Disclaimer: Percy and Oliver don't belong to me, I am making no money off of this, blah blah blah.

Warning: Slashy themes! Watch out! Tame and mild, but there all the same.

Dedication: For Kimagure, cause you deserve it! You leave wonderful reviews, and you're a wonderful writer. I m in love with your story "Take Me Home", and can't wait for the next chapter.

Authors Note: If you leave a review, please leave a review. Not a complaint, not a nitpick, not a flame. I like to know what people think of this story. I only write if I know people like something. If they don't like it, I don't write. Or I write purely to piss them off, depending. Oh! And 'The Flask' is actually based on a restaurant I frequent. :-)

Same As It Ever Was

Chapter 3

Dear Percy,

Sunday sounds great! I'd love to meet you for dinner. I haven't had a good meal out in a while. I'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron around six? If that's not good, just tell me what time is good for you and we'll meet then. It'll be really good to see you again. See you on Sunday!

Oliver

I have read and reread this letter at least a dozen times. Odd, how much two pieces of parchment can mean so much to me. There's no value in them. They're meaningless. Thoughts put into words made tangible, that's all. But they are Oliver's thoughts and words. And they are directed towards me. And that creates in me a rather pleasant form of apprehension. He is looking forward to seeing me. He wants to see me. I have owled him to tell him Sunday at six is fine. It is now Sunday, around four. I have only a little ways to go to get to the Leaky Cauldron. I have found myself caught up in what to wear.

My wardrobe is rather limited. A pair of jeans, a pair of muggle slacks, a handful of sweaters and two robes. And of course my dress robes. Nothing suitable for dinner with Oliver. My jeans, perhaps will do. (The pair I am not wearing) But none of my sweaters are suitable. They're either hand me downs or handmade by my mother. I frown, lifting my jeans out of my small closet. They are clean and pressed, I rarely ever wear them. Perhaps the slacks would be more suited? I don't want this to be too relaxed. Yes, the slacks. I pull them out, fingers trailing over the dark blue material. But I need a new shirt. Something nice.

I look over my funds. Do I have enough to spend on a new shirt? I've been saving up. I never spend unnecessarily. I have a small horde of savings, stored away. My rainy day money, I suppose it is. A new shirt. It wouldn't cost that much. I can indulge. No. It is not an indulgence, it is a necessity. I cannot look sloppy for Oliver. And I have nothing suitable. I adjust my robe, retrieve my money purse from the locked drawer where I keep it, and prepare to leave my small apartment.

Why have I waited so long? It is only two hours before I am supposed to meet Oliver. What if I am late? Held up somewhere? So many things can go wrong...I calm myself. I am just buying a shirt. It will take me perhaps half an hour. There is a store right outside the muggle entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. I will wear my slacks, and if worst comes to worst and I'm running late, I will change on my way.

I change my pants, quickly, then hurry out the door. I walk quickly but calmly out onto Diagon alley, and strait to the Cauldron. I slip through, walking stiff and rigid. I hate these excursions to the muggle world, but they must be done. I prefer muggle clothing for casual wear, and the only place one can find it is in the muggle world. It is often too busy for my tastes. And dirty. There is a dirtiness to Muggle London that I do not like. I would much rather stay in the Wizarding World.

The street outside is relatively empty. I frown, realizing that shops may not be open on a Sunday evening. No, they close early but not this early. I believe they close around six. I am not out enough to know things like this. I can only hope that I am correct in my assumptions. Barker's, the small men's clothing store down the street, is relatively inexpensive and easily accessible. I arrive there shortly, slipping inside with a hurried glance at my watch. Four thirty. Plenty of time.

I browse through a few neatly folded dress shirts. Too formal. Perhaps something in cotton would be better serving. And what color? Red hair is quite hard to dress to. I am forced to depend on dark colors. Black, perhaps. But I have no desire to look morbid. White, will look fine. A simple white cotton button down shirt. I find one in the proper size, frowning over the price. It isn't that much of an expense, but I am always cautious about spending my money. I don't like to do it. I may need it someday. But, I need it now. I buy the shirt, and see that my worries of being late were ungrounded. It is hardly even five o'clock. I am able to return to my apartment, change, and make my way down to the Leaky Cauldron.

It has been nearly two years since I last saw Oliver. Will have changed? Will he be as handsome as I remember? Those are not thoughts I should be having. These are the thoughts I often get myself worked over. I am simply meeting an old....friend is not the right word. Schoolmate. Acquaintance. That is what he is. I am asked if I would like anything, and I decline. I am waiting for someone. A girl, eh? No. I would hardly be this nervous over a girl.

The door opens. From the Wizarding side. I hold my breath, not realizing it. He has hardly changed a bit. Dark hair, trimmed neat and short. Tall, broad shouldered and burly. Lightly tanned skin, dark brown eyes, easy smile. It is the same Oliver from my memories. I don't even realize it, but I've stood up. He is dressed a bit more casually then I, but not much. Black jeans, dark grey tailored sweater. He is beautiful.

"Percy!" He waves happily at me, practically bounding over.

"Oliver." My voice is stiffer then I'd like. It is my office voice. I hold out my hand, jaw clenched tightly.

"Great to see you." He takes my hand firmly, and to my surprise, shock and partial delight, pulls me into a fierce hug. What have I done to warrant a hug? He squeezes me tightly, hands warm on my back. I gingerly return the embrace. I have been hugged by precious few people in my life. He lets me go, hands on still on my shoulders, looking me up and down. "Look at you! Mr. Ministry, huh?"

"Mmm." I make a sort of strangled noise in my throat. This is going far differently then I thought it would.

"You look good. You look real good." He gives me a little shake.

"You look well yourself." I say. Should I have said that?

"Eh. Wait till I get through training season. Then I'll look even better." He gives me a wink. A wink? I stutter something, confused. "So...ready to grab some dinner?"

"Yes." I nod, and Oliver finally releases me. I can still feel his hands on my shoulders. He has nice hands. Long, slightly thick fingers, calloused from years of gripping his broom. The fingernails are short, and slightly chipped. My own are well manicured and clean. It is amazing, how different our hands are. I wonder what mine would look like, in his. My slim, pale fingers eclipsed by his...I shake my had slightly. I should not be thinking this! Besides, Oliver is talking to me, and I've not been paying attention...

"...addicted to it. Ever been?"

"No." No matter what he is has asked, I am sure the answer will be no. I am assuming he is talking about the restaurant we are going to. I have not been out to eat in a very, very long time. And never in Diagon Alley.

"You'll love it, I can just tell." He claps me on the back. Has he always been this physical? He leads me down the street, to an out of the way place. I have never even noticed this small restaurant before. 'The Goblins Flask'. I've never even heard of it. I frown, as Oliver holds the door for me.

"It's...." Words fail me. Except for words like 'small' 'dank' 'claustrophobic' and, for some inexplicable reason, 'mead'. "Folksy." I settle for. The walls-that I can see- are very dark wood, and there are perhaps three or four tables in the center of the room. Dark wooden booths line the walls. There are...things, hanging on the wall. Various animal heads, wooden signs, and other things. Nearly every inch of the wall is covered with something. There is a smell of meat in the air. It is nearly empty.

"And we hit it just right!" Oliver exclaims. "Nita, I'm taking my booth!" He calls to a waitress in a short chain mail looking robe. I'm not sure what to say. He leads me over to a small booth in the corner, sliding into the seat easily.

"I've never seen this place." I say, still glancing around.

"I've been coming here since I was fifteen. I love it!"

"Ah." I suppose it fits him. The waitress in chain male comes over, handing us menus and giving Oliver a knowing wink. She is young. Our age. Perhaps they are....acquainted? I look her over out of the corner of my eye. Dark red hair cut short, blue eyes, curvy. I suppose she is attractive, as far as women go. Yes, I can see how he would be attracted to her.

"The mud burger is a favorite of mine." Oliver says, flipping open the menu.

"The what?"

"Mud burger. It's a burger, slathered in ketchup, barbecue sauce, and 'special sauce'. I think the special sauce is just borolovian bloodsauce, but it's great."

"I'll have a salad." I say. I hate heavy meat. It does unpleasant things to my stomach.

"Salad?" Oliver rolls his eyes at me. "I'm having a mudburger. And...a chocomalt."

"How can you eat like that?" I blanch. I don't understand how people can eat that way. It's revolting!

"Oh, I've got a stomach of steel. I can eat anything." He grins broadly, setting the menu aside.

"If I ate like that..." I trail off, shuddering.

"Yeah, you look like the type that'd have a delicate stomach."

"I do." I place my menu on the table as well. Water and a salad. Not only is it easy on my stomach, it is inexpensive.

"So...tell me all about working for the Ministry." Oliver says, leaning forward.

"Oh, there's nothing much to tell." This is not a subject I'd like to get started on. "I'm assistant to the head of the department, we've had three so far. It's mainly shifting paper work and whatnot."

"Sounds...fulfilling."

"Not particularly." I frown, sighing. "I hate it."

"Then why do it?"

"Because..." I falter. I have no good response, save for my usual. "It doesn't matter what I do, in the long run." I shrug.

"Why not?"

"Because...it's not going to really matter, in the end."

"Sure it will." Oliver tilts his head. "When you're an old man, with no teeth, you can look back on your life and say 'I had a good run'."

"And what does that matter?" I press. I have a sudden desire to share my thoughts with Oliver. He seems eager to hear them, which is more then I can say for anyone else. "Once I'm dead, it won't matter."

"But it will before that."

"But before doesn't matter. Everything that comes before doesn't matter!"

"Perce..." Oliver shakes his head. "Don't you want to be happy?"

"Well....yes, I suppose I'd like that." He isn't getting it. He doesn't understand. "But I won't be."

"Why not?"

"Because...it doesn't matter. Once it's all said and done, nothing matters. I simply can't be happy, knowing that." I shrug. I can put it in no other words then that.

"Perce..." He shakes my head, and reaches for my hand across the table. I stare, not sure what he is doing. He places his hand over mine, his palm resting on the back of my hand, warm and comforting. It is calloused lightly. I can't help but look at my hand, covered by his. I wonder where this pet name for me has come from. "It's not like that." he says, softly. "It's not like that at all."

"But it is!" I insist. I don't want to convince him, but...no one has ever even listened to me before. And Oliver is listening. And paying attention.

"No. It isn't. The point of life is to live it." He squeezes my hand, gently. I can feel myself melting inside, looking up from his hand and into dark brown eyes. He has beautiful eyes. I could lose myself in them, if I wanted to. But I do not want to. I do not want to think of Oliver's beautiful eyes, or hands, or beauty in general.

"And then what?" I hear myself asking.

"Who knows." Oliver shrugs, looking deeply into my eyes. His fingers are moving lightly over the back of my hand. It sends small shivers through my being. It is amazing, how erotic the feel of his fingertips on my hand is. I push it away, but I am locked in his gaze. He is still speaking, softly and emphatically. "And who cares? Why worry about it now. Be happy. Be alive."

Or food has come. It interrupts this odd, intense moment we are having, and I am at a loss as to how to recapture it.

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