A shrill whistle pierces his thoughts.
He stuffs the last of his lunch into the trash quickly, pretending his decision isn't already made. Sweat dampens the back of his shirt, rolls down his back, but the robes flutter around him in the exact, patronizing manner he first practiced the summer before he received his prefect badge.
He closes his eyes, and stops the unconscious fidgeting fiercely.
Nobody can guess that he's going to do something monumentally stupid. Not if he wants to succeed.
It's taken him two weeks to lay the foundation for today, and if he's being truthful, two weeks to work up the courage to do this. Two weeks ago, a simple notice had landed on his desk, as it landed on almost everybody else's desks, and he read it carefully, meticulously, as he always did. He's done this before, and while each time something in his stomach twists, it's not too hard to imagine the crimes they've committed and continue the chain.
Until this one.
He walks to his office, closing the door gently behind him. Everything here is neat, is precisely organized, is pristinely perfect. A light yellow, standard Ministry letter lies on his desk. He picks it up, opens it briskly, and scans it as if he hasn't written it himself.
Then he turns around and walks down the hallway, smiling faintly at various men and women he recognizes, ignoring everyone else, to the lift. The golden bars clang shut a moment later; he tries to imagine that he didn't jump at the shriek. The paper is the key to everything, is the key to getting out safely. He stands firm, and clenches his hands tightly to stop them from fidgeting.
But, of all people, his father walks into the elevator. And he can't quite help his fierce blush, thankful for the glamour he'd placed on himself that morning. It kept his face the natural color.
You are the only one who can do this, he reminds himself. You are the only one high enough to have this kind of power. Not Bill or Charlie, not Fred or George, not Ron or Ginny can do this. Get your head in the game, boy. Think about dreams later.
The man at the counter, separating the Mudbloods from everyone else, just nods at Percy. He's been down there over the past week, bringing letters down as asked, diligently. He doesn't suspect a thing when he takes the letter and files it away, nor as he calls the young woman forward and leads her through the partition. Percy nods at the man, and walks away, not checking to make sure she follows him.
Thank you, he doesn't dare sneer. For all your assistance.
"Percy?" Penelope Clearwater looks aghast when she finally notices his face, but he doesn't react. A small part of him wants to, to turn and confess everything.
And she looks awful. Her brown hair hangs limply against her face, her skin is pale-edged parchment and her grey eyes look almost haunted against the stark whiteness.
"An office wanted to see you before your trial," he tells her blandly. He cannot afford to lose her now; silently he asks, forgive me.
He leads her into his office and asks if she wants some tea. Then he falters, because he knows how she takes it, and he hadn't meant to remind her of their past.
She laughs, almost bitter. "No thank you, Mr. Weasley."
She's done what he wanted. So why does it hurt? He nods and rises. "When they call for you I'll let you know. There are some... obligations I must meet before I return. I shall see you then."
His reputation works for and against him, he reflects wryly, walking to the records section. It's been about twenty minutes since he's taken Penny; long enough to have all papers filed in the records. Also, he knows exactly what records she has. There aren't any copies either- if he destroys the master all of them will simply disappear from existence. No one will even notice.
The records keeper barely acknowledges him as he walks into the library.
Digging out the papers, Percy feels his hand tremble slightly. Is it there? Is it there? Is it-
Yes. It is.
Breathing out lightly, he holds them lightly. They are everything, this thin sheaf of papers, everything that she has done all her life, everything of value to their society. Even here, though, he doesn't dare use incendio. Spells can be tracked, and for this to work there can be nothing. Nothing to track, nothing to even suspect. And if all goes according to plan, they won't suspect.
Instead, he pulls out a muggle box of matches he'd bought over the weekend. The papers go up in flames the next instant, and just like that there is no longer a Penelope Clearwater. The ash drips onto the floor like black blood.
He cleans it up with a careful scourgify, aimed first at the floor and next his robes. Walking out, he tells the keeper disdainfully, to keep the records clean.
His walks back is as carefully controlled as his walks before. Nothing misses his sight, but the rest of him is calm. The faintest hint of smoke around his shoulders, from erasing Penny, acts as a drug: it erases the slightest amount of caution. That added pompousness seems to make people's eyes slide away even more.
Percy hides a smile expertly.
Cold fingers of ice drag down his back when he takes a detour to go to the bathroom. Once inside, he locks himself in, hands shaking. This is the most dangerous part of his entire enterprise: how to get Penny out safely, silently.
The cold wand of one Macnair is the answer.
Percy holds the wand at the tips of his fingers, feeling the fine drag of it through his bones. The Dark magic is a noxious cloud pouring from the cracked wood. He can barely steel himself to use it.
But he does, and a small paper glows brilliant blue against his fingers. The smile curling over his lips could frighten the Dark Lord himself: a Percy Weasley who thinks on his own is an asset far more damaging than any person can truly conceive. Nothing is left to chance in this deliberate scheme; there is absolutely no part of this he hasn't thought through and bet on. Every reaction has been analyzed and deconstructed, every movement calculated to get the best possible reaction. From the moment that letter landed on his desk, Percy has been on a mission, and with the departure of Penny it will end.
Because Percy is an inherently selfish creature, because he cares far more about the woman he loves, because the people around him think he might be okay with letting her go to a fate worse than death, because of all that and every little thing, every demeaning thing they've made him do over the past few months, he will watch them fall with a smile on his face.
Percy Weasley will watch the ministry fall because he will be the one to seal its death. He will pound the nails into its coffins, will rend the world apart to break it if he has to.
He is a cunning Slytherin when he wants to be, a dedicated Hufflepuff when he needs to be, a brilliant Ravenclaw by nature, and a ruthless Gryffindor by blood.
The bathroom's marble door swings shut behind him, and Percy walks to his office swiftly, biting back a wholly inappropriate smile and rolling the Portkey in his fingers.
Macnair's wand, broken in half, floats innocently in the lavatory behind him.
The rest of the oneshots (I don't know how many there will be) will be posted probably Saturday. Enjoy these, till then!