Solace

~~~~~ SOLACE ~~~~~


September, 2003


Percy Weasley threaded his way through the tightly packed throng of exuberant patrons, expertly balancing the very full pints he held in each hand. He drew the heavy glasses of Guinness in toward his body as another wave of whoops and cheers rippled through the crowded pub. Bursts of magical fireworks exploded above several tables; a moment later the disturbance subsided and he continued back to his seat.

He muttered quiet curses under his breath as a particularly pissed bird bumped his right elbow, nearly upsetting one of his glasses of beer. The Mirthful Monk used to be a nice, quiet little pub known and frequented by only a few Ministry employees. Now, under new ownership, the place had become extremely trendy, as well as annoyingly busy.

Terry was convinced that it was the plethora of Muggle wide-view video screens perpetually tuned to The Quidditch Channel; Percy was certain that the new slogan of ‘It’s always ladies’ night at the Monk’ was the culprit. Percy finally reached their usual table in the far corner, right against the curtained window that spanned the front of the establishment.

“Shite, Weasley, ‘bout time! I’m ready to pass out from thirst!” Terry Boot slumped in his chair, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, that's quite fetching,” Percy drawled, rolling his eyes as he set Terry’s Guinness down with a hearty thunk.

Terry made a rude noise as he sat up and reached for his beer. “Too right! C’mon, it’s Friday night. We’re free from dementorville until Monday!” He hefted his glass high. “Cheers, eh?”

Percy twirled a finger as he took a sip of his beer.

Terry rolled his eyes, a frown ghosting across his features. He shrugged and took a deep pull on his own Guinness. “Now you’ll have to do better’n that, mate.”

“Rough week,” Percy said. “All that nonsense with the new expense account forms, then the sodding business with the rampaging hippogriffs in Henwald.” He shook his head. “Prats in Spell Reversal really need to learn how to fill out the AL / 515‘s correctly. Bloody pain in the arse to sort through.”

“Yeah, all true,” Terry replied, “but we’re here now. Time to relax and unwind.”

Percy took in the crowded, smoky scene unfolding around them. “So, when are we leaving then?”

“We’ve only just arrived,” Terry pointed out. “Good crowd, by the look. And I’ve got a feeling!” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Percy snorted. “Probably side effects from all that Indian take-away you had for lunch.”

Terry leaned back and folded his arms.

Percy cocked his head to one side. “What?” He reached into the pocket of his robes, which were carefully arranged over the back of his chair, and extracted a pack of Muggle cigarettes.

Terry waved a hand dismissively, smacking his lips as he stared at the nearest video monitor. “Nothing, Perce, really. It’s just…whoa, look at that!” He gestured toward the wide screen, which was showing a replay of the manoeuvre. “Oy, that Goodwin sure can handle a broom, right?” He downed more of his beer, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “For such a bright bloke, you can be incredibly dense at times.”

Percy tapped the end of his cigarette against the tabletop. He was used to his cube mate’s somewhat annoying propensity toward verbosity, which increased dramatically when he was shnockered. It was actually endearing in a perverse sort of way. Too bad he wasn‘t attracted to the sandy-haired Ravenclaw; it would have simplified things immensely. He sighed, ducking slightly as a wave of miniature Quidditch players swooped by, scant inches above his head.

“Okay, Terry. Don’t mince words. Tell me what you really think.” He snapped his fingers and the tip of the cigarette blazed orange. Leaning back, he took a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a series of ever-diminishing rings.

“I’ve said it before,” Terry replied after another large swallow of Guinness.

“And you’ll say it again,” Percy countered, taking a small sip of his own beer.

Terry gestured expansively. “This. All this is just lost on you, isn‘t it? Look at everything going on here! Can’t you just feel it? The game, the laughter, all the gorgeous blokes! Everyone having a grand time and enjoying themselves. Except you.”

Percy did his best not to laugh out loud. Terry was a certified prat. No question. But he was also one of the very few at The Ministry to treat him with the barest modicum of respect and decency both during and after The War. The fact that they were both shirt lifters probably went a long way in explaining their odd friendship. Now that sounded strange; when was the last time he’d had someone to call a friend? Terry certainly fit the definition; it was rare that they weren’t firmly planted in some pub or in the whirlpool at the gym or fooling about on their broomsticks over some pitch. Was there more to it than that? Surely not. But Terry was at times rather tactile and affectionate. And he did have the most lovely, warm brown eyes. And a decent arse.

Percy leaned over their small, beer-slicked table. “And exactly why is all this lost on me, then? Just because I‘m not whooping and hollering and flailing about like a doxy in heat doesn‘t mean that I‘m not having a grand time.” He arched an eyebrow and sipped his Guinness.

Terry leaned forward as well, his fingers barely caressing Percy’s. “No, I don’t expect you to make an arse of yourself; all I’m sayin’ is, I’d like to see you loosen up, let go, forget all about files and forms and expense reports. Let your hair down and have at it, mate. This is exactly why we toil away in that ruddy basement office five days a week. Don‘t know about you, but I work to live, not the other way around.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Percy replied wryly.

Terry growled. “You know, sometimes I think you just enjoy being difficult.”

“Boring,” Percy replied. “Nothing new here.”

“Cheers!” Terry shot back. “You know I’m right, though. War’s done and over, nearly two years now. Crouch was Imperioused and it wasn’t your fault Scrimgeour was a glamoured Snakeface. No one knew. So quit blaming yourself, and get on with it!”

Percy gulped down most of his Guinness. “Don’t be daft. I don’t blame myself for what happened. Faced with the same situation, I’d do it all over again. It’s everyone else, all of them, that accepted every single thing The Prophet printed without question. You know what people still say about me.” He twirled his hand leaving a swirl of cigarette smoke. “We’ve been over this.”

“Yeah, we’ve skimmed the surface, but you refuse to do anything other than that. Fuck what most of those skrewt-for-brains tossers say,” Terry slurred valiantly.

“I may not be on speaking terms with my family, but I’d prefer that you didn’t refer to them like that, thanks very much.”

Terry rolled his eyes. “I was talking about the general public, not your family. Speaking of which…”

“We’re not having that conversation,” Percy snapped, folding his arms and turning to peer out between a gap in the heavy green curtains. He then jabbed out the stub of his cigarette as he blew smoke from the side of his mouth. “I suggest we drop that subject if you’re intent on trying to lighten the mood.” He lit another cigarette and stared at Terry with what he hoped was his sternest expression.

“Sorry, sorry, don’t get all pissy on me, mate. Just trying to help.” Terry shrugged and stared at the huge telly behind and above Percy. “But in the interests of salvaging the evening, I’ll let you off the hook, for now.” He downed the last of his Guinness and signalled for another just as the entire pub erupted into more whoops and cheers. “Damn, that Goodwin’s the best Seeker I’ve seen in years!”

Percy sipped his own beer tentatively, hoping that Terry’s renewed interest in the Puddlemere vs. Ballycastle match just might be enough to derail his friend’s definitely annoying train of thought. He sighed, wondering when he’d lost interest in Quidditch. He’d been a Puddlemere United fan for as long as he could remember. His whole family were fans as well, save Ron, of course. He shifted about in his seat so as to get a better view of the wide screen telly.

He didn’t recognize any of the current players; had it been that long? Yes, apparently it had, a good four or five years at least. Right about the time his entire family turned their backs on him.

Ballycastle’s Keeper made an incredible one-handed hanging save, driving the pub crowd wild.

“Beautiful!” Terry crowed, flipping the server a Sickle and taking a huge swig of beer. “See that, Perce? What a play!”

Percy nodded robotically, lost in thought. They’d all abandoned him, every single member of his family, all because he’d made a decision to stand his ground. How would it have been if he’d suddenly changed his mind every time the winds changed direction? That was one thing they’d never understand. Showing loyalty and dedication to one’s superior is every bit as important as showing it to your family. Being supportive, especially during dark times, or when it might be unpopular to do so. He’d tried to make his father understand. And Bill, and Charlie. But they’d refused to see things his way. Even his Mum eventually stopped answering his owls.

And he’d be damned if he was going to be the one to back down first. He’d lost a great deal during the last few years, been demoted, publicly humiliated, ostracized, and one of the few things he had left intact was his pride. He’d rather kiss a dementor’s arse than swallow that. If they came to him, he’d be reasonable. But they weren’t exactly Apparating to his doorstep, now were they?

The pub echoed with more cheers as Puddlemere scored. Several of the miniature Quidditch players swooped toward Percy, executing a perfect Sullivan’s Feint before flying away. Taking a few healthy swallows of Guinness, he returned to his thoughts.

There’d been a few tense moments at Fred’s funeral. He’d waited until he’d thought all of them were gone. He’d been lost in thought, staring at the freshly mounded rectangle of earth when Charlie had roughly thumped his shoulder. He’d been caught by surprise, of course, and had quickly decided to let his older brother speak his mind first. Which he did. With a vengeance. And it became pretty clear to Percy that Charlie wasn’t really interested in hearing a word that he might have had to say. Not that his brother gave him the chance to speak anyway. Much the same thing happened when Percy crossed paths with his father and George at St. Mungo’s right after the final battle of The War.

Another eruption of yells drew Percy back to the pub. Puddlemere had caught the Snitch and won the match. He looked over at Terry, who was gesturing to the server about something. He quickly drained his Guinness, plunking the heavy glass to the table with a bang.

“Perfect timing, mate,” Terry called out over the din. “You’ve got a free one coming!” He nodded to the approaching server.

Percy tried not to stare at Duncan’s obscenely tight Muggle jeans; he could practically make out the young bloke’s religion.

“Thank Merlin it’s Friday, right?” Duncan said in his thick brogue.

Terry reached out and cupped Duncan’s denim-clad arse. “Thank Merlin for tight Levi’s!”

Duncan pressed into Terry’s hand, grinding his hips slightly. He winked at Percy, who rolled his eyes. Duncan handed out two fresh pints and four shot glasses filled to the brims with a golden brown liquid. He jerked his head over his shoulder and toward the bar. “Compliments of the two blokes in blue,” Duncan said with a smile. “Now if things don’t work out, you two know where to find me, okay?“

Terry drew in a deep breath and fumbled in his robes, pulling out a galleon and stuffing it down the front pocket of Duncan’s denims. “Thanks, love. Stay close.”

Duncan winked and strode away through the crowd.

Terry grinned widely as he grabbed one of the shot glasses and waggled his eyebrows. “Things are looking up, I’d say.”

“A fool and his money,” Percy commented.

“Bah! You have to keep the help happy if you want good service,” Terry replied.

Percy laughed. “Somehow I don’t think our Duncan will provide the expected service.”

Terry nodded. “Mate, he’d do us both. I know it for a fact.”

“Bloody hell,” Percy shot back. “You’re delusional.”

“Mayhap, but I know Duncan fancies you,” Terry replied. “Plenty of blokes are into ginger hair.”

Percy waved a hand and sipped his Guinness.

Terry gestured toward their benefactors at the bar. “And have a look over there, mate, and tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing!”

Percy craned his neck to get a better look at the fellows that had sent the drinks. They were both blond, stocky, and young. Very young. And if they weren’t twins, they should have been, as they were dressed exactly alike. He nodded slightly as both blonds smiled and hefted their pints in unison. He groaned.

Terry laughed. “Up your bum!” he boomed, downing his shot. He nodded vigorously. “Go on, go on!

Percy stared for a moment before picking up a shot and downing it. The alcohol was warm, but smooth as it worked its way down his throat. He hadn’t intended on getting pissed, but considering how the tide of the evening was flowing, it didn’t seem like a bad idea after all. A few more pints and everything would be fine. In a display of sudden enthusiasm, he swallowed his second drink, which was met by energetic applause from Terry.

“That’s good scotch,” Terry said just before downing his own last shot.

The crowd had thinned out considerably since the end of the match. The video screens were now displaying a wide variety of channels, ranging from the Wizarding News Network to the Divination Channel. The swarms of toy Quidditch players were now hovering in formation over the bar. Percy could already feel the alcohol at work as a pleasant warmth filled his brain. If he played it right, he’d drink just enough to blur the edges a bit without crossing over the line into stupidity.

His bathroom mirror was ruthless when he was hung over…

Terry grinned and nodded away at the two blonds like a sodding first year. He‘d turned about in his chair to face them, his legs spread apart slightly with the fingers of one hand barely grazing the bulge in his denims. “Oh, I think we’re going to get lucky tonight, Perce!”

Percy nodded as he took a deep swallow of Guinness. “You, maybe.”

Terry gaped at him. “Aww, don’t say it, please.”

“Fine. I won’t say it then.”

Terry shook his head. “Did you take a good look at those two? They’re gorgeous! Delicious! Delectable!”

“They probably have some sort of disease,” Percy countered dryly. “I’m not a slag, you know.”

“Oh, shite! Now what are you on about?” Terry glanced nervously over at the pair of blonds, who were standing up and making quite a show of shrugging into their matching Ballycastle jackets.

Percy shrugged as he lit another cigarette. “I do have standards, Terry. I’m not going to throw myself at some bloke’s feet simply because they spent a few sickles on some alcohol.” Although I've been known to do just that on more than a few occaisions, he thought to himself. He certainly wasn't above a quick shag with a handsome stranger; he just wasn't going to concede the point to Terry just then.

The Ballycastle twins were now standing by the door, apparently ready to depart The Mirthful Monk for greener pastures.

Terry looked ready to jump out of his skin. “C’mon mate, they’re leaving!”

Percy leaned back in his chair and demurely sipped his beer. “I can see that.”

“But don’t you want to…” Terry began.

“No, I don’t care to follow the blond bombshells outside and into the nearest alley for a glorious, pants-about-the-ankles, bare-arse-against-damp-brick blow job. But feel free, if you’re so inclined. I’ll save your seat for you.”

Terry actually moaned as the Ballycastle twins pushed through the door and outside. He stood up and watched over the curtain as they strode past on the sidewalk and disappeared from sight. With a heavy sigh, he flounced back into his seat.

“I could do with a nice blow job, truth be told,” he muttered as he sipped his beer.

Percy hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “If you hurry, you might still catch them.”

“S’alright. Another few weeks and me and my right hand’ll be common law.”

“Lovely,” Percy replied wryly.

Terry eyed him evenly. “Really, you were offended because they bought us drinks?”

“Not offended, per se. Just mildly annoyed, I suppose.”

“Annoyed?”

Percy shifted in his seat. “Okay, as I see it, they sent drinks over in order to dull our senses enough so that we’d be more likely to snog and shag or wrap ourselves in cling film or whatever it was they wanted.”

Terry blinked. “Still not seeing the problem, Perce.”

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“I know, Perce, but like I said…”

“Well, if they were really interested in getting to know us,” Percy huffed, “they’d have just walked over and struck up a conversation instead of oiling us up from a safe distance. Easier to throw money at someone than to try to talk to them, yes?”

Terry was shaking his head. “You’re muddled, you know that?”

“Why? Because I might actually want to know and like someone before we fuck?”

“Which explains why we haven’t.”

“Too right. Precisely because I do know you, and don’t like you.”

Terry sipped his Guinness thoughtfully. “So you want to be chatted up first, then.”

“Yes, more or less,” Percy admitted. “And I’d like someone a bit mature, someone who knows what they want and isn’t afraid to go after it.”

“I think you’re being far too picky.”

Percy shrugged. “Not at all. I just really haven’t run across anyone that seems truly interesting.”

Terry grinned crookedly. “I know one or two blokes that’d be happy to hop on your knob.”

Percy pulled a face. “Thanks, that. I feel so much better now.”

Terry sighed and slumped in his chair. “Bloody hell, you’re a major pain in the arse.” He jerked his glass in Percy’s direction, sloshing out most of the remainder of his Guinness in the process. “Quit thinking so much and get out there and grab some gusto! A nice, guilt-free shag would do wonders for you. Merlin knows you could have me if you wanted.”

Percy jabbed out the cigarette, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. He could just make out what looked decidedly like sorrow in Terry’s eyes. Yeah, he was a complete and total git most of the time, but all in all he was a decent fellow deep down, even if he did burp his soup all the time. He patted Terry’s hand gently. “Terry, mate, that’s nice of you to say…”

“I mean it,” Terry said.

“I’m sure you do.”

“But I’m not your type.”

“No, sorry, but you’re not,” Percy confirmed. “And workplace romances never work out. But even beyond all that…”

Terry nodded his head. “Yeah, yeah, we can still be friends, blah blah blah.”

Percy leaned forward. “You know all that shite you just shovelled at me can apply to you as well.”

Terry shrugged. “True enough.” He sipped his Guinness, looking about the pub. “How about this, then. Look at all the blokes left in here, and pick one that is closest to what you’d want. Then we’ll go from there.”

Percy folded his arms. “How first year can you get.”

“Humour me, okay?”

“Fine,” Percy sighed. He was rapidly losing the will to debate, so he scanned the pub, quickly cataloguing the men as he went. The Mirthful Monk wasn’t strictly a queer establishment, so there were bound to be as many straight wizards as gay. There were more than a few handsome fellows, to be sure, but tonight’s crop was comprised of mostly beefy sports types, older, silver-haired blokes and a handful of impossibly young trendy kids.

“Nope, nothing, really,” he answered finally.

Terry threw up his hands. “You’re hopeless.”

Percy grinned. “It’s a curse having such discriminating taste, but it’s a burden I must bear.”

“Arsehole,” Terry muttered over his glass.

Percy was about to utter a blisteringly sharp retort when the outer door to the pub squeaked open and closed. “Takes one…” He stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth frozen open for the briefest of moments. “…to know one.”

Terry stared. “What?” The next second, his eyes flew wide. “Oh, let’s see what just walked in, shall we?” He turned around to watch the new arrival take a seat at the bar. He turned to face Percy, grinning from ear to ear. “Should’ve known you were a star-fucker, Perce.”

Percy finished his Guinness while out of the corner of his eye he watched Harry Potter order his first drink. “You’ve been hanging about in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Department again, haven’t you?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“You fancy Potter,” Terry stated triumphantly, grinning as he mimed stroking himself.

“Ridiculous,” Percy said, grabbing his empty glass and praying to Circe that his hastily schooled features hadn‘t betrayed him. The glass reached his lips before he realized it was empty.

“Don’t jerk me about,” Terry grinned. “I’ve known you long enough to know better. And you’re blushing, too. Nothing wrong with Potter. Bloody easy on the eyes, that’s certain, but not my type, though.”

Even though he fought the impulse, Percy still glanced briefly in Harry’s direction. Terry noted the quick look and grunted in satisfaction. Percy pointedly stared at the crown moulding in the far corner above the door.

Terry motioned to Duncan for more Guinness. “Look, Perce, just walk on over to him…”

“I don’t fancy Harry Potter!” Percy blurted out. The couple at the table next to them turned in his direction. Terry chuckled as Duncan sauntered over to their table and laid out two more pints.

“Okay, fine,” Terry said as he paid Duncan. “That’s why you can’t take your eyes off him.”

Percy pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. Of all the wizards in Britain to darken this pub’s doorstep, it had to be him, the sodding saviour of the Wizarding world. In the two years since Potter had returned to The Ministry, Percy had never seen him in The Mirthful Monk. Sure, they’d passed each other in the halls from time to time, and had bumped elbows in the commissary once or twice, but that was the extent of their contact. They’d never really been on speaking terms anyway, and after that business with Ron…

“Wasn’t Potter shagging your younger brother for awhile?” Terry waggled his eyebrows as he sipped his Guinness.

Percy slid his glasses back into place and glanced toward Harry, who was drinking some sort of amber lager. “Yeah. He was with Ron for a bit.”

“But they broke up.”

“Yes.”

“A while ago.”

“Yes. Just after the war ended and Ron took off to Australia.” Percy guzzled down a good portion of his beer. Another glance toward the bar, and this time Harry’s green eyes met his. Percy froze, the glass to his lips, unable to look away. After what seemed like an eternity, Harry nodded slightly and looked away at one of the video screens. Percy took another sizable gulp of Guinness and set the glass down with a thunk.

Terry stared at him intently. “You really do fancy him, don’t you?”

Flipping flaming doxies on a crutch! So perhaps he did find Potter attractive. And desirable. And bloody hot. But that was all beside the point.

Wasn’t it?

He couldn‘t, shouldn‘t, wouldn‘t allow himself to even entertain the possibility of snogging Potter. Or worse. He glared across the small table. “It‘s irrelevant what I think of Potter.”

“I think you should go for it, mate.”

“Terry, I don’t want to discuss it.”

Terry glanced toward Harry, who was staring at them again. “Well, he certainly keeps looking over here.”

Percy groaned and finished his beer. He dared another look to the end of the bar. He noted that Harry had turned about on his bar stool and was now facing their table, his legs spread slightly and his glass of beer resting on his rather prominent, denim-clad bulge. His expression was maddeningly unreadable. And Terry was right about one thing…Harry was sodding gorgeous. Percy watched as Harry drank from his glass. Some foam remained on his lips and he languidly licked it away with the tip of his tongue.

Percy remembered to breathe. Bollocks!

“Right, one thing settled tonight,” Terry observed.

Percy tore his attentions away from the bar. “Time to go, yes?” He slid off his stool and fumbled with his robes. “Early day tomorrow.”

Terry nodded and downed the remainder of his beer. “Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Of course it is,” Percy snapped as he shrugged into his robes. “I don’t sleep the day away like some people do.”

“Okay, have it your way,” Terry sighed, shaking his head.

Percy headed for the door. He looked back one last time to see Harry still watching him calmly. Was he smiling just the slightest bit? The next instant, Terry was shoving him out the door and onto the sidewalk.

“Manners!” Percy spluttered as he tried to straighten his robes.

Terry glared at him, his brown eyes bright in the light of the nearby streetlamp. “Look, mate, I’m in the mood for some action. I’m heading over to The Dragon’s Lair. Come with?”

Percy actually considered the option for a moment. There was never a shortage of lovely boys at The Lair; plenty of vampires, too. It would certainly go a long way toward taking his mind off of the green-eyed wonder. But the pub was on the other side of London, and his head was beginning to ache ever so perfectly. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Sorry. Count me out.”

“C’mon, Perce,” Terry whinged, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “It’ll be a nice change of pace and do you a world of good. Just for a bit, yeah?”

“Perhaps next time,” he answered with what he hoped was a warm smile.

Terry nodded slowly, unable to hide his disappointment. “Right. I’m off then.” He leaned in, leaving a sloppy, wet kiss on Percy’s cheek. “See you on Monday.” He turned and walked away, finally Apparating with a sharp crack.

Percy stood there for a few moments, shivering. The air was heavy and cold; it smelled of mustiness and damp, rain on the way for certain. He set off down the sidewalk, pulling his robes tight against the unseasonable chill. Terry would be unbearable around the office now that his friend had it in his little head that he fancied Potter. Percy growled to himself at the thought of all the poking and prodding Terry was sure to unleash upon him. But Potter was bloody handsome, had a winning smile, and the most delectable arse in The Ministry. And there was no denying the looks and stares that they’d exchanged in the pub.

“You’re losing it, Perce, if you’re seriously considering this,” he muttered to himself as he crossed a side street.

But what was the problem, then? Well, that was easy: part of him naturally recoiled at the idea of becoming entangled with Ron’s ex-lover. Merlin knew what his younger brother had told Harry about him. Not that he cared, nor was he worried about what his estranged family would say. So really, why was he so adverse to a relationship with Harry? Percy stopped dead in the centre of the sidewalk, hands on hips, head cocked to one side. Where in Circe’s loins had THAT come from? How did he move from merely snogging and shagging Potter to having a sodding relationship with him?

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling up his hood against the fine mist that had just begun to fall. Taking a deep breath, he was about to continue on his way when a hand clamped on his shoulder.

“Fuck!” Percy squealed, jumping slightly and whirling about.

“Nice night for it,” Harry said, a crooked grin on his face.

Percy goggled, immediately at a loss for words. “Um, yes,” was all he managed to say.

Harry nodded down the street. “This way,” he said, taking Percy by the arm and almost dragging him along the sidewalk.

Percy’s mind was aswirl. Between the pints and shots, his brain was just fuzzy enough to prevent properly coherent thought. He looked down at Harry, who gazed back hungrily. Percy felt a shudder of desire course through him as Harry licked his lips and pulled him in closer. Harry looked absolutely delicious, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, his green eyes nearly luminescent in the dim light from the streetlamps. “Where are we going?” Percy asked in what he hoped was a stable voice.

“Not far,” Harry replied.

Before he could formulate another question, Harry made a hard right and lead him into a rather narrow alley. They moved several feet down the alleyway before Harry whirled about and slammed Percy soundly against the damp bricks.

“We’re here,” Harry breathed as he framed Percy’s face with both hands. The next instant, he leaned up and crashed their lips together.

Percy’s yelp of pleasure was smothered as Harry’s tongue pushed over his own and into his mouth. Harry also began thrusting his denim-clad erection into Percy’s thigh. Percy’s initial largesse evaporated quickly, and he grabbed Harry’s arse with both hands. He kneaded and squeezed Harry’s gorgeous butt with abandon, returning Harry’s advances in kind and thrusting his own erection into Harry’s waist.

Harry pulled away, stepping back for a moment, his hands now flat on Percy’s chest. Licking his lips, he quickly pushed Percy’s robes open and over his shoulders. Before they hit the damp concrete, he’d already undone Percy’s belt and fly.

Percy reached out and ran a hand over Harry’s cheek, gasping as his trousers and under shorts were roughly shoved down and past his hips.

“Gods,” he gasped as Harry fell to his knees and took his hard cock in one hand while the other fondled his balls.

Harry pushed him backward into the cool, damp wall.

Percy groaned as Harry’s hot mouth closed over his erection, Harry’s tongue swirling about like mad. He flattened himself against the wall as Harry suckled and laved at his cock with amazing agility. He threaded the fingers of one hand through Harry’s damp hair while Harry moved up and down his length with increasing speed. His breath shuddered in his chest as Harry raked his teeth along the underside of his erection, while the fingers of Harry’s fondling hand moved behind his sacs to tease his entrance.

Percy arched his back, his head thumping against the brick as he thrust his hips, pushing his length into Harry‘s mouth, who responded by sucking and pulling on his cock even harder. Harry’s probing finger pressed just inside his tight ring of muscle, and he yelped again, his mind reeling as he neared release. He bucked once more before he came, Harry milking his cock with fervour, both hands now firmly clamped on his hips. Harry took his entire load, slowly releasing his spent cock with a final flick of the tongue.

Percy slumped, his bare buttocks slapping against the bricks. He watched Harry stand without comment, his brain still not adequately processing that he’d just been blown by The Boy Who Lived. And not only that, but sucked dry as well.

Harry groaned, licking his lips most seductively. He leaned up and kissed Percy once more, running his hands up and under Percy’s jumper, gently caressing Percy’s furred stomach and chest.

Percy moaned with pleasure, but before he could draw Harry in closer, the shorter wizard pulled away.

“What?” Percy managed to mumble.

Harry took a few more steps backward and Apparated away with a soft pop.

Percy blinked, unable to believe that Harry had just left him there without so much as a word. His senses returned to him with a vengeance, and he was cold, wet, and tired all at once. He yanked up his shorts and trousers, quickly zipping up and buckling his belt, all the while glancing up and down the alley for any signs of other late night walkers.

He gathered up his robes, casting a drying charm before shrugging into them. He strode quickly to the end of the alley, pausing to look each way before stepping out onto the sidewalk, chastising himself for thinking that perhaps Harry might be standing there, waiting.

“Arsehole,” he muttered as he put up his hood. With a final glance down the alley, he Apparated to his flat.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Percy awoke on his not-so-comfy sofa late the next morning, his head filled with a herd of rampaging hippogriffs and Hermes glowering down upon him with obvious disapproval. A few swallows of Madame Ciara’s Patented Hangover Draught calmed the stampede in his brain, while a handful of ferret flavoured treats placated his rather testy owl. The day had dawned cold and wet, the sky a nearly featureless blanket of grey. He stared at the monochromatic cityscape for a very long time, trying to sort the events of the last evening into some semblance of order. He was sure his encounter with Harry hadn’t been an alcohol-drenched hallucination; it had felt too fabulously fantastic to have been imaginary. And Harry’s crooked grin was etched into his mind with perfect clarity.

The balance of the weekend passed with excruciating slowness.

He never left his flat once, spending a great deal of time fussing with his latest canvas, yet another view of the pond and greenery near The Burrow. He felt fairly satisfied with his flora and fauna, but he could never quite capture the elusive qualities of the clouds to his satisfaction. He’d been trying to reproduce a particularly memorable line of storm clouds with little success; his sky looked more like a roiling sea, which wasn’t entirely horrible, but not at all what he’d intended to paint. Images of his encounter in the alley with Harry kept invading his thoughts, so much so that he took a break from painting to wallow in his favourite porn video, Aurors In Love. Unfortunately, the on-screen smut did nothing to squelch the Harry-esque visions in his brain. Unable to resist his urges, he disabled the function that allowed the actors to interact with the viewer and stroked himself off to one of the more imaginative scenes in the film, Harry’s name on his lips and his release all over the sofa cushions.

Saturday afternoon flowed into Saturday evening, and Terry owled with an invite to The Dragon’s Lair. His cube mate babbled on about a date with a set of werewolf twins, one of whom was ‘wild about ginger hair.’ He scribbled a hasty reply declining the offer, rousting a clearly annoyed Hermes and practically shoving him out of the window. As delectable as Terry’s prospect sounded, he couldn’t fight the odd sensation that he’d somehow be betraying Harry, as if that made any sense. In addition, he just didn’t feel like venturing out. He broke the seal on a new bottle of Oban, working for a bit more on his canvas. He finally dozed off on the sofa again, his dreams filled with dark, damp alleys and flashing green eyes.

Sunday was much the same outside as in, and Percy passed the time reading and listening to the Wizarding Wireless. He successfully managed to keep images of Harry at bay, concentrating instead on his Muggle novel, finding the somewhat campy overtones and intrigue of Dashiell Hammett much more enjoyable than they should have been. He was almost finished with ‘Woman in the Dark,’ with ‘Secret Agent X-9’ up next. An owl arrived mid-afternoon, carrying a small card that read:

‘We’ll have to do that again sometime. Soon. You know where to find me.’

The bird must have been instructed to leave as soon as the message was delivered, so Percy couldn’t have sent a response even if he’d wanted to.

Evening tea consisted of delivery from the local Muggle eatery that specialized in Mediterranean cuisine. Percy ordered from the place with sufficient regularity that he was on a first name basis with every delivery boy. This time he drew Nigel, an impossibly young, incredibly built blond teen with a knowing smile who wore his low-slung jeans and tight t-shirts as if they were weapons. Nigel always received a big tip; and it wasn’t just because he always brought extra napkins for the hummus and baba ganoush.

He allowed himself the luxury of a another slow, languorous wank after his takeaway, and while the stud in his mind’s eye started out as a very hirsute Nigel in nothing but a leather thong and nipple clamps, by the time he reached release, Nigel had morphed into a raven-haired, green-eyed bloke with a crooked smile and a scar on his forehead. Another tumbler of Oban before he retired seemed to successfully eliminate his subconscious Harry fantasies.

Monday morning presented itself with little fanfare and Percy found a rather pleased yet bruised Terry already in their tiny office when he arrived at his usual time of half-past eight. By lunch, Percy could recite Terry’s weekend encounter with the pair of lycan twins in the loo of The Dragon’s Lair verbatim. Strangely, Terry was completely silent on the topic of Harry, which led Percy to believe that his office mate had been replaced with a doppelganger. Either that, or he’d become human over the past weekend.

The work week progressed predictably, a mass of mis-directed owls, incomplete forms, lost vouchers and missing or incorrect purchase requisitions. He and Terry dutifully maintained their now painfully familiar weekly routine. Monday evening, The Monk; Tuesday evening, gymnasium, where true to form, Terry insisted on pointing out suitable, probable conquests for himself, Percy, or both of them together.

By Wednesday, Percy had seen neither hide nor hair of Harry at The Ministry, which wasn’t entirely unusual, but oddly, the newest Auror had suddenly developed a decided lack of coherence as to filling out his paperwork correctly. Harry’s stack of improper requisitions and expense reports was growing at an alarming rate. If the current trend continued, Percy wouldn’t be able to finish his month’s end report on time. And that particular summary was due Friday afternoon.

Percy had sent Harry two inter-office owls but had so far received no response. He fussed and clucked to Terry about the injustice of it all, but Terry merely insisted that perhaps a face to face confrontation was in order. After Wednesday morning’s owl returned without a reply, Percy decided Terry was regrettably correct, and that it was high time to pay Harry a visit to discuss the plethora of botched forms and requisitions. Shoving the huge stack of error-laden paperwork into his case, he marched from their office with as much bravado as he could muster. Terry said nothing, but blew kisses at him as he strode past.

The Auror’s wing was on Level Four, well above the location of his and Terry’s office on the Main Level. Percy snorted as he stood before the bank of lifts, as owls, ravens and the occasional gull flew by overhead, winging parchments, memos or parcels to their various destinations.

“Main Level, indeed,” he muttered sullenly.

Since the ground floor was referred to as Level One, the term ‘main’ was a completely disingenuous way to refer to what was actually the basement. Some berk had most likely been paid very handsomely to come up with that one.

The lifts were taking their sweet old time, and Percy, his impatience swiftly morphing into annoyance, whirled about and pushed open the door to the stairwell. He was more than a bit distressed to note that his stomach felt as though it were filled with a clutch of bandyflies. He took the stairs two at a time, his mind racing. He had to get a grip! It was ludicrous that the very idea of seeing Harry had somehow pushed him into overdrive. He had to focus, concentrate on the business at hand.

Right.

By the time he reached the Fourth Level, Percy was no more focused, but he was thoroughly winded. Gasping for breath, he straightened his robes and scanned the directory for Harry’s office. He found it: Potter, H. A2C, 413B. A few moments later, he found himself in front of what looked like a broom closet, except that the stencilled printing on the door proclaimed the space beyond as suite 413 A & B.

Taking a deep breath, Percy drew himself up and schooled his features. He turned the knob and pushed firmly, only to have it open about halfway before stopping rather abruptly. Three things happened at once: there was a bang and a thump, Percy yelped loudly as his nose impacted the door, and someone growled in annoyance.

“Circe’s tits, how about a knock before barging into a bloke‘s office?”

Percy winced, rubbing his nose and peering about the door, just in time to see a completely dishevelled bloke stand up and smooth out his trousers. From what he could tell, the fellow had been reclined in his chair, reading what looked like the latest edition of The Quibbler. He squeezed through the narrow opening, his eyes going wide at the tiny space. There was a small, high window opposite the door, and the ‘office’ was scarcely wide enough to accommodate the two desks that were shoved against the opposing walls. There was barely enough space between the desks for one chair, and Percy was certain that both occupants couldn’t possibly sit down at the same time. His closet at The Burrow was probably larger than this cubby hole.

“Can I help you?” the fellow asked.

Percy blinked, clearing his throat. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry for the disturbance. I didn’t realize your office was, um, well…”

“Bloody smaller than a rat’s arse?” the Auror replied sardonically. “We prefer the term cosy, ourselves.” He paused a long moment, as if waiting for something, before putting out his hand. “Auror Second Class Ken Towler, at your service.”

Percy returned the handshake. “Percy Weasley, General Accounting.”

Towler grimaced. “Shite. What have I done now?”

Percy nearly laughed out loud. “Nothing, that is to say I don’t have anything of yours that needs correction. Actually, I’m looking for Harry Potter.” 'So I can reciprocate for the amazing blow job he gave me the other night,' he thought, barely masking the smile that threatened to force its way to his lips.

Towler nodded and they both glanced about the office, which took a grand total of two seconds.

“Oh, well, Harry’s not here, obviously,” Towler said with relief. “Just missed him, though. Don’t know where he’s off to. We don’t spend a great deal of time here.”

Percy nodded as a large barn owl swooped in and dropped a banded bunch of parchments on Towler’s already overflowing desk. “I see. Well, I have a great deal of corrected paperwork that requires his signature.” He withdrew the stack of parchments from his case, carefully placing them in the centre of Harry’s blotter. “Have Ha--Potter contact me if he has any question, yes?”

Towler nodded sagely, eyeing the stack of paper warily. “Will do. Does Harry know where to contact you? Your office is in Gen Accounting, Level Two, right?”

“Um, no,” Percy replied.

“Level One, then,” Towler said as he Accioed a quill to scribble down the information.

Percy shook his head. “Afraid not.”

Towler pulled a face. “Oy. The Dungeon, eh? Right.” His quill scritched across a corner of The Quibbler. “I’ll tell Harry you need those processed straightaway.” he smiled and nodded, standing there as if waiting for something. “Well, good seeing you. Been a long time.”

Percy cocked his head to one side. “Sorry, but…” he murmured, and as soon as he said the words, recollection dawned on him. “Of course. Ken. Fred and George’s dorm mate from Hogwarts.” He felt himself redden, instantly hating himself for it. How could he have forgotten one of the Four Musketeers? His brothers, Lee Jordan and Towler had given The Marauders’ reputation a good run for the money. But it had been nearly a decade since he’d seen Towler, and the Auror had filled out considerably, among other things.

“It’s the beard,” Towler replied, “and this, too,” he finished, indicating the top of his bald head. “Worse luck I suppose.”

Percy laughed nervously. “Apologies, Ken. A bit distracted today. End of month reports due and all that. You know.”

Towler nodded. “No worries. Well, now that you know the way, don’t be a stranger. Right?”

Percy nodded as he backed out, bumping into the door and nearly falling backward in the process. “Sure, sure, Ken. We’ll do lunch.”

“Fine, good,” Towler said. “And Percy…”

Percy was nearly through the door. “Yes?”

“Sorry about Fred,” Towler offered quietly. “I didn’t see you about at the time. I know how much I miss him. Can’t imagine what it’s like for you. And your sister, too. I’m so sorry, mate.”

Percy blinked, completely at a loss. He wanted to respond, but his throat felt as though it had constricted to the width of a pinhead. He swallowed and nodded, barely rasping out a “Thanks” as he pulled the door closed. Once in the hallway, he slumped against the wall, his heart thudding in his chest. What in Merlin’s Hairy Balls was going on, anyway? Ever since the encounter in the alley, he’d been on an emotional roller coaster. Wild flights of fancy concerning Harry, and now a most unwelcome trip down memory lane.

“Shite,” he muttered, straightening his robes and ducking into the nearest men’s loo. The bank of mirrors over the sinks chittered away about the restrictions against smoking in public buildings, but Percy cast a Muffliato so he could enjoy his cigarette in peace. It actually took two before he felt calm enough to brave the corridors.

Their office was blessedly empty when he arrived, and he was immediately grateful for what now seemed like a vast expanse of space. So what if they didn’t have a window; at least he and Terry could sit down at the same time. He began sorting his IN box, expertly wading through the mass of parchments.

At the very bottom of the tray, he found a tiny box wrapped in plain brown parchment. Eyeing it carefully, he made out the tiny hand-lettering on one side: ‘Engorge me.’ Holding the box gingerly, he closed the door, gently placing the box in the middle of the floor. “Engorgio,” he murmured, instantly ready to throw a Reducto if necessary.

It wasn’t, and the box merely doubled in size. Picking it up, he unwrapped the parcel assiduously, suddenly mindful of the pranks his brothers used to play with reckless abandon. Bracing himself for the worst, he continued. Once removed, the brown paper revealed a white box with an embossed gold crest with the letter ‘H’ in the centre. Grinning in spite of himself, he pulled off the wax seal, opened the lid and pushed aside the top layer of waxed paper. He actually moaned as the wonderful aroma of the rich, dark chocolate filled his nostrils.

Unconsciously looking about as if someone might appear out of thin air to take his treasure, Percy selected one of the handmade sweets, eyeing it with reverence before he closed his eyes to take a bite. It was delicious, the combination of the sharp, dark chocolate a perfect counterpoint to the sweetness inside. He’d always been crazy for Margie Muldoon’s Raspberry Jellies, but they were rather pricey and Honeyduke’s only produced them in the spring, which at this point in time, was well over four months ago. But the sweets certainly weren’t that old, even if they’d been held in a stasis charm. Percy chose to ponder the mysteries of the candies’ origins later, or at least after he’d had a few more of the delectable morsels.

He made short work of the small box while he worked, nearly tossing it into the dustbin before he noticed the small note beneath the bottom layer of waxed paper. Unfolding it, his eyes went wide as he read:

Hope you enjoyed the sweets, as you’re quite fond of them.
Looking forward to sampling your sweetness once more, soon.

He stared at the tiny parchment, not wanting to believe the implications. The candies had to have come from Harry. But then how did Harry know he fancied the Raspberry Jellies so? He hadn’t had them in years, and they were always out of season when Harry had been at The Burrow. He slumped in his chair, studying the note as if it held the most sought after secret in the universe. The printing held no clue as to who had written it; the font face was clearly Iconic Bold Italic, a common auto-quill font. Nothing remarkable about the parchment, either.

Percy snorted, flinging the note down on his desk. The whole thing was ludicrous. How did he let himself begin to actually believe that Harry was interested in him? The entire affair, from Harry blowing him in the alley to the chocolates seemed contrived somehow, cliché, almost as if…

“Cheers, Perce!” Terry boomed as he blustered into the office. He flung his robes at the coat hook, and missed, per usual. “What’s up?” Terry smiled and sat down, his grin fading.

“Oh, I’m sure I wouldn’t know what’s up, but I’ll wager you do.”

Terry leaned forward. “What are you on about?”

“It’s fine, Terry. I’ve sorted it all out.”

“Sorted what out?”

Percy flung the empty candy box at Terry, who caught it deftly.

“An empty Honeyduke’s box. So?” Terry asked, a bit of incredulity in his tone.

“I’m not angry, really,” Percy began. “In fact, I’m touched that you’d go to so much trouble. I just don’t know how you found out that Muldoon’s Raspberry Jellies were my favourite.”

Terry made a face as he scratched his temple. “Mate, I have no blooming idea what you’re talking about. Who sent you chocolates?”

“You did.” Terry made to speak, but Percy silenced his friend with a wave of his hand. “It all makes sense now, all the references while we were at The Monk last Friday, about Harry and how he was interested in me. After our conversation you Apparated away, but came back and followed me wearing a glamour. It nearly fooled me, and then your performance in the alley! Sweet Merlin, but you’re good, mate! I had no idea! Then you sent me that note on Sunday, and now, the chocolates. It’s too bloody sweet, and I’m flattered. But I’m sorry Terry, I’m not in love with you.”

He paused to let his words sink in, and they were having some sort of effect, as Terry looked as though he’d chewed through a mouthful of Bertie Bott’s vomit flavoured jelly beans. “But really, though, pretending to be Harry Potter? You don’t need to do that. Just because I’m not attracted to you in that way doesn’t mean…

Terry jumped up and slammed their door shut with a bang. He leaned against it and took a deep breath. “Percy, I’ll say this once more: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I left you in front of The Monk on Friday and went directly to The Dragon’s Lair. I didn’t follow you, glamoured or otherwise, nor did I do something with you in an alley. I sent you an owl on Saturday, inviting you to The Lair, but that’s it. And I didn’t send you chocolates. I didn’t even know you liked Raspberry Jellies until you told me a few minutes ago.”

“But…” Percy began.

“Let me finish,” Terry said tersely. “I’m not sure what little fantasy you’ve cooked up over Harry, but I’ve nothing to do with it. There’s that, and then there’s this: yeah, I had it good for you for a long time. Fell for you, I did. Hard.” He stepped over to Percy’s desk, sitting down on the corner of it. “It took me a bit to realize that you didn’t feel the same way as I did, but I still wanted the friendship. And I do still love you, Perce, really, but as you so clearly point out, not in the way you think.”

Percy stood up, moving around his desk. “Terry, I thought…well, it just didn’t make any sense that Harry Potter would be interested in me. It was too neat and tidy, like a prank. You grow up around blokes like my twin brothers and you come to expect that sort of thing. I didn’t mean to offend, really. I’m just pants at expressing myself. Always put my boot in my mouth, that’s a sure and certain fact.”

Terry sighed, nodding slightly. “Bah, no worries. Used to you by now. And you’re not pants when it comes to self-expression. A bit bludger-like from time to time, but that’s your way. So what’s all this about you and Harry in an alley?” He smiled finally, patting Percy’s shoulder.

Percy then recounted the events that had transpired after Terry had left him in front of The Mirthful Monk, from the encounter in the alleyway up to the chocolates.

Terry gave him a playful punch to the arm. “Perce, that’s bloody fantastic, isn’t it? Obviously Harry’s into you! Quit moping about and go for it!”

“It’s not that simple,” Percy said.

“Oh, there you go again,” Terry groaned. "Making mountains out of dungheaps. Quickest, easiest way is to bluster right up to the bloke and talk to him. Saves a lot of fuss.”

“Too right,” Percy admitted. “But it’s impossible. Too much history. And even in the rarest of circumstances that he might actually want more than a quick shag…more likely to see a Muggle perform a Patronus, I think.”

Terry paused a few moments before speaking again. “You fancy him, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Terry clapped him on the back. “There you go then.”

“But…” Percy began.

“But nothing,” Terry said as he leaned forward. “Quit looking for excuses! You fancy him, he fancies you. Bugger the old baggage, whatever it is. You’re both sharp blokes; you’ll sort it all out, right?”

Percy nodded as Terry stood up and stretched.

“Jumpin’ skrewts! It’s nearly half-four! Let’s clear these desks and get the hell out of here! I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for a Guinness! And a double order of The Badger’s fish and chips, too. Move it, Weasley!”

Terry’s enthusiasm was impossible to ignore, and rather contagious as well. By the time they went their separate ways an hour later, agreeing to meet up at The Belligerent Badger at seven, Percy actually felt a bit better than he had in days. The possibility that the business with Harry was some sort of prank had been so pervasive that it had negatively coloured his perception of events. Taking that off of the table also seemed to have removed a great weight from his shoulders. Somehow, Terry’s assertion that he wasn’t pranking him, and his tacit approval seemed to give Percy a sort of permission to proceed. Harry obviously fancied him on some level; if it only turned out to be for a few quick fucks, well, better that than nothing.

There was another owl waiting for him when he Apparated into his flat. The bird held out its leg and waited patiently, signifying that it was waiting for a possible reply. Percy opened the envelope with shaky hands, smiling crookedly as he read:

Sorry I missed you at the office today. I’ve been pants at completing
paperwork lately; distracted, I suppose.
We do need to get together and talk. Soon.
I’ll have your papers in the morning inter-office owl post.
If you like, you can owl me here:

39 Shipton Street
London SE14 3SY

H.

Percy scribbled a hasty reply:

I look forward to that chat, as well as more.
If you’re free, I’ll be at The Belligerent Badger on Tallmadge after seven.
Stop by if you can; my treat.

P.

He rolled up the note, quickly tying it to the impatient bird’s leg. The owl then stared at him sullenly, flapping its wings and clicking its beak. Hermes hooted shrilly from his perch, and Percy scrambled for a treat, tossing it to the post owl, who caught it deftly and flapped away out the window.

He devoured the remainder of the nearly forgotten baba ganoush from the weekend as he threw off his clothes, the prospect of going to the pub more exciting than it had been in months. He stood in his tiny lounge in his boxers, munching away on the last of the falafel and staring at his canvas. For some reason, his thunderheads looked, well, perfect. A few more finishing touches to the roof of The Burrow that was just visible through the trees, and he’d be done. He nodded, smiling widely as he headed for the shower.

Kicking off his boxers, he cast a whitening charm on his teeth, as well as a shaving charm. As an afterthought, he cast an additional shaver about his cock and balls, shrugging at his mirror, which tutted loudly.

“Just in case,” he answered confidently.

He ran a hotter than usual shower, lathering himself up with his favourite herbal soap. He allowed his mind to wander, and it headed directly to the alley near The Mirthful Monk, where Harry was waiting for him, and he replayed their initial encounter nearly perfectly, but with a few enhancements. His cock was at attention almost immediately, one hand stroking his length while the other massaged and squeezed his newly shorn sac. The moisturizing soap felt wonderful and slick beneath his fingers, and he stroked himself with increasing speed, turning his back to the spray of water and bracing his shoulder against the tile. He came with Harry’s name on his lips, his gasps and grunts of pleasure echoing through his small bathroom.

He fussed far too long over what to wear. Suddenly, nothing he had in his wardrobe seemed appropriate. He finally settled on a pair of his oldest, most well worn denims and an old Puddlemere United ringer t-shirt. He didn’t have the athletic physique to fill out the shirt properly, but the denims fit like a second skin, and they did make his arse look rather nice. He found an ancient pair of trainers shoved into a dark corner of his hall closet, and a few cleansing and brightening charms restored them to respectability.

His bathroom mirror clucked incessantly, commenting that he looked like an overgrown teen-ager. His hair was an absolute disaster, all curls and waves and totally unmanageable. He truly envied Bill, Ron, and George, who weren’t cursed with his scouring pad head of hair and could grow it long without looking ridiculous.

In a fit of rebelliousness that seemed somehow totally alien, he cast a straightening and lengthening charm on his hair until it touched his shoulders. He’d always refused to try the charm in the past, and now, he couldn’t for the life of him recall why.

Percy chuckled at his new reflection, which gave him the thumbs up. With his hair this way, he looked a bit like Bill, and a bit like Ron, which he supposed made sense. It would revert to normal by morning, but perhaps he’d start charming his hair everyday. Many folks did. After a while, he’d only have to cast the straightening charm anyway. He conjured a tie, arranging his hair into a loose ponytail.

He winked at his grinning reflection.

His mirror groaned.

He Apparated behind The Belligerent Badger fifteen minutes early, and chose a table with four stools situated so that he could see both the front and rear entrances to the pub.

Ewan was on duty this evening, and the server smiled appreciatively at his new hairstyle. “Oy, someone’s on the prowl this evening,” he commented as he took Percy’s drink order.

Percy felt comfortable and at ease, the lively buzz of conversation, the music from the Muggle jukebox, and chatter from the two small video screens more than pleasant. He had ordered a full bottle of Bitter Banshee, sipping at the potent, electric green alcohol with relish. He leaned back, one arm over the back of the chair next to him.

The Badger was much like The Monk, although much smaller and more like an old-fashioned neighbourhood pub. The food was fabulous, though. The clientele was mixed, with more than a few queer witches and wizards frequenting the establishment. One passing bloke, a short, muscled brunet with earrings and tattoos for miles gave Percy the cruising of all cruises, rubbing a hand over his crotch and jerking his head toward the loo. Percy replied with a polite shake of his head and a smile, and the muscle stud winked and strode away.

Terry walked through the front door at half seven; his cube mate walked right by him and strode up to the bar. He chatted with Ewan for a moment, and the server pointed to where Percy was sitting. Terry whirled about, his face a mask of confusion. He then shook his head in wonder, a smile covering his face as Percy motioned him over to their table.

“You’re late,” Percy drawled, sipping his Banshee.

“You’re gorgeous,” Terry spluttered, pouring himself a drink. “Great bleedin’ Circe, I didn’t even see you there.” He took a big gulp of the green alcohol, gasping and shaking his head.

Percy beamed. “What? Do I look different?”

“Tosser!” Terry shot back. “The hair looks great on you like that. Damn, Perce. Damn!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Terry nodded vigorously. “As well you should.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Cheers!” Terry replied, filling his glass again. “Ready to order?”

“Well, perhaps we should wait a bit, just in case someone else joins us,” Percy said, grinning ear to ear.

Terry sat back in his seat. “Don’t tell me.”

“Okay, I won’t then.”

“You’ve invited Harry.”

“Yes,” Percy replied, licking his lips. “Just a general invitation. Don’t know if he’ll show, though.”

“You owled him then?”

Percy nodded. “Yeah, in response to his owl.”

Terry beamed. “Brilliant! Told you so!” He hefted his glass of Banshee. “To Harry!”

“Salut,” Percy replied, clinking his glass to Terry’s. “We’ll wait until eight. If he hasn’t shown by then, we’ll order, yes?”

“Deal,” Terry responded, laughing.

They chatted easily, with Percy relating the contents of Harry’s note and then his own response. Harry hadn’t shown by eight, so they ordered and enjoyed the evening, engaging in a of no-magics-allowed round of darts. Terry won, per usual, but Percy enjoyed the challenge anyway. Their meal was excellent as always, and Ewan complimented either Percy’s hair or his clothes every time he passed their table.

He and Terry were both rather into their cups by ten, when the tellys were turned off and the lights went down. They’d both forgotten about the live disc jockey scheduled for this particular Wednesday. The DJ stroked and stirred his resonant pair of musical pensieves masterfully, creating a constant stream of music.

Terry jokingly asked Percy if he’d like to dance, and Percy shocked his friend by actually agreeing. He couldn’t dance for shite, but then again, neither could anyone else. Percy just bumped and ground to the beat as best he could, biting his lower lip and causing Terry to laugh so hard he nearly lost his supper.

It was nearly midnight when the pair shambled out the back door, draped over each other and whooping out the Hogwarts school song. Percy did and impression of McGonagall singing the anthem, and Terry laughed so hard he fell right on his arse. Percy felt invigorated, enlivened, and more that a bit pissed. He said his goodbyes to Terry, who was clutching his stomach and laughing so hard he couldn’t speak. Terry waved and Apparated without bothering to stand up.

“Happy landing, mate,” Percy spluttered, Apparating himself home.

He managed to make it to the medicine cabinet without incident, and several swallows of Madame Ciara’s Draught quickly began to soften his rough edges.

“You’ll feel like shite in the morning, luv,” his mirror admonished.

“Mayhap I will, mayhap I won’t,” he replied, turning his head to get a better view of his now tousled ponytail. “Yeah, we’ll definitely be charming the hair from now on.”

“Oh dear,” the mirror commented as Percy charmed out the lights.

He kicked off his trainers, flopping onto his bed while he fumbled with the buttons of his fly. He leaned back, snuggling into the coverlet and pulling his pillows about him. It had been a great night, even if Harry hadn’t shown up. Just the possibility of Harry was suddenly more than enough to make the evening special. Odd that. One little note, a world of difference.

Percy smiled as he fondled himself lazily, charming off the lamps. He pushed his denims down, bending his knees and wriggling about until his denims joined his trainers on the floor. He ran his fingers along the ridge of his erection, the feel of the silky fabric of his under shorts incredibly stimulating. He stroked himself a few more times before plunging his hand under the waistband of the briefs and circling his fingers about his cock. “Accio lube,“ he whimpered, the tube of Muggle lubricant sailing into his other hand. He flicked the cap off, shoving the boxer briefs down over his hips. He drizzled the lube directly onto his cock, gasping at the coolness of it on his heated skin. He then spread the slippery stuff all over his length, squeezing his cock firmly as he stroked it faster and faster. He pulled on himself with each upstroke, gritting his teeth as he felt the wonderful heat building within his balls. A few more strokes and the heat exploded, his orgasm rising up and out as his ejaculate shot through his fingers and onto his stomach.

“Gods,” he groaned, swirling the spunk about his belly with his fingers. His body relaxed instantly, sleep quickly overcoming him as his passion cooled. He barely finished murmuring a cleansing charm before he drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with visions of Harry...


~~~~~~~~


Percy awoke the next morning to Hermes perched on his bed frame, hooting away importantly. His brain was just the slightest bit sluggish, the hangover draught having done an admirable job, but still no remedy for the lack of sleep. He yawned and rolled over, laying still for barely a moment before his eyes flew open and he sat up with a gasp.

“Time…time…the time!” he panted, blinking furiously at the morning light pouring through his partially closed blinds.

Hermes flapped his wings and glowered at him, clicking his beak twice.

“Tempus!” he rasped, untangling himself from the quilts and jumping from the bed. He growled, walking through the floating numbers that had just informed him he was already twenty minutes late for work. He flung off his wrinkled shirt and boxer briefs and showered in record time, casting shaving and teeth cleansing charms in quick succession. He wiped at the fogged mirror, strangely surprised to see that his hair had returned to its normal state.

“If you had any sense you’d just leave it the way it is,” the mirror huffed imperiously. “Looks fine as is, but you won’t listen to me, oh, no.”

Percy glared at his reflection, which gestured impatiently to their soaking wet mop of curly hair. “Never did have any sense,” he muttered, staring at the mirror. Hermes flew into the loo, landing on the toilet seat and chittering away loudly.

“Right, yes, I’m late,” he replied absently, pausing another moment before murmuring the appropriate charms. The mirror mumbled something as he tied up his ponytail. “What was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” the mirror replied. “Don’t mind me; you never do.”

Percy growled. “Keep it up, and you’ll be right back where I found you.”

“Worse luck,” the mirror replied.

Sighing, Percy bustled into the kitchen and flung open the door to the cold box, silently summoning his work clothes. They flew into the room and hovered patiently while he guzzled down some pumpkin juice right from the jar. He then yanked on his black denims and white oxford shirt, struggling to tuck, zip and button all at once. His tie landed in his hand, and he knotted it as he strode across his sitting room, frantically looking for his shoes, which were nowhere to be seen.

“Oh, for Merlin…Accio shoes!” he barked, sighing as all four pairs of shoes that he owned arrowed into his sitting room. He could hear the mirror sniggering in the loo as he laced his work shoes. He then jumped up to stand before his fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder and calling out his destination.

A moment later he stepped out of one of the many hearths in the Ministry’s atrium, brushing off his robes and quickly moving across the wide, barren expanse of polished marble floor toward the bank of lifts. The security guard on duty peered over the top of his copy of The Quibbler for the briefest of moments before leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on his small desk. Percy rolled his eyes as a tinkly ding sounded and the ‘down’ arrow glowed green as a lift arrived. The gate rattled aside, and he stepped into the lift.

“Floor please?” the lift asked crisply.

“Ground floor,” Percy replied through clenched teeth.

“Thank you,” the lift responded.

“Up yours,” he muttered.

Percy found Terry at his desk, head down on a stack of parchments and a veritable flock of owls planted on nearly every horizontal surface of their office; a small screech owl was actually perched on Terry’s right shoulder, preening itself. He slowly walked through the doorway, instantly meeting with a flurry of flapping wings and soft hoots.

“What in bloody hell,” he began, surveying what looked for all the world like a bizarre miniature owlery.

Terry didn’t bother to lift his head. He merely raised his right arm and pointed to Percy’s desk, which was strangely devoid of owls.

Percy unbuttoned his robes, shrugging out of them and draping them over the back of his chair. He ran his fingers over the large stack of parchments, banded with black ribbon. It appeared to be the entire backlog of Harry’s paperwork, apparently signed and ready for filing. He smiled just as a tawny hopped onto the mound of papers and held out its leg. There was another round of fluttering as a handful of other birds moved to his desk, all of them apparently eager to deliver their messages.

“They’re all for you,” Terry mumbled. “Been coming every ten minutes since half-eight.”

Percy glanced about their office. “But who…”

“Who do you think?” Terry replied, lifting his head slightly. He jerked his head to the ribbon-wrapped stack of parchments. “He dropped those off first thing this morning. A bit distraught that you weren’t here.” He groaned, putting his head back down onto his arms. “They started arriving shortly thereafter.”

“Harry was here? This morning?” The first time he’d ever been late in his entire Ministry career, and it had to be this morning! Percy quickly untied the tiny scroll from the increasingly impatient tawny’s leg and unrolled it.

“Could you read a bit more quietly, please?” Terry moaned as his screech owl clicked its beak menacingly. After a rather long pause, he lifted his head slightly. “Well? What’s it say?”

Percy rolled up the scroll, a crooked smile forming on his lips. He arched an eyebrow and sat down, putting both hands behind his head and leaning back into his chair. “Oh, nothing much, really. Just that he’s sorry to have missed us last night, and how he’d like to get together tonight.”

Terry made an admirable attempt to sit up, but failed, wincing loudly. “Really?”

Percy nodded, grinning widely and swiveling about in his chair. “Yeah. Really. Wants me owl him if I’m available.” He chuckled, reaching for a scrap of parchment and a quill.

Terry rolled his eyes and dropped his head once more. “I think I like morose Percy better.”

Percy scratched out a hasty note:

Harry,

Apologies for missing you at my office this morning. A bit too much frivolity last night.
Of course I’m available this evening. I’ll be in the office for the rest of the day.
Pop on down if you’d like, or meet me in the commissary at half eleven for lunch.
Else, if your schedule doesn’t permit, owl me.
Looking forward to this evening.

P.

Percy rolled up the note and tied it to the tawny’s leg. The bird hooted softly and flapped its wings. Percy opened his top left drawer, extracting a tin of Eeylop’s Everyday Owl Treats. He flipped the tawny a morsel and it flapped away into the corridor. He tossed a handful of treats to the floor, and in a great whipping of wings and clicking beaks, the horde of remaining owls devoured them and went on their way. Percy sat down and untied the black ribbon, beginning to sort through Harry’s corrected papers.

Terry groaned, shifting in his squeaky chair.

“Out of Madame Ciara’s again?” Percy observed with a hint of amusement.

“Uh-huh,” Terry replied.

Percy fished about in his still-open drawer and tossed a packet of the hangover draught to his partner.

Terry grabbed the packet and headed into the corridor. “Thanks, Perce. Be back in a few ticks.”

Percy sniggered, continuing his document shuffle.

The rest of the morning progressed rather smoothly. Strangely invigorated, Percy flew through his work, clearing off his desk and IN box well before lunch. Terry had revived only slightly, shuffling and groaning about the office like a stunned Inferi. He declined Percy’s invitation to journey to the commissary for lunch, which wasn’t at all disappointing. Percy’d hoped to go alone anyway, just on the off chance that Harry might be there. He hadn’t received a response from Harry yet, but the day was still young, and Harry would no doubt have work of his own to accomplish, if he was even in the building at all.

Instead of taking the lift to Level One, he took the stairs, oddly feeling in the mood for a light workout. As he took the steps two at a time, that little voice in the back of his head decided to speak up and start prattling on about how the business with Harry could still be a hoax, and as he hadn’t really seen Harry since the night in the alley, it was quite ridiculous to get his hopes up so. And Terry was a bit too excited for him, especially when considering his recent proclamations of long-held affections. But Terry wasn’t exactly the straightest wand in the box, and if it was indeed a set-up of some kind, it didn’t really seem possible that his cube mate could have dreamt up and executed the whole thing. Or could he?

Percy stopped on the landing, his hand absently turning the knob of the door that led out to the atrium. And it was true that not one of Harry’s notes had been in his handwriting, all of them being auto-quilled. But then again…

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, yanking open the door and striding into the atrium, immediately colliding with a slight, blonde-haired witch. They bounced off of one other, both falling to the floor and the gasping witch’s file folders splaying across the marble.

“Shite! So sorry,” Percy yelped, immediately getting to his knees and gathering up the folders.

The witch sat up, rubbing her forehead. “That’s fine, no worries, happens all the time,” she said with a crooked smile.

Percy stood up, having collected the errant folders. He helped the witch to her feet and watched as she tugged at her skirt and straightened her blouse and tie. That’s when he noticed the carrot earrings. “Luna? Luna Lovegood?” he said, handing the files over.

Luna stared for a moment, obviously trying to figure out who he was. Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, forgive me,” she replied. “I know you’re a Weasley, I just can’t recall which one.” She furrowed her brow and began biting her lip. “Not Ron, not one of the triplets, not the dragon one, or the sort of werewolf. Hmmm.”

Percy rolled his eyes, suddenly very sorry he hadn’t taken the lift. “Well, I’m…”

“No! No, no, no!” Luna blurted out. “I’ve got it, right on the tip of my tongue, it is!” She stared up at the ceiling, one of her shoes tapping at the floor rhythmically.

Percy cleared his throat. “Really, I’m late for an appointment, so if you don’t mind…”

Luna cocked her head to one side and rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, he won’t be there, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Percy gaped, completely at a loss.

Luna snapped her fingers, smiling widely. “Percival Ignatius! Yes, that’s who you are!” Her smile faded as she stared at his head. “What have you done to your hair?”

Percy arched an eyebrow, his hand unconsciously smoothing his pulled back locks. “Um, well…”

Luna shook her head and sighed. “He’ll prefer your natural style, I’m afraid. Stick with Puddlemere, Monkshood will sort it out, and don‘t forget to bone up on those sun block charms.” She reached out and grasped his arm. “And it’s not a hoax. Don’t be such a wand in the mud!” She took a deep breath. “Well, can’t stand about jabbering away all day, now can we? And I’m late for a meeting!”

Percy blinked, his mouth agape.

Luna chuckled. “Oh for Merlin’s sake! You are wound up, aren’t you?” She rooted about in the pocket of her robes and extracted a well worn card. “Here.” She pressed it into his hand. “Now go! Off with you!” She waved her fingers and turned to leave.

Percy watched as she walked away, completely oblivious to the milling crowd that filled the atrium. He glanced down at the card, his eyes going wide:


Luna Z. Lovegood
Divinator, Second Class

Department of Muggle Relations
Obfuscation Division

Suite 714, Ministry of Magic


“Unbelievable,” he muttered, shoving the card into his pocket. The universe truly had a perverse sense of humour to make Luna Lovegood an Unspeakable. And then to give her an office on the seventh floor, no less. He snorted, threading his way through the usual lunchtime throng of Ministry employees and visitors.

He entered the busy commissary, scanning the space, which today was transfigured to resemble an outdoor eatery along the banks of the Grand Canal in Venice. Luna’s words rang in his head: He won’t be there. He won’t be there. After two circuits of the eatery, he was satisfied that indeed Harry wasn’t there. He selected a table which allowed him to see most of the commissary and settled in, flagging down a house elf and ordering lunch.

He managed to relax somewhat and enjoy the conjured scenery, although he felt the designers had gone a bit overboard with all the pigeons. As he sipped his spiced tea, his mind kept going back to Luna’s non sequiturs. She was a Divinator, after all, but she appeared to be even more muddled than old Trelawney had been. Stick with Puddlemere? Sun blocking charms? Monkshood? Typical ethereal nonsense. Give him something that he could get his hands on, like Arithmancy or Runes, and not the sodding ‘great beyond’ mumbo jumbo. Still, Harry hadn’t been at the commissary, but what did that prove, really?

He returned to his office to find Terry slightly more animated if not fully ambulatory. Percy’s IN box was still empty, so he busied himself with assisting Terry in wading through the mass of tardy paperwork that had accumulated on his cube mate’s desk over the last week. That project took most of the rest of the afternoon, and Percy then focused on organizing his lap drawer. By half-three, both he and Terry were alternately staring at the clock and each other.

More out of boredom than anything else, Percy replayed his encounter with Luna in the atrium. Terry nodded but said nothing, and Percy couldn’t be sure if it was because Terry was still hung over or truly had no thoughts on the subject. Finally, just before four, Percy blew out a deep breath and stood up.

“Where are you off to?” Terry asked blearily, momentarily tearing himself away from the intricate construct of quills, paper clips and assorted office supplies that hovered over his blotter.

“Need to stretch and have a fag,” he replied, nodding to Terry and heading for the loo.

Of course he decided that the loo on Level Four was the most conducive for his long overdue afternoon cigarette. And since he was up there anyway…

Percy made short work of his smoke, flipping the still burning stub into a protesting toilet bowl. He then strode out of the restroom and down the corridor, rapping smartly on the door to suite 413 before slowly pushing it open. This time, however, no one was in the tiny cubbyhole, and Percy sighed, both hands on his hips. Towler’s desk was even more cluttered than before, the pile of parchments towering just over Percy’s head.

Harry’s desk was a model of neatness in contrast, with a clear blotter and parchments and files neatly stacked in his IN box. Percy leaned down to get a better glimpse of the lone picture on Harry’s desk. A laughing young man in spectacles picked up and twirled a young woman, pulling her tightly in for an embrace before repeating the movements over and over. It was autumn in the photo, and falling leaves swirled lazily about the couple, as they smiled and laughed in an endless loop. His parents, obviously. Long gone, but still held closely.

Percy paused a moment longer and turned to leave when something caught his eye. The top right-hand drawer of Harry’s desk was ajar, and he could see what looked like more photos inside. His curiosity got the better of him, so he slowly closed the office door. He pulled the drawer fully open, carefully picking up the stack of photographs.

He leafed through them, some Muggle, some wizard, all differing ages and conditions. Some were smooth and nearly new, while others were creased or otherwise well-worn. There was a pair of shots with a very young Harry, one with a bedraggled old woman standing before a modest Muggle house; its counterpart showed Harry in front of the same house, standing next to Mundungus Fletcher. Percy nodded, recalling that Harry had spent a fair amount of time with a squib that had lived in the same neighbourhood as the Dursleys. Figg, her name was. Both she and Fletcher were both dead, casualties of the War. Why would Harry want photos of them?

The rest of the pictures were of his family, taken at the Burrow, again from various time frames. Most were general shots of his siblings engaged in Quidditch, Confounding Croquet or the like, at the dinner table, or fooling about at the pond. Harry was in none of them. He smiled at one photo of his Mum and Dad, arm in arm and smiling back warmly. Harry had a set of photos from his Hogwarts years: he posed in various shots with Hagrid, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Lupin. There were a pair of photos of Harry with Ron and Granger, one from first or second year, and one just after the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Then there were a trio of shots of Ron asleep: one in his bed at the Burrow, one in his four-poster at Hogwarts, and one under the old oak near their pond. Percy supposed that was only natural; Harry’d fallen for Ron from almost the first instant they met. The next picture in the stack was of Harry and Ron engaged in a game of Wizard’s Chess in their sitting room, obviously during one of the Christmas Hols.

He felt the first pang of guilt at his intrusion into Harry’s privacy, but he couldn’t tear himself away. Percy was fascinated that Harry would keep such photos in his desk; he hadn’t that many himself, didn’t display any, nor had he looked at them in years. He continued shuffling through the stack, stopping on a shot of himself with the twins. It was very old, taken when Percy was no more than eight or nine, with Fred and George barely seven, if that. Picture Percy threw his head back and laughed heartily as the young twins tickled him with gusto. Now where on earth had he gotten that one? He drew a deep breath, quickly moving on. More photos of himself with various combinations of his family.

Then, Percy held his breath. Harry had a photo of him asleep, open book on his chest, beneath the oak tree behind The Burrow. And another on the squishy sofa in the parlour. And another. And one as Percy hunched over a desk, scribbling away at some parchment. One as he steadied a very young Ron on a starter broomstick. The final photo in Harry’s cache showed him reclined in an armchair at The Burrow, one hand cradling some Muggle novel while the index finger of his other hand rested on his temple. It was taken the summer after his graduation from Hogwarts, but he didn’t recall exactly when or who had snapped it. In the photo, he peered over the book, smiling and mouthing for the photographer to go away, over and over again.

A door slammed in the hallway, startling Percy so that he dropped the stack of photographs. They caught the edge of the desk, flipping end over end and scattering on the floor.

“Fuck,” he hissed, dropping to his knees and scooping up the slippery prints. Suddenly, he could hear every footstep, every muffled word emanating from the hallway. He struggled to straighten out the stack of photos, standing up and placing them back into the drawer. He straightened his tie, taking a deep breath and attempting to compose himself.

He counted to three, yanking open the door and closing it behind him firmly. He strode down the corridor, nodding curtly at passersby as he pushed open the door to the stairwell. By the time he reached the hallway outside his office at quarter to five, the images from Harry’s photos had blurred into a near continuous slide show. Why did Harry have them? What did they mean, exactly? His ruminations were interrupted as stepped through the doorway to a frenzied flapping of wings.

Terry was slumped in his chair, his eyes half-closed, the dark smudges beneath them plainly evident. “More owl post for Mr. Popular.” He waved a hand at the huge horned owl perched on the back of Percy’s chair.

The owl held out its leg. Percy untied the scroll and the bird hooted once and flew away.

Terry snorted. “Sweet Merlin, I’ve never seen such foreplay for a bloody shag in my entire life. What‘s he say now?”

Percy didn’t reply.

“Well?” Terry asked, sitting up.

“It’s not from him,” Percy answered. “It’s from Luna.”

“Luna? The witch you knocked over earlier today?”

Percy nodded.

Terry sighed. “This just keeps getting stranger and stranger. What does she have to say?”

“Nothing, really,” Percy replied brightly. “Just prattling on about how nice it was to run into each other. That sort of thing.” He flashed a smile, which he hope looked convincing. It did, apparently.

Terry nodded and glanced at the clock. “I’m going to dash early. Don’t think I’m up for the gym tonight. You’ll be fine, yeah?”

Percy nodded. “Right, no worries. I’d like to keep things open, you know.”

Terry stood up and stretched. He shrugged into his robes, stepping over to squeeze Percy’s shoulder. “Don’t wait around too long, okay? I’ll be home all night if you need anything.”

Percy whirled about in his chair, letting the parchment drop to his lap. “Sure. Thanks.” He nodded as Terry gave him a small wave and disappeared into the corridor. He looked at Luna’s note again, shaking his head as he re-read it:

Percival,

So serendipitous that you ran into me today. You really should
lower your guard more often. And you needn’t have bothered,
he’d have shown them to you anyway. Just let him in. Two sides of
the same coin. Synchronicities. Good foundations are important.
Let it go.

Luna

Stuffing the scrap of parchment into his pocket, Percy stood up and glanced about the office once before charming out the lamps and closing the office door behind him.