The Magic Umbrella

Percival Weasley sat in the now all-too familiar grey chair that completed his small office with style and presence, tapping his fingers together and staring moodily out the window at the dark clouds hanging over London's impressive cityscape. It was January 2nd, approximately two days after he and Hemmingway had been out to get the opera tickets for Mr. Crouch. He gave a deep sigh and leaned back into the chair, hoping to catch the smell of leather, and was slightly relieved to find that the chair hadn't lost its newness.

It was comforting in its familiarity; he had written countless insipid reports while sitting in it, and now it offered him support where he seemingly had none. Percy frowned, stood and self-consciously arranged a few of the objects on his desk. Eagle-feather quill to the left, ink bottle just down centre of the jar of nibs.

It was like a game of chess, moving the objects to a different place on the desk; gathering papers together, sorting and organising them. A simple game of chess with Ron, that's all organisation was. Percy sighed. People skills was another matter.

Hemmingway was avoiding him as much as possible after the strange New Year's Eve they had spent together; he didn't blame her, but then again, he hadn't seen her in quite a while. Tensions were high because of the new year rolling around, he had too much paperwork to fill out, and he was highly annoyed with himself after that blatantly embarrassing scene at the poor girl's flat.

He stopped shuffling papers a moment to stare off into space and sigh. Her flat. He had been inside her flat, sitting on her red divan, right next to her. Right there, she had been so close and so vulnerable, her black tresses tumbling down around her shoulders--Percy shook his head fiercely. There was no time for things like that.

They both knew that it was a blatant disregard to any and all rules and that whatever happened was bound to be regretted. But thankfully, he had reassured himself, absolutely nothing had happened. They had secured the opera tickets, gotten a little drunk and--well, to put it kindly, done absolutely nothing the rest of the evening except sleep.

Damn right to avoid one another. Percy sighed almost contentedly. It gave him a small sense of self-satisfaction to think such things, he was finally gaining his old personality back, for which he was glad. There was no small part of him that regretted making such decisions, he thought, frowning. Absolutely none. He was not going to take part in any form of misconduct that would go on inside or outside the office, whether it was working on papers or discussing current events within the ministry, or sitting outside on a porch swing, just sitting on the cushions, drinking iced tea and being ever so comfortable and just sitting and talking and --

The door to Hemmingway's small side office opened softly. The dark-haired girl entered the room and shut the door behind her ceremoniously, almost coldly. Oh, damn, he thought. If she's angry with me, I'm toast. Percy watched the reflection of the room in the glimmer of the window with his hands clasped behind his back, watched Hemmingway approach his desk and lay several documents on it. She cleared her throat.

"Sir?" She sounded slightly impatient, but even more formal than usual. Percy cringed inwardly; it was quite apparent that she was making attempts to gain back their original terms with one another.

"Hemmingway?" he replied casually, turning with a last glance outward to the city and taking his seat, not looking at her. Percy took the documents into his hands, turned them around, and adjusted his thinly rimmed glasses, taking in the titles and authors of the bound rolls of parchments with a slight frown on his face. Hemmingway sighed, sounding both distressed and annoyed, and he heard her flip papers on a large tablet of parchment she was holding. So she was feeling a bit nervous, too.

"Sir, the Legion of International Standards demands a report on the Consideration of Wizarding Status Quos Within Atlantic Waters by next week; the Transylvanian Department of International Magical Cooperation wants a final date on your meeting with them about signing the Ban on Dueling..." --here she flipped forward a few pages-- "Ali Bashir is considering bringing charges against our department (more specifically, you, sir) after your demands for an investigation on his 'carpet smuggling' (the Arabian ministry wants to know where a personal assistant gets off sending orders for the head of a department, sir, my suggestion would be to watch your toes); and Rita Skeeter has been telephoning me for the past four hours, attempting to bribe me into getting an interview with you, as she is dying to know what happened to Mr. Crouch." And with a final flip of her papers, Hemmingway heaved a great breath and looked at her boss with no small degree of uncertainty.

Percy gave a disgusted sigh and removed his glasses to rub at his eyes. This was definitely not good. The incident at Hogwarts had been bad enough, but now this? Charges and meetings and papers and Hemmingway mad at him? It was more than he would be able to bear. Insanity loomed indefinitely before him, he could see it now, destined for St. Mungo's and Hemmingway would be so satisfied...

"Oh, no. No, no, no..." he said, sighing again, feeling a large weight suddenly bear down in the middle of his chest and gazing at the fuzzy black and red spot that was his secretary. "What am I going to tell Mr. Crouch?" The large grainy splotch wavered a bit; he guessed Hemmingway was crossing her arms or something.

"Apparently nothing, sir," came her voice. Percy frowned and replaced his glasses. As soon as the perfect circles of glass were present once more before his eyes, he saw that Hemmingway was wearing a medium-length red skirt and a black blouse (with the top button unbuttoned, surprisingly enough) instead of her usual pleated skirt and sweater set. Blinking, he decided not to ask what had caused such a drastic change in her wardrobe.

"What?" Percy glanced back at the documents. They were drab and full of nonsense, and they could wait. Hemmingway gave him a half-concerned, half-annoyed look. He felt like hitting her with a small hex, just hard enough to wipe that motherly look off her face. Percy definitely didn't like it at all.

"I said you won't tell him anything."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Percy quickly, feeling very perplexed and annoyed at the same time. Now Hemmingway wore a cold and defiant look upon her pale features. Percy reconsidered. Perhaps motherly was better than being glared at in an almost threatening way.

"He isn't here." The inveterate feeling of irritation toward Hemmingway's matronly attentions dissolved instantly, replaced with a mixture of hot and cold in Percy's stomach. Gone? How could the head of a department so important to the ministry be gone? And where had he gone to? He wasn't about to go to all those meetings by himself...Percy's mind suddenly became filled with even more disturbing illusions. Unsigned treaties, failed meetings and disrupted alliances; he was in a lot of trouble...

"Not here?" he managed to gasp at length. Percy was feeling rather dizzy and hyperventilating slightly. How could this be? Was the whole world turning against him all of a sudden, Hemmingway most of all?

"Well, I know the ministry officers I've talked to said they haven't seen him," Percy could not read Hemmingway's expression. "Perhaps he went away on some trip or something?" He gulped. Mr. Crouch never went on trips, Percy knew that much. In fact, he had probably amassed several years' worth of time off with the time he spent in the office; it was a very odd thing indeed for him to not be around the Ministry, since his wife had died, and his son--well...

"Not at all, that's definitely not like Mr. Crouch. He doesn't just take time off like that, I mean...!" Realising he was becoming somewhat hysterical, Percy gripped the side of the grey desk to steady himself and try to focus on something in the room. He glanced about, desperately, until his eyes rested on Hemmingway. Her hair was fixed in softly looping locks that seemed to wave themselves about her face, that luscious red lipstick, when had she started wearing that--no, mustn't think of that. Have to concentrate.

"Well, then," said his secretary, taking no notice of his strange behaviour, "I suppose we will just have to keep working until Mr. Crouch returns. I doubt you'll have to go to all those meetings by yourself, but until then..." she sighed and exited the room; the door closed behind her with a soft click.

Percy watched her go, his eyes glued to the thick masses of perfectly smooth black tresses as though somehow that would help the dizziness that was overcoming him. He heaved an impressive sigh as the door closed and she was gone again. His last true vanguard had left him alone in the storm.

Looking back once more toward the papers the girl had left on his desk, a calculativeness began to flood his soul once more, and the old Percy began to scribble out drafts of compositions, make mental notes of researches to take care of, and other such dreadful atrocities his hurt and lost side would never have been able to organise.

It's a sad truth, said a voice beneath all the hard shell of stereotypical Percy, you're becoming something of a basket case with this. Look, you've got a double personality, Perce. What is wrong with you? Can't you just look at the fact that this isn't who you're supposed to be?

I am not a basket case, said another voice coldly. I am Percival Lazarus Weasley, and that is all there is to it. I am personal assistant to one of the most important wizards in the ministry, and one of these days I will prove myself to everyone I know. They just don't appretiate me because I happen to follow the rules. You have no right to call me double-sided. Blink-blink, said the first voice. Listen to yourself, you're going mad, Percy.

And then the conversation between the two small voices was over. Percy wondered how on earth he had survived eighteen and a half years without being examined by a psychological doctor; he had small voices in the back of his mind carry on coversations with other small voices in the back of his mind more than once.

It was not until several minutes later that something caught his eye, something rather peculiar. He had been considering how he would gain back the trust of Hemmingway when he realised his hand had been moving across a blank piece of aged parchement. Percy looked down at his handwriting: thin, sharp and pointed stood out in glistening black ink on the yellowed paper and he realised he had written but a single sentence over on a blank sheet of parchment ten times in a row.
Love is merely a lie we found our truths upon.