Percy and the Barkeep
A/N: Taking a moment away from my murder mystery Never Simple and the novel I've been working on to write a one-shot about Percy and Audrey.
The war was raging all about his ears, and Percy was tired. He was scared for his family, he was sorry he'd been such a prat, and he was just all around exhausted. His job, even if it had been given to him under false pretenses, had never been an easy one, and it was ever so much harder when he was trying to avoid getting killed for setting a toe out of line.
The phrase rang with the echo of a howler his mum had sent his little brother years ago, and he nearly swooned where he stood (he was walking, actually, but the point stands). That happened to him every time he thought of them, out there resisting the darkness that was swallowing up the wizarding world. Every time he thought about the way they were gone from his life, and could very well just be gone from life in general.
Percy wasn't being self-pitying- no, he hated himself. He hated everything he had- and hadn't- done these past few years. Sometimes he wanted to launch himself off a building because of it.
The rain that splattered across the cobblestones was ever so fitting for his frame of mind, to the point that he didn't notice how his robes were getting soaked and his horn-rimmed glasses had rivulets of water running down the lenses. He didn't notice the puddle he trudged through that sent mud flying onto the young witch hurrying past in the opposite direction. He didn't notice his curly red hair becoming plastered to his forehead.
He didn't notice any of it, not until he found himself stopping in front of a tiny little pub that seemed inviting and warm and cozy. He stared up at the faded sign, unable to read the characters portrayed on it, and suddenly recognized how utterly miserable he felt- physically, that is. He'd known for weeks what miserable thoughts he was thinking.
A man emerged from the pub as he stood there, an impressive sort with a heavy leather jacket, those gloves with no fingers, a thick black beard, and a general impression of grit and grime. The man looked down at Percy- no small feat, considering the lad was a Weasley- for a long moment. And then the lanky redhead found his shoulder being grabbed by one saucer-like hand as the man dragged him inside, roaring for the "bar wench" to fetch him a firewhiskey.
"Get ye a seat by the fire, boy!" the man roared, shoving Percy in the direction of the fireplace. "Ye look positively downtrodden!"
A big word for such a rough-and-tumble man, Percy thought, numbly, as he stumbled over to the table indicated. He heard the man ordering someone to keep an eye on him, and while Percy felt this unnecessary he found himself unable to complain. The man reminded him of Hagrid- but, you know, of a size within reach of a normal human.
A brunette came over as the big man swept back out the door, rolling her eyes. "He's got a heart to match his stature, that one. Keeps picking up strays. You really want that firewhiskey?" she eyed him quizzically, no doubt thinking he looked like a lightweight- which, truthfully, he was.
Still somewhat shell-shocked by his entrance, Percy didn't respond to the question, rather the accent it was spoken with. "You're American," he gaped.
"Clever." He was pretty sure that was sarcastic, but she did a good job of hiding the tone. "So what do you want?"
"Want?" he blinked. "Oh, erm, yes. You see, I didn't actually intend to come in. So…"
"So you're just taking up table space in my pub?" she raised an eyebrow. "I'd be pissed, but as you can see business isn't exactly booming." Around the entire room there were only two other customers.
Percy wrinkled his brow, thinking that her lack of clientele probably had something to do with her harsh demeanor. She should be nicer to her patrons. However, a firewhiskey suddenly seemed downright pleasant. Getting drunk was what you were supposed to do when depressed, right? "I guess I'll take the firewhiskey."
"I'd suggest you dry your robes, too, wizard boy," she winked and turned back to her bar.
Strangely, Percy found himself staring after her- there was something alluring about her. He'd personally always thought that it was silly for wizards and witches not to wear robes, but the way those muggle pants fit her made it seem less so. Jeans, he thought they were called?
He took her advice, drying his clothing and cleaning his glasses, and was just setting them back on his nose when she came back with his drink. She set it before him, and he stared at it for a moment. He'd never gotten drunk before.
"You raise the glass to your lips, and then you drink it," she told him, taking the seat across from him. As mentioned, business wasn't booming, so there was no point for her not to sit and chat.
"I know how to-" he broke off his heated retort, recognizing from the smirk on her face that she was just baiting him. "Stupid Americans," he muttered and angrily took a swig. He bit back a cough, not wanting to give her satisfaction.
"I'll have you know that America is smart enough to kill their criminals good and properly the first time around," she said coolly, folding her arms over her chest.
Percy froze with his drink halfway to his lips. No one ever spoke of the war in such a blasé manner; it was something akin to blasphemy. "What?" he whispered.
"Have you heard of Count Jefferson?" she raised an eyebrow. "No, because the instant he started to gain power the American Ministry had him publically executed. Call it the Dark Ages, but I find it refreshing to know that the bad guys get what they deserve in my country."
"That- well, we thought he was dead!" Percy spluttered.
"They would have made sure of it in America," she smirked.
"Well, then why are you here?" he scowled, seeing no point in continuing the ridiculous argument but being unable to resist.
She smirked and shrugged. "You Brits need a little New World perspective."
"Which you give from behind a bar?" he scoffed.
"Which I give from behind a bar that most Ministry workers frequent," she corrected. "Subliminal messaging, mate. They come in and tell their sob stories, and I subtly push them into new ways of thinking."
"They?" he raised an eyebrow, wondering if she didn't know that he was one of "them."
"It's not like there's only one." She rolled her eyes. "The pronoun has to be plural."
Refreshing. She didn't know a damn thing about him. "Of course," he agreed, and as he took another drink of his firewhiskey he realized it was almost empty. How strange.
"Refill?" she asked, spotting the same thing.
"Sure." He downed the last of it and sat back as she left, feeling a pleasant buzz in his mind. She didn't know anything about him. He could just be himself. But how much of himself depended on his mundane job and his opposite family?
She sat back down across from him, setting his new drink in front of him. "Speaking of sob stories, what's yours?"
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was that he wanted someone unbiased to know, but he found himself spilling it all to her… and at the end she just set a hand over his and smiled softly. "Perce, if you want to be like them, just get your ass up and do it."
Two days later, he fought beside his family in the Battle of Hogwarts… And a part of him was wishing that he'd asked the pretty American barkeep what her name was.