications of the setting of the sun. An eternal evanescence. It made Percy loathe to think of happy memories because they were just memories, and he could no longer touch them or taste them or hold them in his arms. Because he was bitter, they made him sick instead of warm.
+
Percy went out when he tired of staying in, and came back home when he remembered how alienating the outside world could be. One day he came back and there was someone sitting against the wall opposite his door, smoking a cigarette. Someone stood up and, brushing himself off, said, “Ah. I was beginning to think I had the wrong flat.”
Percy stopped in his tracks, the bag of fruits dangling from his hand.
“Good to see you again,” said someone. “I never… hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” Percy replied automatically, then looked away and, under the pretense of having something to do, fumbled for his keys. “Um. Don’t…” He found his keys and took a few steps forward, pausing to let someone take a few steps backwards so Percy could get to the door. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but, if I know you… um.” There was a click and Percy pushed the door open. “I’ve… I don’t recognise you.”
“I’m Oliver Wood.”
Percy stood in the doorway, wondering what to make of this information. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye and yes, it seemed to check out. Oliver Wood. Brown hair, brown eyes, vague but well-meaning sort of expression on his face. Gotten a bit thinner since the last time, though. Let his hair grow out a bit. Knowing it would seem inept of him to spend more than a few seconds doing nothing, he said, “Oh.”
“Your housemate? Fellow Gryffindor? I was--“
“Yes, I know.”
“--in your year. Oh. Well, then.”
Percy stepped into his flat and wondered whether he should temporarily dump his fruits on the sofa before turning to receive his guest. But no, that would be dreadfully juvenile. Should he go put them in the kitchen then? That’d take too long. He should probably just invite Wood in with the bag of fruits still in his arms anyway and Christ, he thought to himself. I’ve been out of touch with people for too long.
Wood said, “Can I come in?”
“Yes.”
And he did, closing the door behind him. “You want some help with those?” he said, looking at Percy’s bag.
Percy opened his mouth and replied, two entirely separate actions. His reply was, “Yes.”
+
Percy didn’t buy a lot of fruits in the first place. He bought enough to fill the basket in the kitchen, which at the moment only contained a few rotting bananas. Wood picked them up and tossed them in the trashcan. This struck Percy as a kind of violation of privacy. They weren’t Wood’s bananas and this was not his house, and that was most certainly not his trashcan, and never mind that this was only about rotting bananas.
“What have you been doing with yourself, Weasley?” Wood didn’t look at him as he talked, and seemed to be addressing a cupboard in the corner. He looked around Percy’s kitchen with casual interest, taking it all in, perhaps drawing his own conclusions in his head.
“Nothing so grand,” said Percy. “And yourself?”
“I’ve been getting myself some odd jobs after the war ended. I’m still trying to see what’s happening in this post-war world. The whole country’s still trying to get back on their feet, y’know?” And once Oliver had started, he kept at it with energy. “The Ministry still has a shitload of damage control to do with the Muggles up in Nottingham. Right now they’re still Obliviating, they’re Obliviating like mad, I tell you, but they’re trying to come up with a faster, more effective solution.”
“Oh. That sounds horrible.”
“Does it?”
Percy shrugged, an uncharacteristic movement. “I suppose. I mean. Yes. Changing people’s memories and all. What odd jobs have you been doing?”
Wood shrugged, and it looked more natural on his shoulders than it did on Percy’s. “This and that. I’m a bartender now though I’m shit at it. I was a delivery boy once near Bristol, and there was a time I pretended I was a Muggle and helped out some old man with his farm…”
He prattled on, telling Percy about the things he used to do and, to be honest, Percy didn’t really give a damn. What Percy wanted to know was what Oliver Wood was doing right now. Besides standing in his kitchen relating a few mildly interesting anecdotes, that is. What was Wood doing suddenly showing up on his doorstep like that and never mind that flats didn’t actually have a doorstep? Percy wanted to know this, and didn’t know when to jump in and ask after this piece of information.
“…so that probably goes on the top five things to never do to a sleeping bull, wouldn’t you say?” said Wood.
“Yes, I would. What are… um. Would you like a drink?”
“That’d be lovely.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What?”
Percy started opening cupboards, wondering where he left the last bottle of liquor. “I mean. You know.” Did Ginny drink the last bottle? “Your showing up out of the blue on my doorstep. Not that flats have… Erm. Is anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Wood. “I was just…” He shrugged again. “I happened to be in the neighborhood and I heard you were here. I asked around.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know you and I are the last survivors of our year?”
“Oh. No, I didn’t know that,” said Percy, and waited to see if he could come up with something more meaningful to say. Not to say he wasn’t moved. It was a sad thing to discover that people you knew were now dead. A sort of vague disaster that had nothing to do with Percy at all.
Percy said, “That’s horrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Wood replied without any noticeable sign of grief on his face. Maybe he had done his grieving long ago. “So I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re surviving.”
“I’m surviving just fine,” said Percy, holding a bottle of something golden in his hand. “My sister drank my liquor. I have… apple juice.”
Wood smiled. “Apple juice is fine.”
+
Percy found glasses and they went to the living room, where Percy asked him how they died.
“The war,” said Wood.
“That’s tragic,” said Percy empathically and, wanting to change the subject, said, “Your team’s still alive, though. Katie, Angelina… My brothers, George and Fred.”
“Yeah, I met your brothers, and Angelina. It’s how I got your address.”
“Ah. Did they say anything about me?”
“Not much. They said you’re holding a shit job right now, but I can’t talk. They were in a hurry, so we didn’t get a chance to really get into a conversation.” Wood poured himself more apple juice. “So where were you during the war, Weasley? I was in Scotland, near Hogwarts. A lot of the heavy stuff was happening near Hogwarts.”
“You must have seen a lot of terrible things.”
“I saw a lot of good things, too,” said Wood, and Percy wondered at his nonchalance. Must have done the grieving a long time ago.
“Like what?”
“Well, we were the first to see Voldemort fall. First to taste victory. I reckon Potter’s probably got a few words added to his title. ‘Boy Who Lived and Defeated Voldemort and Liberated Whatever’ and god knows what else. He nearly died, but he pulled through.”
“That’s good to hear. You were with the Aurors?”
“Yeah. I was with them, wand out, everything. Not bad for a Quidditch player, eh?”
“Not bad,” smiled Percy, “at all.”
“Where were you at, Weasley?”
At the front lines, wand out, shooting hexes left and right. It was Percy’s hex that took down Lucius Malfoy, that’s right. He took out half the Death Eaters. Percy was right in the thick of it when it was all happening and if Wood didn’t see, well, that was his problem. Percy was there, and always had been there all along.
Behind enemy lines, in disguise, undercover. Percy was uncovering vital information and transporting them to head honchos on his side. He fit in perfectly, suave and savvy as anyone, and the things he’d seen, Wood couldn’t even dream. The victory Wood tasted was coated in things you wouldn’t want to know about.
At home, with his mother and a particularly glib sister, who covered up their disappointment in a variety of ways. Percy was ‘taking care of them’ when he was really the one being taken care of. ‘My mother is sick’ when Mrs. Weasley was fine and ‘my sister’s so young’ when Ginny could take care of herself. ‘I have a duty to my family’ when…
“Were you afraid of death, Wood?” Percy asked. “All those times when you were fighting, when you could have been hit with Unforgivable Curse--“
“I was, a couple of times.”
“What?”
Wood sipped his apple juice. “I can’t remember the name, which is strange, considering. Can’t remember the incantation, which is a good thing, I’d say. It’s the one that makes your body hurt all over.”
“Oh my god. Wood…”
“I try not to dwell on it, “ Wood shrugged. “Which is how I deal with the whole death thing, I suppose. I never let myself think too hard about it. Or else… you know. I just don’t think about it.”
“You just… go in there with nothing in your head?” said Percy, smiling weakly.
“I guess you can say that.”
“Ah.”
“Why? Are you scared of death, Weasley?”
Percy sipped his juice contemplatively, staring at the surface of the coffee table. “I’m the worst Gryffindor ever.”
Wood laughed. “How d’you mean?”
“Well, Gryffindors are supposed to be courageous, aren’t they?”
“Well, you know what they say about courage, mate,” said Wood. “It’s not what I did, necessarily. It’s when you’re afraid to do something but you do it anyway.”
“But what,” said Percy, looking into his eyes, “if you don’t?”
+
“Hi, Mum,” said Percy, stepping through the fireplace at The Burrow.
“Merlin!” Mrs. Weasley put a hand on her chest. “Percy, you have to stop doing that. You’ll kill me one of these days. What if I was carrying some dishes?”
“Then I’d magic them whole again. Where’s Ginny?”
“She’s in her room.” Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Aren’t you going to give your mother a kiss now?”
Percy leaned forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Sorry. Love you.”
“Go say hello to your sister now. Are you going to stay for supper?”
“Is it just going to be you, me, and Ginny?” Percy asked, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Ron and the twins might be dropping by.”
“I think I’ll get supper back at the Alley, then.”
Mrs. Weasley frowned. “Heaven’s sake, Percy. I wish you boys would stop acting like such children. What with the cold shoulders and silent treatments, I feel like it’s still winter. Percy, when can I start believing I still have a family?”
“Alright, Mum,” Percy called out from the landing, and Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes.
+
The Burrow looked cluttered, had always looked cluttered, and will probably continue to look cluttered despite Mrs. Weasley’s efforts. Not that it actually was messy. It just looked messy, but there was some kind of system that prevented Percy from tripping over or ducking under anything. There was always just enough space to walk around, always just enough space to lie down. Just enough, never more, never less than you need. Economical and just this side of claustrophobic.
+
When Percy stepped inside, his sister was in a bathrobe on the bed, reading a novel.
“Hullo, Percival,” said Ginny, reaching for a bookmark on the night stand. “How are you?”
“Same as always, I suppose. I’ve got something to talk about. Why do you insist on calling me Percival?”
She set the book down on her lap and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that what you want to talk about?”
“No.”
Ginny nodded and adjusted her bathrobe, gesturing for Percy to have a seat on the rocking chair in the corner. “Wait. First, I have something to say. My behaviour when I was last at your flat. It was atrocious, I’m sorry.”
Percy laughed a little. “Ah. Ginny. It’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t give alcohol to your little sister, Percy,” she said lightly. “What a terrible brother you are.” Percy just smiled sheepishly and Ginny said, “What do you want to talk about.”
Percy wondered how to best bring up Oliver Wood.