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Percy dealt with facts. That itself was a fact.
As of 1994, the facts were simple.
- Barty Crouch Snr. was a longstanding respected ministry official.
- He had survived the first war and was a strong anti-Death eater official.
- Percy was lucky to hold such a prestigious position under him.
- After decades of loyal work, Crouch had taken ill and needed some aid in performing his duties.
Percy was sure of these facts. They might have caused him some teasing by certain members of his family, but he was staunch in his loyalty. It was his loyalty that gave him his bravery. His bravery enabled him to pursue his ambitions. Percy’s family had never understood his ministry ambitions the way that he had hoped. His desire to break free of the Weasley name and enter into the upper echelons of the ministry was met with disapproving remarks about not appreciating what one had. Appreciating what he had sounded more like settling below his worth.
Much happened over the following year. The return of the TriWizard Tournament caused many splashes, both positive and negative.
As of 1995, the facts were still simple. Even if they caused Percy some familial difficulties.
- The Minister himself had investigated Potter’s claims and found them false.
- The boy had previously entered dangerous circumstances and came out with great gain to himself. It was likely that he had a heavy ego, and equally heavy manipulation from Dumbledore.
- If Voldemort were back, people would know. People would be dying. There would be terror in the streets, like last time.
Looking back, Percy’s stubborn belief in the ministry aided in his overlooking quite a few gaps in those facts. That was until the end of the year, after the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries upturned magical Britain, when it became clear that Percy’s facts were incomplete.
- The ministry had been wrong. Grievously wrong.
- Voldemort was back.
- Someone was dead.
- His family, his baby brother, were right. And they were all in danger.
- He had royally fucked up.
Percy had kept his head down since the Crouch incident and had done his best not to be associated with politics – blood or otherwise. The latter half of 1996 and the start of 1997 were bittersweet for Percy. He was thriving at work, had several friends from multiple departments, and felt good about the direction of the ministry. It was improving, and preparing for the coming war. Percy was right in the thick of it, rising through the ranks. All facts pointed to the fact that he was living a successful life. On the other hand, he missed the loving family that had once chafed him.
Percy was proud, sometimes too proud. When the ugly side of that trait flared up, disaster followed and regrets were created. Percy didn’t reconcile with his family in 1996 or 1997. He recognized his wrongs internally, reevaluated his facts, and set his course to correct them. Again, he put his faith in the ministry, believing that it too was correcting itself.
His pride made him continue to be distant from his family. He hadn’t known the extent of the ministry’s wrongs, but they had left him, just as he had left them. The blame was shared equally among them. He missed holidays, birthdays, and even a wedding. His oldest brother's wedding to a woman Percy had only met in passing.
It was after Bill’s wedding that Percy once again had to reevaluate his career, morals, and, in general, his standing in life. He’d spent the day drowning himself in paperwork to ignore the misery of not being invited. Then, everything went to shit at the ministry, the minister was killed and pandemonium ensued. It wasn’t until afterward that he heard about the attack at the wedding. That the Death Eaters had raided and people were injured. Momentarily, fear overtook him that his family was harmed.
Still, Percy held his ground. He would not be the first to reach out. He would not apologize to his family for having dreams that his name got in the way of. It wasn’t that he thought that Voldemort’s puppet ministry was in the right, it was that he just wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He wasn’t a fighter, or a healer, or anyone important. What was he to do? It wasn’t until the bounty was placed on Ron’s head that he realized that it didn’t matter what he did, so long as he did something. He needed to help his family.
It took him several more days to figure out how to do something. Percy might be smart, diligent, and stubborn, but he wasn’t the most creative. In the end, he decided to reach out to Oliver. The last year or so, the two had kept up some communication, but back at Hogwarts, the two had been unlikely friends. The Quidditch-obsessed-manic and the should’ve-been-a-Ravenclaw-ministry-hopeful had bonded both over being weird kids and being the only Gryffindor boys in their year. Together, they had stayed up until late in the night studying (or, in Oliver’s case, obsessively reading about Quidditch) and talking about endless topics. Oliver had certainly grown into the weirdness better, having muscles and a jawline to go with his quirks, but he was still the same boy Percy had known.
They met in a small bar, late at night. Percy had reached out about wanting to catch up, and with some schedule finagling on Oliver’s part, the two had found time just a week later. After not even a drink, it all came pouring out. Percy’s stubborn refusal to listen, the mistakes he had made and ignored, the family he’d once had. In a corner booth at a strange muggle bar, with strange American music playing in the background, Percy sobbed his eyes out to his oldest friend. Oliver just wrapped his arms around Percy and took him home. Percy sat on the couch that he had helped Oliver move into the apartment, crying to Oliver’s chest; the same way he had when the couch was in Oliver’s parents’ house, after receiving an Exceeds Expectations on an exam.
He woke up the next day to the smell of scrambled eggs and sausage permeating the apartment. Percy used the high of Oliver remembering his favorite breakfast to push through the embarrassment of the previous night. Much to Percy’s relief, Oliver didn’t say anything, he just placed a plate in front of Percy and made small talk.
After their bellies were filled and the dishes were cleared, Oliver put parchment and a quill in front of Percy. “Write everything you know, everything you’ve heard, be it from memos, committees, or whispers in the hallway.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Finally, something that Percy could do that would help, rather than harm everything that he held dear. It was the perfect task for his logical mind. In true form, Percy spent the next few hours writing, colour coding, highlighting, and organising. He wrote a detailed account of everything he knew and ordered it by trustworthiness. The basic information filled the pages with sources and explanations taking up the margins.
No agreement was spoken, let alone written down. But every Saturday, like clockwork, Percy brought lists of every bit of information he could find, copying papers and annotating every detail. Fact or not, he recorded it. He and Oliver talked for hours, sometimes about the information Percy brought, and other times about the past or the few good parts of life.
After the fifth meeting, Percy stumbled on a gold mine. A woman in the DMLE had a crush on him. Her loose lips at the coffee station were as sweet as honey, though they didn’t endear him to her as she’d hoped. He rushed to tell Oliver that Thursday night despite it being earlier than scheduled.
All was forgotten when he saw the figure on the couch. Fear raced through his mind. Had he messed up again? Did Oliver not know? What the reputation of that family was? Or worse, did Oliver know and Percy was the one who messed? How could he be this bad at doing the right thing? He hardly registered the figure leave, or Oliver come over to his side, calming words spilling from his mouth, his hands pushing him onto the couch. Eventually, he came to. For Oliver, he could do this. He could trust that he was in this just as much as Percy was. For Oliver, Percy could trust Flint.
And so, a new normal was established. Flint joined the Saturday night information verification sessions, the rumors that swirled in his circles corresponding with the ones that Percy brought. The longer time stretched on, the more comfortably the trio settled, and slowly Percy’s trust in Oliver’s assessment of Flint became trust in Flint. The long nights forged their rivalries into a strong friendship. Intense nights of debate about the truth of hallway whispers were followed by mornings of pancakes and laughter. Oliver regaling them with Quidditch stories, Marcus ranting about the idiocy of the kids he tutored, and Percy telling anecdotes from the office smoothed over years of fierce competition on the pitch, and off of it.
As the months passed and as things became bleaker, they only worked harder, determined to do good where they could. Percy worked with his stiff Aunt Muriel and together they learned to forge family trees and take ‘relatives’ to France. Marcus stole and sold artifacts from every manor he had access to for money, and supplemented with his family fortune to buy the Portkeys for the ‘relatives of Percy’. Oliver’s quidditch games provided the perfect cover story for the trips. In his little record book, Percy noted the name and age of every person who left and consoled himself with their names during bad nights.
When Oliver received the call to defend Hogwarts, he notified Marcus and Percy, putting the choice to blow or keep their cover in their hands. They both arrived at Hogwarts in the middle of an intense battle. They dodged debris and spells alike and shelled each other with desperation before parting ways; Percy went to find his family, Marcus went to fight his. Percy fought his way through the crowds of Death Eaters, Order members, and students, with a single-minded focus: find his family. When he finally did, all he saw was Augustus Rookwood’s wand pointed straight at them. Percy didn’t recall what happened next, but spectators recounted how he pushed Fred aside, nearly getting caught in the blast himself.
When the dust had settled and his family finally left an inch of space around him, Oliver pushed his way through, his fear evident in his voice. Their eyes raked up and down the other’s body, assuring themselves of their safety. Before Percy could ask what had happened, Oliver’s lips touched Percy’s with the same effect of his personality. All of Percy’s worries disappeared, all he knew was calm. No thoughts remained, just the overwhelming joy that was Oliver.
As Oliver pulled back to let Percy breathe, he saw Marcus watching them, a small smile on his lips and a bruise on his cheek. Oliver too saw Marcus, his grin growing even bigger. Before they could wave Marcus over, he Apparated out. Percy didn’t have much time to think of it before his family swarmed him again, their squeals of joy loudly echoing through the great hall. But through the mass of bodies that were the Weasleys, Percy’s eyes met Oliver’s, and it was clear that Oliver shared Percy’s worry.
Later, when Percy went to talk to Marcus, he was nowhere to be found. Through friends, Percy heard that Marcus had smoothed things out with the ministry and left Britain. No one had seen him after the Battle. He was just gone; he left without so much as a goodbye.
Percy moved in with Oliver, much to their mothers’ excitement. He went to family dinners, met with his siblings, and reached out to old friends. He made an effort to be better. He didn’t trust the ministry to improve, he pushed it forward into better days. He took a promotion into the diplomatic sector at the ministry and made it his mission to see as many of Oliver’s games as possible. His new job allowed for copious travel, making his mission easier. He and Oliver did their very best to ignore the Marcus-sized hole in their hearts, home, and bed.
In the middle of a late night, mid-season game, Percy swore he saw a flash of a familiar face. Though when he whipped around, his heartbeat rising with excitement, he didn’t see Marcus. Still, he followed his gut, weaving through the crowd, and soon vindicated when he caught sight of the stocky figure. He chased Marcus into the stadium bathroom and shoved him against the wall.
“Why? Why’d you leave?” He demanded, with his heartbreak at the confusing abandonment bleeding into his plea.
Marcus didn’t answer, instead, he averted his eyes and tried to push Percy away. Marcus had the force and ability to hurt Percy, had he wished to do so. But, instead of freeing himself from Percy, the shove only put them closer when Percy fought back. Chest to chest, they locked eyes, and before the tension could snap, someone moved.
Marcus kissed more violently than Oliver. Oliver was the calm to Marcus’s storm. Oliver was sweet and slow, Marcus was passionate and fast. Where Oliver kissed slowly and soothingly before gently pulling them to bed, Marcus dragged as fast as he could, accelerating the pleasures before Percy could even think. Where Oliver’s hands caressed like a sweet lullaby, Marcus’ pulled and tugged, wanting more. Before Percy could so much as think, they were tearing at each other’s shirts. Percy Apparated them home and they fell into bed.
Later, Oliver found them tangled up in the sheets, pillows cast aside in favor of Marcus’s chest. He smiled. “Finally decided to come home, huh?”