Archive of Our Own

September, 1998

Percy Weasley couldn't wait to leave this dreadful hospital room. He had been confined to this bed since July, and it was end-September now. His injuries were already healed, at least the ones that could be healed. His right ankle, the one that was shattered by Rookwood’s foot and left untreated for months, would never be the same. Percy would have a painful limp and a cane for the rest of his life. And there was the huge amount of scars that littered his body and the Healers weren't able to fully make disappear; like the ugly one that came from his left eyebrow to his mouth. Or the tremors from nerve damage from the Cruciatus. Or the PTSD.

But at least he was alive. Right?

His mind was still fuzzy from his time in captivity. He remembered he had been kidnapped a month or two after Bill’s wedding. He had been invited, to his utter surprise, but didn't have the guts to face his family. He knew he had acted like a huge prat. He was just so frustrated and worried at the time.

After the Minister had fallen, he had worked behind the scenes to forge as many muggleborns’ paperwork as he could, so they could leave the country relatively safely. Like Penelope. He knew his ex-girlfriend and best friend had safely left England and was now living in France, thanks to her forged papers. The stress was insane, but he had to do something. And he was never a fighter like his parents or siblings – he did what he could.

He had seen glimpses of his father at the Minister, but never approached. But then Arthur had disappeared, and Percy was so worried, that he decided to swallow his pride and go to the Burrow to see his family, to see if everyone was alive and safe. To beg for forgiveness, even if it was denied.

But then he was taken.

The next six months were just a blur of never-ending pain. He was beaten, starved, put under the Cruciatus, had all his senses cut for days, whipped, slashed and isolated. Every three nights a Death Eater would come and just torture him. They laughed so much.

Percy had begged to be killed, but nobody would listen. Percy knew they were just sparing him so they could use him as leverage when the time came. He tried to explain they had the wrong brother, but it didn't matter. He was kept alive.

He didn't know how he survived after they stopped coming. Well, he knew. Just didn't like to think about it. What he had to eat, what he had to drink. Out of despair. He didn't really want to die. So he did what he could.

When the Aurors came, he had a nervous breakdown and was put to sleep. He woke up three days later, at St. Mungus, and was told the war had ended two months before and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was dead. Defeated by Harry Potter, of course.

And Percy cried again. For happiness, relief, and guilt. He needed to apologize to Harry.

And then he asked for his family. The Weasleys were a well known family and Ron was Harry's sidekick. The nurse seemed uncomfortable, but told the truth. Fred was dead. Killed by an explosion caused by a Death Eater in the battle.

Percy didn't say a word for four days after that. Just kept his glassy eyes staring ahead, didn't drink, eat or sleep. Fat tears rolling down his sunken cheeks. His poor brother. His amazing, happy, and mischievous brother. He couldn't be dead. Not in such a mundane way.

And George. How would he be able to see George without Fred? That was wrong. Bloody profane. They were meant to be together, forever. How could he be alive when Fred Weasley was dead? 

He should've been there, in the battle.

He should've been fighting alongside his family, shielding his brothers from any harm. He was the oldest. He always tried to protect his siblings, even when they didn't want anything to do with him. And he should've been there. But no. He was rotting in a cell, locked away by the same Death Eaters that killed his brother. He would have gladly given his life for Fred's well-being.

A Mind Healer was called in on the fifth day. And came back, and back again, until he could make Percy talk again. Eat again. Sleep again. Sort out his broken feelings. But he was still empty. He was still hurting.

He wanted his mum.

But she never came. Not one of the Weasleys came for him. He had written letters to them almost daily; telling where he was, explaining what had happened to him, and asking, begging , for forgiveness. Saying that he just wanted to be part of the family again.

But they still didn't come.

The nurse said the letters were coming back unopened, and they weren't able to reach out by any other means. But they would keep trying – but two months later, no one had come to see Percy. He tried to not let this into his head. They were busy, they didn't know. He would find them.

Carrying a dozen recommendations, potion prescriptions and wearing clothes from the hospital's donation box, Percy was discharged. He had asked a nurse to call the Knight Bus for him. He had thought to ask to be taken to the Burrow, but he was kidnapped there. And he was afraid to go back alone. So to Diagon Alley he went.

He looked around with wide eyes, his shaking hands curled in fists inside the pockets of the donated muggle jacket. Diagon Alley wasn't nearly as full as it once was. There were several closed and abandoned shops and even one or two that had been destroyed. The place wasn't pulsing with magic, it was pulsing sorrow and pain. The war had been hard on everyone.

He walked aimlessly for a while, unsure of what he was searching for. Familiarity? Courage? Forgiveness?

It was then that he saw it.

In the front window of Flourish & Blotts, among the latest releases and war memoirs, a copy of the Daily Prophet was displayed. The headline stretched across the front page like a slap:

"THE WEASLEY FAMILY: STRONGER THAN EVER AFTER THE STORM"

And there they were, smiling in a moving photograph – Molly, Arthur, Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Bill with a pregnant Fleur, Charlie, and George.

Fred wasn’t there.

But neither was Percy.

He stepped closer, his breath fogging the glass. George nudged Ron in the frame, and everyone laughed. Even Molly. Even Arthur.

He couldn’t tell which hurt more – being gone or being excluded.

“The war took many, but brought the rest of us closer than ever,” read a highlighted quoted in the paper.

Percy took a step back. He was about to leave when a familiar voice stopped him cold.

“We really let the Prophet print that?” George scoffed, walking by with a paper bag in hand. “I mean, mentioning Fred is one thing. But pretending Percy never existed? That’s cold.”

Ron snorted beside him. “What does it matter? He’s gone, isn’t he? Walked out on us long before Fred did. Like a prat he is. We were down a brother even before the war.”

Bill mumbled something Percy didn’t catch. But it didn’t matter.

The words had hit harder than any hex.

His fingers twitched in his pockets, tightening around the crumpled hospital discharge forms. The letters he’d written but had never been received weighed heavily against his chest.

He turned away, slowly. The world blurred at the edges, but he didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

The envelopes slipped from his coat pocket onto the damp cobblestone. He didn’t pick them up. No one saw him leave.

And he finally understood: He hadn’t just been taken by Death Eaters. He had been forgotten by his family.

And it was his fault.

SSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

December came, bringing snow and a depressing feeling. Not that the latter was new. Percy was living in Ireland for a couple of months now, trying to find what to do with his life. The Irish magical community hadn't been affected by the war, and they were extremely friendly, so it was easy for Percy to decide where to live after leaving England.

He was in a pub that was near his flat. Sitting right in the back, almost hidden, a mug of butterbeer in his hands. His dull blue eyes were on the old wooden table, his mind far from there.

Christmas was approaching fast, and he would be alone. It was not the first Christmas he would be alone, but he never felt so lonely before. So hurt. Fred was always in his mind, bringing that familiar, agonizing pain to his chest. The Daily Prophet cover and his brother's words were something entirely different. They were his nightmares. Just like his months in captivity. They hurt differently, but they still hurt all the same. He always woke up screaming, crying, begging for something. Anything.

He took a sip from his beverage, it tasted sour in his mouth. Unpleasant. But he didn’t drink for the taste. He drank it because it gave his hands something to do. Something solid that he couldn't destroy – he had already destroyed so many things.

Laughter echoed from the other side of the pub, and he almost smiled. It was genuinely happy, warm, full of life. Has he ever been so carefree? He couldn’t remember. Maybe when he was a child? He had always been a very serious boy, always trying to take charge and put things under control. His mother was always busy with so many children, so he was always trying to help. When he understood money and how expensive it was to maintain a family, he had promised himself that he would be successful and rich and help his dad – but for that, he had to study. He had no time to waste on fun things. His siblings, especially the twins, always believed he was a buzzkill, stick-on-the-mud, prat. But he just wanted to help. But he had lost himself in the process.

If he could go back in time.

“I get it. The next is on me.” A cheerful voice said loudly near him, a hint of laughter in his words. Percy’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He knew that voice . Lifting his head, he looked at the young man before him and his eyes widened. When the man turned, his brown eyes went directly to Percy, and he gasped. “Percy?”

Ducking his head, Percy simply said. “Oliver.”

“Wh-what? How?” He stumbled to the table, sitting heavily in the free chair. His eyes were comically wide. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same.”

“I live here now.” He explained. “I left Puddlemere, after the war. I’m playing for the Kenmare Kestrels.”

“Oh! Good for you.” The redhead congratulated, a small smile on his lips.

“But what about you, Percy?” His voice was softer now. He was examining the man before him, worried. Percy didn’t look healthy. He was scarily thin and had huge bags under his eyes. His hair was unkempt, longer than he ever saw and somehow lifeless. He couldn’t not stare at the ugly scar marring his face, the dark cane by his side, or his trembling hands. But his eyes were the worst. Percy looked dead. “I heard… Rumors about you? Are you fine?”

Percy let out a humorless laugh and shrugged. “Probably true… Those rumors.”

“I was never one to trust rumors, Percy.” Oliver stated, arching his brow. “In fact, I always thought that what I heard was horseshit. I know you, Percy. You are a good man.”

Percy blinked, slowly, as if trying to make sense of Oliver’s words. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His fingers gripped the handle of the mug, his eyes misting. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard such nice words. He watched Oliver with attention. He had grown so much, but still had the same bright, lively eyes that sparkled with joy. They had always been good friends, even if they were so different. Oliver had always been a breath of fresh air in Percy’s life.

“I’m with some friends from Kenmare,” Oliver said gently. “They’re loud, they curse too much, and they’ll probably try to drag you into a stupid drinking game.” He paused, his smile softening into something more serious. “But they’re good people. And they don’t care about rumors. You could… come with me. Just for a bit. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit with us.”

“I’m not the best company now, Oli.” Percy whispered, looking anxiously toward the place he could hear Oliver’s friends.

“I don’t care.” He shrugged with a smirk. “Don’t leave me alone with these prats. Please?”

Percy looked down at his hands, the trembling barely under control. His throat tightened, but he nodded – small, almost imperceptible. And when Oliver reached out and gently touched his elbow, steadying him, Percy didn’t pull away.

SSHPSSHPSSHPSS

October, 2003

The Burrow was chaotic that Sunday morning. It had been Victoire’s birthday the day before and the toddler had asked for everybody to stay the night at Nana and Gampa’s house, and nobody was able to say no. It had been a tight fit, but Molly was able to accommodate everybody comfortably. And even if it wasn’t, nobody would mind.

The family was tighter than ever since the war and losing Fred, always at each other's houses and spending the Sunday’s at the Burrow. They just needed to be together. Fred’s death had left a huge hole in their hearts and everyday lives, and they still needed their family more than ever. And then there’s Percy… But Molly tried to not think about him. The pain was still there, but easier to ignore.

Molly darted between the stove and the table, wand in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. Arthur was fiddling with a muggle mobile phone, something Hermione had gifted him the day before. George and Harry were busy teasing Ron, who was trying to stop the twins’ toddler from climbing on top of a chair to reach a birthday decoration from Victoire’s party. Hermione was sitting at the table, reading a book and trying to ignore the trio. She was getting better and better at that.

The back door opened with a gust of cold air, and Ginny walked in, red-cheeked and laughing, holding the Daily Prophet high like a trophy.

“Fresh off the owl. Cold as ice,” she said, tossing it on the table.

George grabbed it first, flipping through the pages with casual disinterest. “Let’s see… blah blah politics, The Weird Sisters will do a concert on Halloween… oh, Wood retired again? Must be his fourth farewell tour. Bloke loves the spotlight.”

He stopped. His fingers froze on the page.

“What?” Ron asked, mouth full of biscuit. “Did he finally admit he’s in love with his broom?”

George didn’t answer. He just slowly turned the paper around and slid it across the table.

The room went silent.

There, printed in bright magical ink on page four, was a moving photograph.

Percy.

Standing next to Oliver Wood. A little boy with unruly auburn curls perched on Oliver’s shoulders, giggling as Percy smiled up at him. The caption read: “Retired Kestrel Captain Wood spotted in Galway with partner Percy Wood and son.”

Molly’s spoon clattered to the floor. She covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes already full of tears. “Percy…” she whispered. “Oh Merlin, it’s Percy.”

Arthur took the paper in trembling hands, his lips parted in shock. “He’s alive He- he is fine.” he said slowly, as if the words were too heavy to lift.

“He’s got a kid ?” Ron asked, disbelieving. “He never even– What the bloody hell– He never wrote!”

George stood abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor.

“He didn’t come to Fred’s funeral,” he muttered. “He just vanished. For five bloody years.”

“George,” Hermione said gently. “Maybe he couldn’t–”

“Couldn’t what?” George snapped. “Send a letter? An owl? He looks just fine there, doesn’t he?”

“He looks tired,” Ginny said, softly. “He looks older. Look at his eyes…”

They all stared again.

The Percy in the photo was thinner than they remembered, his face pale and his posture careful. A huge scar adorned his face. But he was smiling. Genuinely smiling, his arms around the boy’s legs as if holding onto something precious.

“After all this time” Molly whispered. “If I knew…”

The picture moved again. Percy leaned up and kissed the boy’s knee while Oliver laughed beside him, one arm holding his husband’s waist.

Molly sat down heavily, clutching the paper to her chest. “I need to see him,” she said. “I don’t care what happened. I need my son back.” She lifted her eyes, seeing her family – her incomplete family.

Charlie and Bill had just come in, attracted by the commotion, and were looking at everything with worried eyes. Ron looked downright furious, even more than George. Hermione was holding George’s child, little Freddie squirming in her arms, looking anxious to her husband. Ginny had found refuge in Harry’s arms and looked close to tears. She knew Fleur and Angelina were outside, watching Dominique and Roxane play..

She finally locked eyes with Arthur. He was pale as a ghost, he appeared to have aged in the last few minutes, a deep sadness in his eyes. His chin trembled, and she knew he was trying to not cry.

Fred wasn’t here, and would never be again.

But maybe they could bring Percy back?

SSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Percy was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the cottage, a knitted blanket draped over his back, a book about Irish Wizarding History on his lap, and a cuppa warming his hands. From time to time, he would lift his eyes to watch Caspian playing quietly with his farm animal toys, under the watchful gaze of Oisín, their huge Cane Corso.

He never thought he would ever have a dog. They weren’t exactly popular in the British wizarding world, which tended to stick to cats and owls; but they were pretty common in Galway. After he and Oliver had blood-adopted Caspian, Percy became extremely anxious and scared – always expecting someone to take his child away or hurt Oliver just to get to him. His nightmares worsened after many good years, and he barely slept, losing weight. All he could do was watch over his baby.

Graham Kavanagh, a Beater from Kenmare and Oliver’s teammate and best friend, had suggested getting a dog. Percy wasn’t sure about that; he had only ever had owls and a rat-that-wasn’t-really-a-rat, but he had fallen in love with Oisín when Graham brought him to the house. He was an eight-month-old puppy and already trained. Two years later, he was Caspian’s best friend and overly protective of all of them, especially the little one. And Percy could finally relax again.

Percy and Oliver lived in a comfortable, modest stone cottage tucked away from prying eyes on the outskirts of Galway, hidden behind ancient oaks and thick hedgerows. They had moved there just before the wedding, needing a place that was theirs – secluded, quiet, and safe.

Oliver had grown tired of the spotlight, wanting nothing more than to leave behind the noise and expectations that came with being a Quidditch star. Percy simply craved peace. He was a man marked by trauma, one who still flinched at sudden noises and movements, and who woke often in the night, shaken by devastating nightmares.

A flat in the city had become impossible. He needed stillness. Space. Somewhere he could breathe.

And when they decided to expand their little family, the cottage seemed like the right place. Before Caspian arrived, they would spend evenings drinking tea on the porch, watching the wildlife that surrounded them; talking about Oliver’s training or Percy’s latest readings – or they would just sit in silence, lying on the grass, hands clasped, watching the starry sky.

And after Caspian, they still did it. But now, they had a sweet toddler and a huge dog with them. They were complete now, in their little, lovely world.

So when Percy heard loud, numerous voices approaching his home, he panicked. Oliver wasn’t home – he had gone to the Kenmare Training Center to discuss some business with his manager. Percy had his wand safely in a holster on his arm, but he had barely cast anything since leaving captivity.

But he had to protect his son.

Retrieving his cane from the floor, he limped to where Caspian was still playing and quickly scooped him up. Oisín was alert, ears perked and his large, muscular frame tense. The Cane Corso let out a low, warning growl as the voices drew closer, positioning himself in front of Percy with practiced instinct. His dark eyes flicked to Percy for a moment, reading his tension, then back to the source of the sound.

When Percy shifted Caspian in his arms, the boy clutched tightly to his father’s collar. Oisín took a half-step back, staying close but never letting his guard down.

Percy turned on his heel and moved quickly toward the house. He could feel Oisín right behind him, retreating but still alert, his eyes fixed on the trees. He was almost at the door when he heard it.

“PERCY!”

He froze, eyes wide, breath hitching in his throat. Oisín barked – a deep, thunderous sound that shook the walls. Caspian, unaware of the tension, let out a huge laugh and called for the dog.

Tightening his hold on his son, Percy turned.

And there they were.

His family.

His mum and dad stood closest to the property line, her hands clasped together and tears streaming down her face. His father was holding her, watching Percy with wide, stunned eyes.

Right behind them were his oldest brothers – Charlie and Bill. They looked much the same, but there was something heavier in their eyes now. Bill’s long hair was pulled back, the werewolf scars on his face even more jarring up close. His jaw was tight, and he kept glancing around, as if preparing for something bad to happen. Charlie looked even bigger than before, arms crossed tightly over his chest, the muscles in his neck visibly tense.

Ron, Ginny, Harry, and – oh Merlin – George followed closely.

Ginny was in Harry’s arms, clinging to him like a lifeline. Her face was pale, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and she looked one breath away from breaking down. Percy stared at her, startled – when had she grown up so much? She had just been a teenager when he last saw her; not this grown woman.

Ron was visibly furious. His face was flushed, and his hands were clenched at his sides. He didn’t even blink as he stared forward, right at Percy. And there was so much anger that Percy barely caught a flinch.

George’s expression was harder to read. His mouth was pressed in a firm line, and his brow furrowed in a way that didn’t suit him. There was anger there too, but quieter, steadier. Still, Percy could see the tension in his shoulders. He wasn't looking at him.

“Percy, baby, please,” his mum begged, falling to her knees. Percy gasped, taking a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father trying to come closer, but he couldn't. Nobody could. Oliver had warded the cottage to the teeth, and no one could enter without permission – not even Dumbledore.

He took another step forward, hesitant. Oisin was right by his side. Caspian had quieted down, his little head on his papa’s shoulder.

“C’MON, YOU JERK!” Ron screamed suddenly, walking to where his mother was and trying to cross the wards. His violence made the wards react, and he went flying back, falling on his arse. “COWARD!”

Percy couldn't do it – not alone. He turned back to the house and slammed the door, dragging Oisin with him. Caspian had gotten scared by the sudden noise and was whimpering, his face hidden in Percy’s neck.

Percy rushed to the fireplace, still hearing Ron screaming outside (and someone screaming back at him). He put on his outer robes and knelt down to pat the dog, promising to be right back, before taking the Floo powder and Flooing away.

When he stepped out of the fireplace in the visitors' entrance of the Kenmare Training Center, he walked quickly through the corridors he knew well. He had to find Oliver.

“Percy?” His name was called, and he turned his head to see Graham and Cillian Walsh, a Chaser, looking at him in confusion. “Is everything alright, mate?”

“I- I have to find Oliver,” he stuttered. “Can you watch Cass for me?”

“Of course.” Graham accepted the toddler in his arms and gave him a soft smile. “Hey, bubba.”

“Unca Ham! Unca Cilli, hi!!”

Leaving his son with the players, Percy moved as fast as he could. His ankle hurt terribly, forcing him to lean even more on his cane. When he arrived at Oliver's manager’s office, he walked in without knocking.

“Percy?” Ronan exclaimed, making Oliver turn and get up from his chair.

“Baby? What are you doing here?” he asked, worried, cradling his face. Percy was trembling more than normal, his pupils blown wide. “Is everything okay? Where's Cass?”

“He is, uh, with Graham. And Cillian.” Oliver nodded, relaxing a little.  “Oli, my parents, my family, they… T-they are at the cottage. I don't k-know how.”

Oliver tried to hide his shock. He had feared something like that would happen when he discovered their faces were in the Daily Prophet . But it had happened too fast.

For the last five years, he had done everything he could to hide Percy and Caspian from the public eye. People obviously knew they existed, but mostly in Ireland. He never wanted it to reach England. He knew they would come after Percy.  “Do you want me to go talk to them?”

Percy didn’t even pause – he just nodded. Pathetic as it felt, he was terrified. He couldn’t take any more heartbreak.

“Do you want me to ask them to leave?” Oliver added gently.

Percy let out a shaky sob, burying his face in Oliver’s chest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, voice muffled and breaking. “My mum… she looked so broken. B-but everyone else was so mad.”

Oliver wrapped his arms tighter around him and guided them both down into the chair, settling Percy on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just held him.

They didn’t notice Ronan leaving.

“Baby, you don't have to do anything you don't want to,” Oliver whispered in his ear, shifting just slightly, trying to soothe him. “I know how hard this is. How hurt you are.”

“They think I left. That I ran.” He pulled back just enough to look at Oliver, eyes rimmed red. “I was gone , Oli. I was taken.”

“They don't know that, baby.” He gently rubbed Percy’s cheeks, drying his tears. “They don’t know how brave you were. How brave you are .”

“I miss them,” Percy admitted for the first time in years. “But I don't know if I can forgive. Or if they would forgive me.”

“If you want to, we could go and talk to them. But only if you want to.” Oliver made sure to leave the options open. Percy had the habit of just going along with whatever people said, never putting himself first. Oliver had spent years trying to build his confidence back up.

“Maybe… maybe just my mum? And dad?” he said uncertainly, twisting his hands. “And George? I always wanted to talk to George.”

“Whatever you want, my sweet boy.”

They stayed in the room for a few more minutes, until Percy could calm himself and they were ready to leave. They asked Graham if he could keep Caspian for the night, and the Beater was more than happy to stay with his godson.

After a long hug with their baby, they flooed home, where Oisín was waiting for them in front of the fireplace. Percy bent down to hug his puppy, and Oliver took both to the living room.

Percy didn’t realize his hands were shaking until Oliver gently took them on his own.

“They’re outside,” Oliver said softly, peeking through the window. “Can I call them?”

Percy nodded, though his throat felt tight. He stood slowly, straightening his jumper. Oisín whimpered and nudged his leg, sensing his unease.

“Just breathe,” Oliver whispered. “You’re not alone.”

Percy sniffed and nodded again, watching as Oliver went outside first. He would make sure the others left. Percy heard a little commotion – Ron's voice the loudest – but soon the sounds of disapparitions were heard, and Percy stepped outside as well.

Standing just beyond the garden gate were his parents – older, more tired, but so familiar – and George, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Hi.” Percy said, barely louder than a breath.

Molly stepped forward first, her lip trembling. “Oh, my boy…”

Percy burst into tears the moment her arms wrapped around him. His cane fell with a loud thud, and he hugged his mother back, gripping the back of her clothes tightly. Her fingers ran through his hair, and she made soothing noises, just like she used to when he was a scared little boy.

The other three men watched the scene with different shades of emotion.

Oliver stood nearby, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if holding himself together, his eyes glassy with quiet relief. He knew how much his husband missed his mum.

Arthur looked heartbroken and guilty all at once, his hands trembling slightly as he took a hesitant step forward, but stopped himself, giving them space.

And George was frozen, his jaw clenched and eyes fixed on Percy like he was afraid to blink and miss the moment. That wasn't what he was expecting. He always thought Percy was an arrogant git, who walked away for his own selfish reasons. But that – that was a man who had been broken.

Mother and son stayed like that for several minutes before Percy took a step back and smiled at her. He moved to pick up his cane, but Arthur beat him (and Oliver) to it and handed it to his middle son.

“Thank you, Dad,” Percy said in a small voice, his eyes darting to the ground. The situation with his dad was somewhat heavier, their explosive fight still playing in his head.

“Percy?” Arthur called, and the younger man lifted his head. “Can I give you a hug, son?”

Percy pressed his lips together to stop another round of sobs and nodded, clinging to his father like his life depended on it.

“I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry,” he begged between sobs, but Arthur just hugged him tightly. He felt like there was nothing to apologize for – he was just happy to have his little boy back in his arms.

He didn’t hug George, even though he really wanted to. His heart clenched when he saw the lone twin, missing an ear. That was wrong. George wasn’t supposed to be alone.

“I’m really sorry about Fred, George,” he whispered brokenly. “I’m sorry for missing his funeral.”

George’s jaw tightened and his eye twitched, but he stayed quiet, giving a stiff nod in acknowledgment.

The group moved inside the house, followed by a much more relaxed Oisín. Percy settled into his comfortable armchair, and the dog curled up at his feet, grounding him.

Oliver disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes and returned with a tray of tea and biscuits – the family remained silent. He sat on the arm of Percy’s chair and helped his husband drink his tea. The Weasleys watched curiously as Oliver handed Percy the cup but kept holding his hands to help him drink with ease, as if he had done it countless times before.

“Percy?” Molly called gently, her eyes full of worry. “What happened to you?”

Percy swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t look at any of them, not even his mother. His voice, when it came, was rough and low.

“I was taken. During the war. They thought I had information about Harry. I didn’t. But that didn’t stop them.”

He thought about not giving them all the details at first, but then he began to speak. His voice was firm, and he didn’t cry. He had lived through it all already – again and again and again – in sleepless nights and quiet moments. He was just stating facts now.

He told them everything. How he was kidnapped right outside the Burrow. The dark, fetid room they kept him in for months. How he was thoroughly tortured by so many faces he couldn’t even remember all their names. How his ankle was shattered beyond repair. How he had to drink his own bloody piss and eat the roaches and rats that came close enough.

How he stopped believing anyone would come. How time stopped meaning anything.

He was just waiting for the sweet relief of death.

He spoke about how the Aurors came a few months later and he woke up in St. Mungus, and how it took months for him to be healed. About how he asked for his family, how he sent daily letters and they always came back unopened. How he spent weeks watching the door, hoping someone would appear – but no one ever did.

He told them how he cried for Fred.

He told them about seeing the Daily Prophet cover and feeling forgotten. Feeling like his family was better off without him. And then, how he overheard his brothers talking badly about him,  and that was the moment he decided to leave. George let out a strangled cry at those words – he remembered that day.

He told them how he left the country, too ashamed and broken to stay. How Oliver found him, or maybe he found Oliver – it didn’t matter. How something steady, warm, and terrifying grew between them. How it saved him. He would have ended it all if not for Oliver.

How they adopted their son from a small orphanage in Dublin. Bloody adopted him. How they wanted to raise him in the quiet safety of another world, far from all of this.

How he still had nightmares, even after years of seeing mind healers. How he was terrified of being alone, of having any of his senses taken, of the dark. How he still flinched at sudden movements and couldn’t stand loud voices. How he could still have flashbacks triggered by very specific things – but they were few and far between now.

He never cried while telling them his story. He wasn’t angry. Just tired.

Molly didn’t interrupt. Her face crumbled slowly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Arthur sat beside her, one hand on her knee and the other hiding his eyes. George was trying not to break. His heart hurt painfully.

And through it all, Oliver stood behind him, one hand resting gently on his shoulder. A steady presence. A reminder that Percy wasn’t telling the story alone.

“And that’s it,” he finished after a long, heavy, heartbroken hour. He looked at his family’s devastated faces, how they all wanted to go to him and hug him, but were kind enough to hold themselves back. He leaned his head on Oliver’s leg and closed his eyes, taking a shaking breath.

It was all out now. For the first time, he felt strangely relieved. He didn’t realize when he fell asleep.

“My poor boy,” Molly cried, hiding her face in her hands. “How can he carry all of this alone?”

“He is a survivor,” Oliver said matter-of-factly, his fingers running through Percy’s hair. “And he wasn’t alone. We built a good life here. He has friends – even Penelope came to see him.” He smiled a little, remembering how shocked Percy had been when he saw his friend. “He can’t work. His body and mind are too… broken. But he keeps himself busy.”

“Your son?” Arthur asked carefully. “Is he…?”

“He’s spending the night with his godfather. We thought it would be better.” He took a shaky breath. “We’re in for a rough night. It’s better if Caspian isn’t here.”

“Caspian?”

“Yeah. Caspian Kieran Wood. He already had a name when we adopted him. We could’ve changed it, but Percy loved his name.”

“We would like to meet him,” Molly said hopefully. She wanted to hug her grandson to death. She had missed so much already. Oliver’s eyes darkened, but he gave a nod.

“Only when Percy is comfortable.” He left no room for protest. “This…” He gestured between the Weasleys and them, “...is going to happen very slowly. Percy is fragile, and I won’t jeopardize his progress.”

“Of course,” Arthur agreed. “Anything for him.”

“I never thought I would see you so protective over something that wasn’t your broom,” George joked, and Oliver gave a small laugh.

“He’s worth it.”

SSHPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

The next few days were overwhelming.  Twice a week, a Weasley showed up at the cottage.

Charlie was the first, which was nice. He was the one Percy hadn’t seen for the longest time. The dragon tamer, always so stoic and cool, cried like a baby when he saw his brother. Percy could see how hard he was holding himself back from crushing him in a hug.

Feeling sorry for him, Percy gave him the much needed hug and let his brother cry on his shoulder. After that, everything went smoothly.

Charlie had brought several dragon-themed toys for Caspian, which left the little boy overjoyed. He declared “Unca Chalie” his favoriesest . Graham, who was at the cottage at the time, sulked for the rest of the day – and came back the next with his own collection of animals and Quidditch-themed toys. As if he would let anyone steal his place as his godson’s favorite.

Bill came next, with Fleur and their daughters. He was more composed than Charlie, but still gave Percy a long hug, kissed his forehead, and apologized for everything. They spent the day watching their kids play, Percy’s heart warm and full. He never thought his child would ever play with his cousins.

George returned too, bringing Angelina and his kids. Percy almost collapsed when he saw little Fred, who looked exactly like the twins at that age. He had to excuse himself and went to his room, trying to collect himself – until he saw George had followed him in. Then he broke down completely.  He clung to his brother, weeping and babbling. They spent most of the afternoon in that room, listening to the sounds of children playing outside and remembering Fred.

When Ginny came, she brought Harry and Hermione with her. She was far more impulsive than her brothers and hugged Percy like her life depended on it. He tried not to flinch, but he couldn’t help it. She apologized over and over, and he assured her everything was fine.

When Percy tried to apologize to Harry for the way he had acted, for the things he had said, the younger man shook his head.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Harry said seriously. “You know, I talked to a few Muggleborns. I know what you did for them.”

He took Percy’s hand gently.

“You’re a hero too, Percy,” he said, his voice full of sincerity. “Thank you.”

Ron hadn’t come.

Hermione had said he was going through a tough time and wasn’t ready to see Percy yet.

Percy understood.

Molly and Arthur came back at least once a week, for Percy and for Caspian. They always brought plenty of food and toys, both magical and Muggle, for the little boy. Molly kept asking when Percy would visit them at the Burrow, but he wasn’t ready.

When Oliver noticed how restless and anxious Percy was becoming, he put a stop to the visits. He Floo-called Molly and explained that their little family needed some time to recharge. Even Caspian had been acting up, and Oisín had grown moody.

They were used to the quiet and peace of their little home – the Weasleys were loud and chaotic. They needed space.

Molly wasn’t happy about it, but there wasn’t much she could do. Oliver knew what was best for his family.

It was a cold day, and snow would fall soon. They were enjoying the last moments of clear blue sky with a picnic in their backyard.  A blanket was spread over the grass, and an open basket sat nearby, filled with pastries, fruit, juice, and tea.

Oliver was lying on his side, one hand propping up his head, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched Percy babble excitedly about a book he was reading for his book club.  It was so good to see him like that – excited, alive.

When Percy noticed how attentively Oliver was watching him, he blushed.  “What?” he asked, smiling.

“I love you so much,” Oliver replied.

Percy giggled and leaned in to kiss him, but a small whimper interrupted them.  Caspian, who had been running around with Oisín for the past several minutes, had tripped and fallen to his knees.

“Oh, my sweet baby,” Percy cooed, opening his arms.  Caspian ran into them without hesitation, thumb in his mouth, cheeks flushed. He curled into Percy’s chest, warm and safe.

A second later, they heard Oliver yelp – Oisín had launched himself at his owner, tail wagging, drool flying. They laughed softly, a quiet bubble of happiness surrounding them.

Percy looked at his son, then at his husband.  His voice came out low, a little rough.  “Thank you for taking care of me. I know it hasn’t been easy.”

Oliver reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers.  “You’re worth it, baby. I’d do it all again.”

Percy swallowed, holding Caspian just a little tighter.

“I’m still healing.”

Oliver leaned in and kissed the back of his hand, letting his lips linger there.

“That’s enough.”

. The End .