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BLUNDER INTO FANTASY, 5/?
Chapter 5
(Word Count: 3017 + 3603, 27603 total)

Oh, I could tell you why
The ocean`s near the shore
I could think of things I never thunk before
And then I`d sit and think some more

I would not be just a nothin
My head all full of stuffin
My heart all full of pain
Perhaps I deserve you
And be even worthy erve you
If I only had
If I only had a brain

- “If I Only Had A Brain,” Harry Connick Jr. covering The Wizard of Oz
(download here)

Compared to the drama of the previous two weeks, breaking-up with Penelope had been practically minor, a mere casualty in circumstances that had forced Percy to change nearly every presumption he possessed. Throughout the five-hour Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match, he’d been doing well, numbed against the realization that he was alone, possibly forever and ever, doomed to a lifetime of boring research books and forlorn bachelorhood, leading to uneven place settings at his family’s Sunday dinners and a permanent state of virginity.

But a full-on panic attack had started just as Harry caught the snitch, and the Gryffindor stand exploded into victorious chaos. He could barely make the walk back to Hogwarts upright, then to the Tower (where he then cursed his way trying to crawl up the blasted stairs – why the hell are we in a tower to being with?!), and upon reaching the dorm room, climbed into the small opening behind his headboard. There was just enough room there to squeeze inside and hide, hide, hide away from the eyes of destiny and fate, that surely must be celebrating this joyous occasion, now that Percy was single again, as he should have always been.

As with most of his panic attacks, he recognized this one tended towards the dramatic, and that he’d have to make an effort to assert common sense over basic emotion.

Hermes is fine, he coached. He was more tired than he’d ever been, especially during exam time, but feeling tired wasn’t something he could justify as a real complaint. The talent was manageable thus far, and perhaps this experience had been for the best, he thought, reflecting back on the week and the changes in his life. He would make the most of this new, enlightened outlook.

Or so he kept telling himself. Still wedged between the headboard and wall, he slithered out from his robe and tossed it over him without care, knowing it would land messily on the bed and for once not caring. The celebrations would eventually move indoors to the Common Room and while he would have to show up if the students became too rowdy, he would deal with the problems as they came.

Right now, all he wanted to do was take comfort in hiding away from the world. There were several books within reach, having slipped down under the bed unseen months earlier, and he took advantage of the discovery, trying to lose himself in one. It was a struggle, with sleep pulling at him.

As the sun set and the words grew impossible to see from his vantage point, he read by his wand’s light. So engrossed in the book, and concentrated on remaining awake, that he didn’t notice the bedroom door opening, and the entrants’ whose shadows overhead marked the pages.

“Are you hiding?” Oliver asked from above.

Startled, Percy whacked his head trying to stand, before realizing there would be no use running or trying to think up an excuse at this point, anything to explain what he was doing back there.

Oliver, kneeling on Percy’s bed, staring over the headboard, had stood up to offer him a hand getting back around. His eyes told of his humour, and it occurred to Percy that his roommate was a tad buzzed from the celebrations (more than likely from the free-flowing butterbeer).

“Oh, come on out here, Perce!” Alex boomed. “We’re in the finals!”

Percy gaped at the man, whose proper Belgium accent sounded like a drawl more suited to the American South. How much butterbeer had there been downstairs, he wondered, noticing that he carried unopened bottles in both hands.

Percy let go of Oliver’s hand and nodded his thanks, brushing the dust from his clothing. Already he could feel the starting indicators of being pulled into Oliver’s fantasy – the lure of the unknown, the temptation of seeing this guarded man’s secrets, all so powerful from his touch that Percy had to check himself. It didn’t help matters that Oliver was a powerful physical force himself, his hand having easily hauled Percy to his feet, almost making the redhead light-headed. He was surprised to realize that Oliver was still grasping him by the elbow, and shook him off without thinking first.

“Excellent game,” he said a little breathlessly, trying to save face.

Seeing Oliver’s face light up, he thought he should remember to congratulate his roommate more often. He appeared as one who would never tire of telling the same story of victory over and over again, especially on his way to becoming piss-drunk off butterbeer. Percy didn’t want to test the theory, though, and was thankful when all he answered was:

“Slow game. Over five hours. If they didn’t have Cedric…”

“Then it would have hardly been a game at all,” Percy commented conversationally, reaching for his robe. But his exhaustion, coupled with the sudden onslaught of imagination from his friends, made him lose his footing, and he sat heavily onto his mattress.

“Whoa there,” Alex commented, still sounding jovial.

“Sorry,” Percy said, colouring, not really knowing to whom or for what he was apologizing. He looked meekly at Oliver before diverting his gaze away, attempting to shake lose of the other man’s stare, but upon sneaking another look, found he could not. He remained sitting, under this studying gaze, feeling thirteen again and very awkward, his hands moving from his lap to beside him to his lap again, uncertain.

“You’re lookin’ a little green there,” Oliver finally said, quietly. He appeared more subdued (and sober, Percy noticed) than just a few moments before, and moved to stand right up to the bed.

“I, um, haven’t eaten since lunch,” Percy said lamely, looking at a clock and noticing that it was late evening already.

Oliver wasn’t buying that excuse. “I think you should go down to the Infirmary.”

Again? Oh, no. No, no, no, most emphatically NO! Because, he surmised, there would be talk. And did Oliver think he was this little waif that needed to have his hand held when he wasn’t feel well? He was an adult, and being treated as less was insulting.

He pushed on Oliver’s arm lightly, as if to say he was being foolish with the suggestion. But the larger man didn’t budge, and Percy kept tilting forward with the motion, easing past Oliver until he fell right into the floor, nose-first.

Or would have, had Quidditch instincts not saved the day yet again, catching him just as the tip of his nose graced the stone. Silently, he immediately thanked all the butterbeer in Hogwarts that his brothers weren’t around to see this.

Percy tried to worm out of the grasp but found that Oliver had knelt while still holding him, and that he was poised over his knee.

Dear lord.

Percy was ready to die, of that he was certain. He heard Alex’s muffled laughter in the background.

“I’m taking you,” Oliver said into his ear, and Percy didn’t need to twist around to know that he was looking at him with concern, but did so anyway. Oliver looked younger from this angle, quite boyish, he thought, aware the entire situation reeked of a bad muggle movie. But he was sleepy and could care less about appearances, feeling Oliver’s long eyelashes swipe across his face, holding him so close that Percy couldn’t find any reason to object. The lure of sweet alcohol laced in his breath kept Percy from keeping his eyes open for long.

“Alright,” he said eventually, obediently, trying to stand on his own power, yet swaying.

Another set of hands was helping to guide him up (Alex’s, he noted). Compared to Oliver’s touch, they weren’t half as comforting.

“I’ll watch your bird for you,” Alex said from behind him.

Muttering a curse and a chuckle, Oliver lifted one of Percy’s arms around his shoulders. If he were feeling better, Percy would laugh, too. The cage was on his nightstand, empty, and Hermes was in the Owlery, where he usually spent his time whenever Percy felt he didn’t need him for messages.

Miraculously, the two slipped past the festivities in the Common Room (currently with eight violations, according to Percy’s trained eye), and made their way to the Infirmary with nary a word between them beyond the occasional “Whoops!” whenever Percy got too dizzy to move, followed by Oliver’s firm hand, steady at his back, accompanied with a short “There.”

Upon arriving, Oliver – who Percy never expected to be one to take charge of such a situation, did just that. Without word to Pomfrey first, he guided Percy to one of the hospital beds and eased him onto the mattress, making certain he would remain vertical before going to Pomfrey. From his point over Oliver’s shoulder, Percy saw her watching them enter, and thought that this was probably normal where Oliver was concerned, considering his position on the Quidditch team and how many injured students he had led back here.

He wondered how often Oliver employed this caring demeanour with others, and for a brief moment, felt inexplicably jealous.

Get a hold of yourself. Oliver’s been sleeping next to you – er, in the same bedroom for years, and this is the most you’ve spoken to each other beyond the weather.

“Let us have a look now,” Pomfrey, appraised of the situation, came over, her manner all business. Her warm fingers pressed over Percy’s face and shoulders, and he looked beyond her at his roommate, and made a face. But Oliver was standing next to Pomfrey, his feet apart and arms crossed, with a hard expression.

“Headache?” she asked, in between hums.

“Yes, a bit of one, actually,” he said, startled to realize he did have one. He was about to launch into an explanation of the ability he had gained from Hermes’ possession, but Oliver’s presence kept his mouth shut. He couldn’t find the energy to explain himself to both Pomfrey and his roommate.

“Wearing yourself out over the past couple weeks, yes?” she muttered as she backed away. Percy could swear she had given him a peculiar look. “It doesn’t do to hold back, Mr. Weasley.”

Hold back?

“Creates more trouble than it’s worth at times. People can’t go through life denying things. It’s bad for the health.”

“Denying things?” Oliver asked.

“Things,” Pomfrey confirmed without elaboration. “I suspect that your friend is trying to cope with the effects of his reversed charm last week.”

“He’s seemed fine,” Oliver observed, almost sounding insulted, as though he would have noticed if something had been wrong, and have addressed it immediately.

“Has he?” she asked absently, her tone one not to be answered.

Percy, who had been trying to think of some way of excusing the situation, finally gave up on stuttering a response. Pomfrey had shoved a goblet into his hands, telling him to drink up and lie back. “This will knock you out for a few hours but then you’ll be as right as rain.”

Great, Percy thought, downing the vile liquid and forcing his head back onto the flat hospital pillow. Prescribing sleep at bedtime seemed a wholly inadequate response to his exhaustion, especially one that had been plaguing him all week long. It probably seemed all very silly to Oliver as well, he thought.

“I’ll find someone to watch over you, as I’ve plans for the evening,” Pomfrey said as she was leaving.

“No need,” Oliver volunteered. He scooted a stool underneath himself, settling easily, as one who innately did such things in confident, easy manners. “I can wait the evening out here. See how Perce makes out.”

“There’s no need, Oliver,” Percy protested, trying to sit up. But Oliver placed one hand on his chest and shoved him back down decisively. Percy bit back a pained protest – he wasn’t exactly built for Quidditch-like handling, but persevered, “The others will want you around to celebrate--”

“It was an empty victory, Perce,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Percy almost snorted, knowing that no victory could be totally classified as ‘empty’ to Keeper Wood, but let go of the fight. Besides which, the lights had dimmed and Pomfrey had already left.

The treatment was already leaving Percy dizzy and hot.

He closed his eyes, finding it hard to center his thoughts, and feeling more exhausted than he had upon entering. His body begged for sleep but the thought of letting his mind wander unwatched in Oliver’s presence – and only his presence, for the Infirmary was empty save for both Gryffindors, was the only worry keeping him alert. If he tried to sleep, he theorized, he might see Oliver’s fantasies, or something equally troubling may occur. After all, he hadn’t seen or participated in one when he was the unconscious party.

Worse, he truly wanted to look into Oliver’s imagination and have all his questions answered. He wanted the reassurance that his friendship was genuine – that Oliver himself was genuine, and what might be expected of him in this friendship of sorts.

He also wondered if he might see Warrington, or a scenario similar to the one imagined by the Slytherin.

Cool fingers swiped the hair off his forehead, and he felt a trail of moisture, belatedly noticing that he was covered with sweat.

“Perce?” Oliver said quietly, his fingers still pulling back at Percy’s hair.

“Hmm?”

“Did you-- I mean, in the Common Room earlier, there was talk…” he stopped.

“Always talk around here,” Percy answered, and then fought the urge to laugh, feeling the sudden beginnings of hysteria. What had been in that goblet?

“Er, no. I mean, there was talk about you and Penelope. She was there, you know. Visiting. With Cedric.” He cleared his throat, sounding like he was trying to say something difficult. “He’s usually a good sport about the game. Came over to congratulate Harry, you know. And she was… with him.”

“I’m not surprised.” Percy was unable to find the panic that had called to his fear earlier, settling on the cold knowledge of knowing that breaking-up with Penelope had been the right decision. But when Oliver didn’t respond, he cracked open an eye and looked at his friend, a little taken back at the prominent worry lines in his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he simply stated, looking down.

“Don’t be,” Percy managed, barely restraining from ask him what they had been talking about.

“That happened today, didn’t it? In the stands? I was watching you…”

Penelope, it came back to his muddled mind. He opened his eyes wider to try to get a better handle on himself, wincing a little as more light stressed them painfully. “Don’t be. Penny and I, we’re good friends,” he explained, trying to be as honest, and coherent, as possible, and coming off overly cheerful. It also occurred to him that lately he classified more people as ‘friends’ than he ever dreamt possible in his lifetime. “She was looking for something more. The break-up was my idea. I’m glad she’s found something with Cedric.”

“She seems really happy,” Oliver agreed, nodding, before catching Percy’s eye and adding sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s better off this way. I wouldn’t want her to be with me – or me with her” am I still making sense? “just to be with somebody. Just so that we wouldn’t have to be alone.”

Oliver appeared to muse on that information. As he spoke, his hand had moved down Percy’s face, to his arm and his hand, and was now clutched into a fist beside him.

Fantasies still nagged at the edges of his mind, and Percy was starting to believe that he was growing in power, that there were more fantasies than just Oliver’s he was picking up now. Unless Oliver was radiating imagination. Trying to avoid peering inside his mind made the prospect even more enticing, and in this weakened, woozy state, his roommate’s mind was increasingly difficult to tune out altogether, like the draw of a scent he couldn’t get enough of.

So tired was Percy that when Oliver whispered his name, it was all he could do to keep himself from sighing contently, hearing his name spoken so familiarly. He was certain Oliver was thinking about him.

“Did you want to talk?” Oliver pressed, sounding more concerned than bored. “Shouldn’t you be asleep right now?”

“No, we’ll talk,” Percy managed, trying to think of a subject he’d want to know about. “What goes on in the Slytherin locker room?”

His lips had gotten away from his thoughts. One part of himself instantly scandalized he said such a thing aloud, the other far enough removed from the situation to be amused.

Thankfully, Oliver laughed. “A lot of things we could only imagine about. I’d think some in-House backstabbing. Making and breaking friendships. Or alliances, I’m not sure what they call them. More than a little bull, especially considering Marcus leads their team.”

Percy could no longer keep his eyes open. “No homosexual group orgies?”

There was a stunned silence. And then, sounding a little embarrassed, he answered, “Not that I’m aware of, no.” A sigh. “Perce, why don’t you try sleeping? Give in to whatever Pomfrey gave you, and relax. I’m here. Nothing to worry about.

Worry. There was plenty to worry about and Percy thought for a moment that he had said so out loud. But there was a sincerity to Oliver’s voice that made him want to trust in his words.

As he drifted off, on the edge of unconsciousness, he played with the idea of dreaming inside someone else’s’ fantasy. Lucid dreaming, he questioned. Would he remember? Would he be able to distinguish reality from fiction? He never placed too much attention on his sleeping dreams, always finding them random and disconcerting. Would he be able to distinguish a dream of Oliver’s from his own?

If there’s a Quidditch pitch, I should know, he thought, amusing himself.

From the dark cloud of sleep, on some conscious level, Percy was aware that he was opening himself up to Oliver. But before he could master control of his senses--

--

Where do you go when you're lonely
Where do you go when you're blue
Where do you go when you're lonely
I'll follow you
When the stars go blue

- “When The Stars Go Blue,” covered by The Corrs and Bono
(download here)

Before he opened his eyes, Percy knew that he was woken up only by the harsh chill of winter. Still plagued with fatigue, he could barely keep his eyes open for a significant period, resisting the urge to keep sleeping.

Except his body wouldn’t stop contracting, even to the point of aching, with shivers that seemed at once both exaggerated and justifiable. Absently he reached for his comforter, as thin as it may be, to crawl under and try to keep warm, while willing himself back to sleep. His feet wiggled around, attempting to find the pyjama bottoms he’d evidently done away with at some point. He found nothing, feeling only the rough texture of old floorboards.

With an audible groan that he eventually identified as his own, Percy rolled over onto his back and forcibly widened his eyes, attempting to make some sense of the situation. His memories were hazy, and while this place, wherever it might be, was not what he expected to see, he did have the sense to know that something had gone wrong, that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and that he would soon remember why.

Of course, when hungry or tired, one tended to have different priorities, he knew, trying to look past his immediate needs.

From outside, thunder rolled deafeningly. Sheet rain was pounding onto the roof and the wind whistled ominously, a gust rushing over Percy’s body in a delayed effect. He looked down, barely making out his exposed chest and boxers in the darkness, and then curled into himself. Panic started to creep into his mind consciously, and his memories were soon to follow.

He’d been… Oh, God.

It was Friday. He’d been at the Quidditch pitch that afternoon, watching a game. With Penelope. And… And he broke up with her and was hiding behind his bed, and then Oliver took him to the Infirmary. Yes, that was it, he was certain. Oliver…

No. That didn’t sound right.

Riving on the floor, Percy gathered his arms around him and rubbed them hard, as he tried focus on his thoughts rather than his current physical state. It was a strange sensation he couldn’t make sense of, a memory that appeared vivid and real but also not like any other he’d experienced.

Vaguely, he could remember watching Oliver with blatant adoration at the game. He could remember Slytherins – no one he could identify by face but most definitely his fellow students, noticing and bullying him for his interest in the Keeper. He remembered being beaten-up and then taken… No, flown, to the Shrieking Shack, and locked inside. He could remember the Slytherins saying they would mention this to Oliver, and that they supposed Oliver would rush to save him, especially as they had stolen Percy’s clothes. He’d been there since late afternoon.

It was a false memory, he realized. What held together reality and the fantasized scenario was seamless, and only when Percy concentrated could the two be distinguished. Because this world, where he was almost naked on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, was more real to him than where he knew he was presently – in the Infirmary, in a hospital bed, resting.

But I knew the other times were fantasy. Like reading an illustrated children’s storybook. This here, this is life, Percy’s mind argued, as his hands struggled for purchase on the floor and he attempted to pull himself up. Proving his point, his hands felt pain as they grasped on old wood, encountering several wood splinters. He lifted his hands and saw some blood trickling from the wounds already and, curious, licked his palms, tasting the bitterness.

Does this seem real because I’m asleep? Because Oliver and I are both asleep? he theorized, knowing he couldn’t prove any answer in his current state.

He could barely make out his surroundings, as the (imagined) Slytherin miscreants had taken away his glasses. There was a grand fireplace before him and a window at the other end of the room, but everything else appeared to be old furniture and scraps of wood thrown around. But seeing (rather blurrily) this setting and knowing that this had to be a dream or some similar experience, did nothing to pacify his nerves. He couldn’t do anything on his own and, without a passageway for him to escape, his ‘rescue’ would have to wait for Oliver.

I can’t believe…

Despite the circumstances, Percy made a sour face. It was a trite, childish fantasy, and he was a little disappointed that Oliver would have created a damsel-in-distress type of situation where Percy would be the one who required saving.

Needed saving by Oliver.

Needed saving because others had noticed him admiring Oliver from afar.

And this would happen to be a ‘rescue’ that only Oliver could mount, flying in stormy weather, at night. Percy wasn’t amused. Was this what Oliver thought of him? As a man who needed to be taken care of, unable to care for himself? Lusting without abandon at a distance? What a preposterous notion!

Except that, physically, he was in the Infirmary right now, having been brought in by Oliver, at Oliver’s insistence, for the second time in two weeks. And the reason he was experiencing this dream or fantasy or whatever at the moment was due to Oliver’s continued presence with him.

“Perhaps not that far off the mark, then,” he muttered aloud, startled a little at how this imagined voice sounded like his real self.

“PERCY! PER-CY! ARE YOU IN THERE?”

Outside Oliver was yelling loudly, the wind carrying his voice to the second floor of the shack, but Percy couldn’t find the strength to answer back. He heard a hammer at work, presumably pulling away the boards that were across the front doors. Soon the door burst open downstairs, and after a long, steady run up creaking stairs, Oliver appeared before him.

He was dressed in his best winter’s robes and though he’d just come in from outside, his hair dried and set into place upon one shake.

“Perce,” he muttered with concern, running over to where his roommate remained on the floor, and threw his robe around him in a debonair gesture. He knelt before him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! When you didn’t return, I didn’t know…” He swallowed hard, not finishing.

Oliver’s entrance had all the makings of a cheap romance novel, and part of Percy wanted to smack him, or at least tell him to wake up so they could be done with this bit of humiliation. But Oliver smelled like expensive aftershave, his breath holding the telltale, enticing scent of rum, and his large hands had started rubbing Percy’s shoulders right away, trying to warm him. And even through the heavy fabric of Oliver’s cloak that covered him, the touch was more personal and intimate and compassionate than Percy had ever experienced before.

He sighed contently, with some relief, and leaned forward a little, resting his forehead against Oliver’s smooth chin, closing his eyes. Everything was real – this place, his emotions, his reactions, Oliver.

Oliver had him pulled into a half-hug, whispering, “Let’s get you warmed up by a fire” into his hair.

“I haven’t got my wand,” was the first thought Percy had, feeling deadweight the closer Oliver held him.

“I have mine,” Oliver answered with a little chuckle, and before Percy could blink, a magnificent fire appeared in the fireplace.

Well, that cements things, Percy thought with some detachment to the situation. Oliver could never do that in real life without speaking the charm out loud.

The Keeper, looking more muscular in his casual wear than usual, crawled over to tend to the flames with his wand as a poker, and Percy used this time to try to assess the situation with a clearer head. There was no question now of whether or not to allow the fantasy to play out, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. Starting with his break-up with Penelope – no, he realized, remembering Warrington’s fantasy. That was what had caused him to consider Oliver in a new light, one that wasn’t necessary good or bad, but that was basically interested in knowing more about his roommate. And as an academic to his core, Percy wasn’t about to allow preconceived notions about himself or anyone else’s sexuality hold him back.

Not after Oliver’s hand had been rubbing his arms like that. Not after Oliver had come to rescue him, in the Shrieking Shack, in the middle of a stormy night. And especially not after Oliver was the one to have started this fantasy, or dream, in the first place.

But on the edges of viewing others’ fantasies, Percy was well-aware of how repetitive and corny and tiresome the imagination could become after awhile. No, if he was to be here now, participating in a situation of Oliver’s own choosing, he was going to make the most of things, his way.

“I want to talk to you,” Percy blurted out, fighting against the feeling that he should be playing the emotional victim, clingy and desperate, and very grateful for the hero rescue.

Oliver turned back to face him, his expression showing his surprise, and he hesitated to speak.

Percy thought that he should be more subtle in changing this fantasy around lest he wake Oliver completely. “I said,” he started, quieter this time, drawing the robe further over his shoulders, “I’d like to talk to you. And since we’re both here right now, and can’t leave until the storm subsides…” he trailed off.

After a blank stare that seemed to appraise the validity of his interest, Oliver nodded, sitting down directly in front of the fire.

Right. Percy tried to assemble his thoughts as a journalist might. This was the plan:


A. General conversation.

B. Inquire about Oliver’s views on mildly controversial subjects.

C. Weave in questions about roommates and Oliver’s family, building a sense of trust and intimacy.

D. Politely and inconspicuously, inquire about his private life.

E. If not fully discerned at this point, ask about his sexuality in a roundabout manner.


This appeared to be a sound plan to Percy. But every time he tried to open his mouth to pose ‘general conversation,’ he tensed.

Eventually he blurted out, “WHAT DO YOU EXPECT FROM ME HERE?!”

“What are you talking--?”

Percy interrupted, his mind on autopilot, his voice reaching choirboy pitches, “What do you expect from me here? Gratitude? Love? Se-- Er, something else?”

Oliver scuffed, shaking his head and looking back towards the fire, though his cheeks flushed at the unspoken suggestion.

Percy moved across the floor, dragging the robe with him, but his bare knees scratched against the boards painfully. Wincing, he sat beside his roommate.

“Do you like me?” He knew he sounded desperate.

Oliver appeared not to hear him.

“I mean, you talk to me. You tolerate me, at least.” This would have been a good time for Oliver to wake-up, he wished, given the odd look the other man was giving him.

Worse, Percy couldn’t stop his mouth from moving. “Is it pity, Oliver? Why are you doing this? Do you-- do you just want someone to wrestle with in an open clearing?”

“Wrestle? With you? What do you mean?” Oliver asked, confused, and Percy waved the question away, having gotten tangled up in the memory of Warrington’s fantasy. “Perce, look, maybe we should go back.”

Wonderful. He ruined another man’s fantasy. If Oliver couldn’t be honest and trustful and safe within his imagination, where else would he go?

Fed-up and frustrated at his foolishness, Percy’s anger turned outward. “So, this is just for sex-- er, something physical. Get Hogwarts most conservative seventh-year to drop his bottoms and add that to your list of accomplishments!”

Oliver blinked, uncomprehendingly.

Percy stopped shivering, covered in sweat. Did I just say that?

He was goading Oliver, albeit unintentionally. He recognized the similar feeling of warning whenever he knew his words would get a negative reaction from his brothers.

But Oliver was an only child, and with that in mind, Percy was betting on him taking his words at face value, rather than looking for whatever motive was behind his words.

Judging by the aghast expression on his face, he succeeded. “Perce, I’d never--”

Percy cleared his throat, trying to disguise his nerves, shoving his roommate lightly as he sat closer beside him. “Just be honest with me. Why am I here, in your fan-- in the shack? Why did you come to get me?”

Perhaps it was because this was Oliver’s fantasy that he himself seemed to have more courage and could excuse the redhead’s odd behaviour. He faced Percy with a smile that seemed to be warring between flirty and shy. “I thought that maybe I could get to know you a little better.”

As if the six years before hadn’t been enough time, Percy wanted to add, but kept his mouth shut, knowing that his lack of control of the situation was needling him towards bitterness.

After spending a moment gathering his nerves, Percy managed “What do you want to know about me?” in a normal voice, still feeling awkward about being so upfront.

But Oliver smiled assuredly, his head tilted as he twisted sideways to look at Percy. “I already know most of what matters.”

“What matters?”

Oliver didn’t answer, instead letting out a sound that was a cross between a moan and a grumble, stretching his arms wide. He looked at the fire with a critical eye, then poked at the flames with his wand again, appearing to use the action as a distraction to compose his thoughts. When he seemed ready to speak again, he sat on the floor across from Percy, his face lit against the fames.

“Don’t you ever just, you know,” he made a scooping gesture, his hand held at level with his chest, and appeared to lose confidence in what he was about to say. He didn’t try again.

A loud clap of thunder shook the shack, unnerving to Percy, even moreso than having this conversation. It occurred to him that Oliver might tire of conversation (indeed, who did enjoy lengthy, imaginative conversations in the dead of night, when obviously more romantic overtures were about to be made?), and might subsequently replace him with someone else, someone more willing and seductive to his memory.

Like Warrington.

Percy was having none of that, and ploughed on with what he felt his roommate might like to talk about, “I can’t see what you might want to know about me, at least not something that you’ve probably already supposed. You know about my classes, about my duties, about my girlfriend – er, former. You know that I don’t talk often unless I have to, unless the situation calls for it.”

“Like right now?” Oliver posed softly, a little self-pitying, Percy thought.

“Yes, like now,” he almost snapped in return. “Oliver, I’m here in my underthings and you’re not telling me what you want from me!” Gratifyingly, the Keeper grinned at his overreaction. “I suspect I know far less about you than you do me. So, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Tell me what you want me to know about you.”

Oliver looked lost.

Not so easy now, is it? Speaking with more confidence than he’d ever shown before – at least, outside of academic circles, Percy continued, “This is… hard. And confusing. Tell me about your family. Your friends, your social life. Tell me about… well, about Quidditch. What’s it like to play without falling off a broom? Winning?

A small smile formed on Oliver’s lips, one that deepened the lines around his mouth and crinkled his eyes. In that moment, Percy was soothed. Oliver looked wholly endearing.

“Winning a game? That’s… That’s just as you’d expect. Exciting, surreal. But you would know that. When Gryffindor wins, everyone wins, Perce. The winning, though, that’s temporary.” He paused, ducking his head to busy himself again at the fire, and said as an afterthought, “When we lose…”

When we lose…, Percy tried to finish his friend’s thought, wondering if he was detecting more than a little sadness and stress in the other man. “Then it’s just you.”

Oliver half-shrugged. “Seems silly to say it. But I feel it. Sometimes I think that’s the only time I feel anything.”

Though confused, Percy reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, comforting, but he doubted the Keeper noticed.

“I get caught up in it all here, y’know? The business of Quidditch – hell, the politics of Quidditch. I get caught up in scheduling practices and House feuds, and-- and--”

“Keeping up appearances,” Percy supplied, the mutual recognition hitting deep.

“Appearances,” Oliver nodded, flexing his hands, frustrated. “And the pressure and the criticism, sometimes, seems too much, and I just want…” He appeared to think things over for a bit. “You mentioned that you’re quiet. Yeah, I’ve noticed. I-- I want that, Perce. I want that back in my life.”

He brushed off his jeans and stood, starting to pace around the room. His hands were stuffed into his jean pockets and he looked everywhere except at Percy while speaking. “When I’m quiet – and my life is quiet, I’m myself. It’s like when I’m at that Keeper’s hoop, I think and react faster, and I notice things. I can deal without worrying about what others are putting on me. Everything else is just noise.”

His look shifted to Percy suddenly, powerfully, his eyes alight with the energy of secrecy. Of a long-awaited conversation between friends.

“You don’t expect anything in return. From my position, that is.”

Percy cocked his head, thinking hard about his response, because he closely identified with Oliver’s words. His position was one of authority, not of celebrity as his roommate’s, but he knew how heavy the burden of responsibility could weigh without others’ consideration. Guiltily, he realized that even he had overlooked how similar their respective roles had been over the past few years, and how Oliver had obviously tied them together long before the possession of Hermes that had started off this friendship of sorts.

“I don’t expect anything,” was his only answer to Oliver’s questioning gaze. “Of course not.”

That seemed to satisfy the young man, and he took his place next to Percy again. “I know you don’t. Have you noticed that you might not congratulate me after a winning game, but you always notice when I make a great save, or try a manoeuvre that no one’s thought to try before, even if Gryffindor loses? The few times we’ve spoken, that’s what you’ve noticed.” He chuckled. “When the game ends, I mean, you’re still there. You’re still you, acting however you’ve acted to me before. Your… friendship” spoken as though he were trying the word, “isn’t measured by my performance on the field. And that’s not to say that my other friendships are. It’s just… You don’t make me feel like I have to earn my right to be in Gryffindor. Like I have to earn the right to be your friend.”

Oliver was struggling to find the proper words but Percy understood the gist of what he was saying, the underlying vulnerability that public pressure asserted on anyone in such a position. He had felt the same emotions towards just the opposite, considering his frosty distance that he felt had to be maintained with his roommates. That as Head Boy, he was trapped in a role that had boundaries to how he reacted, and with whom he kept company.

Upon that insight, he felt a kinship to Oliver like he’d never experienced before. It was a bit overwhelming and to his surprise, Oliver still had more to say.

“When I see you watching the game,” he was saying, smiling, and his tone wistful. “That reminds me of why I started to play in the first place, all those years ago. You have…” he licked his lips, then took his time scratching the back of his neck, looking embarrassed, “ You have this joy about you that-- You enjoy the game for the game’s sake. Once or twice, I’ve seen you applaud for good plays by the other teams. Don’t deny it!” His glare was warning but light. Percy didn’t have the heart to tell him that most of those plays were by Ravenclaw, when he was dating Penelope and had to show such appreciation. “I-- I like that. Seeing that, seeing you, sometimes keeps me going when I’m bogged down with every miserable thing that seems to go along with Quidditch, like the unwarranted criticism and blame. That, at the heart of Quidditch, is the game itself. And that’s why…” He quirked his head, his eyes taking on a playful nature.

Oh.

“Is it ever too loud for you, Percy? Being here, being who you are?”

“Sometimes I think it’s a little too quiet, to be honest with you,” Percy mumbled, moreso to himself. “Even nights when I fall into bed with exhaustion from having so much to do besides being a student, my life seems… quiet. I feel complacent.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Oliver shift closer. He sensed that the Keeper was looking to comfort him, in the physical sense of the word, and did the only action he could think of.

In an all-out panic, he flailed his arms, backing away from Oliver and almost falling into the fire, shouting, “Wake-up, Oliver. Wake-up!”

--

To Be Continued…