The Quidditch League (Semi-Finals)
Holyhead Harpies - Chaser 1: Vampire!AU
Prompts: [character] Oliver Wood, [time of day] 8:45 AM/PM, [dialogue] "Is that all that you've got?" "No. But I like you so I don't want to hurt you."
A.N. Taking vampire stereotypes to a whole new level (;
Word count: 2869
oh percy (how you bleed me)
Percival Weasley is not used to begging.
The Minister for Magic, after all, does not beg. Usually, with barely even a word out of his mouth, people are rushing to obey his orders – to keep the Ministry (and indeed, the government) running. That obeisance is critical to having a smooth power base. It does not mean that there is no opposition (far from it, in fact), but it does ensure that the Minister's inner circle is loyal, and ultimately, advocating for his cause. Sure, there are disagreements – and sometimes even heated protests – when it comes to the Minister's actions, but everything, in the end, works out – and usually in his favor.
Percival Weasley, in his capacity as Minister – an office he's held for nearly five years now – has never had to beg. He retains his pride; he has never even thought of doing such a thing while at work. Everything he wants, he gets – not because it is handed to him, but because he works for it (and he works smartly, intelligently, unlike some of his political rivals that he'll not mention).
But at home, Percival Weasley is not Minister for Magic. He's not the wizarding world's supreme authority figure. He's just Percy; a mere wizard, a reluctant cat dad, and – perhaps most important of all – a husband. More specifically, Oliver Wood's husband. He's nothing if not humbled when at home. For however much he doesn't beg while at work, he's forced to resort to that very method for at least double that amount while at home. That fact has never been clearer than it is now: standing in the conveniently located fireplace in his office, the flames green, while he tries to floo home through a clearly blocked network.
"Damn," he sighs frustratedly, as he ducks his head and steps out of the grate. Brushing the ashes off of his robes, he makes his way to his desk, tapping his fingers on the oakwood as he tries to figure out what to do.
He knows he's messed up. The hands on the antique clock tell him as much, reading 8:45 at night – almost two hours after he was supposed to leave the Ministry and go home. He'd promised Oliver the early turn-in, had even told his secretary to cancel everything after six, but… it just hadn't happened.
'Why can't he just understand?' Percy thinks to himself, annoyed, as he whips some writing utensils out and begins writing an appropriately groveling apology letter.
Being Minister is no walk in the park. He may have a good reputation and tenure on his side, but it hasn't always been like this. Oliver knows that; he bore witness to Percy's struggles time after time, election after election, as failure piled on top of failure, until he finally got the position he desired most in the world: Minister for Magic.
Of all people, Percy was the least likely candidate to ever achieve that title. With the distaste that the wizarding world had kindled among themselves for magical creatures (vampires and werewolves, in particular), he'd been all but prepared to abandon the dreams he'd clung to since childhood. It had seemed so impossible after the war had ended. Percy had come out minus one brother, and a little less human. The Battle of Hogwarts wasn't kind to any of them, but – he privately thought – it had been a little crueler to him than it had been to anyone else. How else could he think of it, when the Ministry had all but threatened to fire him and had only stopped when their hero, Harry Potter, had stepped in? It was nothing short of humiliating, especially after all the time he'd given up with his family (with Fred) in order to appease their vanity. They'd been ready to discard him like yesterday's trash the moment they found out about the vampire venom coursing through his veins, never mind that it had happened during the final battle itself, while Percy – like the rest of his family – was putting his life on the line in order to make sure that Voldemort never won.
Following that, his career in the Ministry had been an uphill battle. It seemed that, for every step he took forward, he was forced to take two back. Nothing was going his way, and he came close to being sacked at least thrice – and that was before he got anywhere near becoming Minister! He'd had to repress his ego (and by Merlin, it had hurt) and ask for Harry's help on more than one occasion, and though his little brother's best friend had been more than happy to do so, there's something particularly humbling about having to ask for help from… well… your little brother's best friend.
In the end, when it came down to it, he'd been elected in spite of his vampirism. In spite of how many people still slant wary eyes at him, how they're sure to never get too close, how they mask their revulsion by making jokes about mosquitos and asking whether his appetite is as vast as theirs. He's still Minister, even though his own mother can barely stand to look at him these days, even though he's opposed at every turn, and scorned by at least half of the Pureblood lords who sit in their Wizengamot seats. It is not an easy job – the farthest thing from it, in fact – so you'd think that the one person who'd been there from the start, witnessed all of Percy's struggles in order to get to where he is now, would understand.
But he doesn't. All Oliver is thinking about is how Percy's broken his promise ('Not for the first time!' the treacherous voice inside his head taunts him.) And, Percy realizes with a frustrated start, he isn't going to read any letters he gets sent. He's just too stubborn for that; too angry.
So, with a defeated sigh, the Minister for Magic balls up the letter he'd composed and tosses it into the bin underneath his desk. There really is only one thing to do, and that's to apparate in front of the door and beg to be let inside his own house. So, he picks up his briefcase and goes to do just that.
8:45 PM
No more than ten minutes ought to have passed from when Oliver realizes the stupid clock is broken again. It's like an insult added to injury – the cherry on top of an already rotten cake. As if he hadn't already had a terrible day before this, the fucking clock had the audacity to go and get itself broken. Like, what are the chances of that?
He ignores it, though, as he cooks up a storm inside the kitchen, filling the entirety of the space up with the aroma of garlic.
Ah, garlic… Now there's something he hasn't had since he started dating Percy. Food was just made better by garlic (Italian, especially, which was Oliver's favorite), but it's something he'd willingly sacrificed at the start of their relationship. Though he'd missed it, it hadn't exactly been a hardship – it's not like he'd been forced to give up flying (or even worse, Quidditch). For the man he loved (and loved to hate), he'd given that up and more. But lately, it seems like all of his sacrifices have been for naught, like all of it has gone to waste, with the relationship becoming increasingly one-sided as time has gone on.
At first, it was the late nights. No big deal; Oliver can entertain himself for a couple of hours. But then, that began culminating in missed dates, excuses of "You know how busy I am" and "I promise I'll make it next time," followed by an anniversary that Percy somehow managed to forget (only Merlin knows how, considering the way he keeps his face buried in that calendar of his all bloody day). That's when Oliver started to get pissed: when work became his husband's most convenient excuse to stop putting in effort.
What Percy most often seems to forget is that he isn't the only one working in this household. Sure, Oliver's job may not be as critical as Minister, but he'll be damned if it's deemed as not important. In the grand scheme of things, it may not be important to Percy, but Oliver is the Keeper for the English National Quidditch team, and he – therefore, his job – matters to at least a couple million somebodies! And tonight, just like all the other nights that Percy had left him high and dry, he'd left practice early so he could spend time with his husband – a husband who preferred his office and paperwork, to the comforts of Oliver's arms and the warmth of a home-cooked meal.
Indeed, the cold, soggy remains of the steak he'd cooked at a rare temperature (solely for Percy's consumption) lies in the bin by the fridge; a sad reminder of how excited Oliver had been to finally get some alone time with his husband. Now, as he makes his most garlicky pasta ever, he spitefully pushes the thought out of his head. He'll not ruin what he has left of the night by thinking of Percy, who can't even be bothered to send a letter to say he can't make it. The floo connection is blocked, the house is flooded with the one scent that Oliver's husband can't stand, and he has Milly the Kneazle to keep him company; Milly, sentient creature that she is, who is rubbing herself all over Oliver's legs in an effort to take his mind off of things.
"It's alright, Milly," Oliver says out-loud, more to comfort himself than the cat. "Since when have we needed him?"
Milly purrs in agreement as she slots herself in the space between his legs and the oven. She's never liked Percy, anyway; something about his vampirism sets her – and other animals – off.
A short while later, after he's served her her kibble and filled up her water bowl, Oliver dishes up the fragrant pasta he's made and sets it down on the dinner table, a glass of red wine to accompany it. Just as he's about to tuck in, there's a knock on the front door, and – immediately – he knows who it is. No one would be so inconsiderate as to visit him this late at night. Even if they were, they would use the floo. There is only one person this could be: Oliver's wayward husband, Percy.
It seems to stretch on forever, the silence that ensues after Percy knocks on the door. He knows that Oliver is home – the light pouring through the crack underneath the door is evidence enough of that – but whether he'll get up and actually let Percy in is a different matter altogether.
The Weasley knows that if worst comes to worst, he can always rely on his brother, Bill for a place to crash. Once upon a time, he could've said the same of his parents and the Burrow, but they – specifically his mother – are unreliable at best when it comes to Percy's… condition. The important thing, though, is that he has a place to go if Oliver persists in keeping him out of their home. He won't be completely stranded, but he would really rather that it not come to that. So, he knocks again. And again. And again. And–
The door swings open.
Oliver is standing there, wearing a chef's apron over a plain white t-shirt and heather gray sweats. A cross, angry glare is splayed over his features; dirty blond hair sticking up in all directions as a result of the late summer heat and humidity.
Percy immediately opens his mouth to apologize, to grovel, but what comes out instead is, "You smell like garlic."
And Oliver does smell like garlic, but even a socially inept person would've known that it was a bad time to mention that. Percy flinches as his husband bristles and says, "Really? You're two hours late to dinner, and that's all you have to say for yourself?"
"You… well… you do." Percy replies weakly – better to sink with the ship, at this point.
Oliver scoffs – "Unbelievable!" – the demonic Kneazle at his feet mewing in agreement. For once, Percy doesn't spare it a glare as he quickly moves forward, stopping his husband from closing the door in his face.
"Wait!" he calls out. "Wait!"
Oliver stops and narrows his eyes. "What?"
"I'm sorry!" Percy blurts out. Where, oh where, have his social skills gone, and why do they seem to disappear whenever he's around Oliver? "I'm sorry." He echoes again, a touch of desperation in his tone. "I didn't realize how late it was. The time escaped me, I swear–"
"Time escapes you often, doesn't it, Percival?" Oliver laughs mockingly, leaning against the door.
Percy draws back, hurt. "You– why would you call me that?"
"Because that's who you're eager to be, isn't it?" his husband points out. "Percival Weasley, the Minister for Magic. You're oh so proud of the image you've created that you've forgotten entirely how to be Percy. My husband. So I see no reason why I should call you that. Or let you in, either."
"No! I–" Percy huffs. "I am Percy. To you, I always will be. Please, Oliver, just let me in and we can talk–"
"Talk? What is there to talk about?" Oliver crosses his arms over his chest. "I have nothing to say to you."
"Oliver, please," Percy sighs. "Ollie. I know I've made a right mess of things. I–" he steps forward, and it's not his husband who stops him, but the scent pervading the entire house. He reels back and coughs. "I'm sorry, but… but you really do smell of garlic." He groans, covering his nose with his hand.
"And if I do?" Oliver's retort is defiant, unapologetic.
"Why do you– why does the house smell of garlic?"
"Because I made pasta. With garlic in it. And if you're done questioning my culinary choices, I'd like to get to eating it. Sometime this century, preferably."
"You used garlic?" Percy hates how small his voice has gotten, hates the hurt that pervades his entire tone.
"My husband the vampire is so absent from home, you see, that I thought the scent would be gone by the time he came back." Oliver's reply is nothing short of acerbic. "And if he minds so much, he can go live in his true home: the Ministry."
"No, no!" Percy places a hand on his husband's arm. "Please, Oliver. I– I don't care about the garlic. Really. And the Ministry is not my home. I'm begging you, just let me explain. Give me another chance."
Oliver humphs. "I blocked the floo for a reason, you know. And bought garlic to use it in my food. I don't want you here."
Percy can't stop the gasp that escapes his throat. "You don't mean that!"
"I do," Oliver replies stubbornly. "I even thought about nicking some holy water from the church in town. And going to the fair just so I could go to the hall of mirrors, where I knew you couldn't reach me."
"But you didn't!" Percy hangs on desperately.
"I should've." Oliver glares.
"I– I– why didn't you?" The red-head bursts out. "If you want me gone so badly, why didn't you do everything to ensure I'd stay away? I mean, is that all you've got? Blocking the floo and eating garlic?"
At that, Oliver deflates and looks away. "No. But I like you so I don't want to hurt you."
"Only like?" Percy repeats persistently.
"I'm mad at you," his husband points out.
"I know."
"I'm mad at you."
Percy drops his head, but then Oliver continues. "I'm mad at you, and mad for you. That's why it hurts me so much, when I see that I don't matter to you the same way that you matter to me."
"But you do!" Percy blurts out. "You're the most important person in my life, Ollie! There's no one else. I'm just… an idiot. An idiot who never learns that work shouldn't come before family." He sighs, aggrieved. "All I can do is apologize. And promise that I'll do better. I never meant to neglect you, Ollie. I just got caught up in my job."
Oliver sighs, arms still crossed. "And how do I know you won't go back to ignoring me if I let you in?"
"I promise I won't!" Percy pleads desperately. "I swear on– on– Fred's soul!"
At that, his husband finally caves. He knows Percy's never taken his deceased brother's name in vain. "Fine." Oliver sighs. "Come in."
Percy moves to do so, sighing thankfully, before Oliver interjects, "But you're cleaning Milly's litter for the next month. And I'm still mad at you."
"Anything," Percy agrees easily. "Anything."
Looking down at Oliver's feet, the demon Kneazle mews at him, and he knows he's in for a long month. But for the first time since Oliver had brought the damn thing home, Percy can't bring himself to care. He's been given a second chance, and he doesn't intend to waste it.