Cowboys and Angels

moment thirty-four: using [the rules III] (February 1995.)

He was dimly aware of sounds, somewhere. Grumbling, Oliver turned over on his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to bury himself deeper into pillow and mattress, hoping to find some relief. But it was not to be. He could still hear the early morning broadcast of the wireless, and the smells of breakfast wafted in, making continued sleep somewhat of lesser importance. Finally, Oliver surrendered to reality, and stretched lazily, yawning, opening his eyes to blink somewhat confusedly at a face a few scant inches away from his, bright blue eyes crinkled, bemused and amused at Oliver's situation.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Nice to see you've joined us," mocked Marcus Flint, and Oliver grumbled. "I have spent the entire week at training camp," he declared, pushing back the covers and dressing for the morning, "so the last thing I want when returning home is not getting to sleep in." Puddlemere's trainer had recommended it as well, taking some time off and relaxing. Not being inactive, of course, but taking things slower, not wearing himself out before the season started again after the two week break.

Marcus snorted and padded back to the kitchen/living area, the other following him, padded along. The former Slytherin made sure that breakfast hadn't burnt, first, and then called back over his shoulder as Oliver sat himself down. "Well, some of us do have employment, you know," he said, setting steaming plates of bacon and eggs down on the table, already dressed for the day. "And this is the last of the food in the house, so you'll have to go shopping and get some more," he added, grinning, and sat himself down opposite Oliver.

They ate in silence, and Oliver mused over the fact (not for the first time) that Marcus was at the very least, a bloody good cook. In some ways, he had it easy: Keeper for a professional Quidditch team, and Puddlemere at that; an apartment which was conveniently situated between Diagon and Knockturn Alleys, and someone whom he could come home to, when he had time to come home. They had moved into this apartment, little more than a shoebox, after leaving school. Seven months had gone by, with Quidditch and shopping and work and training. Sometimes, as with the World Cup, it had been a refuge and a sanctuary. A place where they could forget who they were, and what they meant, although they never did completely.

Never did completely, and wasn't that the truth? He'd heard the rumours about Flint's family, and the business Marcus worked in, and Oliver resisted the temptation to interrogate him about the Dark Mark he'd seen in the sky, just because he didn't want to know whether he doubted Marcus or not.

Even now, in the hazy light of morning, some words could never be spoken, no matter how much they leapt inside Oliver's throat. If he invited Marcus to join him for a drink with the team after a game, chances were that Marcus would, but he'd hang at a distance, both of them uncomfortable. Oliver would introduce him as his 'friend' or 'flatmate', and Marcus wouldn't complain about that, even though Oliver wanted him to. And the few times that Oliver bumped into old school mates, he usually had to justify why he was rooming with the Slytherin, trailing off with the sorry sounding excuse that Marcus Flint "wasn't all that bad, really, once you got to know him."

Oliver cleared the table while Marcus busied himself in the small bathroom, and soon felt an arm curl around him from behind, Marcus deftly kissing the sensitive point under his ear. "Don't you have work to go to?" he enquired, although truth be told he liked moments like this. In moments like this, he could forget everything else.

"Thank you for reminding me," Marcus murmured, and chuckled under his breath. "My very own alarm clock. Merlin, Wood, if I knew you were this eager to get rid of me, I would have moved out long ago."

"Well, while you're at work, I could always throw your stuff out the window," Oliver replied, brightly.

"Try to resist the impulse," Marcus observed dryly, giving his waist a final squeeze, and left.

Oliver stood washing dishes in the cramped kitchen, and then got himself ready for the day.

* * *

Marcus wandered down Knockturn Alley briskly, hands in his pockets. His mind wandered back to Oliver, and he brushed the thoughts away. The impulse returned, and he shook his head, as if trying to clear it. The one thing that guaranteed him confusion was Oliver Wood. It was after all, supposed to have been just a fuck. Which in turn had built up grudging respect for the Gryffindor, both on and off the field.

When Oliver had asked him to share a flat - despite the fact that Marcus knew it meant Oliver liked him - he hadn't had the heart to say no, and even worse, he'd wanted to say yes. He'd been changed by his association with Wood: shown new possibilities, different ways of doing things. Gryffindor ways. And just seeing how Oliver treated people, and was treated in return, made Marcus pine for that kind of relationship: something beyond his father or the majority of Slytherins.

He stopped in front of the run-down, seedy looking shop, glass hazed over and the inside of the shop barely lit. His father would already be inside, of course, getting the store reading for opening at nine am, sharp, and the morning's deliveries should have been made by now, anyway. There wouldn't be much for him to do except watch the shop and work the counter while his father did the stocktake, and sorted out any late arrivals.

He tried the door, and got out his keys, briefly fumbling as he opened it up, the bell clanging in the silence above him, and made his way through the darkened shelves to the back.

Isaiah Flint was a former hulk of a man, bent over with age and work. The appropriate word for him was 'gnarled' and not for the first time, his father reminded Marcus of an old oak tree. But the tree had twisted in upon itself, and rot had seeped into the roots. As always, he tried to reconcile the image of this man with the strong, frightening figure he'd known as a young boy, and couldn't. Didn't even know where to pinpoint when the change had happened. Perhaps his father had always been like this, and Marcus hadn't been able to see it until he was grown, and able to live without him. What was that old phrase that Sinistra was so fond of quoting? "What happens to the King Stag when the Young Stag had grown?" that was it.

As usual, their greeting did not go well. "I see you managed to lift yourself out of bed with that Gryffindor fairy of yours," Isaiah observed, turning abruptly to examine some of the wares on the shelf behind him, checking off the small jars of salamander scales on his list.

Marcus knew well enough now not to press the issue. At first he'd tried telling his father it was a stunt, you know, to get Oliver's sympathies so perhaps he could find out something useful to the cause. His father had taken one look at him, grunted, and told his son that if Marcus had lied like that to him when he was at school, he would have belted the boy. At that point, Marcus was tempted to tell Isaiah that Oliver was the one with the disciplinarian kink, but he somehow managed to bite his tongue. Blinking himself back to the present he became aware of his father's grumbling, low, and wondered what the sour old bastard was saying now.

Noticing the interest, Isaiah elucidated. "If that faggot of yours had been properly brought up by his father, he might actually be normal, and not enjoy being the woman for someone like you." Recognising perhaps the inherent contradiction in that statement, he turned, clipboard in one hand, and looked his son up and down. "I thought I'd beaten such nonsense out of you, at least." For a brief moment, Marcus relieved every beating his father had put him through. He'd thought he deserved it, and worse, and part of him still did. But he knew now that some things were cruel and unusual punishment even for a Slytherin, and couldn't help but picture what Oliver might have been like, if his father had got his hands on him, the way he had Marcus.

Brutally shoving down the sudden rage that filled him, he moved past his father and checked the till, distracting him from the urge to kill the twisted monster where he stood.

* * *

Oliver poked about in the greengrocers. There were crisping charms hanging heavy in the air, designed to keep the food fresh for as long as possible. He didn't have to consult his shopping list here, mainly because he knew exactly what to buy. Even in Hogwarts, Oliver had read extensively and gone on the appropriate diet, one designed to provide the correct nutritional balance to Quidditch players. He'd ranted long and hard to the house elves about carbohydrates and supplement intake and whatnot until their eyes had glazed over, even though they'd already been more than happy to accede. However, he needed to make sure they understood - this was important, after all. Fortunately for him, it involved a lot of fruit, and he did like fruit. There were many essential minerals and vitamins in fruit that would help supplement his natural stamina and keep him alert during a match, and so he slid a few oranges into his basket.

He kept trying to convince Marcus to eat better as well, and admittedly let himself slide when Marcus cooked, but then he kept pushing Marcus to give up his job and try out for a professional Quidditch team. It didn't even have to be bloody Puddlemere, just as long as it got Marcus out of that damned shop. Oliver could see how it tore Marcus apart, how it demeaned him, and broke him every day. He didn't know why Marcus did that to himself, why he allowed it to happen, and the few times he'd tried to talk to Marcus about it had always ended in a fight.

He knew he wasn't supposed to care about Marcus, but he did.

Reaching across to grab an apple, he saw a slender hand take one as well, and lifted his head up to nod affably at his fellow customer. What he saw there nearly made him drop his basket.

"Hello, Oliver," Percy Weasley said quietly, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Perce!" Oliver stammered, almost shocked. He'd hadn't seen his former roommate since well, the end of school, and that had been a rather bitter affair. After a few shouting matches, invariably about Marcus, the two had simply stopped talking. Oliver had never got it, really, the strength and fervour of Percy's sheer rancour towards Marcus. Certainly, Marcus had treated Percy badly, but he'd treated a lot of people badly, back in the bad old days, and he'd stopped after fourth year, or something. If it were anyone else, Oliver might almost think he was jealous, but this was Perfect Prefect Percy, who'd demonstrated his surefooted heterosexuality with one Miss Penelope Clearwater, and Oliver's least favourite person in the world.

She had been another reason why the two had stopped associating; mostly because she had always been hanging around Percy, and invariably made remarks about how much more interesting anything was than Quidditch, with the snide insinuation he didn't have two brain cells to rub together. Oliver knew he might not be top of the class, or any class, but he certainly didn't have to put up with a stuck-up cow of a Ravenclaw on his back at every turn. Percy might have thought that Marcus was a bastard, but that was fine in a sense, because Penny was most certainly a bitch.

"I hear you're doing well," Percy offered, his tone formal and precise as ever. They'd bumped into each other by accident at the World Cup, and promptly ignored one another.

Oliver by this stage had only just managed to get over the fact that Percy Weasley was standing here, right in front of him, and they were being civil to one another for the first time in at least a year. "Um, well. Yeah. Puddlemere, and all that."

Percy nodded. "I managed to catch a few of the games, when I'm not too busy. One of the perks of being a Ministry employee and all."

The Quidditch player near exploded. "But you never came to any one of my matches when I was playing at school!"

He received a rather severe look from over the top of Percy's glasses. "Of course I did, Oliver. I had to attend, to support the House. I just never joined the cheering mob wanting to fling themselves at your feet, so it's no wonder you never noticed me."

Oliver ignored the undercurrent. "Yeah, well, celebrity isn't all it's cracked up to be. Look at me now! No-one's asking for my autograph, are they? I'm just another bloke, buying fruit."

Percy's lips quirked in a near-smile, but Oliver couldn't figure out why. "One of many blokes, buying fruit."

Now he felt horribly off guard, and he didn't know how to defend himself. Not the best position for a Keeper to be in. "Look, d'you want to grab a drink or something? There's a nice place a few blocks from here, the Quaffle and-"

"And Snitch, yes, I know it." Percy's eyes were unreadable.

"You live around here?"

"I have a small flat. John Dee Avenue."

Oliver nodded. "We've got a place at Astrolabe Place."

"We?"

He refused to back down, not now. "Marcus and I live together."

"Ah." There was a pause. "A drink would be nice."

"Fine." Oliver picked up the last of his groceries, and paid the shopkeeper, Percy doing the same behind him. Soon enough, they were both out into the hustle and bustle of the open, small drawstring bags of fruit and vegetables hanging from wrists or hands. "It doesn't matter if we take a bit to catch up, I've got the whole day to get the shopping," he called back, leading Percy through the crowds to their destination, holding onto him by the elbow. "And Marcus doesn't get back till dinner, usually."

"He works at his father's shop?"

"Yeah." Oliver continued moving through the throng, and let his hand fall from Percy's arm

"His father has quite the reputation..."

"I know. But Marcus isn't like that. Honestly."

They stopped outside the bar. "I believe you. You are many things, Oliver Wood, but you are neither a masochist nor an idiot."

"Thank you. I think." Oliver turned to look at his friend, and raised an eyebrow. "So, what about you and Miss Prim, then?"

Percy gave a dry chuckle, and pushed open the door, making his way inside. "She decided to wipe her hands of me. In her position, I would have done the same."

And that was so uncharacteristically un-Percy Oliver stood there blinking for a few moments before he followed him inside, into the pub.

* * *

It was boring, as usual. In fact, it was dead boring. Worse than boring. So boring that even Hufflepuffs, known for their tolerance, would keel over and give tiny little rasps before they expired. And he hadn't even got to lunch yet.

Although it was hardly a lunch break. Fifteen minutes if he was lucky out the back, eating the sandwiches he'd made in the morning under the surly gaze of his father, who always made him feel like he was freeloading. Like he was that kid again, and deserved to be hit. Marcus had always hated feeling like a kid, even when he was one.

Especially when he was one.

And worse still, the sandwiches always tasted like ash in his mouth. The bell charm at the door jangled, startling him from his reverie. Entering the shop were two men in darkish grey robes, and they just looked wrong. There was no other word to describe it. Marcus knew his father made a living out of illicit charms, but it was the 'cheap and nasty' end of the illicit market. These two, however, looked as if they should be going to the 'upmarket' illegal Dark Arts store. If there was such a thing.

Which meant, of course, that his father's 'other' business was coming into play.

His father ran a business off Knockturn Alley, and had interests in a few other similar businesses in Newcastle, Manchester, and Caernarvon. It was hardly a business empire, but it was something, even if he only had a majority stake in the one shop. Mostly though, the good thing was that it gave him a foot in the door of the magical transport industry. After all, how did all those goods get shipped from city to city, to stock the shelves? His father knew, and his father had friends in the business. If he wanted to, he could get anything send anywhere, no questions asked, no customs or Ministry inspection. He knew where to hide things, and he knew how. Which was necessary, considering half the store's wares were contraband, and the other half fell off the back of a Hippogriff.

This made him very very useful to certain parties. It was not that Isaiah Flint was a Death Eater himself, no. Causes were all very well and good but they were not for him. But he was...affiliated, you might call it, and he did believe in the overall objectives of the movement. Therefore as a favour into which he had a most vested interest, Isaiah laid his transport and cargo contacts open for the use of the Death Eaters, to carry supplies undetected right under the Ministry's nose.

He'd told his son many a time that he'd done good service in the first rise of the Dark Lord, and now he seemed certain to do it all again.

The men approached the desk, and Marcus straightened up. "We'd like to speak to your father, son."

Marcus tried not to growl. No one called him 'son', well, no-one except his father, and Marcus tried to avoid that if at all possible. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in response. "He's out back."

"Get him for us, would you?"

Nodding curtly, he made his way through the small entrance into the back of the store, one hand resting on the doorframe. "Dad? Some people are here to see you?" His father had been checking inventory, and polishing off a cheap bottle of whiskey by the looks of things, but he was compos mentis enough to recognise who was who and what was what.

Isaiah shook their hands, firmly, and curtly beckoned them into the back room, closing the door behind them. Marcus gazed around the empty shop and settled his elbows back on the counter, taking the copy of the Daily Prophet out from under the till. Turning to the sports pages, he could go through all the Quidditch articles he'd caught a glimpse of in the morning before he'd woken Oliver up. Maybe he'd be mentioned there, somewhere. It never hurt to look.

* * *

They found themselves a quiet little compartment, separated from the other tables with the usual smoke-impermeable charms. Percy slid in one side of the table and Oliver the other, still somewhat shocked. Percy took the lead, ordering the drinks - "Fruit juice is fine for you, Oliver?" - and Oliver just nodded, noticing that Percy ordered water for himself. How like him, Oliver grumped internally, he doesn't let anything contaminate himself; he's so good. How do you cope with us mere mortals, Percy? How do you stand it?

Percy seemed somewhat less jumpy than before, although Oliver thought it was more resignation, defeat rather than actual relaxation. He sipped at his water whilst Oliver took a long draft of the juice.

"How's the Ministry? I know you're working there."

"Oh, I've been given a far greater responsibility, actually, of late. I am the only one my supervisor trusts to run things while he is indisposed."

Oliver felt as though he wasn't getting the whole picture, and probed. "So, you're in charge? That must be a lot of work."

"Indeed. Not that I can't handle the increased workload, of course," Percy pushed his glasses back up his nose and adopted the slightly lecturing tone that Oliver was all too familiar with, "and it is quite the challenge."

"Your other co-workers must be jealous."

"They are quite capable of recognising talent, and granting it its due," Percy retorted stiffly, and Oliver knew he'd pushed a nerve there. Feeling guilty, he decided to change tack.

"So, what happened with Perfect Penny then?" Oliver teased, finishing off his drink. "She was almost as proper as you."

"I fear she was more so," Percy said softly, something sad and broken playing in his eyes. "As I revealed myself to be tainted with the distinct smell of abnormality."

"What do you mean?"

"She broke up with me after I told her I was gay."

Woah. Oliver's mind slammed on the breaks and did a screaming three-hundred-and-sixty degree spin, the kind that can shatter a broom if you're not careful. Percy? Liked guys? Well. Likes guys, unless he'd become celibate or something. But still. Percy likes guys. Oliver tried to think about it, tried to wrap his head around it. It wasn't working. How did Percy know he liked guys, anyway? Oliver had known cause of some really bad fumbling with Cedric Diggory, but who the hell would have made Percy twig? There was really only one guy Percy had ever associated with, and that was...

Oh my god. In an instant, Oliver had called the waiter over and was ordering a pint. Nutritional value be damned, he needed this, and he needed it about ten seconds ago.

* * *

They came out of the back room about an hour later. Marcus had served the customers who'd entered, and now there was no-one left in the store. The copy of the Daily Prophet was folded back under the till, and Marcus felt he could relax, somewhat.

His father certainly seemed happy, with a gruff smile, and there were congratulatory handshakes all round. "So," he said, "I'll be seeing you gentlemen out?"

"No", one said, with a slightly skewed nose and dirty blond hair. "We'd like to talk to your son, if that's alright." Marcus could feel Isaiah's appraising, somewhat disappointed look on his face, and nodded, gesturing to the door. "You can go out back. Don't want to be scaring the customers, now."

They plodded inside, and the other one - who looked vaguely like a rat with a pointy nose and buck teeth - closed the door behind them. Marcus braced himself: he knew this wouldn't be pleasant.

"We understand you're...rooming with an ex-Gryffindor," the blond one said, his voice sounding pure East London the more Marcus heard it. "Obviously, you understand, we're a bit worried on your behalf. We've noticed you haven't been the most fervent of supporters."

"That's because I'm not a supporter," Marcus ground out.

"You wouldn't want to be doing that, old boy," swaggered the other, moving forward. "Big things are happening. Big things. And your father's involved. We wouldn't want to consider you a security risk."

"Or that Gryffindor 'roommate' of yours," simpered Blondie.

Marcus was getting very tired of this. "Look, what is this? Bad Death Eater and worse Death Eater, both of you more camp than a row of tents?" Both of them bristled at that. "Fuck off, okay? I can make my own decisions. Do you really think I'd tell Oliver anything like this?"

Blondie looked at his nails. "It would be rather stupid of you. But who knows what you might moan at an inappropriate moment. Besides, you're not supposed to have any secrets from your boyfriend, are you?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

Rat-boy placed a hand on Marcus' shoulder, and he shrugged it off. He could almost catch the sound of Wales on the man's tongue, but not quite. "Sure. I mean, you don't cuddle or kiss or fuck or anything."

"Since when have you been spying on our house?" His blood went cold, and he wanted to do some serious damage.

"Since forever, young sir," responded Blondie, cocky as ever. "After all, your father is important to us. So we needed to make sure you would be as well. And we don't like what we're seeing."

"None of your business, is it?"

"But as we keep telling you, it is. If you don't give us good reason not to, we must have to 'stop up' the security leak, before it happens. And well, in a few months, we might just kill him anyway, to celebrate."

"You put a finger on him, and I'll-"

"You'll what?" Rat-boy laughed in his face. "You'll curse us? I'm scared. I've killed Aurors, boy. I'm not scared of some deadbeat ex-Slytherin. Especially one who hasn't got the courage to tell a Gryffindor he loves him. Course, in my day, if I'd gone to school with Wood, there'd be none of this love shit, I'd just fuck him senseless till he broke-"

Marcus' fist whipped out, and was caught by Rat-boy, as if it was no trouble at all. "You think about things, Marcus lad," opined Blondie. "You think about whether you'd like to come home to a dead body. Because big things are coming, and you and your little Gryffindor whore can't stop them. If we think we need to, we'll kill him, plain and simple. You think about that."

Rat-boy squeezed his fist, and then dropped it, smirking, obviously enjoying Marcus' brief snarl of pain, and subsequent rubbing of the sore fingers.

He joined Blondie at the door, and they left, nodding to Isaiah on the way out. Soon enough, his father was peering in. "I hope they gave you a good talking-to. I don't understand how you could be a Flint, let alone my son. Fucking pansy - although at least I hope he's the one spreading his legs. Gryffindor bitch-"

He stopped there, at what he saw in Marcus' eyes, and took a step back. In almost twenty years, Isaiah had never been afraid of his son.

But now he was.

"Don't you fucking dare," Marcus growled, and pushed past his father out into the store, making for the door. He could hear his father calling out from behind him, not caring if any customer saw him storm off, or what they thought.

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

"What about the store?"

"I quit." His hand reached out to grasp the handle, and jerked open the door. The bell charm rattled above him, and he turned to face his father, a pathetic old man. "You know when Mum couldn't bear it any further, the drinking, the fighting, the getting hit, and she left? You know what I felt when I woke up to find her gone?"

Isaiah, stunned, didn't reply.

"I hated her. Because she managed to run away. And she left me there with you."

He left the store then, blinking at the sudden sunlight. Making his way down the small alley, he heard the clang of the door as it shut behind him, and wondered truly, if the past would ever let him be free.

* * *

Fortunately for Oliver, the conversation had quickly veered off the subject of Percy's burgeoning sexuality, and onto something far more safe, like Puddlemere. Oliver could wax lyrical about Quidditch and his team until the house elves went on strike for greater pay and conditions, and would have done so, if Percy hadn't stopped him about twenty minutes later with the regretful apology that he had to get back to the Ministry, as his lunch break was soon over. Taking a quill from his robes, he noted down his address, assuring Oliver that if he ever wanted to catch up, or whatever, he just needed to owl Percy there. After placing some money onto the table, he left.

Oliver paid the tab with Percy's money, a tad guilty about keeping the change. But it would give him a reason to contact his ex-roommate, and rekindle their friendship, back to the days before lovers had gotten in the way of friends, so he kept the change, and folded up the piece of paper. His doubts had been reassured as well, and part of that had been Percy's fault. After letting that particular revelation hit, and watching Oliver's subsequent slack jawed reaction, he'd raised an eyebrow, and shot down exactly what Oliver was thinking. "Really now, Oliver, do you think I spent my time at Hogwarts pining for someone who gets off on vaguely insensible ex-Slytherin Quidditch players, rather than obsessively academic Gryffindors such as myself? That would rather make me an idiot, wouldn't it?" and he grinned as if he'd make a joke, although Oliver couldn't exactly see what was funny. Percy had changed the subject then to Puddlemere, and Oliver had been more than happy to follow the indicated escape route.

Percy probably just jerked off under the covers thinking about Terence Higgs, or someone equally embarrassing, Oliver thought, now stepping out into the sunshine. The idea of Percy jerking off under the covers whilst at school - in their room no less! - made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, and he dismissed the thought. He still had a bit of shopping to do, and there was no time like the present.

Oliver was quite surprised when he turned the key in the lock an hour later to find Marcus sweeping the floor of their small shoebox like apartment, with a charmed brush and pan. The house looked completely spotless, cleaner than it had been even before they moved in. Marcus set the broom against the wall, and gave him a weak smile.

"I cleaned."

Oliver dropped the shopping on the kitchen table and looked at him. "I can see. You're home early."

"Yeah." Marcus ran his fingers through his hair. "I quit."

"Oh." He nodded in response, and went to unpacking the shopping. He had no idea how they'll manage to pay the bills now, but he knew what that place was doing to Marcus, and so he was happy he'd left.

"I can get another job tomorrow, probably," Marcus reassured him.

"It's good, you know, that you're going to be trying something new," Oliver said, still sorting out the groceries, not looking at him, and deliberately so, trying to ignore the blush he was sure was creeping up his face. "I'm, ah, proud of you." It wasn't much, but it was all he could say. Worried, he risked a look at the former Slytherin, to see him somewhat stunned, his eyes wide in shock. Then Marcus Flint curled an arm around him, drawing Oliver close and kissed him, hard and deep, only letting go when they were both quite breathless, and rested his forehead on Oliver's.

"You're a really good bloke to have around the place, Wood," he said in a somewhat quavery voice, and almost as quickly, turned towards the table, clearing his throat. "I'll see what I can whip up for dinner, then, shall I?"

* * *

Later that night, Percy Weasley staggered into his small apartment, one that made a matchbox look large. He dropped his satchel onto the floor at some stage, and turned to close the door behind him. Rubbing his face, he yawned greatly, although he doubted if he'd get much sleep. There was too much work, always too much work, and always for too little reward. Half the Ministry staff saw him as an upstart and hated him, the other half could barely remember who he was. Still, he knew they'd quickly find out when they needed someone to blame.

All the work he'd done, honing his skills to get here, and it was all completely and utterly useless. Pouring himself a small Scotch, he yanked his tie loose, and sank into the armchair, taking what brief respite he could. Holding the glass up to the light he toasted absent friends, and grimly reflected that at least he'd managed to hold his own this afternoon, and not confess his annoyingly constant crush.

Oliver. Why did everything always come back to that Quidditch-obsessed lovable idiot? He felt an all too familiar yearning in his body, and decided to give into it, as he had on so many other nights. Percy set the glass down by his chair, and unbuckled his belt, unbuttoning his trousers and reaching down to push his boxers off slightly, and pull out his cock, already semi-hard. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his fingers round the shaft in a familiar grip, the thumb lightly rubbing over the head, and summoned up an old, familiar fantasy.

It is Sixth Year. Percy is moving through the corridors, reassured by the familiar swish-swish noise his robes make as he walks. His Prefect badge shines brightly in the lamplight. Turning the corridor, he sees a familiar figure trying to sneak away, not wanting to be caught breaking curfew. His voice rings out, "Oliver", and the figure stops. Percy makes his way easily to Oliver's side, sees the embarrassed blush across his face. "Where were you going, Oliver?" His voice is low, and his breath warm against Oliver's ear.

"I was sneaking back from the dungeons," Oliver confesses, and the brush spreads further, especially when Percy looks disappointed with him. "Were you with Flint?" he asks bluntly, and is hurt when Oliver nods.

"But I couldn't go through with it anymore," his roommate assures him. "I...I want to be with you, Perce. Marcus was only ever a substitute."

Percy swallows, and his mouth has suddenly gone dry. "Five points to Gryffindor if you prove it," he manages to say, and Oliver grins.

Percy feels himself go hard at that grin, and can barely manage to breathe when Oliver kneels before him. "Certainly, Prefect," is the smooth response, and that accent never fails to turn him on. Merlin, Oliver's hands are touching him, sliding up his leg, fingers gently pressed against his upper thigh as Oliver unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper. Percy has to close his eyes and bite his lip to stop from moaning, standing there, his head gently arched upward, and he can't held but moan when Oliver finally gets his cock out from his boxers and swallows it in an instant. Percy shudders, and the fingers clench at his thigh, demanding his attention, and so, reluctantly, Percy opens his eyes and looks down, to see those familiar brown eyes fixed on his, and Oliver Wood smiling around him.

Back in the flat, Percy is stroking himself up and down, his head bent back to rest on the armchair, his eyes closed, his mouth slack and open. He does not say much, except for small moans and whimpers, and words that could almost be "Merlin," "yes", "please", and "Oliver." It is not so much experience that causes his self-discipline. The walls of the Burrow were quite thick, and besides, Percy didn't even begin to start this kind of behaviour until this year. No, this is an extension of his personality, his familiar need to not make a scene, lest he be noticed and found wanting.

As he gets further and further lost in the illusion, his stroking picks up pace, imaging Oliver leaning back now to delicately lick all over. In his mind, his fingers curl in Oliver's short hair, tightening as Oliver moves his mouth up and down, finally taking him back inside and sucking hard until Percy climaxes, and all he is left with the reality of an empty apartment, the trails of come across his shirt and trousers and splattered onto the armrest, and the bitter taste of loneliness in his mouth.

Because wherever Oliver is sleeping tonight, it is certainly not here.