Homecoming

Homecoming

From the road, the Burrow looks the same as it always did - a somewhat shabby and threadbare (nail-bare?) but comfortable home, always on the verge of exploding with love and laughter and magical pranks. Even the gnomes in the garden haven't changed, but then again, why should the little creatures leave when Dad is so lenient with them? From this distance I fancy I can hear the family ghoul howling away happily in the attic, and I wonder what Mum is doing. Trying to ignore the racket resounding through the floorboards and emanating from the ceiling, I suppose, or maybe yelling right back at it.

And sure enough, the afternoon silence is shattered by a furious shout. "SHUT UP!" Undeterred, the ghoul gives a few more wolf-like wails before settling into silence, probably to sulk.

In spite of myself, I smile and shake my head. No matter what happens in the wizarding world, the Burrow continues unchanged. Some idiot causes a national scandal by charming scarves into strangling any Muggle unlucky enough to put them on? Dad is still fascinated by how Muggles get by without Warming Charms in winter. Mum and Dad get caught up in the Order of the Phoenix? Mum still finds time to yell at the twins for unleashing the hounds of chaos upon Hogwarts. Some things remain constant.

Like that clock Mum checks regularly - the one that shows where everyone is. I have no doubt that the hand labeled Percy is currently pointing to "Hesitating on the edge of the yard" or something equally revealing. Swallowing hard, I sincerely hope Mum hasn't noticed. I can't face her - her or Dad - just yet. Not after the past year. I hear the twins have effectively disowned me . . . and for once I can't blame them.

I don't know whom to blame anymore.

Cornelius Fudge would be a good place to start - him and his denials of You-Know-Who's return that resulted in Death Eaters breaching the Ministry of Magic itself! Yes, Fudge would be a lovely scapegoat for systematically and zealously leveling the mountain ranges of evidence that the Dark Lord has risen again.

Or I could blame Bartemius Crouch, even if he is dead, for being dead. If he hadn't smuggled his Death Eater son out of Azkaban - if he hadn't submitted to You-Know-Who's Imperius Curse - if he hadn't gotten himself killed by the aforementioned traitorous son - then I would never have been appointed Junior Assistant to the Minister. And who knows . . . who knows what might have happened then?

Or perhaps the blame goes all the way back to my Sorting eight years ago, when the Sorting Hat wavered between Gryffindor and Slytherin for a full ten minutes before putting me in Gryffindor because my family have always been Gryffindors. Courage . . . the Hat had mused. Yes, a good deal of courage, and determination to do what you deem right. But ambition - my, my, you have that in plenty, don't you? Even most eleven-year-old Slytherins don't come with such desire to be known to all. So which House would fit you best?

Ambitious - yes, I certainly was that, and even more. I was always determined to do right, but too often I equated authority with right. Though my conscience protested at first, ambition and self-righteousness quashed it, and in the end it stopped warning me, and I'm not even certain any longer where ambition began and self-righteousness ended.

Perhaps I should have been in Slytherin after all.

Perhaps I should have been a Slytherin, consumed by pride and lust for power, for influence, for control over the lives of others. As if by manipulating people like puppets I could forget my nagging conscience which whined and pulled my sleeve and whispered timidly that I'd never be as popular and happy as my not-so-successful family.

Oh yes, at the age of eleven I probably already had enough ambition to divide among ten Slytherins, even ones like Malfoy. And enough smug self-righteousness to make even Muggle Spanish Inquistion judges vomit. And nothing changed when I grew up. Fudge was Minister of Magic; therefore he must be right. Fudge had the power to promote me to Deputy Minister of Magic or to destroy my career; therefore if he said You-Know-Who was dead, who was I not to pull my blankets over my head? Who was I to question a superior? Who was I to betray the complacent Ministry by joining an underground movement that sought to save the world from the most powerful dark wizard of all times?

But to my horror I found out that everyone in my family was either a dedicated member of the Order of the Phoenix or a staunch supporter - everyone, even little Ginny! It was common knowledge that Dad would never amount to anything at the Ministry, but my failure was not foreordained. So I turned my back on my family and broke all ties with them. What else could I do? Feeling like an orphan but certain that history would justify me in the end, I threw myself into my work. What a sycophant I became, recognizing that flattery was what Fudge loved above all - except Lucius Malfoy's gold, of course! Having no accumulated wealth to "donate," I supplied the adulation. Lacking the slippery Slytherin's subtlety, I made up for it with blatancy, boldly, Gryffindor-style. Maybe if I'd been in Slytherin, I'd have attained Malfoy's level of cunning and control, but Gryffindor had honed not my more dishonorable tendencies but my determination to do right, so I remained Fudge's Junior Assistant, not manipulator of destinies.

But I watched and bided my time and made sure to be the most agreeable and obedient assistant ever. Someday, someday, I too would be powerful and renowned and wealthy, and I'd have friends and supporters galore. But until then, I'd be the Ministry's most devoted partisan.

And then You-Know-Who himself came to the Ministry of Magic.

I was upstairs, dozing lightly over a heap of paperwork concerning the regulation of Grade A quality broomstick bristle imports - contrary to my brothers' accusations, some topics are soporific enough to put me to sleep after thirty hours straight at my desk. The screaming was what awakened me - screams and shouts and bangs that sounded like all the lower levels exploding. "What the - !"

Leaping up, chair overturning behind me, I dashed to Fudge's private sanctum, which also served as his temporary bedroom when work kept him behind. Wrenching the door open, I called, "Minister!" But he wasn't there. Where was the man? "Minister! Where are you?" Pounding around the entire office - empty due to the insanely late hour - and crashing painfully into desks, I checked every single cubicle. "Minister!" Had they - I didn't even stop to wonder who they were - abducted or assassinated Fudge?

Wait - what was that sound?

"Is that you, sir?"

A low moan.

"Is that you, Minister?" I whirled around and ran in the direction of the sound - which turned out to be the cloak room - flung open the doors, and came face to face with the pajama-clad head of the British magical world himself. He was shaking as though someone had struck him with the Trembling Spell. The coward! was my first thought. I've got to keep him safe, was the second.

"What - what's going on?" Fudge whimpered.

"I don't know," I replied shortly. "But you can't stay here."

Fudge seemed unable to think. "Someone - someone's out there - they'll kill us all . . . ."

Impatient, I grabbed his arm and unceremoniously yanked him out from among all the cloaks and robes (why did he have so many anyway?). "Well, they can just as easily kill you right here," I snapped. "If you're so scared of dying, you could at least get yourself to the Secure Room."

He simply stared at me blankly. "Oh, gods, do I have to do everything myself?" Keeping a grip on his arm, I pulled him out of the inner room. CRASH! We both jumped. "What the hell was that?" I wondered. I had to get downstairs to see what was happening! The Minister only moaned again. Pathetic poltroon, I thought furiously. Can't he do anything by himself? "Here!"

Bodily propelling Fudge across the outer office to a statue of - Fudge - that greeted visitors, I rapped its head sharply with my wand and sent a stream of white and gold sparks flying at it. Slowly - too slowly for my liking - the statue melted into a portal that led to darkness. Supposedly the Secure Room connected the Ministry to another dimension which would then transport users to the safety of their homes. I found myself staring at the rectangle of blackness curiously as Fudge trembled uncontrollably beside me. BOOM!

"Go! Go!"

"But - but - what if it's not safe?" Fudge looked at me pleadingly.

"Go!" At the end of my patience, I shoved him forward, watching the darkness waver and wrap around him and then resolve into a smugly smiling statue again. Gods, what an idiot!

Another crash. High pitched screaming.

Wand in front of me, I ran down the deserted corridors, flying down the stair steps four by four because I'd proven time and time again that the lift was about three seconds slower. The terrified shrieks were getting louder - I was breathing in gasps - come on, come on, run faster! The Ministry's being attacked! - and then I was in the Department of Mysteries, my way lit only by wavering firelight - and flashes of red and green as furious voices shouted spells. I must be crazy. Why am I running towards certain death when I can't even duel? Because it's the right thing to do. Damn it all anyway! A witch - probably another workaholic like myself - collided with me as she threw herself around the corner, sending both of us crashing to the floor.

"Get the Aurors!" she cried desperately. "Death Eaters - "

A stream of green fire silenced her final scream and she fell against me.

"You all right?" I shook her gently, knowing what the diagnosis would be but refusing to believe it. She couldn't be dead - how could she be dead? She was just talking to me - and now she lay so limply in my arms. "Ennervate! Wake up!"

"Don't bother," laughed a familiar voice. "Well, well, well - it is a pleasure to meet you here tonight, young Percy."

No - it couldn't be - it couldn't - I looked up, eyes widening with shock and betrayal. "Lucius Malfoy?" You're a Death Eater?

He gave me a mocking bow.

Fury surged through me, threatening to strangle my words as I leapt to my feet, facing a wizard I knew I had no hope of defeating. "You - you were pardoned of being a Death Eater - fifteen years ago!"

He smiled lazily. "Keep searching, Mulciber," he ordered his dark-robed companion. "I'll be along in a moment." The Death Eater nodded and disappeared down another corridor. "Now, Percy," Malfoy spoke softly, "you like power, do you not? Like to feel that you're important . . . that you matter . . . ." As he advanced, I slowly backed away along the wall, hopelessly calculating my chances of reaching a door before he killed me too, but coming up with zero probability each time. Hopeless, hopeless. I was going to die just like the witch had, and they would find me sprawled out lifeless in the hallway - unmarked but dead all the same - and there'd be no one who would care . . . . "Join us," Malfoy hissed.

"What?" I was so shocked astounded that I stopped short to stare. I could have sworn that Lucius Malfoy was trying to recruit me!

"Join us," he repeated hypnotically. "We can offer you your heart's desire - power beyond anything this pathetic Ministry can offer, power beyond anything you can dream of. You're an intelligent young man . . . you know what you want . . . you know what's best for your future - join us."

Power. Influence. What I've always wanted above all else.

My gaze fell upon the young witch lying sprawled carelessly in the hallway. Dead for no reason at all but power.

"Never!" I shouted. "I'm not a traitor like you!"

"Fool!" he spat at me. "Stupefy!"

"Protego!" I cried and ran, dodging curses. I had to activate the alarm - had to reach the Control Chamber somehow!

"Impedimenta!"

I flung myself to a side and barely missed being hit by a jet of light. "Expelliarmus!" I threw at him wildly as I rolled to my feet with nimbleness I never realized I had - interesting how all your senses function better when death is imminent. Of course, the spell missed, but it did distract Malfoy for a second, and that was one more second for me to run away from him. Suddenly the corridor split into two. Which way? Which way? Lucius was gaining on me - I could see him raising his wand again - I veered left abruptly, catching glimpses of labels on doors as I fled my erstwhile colleague's wrath.

"Crucio!"

Jump to left - no time to hex him - keep running . . . where was the bloody Control Chamber? Instinct made me duck and roll to my right as a beam of red light smashed through the floor where I'd been one nanosecond earlier. That was close! "Reducto!" I aimed for a candelabra on the wall, which shattered and rained sparks and shards of metal and molten goblets of wax on the Death Eater. Hearing his howls, I ran on - there!

"Percy Weasley!" I shouted at the door. "Junior Assistant to the Minister! Open! Open!"

As the protective wards began to creak down at the pace of glass flowing downward in window panes, I heard pounding footsteps and whirled to see Malfoy charging at me. "Impedimenta! Impedimenta!" I yelled wildly, back pressed against the door. Come on, open!

He ducked smoothly. "Well, well, trapped, are we?" he tried to say casually.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Protego!" He blocked my spell easily. "Much as I'd love to continue this fascinating sparring, Weasley, I'm afraid I don't have the time just now. And I can hardly have you sounding the alarm, can I? So - " He raised his wand one final time.

"No," I whispered, backing up further against the door, knowing that this was the end - this was the end - I really was going to die this time . . . .

"Avada Keda - "

And then I fell through the doorway.

"Colloportus!" I shouted, hearing an infuriated roar as the door sealed itself. I was alive. I was safe.

"What may we do for you?" a voice recording inquired.

I scrambled to my feet. "Sound the alarm! Urgent! Security breach! Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries!"

"Wait one moment please."

A sheet of parchment appeared before me. Snatching it, I saw the key for contacting all the Ministry workers. Their names and addresses and street maps glowed golden and seemed to shift and waver as more information than should have been able to fit on one paper all existed at once. Too many. How can I ever contact all of them in time? Taking a deep breath to calm down, I pointed my wand at the first name and muttering the spell. Gods. The bloody shifting golden lettering was making me dizzy - dizzy and sick - and I could feel the spell pulling energy right out of me, as though it were a faucet attached to my reservoir of strength . . . I wasn't trained for this . . . it was draining me dry . . . .

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on a cot in Fudge's office, and afternoon sunlight was dancing around the room. I was alive then. Oh goodie.

"Ah, Weasley!" Fudge suddenly materialized before me. "So glad you've come around!"

"What - what happened?" I demanded, sitting bolt upright. "There were Death Eaters!"

Fudge squirmed uncomfortably. "Ah, it would appear that You-Know-Who and his followers - ah - broke in here last night to steal a prophecy concerning himself and Harry Potter and that - er - Dumbledore and members of the Order of the Phoenix as well as Harry Potter himself showed up to - to stop them." He broke off, looking chagrined.

"So Dumbledore was right," I mused to myself.

"So it would seem," Fudge mumbled. "And the Ministry's a wreck! And however are we going to prevent a panic among the population! It'll be just like it was fifteen years ago - fifteen years . . . ." He seemed transfixed by all his woes.

"We'll work something out," I remarked and was surprised to realize that I actually did believe we could. We'll win, I thought. We did last time, when Harry Potter - ye gods, and all this time I'd been telling Ron to stay away from Harry who had been telling the truth all along!

I closed my eyes. What an idiot I was! Accusing Dumbledore of lying about You-Know-Who, hating Mum and Dad for joining the Order of the Phoenix, trying to convince Ron to dump Harry.

"Ah, Weasley," Fudge began tentatively, and I opened my eyes again. "In view of - ah - your courage last night - despite the impropriety of your language - " I shrugged, noticing with dispassion that I no longer cared. "Ah - I would like to promote you to - ah - Deputy Minister." He broke off and regarded me anxiously.

Deputy Minister. He wanted to make me Deputy Minister. Me. Percy Weasley. Look, Lucius, I thought in bitter triumph. Join you for power indeed! Look at me now - poised to become the youngest Deputy Minister of Magic in two centuries - and look at you, discredited and reviled as a Death Eater. Why use Slytherin tactics when I can get my way just by being a Gryffindor?

Fudge was rambling on about duties and responsibilities.

Responsibilities. Yes, I'd have those in plenty - and power. So much power. Deputy Minister. Second highest-ranking wizard in the Ministry. I'd outrank even Dad, I realized with surprise.

Dad.

"Dad, you'll never believe what happened at work today."

"What, son?"

"Fudge has appointed me as Junior Assistant!"

"What? Now look here, Percy, Fudge . . . ."

"Can I consult my family first?"

My abrupt question cut through Fudge's recital. He stared at me in astonishment. I'd never interrupted him before. I could almost hear his shock - what's gotten into you, Weasley?

Lucius Malfoy, I replied silently. Lucius Malfoy the murderer. Lucius Malfoy the Death Eater who never had to pay for his crimes because he had so much money he could buy even forgiveness. Lucius Malfoy who had almost tempted me into - no, I wouldn't think about that. I hadn't, and that was what counted. I'm not like that. I'm not like that. I'm not a dark wizard. The Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor, not Slytherin.

"You want to discuss your promotion with your family?" Fudge asked incredulously.

"Yes," I answered coolly.

"You don't trust my judgment on important matters?" he demanded, furious at not getting his way immediately.

Dark corridors, flickering candlelight, a dead body in my arms . . . .

No.

But I didn't way it out loud. Eyes once again blinded by the exploding candelabra and cascading sparks and debris, I said calmly, "I need time to consider such a momentous decision, Mr. Fudge."

"Oh - oh - I see." He backed away.

Pounding footsteps. A voice screaming at me to fetch the Aurors. The final shriek of agony. And Lucius Malfoy looking down at me, dangling a carrot between his slender fingers, offering me power beyond my wildest dreams.

Or nightmares.

"If you don't mind, Minister, I'll take the rest of the day off so I can come back tomorrow not feeling ready to crack into pieces."

"Oh, of course, of course," he babbled. "Wouldn't dream of working you - not after last night . . . ."

Before he even finished speaking, I Apparated.

Now, looking back up from my thoughts, I realize that even my slow, dragging footsteps have transported me to the front door. My courage almost fails me then - so much easier to run - so much easier to hide - so much easier to let superiors do all the thinking for me . . . .

Crashes and explosions in the Department of Mysteries. Lucius Malfoy's merciless voice uttering the fatal words. A colleague collapsing dead against me . . . .

No. I wouldn't dwell on that just now.

Steeling myself, I open the door.

"Hello, Mum? I'm home."