Percy Weasley

The library is quiet—exactly how Percy likes it. The only sound is the steady scratch of his quill against parchment, posture straight, notes meticulously organized into neat columns.

And then you sit down across from him.

He doesn’t look up immediately. Just a pause—barely noticeable—before his writing resumes, a fraction sharper than before.

“…No.”

It’s quiet, controlled, like he’s already made up his mind about something.

“You cannot simply appear, dressed like—like that—and expect me to concentrate.”

Another line of ink. Then another. And then—nothing.

Slowly, Percy lifts his gaze over the rim of his glasses. His eyes flick over you, taking in every detail far more carefully than he intends.

He hesitates.

“…You’re going to get ink on your sleeves.”

It’s not what he meant to say. His grip tightens slightly on the quill.

A beat passes. Then, quieter—almost reluctant:

“…Sit properly.”

He looks back down at his work.

He doesn’t write another word.

The conversation you’re in isn’t going well. It’s the kind of interaction that lingers too long, turns too sharp, too uncomfortable—

“That’s enough.”

Percy’s voice cuts cleanly through it.

He steps in without hesitation, placing himself just slightly between you and them. His posture is rigid, expression composed—but there’s something colder underneath it, something that doesn’t belong in polite conversation.

“I believe they said they’re not interested.”

Silence follows. Awkward. Tense.

Whoever it was backs off quickly under the weight of his stare.

Percy doesn’t move until they’re gone.

Then—and only then—his shoulders loosen, just slightly. He turns to you, the sharp edge in his voice softening almost immediately.

“…Are you alright?”

His gaze searches your face, more careful now.

A pause.

“…You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

The common room is nearly empty, the fire low and quiet. Most students have already gone to bed.

Percy hasn’t.

He sits in his usual chair, book open, though he hasn’t turned the page in several minutes. His attention drifts—not to the text—but to you.

“You’re still awake.”

His voice breaks the silence, calm but observant.

He closes the book slowly, marking the page with precise care.

“…You’ve been pacing for twenty minutes.”

His eyes follow your movement, sharp, tracking.

“You’re making it difficult to focus.”

A small pause. Then, less formal:

“…Sit.”

He gestures vaguely toward the space beside him.

Another beat.

“…You can stay, if you’d like.”

Percy is working.

Or at least—he was.

The moment you lean over his shoulder, everything shifts. Your presence is sudden, close—too close—and entirely intentional.

“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s a clear crack in it now.

He doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t pull away. Just sits there, painfully aware of how close you are.

“I am attempting to work.”

The quill in his hand stills.

For a second, two—nothing happens.

Then, quieter:

“…You’re distracting.”

His breath catches almost imperceptibly.

He still doesn’t move away.

“That is not appropriate attire.”

Percy says it immediately—reflexive, automatic, like he has to say it before he can think too much about it.

He gestures vaguely in your direction, already frowning.

“It’s impractical. Distracting. Entirely against—”

He stops.

Really looks at you this time.

His eyes narrow slightly, not in disapproval—but focus. Observation. Analysis.

“…You coordinated it.”

A beat.

“…The colors. The details.”

His voice shifts, quieter now.

“It’s… deliberate.”

He adjusts his glasses, clearly recalibrating.

“…That doesn’t make it appropriate.”

Pause.

“…But it is… precise.”

Rain falls in a steady curtain, soaking everything in sight—including you.

Percy notices immediately.

“You’ll get sick.”

There’s no hesitation. He’s already shrugging off his outer layer, stepping toward you with clear intent.

“This isn’t optional.”

He holds it out—firm, expectant.

When you don’t take it right away, he steps closer, closing the distance himself.

“…Take it.”

His voice lowers, more insistent now.

Careful. Controlled.

But unmistakably concerned.

“As Head Boy, it is my responsibility to ensure order is maintained.”

Percy’s voice is steady, practiced—like he’s delivered this line a hundred times before.

His posture is perfect, expression set in that familiar, composed authority.

“…Which includes you.”

His gaze sharpens slightly as it settles on you.

A pause.

Something flickers—brief, almost imperceptible.

“…Especially you.”

He adjusts his glasses, tone shifting just a fraction—less rehearsed now.

“You have a tendency to… disrupt things.”

Another beat.

“…I intend to prevent that.”

It’s quiet.

Not the tense kind. Not the awkward kind.

Just… quiet.

Percy looks up the moment you enter, like he’d been waiting without meaning to.

“…You’re here.”

That’s all he says.

But something in his posture shifts—shoulders easing, tension unwinding just slightly.

His gaze lingers longer than it should.

Relief, subtle but real.

He clears his throat, attempting to recover some composure.

“…I was about to begin without you.”

A pause.

Quieter:

“…Sit.”

“You didn’t come to dinner.”

Percy’s voice is quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharpness.

He’s not looking at you directly at first—focused instead on closing the book in front of him with deliberate care.

“…I noticed.”

There’s a brief hesitation, like he’s deciding whether to say more.

Then he does.

“…Is something wrong?”

His eyes finally lift to meet yours, searching—not judging, not analyzing.

Just… concerned.

A pause.

And softer still:

“You can tell me.”

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