In a World of Their Own

The summer after their class graduated had been a very long one for Percy Weasley. He had started work at the Ministry of Magic (Department of International Magical Co-operation, thank you very much) and spent most of his time at home either working on reports that weren't due for weeks, or talking about work, or thinking about Oliver Wood. He owled Oliver as regular as clockwork, every two days, and cherished every letter he got back - even the seemingly endless babblings about Quidditch, because it was Oliver. And he loved him.

That year had, of course, been tough for the Ministry. The mishap with the Triwizard tournament, and everything that had happened with Barty Crouch, and of course the unfortunate incident with Cedric Diggory. However, it wasn't nearly as tough as the six months that had since followed - six months of lying to Oliver.

Percy had never thought that lying to Oliver would take any great difficulty. He had always known Oliver wasn't quite the sharpest mind around, and had known it would be very easy to slide a hand and make Oliver look elsewhere. He simply hadn't bargained that he would care enough about Oliver to feel very, very guilty about what he was doing to him.

While Percy had been still living at home, the double life hadn't been so bad. It was quite easy to invent his working life on a piece of parchment, to talk about coworkers who didn't exist and assignments that never would. It was a challenge to keep his story straight, and above all, Percy loved a challenge.

Oliver had changed all of Percy's well constructed plans, however, by asking him to move into his small London flat.

Percy had simply had no reason to refuse. He loved Oliver; he truly did. It almost frightened him. In fact - it did frighten him, because he was Percy Weasley, and Percy Weasley most certainly did not fall in love.

After all, for the most part of seven years, Percy Weasley had not even had friendships, really. Of course, he had Penelope - who had been appropriate. Appropriate had been the perfect word, because he was Head Boy and top of the class, and it was simply appropriate for him to date the Ravenclaw prefect who was head of her class. Percy had barely talked to his own room-mate. There were many reasons, of course, and Percy still wasn't quite sure what exactly had motivated him to talk to Oliver the night he finally did.

It had simply been something - that Oliver had finally accomplished his dream. There was something about that that Percy simply appreciated. He had just wished to congratulate Oliver on a job well done. And of course, he had done just that. And it would have stayed as just that, except that Oliver spoiled all of Percy's plans (and really, Percy thought, that was getting to be such a habit) and quite frankly, it had been Oliver's own fault that Percy had kissed him, or tried to. Indeed.

Falling in love had certainly, certainly not been on Percy's agenda. It interfered with what was on Percy's agenda - to keep Oliver from finding out about his real job, at all costs.

To allow Oliver to find out was simply out of the question. Oliver was - for want of a better word, Oliver was pure. He was one of the few people Percy knew who could simply be categorised - put on a shelf under a sign which read "here sits a good person". Almost everybody else Percy knew was a mottled mix of black and white, but Oliver was pure as a unicorn's coat.

Having Oliver around made it far, far, too easy for Percy to see how dark he had become.

They had a daily routine down pat by now. Oliver would wake up very early to go flying. By the time he Apparated back into the kitchen, Percy would be up, calmly reading the Daily Prophet and sipping his morning tea.

"Amazing," Oliver would say, coming over to kiss Percy. Percy would inevitably smile at how Oliver's face was always damp from the early morning air, and turn his face to kiss him properly. "I saw so much," he'd continue, and Percy would nod, as he always did. Oliver always did see so much. And no matter how many times he saw the exact same thing, Oliver would always see it with fresh eyes.

And they would chat over breakfast, and then Oliver would go back to bed before Quidditch practice, and Percy would Apparate to a place that was not the Ministry, that never could be the Ministry, and that could never even be known by the Ministry.

Oliver, of course, never suspected a single thing.

Simple as a child, Percy thought.

He had always, throughout school, seen Oliver as a child - even as Oliver matured into a young man. Oliver would always be a clumsy, overenthusiastic child whose limbs didn't fit his body. Oliver would always laugh at jokes people told in the common room, no matter how often he'd heard them. He'd always grin at the first years, and he'd always stop to help someone with their homework, even if Percy overheard his answers and it was clear Oliver had no idea. Oliver was innocent, and he couldn't believe that people didn't share his views. Percy had overheard Oliver ranting to himself late into many nights, about Professor McGonagall, or Professor Snape, or Marcus Flint, or Cedric Diggory, or the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Apparently, you would have thought from listening, nobody understood Oliver.

Percy would have laughed.

Oliver didn't know the first thing about being misunderstood, he thought.

Being misunderstood was being the only one left out in a parcel of seven. Being misunderstood was not being old enough for your two older brothers, and being too old for your three younger and your sister. Being misunderstood was having your earliest memory of being shut in a dark room, and being terrified, and holding your knees to your chest because nobody else was around to hold you and you knew that there was something wrong with the world, but you never knew what until you were old enough to understand the phrases You Know Who and The Boy Who Lived.

Being misunderstood was constantly being compared to Bill. Being misunderstood was the way you were merely as good as him, never better. Being misunderstood was not realising your superior was fooling everyone until it was too late. Being misunderstood was defending said boss, defending him to any and all, and being betrayed by him.

Being misunderstood was being talked to by people whose names you still didn't know about deals you couldn't possibly keep and ideals you didn't believe in.

Being misunderstood was knowing, even as you agreed, that even Oliver wouldn't understand this. That even Oliver wouldn't be able to understand that there were some things that had to be done, even if you didn't agree to them.

Oliver would never understand, Percy realised, that being on the powerful team was more important than being on the right one.

So indeed, Oliver had never known the first thing about being misunderstood. Oliver's life was a perfect example of people understanding. His parents may not have approved of Quidditch, but they certainly understood his passion. He had team-mates and acquaintances and reporters who all understood, all understood that driving passion that fueled Oliver Wood's ambition.

Oliver even had complete strangers understanding him.

No, Oliver had absolutely no idea what being misunderstood was like.

He never would.

"What are you thinking, Perce?"

Percy blinked. He simply hadn't expected Oliver's voice, not then, certainly not breaking into his thoughts, and most definitely not when he thought Oliver was sound asleep. But indeed, that was Oliver's voice, and Oliver's arm sneaking around his waist. All the cues for a talk were flashing, and Percy sighed.

"Nothing, Oliver."

Another lie. Easier, quite admittedly, than 'I work at the Ministry', as opposed to the far more truthful 'I'm working against the Ministry', but it was still something he wasn't being honest with Oliver about, and that was, simply, very hard. After all, he did love the boy.

Even though he wasn't quite certain of what that meant.

Oliver sighed. "I'm nervous about tomorrow's game."

Whenever Oliver expressed that sort of anxiety, a set of rules fell in place for Percy, and he was comfortable with following them. Put an arm around Oliver, hold him as he runs through the gamut of emotions that come with nerves. And he would listen to Oliver, of course - by now, Percy was almost certain he could even name most of the teams in the Quidditch League - but there really wasn't anything to say.

The routine was very familiar, though. Comfortable. Percy understood that routine, when there were rules and regulations to be followed. It was the freehand romance that he struggled with. It was the times that Oliver looked at him, and asked where they'd be in ten years time. (That was simply something Percy didn't want to answer honestly.)

But when Percy knew what to do, it was far easier.

Wait, one, two, three,

kiss him, one, two, three,

hug him, one, two, three,

"It'll be fine, Oliver," one, two, three,

"You'll do well, Oliver," one, two, three,

kiss him again, one, two, three.

And then it was simple. Oliver knew the rules, too, and Oliver would quieten down, and go to sleep.

So that's just what Percy did. He kissed Oliver gently on the forehead, counted to three. Hugged him closer, counted to three. Whispered, "It'll be fine, Oliver," and counted to three. Went on, "You'll do well, Oliver," and counted to three. And kissed his hair again, and Oliver quietened, and went to sleep.

An innocent, trusting child.

Percy often wondered what it would be like if things had turned out differently.

If those men had never come to see him that day, with their murmurings about power, their gilded words about victory. How they had been watching him all along. How they had always known that he was destined for greatness. Destined to be different.

They had told him they understood. And oh, had they ever known which buttons to push. They had even known which order to push them in, and Percy had wondered for a few moments about who had managed to announce all his insecurities to the world. But they had soothed him, and tempted him, and he simply hadn't wanted to resist any more.

After all, the Ministry were the ones who had betrayed him.

In fact, it wasn't even him that they had betrayed. And with more than a trace of bitterness, Percy would remember Mr Crouch's voice calling him Weatherby, and the twins' taunting, and quite frankly, when those men had said they understood him, they understood who he was, Percy craved that acceptance too much to refuse.

But he couldn't help thinking what could have happened if he had. Would he have been made Head of Department, as his carefully constructed world for Oliver had him portrayed? Would he have been accepted, in the end?

All he could be certain of was the fact Oliver would still be Oliver. Because no matter what Percy's other world was like, his real world - where the real Percy Weasley could exist - was lying in bed beside Oliver, learning how to love him. Learning how to treat him and learning how to interact with him.

It had been a long time since he'd counted how many different Percys there appeared to be.

So long, in fact, that he'd probably lost count.

But as he looked at Oliver's face, eyes closed softly in slumber and hair falling onto Percy's chest, he remembered that there was, no matter what, only one Percy who counted.