Cyanide

Tonight, one of two things would happen to Percy Weasley. He would die an excruciatingly painful death, or he would be drawn deeper into an existence that was in many ways not his own.

Unhappily, he stood before his mirror and examined himself. His robes were plain and black, and his hood and his mask dangled from his hand. His bright Weasley hair seemed exceptionally out of place, in part because of its vibrant color and in part because it marked him as a member of the Light. Weasleys supported Albus Dumbledore and fought to defend the oppressed. Very noble, Weasleys were. They didn't do what Percy had done the night before. They didn't do what Percy was about to do, tonight.

With a burst of frustration, Percy raised his wand to his head, muttered a spell, and darkened his hair. It never had looked like it should have occurred in nature; some of his roommates at Hogwarts had claimed that it glowed in the dark. Now, it was still red, but a dark red, a red that matched his new wardrobe and his new lot in life.

A red that did not belong to a Weasley.

Percy was interrupted when an owl flew in through his open window. He turned, expecting to see his own Hermes, who had gone hunting several days before and had not yet returned. Instead, though, the owl was a medium-sized, dark-colored bird that Percy recognized as belonging to his brother Charlie. Quickly, he tore the letter from the bird's leg and used his wand to light the parchment afire before he became tempted to read it. Then he shooed the owl outside with no small amount of difficulty. The bird must have been told to wait for an answer.

Percy took the ashes of parchment in his hand and tossed them into a wastebasket, reprimanding himself for peeking at them to see if he could catch a glimpse of a word, or just of Charlie's handwriting. He needed to separate himself more thoroughly from his family, for his own image and for their safety. He was quite certain that Charlie had written to him because Ron had written to Charlie after seeing Percy at Hogwarts. Ron had a way of sneaking ideas into Charlie's head (why this was, Percy did not know).

The Christmas incident with Ron and Ginny worried Percy to no end. The babies had obviously decided that he was up to something, and the babies could hang onto an idea like a pit bull with a soup bone.

Percy stared in the mirror again. He truly did not look like himself with his hair this color. He did not feel like himself, either.

Macnair had attended the most recent meeting of the Junior Circle. His attendance was not unusual, and his role in the meeting was limited to observation. Or rather, his role had been limited to observation until the most recent meeting, when he had stood up and announced that he wanted everyone, in succession, to put the Imperius Curse on the person to his or her right.

Flint had tried in vain to put the curse on a boy named Lewis Steel who had been two years ahead of him in Slytherin, and then it had been Percy's turn. Between advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts courses and growing up listening to his father's stories, Percy knew a good deal about how the Imperius Curse worked, but he had never considered trying to cast it. He would not even have cast it on a spider, let alone a human being, given the choice.

Unfortunately, he had no choice but to take a deep breath and cry “Imperio!”

Walk into the center of the circle.

Flint's eyes shone brightly as he resisted Percy's command. He seemed to hear it, though, and Percy thought harder.

WALK INTO THE CENTER OF THE CIRCLE!

The protest vanished from his victim's eyes. Flint walked into the center of the circle and came to a halt just in front of Macnair.

Stand on yo-- STAND ON YOUR HEAD!

Flint lowered himself to the ground and placed his head in the triangle formed by his hands. Gradually, he pushed his feet into the air.

Beads of sweat began to form on Percy's brow, and they did not appear entirely because of his innate distaste for his current activity. This curse was not easy to perform, and Percy wondered for how long he was supposed to hold it.

“Enough!” shouted Macnair as Flint's feet wobbled toward his face. Gratefully, Percy flipped Flint back to a standing position and ended the spell.

Flint glanced around as he came back to himself, his disorientation and embarrassment not entirely hidden by his mask and hood. As he retreated on shaky legs to his place in the circle, he growled “You always were a show off, Weasley.”

When everyone in the circle had had a try, Macnair called Percy forward. “Who wants to try to resist him?” he called.

There were several volunteers, and Macnair chose a Durmstrang graduate named Paulson, whom Percy agreed had the best chance of fighting off a strong Imperius Curse. Percy did not feel that he was especially capable of casting a strong Imperius Curse just then, but he summoned his energy to try.

“Imperio!”

CLUCK LIKE A CHICKEN!

“Cluck, Cluck.” Percy wondered if Paulson had defeated the curse and was making fun of him. He sounded nothing like the chickens that lived in the Burrow's yard.

FLAP YOUR WINGS! CLUCK!

“Cluck, cluck!”

Paulson obeyed with more enthusiasm now, and Percy realized, to his abject horror, that he had indeed put a second Death Eater beneath the Imperius Curse. From the posture of the other young Death Eaters, Percy saw that they were torn between amazement and amusement. None of them seemed to feel as he felt: disgusted.

“That's enough.” Percy ended the spell. “You weren't doing it quite right, or you would have been able to make the chicken sound better. You know what a chicken sounds like, even if he doesn't.” Percy nodded, and Macnair turned to the rest of the circle. “You'll never make it to the Inner Circle if you can't learn to do that. I do commend you” and he looked at Flint “for bringing him to us. That will not be forgotten. In fact, you may come with us now. The rest of you may return home.”

Everyone but Flint, Macnair, and Percy Disapparated with a series of pops. “Now,” commanded Macnair icily, “we are going to pay a woman named Lola Anaya a visit. Apparate to the site of the Quidditch World Cup.” They did so, easily, and Percy beat back memories of the World Cup. When the Dark Mark had appeared, and those Muggles had been sent into the air, Percy had fought to keep order. He had fought alongside his father and brothers to end the Muggles' torment. Things had seemed complicated then, but looking back, that situation had been as simple as simple could be. Now, he only hoped that neither Flint nor Macnair had seen Percy's attempts to calm the situation of eighteen months before.

“Lola Anaya lives in a half-underground hovel right over there.” Macnair pointed. “She has more than enough money to live like a normal person, but she prefers not to. Visiting her tonight are three of her six children. Had far too many children, not unlike Weasley's parents.” Percy shoved down a roar of rage, glad that he had grown up with Fred and George and gotten used to keeping his temper under the most extraordinary pressure. He did his best to laugh, but found himself unable to do so and hoped that he seemed not angry but tired. Casting the Imperius Curse was almost as draining as fighting it.

“All right,” Macnair continued, apparently not noticing Percy's reaction. “Anaya has a nice supply of dried Progwater inside with her. We could buy some in Hogsmeade, but this is much more fun. Flint, you take out the son closest to the door. I'll get the other two. Weasley, Anaya is yours. But you aren't taking her out.” Percy could hear the malicious grin in Macnair's voice. “Want to guess what you are doing, Head Boy?”

“Putting her under the Imperius Curse?” asked Percy in as casual a tone as he could muster. He was indescribably glad that he had not yet been tested on Avada Kedavra.

“You're putting her under the Imperius Curse,” Macnair agreed. “You'll get her to hand us the dried Progwater herself. After that, we'll see.”

Percy's stomach lurched. He most decidedly did not want to see.

“How many raids have you been on, Weasley?” asked Macnair almost conversationally.

“Counting the one before I was initiated? Er, eight, no, nine. This is the tenth.” Percy had not really needed a moment to count. Each raid had been ingrained in his memory as a horrible ordeal, and he thought that a swift answer might give him away as someone who detested each and every memory of raiding that lodged in his mind.

“Getting to be boring for you? You don't seem excited.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Good answer, Percy, he thought, mentally patting himself on the back.

Macnair seemed to like the answer as well. “In we go, then.” Percy heard stunning spells fly in quick succession, and then he heard his own voice croak, for the third time:

“Imperio!”

Lola Anaya, Percy found, resisted less than Flint had. She was, he now remembered hearing in one Ministry-oriented conversation or another, a reclusive witch who had never been fully trained but who was something of a genius when it came to the brewing of potions. Her capabilities in that area were said to rival those of Professor Snape and the other top brewers in this corner of the world.

DROP YOUR WAND!

She did.

GET YOUR DRIED PROGWATER!

She scrambled off instantly and stopped in front of a cabinet built into her earth-like wall. She retrieved a large package and, staggering under its wait, turned to face Percy.

BRING IT TO ME! GIVE IT TO ME!

She obeyed.

Thank you, Percy thought, glad that there had been no complications.

“Thank you,” said Lola Anaya aloud. Apparently, the curse became easier to perform with practice. Flint and Macnair chuckled.

“Any clever ideas about what to do with her now?” Macnair asked Percy. “Or how about you?” he asked Flint. “You've done well. You've brought us the only recruit who has enough magic and brains to perform an Imperius Curse.”

Flint nodded.

“Never thought I'd see one of these,” Macnair gestured at Percy “become a Death Eater. Never. You took a risk sponsoring him.”

“It was worth it,” said Flint.

“It was. And now that I think of it, he's just too obvious to be a spy. The Old Man in Hogwarts would never expect us to believe that he's one of us. So, what should your protégé do with himself tonight? He finds himself in an interesting position.”

Flint answered eagerly. “Do you remember the night of the Quidditch World Cup?”

“Excellent taste. Excellent.” He turned from Flint to Percy. “Get her outside.”

WALK TO THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR. WALK OUTSIDE. STOP.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” yelled Macnair.

She rose off the ground, and the dead look in her eyes was briefly replaced by one of terror.

“Well?” Macnair demanded of Percy.

PUT YOUR HEAD BETWEEN YOUR LEGS. ROLL OVER.

Macnair and Flint sniggered appreciatively while Percy tried to remember what else he had seen on that night that seemed so long ago.

SPREAD YOUR ARMS! SPREAD YOUR LEGS!

Percy guided her through a brief aerobic workout while his companions laughed even harder.

“I know she's old, but maybe you should . . . ?” Flint's voice trailed off suggestively.

Not that.

“Not that,” Anaya said.

“What are you? You even like girls?” asked Flint.

“She's starting to break through the curse,” Percy lied. He tried to make it look as if he was having difficulty commanding her, but in truth she was not fighting at all.

UNFASTEN YOUR ROBE! LET IT FALL OFF!

She wore nothing but underwear beneath the robe.

UNHOOK YOUR BRA! LET IT FALL OFF!

Flint and Macnair pointed and shouted their opinions of the display before them. “Just a little more now!” exclaimed Flint.

“I'm losing control over her. She's fighting,” lied Percy in a strained voice. “I've had her under for a long time and I'm not used to this.”

“We have to stop sometime,” agreed Macnair. “The curses we put on the sons won't last forever. Damn! Why didn't we think of dragging them out here to watch? At least we can always leave her here for them to find. You,” he pointed at Flint, “stun her as hard as you can as soon as we drop her. No, petrify her.” He ended his spell, and Percy ended his, wondering why he had not pretended to lose control sooner. Flint petrified Anaya (on his second try), and Macnair sent them home, telling Percy to expect company the next day.

Percy was unsure how he managed to Apparate to his flat. As soon as he did, though, he walked to his toilet, fell to his knees, and threw up. He lay on the floor for a moment and wished that it could have been longer. He wished never to move again.

Unfortunately for Percy's wishes, waves of mental paranoia were washing over him more powerfully than waves of physical nausea.

They're watching me. They have to be watching me. They helped me get this flat; why wouldn't they be watching me? I can't look upset.

He staggered to his feet and began to wash his face. The cold water gave him some physical stability, at least. He was almost able to force his mind to go blank as he went through the methodical motions of cleaning himself up and getting ready for bed.

I humiliated a woman Mother's age. A woman with six mostly grown children, at that. What kind of monster am I? I took away her control, I degraded her, I debased her, and for no reason but that Flint and Macnair thought it was funny.

It hadn't been funny. It had been unforgivable. Absolutely unforgivable.

But they're watching me. I know they can see me right now. I know it. I can't-- can't-- can't panic. They want to see if I'm a Weasley or a Death Eater. And after that display, I'm certainly not a Weasley.

He went to bed and buried his face in his pillow so that no uninvited observers would be able to see it. He lay there unsleeping until it was time to go to the Ministry. Work had gone as usual; it was much less strenuous now that he did not care what kind of product he turned out.

Thus, he found himself standing before his mirror the next afternoon and half-wondering where Percy the Perfect Prefect had gone.

A light rapping on his door forced Percy to postpone more advanced and detailed self-loathing to another time. He opened the door to reveal Macnair. A Death Eater knocking on a door? Percy found this highly amusing for a reason he could not name. Perhaps he was just lingering on the edge of hysteria.

“Are you ready?” asked Macnair without preamble.

“Very much so.”

“Then we'll be on our way. Put the mask and the hood under your robes. We're two perfectly legitimate Ministry of Magic employees having a perfectly legitimate conversation.”

Perfectly legitimate? There's not a perfect thing about me. Percy again had to force himself not to laugh-- a skill he had honed by pretending that he thought the twins' jokes weren't funny-- that Macnair believed he could be perfectly anything.

They Apparated to Hogsmeade and discussed Ministry business to maintain appearances as they walked through the town. With ever-increasing dread, Percy noted that they were nearing Hogwarts, but they barely touched the corner of the grounds before veering off into a public forest that was seldom entered owing to its association with Hogwarts' infamous Forbidden Forest.

“This is a new meeting point,” Percy remarked when he felt that it was safe to speak of something other than reports and visiting ambassadors.

“It's a very important time for us. We have to be ready to strike.”

“At Hogwarts?”

“Where else? You aren't afraid, are you?”

“Dumbledore will not make this easy.”

Macnair laughed his familiar, icy laugh. “How little you know.”

Percy supposed that asking the question would not get him an answer, so instead, he reached inside his robes to take out his mask and hood. Macnair placed a restraining hand on his arm, and Percy cringed inwardly at his touch. “Not today,” said Macnair.

“Why not?”

“You're being presented. Rather, I'm presenting you, so we both leave our masks off.” He stopped suddenly, and his eyes bore into Percy's. “Are you sure that you want to join Our Lord?”

“How can you even ask that?”

“I have to. If you fail us, it will be not only your neck but mine and Flint's.”

For the first time in his life, Percy considered that failing might have an upside. “I will not fail. I've never failed,” he said as pompously as he could.

“Good,” answered Macnair simply. In his next breath, he bellowed “ATTENTION!” so loudly that Percy jumped. Macnair grabbed Percy's arm once more and pulled him into the center of the circle that had suddenly appeared. “LADIES and GENTLEMEN!” he shouted, emphasizing every other word as if he thought it dramatic. “I HAVE the HONOR of PRESENTING the NEWEST member OF the INNER circle, MASTER of the IMPERIUS CURSE, Percy WEASLEY!”

The assembled circle bowed sullenly, keeping their masked faces raised so as not to present a vulnerable target to Percy. They were silent, but for one disbelieving voice, which loudly whispered “Percy?”

“STEP forward, OBJECTOR!” bellowed Macnair, obviously perturbed at having his ceremony interrupted.

A short, heavyset man did step forward, and when he removed his mask Percy saw that he had thinning blond hair and a strangely familiar, rather ratlike face. Percy had heard the story, of course, just after Sirius Black's trial. This man couldn't be . . . could he?

“Wormtail!” a frigid voice hissed, and, with a pop, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself appeared in the center of the circle. The Death Eaters surrounding Percy fell to their knees. “Arise,” said He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with some annoyance. The Death Eaters obeyed, and their leader gave the whole of his attention to Wormtail. “Why do you interrupt this ceremony?”

“M-- my Lord, M-- m-- master, it cannot be.”

“What cannot be, Wormtail?” He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's voice grew more threatening with each word he spoke. Percy would not have thought it possible.

“M-- m-- master, great master, this is Percy Weasley. I observed him as his pet for nine years. H-- he is not a true follower of yours.”

“He has been initiated, Wormtail.”

“B-- but, M-- m-- master, it cannot be.”

“It is, Wormtail. He was initiated when you were on a certain mission for me. He has trained, and trained well. He has been branded. Show him, Weasley.”

Percy extended his left arm to display the hideous, burning Dark Mark. Despite the fact that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had just addressed him by name, his arm did not shake. He was beyond fear and beyond loathing.

“My L-- lord, he is a spy, I am s-- sure of it!”

“You will explain yourself in your next breath, or you will suffer the consequences.”

Anticipation filled the air as Wormtail gathered himself. “My Lord, I have known this boy in a most personal way since he received me as a pet around the time of his sixth birthday. He has spent his life promising to dispose of us and our cause. His brother is the closest friend of the Boy Who Lived himself!”

“He is not his brother Ronald, though, is he, Wormtail? I believe you have reported to me in the past that your other young owner” and the assembled Death Eaters began to chortle “commented that this one cared for nothing but his own status and would gladly dispose of his multitude of brothers if they happened to be in his way.”

And he may have been right, Percy thought to himself. Nonetheless, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's summary Wormtail's report of Ron's words stung him to the core.

“Ron is p-- p-- prone to speaking rashly! Ron never believed what he said about Percy! Percy always went out of the way to p-- p-- protect Harry Potter when they were both at Hogwarts. P-- Percy has dated Mudbloods! He has befriended Mudbloods, and so made his own blood dirty!” The Death Eaters hissed in anticipation at Wormtail's accusation.

Again, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named looked directly at Percy. “What do you have to say?”

“My blood is as pure as yours, Wormtail,” Percy answered, his voice as cool as Macnair's had been earlier. “More pure, as I do not hide it in the form of a RAT!” The Death Eaters tittered in appreciation.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named raised his wand, and Percy, living the nightmare of every child who had survived the Dark Lord's first reign, found himself interested rather than frightened. “Crucio!” Wormtail dropped to his knees at once.

“F-- forgive me, Master.” He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ended his curse, and Wormtail slunk forward, his ample belly pressed to the forest floor, to kiss his master's robes.

“Back to your position, Wormtail.” As Wormtail scrambled backwards, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned to Macnair. “Does anyone else dare to question Macnair's decision to bring our young recruit into the Inner Circle?”

Percy was sure that no one would move a muscle in the tense silence; thus, the quiet rustling sound that seemed to originate behind the Circle was magnified many times. Before Percy or anyone else could turn to look, though, and a Death Eater stepped forward. Had he been the one shuffling his feet?

“I question Macnair's decision, My Lord.” This was a voice that Percy knew all too well. He had heard it on a daily basis for the last seven years of his education. Generally, it had been taking points from Gryffindor. Dumbledore, it seemed, had desertion problems in more departments than just Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“You do, Snape.” If possible, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's voice had grown even colder. “I hope you are able to justify yourself better than Wormtail was.”

“Dumbledore told me just today that he had a promising new spy. I did not believe that it could be this one, because none of us expected him to survive his training. Now, I beg you, My Lord, do not trust him. Do not allow him into the Inner Circle.”

“You beg me? A Potions Master you may be, but I have never seen you beg to my satisfaction, Snape. We shall try to remedy that situation. CRUCIO!”

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named left the curse on Snape for much longer than he had left it on Wormtail, but Snape neither fell to his knees nor cried out. Only when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named finally dropped his wand did Snape drop woodenly to his knees and crawl forward to kiss the Dark Lord's robes as his former classmate had just done.

“You always were stubborn, Snape. That is both good and bad. But it has been a great length of time since you have been truly useful to me.”

“My Lord, will you ever forgive me for forsaking you?”

“When you prove yourself worthy. Insolent! CRUCIO!” The curse was not so intense this time, and when it was lifted Snape simply kissed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's robes once more before retreating. The other Death Eaters bowed as well. “Continue,” the Dark Lord snapped at Macnair.

Macnair bowed once more to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before obeying him. “We HAVE with US,” he said, “SOMETHING which BELONGS to OUR new RECRUIT. SOMETHING of WHICH, if WORMTAIL'S information is to be BELIEVED,” he cast a dubious glance about and the other Death Eaters snickered once more, “our NEW recruit is VERY fond. He in fact EXCHANGED Wormtail for it.”

In the dead silence, Percy heard a feeble hoot. Hermes.

Macnair held up the screech owl for all to see. Then, he turned back to Percy and placed his wand on the younger man's left shoulder, trailing it downward slowly so that it rested perilously near his heart. “Do you SACRIFICE-- Hermes, I BELIEVE his name is-- to OUR cause?”

“Yes,” answered Percy, fighting to keep his voice above a whisper despite his tight throat.

“WELL, then.” Macnair removed his wand and pointed it at the owl he still held. “Petrificus! Wingardium Leviosa! CARPO! CARPO! CARPO!”

Hermes hung suspended in midair, partially paralyzed, as Macnair cast spells to pull one feather from his wings and tail at a time. When Hermes was mostly bald, and had ceased to look entirely like an owl, a figure-- Snape?-- stepped forward with a vial of potion. Macnair poured the potion over the still-struggling Hermes, and Percy could tell by the smell that it was the same acidic mixture that had been rubbed into his arm at his branding. Next, Macnair ended his chant of Wingardium Leviosa and began to bounce the owl against the forest floor, like a Muggle child playing with a ball.

At last, Hermes gave a feeble hoot and died with one accusing eye trained on Percy.

“Thank you for keeping a pet,” said Macnair harshly. His showmanship had faded, some of his energy having been drained by the exhilarating experience of killing. “I do love animals. The Ministry is so limited in its ideas of proper execution. Ladies and gentleman, he has survived his final test. He will now show you what he has learned. Crabbe!”

A burly man, who, judging by his posture and body type, looked very much like his Hogwarts student son, shambled forward.

Hermes was still staring at his owner, obviously threatening to have his revenge on him from beyond the grave.

He was so young-- still a baby next to Errol. I was meant to take care of him. He was mine, mine, mine, and I just watched him die in the most brutal way this psychopath could invent. I let a defenseless animal, my defenseless animal, be tortured for some almost indefinable Cause. What am I?

“As I was saying, I love pets. This one” Macnair pointed at Percy “had Paulson clucking like a chicken last night. I think we could do with a dog this time, though.”

Percy nodded his understanding and leveled his wand at Crabbe.

“Imperio!”

On your hands and knees! Bark! Be a dog!

Crabbe knew more about dogs than Paulson knew about chickens, and was soon rolling on the ground with his tongue lolling out. He makes a better dog than he does a person, Percy thought, to the extent that he could think at all. Between the sight of Hermes and the events of the past few days, he was unable to concentrate on anything. He barely heard Macnair's voice when it told him to stop. It took him a moment to register that Macnair was pulling him into his new place in the circle.

“That's the best I've seen you do,” Macnair whispered. “It was like you've been doing it for years and didn't have to pay attention anymore. Terribly powerful. You naturally channeled some loathing in there. That's the real secret to it-- anger. Hatred.”

Macnair became reverently quiet as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named sauntered back into the center of the circle. “Now that we have been properly entertained-- or at least as properly entertained as is possible in the face of Crabbe's utterly pathetic resistance, we shall return to our previous task. We seem to have found our missing piece. We will be striking at three o'clock this morning. You know your roles. You are dismissed as soon as you finalize any changes in plans with Malfoy.”

With that, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished. “Over here,” said Macnair to Percy as a series of pops filled the air. A boy who was at least two years younger than Percy removed his mask.

“David Avery,” he said, shaking Percy's hand.

“A second generation Death Eater,” proclaimed Macnair almost proudly before vanishing. Surely he had his own job to do tonight.

“You're with me tonight-- or this morning,” Avery explained. “You'll be allowed on your own later if you do well tonight. You have three brothers and a sister at the school?”

“That's right.”

“Then surely you have some details on the unfortunate experience that the twins Patil were treated to last semester.”

“Some.”

“So you know that we had Little Miss Padma inside the Gryffindor dormitory while she was under the Imperius Curse.”

“Yes.”

“She planted a certain port for us, and the great thing is she didn't even know what she was doing. We'll force the protective spells down tonight by hitting from the inside with that and the outside with these.” He held up a sparking, round crystal. “You've already helped us in this department. You and some of the other juniors raided Gilbert Wimple's briefcase and came up with this. The charm's so new Dumbledore himself can't have heard of it. I'll set it myself, and you'll use Imperius on anyone who gets near us. We'll be the team nearest the front door, so even though the spells can go down without us, we're still the most important. Understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Must've been hard for you to watch your owl die today,” said Avery conversationally. “In such a big family, I don't imagine you've got much of your own.” Percy ignored him. Ignoring blatant jabs at his family's size and financial situation had always been a part of Percy's life. While the jabs were more frequent inside the Death Eater community, they also seemed less important. Avery droned on as Percy tuned out. Even by Death Eater standards, the child was insufferable. He was so young that Percy was sure that this was his first opportunity to boss someone around.

A holler, though, interrupted Avery's diatribe. He and Percy both looked to the scene of commotion.

Percy had thought that perhaps he could no longer feel shock, fear, pain, or anything else. He was wrong, he decided, when he saw his youngest brother standing sandwiched between two Death Eaters.