Daddy's Favorite

The muggle club is dark and loud; the blaring music subsumed into a throbbing base line that pounds against the tawdry walls so hard I am surprised they don't crack. The dance floor is mostly empty, it being still early on a weeknight. Two middle-aged couples are currently gyrating and twirling with surprising skill in a long-out-of-fashion style I believe the muggles call disco. Mostly the patrons are like me - obviously middle class and isolated, young professionals attempting to ease the pain of disappointed dreams and harsh awakenings. At least I think I am obviously middle class. My muggle clothing has ceased to raise eyebrows here, but I am not sure whether that is due to my increasing familiarity with the fashion trends in muggle London or because I have become a familiar site the last few months. In truth, very little seems to cause surprise in this place. The bartenders and waitresses have the jaded look that everyone in this seedy neighborhood seems to wear. The only show interest when you produce muggle cash to purchase one of the many illegal goods and services the club peddles on the side. I have not yet sunk so low as to dip into the various pills and powders kept somewhere in the back of the establishment, but a few months ago, on the night I heard that my father was in the hospital and might not live, I did purchase the company of one of the bored prostitutes that inhabit the upper floors. Despite her surprising skill, I felt physically sick after I returned to my flat. That has not stopped me from making further purchases, albeit infrequently.

I suspect that is where I will end up tonight, come down to it. I am well on my way to whiskey-induced oblivion, and I have more than enough cash stuffed in my pocket should I decide to add sex to the mix. I have come to learn many things about the muggles in my months of frequenting this place - things my father might be appalled by, for all his muggle-loving ways. I have glimpsed their talent for depravity and wickedness, a talent that makes the graspings of the Dark Lords look like the feeble selfishness of spoiled children. A wizard is used to cleanliness and precision. To forget is simply a matter of a pointed wand and an uttered word. But for a muggle forgetfulness is an exercise in subtle arts, a weaving of desire, hatred, darkness, and love into a tapestry of shadow for the mind. When I first came to this place I looked on its patrons with amusement. Now I observe them with horror and fear.

But I still come here. I don't think I can stop now. The truth is I don't want to stop. The fear I feel here oddly negates the terror I am beginning to sense in the rest of my life - particularly in the corridors of the Ministry. I would never have dreamed I would find those hallways frightening. But I am coming to dread the very thought of them. The dawn increasingly seems like the face of a dementor, come to carry me into my own little Hell. Besides, I like the club's name. That was what first drew me in, that night when I went walking to escape the memory of Mum's face. She had come to try and fix things up after the row I had with my father. But it was a fool's errand, like so much else my family undertakes. For once in my life I cut her off, refusing to let her use her skillful combination of intimidation and guilt to force a pained, fragile peace, like she had before. Afterwards I walked and ached, part of me wanting desperately to apparate home, throw myself into my parents' arms and beg for their forgiveness and my old room back. But that part was overpowered by the anger and bitter resentment I felt for her and my father and my brothers and most especially for the ones who had caused this rift to begin with - namely Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. And so I walked until I saw the gaudy glowing sign outside the club. I stopped and stared and started to laugh. I laughed so hard and so sharply it made my chest hurt.

THE BURROW.

I take a sip of the muggle whiskey I have come to almost like and let my face twist into a smile. Percy Weasley was back in his natural habitat - The Burrow. Would my family be happy if they new?

Of course they wouldn't. Mum would begin to weep like a sieve, and Dad would look at me with that expression he has taken to wearing the last couple of years, the one like an angry owl. Penelope - my family doesn't know we aren't speaking anymore, do they? - would protest with irritated incomprehension. It was her infuriating inability to understand my choices that caused us to drift apart. Bill and Charlie might well blister me with their wrath. Ginny - well, the old Ginny would cry along with Mum, but the newer one might just look at me with disgust and turn away. The reaction of the twins I don't care to predict, but it would probably be annoying in the extreme. And Ron - at the thought of my youngest brother I feel a tight burning in my chest and behind my eyes, and I look down lest anyone see that I am about to cry.

It always comes back to Ron. So much in my life comes back to my darling little brother with his impish grin and adorable freckled face. Sometimes at random moments of the day I will have a vision of him bent over a chessboard, his brow knit and his lips slightly pursed as he views the antics of the chess pieces. I'll have a vision of him like that and for an instant my heart will contract with love so strong that I cannot breathe.

I don't suppose he knows, because it isn't the kind of thing brothers talk about, but I used to make up excuses to hold him. When he was little I would pick him up because he was hurt or tired or frightened, or for no reason at all, and take him to my room. I would sit on the bed and cuddle him to my chest, encouraging him to wrap his arms around my neck and bury his sweet face against my throat. Then I would spend long happy minutes rocking and caressing and tickling him, savoring my reward of precious giggles and little wet butterfly kisses.

I close my eyes and I can feel him now, curled up against my chest like a kitten as my evil fingers dance over his little ribs, making him shiver with laughter. His soft kisses grace my cheeks and I hear his breathless voice in my ear, "Love you Per-per."

"Love you too Ronniekins," I coo. "Love you so much."

When I went to Hogwarts it was Ronniekins I missed most. I would lay in my bed in the dormitory, my dreams of accomplishment and making Dad proud alternating with worry for my darling little brother, alone at home (in our family only having four people in the house constituted being alone) without his Per-per to comfort and soothe him. As time passed I began to dream of the day, not so long off, when Ronniekins could come to Hogwarts. As I excelled at my studies and looked to the glory of a prefect's badge, I thought of how wonderful it would be to have Ronniekins there in Gryffindor Tower (it never crossed my mind that a Weasley could be anywhere else) and under my sheltering wing. The twins had each other and no need of my guidance or support. But Ronniekins was different. He was always the baby brother, the one living in all of our shadows. Bill was the oldest, Charlie the strongest, I the smartest, and the twins - well they were the twins. At Hogwarts Ron could find himself, his own identity, and his Per-per (we had left the baby name behind long ago, of course, but I still treasured it secretly) would be there to guide and support him.

I didn't count on him meeting damned Harry Potter on the train.

At first I actually thought it was a good thing. My Ronniekins was the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, a distinction no other member of our family could hope to match. When Potter was sorted into Gryffindor I, like the rest of my housemates, nearly burst with pride. I had heard rumors that the Heads of House had been waging a quiet campaign, each trying to get Dumbledore to use his influence with the Sorting Hat to insure that Potter ended up with them. I don't know if Dumbledore has any influence with the Hat. At the time I certainly believed he did. Back then I thought Albus Dumbledore capable of anything. Some of the stories were so hilarious they had all of the prefects in stitches. The Heads were going all out to influence the Headmaster and/or the Hat. According to the tales Flitwick had been saying he was sure he could come up with charms to give the Hat a better singing voice (although I always thought it sang rather well, particularly for a piece of clothing). Our own Head was supposed to have been frantically researching transfiguration spells to fix all the Hat's torn cloth and worn seams. As the Hat had no use for any products from her greenhouses, Sprout had made it a point to grow Dumbledore's favorite vegetables and flowers all the previous year. And Snape, direct as always, was loudly proclaiming what benefits the Boy Who Lived could gain from Slytherin - always somehow bringing up the subject in the Hat's vicinity - while plying the Headmaster with potions for everything from achy joints to foot odor. I really didn't believe all that about Snape even then, but I certainly had seen both Flitwick and McGonagall haunting the library at odd hours, and Sprout's greenhouses were bursting with rainbow cabbage and jumping beans, both great favorites of Dumbledore.

My pride soon wore very thin, however. It was all very well for Ronniekins to have friends, but he very soon started to carry things much to far. For instance his loyalty to Potter earned him the undying enmity of Snape. Now just being in Gryffindor is enough to make Snape dislike you, and I was under no illusions that Ronniekins would discover a hidden talent for potions. In fact it is something of a rite of passage when a Gryffindor first year has his or her first points taken by Snape. Still, the potions master had a special hatred for Potter, and by extension that included Ron. The other Gryffindors, even the other prefects, were rather proud that Snape had such a dislike for Potter and Ron. They regarded it as a mark of distinction that these two, soon joined by Hermione Granger, seemed to get under Snape's greasy hide in a way no other Gryffindor had ever managed. But I was very worried. I mean one had to learn to deal with Snape's vindictiveness, but to succeed you had to be politic about these things.

Well, I was sure that Ron would find his ways to excel. For one thing there was quidditch. It's true I was never much of a player, but Charlie was fantastic and the twins lived for the game. Ronniekins was sure to make a fine quidditch player; having been immersed in the sport all his life. And as Harry Potter had never even been astride a broom before coming to Hogwarts, this was an area in which Ron could easily prove himself the master.

Or so I thought. Potter ended up being the youngest seeker in a century. And Ron - well Ron didn't even seem to be all that perturbed. He was jealous of course, and he had every right to be. But when I tried to gently suggest that maybe he was just a little too close to Harry Potter, that maybe he should be thinking of putting a little distance between the two of them so he could shine a little on his own, he just looked at me blankly with that adorable frown of his.

I let that go, as I really had no choice. But then came Halloween and the troll. That idiot Potter had actually gotten my brother involved in facing a full-grown mountain troll! And to make things worse, McGonagall actually gave them points. When I tried to protest to McGonagall about Potter's recklessness she gave me her You-are-Overstepping-Your-Bounds look. And Ron thought it was all "wicked."

Things settled down after that. I had started to dislike the famous Mr. Potter quite a lot, but I kept my temper and calm. Much as I might like to come down on him with the full weight of my prefectural authority, I had too much respect for the rules. Besides, it would make Ronniekins mad and I couldn't stand the thought of him being angry with me.

Then came the day when I passed the hourglasses, glanced up to verify with pride that Gryffindor was still in the lead for the House Cup, and saw to my horror that we had lost 150 points in one night. To make it worse, it was because of Potter and mischief he had dragged my Ronniekins into! I stormed off to confront my wayward sibling immediately, determined to bring an end to this nonsense at once. I pried him away from Potter, gave him a thorough lecture, then pulled him into a hug, sure that everything was clear at last.

Imagine my amazement when Ronniekins pushed, pushed, me away and told me coldly to quit being such a prat. I just stood in the middle of the dormitory, my jaw hanging open as my darling little brother stormed away, giving me a look of utter disdain over his shoulder.

I take a gulp of the muggle whiskey and screw my eyes shut in pain. Just thinking about that painful afternoon makes me feel like my heart is sliced open. How could Ronniekins say something like that to me?! How could he be so cold and hateful to his Per-per!?

I gulp the whiskey again, remembering the pain that came next, the pain of learning he how Ron had faced McGonagall's chess set, and sacrificed himself so that Potter might advance to his first meeting with the Dark Lord. I went to Ron that night as he lay in the infirmary, his face pale with pain and exhaustion. I went to him and gathered him in my arms, my heart so torn with pride and terror and anger that I thought I would not live to see the morning. But I did see the sunrise, after a long night of holding and rocking my Ronniekins, crying softly while I planted loving kisses on his cheeks and forehead.

At some point during those long, horrible hours I sensed someone else. I looked up in surprise to see that the twins had arrived. I braced myself for jokes and ribbing, but their faces were unusually solemn and their eyes clouded. Fred began to rub Ronniekin's spine while George ran his strong hands over my shoulders. "It's all right Percy," George whispered, his callused fingers gently rubbing away the tears still trickling down my face. "Yeah, it's OK," Fred agreed, reaching over to stroke my cheek. "Your Ronniekins is safe," Fred continued, "he's right here." So we rested, the four of us crammed into a ridiculous pile on the bed, all of us desperate for reassurance and loving contact. "Go to sleep," George said softly, "we'll watch him." And so I pillowed my head against George's chest and let the weariness overtake me at last.

When the sunlight entered that terrible room I knew that I loved my family so fiercely that just thinking of them made my heart hurt like it was in a bath of flame. And I hated Harry James Potter just as much.

I left Ron in the twins' surprisingly tender care, meaning to return to Gryffindor Tower and begin the first step in a determined campaign to separate my brother from Harry Potter for good and all. As I walked through the Hospital Wing I saw none other than Albus Dumbledore sitting in a nearby chair and I felt a surge of hope. Dumbledore had been my hero since before I came to Hogwarts the first time. Tales of his power and wisdom were common in my house, and I had pestered Bill and Charlie nearly to death for stories about him. One of the happiest days of my life came when I got my fifth year letter and found a prefect badge inside. Dumbledore - wise, great, famous Dumbledore - considered me worthy of authority. It was all I could do not to tapdance through the Burrow.

Now I made a straight line for the Headmaster, thinking that I could begin by lodging a formal complaint against Potter for putting my brother in danger. Dumbledore looked up as I approached and smiled gently. He rose to place one hand on my shoulder and inquire about Ron.

"He is healing, Headmaster. But it was a terrible trauma."

"Of course Percy," Dumbledore gives my right shoulder a squeeze, "I am so very sorry this happened while I was away. If I had any idea what sort of schemes were in their heads, I never would have left them alone."

He meant what sort of scheme was in Potter's head, of course. But I nod and smile gratefully.

"I looked in on Ron a couple of hours ago, while you were asleep. Madam Pomfrey has great hopes that he will be able to leave the Hospital Wing shortly." Dumbledore smiles again. But for some reason I find his speech to be a little - distracted. I notice that when he removes his hand from my shoulder he clasps his fingers together with an unconscious twisting motion, like he wants to wring his hands together but has suppressed the instinct.

"Thank you Headmaster. I was wondering if I could speak to you about Harry Potter."

"About Harry? What is it?"

"Well, his behavior this evening was reckless in the extreme..."

"For which I blame myself. Had I not left the school at this critical juncture, none of this need have occurred."

"I do not presume to know of such possibilities Headmaster," although now that he mentioned it I was extremely perturbed that he had managed to absent himself during such a crisis, "but I think something MUST be done."

"I totally agree Mr. Weasley. The matter cannot be left unaddressed." He smiled and, as always when Dumbledore gave me a sign of approval, I felt warm comfort fold about me, quieting my anxiety.

"Rest assured, suitable points will be awarded, along with other honors." Dumbledore smiled again, this time with a gleam of mischief in his eye. "I would appreciate it, however, if you kept that fact private for the moment."

"Points, well I..." I was flabbergasted. He was actually going to reward Potter for nearly getting my brother killed. "I won't ... say anything, Headmaster." In fact I found myself speechless.

The giving of points turned out dramatically, I have to admit. But it did seem rather, well, impolitic of Dumbledore to so humiliate the Slytherins. Many of their families are wealthy and influential. It is true that they are also tainted by association with You-Know-Who, but practical matters of state often force one to lay aside the past and move on peacefully and efficiently. That was one reason I was beginning to become ever more interested in political trends. Cornelius Fudge seemed to possess a fine grasp of the requirements of governance and administration, whereas Dumbledore - well, from that day on I suppose I started to think of him as floating serenely on a cloud, always willing to shout down advice about moral absolutes but never willing to get his hands dirty with the actual work of administration. After all, Dumbledore had turned down the Minister's post, which bespoke his disdain for the complexities of the real world.

I set my goals on using the summer to repair my relationship with Ron. It went very smoothly at first. After several afternoons of wizard chess (I lost badly, as usual), my brother had relaxed to the point that he had begun to confide in me about his first year. True, it was mostly HARRY this and HARRY that, but at least we were talking.

Unfortunately Penelope and I began to experience the first signs of strain between us. As Ron warmed up to me once again, I suddenly had a wonderful idea. Once Penelope and I left Hogwarts and got married, we could have Ron come live with us! If we wed right after graduating, Ron could come to us in the summer before his fourth year. I planned to seek employment with the Ministry, and we could argue that it would do Ron a world of good to live in London, broadening his horizons and the like. We could all, of course, spend holidays and other special occasions at the Burrow.

Of course another reason I wanted Ron close by was to continue watching him and to try and make sure that nothing like his first year catastrophes happened again. With only the three of us in the house - Penelope, Ron, and me - I would be able to explain myself and teach him useful knowledge and behavior without the noise and constant interference of the Burrow - not to mention Father jumping in to disagree every five minutes.

To my amazement Penelope proved distinctly cool to the idea. In fact when I tried to explain my reasoning to her in detail she became distinctly snappish. Her main objection was she wanted a home and family of her own, not to be an annex to the Weasley household. I admit I was rather hurt by that, but held my temper and calmly reiterated my position. She then said that she would like to have a period together as newlyweds, thank you very much, and having Ron around day and night might be inhibiting. At this I pointed out that Ron would be gone most of the year, and that I was sure we could arrange for him to go on vacation or visit his friends if she felt the need for private time in the summer. At this she gave a small hiss of disgust and walked out. We patched things up three days later, but I think it was then, when we had our first quarrel about Ron, that I truly came to understand that I was surrounded by flobberworms.

Shortly after that who should show up at the Burrow but Harry Potter himself, brought from his relative's by Ron and the twins who, showing a shocking disregard for family well-being, flew Dad's Anglia over to Surrey. Ginny developed a crush on him that summer, or at least revealed one. Harry did not return her affections however, despite the fact that he did rescue her from the Chamber of Secrets.

Like all of my brothers, I regard Ginny as something special. Being both the youngest and the only female means that she is a rarity and a treasure, and is treated as such. In retrospect it was only her own good nature and Mum's common sense that kept her from being as spoiled as a Malfoy! So when Harry evinced not interest in Ginny I was relieved, hurt, and angry all at once. How dare he not want Ginny, even if he clearly was not worthy of her!

A deep suspicion settled in my stomach then. I fought it though, I fought it a very long time.

I look up from my table to that several of the prostitutes have joined the dance floor. Evidently it is a slow evening upstairs. Kristen, the tall black woman whose company I have enjoyed in the past, waves and gives a thumbs up sign. I just wave at her wearily.

No, Harry did not want Ginny. Angry as I was I took comfort in that. In the summer before my final year I received news I would be Head Boy. Everything looked like it would be well - especially since we spent our vacation in Egypt away from Potter.

But I returned to find Hogwarts filled with Dementors. When I asked Dumbledore he said they were here to protect the students. Somehow, thought, I sensed there was one student especially they, or their masters at the Ministry, wished to protect. Harry Potter had managed to ruin my year as Head Boy by bringing those foul things into Hogwarts.

I also noticed a change in Dumbledore. Increasingly he began to be distracted and worried. When he did speak, it was often in reference to Harry Potter. Of course I was not privy to his conversations very often, but it seemed to me that the Headmaster was becoming increasingly engaged with the topic of the Boy Who Lived. My respect for him plummeted. He was supposed to be a superior being, an example and guide to prevent us from stumbling. Instead he turned out just to be an old man with human flaws and frailties. I could not believe I had idolized him for so many years.

It was in the year after my graduation that my dark, deep suspicions flowered. In the Second Task, Harry had to rescue Ron from beneath the lake, thus revealing Ron to be the thing he would miss most. I was judge for that, and awarded him full points. He is, I must admit, incredibly brave and capable of great generosity. But what I thought when I rushed up to Ron being pulled from the lake: relief that he was well, anger at Dumbledore for putting him in that situation even if the old man swore there was no danger, anger at Potter for putting him in that situation by loving him so much, all of these emotions whirled around inside me like a maelstrom.

Yes, I knew then that Potter loved my brother, and the suspicions in my heart grew even more bitter. I remembered how they constantly talked and whispered together, to the point that they almost possessed their own language of code words and allusions. I remembered how Ron would easily throw his arm around Harry's shoulders or vice-versa. I remembered the looks of adoration my little brother sent Harry's way when Harry caught the golden snitch or humiliated Draco Malfoy or did any other of a hundred things Ron approved of. I remember that they always sleep in the same bedroom. Even when other rooms are available, the two of them always share a bedroom.

After the tournament was over and I was waiting to discover my fate at the ministry, Mum asked me what was wrong. She had noticed the dark glances I sent in Harry's direction, although being the self-absorbed git he is Harry himself had not. I made up some sort of nonsense, I don't remember what. After all, how do you tell your mother, that her youngest son is being buggered by a mentally unstable adolescent with a habit of getting into life threatening situations?

Not that I mind Ron turning out to be a ... a pillow biter. Not much anyway. As long as he is discreet about it, there is no reason it should interfere with future prospects. But POTTER? I knew that I had to get Ron away from Potter's corrupting influence, some way.

Kristen comes over to the table and extends her hand. Why not? I have the cash, and this may be the only way to drive out the images now filling my mind - images of Ron giving his kisses and caresses to someone else. So I take her hand and we walk slowly upstairs. There is something new here tonight - a treat Kristen says. It consists of a small bag of white powder, a mirror, and a small box filled with odds and ends including razor blades.

I hand over the money to Kristen, and she spends several minutes showing me how to inhale the powder - promising when I ask that this service is free and won't be deducted from my time. I blink several times as a surge rockets through my body. The only thing with which I can compare it is to think of a dementor then imagine feeling the exact opposite. Energy and vitality crackle through my nerves.

Unfortunately my anger is magnified along with my joy. I did tell Father about Harry Potter. It was shortly after my promotion. Potter had been prattling on and on with his ridiculous stories about dementors. The family believed him, to my astonishment. Oh, I had expected Ron and Ginny would believe him, and probably Mum, but I thought Dad too sensible for that and said so. He coldly asked what was sensible about ignoring the warning. When I pointed out that the Ministry had laid out a logical argument as to why Potter's story had to be false, he asked me even more coldly if it was logical that I be promoted to Junior Secretary right after the Crouch fiasco.

That was when we started shouting. He sided with Potter and Dumbledore (I had come to believe along with the Minister that there had to be some ulterior motive on the Headmaster's part) saying that I was being a blind ingrate. I in turn cataloged Potter's sins, culminating with the accusation about buggery. My father proceeded to escort me to the door.

We have not had a real conversation since.

We almost succeeded! We nearly had Potter twice! Once about the use of underage magic and then the illegal club at Hogwarts. But Dumbledore helped him slip through the net.

I finish disrobing and settle back naked as Kristen joins me on the bed. I am glad of her warmth, because the memories that come now are the ones that I would most like to destroy.

I knew I had found my place in Fudge's office. Here at last were people who understood reality - people who were truly brave instead of simpering behind platitudes and lion banners. No talk there of choosing between "what is right and what is easy," but rather of choosing the greatest good or the least evil. And there was no shyness in facing the gray areas of life that Dumbledore's little speeches so often ignored.

We determined at once to do something about Harry Potter and Dumbledore. Potter's breaking the law gave us a perfect chance. It is true that switching the time of his hearing without informing him was not exactly in keeping with the rules, but the dangerous miscreant had to be silenced! The greatest good for the greatest number had to be attained. Unfortunately, our attempt failed despite Potter's ridiculous story - well, it seemed ridiculous at the time.

When I heard that Ronniekins had been named prefect I almost burst with pride. I immediately wrote him a letter, congratulating him and also advising him to cooperate fully with Dolores Umbridge. It is true that I should have never called her a delightful woman. But one must be diplomatic about these things!

I don't regret the episode where Dumbledore was suspended, either. The rules were quite clear, despite the old fool's attempts to twist them around. And Dumbledore and Potter were deliberately breaking them.

I am sorry about not going to see Dad when he was wounded. But once again, one must be aware of the politics associated with one's actions. It would scarcely be proper for a junior secretary to the Minister of Magic to appear to condone shady activity - such as skulking around the Ministry after hours. As for who attacked him, we have never denied that some sick wizards exist who attempt to follow the path of ... oh Hell, we said it was probably some crazy crank who fancied himself a Dark Lord, or at least an animal trainer.

And then HE came back. Just when everything was finally so clear, just when Potter's duplicity was finally laid bare, just when I was basking in my well earned reward, Voldemort appeared in the Department of Mysteries and brought everything crashing down on us. Potter was not a liar after all. Potter was a hero once again. Dumbledore was not a traitor after all. Dumbledore was a great wizard once again.

We were right not to believe them. How could we induce panic in the Wizarding World on the word of an attention seeking child and a dotty old man?

But they were right. Voldemort was back. My family had been correct all along.

At first I wanted nothing more than to apparate back to the Burrow, throw myself into their arms, and beg for my old room back. But then I realized that I had a duty, a duty to provide the kind of stability the government needed - especially since Minister Fudge appeared to be on the verge of a breakdown. And besides, what did I have to apologize for? We had only done what was correct according to the best information available.

My activity with Kristen is over, leaving us both sweaty and temporarily satisfied. Well, satisfied in the body. My mind is racing like a Firebolt.

"Can we try more of that powder?" I ask softly.

"Cost ya luv. First's on the house. After that ya pay."

I hand her a wad of bills and proceed to inhale yet more of the delightful substance. My thoughts accelerate, and for several blissful minutes they go so fast that I cannot comprehend or track them. I simply allow myself to sink into lovely sensation.

But inevitably my frantic mind begins to slow once more, the images in my head coalescing around an unlikely figure. Dolores Umbridge had been revealed as one of the worst bunglers in the modern history of the Ministry. First she had admitted in front of Ginny and Ron that she sent the Dementors after Potter last summer. I was shocked to hear that. Much as I dislike the boy, I never wanted to see him destroyed. She also was going to use the cruciatus curse on him. That I can understand. There have been times I would not have minded seeing Potter writhing in pain. And it would have been for a good cause, after all.

Her methods in detention were unorthodox and illegal, it is true. Once again, that can be overlooked as it was all for a good cause. Potter had to learn not to tell lies! And even if he was not telling lies, we had to act for the greatest good for the greatest number!

But she crossed the line when she approved public whipping. And of the twins no less! My brothers! At the thought of the whips wielded by a gleeful Argus Filch cutting their skin I feel my stomach burn.

Worst of all she dared to set the Slytherins to attack Ginny and Ronniekins! She had that filth lay hands on my Ron!

I close my eyes and try hard to calm myself. But my mind, spurred on by the powders, continues to race. Ron held and gagged in the hands of a Slytherin. Ron mounted on a thestral - or what I imagined a thestral to look like. Ron fighting deatheaters in the Department of Mysteries. Ron lying in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts, where his Per-per cannot visit because Dumbledore has made it clear that Ministry personnel are not welcome.

No, that last is not true. I have not been to see Ron because Fudge has made it clear that Potter, and by extension Potter's friends, will never be forgiven for this humiliation, and that no approval is to be shown without his express permission. His hatred of Dumbledore and Potter has increased due to Voldemort's return.

As has mine.

I clothe myself slowly and make my way down to the bar. Usually I have another muggle whiskey and then leave. But tonight, sitting there sipping the drink, my mind speeding, I decide that I will need something else to see me through the coming days.

Voldemort is back. Potter was right.

Handing over a bundle of cash, I take a few bags of the powder. What harm can it do, anyway?