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Notes: 'He who offers to me with devotion only a leaf, or a flower, or a fruit, or even a little water, this I accept from that yearning soul, because with a pure heart it was offered with love.' - The Bhagavad Gita, 9:27. Arthur Weasley receives a visitor. Set during OotP and dedicated to Icarus.

He's late again, as he always is, and he knows Molly will have his head--it's dark already, and most of his colleagues have left their offices--the corridor outside is dark, empty, and the glowing Muggle clock on his desk says 23:26. Quickly, quickly--he must be home by midnight, Molly's final time limit, and he fumbles his notes as he shoves them into his case. Crinkled. No matter. The magic carpet he confiscated today is tied up in a red cylinder on Perkins' desk, surprisingly quiescent and not fighting its bonds--he'll have to draw up a report about it tonight, and hand it in tomorrow.

He reaches for his wand and whispers a Nox before gathering up a few more scrolls--untidy and crushed in his arms--and almost drops them in shock when a shadow appears at the door.

Thin. Tall. Shorter than him, but still. The moonlight from his window glints off a spark of red, but Arthur already knows, already knows who it is, and finds himself frozen in place.

Percy. His estranged son.

He finds his arms unwinding slowly, letting his gathered scrolls tumble back onto his desk. Somehow, he forgets to say Lumos, and it appears that Percy doesn't care to cast it either. Arthur remembers, suddenly, Percy's tendency to hide in cupboards, closets and other dark places as a child.

'Dad.' Percy's soft, precise voice--moonlight meeting his glasses as he steps forward again.

Arthur wants to say so many things, suddenly--why didn't you speak to me in the corridor today why did you leave how are you does Fudge work you too hard will you be home for Christmas you're making a mistake you're a bloody fool come home Percy come home--but somehow, all his disobedient mouth can manage is a stunned: 'What are you doing here?'

Percy steps closer, and closer again--and Arthur finds himself stepping back involuntarily, because this is familiar, too familiar, and when Percy finally stops in front of him, his eyes are sharp and his mouth is thin with anger. 'I know what you are,' Percy hisses.

Arthur startles. This is not familiar. 'What?'

'I know... what you're doing for Dumbledore. I know that you're part of their little...,' and here Percy nearly spits, 'Order.'

Arthur's blood runs cold. 'Who told you?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Who told you?'

'It doesn't matter!' Percy nearly shouts back before he remembers himself--and then his mouth is thin again, thin and displeased as Arthur's so often seen it with others, but rarely with himself. 'Don't you see what he's doing, Dad? He's using you! And he's spoiling your reputation! If you keep working for that... that maniac... the Weasley name will be mud!'

Arthur flinches at the last word, but in this light he can't see Percy's eyes properly, and whether that word was deliberate or a mistake, and he finds himself saying: 'It's Malfoy, isn't it.'

Percy's turn to start. 'What?'

'Lucius Malfoy. Did he say...'

'No.' Percy's answer's a little too forceful, for a moment, and almost protective--and Arthur feels something hot and unpleasant twist in his chest at that, but it isn't what he should be feeling right now, so he ignores it.

'You don't know, Percy. The threat is real, and I'm just--'

'There is no threat. The Minister of Magic himself has said that--Merlin, Dad! How can you, as a Ministry official, not understand that?'

'Ignoring the truth won't make it go away, Percy.' Percy. The first time he's said his son's name so far, and for a moment something in Percy's face struggles, softens--but then he's gamely putting his mask back on again, the 'Ministry official' mask, and Arthur feels his heart twist and his mind think: Oh, Percy...

'There isn't anything to ignore.' Percy's stiff-shouldered, adamant, exasperated. 'But if you don't want to listen to me--'

'Come home, Percy.' Startling, the plea in his voice.

Percy stops. His body's tensed all of a sudden, and Arthur realizes that he only knows this because his hand's on Percy's shoulder, that familiar curve of muscle, lean and delicate, and it quivers underneath his palm. Percy seems caught under it, a trapped, startled animal, eyes wide and bright in the dark. Arthur knows that he should pull back, that that look on his son's face isn't right, it never has been, but he can't, he can't, because letting go now might mean that Percy'll never come back.

'I can't,' Percy says finally, half-stubborn and half-broken, and for an instant Arthur remembers the same face years ago, injured after a fall from his broom, just before his first year at Hogwarts, saying I'm fine, Dad, I'm fine. Always so stubborn, their Golden Boy. Perfect Percy. They had always expected him to give and give; to be quiet, intelligent, irritable, sour-faced at breakfast, but they never expected him to flare like this--

'Why not?'

'Because--because you're--you're wrong, Dad, what you're doing, and you're--

'Then why did you come here tonight?' And what is he saying? He shouldn't be saying this. Sounding angry. He should be. He should be...

For a moment Arthur can see everything Percy doesn't say: Because I want to protect you. Because I love you. Because I'm giving you a chance. Because I'm warning you not to make a fool of yourself, Dad, because you're ruining your fucking career over that old fool, but I won't follow you. But in the end Percy's tight mouth loosens, just a little, and in that warm puff of breath Arthur realizes suddenly how close they are.

'You know why,' Percy says, finally, voice just a little rough with it--with the not-saying, just as his body's tight with the not-doing--until he finally darts forward, swift glance of moonlight on a flash of red hair, and his mouth is harsh and warm over Arthur's.

The kiss shocks Arthur into stillness.

Not because it is the first--there had been a softer one, when Percy had graduated from Hogwarts, and they'd been alone in the kitchen for a rare moment and Arthur had hugged him, Congratulations, Percy and Percy had said Thanks, all fierce pride shot through with an odd tentativeness, and his arms hadn't loosened and he'd kissed Arthur on the lips instead, swift and warm, a kiss that could be taken as chaste by anyone but Arthur had known, in that flashing instant of shock, in that flicker of Percy's eyes, that it wasn't.

It had almost crippled him at that moment, as suddenly years of Percy's strange untouchability when it came to anyone else made sense--his desperate drive to achieve, and always coming into Arthur's shed to tell him first, Look, Dad, I was top in Arithmancy, look, Dad, I'm a prefect, look, Dad, I'm...

And Arthur had always turned away, after the usual hug and encouragement, because Fred and George were making too much noise and Bill was off with his odd earring-wearing friends again and Ginny was small and crying and Ron had hurt his knee and Charlie kept burning himself and...

... Everyone, everyone had called attention to themselves by doing things wrong, but Percy was the only one who'd ever done things right, all the time, all the time, and yet Arthur had never seen...

... No. This kiss doesn't shock Arthur because it's the second, but because he knows what it means now--Percy's done something wrong, now, even though he knows he's in the right--and he expects it, he expects Arthur's attention. Look, Dad, I'm leaving.

For a blind, searching moment--when the press of Percy's mouth is just that--the press of a mouth--Arthur wonders what it would have been like to give in, all those years ago. What it would have been like not to pretend that he didn't know what Percy's half-shy touches on his shoulder meant, not to pretend that he didn't know his son, not to pretend that he didn't see him--not to always look away to the others because of fear--and does he feel guilty now, for fearing his own child? What could Percy have done? Arthur can sense it now, how it would have been after graduation--Percy's mouth would have been soft, warm, not harsh like it is now--Percy's voice would have been soft too, and his skin, and perhaps he'd have smiled, the way he had when Arthur had hugged him in the kitchen--and he'd have given everything, everything, the way Percy always gave his best to what he most cared for. His body would have been young, awkward, innocent, eighteen-year-old hormones on the brink of losing control in Percy's flushed, no longer prim face--Percy's warm, moist thighs on either side of him, opening...

Arthur pulls away, staggering backwards until he hits the desk, not realizing why his mouth feels wet until he sees Percy's own, open and gasping, Percy's eyes wide with a shock that clearly says I didn't expect this.

For a moment, the hope in Percy's face almost undoes him--it's the look he's seen so many times, when he'd let his arms linger too long or held an injured or ill young Percy close too close--and he knows just how it'll change when he draws back, how it won't crumple but simply grow cold, but doesn't Percy realize that what he asks is impossible? How hard it is for Arthur to say no, to any of his children, but especially to...?

No, Percy, his mind says; his tongue doesn't say it--can't say it--but Percy seems to understand anyhow, and there it is, that slow icing over, Percy the Perfect taking over by cool, measured degrees, so that the mouth that had looked soft before is firmed up again, and the flush has drained away to leave his face an empty shell, and his narrow eyes glitter coldly in the dark.

I'm not a monster, Arthur wants to tell him, Percy, I can't... And it's strange that he isn't thinking of Molly at all, except to think that he's not thinking of her--and Arthur wants to say you're my son, I'm not a monster, denying years of their unspoken knowledge, just as Arthur had always denied it with his stubbornly innocent touches--only Arthur isn't sure, by Percy's expression right now, whether the right course of action was what had made him the monster after all.

Percy's stepped back a little now, hands dusting his trousers as if casually arranging the seams rather than wiping off a nervous sweat--and his voice is cool again, clipped, when he asks: 'Do they even miss me?'

--Another shock, this sudden change in topic--since when was Percy the one to pretend that nothing had happened? But Percy's not pretending, Arthur realizes--his eyes are still angry, dark, hurt--but his face is clean, and he's reining himself in, and the sheer strength of his face then, the endurance of it, almost makes Arthur forget to answer. 'Of course we miss you,' he says hurriedly, his own voice hoarse. A strange shame clogs his throat and stops his voice from saying any more.

Percy snorts--looks away and pushes his glasses up his nose. 'Right. I'm sure it's just a lot easier with me not around, isn't it.'

Not a question. Arthur remembers how preoccupied Ginny's been, and Ron, and how Bill and Charlie are often absent as usual, and how Fred and George seem only more relaxed around the breakfast table now, allowed to squabble and tease when Molly's not in the kitchen, without a sour-faced Percy snapping the crisp newspaper in front of them, his cold, irritated morning voice ruining their fun.

'Molly misses you,' he blurts, because that's the truth.

For an instant Percy's face flickers again, torn between love and bitterness, and his mouth twists and he looks at Arthur, the curve of his lips not a smile at all and says: 'Molly.' Arthur thinks that the word's meant to be mocking, somehow, angry--but instead it sounds just like Mum, it carries the same feeling in it.

Arthur wants to step close, then, say come home, just please--and he tries to say I miss you too, but Percy's face is tight and he's looking away, and suddenly there's a rustle of paper, and Arthur blinks as Percy takes something out of his robes.

An envelope.

Arthur stares at it, mind roiling, thinking, What--but then Percy's pressing it into his hands, cool, smooth paper, and saying: 'It's information about Lucius Malfoy.'

Arthur jerks with surprise and nearly drops it--Percy's smile is humorless.

'Wh-why?' Arthur manages.

'It's nothing incriminating,' Percy says brusquely, 'that I know of. But if you... if you're right. You might find it useful. At a later date.'

Arthur doesn't seem to be capable of anything but a stunned silence, and Percy says fiercely: 'Minister Fudge has nothing to do with this, of course. I just saw... just saw...'

What? What? Tell me!

But Percy clamps his mouth shut and turns his back--and the sight of it, his son's back in simple Ministry robes, turned away from him--makes Arthur call out: 'Wait!'

But Percy's walking to the door, and out of it, and the last thing Arthur hears, when Percy's still at the threshold, is: 'Goodnight, Dad. You're late.'

And as Arthur glances at the Muggle clock, now a few minutes to midnight, he realizes that Percy's right.

Molly will have my head, he thinks vaguely, with not an ounce of the urgency he'd felt before. Now he only finds himself sliding back into his seat, behind his desk, staring at all the Muggle appliances glinting oddly around the office, at the quiet rolled-up carpet on Perkins' desk.

The clock strikes midnight with an odd little chime--but Arthur Weasley, head in his hands and the musty air of his office surrounding him, doesn't move.