A/N: This was written for my beautiful, beautiful wifey, Sammie. There will be five in the collection, one for each of the stages of grief, because I am incredibly original like that.

Sam, I know you wanted me to try and write you some Merlin, but let's be real...it took you all months to get me to watch Sherlock. Perhaps Merlin for your birthday? ;)

But, my darling, you mean so very much to me, and I hope you like this collection.

A thousand thanks to Jasmine for her fab betaing!

Denial

For weeks afterwards, he is calm.

He sits in the Burrow and watches the family around him; where they are all broken edges and too-loud voices, all too many tears and rib-bruising hugs, Percy is just brooding looks and stony silence. Just loneliness and sky-high barriers.

You watch him.

You feel like an intruder, like you don't belong here. Like you should leave.

But Mrs. Weasley hugs you tight. She says, "You are so brave," and, "Stay as long as you like," and, "Make sure he's okay, won't you?"

Percy sits in that chair in the corner of the sitting room, away from all of his family, and you know you cannot leave him there. He sits there, alone, and you wonder what he is thinking. What he is feeling.

"Perce," you whisper, when the others have climbed the stairs, dragging their weary bones to bed. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," Percy says. His brow is furrowed, his mouth slipping downwards into a frown.

"You can't think nothing," you say. "No one can. Not even the fabulous Percy Weasley."

The teasing edge to your voice comes out a bit too sharp; it falls, clatters to the floor and clangs in your ears.

He does not look up.

"Your family..." you try to say, but you don't have the words to make it better. You don't have anything to say that could make this okay, not at all. You've never been any good with words. "I'm sorry, Percy. I really am."

He looks at you then, blue eyes wide, and smiles.

"Why? He Who Must – Voldemort is dead, Oliver! He's dead! It's over now," he beams. "Over."

His voice falters on that last word, shakes and trembles in those two tiny syllables, but it is enough to break you.

"Percy, I –," you choke. "Fred was –"

"I wonder what George will do about the shop," he says, voice calm again, smooth as anything.

"The– the shop?" you ask, incredulous. "Who cares about the shop?"

"George must. Fred did. The two of them were, well, mad about it. How can George run it without him?"

"Perce, no one is worried about the shop right now," you say quietly. "They're worried about each other. Worried about themselves. I'm worried about you."

"About me?" he asks, his voice climbing in surprise. "Why the bloody hell are you worried about me ?"

"Your brother died, Perce. He's dead. Why wouldn't I be worried about you?"

You reach for him then, curl your fingers around his thin wrist. His pulse tickles your fingertips, beats as steady as the breaths that brush past your cheek. You kiss his temple and wrap your arms tight around him.

"I missed you, you know. When you were off being a prat. Damn near broke my heart, you prick." You try to keep your voice light, keep the smile on your face, but it's slipping.

"I'm sorry," he says. "About everything. Sometimes you just need something to pull you back to reality, yeah?"

"Yeah," you say.

He sighs against your neck, his breath is warm, and you can't help but wish that war and battles and death weren't that something.

"How are you really, Perce?"

He pulls back and blinks up at you. "I'm fine, Ol. I told you I was fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine."

And there is nothing left to say.