Chapter Text
After Harry Potter’s third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, despite Peter Pettigrew (aka: Wormtail) escaping, Sirius briefly considered going on the run. He ultimately decided against it. He could be of more use if he found a place to hunker down and hide.
“We both know it’s only a matter of time until that Dark bastard finds a way to come back,” he said to Dumbledore as they sat at the kitchen table of a little-known cottage hidden in the woods in the south of England. It had been in the Black family for a few generations and one of the few Black properties that was accessible to him, hidden from the Ministry, and habitable. “And when he does, the Ministry will be of little use.”
Dumbledore nodded, tapping his chin in thought. “Of course, you are right, my boy. We’ll need to reassemble the Order.” The Order of the Phoenix had been the resistance group they’d both been part of the last time Voldemort had risen to power. “And we’ll need a base of operations,” he continued. “If memory serves, your ancestral home was a townhouse in London that might do nicely.”
Sirius shook his head. “No. I checked Grimmauld Place before I came here. It’s been left empty since Mother died ten years ago. There’s just a barmy old house elf caring for it and downright worshipping a portrait of the old hag. All it does when you make noise in the hall is shriek and spout blood purist filth. Plus, it’s fallen into disrepair with who knows what nesting all over it. It’ll probably be worth it to salvage what we can of the library, but it’s so decrepit at this point that it’s better off being condemned.”
Dumbledore nodded and sighed. The following week, he held a secret meeting with the remaining member of Order from the last war against You-Know-Who. “The Order will need to be reformed. And, as such, we need to decide on a safe house. Somewhere we can use as a base of operations.”
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley generously offered up use of their family home, the Burrow.
When his parents had first explained the news, Percy had sighed, feeling quite put out. He had an interview for a possible internship in the Department of International Magical Co-operation next week. A paid internship. Harboring both a fugitive and an underground resistance for something that may never happen could hardly be conductive to securing a position as a trusted employee for their own government. His mother managed to talk him around to the idea, and he managed to secure the job.
The plus side to all this was that the Burrow got a magical overhaul. It was heavily warded and placed under the added protection of the Fidelius Charm with Albus Dumbledore being Secret Keeper. Everyone who was old enough to perform magic without alerting the Ministry pitched in their magic to ensure the home was structurally sound and secure. Percy had been roped into helping etch runes into the new property line ward stones. Apparently, someone had decided they’d had enough of him skulking around the house, worrying over whether or not he’d get the job he wanted, and thought putting him to work would take his mind off it. It didn’t, but it made others happier that he was out of the house for a while. Inside the house, most of the bedrooms were turned into a sort of barracks. Each equipped with bunk beds. When everything was finally settled, everyone was quite happy with the arrangements.
Well, almost everyone.
Percy was less than thrilled with the whole thing, his employment at the Ministry aside. For one, he was forced to give up his bedroom. Well, not exactly forced, but he deemed it preferable as the lower bedrooms were more readily accessible to temporary guests. Being in an upper room would ensure he wasn’t as frequently disturbed by the people who would be coming and going at all hours due to various missions the Order would be sending its members on. It was intended to be both a safe house and headquarters after all, so he planned accordingly. He steadfastly refused to bunk in the twins’ old room, stating that there was no telling what they’d hidden away in there that anyone could accidentally stumble upon. Instead, he’d situated himself in Ron’s old room and stayed there for to past two years. (Ron had no problems whatsoever relocating to the twins’ room, disliking losing his own space but still happy to be out of the attic.) And so, there Percy stayed. Together with three bunk beds, four semi-permanent roommates and the odd interloper who didn’t fit in the den.
He didn’t mind it when Oliver Wood claimed the top bunk of his bed. They’d roomed together for seven years at school, so Percy was used to the quidditch player’s habits. He also didn’t mind that his two older brothers called another of the three bunk beds their own when they’d arrived. Neither Bill nor Charlie ever picked on him. Not like their younger siblings often enjoyed doing. It was his fifth sometimes-roommate that gave him a few little problems.
Percy was sitting on his bunk, flipping through a report from work when the door opened one day. He’d glanced up, expecting it to be Oliver returning from quidditch practice. Instead, his mouth went dry, and his face burned all the way up to his ears. Standing in the doorway was none other than the former captain of the Slytherin quidditch team: Marcus Flint. Marcus bloody Flint. Of all people to have walked in, that was the last person Percy would have considered. At least, within reason.
The last time he’d seen the man was over a year previous when they’d graduated from Hogwarts and took one last train ride on the Hogwarts Express. His body suddenly felt warm as he took in the man. His mind raced with the kind of thoughts that had always occasionally flitted through his mind. Having him physically in front of him, however, the thoughts were much more visceral.
Everyone, it seemed, was convinced that Marcus Flint sometimes sharing his room bothered him because the man was a former Slytherin and came from a traditionally dark aligned family—dark being the type of magic they usually had an affinity to—that was known to have sided with You-Know-Who in the last war. This was untrue, no matter what anyone said. Percy had nothing against Slytherins in general. He never bought into the public sentiment that Dark (meaning evil) witches and wizards were all Slytherins. This was patently untrue. All one had to do was open a history book to find that wasn’t the case. More pertinently, Pettigrew, the man who betrayed the Potters, had been a Gryffindor. True, the Flint line was filled with traditionally dark-type casters and most of the currently living members were Dark, but Marcus had defected from the Dark Side and cut all ties with his family last July.
Everyone was also convinced the man just plain bothered him. This was partially true. What no one realized was that “bothered” was actually, as some would say, preceded by “hot and”. He never voiced this. Ever. No one was ever to know how he felt about the former Slytherin Quidditch Captain. With his size, it had always surprised Percy that the man had been a chaser. He had the look of a beater, but all that bulk had served him well when occasionally barrelling through the opposing line of chasers.
He'd had to force his eyes away from the man that first day. Had to physically turn away from him, hunching in on himself to hide from the disparaging voice in his head that sounded a lot like the twins. The one that reminded him of why the man would never give him a second thought beyond recognizing him as a stodgy, pretentious roommate. And it wasn’t like that thought was unfounded. Even Oliver had shot him that particular annoyed look plenty of times over the years, and, of course, everyone knew they were still friends. He’d bit his lip and forced his hands to unclench from where they’d clutched the front of his cardigan, taken a calming breath, and turned back to the man to offer an awkward, stilted greeting.
But, even in the beginning, Percy hadn’t complained about the entire arrangement. He didn’t really mind giving up his room. For over a year he’d had the topmost room to himself, more or less. There’d been a few exceptions during that time when Oliver or one of his brothers had stayed the night before finally becoming more permanent fixtures. And he wasn’t even bothered by being so close to the attic where the ghoul still banged on the pipes when it got too quiet. There were silencing spells and wards for a reason. He wasn’t about to start complaining now that one of his roommates was Marcus Flint. It would give him the wrong idea, and the man might leave and choose not to come back.
Instead, Percy chose to ignore him and stay away from him as much as possible during the day. He tried not to disturb the man when they were both reading in their bunks, or in the living room on rare occasions when no one else was around. He pretended he wasn’t listening to the sound of him breathing on nights the man stayed; that his gaze didn’t drift towards him when they were surrounded by others, or when it was quiet, and they were just relaxing. That he wasn’t secretly imagining what it would be like to be lying next to him, tucked securely into the man’s side… Maybe Percy was a masochist. He certainly felt like it most days.