Italy is all vineyards in the country. They take the train, and when it
breaches the side of the mountain, Percy can see the sea for miles and
miles, so ink-blue that when he finally touches it he's almost surprised it
rolls off his skin without leaving a stain.
The spend evenings on the shore, Percy perched on a small towel in the high dune-grass, careful not to dirty his suits, and Tom silhouetted black against the sunset and the ocean. He always stands on a rock, and if Percy doesn't blink he swears Tom starts hovering there, just slightly, after a while.
Percy shifts, leans back on elbows and speaks to the sky directly overhead.
"Can you change it."
Percy never questions Tom. Tom never really answers Percy, though.
"Would you want me to."
That night they go back to the small hotel dug into the rock cliff and forget about lineage and sisters and sand dunes in their gasps and moans. Perfect breathy sighs against sunless skin. The bellboys give the pair wayward glances in the elevators when Tom curls against Percy's side. On a good day. Bad days Tom can go for hours without even looking at Percy.
Tom can change; cast a glamour to suit Percy's desires without asking what they are. Wood, Flint, Pucey. The third year Slytherin who isn't a third year anymore that Percy caught wandering the halls as Head Boy. Percy's not sure if Tom is changing him as well, into some forgotten boy of his youth, until they're no longer making love to each other. They weren't ever making love in the first place.
Percy isn't easily satisfied. He knows this conversation, this dialogue, could last days and days, through the whole vacation if it must. But he's come all the way to Italy, all the way to the end of himself, and he has to know.
"Could you?"
There's need in his voice this time; at the café, morning sunlight filtering through Tom's open newspaper. He's reading about local politicians and he's chuckling. He doesn't look up.
"Yes."
It's all swirling color now; blue and green and turquoise in brilliant streaks. It goes red, so crimson that Percy feels that somebody must be pushing their thumbs into his eye sockets to produce such color. Plateaus to yellow, marigold and back to black again.
Percy blinks.
He lying in his bed at the Burrow and he knows what night it is. Fourteen years old and he's just come back from a day at his father's office. He waits.
His closet door is open just barely, and inside are rows and rows of crisp white shirts and grey sweater vests. Most children have some play-clothes, like jeans and T-shirts, but for Percy play-clothes consist of a fancy tie that his father leant him and the navy and green suspenders that buttoned into his trousers.
Percy's still awake at dawn, and when he comes downstairs he finds no pain, no coffee and no older brothers.
The next time the colors overtake him he's less distraught. He thinks to call out, wondering if Tom can hear him.
He has the same little flat, and Ginny reaches across the table to grab the salt and Percy can't shut his eyes, no matter how much he wants to. They're still fully open later, glancing at the curve of Ginny's shoulder when she speaks to him, more unsure than he remembers.
".He did it to you?"
"No."
"Arthur.father.he ---"
At that exact moment, Percy hates Tom more than anything. And it's Tom's face he sees as his fingers curl around Ginny's throat and Tom's voice between the girlish sobs, pleading for his life. Not that Tom has a life.
The light at the café is too bright, and the crossword is mirrored in stark black newsprint against the back of Percy's arm, six-letter-word for puzzle bent at his elbow.
It would be easy to send the table and its contents crashing to the pavement. Or to pick up his butter knife and drive it through the creases in Tom shirt. Pity he'd find the chest cavity empty. And Percy knows this. He's shaking so much the china rattles and Tom turns a page and re- crosses his legs.
Percy doesn't trust himself to speak, but he does anyway. Without malice, without anger or hatred or any semblance of emotion. Percy's coming undone.
"Was it true."
Tom pulls out some creased bills, dropping them on the table as he folds the paper under one arm. His answer is almost lost in the drag of the metal chair scraping backwards.
"What do you think."
The spend evenings on the shore, Percy perched on a small towel in the high dune-grass, careful not to dirty his suits, and Tom silhouetted black against the sunset and the ocean. He always stands on a rock, and if Percy doesn't blink he swears Tom starts hovering there, just slightly, after a while.
Percy shifts, leans back on elbows and speaks to the sky directly overhead.
"Can you change it."
Percy never questions Tom. Tom never really answers Percy, though.
"Would you want me to."
That night they go back to the small hotel dug into the rock cliff and forget about lineage and sisters and sand dunes in their gasps and moans. Perfect breathy sighs against sunless skin. The bellboys give the pair wayward glances in the elevators when Tom curls against Percy's side. On a good day. Bad days Tom can go for hours without even looking at Percy.
Tom can change; cast a glamour to suit Percy's desires without asking what they are. Wood, Flint, Pucey. The third year Slytherin who isn't a third year anymore that Percy caught wandering the halls as Head Boy. Percy's not sure if Tom is changing him as well, into some forgotten boy of his youth, until they're no longer making love to each other. They weren't ever making love in the first place.
Percy isn't easily satisfied. He knows this conversation, this dialogue, could last days and days, through the whole vacation if it must. But he's come all the way to Italy, all the way to the end of himself, and he has to know.
"Could you?"
There's need in his voice this time; at the café, morning sunlight filtering through Tom's open newspaper. He's reading about local politicians and he's chuckling. He doesn't look up.
"Yes."
It's all swirling color now; blue and green and turquoise in brilliant streaks. It goes red, so crimson that Percy feels that somebody must be pushing their thumbs into his eye sockets to produce such color. Plateaus to yellow, marigold and back to black again.
Percy blinks.
He lying in his bed at the Burrow and he knows what night it is. Fourteen years old and he's just come back from a day at his father's office. He waits.
His closet door is open just barely, and inside are rows and rows of crisp white shirts and grey sweater vests. Most children have some play-clothes, like jeans and T-shirts, but for Percy play-clothes consist of a fancy tie that his father leant him and the navy and green suspenders that buttoned into his trousers.
Percy's still awake at dawn, and when he comes downstairs he finds no pain, no coffee and no older brothers.
The next time the colors overtake him he's less distraught. He thinks to call out, wondering if Tom can hear him.
He has the same little flat, and Ginny reaches across the table to grab the salt and Percy can't shut his eyes, no matter how much he wants to. They're still fully open later, glancing at the curve of Ginny's shoulder when she speaks to him, more unsure than he remembers.
".He did it to you?"
"No."
"Arthur.father.he ---"
At that exact moment, Percy hates Tom more than anything. And it's Tom's face he sees as his fingers curl around Ginny's throat and Tom's voice between the girlish sobs, pleading for his life. Not that Tom has a life.
The light at the café is too bright, and the crossword is mirrored in stark black newsprint against the back of Percy's arm, six-letter-word for puzzle bent at his elbow.
It would be easy to send the table and its contents crashing to the pavement. Or to pick up his butter knife and drive it through the creases in Tom shirt. Pity he'd find the chest cavity empty. And Percy knows this. He's shaking so much the china rattles and Tom turns a page and re- crosses his legs.
Percy doesn't trust himself to speak, but he does anyway. Without malice, without anger or hatred or any semblance of emotion. Percy's coming undone.
"Was it true."
Tom pulls out some creased bills, dropping them on the table as he folds the paper under one arm. His answer is almost lost in the drag of the metal chair scraping backwards.
"What do you think."