Cowboys and Angels

moment forty-three: subtext [the fine print VI] (late June 1996.)

Percy knew the Ministry existed on obfuscation and the 'big lie'. He had accepted it for most of his time there: after all, the Ministry knew best, and the Ministry would steer its people through these troubled times as it had for so many years. Did it really matter if it calmed the populace by concealing what they didn't want, didn't need to know? The Ministry had denied all knowledge of the Shoreditch Incident as it was being called in the press

Trust in the Ministry, and everything would be fine.

Trust in the Ministry, and God would be in his heaven, and all would be right with the world.

Trust in the Ministry.

Well, he thought, that had been blown to high hell, hadn't it? The brigades had tracked Pettigrew to somewhere unpronounceable in Wales, and there they'd found members of the Order of the Phoenix - including Harry Potter himself, and the newly freed Sirius Black lying in wait, having tracked another reputed Death Eater to the safe-house. The two parties had been surprised by the others' existence, and tussled for a while over authority, and seniority, and what not.

Of course, following that brief confusion, the combined force had struck at the isolated house.

And then the house had struck back.

It had become abruptly clear, in those first few moments they were not dealing with just Death Eaters, even the ones in strength who had been present during the last raid. Something dark was in that small, whitewashed house. And it didn't like them, not at all.

Five Aurors and two members of the Order had died in that first attack - a couple of students whose names Percy dimly remembered from his prefect days. One of them was Katie Bell, and he was surprised how much that stung. But then, she and Oliver had always been close, and perhaps he grieved on Oliver's behalf, for yet another person he'd lost. Their forces had regrouped of course, and launched another assault.

The battle had apparently gone on for eight hours straight, when the combined team of Aurors and the Order had finally driven something out of that house, fleeing with a few Death Eaters. Soon the house had collapsed, killing those who'd stayed behind to destroy the evidence.

Fortunately, the good guys didn't fall for the same ruse twice, and no-one (on their side at least) was killed due to the collapse. They had borne the bodies and the wounded back to either the Ministry and Hogwarts, and the news had filtered through of Fudge's response to it.

This was not unequivocal proof of Voldemort's return, but it certainly was suggestive; beyond what Fudge had allowed himself to see before. That night, in a meeting with his top aides and consultants, he had admitted - unofficially mind you, and it would certainly be denied if anyone asked any impertinent questions. As far as the world was concerned, it didn't happen, or if it did, it certainly wasn't Voldemort. There was, Fudge reasoned, no point in alarming the populace until the Ministry had a plan. Which they didn't have yet.

So Percy did his mind numbing paperwork at his cramped little desk, and came home, and definitely didn't speak to Oliver.

They had managed nearly a whole three months of not talking in any capacity other than the simply functional; seemed to be a record even for them, although Percy wasn't exactly proud.

And tonight they'd just had another stupid row in a long series of stupid rows about who was going to sleep on the couch. Percy had won, mainly by refusing to move from the couch. It was a hollow victory, but all he was capable of, now.

A presence loomed over him. Percy looked up, saw Oliver, and sighed. "I'm too tired to fight," he began to say, but Oliver didn't speak. Instead, he bent down and scooped him off the couch, walking through the small hallway, and deposited him on the bed.

"What do you think you're doing?" Percy demanded to know. He wouldn't just sit there and be used like this. Not like the last time.

Oliver took off Percy's socks and shoes, placing them next to the bed, and then his own, curling up besides him. Percy tried to get away, but Oliver wrapped his arms around him, and would not let him escape.

He kissed the back of Percy's neck. "I like you." He kissed a spot just under Percy's left ear. "A lot." He turned the other man round, face to face, and kissed his forehead. "I'm in love with you, Perce."

"I don't believe you," Percy said, hoarsely.

Oliver ran his fingers down Percy's cheek. "Then I'll have to keep telling you until you believe me."

Percy looked into Oliver's eyes, and couldn't believe what he saw there. "I'm not Flint," he observed, brushing his fingers against Oliver's cheek, almost amazed by his own daring.

Oliver took Percy's wrist, and kissed the knuckles. "I know."