ACT II
6.
Defence Council of the Ministry of Defence.
From: Prime Minister’s Office
To: Michael Portillo, Secretary of State for Defence
Re: The “Little Problem”
Michael,
We’ve had reports of more attacks on civilians. Her Majesty, the Queen demands a definitive plan on dealing with them. As the Americans are fond of saying: ‘the best defence is a good offence’. I leave this in your capable hands.
J.Major
From: Secretary of State for Defence
To: Prime Minister John Major
Re: The “Little Problem”
We have received word from the Americans regarding certain technologies sure to deal with them. Things are set in motion as we speak. Our informant has given us critical information regarding their ‘hot spots’. My office will have a concise plan of attack for Her Majesty to sign.
M.Portillo
7.
News Clipping
"Rita Skeeter’s Scoop"
The Daily Prophet
... found out that there have been less-than-amicable talks between Minister for Magic and the Prime Minister of Muggle Britain. As far as we can tell, it seems the Muggles no longer find Minister Scrimgeour to be an effective force in quelling the growing brashness of the Death Eaters and other supporters for He-Know-Must-Not-Be-Named. If the Muggles don’t believe Minister Scrimgeour capable of stopping the attacks and providing proper safety, why should we?
8.
The sun has barely begun to slice through the night sky when I roll into my office in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Before I can even step into the clunky, too-slow-to-be-magical lift to the floor of my offices (and by ‘office’ I really mean ‘cubicle’), I’m already regretting not calling in ill. Between my rendezvous with Severus and the subsequent tossing off, I barely got a wink in edgewise before my wand’s alarm went off.
(Whoever thought it would be funny to not include a ‘snooze’ feature in wands should get a one-way ticket to Azkaban!)
On my floor, I round a corner, only marginally aware of the bustling interns and new-hires. In fact, I am barely able to dodge an over-zealous apprentice threatened to be buried alive by the stack of papers in her arms.
“Sorry, Mr. Weasley!” she manages to call out as I step out of her trajectory.
Today, I think, is going to be one of those days.
Nevertheless, no matter how difficult the morning has been thus far, I've a strange feeling it’s about to get far worse! My ‘office’ is just past Minister Scrimgeour’s. In fact, I have to pass his door to get to mine, which is unfortunate. Lately, I’ve been dilatory more times than not - a fact that hasn’t escaped the Minister’s attention. The door, which is normally closed and silenced, is slightly ajar, allowing any audacious person to snoop about with nigh-free reign. I make to shut the door, but something strange stops me dead in my tracks: raised voices coming from within. Mind, there’s nothing inherently unusual about hearing raised voices from Scrimgeour’s office; it’s been happening far more frequently with You-Know-Who’s return to power. What is strange, however, is that the raised voice is not Scrimgeour’s; rather, it belongs to a fervent, new recruit by the name of Corin Praeposit, who has had his eye on my job since he got here.
I give you three guesses as to the topic of Mr. Praeposit’s tirade...
“I’m telling you, he cannot be trusted,” Praeposit says, matter-of-factly, accompanied by the ‘thud’ of a fist hitting the Minister’s desktop.
“And I’m telling you,” Scrimgeour says, just as straightforwardly, “Mr. Weasley has my complete trust.”
“Sir, he’s been coming in to work later and later. He was reported being seen in Horizont Alley...”
Shit. Originally, my Order contact wanted to meet in the “artsy” (read: gay) part of wizarding London - Horizont Alley. It was another instance of believing that no one would think to check there for spies and conspirators. During that time, I wasn’t always as careful as I should have been. Charlie, my contact, gave me a crash-course in proper espionage. This time, his tutelage didn’t cause me to break bones and bruise skin. Indeed, it probably saved my life more than once. I guess I pushed my luck with the Horizont Alley meetings; a reminder that I need to remain alert and diligent.
“Percy’s extra curricular activities are of little concern to me.”
Scrimgeor’s defence of my alleged homosexuality is... heartening, if not entirely annoying. He doesn’t need to defend me, after all - I’m hardly gay (wanks to thoughts of olive-skinned Mediterranean men with a penchant for dour expressions notwithstanding).
“It’s of concern to you if he’s passing Ministry information to the Death Eaters.”
What?!
Scrimgeour makes a sound much like a whale spouting air from its blowhole. “That’s a grand accusation, Praeposit. Do you have any proof to back it up?”
I hold my breath during what is probably the longest moment of silence ever endured as I wait for Praeposit’s ‘proof’. There’s enough evidence against me to fill a memoir from Gilderoy Lockhart. One would only have to look to find it, and not very far I might add. Fortunately, Praeposit’s ‘evidence’ never comes and I take a deep breath in an effort to quell the shaky nerves their exchange has given me.
“I don’t have any,” Praeposit admits in a small voice. “But if you give me permission to follow-”
In an insufferably dismissive tone, Scrimgeour scoffs. “Permission denied, Praeposit. Weasley’s no more a spy than his father is - or I am.”
“Anyone who’s willing to turn their back on their own family,” Praeposit retorts, so low I can barely hear him, “cannot be trusted.”
Low-blow, that.
“That’s enough, Praeposit. This conversation is done. I will hear no more of it, in fact. You are not to follow Percival Weasley, nor have any of his communiqués pre-screened, nor his Floo calls recorded, or...”
“Fine, fine! I understand, sir,” Praeposit says, defiant even in his defeat. “Let’s hope you’re not making a mistake.”
9.
I make it to my cubicle unnoticed by either Praeposit or the Minister. Already the weight of the day is bearing down on me, fit to break me in two. I rest my head in my hands, propping my elbows on my desk and ignoring (for now) the stack of paperwork waiting for me. I try to calm my nerves by taking deep breaths, but I can’t stop trembling.
Suddenly, understanding dawns on me. I now realise just how dangerous a game I’m playing. I’m in the middle of a trifurcate power struggle between the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry, and the Death Eaters, trading information from one source for information from another. In doing so, I’m breaking so many laws that I daresay life in Azkaban would be the least of my worries. Ministry officials 'in the know' are strictly forbidden to speak to Order members in this time of war. Any such communication is considered an act of treason, usually given the ultimate punishment. Worse the point, I’m not as... bent and duplicitous as The Twins, who could probably pull something like this off in their sleep. If keep this up much longer, I'm sure to get caught.
“Weasley!”
Scrimgeour’s commanding voice brings me out of my thoughts. I pull my face out of my hands and peer up at him.
“Long night, last?” he asks, an eyebrow raised. His lion-like mane of hair adds shadows to his face making his features seem both edgier and abstruse at the same time.
“Ah, yeah... I guess you can say that,” I stammer.
“Well, get some coffee in you or something, lad. I need you to take notes. The meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister is in five...”
Scrimgeour doesn’t wait to gauge my response. I huff and puff, but I still pull out my dicta-quill and parchment and follow the Minister towards the conference rooms. As I leave my cubicle, my eyes meet with Praeposit’s, who glares at me with hard, righteous indignation. No matter what he had been told - ordered - I know he is going to be a tack in my toe, an agnail that won’t pull away.
10.
I’m hot on Scrimgeour’s heels when he walks into one of the more spacious conference chambers. So close am I, in fact, that when the Minister stops abruptly, I almost careen into him. Indeed, I end up dropping my parchment and quill, hastily bending over to retrieve them. When my attention returns to the room, I understand what brought Scrimgeour to a screeching halt.
Sitting at the head of the table, as if he belonged there, wasn’t the Muggle Prime Minster. In his stead was a slender, blonde gentleman sharply dressed with his hair slicked back, revealing a strong forehead, and stronger jaw line. He closes the folder he was reading as we walked in, stands, and offers the Minister his hand.
“Rufus Scrimgeour, I presume?”
It takes a moment for the Minister to take the proffered hand, no doubt offended at the lack of the Prime Minister’s attendance.
“Minister Scrimgeour,” he corrects.
A corner of the blonde’s lip twitches, as if he just remembered an inside joke. “Yes, yes. Minister Scrimgeour, I understand.”
With that he sits, folding his hands over the portfolio, never taking his eyes off the Minister.
We sit along the table opposite the blonde.
“Oh, how rude of me,” he says. “I’m Marc Antone, the Prime Minister's Diary Secretary. He apologizes for not being able to make it to this little meeting.”
‘Diary Secretary’? That’s little more than an appointment setter for the Prime Minister. Gods! Even I have more authority than this bloke. I can almost hear Scrimgeour’s teeth grinding as he takes this slight -- for that's what it is -- personally.
“No fear,” Antone continues. “I have the complete confidence of the Prime Minister...”
There’s something about the way he says “Prime Minister”, placing an accentuating glance with the word ‘prime’, that bothers me. If Scrimgeour notices it, he makes no indication, nor does he even give a shufti my way.
“Well, as you know, Prime Minister Major-”
There it is again!
“-is concerned with the poor handling of your people’s little problem...”
And now, there’s the two-for: ‘your people’, ‘little problem’.
I start to squirm in my seat as the dicta-quill catches Antone's every word and inflexion. I scarcely like where this meeting is going.
“We are handling things quite well,” Scrimgeour counters.
As if he were waiting for that very objection, Antone pulls out newspaper clippings from the folder he had been carrying.
“Three attacks on... ah... Muggles, is that what you call us?” He almost laughs as he slides the articles to Scrimgeour. “An unfortunate incident involving The Glasgow Underground, where almost a hundred... Muggles were hurt, and dozens killed.”
I can see, although almost obscured by Scrimgeour, that Marc has handed him not only Muggle newspaper clippings, but that of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet, as well. It’s a fact that smacks me dumb.
“How did you get this?” Scrimgeour asks, holding up a copy of The Prophet.
“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Antone dismisses with a wave of the hand. “All that matters is that we have them, and access to more. We’ve been reading these... newspapers” he says the word with no fair hint of disdain, “since the beginning of the year.”
With renewed vigour, he opens the folder again, pulling another article from the small stack of official-looking papers.
“This one is particularly insightful.” He clears his throat, pulling a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket, and sliding them on with an air of smugness that would make Lucius Malfoy green with envy.
“And I quote: ‘The number of people within our wizarding community that feels that the Ministry of Magic is doing a stand-up job in containing the threat of the Death Eaters is quickly dwindling. Despite having enjoyed a short, albeit poignant, spike in confidence with the sacking of Cornelius Fudge and the appointment of Rufus Scrimgeour’...”
At this, Antone tears his attention from the article and stares pointedly at the Minister.
“... ‘that respite for the Ministry has since waned, yet again. Less than 17% of wizarding London feel that the Ministry is doing everything they can to squelch the terrorist activities of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters, and only 11% feel safe from potential Death Eater attacks.’ ”
He lets those statistics hang in the air like an albatross about the neck; the weight of the day growing ever-more unbearable with every second that passes.
“We are doing everything we can,” Scrimgeour offers.
Antone lets out a deep sigh as he scoops the articles back into the folder. “Well, I guess their side is simply the stronger side. But, that’s not why I’m here. This meeting isn’t to placate or console us; rather, to let you know that we are making our own... precautions.”
Everything about Antone is a signal. From the words he uses, the tone in his voice, to the way his eyes narrow and his lips purse, everything sends a message as to the true meaning behind each sentence. It’s both unnerving and fascinating to watch.
Scrimgeour perks up in his seat. “What do you mean by ‘precautions’?” he asks.
Antone leans over the desk, his voice dangerously low. “Make no mistake about it, Minister Scrimgeour; we are not without our own resources. If need be, Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Armed Forces will finish what you are unable to.”
“What?!” I cry out before I can stop myself.
Scrimgeour merely raises a hand in my direction before turning his attention back to Antone, who hadn’t gave me any notice.
“You lot haven’t been entirely truthful, have you?” Antone asks with a devilish leer.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t know there was a line between menacing and flirtatious. As it stands, he seems intent on straddling that fence and with none other than Minister Scrimgeour, no less.
“What are you on about?” Scrimgeour scoffs.
“In all these years, you’ve never once told us how the two administrations were integrated in other countries. Until our informant told us how magical and non-magical governments of the US, Germany, Japan, Australia, Canada worked together, we didn’t even know such a thing was possible. Well... now we know.”
“That’s just how it’s been for centuries! It’s our law. We are not the Americas. Or Canada. Or Germany... we are Great Britain...”
“Yes, exactly,” Antone interjects, pointing his finger at no one in particular. “We are Great Britain... the United Kingdom.”
Yet again, the way he says ‘we’ sends shivers down my spine.
Antone opens his folder - which I’m quickly beginning to despise - and pulls out a stack of papers, bleached white and void of creases, the exact antithesis to our parchment. It's lifeless and sterile and I'm sure it's little more than a harbringer of bad news; I almost want to check it for dark magic.
Standing, he slides the documents to Scrimgeour. I can read the title on the cover page:
:MAGIC: The Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act of 1997 :
“What’s this rubbish, then?”
Antone smoothes his hand over his jacket, brushing off imaginary dirt from his clothes, as he continues, “Best get acquainted with that ‘rubbish’, Minister. You’re now holding in your hands the prime law of the land with regard to anything and everything magical in nature.”
Again, without thinking (and before I can stop myself), I stand. “You can’t do that!”
Finally, Antone turns his gaze to me, his eyes locked to mine. “Oh, but we can. The bill is already at its third reading. The Parliament has good as approved it and Her Majesty the Queen, Herself is scheduled to sign that into law by day’s end.”
“This is preposterous!” Scrimgeour says.
“No. ‘Preposterous’ is being held captive by lunatics with wands and flying brooms who make laws about Muggles without getting our say; who constantly have their memories manipulated and erased when one of you lot gets a little power hungry; living in fear because the people entrusted to protect us can’t even protect their own. That is ‘preposterous’ - this is prudent. We are far from powerless, Rufus Scrimgeour.” Antone almost spat the name. “You’d do well to remember that.”
At this, Scrimgeour stands, face beat red with fury, slamming his fist down on the table. “We are not the enemy, here!”
“If there is another attack on Muggles,” Antone responds, ignoring Scrimgeour’s declaration, “we will be forced to take military action.”
“That’ll be war!” I yell, hoping beyond hope that this is just the posturing of two schoolyard bullies puffing out their chest in an effort to be the ‘King of the Hill’. Surely these two sides have sense enough to understand the implications of what Antone has just threatened!
Instead, Antone looks at me with those cold, grey eyes - devoid of doubt and filled to the brim with arrogance that he no doubt believes is confidences.
“Then war it will be.”
11.
When I finally make it home, some eight hours after the meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister’s assistant, I’m knackered. So exhausted, in fact, that I forget that I’m coming home to an empty house, save the furniture and broken memories. It’s funny how a room that, at one point, seemed so small - too small - can all of a sudden feel vast and cavernous and empty. I lean flush against the door as it closes behind me and take a deep breath. I can still smell faint traces of Penelope’s perfume, her shampoo, and soap: lilacs and honey, with a peppered piquant flavour to it.
With little preamble, I make my way into our - my - bedroom and wrench open the door to our - my - closet. My clothes are bunched to one side, but the other side is emptied, almost completely, save for a couple blouses of hers and a deep ocean blue formal gown that she wore to our third-year masquerade ball at Hogwarts. Gently, as if I were holding Penelope herself, I take the shift from its hanger and bring it up to my nose. That peppery smell is there, imbued in every fibre, calling forth memories more vivid than a Penseive. I close my eyes, smile, and become lost in an imaginary waltz. I wrap my arms around the dress as I would were Penelope in it, and begin to pirouette about the bedroom, remembering the first time we danced together and how painfully embarrassing it was: stepping on her toes, gripping her hand too tight, almost getting a ‘biggie’ as she pressed herself so tight against me I thought - I hoped - we’d become the same person.
Within moments, I’ve tossed myself onto the bed, the dress still draped on me. My hand begins to roam over my torso, unbuttoning the shirt as I continue to take in Penelope’s faded scent. Oh, if only she were here right now. My shirt lay open, splayed across the bed, my hand continuing to rove along my chest, twisting and rubbing nipples that seem to perk up the closer the adventurous fingers get. Another whiff of her dress and a tightness travels like an earthquake down to my trousers, where my cock is begging to be released. The travelling hand proceeds without my conscious prodding as it unfastens the belt and pulling down my slacks just far enough to where I can start kicking them off.
My face is buried underneath Penelope’s dress, making me feel as though I’m drowning in her, but my other hand has begun pulling down my Y-fronts, freeing my prick from its confinement.
The transition in my thoughts is so subtle that I can’t tell when I switched. No longer am I Percy, fantasizing about Penelope. Now, I’m the dirty blonde spy wearing a dress hiked over my face and the hands cupping my nut sac and tugging on my cock belong to a drawling Mediterranean Potions Master, doing with me as he sees fit. I moan as I lift my arse, arching it enough so that my finger can tip-toe further down until it’s lost in a hole I never once thought could bring me so much pleasure.
-ACT III-
Defence Council of the Ministry of Defence.
From: Prime Minister’s Office
To: Michael Portillo, Secretary of State for Defence
Re: The “Little Problem”
Michael,
We’ve had reports of more attacks on civilians. Her Majesty, the Queen demands a definitive plan on dealing with them. As the Americans are fond of saying: ‘the best defence is a good offence’. I leave this in your capable hands.
J.Major
From: Secretary of State for Defence
To: Prime Minister John Major
Re: The “Little Problem”
We have received word from the Americans regarding certain technologies sure to deal with them. Things are set in motion as we speak. Our informant has given us critical information regarding their ‘hot spots’. My office will have a concise plan of attack for Her Majesty to sign.
M.Portillo
7.
News Clipping
"Rita Skeeter’s Scoop"
The Daily Prophet
... found out that there have been less-than-amicable talks between Minister for Magic and the Prime Minister of Muggle Britain. As far as we can tell, it seems the Muggles no longer find Minister Scrimgeour to be an effective force in quelling the growing brashness of the Death Eaters and other supporters for He-Know-Must-Not-Be-Named. If the Muggles don’t believe Minister Scrimgeour capable of stopping the attacks and providing proper safety, why should we?
8.
The sun has barely begun to slice through the night sky when I roll into my office in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Before I can even step into the clunky, too-slow-to-be-magical lift to the floor of my offices (and by ‘office’ I really mean ‘cubicle’), I’m already regretting not calling in ill. Between my rendezvous with Severus and the subsequent tossing off, I barely got a wink in edgewise before my wand’s alarm went off.
(Whoever thought it would be funny to not include a ‘snooze’ feature in wands should get a one-way ticket to Azkaban!)
On my floor, I round a corner, only marginally aware of the bustling interns and new-hires. In fact, I am barely able to dodge an over-zealous apprentice threatened to be buried alive by the stack of papers in her arms.
“Sorry, Mr. Weasley!” she manages to call out as I step out of her trajectory.
Today, I think, is going to be one of those days.
Nevertheless, no matter how difficult the morning has been thus far, I've a strange feeling it’s about to get far worse! My ‘office’ is just past Minister Scrimgeour’s. In fact, I have to pass his door to get to mine, which is unfortunate. Lately, I’ve been dilatory more times than not - a fact that hasn’t escaped the Minister’s attention. The door, which is normally closed and silenced, is slightly ajar, allowing any audacious person to snoop about with nigh-free reign. I make to shut the door, but something strange stops me dead in my tracks: raised voices coming from within. Mind, there’s nothing inherently unusual about hearing raised voices from Scrimgeour’s office; it’s been happening far more frequently with You-Know-Who’s return to power. What is strange, however, is that the raised voice is not Scrimgeour’s; rather, it belongs to a fervent, new recruit by the name of Corin Praeposit, who has had his eye on my job since he got here.
I give you three guesses as to the topic of Mr. Praeposit’s tirade...
“I’m telling you, he cannot be trusted,” Praeposit says, matter-of-factly, accompanied by the ‘thud’ of a fist hitting the Minister’s desktop.
“And I’m telling you,” Scrimgeour says, just as straightforwardly, “Mr. Weasley has my complete trust.”
“Sir, he’s been coming in to work later and later. He was reported being seen in Horizont Alley...”
Shit. Originally, my Order contact wanted to meet in the “artsy” (read: gay) part of wizarding London - Horizont Alley. It was another instance of believing that no one would think to check there for spies and conspirators. During that time, I wasn’t always as careful as I should have been. Charlie, my contact, gave me a crash-course in proper espionage. This time, his tutelage didn’t cause me to break bones and bruise skin. Indeed, it probably saved my life more than once. I guess I pushed my luck with the Horizont Alley meetings; a reminder that I need to remain alert and diligent.
“Percy’s extra curricular activities are of little concern to me.”
Scrimgeor’s defence of my alleged homosexuality is... heartening, if not entirely annoying. He doesn’t need to defend me, after all - I’m hardly gay (wanks to thoughts of olive-skinned Mediterranean men with a penchant for dour expressions notwithstanding).
“It’s of concern to you if he’s passing Ministry information to the Death Eaters.”
What?!
Scrimgeour makes a sound much like a whale spouting air from its blowhole. “That’s a grand accusation, Praeposit. Do you have any proof to back it up?”
I hold my breath during what is probably the longest moment of silence ever endured as I wait for Praeposit’s ‘proof’. There’s enough evidence against me to fill a memoir from Gilderoy Lockhart. One would only have to look to find it, and not very far I might add. Fortunately, Praeposit’s ‘evidence’ never comes and I take a deep breath in an effort to quell the shaky nerves their exchange has given me.
“I don’t have any,” Praeposit admits in a small voice. “But if you give me permission to follow-”
In an insufferably dismissive tone, Scrimgeour scoffs. “Permission denied, Praeposit. Weasley’s no more a spy than his father is - or I am.”
“Anyone who’s willing to turn their back on their own family,” Praeposit retorts, so low I can barely hear him, “cannot be trusted.”
Low-blow, that.
“That’s enough, Praeposit. This conversation is done. I will hear no more of it, in fact. You are not to follow Percival Weasley, nor have any of his communiqués pre-screened, nor his Floo calls recorded, or...”
“Fine, fine! I understand, sir,” Praeposit says, defiant even in his defeat. “Let’s hope you’re not making a mistake.”
9.
I make it to my cubicle unnoticed by either Praeposit or the Minister. Already the weight of the day is bearing down on me, fit to break me in two. I rest my head in my hands, propping my elbows on my desk and ignoring (for now) the stack of paperwork waiting for me. I try to calm my nerves by taking deep breaths, but I can’t stop trembling.
Suddenly, understanding dawns on me. I now realise just how dangerous a game I’m playing. I’m in the middle of a trifurcate power struggle between the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry, and the Death Eaters, trading information from one source for information from another. In doing so, I’m breaking so many laws that I daresay life in Azkaban would be the least of my worries. Ministry officials 'in the know' are strictly forbidden to speak to Order members in this time of war. Any such communication is considered an act of treason, usually given the ultimate punishment. Worse the point, I’m not as... bent and duplicitous as The Twins, who could probably pull something like this off in their sleep. If keep this up much longer, I'm sure to get caught.
“Weasley!”
Scrimgeour’s commanding voice brings me out of my thoughts. I pull my face out of my hands and peer up at him.
“Long night, last?” he asks, an eyebrow raised. His lion-like mane of hair adds shadows to his face making his features seem both edgier and abstruse at the same time.
“Ah, yeah... I guess you can say that,” I stammer.
“Well, get some coffee in you or something, lad. I need you to take notes. The meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister is in five...”
Scrimgeour doesn’t wait to gauge my response. I huff and puff, but I still pull out my dicta-quill and parchment and follow the Minister towards the conference rooms. As I leave my cubicle, my eyes meet with Praeposit’s, who glares at me with hard, righteous indignation. No matter what he had been told - ordered - I know he is going to be a tack in my toe, an agnail that won’t pull away.
10.
I’m hot on Scrimgeour’s heels when he walks into one of the more spacious conference chambers. So close am I, in fact, that when the Minister stops abruptly, I almost careen into him. Indeed, I end up dropping my parchment and quill, hastily bending over to retrieve them. When my attention returns to the room, I understand what brought Scrimgeour to a screeching halt.
Sitting at the head of the table, as if he belonged there, wasn’t the Muggle Prime Minster. In his stead was a slender, blonde gentleman sharply dressed with his hair slicked back, revealing a strong forehead, and stronger jaw line. He closes the folder he was reading as we walked in, stands, and offers the Minister his hand.
“Rufus Scrimgeour, I presume?”
It takes a moment for the Minister to take the proffered hand, no doubt offended at the lack of the Prime Minister’s attendance.
“Minister Scrimgeour,” he corrects.
A corner of the blonde’s lip twitches, as if he just remembered an inside joke. “Yes, yes. Minister Scrimgeour, I understand.”
With that he sits, folding his hands over the portfolio, never taking his eyes off the Minister.
We sit along the table opposite the blonde.
“Oh, how rude of me,” he says. “I’m Marc Antone, the Prime Minister's Diary Secretary. He apologizes for not being able to make it to this little meeting.”
‘Diary Secretary’? That’s little more than an appointment setter for the Prime Minister. Gods! Even I have more authority than this bloke. I can almost hear Scrimgeour’s teeth grinding as he takes this slight -- for that's what it is -- personally.
“No fear,” Antone continues. “I have the complete confidence of the Prime Minister...”
There’s something about the way he says “Prime Minister”, placing an accentuating glance with the word ‘prime’, that bothers me. If Scrimgeour notices it, he makes no indication, nor does he even give a shufti my way.
“Well, as you know, Prime Minister Major-”
There it is again!
“-is concerned with the poor handling of your people’s little problem...”
And now, there’s the two-for: ‘your people’, ‘little problem’.
I start to squirm in my seat as the dicta-quill catches Antone's every word and inflexion. I scarcely like where this meeting is going.
“We are handling things quite well,” Scrimgeour counters.
As if he were waiting for that very objection, Antone pulls out newspaper clippings from the folder he had been carrying.
“Three attacks on... ah... Muggles, is that what you call us?” He almost laughs as he slides the articles to Scrimgeour. “An unfortunate incident involving The Glasgow Underground, where almost a hundred... Muggles were hurt, and dozens killed.”
I can see, although almost obscured by Scrimgeour, that Marc has handed him not only Muggle newspaper clippings, but that of The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet, as well. It’s a fact that smacks me dumb.
“How did you get this?” Scrimgeour asks, holding up a copy of The Prophet.
“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Antone dismisses with a wave of the hand. “All that matters is that we have them, and access to more. We’ve been reading these... newspapers” he says the word with no fair hint of disdain, “since the beginning of the year.”
With renewed vigour, he opens the folder again, pulling another article from the small stack of official-looking papers.
“This one is particularly insightful.” He clears his throat, pulling a pair of spectacles from his jacket pocket, and sliding them on with an air of smugness that would make Lucius Malfoy green with envy.
“And I quote: ‘The number of people within our wizarding community that feels that the Ministry of Magic is doing a stand-up job in containing the threat of the Death Eaters is quickly dwindling. Despite having enjoyed a short, albeit poignant, spike in confidence with the sacking of Cornelius Fudge and the appointment of Rufus Scrimgeour’...”
At this, Antone tears his attention from the article and stares pointedly at the Minister.
“... ‘that respite for the Ministry has since waned, yet again. Less than 17% of wizarding London feel that the Ministry is doing everything they can to squelch the terrorist activities of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters, and only 11% feel safe from potential Death Eater attacks.’ ”
He lets those statistics hang in the air like an albatross about the neck; the weight of the day growing ever-more unbearable with every second that passes.
“We are doing everything we can,” Scrimgeour offers.
Antone lets out a deep sigh as he scoops the articles back into the folder. “Well, I guess their side is simply the stronger side. But, that’s not why I’m here. This meeting isn’t to placate or console us; rather, to let you know that we are making our own... precautions.”
Everything about Antone is a signal. From the words he uses, the tone in his voice, to the way his eyes narrow and his lips purse, everything sends a message as to the true meaning behind each sentence. It’s both unnerving and fascinating to watch.
Scrimgeour perks up in his seat. “What do you mean by ‘precautions’?” he asks.
Antone leans over the desk, his voice dangerously low. “Make no mistake about it, Minister Scrimgeour; we are not without our own resources. If need be, Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Armed Forces will finish what you are unable to.”
“What?!” I cry out before I can stop myself.
Scrimgeour merely raises a hand in my direction before turning his attention back to Antone, who hadn’t gave me any notice.
“You lot haven’t been entirely truthful, have you?” Antone asks with a devilish leer.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he didn’t know there was a line between menacing and flirtatious. As it stands, he seems intent on straddling that fence and with none other than Minister Scrimgeour, no less.
“What are you on about?” Scrimgeour scoffs.
“In all these years, you’ve never once told us how the two administrations were integrated in other countries. Until our informant told us how magical and non-magical governments of the US, Germany, Japan, Australia, Canada worked together, we didn’t even know such a thing was possible. Well... now we know.”
“That’s just how it’s been for centuries! It’s our law. We are not the Americas. Or Canada. Or Germany... we are Great Britain...”
“Yes, exactly,” Antone interjects, pointing his finger at no one in particular. “We are Great Britain... the United Kingdom.”
Yet again, the way he says ‘we’ sends shivers down my spine.
Antone opens his folder - which I’m quickly beginning to despise - and pulls out a stack of papers, bleached white and void of creases, the exact antithesis to our parchment. It's lifeless and sterile and I'm sure it's little more than a harbringer of bad news; I almost want to check it for dark magic.
Standing, he slides the documents to Scrimgeour. I can read the title on the cover page:
:MAGIC: The Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act of 1997 :
“What’s this rubbish, then?”
Antone smoothes his hand over his jacket, brushing off imaginary dirt from his clothes, as he continues, “Best get acquainted with that ‘rubbish’, Minister. You’re now holding in your hands the prime law of the land with regard to anything and everything magical in nature.”
Again, without thinking (and before I can stop myself), I stand. “You can’t do that!”
Finally, Antone turns his gaze to me, his eyes locked to mine. “Oh, but we can. The bill is already at its third reading. The Parliament has good as approved it and Her Majesty the Queen, Herself is scheduled to sign that into law by day’s end.”
“This is preposterous!” Scrimgeour says.
“No. ‘Preposterous’ is being held captive by lunatics with wands and flying brooms who make laws about Muggles without getting our say; who constantly have their memories manipulated and erased when one of you lot gets a little power hungry; living in fear because the people entrusted to protect us can’t even protect their own. That is ‘preposterous’ - this is prudent. We are far from powerless, Rufus Scrimgeour.” Antone almost spat the name. “You’d do well to remember that.”
At this, Scrimgeour stands, face beat red with fury, slamming his fist down on the table. “We are not the enemy, here!”
“If there is another attack on Muggles,” Antone responds, ignoring Scrimgeour’s declaration, “we will be forced to take military action.”
“That’ll be war!” I yell, hoping beyond hope that this is just the posturing of two schoolyard bullies puffing out their chest in an effort to be the ‘King of the Hill’. Surely these two sides have sense enough to understand the implications of what Antone has just threatened!
Instead, Antone looks at me with those cold, grey eyes - devoid of doubt and filled to the brim with arrogance that he no doubt believes is confidences.
“Then war it will be.”
11.
When I finally make it home, some eight hours after the meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister’s assistant, I’m knackered. So exhausted, in fact, that I forget that I’m coming home to an empty house, save the furniture and broken memories. It’s funny how a room that, at one point, seemed so small - too small - can all of a sudden feel vast and cavernous and empty. I lean flush against the door as it closes behind me and take a deep breath. I can still smell faint traces of Penelope’s perfume, her shampoo, and soap: lilacs and honey, with a peppered piquant flavour to it.
With little preamble, I make my way into our - my - bedroom and wrench open the door to our - my - closet. My clothes are bunched to one side, but the other side is emptied, almost completely, save for a couple blouses of hers and a deep ocean blue formal gown that she wore to our third-year masquerade ball at Hogwarts. Gently, as if I were holding Penelope herself, I take the shift from its hanger and bring it up to my nose. That peppery smell is there, imbued in every fibre, calling forth memories more vivid than a Penseive. I close my eyes, smile, and become lost in an imaginary waltz. I wrap my arms around the dress as I would were Penelope in it, and begin to pirouette about the bedroom, remembering the first time we danced together and how painfully embarrassing it was: stepping on her toes, gripping her hand too tight, almost getting a ‘biggie’ as she pressed herself so tight against me I thought - I hoped - we’d become the same person.
Within moments, I’ve tossed myself onto the bed, the dress still draped on me. My hand begins to roam over my torso, unbuttoning the shirt as I continue to take in Penelope’s faded scent. Oh, if only she were here right now. My shirt lay open, splayed across the bed, my hand continuing to rove along my chest, twisting and rubbing nipples that seem to perk up the closer the adventurous fingers get. Another whiff of her dress and a tightness travels like an earthquake down to my trousers, where my cock is begging to be released. The travelling hand proceeds without my conscious prodding as it unfastens the belt and pulling down my slacks just far enough to where I can start kicking them off.
My face is buried underneath Penelope’s dress, making me feel as though I’m drowning in her, but my other hand has begun pulling down my Y-fronts, freeing my prick from its confinement.
The transition in my thoughts is so subtle that I can’t tell when I switched. No longer am I Percy, fantasizing about Penelope. Now, I’m the dirty blonde spy wearing a dress hiked over my face and the hands cupping my nut sac and tugging on my cock belong to a drawling Mediterranean Potions Master, doing with me as he sees fit. I moan as I lift my arse, arching it enough so that my finger can tip-toe further down until it’s lost in a hole I never once thought could bring me so much pleasure.
-ACT III-