Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: Percy tests Oliver Wood's theories. Not all of them survive. Written for redd_phoenix at the 'Blame Fest'. Inspiration drawn from both Fleur and Mireille.

Red
by

Percy Weasley is many things. He is studious, solemn; quick to anger but sullen in displeasure. He is stubborn in a strange, quiet way--his shirts are old hand-me-downs, but impeccably pressed. He is right-handed--the curve of his fingers as he grips his quill is almost identical to the curve he wanks himself off with. He takes short showers; emerges smelling like hot skin and soap. He rarely ever laughs. He is silent when he comes.

All these things, Oliver knows about Percy. And more.

It's a beautiful thing, he thinks, that Weasley red--so at odds with Percy. Percy who's grey, from his pyjamas to his towel. The boy who never smiles, who sharpens his quills with military precision, who sets out his cauldron with thin, careful hands--who stares out the window at the misting rain, face calm and eyes distant.

Perhaps this is why it shocks Oliver when he finds out about Flint.

He doesn't ask himself why he keeps coming back to watch them--why he's learned to keep tabs on them, patiently work little transparency charms into their wards, working his way in.

He doesn't ask himself why Percy is red, with Marcus, not grey--how he stands, legs spread, arms braced, panting, flushed from head to toe in what seems to be a painful heat. Oliver always thought it would clash with his hair, that flush--but it doesn't--only makes Percy's pale body burn brighter, incandescent, until it wavers like a white flame under the gleam of sweat and tears. Marcus loves this flame, Oliver knows. He sees Flint's Quidditch-roughened hands--fingers ridiculously square and uncouth, stroking that pale skin so carefully. It shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't. Percy should be hurt--getting hurt--but the brutish smile is gone from Flint's face, replaced instead by a deep concentration that is almost comical. He is the one that looks grey, faded, next to the flame that is Percy. His forehead, pressed into Percy's shoulder--mouth open and gasping, eyes closed, as if in grief.

Oliver didn't turn away the first time. He doesn't turn away now. Not as Flint's back flexes, muscles slick and powerful, shoving Percy forward. Not as Percy comes, hands scrabbling against the wall, come spraying the dry stone, hips bucking to pull Marcus deeper. 'God, god...', he's moaning, and Oliver feels a brief twinge of victory that Percy still hadn't made a sound when he came. Only afterwards. Only...