A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all the guys who ever whined to me about their girl problems. I apologise for turning your stories into a Harry Potter fanfic. Also for all the torpes. You know who you are. May you find the courage to finally ask the girl out.
Thanks to all those who reviewed, and especially to dart kid for the extra feedback.
III: because the angels tremble from so much beauty
That may have been a stroke of luck, for his best bet was the written word.
Perhaps it was because he was so used to reining himself in, because when Percy spoke it never came out the way he wanted it to. And although most of the time he was guarded, measured, he would occasionally blurt out things people didn't want, didn't need to hear. Charlie had laughed at him once, telling him that Percy had the worst case of verbal diarrhoea he'd ever seen.
Ink on parchment. Solid, real, comforting. He could plot what to say, scratch it out if it was wrong. Think it over. Tear drafts to shreds if they weren't right, without anyone seeing him lose control. And if it didn't work out, he had the old standby. My owl got lost, he's a bit bird-brained ha ha, so sorry.
But even with all his planning, he never thought of what he would do once the summer was over, once the letters stopped coming; what he had to do when he was with her, in the flesh, once again.
After all, when all was said and done, he was just a boy.
-0-This was harder than he had thought.
Percy was bent over his desk, with a piece of blotted parchment before him. Dear Penelope; no, that sounded so formal. Dear Penny; maybe only her friends called her that. Who were her friends? Did he count?
Hello, how's your summer going? Rotten. She'd already told him so before it began.
Someone banged at the door. "Hey, Perce," he heard Ron's voice bellow through the wood. "You planning on eating sometime? Mum's been calling you down for ages now!"
Night had fallen without his noticing it. He tossed the parchment away. He decided to abandon the whole idea; maybe he would say yes to that Hufflepuff in Herbology next time she asked him out for a butterbeer.
"What have you been doing, anyway?" Ron asked him as he opened the door. "You've been in here since noon!"
Percy flexed his fingers, noting that they were copiously ink-stained. "Studying for the year ahead, of course. As you should be." Ron rolled his eyes, but Percy ignored this. "Go tell Mum I'll be right down; just have to wash up."
When the frenzy the Weasleys called dinner was finally over, Percy plodded back to his room again.
There, on his desk, was a letter.
The envelope was made of white Muggle linen paper, not parchment, and unmarked save for his name. He slit it open carefully and put it aside for his father, for nothing was too banal for Arthur Weasley as long as it was Muggle.
He unfolded a piece of white paper, lined with blue, and with three evenly spaced holes on the side. It was covered with writing, large and loopy but neat, and completely devoid of inkblots.
Dear Percy,
I do hope you don't mind my writing to you- I did say I might to keep my family from driving me nutters.
He quickly scanned the page, his gaze resting on certain words- hot...brothers...sisters...barmy...you...prefect...me...you...what would you do?...help...me...you...what do you do?...tell me...tell you...write back.
And he would read this letter again, knew that he would come to memorise every word, but right now all he could see was the bold, clear signature at the bottom of the page.
Penelope Clearwater
She made it too easy for him.
Dear Penelope,
Congratulations! Your parents must be proud; a prefect is a prefect, whether in a Wizarding school or Muggle.
There's no real reason to worry about how you'll do. Just stick to the rules and make sure everyone does the same- admittedly, it's the last part that's hard. But take away enough points and give the good students a few, and they'll listen to you. Well, unless you happen to run into my brothers.
Speaking of which, they're not driving me as crazy as I thought they would. Maybe because I spend all my time up here in my room, or swimming- there's a swimming hole near our house. It's really too hot to do anything else.
If you'd like to know anything else, about being a prefect or anything, really, just feel free to write back. I hope your summer is going well.
Percy Weasley
He wrote it down all in one go, and sent Hermes on his way, for he knew that if he reread, revised, he would never write her back. Still, as soon as his owl left his windowsill he regretted it, realising how stupid he sounded. "Feel free to write back?" What was he, customer service?
It must not have mattered to Penelope, though, for Hermes returned with a letter the very next day.
Dear Percy,
Well, I had to do something laudable or my parents would have found a way to take me out of Hogwarts. They've never really been happy with my being a witch, you know. Right before they sent me on the Hogwarts Express the first time, my mum told me, and I quote, "You had better conduct yourself creditably from now on, and not be the hoyden you were in your old school. Any shenanigans from you, young lady, and your father and I are storming that castle ourselves and bringing you home." They haven't said anything like that since, so I assume I'm doing all right.
I had hoped we would be able to spend the holidays at the sea, but no such luck. My sisters and I are making do with the garden hose, and going around the house with as little clothing as possible. My little brother is lucky- being only two means he doesn't really bother with such conventions as clothes.
Are you going anywhere for the holidays? I'm sorry if I'm running your owl ragged, but my parents refuse to get me any sort of wizarding pet. My school things are good enough, they say, I don't need any more. If it's causing you too much trouble, I'll try and see if there's any owl post near our place.
Your friend, Penny
His friend.
His friend, going around the house with almost no clothes on.
As soon as he wrote his reply, he was going to take a long, cold shower. It was a sweltering summer, after all.
Dear Penny,
It's no trouble about Hermes; I don't really send that many letters, and I think he's grateful for the exercise.
Your mum called you a hoyden? Never would have believed it. Ravenclaws seem incapable of getting into any trouble. Then again your parents must be pleased, you aren't the hoyden that you said you used to be, then.
He rambled a bit about his brothers, the simple summer pleasures they had at the Burrow. He ended with another request that she write back soon, and hoped that he didn't sound too needy.
Dear Percy,
That's a misconception Ravenclaws will do nothing to erase. But since I trust you to be discreet, let me tell you this- that "nose stuck in a book" image we have is a complete lie. The problem with most Ravenclaws is that they're so smart they don't have to study. The sort of people who read the book once and get top marks the next day. (Which makes me wonder what I'm doing in Ravenclaw...) That leaves a lot of time to think up and do all sorts of crazy things, but unlike you Gryffindors, we're clever enough not to get caught.
And with each piece of parchment, with each swoop of owl and flapping of wing, he felt something swell within him. Perhaps he was finally feeling something of the vaunted Gryffindor courage. Or maybe he was just losing his head.
Drops of ink, scratch of quill, and a Muggle phrase echoing through his head. Damn the torpedoes.
Dear Penny,
Cocky, aren't we?
And two hours later, Hermes was back again.
Dear Percy,
I think you like it when I'm cocky.
A hoot of protest, a proffered owl treat, and a less-than-affectionate nip on his finger.
Dear Pen,
You're right.
And they wrote, and wrote, and wrote.
At first he held himself back, his letters simply replies to her questions and silly stock phrases one normally found in greeting cards. Soon he realised that wasn't fair, for she wrote to him about anything and everything, without reserve. So he let slip a little about his dreams. A little about his thoughts. And when he found that she didn't stop writing to him, didn't let on that she found what he wanted and hoped for stupid, that in fact she wanted to know more, he wrote a little bit more and a little bit more, though he never could be as open as she was.
He liked Defence Against the Dark Arts, she had a hankering for Potions. He told her about moonlit broomrides when then rest of the Burrow was sleeping, and she told him of sailing into the heart of the storm. He told her about a Weird Sisters concert Bill had dragged him and Charlie to; she asked if they were anything like the Super Furry Animals. She wanted to go around the world, and try everything at least once; he was content to tell her of his O.W.L.s results and his hopes for the N.E.W.T.s. She dreamed of meeting famous people, wrote pages about mosh pits and rock bands and films and poetry. He said there wasn't much poetry in the wizarding world. They both liked the dungeons, for they seemed so far removed from the rest of Hogwarts; he told her rumours of secret tunnels and she returned with stories of hidden staircases.
Slowly, the letters changed tone and substance. He told her of the kids at Ottery St. Catchpole, the ones that didn't go to Hogwarts; she told him about a Muggle boy her parents wanted her to marry, that actually they didn't really care for the boy, just that he was Muggle. He told her how he always looked at the eyes first and she told him how she wanted to be kissed. He went back to complaining about his brothers, and she wrote about veiled places, quoted Muggle love songs.
His dreams the rest of the summer were of dungeons and secrets and long curly hair.
TBC