The morning sun had never been so bright. Percy Weasley squinted into wakefulness and wondered how something as benign as a sunbeam could split his skull clean in half. He groaned and sat up on Perkins' couch, clutching his head between his hands -- one of which, it transpired, was holding an empty bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. He glanced down at it blearily.
Perkins shuffled in, bearing a tea tray with toast and a pot of coffee. At a nod of his head, a small table sprung from the floor by the sofa; he put down the tray and set to work filling a mug.
Percy gestured painfully with the empty bottle. "Did I finish this myself?"
"And another like it," said Perkins briskly, thrusting a mug of coffee into his friend's unoccupied hand. "Drink up and get sober. You've had your evening. Tonight, the Raven needs to fly."
Grimacing, Percy forced the scalding-hot coffee down his throat. "I think," he said, still fighting the thunderclouds in his brain, "that the Raven needs to go on holiday."
"Lord Voldemort's not on holiday, and neither are you," said Perkins.
Percy sighed.
There was a knock at the door.
"Ah." Perkins rubbed his hands together satisfactorily. "That'll be Arabella with lunch. You're welcome to stay of course, provided you clean yourself up proper. No, don't try to Apparate, you'll splinch yourself," he said sharply, as Percy struggled to pull out his wand. "Just splash some water on your face, you know where the washroom is." He hoisted Percy up by the armpit and shoved him in the right direction, just in case. Then he went to the door to let in Mrs. Figg.
Percy found it hard to enjoy lunch.
In fact, he admitted to himself later, he found it difficult to enjoy anything in the following week. With Johnny in hospital, Penelope gone and his family estranged, he was surprised to find himself deeply lonely.
He tried going in to work, but nearly everyone was on holiday -- and with Minister Fudge in Peru, there just wasn't much to do. He spent three days reading the bylaws of the International Confederation of Wizards, then read them in French just for practice. He straightened all of Fudges' framed photographs. One afternoon he even wandered down to the Auror Headquarters to look at the map of Sirius Black sightings.
In the evenings he read, practiced with the Guardian sword until Perkins kicked him out, or wandered the dark streets of London. Sometimes he would come across an amusement, or something interesting -- usually small -- and he would think to himself, I have to show Penny. Then he would remember. He usually went back home after that.
On the fourth of January he got another letter from Charlie. By then he was feeling so bored and so abandoned that he practically tore it out of Errol's feeble talons, causing the owl to faint dead away. To his disappointment, the letter was short.
He thought over the words as he was reviving Errol with splashes of cold water. Maybe he should write to his mother. Tell her how good Penelope looked in that sweater ...
He shook away the thought. It was ridiculous. How could he explain that he had divorced himself of his family so that no one suspected him of being involved in Dumbledore's crowd? How could he explain that, the day she had come to Mother Swainbrooke's home and begged to see him, he had slammed his bedroom door on her because he had Azkaban Arnie tied to his desk chair? And of course he couldn't've met her downstairs; you couldn't leave Arnie unattended for two seconds ...
Errol hooted weakly and opened one eye. Percy sighed in relief. Every time you sent Errol on a delivery you wondered if it was going to be his last. If it hadn't been for Hermes, he'd never have been able to keep up with Penny over the summers so well ...
Another uncomfortable thought. Percy mixed some milk and raw hamburger and set it in front of Errol, who swayed feebly and finally tipped forward into the mess. Sighing, Percy picked the owl up. Supporting Errol with one hand, he fed him bite by bite until the owl had regained most of his usual strength, which while slight was enough to keep him alive. Errol nuzzled the inside of Percy's palm in thanks, then hooted dolefully and flew back out the window.
Percy sighed. It had been nice while it lasted.
The door flew open.
"Lend a hand, Mr. Weasley, and greet a friend," Mother Swainbrooke's voice sang out, "Mr. Peasegood's home from hospital!"
"Johnny!" Percy jumped up and nearly ran to the door.
Mother Swainbrooke, arms full of boxes and parcels, was nevertheless helping Johnny struggle out of his cloak. The young man caught sight of Percy, and for a moment his eyes flickered warily; but when Percy didn't show any signs of fear or distrust, his face lit up with the old carefree smile.
"Percy! How've you been?"
His face looked like it had been pawed by a lion; long gouges ran down one cheek and grazed his neck. His hands and wrists bore testament to the scrapes along his arm. His usually ruddy complexion was thinner and paler, the result of a month spent abed.
"You look --" Percy hesitated. "Pretty terrible."
"Yeah, I feel it too," Johnny admitted breezily.
Mother Swainbrooke had finally managed to extract him from his cloak and was hanging it on the wall one-handed. She turned to Percy and somehow thrust a basket of laundry into his arms. "Do be a help, Mr. Weasley, and carry Mr. Peasegood's washings," she cajoled. "Him being so weak and all from his ordeal."
Percy cast an irritated glance at Johnny, who shrugged innocently. Rolling his eyes, he started upstairs, with Johnny whistling behind him.
He dropped the basket onto the trunk at the end of Johnny's bed and started folding the clean laundry. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Johnny stood in the doorway, looking over his room as if he'd never seen it. Percy remembered that he'd been gone for five weeks -- a huge chunk of time to lose all at once. With something like a sigh, Johnny put his hands in his pockets and came inside. He went to the dresser and checked his facial wounds in the mirror, grimacing, and started poking through his things as if to be sure it was all still there.
"You didn't come to see how I was," came Johnny's voice, petulant.
"I was occupied," said Percy shortly.
There was a moment of silence while Percy folded shirts and Johnny fiddled with some things on the top of his dresser. Then:
"You know, your old man was in the cot across from me. Snake bite."
Percy didn't reply.
"Didn't come to see him either, did you."
More silence. Percy became very immersed in the business of matching Johnny's laundered socks.
Johnny crossed the room and sat down on his bed, scratching absently at the healing wounds on his arm. "What's wrong with him, your father? I mean, you're not speaking to him, right? How come?"
Percy tensed. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss and the last person he wanted to discuss it with. "He's not well thought of," he said finally. "He's a danger to my career."
Johnny whistled. Then he lay back on his bed and let out a feeble sort of laugh.
"My dad's well thought of," he said. "He could land me a plush job anywhere in creation. And I don't want anything to do with him, either." He laced his fingers behind his head and looked over at Percy. "Funny."
Percy felt the ends of his ears grow warm. "I don't think I'd prefer to continue this conversation." He dropped the rest of Johnny's laundry and started for the door.
Johnny's plaintive voice stopped him.
"It's the first thing, you know. The only thing ..."
Percy turned around. Johnny was now propped on his elbows, gazing listlessly down at the sheets.
"The only thing I've ever gotten into, that I couldn't get out of. Even dad couldn't get me out of it."
Every shred of light-hearted American optimism was gone. The man it left behind was still handsome, still wealthy, but staring into a future as empty as a black hole. Ruined in one night. Scars that would heal, and scars that wouldn't ...
"It doesn't have to be so bad," Percy said, wishing he didn't sound so lame. "I knew a fellow once -- professor actually -- he kept quite a successful job, no one even guessed so long as he took his potion regularly. I won't tell, just be cautious and there's no reason you can't live -- well, a normal life."
Johnny looked at him. Then he got up and came to the door.
"You know," he said, "that's almost exactly what your father told me."
He closed the door.
Percy didn't know why, but the words stayed with him far into the night.
He woke up to violent shaking.
Perkins had him by both shoulders, looming over his bed in the moonlight. He spoke as soon as Percy opened his eyes.
"We're needed. I have your things."
Percy staggered out of bed, still in his pajamas, and went straight into the fireplace.
The Floo network is not a pleasant thing to wake up to. By the time it spit him out on Perkins' living room floor his groggy mind was whirling. His equipment was laid out on the sofa. He stumbled to it and had one boot on before Perkins strode out of the fireplace and thrust a clean set of clothes at him. "Get dressed, boy," he barked. "And drink this."
Two minutes and half a pot of coffee later he was fully suited up and almost entirely alert. Perkins filled him in as he was pulling on the Seven-League Boots.
"Strange things on Azkaban. Spurts of wandless magic, some Banishments to the island. I dunno what it is, but it's bad."
"How am I going get there?" Percy said, adjusting his mask. "It's miles out to sea, and Apparation-proof."
"First of all," Perkins growled, "we're going, not you. Second, we travel the old-fashioned way."
He pulled two broomsticks from the closet.
Percy stared at them. "Perkins, you know I can't fly!"
"We can Apparate as far as Hengist Harbor," said Perkins stubbornly, "but then it's fly or swim, sprout, and I'd love to see you floundering about in the cold north seas."
"We can conjure a boat," Percy suggested, dubiously accepting the broomstick that Perkins handed him. He looked the broom over. "Good heavens. The new Firebolt?"
"I like to keep up on the latest models," said Perkins proudly.
Percy's mind whizzed backwards to his first-year flying lessons. They had been humiliating. There was no possible way to maintain one's dignity on a bucking broomstick -- and worse, Charlie was already in fourth year and well on his way to becoming the Quidditch prodigy that he ended up. Percy could still envision the look on Madam Hooch's face when she realized that he would not be following in his brother's footsteps.
"I can't do it," said Percy.
Perkins looked him over with a mix of exasperation and fury. "You're the Scarlet Raven, aren't you?" he roared. "Well, ravens fly!"
"That's what the boots are for," Percy said lamely, but it was too late. Perkins had Apparated to the seaside. With a sigh of resignation, Percy gripped his broomstick and followed.
