Entry tags:

fic, nc-17, percy/ron, slash

A gift for el_em_en_oh_pee!
Title: War Crimes
Author: TBA
Giftee: el_em_en_oh_pee
Pairing/Characters: Ron/Percy, mentions of past relationships (which would be spoilers!)
Rating: R
Word Count: ~6750
Warnings: mindfuck, incest (obviously)
Disclaimer: These characters are JK Rowling’s. I do not make money off this. All quoted and formatted bits are from T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland. Sadly, I do not own this, either.
Summary: Ron, Percy, and Remus are locked up in Grimmauld place to protect them from the world. Or is it the other way around?
Author's Notes: Many many thanks to E for her patience and awesomeness and being a great beta. Any remaining errors are my own. el_em_en_oh_pee, I really hope you enjoy this. This is the longest fic I’ve ever written and I had a blast doing it.

***

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, 

Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see

At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea...

I, Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs

Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -

War Crimes

Three.

Percy couldn’t help but notice that things seemed to happen in threes. He was the third child born in his family. He had three younger brothers. There were three crimes of which he stood accused. There were three burn marks on the Black tapestry that he could reach (charred edges, hints of the names there, barely visible even after hours of cleaning). He had a peculiar patch of three freckles right across the corner of his mouth. There were three of them living at 12 Grimmauld Place – where there were three umbrellas in the troll foot by the front door, and three squeaky steps on the stairs down to the kitchen.

It had been three months since he’d arrived at the old Order headquarters.

Percy padded down the stairs to the main floor, turned, and made his way to the kitchen, mindful of the squeaky steps. The rich, heavy aroma of coffee filled the stairwell, and even though Percy would not touch the stuff, he had to admit that its smell had become a comfortable, familiar thing. Sure enough, Remus was standing by the kettle in his tattered old dressing gown and sipping a cup, looking tired and worn.

“Good morning, Percy,” Remus greeted, as he always did. Percy didn’t know how he managed it; until Remus, he had never met anyone who woke up before he did. Percy nodded at Remus, fingers playing with the frayed edge of his pajamas as he moved towards the long, worn table and took his usual seat. While Percy rose early, he often had trouble making proper speech until he had at least one cup of tea.

A teacup was already prepared. Percy managed a brief, polite smile as he lifted it, thumb rubbing one two three times against the lip before allowing himself to sip the tea. The kitchen was mostly quiet, though the house made the occasional settling noise. Peaceful silence, at least, which allowed Percy to ignore Remus’ gaze for a bit.

“Sleep well?” Remus asked, still leaning against the counter.

Percy managed a shrug, wincing as one shoulder popped but the other didn’t. “Same as usual,” he admitted, deliberately rotating the still-tight joint until it gave a satisfying pop. “Do you know how much longer we’re going to have to stay here? Has there been any word at all from my family?” The tea was starting to work; he could feel his mind kicking off the vestiges of sleep.

“We’re here until we have word that it’s safe to leave,” Remus said. “Until then, you know it’s too risky to chance communication with the outside.”

Percy nodded into his teacup. “So what’s on our plan for today? More library work?” They’d been going through the house, room by room, cleaning and cataloguing everything in an effort to keep from going mad. The work (particularly the organisational bits) suited Percy. There was something extremely comforting about making sure that everything was just so. He could easily lose himself in all the work, letting his mind be free of all that happened – especially all the things that had happened in the forty-eight hours before he was rescued. Those things still gave him night terrors that left him drenched in sweat. He’d found the cataloguing to be very cathartic, in a way, even if Ron’s constant sulking and Remus’ occasional proclamations about interesting material were more distracting than helpful.

“Something like that.” Remus smiled. “I thought we’d have a go at some of the more obstinate volumes to see if we could manage to pry them off the shelves. That volume on vampiric lore is not going to get the best of me today.”

Percy opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by footsteps thudding down the stairs.

“Either we’ve got a mountain troll, or Ron’s awake,” Remus commented wryly, glancing up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how anyone manages to make twelve stone sound like twenty.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be another wonderful day,” Percy replied dryly.

***

They were three hours into their work of the day when Ron came around to where Percy sat, working on little index cards. He’d figured out the correct charms to use to have them self-organise and the little pieces of stiff parchment were zooming off to their appropriate spots as soon as he was done with each one. Percy glanced up, adjusting the spectacles precisely on his nose to get a better view of his brother. Ron, on the other hand, was dirty all along the left side of his body, with smudges all over his face.

“Book of charcoal drawings,” Ron explained tersely to Percy’s raised eyebrows. “Didn’t fancy me looking through them, so…” He gestured along his body.

“Probably deserved it,” Percy commented, looking back down at his notecard. He dipped his quill and tapped it three times against the edge of the inkwell. What did he care if Ron was almost comically dirty? Why did Ron feel the annoyingly pressing need to share his cleanliness status with Percy? If he needed a bath then he could go get clean; he didn’t exactly need Percy’s approval to strip down and douse his body with water, scrubbing down every muscle, hips still round with baby fat, freckles in every intimate place, hands sliding down to touch himself -

Where had that thought come from? Horrified and red, Percy picked up a the card he was working on and tore it three times, each tear perpendicular to the one before it.

“Percy?” Ron’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Didn’t you just finish that card?”

“No matter,” Percy said, voice tense. He didn’t look up. “Don’t you need to get clean?”

“No,” Ron said, plopping down on the old sofa next to the desk that Percy was using. “I wanted to ask you a question, actually.”

Percy froze. He didn’t particularly enjoy talking to Ron, who was prone to violent outbursts (which Percy didn’t understand but he didn’t ask, either. Remus had said that Ron needed to come to it on his own). One incident in particular had ended with a rather painful bout of wandless magic from Ron that had broken Percy’s nose as well as the spines of several ancient tomes. At the time, Percy was more upset about the damaged books than his now-deviated septum.

“Why are you here?” Ron asked, rubbing his dirty hand on his neck, streaking the charcoal dust along his skin. “And don’t give me some exi-whathaveyou bollocks. I mean, why are you here?”

He lifted his head to regard his brother for a long minute. He could hear Remus puttering around in a different part of the library, and besides, Remus already knew the worst of it.

“I was tortured,” he said. Such a simple word for such a horrific event. “I was tortured for being a spy. I was spying on the Ministry for the Order and I got caught. It took two days before anyone found me, and by then I was nearly dead.” He said it matter-of-factly, but the memories were nearly overpowering. His shoulders had been dislocated, both legs broken, and hot needles thrust under his fingernails, amongst many other events that he tried to block out. A throbbing pain was building in his temples, so he slipped his glasses off and rubbed at the spot. “I’ve been accused of being a collaborator with You-Know-Who, apparently, which is why they brought me here. Supposedly they’re trying to find a way to clear my name, but we operated in such secresy that I don’t know if that will ever happen.” He stopped, aware that he had just said more words to Ron in a minute than he’d said to him the previous three months.

“Tortured?” Ron repeated, sounding skeptical.

“If you don’t believe me,” Percy snapped, suddenly annoyed, “then why did you even ask?” He sat up stiffly and shuffled the blank cards.

“Because you’re my brother,” Ron said, voice tight with anger, rising to his feet. “But fuck if I’m going to give a shit if you’re going to feed me a load.” He stormed out of the library, leaving half of a dusty body-print on the sofa.

***

They didn’t talk again for three days.

***

Ron had discovered a chess set shortly after his arrival and had pressed both Remus and Percy to play him. Percy refused to indulge him (admittedly, partially because he knew Ron would beat him handily every time). Remus, on the other hand, played Ron every day and lost – and yet he’d always retain that same serene smile. It drove Percy mad, but he had to admit it was the one time of the day that Ron seemed less sullen. It also gave Percy the opportunity to sit in the library and read in peace, long legs folded up beside him.

He had discovered the other library early on in their stay. It wasn’t a proper library, really, but it was far bigger than any collection of books Percy could have dared to own. It was a small alcove just off what Remus had informed him was Sirius’ bedroom and absolutely stuffed to the brim with books. Nearly all the titles were Muggle. While Percy was unfamiliar with nearly all of these little leather- and cloth-bound rebellions against the Black family’s Pureblood elitism, it didn’t stop him from deciding to get to know them better.

So while Ron and Remus dueled it out upon a field of checked squares, Percy found himself transported to far away islands, to fantastical lands, and even to the streets of London, just outside their door. It was an escape and he knew it, but at least it was a way out of the grey hallways of Grimmauld Place.

He tucked his legs up on the sofa after carefully toeing off his shoes. He folded his spectacles and set them on the nearby table (after stunning the wood to make sure it didn’t wander off, as things with legs in this house were wont to do). His hands found their way across the dark green cover of the book, tracing the embossing, before opening the book to its mark. He settled in, a slight smile dancing at his lips as he started in on the next chapter, wondering if Mr Swift knew that Lilliput and Blefuscu were not actually fictional places.

Remus’ head came around the door, followed by the rest of his body, creaking the hinge. Startled, Percy jumped, then let his muscles relax as he reached for his glasses, bringing Remus’ blurry form into focus.

“Remus,” he said, nodding politely and setting the book aside (carefully marking his current spot, of course) and sitting up, socked feet finding the carpet. “Finished your game already?” he asked, bending over to slip his shoes back on.

“Several, actually,” Remus said, crossing to where he was. “It’s been three hours.”

Percy hesitated. “Oh? I must have lost track of time.” That wasn’t like him at all, no matter how good the story was.

Remus seemed to read his thoughts. “Well, it happens to the best of us sometimes, doesn’t it?” he asked, standing by the sofa. Two fingers on his hand flicked out, head tipping towards the sofa to ask if he could sit. Percy nodded his assent. Remus settled his body against the firm back, body creaking audibly. His eyes fell on the book between them, then lit up when he recognised the title.

“Gulliver’s Travels, I see,” he said, nodding his approval. “An excellent choice. It was one of my favourites when I was younger. One of Sirius’ books, I take it?” Percy nodded. “What do you think of it?”

Percy hesitated, rolling a wrinkle in his trousers between his fingers three times before staying his hand and launching into an extemporaneous analysis. Remus’ questions, though probing, were insightful and Percy found himself growing more and more appreciative of the older man’s presence. It wasn’t often that he got to stretch his mental muscles and Remus was proving to be remarkably well read. When the grandfather clock in the hallway sounded the noon hour, Remus stood.

“Just a moment, I have something I think you might enjoy next, once you’ve finished with Mr Swift’s works.” He tightened his jumper about his thin form and disappeared from the library, returning a few minutes later with a thin book in his hand.

Percy accepted it and looked at the gold leaf on the cover.

“The Waste Land?” he asked, slightly sceptical. “That sounds a bit…” he searched for an appropriate word, “… depressing.” So it wasn’t the best word ever; it was still accurate. Remus’ smile just danced in response.

“I think you’ll find it appropriate.”

***

'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
 Nothing again nothing. 
 'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
'Nothing?' 
 I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?' 

***

Percy wasn’t sure when the journal showed up, or why he decided to write in it, but he grew to love the feel of the smooth leather and the golden-looking monogram on the inside: pWi. The paper was smooth beneath the nib of his quill and he found his thoughts flowing. He also found himself writing a lot about Cedric Diggory. These thoughts often were scrawled out moments after waking, as though trying to recapture a dream that slipped through his mind like shadows fleeing the sun. He also jotted down little notes and thoughts on slips of parchment about his latest literary adventures. These he scattered throughout the journal, fattening it up over the weeks. He found more and more of his notes were on The Waste Land. He had marked up all sorts of ideas regarding the entire piece, though particularly A Game of Chess. Somehow, he didn’t think it was coincidence, and it kept drawing him back.

Why was it that he only ever wrote about Ron or Cedric?

He slipped the journal back under his pillow and snuffed out the candle, but did not sleep for many hours.

***

“Play me a game?”

The question startled Percy, and he looked up over the table at Ron.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, dabbing his serviette at his lips. He put the napkin down, then lifted it twice more, compelled to finish the act before his mind would let him focus on his brother.

“Play me a game,” Ron repeated, voice tense. There was egg on his chin and Percy couldn’t stop staring at the wobbling, scrambled yolk. He shook his head.

“I’ll lose,” he said simply, taking a sip of his tea and going back to his book – he had started in on A Tale of Two Cities the night before and was ready to dive into the very interesting love triangle. Suddenly, the book was being snatched from his hand and tossed aside. “Ron!” Percy protested.

“Play me.”

“Give me my book back.” He extended his hand, palm up. He had no patience for this.

“Play me and you’ll get it back.”

Remus spoke up from the doorway – how long had he been there? “I think you should play him, Percy.”

Sighing, he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“One game,” he agreed, voice a little tight. “That’s it. Then you give me my book back and never ask for another. Unlike Remus, I’ve no desire to be humiliated daily.”

“Who says our games have anything to do with chess?” Remus asked, one eyebrow arching before slipping into the shadows. Creaking noises from the stairs marked his ascent.

“Come on,” Ron grumped, shoulders hunched.

Percy shook his head but stood and followed his younger brother out.

***

Just over half an hour into the game and Ron had done little more than stare at the pieces in front of them. Percy also examined the board, leaning forward, chin on his hand, brow furrowed in concentration. He doubted that he could win but he was not about to go down without a fight. His eyes flicked over the board, plotting out moves and countermoves, when he finally decided on the least destructive option. He moved a bishop to capture Ron’s knight. The bishop would be in danger from a pawn but if Ron took the bait then he’d leave his queen open for capture. Percy knew if he could just capture the queen that he’d be able to dismantle Ron’s defence and perhaps manage to at least pull a draw.

Ron saw it, too, but instead of the scowl that Percy expected, his face cracked a smile.

“Do you remember, Percy?” he asked quietly, stroking the knight’s mane lightly as it repaired itself. “You were the one who taught me how to play.”

Percy sat up, surprised.

“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” he said. “But it was only because you were driving all of us mad begging for someone to teach you.”

“I’d just got that board from Grandpa Prewett and Mum couldn’t look at it without bursting into tears,” Ron supplied, eyes looking over the board. “But you were the only one with the patience to teach me.”

“I was also the only one who really knew how to play, too,” Percy reminded him, smiling. “Well, Bill does all right but I think it’s mostly through sheer luck.”

“He gets the game intuitively but doesn’t study it at all,” Ron said, frowning a little as he examined his options. “You’ve got better since we last played,” he observed.

“I’ve had some practise,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t mean I want to play every day. I’ll leave that to Remus.”

Ron just laughed quietly and stretched his fingers out, moving a rook sideways a few spaces – and effectively blocking Percy’s gambit for the queen. Percy saw it immediately and groaned.

“You know, you’re actually pleasant to talk to when you’re not stomping about the place and waking up the portraits,” Percy commented as he set his mind back to the task at hand. Now what was he supposed to do? It seemed like any direction he might move he’d be trapped, and he didn’t want to lose this game.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a good reason to be – what did Remus call me? Oh yes, ‘a foul-tempered, irritable, angry little ginger-haired terrier.’” Ron snorted. Percy was shocked – that didn’t sound like Remus. “Of course, he apologised immediately and offered me tea. I think it was too close to the full moon, to be honest. Though,” he added thoughtfully, “he wasn’t wrong.” He captured Percy’s knight. “Check.”

Percy stared at the board, feeling that slight pressure on his heart – that inevitable stress that set in when he knew he was going to lose. Once Ron put someone into check it was only a matter of time until his opponent was abdicating.

Amazingly, Ron managed to stop talking for five minutes while Percy thought. As soon as he’d made his move (and promptly lost that piece), he spoke up again.

“Do you dream?” he asked as the decapitated pawn twitched its way off the board.

“I beg your pardon?” Percy replied. He didn’t know how Ron’s brain worked – nor did he think he particularly wanted to, to be honest – but his non sequiturs weren’t just dadaist in nature, they were downright intrusive.

“Do. You. Dream?” Ron repeated, using the same tone Percy’d heard from him when they were younger.

“I – of course I dream!” he replied indignantly. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I don’t dream,” Ron replied, sounding hollow. “I mean, I guess that technically they’re dreams, but they’re really more like nightmares.” He moved his queen. “Check.”

“Oh,” Percy said, not sure if he should pursue that. After all, he really didn’t know Ron anymore. He hardly knew himself anymore, if he were honest. He had spent the past few years with his family hating him, working secretly in the Ministry. Supposedly they knew now, but it wasn’t like they could send messages out from Grimmauld Place.

Ron was looking at him expectantly, and Percy belatedly realised it was his move.

“What sort of nightmares?” he asked, hoping to buy himself a little time as he tried to figure out a way to save himself from sinking entirely.

This was, apparently, the wrong question.

Ron’s anger was swift – the chessboard shoved aside, pieces scattering (Percy thought he heard one of the bloodthirsty rooks egging on Ron) and Percy found himself shoved backwards and over the divan. His glasses skittered into a dusty corner and he gasped as he tried to catch his breath. It felt like both the twins were sitting on his chest, like at his fifteenth birthday.

“What – the – ” he started to speak, groaning and assessing the damage. Nothing felt broken, but his ribs, oh, those would be sore. He grimaced, blind and wandless.

“SHUT IT!” Ron roared, then stormed out, books flying off the shelves in his rage.

Wheezing for air, Percy spoke to no one. “And to think we’d been having such a lovely conversation.”

***

They didn’t talk for three weeks. Percy found other projects to work on and spent more and more time reading. He found himself waxing introspective as well as jotting down thoughts on Ron’s behaviour.

Ron didn’t join them for breakfast anymore.

Percy missed his brother.

***

One day, there was something on his pillow – a broken white knight and a chipped black rook. Percy took them and wondered what it meant.

***

In a house that old, entropy was bound to increase and things were bound to break. The day after Percy found the chess pieces, he was in the shower – soap in his hair – when he felt it go from pleasantly warm to freakishly cold. He could have ignored it – after all, sharing with six siblings while growing up he’d learned all about cold showers – but this temperature shift was an affront for two reasons. One, he’d finally started to feel human enough to begin having a daily masturbation session, and two, there actually seemed to be shards of ice in the water. Of course the ice had killed whatever wank he’d hoped to have.

Not on.

He scrambled out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself, then put on his specs (even though they fogged up immediately from the steam still in the room). Sighing, he headed out into the hallway – glasses rapidly defogging – and down towards the nearest bathroom. Ron normally took showers at night so it shouldn’t be a problem to just sneak in and make use of it. Ron was probably still asleep.

Percy slipped into the bathroom, securing the door behind him before removing his towel. His hand was on the shower door when he heard something stir within. He stopped still, unsure if he’d really heard anything or if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“No,” a voice dragged out, seemingly in pain. “No, please, Harry, I can’t!” Silence, then: “NO! Ah – ah- ah- Avada Kedavra!”

Percy’s blood ran cold as Ron began to sob.

“Please, no, Harry, come back,” Ron whimpered. Percy cracked the door open – Ron was curled up on the floor of the shower, naked and shaking. Sweat poured down his body and into the drain at the bottom. Percy didn’t know what to do – did he wake him, or let him finish his nightmare? He only hesitated a moment before his hand slapped down on the handle of the hot water, sending – of course – ice cold water shooting out of the shower head and down onto Ron’s naked form.

His legs kicked out and struck the door, slamming it open and into Percy’s shoulder, knocking him back. Water from the shower made the tiles slippery and he lost his footing. He felt his head strike something – the sink? As he slipped down into darkness, he was vaguely aware of someone shaking his shoulders desperately.

***

Percy Weasley had a killer headache.

He woke up three days later, head swathed in gauze. It took him a minute to realise where he was – and he felt out for his spectacles. Someone had put them on the bedstand so he slipped them on, taking an assessment of his body. Most everything seemed okay, but his head was throbbing in a rather insistent way.

There were voices murmuring – it almost sounded like Tonks and his mother arguing, but that couldn’t be. Someone put a cup to his lips and he drank the water gratefully, eyes slowly moving to the face above him.

“Ron,” he managed to choke out before he slipped back into the waiting bliss of the comatose.

***

The next time he woke up, it was because someone’s knee was in his back. It was big and knobbly and he was fairly certain that it didn’t belong to Cedric Diggory (whom had been kind enough to grace his dreams whilst passed out, doing things they’d never quite got to when he was alive). The knee shifted and pressed more persistently into Percy’s spine.

“I love you,” a voice whispered. “I don’t mean it when I get angry at you. I just want you to know.”

Percy lay very still at Ron’s confession until he heard his breathing become more regular. Percy shifted away from him, uncomfortable for some reason he couldn’t put a finger on.

Suddenly, there were fingers curling in the hair at the base of his neck.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Ron murmured. Percy shifted in the bed, hoping it would stop whatever confession Ron would come up with next.

***

A few weeks after Percy had started moving around on his own, he began to have rather irksome dreams that would result in him needing to change his sheets. Not that he minded the dreams much – despite his reticence about intimate contact with anyone, it was nice to let go while he slept. He just hated the impracticalities of changing his sheets. He missed his wand a lot. Tonight’s guest of honour had been one he didn’t want, and he tried to sort through the meaning as he stripped his bed.

Sighing, he gathered up the bundle of bedding and headed downstairs to the laundry room. At least the house was quiet at this hour of the morning. He turned the corner and nearly had a heart attack – Ron was just leaving the laundry room. His head was down and he very nearly didn’t see Percy.

“What are you doing?” Percy demanded, flustered. Why did he have to be there? As if it weren’t bad enough that Ron was making appearances in his dreams, why couldn’t he be asleep? Come to think of it, why was he in the laundry room at this hour?

Ron’s face was red with embarrassment. “Just starting a load, is all,” he muttered.

“Oh,” Percy said, belatedly realising that Ron’s reason for being up was probably the same as his. Well, perhaps not precisely the same, after all, it seemed unlikely that Ron’s mind was giving him dreams of being sucked off by his brother. Percy coughed, red. “Well, let me toss mine in. Right.” He stepped around him quickly, not able to make eye contact with Ron. By the time he was done shoving the soiled fabric into the washer and set the charms, Ron had disappeared.

***

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

“I am Tiresias,” a voice whispered. “I have walked amongst the lowest of the dead.”

He who was living is now dead

We who were living are now dying

***

After seven straight nights of wet dreams about Ron, Percy was ready to go mad. Things were awkward between them during the day even though they shouldn’t have been – after all, there was no way that Ron knew about the content of his dreams. It certainly didn’t help that they kept bumping into each other in the laundry room. And it definitely didn’t help that the dreams were becoming more intense. Percy knew he was gay but he wasn't perverted.

Percy bundled up his sheets yet again and made the trek down to the laundry room. This time, though, Ron was curled up on a pile of dirty laundry, like a puppy in a nest of rags, dozing. His eyes seemed red, though, and puffy, almost as though he’d been crying. After starting the wash, Percy hesitated, then decided that since there were no shower doors or hand basins on which to smash his head that he was safe to approach Ron. He gently touched his brother’s shoulder.

“Ron?"

Ron stirred, then whimpered, body curling up tighter. A hand snaked out to grab Percy’s.

“He’s dead,” Ron whispered. “And I’m dying. I can’t stop it.”

Percy let Ron grip his hand, believing him to still be asleep.

“Who’s dead?” Percy whispered, awkwardly squatting down beside Ron.

Ron’s blue eyes opened and fixed onto Percy’s. Percy realised that perhaps Ron wasn’t really asleep.

“Harry,” he said intensely. “And I killed him.” He started to cry, turning his head away and pressing it into a jumper. “I can’t go back to sleep because I’ll kill him again,” he said, voice muffled.

“You didn’t kill Harry,” Percy said reasonably, hamstring getting sore from the crouch. He tried to shift his weight but was only rewarded with the twinging start of a charlie horse.

“I did,” Ron whispered. “It’s why I’m here.”

Percy didn’t move. How could it even be possible? Harry was Ron’s best friend. You didn’t kill your best friend; you just didn’t. And you certainly didn’t kill your best friend if he were Harry Potter.

The light strokes of Ron’s thumb against his skin brought him out of his thoughts. One, two three. Pause. One, two, three.

“Please don’t leave me,” Ron said pitifully, voice cracking. “I’m afraid to sleep.”

Maybe it was the early hour, or the tone in his voice, or the simple fact that his brother needed him, but Percy agreed. He curled up facing Ron, still holding his hand, hoping against hope that his mind and cock would behave and he wouldn’t end up embarrassing himself.

***

Percy wasn’t sure what changed but for the next three nights he found himself joining Ron in his room to sleep. He told himself it was because Ron’s nightmares didn’t seem so bad when he was there. His own dreams were even more intense and twice he’d had to get up to wank into the WC in the dark. He felt so dirty, thinking of his brother, but they were just fantasies, that’s all, and nothing more. Of course.

When he returned to the bed, Ron turned towards him and tossed an arm over him.

“Mmm, Harry,” he murmured, pulling Percy close to his body. Percy’s muscles tightened, unsure what to do yet again. Then there were lips on his neck, murmuring and kissing the skin there.

“Need a haircut, mate,” Ron said huskily, hand sliding up Percy’s chest. Percy couldn’t help it; he let out a whimper. This was wrong, oh Merlin, he shouldn’t be letting his brother feel him up. But the realisation that Ron might have been with Harry Potter was shocking enough to keep him from making his muscles work.

“Come on,” Ron said, pressing his hips and oh Merlin! his half-hard cock against Percy’s thin pyjamas bottoms. His hand slid down to the top of Percy’s pants, tickling the light dusting of hair there. This sensation brought his cock back to life and also brought him back to his senses. He shot out of the bed and left the room without waiting to find out what Ron had wanted to do with Percy-as-Harry.

He brought himself off twice more before taking a cold shower, pyjamas still on him.

***

The awful daring of a moment's surrender

Which an age of prudence can never retract

By this, and this only, we have existed

***

The weeks passed in the way that they often do; the individual moments creeping by but time seeming to fly past, not thinking of the people it was affecting. Percy had another haircut, Remus went through a full moon, and Ron’s hair grew longer.

One night, Percy returned to Ron’s bed. Neither boy said anything to the other about it, but Ron seemed grateful. He took the time to prepare Percy’s tea for him and didn’t scowl when Percy asked for his help in the library.

A few nights later, Ron crawled into bed beside Percy.

“What happened between you and Cedric Diggory?” Ron asked after blowing out the lamp.

Percy was quiet.

“What happened between you and Harry Potter?”

Ron lay very still.

***

Percy awoke to Ron’s morning wood shoved up against his bum. This was the best and worst part of sharing a bed with his brother; the constant reminder of what he couldn’t - shouldn’t - have.

“You awake?” Ron asked.

Percy just nodded. If Ron was awake and his cock was still pressed up against his bum… no, that couldn’t be right.

“Good,” Ron said, hand going to Percy’s bony hip. Everything in his mind called out for him to push Ron away, to tell him he was having a dream, that he wasn’t Harry –

“Percy,” Ron murmured happily, pressing his lips against Percy’s neck. Percy let out a moan and covered Ron’s hand with his own. Ron turned him over and Percy found himself face to face – freckle to freckle, as their mum would say – with Ron. His own cock was quickly growing interested in what was going on.

“Ron,” Percy tried to protest, though somehow his name came out like he used to say Cedric’s, needy and fervent.

“I’m gay,” Ron said.

“So am I.” He’d never admitted this out lout to anyone. Even when he and Cedric had first kissed and fumbled together in the Prefect’s Bath, he’d never admitted this sort of thing out loud. Penny certainly hadn’t known.

“Yeah, well, that’s like saying Fred and George make trouble,” Ron said, sounding surprisingly like his old self. Percy couldn’t help but smile at that.

“So, you and Harry?” Percy asked. Ron nodded, though his brow pinched as he looked away, trying not to be upset. “I’m sorry,” Percy said honestly. “Did you – what you say you did – did you really?”

Ron looked up, chin jutting out to keep himself from crying. Percy instantly felt terrible for asking, but he had to know. Finally, a small nod.

Percy pulled Ron close.

***

He wasn’t sure who kissed whom first, but once it had happened, it was like some floodgate had opened. Percy felt like he should be more ashamed of what they were doing, but really, did kissing hurt anyone? They were both in need of company and comfort, and they had found it in each other. Was that so bad?

Well, yes. But it wouldn’t go on. It was just until they worked it out of their systems. After all, months and months of being locked in a house with only two other people would make anyone’s mind do this. They were all so sexually frustrated, it was only natural to turn to each other for comfort.

Percy found himself stealing kisses with Ron at every available moment. When they passed each other in the hallway, or were working on a project – any moment was fair game. If Remus noticed, he didn’t say a word.

***

This has gone quite far enough! I demand you end this now!

Absolutely not. They’ve just made a major break-through. They need this.

You’ve got three weeks.

***

Percy awoke to the familiar press of Ron against his back and turned over. His own cock was half-hard and he kissed his brother drowsily, hips pushing up against Ron’s erection. Ron moaned in response, pushing back, hands going to Percy’s back and keeping him close. His skin felt as though it were on fire; every inch that Ron’s fingers found was lit up, shock waves firing along his nerves.

Percy didn’t really know what he was doing when his hand found its way into Ron’s pants, stroking his brother’s cock (thicker, shorter, more veins) as he would his own, nearly frantic in the moment, especially when Ron’s fingers wrapped around his own cock. He nearly came right then, but instead bit Ron’s lip as he moaned and quickened his strokes. Ron gasped when Percy’s fingernails scraped him, and Percy didn’t particularly like the way Ron added a little twist to the end of each wrist movement, but oh they were wanking each other, kissing, teeth colliding as they ground together.

Percy came hard in long spurts, soaking the front of his pyjamas. Ron’s cock pulsed in his hand and Ron gripped him tighter as he came, curled up towards Percy, whimpering.

They wiped their hands on the sheets and didn’t speak, pyjamas growing cold against their bodies as Percy held Ron.

“Good night, Ron,” Percy murmured.

“G’night, Harry,” Ron yawned, pressing his face against Percy’s neck. He smacked his lips and fell asleep.

Percy stayed awake all night, stomach clenched tight.

***

It’s done, Remus.

Percy thought he recognised the voice. Was that his mum? He tried to talk but found he had no voice in this voice.

End it now, she said tartly.

No! Percy wanted to say. Whatever it is, don’t end it! I’m happy! I’m happy…

***

Something was terribly, horribly wrong. Percy felt like he had right after he’d been rescued from being tortured. Every bone in his body ached, there was a terrible pressure in his head, and one eye seemed swollen shut.

“Whh?” he managed to groan out, his good eye cracking open and being immediately rewarded with a blinding light.

“It’s all right, dear,” Molly said, coming into his frame of view and taking his hand. He winced – it felt like his fingers were broken all over again. “We’ve ended it.”

“Whhhh,” he wheezed, trying to ask what she meant. He couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move?

“You and Ron – we put you under, you see. You’d both been…” she seemed to search for the right word. “Affected by what you went through.” A hand stroked his forehead lovingly. Where was his hair? Why couldn’t he see his fringe?

“It was an experiment to give you as much time as you needed to sort things through,” she explained. “After all, you’d both been through so much, and Remus,” her voice went a bit tighter, “he’s been facilitating your recovery. Monitoring it, if you will.”

Percy managed to swallow some saliva, terribly disoriented. Wasn’t it all real? What did she mean, “monitoring”? He rolled his eye to the side, trying to turn his head to look around. He could just barely spot Ron’s figure on the next bed over – at least, he assumed it was Ron. It was a Ron-shaped fuzz and he didn’t have his specs on.

Molly followed his gaze and frowned a little. “Oh, he’ll be all right, dear. You just rest.”

Percy didn’t want to rest. He wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place and spend many more months exploring with Ron. Or exploring Ron, really.

“Sssssss,” he managed to form. Molly leaned over.

“Yes, dear? What is it?”

“Ssssend. Send me back.” Well, that’s what he tried to say; it came out more of a “Sen mubah.”

Molly shook her head, frowning.

“Absolutely not.”

He didn’t know what was wrong with his mother but if he and Ron couldn’t – if they weren’t – then things wouldn’t be all right. Ever. He didn’t know how to explain this, or how he knew it, but for once he was happy and now she had yanked it away from him.

Percy looked over at Ron again. He couldn’t tell if Ron’s eyes were open, but he could see that he was smiling. Percy managed a painful smile back.

Maybe things would be all right here, too.


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