Author: Triskell (ferngully_at )
Fandom/Pairing: Harry Potter (Percy/Oliver - slash)
Rating: mild R
Disclaimer: the boys, like everything HP, belong to JKR. The story is mine.

Author's Note:
I love the boys together. But the fics I find don't always appeal to me. I don't mind pwp, but there's more to their relationship. I can't get my mind round the concept of Perce being a helpless, sobbing wimp. I don't think of Oliver as a swashbuckling hero, mooning over his lover.
That's why I wrote this. It's not perfect, and it's not meant to be. And, of course, the ending is a bit on the sentimental side. A story in drabbles (ficlets of exactly 100 words), a challenge to myself.

~ SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY~
© Triskell, 2 May 2003

"I miss you," he whispered, trailing his hand along the pillow, wishing it were a pale, freckled shoulder. Smooth skin, almost like marble, shimmering faintly in the moonlight falling through the window. It had been a while since he had slept through a night. As many days ago as he had last had his lover beside him; almost half a year. He could have told himself that they had made a pact during the war. That they were together for the sole purpose of not being alone. A replacement for family. But he could not. Because it was not true.

Percy did not talk about his feelings. They were his own, and therefore nobody else's business. It also figured that his brothers could not make fun of something they did not know. Even though it would have been nice to have Fred and George laugh at him for his relationship. It would make it real, tangible. As real as Oliver's body in his arms had been. As tangible as the kisses, warm hands, rough and familiar, running down his arms, chest, thighs. They had not spoken about their arrangement. Silence suited it best. And it was silence that kept them apart.

They had not seen each other since the final month of the war, when their assignments had driven them apart with one last goodbye. One more night spent together, their bodies the force that connected them when all around them fell apart. Oliver had crept away before dawn, no words exchanged. Percy had opened his eyes only when the door closed. They had done it more than once before, parting ways. Never with so uncertain an outcome. Yet there had been no professions of undying love, no tearful words, no sweet letters. Not for their families, not for each other.

Oliver worked for reconnaissance, flying low across fields on his broom, crawling through mud, lying in wait, listening, trembling. Watching innocents die and not being able to do anything. Sometimes you had to sacrifice one live for a hundred. It did not hurt any less. Percy worked with the international community. Discussing, arguing, forging alliances with block-headed fools. Yes, Voldemort was back. And he had to be stopped. No, it would not do to just lean back. Percy could be fierce, passionate, and determined. That was why he never failed. That and the thought of Oliver out there, alone.

No longer innocent; they had seen too much, committed too many deeds that had tainted them, left them irrevocably stained, everlastingly imperfect. When they had thought of growing up, this had never been on their minds. But they learned from it, the black spots on their white vests, the dark memories rotting in their hearts. They remembered boyish loyalty binding them, still young. Crooked, tired smiles dragging them from the shock of killing, of death. Skin blemished by scars not worn proudly, sliding like silk under their trembling hands. The first, ashen kisses, desperate, guilty, pleading. Support offered unconditionally. Trust.

Percy lived with his parents. His mother had asked him to come home after the war and so he had. It did not feel odd, all of his siblings were there too, even Bill and Charlie. "I want the family to be together." No one disputed Mrs Weasley's wish. It was very domestic, really. Like the childhood he could no longer quite remember. They were all quieter. There was little laughter. Dinner was silent, stilted, and uncomfortable. Conversation was difficult; to be honest, they did not really know each other any more. Percy wondered if it had ever been different.

Oliver turned around in bed, cursing softly so as not to wake his parents. He had learnt to swear fluently in French, Russian, German, and Portuguese, tolerably well in Spanish and Italian. Sometimes he wished he spoke the languages instead. He was hot, wrapped tightly in his blankets, but he did not pull it off. The ghost of Percy's body close to his lingered in the heat, his scent almost there, at the back of his mind as he rubbed his chin against the rough woollen sweater, frayed and torn in places colours faded, Weasley made, adorned with a "P".

"Would you do some shopping for me, Percy?"
"Of course, Mum. Diagon Alley?"
"Yes."
Percy nodded. He took the list, the basket, donned his cloak. It was mechanical, dutiful, predictable - his Prefect side. His past. He made his way through the crowded street, bustling with life, mind set on accomplishing his goal with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of efficiency. He had a letter to write when he got home. Resigning from his post at the Ministry. One more talk with foreign deputies, and he would snap. It was time to start over again. He smiled slightly, surprised.

Oliver was going to play Quidditch professionally when he grew up. Single-minded pursuit of his goal in life. Now, a few years, he was not so sure about his earlier choice anymore. It seemed insignificant, dishonourable, almost cowardly after what he had seen and been through. There were other jobs he had been offered, some at the Ministry. He briefly wondered if Percy still worked there. No matter. He turned back to the magazine in front of him. "Quality Quidditch Supplies". He shook his head, closed it. Life was no longer this simple, and the past was far behind.

"I am moving out, Mum."
She did not reply, though her eyes widened slightly. None of her other children would have done this to her, not after her asking them all to come back home, to stick together, content to be a family again.
"I will begin teaching at Hogwarts next month."
"Why?"
"I love you." No reason he could give, other than a childish phrase, hoping she would understand that he was not happy at the Burrow, that he needed to leave before he cracked and made them all the more miserable.
"Good luck." She turned away, uncomprehending, disappointed.

Oliver had not told his parents where he worked. They assumed he had taken up one of the offers he had received. They did not know he was staying in Hogsmeade, with Madame Rosmerta, helping her out at the pub until he found something better, or so he told himself. He was not exactly happy, yet far from discontent. And the in-between stage suited him just fine. Serving butterbeer and cider was easy, repetitive, and soothing. No fear, no worries, just being there, anchored in his little world, slightly smoky, dark, and smelling of stale residue of alcohol. Safe.

Percy walked into "The Three Broomsticks", head in a book. For the first time since being at school he had allowed himself to buy one. It was old, heavy, still a bit dusty from the time it had spent on the shelf, unwanted, unseen. It was exhilarating to touch the slightly faded writing on the yellowed pages, intimate, as if caressing a lover. The colour not golden as Oliver's skin had been, before the war, not as glowing. Not as bronzed and healthy. But the brittle, soft pages were beautiful nevertheless, moulding to his fingers. Belonging to him. Him alone.

'Fate' and 'destiny' had long been overused by sentimental lovers. Oliver set the goblet of cider on the table gently, smiling at Percy's mumbled "Thanks". The redhead did not look up from his book, engrossed. Much more familiar than the man he had lived with for almost five years, the one who had fought against the hurdles of diplomacy with every ounce of his being, forging understanding in times of crisis. The dark circles were gone from his eyes, though he was still gaunt, still pale. Some things never changed. Others did. Oliver turned away to serve the next table.

It was past eleven, most of the patrons had gone home already. Percy still sat at his table, unmoving, head bent over his book. He was smiling, lips curving upwards just a little, his tongue flickering out to moisten them now and then. There was a slight flush in his cheeks, not from alcohol, as he had barely touched his drink yet. It was the excitement of reading again, one that Oliver could understand, knowing how long it had been since Percy had had the opportunity to immerse himself in a book. Rosmerta smiled, "Tell him we are closing, Oliver."

He did not like disturbing the redhead, not when he seemed so content. His walk was deliberately heavy, to draw attention to the fact he was approaching. So the hand he put on the warm, hunched shoulder would not be entirely unexpected.
"Closing time, mate."
Percy, jumped slightly, gasped, looked up at him. No words, just silence. He closed his hand over Oliver's firmly, pulling it down from his shoulder, grasping it tightly.
"Working here now, Ol?"
"Yeah."
"When's your shift end?"
"Twelve."
"I'll wait outside."
Percy got up, drained his goblet, took his book. Mechanical, predictable, dutiful.

Rosmerta let Oliver leave early. He did not ask her to, he did not fuss. He was smiling though, eyes sparkling. He left at quarter to twelve. Percy leant against a lamppost opposite the pub. There was a slight chill in the air, though it was not entirely unpleasant. The breeze was crisp and fresh. They walked down the street together, shoulders brushing.
"I'm teaching at Hogwarts."
"I'll be seeing you frequently then."
"Yeah... You're walking me home."
"Yeah." It had been a while.
"You're coming up for a drink." It was not a question. But Oliver did not argue.

Percy's room was impeccably clean and unsurprisingly bare. He had not taken many personal belongings with him. They shrugged out of their cloaks. Oliver accepted the glass of milk he was handed. He smiled.
"Are you staying tonight?"
"Taking up where we left off?"
"I'd like to try, Oliver."
"Me too."
He sat down on the bed, set his glass on the nightstand, took off his shoes. Percy seated himself beside him, hand trailing up his back, skimming his neck, tangling in his hair. Oliver leaned forward, brushing his lips across the redhead's. Like their first kiss. Only more familiar.

They undressed without fussing, fumbling slightly; Percy's glasses joined Oliver's drink on the nightstand; the two men slipped under the covers, twining around each other. Warm, easy, safe. Percy traced the faint lines of old scars with his hands, then his tongue, mapping new ones, feeling more than seeing. Oliver kissed the freckles just visible in the moonlight, letting the redhead's weight pin him to the mattress, anchoring him. His arms circled pale, smooth shoulders, his legs fell apart, allowing Percy to move more freely, bring their bodies still closer together. Heat, heady hardness, sweat. Kisses, touches, moans. Trembling, gasping, wetness. He smiled as their lips touched, soft, slow, intimate.

They were not perfect for each other, not sublimely happy. Content, sometimes, fulfilled perhaps. Not alone. They discovered the scars hidden under the surface and respected each other just a little bit more. They taught each other to laugh, to hurt, to feel. They would not meet for a month or two at times, when Oliver was off playing Quidditch. He was hesitant about his choice. Percy just smiled and started collecting articles about the team in a neatly organised folder. Life was boring sometimes, slow paced, familiar. They could not get their youth back, but it no longer mattered.

Finis.