Percy Weasley snored, rolled over, and swatted his alarm clock from the top of the bedside table. Most morning started like that, he reflected groggily. Too blasted early -- he picked up the alarm clock and set it back for six o'clock in the morning -- with too much of a racket. He absolutely hated a racket.
Grappling with his spectacles, he stumbled out of his room and across the hall to the bathroom. He always had the facilities to himself this time of day; Mother Swainbrooke's other boarder, a young American named Johnny Peasegood, could be counted on to lie abed until at least nine. Not that he was lazy. The young Master Peasegood held a position as a professional carouser, and regularly stayed at the office until closing.
Percy made a meticulous toilette. His routine was precise and unchanging. This was the morning of the Potter boy's trial, he remembered while shaving; that would be interesting. He'd need to be on top of his game. Note-taking would be difficult with a volatile adolescent in the room.
At six thirty-five on the button, he skimmed downstairs and politely declined Mother Swainbrooke's offer of breakfast. "I'm meeting Penelope," he told her importantly, hoping that she would mention his social well-being to a certain layabout upstairs.
The mountainous landlady beamed at her best-behaved boarder. "Of course you are, and right you should," she crooned. "Daresay the young lady could stand a bit more of your time, if I'm not bein' too forward."
"Mrs. Swainbrooke, I have only so much time to give," said Percy sternly, and neatly fastening his Ministry cloak, he swept out the door.
La Petit Fromage rested on the outskirts of Diagon Alley, squeezed between a monstrous showroom for enchanted mirrors and a teetering potions shop. Its ivy trellises and outdoors-only seating lent an exotic air to the place -- a charming, whitewashed café amid the bustling Dickensian city. Penelope Clearwater was nowhere to be seen, so Percy ducked into the potions shop.
By the time he emerged, Penelope was seated at one of the wrought-iron tables, flipping placidly through the menu. Her long golden curls hung over the back of her chair. Her hair shimmered in the sun -- Percy loved the way it glinted in the morning, glowed in the evening. Grinning, he came up behind her and planted a kiss on her cheek.
Penelope tensed up for just a moment before she realized who it was. "Hello, Percy."
"Good morning, Penny." For just a moment his severe, freckled face showed the eagerness of a little boy. "Found something you might like."
He pulled a tiny stoppered bottle from his pocket and set it on the table before her. A few drops of glimmering purple potion slid around the bottom. Glancing at him questioningly, Penelope tugged out the miniature cork. Instantly, a shimmering violet rose from the bottle and bloomed before her eyes, sparkling at the tips.
"Oh -- it's gorgeous, thank you --"
Deftly, Percy plucked the violet from its vial and tucked it behind Penelope's ear, looping it in place with a stray curl. He stood back and looked her over critically. "No, no, not gorgeous. Pales in comparison. I'll need to ask for my money back."
Penelope rolled her eyes. "Sit down, Romeo."
"What, no good morning kiss?"
"Oh, I suppose ..."
A few minutes later they were seated and giving their orders to the genteel waiter: An omelet for Penelope, steak and eggs for Percy. (He had mentioned once that nearly every day of his childhood had begun with porridge. Percy had inherited his parents' thrift, but there was something rebellious in the amount of money he was willing to spend on breakfast.) They chatted idly until the food arrived. Conversations about the weather, the passersby, or the news all seemed to take on a new significance when they were speaking with each other. The most mundane topic became worthwhile in the worth of the company.
When breakfast arrived, Percy thanked the waiter in precise French and received a polite bow in return. A year in the Department of International Magical Cooperation had done wonders for his accent. Glancing at his wristwatch to be sure there was plenty of time to spare, Percy smiled over at her and started eating.
"How have things been at work?" he asked, between bites.
Penelope shrugged, with a wan smile. "All right, I suppose. The same as usual. Things don't change much in the Library of Gramarye." She sipped her orange juice. "Someone donated a crate of ancient scrolls in classic Varangian. We were all very excited until we found out it was a three-thousand-year-old cookbook."
Percy laughed. "Well, at least it should make for some interesting lunches."
Penelope smiled back. "The herbed polenta is quite good." She went back to her omelet. "You'll need to come over for dinner soon."
"I'd love to, Penny, and I wish I could promise you a day," said Percy, fussily adjusting his napkin. "But you know how demanding my schedule is. I never know from day to day whether I'll be available."
"I know," said Penelope. "Do try to make it sometime this summer, though. My parents haven't seen you for months --"
She immediately regretted the statement and broke it off, embarrassed. Percy hadn't seen his own parents for months, either. But he seemed unfazed.
"I'll certainly try. This place has splendid eggs, doesn't it?"
"Oh -- yes, yes it does." Penelope remembered her omelet and took a distracted bite. She chewed in silence for a few moments that stretched into an unusually long quietness; eventually, Percy began to notice.
He met her eyes and cocked his head curiously. "Are you all right, Penny? You look as if you want to say something."
Penelope resisted the urge to demur. Instead she kept her eyes on him and said, as casually as she could, "I've heard from your mother."
Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten up slightly. Percy was so tense all the time, most people wouldn't recognize the change -- but Penelope knew his idiosyncrasies well enough. Even if she hadn't, the new coldness in his voice would have given him away.
"Have you?"
"Yes," said Penelope. She picked around her eggs. "She asked after you."
Percy's unshakable interest in buttering his piece of toast prevented his response.
"She sounded ..." How to put it? Like a woman fighting to wake up from a nightmare? Like a woman in a shipwreck, casting about for driftwood to keep her afloat? No use sparing the truth. "She sounded heartbroken."
The knife faltered in Percy's hand and he put it down. Something like a sigh escaped him. Then: "I can't say I'm surprised. Mother does tend to be overemotional."
Penelope felt like she had been hit across the face. "Overemotional?" So much for a polite discussion. "She misses you, Percy. She thinks she failed you --"
Percy's voice was filled with both surprise and reproach. "Penny, my decision to move to the city has nothing to do with my mother."
"Then please, Percy, write her a letter and tell her so!"
The coldness rolled back into his tone. "I dare say she knows."
By now Penelope's cheeks were highly flushed. "Then tell me this, Junior Assistant to the Minister -- if she knows, why did she come to me begging me to find out what's been wrong with you lately?"
The Junior Assistant to the Minister flushed almost as brightly under his freckles. "There is nothing wrong with me," he snapped, the edge of anger in his voice now sharp, "and if my mother has questions about my well-being I suggest she ask my father." He grabbed his cutlery and started back at his steak again; the knife slipped and sent half the steak flying into another customer. Percy didn't notice. "I daresay --"
Percy stopped himself abruptly. He put down his silverware and looked Penelope full in the face. "I don't want to quarrel."
Penelope bit her lip. "Nor do I." Of course she didn't. But sometimes it seemed to her that there needed to be a quarrel ...
"I'm glad we agree."
But whether they agreed or not, breakfast ended in silence.
Afterward they walked to the end of Diagon Alley, where the tall and narrow Library of Gramarye stood teetering atop ranks of stone steps. Penelope leaned up to kiss the side of his mouth, then turned and began the long trek upward to the door of her workplace. At the top, she stopped and turned partly around again; Percy was sure she would wave, but she simply looked down at him for a few seconds before slipping inside.
Percy waited until the door closed behind her; then he turned and made his way to the Ministry.
"Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?" boomed Madam Amelia Bones.
Percy raised his head from his notes and scanned the courtroom, making a quick tally of the hands in the air. Thirty-four. Dutifully he scratched the number at the bottom of his scroll and took a second to admire his work. It would do with transcribing, but his record of the Potter trial was exceedingly thorough. His notes always were.
"And those in favor of conviction?"
Seven, wrote Percy. Interesting. Someone had abstained.
Minister Fudge, who had his hand raised, looked around at his fellow members of the Wizengamot as if he had been betrayed. He lowered his hand, breathed deeply, and said in a very controlled tone, "Very well, very well ... cleared of all charges."
Albus Dumbledore, who had been sitting in a squashy armchair in the middle of the courtroom, bounded up out of his seat. "Excellent." The armchair vanished. "Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you all."
He gathered his robes about him and whisked from the courtroom.
Dumbledore's exit seemed to release some kind of tension; the members of the Wizengamot began getting up, collecting their things and chatting with one another. Harry Potter stood up, hung around for a bit to make sure he was free to go, and then started for the door at a fast clip.
Minister Fudge and Dolores Umbridge remained seated. As the rest of the Wizengamot filed past, they turned to one another.
"Justice has failed, it seems," said Fudge bitterly.
Dolores Umbridge smiled, a simpering and watery thing. "Perhaps, Cornelius, justice is merely biding its time."
Nodding thoughtfully, Fudge stood up to leave. Percy and Madam Umbridge followed his lead. "Don't forget to take down that Squib's parentage, Weasley. If she was lying, we can wrangle a mistrial." He looked as if that were too much to hope for. The squat witch patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.
Percy nodded curtly. He rolled up his notes, cast a quick Scouring Spell where Fudge had spilled ink on his desk, gathered his spare quills, made sure that everything was in order, and followed the two out of the courtroom.
His father was waiting outside.
Fortunately, Percy caught sight of him just before stepping into the corridor. Straight-backed, eyes straight ahead, he was able to make it past without reacting or even looking at his father. Had he been watching from the corner of his eye, he would have seen his actions reciprocated in the man who had raised him.
Minister Fudge stopped on the ninth floor to speak with Lucius Malfoy, who dropped them a civil nod; Dolores Umbridge got off the elevator on the fourth floor to check in on the Werewolf Registry. Percy continued upward, purple paper airplanes buzzing about his head, until the elevator voice said, "Level one, offices of the Minister, including the Order of Merlin Assignation Committee, British Bureaucratic Headquarters and the Office of Misinformation." Percy stepped smartly from the elevator and strode down the hall. Twenty purple memos whizzed behind him.
The Minister's office was immense, lush in hardwood and thick magenta rugs. Tapestries, portraits and awards lined the walls. One section was taken up with moving photographs of Minister Fudge meeting famous people: Celestina Warbeck, Aidan Lynch, Newt Scamander, the Weird Sisters. (Fudge could barely be seen in the one with Gilderoy Lockhart, as Lockhart kept pushing him aside for a better position.)
In the center of all this splendor stood Arabella Figg. Stooped, graying, clutching her carpet bag like a lifeline, she appeared quite terrified at her surroundings. She jumped and let out a squeal when Percy entered. He gave her a reassuring smile.
"Mrs. Figg. Thank you for waiting." The old lady still looked quite nervous, so he ushered her over to one of the chairs and bade her sit. She did so quite self-consciously.
Percy sat down at his writing-desk and unrolled his parchment again. "All I need from you are the names of your parents and grandparents, and then you're free to go."
Mrs. Figg supplied the names in a quiet but steady voice; in fact, she did him one better and listed her great-grandparents too. Percy recognized more than one surname on the list. There was no doubt of her magical heritage.
When she was finished, he rolled the paper back into a scroll and smiled at her comfortingly. "There. That's all we need. Is your house hooked up to the Floo?"
Mrs. Figg nodded.
"Splendid. Just go down the hall and you'll be able to catch a fireplace home." He helped her to stand up. "Thank you for your testimony."
Mrs. Figg was looking up at him quizzically. Suddenly, her face cleared.
"Bless my bundimuns, you're Arthur's third, aren't you?"
"Yes, madam." Working at the Ministry, he had heard the question more times than he cared to count.
The old woman smiled at him fondly. "Well. You're not as bad as they all say."
Percy was speechless.
"Toodle-oo," smiled Mrs. Figg, and the old woman tottered out the door.
It was late in the evening when Minister Fudge heaved a long sigh and got up from his desk.
"I'm done for today, my lad. The missus is expecting me." He stretched satisfactorily. "Go home, Weasley."
"I'd like to finish this transcription, if it's all right with you, sir."
Minister Fudge chuckled. "Fine, go on then. Though might I recommend that you try to spend at least a little time in the summer sun?"
Percy nodded obediently. "I'll do my best, sir."
Fudge lifted his cloak from the door and settled his lime-green bowler on his head. "You always do, my lad. Be sure to do the locking spells in the right order."
"Of course, sir."
The Minister of Magic left and shut the door behind him.
Percy worked on transcribing the trial for another hour before he put his desk in meticulous order and painstakingly locked the office. He walked crisply through the halls of the Ministry -- now nearly empty -- and left through the visitor's entrance, manifesting onto the street above.
Two blocks away, he stopped.
"Afternoon, Perkins."
Perkins was sitting on a park bench with his tweed robes tight around him, watching a couple of pigeons fight over half a Cauldron Cake. He stood up at Percy's greeting.
"Afternoon yourself, Weasley. Interesting day at the office, with the Potter boy's trial and all, wasn't it?"
"Very interesting."
They started down the sidewalk, side by side.
"There's been another toilet regurgitation," said Perkins, hands in his pockets. "Bethnal Green."
"That makes three," said Percy. His head was bent, staring unseeing at the sidewalk. "Wimbledon and -- where was the other?"
"Elephant and Castle," Perkins supplied.
"I'll be over tonight," said Percy, still deep in thought. "I want a map of London and a good book on countercurses. Have the Aurors had any leads?"
Perkins snorted. "Petty job like this? Not likely."
"Then we'll have to do all the work ourselves, won't we?" said Percy.
They stopped at the corner.
"Eight o'clock, then?" Percy said.
"Make it nine," said Perkins. "I'm entertaining someone for dinner." He leaned a bit closer, wrinkled face craggy under the street lamp. "Does the Raven fly tonight?"
Percy's mouth twitched into a grin. "Only if he can figure out where to fly to," he murmured back. Then he turned and began the long walk back to Madam Swainbrooke's.
