In A Time Of Uncertainty

Part Three, Chapter Seven

"Percy, you don't have to do all of this."

"I do if I want to stay sane," Percy said, taking the enormous list back from Oliver's hand. "Besides, the flat needs cleaning." He folded the parchment and slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown. "I think better when I'm working."

"Just don't overdo it," Oliver replied. He pulled back the blankets and set his feet on the floor. "Could you go shopping for groceries while you're at it? We're completely out of milk and eggs."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I hope you had time yesterday to rest on your laurels," Penge said. He was not pacing, as he usually did; his swift walk across the front row of the stands made him look like a man preparing for war. "Because as of now, you're finished. I'd like to tell you a story about when I played for the Liverpool Leopards in 1970."

Oliver stifled his groan before it escaped his mouth. Penge had three stock tales that he used for different purposes. If he was particularly pleased with the team's progress, he told the one about the 1942 Quidditch World Cup, at which his grandfather had been the commentator. If he thought they were showing a lack of teamwork, it was Hufflepuff's defeat of Ravenclaw in 1967; Penge had been the Hufflepuff captain.

The Liverpool Leopards in 1970 was reserved for times when he thought that the team were acting like arrogant egotistical wankers.

"I suppose you think that the next match is in the bag," Penge said. His voice was dangerously calm. "I suppose you think that losing to the Montrose Magpies was a fluke. Well, when I played Chaser for the Liverpool Leopards in 1970, we thought we were the best of the amateur teams. In our first match of the season we crushed - "

" - the Glasgow Gladiators," Oliver heard Barringer whisper under her breath.

" - the Glasgow Gladiators, two hundred to ten. After that, we defeated the Plymouth Pythons who, may I add, had been previously undefeated for the last - "

" - thirteen matches," muttered Snoad, one of the reserve Chasers.

" - thirteen matches. By the time we beat the Birmingham Batterers we thought we were unstoppable. It was by far our best season. About half the team thought they were going to be drafted to professional teams; a few of them were. A couple of the really ambitious players thought we might even make it into the League.

"Our fourth match of the season was against the Manchester Mammoths. Practice by then was just a chance to show off. Our coach should have reigned us in but what did he know, he was only twenty-one and was still coming off of three years as the Slytherin captain."

Penge paused for dramatic emphasis. "We lost. We were brutally massacred. If it had been a war the Mammoths would have mounted our severed heads on pikes and displayed them on their bridges as a warning. The final score was two hundred and ninety to - "

" - twenty."

It was Jackson who had spoken; unfortunately, Penge heard him. "Yes, Jackson, twenty," he said sharply. "It seems you think you know this story by heart and don't need to hear it again. Well, you're one of the worst of the lot."

There was a communal gasp, and then utter silence. Penge was never slow to criticize a player's technique or strategy, but it was rare that he made personal comments. Transfixed, Oliver watched Jackson's face. The Beater had adopted a stoic front.

"You seem to have forgotten, Jackson, that a large fan base is not what keeps a player in the League. I don't care if you have twenty groupies waiting outside the locker room for you after each match. I don't care if your uncle was the star of this team thirty years ago. The fact is, you're a reserve player. On occasion I can stand the egos of the truly exceptional, but that's rare. Conceited stars can be bearable, provided they're good for the team. Conceited reserve players get replaced the minute they become a problem."

Penge set down the clipboard he had been holding and leaned against the railing. "You think you're irreplaceable? There's at least ten other Beaters waiting in the wings." He looked over the whole team. "And that goes for all of you. The rest of you are just lucky I picked Jackson and left you alone. These past months you've had your head in the clouds, and I don't mean flying. I don't coach swollen-headed prats. I coach dedicated players who put the game before their own ego.

"I'm increasing the practice times. From now on, we meet every day from eight to three, except Sundays. Then we meet from one to five. We're going back to the basics, and I want your minds in the game and nowhere else. Not on your fans, Jackson. Not on your new mansion in the country, Douglas - yes, even you are not exempt. Gelsinger, forget about the photo shoots; during practice time your mind belongs to me. Nassing and Wood, the redheads can wait until you go home. Now go and get changed. I want you out here in five minutes."

Oliver's head spun as he followed the rest of the team back to the locker rooms. So Penge knew about Percy; he must have seen him with Oliver's parents outside the locker room after the match. Oliver thought back. Had he and Percy been obvious? He remembered that they had held hands, but nothing else came to his mind. To hell with Penge, he thought. You've got bigger problems than him - and who said it's a problem, anyway? You aren't ashamed of Percy. Concentrate on the real issue.

Conceited reserve players were replaced the minute they became a problem. If Oliver knew Penge, the same was most likely true for reserve players who couldn't make afternoon practice, for reasons they couldn't say.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm sure we can meet later," Percy said anxiously. Oliver was sitting in one of the armchairs; Percy was perched at his feet. "We'll change the meetings to the evening. It won't be any trouble. Right?" He turned to Mrs. Figg and Mundungus.

Mrs. Figg cleared her throat. "Actually," she said softly, "we were going to tell you about the meeting at headquarters yesterday. Dumbledore is very anxious about the Death Eaters; during the first war, any silence on their part meant they were planning something big. Some of their most powerful members are in Azkaban. With each day an attack becomes more likely...Dumbledore wants us double the meeting times, if it's at all possible. It's either morning and afternoon or afternoon and evening."

"I'll work during the day," Percy said at once. "I'll make up for what Oliver can't do while he's at practice. We'll manage."

"You can't," Oliver said. The severity of the situation was fully settling in. "It will look odd if you don't go back to work within a few weeks or so. We're supposed to maintain the most normal front we can. If I quit Puddlemere it will attract notice. Damned if we do and damned if we don't."

"The Ministry was willing to let me cut my hours before," said Percy. As he spoke one finger unconsciously drifted towards his mouth. "Dumbledore can get them to do it again." As Oliver watched, he bit off a nail and licked the tip of his finger.

"Sounds like your best hope," Mundungus said, "but there's still a problem. The Ministry can only have so many employees that are using their jobs as a pretense, telling everyone they're at work while they're really working for the Order. Your dad was talking to me last night. The entire place has cut their hours so they can work against Voldemort, but there's still regular work to be done if society and that sort of thing is going to keep going."

Oliver glanced over at Mrs. Figg to see if she was smiling at the irony of Mundungus's words. Her face was unchanged.

"And honestly, Percy and I need two incomes," he said. "I can support us both on mine, but we're going to have to live without a lot. A lot."

Percy reached for Oliver's hand. "I'm used to that."

"It's the last thing you need," Oliver rejoined. "Look at how much stress you're under. I've only just gotten you to eat and sleep like a regular person. And - your nails, love, don't - we can't afford to have you in a constant state of tension. I can't." He turned to Mrs. Figg. "Enough with all this. Tell me something good, something about the kittens."

"They're doing well," Mrs. Figg said hesitantly. "Mr. Tibbles saw them last night. Three of them look especially like him."

"I don't know how you can tell that," Mundungus said. "They're about the size of rats and haven't got their eyes open."

"They have his markings," Mrs. Figg retorted. "That's obvious. Really, you'd think that someone who worked with animals for ten years would know that - "

Oliver closed his eyes. Percy leaned his head against his lover's leg.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Hold me for a while," Percy murmured that night after they had gone to bed. Sleep was beginning to overcome his voice. "I think we both need it."

Oliver rested his head against Percy's chest and gathered him up in his arms. "We'll be all right, beautiful. I promise."

"You can't promise that."

"Shut up. Yes I can."

And we will

, he thought. We have to be.