Chapter Text
When Percy Weasley signed the final parchment of the Magical Law Revision Committee, five years after it was first instituted in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts, he looked up into Hermione Granger’s tired eyes and they shared an exhausted smile of relief. Around the table, the other committee members’ shoulders began to slowly uncurl as they realised It Was Done. Kingsley Shacklebolt was the first to join Firenze on his feet, still weighted with responsibility, and he circled the room dutifully shaking hands. Hermione, Percy’s dad, Griphook, Firenze, Dirk, Lavender, Winky, Percy, Millicent, Luna. Finally, Kingsley reached into Murcus’ tank to offer a wearily triumphant fist-bump.
“Thank you,” was all he said aloud, meeting everyone’s eyes solemnly. As usual, Griphook scoffed dismissively when Kingsley’s back was turned.
“You’re welcome,” Luna replied, apparently the only one of them capable of speech after half a decade of monumental work.
“I quit,” said a strangled voice.
The words dropped into the blissful silence of the committee meeting room like stones. Percy blinked, wondering who had dared say such a thing at a time like this.
Everyone was looking at him. His dad looked like that time the twins had let off Filibusters in the middle of Sunday lunch. Murcus emitted a stream of bubbles that somehow managed to express “What the fuck?”
Ah. Percy swallowed. Shuffled the parchments in front of him. “I, er, sorry, I just –” He cut himself off. He took a deep breath, like Luna had taught him, and let it out slowly. “I quit,” he said again, more firmly this time.
Kingsley smiled broadly, and came forward to clasp Percy’s shaking hands. “Well done, Percy. I wish you all the best in your future endeavours.”
There was another pause, the air in the office heavy with expectation.
It was broken by Lavender’s squeal. “Farewell drinks!” she exclaimed, tugging at Hermione’s elbow.
Hermione groaned, laying her head on Lavender’s shoulder. Her hair promptly hid Lavender from view entirely. She must have agreed, though, because Lavender wriggled happily and turned immediately to Winky, who was inevitably Lavender’s partner in crime when there was an opportunity to visit the magical juice bar on Horizont Alley.
His dad was leaning against Murcus’ tank, still looking somewhat shell-shocked. “Uh, Dad?”
“Yes, I think a drink would go down rather nicely,” his dad said decisively. “If that’s what you’d like, Percy?”
Luna scrunched her face at Percy over Millicent’s shoulder. It was rather impressive that she managed it, because Millicent’s shoulders were extremely broad, and Luna was… well, not. Millicent grinned encouragingly at him. Griphook and Dirk were grumbling at each other in the corner, unwilling to commit as usual. Murcus levitated her tank in their direction with a fond wave, clearly ready to chivvy them along.
Percy had been intending to go home and sleep for about a hundred years, but… Kingsley and Firenze had said something about a new firewhisky sours blend the last time they’d been out…
“Alright,” he said, feeling rather warm. “Alright, yes. Farewell drinks. Why not?”
The day Percy Weasley quit his desk job, bureaucrats Ministry-wide wailed in sorrow. Their parchmentwork would never be so clear and neat again.
When Percy Weasley made his debut a week later as the fourth face of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes alongside his brothers George and Ron (and Fred, always Fred, even if he wasn’t –), whispers of a mid-life crisis made their way through the wixen community.
Percy didn’t care. Or, rather, he did care. Quite a lot, actually. But he’d been doing a fantastic job of Visibly Not Caring What Other People Thought for most of his life so far and he saw no reason to admit to anything now. Besides, he was happy. He liked working for George, who was a surprisingly good boss for someone who was the human equivalent of a potions accident in progress (and, worse, was related to him). He liked sharing a flat with Ron, who had somehow devoted the decade immediately post-Hogwarts to becoming some kind of chef savant alongside his work in the DMLE and, later, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and now apparently thought it his life’s mission to Feed Everyone All The Time (and, as Percy had been his flatmate for six of those years, Everyone usually meant Percy). Percy had to admit he was developing something of a tummy. And laughter lines. It was rather lovely, and no amount of mid-life crisis rumours were going to take that from him.
Percy was not the most popular shopkeeper on Diagon Alley. In fact, he acknowledged, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was never quieter than when the news got around that ‘The Stodgy One’ was on shift. He worked the front of the shop alone on Thursdays, politely engaging with the few customers who ventured in despite his habitual frown and enjoying the hum of family magic in the air, letting it settle over his mind like a blanket.
He’d always felt it a little differently to everyone else. The magic, that was. It had been confusing in his childhood – the fizzing sense of being touched all the time made him fidgety and cross, and he didn’t understand why his siblings all seemed so… happy with the press of it against their senses. He’d brought it up to his mum once, but she’d just smiled, and patted his head, and told him that was one of the joys of a large family; never having to be alone.
But Percy wanted to be alone sometimes. He wanted things to be quiet – not ‘Fred and George stop shouting’-quiet, he’d tried to explain, just… ‘please stop the air prickling me’-quiet. But then the soothing, happy bubble that usually unfurled around Mum had turned thin with confusion and worry, and Percy knew he’d said too much.
He often said too much. Usually about things other people didn’t care about. He was used to it. Apparently most people didn’t block out the world with interesting facts about stirring rods and the difference between gnomes and piskies. It was fine. Percy was fine. He spent a lot of time on his own in his room, Being Fine.
Charlie was the first one to figure it out, in the end. “The dragons are easier,” he said quietly to Percy, on the second anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. “They’re louder, but… it’s all the same loud, you know? It’s not… sharp.” He looked like he was expecting a lecture about the construction of the human ear.
Percy considered it – the construction of the human ear was very interesting – but he didn’t think what they were talking about had much to do with ears at all, really. Instead he said, tentatively, “It always prickles, for me. The differences.”
Charlie winced. “That sounds hard.”
Percy shrugged, feeling the thrum of Charlie’s magic butting affectionately against his own. He tried to focus on it, block out the hundred other people pressing against his senses in the Great Hall, but it slid away into the mass. His face must have done something to betray him, because Charlie nudged his shoulder and smiled. Percy smiled back. It was a stiff, awkward smile, he knew. But Charlie seemed happy to see it, and that made it alright.
It was when he’d started really paying attention to the feelings, instead of trying to block them out, that Percy had made the most progress. Luna had been incredibly helpful. She had invited herself to Percy and Ron’s for dinner one evening early into the Revision Committee proceedings, cheerfully told Ron to go away, and spent the next five and a half hours talking Percy through making a List.
The List was Percy’s first attempt at categorising what he was feeling. It was incredibly simplistic, but strangely knowing what was brushing up against his senses, putting a name to it, made it easier to deal with. Instead of the nebulous, irritating thought ‘everything prickles because it’s different’, he started to be able to think ‘that snowy feeling is Luna, and that blue feeling is Murcus, and that crackly feeling is Hermione’ – it was less overwhelming that way, somehow.
Family dinners became simpler after that. His family’s magic shared a common thread of gold that lay over all of them, and, whilst the spikes of difference that had driven Percy to solitude in the past were still there, he found knowing who was responsible for each made it easier to bear. He could indulge, almost, in being surrounded and netted in the family magic when he knew that at the end of the day he could go home with just Ron and his golden-elastic feel and be alone.
All this to say: Percy quite liked living with Ron, working with Ron and George, in his brothers’ shop, surrounded by his brothers’ magic and the occasional intrusion of a customer. Thursdays were Percy’s day at the front, Saturdays were all hands on deck, and the rest of the time Percy was left blissfully alone to do product testing in the back room, or, more commonly, to work on the business’ records and accounts in the office upstairs.
Sundays were for lunch at the Burrow. Percy liked to be punctual – early, even, if he could manage it. He’d always found it difficult to judge time, so allowing an extra few minutes (or an extra half hour, or an extra two hours) before an appointment (meticulously written down in Percy’s organiser that yelled at him in Hermione’s voice whenever he was in danger of forgetting something, because remembering what day it was was hard enough) was normal for Percy. Ron was usually quite accommodating; he knew that Percy liked to Floo together, and that it made Percy anxious if Ron was running late, so he tended to be ready on time too, provided Percy nagged him enough. Today, though, Percy was late.
He clearly hadn’t nagged Ron enough.
In fact, Percy hadn’t nagged him at all, because Ron hadn’t come home last night.
This wasn’t uncommon for Ron, of course; he stayed over at Harry’s a lot (for adults who claimed loudly and often that they weren’t codependent, Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent an awful lot of time eating off each others’ plates, wearing each others’ clothes, using each others’ wands, and sleeping in the same bed), so Percy was used to conducting his morning routine in blissful silence. Unfortunately for Percy, blissful silence only really worked for his morning routine when he had time. Left to his own devices, without Ron to corral and his wand set to emit an obnoxious, ear-piercing alarm at ten-minute intervals, Percy tended to spend too long in the shower, distracted by the warmth and the shooshing sound of the water around him. Having Ron to bully into getting ready helped, gave him a focus.
Percy lacked focus today. Percy had lacked focus all week, actually. It was becoming A Problem.
Technically, The Problem had started about a month ago (three weeks, five days, nineteen hours and twenty-three minutes ago), but Percy knew his strengths. His ability to catastrophise was one of them. His ability to pretend his entire world had not, in fact, started to revolve around his Problem was only sixth on the list, but it had been serving him well. Until this week.
Percy was twenty minutes late to Sunday dinner, and all he could say to excuse himself was:
“Her name is Peony.”
Utter chaos ensued.
The thing was – the thing was, Percy was perfectly content with his life. He didn’t feel like anything was lacking. He had his family, his friends, his job, his flat, and his magic; he didn’t need anything else. His mum had been nudging him about his love life ever since Penelope and he had called it quits back when he’d been working with the Ministry (“I just feel like I’m not your priority, Perce – you’re always over at your mum and dad’s, or working, or… I don’t know, helping Luna Lovegood with something weird.” And it was true, and Percy had acknowledged it politely, and he hadn’t cried when she handed back the engagement ring he’d given her the year before), but Percy had got used to waving Mum off. He and Charlie had bonded over it, actually, both of them uninterested in finding The One and happily bailing each other out when their mother got a little too keen on her latest matchmaking scheme.
She’d even tried to set Percy up with Luna, of all people. It had taken Percy a while to notice, but one Christmas Mum had been absolutely relentless with the charmed mistletoe and even he hadn’t been able to miss how eagerly she’d shuffled him and Luna under it and watched them with expectant, hopeful eyes.
Percy had bent down to let Luna rub her cheek gently against his (because she knew he didn’t like other people’s saliva on his skin unless he had properly prepared himself for it), and they had both cackled loudly enough to wake the ghoul in his parents’ attic at the look of frustrated disappointment on Molly Weasley’s face.
“Sorry, Mum,” he’d said, when he’d eventually recovered. He’d had to raise his voice slightly, because Luna was still braying with hilarity at his side. “But no.”
“W-we’re soulmates,” Luna had eventually pushed out between residual giggles, “just not like that.”
Percy’s mum definitely hadn’t understood, but she had stopped making loaded statements about Secret Relationships and eyeing them like Luna was about to spontaneously pop out a new grandchild. Percy considered it a win.
All that to say, Percy wasn’t looking for a romantic relationship. It wasn’t that he had given up on the idea or anything, but he wasn’t “yearning for his other half” or whatever was in those intriguing bodice rippers Charlie had found under Mum’s bed as a child (and had promptly become addicted to – Percy still remembered the time fourteen year-old Charlie had written an angry fan letter to Loretta Beauchamps, author of the He Burst Into My Boudoir series, complaining about Enrique’s disrespect for Belladonna’s career, and had actually received a reply. Charlie had been practically floating with joy for days). He had watched Bill and George settle down happily with Fleur and Angelina respectively, partially sating their mother’s eternal lust for traditional weddings. He had quietly noted Ron’s tendency to change the subject when his love life was brought up, and the panicked eye contact he exchanged with Harry and Hermione every time. He had supported Charlie when he’d declared he was completely uninterested in having a romantic or sexual relationship, ever, so please stop asking, Mum. He had backed Ginny up when she’d moved in with Millicent while passionately refusing to get married (“It’s heteronormative nonsense, Mum, and we don’t need – uh, yes, I have been talking to Hermione a lot lately, how did you guess?”). Percy had thought, long and hard, about what his future might look like, and concluded that it didn’t really matter.
And then he met Peony.
At two thirty-seven on a Monday afternoon, nearly a month earlier…
Percy didn’t usually man the counter at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes on a Monday, because, according to George, “Your sourpuss face scares off the customers, Perce.”. Percy didn’t mind. He did have a terrible case of what Hermione liked to call Resting Bitch Face, and customers did prefer to be served by a laughing George or a smiling Ron, and Percy actually preferred minimal customer interaction at his customer service job, so. He didn’t usually man the counter on Mondays.
On this particular Monday, however – a traditionally British November day, in which the grey sky was mizzling gently and the leaf mulch shoppers had tracked into Diagon Alley over the course of the last several weeks was providing both the comforting scent of wet earth and a definite slipping hazard – three year-old Roxanne Weasley had woken with a green and purple rash and sparks coming out of her nose. Dragon Pox was no joke – Percy had had it himself as a child – so when George had flooed to let him know he and Ron would need to manage the shop without him that day Percy had resigned himself to actually speaking to members of the public. Worse: members of the public looking for Christmas presents.
He frowned at a pair of children sword-fighting with the trick wands, and was just considering approaching them with his sternest glare when a pointed cough drew his attention. He peered down over the counter to find a child eyeing him with distrust.
The child had long, dark hair in two messy plaits, clever black eyes, and had apparently chosen to pair her muddy trainers with a violently yellow ball gown made of cheap muggle fabric that was slipping slightly off one shoulder. She couldn’t have been more than ten.
When the child didn’t speak, neither did Percy. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the screeches of the other pre-Hogwarts age children getting into trouble right under their parents’ noses. Then Percy realised he was in a staring competition with a ten year-old and cleared his throat. “Where are your parents?” he asked abruptly.
The child shrugged, and her hideous dress slid slightly further askew. “Dead,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You’re not Mr George or Mr Ron.”
Percy blinked. “No,” he agreed, thrown off by the sudden accusation. And possibly also by the dead parents. “I’m, er… Percy? Their brother?”
The child tilted her head as though considering how sure he was about this, and Percy found himself inexplicably almost as nervous as the day he took his NEWTs. Ultimately, she seemed to decide in Percy’s favour. “Alright,” she said agreeably, tugging the shoulder of her dress up. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Percy. I like your glasses.”
Instinctively, Percy pushed said glasses – the same horn-rimmed pair he’d had since his school days – back up his nose. “Thank you,” he said, and, floundering for something polite to say in turn: “I like your dress,” he lied.
The child beamed as though he’d said exactly the right thing. Percy never said exactly the right thing, so he was fairly certain he was misinterpreting. Her shrewd black eyes darted over his sensible shirt, sensible tie, and distinctly less sensible work robes (still a deeply unflattering magenta after all these years). “I like your…” she hesitated, as though searching for something else to comment on, then appeared to commit all at once. “I like your hair,” she said shyly.
And all at once, Percy understood.
He had learned how to make small talk from Bill. Percy had never been very good at it himself, but he watched people. He’d recognised how charming Bill was, and how people always liked to talk to him because conversation flowed so easily, and the way Bill always had something kind to say. He’d learned that the quickest way to make people stop asking questions was to turn the conversation back on them – ask about their job, or their hobbies, or even throw them a compliment.
Percy’s hair was thinning and his hairline was already receding. It was a slightly more carroty shade of red than most of his siblings. He wore it short, neat, and unexcitingly trimmed. Percy’s hair was, objectively, nothing to write home about.
The child was attempting small talk. With him.
Percy would deny it until the end of time, but his lips twitched – just slightly – into a smile. “I like yours, too,” he said. “Did you do it yourself?”
“My sister did it for me,” said the child, bouncing a little in her enthusiasm. She twirled on the spot. “I look like a princess, don’t I?”
(She looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards.)
“Absolutely,” said Percy, gravely. “Your sister is very talented.”
(Her sister was probably even younger than her, and possibly also visually impaired.)
“She is!” the child said, grinning at him. “She’s multitalented,” she added, with the air of someone quoting an oft-heard but ill-understood phrase. “And she deserves better than Blaise Fucking Zabini.”
Percy choked on his own spit. “Er,” he said, intelligently.
“It was nice talking to you, Mr Percy!” said the baffling (foul-mouthed) child. And in a flash of mind-bendingly yellow fabric, she disappeared into the crowd.
And so The Problem began.