Weird, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I make any profit from the work published below.

Weird
(but we were tied for last)

There are no Gryffindor boys in your year so far. Oh, there's a gaggle of girls, many a pony tail or plait that saunters up to the Hat, scared but defiant, willing to belong; and they are rewarded with shouts of bravery and applause – but the Sorting draws on and there are no boys. (Sweat gathers in the hollow of your palms, and you think it's not very Gryffindor of you to be scared thus.) Eventually, there are just two of you left from the original herd and you half expect to be last – so you are surprised when "Weasley, Percival" is called before the unnamed boy. (And, perhaps, a tiniest part of you – the one used to often be last in line, all the time really, to standing after Ginny and Ronnikins and the Twins for the attention of your brothers, to getting hand-me-downs that will be passed on but never yours – that tiniest part of you falls in love with him then.) These thoughts, however barely register in your mind. You are entirely focused on the brown fabric held in the stern witch's hand. (And so, the tiniest part of you – of your destiny! – sighs, smiles perhaps a little, and settles back down comfortably. It's been seized and welcomed, has found a home and for the moment that thought is enough. It's lovely to no longer be the last one.)

You wonder if you'll make it to Gryffindor; you ask yourself, as you step towards the mouldy old hat, if the fact that no one went means you have a greater chance and it makes something feel bitter in the back of your throat. You want to get into Gryffindor on your own merits, not for statistics; but to this day you are still unsure.

The Hat dallies, and asks, and probes; and you think he'd very much like you to go to Ravenclaw – perhaps Slytherin, even, he whispers insidiously and you almost say yes, almost give in – except that you are a Weasley and all Weasleys go to Gryffindor. Perhaps the Hat's relieved to see you so headstrong because it makes sending you to the lions easier. Perhaps it only shows that you do not belong there at all. (You fear the repercussions of not being a red and gold, fear the stigma and the precedent you might set but, surely, these are not Gryffindor traits. In your heart of hearts, you know, even then, that you are no Gryffindor.) They cheer for you, Bill and Charlie louder than the rest somehow, and you wonder if they simply aren't just relieved that there's finally a boy in their house. Then "Wood, Oliver" gets called, the Hat barely rests on his head before sending him to Gryffindor as well, and the fear you feel in your stomach disappears as he strides over, to you, nudges a girl aside and sits on your left. (And if the stars hadn't already aligned for you; they would have shifted then, to inscribe you in starlight and swirls upon the fabric of the world.)

"_I'm Ollie" he says, and although you have nothing in common (you almost Slytherin and him a clear Gryffindor), there's hope in these words.

"_Percy." You reply, shaking his hand as if you were adults and he smiles at you like you are friends. It's never been so easy. (Somewhere, in another universe perhaps or even in the deepest recesses of a soul; a dual-sun system is born.)

The room is very big for two eleven years old. It's also very dark.

There are five beds, and you think, perhaps, that there are three boys missing (you don't think about where they are to be missing, don't think about what's happened to them and why they aren't there but the fact remains that there are three empty, lonely, cold beds and Ollie and you soon enough agree to keep their curtains shut.) It's easy to pretend they are just sleeping when the curtains are shut.

The room is cold. There are more beds than boys, more silence than laughter and it's not a surprise when you struggle sleeping. You stay up, to whisper with Ollie, quietly, and pretend to be asleep when the Prefects come in to check. They shudder at the empty room, just like you do, and you keep your eyes peeled for movement in the dark. You wish you could go to Bill and Charlie, but they are upstairs in their dorms and you are supposed to be asleep, not afraid – never afraid again because you are a lion now – and suddenly you are viciously grateful for Oliver Wood.

He's awake too, brown eyes glittering in the darkness, but because you have been the younger brother before, because you are used to asking for help and receiving it, you are the first to bridge the gap.

"_can we leave the bathroom light on?" you whisper into the empty silence, and although you can't see Oliver, you can sense the way his shoulders slump with relief beneath the covers.

"_I'll get it." he says, in that thick Scottish brogue you still have a hard time understanding, and you think that, surely, being an only child must be lonely. Whose bed does Ollie go to when it's dark and he's afraid? But you don't know your room-mate well enough yet to ask that, and you could have been a Slytherin, for all the Hat gave you to the lions, and so you know better than to say a thing. Oliver switches the light on and runs back to his bed, because although he checks for monsters himself it doesn't mean he isn't scared, and you try not to wish too hard for Bill's and Charlie's comforting presence.

The room never gets smaller, the beds never go, but you and Oliver grow to match the silence, grow to fill the empty space and you learn to make the room your own. You never infringe on the other beds' space, because it seems sacrilegious, somehow, like abusing power and angering the ghosts of little boys who didn't come to Hogwarts, but the silence isn't so scary after a couple of months. You enjoy it. The Burrow was always, always so loud, so full of cries, but you enjoy even more what the silence means. The silence is an invitation for Ollie to speak – and he does; speaks all the time, rants at you about Quidditch and how it's the best game ever and he'll be a Keeper for the team, just you watch him, and you let the sound of his voice drift over you, the thick Scottish brogue you still struggle understanding sometimes, the lilting accent; it wraps you up and eases your mind because Ollie was the boy who flicked the light on but you were the one to ask for it and, together, you fit.

You find yourself grateful for the angry ghosts of empty beds, because whilst you don't know how real little boys might have squeezed in between you and Oliver; it's clear that they wouldn't fit well, they would upset the balance, you know, and you don't like that thought. Their curtains remain shut, and you don't look at them. Ollie neither.

(And so, the waiting game begins.)

You and Ollie don't exist outside of the room.

He's boisterous and charming, easily falling into cohorts with the older years, with the other houses, but you are quiet and shy and prefer the library. You partner in classes, and sit at the same desk, but that's more because you are Oliver-and-Percival than anything to do with wanting to be with each other. It makes sense to walk beside one another, to learn side by side, and Ollie needs all the help he can get anyway. (He should have been a Hufflepuff, you think, because his determination knows no bounds, but you are thankful the Hat gave him to you. You cannot imagine Percy without Ollie.)

You and Ollie don't exist outside your dorm, though. He's got his friends, and you've got your books, and for all you sit together you don't really give off the aura of friendship other houses exude. You are Ollie-and-Percy, living beside one another, living alongside one another, and there's no need to broadcast a friendship that neither of you would dare to revoke.

You come to life inside your room. Oliver's a dreamer, and a hard worker. He huffs and gets frustrated, slams his chair back from his desk and strides off but he always comes back to finish what he started, and you admire this in him. You are bright, and quick (a contestant for Ravenclaw, really), and Oliver admires that in you. You understand and see things he cannot, but for all you are smart; Oliver is people-smart. It doesn't matter inside your room. Inside your room you are friends, and you get sick on chocolate frogs, together, and make tents out of the bedding and jump back and forth from his bed to yours and never mention the unoccupied half of the room. It's easy, living together, and there's no shame between the two of you.

You wonder if it might have been the same, had there been other boys with you, and the answer is uncomfortable. Ollie and you have very little in common, if not for bludgeoning respect, and it would have been so easy to ignore Ollie, to be friend with someone a little more like yourself, that it scares you how easily you might have walked past the boy who is now an extension of yourself. You learn when Ollie misses his Ma and Da, and you learn when he's not feeling well, and you learn when he's sad or angry or frustrated. You even fly with him, a couple of times, sneaking brooms out of the shed and hoping like mad you won't get caught, because Ollie needs it. There aren't other boys in your dorm to do it with, so you try your best to fill the shoes of the empty beds.

The night Oliver spends alone in the infirmary is the worst in a long time. Your room is silent and cold and looms over yourself, because you might have learnt to be greater than your bones but you surely can't fill all that space on your own and you need Ollie to come back, to walk the distance to the bathroom because when you ask into the night for the light to turn on, there is no patter of steps into the darkness.

You sneak into the infirmary the following night (you, rule-abiding Percival Weasley; you, the quiet Weasley who could have been a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin; you sneak into the infirmary and climb on Ollie's bed and he shuffles over, broken arm from falling down the staircase because he ran and tripped when you are always telling him to watch his steps, and both of you sleep better than the night before.) The bed is tiny, cramped, and you are too warm, but there are no monsters and although the infirmary is larger than your room, although there are more unmade beds, you don't need the bathroom light turned on. (No angry little boys linger here.) There's the soft rising and falling of Ollie's breath by your side and it's enough.

Madam Pomfrey gasps to see two children where there only should have been one, and she scolds you for sneaking in, but you are still law-abiding Percy and you burst into tears promptly. She is rather embarrassed to have a crying child on her arms, and through hiccups you babble about the large empty room and not being able to sleep because there's no one to light the bathroom for you and she sighs, but she tells you to come back (Before curfew, Mr Weasley) and there's a bed waiting for you for as long as Oliver is in the infirmary.

Of course, you just wheel them side by side, and sleep next to one another, but the Matron only pinches her lips. It's not like you make noise, or giggle or stay up, so she pretends she doesn't see. (You are, after all, only eleven-years-old little boys away from home.)

Oliver gets out of the infirmary, and you both get back to your cold dormitory, but the bathroom light is not the same as sleeping with his breathing by your ear. (You are a selfish thing, for all your brothers have taught you to share, and this fragile feeling you can feel cradled in your chest, this tiniest sliver of something you cannot recognise quite yet; it is beyond yourself to let it go.) You both don't sleep well the first night. The next evening, instead of going to light the bathroom, Oliver just bites his bottom lip and draws the side of his bedding back and you join him, pillow cradled in your arms, and the large Hogwarts bed is big enough for two small children and their teddy bears. (Ollie, for all you say things about badgers and good hearts, will always be a Gryffindor.)

Then you learn the Wingardium Leviosa spell, and life ought to become a lot easier.

As soon as the diminutive Professor Flitwick introduces it to the class, your eyes sparkle and you lean towards Oliver.

"_we must master it." you whisper quietly to him, flashing eyes and boyish grin, and it's perhaps the first time he's seen you this enthusiastic about something so he agrees and sets all his determination to learning the spell. Soon enough both of you've got it, sufficiently that you can float a feather at least, and you spend the entire day bouncing on your heels. As soon as classes are over, you drag Oliver back to your room, tossing your bag to the side carelessly, as you most definitely are not wont to do, and he looks at you with confusion.

"_what's going on?" Oliver asks, because he still doesn't see it, but he learnt that spell and followed you anyway and this, you think, is almost as precious as Ginny's gurgles and Ronald's budding chess prowess. (This, you think though you are too young to realise it, is why you have placed your faith in Ollie.)

"_we can levitate our beds together!"

"_wicked!" Oliver says, comprehension dawning in his eyes and now they are as sparkling as yours, as wild and excited so both of you train your eyes and wands on your bed (why your bed, you don't know – though perhaps it's that thing again where having older siblings has made your more malleable, more prone to asking for help and oh, how you will change; but for the moment, for the moment the both of you are brilliant.) Oliver swishes and flick, and you hurry to match him, but the bed doesn't levitate. Still, you are determined, and you manage to drag it across the floor, making the stone screech and it's a wonder no one comes to check. By the end of it you are both red-faced and panting and sweaty; but your beds are side by side and it's amazing. (You are going supernova.)

People don't understand.

You come back to your rooms, and the beds are out of their proper places, apart once more and it's cold, cold, cold. Oliver's face breaks into a mighty frown, and you feel your lip wobble with tears; but already you instinctively know that this is not a situation in which you can go crying to your brothers. (You are far too much snake to be a lion.) Instead, you flick your chin and flare your nostrils and when you shout 'Wingardium Leviosa', with anger and intent and will in your voice, Oliver matches you and the bed floats easily to where it ought to be. You sniff, disdainfully, and Oliver holds your hand.

You go to classes the following day, and when you come back they are apart again. You don't understand. You don't understand, but it doesn't matter anymore because you could have been a Slytherin and you know there is no point trying to win this through brute force. Fine, you think with venom; if they keep putting your beds apart, then you won't put them back together. After all, you fitted easily enough in Oliver's.

It's the first time you feel 'them' fighting against 'us' – just Ollie and you, but it's not the last.

You have spent an entire summer without Oliver, and you hated it. It felt like you were missing a limb, like your bed was too big and too cold and the room you shared with your baby brother Ron wasn't right. He breathes wrong, not like Ollie at all, and there's no heavy Scottish brogue laughing at your flyway hair in the morning, no bright brown eyes that speak about Quidditch all the time and tell you, promise you, that he'll get a broom and be the best Keeper ever.

Oliver invites you over, but your mother dithers and makes faces (the Wood are an ancient family, and they did not take part in the war, you hear your mother say to your father late one night, and she thinks you are too young to go there unsupervised.) You are angry that they are keeping you from him, so you write Ollie letters and he writes back, speaking about Quidditch and brooms and Quidditch and all the time, all the time, you can read the anger in the way he writes his letters. A sharp tail to the 'a' there, a flick a little too malicious for the 'r' and Oliver is just as angry as you are. You ask Mom if you can invite him 'round to the Burrow, but she's got so many children underfoot that she's reluctant to have one more. Bill and Charlie watch in silence, because they got to go around to their friends' this Summer but you only have one friend and his family isn't one your Mom approves of; and for the first time the Burrow feels stifling. You hate the summer. You hate not having Oliver.

'It's funny', you think, how you miss him more than you do your siblings or your parents. It's just that; Oliver's crossed the darkness and flicked the bathroom light on for you, and he's kept the monsters away from months now, and none of them have every really had the time for that kind of things. It's not the Twins' fault, not Ron's or Ginny's; but it's a fact of life. They came, and you were old enough to handle yourself, responsible Percy who does what he's told and makes life easier for everyone by being silent.

You are twelve, and only Oliver makes you feel like you aren't a mistake.

Oliver is twelve – a man, really – and he's got a broom in his hand and a jersey over his shirt. He has, finally, made it onto the Quidditch Team. He's so happy he can't fall asleep, and you whisper to each other for hours on end, giggling quietly as he tells you how he blocked some of the chaser's throws and they were impressed and he's Oliver Wood and Keeper for Gryffindor and nothing's going to stop him.

"_he's got spunk." Charlie tells you with a ruffle of your hair, once, when you try to be a good Slytherin and sound out your brother who is Seeker for the Gryffindor team. "and that's a good thing."

You are proud, because Oliver is yours, your friend and yourself, just an extension of you really, and his happiness is your happiness. You tell him what Charlie said, and you believe it too, because Oliver's got 'spunk', whatever that it, Charlie said it and Charlie is your cool older brother, like Bill but more daredevil, and Oliver's pride is your pride. You bolster his confidence, watch him throw up before his first match and when, five minutes in, he gets hit by a Bludger and has to be carried off the infirmary, you levitate him all the way. Madam Pomfrey doesn't try to make you leave, but she does give you a strange look when you crawl into his bed, every night for a week until, finally, Oliver comes around again.

Perhaps you cry a little, but he was still, so still, and you've seen still people before, like that, people who never woke up because of the war and you were scared. (Percy-without-Ollie existed only a year ago, but already you have forgotten who he was.) Oliver promises not to scare you like that again, and 'good', you think, because the room is cold and empty and you were cold and empty without Oliver. You think this might be what having a twin feels like, except that you don't have the alikeness to make it obvious to others that hurting him is hurting you, and it's hard to have a twin that doesn't look like you. Oliver understands, though, because when your foot gets stuck on the trick step of the moving staircases and you are alone, he feels it, somehow, and he comes to get you. Oliver-and-Percival are one entity, one name for one thing composed of two parts and, really – what else did they expect from two little boys left alone together in a big, empty room with five big, empty beds?

You are thirteen, almost a man really, and by all accounts you shouldn't be scared of the dark anymore.

But Oliver's bed is warm, and he is reassuring to have at your back (even if you are both rapidly growing boys and the bed feels a little cramped) so you never stop sleeping in his bed.

You just stop talking to him about all the things that matter, instead.

You take all the electives, in your Third Year, and Professor McGonagall gives you a Time Turner. She tells you that you aren't to speak of it to anyone, 'not even Mr Wood', she says, in her thick brogue that reminds you of him, and you stare at her incredulously. You and Oliver and one single entity, Ollie-and-Percy, and there is no way you can do something without him knowing about, just like the right hand can't do something and the left not know. But you are law-abiding Percy, nurtured by years in Gryffindor rather than Slytherin, and so you cannot bring yourself to lie to her. (You wonder, for a second, if the Hat did not make a mistake in sending you to Gryffindor – because you would have made a great Slytherin, you know – but the thought vanishes as soon as it comes. Ollie-and-Percy is a Gryffindor thing, because Oliver would have been eaten alive by Slytherin and you know that Slytherin-Percy is not worth alone-Percy, half-Percy, Percy-without-Ollie.)

You are thirteen, and you relinquish the power over time because Oliver Wood is like the second half of yourself and there's no way you get something like that and he doesn't. Professor McGonagall watches you with surprise, but you drop Muggle Studies and Divination ('pointless anyway' you tell Oliver later, as he looks at you with wide, brown eyes that fear you might turn against him because he held you back but you won't, you won't, you never will) and, you think, for the first time since you've been sorted, that perhaps you do belong to Gryffindor, in the end. McGonagall takes the Time Turner back with a smile and always seems a little bit more lenient towards you and Ollie after that.

Things get tricky when you both are fourteen. Oliver has hair growing on his chin, his voice keeps breaking, sometimes in the morning he hurries off for a cold shower, and there is distance growing between you. You don't understand. (You research it. It is called puberty, and it can take up to ten years to complete, and you feel utterly devastated because how are you supposed to live, only half of yourself, for ten whole years?)

"_Perce - don't you think it's weird?"

"_what is, Ollie?"

"_this." your not-quite-you-but-not-someone-else-either says, with a broad gesture to the two of you sleeping in the same bed and the empty room and the silent taunts he's been fearing, and you don't understand.

"_no." you say, because you are a Gryffindor and you fight for what you believe, but Ollie looks at you like he's sorry, like he's not sure who he is, and you feel very, very empty. Oliver stays silent, and he doesn't lie back down, and being a Gryffindor hasn't helped you tonight so you do the Slytherin thing and slink off to your own bed.

It's cold, and the room feels wrong, because you aren't used to seeing it from that angle, but you are angry. The darkness lurks and mocks you and you almost wish he would go and turn the bathroom light on, except that this is 'weird' and you try to ignore Ollie as he cries silently in the darkness. You cry too, miserable and apart but for some reason 'weird', this new word, means that Ollie would rather be miserable apart than content in the same bed.

When you get up the following day, empty and cold and having not slept a wink, both you and Oliver pretend this never happened. He chatters like normal, and you hum in response, and although the atmosphere is heavy you still make your way to breakfast together. People still smile when they see you walk past, because you are Oliver-and-Percy, but perhaps that's weird too, perhaps your entire perception of this thing is skewed and you don't understand anymore.

That night, Oliver watches you as you get into your own bed – and although he could, too, come and settle beside you, perhaps like a Slytherin would have – Oliver is a Gryffindor and whilst it means he's brave enough to stride across a dark room full of monsters and turn the bathroom lights on, it also means he's too stubborn to apologise and admit he was wrong.

The both of you stay empty and cold for a long time.

Your mother is relieved when you stop asking to go spend summer at the Wood's, and perhaps it worries her a little, too, that you don't want to invite Oliver over, but she quickly puts it out of her mind. Ronald was injured and she fusses after him a lot, him and Ginny who cannot wait to go to Hogwarts and you feel increasingly lonely. Charlie looks at you oddly, aware of how close you and Oliver were, but you ignore his worried glances and the few times he tries speaking to about Quidditch.

In fact, you just ignore the few times he tries speaking to you at all.

Charlie, just like Bill, is gone. They went as far away from you as they could: Charlie to Romania and Bill to Egypt and they left you behind, suddenly the eldest when you had never been anything other than the middle child, and you don't know what to do with the responsibilities that are suddenly entrusted to you. You have to watch over Ginny, sometimes, or even Ron. It's hard, because you are that much closer to them in age than Bill and Charlie ever were, and they don't want to obey stick-in-the-mud-Percy, but you try, you try, and you cannot help but wish you were at Wood Manor with Ollie. He would stand with you, you know, and he'd talk to Ron and Ginny about Quidditch and he'd be their idol and they would do whatever he asked of them in a heartbeat. You know, because you would do whatever he asks of you in a heartbeat, would even now that you are 'weird'.

You miss Oliver. Your back has never felt so bare.

Then there's Ginny at Hogwarts, and the entire debacle with the Chambers of Secrets, and you spent your entire year too busy pretending you weren't hurting that you didn't notice your baby sister had been taken over by a raging megalomaniac. But she's gone, taken into the Chamber and you are cold, cold, cold because although Ollie tries to hold you it hurts and isn't the same. He slips in your bed but it's too late, too little too late and it's gone, Ginny's gone and it's all his fault your fault our fault because you are one, one thing and the same and how could he not see it? You think you'll drown under the guilt and the anger and the shame, and even Oliver's arms can't make you float at the surface of the dark, dark lake that's sucking you under. You rage, then grow quiet because only the righteous have the right to rage and you aren't a Gryffindor. You've never been a real Gryffindor, always too selfish, too weak, too scared and no, you make a much better Snake. You hurt, but it matters very little because your baby sister has been the conduit for a mad-man and you haven't noticed.

She crawls in your bed, at the beginning of the summer, and you hold her close. Ron's got his fame, Fred's got George and George Fred, Bill and Charlie are gone but you are here, even if you only are half of what you were, and perhaps it's enough for your little sister. She clings to you and you cling to her, and it's never quite like with Ollie but Ollie has gone and told you it was 'weird' and you don't make the same mistake with Ginny.

Eventually she stops coming to you at night, though there's always a tight hug, a spare kiss, something to make her remember that the darkness isn't all there is to it. Ultimately, though, your little sister no longer needs you too. (You begin to wonder if the mistake isn't with you.)

There is a chasm between Ollie and you. You have put it there.

There's a break inside of you, and it's your faults.

Magic comes harder now. They say that it's tied to feelings, a great deal at least, and you've got nothing but darkness going on inside you at the moment. Oliver is gone and Ginny is gone and the Twins don't need you, Ron has chased ahead after fame and – well; you are Percival Weasley and you worry about the thickness of cauldron bottoms because it helps you forget you've got no other use. Magic comes harder now, because you barely have the strength to lift your arm, but Oliver obsesses more about Quidditch and you focus on your studies and even when he speaks, inside your room, it's hollow and cold. You are no longer larger than life, you are no longer greater than the sum of your parts and you find that you cannot fill the silence of the room with your presence anymore. The beds are empty, more than half unused and untouched, and you cannot help but be terrified by how similar you and those beds are. (Useless, waiting, malicious.)

Oliver doesn't see – or perhaps he does see, but he simply does not say a thing because he lost that right when he said 'weird' and pushed you away – and you are miserable alone instead of being happy together.

But it's easier for you, to be alone and miserable, because it feels like justification for all the mistakes you have made – are making – will make. It's what you think you want, an armour against a world that wants you no evil, and that is the only thing Ollie can give you now.

You cry often, during the summer between your fifth and sixth year. Your O.W.L.s are excellent, all Outstandings, really, and even Bill takes the time to send you a letter of congratulation, but all you really want to know is if Oliver's still alive or if he's finally managed to kill himself by falling off his broom. You doubt it's even possible. (Oliver is greater than life and brighter than the sun and, surely, a little thing like death will never hold him down.)

You cry when you are alone, at night, in Bill's old room – because now that they are gone, there is enough space for everyone – and you've never felt so lonely, so left behind; so you cry because you've lost a limb, been amputated, cut off, and you can do nothing but try to breathe around the pain. You wonder if this is what losing a twin might feel like, if this is what losing yourself might feel like, and the thought scares you. You shut yourself up in your room, try to ignore how Ronald's famous friends can come over (but not yours, never yours) and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Charlie sends you letters from Romania, tells you that you are welcome to visit; and he suspects something but you don't care because he's like Ollie, he knew what he was doing but he went away and did it regardless and there's no one to coach you through your first hair on your chin, the first time your voice squeaks and the Twins laugh at you, the first time you wake up with morning wood (oh, the irony) and shuffle off to the bathroom and still, still, still you don't understand why this is 'weird'.

Hogwarts is cold when you come back for your sixth year.

A pretty girl called Penelope Clearwater bats her eyelashes at you. She's Ravenclaw. 'Smart', you think (although you are a Gryffindor and nothing like brave or chivalrous – though you are stubborn alright) and so you let her sit beside you in the library, let her hold your hand (though it makes little sense to you, these distractions) and you let her kiss you. You try kissing her back, but you don't feel a thing, not when she prods your mouth with her tongue and not when she puts your hand on her breast, through the fabric of her shirt, and really; this doesn't appeal to you at all.

Still, it's a distraction from Oliver who's talking but not saying anything, from the emptiness of your room, from the fact that your back is bare and the wounds are still bleeding and so you try to keep kissing her (though not the touching, that's disgusting) and you let her hold your hand and sit next to you in the library.

Oliver's hurt.

('Good' you think viciously, like the Snake you should have been 'Good, because it's his turn now to be hurt.') He asks you why you didn't say anything about Penny, asks you if you like the girl and if she knows about the weirdness, if she can tell your mood from the way you close a door or tug at your tie. You let his words wash over you, 'the first true words he's given you since Fourth Year', you think somewhat blearily, and if you'd known it only took a girl then you would have found one long ago. And then Ollie's screaming, the first time since you met, five years and six months and two weeks and about three days ago, and you don't know what to do. You let him scream, let him exhaust himself against the darkness of the lake underneath your skin and you think this is very much like your beds, back in First Year. You are trying, and fighting, but the world is more powerful and you'll need Slytherin cunning to brave that – except Ollie's got none. (You feel detached from the reality of his anger, see it as though through a lens, far away and unconcerned. You register his anger, but not the feelings behind it and it is strange, this otherworldliness, this apathy; like you might be a god and above and untouchable. You think you like this dreamlike feeling that makes you feel like even death cannot reach you.)

"_do you not care?" Oliver asks you, voice broken and tears in his eyes and he begs to have you back, begs for forgiveness, but red-heads aren't known for these traits and Weasleys even less.

"_I care." You eventually say, once he's calmed down. You voice sounds calm and not at all like your own and a small part of you is amused by it. "But I'm tired of being half-empty because of you."

Oliver splutters, eyes wide, and for the first time you wonder if you were the only one to feel the emptiness.

It's an ugly thing to wonder.

You graduate, the last year a whirlwind of anger and darkness and focusing on your studies, and you still haven't forgiven Oliver. You are half-empty, but he isn't half-empty and it hurts, it hurts, like you could just close your eyes and slip away and, perhaps, he might finally feel the pain if you did.

You go to the Ministry, because that's what expected of you, and it's easy, and Oliver goes off to Quidditch, because that's what expected of him, and it's easy, and none of it is 'weird'.

You wonder about the three unused beds, if they are relieved to finally have a chance at being picked again, if perhaps this year there'll be five Gryffindor boys to settle into the Tower; and you find yourself hoping that there are. But there is little time for strange thoughts and weird boys, so you keep your head down and focus on your work like it might drown the emptiness is your chest. You work under Mr Crouch, and you work hard, and he notices it. Then he goes missing, and you work for two, but you keep working, keep going back and being stretched and filling a post greater than you; because if you don't then you'll lose it and all you ever wanted was to be whole. (It's like the silence, except this time there's no Ollie to fix this for you.) This job doesn't make you whole, but it stop-gaps the hole and that's a lot more than anything (anyone) has done since Oliver taught you 'weird'.

You are still scared of the dark.

Your lonely apartment is empty, and you don't like it because it feels strangely quiet without the incessant chatter of Ollie, but you try not to think about him too much. (There's one bed, without drapes or ghosts or angry little boys who never came to Hogwarts. It's more than you dared ask for, and less too, somehow.) You subscribe to the Daily Prophet and track Oliver's carrier through the Sports Section. He's doing well. You are glad.

You go to the Ministry, because you don't see the point of going home (to a brother chasing fame and empty rooms and a sister who faced a Dark Lord and twins who aren't half-empty and two strangers that pretend they are family) and you carry on filling a role too big for you.

Because you worked hard, because you struggled and kept struggling and proved yourself worthy, you are made Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge. This is your work, your work and yours all alone, not the work of Percy Weasley (he cannot even remember your name!) or the work of Ollie-and-Percy but your work, yours, and you deserve it.

Your family calls you traitor and you don't understand.

(You are working within the parameter of the law, trying to keep afloat, keep atop the surface and not sink and why do they say you have been conned when your efforts finally are rewarded?) The anger helps you not feel so half-empty anymore, but when Christmas comes and you receive presents from people who keep putting your head back underneath the water (like your mother and Ollie, who pushed you away and then tried to come rescuing) you send them all back. You want them to leave you alone, because the darkness is organic and it spreads to everything it touches and you aren't sure if you are condemning or protecting them, but you know they cannot be around you because you cannot be trusted around yourself. You work, too hard and too long, but there's no Ollie to gently call you back and all your family has to say is 'traitor' so you keep your chin up and try to glean recognition for what you've done. You are here on your own merit ('not', you think with a sniff, 'riding the coat-tails of the Boy-Who-Lived as the Twins and Ron are doing') and you work even harder to keep the pain at bay.

Ollie sends you a present for your birthday. You open it, because you are lonely and hurt – worse than at Christmas – and it's a ticket to come and watch one of his matches. (That arse knows you hate Quidditch and it's an awful present and you don't even have the time to see your own family, even less a Quidditch match – but – but –) Your heart beats loudly in your chest. (It's perhaps the first time in a long, long while that you remember you aren't, in fact, dead.)

You go, even though it's unpractical and on a Saturday and you are tired (you really ought to be working and remember; this is the man who made you half-empty) but you go, you go, gosh you go. You stand in the queue to get in, the ticket burning in your hand and the wind whipping at your clothes, and then you realise it's a top box ticket, a special ticket – and you aren't quite ready for that yet.

There's a kid, behind you, thrumming to go and see his idols. He's on his own, so you ask him if he wants to swap ticket and he jumps on the occasion. He's ecstatic. You chuckle, because you are happy to have made that kid happy, and ask him if he would pass on a message. He nods: eager.

"_if Ollie –" a breath. You catch yourself. Not Ollie. Never Ollie again. "Oliver Wood. If Oliver Wood comes and asks why you are there, can you please tell him that he should know, by now, that although it's weird I really still don't like Quidditch all that much." The kid nods. "Can you please make sure to mention that it's weird?" He nods again, and you watch the fourteen years old as he gets shuffled up to the top box, and wonder what the hell you are doing here.

You don't turn around, though, and Ollie is magnificent in his Keeper's robes.
(But you knew that already, didn't you?)

You look forward to Christmas, but Ollie doesn't send you a present – so you return your mother's, out of spite, and spend the entire day at the office. There's a lot of work to do, a lot of laws to check and pass and meetings to book and you grow uneasy at the turn the government is taking. You begin drafting your letter then, because you feel guilty for sending your sweater back two Christmases in a row and you wish you could still go home, except that going home is admitting you are wrong and you cannot be wrong. You are half-empty, and if you are wrong then you are entirely-empty and then you might as well be dead.

"Father" you begin writing, and then burn it all.

No. You have to keep holding on.

There are two tickets in an envelope, sitting on your kitchen counter, and they are Quidditch tickets. You want to scoff and laugh and cry, but instead you grab them and sure enough, they are the tickets for the next match, Puddlemere against Chudleys, and Oliver has written something about taking Ron, if you want, though Puddlemere'll win and they are top box tickets.

You forward one to your Dad – no sender, no address, you do it via a Ministry owl, but perhaps that says enough – and then take your ticket with you, to swap with some insanely lucky kid. (If Wood speaks to you, can you tell him that Percy thinks he's put on some weight, please?) You spot Ron in the crowd, vanish before he can spot you back and you've got hope. You really do.

Puddlemere wins, of course, completely trouncing the Chudley Cannons, but Oliver looks magnificent and he's amazing and as he flies, close to the Top Box and sees Ron then not you, you wonder if it's deception on his face or anger. But you are beginning not to feel so half-empty and it's amazing too.

At some point, you come to acknowledge that you love Oliver very much. It's something you always knew, but to finally say it to yourself is liberating. You love Oliver very much, you love him like the moon loves the sun and you think it amazing, really, that you have managed to survive this long without him.

Then you go and take a long, warm shower, because the lake is retreating and you are coming to know your own worth again, and you think about what you might get Ollie for his birthday.

Because that arse has been giving you Quidditch tickets, you decide to send him an invitation to the Annual Ministry Ball. You admit that was, perhaps, a little mean, so you make sure to be in attendance early. He comes late, alone (because you've been skipping the top box but still, he's more of a lion than you'll ever be) and leaves early. You spend whatever time he's there carefully watching each other from across the room.

Then it's your third Christmas without your family. Fudge, Scrimgeour, Thickness – you've seen them come and go, all of them, and now that your survival doesn't hinge on keeping your job at the ministry, you can see what's happening. Whenever you can, you send word to your father, by Patronus, of who is most at risk. You don't understand why you are still Undersecretary, think that perhaps it's all a trap, all a trick, but you are feeling alive, more alive than ever, and Oliver is still sending you Quidditch tickets and you keep replying with invitations to ministerial functions and something – something bright and effervescent and well; magical – something is coming to life within you.

You spend the twenty fourth to the twenty sixth holed up in the Ministry, searching, hunting, trying to help; and it's only when you get home that you realise you've missed Christmas. There's no present from your mother, though an envelope from Oliver lies on the table, and you think that, perhaps, she's finally given up on you.

Oliver hasn't, if the single Top Box ticket is to be believed, and this time, you think, you are ready to sit there and see him close up. Not speak, not yet, because it's been too long and you still ache (you are still learning how to be not-half-empty, still learning your own worth) but you are ready to let him know that you are almost there.

(There is something warm in your chest, something growing and shifting and blooming and you know you love that man, but you don't think you had quite realised how good it felt to love someone. It's a feeling you could get used to, you think, and then laugh. You haven't laughed in a long time. You haven't been Percy in a long time.)

You overhear some things about a Muggle Registration Act, immediately alert your father and get an invitation to Bill's wedding for your troubles. You almost want to break something. 'Sure', you think with a snarl; and the anger surprises you. You didn't think you still had enough energy in you to be so angry. Sure – that's the smartest thing at the moment, invite him to his brother's wedding in the middle of a fucking war and proclaim for the world that Percival Weasley, Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, is still on speaking terms with his blood-traitor family.

You send a crate of expensive champagne instead, and have to eat tinned food for months to compensate for the hole in your budget.

The view from the Top Box is beyond anything you might have guessed. It's even better – you dare think – than at the World Cup, because Oliver's up there, and he's seen you, you know he has because when they did their salutation round he looked at you, straight at you, and it was like you were back in the ministry ballrooms. (He burnt then, at the edge of your vision, a persistent light you couldn't ignore but now he's a blazing sun, imprinted on your retina like an after-image you can't escape even when you close your eyes.)

His game has improved. He's faster, better, smarter, picking up small cues and intercepting so many goals you catch yourself cheering and screaming for him. He hears you, you think.

"_best play Wood's put on so far." Someone says behind you, and a smile breaks on your face because he's showing off, for you, just for you, and the emptiness slowly disappears. You are longing to be happy together rather than miserable apart, to see him and speak to him.

But, you had said, not today. So you watch him as he wins, watch the elation and the thrill take over his face and watch his eyes search for you in the crowd. When he's seen you, seems almost ready to come over, never mind his teammates cheering in the background, you get up and leave.

You wink, as you go, though you are unsure as to whether he catches it or not, and you wonder at what your brothers would say if they realised that rule-abiding Percy isn't such a goodie-two-shoes.

Your brother's gone and made himself Undesirable. It's unsafe to be a Weasley at the Ministry. Your father says, 'come home', and you go with them into hiding. You wonder what Oliver will think, when you won't turn up to the next Quidditch match, and now you regret not taking the time to talk to him. You don't want him to think something's bad has happened, because you've just begun to find each other again and to lose Oliver now would send you right back to square one; so you send the tickets back, along with your boar Patronus, and hope he'll understand.

(When you close your eyes, you can still see him; windswept hair and eyes bright as he sat astride his broom, the sun behind him and his imprint burnt inside your eyelids. You keep his image in your mind, cling onto it when your brothers resent you and your mother cries and your father sighs and you cannot forget, you cannot let go, you cannot disappear again. Ollie makes you stay even when he's hundred of miles away and he keeps you awake and, when you are feeling too tired to fight for yourself, he gives you a reason not to fade.)

The next time you see him, it's across a battlefield. Spells flashing left and right, a wall that explodes and you feel pain erupting from your side, like a flower blooming, before you are sent careening far, far away, right back into the thrum of people and Oliver spots you, you and the flash of ginger that heralds the tragedy that just – will not cannot has not – occurred, and he comes out of nowhere, stands beside you whilst you get up and his voice calls your name, in that thick Scottish brogue that you love, and he beseeches you to get up, to get fighting, to keep fighting so you do, you do because he's asked you and he's so close and there's no other way you'll see him on the other side. You fire a hex, two, stunners hitting people in the chest and then there's someone approaching your baby brothers, the Twins-that-are-still-whole and George has got his back turned, trying to heal Fred, and your vision tunnels, you see black and then red but really green and it's the Avada that leaves you. It hits its mark, and George helps Fred stand again, but you feel empty and worn out and only Oliver's back against yours keeps you standing. He's heard you, you know. He always hears, even when he doesn't understand.

But the battle weaves and grows, shapes itself over and over again, constantly, and Oliver is gone from your back, gone from beside you and you are bare, bare-backed and alone and an easy prey, except your siblings are still fighting and you'll fight too. Oliver is gone from your side but you trust he isn't dead – you'd feel it if he were, you know, because magic has tied you, in that too big room, and made you two halves of one thing on the sacrifice of your tears, and you know he's alive with the certitude that the sun will rise tomorrow.

And then the Battle's over.

None of yours die, and that's a bloody miracle too. (Perhaps, Magic thinks that one set of half-empty twins is enough for a lifetime, perhaps It's taken pity on your parents, perhaps It's taken pity on you and Ollie, who still have a long way to go - though not too far, you think, because you are looking for him already.) Ginny, Ron, Fred-and-George, Charlie and Bill and Mom and Dad; they all make it. You make it. Oliver makes it. It's a bloody miracle. 'Thankyouthankyouthankyou', you fervently pray to the Magic that has kept you safe, and perhaps the deaths at Hogwarts have given It sentience, perhaps It was always like that but you feel It wrap around you, now that you are no longer half-empty, and It curls and soothes your worries. 'Thankyouthankyouthankyou.' But it's trivial because a child needs not thank his Mother for saving his life, even though he should, because he is precious, they are all precious, Its precious blessed children and the Magic cares for them, in Its own ways.

"_Percy!"

And then there's Oliver, still in his Quidditch Robes ('there must have been a match', you think blearily, but everything fades beyond him) and he's got some blood on his face 'probably from Quidditch' you admit, and he looks taller, broader, fitter than the last time you saw him whereas you are just skinnier and paler. "Percy." he says again, more quietly, and all around you people are embracing and crying and mourning and there's hope, amidst the despair, because the battle's over but the war never ends and with Oliver by your side, finally full and not-empty and alive, you have faith too.

"_Ollie." you say, quietly, like a whisper, and it's been too long since his face has lit up in such a way, too long since he's gathered you in his arms and pulled you close and cried on your shoulder, and too long since you've blubbered all over his Quidditch robes and it's all alright again.

"_I missed you" he says, and you murmur at the same time (youarealive and Iloveyou and pleasedon'teverleaveagain and promisepromisepromise) and then his lips are on your neck, on your jaw, on your cheek, on your eyelids on your forehead and finally, after so long, after so long, on your lips. You think, perhaps, you mother gasps, off to the side, and yeah; you'll have to deal with that later, but now Ollie's real and he's there and he's finally kissing you, like you've been hoping he'd do since Fourth Year and he called it 'weird' and it matters very little now.

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouI–IloveyouIloveyou

He laughs, snogs you in the Great Hall like you are in some bloody soap opera, and that night you finally get to sleep in his bed again, too small bed made for one person but you curl and re-learn each other and it's nice. Too warm by a mile, but nice. Not-empty. He's got abs, and you like it. You learn that if you trail your fingers – cold, always cold since Fourth Year but now with the Avada it's a different cold that you'll never heal again – if you trail your fingers along them, he tenses and relaxes and falls asleep within minutes. You learn that he still likes it when people touch his hair, that he still enjoys just cuddling before getting up. You learn he still can't be bothered to wipe his muddy boots before going anywhere inside your home. You learn he's home.

It's not easy, and there are other people that you have to deal with now, rather than just you two, but Ollie goes back to Quidditch and you decide not to go back to the Ministry, spend some time soul-searching, and it's alright. You develop a talent for cooking – you? Cooking? But why not – and Ollie loves it and you meet his teammates and have a chuckle over the stories they tell you and it's all fine so long as you get to sleep in Ollie's bed – though now it's your bed too, isn't it? – but that's trivial.

There are five First Year Gryffindor boys admitted into Hogwarts that year, and things are quite fine like that.