Dedicated to EssaTheTwerp at A Different Fic Exchange.
Percy's quill danced over a length of parchment, and the nib's scratching sound was music to his ears. He just finished his fifth report for the day, this one on spells and charms created in the last two months. "La…test…Pa…tents," he murmured, finishing the s on the header with a flourish. He laid the paper gently on his Out tray, and stretched his arms overhead. His eyes landed on the wall clock.
Strange; it's just four, but everything was quiet. He checked his calendar—he once punched in on a non-working holiday—but it was a plain old Friday. He frowned. Where was everybody?
"Gershfeld?" he called out, not expecting his assistant to answer. Dale Gershfeld wasn't in half the time, and when he was, he'd smell like he went for a dip in a vat of gin. His continued employment at the Ministry is a mystery to Percy, who mostly tolerates his presence.
"Percy Weasley? What're you doing still down here?" a voice called from the doorway, and he peeked over the cubicle. Charles Dondey, the Head of Security, was staring incredulously at him; like this was the last place he should be at the moment.
"Hello, Charles. What do you mean? Is there a meeting about which I wasn't informed?"
"A meeting? Merlin! Come up to the ballroom—there's a dinner and cocktails." He dimly remembered hearing about this. The entire Ministry is probably there, as well as some former employees. He'd also probably share a table with people in his department. Percy chewed on the inner wall of his cheek.
"Oh. Thanks, but I'll finish up my work."
With the patience of a mother prying an empty bottle out of an infant's grasp, Charles walked towards Percy's desk. "What work?" he said, gesturing at an empty In tray. At that moment, Percy wished he was just a bit more of a slacker.
"Oh, you know. Memos and such. Just a few of them. Thought I'd do some pre-emptive reportage."
"You have to let loose sometimes, Weasley. You work harder'n Shacklebolt himself." When Percy didn't reply, the man shook his head and turned. He walked out, leaving Percy staring at the doorframe.
Charles can afford to let loose, Percy thought. When Dumbledore said that Voldemort had risen again, Dondey believed, no questions asked. Yes, Charles can afford fun. People like Percy couldn't. And yet here he was, riding the lift back to the ground floor, where the rest of his office mates were probably sousing themselves silly. He gave himself a once-over—not much one could do with regulation dress robes, but he had no choice. He didn't keep clothes at work; his office was not his second flat.
Percy started down the hallway leading to the room. He could already hear music and chatter from where he was—they'd been having tough days at work, and he imagined this party gave the entire Ministry a break. He could only imagine it, though; he rarely felt the need to celebrate these days.
He walked into a dreamscape. Rivers of gold cloth fluttered overhead, suspened by magic. At the center of the room were three spires peppered with snowflake-shaped sparks. The sparks rotated around the spires, and when they reached the tip, broke into a million pieces and float to the ground. Balls of light floated over the tables, providing light. People were seated at tables draped with white, and it seems like dinner has started. To the far end of the room, on the stage, a string quartet played chamber music.
In another time, another Percy would have been here hours ago, mingling with the prominent wizards, inserting himself into every conversation. But he didn't do that. Not anymore. Instead, he looked for the least occupied table and made a beeline for it.
"There you are, boss!" Gershfeld, hands around a glass of punch, stood up to clap his shoulder. Percy buckled under his hearty slap, and smiled perfunctorily. Why in Circe's name would I be noticed by him, of all people? he thought. His assistant barely came up to his jaw, but gave off an aura of strength. His solid shoulders were squared, and he swiveled his entire body as he pointed towards his right.
"Sit with us, Mr. Weasley," he said. Percy felt the corner of his eye twitch as his assistant swept him easily towards a certain table. He could feel everyone on the table staring at him, and he kept his eyes trained on the centerpiece. His companion was yammering away—he could tell Gershfeld was nervous.
"…You know him, brilliant man..." he caught the tail end of Gershfeld's spiel and shook his head, smiling as he did.
"No, you give me too much credit," Percy said.
"Nonsense, sir, you deserve it. By the way, this is…" and he rattled off the names of his companions, a haze of familiar faces Percy has seen around the office. He nodded at each one, but he forgot their names promptly. He wouldn't need to remember anyway.
"…and Audrey Worthing, with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," Gershfeld finished, gesturing towards a small lady next to an empty seat. She looked a couple years out of Hogwarts, and had that deer-in-headlights smile that most young officers have.
Percy's stomach rumbled; he realized he was hungry. He wished his assistant would let him sit down already—thankfully, the introductions ended with Ms. Worthing, and he was permitted to sit.
Percy tried to force the food down as fast as he could. He poked at his chicken, trying to decide if it tasted more like a paper bag or cardboard.
"Cardboard…" Audrey, the girl to his left, murmured. His head snapped up. Did I say that aloud?
"Pardon?" he said. She turned to him with a curious expression and shook her head. He shrugged it off and decided he needed to lay off the marathon midnight reading sessions.
He was in the middle of deciding that the chicken was indeed akin to cardboard when he heard her speak again.
"I told you so," she said. Now he was curious.
"I beg your pardon, but are you reading my mind?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but she was swept away by a mob of tittering witches. They brought her up to her feet and whirled her to the dance floor, where they started swaying as a group. She looked embarrassed, at first, constantly glancing at Percy, but she eventually gave in to the dancing. Pretty soon, she was laughing and flailing her arms around in some dance Percy didn't know, or care to.
But he did want to keep looking at her. How did she know what he was thinking of?
Percy did something he hasn't had time for in a long while. He stood up, walked boldly to the gaggle of witches and proffered his hand to Audrey. The tittering resumed, and she turned beet red. Percy waited; he was good at waiting.
Finally, she touched her hand over his, and he pulled her close.
How many people wish their love stories started this way—with a dinner, and a dance, and just enough mystery to keep things interesting? Percy wanted to believe that he swept Audrey off her feet that night. He held it in his head for the longest time, and ignored what actually happened.
"Pardon?" he said. She turned to him with a curious expression and shook her head. He shrugged it off and decided he needed to lay off the marathon midnight reading sessions.
He was in the middle of deciding that the chicken was indeed akin to cardboard when he heard her speak again.
"Yes, Roger, I'd love to dance."
Roger Davies, serial bachelor and chronic dater, brought her up to her feet and whirled her to the dance floor. They started swaying to the music. Her deep red robes billowed around her like petals. She looked embarrassed, at first, but she eventually gave in to his charm. Pretty soon, she was leaning close to him and talking about something Percy didn't know, or care to. He stood up and headed back to his office.
A few seconds later, her eyes landed on his empty chair. She breathed a small sigh, near imperceptible to anyone else, and led her partner away from the table she occupied minutes earlier. No sense being close to it now.