Everything was white. The white of pure light, unadulterated by atmosphere or circumstance. Percy had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life, as he spun through the light with the kind of joy he'd so often envied others for. He had no destination in mind; he was flying, or the universe itself was, and for the first time in a very long time Percy laid aside his responsibilities and cares, and enjoyed just being.

He heard a shout to the left, and saw Oliver reaching out a hand to him, laughing. Percy's heart caught in his throat as he recognized the other man. He couldn't bring himself to wonder how Oliver could possibly be here. Free from disapproving eyes, Percy laughed back, and reached out to grab the proffered hand.

"Dance?" Oliver asked with a teasing smile.

"Certainly," replied Percy, gazing into the peaceful brown eyes.

They spun out into the light, in a crazily gleeful sort of polka, and Percy threw back his head and howled with laughter at the mere thought of what people would say if they could see the two of them here, alone, dancing.

Eventually, they stumbled to a halt, and Percy leaned into Oliver as he tried to catch his breath. Oliver's arms tightened around him and after a moment he spoke.

"You know I'm not your Oliver," said Oliver.

"Yes, I know," Percy said, a hint of sadness breaking through his euphoria.

"You never told him," Not-Oliver said neutrally.

"I didn't think he'd want to hear it."

"And now he'll never know that you loved him."

"Everyone loves him," Percy answered, with growing misery. This was not the way it was supposed to go! "He's never needed or wanted my love."

"How do you know?"

"I -" Percy blinked and realized he didn't have a single convincing argument. "He doesn't love me," he said softly. It hurt, even here.

"You don't know that."

Percy was wishing now that this otherworldly being had not chosen to look like Oliver. Sympathetic eyes looked out at him from the well-loved visage; and his heart, so light moments before, was lodged firmly in his throat.

"If he - if he thought of me that way, I would have noticed. I watched him." The admission was brutal. Watched him. He'd spent years watching Oliver, from behind books, from the crowds at Quidditch games, anywhere. Always looking for some sign the other boy might feel the same way, even knowing it was impossible. Not another living soul had ever heard this confession. He'd never talked about this aloud. That had been his only rule; never acknowledge it, never say it, never show it. The only secret he'd had in his short life that mattered to him.

It figured that it would come out after he was dead.

"You have a choice Percy," said the being. "You can go back. You can tell him."

"I can't go back," Percy said. "You know I can't. What I've done --" He broke out, seeing once again the scene that had haunted his imagination since he'd first heard it. Harry in Voldemort's hands, Cedric dead on the ground, and Death Eaters hailing their newly strengthened leader. He hadn't seen it of course, he'd just heard his parents talking about it. It was his fault. If he'd reported his boss's strange behaviour, none of it would have happened. His parents had told him a strictly edited version of course. One more in a long line of quiet gestures that indicated he'd lost their trust with his misstep.

"Percy, what if I told you that this is the way things were supposed to happen?"

"Supposed to- " Percy trailed off numbly.

"Voldemort will be defeated. There are reasons for everything Percy, but I can't explain them to you, not if you're going back."

"I can't go back."

"You can."

"They don't want me. They didn't before, and they certainly don't now. Not after this."

"Your family loves you."

"They don't. They try to, but they can't."

"Your mother is crying."

Percy blinked back the tears that rushed to his own eyes. "She'll get over it. Soon she'll realize it's a relief to not have to worry about me any more."

"Your father refuses to believe you're gone"

Percy was hit with an image so hard that he staggered. Pale blue walls, the paint chipped and cracked. His parents, sitting by a bed in an infirmary. A long thin, still body in the bed. He looked away, back at his parents. His father was shaking, and seemed to have aged 20 years since Percy had last seen him. His first thought was that a lot of time had passed. But no, because his mother was wearing the same outfit she had earlier in the day, and she was crying quietly. The sort of crying that follows an hours long crying jag. Ginny sat on the bench beside her, head resting on her shoulder. There were no tears from her. Pale face, red eyes, and blank stare. He'd never seen her so still and quiet.

Guilt.

With a shattering rush the image vanished, and he was back in the quiet and white light, back where there was peace and rest and this being who looked like Oliver, but wasn't.

"I don't understand," Percy said. His whole body shook with an emotion he couldn't define. "I took enough Banesblood to kill me. I'm dead, aren't I?" Everything he believed was in flux now.

"Not dead yet. You have a choice. Your brother George came looking for you, to tell you Fred didn't mean what he said."

"Too soon," Percy said in realization. "He came before it took effect."

"You made no attempt to disguise what you'd taken. The twins work with poisons all the time. He took the necessary countermeasures and got help."

Another bone-breaking flash of image, panic on George's face as he screamed for his mother, hands frantically searching for a pulse. Limp pale body on the floor of a clean, tidy room. The slaved-over envelope getting crushed beneath one of George's knee. The image torn away again, leaving Percy gasping for breath.

"I'm not dead."

"No. Your body can survive and heal if you choose to go back to it."

"I get to decide," Percy said with wonder. "You're not making me go back."

"I can't make you do anything."

"But you want me to go back."

The being smiled at him benignly, Oliver's smile. The one he'd never see again. "You don't want to go back because you think they don't want you. They want you. They've always wanted you."

The now familiar almost-sound as another image hit him, driving him to his knees. A row of ragged chairs, in a run-down hallway. The same building, by the paint on the walls. A row of Weasleys. Charlie pacing, slowly, up and down past his brothers. The twins and Ron a set of stoic faces, silent except for the occasional choked sob that escaped Ron. Percy would have voted Ron the least likely to cry over his death. The twins had never fully believed the things they said about him. They also never thought through the effect their constant stream of insults would have on Ron. As far as Percy could tell, over the years Ron had come to believe them. To think that Percy was a stuck-up, heartless person who'd betray his family. Which he had, inadvertently. Pain lanced through him, whether from the thought or because the image was fading he couldn't tell. He reached out, and did something, though he wasn't sure what, to keep the image still to see the last of his brothers, his favourite brother. Bill stood leaning against the wall, a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand. Neat, familiar writing scrolled across it. It hadn't been lost.

Back in the white light with Not-Oliver, lying on the... ground? Was there ground here? He couldn't muster the strength to get up. He couldn't deny any more that his actions had hurt his family. That in trying to end his pain and theirs, he'd only succeeded in deepening theirs.

"They found the note," said Not-Oliver.

Percy wet his lips and forced out the words. "Bill has it."

"Yes. Do you remember what it said?"

"I know what it says. I wrote dozens of drafts of it for the last month. I could recite it to you," Percy said bitterly. "This is my punishment for taking my own life?"

"No!" Not-Oliver was kneeling at his side, looking down at him in horror, hand stroking his back. "There is no punishment, Percy. If you decide to go on, you'll go on, and be welcome." A deep breath. "But this is the place of choice, and choices hurt."

"Why?"

"It's not my place to tell you."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"The note you left. Remember it."

Another wrench and Percy could read the piece of paper clenched in Bill's hand.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I'm sorry for the harm I've caused, and I'm sorry for what further harm I'm causing now. I can't live with what I've done. I didn't mean to, if it counts for anything.

Tell Harry that I'm sorry for the pain he endured at the hands of You Know Who.

Tell Ron I'm sorry I got angry when he asked about Mr. Crouch. I was wrong. I didn't want him getting involved in any more danger.

Tell Ginny I'm sorry I left this way, and that I love her. She's the best of us, and always will be, whether she knows it or not.

Tell Fred and George that I have always known they were mostly joking, and I'm sorry for giving them such a hard time.

Tell Bill and Charlie that they were good brothers and I'll miss them. I'm sorry I left without seeing them again, but I thought it was better this way.

I'm sorry I let everyone down. The stakes are too high these days for it to be safe to have someone like me around. I understand that, and I love you for trying not to tell me that.

Tell Cedric Diggory's parents that I deeply regret my part in the circumstances that led to their son's death.

Love,
Percy

And below it, penciled in hastily, just before he took the poison:

Fred: I know you didn't mean what you said earlier this afternoon. I have had this planned for a month, nothing you could have said or done would have changed that, either way.

The disorienting wrench back to the light was longer this time, but there was no pain. He was on his feet, weaving slightly, in front of his tormentor. He stood in a clearing, he realized, dimly making out the shapes of trees through the dense white fog.

"Did you really think that last note would help Percy? Would erase the guilt that he would feel? The last thing he said to you was that you were careless in the situation with Mr. Crouch. He was angry, and he didn't mean it, but the knowledge that he said those things, when you were suicidal, and you forgave him... that's going to eat away at his heart and soul for the rest of his life."

"I didn't mean to hurt him more," Percy said, a sob finally breaking through. "I didn't want to hurt them, but I was hurting them just by being there!"

Not-Oliver drew him close, arms warm and reassuring around him. "The situation with Mr. Crouch was not your fault Percy. You were 18 years old. You did exactly what you should have done. You even asked your father, after Ron's letter, if you should look into the matter more. He told you to let it be. He blames himself for what happened too Percy. They've never blamed you. None of this was your fault, and all of it was meant to fall out this way."

"Even my being here?"

"Even this. You need to make this choice."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you."

"What's the point of any of this? Why can't I just die?"

"They don't want you to go. And you don't want to go. You believe in your heart that you have unfinished business. With your family, with Oliver, with Voldemort himself. You either have to let go of that, or go back with the knowledge you now have and change things. If you go back, it will be hard Percy, I won't lie to you. But it will be worth it. What'll it be, Percy?"

The last sentence sounded so much like something Oliver would say, back at school, trying to convince Percy to go along with some bit of mischief. Percy struggled with the turbulent feelings it stirred. Unfinished business? He wasn't wanted. But no, he knew now that his family did want him. That stunning fact began to sink in. Even after he had messed up so badly, he was wanted. Not by one person, but by eight. Eight people loved him. He sank down onto the ground, staring at his knees.

And in the final quiet of his heart Percy found peace, and made a choice.

And breathed. And it hurt, his whole body hurt as he lay on the bed, struggling to open his eyes. Parting his parched lips he tried to speak, but all that came out was a faint gasp of air. Again.

"Mum?"

His brain felt like it was rattling as his mother fell on him, sobbing silently and hugging him. He couldn't remember ever having felt this weak.

"Oh god, Percy, oh thank you. Arthur get the doctor! Percy can you hear me?" Quiet, frantic voice and gentle hands easing the pain. Scattered kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his hand, as though he were little again. He remembered this feeling, this certainty of love from that time period too.

"Mum," he breathed again, quietly. Something important to tell her. Oh. "I'm sorry." As he drifted off to sleep he could have sworn he heard his father crying. It sounded like relief.

The end