Bill carries heat under his skin. Dust. Adventure. He isn't cold, like Percy is--Percy who keeps his eyes open in the dark, waiting, waiting, staring at the thin arms of the trees outside.

The door creaks open as it always does. Those footsteps, heavy-soft and knowing on the floor, take the same strange route to avoid the Burrow's midnight creaks--that same breath stirs Percy's hair, that same weight settles so safe-not-safe at his back. Dust. Heat. Mattress caving.

Bill's hair spills blood-warm over Percy's bare shoulder. He curls behind Percy in bed, too close for an older brother, all soft murmurs and seeking hands.

'No,' Percy whispers, 'Please, no,' but Bill's heat is inexorable, like the sun's.

*

Bill seems to carry a bit of Egypt with him, even here in grey London, in Percy's apartment, where the plants are pale and the sunlight is pale and Percy is too, bled of warmth and hatred. Bill's the one who journeys far, Bill the wild weed, fierce and with a fang glinting from one ear. Bill has asked to be transferred here. To work for Gringotts, he says, but Percy knows that it's for the Order--everything is for the bloody Order these days, those deluded, seditious malcontents.

Bill smells like leather. Like sunlight. He smells of good, warm things. Percy leans away from him when Bill steps forward, saying the lines he's supposed to--come home Percy come on we want you home I want--and Percy almost laughs that they've sent Bill for this, because Bill was the only one he'd ever caved to, isn't that right? The only one who--

But Percy isn't going back. Percy isn't going anywhere. Bill might be the wild one, but Percy knows where he belongs and he's going to stay. This is no backyard adventure, with Bill's hands big and steady around his waist, lifting Percy onto his first broom or the rough wooden treehouse under his knees--this is no place where any quarter can be given, and Percy doesn't plan on giving it.

'No,' Percy says firmly, when Bill steps close with that familiar, pleading smile. 'I'm not--'

You can't do this to me anymore. But Bill can, and he does. He's so hot against Percy's cold, clammy skin, his mouth such molten liquid, that Percy's afraid the carefully constructed ice of himself will melt--but Percy doesn't melt, of course--he shatters. Spine arched high enough to crack, hands scrabbling on Bill's shoulders, mouth open and panting.

Bill holds him close afterwards, voice soothing, saying you'll come back with me, won't you?--but Percy doesn't answer, because Percy isn't here, and his mind is still saying no, no, no, even though the sheets below him are soaked with his own come. His chest feels like a caught, flying thing--heart struggling and bound by ribs--and he can't breathe, can't speak, and Bill's skin is scorching his back, and all he can think is let me out, let me out, let me out.

*

Lucius was right, after all. Look at what these Muggles have done. Percy doesn't go to visit his father at St Mungo's, to see him wrapped in bandages, inches away from death thanks to a bullet from a Muggle gun. Surprisingly difficult to heal. Another mission for the Order gone wrong--no Death Eater this time, or indeed ever, that they could prove. Just this.

Percy doesn't go because he has somewhere better to be, somewhere that will make a difference, somewhere he knows he's doing the right thing, where his talents are recognized and cleanly used. No more endless shuffling of Ministry papers, crinkling under his cool, quick hands. No more hoping for a promotion. No more waiting for that snide, sharp remark at dinner, with his eyes fixed on his plate and Fred or George taunting him--no more enduring his mother's silence, Ron's disgust, Bill's familiar touches at night.

No.

He's going somewhere he can prove his father wrong. Where he can save his father, and hopefully the rest of his family from their Dumbledore-obsessed stupidity. Percy'd seen through that old man right from the start, and what he sees everyday only proves it, combined with Lucius' discussions.

It's good here. Cold. It suits Percy, suits the shape of him, this place with frost sharp on its window panes--no heat, no heat at all, the air as cool as his skin. This place suits Percy's edges, gives them niches to dig into, to steady Percy with--just as Lucius' hand on his elbow steadies him, even though Voldemort's red eyes come so close and see so deep. Even though Voldemort's lipless mouth smiles, as though he sees something he likes.

Voldemort asks him many questions, voice soothing, and they sound so familiar that Percy answers them easily.

Yes, Percy whispers, yes, please--and the Mark, when it is finally branded onto his arm, isn't hot at all--it's a slow black freezing, of blood in tiny capillaries, cells a mere inflection away from exploding. Dark blood under the skin. Spilt ink. Not Bill's heat at all, not at all, and Percy can breathe easy at last.