Written for QLFC Season 5, Final Round 3
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Beater 2
Prompt: A fluffy story using the prompt "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" – The Smiths' (song)
Additional Prompts: 1. (emotion) cynical, 4. (word) kindness, 14. (word) lovely
Words: 1264
Thanks to Aya and Boom for betaing!
It was raining, which just added to Percy's sour mood. The rain was cold, as it always was in the winter—the fact that it was raining instead of snowing just added insult to injury. Snow would have been more inconvenient, but at least it looked good.
He ducked his head into his collar and skirted around a pair of teenagers. They had no business being out so late, and were probably up to something. He couldn't help being suspicious—it was something reserved from his Prefect days, but probably from even earlier; he was always a stickler for rules.
If only people followed those rules!
But they didn't. None of them.
The teenagers were drinking and smoking in doorways, forging their documents to get into clubs, and fornicating without thinking twice about who they're with. The rain, contrary to the expected winter weather, was cold and unrepentant, but showed no inclination of turning to snow. Everyone was wet and miserable—and was made more miserable by already being miserable, which in turn excited their anger.
The loitering teenagers and hurrying pedestrians looked at Percy as he walked, but they all looked far too busy to truly see him. To them, he was nothing more than another face in the crowd; someone they could push, walk around, or throw an angry look at.
He couldn't blame them, not in this weather. They had their own problems and lives—they had their own happiness to think about, just like Percy did. But the rain and the crowd only made him feel worse. It wasn't supposed to happen, but he couldn't help it; he, like all of them, was stuck in a mood.
He, like all of them, was focused on himself.
It hadn't been a good day. His briefcase was weighing him down, filled with all the extra work Mr. Crouch was making him do: new broomstick regulations, research on cauldron bottom thickness, and about ten other projects Crouch expected him to figure out himself. He hadn't even been able to look at all of them yet, because he'd been in a hurry to get home.
He'd thought it would be a quick journey. But the fireplaces at the Ministry were all backed up because of some sort of mix-up, and Apparating was out of the question because the licence to Apparate to and from work cost money that Percy didn't have.
He usually didn't mind walking. His flat was only a short ride on the Muggle underground away from the Ministry, and the walk to the station took less than ten minutes. Making the walk in the rain was abysmal, of course, but usually he didn't mind so much.
There was always a bright side to any situation, but Percy couldn't find it right now.
He was bitter, yes. And annoyed. And angry.
Percy dodged a fast-walking man; he had to jump off the pavement for a second, getting his shoes wet; he could hear the man mutter "Watch where you're going, nutcase," as he walked away.
He shook his head as he jumped back onto the pavement; the man hadn't even been looking where he was going. Percy knew he wouldn't be the only person the man would bump into.
It wasn't his fault that the man was so angry. He'd had a miserable day, that much was clear. He was angrier than Percy; more bitter; more annoyed; hating the world and everyone in it. Why? Percy didn't have the answer. Perhaps he'd just received some sort of horrible news. Perhaps he was just angry for the sake of being angry.
He wanted to give the man the benefit of the doubt.
But it was hard.
Because he knew that the man was most likely just angry. At Percy, at all the other people that happened to be in his way. Like Mr. Crouch, when he yelled at Percy for asking too many questions; when he didn't bother to learn Percy's actual name; when he reduced a young seventh-year student intern to tears; when he dug into his colleagues' lives to get information on them to spread around to benefit his career later on; when he looked with derision at anyone who showed any kindness, thinking it to be weakness.
Like the bickering couple standing in the middle of the Ministry, unsure of where to go, because they didn't like the layout of the Atrium; like the loitering teenagers who looked at Percy with disgust because he had a briefcase; like the woman on the underground who was scowling at the young boy sitting next to her because he was falling asleep, and she "hadn't slept in fifteen hours."
The man's troubles were bigger than Percy's. Percy had a good job, a caring boyfriend waiting for him at home.
But he couldn't keep his cynical attitude at bay.
He wasn't feeling sorry for himself—he knew his evening would improve.
He'd go home, and Oliver would be there, back from Quidditch practice and ready with hugs, kisses, and dinner; just like Percy was there for him when Oliver worked late.
But the man would continue on with his evening, snapping at people, scowling, passing on his sour mood. The bickering couple at the Ministry would annoy everyone in the Atrium, get kicked out of the Ministry for the disturbance, and keep arguing at home. The woman on the underground would take her holier-than-thou attitude off the underground and to her family. Mr. Crouch would go home to punish his House-Elf.
Avoiding another loud group, Percy stepped into his own street. The weather picked up, and ducking his head down even further couldn't prevent Percy's vision getting distorted as his glasses became drenched.
"Lovely." Percy sighed, trying to see through the water droplets.
His flat was right there, however, and he was soon wiping the water off his glasses, and then climbing the stairs and unlocking the door.
The lights were on, bathing the flat in a warm glow. The rain outside covered the windows, but couldn't get inside; instead of being cold and miserable, it now seemed calm and comforting. He hung his coat and put down his briefcase as both dripped onto the doormat, then toed off his shoes and proceeded into the flat.
The carpet, welcoming as always, was soft against his socked feet, so much warmer than when he'd been out in the rain. It was warm in the flat, too; warm, like it was always supposed to be indoors during the winter.
And then there was Oliver.
He was on the couch, his feet tucked under him as he read—an old book, loved and worn—dark hair falling onto his forehead. He looked up as Percy walked closer, and Percy smiled as Oliver smiled up at him.
It was the same smile Oliver gave when he looked at a Quidditch field, when he polished his broom, when he succeeded in following a complicated recipe. The smile that reminded Percy of home. Of why it was worth it to sit in a stuffed office all day, talking to Crouch and listening to angry and bitter employees; he was trying to improve things, from broomstick regulations to the quality of cauldrons—one small change at a time, no matter how seemingly insignificant.
Oliver reached a hand up to him, which Percy took, allowing himself to be tugged onto the couch as Oliver abandoned his book.
"Hey," Oliver said.
The last thing Percy saw before he closed his eyes for the incoming kiss was the reflection of snow in the window.