What the Keeper Knows

Oliver shook his head. It was so... Percy. There was no other word for it, never mind that if he could read his mind Percy himself would have been informing him that his name was a noun, not an adjective, and as such was not an appropriate word to use to describe a letter.

Only as Percy had written, it wasn't a letter because letters have to start with "Dear So-and-so."

Call it an extended note then.

It was still utterly Percy. Percy, so firm and confident when it came to facts and reports was incredibly unsure when it came to anything to do with emotions and relationships. The note on the table was a prime example. Had it the subject been the recent additions to the Ministry employment roll, it would have had each name as a heading, followed by a short description in point form of their previous employment, their position in the Ministry, their current address and known affiliations, plus anything else that might be useful to Dumbledore and those associated with him. And it would have been in alphabetical order.

But it was about feelings and emotions so what could have been a quick note turned into a two-page ramble. A fascinating ramble, taking Oliver places he'd wished to go but never really expected to be guided to, but a ramble none-the-less. It was an insight into how Percy thought, which was something Oliver could always use help with. He might love Percy, but that didn't mean he knew how Percy's brain worked, what connections between facts and observations seemed logical to it. Half the time he could predict Percy's reaction, but the other half of the time, well... On the odd occasion that Percy did explain his logic, it seemed so straightforward, but it always involved a dozen connections that Oliver would never in a million years have made, and another dozen observations that Oliver would never even have noticed.

It was what made him so suited to his work, both for the Ministry and for Dumbledore. They never knew what the information Percy gathered was used for, nor who used it, nor even what Dumbledore's group was or what it was called. Only that there was a group, against He Who Must Not Be Named and all he stood for.

Oliver always got the feeling that the rest of the Weasleys knew, though. And Harry, for sure.

Dear Merlin, that had been a shock. First that Harry Potter was coming to the school, then that he was a fellow Gryffindor - although why that surprised him, he didn't know, from all reports his parents had both been Gryffindors and the Boy Who Lived could hardly be put in Slytherin now, could he? - then Percy had mentioned that Harry and Ron seemed to be getting along alright and then Harry had become Seeker for the team. At age eleven. In first year.

It was only then that Oliver had begun to pay any attention to the kid behind the name, and then it was really only to the Seeker behind the name. He'd never really looked at how much more there was to the kid than his brilliant flying skills - amazing, just amazing, would be great if he'd go professional after Hogwarts and a crime if he didn't, all that talent wasted - and then there'd been those reports in the Prophet. Black innocent and dead, or if not dead then near enough to make no never mind. Kids he'd known, if only peripherally at the edge of his Quidditch-oriented awareness, fighting Deatheaters. And him back.

His watch beeped at him, jerking him out of his musings. At some point while reading Percy's note, his knees had gone week and he'd sat on the table. His breakfast was unfinished, the eggs half-eaten and the toast untouched. But if he didn't leave now the coach would hang him from the hoops and ask questions later.

He grabbed his Quidditch bag and the uneaten toast and apparated out of the flat.

***

When Oliver arrived back at their flat, Percy wasn't there. It didn't worry him, Percy frequently worked overtime for one reason or another and it was Oliver's turn to cook, after all.

It wasn't until after he'd done everything he'd had to do that Oliver began to worry. He'd cooked dinner, eaten his and covered Percy's, cleaned his Quidditch gear, had a shower and written notes on the day's training. And there was still no Percy.

Dedication was one thing - Oliver knew about dedication and obsession and giving everything one had to what one did, Quidditch was the only thing that could get him out of bed before eight - but it was nine o'clock, for Merlin's sake! Percy should be here, in his arms, so that he could cuddle him and kiss him and do a thousand and one naughty things to him to show him exactly how he'd felt while reading that two-page note.

But you needed two to do that and Percy bloody well wasn't here.

Oliver sighed. He was wearing his dressing gown; if he put his cloak on, the nice thick woollen one that Percy had given him for Christmas one year, he'd be warm enough.

The gunshot-crack of someone apparating sounded throughout the apartment, magnified by the enclosed space, but there was no one to hear it save the neighbour's cat, sitting on the fence outside.

***

The nice thing about the Ministry greeter, Oliver thought, was that she - well, it, really, but it was a woman's voice - was fairly easy to get past.

Once inside, he quickly made his way to Percy's office. The entry hall looked bare and empty without its golden figures, but Oliver simply hurried past, taking little notice, instead going straight into the lifts, leaving on Percy's level and moving through the dimly lit corridors.

Percy was there, sitting at his desk, nose-deep in parchments and books. He had two candles lit at his desk; the rest of the room was dark. His hair caught the light, less fiery than it was in the sunlight but still undeniably red. Freckles were dotted here and there on a face that looked worried and scared. Glasses could disguise but not completely hide the dark circles around his eyes, especially if you knew to look, and Oliver knew.

Percy had been remarkably accurate and factual in his description of himself, but harsh and unforgiving too. Yes, he had pale skin and yes, he was skinny, but the one suited him and the other Oliver was building up to slender. He wouldn't be Percy if he was anything more than slender, but it wasn't good for him to weigh as little as he did. Which was less than he had in school, if Oliver recalled correctly.

Oliver stopped staring through the glass window into Percy's office and quietly opened the door. Percy heard, despite his care, and jerked upright, nearly knocking the inkbottle over. The slight trace of fear in his expression that Oliver had seen before became more pronounced.

"Hey, it's only me," Oliver said quietly. "I got worried when you didn't get home."

Percy carefully wiped the nib of his quill on the edge of the inkbottle and just as carefully laid it down so that it wouldn't mark anything on his desk.

"I... didn't realise exactly how late it was. What time is it, anyway?"

"Past nine, and well and truly past when you usually get home."

"Oh."

Oliver frowned. "Percy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, let's go home." Percy stood and started clearing his desk.

"I agree with the go home bit, but the rest is rubbish."

He moved over to Percy and wrapped him in a hug from behind.

"I've been wanting to do this all day," he commented, then returned his attention to the subject at hand.

"You haven't worked this late since the night before you apologised to you parents." He lightly grasped one of Percy's wrists.

"You were shaking then and you're shaking now. You were scared then; why are you scared now? Percy?"

Oliver turned Percy in his arms; Percy wouldn't look at him.

"Is this because of this morning's note? Shit, it is, isn't it."

Oliver sighed. He gently touched Percy's cheek with his hand.

"Do you know I've been wanting to hug you and kiss you and do all sorts of things to you ever since I read that note this morning?"

Percy was still wasn't looking at him.

"You don't speak about how you think very often, Percy. And when it comes to emotions, you'll fly a broomstick into a volcano before you say anything. That's why you worked late, isn't it? You were scared of how I'd reacted."

Percy nodded, just a small movement, but enough that Oliver could see. Or more feel, really, since the candles threw more shadow than light in this section of the room.

"One week, six days and however many hours and minutes ago, I told that I loved you. Percy. Look at me."

Finally, hesitantly, Percy looked at him.

"I love you, Percy. That's not going to change for a long time, if ever, so you'd best get used to it. You don't see it, but you're gorgeous, and even if you weren't it wouldn't matter. You're brilliantly smart, you can figure things out while I'm still realising that there's even something that needs to be figured out. I don't need to hear you tell me that you love me, it's enough that I know now that you do."

Oliver reached up and kissed Percy gently.

"There, I've hugged you and kissed you. Let's go home so you can eat and I can do everything else I've been wanting to do since I finished that note and realised I was sitting on the kitchen table and wanted to do nothing more than make love to you all day."

***

The cat flicked its head around; the two crack-shot sounds had surprised it. Through one of the windows it saw two figures, one sitting down, the other fetching things from a bench. Reminded of its own waiting dinner, and not overly interested in what was happening in the house, it jumped off the fence, landing gently on the soil below, and padded silently off to its own home.