Swords to Plowshares

The rest of October passed with nothing out of the ordinary happening at the office, except for Mr. Crouch entering about once or twice a week looking tired and drawn, as though he hadn't slept the night before. I made sure to take care with him those days, staying out of his way and making sure he had tea in the morning. Those days, he stayed in his private office, coming out only to sign papers or make appearances at interdepartmental meetings.

On November first, Mr. Crouch called us all into an emergency department meeting. I was surprised to see him there, as I thought he would be at Hogwarts at least until the end of the day today to discuss the results of the drawing of names from the Goblet of Fire. Gathering coffee, quills, and parchment, we gathered around the long table in the staff room. It was nine-thirty in the morning, and small particles of dust swirled in the sunlight coming through the row of windows to the east.

"We have a problem, ladies and gentlemen. Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire last night."

"What does that mean?" asked Ben Carver, who only half participated in any discussion we had.

"He's underage," I replied automatically.

"He's not only underage," confirmed Mr. Crouch, "but Hogwarts is only supposed to have one champion. Dumbledore told me that another boy," he checked the letter in his hand, "Cedric Diggory, is supposed to be Hogwarts champion. Diggory is of age, so in theory he should have been the only one from Hogwarts whose name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Dumbledore doesn't know how it happened, and neither does anyone else at Hogwarts. The staff is investigating. Meanwhile, this department is going to have trouble.

"Dumbledore has already expressed to me the displeasure felt by Olympe Maxime and Igor Karkaroff, the heads of Beaubaxtons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute, respectively. They say that if Hogwarts gets two champions, they should, too, regardless of the fact that no one is sure why Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Right now there's no evidence one way or the other as to whether or not Potter's name was in there by choice."

This made me pause and draw breath for a protest, but I didn't think it was entirely appropriate for me to interrupt my superior while he spoke. Harry Potter did have somewhat of a reputation at Hogwarts as being a show-off, but that was mostly among the Slytherins and those who had no glory of their own and no pride in their accomplishments. Potter was a star on the Quidditch field and of course an important name in wizarding history, but I also knew he'd faced a lot of hardships in his years at Hogwarts. Of course, I didn't know him that well personally, so for all I knew, he had put his own name in the Goblet of Fire, maybe to gain recognition for something that didn't have anything to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Potter is protesting the Goblet of Fire's decision, but there's nothing that can be done about that. As a chosen champion, he must complete the tasks. The discord in international wizarding relations is already there. This event is going to be heavily covered by the Daily Prophet, and witches and wizards everywhere are going to learn that Hogwarts has a distinct advantage in the tournament whether or not they chose it. Since we are responsible for maintaining strong international cooperation, we are going to have to stay in regular contact with Dumbledore and try to do as much damage control as possible.

"This is going to take work by every one of you in this department. There will be owls to answer and probably more than one late night spent here. Do not speak to anyone at the Daily Prophet yet. Field all those inquiries to me. Greengrass, I want you to act as the coordinator on this project. You'll be responsible for tracking all the communication that goes in and out of this office…"

By that time, I was only half listening to Mr. Crouch, idly doodling in the margins of my parchment. I knew things were bound to get hectic again, and that I would be buried under work, and Greengrass would get all the credit for my late nights. I didn't mind the work, because it might lead to a chance for me to get to Hogwarts and see part of the tournament, but I did want the recognition for what I did.

The rest of the meeting went fairly quickly, and at the end I gathered my things and stood to follow everyone out of the room. Mr. Crouch remained sitting at the long meeting table.

"Weatherby," he called, beckoning me to him. I closed the door, placing my folders and quill down on the table as I sat. He leaned forward, glanced up at the door, and asked, "How is that report coming?"

"Everything is fine, sir. I'm going through the files and forming tables of the information you asked for, and as long as I'm here, is there anything else you need me to cross-reference?"

"Anything else as in..." He pressed his fingertips together and narrowed his brow. He sounded like he was suspicious of me, which made me think for a second that there really was something in these files I wasn't supposed to uncover. That, of course, made me all the more curious.

I lowered my voice. "I'm finding quite a few connections between the people you asked about. Many had connections to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and some, I believe, are related." As I spoke, I realized I had phrased this just right. I gave my secret research a legitimate front, so in case I was discovered in the course of mining this information, I could justify it as going above and beyond the call of duty.

Mr. Crouch looked alarmed. "No! I mean, really, Weatherby, that's not necessary. Just complete your task. I...ah...appreciate your efforts, and they will be noted, but for now, please do only what I ask of you."

"Yes, sir," I replied, though I felt slightly deflated. His approval of my idea would have given me the chance to add a dimension to my work, to perform this task to a degree that would gain me recognition as a strong worker and at the same time satisfy some of my personal curiosities regarding the files. He didn't say anything else, but waved his hand to dismiss me. On my way back to my desk, I consoled myself with the fact that I was no worse off than before. I would just have to hide any work I did on my own, the way I had been doing.

As the week went on, I nearly forgot about my curiosity in the files Mr. Crouch had me retrieve from the Department of Records. Greengrass, to my surprise and pleasure, asked that I serve as his second on all communications regarding the Triwizard Tournament. This turned out to be a huge time commitment, and as I had over the summer, I brought my work home with me and stayed late at the office. I saw very little of my parents, which, at this point, was fine with me. Lately, I felt like I couldn't express my opinions without engaging in a two to one battle over the subject at hand.

What I needed, I mused as I sat at the desk in my bedroom, was someone who would listen, yet challenge me. A mentor. Someone skilled in wide range of magical arts and theory. Someone with life experience, who would recognize my need to learn and use powerful magic to rise through the ranks of the Ministry. Of course, my chances of finding anyone at this point, when I needed it the most, were slim to none. I had no idea who would even be qualified outside of Mr. Crouch, and it wasn't as though I could take out an advertisement in the Daily Prophet.

Greengrass and Mr. Crouch both reported sick on Monday morning, and as a result things were a little lax around the office. I took advantage of the fact that everyone was ignoring me and spread the files from the Department of Records over my desk, searching through the familiar pages for information I might have missed.

Malfoy, Lucius

Every time I picked up his folder, I winced in memory of the time I had made a fool of myself in front of him. Flipping through his papers, I questioned myself as to what it was that intimidated me about him. It was his physical presence, no doubt, and the fact that he was so formidable with his solid, confident walk, his head always held high. He was highly intelligent, too, judging from the evidence I had. His file showed several magical licenses, some for very high-level spells. If he'd been suspected of being a Death Eater, that meant the Wizengamot believed him capable of performing the Unforgivable Curses, which were known for being difficult to learn. He was a man rich in culture as well as money, who always knew the right words and gestures for every occasion. He was...

...the man I wanted to be.

If any member of my family heard that, I'd be disowned without question. I felt an odd sense of vertigo and put my hands on my desk for support. The everyday noise of the office faded around me as I sank deeper into my thoughts. My desk fell out of focus and my morning coffee felt like it had gone straight to my head. This couldn't be right. The idea that I wanted to be anything like Lucius Malfoy went against everything I'd ever learned and heard. My father never had a good word to say about him, and I was sure that conversation around the Malfoy dinner table didn't exactly consist of, "I had the most pleasant discussion with Arthur Weasley today." But for everything I'd been told over the years about his nature as a Dark wizard, I couldn't deny my realization, that through everything my father said, the facts about Lucius Malfoy: the money, the skill, and the poise and grace, were irrefutable. The Department of Records didn't lie, nor did my memory.

I was not disposed toward rash behavior. If that were the case, I'd have risen from my desk, run to hunt him down, and forced him somehow to make me into someone he would be proud to call an associate, a man refined, respected, and rich. The more I thought, the more I realized that he could very well be the key to my moving up through the Ministry. He was someone who understood how these things worked, who was known and respected by almost everyone in power at the Ministry. A chance to speak with him was a chance to further not just my career, but also my status in life.

Lucius Malfoy occupied my thoughts for the rest of the afternoon. His image, tall and proud, dressed in heavy black robes, haunted me. I ate lunch alone and only finished half my sandwich, pondering the best and worst things that could happen if I decided to approach him. The worst, I figured, was that he would ignore me completely, not listen to a word I said because of the fact that I was a Weasley. No. The worst that could happen was public humiliation, being cut down verbally in front of my superiors or my co-workers by someone who intrigued, even fascinated me. As I played the scene in my head, of the two of us standing in a crowded hallway with a half-circle of Ministry workers watching, I felt my cheeks grow hot. This was much more likely to happen than I wanted to admit, and I had to be able to counter it somehow. The best-case scenario, that he would accept me immediately and take me under his wing without question, was improbable. I had too much to overcome for that to occur. If I wanted him to talk to me, I had to strike just the right balance of professionalism and interest, but I couldn't sound too desperate, or like I knew more than he did. I could make a meeting work. I had to. There was no way I was going to have peace until I at least made the effort to talk to him. It was just going to take a little time to formulate.

For two days I barely slept. I made sure to keep on top of all office business, because falling behind in my work would do nothing but damage what little good reputation I might have. My spare time was consumed with thoughts of meetings and dinners and the possibility of discussions in which I felt welcome.

My father, of all people, was the one who presented me with the perfect opportunity to approach Lucius Malfoy. His name was mentioned at the dinner table, because my father was scheduled to raid the Malfoy estate on Thursday evening. That meant Mr. Malfoy would have to make a court appearance next week, most likely on Tuesday. It would be the perfect time to approach him, especially since through my research I had drawn my own conclusions of his innocence. I could use my discoveries as a starter to our conversation. The flaw in this was that I wasn't supposed to talk about my findings with anyone outside Mr. Crouch, but I didn't think Mr. Malfoy would really be one to talk, anyway.

These thoughts distracted me during dinner. I barely said a word as my parents talked through the meal. Once or twice I considered defending Mr. Malfoy from their gossip, but that would have meant revealing more than I was supposed to about the work I was doing for Mr. Crouch. There was also the fact that I didn't want to cause any more strife than I already had with my parents.

"Percy, is something wrong?" asked my mother.

When I heard my name, I looked up from my dinner. "Pardon me?"

"You're quiet tonight, and you've barely touched your food. Is everything all right?" She set her silverware down and peered at me over her potatoes.

"I'm fine, fine," I reassured her. "Just...thinking."

"Anything we can help with?"

"I...don't need help. Really, it's fine."

"Well, if you want to-"

"I'm fine, Mother, thank you."

An uneasy silence settled over the three of us, and my mother and father spoke only to each other for the rest of the meal. After dinner, I went to my room and sat at my desk. I lit no candles but pulled back the curtains that cloaked the window. The land outside was dry and barren, glowing in the moonlight. Sitting in my desk chair, I let my thoughts wander.

I knew Lucius Malfoy was on top of his organization, a group of influential wizards whom my father sometimes spoke about with a note of loathing in his tone. My father said they were Dark, bigoted, supporters of a wizarding world where blood was pure and Muggles were playthings. For years I listened, but I didn't start to question what he said until now. It was more than just the attitude regarding Muggles and wizarding blood. This entrenched struggle of power and attitude between my father and Lucius Malfoy clearly had a losing side. My father's. Everyone in our family knew why Father was still in such a low Ministry position after so many years. Supposedly, it was because of his fondness for Muggles. I didn't doubt the link between his interest and his status, but there had to be something more. It wasn't just that he stayed in his job because he was happy. He stayed there because he had no desire to do anything else, no aspirations of becoming something more than he was.

Essentially, he was living my nightmare.

If I did nothing but agree with my father on everything he said, I was doomed to a life of being a nothing. Maybe my father thought Lucius Malfoy's ideas were dangerous, but Mr. Malfoy, unlike my father, would never be content to sit on his ideas and stay in one place no matter how happy his convictions made him. That was no way to get anywhere in life. I knew it, and Mr. Malfoy knew it. I sighed and thought about this for a while, formulating ways I could get his attention.

It had to be in the hallway or perhaps in a small office or the back of a courtroom, in the shadows, away from everyone's eyes. Of course I could have approached someone in my office about setting up a meeting with him, giving our department secretary some fabricated excuse, but if there's one thing the Ministry and its endless reams of parchment teaches you, it's that you will never begin to get anything done unless you skip all the middlemen and go straight to the people at the top. I would find out from my father the date of Mr. Malfoy's court appearance. Should I meet him afterward? Maybe. Before. Yes. Since the outcome of the hearing was unknown, I couldn't bank on being able to talk to him afterwards. Pulling a pad from the drawer of my desk and lighting a single candle, I dipped a quill in ink and began to make a list of everything I had to do, say, and even wear. Planning took me late into the night. I slept on thoughts of wealth and power.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was imperative, I knew, to talk fast and think faster. He would never look at me twice unless I gave him no other option. Or he would look at me twice, but with an expression of contempt, and he would never believe a word I said. I had calculated all this, of course, thinking of almost nothing else since my father's raid last Thursday. It was now Tuesday afternoon, and I had taken half a personal day to witness Mr. Malfoy's court appearance. As he had been before, he was cleared of the charges. The judges decided the evidence of his practicing the Dark Arts was insufficient to bring criminal proceedings. I caught him near the end of the hallway leading out from the courtroom.

"Mr. Malfoy, may I speak to you for a moment?"

He paused and turned, each move cool, controlled, and refined. Though we were almost the same height, I straightened to make eye contact. Eye contact was always key in matters like these. If I failed in one small aspect of this meeting, I was doomed to a life of mediocrity, or at least, a life that never reached its full potential.

"Weasley, is it?" I knew from his inflection that I already had a strike against me. Damn my father and his conviction that anyone he didn't like must be hiding half the wizarding world's Dark objects under a loose floorboard in their attic. The Weasley name was a curse.

"Yes, sir. I wanted to know if...if there was anything I could do for you." That did not come out the way I wanted it to. I sounded desperate. However, the words were out, and I had to, as I'd learned in chess, play the game as best I could and try to anticipate my opponent's moves.

His eyes narrowed as he turned his head slightly to the side. I could feel him trying to calculate why I was there and whether I was honest in my intentions. "Do? I don't see what anyone of your...status...could possibly do, except perhaps convince your father to stop dragging me into this building on trumped-up charges of owning Dark artifacts, trying to ruin my reputation. You're wasting my time." He turned away from me and started walking down the hall.

"Mr. Malfoy, wait!" I said, running to catch up.

He paused and looked back at me, irritation twisting his lip. "For what, Weasley? For you to snivel and simper to me about Barty Crouch's ridiculous demands, or to perhaps play nice and ask me how my wife and child are doing? Do you expect me to believe that one useless Ministry peon could undo years of useless raids on my house and my character? When you have something to say, then say it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to speak with some people which, I'll have you note, would be unnecessary if I hadn't just squandered a day defending myself against your father's latest litany of accusations." He continued toward the Atrium, but I refused to be outpaced.

"I don't agree with him, sir."

"Well, isn't that nice to know? Little Weasley Junior might have some shred of a mind of his own...but it's probably buried in paperwork."

I started to panic. I had to keep him talking to me so I could make my next move, whatever that was supposed to be. My plans were quickly going to hell in an unregulated cauldron.

"The work I do for my department-" I stopped myself. I didn't know what he wanted from me, but I got the feeling he didn't need me to tell him the everyday nature of my work. "Sir, I have always had a mind of my own."

"And you're using that great mind of yours to act as Crouch's errand boy. What a wonderful use of your fine education." His words were saturated in sarcasm, but I couldn't rise to the bait. I had to stay in control, prove not only that I was my own person, but also that I could hold my own against him.

"Though it's true I hold a lower position at the Ministry now, I believe that I am doing quite well for someone less than a year out of Hogwarts."

"Weasley, why are you trying to justify your position? Is it because you think that one day you can one day be as virtuous as your father?"

"I don't think that."

"Then what do you think?" Every word he spoke was low and perfectly modulated, and his emphases came not from increasing the volume of a word, but by lengthening it.

"I think...I think my father is wrong, sir."

"Said with such assurance."

"You were cleared of those charges." This, I felt, was my last chance to gain control of the conversation and tell him of my discoveries. I was sweating under my robes, my heart was pounding, and my face was hot, but I couldn't give him the chance to get away. "I've read some of the old court records, and I know you were found innocent. I believe the judges, sir." That would have to be enough. I feared that if I said any more, I'd start to ramble.

"Your point being?"

"I know my father doesn't like you, Mr. Malfoy, but that doesn't make what he's doing right. In fact, if I may say so, it makes things even more wrong. He's out for redemption rather than justice." I spoke with the self-righteous confidence gained only from unadulterated idiocy. Some might even call it bravery.

"So the impotent Weasley son disagrees with the impotent Weasley father. Well, then. It's an occasion to celebrate."

"Sir, with all due respect, that was uncalled for. I doubt you have always been as strong in your convictions as you are today, and I also doubt you started your Ministry career as anything more than, as you say, a peon."

The shift in the air between us was something I would never be able to describe in words, only in that I felt the pressure change around my heart and in my bones, like my marrow had suddenly become weightless. A new, clear dimension opened in my mind. My body knew, though I was screaming curses at myself in my head, that I had said the right thing. Mr. Malfoy's eyes glimmered. I watched him for a moment, still in denial of what my instincts knew, fearing that I had ruined my only chance to get him to believe me.

Rather than continue to walk, though, Mr. Malfoy stood in his place and nodded slightly, encouraging me to speak.

Had I not been only inches from the wall in the corridor, I'm sure I would have collapsed right there in relief. I had said not only what I believed, but also what he wanted to hear. How I had managed to do this, I still wasn't sure.

"I don't always support my father, sir."

"Yes, Weasley, we've been through that already."

"I believe that those records, not my father, show the truth, sir."

He smiled without showing teeth. "The truth is a difficult, elusive thing, Weasley. As much as you and your piles of paperwork might like to believe otherwise, it's not black and white."

"I'm aware of that, sir. I'm also aware of the difference between the truth and lies, no matter how colored the truth may be." It was a gamble. I didn't know much of what he said behind closed doors, but I did have his court records, and today's ruling, on my side.

"Somehow, Weasley, I get the feeling that you haven't the faintest idea of what constitutes the truth."

When he left me standing in the hall, I knew better than to run after him and demand an answer of any sort. I had done what I could to gain his attention, though the thousand times I had rehearsed in front of the mirror in my bedroom, I had done it with much more finesse. He would contact me immediately, or perhaps never, but the choice no longer lay with me.

~~~~~~~~~~

By Friday, I had given up hope that Mr. Malfoy would speak to me again and found myself entirely unmotivated at the office. My thoughts drifted and I felt sluggish, even through my pleasant lunch with Wood. He ordered a cup of coffee for me, which I drank dutifully. When I returned to the office, waiting for the caffeine to kick in, I saw a new piece of mail in my in-tray.

This wasn't a standard office memo, I realized as I picked it up and noticed the deep green ink and heavy weight of the parchment. Usually I was the secondary recipient of anything that wasn't a Howler, and for a moment I eyed the memo suspiciously. For all I knew, it was going to spurt ink all over me, or laugh at me, or sing in a high, obnoxious voice. I smiled. At least it might bring some excitement to this afternoon. Carefully, I broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.

Mr. Percy Weasley,

Your presence is requested at dinner on Saturday, November 26, at seven o'clock in the evening, at the home of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Proper attire is required. Please Apparate to just outside the front gates. You will be escorted from there.

I had to read the letter three times. Surely it was a joke. But from who? I hadn't told anyone about my meeting with Mr. Malfoy outside the courtroom. I knew better than that. I didn't recognize the handwriting at all. But if the invitation was real, I had just over twenty-four hours to prepare for the dinner. That wasn't enough time! I needed a haircut, dress robes, shoes... I pulled out a piece of paper and made a list, relaxing a little as I laid out my goals on paper, figuring how I would reach them. I could do this. I had to.

After work, I caught my father in the corridor and told him I was going to meet a friend in Diagon Alley, and before he could ask me whom it was, I checked my watch, feigning lateness, and ran to the fireplaces in the Ministry atrium. A few seconds later, I climbed out at Diagon Alley and headed for Gringotts, which was open later on Fridays. I had no idea how much new dress robes would cost, so I withdrew what I considered to be an appropriate amount and raced toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, hoping she didn't close early for the weekend.

"Need a hand, dearie? Special occasion?"

"Ah, a dinner party, Madam. I don't know how formal. And I've...I've never been to a dinner party before."

I was going to a place where I wanted to be noticed, and I was there because I had spoken up and made Lucius Malfoy take note of my presence. And if the spotlight was going to be on me, I might as well look the best I could. Thanks to Madam Malkin's eye, that part, at least, would be easy. I talked her out of dressing me in green, not wanting to take the risk of upstaging my host in a crowd unfamiliar to me, and ended up with a set of lightweight wool robes in a gray almost dark enough to be black. I smiled as I paid for them, knowing they made me look much more adult than my standard work robes.

Lying to my parents was easier than I thought it would be. I told them I had a date. It wasn't perhaps the best cover I could think of, but it certainly explained my new robes and shoes, which my mother caught me with when I Apparated into the living room instead of my bedroom. (Distraction, I cursed.) Later, I realized, it was also a good explanation for my nervousness, which I couldn't hide. I figured if dinner at the Malfoys' went poorly, all I had to do was tell my parents the date didn't work out as well as I'd planned. If it did, I could make up future dates. I'd be safe until my parents wanted to meet "Courtney," but I had to cross that bridge when I came to it.

At one minute to seven on Saturday evening, I Apparated in front of a set of wrought iron gates. I shivered underneath my dress cloak, and my stomach was in knots. Stand up straight, I reminded myself. Look people in the eye when you talk to them. Don't argue with anyone. Watch the forks. Try to avoid discussing politics unless you have no choice otherwise. Think of what you want to be, and how they embody that. It's not hard. Just watch everyone else and follow their lead.

I was absolutely terrified.

A man I didn't recognize came down the front walkway, pushed the gates open, and indicated that I should follow him. I nodded, thanked him, and followed him up the path to the house.