Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Or any of the rest of the characters for that matter…
Author's Note: Late. Late late late.
OoOoOoOoO
One year ago…
Percy ached.
He didn't know how he still ached when he'd been given three different pain relieving potions and two anti-inflammatories, but he did.
The Healer had said he'd be sore for a while. She'd said that he'd been lucky, that if he'd been held any longer under the Cruciatus, he would have suffered permanent muscle damage. As it was, he'd been given two muscle re-knitters and two muscle relaxants to help his torn and strained ligaments. His entire body felt like a wet dishrag, limp and wrung out.
His mind was active though. More than active. It was spinning and racing and he almost regretted not taking the sedative he'd been offered.
But he'd already been asleep for eight hours. In that space of time, Percy had been assigned a protection detail, moved to Greenfriar Town Hospital, and been put through an array of scans.
In that time, the country was still panicking.
Percy had thought he'd be able to do something. Even with his eyesight still gone, he'd be able to do something. He could have reports read to him with a reading charm, or use a dict-a-quill to send messages. He'd already spoke briefly to Kingsley and the remaining cabinet members, via magic mirror. He'd given them his report, he'd told them about Voldemort, and the self-destruct, and the officials already dead, but he couldn't see their reactions to know what they made of it. To know what they made of him. Had he done enough? Should he have tried something different?
Kingsley had simply told him to rest, had told him to sleep and recover, but Percy needed some sort of distraction. All he had was the radio. It kept playing the same news over and over again, with very little variation, because very little was happening now that the initial attack was over.
Percy reached to the side, where he knew a glass of water was sitting. His fingers hit the side of the table. He moved them up to the surface, fumbled for the glass of water, and clasped his fingers around it. He lifted and felt his arm shake with effort. The glass slipped from his hand. It shattered on the floor – Percy knew that because he could hear the sound of breaking glass. And he could also hear the sound of the door being flung open, and then he could see a burst of orange-yellow. The Auror on guard duty had rushed in, alarm rising up in his aura.
"Just dropped a glass," Percy said, his voice gravelly and cracked in a way it never was before. That was because he'd nearly torn his vocal chords by screaming.
"Not a problem, sir," the Auror said.
Percy dropped back against the pillows as the Auror whisked up his mess. Through the open door he could hear the bustle of an overtaxed hospital. Alarms blared. Voices called out – insistent and demanding. Someone was crying down the hall, deep, wrenching sobs.
St. Mungo's had been overwhelmed by the casualties, Percy knew that much. The wounded had been shipped to every hospital around the country and even then, the wizarding hospital system would be close to overtaxed. Greenfriar was the site of the Minister's vacation home and the secondary Ministry-site. Other officials would have been sent here, not just Percy.
"Here you go, sir." The Auror handed him a fresh glass of water, wrapping Percy's hand around it. Percy could feel his hand still shake as he raised it to his lips. He took a few desperate gulps. The water felt good sliding down his throat but then it pooled in his stomach, feeling cold and heavy.
Percy felt sweat break out over his brow. He hurriedly handed the glass back and the Auror placed it back on the table.
"Should I get a Healer?"
Percy shook his head. "No. Just… just tired."
He could see the silhouette of the Auror nod. "I'll be right outside, sir."
The Auror left, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of the hospital were muffled once more. Percy dropped back against the pillows, listened to the drone of the radio, and tried to sleep.
He may have nodded off for a few minutes, or at the very least, closed his eyes, because the next thing he was aware of was the sound of the door opening.
"Percy? It's Henry James."
Percy blinked a couple of times, his body automatically trying to see, stupidly forgetting that his eyes didn't work right now. The Ministry's private Healer was nothing more than a blue and green figure in the blackness.
"Healer James," said Percy, trying to push himself up. His left arm gave out, making him slump awkwardly.
The Healer was immediately by his side, plumping up several pillows behind him while surreptitiously casting several diagnostic charms. Percy was always impressed at the Healer's ability to multitask.
"How is everyone?" Percy asked, once the Healer stepped back. "What's the…," he paused, trying to find a way to phrase it delicately, and then gave up and settled for blunt, "How many dead?"
"While I admire your work ethic, now is not the time to read you casualty reports," said James. "You've been through enough of a crisis. You need to focus on healing."
Percy wanted to protest, but he knew that nothing would sway the Healer when he used that sort of voice. He sighed instead. "Well, what's the verdict on me, then?"
"Your muscles are healing nicely. Heart rate, blood pressure, and oxygen levels are within normal range. You'll be taking anti-inflammatories, muscle re-knitters, and muscle relaxants for the next two weeks, but give a couple more days of bed rest, and your body should be well on the way to recovery."
Percy decided not to object to bed-rest, and instead focused on what the Healer didn't say. "What about my vision?"
James leaned in and waved something in front of his face. Percy couldn't see what it was, but he did see the Healer's hand, a mix of aqua and cerulean, dart back and forth in front of him.
"You appear to be tracking movement, but your pupils aren't responsive to light," said James. "And you aren't focusing on anything, are you?"
Percy sighed. "Has anyone told you that you have a very aquatic soul?"
James paused. Percy wondered what the pause meant. Usually he was good at reading body language and facial expressions. Now there was nothing, just a faint stirring of something orange and pink. Percy didn't know what those colors meant.
"Being an aura-reader wasn't in your medical file," James said, voice neutral.
"It's a… recently discovered talent," Percy said. "But I'd really like to get back to actually seeing things again, and not just random colors. I'm assuming there's some unpleasant medical procedure for that?"
There was another beat of silence. More colors changed in James' aura. A blue-gray color welled up in the center of James' chest. It was a sad, dreary sort of color. If Percy had to assign an emotion to it, he'd say it looked like grief.
"Oh," said Percy, recognizing what James was able to tell him. The world seemed to twist beneath him.
"I'm so sorry, Percy," James said. "The Cruciatus caused swelling and bleeding in your brain. Had you been held under any longer, it's likely you would have suffered a stroke or a brain hemorrhage. As it is, however, the occipital cortex in your brain was damaged. Although your eyes weren't injured, your brain lacks the ability to process what your eyes are seeing."
Percy swallowed hard. "And there's nothing that can be done?"
James reached out and grabbed his arm. He squeezed lightly. "I've sent for a specialist to fit you for a vision aid. They'll look just like a pair of glasses – maybe a little thicker than your usual prescription – but you'll be able to see with them. Maybe not perfectly, but pretty damn close."
It wasn't what Percy wanted to hear, but he forced himself to nod. "Of course. Thank you, Healer James."
The blue-gray spread even further, like water, like an entire ocean. Percy glanced away, not wanting to see the other man's sympathy, not when he was so caught up in his own pain.
"Can I call someone for you, Percy?" the Healer asked. "A friend? A family member?"
Percy thought once of his mother. And then he thought of Charlie. Charlie would come, if Percy asked. He opened his mouth, but couldn't quite get the name out. He shook his head instead.
"No. I… I think I'd just like to be alone for a while."
He glanced over enough to see the Healer nod. "Get some rest, Assistant."
The Healer left the room. Percy closed his eyes, noticing no difference in the blackness when his eyes were shut, and felt hot tears fall down his face.
Present day…
Pansy didn't know what to do.
She'd found the memory she was looking for, but it was completely different than what she had expected. She had been looking for the memory that the Weasley family was sure existed. She was looking for the memory of Percy hiding during the battle, of being a coward. She was looking for proof that as Charlie was fighting to save Percy's life, Percy was being the sniveling, self-serving rat that his entire family believed he was.
She had wanted to find evidence of his cowardice. She had wanted to find it, drag it out, and then broadcast that memory to the world. She had wanted to proclaim, "Here is the reason Charlie is dead!" and then feel some relief from the never-ending grief that flowed through her.
But she hadn't found that memory. Instead she had discovered that Percy Weasley was brave. Percy Weasley was self-sacrificing. Percy Weasley was a hero.
And so Pansy found no relief. Instead, there was only guilt for what she had done.
Pansy got up, intend on getting her glass of wine from the kitchen, but the mess on the floor stopped her short. The china cabinet was knocked over – the dishes saved by an unbreakable charm – unlike Percy's wine glass. The guilt compelled her to whisk away the mess and right the china cabinet. And then she found a small first aid kit in the bathroom and returned to the living room.
Percy was still passed out on the floor, half crumpled and half folded in on himself. She levitated him to the couch and then settled down at his feet. She pulled off his sock and carefully pulled the piece of glass from the arch of his foot. He had surprisingly nice feet. Not like Charlie. Charlie had horrible feet. Tough calluses on his soles. A few blisters from his heavy work boots. Toenails that were never trimmed evenly. Bits of dirt that never quite washed away. Percy's feet, however, were clean, slender, and well-shaped. She placed a medicated bandage on the cut, and then she was stuck with nothing to do.
And she still felt guilty.
She was unaccustomed to the emotion and she didn't like it. She hated feeling it. She glared at the unconscious form on the couch and felt it turn into anger instead. What, in the name of Merlin, had Percy Weasley been thinking, inviting her to his house? If he was so smart, why did he let her in? He knew she was a dangerous woman. He knew she must have been a threat to him.
And why didn't he just go to Charlie's funeral instead of accepting that damned award?
And why didn't he tell anyone what had happened at the Ministry? Why didn't he tell his parents? Why didn't the media know that the Assistant Minister had been tortured by Voldemort? Why had the Ministry reported that he'd suffered only minor injuries in the battle?
Well, she could guess at the last few questions. The Ministry wouldn't want the general public to know that Voldemort had been in the Ministry itself, and that he had somehow learned and targeted the officials who could activate the self-destruct. That would have made the entire country feel threatened and vulnerable.
But why hadn't he told his family at least? Why didn't they know that he was…
Blind.
Percy Weasley was blind.
He'd been blinded in the battle and no one even knew about it.
Her anger spiked again. Why the hell wouldn't he have told his family?
She jostled his leg. "Wake up."
Nothing.
She reached over and shook his shoulder. "Percy Weasley, wake up."
Nothing.
She sighed, pointed her wand, and said, "Navitus."
Percy woke with a start. One moment he was prone on the couch, the next he had jerked up, gasping in fear. His eyes were wild behind his glasses. He saw her, lurched back, and tried to roll off the couch, but his actions were clumsy and disjointed. He was still half-sedated from the drugged wine.
She sighed and grabbed his arms to keep him from tipping off of the couch. In hindsight, it wasn't the best move because it made him struggle harder. He grunted a little, tried to pull back, tried to squirm away.
"Calm down!" Pansy snapped.
He didn't listen, just pushed at her harder, but Pansy knew how to pin a struggling man to a sofa. She straddled him and caught his arms between her legs.
Percy froze. Pansy could feel the tension thrum throughout his body. She watched his eyes stare up at her behind his thick glasses. He was getting faint lines by his eyes. His job was aging him.
"Are you calmed down?" she asked.
She watched Percy lick his lips and felt him tremble a little bit. "What do you want?" he asked.
There was a lot Pansy wanted. She wanted Charlie back, first and foremost, but that wasn't going to happen, so instead she wanted someone to punish for his death. She had thought she had that in Percy. At least until a couple minutes ago.
"Why didn't you go to Charlie's funeral?" she asked.
Percy blinked at her. His brow knit. "I don't understand."
She leaned in, reached out towards his face, and saw the flash of fear when her fingers grasped his glasses.
"Don't-," he said, bucking up underneath her. He wasn't able to find any leverage.
She pulled the glasses off his face and watched how his eyes lost focus and skipped about the room. The dull blue irises turned to her, and she realized that perhaps 'dull' was the wrong descriptor. His eyes weren't a true blue. They were more of a blue-gray, like the ocean on a cloudy day. She wondered, briefly, what he was seeing in her aura right now.
She leaned in and pressed her hands to the side of his face, keeping him facing her.
"Why weren't you at Charlie's funeral?" she asked again.
He sighed. He closed his eyes and then started talking.
One year ago…
"How about now?" the eye-specialist asked, handing the glasses back.
Percy couldn't see the glasses, but he could see the specialist's hand – a russet and brown silhouette. The specialist appeared to be made up of an autumnal palette.
It was only a small matter of fumbling to grasp the glasses and then slip them back onto his face. The world suddenly appeared before him. Instead of reds and browns, the specialist was a thin, reedy man with a ruddy complexion and a fondness for purple.
"Clearer?" the specialist asked.
Percy looked around the hospital room. The lines were much clearer, in fact, they were perfectly defined, as opposed to the last try when everything looked out-of-focus. "Much better," he agreed. "It is still dim though. Like the lights are on half-strength."
"The vision aid won't be perfect," the specialist said. "Dim is par for the course. If you're seeing clearly, and if you have good distance vision and close-up vision, then these glasses are working better for you than eighty percent of my clients. We're going to have to call this one a victory."
Percy nodded, but a little reluctantly. Part of him felt guilty that he wasn't more grateful for the specialist's help. The other part of him raged that, instead of just needing glasses to read, now he needed them to see. And not even perfectly at that.
"There are a few side effects you may notice," the specialist said. "Eyestrain is pretty common. Some people need to introduce the glasses slowly, wearing them an hour at a time to get accustomed to the lenses. Try not to wear them more than twelve hours at a time without an hour or so to rest your eyes. One of the most common complaints is headaches, so don't be afraid to take a mild pain reliever when needed."
Percy gave him a dark look. "I have migraines already."
The specialist winced a little. "Definitely talk with your private Healer about medications then. We do usually find that migraine sufferers report more headaches than usual with the glasses."
Percy sighed a little, but forced a pleasant smile on his face. "Thank you for your help."
"Not at all," said the specialist. "We'll meet in a month for a follow-up." He gathered up the various lenses and frames he had brought with him and stood to leave. "And can I just say, you're a real hero, Assistant Minister. I'm sorry that this happened to you."
Percy blinked in surprise, because – what?
The specialist nodded and left the hospital room, leaving Percy torn between confusion and depression. The depression won because it was the most pressing. Percy looked about the hospital room, plain, generic, boring, and then pulled the glasses off. The room disappeared. Only blackness remained.
It was terrifying.
Percy slipped the glasses back on. He couldn't stay here anymore. He needed to do something.
He gingerly pushed himself up out of the hospital bed. His body protested. The heavy potions he'd been given yesterday had worn off. His skin felt raw. His nerves felt exposed. He made his way carefully to the small bathroom attached to the hospital room. A hot shower eased the strain in his muscles. He had to wear his glasses in the shower, but the hot water helped him ignore the current distress he felt. There were more pressing things to worry about – like the state of the country. There was no time to curl up in a ball and cry.
He finished showering. He changed out of the hospital gown into a change of clothes he'd had sent over. A quick spell smoothed out his hair, and then he was ready. He strode out of the hospital room.
A new Auror was with him today. Percy recognized him as part of the usual guard at the Ministry, but couldn't quite recall his name. The Auror nodded and then fell in step beside him as Percy headed towards the Healer's station.
The hospital was crowded. There were still patients in the hall. Percy had to side-step around stretchers and around slumbering forms of family members who were keeping loved ones company.
A few of them looked up as Percy walked by. A whispering started, and then someone started clapping.
Percy paused for a moment, wondering who was being clapped at, and then suddenly the hall was full of applause. Percy turned to the Auror, the question on his face. The Auror smiled a little and shrugged. "They're not clapping for me, sir."
"Bless you, Assistant!" one voice called out.
"Thank you, Assistant!" another patient exclaimed.
"Assistant Minister!"
"Merlin bless you!"
Percy felt heat steal over his face. What on earth were they clapping for? He understood shows of patriotism after a national tragedy, but Percy was hardly famous. He was the Assistant. His job was the boring, tedious sort of work that never got reported on in the papers.
"Bless you, Assistant Minister!" a woman called from a stretcher, reaching out her hand.
Percy automatically reached for her hand to shake. He couldn't help but notice that her leg was missing below her knee. A man sat beside her – presumably her husband. He reached out for a handshake as well.
"Thank you, Assistant Minister," he said.
Percy nodded, not quite sure how to respond to the thanks, and then suddenly other patients and family members crowded forwards. Hands reached out for him for him to clasp or shake. His name was called out. People shouted out their gratitude. A few flashes blinked out - photographs.
The Auror stepped out in front of him. "Alright, come on and let the Assistant through, yeah? He's not here for the fun of it."
The Auror began gently pushing the crowd back. A few medi-witches stepped in as well and Percy began edging through the crowd, still shaking hands and nodding, all the way to the Healer's kiosk at the end of the hall.
"Assistant Minister," the Healer on duty said, startled. "You really shouldn't be up."
"I'm checking out," Percy said.
"I really can't advise-,"
"I'll follow up with the Ministry Healers," Percy said. "And I'll sign whatever forms you need me to, but I've a job that needs attending."
There was a little more bluster, a few more faint reproaches, but the papers finally appeared in front of him. Percy signed and then was directed to the Healer's break room that had a private Floo. Percy had to call out both the address to Greenfriar Manor and the password that kept the premise secure. He stepped through the fireplace, the Auror following behind him.
Greenfriar Manor was an old home donated to the Ministry after the last Greenfriar died without an heir. It was not the largest of old wizarding estates, but it was one of the most opulent. And the conditions of the will stated that the home must be kept as authentic as possible. It quickly became the Minister's summer home and private retreat. And it was also the designated secondary Ministry site – not that anyone really thought it'd ever be used as such.
Percy stepped out into Greenfriar's entry hall and immediately noticed the heightened security. Several old suits of armor immediately snapped to attention – the ancient guardians of the estate – and half a dozen Aurors did as well.
"Sir," one Auror said, gesturing him forward to a security desk.
Percy stepped up to the desk and started the tedious process of proving his identity. Not that he believed it was unnecessary. Violetta Gabny had not been herself the other day when she had attacked them, and Percy hadn't noticed anything off until she tried killing them.
His voice patterns were confirmed, a magical anti-concealment charm swept over him, a hair pluck from his head for scanning, and finally he gave his personal password to the security officer.
"Welcome back, sir," the officer said once he'd successfully proven his identity, and ushered him through the security checkpoint.
"Assistant Minister!" Lindsay Peters gasped. She bolted up from her reception desk, her hands flying to her face. "We were told not to expect you until next week!"
She ran forward, and for a moment, Percy was afraid she was going to hug him. She stopped herself, just barely, but she did reach out and clasp his hand.
"It's so good to see you," she said.
"Thank you," said Percy. "Is Gleason in?"
"Upstairs in his office," said Lindsey. "I can call up, and let him know you're coming."
"No, don't," said Percy. "I'd hate to ruin the surprise."
Lindsay paused. "Surprise?" she asked, her voice holding just a little bit of apprehension.
Percy's animosity with the press secretary was well known.
Percy didn't answer her, just headed up to the second floor. The staircase was a large, overly grand affair that split in two directions. Percy followed the right branch of the staircase to what had once been the large drawing room and study but now housed the secretary of the press and his media minions.
Percy paused for a moment in the doorway. Gleason was easy to spot. His voice carried through the entire room. Percy didn't care for Gleason. He was far too dramatic, far too willing to spin a story, and far too conniving for Percy to really trust him. But even Percy had to admit that he made one hell of a press secretary. He had an innate sense for story, and a way of stirring the public to whatever opinion he chose.
Gleason was the only one who could make people clap for Percy.
Gleason was currently in the corner of the room, standing over one of his typists. He was speaking to her but orating to the entire room, his hands waving as he talked, holding everyone captivated to his story.
Everyone except Percy that is.
"Gleason!" Percy snapped out his name as he stepped into the room.
All sound and movement stopped. All occupants turned to Percy. A faint, "Oh, shit" sounded from the other side of the room. Everyone immediately tried to look busy.
Gleason pivoted around to him, a look of irritation on his face. "You're not supposed to be here, Weasley. You need to be in the hospital."
Despite how his words could be construed, there was no concern in them. Just annoyance that Gleason's pawns weren't where he wanted them to be.
Percy stepped further in the room. "Why are people clapping for me?"
Gleason shrugged. "How the hell should I know?"
"I was mobbed at the hospital," said Percy. "There were a great many thank you's, a great many handshakes, and a whole lot of crying going on. Care to explain?"
A pleased smile flitted across Gleason's face. "There were, were there?" he asked.
"People took photos," said Percy.
"Did you look injured enough?"
Percy narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"The public knows that you were gravely injured in the battle at the Ministry," said Gleason. "So, did you have any visible bandages? Any blood?"
"I look as I do now," said Percy. "Is there a reason you want me in costume?"
"To sell the story of course." Gleason strode forward, waved his hand in front of Percy, and let out a sound of discontent. "But now you've mostly likely gone and ruined it."
"Ruined what?" Percy demanded, but Gleason just swept passed him and headed to his desk.
"Your moment of triumph, of course."
Percy spun around to follow him and belatedly realized, as the room spun as well and then didn't stop spinning, that it hadn't been the smartest of moves. He stumbled a little, trying to find his equilibrium in the midst of his vertigo, and then Gleason was back right beside him, grabbing onto his arm.
"Merlin, Weasley," he said, a note of actual concern in his voice.
The room slowly stopped rotating beneath him. Percy blinked a little, and then carefully extracted his arm from Gleason's grip. He stayed upright. Percy let out a breath of relief and watched as Gleason's concern gave way to something more conniving.
"Tell me you looked as pale then as you do now. Because you look even better than gravely injured. You look half-dead, and the papers will buy that photo and spread it in the gossip rags."
Percy glowered. "Just tell me what you did so I can fire you."
Gleason grabbed a paper from one of the many stacks in the office and smacked it into his chest. Percy looked down at the headline. 'The Ministry Falls' was splashed over the front page. There was a photo of a wall of flames shooting up in the atrium while people ran in terror. Some more heroically inclined people ran towards the flames and – was that Ginny?
Gleason tapped the page, bringing Percy's attention to the side article. As Press Secretary, Gleason didn't write the articles himself, but he heavily influenced the news that was reported. This headline read 'Assistant Minister Injured While Saving England'. Underneath the headline was a photo of Percy. It was his official photo, the one taken in front of the flag.
Percy skimmed the article. It mentioned nothing of Voldemort. It mentioned nothing of the other dead Ministry officials, the ones who had been targeted and murdered as they tried to hit the self-destruct. It said nothing of the other heroes.
The story itself was ridiculous. It cast Percy in the role of some rugged hero who fought through an entire burning building of Death Eaters in order to initiate the building's failsafe. It was a story more suited to an over-the-top radio program or pulpy-action novel.
"By the wand of Merlin," Percy breathed out in disgust. He looked up at Gleason. "What the hell sort of garbage is this?"
"The people of England are scared, desperate, and mourning. They need a hero."
"They have Potter."
"This wasn't Potter's house that burned down," Gleason countered. "This was the Ministry of Magic and we needed a Ministry hero. We're already playing up the brave men and women of the Auror department – and thank Merlin that the Costace kid is pretty enough to have a rabid fanbase – but we needed our own Potter. You know, glasses, nerdy, the unexpected hero. Men don't feel threatened by you, and women will probably want to take you home and feed you – all very good for the public morale."
Percy stared at Gleason in distaste. "You're fired."
He dropped the paper down on the desk, carefully turned, and left the office. He would have liked to spin on his heel and stride out of the room, but he was learning that sudden motion made for vertigo.
"Only the Minister can fire me!" Gleason called after him.
Percy flipped him a rude gesture, a rather juvenile move, admittedly, and heard a few gasps behind him because, well, Percy was the very definition of mature. Percy headed up to the third floor, passing by several more Aurors who – weirdly enough – saluted him as he walked by.
It just irked Percy even more. Surely others deserved that sort of honor more than he did. What about those who had died? What about those still in the hospital?
And had Percy truly done anything heroic? He'd been captured, tortured, and then needed a rescue by Lucius Malfoy of all people. Percy paused for a moment, and felt something very dark stir in his chest.
"Alright, sir?" an Auror asked him.
Percy glanced over. The Auror couldn't be more than eighteen, a young cherubed face sort of boy. He sighed a little. "For varying definitions of the word," he said.
oOoOoOo
Ron stared at the paper on the table, breakfast was cold and forgotten in front of him. There was a lot of breakfast. Molly was still in the kitchen, cooking.
The paper was entirely focused on the fall of the Ministry and there was an article about Percy on the front page. Everyone had read it. At first it was because they were scared. The paper said 'gravely injured'. What if Percy was dying?
But then it became obvious that Percy was not dying. He was in the hospital in 'stable' condition. And the article was all wrong. The article said that Percy had traveled through the entire Ministry on his own, that he had faced down Death Eaters and basilisks and werewolves, but Ron had done that. Ron and the other Order members had done that, and they hadn't seen Percy.
And Charlie had died. Charlie had died saving Percy, and now the paper was making Percy out to be some hero, someone who had single-handedly saved the Ministry and –
And Percy had always liked to talk about what he was doing. Ron's memories of Percy were always full of his boastings, usually at the dinner table, trying to get attention, things like, "I encouraged the Prefects to change the curfew regulations at Hogwarts. It will be so much more efficient now" and 'I wrote into the NEWTS because their last question on the test could have been answered two different ways, and they agreed I had a point and were going to change it" and "I just got hired as the Junior Assistant to the Minister! Can you believe it? I'm going to be working at the Ministry. With the Minister himself!"
That last one had led to an argument because everyone knew that Fudge was ridiculous, but Percy was so stupidly pleased with himself, he wanted everyone else to be jealous of him.
A small part of Ron related to that. It was hard, being best friends with Harry Potter sometimes. Ron found himself wanting to explain his own triumphs in detail, to get validation. So he couldn't blame Percy for being a prick, but…
But this was taking it too far.
"That's not what happened," said George, dropping his paper onto the table.
"Not at all," Fred agreed, still a little pale and recovering from his injuries.
Ron sighed. What was Percy thinking, lying to the papers?
oOoOoOoOo
Kingsley drummed his fingers on the desk and listened to his cabinet bicker.
His cabinet was smaller than usual. Two members were dead and one was missing. He would either turn up in the hospital, or not turn up at all, meaning his body was still in the Ministry, not able to be recovered for at least six months while the poisons filtered through the building.
Because his cabinet had been halved, Kingsley had invited some members of the Wizengamot to sit in. He didn't know if it had been a mistake or if everyone was past the point of talking rationally. They were bickering like school children, snapping back and forth, and frankly, it was getting irritating.
The door opened quietly and a familiar figure slipped into the room. Kingsley was used to Percy's unobtrusive entrances. Percy seemed to make it his personal challenge to be as unnoticeable as possible, but today Kingsley started and stared. Today, the entire room turned around and took notice of Percy Weasley.
"The hero of the hour!" Judge Whitcomb proclaimed loudly.
"Huzzah!" Finn Trembley called, pumping his fist in the air.
"Well-done, Assistant!" Georgia Hallback said.
Even Florence Greene and Gregor Ives stopped their bickering to applaud.
Percy was visibly startled. He tried to take a step back, but Judge Whitcomb reached out and pulled Percy into the center of the room, vigorously shaking his hand. And that was cue for the other officials to offer their praise and accolades as well, and Kingsley sat back and watched because…
Because Percy didn't look like his usual self. His face was pale. His eyes were squinted in the corners, like he was in pain. He was moving carefully, gingerly. His hands had the slightest of tremors running throughout them.
Percy didn't look as terrible as Kingsley expected him to look – one day after being tortured by Voldemort, but Kingsley had other ways of checking in on Percy's well-being. He waited for the hubbub to die down, and then asked, "Percy, what's your opinion on short-term travel restrictions?"
Percy blinked once, obviously trying to extrapolate what the issue was based on Kingsley's question. That was one of the greatest skills Percy had, extrapolating information from the most meager of sources. But instead of chiming in with an opinion, Percy blinked once more in confusion.
Kingsley frowned. Percy was not well.
The bickering started up again, Florence Greene debating that loved ones needed to see their family members who were injured and Gregor Ives shouting out that security was the most important, and that meant travel restrictions and a curfew.
Percy cleared his throat, cutting through the debate. "The average moderate injury treated in a wizarding hospital takes twenty-four hours. Most hospitals are being faced with over-crowding, but even tacking on extra treatment time, those citizens with moderate injuries will start being sent home this afternoon. It wouldn't make sense to lift the restriction now, not when most of the injured should be sent home in a few hours."
Kingsley nodded, feeling some measure of relief that Percy was still himself, just a little slower on the uptake. Not surprising, all things considered.
"We'll lift the travel ban this evening then," he decided. Ives started arguing, his same old tune of security, but Kingsley raised his hand, cutting him off. "People need to be with their loved ones, and Percy's right. Most of those with minor injuries will be home by then, so the number of those traveling will be cut down."
He waited for any more arguments, but none came.
"There is the matter of the casualty list," said Trembley.
"Take a break," said Kingsley. "It's just about lunch time."
There were a few pauses, a few hesitations, but then the members filtered out the door. Percy remained behind, sitting in one of the chairs in front of Kingsley's desk.
"I can't help but notice that the papers say nothing of Voldemort's presence at the Ministry," he began.
"I can't help but notice that you're here when the Healers said you needed another week," Kingsley countered.
"I got bored," said Percy.
"You were blinded," Kingsley said, bluntly. Percy had signed release of medical information to Kingsley. Kingsley had received the news just after Percy had been informed.
He saw Percy flinch. He watched his fingers rise to the new glasses on his face.
"It's okay to take time," Kingsley said. "I'll send you to the coast, if you want. Hell, I'll send your whole family. How about it? Take a week off. Heal up. Adjust."
"Hardly the time for a vacation," said Percy, looking back up. "And I've always found work to be therapeutic."
"You look like you're going to keel over," Kingsley said. "Has Healer James cleared you?"
Percy winced a little. "Not precisely."
"Have James look you over. If he clears you, fine. But otherwise, you're out of a job until he says, understand?"
Percy nodded.
"Did you tell your folks?" Kingsley asked. "I'm sure they're worried about you."
"I'm sure they read the article," said Percy, somewhat curtly.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. Percy rarely got snippy. He watched Percy close his eyes for a brief second and take in a breath. "I'll send an owl later."
Kingsley knew it was a lie. He didn't comment, just started shuffling the papers to clear a spot on his desk. "We've decided not to reveal that Voldemort was on scene at the Ministry and specifically targeting Ministry officials."
"Because it would incite greater panic," said Percy.
"And because it means we have a mole," said Kingsley.
Percy looked up, startled. "What's our next move?"
"Your next move is to visit Healer James," said Kingsley. "And if he clears you for work, you can do something boring. Like take a nap."
Percy frowned at him. "I am the Assistant Minister," he said.
Kingsley sighed and sat back in the chair. "There are insurance policies need to be looked at and sorted."
The amount of paperwork for the insurance claims was terrifying. Percy, however, smiled a little, like he was comforted at the thought. "I can do insurance."
oOoOoOoOo
Fred and George sat side-by-side together. George leaned in a little towards Fred, their shoulders brushing, because Fred had been injured and George needed the reassurance.
Charlie had been the best sport about all the jokes that Fred and George played. Bill had been a little too old to find it funny. Percy had always been too serious and irritated. Ron was too whiney, and Ginny could get vicious with revenge.
Charlie though –
Charlie always found it funny, even when the jokes were at his expense. And he actually helped them improve their jokes and their inventions.
And now Charlie was dead.
"Not fair," said Fred.
"Not fair," echoed George.
"Not Charlie," said Fred.
"Not Charlie," agreed George.
"Bill," said Fred, because if it wasn't fair that it was Charlie, then who would be fair?
"Fleur," reminded George.
The twins nodded. It wouldn't have been fair if Bill had died.
"Ginny," offered George.
"Malfoy," said Fred.
"Hmm," they said together, because Malfoy was a threat to be reckoned with, that is, if he ever came back.
"And… Ginny," they said together. Their little sister. Their only sister. No, not Ginny either.
"Ron?" asked George.
"Poor Ron," said Fred.
"Rough deal," agreed George. Ron was a bit of a pathetic creature. Best friends with Harry and Hermione, who were dating each other. Born with a good brain, but not a lot of common sense.
"Bit too pathetic," said Fred.
George sighed his agreement. Not Ron either.
"Percy," suggested Fred.
"Percy," pondered George.
Percy. Percy, two years older than them, constantly serious, constantly complaining, constantly judging. Percy who started arguments. Percy who was ashamed of being a Weasley. Percy who was arrogant and snobbish and insecure all at once.
"Percy," they said together.
It would have been fairer if it had been Percy.
oOoOoOoOo
Kingsley was tired. It was just coming up on dinnertime, but it felt like midnight.
He knew that was because he hadn't slept the night before. How could he sleep? The Ministry had fallen. Good witches and wizards had died. The people closest to him – John Kelly, Flora Chaucer, Gregor Lee, Licester Jones. Even more were injured.
And Percy had been in the hospital recovering from severe injuries with potential brain damage.
Kingsley had stayed at the office in Greenfriar, keeping the midnight watch over England. And he was paying for it now. He rested his elbows on his desk and rubbed his eyes. "Is that it?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
"For now, yes," said Daphne Sturgess. She was the second assistant, more of a secretary, really, but she filled in when Percy was indisposed (caught up in some other Ministry business), out of country (on Ministry business), sick (rarely), or took vacation (ha! like Percy had ever taken vacation).
"Good," Kingsley said.
"Most of the cabinet have already turned in for the night," Daphne said. "Your room is ready for you, whenever you decide to turn in, and the kitchen is open. Shall I send in dinner?"
Dinner sounded perfect. Kingsley let out a mighty yawn, stretched, and said, "Yes. If you-,"
There was a brief knock on the door and then Deanna, the secretary, stuck her head in. "Don't get too alarmed, sir," she said in opening.
Kingsley immediately felt his shoulders tense. He forced them to relax. "Yes?"
"Assistant Minister Weasley had a bit of a fainting spell," Deanna said. "Healer James is with him now."
Kingsley got up and strode for the door. "Where?"
"His office," said Deanna, holding the door open for him.
Kingsley turned to the left outside his office and walked down the short hall to Percy's office. It had once been a drawing room and Percy was currently reclining on what once had been a brocade armchair, but was now transfigured into a lounge of sorts. Several pillows were propped up behind him and a thick blanket was pulled over his legs. Healer James was sitting beside him, taking his pulse. James didn't look too concerned, and Percy flushed a little when Kingsley walked in. He was embarrassed. That was a heartening sign. If he was embarrassed, then it wasn't anything serious.
"Over did it?" Kingsley asked.
It was obvious that was the problem. Percy was still pale, and the circles beneath his eyes had deepened. He gave a wan smile. "Just slightly."
"He'll stay right here for the night," said Healer James, releasing Percy's wrist. "No work, just rest, a good meal, and a good night's sleep."
Percy glanced at the coffee table. An entire apothecary of medicinal herbs and potions was set up on the surface.
"Ah, and those, of course," said James.
Percy huffed a little, annoyed. James shot him a look. "Maybe next time you'll believe me when I say you need a week of rest, huh?"
"Hardly," said Kingsley, answering for Percy, but he stepped further into the room and pulled over the other brocade armchair. "I was just about to order up some dinner myself. I'll keep you company."
Percy sighed, but some tension seemed to bleed out of him. Kingsley could imagine the prospect of being alone right now, still trying to avoid the trauma that had been inflicted on him, was not restful.
"Soup for you," James told Percy. "And once we get some food into your system, we can start with the potions."
Percy looked decidedly apprehensive.
OoOoOoOoO
Ginny stared blankly at the vanity mirror. She just finished a shower, she was wrapped up in a fuzzy robe, and she just didn't have it in her to comb through her wet hair or put any make-up on.
Charlie was dead.
Charlie was dead.
Charlie – the emotional anchor for the family – was gone. The Weasleys were prone to temper – everyone knew that. Charlie though – Charlie was always quicker with a laugh than an angry word. He was the one that always defused the fighting in the house, he was the one that could step in and douse the flames – just like he could calm a dragon. And now he was gone.
Ginny put her elbows down on the vanity top and put her head in her hands. Her heart hurt. Her chest felt tight.
She blindly reached out and snagged the letter that was tucked into the corner of the mirror. She resisted the urge to squeeze it, wanting to hold on tight but not wanting to crease the pages. Draco's letter to her. He said he should have been back by now.
"Where are you?" Ginny whispered, her voice catching on the words. "I need you right now."
She tried to ignore the thought in her head that said maybe Draco was dead too.
She tried to ignore it, but the voice just got louder.
She sobbed.
OoOoOoOoO
Percy woke to blackness and – for one second – he panicked and his hands went to his face, sure there must be something blindfolding him. And then he remembered that he was blind. And this darkness was his life now.
Percy sucked in a quick breath and let it out slowly. If this was his life now, then surely he could grow used to it. So he looked around at nothing, his eyes blinking rapidly, still trying vainly to clear his vision. He took in another breath and forced himself to acclimatize to the black, to the emptiness. He'd never really been scared of the dark before. This shouldn't be a problem for him.
He pushed himself up a little bit. A pillow slipped out from behind him and toppled to the floor. Percy reached out gingerly, trying to feel for the pillow, but all he felt was empty air. He reached down further, and further, and further. His heart skipped a beat. Where was the floor? Surely he was reaching down too far. Shouldn't his fingers be touching the carpet by now?
Why couldn't he feel the floor?
He had the sudden feeling that the floor was no longer there, and he was about to tip off the bed and fall into nothing. He grabbed onto the bed with one hand and desperately groped for his glasses with the other. He'd taken them off. He'd put them right on the side table.
His fingers hit the table. He fumbled for the glasses, seized, them and hurriedly pulled them on just as the door was flung open. Healer James rushed in.
"Are you okay?"
Percy didn't feel okay. And he was sure that his heartbeat was skyrocketing and that had alerted the Healer. He pulled in a breath. "Just… adjusting," he said, somewhat lamely.
The Healer crossed over, performed a few vital-monitoring charms, and frowned. "How do you feel about a fortnight in a spa somewhere out of the country? Because if your blood pressure doesn't go down, I'm going to order you there."
Percy sighed and snagged the pillow from the floor. "Just give me a potion, James."
"The country will run without you," James said.
"Right into a brick wall," Percy retorted. He wasn't leaving.
James sighed. "I'll give you a few potions, but you're not cleared to work until you've had breakfast. And a bath. Not a shower, an actual bath. This manor has quite the decadent bathing facilities and you will use them."
"You drive a hard bargain, Healer James," said Percy.
"I'll send for your breakfast," said James.
He left the room and Percy sank back onto the pillows, silently cursing himself for being such a wimp. If only his brothers could see him now, freaking out about a dropped pillow, they'd laugh their arses off.
oOoOoOoO
Bill sat beside Charlie's bed. Charlie's body lay on the bed, still and silent, like he was sleeping.
Actually, not like he was sleeping. Charlie was a sprawler, or rather, had been a sprawler. He would end up half on the floor some nights. This still, straight body wasn't Charlie.
Bill felt a hand on his shoulder. He grabbed it, immediately knowing it was Fleur. He felt her fingers tighten, squeezing, offering comfort.
Bill bent forward, put his head in his hands, and felt hot, heavy tears stream down his face.
oOoOoOoO
Kingsley dropped the paper down on his desk. He put his head in his hands. "Shit."
"I thought you'd want to know," said Daphne.
"Has this been made public?"
She shook her head. "The official casualty list is still being compiled. It won't be released until we're sure that the families were notified first. Most likely two or three days now."
Kingsley rubbed his head. "How many people know about this?"
"Not many."
"Keep it that way," said Kingsley. "And get me James."
Daphne nodded and left the office. Kingsley rubbed his forehead and glanced down at the paper again. Shit.
Healer James knocked lightly on the open door and Kingsley looked up and waved him in. James shut the door and then took the seat in front of the desk.
"How is he?" Kingsley asked.
There was no need to clarify who 'he' was.
"Eating breakfast," said James, being deliberately obtuse.
Kingsley raised his eyebrows. James heaved an angry sigh and dropped into the chair in front of his desk.
"How do you think, Kingsley? He was tortured to the extent of having brain damage, consequentially lost his sight, and now he's back at work without taking any time to grieve or rage or curl up in a ball and cry. He's a wreck."
Kingsley was a little taken aback. "A wreck?"
James sighed again, a little less hostilely this time. "A very neat and tidy wreck," he allowed. "But he needs time, Kingsley. I'd like it if he wasn't at work at all, but I can't convince him to leave."
"He's just handling insurance forms," said Kingsley.
"Good," said James. "Give him all the time he needs to catalogue lost objects and fill out forms."
Kingsley steepled his fingers. "How well do you think he could handle a shock right now?"
James recoiled. "Shock? What? No – no shock, Kingsley. Not even a surprise." James frowned. "Why?"
Kingsley slid the piece of paper over the desk. "That's an updated list of casualties. It won't be made public for the time being. His brother, Charlie, is on the list."
James let out a breath. "Shit."
"Should I tell him?"
James shook his head. "No. Not yet. Not unless you want him back in the hospital."
"I have to tell him sometime," Kingsley said.
"Get his family to come in, or a close friend, to break the news to him. But not today, Kingsley. For Merlin's sake, he should still be in the hospital."
Kingsley tried not to feel the relief that followed, and then the guilt. "I'll owl his parents. See if they can come in."
James nodded. "Good."
oOoOoO
Author's note: Well, that took a while, didn't it? Real life threw a bit of loop at me. I think I updated my profile to reflect that there'd been a bit of a family crisis, and then it resolved, and then there was a crisis again. Because it was so much fun the first time around. But it's all good now.
Also - Percy is taking up a bit too much of my time. I got one more chapter of him left (which will be up next week, promise! because it's written, it just needs editing, and then we'll go back to Draco.) Sorry for the detour!