Swords to Plowshares

This morning was our weekly meeting, and it seemed to me like everyone in the department would be asleep on the table but for their numerous cups of coffee. It was too bad, I thought, because the agenda was worthy of note. For the first time in hundreds of years, Hogwarts was going to host a Triwizard Tournament, and our department was well into the plans for reassessing its rules and regulations. The Ministry had been working on the plans for two years, but everyone who worked there was under a gag order as to the specifics. When I first learned of the tournament, it was all I could do to not run home and tell Ron, Ginny, and the twins, but that wasn't worth my job. As it was, it was sort of fun to drop hints that I knew something they didn't and watch their frustration. They would find out soon enough anyway. Other than that, the major project in our department was the Quidditch World Cup. We were supposed to be working in partnership with the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but our requests always seemed to get lost in the shuffle. The head of their department, Ludo Bagman, was a nice enough man and for some strange reason seemed to take a liking to me, but getting any help was difficult at best. Before dismissing us from the meeting, Mr. Crouch closed his folder and took a deep breath.

"I'm afraid I have nothing else except bad news to report," said Mr. Crouch to the group of us around the table, folding his hands. "It seems like the search for Bertha Jorkins is growing cold. She's been gone for over a month now. We're not entirely sure she's still in Albania. Search teams are looking, and we've tried all the magical means we know of, but they're not working." He looked tired suddenly, frustrated, folding his hands in front of him on the tabletop. "I'll keep all of you posted if we hear anything. Please, keep yourselves alert. This is a human life that could be in danger. Keep an ear to the ground and be...and be careful."

We all left that meeting subdued, and the talk of the day, to which I only listened, was nothing but speculation on where Bertha Jorkins could be, who she could have run into. I had to admire everyone's seriousness regarding the situation. Bertha Jorkins, a somewhat scatterbrained witch who had been transferred from one department to the other for years, had been the lowest member on the department totem pole until I was hired. There was worry in their voices and I thought I caught whispers of "You-Know-Who." They were all scared, but I didn't know enough to really know why. It was office gossip no one would share with me, snatches of words I was lucky to catch as someone stood too close.

Settling into my new routine at work caused the summer to go by much faster than I expected. The Quidditch World Cup was suddenly a week away. More than a month had passed since Mr. Crouch had hired me, though it felt like I had just started last week. I enjoyed the nature of my work and the new life it gave to my days, from waking with the break of dawn to joining the people in the Ministry entrance hall as they started their mornings. I found that I could time my waking, shower, and departure for work so I very rarely saw Fred and George before I left. I liked them, certainly, but more than that, I liked going to work knowing I wouldn't have to check my robes for a fake wand or exploding candy.

At the start of the summer, I had loved every second of my job. It was exciting to see how things worked at the Ministry on a day-to-day business. Things were slow to start, but as I understood more and more about my department, I felt pride, a sense of purpose, like I had in my years as a prefect, and later Head Boy, at Hogwarts. As time passed, though, things became a little less pleasant at work. Incidents that didn't seem strange on a small scale added up to something that disturbed me. It seemed like people in the department were reluctant to talk to me if they didn't have to. Quills and ink vanished from my desk. Papers I left unattended would move, or disappear for hours. I knew I was being hazed, tested due to my status as a new employee, but as much as I told myself that the teasing would soon stop, it wasn't much reassurance. Though I grew used to checking my chair and desk before I sat down, I never thought their pranks were funny or clever. I wanted them to stop, but knew better than to complain to Mr. Crouch.

The worst incident involved the fertilizer sample. Occasionally, our department was sent magical products from foreign countries for testing or approval, and the senior department members usually took the products immediately if it looked like anything of use or interest was in the package. I came back one afternoon from running an errand to the Portkey Office and found a lumpy envelope on my desk, and for a minute I thought my co-workers were being considerate until I realized that the package smelled positively foul.

"What is that?" I asked no one in particular, unable to contain my disgust.

No one spoke for a moment until Abigail Hitchens started smirking. "Says it's from Norway."

"What's it doing on my desk?"

"Weasley, I assumed you knew how to read. It's addressed to you."

I looked down at the package and sure enough, a label across the front had my name on it. A second label read Fertilizer Sample. Who had sent it? "But I don't know anyone in Norway."

"Weasley, shut up and get that thing the hell out of this office. The smell is about to kill all of us."

Not needing further instruction, I took the package out of the office and into the hall. Still wondering who could have sent the package, I held my breath and opened it. Shit. Literally. I closed the envelope, nearly gagging, and rushed it to the large trash receptacle at the end of the hall. Who would send me such a thing? I thought back to my meetings in the past few weeks. No one from Norway, and no one who had later complained to Mr. Crouch about anything I said or did. What had I done to warrant this package? Shaken, I went back into the office. This had to be the sickest prank I had ever seen. Even Fred and George were above this.

Everyone was staring at me.

"So what was it, Weasley?"

"Just what it...Just what it said on the package." I thought fast. "I'd, er, completely forgotten about a nice chap I spoke with last week, a man in the, er, gardening industry in Norway. He said he had this great formula for fertilizer, said it could make just about anything grow faster and bigger, and that must be a sample. I don't remember requesting one, but I suppose he thought this might be a good way to get his product marketed here. I'll have to tell him to go through the Department of Magical Horticulture and Gardening next time. Sending us an envelope of fertilizer is certainly not the best way to get in here. Honestly, if he'd asked I'd have..." Everyone had gone back to his work. They probably hadn't heard a word I'd said since the end of my first sentence. Dismayed, I went back to my desk and found that, again, several quills and a bottle of ink were gone. I didn't need this. Not now. I bit my lower lip, said nothing, and headed for the supply closet.

"Lose something, Weasley?" came Andrews's voice. When I looked toward his desk, his head was down, but he was spinning my best quill back and forth in his fingers.

"Just getting a fresh quill or two, that's all." My voice hadn't cracked. Good. I buried my head in the closet, making the motions of someone rummaging for the perfect quill, for the exact shade of red ink needed to make corrections. Taking several deep breaths and saying calming, reassuring words to myself, I emerged. No one in the office spoke, but I saw several of them trying to hide a laugh.

Work was hell.

From that day on, I stopped inviting members of the department to join me at lunch. I had invited them on a regular basis in the past, but all I got were excuses. Since starting work, any conversation I tried to start that wasn't directly work-related had died within three sentences. I heard them, the way they spoke to me as though I was an imbecile. The way they said my name. It was never "Percy," always "Weasley," and a contemptuous "Weasley" at that. Outwardly, I ignored them and went forward with whatever business I had, but my inner senses couldn't let it go.

For a while, I could not figure out why they would treat me this badly for so long, but eventually I realized that everything I needed to know was right in front of me. This had to be because of my father and his work, or lack thereof. He worked in an ill-regarded department and always went on about Muggles and cars and things that weren't really important to the work we had to do. It didn't matter that I was an entirely different person than he; they knew about him and his reputation and I was going to take the brunt of their disdain. Though I always smiled and acted pleased to see my father at work, my heart would sink every time he came into the office to say hello, or invite me to lunch. I wanted him to leave me alone, to allow me to establish an identity for myself in the Ministry, but I never quite had the heart to tell him to outright not come by anymore. It was better to be alone, I thought, than have a person supporting me who seemed to do nothing but damage my reputation within the department.

My evenings weren't much of an improvement over my days. I missed Penelope, and now that I had passed my Apparition test, I didn't have as much to occupy myself in the evenings. I purposely took on more assignments than I could accomplish in a regular workday, so I would have excuses to stay in my quiet room in the evenings and work until I was exhausted. It kept me from thinking or feeling too much, and frankly, that was the way I liked it. Bringing work home with me served the purposes of both showing Mr. Crouch that I was a quick learner and a loyal employee and mostly keeping Fred and George out of my way after dinner.

True, it wasn't the life I really wanted to live, but as I compiled reports and edited research errors, I told myself that all dues had to be paid. Working on the less interesting yet necessary reports would benefit me in the future. I had to focus or I would end up like Andrews, the man who stole my quills, the man to whom I had to direct all my work questions, who had been in the same job in our department for ten years. When he told me that, I smiled and acted as though I wanted to be exactly where he was in ten years, though secretly I thought that this had to be a man with zero ambition. Everyone in the department was under a constant pile of paperwork, which I didn't really mind, but it was indicative of the need for the department to be staffed by better people. Of course my colleagues had to be qualified, for this was a department that had implications on the entire wizarding world, but too many of them were blind to the important nature of the work. Fine. If they were going to ignore the potential there was in this line of work, it only meant that I could get to the top faster. Unlike them, I had direction. My obedience now would mean that I would be giving them the orders in five to ten years.

The best bit of advice that Andrews had offered was to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, though it wasn't always easy to suppress my thoughts. That was definitely not one of my better personality traits, my inability to stop talking when I knew it wasn't good for me. I had become better at it since I started working, but every now and again I would blurt out whatever I was thinking, which didn't always go over well with my coworkers. Before I ever had a chance to correct what I said, I could see their eyes rolling, the tight look on their lips that told me they were trying not to laugh in my face, their sidelong glances at each other. Every now and again, though, when I was internally chastising myself for saying something stupid, Mr. Crouch would smile slightly, or look thoughtful. There was never any way to tell.

It was fascinating, listening to Mr. Crouch. Were it not for him, I'm not entirely sure I would have stayed in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, regardless of the interesting work that came across my desk. In addition to being one of the most multi-faceted people I had ever met, he was the one person who treated me the same as he treated everyone else in the department. I learned that he spoke over two hundred languages, and he always seemed to have the answer to every question posed by someone in the department. I listened closely to what he had to say, making his knowledge my own. I imitated his speech patterns, that confident manner that never slipped. Though these steps were small, they were important. I had to talk, to let everyone around me know whom I was, but I also had to listen. Listening, however, was frustrating. I could only hear so much at any given time, and for all the time I strained my ears to pick up Mr. Crouch's words, I knew I could never have his knowledge. I wasn't head of the Department. I wasn't...yet...one of the most powerful wizards in the world. I had neither clout nor connections outside of Mr. Crouch. Not being privy to every bit of information that came through the department irritated me. I didn't like having holes in my knowledge or worrying that I would make some statement without all the correct information and have the staff laugh at me even more than they already did.

Later that morning, Mr. Crouch came out of his office and headed straight for my desk. "Weasley, I need you to go down to the Department of Magical Games and Sports again and talk to them about accommodations for the judges, coaches, and players for the World Cup. Seems like Ludo Bagman is so excited about commenting that he's been practicing pronouncing the names of the Bulgarian players yet forgot to get them a place to sleep that isn't a tent." He stood over me, speaking rapidly. "Where we're going to find any place on this short a notice I'll never know. Maybe local wizarding families will want to host them or...just go! What are you waiting for?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, pushing my chair away from my desk and collecting the paperwork we had for the World Cup.

Walking into the Department of Magical Games and Sports, I stopped in my tracks. Oliver Wood, wearing deep green robes and a silver visitor's badge, was standing at the front desk, involved in an animated discussion with a woman I didn't recognize. I stayed where I was, though I was tempted to turn back and return when he was gone. Wood was a part of a past I was trying to leave behind. Just as I reached for the doorknob, though, he spotted me.

"Weasley! Percy Weasley!" Wood walked over, extending his hand, which I shook. "It's good to see you. Working here now, are you?"

"Yes. The Department of International Magical Cooperation. Quite interesting work, actually. Bartemius Crouch is a very interesting man, and..." Slow down, Percy "...It suits me."

"Sounds like it. Just your first step on the ladder, eh? First Head Boy, next Minister of Magic, right?"

Steps on the ladder. Next Minister of Magic. Penelope. I weakened inside but managed a small smile. "Ah...yes, well, that's quite a ways from now. What are you doing now that we've left school?"

Wood grinned. "I'm doing what I was always best at: Playing Quidditch."

"For...the Chudley Cannons?" I asked, pulling up the only team name that came easily.

"Puddlemere United. I'm just a reserve now, but in a year or so, you'll be seeing me competing in all the league games. After that, maybe the English national team."

"That'd be exciting. Listen, Wood, I'm sorry, but I came here to-"

"Weasley! Good to see you, as always." Ludo Bagman came out of the back office. He smiled at Wood, nodding.

"Hello, Mr. Bagman," I said. "Good to see you, too. If you don't mind, sir, Mr. Crouch needs information on where the players from the international Quidditch teams will be staying and I believe he wants an answer immediately."

"He couldn't send me a memo? You didn't have to come here, really."

"I'm just following orders, sir."

"Yes, I'm sure you are." He didn't look entirely pleased. "Well, let Mr. Crouch know that we have it all taken care of. If he wants the details, I'll be happy to send them to him in a memo. Messages tend to get lost in translation, if you know what I mean."

I didn't, and at that point, I didn't particularly care. I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. "Of course, sir. I'll let him know."

"Hey, Weasley!" said Wood as I was on my way out the door. I had nearly forgotten he was there. "Why don't we have lunch together?"

I was thrown off guard by his suggestion, but figured it would be rude to turn him down. "Sure. That sounds good." When I thought about it, I realized that it might be a nice opportunity to share the company of someone who actually wanted to hear what I had to say. "Why don't you just come down to the Department of International Magical Cooperation when you're ready?"

"I'll see you there."

Everyone in the department looked at me rather quizzically when Wood came to pick me up, as though they hadn't realized that I knew anyone outside my family, much less had friends. Lunch that day was pleasant enough, with talk of Quidditch, our jobs, spells, and general wizarding world gossip. Even though I had some apprehension about seeing Wood, someone who was pretty far removed from my new life and job, it felt nice to be talking with him, to hear a fresh voice and opinion. I came back to the office and had my first good afternoon since the end of my first week of work. Maybe it was Wood, or maybe it was the fact that I had finally started locking my quills and ink in my desk and protecting them with a Password Charm when I left the office for any reason, but it seemed to pass fairly quickly. Paper by paper, I went through my in-tray, checking forms and sending various memos to the proper departments. No one bothered me, and I made a lot of progress on my latest project.

For the past few days, I had been working on a report on cauldron-bottom thickness regulation. It was an aspect of international wizarding relations that didn't seem to be important to anyone except me. As it was, I sat at my desk, shutting out the rustling and noises from the rest of the department as I researched and wrote. It was quite a big assignment, one that I hadn't believed they would give to the newest member of the department, but I was honored to have received it and never protested my workload, even when it seemed like I was doing twice the amount of work that everyone else was. My desk would never stay neat for more than the first ten minutes of the day, and on top of my regular department duties I ran a lot of personal errands for Mr. Crouch and the senior staff. Coffee. Quills. Paperwork. I never argued, but I wasn't fond of being the department errand boy either. Thinking of where I could be in two years, I hid my disgust at being asked to do menial tasks and concentrated on watching Mr. Crouch, on making sure that he knew exactly who I was.

The night before the Quidditch World Cup, I was especially edgy. In addition to having to pick up the slack of so many of my coworkers, I still hadn't finished my cauldron-bottom thickness report. The research I requested on foreign models had just arrived that afternoon, two days later than promised. This project was going to take most of the night to finish, and I was going to be a wreck the following day.

Bill and Charlie had arrived on Saturday, and I was happy to see them, but I felt bad because I couldn't spend as much time with them as I would have liked. "This report," I explained. "It's keeping me very busy, but at the same time it's quite exciting. I know not many people think cauldrons are that interesting, but they are essential to the operation of much of the wizarding world. Foreign models often aren't up to our standards, and stronger potions or worse, accidents, can cause meltdowns, eventually costing everyone extra money and possibly causing bodily harm."

"Fascinating, Percy, really," said Bill, barely looking up from his Daily Prophet. "Very important aspect of wizarding, that is." I shook my head, reminding myself that not everyone had the interest in international wizarding relations that I did, though I thought Bill would at least have some eye for what I was doing considering his work for Gringotts.

I was in my room when I heard a bang and laughter from the kitchen downstairs. Checking my watch, I realized that it must be Fred, George, Ron, and Dad with Harry Potter. Ron's friend Hermione, who I secretly liked quite a bit for her straightforward, mature nature, had arrived while I was at work this afternoon. There was no need to rush downstairs to meet them. They'd come up the stairs soon enough. This report required my attention right now. Those late papers, combined with the Quidditch World Cup, were really wreaking havoc on my deadline. I came out for a moment to say hello to Harry and answer his questions about my work, and Ron, clearly not understanding the importance of cauldron regulation, started making disparaging remarks. After I slammed the door, I told myself that he was probably just trying to act big in front of his friends, but I couldn't shake the irritation. The noise of my family was grating on my nerves, and for the first time I wished I had an entire apartment to myself, some place where I could measure every ounce of noise.

Dinner that night proved interesting, as I was, for once, able to tell my father things he didn't know about the Ministry. It was strange being in that position, the one with knowledge, but I liked it. It was about time my family started seeing that I was an adult now, and I was on the way up in my career. Everything seemed to go well until the end of the meal, when Fred and George found it necessary to mention that sample of fertilizer. In that instant, I was sorry I had ever mentioned it. I hadn't thought they were listening at the time I relayed the story to my father, acting as though it was all a big mix-up, just a misunderstanding between myself and the horticulture expert from Norway. I didn't need to hear their reminder, like driving the tip of my quill into a sore. My sense of panic beat my sense of humor to my voice, and my protest came heated as I felt my face turn red. I had let them get the best of me again. I couldn't allow that to happen.

That night, surrounded by those who had known me since I was born, I was completely alone. No one here ever cared to listen to what I had to say. Though they loved me in the way that family members are bound to love each other, there was no place for me here, no one who shared my thoughts. Absently turning my wineglass back and forth by the stem, I watched each of them in turn. Without me, they each gravitated into pairs. Bill and Charlie. Fred and George. Ron and Ginny. Mother and Father. And I sat, the seventh one, whose opinions differed and whose goals were misunderstood.

Tuning out my family's voices, I thought on this situation.

And thought again.