Already Home

The snow swirled around his feet when the door opened; a rush of cold air sweeping across the other patrons at the bar. The heavy wool cloak around his shoulders was covered with the fat crystalline flakes that were quickly melting in the welcoming heat of a warm fire. Crackling logs beckoned the young man and he stepped forward after securing the door behind him. The cloak found its customary place on the hooks and he turned his hands towards the fire. Heads turned in his direction, followed by nods and raised tankards from several other wizards. It was quiet tonight, mostly idle chit-chat. No music or loud bawdy jokes.

The broad shouldered man looked over his shoulder and smiled. "The Christmas tree is a nice touch, Mike. Makes things a bit more festive."

"Thanks, Oliver. The usual or you want something for the holiday- maybe buttered rum or eggnog?"

"I'll try the rum, but then give me my usual after that." He said as he slid onto a stool at the bar. The barkeep nodded and turned to fix the drinks.

"Merry Christmas, Oliver. I caught that last match on the wireless, sounded like a good one," A middle-aged witch in a long maroon dress robe nearly 30 years out of style, said from a few seats away.

"Merry Christmas to you as well, Mathilde. Thank you. Your son didn't make it home for the holidays, then?"

"I guess I never really expected him to, but I just always hope..."

Oliver nodded, thinking of his own mother for a fleeting moment. Wondering if she was decorating the tree or reading a Christmas story to his little nieces and nephews at this very moment.

"You didn't go home either."

He shook his head as the two drinks appeared in front of him and Mike set another tumbler of whiskey in front of the man on stool beside Oliver.

"And in case you should wonder, in case you should care, why we on our own, never went home, on that night of all nights, we were already there," the man on his right said. Oliver looked over at him and tried to smile but couldn't manage it. The curly red hair was neat and orderly as ever, the glasses perfectly polished. He wore dark green robes in practical fabrics over starched white shirts and black trousers. Tonight, however, Oliver noticed that he looked tired. Dark circles ringed his eyes and he looked stressed and frazzled.

"How are you, Percy?"

Raised eyebrows followed by a deep sigh were his answer. Oliver nodded in agreement. He just seemed to understand everything that Percy didn't say in that simple gesture. Some time around their sixth year of school the two men had learned to read each other's body language so well that they no longer needed words to communicate. Even now, after hardly seeing each other for a year, he could still feel exactly what Percy was feeling with that eyebrow raise. Or maybe it was just that he felt the same way this evening.

The rum in front of him glittered in the glass and Oliver sipped from it, grimacing at the way it burned his throat. He usually preferred to drink beer and slowly get drunk. He would watch the world get smaller and smaller until it was only the four walls of this bar; a warm, homey old place, tucked between two larger buildings near the end of Diagon Alley. There wasn't room for more than 20 people in the entire place and the owner and barkeep, Mike, slept in a room over the bar. There was always a fire roaring in the grate, the liquor flowed until almost dawn sometimes if a patron was having a rough time and needed it and there always seemed to be a friend to talk to here. This was Oliver's world away from Quidditch. Just two blocks over from his flat, he'd discovered it one night after a really bad match and was amazed at how the regulars had welcomed him into their world. In time he found himself drawn back there again and again until he himself was a regular. The night he had he walked in and found his old school roommate slowly drowning his own troubles in a large tumbler of bourbon had been a disquieting moment but the bar had enveloped Percy just as it had Oliver. They had never even mentioned the one fumbled kiss in seventh year or all the late nights studying together. Here they were just two men looking for an escape from the world.

"Merry Christmas, Oliver," Percy said, raising his glass and meeting Oliver's eyes. A brief smile flitted over the tight-pressed lips.

"Merry Christmas, Percy." Oliver raised his glass to meet Percy's and the glass clinked together. He drank deeply and leaned closer to Percy.

"How's your Dad?"

"Dad's going to be fine." The red-head whispered back, shoulders sagging.

"Did you visit him?"

"No. I used my Ministry clearance to get medical records check from St. Mungos. Don't tell me I'm a terrible son, Oliver. I don't need you to. I already know."

"I hardly think I'm the one to tell you that. I didn't even send mine a card this year. We're in a bar on Christmas Eve. If we were good sons, brothers, sisters, parents, whatever, Mike wouldn't have to open up tonight, would he?"

Percy sighed again and took another large swallow of his drink.

"Your father called you a disgusting pervert and kicked you out of his house. I don't blame you."

"Percy, it's Christmas, I don't want to talk about what our parents did or what we said or us or anything." Percy fell silent and stared down into his drink once again. Oliver took another swig of his rum and thought back to the last time he'd seen his parents. It had been just after Christmas last year. He'd written to his mother a couple of times but her letters had grown shorter and terser so he'd stopped writing back. His brothers must think he was some freak or pervert like their father because he had never heard from either of them either. And Percy. What was it about Percy? He had always been fascinated by the red-head. But he never seemed to be fascinated enough to pin it down into anything definite. Never could have that conversation about "us". Percy never pushed, never even said anything about it. It wasn't an exclusive relationship. Oliver knew that Percy had others as well, but they didn't discuss it. They never talked about the important things. So why were Percy's navy eyes boring into him again as he set the tumbler on the bar and reached for his beer?

"Mum sent me a Christmas gift. It arrived just before I came over here tonight."

"That's great, Perce. Your parents don't think you are scum, rub it in."

"Oliver, I..." Percy's voice cracked and he trailed off. Oliver looked up from his own drink to see a tear slid down the freckled cheek.

"Percy, I'm sorry," Oliver said. Clearly Percy needed to say this or he wouldn't have brought it up at all. Oliver couldn't remember ever seeing the former head boy of Hogwarts and the current assistant to the Minister of Magic with tears in his eyes. This was scratching deeper than the two men were typically comfortable with. Oliver reached over and squeezed Percy's hand and then retracted his hand before anyone else in the bar saw him. The other patrons were fine with Oliver's orientation but if someone thought he were bothering Percy it might cause a problem. "What happened?" he asked.

"I sent it back."

Oliver released a breath that he didn't realize he was holding and it whistled slightly between his teeth.

"Yeah, I know. I'm finished now," he said as another tear coursed down his cheek.

"Hey Mike, bring Percy another bourbon and I'll have another buttered rum." Oliver called over the bar. The two men continued to drink in silence while other patrons chattered on quietly around them. The regulars wandered in, calls of "Merry Christmas" echoing through the tiny room. Frederic, an old wizard who had lost his entire family to Voldemort nearly twenty years ago, sat at the far end of the bar gazing at an old photograph. Mathilde, the witch in the maroon dress robe was humming Christmas carols under her breath but there wasn't enough spirit here to sing. The fire was warm, the faces familiar and the world within these four walls safe and secure. This was home. These were his family now, Oliver thought as he gazed around at them. Mike kept everyone's drinks full and Oliver's vision began to blur, causing the lights on the tiny Christmas tree in the window to dance and become large orbs of multicolored luminescence that seemed almost magical in itself. A slender, long fingered hand took his and he found himself standing up and following orders to gather his cloak.

Percy let go of his hand and pushed him towards the fire where he fastened his cloak around his shoulders and bid a Merry Christmas to everyone in the bar. The shock of the cold air outside brought him back into focus and he realized that Percy was standing beside him, looking concerned.

"Are you okay, Oliver?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit thoughtful and perhaps a bit drunk."

"Christmas will do that to a person."

"Yeah." Oliver found himself looking at Percy and for the first time that evening he was able to manage a bit of a smile.

"Oliver, did you want to come home with me this evening?"

He stepped forward and took Percy's hand. They walked down the street towards Percy's flat under the silently falling snowflakes with only the crunch of their boots on the ice to disrupt the quiet.