Entry tags:

fic, percy/bill, pg, slash

A gift for demeter918!
Title: Overcast
Author: TBA
Giftee: demeter918
Pairing/Characters: Percy/Bill
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,214
Warnings: Character death (not Percy or Bill, though.)
Disclaimer: The characters depicted in this work of fiction are copyrighted by J.K. Rowling. This fiction is not written for profit, purely for enjoyment; I own nothing save the plot.
Summary: The day of the funeral dawned grey and dreary, and Percy hadn’t even intended to go.
Author's Notes: Written pre-DH, so there aren’t any spoilers here; it’s canon-compliant through HBP and AU from that point on. I hope you like it, demeter918!




The day dawned cold and dreary, the weak September sun feebly, halfheartedly filtering through the heavy, lead-grey clouds hanging low in the sky. A dark dawn. Percy was at the window of his flat as the sun came up, perched like some leggy bird on a kitchen chair he had pulled up. There was a cup of tea cradled carefully in his hands, but he was not drinking it; it had stopped steaming long before, had started to cool rapidly in the chill near the window, and Percy had only swallowed down a few mouthfuls. He had added too much lemon; it was far too sour. Percy watched the dawn without really seeing it, aware of the pale sunlight only distantly, detachedly. London was at its quietest in the dim, dead hours just before sunup; now, the city was beginning to wake, slowly, like a great beast coming out of hibernation, surging.

A day like any other.

Percy rose and pushed the chair back to the table, pushed it all the way in and then emptied his teacup down the drain. Rinsed it out, washed it, set it on the rack to dry, wiped the water from his hands on the dishtowel. He hung the towel back up when he was done; left crumpled, it would sour, and then he’d need a new one.

Percy left the kitchen and smoothed down his robes, straightened them, pushed his glasses back up firmly to their perch on the bridge of his nose; a familiar morning ritual, the motions habitual, done without conscious thought. Double-check the briefcase to be sure everything is there where it belongs. Percy’s long, slender fingers closed around the handle in sharp, white angles, and with a sharp crack, he was gone.

---

Penelope was looking at him as if he had lost his mind, and her hands had settled sharply on her hips. “Percival Weasley,” she said, in the tone of voice that Percy knew meant he was in for a lecture, “just what do you think you’re doing here?”

Percy lifted his chin and looked right back at her. “Working,” he said primly. “That is what one does in an office, Penny.”

“Yes, Percy,” she said, “I’m aware of that, thank you, I do not need reminding. Still, now that we have taken the time to establish the purpose of an office, perhaps you would care to explain to me why, exactly, you are here, working, today.”

“It’s a Thursday.”

Penelope huffed out a frustrated breath. “Yes, but today is–“ she began, then broke off. A pause, then she tried again, in calmer tones that Percy supposed were intended to be non-threatening, “It’s... it’s your sister’s funeral, Percy,” Penelope said. “For God’s sake, take the one day off.”

Percy stiffened, and the set of his jaw became harder, stubborn. “I’m not welcome there.”

“She’s– she was your sister, Percy,” Penelope said. “Look, if you don’t want to go, then don’t, but... don’t work today.”

“And what good, pray tell, will sitting in my flat all day do me? I’ll be bored. I’ll end up working there, and then it will just be bothersome that I haven’t got everything I require, and the entire experience will be both frustrating and unproductive. I may as well be here.”

“Fine,” Penelope huffed, “but I’m telling the Minister you’re insisting on being here today.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow at him. “Wouldn’t I?” she asked, and left before he could reply.

---

The clouds still had not burned off by midmorning, and a light, continuous drizzle had begun to fall somewhere around the time Percy had been busy arguing with Penelope and the Minister about whether he should be at work.

He hadn’t won.

The cemetery path was long and winding, sharp, pale grey gravel crunching beneath his feet as he walked. The fine, insistent rain had already soaked his hair, and the waterlogged strands clung to his face; Percy brushed them away with an impatient hand, and spelled away the water streaking his glasses, blurring the world into suggestions of cloud and stone.

There was a small clump of people some distance away; Percy watched them with a strange sense of numbness; watched, completely hollow, as they buried his little sister. The rain drowned out all sounds of tears. Percy merely stood there, straight and still as the stones that surrounded him, a silent witness to the family’s grief. A family he did not belong in, a grief he had no right to share.

They left the graveyard in pieces. The twins first, then his parents, then Ron with Harry, and Hermione, and the Lovegood girl (Luna, that was her name). Bill, Charlie, and Fleur lingered there for a time, until at last some unnamable look passed between Bill and Fleur, and she took Charlie’s arm and murmured something to him. They disappeared without a sound.

“You can come out now, Perce.” Bill’s voice carried, even through the rain (it was falling harder now, Percy realised, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed before). Bill had not turned, and Percy found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move. Unable to step forward, to make himself approach his brother (his sister’s grave).

“Percy,” Bill said, and this time he did turn. “Come on. It’s okay.”

This time, Percy did move, though his steps felt heavy, leaden, crushing the grass beneath his shoes as he veered off the path.

“I’m sorry,” Percy said; it came out stiffer than he meant it to, his words never did come out right. He wasn’t even certain what, exactly, he was apologising for, but Bill seemed to understand– or, if he didn’t, he was willing to let it drop.

“It’s okay.” A pause. “Well,” Bill amended, “it isn’t, not really. But you can’t change it now.”

And isn’t that how it always goes. A long silence fell between them, and Percy, searching vainly for words, feared it might never be broken. Always a gap, a disconnect, between him and the others. Always out of step.

“Why didn’t you come?” Bill finally asked, and Percy almost said, ”I’m here, aren’t I?” except he knew that wasn’t what Bill meant.

“I didn’t belong there,” he finally answered. I didn’t belong with the rest of you.

“You don’t let yourself belong,” Bill said quietly. “You’re afraid. Afraid to love too much.”

“Afraid to–“

“Shh.” Bill pressed his index finger to Percy’s lips, silencing him. “You’ll get it, eventually.” There was something in Bill’s eyes that Percy could not place; against his will, it made him shiver (or maybe it was just the rain).

“Bill.” The name seemed to tremble on his lips; Bill smiled, just a little, and let his hand fall to his side once more. There was a pause, and the sound of distant thunder was echoing in Percy’s head, rolling, rolling, and then Bill bent and kissed him, gently and briefly, on the mouth.

Percy could not move, and Bill only looked at him, a little sadly, but smiling a bit, too, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his dress robes.

“When you’re ready,” Bill said, “I’ll be around.”

The crack of disapparition blurred into another rumble of thunder, and Bill was gone.

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