Beneath the Clouds

Therefore, since the world has still much good, but much less good than ill; and while the sun and moon endure, luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, and train for ill and not for good. Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scoured the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, the better for the embittered hour: It should do good to heart and head when your soul is in my soul's stead; and I will friend you, if I may, in the dark and cloudy day.

–A.E. Housman

At first, no one blamed me. Mother loved that I was a prefect, and nearly polished my Head Boy badge with tears of joy. She knew, and I knew, that the Weasley family needed ambition. What would I say to Flint if his taunts had even the tiniest grain of truth?

"Perfection" breeds pride as well as power. Little Ron is not so little anymore, but the only power he can wield is in his fists...undignified, followed up by punishment. Being who I was back then, at the top of the school, I could dispense my justice in authoritative language...yes, in language alone.

There I go, onto that track again. This isn't what Hermione meant when she told Ron he had a "one-track mind". It's my own personal track, this pride, and I see the dark side of it reflected back at me even in Mother's eyes now, when she looks at me. She's crying over the thought of my Head Boy badge again, but not with tears of joy. The part of me that came from her blames and chides me for my pride, but doesn't change me. It takes life to change me...and actually I have changed.

It started on an afternoon at work, where I was hunched over a report of illicit flower extract imports. Apparently, even a Potions Master could wind up with a melted caldron if extraneous substances were mixed in with the seeds, roots or petals. I had worked myself into a quiet, quill- tapping rage, because actual deaths had occurred from this. And even though Fudge had explicitly told me he was not to be disturbed that afternoon, even though he had warned me twice, I got up to talk to him.

I expected some dignitary there. Fudge, perhaps afraid of unfavorable comparisons, wanted nothing to rival his short, plump, unctuous, and well-spoken self. No Percy Weasley with his top of the class grades and impeccable diligence. This, I figured, would have been enough for the dire warnings of "do not disturb" after the office lunch break.

I did not believe in wasting time, allowing details of reports to blur before discussing them. I was about to knock on the door, determined that something be done about the flower extracts, when something–perhaps a peripheral glimpse through the glass at the top–made me stop. Slowly and deliberately, I looked through the bubbly glass window of the door at the blurred shapes within. Fudge's rotund shape, too large for his expensive suit, was unmistakable. For a long moment I grasped for alternate explanations for the dark masks hiding the two cloaked men with Fudge. For a desperate moment after that, I placed my hand on the immobile door knob, squeezing tight enough to crush it, trying to burst in and rescue the minister from the Death Eaters. And for the next moment I stared in disbelief as, within the room, a purse of Galleons changed hands, from the pallid claw of the Death Eater, into the plump, polished-nail grasp of Cornelius Fudge. Time didn't pass at the normal rate afterwards. In my need to destroy something, I shredded the flower extract report with my bare hands, not even recognizing what it was. I just had a deep-seated knowledge that it wasn't important anymore. Nothing I had ever done in my entire life was important.

I traveled to Hogwarts by broomstick that afternoon. It sounds simple enough, but considering I hadn't used my old Nimbus since fifth year, it was remarkable. I was awkward, but somehow calmed, when I arrived. Something about flying made the prospect of once again conversing with Albus Dumbledore and the rest of the Hogwarts faculty not so frightening. I felt young and shaken again, inadequate, but in the presence of people who would help and forgive me.

I must have arrived in the middle of class-time. I didn't see even a single child on the stairs or in the halls on the way to the Headmaster's office. I waited by the gargoyle for a half an hour, pacing and unable to remember more candies than I can count on my hands. My thoughts kept skipping to "Fudge". Vomit-laced fudge. Fred and George's trademarked "Fudge Farts". Even "Cornelius Fudge".

I was in my own quiet world when class-shift came like an avalanche down on me. Noise, incomprehensible gossip, three hundred tramping feet, and one small set of feet belonging to a first year Hufflepuff, who was, as chance would have it, approaching the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office.

"Um...excuse me...Do you know where Dumbledore is?" the girl said. "I think this is his office, but..."

I told the child I was going to see Dumbledore soon, and that I had something urgent to tell him.

"The Sytherins are saying he's in the hospital wing, but its just the sort of thing they'd make up to scare us. But if it's true...if he really is there..."

It's amazing how easy it is to slip into Head Boy mode. Help out the first year. Go to the hospital wing. Usual stuff–just usual enough that I could prevent myself from running, leaving the first year behind. Usual enough that I could prevent myself from screaming at the thought of Albus Dumbledore bleeding on Pomfrey's sheets.

The bed in the furthermost corner of the hospital wing had curtains drawn closed around it, but there could be no doubt about who was there. Pomfrey, of course, with her sensible white-soled nurse's shoes. Dumbledore, whose slippers visible under the curtain indicated that he, thankfully, was not the wounded one. And the man on the bed, the one of whom nothing could be seen, but from whom plenty could be heard–undoubtably Professor Severus Snape.

I turned to the Hufflepuff child. "Dumbledore is here, but he's not hurt. From the strength of your Potions Professor's voice, I guess he's not hurt too badly either."

The girl stepped forward uncertainly, till I shooed her to class, and stood just as nervously myself. I never had to think of an opening through, because Dumbledore came, wand-first, through the curtains.

"Who...Percy Weasley...for the love of Merlin."

Dumbledore did not sound so thoughtful, kind and wise as he used to when I was a student here. Nor did he sound cruel. He just sounded like one adult talking to another.

"Headmaster, I need to tell you...about Fudge...it's bloody horrible..."

The bland surprise in his eyes transformed immediately with concern. "An attack?" Dumbledore asked.

I walked nearer to him, lowering my voice, not knowing who to trust. Within the curtain, I thought, Snape must be hanging on every word.

"He's a Death Eater," I whispered, one hand on the Headmaster's forearm. "The bloody Minister of Magic himself."

Madam Pomfrey stirred from behind the curtains, and emerged, her face taut and anxious, either for Severus Snape, which I doubted, or because of what she overheard. She nodded politely to me, and said to Dumbledore, "He avoided the worst of it," before walking out on those noiseless rubber-soled shoes.

I couldn't testify. That was, of course, what I had been planning to do, what I had in mind all along as I made my awkward, dipping, curving way here to Hogwarts on broomstick. I had planned to tell Albus Dumbledore, arrange veritaserum and a hearing, and testify before the Wizarding Court what I had witnessed about Cornelius Fudge. Dumbledore stopped all that with his first few words.

"A known monster is better by far than an unknown one. The ministry is thick with corruption. Fudge may be a traitor, but he's not an astute man. He's managable."

Dumbledore gave me a measuring look, one I found deeply offensive. It wasn't until he spoke that I understood why. Mr. Weasley, I'm sorry about this, but all things considered, the veritaserum will be necessary after all. There are those who will believe you are merely after a vacant spot in the Minister's chair."

"Do you, Percy Weasley, solemnly swear that it was not the thought of advancement that brought you here?"

Snape had just given me the veritaserum. I had to answer truthfully, solemnly or not. I could see the sneer on his face, and I knew he knew I was innocent. I knew why he chose that question to ask first. There are always mixed motives...thoughts that come without bidding, that you don't want to focus on and yet somehow you do, nonetheless.

"No...I did think of advancement, but I wouldn't have come if I hadn't seen him with the two others, the men who were...you know..."

"No, I don't know, Mr. Weasley. Who did you see with Minister Fudge, under what circumstances?"

I told him about the Death Eater masks, the exchange of money, the locked door with the bubbled glass window at the top.

"Are you affiliated with Voldemort?"

I winced at the name. "No. I would never serve him. I would give my life up first."

"Not even if you could be Minister? Not even if you could rule at the right hand of the Dark Lord himself?"

"Never."

And that's the absolute truth. I meant it then, and it's just as true now, that no matter proud I get, no matter how I long to climb through the ranks, I'll never be a murderer.

Snape stalked over to the scarlet and gold armchair where Dumbledore sat, leaning forward, stroking his beard. "Well then," I heard him say, "what do you suppose we should do with him?"

Dumbledore didn't respond to Snape; instead he looked vaguely in my direction. I felt like his glance was focused in the middle of my forehead or at the bridge of my nose. "Mr. Weasley, I don't suppose you have any interest in becoming a spy?"

I wasn't expecting the question. Still feeling the effects of veritaserum, I was blunter than I meant to be. "No! Never, by Merlin. I won't kill innocent people for the sake of appearance, even if it does save lives." Even the thought of it made me sick.

I looked over at Snape, whose expression, for once, revealed something other than anger or icy calm. His eyes were unfocused, and seemed to fix blankly on the window, as though not merely looking outside, but trying to guess at what might be miles away.

"In that case," Dumbledore said, seeming unperturbed, we'll simply have to hide you. "It's no good for you to go back to your office, Percy. Before long the recruiters will come, and just like Stuart and Blare last month, you'll be found dead in the line of duty. Strange how they manage to smooth that over for those jobs which were never supposed to be dangerous in the first place."

I felt sick as I thought back to the flower extract report I was reading earlier–just hours earlier. Those reports generally came with samples. And just as I would feel the substandard weave of faulty flying carpets, and caress the thin bottoms of mis-cast cauldrons, I would have uncorked the sample and smelled it. Fudge knew me...he talked to me often enough to know what I would and wouldn't do. He would have killed me.

The thought of that set my head swimming. I could barely focus as Dumbledore gave me my orders.

"Percy, you'll need to fake your death. Any ideas?"

It was ten o'clock at night when I got back to my office. The orderly hallways of the Ministry building had always been a place I felt at home, a clean place where I fit in, where the functions of my work would win me honor... Well, that's what I used to think. Though I had worked quite late on some occasions, the Ministry at the this hour was almost abandoned, quiet like a tomb whose ghosts had left.

Fudge had obviously looked through my papers, but the shredded report was crumpled and torn in the wastebasket, just as I had left it. A small, unopened package that I recognized vaguely as having arrived early that morning had been moved from the corner into the center of my desk, as through Fudge felt the need to remind me of it. I guessed what it was easily, hoping I was right. After all, stealing that little flower extract sample had been the only idea that had come to my overstressed mind. Fake my death, indeed.

I felt the glass bottle and the stopper through the paper covering, and even cast a shield spell before carefully removing the paper. The orange rose petals inside the vial glowed brightly before suddenly, with no warning, letting off the shrill hiss of a muggle water kettle. I nearly dropped the vial to the floor, and a chill went down my spine. I shook all over; even Gryffindors are afraid of death.

Sitting at the desk, I wrote two letters; the first one a quickly sketched note written in a shaky hand, and the second longer, carefully thought out, and even blurred by a couple of tears.

"Minister, I've taken the extract home with me. Arthur has some tools that could allow me to discover what's mixed in with the petals. Expect a full report in the morning. P.W."

"Mom and Dad, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron and Ginny:

I love you. I should never have worshiped Fudge the way I did. The man was worse than a bastard, if you know what I mean.

I have been to see Dumbledore, but I can't explain things in detail. If you want me to live though, it's utterly important that as of tonight you pretend, everywhere, that I am dead. Say that it was because of a contaminated flower extract, and it happened at home. Say that it was job related, but don't criticize the Ministry.

If all goes well with the war, I'll see you soon. I want You Know Who gone as much as anyone. Sorry for my rudeness to you. If I never see you again, remember that I love all of you. Even Fred and George.

P.W."

My legs didn't tremble when I walked to Fudge's office. It was remarkable how my hands didn't shake as I cast the spell to fasten my note to the Minister's door, just below the bubbly glass. And when I went to the owlry to send my letter to the Burrow, I petted and fed the ministry owl as calmly as I would have just to send a note saying I'd be late for dinner. Somewhere the tears and the shaking had left me, and I wondered what my face looked like now. I guessed it must be void and expressionless, as cold and calm as Snape's.

Grabbing my broom, I flew back to Hogwarts, a little less awkwardly now that I had reached the calm stage of shock. My emotions did not interfere as I walked down the empty corridors to the Potions classroom, knocking gently five times on the door.