Cowboys and Angels

moment forty-four: finis dei (early July 1996.)

Draco had been asleep when his father had Apparated back a few weeks ago, dirty, dishevelled, torn and bleeding in several places. He'd appeared in the entrance hall, and promptly collapsed.

His mother had taken everything in hand, as she was wont to do when neither Lucius nor her own addiction robbed her of her strength. She then ordered his father's painfully battered body to be taken into his room, and got the elves to clean up the blood and grime on the carpet.

She had applied the healing charms herself, giving of her own energy and strength so he could heal quicker, faster. As she sat beside him, his father fell into a deep sleep. Over days instead of weeks, the broken ribs knitted back together, the fractured wrist mended itself. The bruises faded into green, and disappeared; the cuts and abrasions covered by pale new skin.

Draco counselled her to sleep more, and eat, but instead she stayed by his father's side despite all he had done to her, her skin paling to translucence, the veins visible beneath the skin. She took broth when Draco brought it for her, and only napped on the condition he would wake her after an hour here and there.

Once, when he did not, meaning for her to sleep longer, she refused to even eat the broth for two days.

And just when she had given her all, and was near collapse, his father woke from his dreamless sleep, healed, fresh, well-rested. He gently squeezed her hand, and she hobbled out of the room, looking perhaps twice her age. Draco watched her go.

"She will be well, with a little rest," Father murmured.

"A little rest? She nearly killed herself for you. What happened, Father? I though you were supposed to be under the protection of the Dark Lord himself? Why didn't he save you?"

His father was taken aback by this sudden attack from someone he had counted on for constant (if mindless) support. "Because he was too busy saving himself," he spat in response, and Draco was struck by just how frail his father was, and always had been.

Not a god at all, and neither, it seemed, was Voldemort.

moment forty-five: criticism [the fine print VII] (August 1996.)

Percy and Oliver were home for the holidays. Or to be precise, they were at Percy's home for the holidays, safely ensconced in the Burrow. To say the family had been surprised was when Percy had turned up with Oliver in hand was an understatement - Molly had hugged him till he'd begged for air, Arthur had been rather affable as he always was, Ginny - who was in her Goth phase by this time - just wore lots of black and stared. Ron mumbled and got over it, mostly because Hermione who was also staying, providing him with a suitable distraction.

The biggest trouble - as both Percy and Oliver had suspected - were the twins, who had mercilessly teased Percy throughout their lives, and looked up Oliver with a kind of awe. They certainly did not appreciate their humourless brother contaminating their old Captain.

So Oliver had a chat to them the afternoon he'd arrived in Arthur's small study, just the three of them. And when the twins exited, they looked like they'd just seen McGonagall and Snape. And so, however dysfunctional it was under the surface, for a while at least, the Weasley family kept the peace.

Certainly, some may have sniggered about exactly what Oliver and Percy did in Percy's old bedroom - and some did, loudly and with reference to crude hand gestures, but they were always polite when Oliver was in the room. And just to make sure, they cast a silencing charm on their room, so they wouldn't be disturbed, and their nocturnal activities wouldn't disturb anyone else.

One night, well past bedtime, Ron was awake alone in his room, and he started hearing noises coming from across the hall. It was Percy and Oliver. It had to be. The silencing charm must have failed. And then Ron heard a yell.

"Oh yes you Quidditch stud, I want to ride your broomstick!"

He buried himself under the covers, and pretended he'd never heard such a thing in his life. Especially from his brother.

Percy closed the door, and flicked the charm back on with his wand, dissolving into laughter, collapsing weak against the door. Oliver wrapped a strong arm around him, pressing his lips against Percy's shoulder, pulling on him. "Come back into bed, Perce."

Percy did, and they snuggled for a moment together, Oliver's arms curled around him, pulling him close, and one hand snaked up to play with his hair.

"I can't believe you did that," he said, snorting, and his statement was true. Who knew Percy Weasley had a sense of humour, and such a wicked one at that? "If your mother heard us - I've seen her Howlers, Perce, it's not pretty-"

"She won't," Percy assured him, kissing him gently. "Besides, I'm her favourite, so she better well not."

"Do you really think we're like that?" Oliver didn't really have a clue how anyone saw him, and never did. He knew it was almost certainly a flaw, but nothing he could change at any rate, and besides, Percy would always be there to tell him when he was making a fool of himself.

Percy's lips quirked. "Probably." He ran a hungry hand down Oliver's chest, and Oliver shivered. "They probably even think I bottom."

Oliver was very tempted to make a smart remark there, because he could recall a few times where Percy had almost begged Oliver to fuck him as hard as possible, and Oliver had complied. Oliver took the time to watch him in the low lamplight, and brushed his fingers through Percy's burnished copper hair. He wasn't Marcus, and he never could be Marcus, or replace him, and that didn't matter. Because he was Percy, who'd been Oliver's friend even when Oliver hadn't deserved it, and who loved him without wanting anything in return, and who understood the burdens of perfection just like Oliver did.

"They don't know you very well then, do they?" Oliver laughed then, and Percy joined him, the two of them giggling like schoolchildren. "I never realised you had such a sense of humour."

"I keep my cards close to my chest, Mr Wood."

"Oh, do you, Mr Weasley?" Oliver asked, an eyebrow raised. He was having fun. He'd never realised you were supposed to have fun in a relationship before.

"Yes, you know I have to be prepared for any situation."

"Really." Oliver reached over, a hand digging into the bag he'd brought with him, clothes and kit slung over the sides. Percy protested slightly as Oliver rolled onto him in order to reach said bag , but Oliver rolled back in good time.

In his hand was a small jewellery box, and he proffered it to Percy, who took it, fumbling for words. "Go on, Perce." Oliver nudged him. "Open it."

"I... you couldn't have. I mean, certainly."

"Perce," Oliver said firmly, "open it."

Percy opened it and was shocked at the simple gold band that lay within. "Oh, Oliver."

"Marry me?" There was nothing else he wanted to say.

"Yes. Oh, yes."