The Junior Assistant

Sometimes Percy suspected that people suspected, and was quite certain that if they did they suspected the wrong thing. It was just small things that made him think this - the way Amelia Bones would sometimes give him an uncomfortable look when he talked about Fudge, or the saccharine tones of Dolores Umbridge whenever she felt Fudge was favouring Percy too much. And that was nothing compared to the other men and women working under the minister for magic that had not risen in favour nearly as fast as Percy had.

He'd even overheard them talking once, sitting in one of the toilet stalls; he'd had half a mind to step out and admonish those two young men right there, but he had been too angry to get words out of his mouth, let alone stand and pull his pants up.

They all had it wrong. Well, some of it was true, certainly. Almost all - except for one very specific and, Percy felt, weighty detail. He had got his job on his own merit, and that was not the merit that sent his colleagues sniggering when they heard he'd been the Head Boy at Hogwarts. No - the minister had seen his potential, that was all, and his law-abiding nature, his loyalty to the ministry, and his utter faith in the minister. Such things should have given the jealous natures under him a boost as well, if they weren't entirely incapable of such virtues.

The head part had come later.

Perhaps, Percy admitted to himself, he had a thing about power, as his insufferable brothers Fred and George had suggested at some point. Yes, almost certainly he did. Ever since he was a little boy he remembered feeling a special tingle in the bottom of his belly when he caught a glimpse of a real authority figure. And then of course there was the memorable excursion to the ministry at the age of twelve, where the same stall where he'd later listened to his colleagues had been his hiding place for a tiltillating first experience of solitary pleasure - something he might never have managed at the Burrow.

Percy loathed the Burrow. Not only was it messy and poverty-stricken, it was a place of no privacy and, it seemed to him, no authority - where he would be scolded and bossed by a mother who never had a shred of reason behind her arguments. And his father! All he could think of was one word, which in this case only brought up a feeling of disgust in Percy: whipped.

He'd known all his life the ministry was where he belonged. Hogwarts had been a wonderful escape; working under Crouch, a dream come true.

He had been asked how come he never noticed Crouch had his son locked up in his basement, or that he was being controlled by Voldemort. Loyalty, that was the answer Percy was too humble to give, most of the time. He was loyal to his boss, and never questioned his authority. He wouldn't have, under any circumstances.

Even now sometimes he still thought back to Crouch while lying in his bed at night, under thick covers, sound and safe and alone; or in the shower, or the bath; places as secure as his own mind. He'd be able to forget the humiliation then, and the secret mourning he had done, all that had come after; and he'd remember only the thrill of being near Crouch, hearing his voice, drinking in his authority. And he'd imagine again some single meeting, and have it end differently, so sweetly, so...

Crouch never did ask him to do some of the things Percy would have died to be allowed to do for him.

The one that was lost is always the best, but Percy had little complaints with what he had caught, later. He was a very punctual, very precise, loyal... a very good boy to Cornelius Fudge.

Percy was finishing up writing down the notes Fudge had dictated. It was late; they were among the last in the building, and the view outside the fake window had turned to evening. Percy looked up as surreptitiously as he could through his horn-rimmed glasses - Fudge had fallen silent and was eyeing the new, black quill he had been given by a visitor earlier that day. It was a fine quill - the feather was silky and shiny new as if freshly picked off a well-kept pet bird - Percy suspected some cheap magic. The tip was filed sharp and laid with a thin metal cover. It was a quill made to last.

"Sir?" Percy said.

"Come here, Weasley," Fudge said, and Percy's heart leaped. It had been over a week since he'd last been asked. He stepped up to Fudge and stood by his chair, quivering with anticipation.

"Take off your robe."

Percy slid the robe from his shoulders and folded it quickly, setting it aside on the back of the chair visitors usually sat in. Underneath, he was wearing loose slacks, a shirt and a brown vest.

Fudge looked up at him then, the bored workday look beginning to melt from his face. His mouth curled, and Percy's heart thumped faster. Fudge slid a hand over Percy's wrist, fingers curling inside the sleeve and caressing the skin hidden there. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes sir," Percy squeaked.

No more words were necessary. Percy stripped off more his clothes, one by one - tie, vest, shirt, shoes, socks... Fudge stopped him then with a hand on his waist, and stood up. Percy shivered slightly in the simulated breeze from the half-open simulated window - and Fudge kissed him, wet and forceful, one hand holding Percy's head in place. It wasn't a kind or a teasing kiss - but Percy's already eager flesh jumped at it anyway, and Fudge slipped his hand inside the waistband of his pants, and oh Percy would do anything he asked, anything at all.

As if reading his thoughts, Fudge pulled back and told him, "Get down on your knees." Percy obeyed eagerly, and looked up at Fudge for the next command. "Open my fly."

"Yes, sir," Percy said, and reached for the button of Fudge's pinstripe trousers. The zipper slid down, and Percy so wanted to reach for the bulge there, but waited, waited. "Tell me," said Fudge's voice from above him, breathy now, "what do you want to do?"

"Sir?" Percy looked up.

"What do you want to do?"

"I..."

"Tell me, Weasley."

Percy said the words, and was given permission.

After a few minutes, Fudge pushed Percy's head away and went over to his desk, not looking back at Percy. He started rearranging the items there, setting them to the far ends of the desk, and leaving the middle clear. Percy assumed they were done and stood, a little hurt that he hadn't been allowed to finish him off. He made a move towards his clothes, but Fudge somehow noticed and held one hand up, restraining him.

"Sir?" Percy queried respectfully.

Fudge turned to him, face still somewhat flushed, and gave him a faintly feline smile. "I have nowhere to go tonight, do you? Good," he asked and stated without waiting for an answer. "We can take as long as we like, and I'd like to take a little longer tonight. Take off your trousers."

Percy felt himself blush to the tips of his ears. As far as he could imagine this could only mean one thing. Now this was something he'd never done - thought about surely but...

"What's the matter?" Fudge said impatiently.

"I'm sorry, sir," Percy said obediently and dropped his trousers, folding them and putting them aside with the rest of his clothes. He stood suddenly self-aware in his shorts in Fudge's office, pale skin reflecting the torchlight. His thoughts zoomed down and focused on the erection barely contained by the thin fabric of his underwear.

"And the rest," Fudge said.

Percy reached down as slowly as he dared and slipped off his underwear, face redder than his hair as his excitement was fully revealed. Fudge's gaze lay on it for a long moment, and then looked up to Percy's eyes. "Get over the table. On your stomach."

By the time they were done, there were two smashed inkbottles on the ground, the papers Fudge had carefully pushed to the side of the desk were scattered and stained, and Percy was sure he would have dark bruises on his upper thighs, waist and bottom for weeks to come. Not to mention that certain previously unploughed depths of him would be sure to smart for days.

His back was full of tiny wounds - he could feel blood trickling down his side from the deepest one. The black quill lay to the side, feather mussed up, the metal tip red.

He raised himself up by his shaking arms at first, then slid off the table and unto equally shaky legs. Fudge was straightnening up his clothes, and cleared his throat. "Yes, well. That will be all tonight, Weasley. Oh, but do see to this mess, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

He licked the carpet under the desk clean before Scourgifying it. It had been Fudge's suggestion.

Oddly enough, that was the week he started to forget Crouch's face.