Percy was wrong about the effect that the Azkaban breakout would have on local crime. With the Death Eaters on the loose, incidences of Muggle-baiting actually went down.
Perkins wasn't surprised. "They've got bigger fish to fry," he growled, darning his socks while Percy battled the Guardian sword. "Now that Voldemort's got his minions back he won't bide his time much longer. You mark my words."
Percy swung at the Guardian, missed, and buried his sword in an end table.
"I said mark my words, not my furniture!"
Johnny underwent his second-ever transformation late in the month of January. He locked himself in his room the day before (after moving most of his things to Percy's room, which took up nearly all the available floor space) and didn't come out until the day after. In the meantime, Mother Swainbrooke kept him fed with raw steak and doses of his potion slid in through the newly-installed flap in the door. He came out looking exhausted but unharmed, and began immediately laying plans for Valentine's Day. The one thing they never discussed was how he had come to get bitten in the first place. All they ever got out of him was a muttered, "She could've warned me."
February slid by. In the office, the Aurors had their hands full with Death Eater sightings -- mostly false -- and the occasional tip-off that anyone looking for Sirius Black should inquire after Stubby Boardman. Percy worked feverishly in Fudge's office, and when things got slow he poked around the Department of International Magical Cooperation to see how Mr. Crouch's replacement was doing. The new fellow, he noted disdainfully, only spoke a hundred languages and never shined his shoes.
The weather was gruesome and gray. Percy was lonely, but he didn't know it -- in the ugly doldrums of mid-winter, he thought he was just bored.
Stamping.
Shelving.
Checking out and checking in.
No, Penelope Clearwater thought with a sigh, things certainly didn't change much in the Library of Gramarye.
She stamped a book by rote, stuck it on a library cart with the others, and took up another. Day after day of brainless, endless work. And the evenings ...
She stamped the book harder than she had intended.
... the evenings were long and empty.
Over the past few years she'd forgotten what it was like to be without someone special. These days, she spent most of her time alone. Breakfast with the parents ... lunch with a coworker, every once in a while ... dinner at home, or with one of the few Ravenclaws she'd been able to keep in touch with. Without Percy there just wasn't much to do.
She worried even more about him than she did herself. Now there wasn't much to distract him from work, and he'd lost an incentive to make amends with his family. What could he possibly be doing with his time?
"You're thinkin' about 'im."
Penelope jerked out of her thoughts. "No, I'm not." She quickly put the book on the cart.
"Poppycock," said Madame Graybill. "You knew who I was talkin' about, dincha? You think about him all the time. You were doin' it right now. I saw it in your eyes."
"I did not, do not and was not." She picked up another book, stamped it forcefully on the inside cover, and threw it onto the cart.
"Of course you don't," said the old librarian, clearly not believing a word of it. She took the cart by the handle and wheeled it into the aisle. "Come on, kiddo, help me shelve this mess."
They worked together, trolling up and down the aisles to slide books, scrolls and manuscripts into their proper places. No more than five minutes into the task, they were approached by a neatly-dressed, gray-haired gentleman.
"Pardon me," he said, bowing politely to make up for the interruption, "but is this month's copy of the Quibbler available?"
Penelope raised her eyebrows unintentionally. He didn't look like the type that usually kept up with a tabloid like the Quibbler. Still, that seemed to have been the trend since the end of February. It was very odd ...
"Nope," said Madam Graybill apologetically. "Someone's beat you to it. There's a wait list at the desk you can sign."
"Thank you." The man, looking slightly disappointed, bowed again and left.
Penelope took up two dusty collections of Shakespeare and weighed them contemplatively in her hands before she shelved them. "Why's the Quibbler so popular this month?"
The old librarian shrugged her wasted shoulders. "Got me, kiddo. Gimme that Euclid scroll."
Penelope handed over the scroll and Madam Graybill deposited it carefully into its slot.
"It's got a wait list dozens long," Penelope went on thoughtfully, filling in the holes in the Muggle Fiction section. "I mean, it's just a silly tabloid. What's so interesting all of a sudden?"
Madam Graybill turned to Penelope with her hands on her skinny hips. "Now look, kiddo," she said, "you work in a gol-durned library. Do yer research. Next time the issue comes back --" she shrugged again "-- just keep it over a day 'fore you let the next fella know it's here."
She picked up a book, glanced it over, and snorted.
"A whole library of knowledge," she said, waving the book in the air, "and someone's reading Prefects Who Gained Power."
Penelope laughed bleakly and didn't mention that she'd been the one who checked it out.
As it turned out, the Quibbler was returned the very next day by a cheerful fellow named Dave Gudgeon who had a long scar across one eye; feeling guilty, Penelope slipped it into her handbag before anyone had a chance to see that it was back. At lunch she walked down the snowy street to a small delicatessen. After ordering a ham on rye, she settled back and opened the newspaper.
The glaring headline put all her questions to rest.
THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED
AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN
Completely forgetting her sandwich, Penelope leaned in and began to read.
Twenty minutes later, she put down the paper.
Her stomach felt curiously hollow, even though she'd eventually eaten the ham on rye. She had never heard Potter's story about what happened to Cedric. It was as if she was hearing about his death for a second time -- she remembered the hush of the audience as he was carried from the maze, the hollow look in the eyes of his parents as they passed in the hallway. She remembered ushering the Ravenclaws to the dormitories and then telling them that Cedric had been confirmed dead -- her last real act as prefect. She remembered holding Cho Chang until the younger girl ran out of tears.
Almost a year ago, and so painfully recent.
Now Potter was going public with his side of the story. The tale of Cedric's death had never even made it into the Daily Prophet. Could The Boy Who Lived be believed?
She thought he could.
She flipped through the paper, but none of the other articles dealt with Harry Potter, Death Eaters, or anything marginally relevant. She browsed the adverts -- Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Mess Remover, Busty Betsy's Breast Enhancement Charms, Gladrags' new fall line -- without interest.
A marquee on the second-to-last page caught her eye.
IDENTITY UNKNOWN!
Someone is out to attack Muggles -- and someone is out to stop them!
The Quibbler has it exclusively from a Muggle smuggled into St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries that he was rescued and brought in by a masked hero in a scarlet cloak! The eyewitness states:
"I just opened the door and something bit down on me fingers -- lost three -- when this chap in red comes swooping down, grabs me and chucks me in the oven. Next thing I know I'm here."
The Muggle's testimony was cut short by the entrance of Obliviators, clearly attempting to obstruct the truth!
The story is confirmed by a Ministry worker who wishes to keep his identity secret!
"This person has captured no fewer than a dozen Muggle-baiters since last June."
The Quibbler is thrilled to report that we have uncovered his secret moniker! The saver of Muggles, the hidden hero, goes by the name
We may never know his real identity, but Scarlet Raven, we salute you!
Penelope snorted back a laugh and folded the Quibbler. This "Scarlet Raven" sounded a little silly, if he even existed, which -- given the source -- was dubious. Still, the Potter interview had the ring of truth about it. Putting down her coffee cup, she opened the magazine back up to the interview pages and re-read the list of alleged Death Eaters.
Some of them were obscure names, but others were familiar; they had family members at Hogwarts, Penelope figured, or frequented the library. "Lucius Malfoy," she said aloud. Hadn't Percy mentioned him before ... the host of that dinner party? Wasn't he supposed to be a model citizen?
Since her N.E.W.T.s eight months ago, Penelope hadn't studied anything as hard as she now studied Rita Skeeter's interview with Harry Potter.
Eight notebooks full of international tariff law balanced on Percy's knees, but the only thing he paid attention to was the small parchment on top of it all.
Dear Penelope:
These past three months have been empty. When you were Petrified I felt like my heart had been frozen with you. When you said goodbye I thought I would die.
It was all wrong. It all sounded too ... fabricated. Pre-planned. Percy made a noise of disgust and sank back into the cushions of Mother Swainbrooke's loveseat.
Johnny Peasegood, sprawled on the sofa across from him, quit flipping through the copy of Hairy Snout, Human Heart that the landlady had gotten him and glanced over at Percy. "Cauldron-bottom report not going well?"
"Er -- no, it's not -- I mean, it's nothing." Percy's face ran a deep flush and he crumpled the note in his hands. He lobbed the ball of paper at the fireplace and missed. Without missing a beat, Hermes swooped from his perch, picked up the note and dropped it into the fire.
Johnny laughed.
The subject had to be changed. Cheeks flaming, Percy gathered up his Ministry work and started laying it out meticulously before him. "How's the book?"
"Gooshy," said Johnny irritably. "Mr. Anonymous sounds like a sap." He threw the book onto the coffee table. "Always whining about how he's misunderstood. If I knew who he was I'd write him an owl and tell him to just move to the U.S. We've got anti-discrimination laws on that side of the pond."
"On that side of the pond you make your tea in Boston Harbor," Percy sniffed, "and you think Quodpot is a worth the time."
"God bless America," Johnny grinned.
Percy snorted and resumed flipping through the paperwork in his lap. Two weeks working on one stupid tariff law. It wasn't even technically Fudge's jurisdiction -- the Department for International Magical Cooperation should have been handling it all. But when the Minister got his hooks into something, it was hard to take it back ... which left Percy knee-deep in books about foreign goods, import/export policy, shipping methods, and how the price of gold in China affected the price of corn in Brazil.
Normally fascinating stuff. At the moment, however, he was sick of it.
"I'm going out," he told Johnny, picking up the files and dumping them onto the coffee table. "Stay out of these documents. They are classified Ministry secrets."
"Honestly, Weasley, d'you think I care?" Johnny said lazily.
Percy looked him over. "Good point. I'll be back before midnight."
"I won't," Johnny called after him.
Percy shrugged into his cloak and set off into the chilly March evening.
Perkins met him at the door, let him in, and whacked him on the head with a rolled-up magazine.
"Ow!"
"You bloody idiot! What have you been blabbing to the newspapers?"
Percy looked at him blankly, rubbing his sore head.
"Have you seen the Quibbler this month?"
"Of course not!" Percy snapped. "I don't read rubbish like the Quibbler."
"Well, read this rubbish," Perkins growled, and thrust the magazine under his nose.
Percy scanned the article. His jaw dropped farther with every sentence. At the end he managed a weak laugh. "What do you know. They salute me. Well, that'll be a help next time I'm after a really tough one, knowing that I've got a friend at the Quibbler --"
Perkins snatched back the magazine, but Percy backed away before he could get smacked on the head again.
"I didn't do it," he said indignantly.
"That a fact?" Perkins growled. "Then how'd they find out that you're called the Raven, eh?"
"Well -- one of the nurses asked. But they barely got a glimpse of me, and I sort of -- just hollered it over my shoulder as I was leaving. As if I would do something as stupid as selling my story to the Quibbler," he added huffily, matching Perkins glare for glare.
"You'd sell your mother to get your name in the papers," Perkins said. He tossed the Quibbler to one side, ignoring Percy's offended sniffs. "Well, can't be helped now. Come on -- the Aurors reported a looting on Portobello Road -- a jewelry store. Place was a shambles but they found everything stashed in a corner under some towels. Sounds like a Niffler to me."
Rolling his eyes resignedly, Percy followed his mentor into the living room to examine the Niffler situation.
Avery. Crabbe. Goyle. Malfoy. Macnair. Nott. Avery. Crabbe. Goyle ...
Penelope chanted the names to herself as she filled out overdue forms. At first she had memorized the list as a kind of weak precaution -- in case anyone trapped her in a back alley, for instance, and then told her his name, she'd know whether he was a Death Eater or not. She'd even done research on the accused. Now she would occasionally get the list stuck in her head, running through on continuous repeat until she drove it away ...
"I beg your pardon, Miss."
The customer's voice was clipped and impatient. Penelope glanced up guiltily. The tall blonde man tipped her a sarcastic nod of his head.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your ... ruminations. Would you mind doing your job and signing this out to me?"
Penelope gritted her teeth and picked up the book that was slid across the counter toward her: Vitium, Exitium, et Cruciamentum. The tab on the spine confirmed that it came from the Dark Arts section. "The consumption of this book is regulated as per Ministerial Decree number Twelve, section two," Penelope recited, flipping the book open to the front cover. "Do you have a permit?"
"Of course." The tall man slid a card across the counter. Penelope picked it up and flicked it over. Minister Fudge's signature, as well as that of the president of the Dark Arts Defense League, adorned one side of the card. "Verified," she said blandly. She glanced at the opposite side.
Lucius Malfoy.
Her eyes widened. She looked up into the tall man's face for the first time. The silver hair, straight nose and arrogant mouth were a clear copy of his son's. And he was wearing the same aloof, impenetrable expression that he had worn in the photographs of his trial, after the end of the war ...
Malfoy's features stiffened. "Well?"
"Ah --" Penelope tried to hide her surprise. "This is all in order." She returned the permit, stamped the book and passed it back across the counter to Malfoy, who lifted it up without taking his gray eyes from her face.
"Thank you." The cool, clipped voice made the words sound like a curse. Silently, Malfoy turned and swept off to a corner of the library, where a stooped old witch and a very large wizard waited for him. As Penelope watched, they all turned to look at her.
She dropped her eyes, face burning. Did they know what she'd been thinking? She grabbed up an armful of books and hurried off to shelve them, resolving to stay among the archives until they had gone.
The three did not turn away.
"I don't like the look that girl gave me," Lucius Malfoy murmured, as the ends of Penelope's curly golden hair disappeared around the corner.
"Me neither," said Goyle, grinding one large fist into his meaty palm.
"That comes from a Muggle upbringing," croaked Madam Meliflua shrewdly. "Oh yes," she added, as Lucius raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, "the girl's Muggle-born. From Kensington, I believe."
"Dear dear," said Lucius softly, now gazing at the spot where Penelope had recently stood. "I do hope she's careful. With all these attacks on Muggles these days, it would be ... tragic ... if something were to happen to her family." His eyes flickered to Goyle.
"Yeah," Goyle grunted, failing to fight the grin on his face. "Tragic."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Busty Betsy's Breast Enhancement Charms are copyright Poppy P, as seen in her very enjoyable fanfic Padma's Quest. See my Favorite Stories list for a link.
Confidential to Yikes789: Because everyone deserves someone to write of them kindly.
