"Why, Percy! What a splendid surprise!" The robust woman beamed happily at the man who shared her curling auburn hair and dark blue eyes. "Arthur! Our son is home!"
Percy offered a weak smile to the balding man as his mother proceeded to crush him in a hug. His father, not one for emotional greetings, offered him a small smile and sturdy handshake once he'd caught his breath again.
"Good to see you, son," Arthur said, while looking him over. "You look positively knackered."
"A bit," Percy admitted in a low tone, enduring his mother's fussing.
"Molly," Arthur chided softly. "Give the boy some room to breathe."
Clucking her displeasure, Molly did just that, backing up a couple of paces and beaming at her son framed in the doorway still. "So good to see you, dear. How long will you stay?"
Percy motioned toward a carpet bag that rested on the pavement behind him. "For a while, I think," he remarked with an even tone. "There was an incident at work, you see."
"In trouble, are you?" Arthur asked with a raised brow.
"Not just so, but I-" Percy paused as he remembered his encounter with the Minister. "Well, my superior—Fudge, you know—was killed just yesterday. I've inherited his job it seems."
"Killed?" Molly asked with a hard gasp.
"Yes," Percy said, purposefully avoiding his parents' concerned eyes. "He was attacked in his office somehow- no suspects yet."
"Well then- is this quite safe? Should we be worried for you?"
"Ah, of course n-" Percy hesitated, remembering the odd circumstances of his predecessor's death and the subsequent fatalities of his would-be replacements. "I-I don't believe so. "
"Well," Molly cooed lovingly, "It's so lovely to have you home no matter the nasty situation. I'll call your brother—he's home for a kip as well, you know—RONALD! COME SAY HELLO TO YOUR BROTHER—HE'S BEEN PROMOTED!"
Riddle was not a nice man. Along with not being nice, Riddle was not a particularly trusting man. Accordingly, the bulk of his followers were not privy to the dark reality of his plans—that was a privilege saved for the upper echelons of his faithful. All the bulk of them knew was that Riddle was preparing—indeed, had prepared—a poison so potent that death would tremble before its torturous gaze.
Macnair fought back the bile that threatened to disgrace him as what seemed to have once been a human form writhed at his feet. This was the poison's newest victim, the poor wretch. The girl had possessed a serene beauty when he was first brought in, though now that was shattered by the poison broiling within her veins. It was truly disgusting how easily this concoction could turn a beauty into a franticly screaming shrew. Personally, Macnair preferred to perform the torture himself—to feel flesh bruise and bones crack and see the fear that clouded his victim's eyes.
That wasn't the case with this sort of chemical torture. The girl's face was barely even recognizable now—she'd started to claw at her eyes in desperation only a few minutes ago—and this self-inflicted damage gave him no pleasure to watch. He felt his stomach rebel at the unnaturalness of it all. He composed himself cautiously with a quick glance at the security camera in the corner of the room.
Riddle, they said, watched every instance of testing. The poison, it was confirmed, worked perfectly and therefore testing was a moot point. Riddle just liked to watch. Macnair swallowed harshly and the writhing form released a particularly shrill scream. A moment later, a tinny voice sounded from the camera.
"Macnair- use the prod, would you?"
With a stiff nod, Macnair picked up the electric cattle prod from where he'd leant it against the wall. This was his least favorite part, if he had to choose. He would nudge the body with the prod and an electrical current would rush through the body, drawing out more pained screams and the faint smell of burnt flesh. The electrical current, however, would hasten the body toward its demise, accelerating the poison—it was almost over, thank god.
Two stories above, in his control room, Riddle watched the video feed in a deathly silence.
Percy awoke panting, sweating, and wondering whether he would ever be rid of the tortured visage of his former employer. He'd thought that a change of scenery would improve his mental state, but all Percy felt was smothered—from his mother's inquisitive nature and his night terrors.
A glance at the bedside table and clock revealed it to be just a quarter past four in the morning and Percy sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to sleep until five, but it seemed his traitorous mind disagreed.
With a groan he maneuvered his legs out of bed, his body following naturally. An early day at the office, he supposed. Might as well make a good first impression…
Nearly an hour later, Percy took a deep breath and stepped into the office of his predecessor. It had been cleaned—in fact, it still smelled of the lemon cleaner—but Percy had to shake his head to dislodge the image of a broken and bloody Fudge from his eyes.
Luckily, there was already work to be done, evidenced by the stacked reports almost overflowing from his in-basket. He allowed himself a moment of puffed-up pride at his sheer importance, and then set to work, not stopping until the office was bustling with early-morning activity.
Oliver Wood frowned as he examined a photo of a crime scene. The case was an odd one: a ministry high-up found dead by his assistant with his body bent, twisted and mutilated. Couldn't be suicide—it was too messy and the set-up was all wrong. Murder, then. But what motive? And why was Fudge killed at work rather than at home where he wouldn't be as easily discovered? It was all highly suspicious, and Oliver was naturally intrigued.
…And it didn't hurt that Fudge's assistant was a remarkably handsome man hiding behind horn-rimmed glasses. Oliver quirked a smile, making a note to revisit the scene and ask a few more questions of Percy Weasley. In fact-
Grabbing his coat, Oliver closed the space between his desk and the door with long strides. He poked his head briefly in another room—"Eh- alright there, Granger?"
The bushy-haired detective looked up with a raised brow. "Yes, thank you. And you, Wood? Where are you off to? Have investigating to be done?"
Oliver grinned. "You know me too well. Just going to pop down to the Ministry—lots of important police business to transact and all that. Back in an hour or so." He blew her a cheeky kiss as he turned on his heel. "Cheers," he called as he passed through the doorway.
The woman snorted, watching him as he bounded out of the room, before turning back to her paperwork. After all, somebody had to be responsible around here.
