Summary: 'It was over. All the careful planning and dreaming and opportunities seized, not matter the cost – all of it was over, gone, and done with.'

Author's Note: An explanation for a little subplot, borne on my question as to why it took so darn long, that was dangled in a highly undignified way over our heads for almost the entire series.

"Hello, Minister!" bellowing Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. "Did I mention I'm resigning?"-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, American version page 636.

Something Finally Won

It was over. All the careful planning, all the dreaming while shut up in his room, all the opportunities seized, no matter the cost – all of it was over, gone, and done with.

Percy Weasley had, from a very young age, dreamed of being an employee of the Ministry. The idea of rising above his humble beginnings, of having people actually listen to him instead of throwing a Wellington boot or laughing at him, of becoming, perhaps, Minister of Magic one day, if he worked hard enough – it had always been a delightful thought.

He'd studied and worked hard for it, all through the years, include the O.W.L. exams and N.E.W.T.s. He'd revered powerful men and women such as Barty Crouch, Cornelius Fudge, Amelia Bones, Dolores Umbridge, Rufus Scrimgeour, and Pius Thicknesse.

All those many, many years of planning, all that flattery and mindless guffawing at sickening jokes, turning the cheek to that which challenged the Ministry's regime – especially Harry Potter. He couldn't be telling the truth, not if the Minister of Magic himself denied it. He must be scrabbling for attention, he reasoned, just trying to explain Diggory's death, something he might've even been guilty of if they had dueled over the Cup, over the glory (he ignored the little voice in his head that was screaming neither Harry nor Cedric Diggory would battle for something like glory). He'd abandoned his family, because he hadn't wanted to believe, just like Fudge, that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, the man that made even the stoutest of wizards wince at the mere mention of his name, because it would ruin everything. Even after You-Know-Who's continued existence had been confirmed, he hadn't gone back to them, even though he knew he'd been wrong and that his mother and, eventually, the rest of his family would have welcomed him back with open arms. He shied away from what must be done, because of his pride and of his fear of being rejected.

Often he'd wondered why he hadn't been put into Slytherin.

But no more. No more would he do that, ignore his family, follow laws and people he didn't believe in – Fudge had resigned, Scrimgeour took the reins and had been killed, and then Pius Thicknesse had taken the crown – and he was under the Imperius Curse. Now, he was throwing it all away, his dreams which now seemed laughable, those stupid aspirations that were not worth it.

And he didn't care.

He had finally shown why he was a Gryffindor, because he had been brave enough – finally – to get back up from his fall from grace and go back to his family. They had forgiven him; he was dueling side by side with his brother, someone who had once laughed at him, and they were fighting for the same thing, and now – now he would win. He was on the side that might not win the war but was still the right side to be on, because he had won back something worth throwing everything away for, apart from his family – the thing he'd been looking for all this time, and hadn't even known it.

He'd won back his dignity.