ACT III
12.
I wake up in time for my midnight ‘meeting’ with an Order member. I received word that it was to be Harry I’d be meeting with. I wasn’t looking forward to it, either. He’s never been one for chatting or having much of a sense of humour, but lately his sour disposition has grown exponentially. I don’t understand how Charlie puts up with him, actually.
Having received no word from Severus, I can only assume that he has no news to give me (or has been caught and killed, either by an Order member, the Ministry, or a Death Eater who’s figured him for a spy). After my shower, I put on loose-fitting casual clothes and cast a glamour charm to deaden my red hair, which tends to be quite noticeable, even in the dark. The night air is nippy when I step from my flat onto the sidewalk. Zipping up my bomber jacket, I make my way towards Nocturne Alley.
I may simply be paranoid, but I’ve the sensation there are eyes watching my every move. Charlie once told me to give myself a minute after turning a corner, and then peer around said corner to make sure no one is following me. I do this and much to my surprise, I’m not being followed, despite the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me contrary. I press on to my destination, sidestepping other witches and wizards out for a night of revelry or debauchery, or just trying to lose themselves in something other than their fears. Still, I can’t shake that feeling that someone - or something - is following me.
I make a final turn into a dark alley between two of the more unsavoury establishments in Nocturne Alley, forgetting not to continue until I glanced around the corner, again. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a pair of freckled hands grabs hold of my collar, dragging me into the darkness. I’m pulled in to the shade, arms pulling tight against a body. Before I can cast a spell, a strong hand covers my mouth, gripping me so hard I wince in pain.
“Be still,” I hear. “Be silent. You were followed.”
I instinctively paw at the hand covering my mouth until I see Corin Praeposit running into the alley, wand at the ready.
“Lumos!” he hisses and light erupts from the tip of his wand. “I know you’re in here, Weasley! I saw you!” The light from his spell roams about the alleyway, high and low and then high again. As the light makes its way to where I - we - are standing, my heart pounds in my chest and my breath hitches.
‘This is it’, I think, ‘I’ve been caught.’
Instead, Praeposit glosses over me - us - like we’re not even there. Finally resolved that I am, in fact, not in the alley, he whispers “Nox” and extinguishes the wand-light, casting one last furtive look around the alley before taking off hastily down the street.
Despite this, the hand covering my mouth doesn’t move for a few minutes more.
“Stop your struggling,” my captor jeers. “You stringy little git!”
Finally, I pull myself free.
“Damn it, Charlie!” I yell, spinning around to face my older brother. The shadows in front of me shimmer and recoil before collapsing on itself, leaving Charlie Weasley in its place (with quite the smug look on his mug, I might add).
“Well, aren’t you the clever one, then?” I spit, trying my best to hide how impressed I truly am. The spell - whatever it was - not only kept us hidden in shadows, but also repelled the light of a Lumos Charm.
“Well, I can’t take credit for that bit o’ magic,” Charlie admits, stepping up to close the gap between us.
“The Twins?” I ask.
“Nope. Colin Creevey, if you can believe that.”
“Probably used it to snoop around Hogwarts, the little pervert,” I mutter, far more petulantly than I intended.
Charlie laughed. “He taught us that nifty li’l number before him and his brother took off for Canada.”
“Didn’t feel much like fighting a war, did they?” I tease.
“Their father has cancer,” he replies, solemnly. “There’s an experimental treatment in North American that they’re gonna try out.”
“Oh.”
And believe me; I feel as big a donkey as I should. Sometimes I forget that people have personal wars they need to attend to, as well. We can’t all be Dark Lord Slayers, can we?
Charlie grabs me by the shoulders and draws me in to a tight hug.
“It’s good to see you, baby brother.”
“You, too.”
And it is.
Without warning, I feel the familiar compression of a side-long Apparation. An instant later, we’re on the rooftop of a building some five blocks from where we were. I freeze up, refusing to move from where I’m standing.
“Just don’t look down,” Charlie quips, letting me go and sitting on the ledge of the roof.
“How’s Harry?”
“He’s... Harry.” Charlie gives me a look as if that alone should answer everything. It doesn’t, of course. I don’t know Harry very well. At least, not in the manner that Charlie or Ronald or Hermione do. “So...”
“Down to business, then?” I ask.
“Haven’t got a lot of time, unfortunately.”
“Just as well. You-Know-Who plans on using dragons again. He has a list of reserves that he plans on attacking soon.”
Charlie ponders this information for a second before asking, “Do you know which Reserves?”
“Yes,” I answer, pulling a small piece of folded parchment from my pocket and handing it to him. He unfolds the note, reads over it, and folds it back up, putting it in his shirt pocket.
“Thanks for this,” he says with a strained, weak smile.
“Your turn,” I point out as that familiar glossed-over expression began to form over Charlie’s face, a sure sign that he’s thinking far too much.
“Oh, yeah, right. Well, it seems our plight have reached ears abroad. We just welcomed a cadre of American and German freedom fighters the other day. Why are you looking at me like that?”
I truly don’t understand, especially not after the meeting this morning with the Muggle admin.
“It’s just... we had a meeting today with the Prime Minister. Well, he sent an assistant, but from what he was telling us, it seemed as though the American and German governments were on the side of the Muggles...”
“Wait... wait... ‘Side of the Muggles’? What’s that rot? We’re on the same side, yeah?”
I proceed to relay this morning’s meeting to Charlie, who can hardly keep his mouth from gaping open.
“... 'Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act'...? Bollocks!”
“I know,” I say. “I thought it silly, too.”
“It’s not silly, Percy,” Charlie admonishes and, for a minute, he makes me feel eight years old again. “It’s frightening. What you’re talking about what can amount to a Civil War, here.” He stands up and begins pacing the roof. “And, I highly doubt it’d be a war that we could win.”
“Pure drek, that,” I scoff.
Charlie stops his pacing and glares at me. “Really? Do you know a spell that can stop a bullet? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
I’m instantly taken back to the conversation I had with the disguised Severus; he said much the same thing.
“Well, what about the Americans... or the Germans? You said you had some-”
“Yeah, they’re with us so long as it seems we’re on the same side. But... if our Muggle government declares some sort of offensive against us, they might not be so forthcoming with the help.”
“That’s daft!”
“Hardly. Percy, it’s not like it is here. With Britain, it’s debateable who came first: wizards or Muggles. At best, we can assume that wizards have been around at least as long as the first government formed on these lands. But with North America, it’s different. Aside from the indigenous peoples there, the government formed, and then the wizards came. American wizards see themselves as Americans first, wizards second. It’s hard press to find wizards here that think themselves Britons first. Our whole government has treated the two worlds as a sort of ‘us’ and ‘them’.”
It’s times like these that I wish I never got into politics.
“If there’s a war between the wizarding world and the Muggle world,” Charlie continues, “they’ll simply default to what they know: Muggle law is the law-prime, everything else is secondary. Certainly, we’ll have supporters... but it won’t compare. We’d be slaughtered. And, honestly, I don’t know which side I’d fight for at this point.”
I want to argue the point, about how ridiculous all of this nonsense is, but I haven’t the strength. I’ve seen so many horrible things perpetrated by the Ministry that it’s hard to discern between us and the Death Eaters, sometimes. My mind instantly thinks of Sirius Black, jailed for thirteen years without so much as a trial or formal charges, and of Stan Shunpike, much for the same reason, found hung from a make-shift noose. He was dead for two days before anyone found him. I think of these atrocities and I, too, wonder which side I’d be on.
“Oh, by the way,” Charlie says. “Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?”
“No.”
Charlie seems to deflate with the defeat, his head bowed. “Harry’s looking for him... again.”
“Must be tough... when your lover is obsessed with someone else.”
Charlie doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches and unclenches in rapid succession. Finally, he tosses me a pinchbeck smile and says, “Be careful, Perce. If things start getting too hot, don’t worry about contacting us for awhile. Lay low if you have to.”
With that, he gives me another hug before disapparating with a loud ‘crack’, leaving me alone on a rooftop, lost in thought.
13.
Those thoughts are still there, festering, when I turn in for the night. I’ve a mere four hours before I have to return to the Ministry, yet I toss and turn and ponder. First, I brood over the current Muggle-Wizard situation, musing on what Charlie said.
‘What you’re talking about what can amount to a Civil War...’
Soon, however, my thoughts converge on Charlie, just Charlie, and his horrible taste in men. First, there was Oliver, who broke his heart for Marcus Flint (of all people). Then, there was that bloke from Romania, who was more in love with Charlie’s status at the Dragon Reserve than with Charlie, the person; and finally, our ‘Boy Saviour’, so broken and tattered that all the magic in the world couldn’t piece him back together. It’s as if Charlie chooses lovers like they’re dragons; some need fixing, some are sure to bring you down, while others will undoubtedly burn you alive.
My heart breaks even as sunlight cuts through the night sky.
14.
I’m greeted by hectic frenzy in the Department of International Magic Cooperation the next morning. The worried look on most employees’ faces makes me feel that I’ve missed something, or that something’s missed me. Secretaries are rushing to and fro, interns are busy retrieving files, memos are flying by their own volition to their destination (I barely manage to dodge one as it whisks by), and here I am, late as usual, without a clue as to what is going on. I see construction workers wearing deep blue jumpsuits with ‘F&G Magical Defence’ embroidered on the back. The colour reminds me of home, for some reason. The workers move stealthily around the chaos, some placing contraptions in various corners, some ‘spelling’ runes out with their wands on walls and doors.
As I turn the last corner before reaching my cubicle, I bump into Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“Oh, ah… hullo,” I stammer.
“Weasley. My office. Now.”
Bollocks.
I follow Kingsley to his office, about three doors down from Minister Scrimgeour’s. He waves his hand, sending a wave of magic that opens the door, and steps aside, indicating that I should go in, first.
“Have a seat,” he says, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. Kingsley sits behind his desk, his eyes boring into me, unrelentingly. “Have you heard the news, then?”
“Uhm… No?”
“As you know, the Ministry’s been doing low-key transfers of powerful magical artifact’s to the Department of Mysteries for safe keeping. A team of mid-level Aurors were to over-see the transportation of the Scarti Scimitar last night.”
My eyes widen. “That was Dreski’s team, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Only his team, the Minister, myself, and you knew the exact pick-up point and drop-off time,” Kingsley says, leaning back in his seat. “A small cadre of Death Eaters attacked them at the drop-off point and stole the artefact.”
“Dreski and his team…? Are they…?”
“Dead. The lot of them,” Kingsley answers, matter-of-factly. “Weasley, I have to ask you: have you been in contact with Charlie Weasley and/or Harry Potter in the last couple of weeks?”
“No,” I reply, making sure to keep my voice level and steady.
“Have you been in contact with Draco Malfoy?”
“No.”
“Have you been in contact with Severus Snape, either in person, via Floo calls, or any other method of communication, magical or otherwise, in your form or in the guise of another?”
Understandably, I’m taken aback by the depth of the question. It was a simple ‘have you talked to’ with Harry and Charlie (both of whom I have been in contact with, of course), but for Severus, it’s an in-depth interrogation covering almost all the bases. Hell, he’s stopped short of asking us if we’ve shagged.
“No,” I say, after a hard swallow. “What is this about, Kingsley?”
“We have a spy in our midst,” he answers, with little fanfare.
15.
I walk back to my cubicle, dazed and out-of-sorts. Why didn’t Severus tell me that the Death Eaters were planning to go after the Schimitar? Is he okay? Has he been caught? A thousand things race through my mind, but none of them are as potent as the anger bubbling underneath. How could he not tell me this? Why would he think this, of all things, was not worth letting me know? It’s an extremely powerful and dangerous artefact! I could have told Charlie, who could have told his Ministry contact as well as the Order. Dreski could still be alive, then; his wife wouldn’t be a widow… his children, fatherless. I think about my father and wonder how I’d feel if he lost his life on one of his raids.
I pass an open door to one of the offices that are not being used. Hands grab me by my collar and drag me inside. Corin Praeposit flings me around, slamming me face-first into the wall. He presses himself flush against my back, digs his knees between my legs. I scream when he jabs me in my ribs, but that only forces him to pull me back and slam me against the wall, harder than before.
“Shut up, Weasley,” he hisses. “You fucking traitor!”
“I haven’t the clue what you’re on abou-OW!”
Another jab.
“Dreski was a mate of mine, you little fuck. I grew up with him and now I’ll never see him again. His wife will never see him again. His children - Merlin bless them - will never see him again.”
“Then I suggest you save your righteous anger for the people responsibl-OW!”
Another slam.
“I’m looking at him. I followed you last night, you know. I saw you dip into that alley. Then you were gone, weren’t you? Tell me, did you Apparate? Did you transform yourself into a rat? Fitting, that, considering your history with rats.”
Merlin, he knows an awful lot about me despite having gone to Durmstrang and not Hogwarts.
“I thought the Minister strictly forbid you to follow me? He won’t like it one bit…”
“I’ll get an Order of Merlin, First Class once I get enough evidence against you, weasel.”
Crimeny! Now I know how Ronald felt every time Malfoy called him a ‘weasel’; it’s infuriating.
“I’ll be watching you, just so you know,” he says, pushing off of me. He walks out of the room while I’m left there, shaking in anger.
I walk like an Inferius out of the empty office, making my way to my cubicle. My mind is racing a thousands miles-a-minute. I thought I was being so careful, that I was watching my back. Praeposit’s suspicions go beyond him hating how I’ve handled my family; I’ve had to have slipped up somewhere. I’ll have to be careful.
“Whoa! Sorry there, mate!”
I feel broad shoulders bump into me from behind, bringing me out of my thoughts. Not paying attention to where I was going, I managed to bump into one of the construction works, who stops me from completely falling on my arse by grabbing me by the shoulders.
“Steady there, mate,” he says. His dark eyes are penetrating and I feel like I’ve seen them before.
“Sorry,” I stammer as I walk away.
“Hey!” he calls from behind. “You dropped this.”
I turn to face him. The worker’s holding a folded piece of torn parchment.
“I didn’t...”
Before I can finish the thought, he sidles up to me and shoves the note in my hand. “Here ya’ go, mate. You never know, it might be important.” He winks. His lip curls into some twisted form of a smile before he turns on his heels and walks away.
Blankly, I unfold the parchment, instantly recognising the handwriting as Severus’. A gold coin falls to the floor, far too shiny to be a mere Galleon. When I pick it up, magic floods me, filling me with a warmth I hardly thought Snape capable of.
16.
Blondes have all the fun at Ministry of Sound. Especially around 11:45pm. Make sure you bring the coin.
That’s about as subtle as a World Quidditch Cup’s drunken victory celebration. Even so, my cock can’t help twitch at the thought of being the blonde again; and I find myself hoping that he shows up as the Mediterranean.
Penelope tried to take me to the Hacienda, once. She and some of her Ravenclaw classmates had been sneaking out of Hogwarts for months and having ‘proper weekenders’, as she was fond of calling them. I, of course, would have nothing of it. I was a Head Boy, after all, and couldn’t be part of such childish things. It always angered me that they had their little inside giggles when I’d sit with them for brunch or tea on Sunday. They’d gossip about what they did, what they should have done, and what they would have done if only the drinks were stronger or the boys cuter. I pretended my anger was because of their blatant disregard for school rules, but really, I was jealous. Mind you, I wasn’t jealous of any bloke - or bird - who might have met with Penelope’s fancy, nor was I jealous of the fun they had and the memories they made. No, I envied the courage she had to do it.
I always had an excuse, too. At first, it was my status at Hogwarts. Eventually, however, I didn’t have school to fall back on. That’s when I’d use my job at the Ministry as a reason not to go to such places. The Ministry of Sound was one of those places. It was irreverent, decadent, exciting; everything that life with Percival Weasley was not. Penelope continued to go to Muggle nightclubs, even after we moved in together. She called it her reward for attending all of those Ministry functions and black-tie events; watching her live-in lover, the sycophant, bending over and wiping my face with the filthy arses of those I called ‘boss’.
Figuratively, of course.
It’s easy to understand how reading a note from a Death Eater informant telling me to meet him at such a Muggle club would be rather annoying. Some memories, after all, are best left well enough alone.
“Incendio,” I whisper as I wave my wand over the letter, watching as it burns to a light-grey ash.
-ACT IV-
I wake up in time for my midnight ‘meeting’ with an Order member. I received word that it was to be Harry I’d be meeting with. I wasn’t looking forward to it, either. He’s never been one for chatting or having much of a sense of humour, but lately his sour disposition has grown exponentially. I don’t understand how Charlie puts up with him, actually.
Having received no word from Severus, I can only assume that he has no news to give me (or has been caught and killed, either by an Order member, the Ministry, or a Death Eater who’s figured him for a spy). After my shower, I put on loose-fitting casual clothes and cast a glamour charm to deaden my red hair, which tends to be quite noticeable, even in the dark. The night air is nippy when I step from my flat onto the sidewalk. Zipping up my bomber jacket, I make my way towards Nocturne Alley.
I may simply be paranoid, but I’ve the sensation there are eyes watching my every move. Charlie once told me to give myself a minute after turning a corner, and then peer around said corner to make sure no one is following me. I do this and much to my surprise, I’m not being followed, despite the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me contrary. I press on to my destination, sidestepping other witches and wizards out for a night of revelry or debauchery, or just trying to lose themselves in something other than their fears. Still, I can’t shake that feeling that someone - or something - is following me.
I make a final turn into a dark alley between two of the more unsavoury establishments in Nocturne Alley, forgetting not to continue until I glanced around the corner, again. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, a pair of freckled hands grabs hold of my collar, dragging me into the darkness. I’m pulled in to the shade, arms pulling tight against a body. Before I can cast a spell, a strong hand covers my mouth, gripping me so hard I wince in pain.
“Be still,” I hear. “Be silent. You were followed.”
I instinctively paw at the hand covering my mouth until I see Corin Praeposit running into the alley, wand at the ready.
“Lumos!” he hisses and light erupts from the tip of his wand. “I know you’re in here, Weasley! I saw you!” The light from his spell roams about the alleyway, high and low and then high again. As the light makes its way to where I - we - are standing, my heart pounds in my chest and my breath hitches.
‘This is it’, I think, ‘I’ve been caught.’
Instead, Praeposit glosses over me - us - like we’re not even there. Finally resolved that I am, in fact, not in the alley, he whispers “Nox” and extinguishes the wand-light, casting one last furtive look around the alley before taking off hastily down the street.
Despite this, the hand covering my mouth doesn’t move for a few minutes more.
“Stop your struggling,” my captor jeers. “You stringy little git!”
Finally, I pull myself free.
“Damn it, Charlie!” I yell, spinning around to face my older brother. The shadows in front of me shimmer and recoil before collapsing on itself, leaving Charlie Weasley in its place (with quite the smug look on his mug, I might add).
“Well, aren’t you the clever one, then?” I spit, trying my best to hide how impressed I truly am. The spell - whatever it was - not only kept us hidden in shadows, but also repelled the light of a Lumos Charm.
“Well, I can’t take credit for that bit o’ magic,” Charlie admits, stepping up to close the gap between us.
“The Twins?” I ask.
“Nope. Colin Creevey, if you can believe that.”
“Probably used it to snoop around Hogwarts, the little pervert,” I mutter, far more petulantly than I intended.
Charlie laughed. “He taught us that nifty li’l number before him and his brother took off for Canada.”
“Didn’t feel much like fighting a war, did they?” I tease.
“Their father has cancer,” he replies, solemnly. “There’s an experimental treatment in North American that they’re gonna try out.”
“Oh.”
And believe me; I feel as big a donkey as I should. Sometimes I forget that people have personal wars they need to attend to, as well. We can’t all be Dark Lord Slayers, can we?
Charlie grabs me by the shoulders and draws me in to a tight hug.
“It’s good to see you, baby brother.”
“You, too.”
And it is.
Without warning, I feel the familiar compression of a side-long Apparation. An instant later, we’re on the rooftop of a building some five blocks from where we were. I freeze up, refusing to move from where I’m standing.
“Just don’t look down,” Charlie quips, letting me go and sitting on the ledge of the roof.
“How’s Harry?”
“He’s... Harry.” Charlie gives me a look as if that alone should answer everything. It doesn’t, of course. I don’t know Harry very well. At least, not in the manner that Charlie or Ronald or Hermione do. “So...”
“Down to business, then?” I ask.
“Haven’t got a lot of time, unfortunately.”
“Just as well. You-Know-Who plans on using dragons again. He has a list of reserves that he plans on attacking soon.”
Charlie ponders this information for a second before asking, “Do you know which Reserves?”
“Yes,” I answer, pulling a small piece of folded parchment from my pocket and handing it to him. He unfolds the note, reads over it, and folds it back up, putting it in his shirt pocket.
“Thanks for this,” he says with a strained, weak smile.
“Your turn,” I point out as that familiar glossed-over expression began to form over Charlie’s face, a sure sign that he’s thinking far too much.
“Oh, yeah, right. Well, it seems our plight have reached ears abroad. We just welcomed a cadre of American and German freedom fighters the other day. Why are you looking at me like that?”
I truly don’t understand, especially not after the meeting this morning with the Muggle admin.
“It’s just... we had a meeting today with the Prime Minister. Well, he sent an assistant, but from what he was telling us, it seemed as though the American and German governments were on the side of the Muggles...”
“Wait... wait... ‘Side of the Muggles’? What’s that rot? We’re on the same side, yeah?”
I proceed to relay this morning’s meeting to Charlie, who can hardly keep his mouth from gaping open.
“... 'Magical and Arcane Governing Injunction and Control Act'...? Bollocks!”
“I know,” I say. “I thought it silly, too.”
“It’s not silly, Percy,” Charlie admonishes and, for a minute, he makes me feel eight years old again. “It’s frightening. What you’re talking about what can amount to a Civil War, here.” He stands up and begins pacing the roof. “And, I highly doubt it’d be a war that we could win.”
“Pure drek, that,” I scoff.
Charlie stops his pacing and glares at me. “Really? Do you know a spell that can stop a bullet? Because I sure as hell don’t.”
I’m instantly taken back to the conversation I had with the disguised Severus; he said much the same thing.
“Well, what about the Americans... or the Germans? You said you had some-”
“Yeah, they’re with us so long as it seems we’re on the same side. But... if our Muggle government declares some sort of offensive against us, they might not be so forthcoming with the help.”
“That’s daft!”
“Hardly. Percy, it’s not like it is here. With Britain, it’s debateable who came first: wizards or Muggles. At best, we can assume that wizards have been around at least as long as the first government formed on these lands. But with North America, it’s different. Aside from the indigenous peoples there, the government formed, and then the wizards came. American wizards see themselves as Americans first, wizards second. It’s hard press to find wizards here that think themselves Britons first. Our whole government has treated the two worlds as a sort of ‘us’ and ‘them’.”
It’s times like these that I wish I never got into politics.
“If there’s a war between the wizarding world and the Muggle world,” Charlie continues, “they’ll simply default to what they know: Muggle law is the law-prime, everything else is secondary. Certainly, we’ll have supporters... but it won’t compare. We’d be slaughtered. And, honestly, I don’t know which side I’d fight for at this point.”
I want to argue the point, about how ridiculous all of this nonsense is, but I haven’t the strength. I’ve seen so many horrible things perpetrated by the Ministry that it’s hard to discern between us and the Death Eaters, sometimes. My mind instantly thinks of Sirius Black, jailed for thirteen years without so much as a trial or formal charges, and of Stan Shunpike, much for the same reason, found hung from a make-shift noose. He was dead for two days before anyone found him. I think of these atrocities and I, too, wonder which side I’d be on.
“Oh, by the way,” Charlie says. “Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?”
“No.”
Charlie seems to deflate with the defeat, his head bowed. “Harry’s looking for him... again.”
“Must be tough... when your lover is obsessed with someone else.”
Charlie doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches and unclenches in rapid succession. Finally, he tosses me a pinchbeck smile and says, “Be careful, Perce. If things start getting too hot, don’t worry about contacting us for awhile. Lay low if you have to.”
With that, he gives me another hug before disapparating with a loud ‘crack’, leaving me alone on a rooftop, lost in thought.
13.
Those thoughts are still there, festering, when I turn in for the night. I’ve a mere four hours before I have to return to the Ministry, yet I toss and turn and ponder. First, I brood over the current Muggle-Wizard situation, musing on what Charlie said.
‘What you’re talking about what can amount to a Civil War...’
Soon, however, my thoughts converge on Charlie, just Charlie, and his horrible taste in men. First, there was Oliver, who broke his heart for Marcus Flint (of all people). Then, there was that bloke from Romania, who was more in love with Charlie’s status at the Dragon Reserve than with Charlie, the person; and finally, our ‘Boy Saviour’, so broken and tattered that all the magic in the world couldn’t piece him back together. It’s as if Charlie chooses lovers like they’re dragons; some need fixing, some are sure to bring you down, while others will undoubtedly burn you alive.
My heart breaks even as sunlight cuts through the night sky.
14.
I’m greeted by hectic frenzy in the Department of International Magic Cooperation the next morning. The worried look on most employees’ faces makes me feel that I’ve missed something, or that something’s missed me. Secretaries are rushing to and fro, interns are busy retrieving files, memos are flying by their own volition to their destination (I barely manage to dodge one as it whisks by), and here I am, late as usual, without a clue as to what is going on. I see construction workers wearing deep blue jumpsuits with ‘F&G Magical Defence’ embroidered on the back. The colour reminds me of home, for some reason. The workers move stealthily around the chaos, some placing contraptions in various corners, some ‘spelling’ runes out with their wands on walls and doors.
As I turn the last corner before reaching my cubicle, I bump into Kingsley Shacklebolt.
“Oh, ah… hullo,” I stammer.
“Weasley. My office. Now.”
Bollocks.
I follow Kingsley to his office, about three doors down from Minister Scrimgeour’s. He waves his hand, sending a wave of magic that opens the door, and steps aside, indicating that I should go in, first.
“Have a seat,” he says, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. Kingsley sits behind his desk, his eyes boring into me, unrelentingly. “Have you heard the news, then?”
“Uhm… No?”
“As you know, the Ministry’s been doing low-key transfers of powerful magical artifact’s to the Department of Mysteries for safe keeping. A team of mid-level Aurors were to over-see the transportation of the Scarti Scimitar last night.”
My eyes widen. “That was Dreski’s team, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Only his team, the Minister, myself, and you knew the exact pick-up point and drop-off time,” Kingsley says, leaning back in his seat. “A small cadre of Death Eaters attacked them at the drop-off point and stole the artefact.”
“Dreski and his team…? Are they…?”
“Dead. The lot of them,” Kingsley answers, matter-of-factly. “Weasley, I have to ask you: have you been in contact with Charlie Weasley and/or Harry Potter in the last couple of weeks?”
“No,” I reply, making sure to keep my voice level and steady.
“Have you been in contact with Draco Malfoy?”
“No.”
“Have you been in contact with Severus Snape, either in person, via Floo calls, or any other method of communication, magical or otherwise, in your form or in the guise of another?”
Understandably, I’m taken aback by the depth of the question. It was a simple ‘have you talked to’ with Harry and Charlie (both of whom I have been in contact with, of course), but for Severus, it’s an in-depth interrogation covering almost all the bases. Hell, he’s stopped short of asking us if we’ve shagged.
“No,” I say, after a hard swallow. “What is this about, Kingsley?”
“We have a spy in our midst,” he answers, with little fanfare.
15.
I walk back to my cubicle, dazed and out-of-sorts. Why didn’t Severus tell me that the Death Eaters were planning to go after the Schimitar? Is he okay? Has he been caught? A thousand things race through my mind, but none of them are as potent as the anger bubbling underneath. How could he not tell me this? Why would he think this, of all things, was not worth letting me know? It’s an extremely powerful and dangerous artefact! I could have told Charlie, who could have told his Ministry contact as well as the Order. Dreski could still be alive, then; his wife wouldn’t be a widow… his children, fatherless. I think about my father and wonder how I’d feel if he lost his life on one of his raids.
I pass an open door to one of the offices that are not being used. Hands grab me by my collar and drag me inside. Corin Praeposit flings me around, slamming me face-first into the wall. He presses himself flush against my back, digs his knees between my legs. I scream when he jabs me in my ribs, but that only forces him to pull me back and slam me against the wall, harder than before.
“Shut up, Weasley,” he hisses. “You fucking traitor!”
“I haven’t the clue what you’re on abou-OW!”
Another jab.
“Dreski was a mate of mine, you little fuck. I grew up with him and now I’ll never see him again. His wife will never see him again. His children - Merlin bless them - will never see him again.”
“Then I suggest you save your righteous anger for the people responsibl-OW!”
Another slam.
“I’m looking at him. I followed you last night, you know. I saw you dip into that alley. Then you were gone, weren’t you? Tell me, did you Apparate? Did you transform yourself into a rat? Fitting, that, considering your history with rats.”
Merlin, he knows an awful lot about me despite having gone to Durmstrang and not Hogwarts.
“I thought the Minister strictly forbid you to follow me? He won’t like it one bit…”
“I’ll get an Order of Merlin, First Class once I get enough evidence against you, weasel.”
Crimeny! Now I know how Ronald felt every time Malfoy called him a ‘weasel’; it’s infuriating.
“I’ll be watching you, just so you know,” he says, pushing off of me. He walks out of the room while I’m left there, shaking in anger.
I walk like an Inferius out of the empty office, making my way to my cubicle. My mind is racing a thousands miles-a-minute. I thought I was being so careful, that I was watching my back. Praeposit’s suspicions go beyond him hating how I’ve handled my family; I’ve had to have slipped up somewhere. I’ll have to be careful.
“Whoa! Sorry there, mate!”
I feel broad shoulders bump into me from behind, bringing me out of my thoughts. Not paying attention to where I was going, I managed to bump into one of the construction works, who stops me from completely falling on my arse by grabbing me by the shoulders.
“Steady there, mate,” he says. His dark eyes are penetrating and I feel like I’ve seen them before.
“Sorry,” I stammer as I walk away.
“Hey!” he calls from behind. “You dropped this.”
I turn to face him. The worker’s holding a folded piece of torn parchment.
“I didn’t...”
Before I can finish the thought, he sidles up to me and shoves the note in my hand. “Here ya’ go, mate. You never know, it might be important.” He winks. His lip curls into some twisted form of a smile before he turns on his heels and walks away.
Blankly, I unfold the parchment, instantly recognising the handwriting as Severus’. A gold coin falls to the floor, far too shiny to be a mere Galleon. When I pick it up, magic floods me, filling me with a warmth I hardly thought Snape capable of.
16.
Blondes have all the fun at Ministry of Sound. Especially around 11:45pm. Make sure you bring the coin.
That’s about as subtle as a World Quidditch Cup’s drunken victory celebration. Even so, my cock can’t help twitch at the thought of being the blonde again; and I find myself hoping that he shows up as the Mediterranean.
Penelope tried to take me to the Hacienda, once. She and some of her Ravenclaw classmates had been sneaking out of Hogwarts for months and having ‘proper weekenders’, as she was fond of calling them. I, of course, would have nothing of it. I was a Head Boy, after all, and couldn’t be part of such childish things. It always angered me that they had their little inside giggles when I’d sit with them for brunch or tea on Sunday. They’d gossip about what they did, what they should have done, and what they would have done if only the drinks were stronger or the boys cuter. I pretended my anger was because of their blatant disregard for school rules, but really, I was jealous. Mind you, I wasn’t jealous of any bloke - or bird - who might have met with Penelope’s fancy, nor was I jealous of the fun they had and the memories they made. No, I envied the courage she had to do it.
I always had an excuse, too. At first, it was my status at Hogwarts. Eventually, however, I didn’t have school to fall back on. That’s when I’d use my job at the Ministry as a reason not to go to such places. The Ministry of Sound was one of those places. It was irreverent, decadent, exciting; everything that life with Percival Weasley was not. Penelope continued to go to Muggle nightclubs, even after we moved in together. She called it her reward for attending all of those Ministry functions and black-tie events; watching her live-in lover, the sycophant, bending over and wiping my face with the filthy arses of those I called ‘boss’.
Figuratively, of course.
It’s easy to understand how reading a note from a Death Eater informant telling me to meet him at such a Muggle club would be rather annoying. Some memories, after all, are best left well enough alone.
“Incendio,” I whisper as I wave my wand over the letter, watching as it burns to a light-grey ash.
-ACT IV-