Unlocking Doors

Unlocking Doors

Dorian Lockerly. Abington. Date of Birth: April 15 , 1951.

He scanned the piles of papers that were neatly stacked on his large oak desk. Abington residents would be in the third pile from the left, in the second row. He ran his index finger down the edge of that pile finding the tab for all persons whose last name began with L. He then took that smaller pile and quickly found all persons whose birthday fell in April.

"Ah, there she is," he said with a drop of haughty satisfaction in his voice. The three months it took to properly organize the paperwork was proving handy, just as he knew it would. Prior to his placement, the whole place was a disaster, a victim of bourgeois thinking and a lack of any real work ethic. With some proper planning and a bit of good old-fashioned hard work, it was quickly converted to a model of pure efficiency.

Within minutes, in his hands, he had the file of Dorian Lockerly. Deceased August 17, 1984. Next of kin, brother, Devon Lockerly.

"Accio Dicto-Quill," he said loudly. "Begin dictation:

"Dear Mr. Lockerly,

On March 24, 1981, your sister, Dorian Lockerly, had entrusted the storage of six, sized four pensieves to the Ministry of Magic's Safety Deposit Facility. As the term of her contract has expired, the pensieves are being released from our care. Since Ms. Lockerly has passed away, possession of said pensieves are being transferred to you. You have one week from the receipt of this missive to claim the property or it shall be disposed of as per subsection fourteen, paragraph three of the requisite Pensieve Storage Contract signed by your sister.

With Regard,

Percy Ignatius Weasley

End Dictation."

The Dicto-Quill fell limply onto his desk. Percy picked up the parchment and, after checking for errant misspellings or smudged ink, signed his name. He placed it with the stack of other notifications, a small smirk on his face as he adjusted his glasses and continued with his assigned task.

Emiddio Kolderhall, Rothbury, Date of Birth: June 11, 1962......

Percy Weasley considered himself a survivor, one who flourished no matter what scenario he found himself thrown into. He fought against his meager upbringing to gain an advantage over the wealthier students of his year to be named Prefect and Head Boy. Upon finishing his schooling with outstanding N.E.W.T.S., he was quickly hired by the Department of International Cooperation, and set to streamlining their terribly antiquated system of operation. In spite of an unnecessary investigation into some trouble with his superior, and an Unforgivable or two, he still earned a position of prestige under the reign of Cornelius Fudge.

Given the recent events at the Department of Mysteries and the arrest of several prominent members of society -- and the confirmed resurrection of the Dark Lord -- Percy was pleased that his value was not forgotten and his loyalty not overlooked.

Organizing the Ministry of Magic's Safety Deposit Facility was not an easy task. The office, in the lowest levels of the Ministry building, was cramped, poorly lit, and smelled of stale air and mold. The amount of work was daunting, but Percy took pride in the fact that he was given the responsibility; that he was entrusted to single-handedly complete a job that should really require a half-dozen people or so. He didn't know why the post was held vacant for so long, or why the department was ignored, but he would handle this as he handled everything in his life; with commitment, ardor, and pride.

Some might not be able to handle the continual hours of solitude, but Percy found the quiet a pleasant change of pace from the constant blathering of his co-workers. Here he had a chance to fully display his talents and gain all the credit for his endeavors.

His time had come. A corner office at the Ministry was waiting for him, and the Safety Deposit Facility would take him there.

Obliviating one's memories was a dangerous prospect. It was far too easy to erase the wrong information, or too much information, so people much preferred to store memories in pensieves. After the first war with Voldemort, pensieve sales had skyrocketed. But as people rid themselves of their most trying memories they found that keeping them lying about could prove to be terribly unwise. Some quick thinking individuals saw the problem and found an ingenious solution. The Safety Deposit Facility was created to house pensieves for profit. It turned into quite a tidy sum for the Ministry.

Since Voldemort's disappearance all those years ago, the department fell to neglect and disrepair. With the second rising now confirmed by the proper authorities, the Ministry thought it was time to get the facility up and running again. Percy smiled as he thought of it - so young and running his own department. Yes, his time had come. The route to becoming the youngest Minister of Magic in history was clear and bright and paved with pensieves.

In truth, with one as structured as Percy, the job was an easy one. Examine the rows of sealed deposit boxes, sort through their contents, take stock and make notes. It was then a simple matter of notifying owners, or families of deceased owners, that they either needed to renew contracts or claim their memories. Occasionally, neither owner nor relative could be found and Percy had to dispose of the material himself. Some minor research had uncovered a method to extract the memories and actually recycle the pensieve, saving quite a bit of money and further ensuring his place in the minds of his superiors for being economical as well as methodical and resourceful.

The only drawback was that to complete that task, Percy had to physically enter the pensieve and erase them from the inside out. Considering these were memories others wanted to rid themselves of, it wasn't the most pleasant of tasks. But Percy had faced worse. He was stronger than others gave him credit for; he was more capable than others would ever admit. He could handle this because it was his job, and he always did his job, and did it well.

Many files were misplaced or simple poorly organized. Percy tutted at the lack of order and discipline of his predecessors and prepared himself to spend much time rummaging through unwanted, unclaimed pensieves. Some might consider it difficult to watch memories that were never meant to be seen again. He convinced himself that he could handle it. That they were just pictures, after all, and that he wouldn't feel anything other than a mild interest in what memories people elected to forget.

It was only after he entered the first pensieve that he remembered that many of these memories were directly attached to the last Death Eater uprising.

Percy stood frozen in shock the first time he saw a man tortured to death for sport. He vomited the first time he saw a child killed by a poorly executed Death Eater curse. He watched a woman come home to the Dark Mark illuminating the sky around her home and her family sitting around the dining room table, dead. Tears burned trails down his face.

All too quickly, days and weeks began to blend until Percy lost all track of time. He took to coming into the office everyday. Early mornings when he couldn't sleep. Late nights when he didn't want to be home alone. Weekends and holidays because there was nothing that would differentiate those days from the rest of the week.

The job he had sworn to do, the one he was so proud to possess, was eating away at his humanity but Percy would not abandon it. He would not run away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His head ached terribly that day.

His eyes were straining in the dim light of his foul little office. He didn't remember the last time he ate or slept, but his need to get this job complete was a mission now. Once he got the office prepared he could stop: stop wading through pensieves, stop reliving memories that were meant to be buried away. He sighed at the fresh pile of contracts that sat on his desk.

Percy picked up the pile, ready to begin the routine he had been following for months, when he noticed it - a rusty copper key lying beneath the papers. He had no idea what it was but there was something ominous about it, something that made it more sinister than anything he had seen yet.

He looked at the number carved into the flat head of the key and then through the stack of paper in his hands, there was no match. He looked through his records, through his files, through his charts. There was nothing. There was no contract whose number matched the key. It was with some reservation that he picked it up, the metal feeling cold against his skin. He carried it with him as he walked up and down the rows of sealed deposit boxes, his palm opened and the key practically glowing - even in the dim lighting of the room.

Most of the morning had passed before he came upon it.

In the most remote corner of the office, hidden behind boxes and piles of trash from other departments, sat an old vault. Percy stood in front of its grey door, wondering how he never noticed it before. He had inspected this office from stem to stern his first week, carefully cataloging all its contents, but somehow managed to miss this area entirely. It was an hour later that he found the courage to see what was on the other side. The key fit in smoothly, and he turned it slowly until the telltale click granted him entry.

His shoulders dropped and his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as he stared at the pensieves before him, a hundred at least, carefully lining shelves along the vault wall. Unlike the other pensieves he handled, these were not all of the same time period. Some were much, much older -- possibly twenty or thirty years, and some seemed as recent as ten or twelve. There was no name attached to the vault, no contract to be found, nothing to indicate the owner of the memories held for decades in a room no one was meant to find. There would be only one way to figure out to whom the memories in these pensieves belonged and that was to enter them - possibly all of them.

The thought left Percy's stomach tight and his throat dry. Entering pensieves was difficult enough when you had an inkling of what to expect, at least a face or a name to attach to the memories. He would be going into these memories blind with no idea at all of what to expect, only knowing that no one wanted them to be found and returned. That no one wanted them at all.

Percy squared his shoulders and steeled his resolve. He would not allow any part of this job to remain half finished. He had a duty to fulfill. He started at the most recent entry and, with a cleansing sigh, stepped inside. It would be nearly 33 hours when he finally emerged from the vault, seeing all he could bear and not understanding any of it.

For all that he had seen during his tenure in this office, he was completely unprepared for the images held in these hundred lost pensieves. He knew to whom the memories belonged, but he had no idea why they were kept here.

It made no sense.

Several hours later he found himself standing outside a formidable pair of doors. He had no recollection of how he got there, he scarcely knew the time or even the day, but he found himself there nonetheless and watched, somewhat detached, as his hand rose and gave a tentative knock. It was a full minute later when he found himself face to face with a confused and somewhat irate Severus Snape.

"I...I think I have something that belongs to you, sir," he managed to say before collapsing to the floor at the Professor's feet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was warm.

That was odd. He hadn't felt warm in months...maybe a year. With reluctance he opened his eyes to flickering candle light and a foreign room.

"Finally awake, Mr. Weasley."

Percy sat straight up at the sound of the Potions master's voice - which proved to be poor judgment on his part and he nearly fainted.

"Watch yourself, Mr. Weasley. You have not moved in sixteen hours." Severus Snape leaned in closer so that Percy could see him in the dim lighting of the room. Very little of his former professor had changed. He stood tall and lean, a scowl creasing his gaunt face and yellow skin. His lank hair hanging down to his shoulders. His eyes too dark to even be called black.

"Sixteen hours," Percy said, hoarsely. "I've been here for sixteen hours."

"I guarantee you, Mr. Weasley, I am less enthused about that than you are," he said coolly. "Now that you are awake, I suggest you tell me what you came here to tell me and leave so that I may get on with my life."

"What day is it?" Percy asked, still trying to get his bearings.

"Saturday."

"Saturday...oh good," he replied, relieved. "I didn't miss work."

"No, but I have lost a weekend looking out for your sorry hide, now do you have something to tell me or not, I've no time to waste with chatter."

Percy looked at his surroundings and realized with a bit of a start that he was in Severus Snape's private chambers. "Why did you keep me here?" he asked. "Why didn't you call Madame Pomfrey?"

Snape gave an abrupt sigh. "Because there is nothing wrong with you, other than a fanatical fervor that makes Bellatrix Lestrange look apathetic." His patience was obviously straining. "I would rather not disturb someone else with a matter that didn't concern them. You obviously had something you wished to tell me, and it seemed urgent - unless collapsing from exhaustion is par for the course for you young Ministry types."

"Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I was just a bit overwhelmed I suppose. I've been heading the Ministry of Magic's Safety Deposit Facility, organizing it and-"

"Getting ready for the Dark Lord's latest batch of misery and torment," Snape interrupted, a glint in his shadowy eyes. "Yes, the Ministry must be beside themselves. If I recall, they made a small fortune from people's agony. They must be truly heartbroken that he has returned."

"We provide a service," Percy began defensively, "for those who wish to alleviate themselves of some superfluous thoughts cluttering their minds without the danger associated with Obliviate."

"You always did have an interesting way of looking at things, Mr. Weasley. I think your family underestimated your creativity."

"Don't..."

"Don't what?" Snape asked almost softly, his sneer twisting into itself.

Percy gave his head a small shake and continued. "I found something that belongs to you."

"I highly doubt that, Mr. Weasley," he said dismissively. "I would never be idiotic enough to entrust the keeping of my shoes to the Ministry, let alone my memories."

"They are yours, sir," he insisted.

Snape's eyes quickly narrowed and Percy watched as he sat considering his words. "What make you so sure they are mine?"

"I spent a day and a half going through them. I'm sure, sir."

"What sort of memories were they?"

"That's just it. They were...they were happy memories. They were good memories."

It was then that Percy saw Snape's ashen skin pale to pure white.

"It's true then," Snape said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What's true?"

"It's time for you to leave, Mr. Weasley."

"But sir - "

Before he could say anything else Snape had left the room and Percy was left feeling extremely cold again, and with more questions than he started with.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week passed and Percy had difficulty going back to his old routine. Snape made no attempt to contact him, no attempt to retrieve his memories, and Percy couldn't understand it.

Why where they here? Why was there no record? Why didn't Snape claim them? What did he mean by 'it's true then'?

It made no sense. Nothing had made sense since he found that rusty key on his desk. Then suddenly Percy had an odd thought. It was safe to say that had the key not turned up, he never would have found that vault and those pensieves would have never been found.

Who put the key on his desk in the first place?

He eyed the substantial pile of paperwork he allowed to accumulate for days. The key, the vault full of pensieves, Snape's cryptic words: inconsistencies, irregularities, and contradictions that made doing his job impossible. He had far too much work to do and far too many responsibilities to let this stop him. He had to clear this up once and for all.

He was rested and showered, his clothes crisp and coarse against his skin. Percy felt like his old self again. He stood straight and knocked resolutely on the dark doors and waited patiently for an answer. Severus Snape opened the door and retreated back into his rooms without acknowledging that there was even anyone at the door. Percy felt this was as open an invitation as he was going to get. With his resolve in tact, he went inside.

The Potions master sat in an armchair by the fireplace, a thick liquid slowly swirling in a glass snifter held loosely in his hands. Percy waited for some sign of recognition. When it was evident that none would be forthcoming, he began his well-rehearsed monologue.

"Professor Snape, with all due respect to someone of your status and position, I must ask that you retrieve the pensieves containing your memories, currently housed at my facility. Despite how they came to be stored there, they belong to you, and should be claimed as your property."

"I don't want them, Mr. Weasley," Snape replied, his eyes carefully fixed on his glass.

"They are yours, sir. And if I may say so, I think you should take them back."

"I said I don't want them."

"But sir-"

"Are you deaf or just dense?" he began in a low growl. "Get it through your thick skull I don't want any part of them. Bury them or burn them... whatever you do... just get rid of them. Do it and never speak to me of it again."

Percy watched the lifeless sunken eyes of his former professor and thought of the countless memories he witness from another time. A round-faced, shy child that liked to practice flying when he thought no one was looking. The young boy playing Quidditch with friends. The young man falling in love. One was not supposed to let those memories go willingly. One was not supposed to throw them away. That's not how it was supposed to work.

He looked at his former professor - his most demanding and exacting professor - and wondered what happened to that other life. "Your mother was beautiful," Percy said before he realized he had spoken.

"Stop," Snape commanded.

"You had a pet niffler as a child and you would let him sit on your shoulder."

Snape stood. "Say another word and I'll-"

"You and Sirius Black were friends once..."

"Weasley!" He threw his glass against the wall, sending bits of glass and liquid spraying around the room.

"You and Remus Lupin - "

Snape lunged forward and grabbed Percy by the collar, twisting it in his clenched fist as he practically lifted him off the ground. "Your time on this earth is negotiable, Mr. Weasley," he snarled. "Your silence is the only thing that might save you from a horrid and excruciatingly painful death. Am I clear on this?"

Percy gave a terse nod and Snape released him, nearly throwing him back. "Will you," he began hesitantly, "will you at least tell me why you don't want them?"

"I owe you nothing."

"No...no I suppose you don't."

Snape stared at him warily, narrowed black eyes scrutinizing possible motives and intentions. "Tell me, Mr. Weasley, why do you even care?"

"I don't know," Percy answered honestly.

"You don't?"

Percy wasn't sure of anything any more. Seeing the contents of those pensieves hurt him and they shouldn't have. They were harder to watch than any of the others he had struggled through and he didn't understand why. He didn't like not understanding something.

There were rules to live by, they were there for a reason, and one must follow those rules. In doing so, one could achieve all that he wished to achieve. That was simple logic. That made sense. But Percy followed the rules and they led him to a room full of happy memories that no one wanted so there should be a reason for it, shouldn't there?

"Maybe...maybe after seeing so much death and anguish, I rather liked seeing some joy," he said, hardly realizing he was speaking. "Maybe it's been a while since I've seen any happiness. Maybe I can't understand why someone would choose to lose that. Why someone would so willingly let that go."

"Your familial troubles are none of my concern, Mr. Weasley," Snape said coldly.

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?"

"I don't now," Percy found himself saying again.

Snape sighed, perhaps realizing that there was only one way to find peace. "Mr. Weasley, those memories were not stored freely. They were taken from me."

"Taken?"

"Think for a moment, Mr. Weasley. What better way to gather an army bent on destruction than by taking away any memory of joy the individuals of that army had ever felt? What easier way could there be than to convince people that they have nothing else - nothing to lose - and that you can offer them the world? The Dark Lord didn't promise power...he promised happiness...and he could give it to us because we had nothing to compare it to. He told us he could make us happy and we believed it."

Percy stood staring at his professor and the sudden fatigue that engulfed him. "He took away your joy?"

Snape turned back to the dying fire. "There had been rumors, of course, but no one truly believed them. It would have meant years... decades of preparation, and a level of immorality.... of pure evil that even we could not conceive of. It would have meant that we were puppets... pawns. That we were powerless. None of us wanted to admit that. We might have already known it, but we didn't want the proof."

"So why not take it back? You have the power to take back all that was stolen."

"To what avail?" he said almost softly. "I have lived a lifetime without them and have forged an existence, such as it, is in spite of their absence. What good would it do to show me all I have lost? What good would it do to relive a life that hasn't been mine for thirty years?"

Percy shook his head. Someone was screaming, "No!" but he couldn't tell where it was coming from and in a flash he saw his father lying in a hospital bed and he saw himself standing outside St. Mungos, never crossing the threshold. No. "We make enough mistakes in this world on our own, Professor. We lose enough things because of our own carelessness...out of foolishness. But at least they are our own mistakes to make."

He wanted to say more, about what he wasn't sure. He hadn't the strength to fight anymore. Percy turned away, his shoulders slumped and his mind numb. He opened the door and stood staring at the blackness on the other side. Without turning he spoke. "I would think...I would think that if I were given the chance to avenge a wrong, that I would at least like to know what I was fighting for." He straightened his back and walked steadfastly into the darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Percy found himself sitting in his office, files growing like weeds around him. Getting motivated wasn't as easy as it once was. He absentmindedly picked up a file. Agatha Lornley. Haverhill. Date of Birth: 5/17/1975. Percy opened the file and started to skim the pages. Agatha had just turned six when she had her memories extracted.

He found a picture of young Agatha in the back of the file. She had long blonde hair held up at the side by butterfly clips that fluttered in the photograph. A shy smile revealed a missing tooth. Percy suddenly thought of Ginny at that age and he found his hands folding into tight fists at the thought. He hadn't seen Ginny in over a year.

What memories could a six year old have that needed to be extracted?

The question consumed him as he sat at his desk. He looked down at Agatha again and with an odd determination he set out to find her deposit box. The answer was simple. Agatha had seen her father tortured and killed...and wasn't the Ministry so generous to hold these memories for her for a small fee...and wasn't he just doing his job by notifying her and letting her know that it was here waiting for her.

He thought of Agatha today. Was she married? Did she have children? Was she happy? What would her face look like when she got his letter? Would she have any recollection of storing the memories? Would she want these memories back?

What good would it do to show me all I have lost?

But Percy had a job to do. He was given his own department, given the responsibility. It was his dream. Wasn't it?

He slowly found his way to his desk and was somewhat surprised to see the room was no longer empty.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me?" said a chilled voice.

Percy looked at Severus Snape and something inside him burst open, something comforting and warm. He wondered if the Potions master elicited that sort of reaction at any other time in his life and then remembered that he did...but he wouldn't remember it. "Yes, sir. I do."

He walked down the corridor to the vault, a pair of steady footsteps following his own. Percy removed the key from his pocket where it scratched against his thigh and opened the vault. Snape's expression stayed firm - save a quick flicker of his eyebrows.

"I know," said Percy understandingly, "there are quite a few of them."

Percy watched in silence as Snape reduced the lot and placed them in a small black box with a flick of his wand. As the box clicked shut, he turned Percy. "Shall we take care of the bureaucracy?"

"Of course."

Several minutes later, after the final form was signed, Percy managed to ask, "Why?"

It was then that Severus Snape quirked his lips in what might almost be considered a smile. "Because a confrontation is looming and there will be a reckoning."

"Is that the only reason?"

"No...but it's the only one you need to know."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Percy wondered which felt more awkward - the fact that he was taking a day off from work, or that he found himself standing in front of the crooked windows and teetering walls of the Burrow again after not seeing them for more than a year.

He had been there for almost an hour, wondering if he should have called ahead or perhaps sent a note. With a sigh he settled for knocking.

"Percy." Molly Weasley's voice was small and her eyes wide as she stared at her son. "Percy...come in ...please come in."

"How are you, Mother?" he asked, taking in her drawn face and the dark circles under her eyes.

"F-fine," she said, a dishrag twisting in her hands. "How are you?"

"All right, I suppose."

"Can I ... can I get you something to eat? You look thin."

"I'm fine, Mother," he said with a small smile. "Thank you. Is Father home?"

As if in answer to the question his name echoed behind him.

Percy turned to see his father who looked as worn as his mother. "Hello, Father."

"Why are you here?" he asked plainly.

Percy thought that was a good question. He had a speech prepared - something about taking responsibility, and gaining a deeper understanding of the world, and having grown in his attitudes, but all that managed to come out was, "Because it was time to come to home."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Percy awoke the next morning to the familiar comfort of his old room, images of the previous night returning to him through the mist and haze of morning's first light.

Hours spent with tears and tea, some sandwiches, some arguments, and an apology or two had ended with Percy wrapped in the worn comforter of his old bed. His mother sat by his side, humming the tune to a song she used to sing to him when he was a baby, and stroking his hair with her fingertips.

This morning he stared at the ceiling of his room, at the thin cracks that weaved patterns in the plaster, the chipped paint and water marks from the leaky roof that made up his history. He thought of his mother's face and noted that much of the strain and anguish that had darkened her features when he first entered the house was gone by the end of the evening, replaced by a calm he didn't think she'd ever possessed before. Percy thought of this father standing at the doorway of his room, watching a mother sing to her son before finally leaving them to their moment; content, perhaps, with the knowledge that this was only a beginning, but a good one, and that maybe one day soon his family would be whole once more. Percy smiled. He was warm again.

It was time to get up and begin life. The world would not stop, it would not wait. He thought of his family, the one he almost gave up, and what they would do today. Bill had his curses to break and Charlie had his dragons to care for. The twins had their joke shop and the unsuspecting public to torment. Ron and Ginny would be heading to the Great Hall for breakfast - actually Ginny might be, Ron would be trying to hex Harry for waking him up.

He should send letters off today, a few words from the brother that had walked away. Ron and Bill deserved personal visits. There was a lot to explain. He sighed and resigned himself to another day off.

Percy also found himself dwelling upon his former professor; intrigued by the man he had glimpsed in the silver swirls of those pensieves. Percy had been moved by the intimate images he had seen and realized that, in a way, he now understood Severus Snape better than he ever have before. Not the Snape everyone else knew, but the man who still lived somewhere beneath the layers of sarcasm and cynicism.

Would Snape allow himself to retrieve those precious memories? Or would he simply save them like relics in a museum, ruins from another age kept just out of reach? Percy understood the effect that the loss of one's happiness could have over a lifetime, and he wondered how it would be to have that happiness restored all at once. Could the Severus Snape of the distant past ever return - the one with the thick rich laugh and glittering eyes? The son, the adventurer, the lover? Percy couldn't help but wonder. Perhaps a personal visit was warranted there as well.

He listened to the faint clatter of his mother preparing breakfast downstairs. Without so much as looking in the mirror, he headed down to join his parents before they all left to face the rest of the world. When he reached the bottom of the stairwell he paused and took in the sight he thought he might never set eyes on again.

Percy stood back, watching his mother happily prepare a small feast while his father updated her on his plans for the day.

"Try to be home early today, dear," she said, while cracking eggs into the frying pan. "I want to have the twins over for dinner. I think we should have a word with them before they get their hands on Percy. I'm afraid how they'll react to all this. I don't want them giving Percy a hard time. Things are so delicate right now."

"Of course, dear," he answered automatically.

"You know how they can be and I don't want them upsetting anyone with their shenanigans."

"Yes, dear."

"Arthur!" she snapped. "Are you listening to me?"

"Certainly, we are having the twins over for a pre-emptive shenanigans dinner. I'll be here," he replied, the sides of his mouth curled.

"You look awfully pleased with yourself. Are you up to something?"

"No," he insisted. "Just looking forward to my day."

"Aren't you still in charge of searching the homes of those arrested in last summer's attack on the Ministry? I thought you hated those searches - and the Dark objects that seem to constantly turn up."

"It's true, Molly," he began. "Some of the things we find have been locked up for years - and should have remained as such. Some things were never meant to be found at all. But Molly, occasionally... occasionally we turn up something interesting. One recent search turned up a particularly interesting item, something that ended up being the key to a rather obstinate door."

He said no more but slowly drank his tea, ignoring his wife's look of confusion. With a quiet shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the sausages.

Percy remained in the shadows, watching his father as if he were seeing him for the first time. And he thought - also for the first time - that perhaps Arthur Weasley would make a fine Minster of Magic after all.

Finis