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The Weight of Living	By : percyplusoliver Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Percy/Oliver Views: 4738 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This can also be found at AO3. I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters. I am not making any money from this story. I just do this for kicks :) Note: This begins around HBP-era

Chapter List
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“Mum, I’m so sorry,” Percy said when he regained his ability to form sentences. “About everything. About the row, about dad, and...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He knew it was his fault, but if he said it again, that would make it real. It would mean Fred was really gone. Percy wasn’t prepared for that.
“And?” Molly prompted gently.
“And...and...” Percy stammered anxiously. “Andit’smyfaultFredisdeadIdistractedhimifIhadn’topenedmybigmouthhe’dstillbeali-hi-hi-hi-hi-hiiiiiiive.” The last syllable came out in a loud, hiccupping sob.
It took Molly a second to process what Percy had said. Did he really blame himself for Fred’s death? It could have happened to anybody. She hesitated before responding. In her heart of hearts, maybe she blamed him. Maybe a little bit. But she couldn’t tell her broken boy that she laid some of the blame at his feet. He already blamed himself. “It’s not your fault,” she fibbed, holding him tighter. “It will never be your fault. No one believes it’s your fa-”
George whirled around, eyes red-rimmed, a vicious snarl on his face.
“I bloody well do,” he snapped. “If you had just left us well enough alone, he would still be alive.” He glared at his older brother, who shrunk against their mother. “But you had to try to make amends. During a bloody WAR! You’re nothing but a selfish prat.” He turned back to his twin’s lifeless corpse, leaving Percy slumped in Molly’s arms.
Percy reached into his pocket. If there was ever a time he needed Oliver, it was now. His hand closed on the button. Please be fast, he begged.
***
Oliver had Colin Creevey’s lifeless body in his arms when he felt his pocket burning. Percy. But he couldn’t go, not now – there was still so much left to do. He surveyed the damage with dismay. He was needed here. With a heavy heart, he ignored the heat against his thigh and laid Colin’s tiny corpse next to Remus Lupin.
Oliver’s heart was breaking. So many people had died, and for what? A ridiculous grudge an arsehole held against a child. He scowled. He gently closed Colin’s eyes and smoothed his pale blond hair.
There, he thought sadly. He could be sleeping.
His pocket burnt again. Patience, he thought. He would work as quickly as was prudent.
***
When Oliver wasn’t immediately by his side, Percy was distraught. If he needed me, I would be there, he thought, upset. I abandoned my entire life to save him. In the back of his mind, he knew he was being selfish. Oliver was needed elsewhere. But I want him! his brain protested. He’s mine! He tried to drown those thoughts out with thoughts of his family.
What am I going to do? he worried. How am I going to redeem myself? Could he redeem himself? If George blamed him, he was certain the rest of his siblings did, too. And his mother was lying to spare his feelings. Well, he didn’t need that. He wanted honesty.
“Mum,” he said suddenly, rubbing his eyes violently.
“Yes, petal?”
“Mum, tell me the truth,” he said, a note of anger in his voice. “Do you blame me for...” Pause. Deep breath. “...for Fred’s death?”
Molly hesitated. How could she possibly tell her son, her sweet, delicate boy, that yes, she laid part of the blame on his shoulders? And that even though that was the case, she forgave him. Because that was what family did. And he hadn’t done it on purpose.
Her hesitation was damnation enough. “I can’t believe my own mother blames me, too!” Percy exclaimed. “When I never meant to do anything wrong!” He blinked back a fresh round of tears. “I don’t need this.” He extricated himself from his mother’s embrace and stalked out of the room, a scowl on his face.
Percy was conflicted. He blamed himself, of course – he was always harder on himself than anyone else was – but for his own mother to blame him? That was a dagger through his fragile heart. Next he would find out that Oliver blamed him, too. He wouldn’t be able to handle that.
But where could he go? The castle was in ruins. There were few, if any, places to properly be alone. Percy frowned. He looked left, then right. There was an open door about fifteen metres down the hall to his right. That would have to do.
Upon arrival, he discovered it was a disused classroom. The desks were stacked against the wall – or they had been; currently a large amount of them were in pieces, scattered throughout the room – and the shelves were empty. He took a seat at the front of the room and surveyed the wreckage.
What would happen to Hogwarts now? Surely students would have to be shipped off to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang while the castle was rebuilt. Percy shook his head. He couldn’t imagine the massive undertaking. And the restructuring of the Ministry… he wasn’t sure he wanted to be involved in that anymore. He had made so many life-altering (and life-ending, he thought grimly) mistakes; he didn’t think he could handle the stress.
Percy reached for his button again. Where was Oliver? Percy desperately needed him now. He needed someone to talk to; someone to comfort him. He needed Oliver to tell him that it wasn’t his fault.
***
For the second time in thirty minutes, Oliver felt his pocket burn. He frowned. Looking around, it seemed that most of the heavy lifting had been done; all that remained was to treat the injured. Despite Oliver’s impressive history of injuries, he was hopeless with healing spells. He supposed he could duck out and find Percy. Percy clearly needed him – Oliver would comb the entire castle to find him if need be.
Fortunately that wasn’t necessary. Oliver found him just down the hall, resting his chin in the palm of his left hand, a grim look on his face.
“Perce,” Oliver said gently, causing Percy’s eyes to flicker upwards.
“Where have you been?” Percy said almost accusingly. “You said you would come when I needed you.” A sob escaped his lips and he clapped his hand over his mouth. He wanted to be angry right now; crying wouldn’t help his case.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said simply. “I was needed to transport the dead.” He set his mouth in a line. Surely Percy couldn’t be so selfish as to begrudge him that. Oliver pressed on. “Remember the Creevey brothers?” Percy nodded. “Dead.” Percy gasped.
“But...but...” he stammered. “They’re not – they weren’t of age. How – why were they allowed to fight?”
Oliver shook his head. “Allowed had nothing to do with it. I reckon they snuck back in after being taken out by Filch. There was a deep sadness in his eyes, Percy noticed. He wondered if he looked the same. “Come here,” Percy said, motioning for Oliver to sit beside him.
Oliver hadn’t realised how exhausted he was until he sat down. He rested his head on Percy’s shoulder
“They were so tiny,” Oliver said, his voice breaking. “They had so much more living to do.” Percy put his arm around Oliver’s shoulders. “It’s not fair. They were just kids. Just little kids.” Percy didn’t have an answer for this. He was grappling with his own issues of fairness and blame. It wasn’t fair that Fred was gone, either. He had been so energetic and full of life. What was going to happen to George? To his family? They had only just moments before forgiven him. Now he was back on their blacklist.
Deservedly so, he thought miserably. Percy was vacillating between needing to be blamed and wanting redemption. It was easy enough for him to blame himself. He blamed himself for many things often enough. It was rare, however, that other people blamed him for anything, even when he openly admitted fault. Percy frowned. He wanted to support Oliver in his time of need, but he could hardly keep himself together.
We can prop each other up, he thought. Somehow.
Percy felt Oliver’s shoulders shudder and he realised Oliver was crying. Oliver never cried. “Ollie,” Percy said gently, “I know it’s not fair. None of this is. But I don’t know what we can do. We tried fighting. Look what it got us: just injuries and death.” He paused and tenderly wiped the tears from Oliver’s cheeks. “I hate to sound clichéd, but war isn’t the answer. We have to be bigger...better than that. We have to fight using the law. Put all of the Death Eaters in Azkaban, and ensure that they all get the Dementor’s Kiss.”
“But is that enough?” Oliver asked, sniffling and wiping his nose with his sleeve. “We should be able to do more. Kids shouldn’t be dying at school.” He sighed. It wasn’t right.
“I know. But what else can we do? It all comes down to who the new Minister is, and how the Ministry is restructured after the dust settles.”
Percy shrugged, dismissing the conversation. He knew it would go round in circles until they both were exhausted – more so than they already were – and had nothing new to offer. He didn’t want to discuss it any further. He wanted to sit and contemplate his own problems
Fortunately, Oliver took the hint and stopped talking. He leaned into Percy and rested his head on the smaller man’s shoulder. It wasn’t very comfortable. Percy was bony. However, Percy’s warmth, his heartbeat, his steady breathing comforted him. Just the fact that he was there comforted Oliver.
“Let’s go,” Percy said suddenly, surprising Oliver.
“Go where?”
“Away. Away from here, away from the Ministry, away from all of this.”
Oliver shook his head. “We can go home,” he said slowly, “but we can’t escape this. You can’t escape your family.”
Percy reddened. How had Oliver known? “That’s not...that’s not what I meant,” he lied.
It was, and Oliver knew it, but he wasn’t going to press the issue. He would deal with it – they would deal with it – when their wounds weren’t so fresh.
***
They arrived at Percy’s flat in the early morning. London looked untouched. Muggles – the ones awake and going about their business at 4:19am – were blissfully unaware of the deadly battle that had just taken place.
And in large part for their protection, thought Percy bitterly.
“I want to sleep for a week,” Oliver announced as they walked through the door. “Will you feed me intravenously so that can happen?”
Percy rolled his eyes. Oliver’s laziness knew no bounds. “Good luck with that,” he replied, feigning annoyance. He didn’t even take off his shoes before collapsing into bed. Percy hadn’t slept in a real bed in what felt like half a lifetime. “Come to bed,” he called to Oliver, who was scrutinising a deep cut on his face in the mirror. “D’you think this will scar?” he asked Percy almost worriedly.
Yawning, Percy replied, “I’ll fix it in the morning. You won’t even n...” Before he could finish his sentence, he was asleep. Oliver smiled in the mirror. He was worried about Percy. He knew Percy blamed himself, and he was worried that Percy’s family blamed him, too – Percy hadn’t told him.
But I didn’t ask, either, Oliver thought guiltily.
He yawned. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, so he climbed into bed next to a now-snoring Percy
“Sleep well, my love,” Oliver whispered before he closed his eyes and drifted off.
***
In Percy’s nightmares, he relived the moment of Fred’s death over and over again. He saw it in slow motion; watched the spark leave his eyes; saw him fall, lifeless, to the ground. Every time, Percy tried to change it. Every time, he failed. His feet were nailed to the floor. His arms were weighted down with bricks. His voice had been taken from him. Something was always wrong. He could never save Fred. He was even a failure in his dreams.
Oliver’s dreams weren’t much better. He saw the Creevey brothers, splayed out in the entry hallway where he had found them. He saw their glassy eyes staring at him accusingly. He could swear he heard them screaming. Oliver woke up more than once drenched in sweat. After the third time, he decided sleep was more stressful than it was restful and carefully climbed over a twitching, mumbling Percy. He stood over his boyfriend for a moment, wondering if Percy’s dreams were as horrifying as his own
Oliver padded into the kitchen and put the kettle on. His mum had always made him tea when he was upset and it had made him feel better; maybe it would work now.
Presently the kettle whistled and Oliver poured his tea. He sat at the kitchen table, one leg folded under him, teacup grasped tightly in both hands. Oliver sighed deeply. Though he was in a great amount of pain, he couldn’t imagine the guilt Percy must be feeling. Even though it’s clearly not his fault, Oliver thought for what must have been the millionth time. Death Eaters will kill people regardless. It doesn’t matter who they are or if they’re young or old. He took a sip of his tea. It warmed him from the inside out. How can I help him see that? Oliver had no idea.
**
Percy woke alone. For a moment, he was frightened. Why was he alone? Where was Oliver? His heart was racing. Why did Oliver leave? Why would Oliver leave him alone when he was so vulnerable?
Then he heard a slight cough from the kitchen. His heartbeat slowed down and he sighed, relieved. He had got himself worked up over nothing. He yawned, pushed the duvet back, and swung his legs out of bed, his feet hitting the chilly parquet with a gentle thud. He shivered. It was May, for Merlin’s sake – why did it feel like November in his flat? He shuffled to the kitchen, arms crossed tightly across his chest in a weak attempt to keep himself warm. He shivered anyway.
“Tea?” Oliver offered. “Not sure if it’s still warm, but I can reheat it.”
Percy nodded gratefully.
“Settle in on the sofa, then. I’ll make you a cuppa.” Oliver grinned at Percy and playfully smacked his bum as he walked past. Percy laughed. It felt good, freeing, to laugh. But he also felt guilty: Fred would never be able to laugh again, and he was to blame. Percy pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Not now, he told himself.
Percy sat cross-legged on the threadbare sofa and pulled an old crocheted afghan over him. He closed his eyes. What was he going to do? His old job certainly didn’t exist anymore, and even if it did, he wasn’t sure he would want it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to work for an institution that was so easily corrupted. But what would he do for work, then, if not government work? That was all he knew, all he was good at.
“Knut for your thoughts?” Oliver said, handing him his tea and interrupting his argument with himself.
Percy shook his head. “It’s not important,” he said, taking the tea and forcing a smile.
Oliver raised an eyebrow dubiously but didn’t press the issue. Percy would talk about it when – or if – he was ready. Pushing him only made him withdraw further. He sat on the sofa next to Percy and pulled a corner of the afghan over his lap.
“Sleep well?” Oliver asked, though he already knew the answer.
Percy shook his head. “Nightmares all night,” he admitted.
“Me too.”
Percy leaned into Oliver. “It was horrible,” he said softly. “I saw him die over and over, and I was powerless. I couldn’t even save him in my dreams.” He sniffled. I’m not going to cry, he thought resolutely. He didn’t think he had any more tears in him, anyway.
Oliver pulled Percy in as close as he could. “It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“I can’t help it,” Percy replied. “What if...”
Oliver stopped him. “You can ‘what if’ yourself to death, but it won’t change anything. All you can do,” he said, rubbing Percy’s thigh comfortingly, “is try to come to terms with his death.” And stop blaming yourself, he thought. Please. For your own mental health.
Percy pursed his lips. “I’ll try,” he finally said. “But my family...” He trailed off, looking at the floor.
“What about them?” Oliver probed gently.
Percy sighed deeply. “They blame me,” he said sadly. “Even my mum.”
Oliver was taken aback. How could Mrs. Weasley feasibly blame Percy for something over which he had no control? “She can’t...that’s not...” he sputtered, unable to believe what Percy had said.
Percy frowned but nodded, depressed. “She does,” he replied gloomily. “She all but told me, after George outright shouted at me for killing Fred. I...I can’t believe my mum, my own mum, blames me too.” He blinked back the hot tears threatening to fall.
Oliver was horrified. He couldn’t believe it either. Percy must have misunderstood, he reasoned. Mrs. Weasley would never blame him for something so obviously beyond his control.
Oliver decided to change tack. “Will you go to your...Fred’s...funeral?” he asked almost hesitantly. He didn’t know if the question would set Percy off again.
Percy looked contemplative, as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him.
“If I’m invited,” he said finally, “I reckon I will.”
“Why in the name of Merlin’s saggy grey pants wouldn’t you be invited?” Oliver frowned. Percy didn’t think very highly of himself. “You’re family; of course you’ll be invited. Don’t be daft.”
Percy’s face felt hot. He wasn’t embarrassed; he was ashamed. Ashamed of not just his words or his actions, but himself. “I’ll try,” Percy said slowly. “Will you come with me?”
Oliver felt his heart breaking for Percy. It was clear that he was beating himself up for something that no one could change. Oliver wished that he could make it better. He wished that he could turn back time. He would do anything for Percy.
“Of course,” Oliver replied. “I wouldn’t make you go alone.”
At that moment, they heard a tapping at the window. Both men turned their heads at the same time to see Errol, the ancient Weasley family owl.
“Oh Merlin,” Percy moaned. “There it is.”
“I’ll get it,” Oliver said in a soothing tone. “Finish your tea.” He stood, set his mug on the table, and strode purposefully to the window. He opened the window and Errol collapsed, exhausted, on the inside sill. Oliver pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from the strap attached to the owl’s leg and opened it.
“You were right, Perce,” he said. “Funeral.”
Percy sighed. It was something. At least his family hadn’t completely cut him out. He imagined the invitation was his mum’s doing; if George had had his way, Percy would have been banished. “When?”
“Saturday,” Oliver said. “In...” he paused, thinking. “Two days.”
How was Percy going to keep himself together for two days? How was he going to keep himself together at the funeral, for that matter? He sighed for what was probably the twentieth time that day. He would have to rely on Oliver.
“You’ll make it,” Oliver said, seemingly reading his mind. “I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

Percy hoped that would be enough.
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The Weight of Living