School: Hogwarts Year 2
Theme: Horcrux Cave — Someone crossing a line or morality for the first time.
Prompts: [Quote] Righteousness is on our side. - Mohammad Bin Salman (main); [Genre] Suspense; [word] Careless
WC: 1883
Percy's front door clicked shut behind him, the soft noise like a funeral bell. He wavered on his feet—swallowing against the bile rising in his throat, hot and acid, tainted like the rest of him—pressing one hand against the wall to steady himself. The ringing in his ears blotted out the faint sounds of the traffic beneath him—he ached for the utter silence surrounding his childhood home, the quietness of wide open spaces and the soft sounds of wildlife—and for a moment Percy thought about fainting.
It would be a welcome respite: nothing but comforting darkness and emptiness; no thoughts, no memories, no nightmares.
"I am tired today," Percy said to his empty apartment, shaking his head slowly. Even that option was gone from him now—it would look too suspicious to collapse into unconsciousness in the middle of his hall floor. The prickling feeling of invisible eyes upon him never quite left his skin now, hairs standing up on the back of his neck as goosebumps erupted down his arms.
It had been meant to keep people safe, an archaic law from the first Wizarding War, forgotten by almost everyone—until Percy found it. The parchment had almost crumpled to dust in his hands, dust clogging his lungs so thickly it threatened to choke him, to rot him from the inside out. But he had been the one to find it. And then he had been the one to deliver it—practically gift-wrapped in his childish enthusiasm—to his enemy.
He hadn't known.
It wasn't much of a defence—a plea of ignorance, of carelessness, that would fall on deaf ears, because how could he not have known? Percy was involved from the moment he turned his back on his family—he called his father a failure to his face. So much rage and bitterness directed towards his parents, and he may never get the opportunity to say how much he regretted that now—so he must have known what was going on in the Ministry, the corruption that had slipped in like cancer, until nothing was spared.
Phantom eyes still followed him as he carefully moved into the kitchen, water rushing through old pipes transplanted into a new building—the water always tasted of copper, a fact that threatened to dislodge the scream in his throat once more. Percy could never be sure if the spell was active, or if it was his own imagination running rampant and terrified.
He couldn't make a mistake, couldn't slip up again. Careless was not a word often used to describe Percy Weasley, but it was fitting, even as it burned on his tongue to admit it.
The kettle shrieked, Percy's hand flying to his wand, images flashing in front of his eyes—half memory and half nightmare now—before he stopped himself.
His hand shook as he lifted the kettle, but he ignored it, pretended it wasn't happening. It was the only way to survive now, mired in this battlefield that he had found himself in.
Hot water cascaded onto his fingers. Percy bit back the scream—couldn't alert the neighbours that anything was different, he couldn't trust them—and barely retained his grip on the kettle, fingers spasming through the pain. Careless, always careless. The kettle thunked heavily on the stovetop as he set it down, hissing out breaths through his nose, jaw clenched tight enough to cause his teeth to ache. He fumbled for the tap, pipes rattling once more as water rushed through them, and shoved his hand under.
Percy's thoughts inevitably began wandering as he waited, and he fought against their journey. If he let his mind go back to that moment—only just this afternoon, and yet it felt like it had been a lifetime between then and now—he would shatter like freshly spun glass, and he would lose any opportunity he had to help.
He couldn't feel his fingers, icy water splashing against the skin of his wrist, fresh goosebumps prickling up his arm. Percy had to move on, move away, but he couldn't, carefully rotating his wrist to inspect the damage. His mother had burn cream in her kitchen cupboards—thick and green with a strong enough scent of garlic that Charlie would maintain he would never be bothered by vampires after spending most of his adult life slathered in it at one point or another. The mere thought sent tears pricking at Percy's eyes, and he wiped them away with freezing cold fingers, tears indistinguishable from the water running down his wrist.
⁂
Percy tugged on the sleeves of his robes reflexively, clinging to his files like a lifeline. The Ministry thrummed with activity around him—it used to remind him of a well oiled machine, each part working in perfect synronchity with each other, but now all he saw were rats on a sinking ship, desperate and panicked—and he sidestepped the flow of people, moving in ebbs and waves around them.
He looked at them, and saw dead men walking.
It was easy to see the Muggleborns who hadn't managed to hide away, or had been caught by the Snatchers. Before they had blended into the crowd, just another worried face passing by as if in a dream, without form or substance. Now he couldn't look away.
Each set of red rimmed eyes; nails bitten to the quick as they welled with red blood—blood that was somehow lesser, but the Death Eaters took delight in spilling it—tears running down dirt covered cheeks, tracks glowing like beacons in the gloom of the Ministry, hit Percy like a punch to the gut. Their eyes seemed to follow him, haunting him even as he ducked into the lift, hitting the button for his floor mechanically, metal catching at the skin of his thumb.
He tugged at his sleeves again, catching himself in the middle of his years old habit—his robes had never fit quite right, cheeks flaming red with embarrassment at the expanse of his wrist that would protrude from too short robe sleeves—and pulled his files closer to his chest.
The unseen eyes swooped over his skin, Percy glancing around the lift before he could stop himself. He was making too many mistakes, careless in his fear. They would know that he knew. They would know the twisting of his stomach, the bile rising in his throat. They would know he was no longer loyal to a cause he had been too blind to see was wrong.
The other occupant of the lift nodded his greetings towards Percy who returned the gesture, hoping his movements weren't as mechanical as he feared, body running on autopilot as his mind descended into the mire, thoughts of yesterday threatening to overwhelm him once again.
"You're looking tired this morning, Weasley. Late night?"
The man grinned, revealing yellow and crooked teeth, waiting expectantly for Percy's answer. He couldn't remember the other man's name, mind half muddled and terrified. He had to think, had to—
"Lots of work to do, Morvell," Percy told the Snatcher, drawing himself up to his full height and glancing down his nose at the Snatcher, "I'm glad to see you're looking so well rested."
Morvell growled, the noise grotesquely inhuman, but made no further comment. He knew his paycheck lay in Percy's hands, and didn't say another word. Percy swallowed, and returned to staring out at the darkness beyond the latticed lift doors, as they plunged further and further towards his doom.
His footsteps echoed back at him, the clicks sharp and clear, as he walked quickly towards his office. He wasn't any safer in there than he would be in his home. Percy had signed that right away a long time ago, and he was lucky in a way. He knew that he was being watched, knew to watch his tongue, cultivate his expression, even when he was alone. He couldn't afford to be careless anymore, especially not now.
The door swung shut behind him, and Percy tried not to think of jail cells. He tried not to think of hands reaching out towards him, desperation clear in every jerking movement, joints too stiff from cold to move like humans. He tried not to think of the wails and groans, throats torn to shreds by screams and yet they still called out to him. He tried not to think about how he recognised some of them. He tried not to think about how he had put them there.
He placed the files down on his desk, tapping at the edges so they lined up, taking some small modicum of comfort in the outward appearance of calm. The pile of intake forms loomed on his desk like a spectre of death, and Percy knew he couldn't put them off any longer.
Yesterday had been billed as a show of congratulations for his hard work, a chance to see what his efforts had done for the community. Percy knew now how he had destroyed his community.
His hand shook as he picked up the form at the top of the pile, threatening to dislodge the ones beneath, knock them over his desk and floor like fallen leaves. Gleeson's handwriting was commonly on the forms; his hand was large and legible compared to the scrawling, mistake filled messes of the other Snatchers—Percy knew he took a cut of their profits for filling out their forms correctly, but did that make him less guilty or more?
Jannie Tabiner, the form read. 13 years old. Muggleborn (Suspected Magic Thief).
Percy could save her. He had turned the idea around and around in his head in the early hours of the morning when he had finally given up on the idea of sleeping. He knew the way down to the questioning cells. Percy wouldn't be questioned if he had to pull her out for 'further questioning'. He would be seen as wanting to advance his career, it would put him in a positive light. His Floo was monitored. Everyone's was, but it would take a precious few minutes for them to find them. A few minutes where he could run and then—
Percy knew they would be caught.
He didn't think he was scared of dying anymore. The pain they would inflict on him before he died was more terrifying, but even that would end at some point in that blissful oblivion. Percy had burned his bridges long ago before he had even realised what he had done. That was a comfort as well. His careless actions would mean his family could hate him for his part in this destruction, could hate him and move on with their lives. But that was a future Percy would never see.
He stood, the legs of the chair knocking against the wood floor, took a single step towards the door and stopped. A file, brown and nondescript except for the green band down the spine, caught his eye, almost hidden beneath the already growing pile of intake files. Plans for future raids, waiting for his approval. Information that the Order could use to save countless lives.
He could save this one girl, or he could pass on information that would help to end the War faster.
Percy picked up the stamp and doomed the girl to Azkaban in one neat motion, his hand coming away stained in blood red ink.