Who: Percy Weasley and OPEN What: Drinking. Where: Three Broomsticks When: Thursday Night
Percy didn't even know why he bothered anymore. Almost any time he said anything, it was wrong or horrible or with some sort of malicious intent that was buried so deeply that apparently even Percy himself was unaware of it. The things Ronsaid had hurt, though his brothers had tried to step in to mediate, the damage had been done. Percy had never felt like he fit in, But somehow it always stung when he was slapped in the face with it. He leaned forward against the bar, looking into the mostly empty glass in front of him as he thought.
Percy was well on his way to drunk, having been steadily drinking scotch since the sun had touched the horizon (and not a second sooner, he wouldn’t have it be said that he was a day drunk, after all). Before Justin, He had been here most nights, taking solace in the fact that most adults in the dome were more concerned about the Death Eaters, to worry about who was and wasn’t drinking in the pub.
And that was an entirely different issue all together. Most of the people who entered the dome were healers and Aurors, professors and counselors, people who could actually help. Percy had come in chasing a ghost, and felt like he wasn't doing enough. He wasn't a particularly good fighter or healer, or builder. All he was was a ministry lackey with a student boyfriend and a family who hates him. And scotch--- thank Merlin he at least had scotch.