Harry Potter: Abeyance [Percy/Oliver]
Title: Abeyance
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Length: ~3,500 words
Rating: PG-13
Notes: LOOK GUYS, I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING OMG. Written for the lovely, wonderful phenylic. I wasn't going to post it until she pestered me. I still think it's a bit pretentious, but OH WELL. Contains HP7 spoilers. Now crossposted to AO3 here.
In which Oliver keeps on living.
31st December, 1999
Day 414
Quiet lives on the hillside, the type you can only find in places like this in the world. Oliver twitches his fingers, fiddles with the rucksack, eyes on the horizon, vacant and inattentive. Fairy-light strings of cottages loop and twine through the valley, and to the East the Yorkshire skyline glows a sickly orange from the nearby cities, but up here the lack of light means he has to strain to read his watch. He stiffens as he sees the time, shoulders the bag higher, marches ten paces West and stares at the plain air with a maddeningly desperate focus.
Thirty seconds later, a man appears from nowhere right beside him.
Oliver grabs his shoulders tightly, tries to lock on to his eyes but fails, gets only panicked confusion in return. “Percy,” he hisses, squeezing tighter, “Perce.” Even as he says it, his friend buckles beneath his hands in agony; a broken little moan flees; and Oliver’s hands fall down empty as the shoulders under them vanish just as they came, leaving him to heave in desperate lungfuls of icy air.
He takes a minute; feels his heart calming. He keeps his eyes tightly shut for just a moment, imagines Percy still standing there, and then reconciles himself with the inevitability of the empty hillside and opens them again. Oliver pats his breast pocket, makes a few, cursive notes in the tatty book there, shrugs the bag up again and begins his crablike descent.
Above and to the North, fireworks arc out the start of the new millennium.
14th September, 1999
Day 306
A harried Ron Weasley halts him on his doorstep just as he’s setting out. Oliver doesn’t say much, just shrugs off the rucksack and opens the door wider, inviting him in just as Ron opens his mouth to demand entry. Ron watches him make them tea and then refuses the mug Oliver offers him, standing awkwardly in his kitchen and glancing around surreptitiously, as if he expects Oliver to have his brother hidden in a cupboard somewhere.
“Are you coming with me this time, then?”
“There’s a match on,” Ron says, blankly. “Aren’t you playing?”
“Reserve, remember?” Oliver fumbles with the rucksack strap, his eye on the clock in the corner, marking out the time. He stands quickly. “If you’re coming or not, I need to be - ”
“See,” Ron interrupts, eyes on his feet, ears ominously going red. “See - the thing is - ” He gnaws at his lip. “It’s not - right. Can’t you see that?”
“What’s not?” he replies, tone cold.
Ron draws himself up full height, making a brave attempt to square his shoulders. “You’re not going,” he says, firmly, or at least as well as he can manage, voice a few notes higher than normal and wobbling alarmingly. “He’s our family, and - Mum - you’re not going.” He shakes his head. “He’s dead, Oliver. And it’s - upsetting people. You pretending he’s not. We want to think that he is. And he’s our family.” He falters, goes back to staring at his feet.
Oliver’s fingers ache from when he balled them up beside him, and he struggles to keep himself calm. “I can’t. I have to - ”
“Help? There’s nothing on the whole bloody Earth that can help. Oliver, it’s nearly been a year.”
“I can’t - just,” he mumbles, head down.
“Where’re you going?”
“Cardiff. Family trip there when I was twelve.” He can feel Ron watching him, can almost hear the dull thunks as his brain mulls it over. “I’m not stopping,” he continues, finally. “And you can tell your parents that if they don’t like it, they’re to come have it out with me themselves.” He watches as relief crumples through Ron, who’s clearly glad to not have an argument on his hand; Ron picks up the bag Oliver discarded on the couch, hands it across to him and starts to meander towards the front door.
“Take care,” Ron says absently as he shrugs on his coat, voice on autopilot.
“Cheers.” He hesitates. “You were at the inquiry, same as me - you know what’s happening to him, I can’t, just - ”
Ron nods, shifts his weight uneasily from left to right. “Listen, mate, I’ve got no issue with you doing - what you do. But my parents... ” He breaks off. “They think he’s ours. I think you’ve got as much right, but you can probably guess how stubborn they are.” Oliver chokes for a second in a whirl of grief as he remembers Percy saying as much, once, after an extremely awkward reunion with his parents - something must show, as Ron turns away, lets him have a moment, as if he’s stumbled on something achingly private.
They share an incredibly awkward handshake in the corridor, and Oliver waits til he disappears around the corner before departing himself.
12th November, 1998
Day 0
“You’d find it a lot easier to recover your clothes if you stopped ogling me out of the corner of your eye.” Percy stretches, looking utterly comfortable, and Oliver hates him for it.
“I’m just not over how horribly you clash with my duvet,” he replies, diving down on all fours to dig under the bed for his underwear. “Pastels and vibrant orange hair,” he continues, “are by no means an acceptable combination.”
“It’s a novelty for me, too; my beds have never had pastel duvets.”
Oliver grins. “That’s because you’re not a manly man who can pull off such effeminacy.”
He grabs from the pile of clothes and starts dressing; Percy wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Oliver, you wore those yesterday, that’s just disgusting.”
His grin widens; he climbs on the bed, sits himself squarely across Percy’s legs. “Ent no one but me and you gonna know, so what’s it matter?” He kisses him slowly, keeps his eyes open so he can check there’s still the same number of freckles on his nose.
“I’m sure they’ll tell from the smell,” Percy mumbles, snuggling further under the duvet. “Merlin knows I can.”
Oliver whacks him over the head, and then falls beside him in a messy heap, groaning pathetically. “Percy, I loathe my job.”
“You love your job, almost as much as I do.”
“It’s 7am, Perce. Seven. It’s not even light outside, how is that normal?”
Percy looks down at him fondly. “I’m usually sat at my desk by now.”
“Like I said,” he muffles into the pillow, “not normal.”
“It’s closer to half past, anyway.” Oliver swears and rolls off onto the floor, charging off on a desperate quest for his shoes. “Don’t forget to leave that paperwork aside for me to drop off.”
Oliver reappears in coat, shoes and scarf, not necessarily all on the right appendages. “Actually, I thought I’d drop it in. As I’m in the area. Besides,” he grins, “there’s someone in the Ministry I’d like to pay a visit to, anyway.” He glances at his watch again, swears loudly. “Christ, I’m going to be so late - ” He vanishes into the hall; Percy hears a succession of angry clattering noises, several bangs and even more choice words before he reappears again. “I did mention that I love you, right?”
He grins as Percy rolls his eyes, and dashes back off down the hallway. “You’re pathetic,” Percy replies, just before he hears Oliver get swallowed by the Floo flames.
Percy sighs. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you’re late.” He looks up, and raises an eyebrow. “And wet. And covered in mud.”
“It’s raining, Perce,” Oliver whines, and they simultaneously glance at the spelled window behind his desk, which shows a cool, crisp sky, utterly devoid of rainclouds. “Well, it’s raining in sodding Newport,” he mutters darkly, and shuts the door to Percy’s office with one muddy bootprint. “I brought lunch,” he continues hopefully, holding up two heaving, steaming bags.
The peace offering works; Percy cordons off an area of desk big enough for two plates heaped with food, and Oliver transfigures his lampstand into a desk chair. “Good morning?”
“Thrilling,” Percy deadpans. “I managed five minutes of my time off before Justice Ramsbottom had a panic attack about a group of unclassified shrewdiggers. I’m sure it’ll thrill you to know I was out of the door about ten minutes after you were.” Oliver beams unreservedly at the news.
A rap on the door saves Oliver from the displeased rant he can see forming behind Percy’s eyes; he’s instead paying attention to the tiny crystal embedded in the top right-hand corner of the door, which is still glowing an amiable green. “Come in.”
“Parcel for Mr. Shacklebolt,” the intruder says. “I understand you’re the man they come to.”
“Yes. On the stand over there, if you please.” He drops the box and leaves, looking relieved; Percy approaches it cautiously, turns it slowly with his wand.
Numb fear grabs Oliver’s stomach. “You weren’t expecting anything.”
“No.” He looks between the crystal, still green, and the Sneakoscope on his desk, still silent, and worries at his lip. “Still think the Aurors had better deal with it.” He settles down behind his desk again, sends off a memo and continues eating; but Oliver notices how he keeps one eye trained on the box all the way through their lunch.
Oliver’s on his way out before the cavalry arrive in the form of a disgruntled Williamson. “Trouble?”
“Mystery package,” Percy replies, gesturing at it vaguely. “Didn’t want it exploding in my face.” He pointedly ignores Oliver lewdly wiggling his eyebrows at the innuendo. Williamson picks it up, spinning it loosely between his fingers, and Percy turns back to his friend. “What time do I need to be back for dinner?”
“Circuits tonight, so dunno. If I’m not back by half eight, go on without me.” Oliver takes a step back to pick up his bag, and it saves his life.
The parcel explodes in a sea of noiseless light.
He has a half-decent shield charm up and around himself and Percy in a heartbeat; Percy spins to Oliver, looking terrified, and he watches as the curse floods into Percy’s back. Percy steps towards him; Oliver grabs his arm; Percy screams, a noise of agony he’s never heard the like of before - and vanishes.
2nd January, 2000
Day 416
George sits up straight like Percy does; Oliver’s noticed it’s a trend in the Weasley family, and one they either tend to ignore outright or constantly obey. Ginny doesn’t; Ron doesn’t; Bill does. He can’t remember whether Fred used to. He expects that Molly tries to teach it to them when they were little, and some stuck with it more than others.
“Getting worse?” George echoes, and looks grim.
Oliver nods. “He used to, I don’t know - not recognise me, but know he was looking at someone, sometimes even catch my eye.” He drinks from his mug, knows George is watching him. “I hadn’t seen him for a month before last time.” They finish their drinks in silence, with neither of them feeling like there’s anything pertinent to say. They used to make a regularity of this, mainly because Oliver just doesn’t have anyone else who’d listen to him, and George likes to pretend he was back at school again, but less so, now, like it’s a bad habit. “Are the others okay?”
George nods. “D’you see anything of them?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think they like me being around. A reminder, you know?”
16th February, 1999
Day 96
Oliver’s seen his fair share of cold exam tables, what with a plethora of visits to the Hospital Wing, rigorous and invasive check-ups for the team and parents that were borderline hypochondriacs, but he finds it incredibly disorientating to be sat on a warm, comfy couch in what is still undeniably a doctor’s office. He’s not sure if it actually is preferable to the freezing rooms he’s seen before.
“The last of your possessions were released today,” Anderson is telling him amiably. Oliver eyes up the odd assortment of things that had been in his pockets; a fountain pen, a travelcard, stray quill feathers, what looks suspiciously like owl food. “No effect of the curse on any of them.” He scrapes them off the table and slides them into his jacket pocket, not feeling particularly relieved. “Have you seen him lately?”
Oliver shrugs one shoulder. “Last Wednesday, on the street corner. I think.” He’s sure, in fact, it was him, but he’s tired of people looking at him like he’s lost his mind.
Anderson nods, and makes a note on her file that he’s itching to read. She’s working towards some new academic achievement, and Oliver always gets the nasty feeling he’s her pet project. “I hear they charged Nott?”
Oliver nods. “He confessed. To the attempt, but not what he actually did.” If they execute him as planned, there’ll be no chance of an explanation, of course, but Oliver’s already done his fair share of pleading and it’s done nothing but further lose his dignity. When the hour’s done, she signs a little slip of paper on her desk with thin lips and gestures him towards the door.
He unfolds the slip of paper as he walks through the nearby offices, and snorts to read Anderson briefly confirm that he is neither suffering from PTSD nor any other mental disorder by ticking a succession of pre-ordained boxes. He hands it in to Naoise, who smiles at him kindly, and looks pleased at his result. “I’ll just get this processed for you.” She potters off to the back room, fetches his file and clips the slip to it. She pats his hand as he takes his copy, and smiles. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” He appreciates the thought, but as much as Naoise is a lovely girl he’s pretty sure the sentiment carries the same amount of reassurance as if it were delivered by Luna Lovegood.
13th November, 1998
Day 1
He puts his keys on the table, and stares at the kitchen cupboards, trying to remember what they stocked up on from the week before. He’s starving; he’s spent the last day locked in an interrogation chamber with a Dementor on one side and a vicious-looking Auror with a wand on the other. What was Percy going to make? Or was he cooking for Percy? He closes his eyes, tries to run back through what happened in the office. Christ, the last discussion they ever have, and it’s about the dinner. He leans on the counter, struggles to get himself back together.
When he looks up, Percy’s standing in the kitchen.
Oliver has time to take a step forward and raise his hand - and then he’s gone, as quickly as the day before, leaving him to stare fiercely at a blank wall and feel like parts of his mind are slowly breaking away.
28th December, 1998
Day 46
The inquiry drags. For days, Oliver is faced faced each morning with standing in front of a new line of faces and repeating himself. They take particular interest in Percy’s defences, and tut and sigh over how easily he let the man slip, determined, of course, that he should take the fall and not them.
There had been a recession for the holiday, but now the court resumes, though with markedly less enthusiasm for the case. Before they adjourned, the Ministry was freed from any repercussions for the event, and as of such the whys and wherefores hold little interest to the assigned officials. Even Oliver is losing spirit, if only from the sheer tedium and the inevitability the whole process will tell him nothing.
Tiny puffs of breath cloud across the court, and Oliver is surprised not to see frost on the floor; the Ministry may have fallen and risen again, but they’ve still not had the sense to make their courtrooms comfortable. Heavily swaddled in furs, one William Chadwick presents to the jury his findings on the spellwork present in the office, with particular interest, of course, in the cursed package found on the side-table.
The judge peers down at Chadwick with rather narrow eyes. “On inspecting said package, Mr. Chadwick, did you find anything of particular interest?”
“It was entirely unremarkable, ma’am. With the exception of its contents, naturally.”
“Which were?”
“Nothing tangible, ma’am, but the clear remains of a terribly powerful curse or hex.”
“And what were your findings in regards to this particular spell?”
Chadwick clicks his tongue. “Complex indeed, ma’am. Dark magic, certainly.”
The judge leans back in her chair, looking satisfied. “Cast with the intention to kill. You may stand down, Mr. Chadwick.”
Chadwick, however, does not leave, but looks at the judge in puzzlement. “Well, no, ma’am. The curse’s intention was most definitely not to kill. The victim isn’t dead.”
Utter silence throughout the room. “Do you mean to tell me, Chadwick, that he merely vanished into thin air?”
Chadwick shrugs. “In a manner of speaking. The victim has certainly been discorporated, but it seems highly unlikely that such a thing would kill him. Most probably, he has been temporally disturbed, and remains in some limbo, if you will, until the curse sees fit to return him. It is not unlikely these respites will be temporary, and presumably focused in some manner - to a person, a place, a thing, or some such.”
The judge stares at him in sheer shock. “What evidence do you have for such an account?”
“None, ma’am. It’s only a theory.”
The judge scoffs, turns to face the Weasley family, a vivid orange bunch lighting a slip of the courtroom to one side. “And what of you, hmm? Have any of you seen anything which would validate this theory?”
Heart in his throat, on the other side of the room, Oliver stands, shaking. “I have.”
15th July, 2002
Day 1,341
Oliver’s back at his Mum’s. He had genuinely thought it might be somewhere Percy would come to; but no joy there. It was just more convenient, now, than being stuck back in that flat which took on the air of a mausoleum more with every passing day.
He’s drying dishes in the kitchen, back to the sink, which means he stands facing the garden - and notices the flash of red - no, of orange, he’s sure of it - and he’s wrestled with the back door and burst onto the lawn only heartbeats later, but the back yard’s inexorably, inescapably empty.
It’s the only hint he’s had for five months.
2nd May, 1998
194 days before
Oliver finds him alone. His hands are still smeared with mud and blood - the latter his own - from where he tore at the earth earlier that afternoon. They can’t smell the stench from here, no longer on the back end of the wind, and if he turns his back and stares straight on over the lake he can pretend he’s just at school again.
“I ought to go back down,” Percy says, suddenly. “I know.” Oliver moves in front of him, picks up his bloodied hand and traces across the palm softly. “Are you going to make me?”
“I think you should,” he replies, softly. “But no.” Percy nods. “He’s in the ground, now. They’ve started on - the others.” A second nod. “Perce - ” He smears a line of filth across his cheek, holding his face tight; Percy’s eyes are closed as he cries in silence. He kisses him for the first time there - the first real time - but keeps his eyes open to count freckles and to hold off the bolts of green light he knows he’ll see stamped on the inside of his eyes.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Length: ~3,500 words
Rating: PG-13
Notes: LOOK GUYS, I ACTUALLY WROTE SOMETHING OMG. Written for the lovely, wonderful phenylic. I wasn't going to post it until she pestered me. I still think it's a bit pretentious, but OH WELL. Contains HP7 spoilers. Now crossposted to AO3 here.
In which Oliver keeps on living.
31st December, 1999
Day 414
Quiet lives on the hillside, the type you can only find in places like this in the world. Oliver twitches his fingers, fiddles with the rucksack, eyes on the horizon, vacant and inattentive. Fairy-light strings of cottages loop and twine through the valley, and to the East the Yorkshire skyline glows a sickly orange from the nearby cities, but up here the lack of light means he has to strain to read his watch. He stiffens as he sees the time, shoulders the bag higher, marches ten paces West and stares at the plain air with a maddeningly desperate focus.
Thirty seconds later, a man appears from nowhere right beside him.
Oliver grabs his shoulders tightly, tries to lock on to his eyes but fails, gets only panicked confusion in return. “Percy,” he hisses, squeezing tighter, “Perce.” Even as he says it, his friend buckles beneath his hands in agony; a broken little moan flees; and Oliver’s hands fall down empty as the shoulders under them vanish just as they came, leaving him to heave in desperate lungfuls of icy air.
He takes a minute; feels his heart calming. He keeps his eyes tightly shut for just a moment, imagines Percy still standing there, and then reconciles himself with the inevitability of the empty hillside and opens them again. Oliver pats his breast pocket, makes a few, cursive notes in the tatty book there, shrugs the bag up again and begins his crablike descent.
Above and to the North, fireworks arc out the start of the new millennium.
14th September, 1999
Day 306
A harried Ron Weasley halts him on his doorstep just as he’s setting out. Oliver doesn’t say much, just shrugs off the rucksack and opens the door wider, inviting him in just as Ron opens his mouth to demand entry. Ron watches him make them tea and then refuses the mug Oliver offers him, standing awkwardly in his kitchen and glancing around surreptitiously, as if he expects Oliver to have his brother hidden in a cupboard somewhere.
“Are you coming with me this time, then?”
“There’s a match on,” Ron says, blankly. “Aren’t you playing?”
“Reserve, remember?” Oliver fumbles with the rucksack strap, his eye on the clock in the corner, marking out the time. He stands quickly. “If you’re coming or not, I need to be - ”
“See,” Ron interrupts, eyes on his feet, ears ominously going red. “See - the thing is - ” He gnaws at his lip. “It’s not - right. Can’t you see that?”
“What’s not?” he replies, tone cold.
Ron draws himself up full height, making a brave attempt to square his shoulders. “You’re not going,” he says, firmly, or at least as well as he can manage, voice a few notes higher than normal and wobbling alarmingly. “He’s our family, and - Mum - you’re not going.” He shakes his head. “He’s dead, Oliver. And it’s - upsetting people. You pretending he’s not. We want to think that he is. And he’s our family.” He falters, goes back to staring at his feet.
Oliver’s fingers ache from when he balled them up beside him, and he struggles to keep himself calm. “I can’t. I have to - ”
“Help? There’s nothing on the whole bloody Earth that can help. Oliver, it’s nearly been a year.”
“I can’t - just,” he mumbles, head down.
“Where’re you going?”
“Cardiff. Family trip there when I was twelve.” He can feel Ron watching him, can almost hear the dull thunks as his brain mulls it over. “I’m not stopping,” he continues, finally. “And you can tell your parents that if they don’t like it, they’re to come have it out with me themselves.” He watches as relief crumples through Ron, who’s clearly glad to not have an argument on his hand; Ron picks up the bag Oliver discarded on the couch, hands it across to him and starts to meander towards the front door.
“Take care,” Ron says absently as he shrugs on his coat, voice on autopilot.
“Cheers.” He hesitates. “You were at the inquiry, same as me - you know what’s happening to him, I can’t, just - ”
Ron nods, shifts his weight uneasily from left to right. “Listen, mate, I’ve got no issue with you doing - what you do. But my parents... ” He breaks off. “They think he’s ours. I think you’ve got as much right, but you can probably guess how stubborn they are.” Oliver chokes for a second in a whirl of grief as he remembers Percy saying as much, once, after an extremely awkward reunion with his parents - something must show, as Ron turns away, lets him have a moment, as if he’s stumbled on something achingly private.
They share an incredibly awkward handshake in the corridor, and Oliver waits til he disappears around the corner before departing himself.
12th November, 1998
Day 0
“You’d find it a lot easier to recover your clothes if you stopped ogling me out of the corner of your eye.” Percy stretches, looking utterly comfortable, and Oliver hates him for it.
“I’m just not over how horribly you clash with my duvet,” he replies, diving down on all fours to dig under the bed for his underwear. “Pastels and vibrant orange hair,” he continues, “are by no means an acceptable combination.”
“It’s a novelty for me, too; my beds have never had pastel duvets.”
Oliver grins. “That’s because you’re not a manly man who can pull off such effeminacy.”
He grabs from the pile of clothes and starts dressing; Percy wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Oliver, you wore those yesterday, that’s just disgusting.”
His grin widens; he climbs on the bed, sits himself squarely across Percy’s legs. “Ent no one but me and you gonna know, so what’s it matter?” He kisses him slowly, keeps his eyes open so he can check there’s still the same number of freckles on his nose.
“I’m sure they’ll tell from the smell,” Percy mumbles, snuggling further under the duvet. “Merlin knows I can.”
Oliver whacks him over the head, and then falls beside him in a messy heap, groaning pathetically. “Percy, I loathe my job.”
“You love your job, almost as much as I do.”
“It’s 7am, Perce. Seven. It’s not even light outside, how is that normal?”
Percy looks down at him fondly. “I’m usually sat at my desk by now.”
“Like I said,” he muffles into the pillow, “not normal.”
“It’s closer to half past, anyway.” Oliver swears and rolls off onto the floor, charging off on a desperate quest for his shoes. “Don’t forget to leave that paperwork aside for me to drop off.”
Oliver reappears in coat, shoes and scarf, not necessarily all on the right appendages. “Actually, I thought I’d drop it in. As I’m in the area. Besides,” he grins, “there’s someone in the Ministry I’d like to pay a visit to, anyway.” He glances at his watch again, swears loudly. “Christ, I’m going to be so late - ” He vanishes into the hall; Percy hears a succession of angry clattering noises, several bangs and even more choice words before he reappears again. “I did mention that I love you, right?”
He grins as Percy rolls his eyes, and dashes back off down the hallway. “You’re pathetic,” Percy replies, just before he hears Oliver get swallowed by the Floo flames.
Percy sighs. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you’re late.” He looks up, and raises an eyebrow. “And wet. And covered in mud.”
“It’s raining, Perce,” Oliver whines, and they simultaneously glance at the spelled window behind his desk, which shows a cool, crisp sky, utterly devoid of rainclouds. “Well, it’s raining in sodding Newport,” he mutters darkly, and shuts the door to Percy’s office with one muddy bootprint. “I brought lunch,” he continues hopefully, holding up two heaving, steaming bags.
The peace offering works; Percy cordons off an area of desk big enough for two plates heaped with food, and Oliver transfigures his lampstand into a desk chair. “Good morning?”
“Thrilling,” Percy deadpans. “I managed five minutes of my time off before Justice Ramsbottom had a panic attack about a group of unclassified shrewdiggers. I’m sure it’ll thrill you to know I was out of the door about ten minutes after you were.” Oliver beams unreservedly at the news.
A rap on the door saves Oliver from the displeased rant he can see forming behind Percy’s eyes; he’s instead paying attention to the tiny crystal embedded in the top right-hand corner of the door, which is still glowing an amiable green. “Come in.”
“Parcel for Mr. Shacklebolt,” the intruder says. “I understand you’re the man they come to.”
“Yes. On the stand over there, if you please.” He drops the box and leaves, looking relieved; Percy approaches it cautiously, turns it slowly with his wand.
Numb fear grabs Oliver’s stomach. “You weren’t expecting anything.”
“No.” He looks between the crystal, still green, and the Sneakoscope on his desk, still silent, and worries at his lip. “Still think the Aurors had better deal with it.” He settles down behind his desk again, sends off a memo and continues eating; but Oliver notices how he keeps one eye trained on the box all the way through their lunch.
Oliver’s on his way out before the cavalry arrive in the form of a disgruntled Williamson. “Trouble?”
“Mystery package,” Percy replies, gesturing at it vaguely. “Didn’t want it exploding in my face.” He pointedly ignores Oliver lewdly wiggling his eyebrows at the innuendo. Williamson picks it up, spinning it loosely between his fingers, and Percy turns back to his friend. “What time do I need to be back for dinner?”
“Circuits tonight, so dunno. If I’m not back by half eight, go on without me.” Oliver takes a step back to pick up his bag, and it saves his life.
The parcel explodes in a sea of noiseless light.
He has a half-decent shield charm up and around himself and Percy in a heartbeat; Percy spins to Oliver, looking terrified, and he watches as the curse floods into Percy’s back. Percy steps towards him; Oliver grabs his arm; Percy screams, a noise of agony he’s never heard the like of before - and vanishes.
2nd January, 2000
Day 416
George sits up straight like Percy does; Oliver’s noticed it’s a trend in the Weasley family, and one they either tend to ignore outright or constantly obey. Ginny doesn’t; Ron doesn’t; Bill does. He can’t remember whether Fred used to. He expects that Molly tries to teach it to them when they were little, and some stuck with it more than others.
“Getting worse?” George echoes, and looks grim.
Oliver nods. “He used to, I don’t know - not recognise me, but know he was looking at someone, sometimes even catch my eye.” He drinks from his mug, knows George is watching him. “I hadn’t seen him for a month before last time.” They finish their drinks in silence, with neither of them feeling like there’s anything pertinent to say. They used to make a regularity of this, mainly because Oliver just doesn’t have anyone else who’d listen to him, and George likes to pretend he was back at school again, but less so, now, like it’s a bad habit. “Are the others okay?”
George nods. “D’you see anything of them?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think they like me being around. A reminder, you know?”
16th February, 1999
Day 96
Oliver’s seen his fair share of cold exam tables, what with a plethora of visits to the Hospital Wing, rigorous and invasive check-ups for the team and parents that were borderline hypochondriacs, but he finds it incredibly disorientating to be sat on a warm, comfy couch in what is still undeniably a doctor’s office. He’s not sure if it actually is preferable to the freezing rooms he’s seen before.
“The last of your possessions were released today,” Anderson is telling him amiably. Oliver eyes up the odd assortment of things that had been in his pockets; a fountain pen, a travelcard, stray quill feathers, what looks suspiciously like owl food. “No effect of the curse on any of them.” He scrapes them off the table and slides them into his jacket pocket, not feeling particularly relieved. “Have you seen him lately?”
Oliver shrugs one shoulder. “Last Wednesday, on the street corner. I think.” He’s sure, in fact, it was him, but he’s tired of people looking at him like he’s lost his mind.
Anderson nods, and makes a note on her file that he’s itching to read. She’s working towards some new academic achievement, and Oliver always gets the nasty feeling he’s her pet project. “I hear they charged Nott?”
Oliver nods. “He confessed. To the attempt, but not what he actually did.” If they execute him as planned, there’ll be no chance of an explanation, of course, but Oliver’s already done his fair share of pleading and it’s done nothing but further lose his dignity. When the hour’s done, she signs a little slip of paper on her desk with thin lips and gestures him towards the door.
He unfolds the slip of paper as he walks through the nearby offices, and snorts to read Anderson briefly confirm that he is neither suffering from PTSD nor any other mental disorder by ticking a succession of pre-ordained boxes. He hands it in to Naoise, who smiles at him kindly, and looks pleased at his result. “I’ll just get this processed for you.” She potters off to the back room, fetches his file and clips the slip to it. She pats his hand as he takes his copy, and smiles. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” He appreciates the thought, but as much as Naoise is a lovely girl he’s pretty sure the sentiment carries the same amount of reassurance as if it were delivered by Luna Lovegood.
13th November, 1998
Day 1
He puts his keys on the table, and stares at the kitchen cupboards, trying to remember what they stocked up on from the week before. He’s starving; he’s spent the last day locked in an interrogation chamber with a Dementor on one side and a vicious-looking Auror with a wand on the other. What was Percy going to make? Or was he cooking for Percy? He closes his eyes, tries to run back through what happened in the office. Christ, the last discussion they ever have, and it’s about the dinner. He leans on the counter, struggles to get himself back together.
When he looks up, Percy’s standing in the kitchen.
Oliver has time to take a step forward and raise his hand - and then he’s gone, as quickly as the day before, leaving him to stare fiercely at a blank wall and feel like parts of his mind are slowly breaking away.
28th December, 1998
Day 46
The inquiry drags. For days, Oliver is faced faced each morning with standing in front of a new line of faces and repeating himself. They take particular interest in Percy’s defences, and tut and sigh over how easily he let the man slip, determined, of course, that he should take the fall and not them.
There had been a recession for the holiday, but now the court resumes, though with markedly less enthusiasm for the case. Before they adjourned, the Ministry was freed from any repercussions for the event, and as of such the whys and wherefores hold little interest to the assigned officials. Even Oliver is losing spirit, if only from the sheer tedium and the inevitability the whole process will tell him nothing.
Tiny puffs of breath cloud across the court, and Oliver is surprised not to see frost on the floor; the Ministry may have fallen and risen again, but they’ve still not had the sense to make their courtrooms comfortable. Heavily swaddled in furs, one William Chadwick presents to the jury his findings on the spellwork present in the office, with particular interest, of course, in the cursed package found on the side-table.
The judge peers down at Chadwick with rather narrow eyes. “On inspecting said package, Mr. Chadwick, did you find anything of particular interest?”
“It was entirely unremarkable, ma’am. With the exception of its contents, naturally.”
“Which were?”
“Nothing tangible, ma’am, but the clear remains of a terribly powerful curse or hex.”
“And what were your findings in regards to this particular spell?”
Chadwick clicks his tongue. “Complex indeed, ma’am. Dark magic, certainly.”
The judge leans back in her chair, looking satisfied. “Cast with the intention to kill. You may stand down, Mr. Chadwick.”
Chadwick, however, does not leave, but looks at the judge in puzzlement. “Well, no, ma’am. The curse’s intention was most definitely not to kill. The victim isn’t dead.”
Utter silence throughout the room. “Do you mean to tell me, Chadwick, that he merely vanished into thin air?”
Chadwick shrugs. “In a manner of speaking. The victim has certainly been discorporated, but it seems highly unlikely that such a thing would kill him. Most probably, he has been temporally disturbed, and remains in some limbo, if you will, until the curse sees fit to return him. It is not unlikely these respites will be temporary, and presumably focused in some manner - to a person, a place, a thing, or some such.”
The judge stares at him in sheer shock. “What evidence do you have for such an account?”
“None, ma’am. It’s only a theory.”
The judge scoffs, turns to face the Weasley family, a vivid orange bunch lighting a slip of the courtroom to one side. “And what of you, hmm? Have any of you seen anything which would validate this theory?”
Heart in his throat, on the other side of the room, Oliver stands, shaking. “I have.”
15th July, 2002
Day 1,341
Oliver’s back at his Mum’s. He had genuinely thought it might be somewhere Percy would come to; but no joy there. It was just more convenient, now, than being stuck back in that flat which took on the air of a mausoleum more with every passing day.
He’s drying dishes in the kitchen, back to the sink, which means he stands facing the garden - and notices the flash of red - no, of orange, he’s sure of it - and he’s wrestled with the back door and burst onto the lawn only heartbeats later, but the back yard’s inexorably, inescapably empty.
It’s the only hint he’s had for five months.
2nd May, 1998
194 days before
Oliver finds him alone. His hands are still smeared with mud and blood - the latter his own - from where he tore at the earth earlier that afternoon. They can’t smell the stench from here, no longer on the back end of the wind, and if he turns his back and stares straight on over the lake he can pretend he’s just at school again.
“I ought to go back down,” Percy says, suddenly. “I know.” Oliver moves in front of him, picks up his bloodied hand and traces across the palm softly. “Are you going to make me?”
“I think you should,” he replies, softly. “But no.” Percy nods. “He’s in the ground, now. They’ve started on - the others.” A second nod. “Perce - ” He smears a line of filth across his cheek, holding his face tight; Percy’s eyes are closed as he cries in silence. He kisses him for the first time there - the first real time - but keeps his eyes open to count freckles and to hold off the bolts of green light he knows he’ll see stamped on the inside of his eyes.