Birthday Fic #5: "Focus" (Percy/Harry if you squint, G)
Title: Focus
Pairing: Percy/Harry maybe, if you squint really hard.
Rating: G. No smut, no smooching. I know.
Words: ~2700
A/N: This is the fifth of the ficlets I will post one-a-day until my birthday. Prompt from emiime: Percy/Harry. Percy hasn't gone back to the Weasleys, and Harry doesn't care. This is quite likely not what she had in mind and is an odd little fic, but in my head this is just the beginning of their association. So, you know, squint away.
Focus
Percy stared up at the ceiling in the dark. It was cold in the room, cold enough for the blankets to lie thick and heavy on his body, weighting him down to keep him warm, and it was nearly time to be up. Morning came early, these days.
That was, he reminded himself, absurd; morning came the same time each day; it was only a matter of when he was to rise that had changed, and not by much.
He considered the chill, and thought about putting his feet on the cold floor, and stayed in bed just one minute more. The cows wouldn't care (much), and if Percy I Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic would never have done it, well.
Percy Weatherby would.
Still, at the end of precisely sixty seconds, he threw off the heavy layers and sat up, swiveling his legs out of the bed and wincing as they hit the scuffed-polish wooden planks of the floor. He really should see about getting some sort of rug up into here. Even a braid rug, he supposed, even if it were untidy: something to hold off the sharp cold.
He stopped his consideration of braid rugs promptly when he realized where the train of thought was heading. His family had been right about any number of things, and still, his presence here was about escaping all that. It did him no good to think about his mother's carefully knit jumpers and stitched cloaks, and that was where the rug was leading him. He didn't want to go.
He pulled up worn heavy overalls, covering the thick woolen long underwear and fastening over the shoulders of a jumper not from home, a jumper that was staidly dark blue, faded to near gray, and machine-crafted, he was sure.
He layered on socks and shoved his feet into his boots, then made his way down to the kitchen to put on the water for tea and porridge, arranging it to wait until he started back up the path to begin cooking. The cows had waited their minute, and he ought not make them wait another.
The air was frigid as he made his way down the pressed-dirt path to the barn, gloved hands jammed in his pockets. He paused at the door and took off the gloves, then performed the only charm he would on his own body: a warming charm just enough to keep his fingers limber. Cows were stupid things, and magic made their hair stand on end, so by and large, he was best-served to remain cold and unbespelled until the milking was done. He could warm up later, in the shower where unless circumstances went quite pear-shaped, nothing was likely to kick him for his trouble. He pulled down the stool and the bucket and approached Hazel, who gave him A Look, which was probably about his extra minute in bed. She let him sit and commence milking, though, and it was quick enough work--mindless, but quick enough. Each girl in turn, the bucket filling and refilling, pouring out into the greater buckets on the enclosed shelf just outside the door, the smells--hay and milk and shit and dust--familiar and expected as he considered the problem of squib education and whom might be a good candidate to receive an anonymous letter regarding suggested improvements.
Finally, the last of the milking was done, and with no need to worry about alarming the girls, he was able to charm the bigger buckets lighter and hook them onto the yoke for easier carrying. He'd originally levitated them, of course, but he'd found he preferred the more physical lift and sway of carrying them by hand--and to boot, it was faster, because he'd never been incredibly kinetically gifted, and while walking with the all the buckets didn't present a problem, trying to levitate and move more than one at a time had defeated him.
He paused a moment to poke at the sore spot he would always have, in the part of him that had cared--a lot, when he was seven and nine and eleven--that all his brothers were athletic, and he was not, then set it aside as he did every day, and went about separating cream for butter and laying aside the milk and cultures for yogurt, today, because he had plenty of cheese underway in the back warehouse. The rest of the milk came with him to the bottling room, where he used what worked out to be, he'd learned, the equivalent of ultra-pasteurization, in his bottling.
By the time he got up to the house, the porridge was just ready and waiting, the tea steeping, and the kitchen warm from the making of them. He took off his boots and gloves, placing them on the Cleaning Carpet out on the porch, because farmer or not, he didn't like to have all the various animal wastes in the house; the Carpet would do its work out here and leave his things clean for later. He took off his overalls, too, though his shirt was all right, and went back into the kitchen in his long underwear and double-layered socks to sit at the table and read the newspaper--ready and waiting; the Clarion's delivery system was perfect--while he ate.
The knock at the door, which occurred just in the midst of his perusal of an editorial regarding cauldron thickness, was startling.
No one ever came to Weatherby's Dairy. He took his products out to the market on Tuesdays and Saturdays, neither of which were today, people bought them; he bought vegetables and flour and the occasional flank steak or whole chicken, and people left him alone.
He jumped up and went to the door.
The man standing there, a small man, short and slender and apparently recently come from somewhere with rain, was looking at his shoes when he jerked open the door. "May I help you?" His voice, unused but for murmured spells as yet this morning, was gruff and low, and he wondered if he'd forgot to drink his tea. It had happened before, when he'd found himself absorbed in the newspaper.
And then, the man looked up, and Percy flinched. The scar was unmistakable, though the glasses were different and the eyes behind them dull and sad. "Percy."
Percy had stepped back, automatically reaching for the sort of formal courtesy he'd practiced so hard for so long, before it had occurred to him to simply close the door. His life was his own, and there was a reason he wasn't in Devon, where he should have gone to roost, and this was private property, and still, the gesture of his hand and body said, come in.
Harry followed him into the kitchen, which was, of course, the only room suitable for any sort of conversation because the living room was still cold. Percy pointed his wand into the fireplace and set it ablaze as he passed; it would warm quickly enough. He went to the kettle directly, and raised it in question. "Tea?" The word was certainly unnecessary, but there were customs and niceties, and this was one.
Harry nodded, one short sharp drop of his chin, and sat in the chair Percy had recently abandoned.
Percy poured water into leaves, and looked down at his socks.
At his socks. And underwear. "Blast."
"What?"
Percy blinked. "My apologies. I'd quite forgotten I left my trousers--"
Harry waved a careless hand. "You're more dressed than half my dormitory ever was, any given moment at night or in the morning."
"Still. Here, and I'll be right down." He set the tea before Harry and hurried up to his attic room to pull on decent trousers and check that his jumper was presentable. When he came down, Harry was seated on the living room couch, full teacup still in hand.
Percy stopped, then fetched his own cup from the kitchen and sat in the easy chair next to the wireless.
The fire cracked, and cracked again, and Percy finished his tea. Finally, he concluded Harry wasn't going to speak without being spoken to, and set down his cup. "Well, then."
"Yeah."
That answered absolutely nothing, and Percy had work to do. He'd already lingered rather longer than he should over breakfast. "Did you need something, then?"
"Yeah."
It was exasperating. It was like when the twins would twit him, not answering anything he said but making unrelated comments instead, only, Harry was saying nothing. "Let's have it, then," he said at last.
Harry slowly sipped his tea. "This is good."
Percy blinked. "Thank you. If you don't mind, I've work to see to…"
Harry looked up. "Do you need help?"
"What? No. I just, it's out of doors, so, well, it was lovely to see you…"
Harry didn't move toward the door, and Percy certainly couldn’t bodily remove him.
He sighed. "Right, then. I'll just be about it. You can let yourself out."
Harry nodded, and Percy put on his boots and headed back down to check on the churns and see to it all the charms had set correctly for the yogurt.
Everything looked to be in order, and the milk had all refrigerated itself, so he wasn't there long, only enough to package the butter and rearrange the stock cupboard, which was a task a bit overdue.
"So, what I needed," Harry said, startlingly near, and sure enough, when Percy looked down below the bottom of the cupboard door, there were his shoes, "was you."
"Me?"
"Hm," Harry said, apparently in affirmation.
"Right. I suppose Mum sent you?"
"No."
"Charlie, then, to say how Mum wants me home."
"No," Harry said again. "Just me."
"And why do you need me?"
"Everything's broken," Harry said. "The war, and then, everything, and I can't quite make it right again." His words might have sounded desperate were they not so entirely without emotion, and Percy closed the cupboard door.
"What? The war's been done for three years and more, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm no one's counselor. I make butter and cheese, sell my milk, and read my newspapers," Percy said. "Nothing about this could be construed to be useful to repairing broken things."
Harry grinned, a spark of old mischief momentarily alive. "Bones, it would."
"What?"
"Milk. For strong bones."
Percy scowled. "And in any case, I don't even know how you found me. I mind my business and people let me be, and that's what I want."
Harry nodded. "I know about that."
"About which?"
"About wanting to be left alone." Harry paused. "Are you done down here?"
"Nearly." Percy looked back in his cupboard, then shook his head. It could keep. "Done enough," he amended.
They walked back up to the house again, and were starting up the steps to the porch when Harry stopped. "You see, the thing is, the Ministry--"
"I generally avoid conversation about the Ministry," Percy said. Harry looked at him sharply, then nodded, and Percy went on. "I am not, and have not been for some time, in the favor of anyone there."
"How do you stand it?"
"What?"
"It was your purpose for a long time, and then, that went away."
Percy flinched at the memory of leaving, at the thought of the first few days as Weatherby, his name deliberately altered, his livelihood up to how quickly he could learn this new task, and how well. "I… this is a very different life," he said at last.
Harry nodded. "What I came here for was family," he said after a moment.
Percy took his boots off again, on the Cleaning Carpet, and turned slowly. "I'm not the family, Harry. I'm not. I've never gone back to-"
"Oh, I know. I don't actually care about that. And no, no one sent me, though it is true your mother, well."
Percy pursed his lips and didn't say anything. He was used to hurting his mother. He went into the kitchen, cheerfully warm now, and put the kettle back on again.
"But what I was looking for, when I told my wand to point me, was family, and what I just noticed, after I was here, was that what I really wanted was help."
"I told you. I'm no one's counselor."
"I don't want a counselor. I want quietness and time to work out how to go on without my focus."
Percy paused in the middle of measuring out the tea. "And that's why you need me." He laughed, a dreadfully rusty chuckle, and shook his head. "Only, I haven't."
"Haven't what?"
"Changed my focus. Only--" he stopped, afraid to go on. He hadn't told anyone before, though mostly that was because no one had asked.
"Only what?" Harry was standing close now, looking up at him, eyes no longer dull. "Only what, Percy?"
Percy finished measuring out the tea, dusted off his hands, and bit his lip. "Only, now I work differently." He poured the boiling water and took the teapot to the table. "Now, I work anonymously, or try. I read the papers, read between the lines, write letters. No one knows." He took a deep breath, hardly able to countenance that he'd said that all aloud because cows were very nice and all, but he needed the connection he still had, and knew he wouldn't be able to reforge it a second time.
"I remember being anonymous," Harry said after a moment, almost wistful. "I wouldn't change the outcome, of course, and I'd rather have had relatives of lesser dreadfulness, but I miss doing nothing. Do you know, I've been to over seven hundred Ministry-sponsored events? Since the end of the War, I mean."
Percy tapped the paper still spread out on the table. "I've seen you mentioned."
Harry nodded. "And I just, I know people need heroes, but heroes need homes."
"And you think this is home."
"Maybe."
"My mother--"
"Was very sad when I explained that I needed to get away for a while, to somewhere quiet and not bustling and not someplace I've been most of the time when not in school for ten years, but honestly, she's busy planning the weddings." He frowned. "Er, you do know--"
"I know about Ron."
"Ron and Hermione, and then Ginny and Neville, too."
"Neville Longbottom?"
"Yeah. They make quit a pair."
"I didn't know. Is that why you--"
"What? Oh! No. No, it's been a long time."
Percy sipped at his tea absently. "Right, then," he said. "So you think this is home, and that somehow, you would be hidden here."
"You are."
"Yes, but I'm not you."
"I know. Still, I don't think I can go on without a place like this to come home to, and I don't think I can establish such a place myself."
Percy saw his point; he'd been able to get his new start relatively anonymously. No one paid overmuch attention to junior undersecretaries. He hadn't meant to, but he nodded. "All right."
Harry blinked up at him. "All right?"
"All right. You can't try to make me go home--"
"No, that's something for when you're ready."
"I don't know that I will be."
"All right." Harry shrugged. "I couldn't make you go if I wanted to, and while I'll probably still go there sometimes, there's no reason I can't keep one more secret."
"And you can't do magic down at the cow barn."
"I can't do much anyway," Harry said slowly, holding Percy's gaze. "I can, inexplicably, Apparate. Nearly everything else is all but burned out. Weak sad little charms, ghosts of what they should be."
"I-"
"No one knows. St Mungo's would try to keep me. Your mother would try to feed me. Snape would try to read my mind."
Percy nodded and lifted his cup. "To secrets, then," he said.
Harry echoed him, and added, "and focus," and they drank.
Pairing: Percy/Harry maybe, if you squint really hard.
Rating: G. No smut, no smooching. I know.
Words: ~2700
A/N: This is the fifth of the ficlets I will post one-a-day until my birthday. Prompt from emiime: Percy/Harry. Percy hasn't gone back to the Weasleys, and Harry doesn't care. This is quite likely not what she had in mind and is an odd little fic, but in my head this is just the beginning of their association. So, you know, squint away.
Focus
Percy stared up at the ceiling in the dark. It was cold in the room, cold enough for the blankets to lie thick and heavy on his body, weighting him down to keep him warm, and it was nearly time to be up. Morning came early, these days.
That was, he reminded himself, absurd; morning came the same time each day; it was only a matter of when he was to rise that had changed, and not by much.
He considered the chill, and thought about putting his feet on the cold floor, and stayed in bed just one minute more. The cows wouldn't care (much), and if Percy I Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic would never have done it, well.
Percy Weatherby would.
Still, at the end of precisely sixty seconds, he threw off the heavy layers and sat up, swiveling his legs out of the bed and wincing as they hit the scuffed-polish wooden planks of the floor. He really should see about getting some sort of rug up into here. Even a braid rug, he supposed, even if it were untidy: something to hold off the sharp cold.
He stopped his consideration of braid rugs promptly when he realized where the train of thought was heading. His family had been right about any number of things, and still, his presence here was about escaping all that. It did him no good to think about his mother's carefully knit jumpers and stitched cloaks, and that was where the rug was leading him. He didn't want to go.
He pulled up worn heavy overalls, covering the thick woolen long underwear and fastening over the shoulders of a jumper not from home, a jumper that was staidly dark blue, faded to near gray, and machine-crafted, he was sure.
He layered on socks and shoved his feet into his boots, then made his way down to the kitchen to put on the water for tea and porridge, arranging it to wait until he started back up the path to begin cooking. The cows had waited their minute, and he ought not make them wait another.
The air was frigid as he made his way down the pressed-dirt path to the barn, gloved hands jammed in his pockets. He paused at the door and took off the gloves, then performed the only charm he would on his own body: a warming charm just enough to keep his fingers limber. Cows were stupid things, and magic made their hair stand on end, so by and large, he was best-served to remain cold and unbespelled until the milking was done. He could warm up later, in the shower where unless circumstances went quite pear-shaped, nothing was likely to kick him for his trouble. He pulled down the stool and the bucket and approached Hazel, who gave him A Look, which was probably about his extra minute in bed. She let him sit and commence milking, though, and it was quick enough work--mindless, but quick enough. Each girl in turn, the bucket filling and refilling, pouring out into the greater buckets on the enclosed shelf just outside the door, the smells--hay and milk and shit and dust--familiar and expected as he considered the problem of squib education and whom might be a good candidate to receive an anonymous letter regarding suggested improvements.
Finally, the last of the milking was done, and with no need to worry about alarming the girls, he was able to charm the bigger buckets lighter and hook them onto the yoke for easier carrying. He'd originally levitated them, of course, but he'd found he preferred the more physical lift and sway of carrying them by hand--and to boot, it was faster, because he'd never been incredibly kinetically gifted, and while walking with the all the buckets didn't present a problem, trying to levitate and move more than one at a time had defeated him.
He paused a moment to poke at the sore spot he would always have, in the part of him that had cared--a lot, when he was seven and nine and eleven--that all his brothers were athletic, and he was not, then set it aside as he did every day, and went about separating cream for butter and laying aside the milk and cultures for yogurt, today, because he had plenty of cheese underway in the back warehouse. The rest of the milk came with him to the bottling room, where he used what worked out to be, he'd learned, the equivalent of ultra-pasteurization, in his bottling.
By the time he got up to the house, the porridge was just ready and waiting, the tea steeping, and the kitchen warm from the making of them. He took off his boots and gloves, placing them on the Cleaning Carpet out on the porch, because farmer or not, he didn't like to have all the various animal wastes in the house; the Carpet would do its work out here and leave his things clean for later. He took off his overalls, too, though his shirt was all right, and went back into the kitchen in his long underwear and double-layered socks to sit at the table and read the newspaper--ready and waiting; the Clarion's delivery system was perfect--while he ate.
The knock at the door, which occurred just in the midst of his perusal of an editorial regarding cauldron thickness, was startling.
No one ever came to Weatherby's Dairy. He took his products out to the market on Tuesdays and Saturdays, neither of which were today, people bought them; he bought vegetables and flour and the occasional flank steak or whole chicken, and people left him alone.
He jumped up and went to the door.
The man standing there, a small man, short and slender and apparently recently come from somewhere with rain, was looking at his shoes when he jerked open the door. "May I help you?" His voice, unused but for murmured spells as yet this morning, was gruff and low, and he wondered if he'd forgot to drink his tea. It had happened before, when he'd found himself absorbed in the newspaper.
And then, the man looked up, and Percy flinched. The scar was unmistakable, though the glasses were different and the eyes behind them dull and sad. "Percy."
Percy had stepped back, automatically reaching for the sort of formal courtesy he'd practiced so hard for so long, before it had occurred to him to simply close the door. His life was his own, and there was a reason he wasn't in Devon, where he should have gone to roost, and this was private property, and still, the gesture of his hand and body said, come in.
Harry followed him into the kitchen, which was, of course, the only room suitable for any sort of conversation because the living room was still cold. Percy pointed his wand into the fireplace and set it ablaze as he passed; it would warm quickly enough. He went to the kettle directly, and raised it in question. "Tea?" The word was certainly unnecessary, but there were customs and niceties, and this was one.
Harry nodded, one short sharp drop of his chin, and sat in the chair Percy had recently abandoned.
Percy poured water into leaves, and looked down at his socks.
At his socks. And underwear. "Blast."
"What?"
Percy blinked. "My apologies. I'd quite forgotten I left my trousers--"
Harry waved a careless hand. "You're more dressed than half my dormitory ever was, any given moment at night or in the morning."
"Still. Here, and I'll be right down." He set the tea before Harry and hurried up to his attic room to pull on decent trousers and check that his jumper was presentable. When he came down, Harry was seated on the living room couch, full teacup still in hand.
Percy stopped, then fetched his own cup from the kitchen and sat in the easy chair next to the wireless.
The fire cracked, and cracked again, and Percy finished his tea. Finally, he concluded Harry wasn't going to speak without being spoken to, and set down his cup. "Well, then."
"Yeah."
That answered absolutely nothing, and Percy had work to do. He'd already lingered rather longer than he should over breakfast. "Did you need something, then?"
"Yeah."
It was exasperating. It was like when the twins would twit him, not answering anything he said but making unrelated comments instead, only, Harry was saying nothing. "Let's have it, then," he said at last.
Harry slowly sipped his tea. "This is good."
Percy blinked. "Thank you. If you don't mind, I've work to see to…"
Harry looked up. "Do you need help?"
"What? No. I just, it's out of doors, so, well, it was lovely to see you…"
Harry didn't move toward the door, and Percy certainly couldn’t bodily remove him.
He sighed. "Right, then. I'll just be about it. You can let yourself out."
Harry nodded, and Percy put on his boots and headed back down to check on the churns and see to it all the charms had set correctly for the yogurt.
Everything looked to be in order, and the milk had all refrigerated itself, so he wasn't there long, only enough to package the butter and rearrange the stock cupboard, which was a task a bit overdue.
"So, what I needed," Harry said, startlingly near, and sure enough, when Percy looked down below the bottom of the cupboard door, there were his shoes, "was you."
"Me?"
"Hm," Harry said, apparently in affirmation.
"Right. I suppose Mum sent you?"
"No."
"Charlie, then, to say how Mum wants me home."
"No," Harry said again. "Just me."
"And why do you need me?"
"Everything's broken," Harry said. "The war, and then, everything, and I can't quite make it right again." His words might have sounded desperate were they not so entirely without emotion, and Percy closed the cupboard door.
"What? The war's been done for three years and more, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm no one's counselor. I make butter and cheese, sell my milk, and read my newspapers," Percy said. "Nothing about this could be construed to be useful to repairing broken things."
Harry grinned, a spark of old mischief momentarily alive. "Bones, it would."
"What?"
"Milk. For strong bones."
Percy scowled. "And in any case, I don't even know how you found me. I mind my business and people let me be, and that's what I want."
Harry nodded. "I know about that."
"About which?"
"About wanting to be left alone." Harry paused. "Are you done down here?"
"Nearly." Percy looked back in his cupboard, then shook his head. It could keep. "Done enough," he amended.
They walked back up to the house again, and were starting up the steps to the porch when Harry stopped. "You see, the thing is, the Ministry--"
"I generally avoid conversation about the Ministry," Percy said. Harry looked at him sharply, then nodded, and Percy went on. "I am not, and have not been for some time, in the favor of anyone there."
"How do you stand it?"
"What?"
"It was your purpose for a long time, and then, that went away."
Percy flinched at the memory of leaving, at the thought of the first few days as Weatherby, his name deliberately altered, his livelihood up to how quickly he could learn this new task, and how well. "I… this is a very different life," he said at last.
Harry nodded. "What I came here for was family," he said after a moment.
Percy took his boots off again, on the Cleaning Carpet, and turned slowly. "I'm not the family, Harry. I'm not. I've never gone back to-"
"Oh, I know. I don't actually care about that. And no, no one sent me, though it is true your mother, well."
Percy pursed his lips and didn't say anything. He was used to hurting his mother. He went into the kitchen, cheerfully warm now, and put the kettle back on again.
"But what I was looking for, when I told my wand to point me, was family, and what I just noticed, after I was here, was that what I really wanted was help."
"I told you. I'm no one's counselor."
"I don't want a counselor. I want quietness and time to work out how to go on without my focus."
Percy paused in the middle of measuring out the tea. "And that's why you need me." He laughed, a dreadfully rusty chuckle, and shook his head. "Only, I haven't."
"Haven't what?"
"Changed my focus. Only--" he stopped, afraid to go on. He hadn't told anyone before, though mostly that was because no one had asked.
"Only what?" Harry was standing close now, looking up at him, eyes no longer dull. "Only what, Percy?"
Percy finished measuring out the tea, dusted off his hands, and bit his lip. "Only, now I work differently." He poured the boiling water and took the teapot to the table. "Now, I work anonymously, or try. I read the papers, read between the lines, write letters. No one knows." He took a deep breath, hardly able to countenance that he'd said that all aloud because cows were very nice and all, but he needed the connection he still had, and knew he wouldn't be able to reforge it a second time.
"I remember being anonymous," Harry said after a moment, almost wistful. "I wouldn't change the outcome, of course, and I'd rather have had relatives of lesser dreadfulness, but I miss doing nothing. Do you know, I've been to over seven hundred Ministry-sponsored events? Since the end of the War, I mean."
Percy tapped the paper still spread out on the table. "I've seen you mentioned."
Harry nodded. "And I just, I know people need heroes, but heroes need homes."
"And you think this is home."
"Maybe."
"My mother--"
"Was very sad when I explained that I needed to get away for a while, to somewhere quiet and not bustling and not someplace I've been most of the time when not in school for ten years, but honestly, she's busy planning the weddings." He frowned. "Er, you do know--"
"I know about Ron."
"Ron and Hermione, and then Ginny and Neville, too."
"Neville Longbottom?"
"Yeah. They make quit a pair."
"I didn't know. Is that why you--"
"What? Oh! No. No, it's been a long time."
Percy sipped at his tea absently. "Right, then," he said. "So you think this is home, and that somehow, you would be hidden here."
"You are."
"Yes, but I'm not you."
"I know. Still, I don't think I can go on without a place like this to come home to, and I don't think I can establish such a place myself."
Percy saw his point; he'd been able to get his new start relatively anonymously. No one paid overmuch attention to junior undersecretaries. He hadn't meant to, but he nodded. "All right."
Harry blinked up at him. "All right?"
"All right. You can't try to make me go home--"
"No, that's something for when you're ready."
"I don't know that I will be."
"All right." Harry shrugged. "I couldn't make you go if I wanted to, and while I'll probably still go there sometimes, there's no reason I can't keep one more secret."
"And you can't do magic down at the cow barn."
"I can't do much anyway," Harry said slowly, holding Percy's gaze. "I can, inexplicably, Apparate. Nearly everything else is all but burned out. Weak sad little charms, ghosts of what they should be."
"I-"
"No one knows. St Mungo's would try to keep me. Your mother would try to feed me. Snape would try to read my mind."
Percy nodded and lifted his cup. "To secrets, then," he said.
Harry echoed him, and added, "and focus," and they drank.