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His career was over before it had begun, anxiety crawling up his throat higher and higher with every day the inquiry into Mr Crouch's disappearance and death dragged on.
Surely you would have recognised a change in his handwriting, his instructions? Amelia Bones had looked down at him, over the rim of her spectacles, and Percy had wanted to crawl into his chair, have it swallowed up by the floor beneath him. Truth be told, he hadn't noticed any obvious changes, nothing that would have alerted him to any obvious problems. The only conspicuous aspect of Mr Crouch's absence had been the absence itself — Barty Crouch Sr was not a man with a reputation for going on holidays. But he was also a man who'd had a lot on his plate, had carried the years and burden of his past on the slump of his shoulders, in the stride of his step. It wasn't unheard of for public servants to take sabbaticals as they got on in years.
That being said, Percy hadn't examined Mr Crouch's behaviour in any detail himself, content with the extra responsibilities he had been given.
Do you regret it, Mr Weasley? Mrs Bones had asked, and Percy's vision had swum. His hands formed fists by his sides and he dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from screaming.
Of course he regretted it now. His fledgling career was in tatters, and a man was dead. And not just any man, but Mr Crouch, one of the most talented wizards Percy had ever met. All those years of expertise gone, in the blink of an eye, like he had never even mattered. And if the allegations were true, he had been murdered by his own son, the Death Eater, who had in turn helped He Who Must Not Be Named return from the dead.
If only Percy had sounded the alarm earlier! He felt like he was going to be sick, all over his dragonhide loafers. They had been a present from Charlie, in a manner of speaking. Charlie had provided the materials, Percy had paid the cobbler. They were water resistant, fire resistant, and there was to be no further extravagances in Percy’s life now.
As soon as the thought occurred to him, he felt like he was going to pass out all over again. A man was dead, there was a war brewing, and he was thinking about his shoes. His skin prickled and he tried to focus on his breathing.
This was the last day of the inquiry and he was certain he was going to be given the sack.
And a man was dead. One of the best. Couldn’t forget that.
“We will be hearing from a character witness today,” Mrs Bones said, out loud, in the moment, her voice not just rattling around his head but in the walls of the room.
Percy stiffened in his seat. Who would possibly have come to speak in his defense? He wasn’t an idiot, Percy knew that he was unpopular with his colleagues, but what he lacked in charisma, he made up for in diligence.
Just like Mr Crouch had. He pushed the thought aside. He needed to focus on the present. His fingernails dug into his palms again.
The door creaked open, and Percy was stunned when he realised who had come to advocate for him.
It was Albus Dumbledore.
Following Dumbledore out of the room once the inquiry was over made Percy feel like a schoolboy again, like Head Boy again, the Headmaster’s delegate to maintain rules and order in his stead.
Percy’s posture was often perfect but his back was ramrod straight as he approached the older wizard. “Professor,” he said, resisting to grab Dumbeldore’s hand between his own and shake it profusely, “I can’t begin to thank you enough—” Thanks to the Headmaster’s intervention, he would still have a job tomorrow. The precise details of what that job might entail we’re still vague, but Percy could live with a demotion. He would just have to work harder, to make sure he didn’t make the same mistakes again.
How could he have been so blind?
Professor Dumbledore cut him off, not unkindly. “I imagine Mrs Bones will want to speak with regarding the details of your reassignment after the weekend.”
Percy swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yes.”
“Might I suggest you come see me before then,” said Dumbledore. “I will be in my office most of Saturday evening after my weekly ballroom dancing lesson ends at six.”
Percy decided not to ask. He didn’t need the details. He just needed a chance.
It felt surreal to be walking up the path to the castle from Hogsmeade more than a year after leaving school. It had only been thirteen months. How could it have only been thirteen months? Percy felt like he had aged a decade in the past fortnight alone. He certainly hasn’t felt burdened by this sense of dread when he had visited the castle in Mr Crouch’s stead during the Triwizard Tournament. No. He had been blinded by his sense of responsibility and —
— well. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to dwell on that anymore.
He probably could have Apparted a bit more closer to the castle, but the walk helped clear his head a bit from the swirling thoughts inside, shook off some of the anxious energy that had been building upon him all day. Being the weekend, and being that Percy was between roles at the moment, and now the inquiry was officially over, Percy had been spared another day of interrogation by Mrs Bones, only to endure a thorough cross-examination from his mother. And although Percy knew Mum meant well, and was only scared (they were all scared), he almost thought he had preferred the official inquiry.
At least Mrs Bones hadn’t dissolved into tears in hole hugging him, and planted a slobbery kiss against his temple. Small mercies.
The worst part, though, was how Dad kept looking at him with sympathetic glances, making clucking sounds at the back of his throat at all the wrong moments, until both Percy and Mum (but mostly Mum) had grown sick of his behaviour and Mum had snapped and Dad had spent the rest of the afternoon in the shed.
It was probably time to find a place of his own. He had the money, and once this current matter was resolved and he was ensured of his continued employment with the Ministry, he could look into renting a flat.
His feet led him automatically through the gates, up the winding path to the castle he had called home for the better part of the last seven years.
It did not feel like coming home. He felt like an interloper. It had never been this way before.
Fortunately, given that it was the summer holidays, the castle was quiet, and nobody paid him any mind — nobody but Sir Nicholas, who doffed his pearly-white head at Percy as he passed. “A pleasure to see you, Mr Weasley!” Nick had called out, and Percy found himself unable to return the pleasantry, had instead found himself clamping his mouth shut against the retort Mr Weasley is my father.
Percy bit his tongue so often these days.
It was only once he arrived at the familiar gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office that he realised that he hadn’t been given the password. He stared at it, stumped, until it quite miraculously sprung aside in front of him, and Professor McGonagall stepped out. She did not seem surprised to see Percy there, her mouth drawn in a thin line and yet her eyes surprisingly gentle. “Mr Weasley,” she said by way of greeting, and he was filled with the desperate urge to explain himself.
“I, er, Professor Dumbledore is expecting me,” he said.
“I do believe he is,” McGonagall said in response, and for a moment it looked as though she had something else she wanted to say, but thought better of it, because she simply moved out of Percy’s way, wishing him a good day, and then she was gone, and Percy was left to ascend the spiral staircase to Professor Dumbledore’s office alone.
The office was much like he remembered it. The headmaster’s phoenix sat on its perch in the corner, head tucked under its wing, fast asleep.
And behind the headmaster’s desk was the man himself, resplendent in robes of periwinkle blue and silver, glittering with constellations Percy could identify, if he was close enough. “Percy!” he exclaimed, tone jovial, “do take a seat and close the door behind you.”
Surely Dumbledore, one of the most skilled wizards of the age, could close the door himself without Percy’s assistance, but he followed the instruction anyway, sitting down awkwardly in the plush chair across Dumbledore’s desk.
There was a twinkle in the old man’s eyes as he continued. “Do you know why I called you here today?”
It took all of Percy’s self-control not to squirm in his seat like a naughty schoolboy, being disciplined for his wrongdoings. “I thought, that is, you might have a job offer for me. Sir.” He had, of course, given much thought to Dumbledore’s request for a meeting, and had indeed slept terribly as a result. It didn’t make sense, though — even though the Headmaster was a powerful man, even he surely had limited influence at the Ministry? And as for a job elsewhere…
“You never did have much of an aptitude for teaching,” continued Dumbledore, as though he could read Percy’s thoughts.
Even though the words had not been presented as malicious, simply matter-of-fact, Percy felt a flush creeping up his neck nonetheless. “No, sir,” he answered, doing his best not to mumble despite his embarrassment.
“Well, never mind that,” Dumbledore said, picking through a tin of Bertie Bott’s Assorted Beans. “Bean?”
“Ah. No, thank you,” Percy answered, thinking that the only thing that could make this conversation worse was getting a mouthful of sea slug. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful — he truly appreciated Dumbledore’s support. But there was something brewing on the horizon, like a thunderstorm he could hear, but not yet see. He felt like he was falling, falling, falling from a height so high he could not yet see the ground.
“Pumpkin,” noted Dumbledore after he had selected his own bean, and Percy was struck by the sheer normality of it all, like his life was not teetering on the precipice of change. “These years just after finishing school are some of your most important ones,” Dumbledore added, as though there hadn’t been any segue at all. “I always thought it best for young men to spend that time exploring the world.”
The Headmaster, of course, was a Gryffindor through and through. There had always been a tacit disapproval of people like Percy, those who possessed more political ambition.
Slytherin ambition, he thought, as his gaze slid to the Sorting Hat on the shelf behind the Headmaster, a reminder of the way he had different from his peers, from his family.
“Now, where was I? Ah— you should be spending these years exploring all the marvels the world has to offer,” Dumbledore said, but then his gaze hardened, and when he continued, his tone had lost its sheen of good humour, “but recent events might redirect your attention to matters closer to home.” There was a brief, yet meaningful pause, and then, “You know what matters of which I speak.”
In that instant, Percy was reminded of how much he’d wanted his chair to swallow him these past few days. “You-Know-Who,” he said, unable to keep the misery out of his tone, or even use the dark wizard’s more political moniker. He Who Must Not Be Named.
“Lord Voldemort,” corrected Dumbledore idly, politely ignoring Percy’s flinch. “Yes, make no doubt about: Voldemort has returned and this coming war will prove to be more vicious than the last.”
Percy didn’t remember much of the last war, had just been a child when it had ended, barely six. But there were two things he did remember: how Mum had cried and cried and cried after hearing what had become of her brothers, and also the jubilation that had come after You-Know-Who’s defeat, how the entire Wizarding world leapt with joy and wept with relief and now there was a war coming again, and he was a grown man, and he had made mistakes, and he intended to fix them.
There were in Dumbledore’s private office. Surely this was as good a time to bring up the matter as any. “I’ve heard rumours,” he started, “of an… order. A group of people working together to stop him.” The lump in his throat had formed again and he pushed it down with as much ferocity as he could muster. “Is that — is that what you wished to speak with me about?”
Dumbledore folded his hands together on the table. “In a manner of speaking. Before I continue, I want to make it clear — you can say no. If you do, we can drop this conversation entirely, and forget it ever happened.”
“I understand,” Percy said, with a growing apprehension of just what the headmaster was going to ask of him.
“There are other members of your family that have expressed interest in putting a stop to Lord Voldemort’s actions,” Dumbledore continued bluntly. “The role I have in mind for you is different.”
Percy nodded numbly.
“I have been advised that upon your return to work, the Minister intends to make you his personal Undersecretary.”
Head jerking up sharply, Percy exclaimed, “But that’s a promotion!” After the Mr Crouch debacle, there was no way he should be elevated to such a role.
Professor Dumbledore held up a hand, and chagrined, Percy sunk bank into his seat. “They intend for you to spy on your family,” he continued mildly.
Percy’s face went a splotchy sort of red. “I wouldn’t.”
Dumbledore fixed him with a gaze so piercing it went right through him, an assessment and challenge all at once. “Ah,” he continued quietly, “but they don’t know that.”
“I wouldn’t,” Percy repeated, more to assure himself than anything.
“I have a proposal for you, should you choose to take it. I must warn you, it will not be an easy path.”
Percy hadn’t taken seven NEWTs because he shied away from a challenge. “What is it sir?” he asked, equal parts apprehensive and curious.
Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. “Instead of spying on your family for the Ministry, you will be spying on the Ministry for me.”
It would be easier, Professor Dumbledore had said, if his family didn’t know the truth. Percy’s dad, and other Order members, could also provide insider knowledge, but none of them were in positions that worked so closely, so intimately, with the Minister for Magic himself.
They had spent the rest of the evening hashing out the details in Dumbledore’s office. It would be easier, Percy had suggested, if he had some sort of publicised row with his father — the Minister wouldn’t expect quite so much current knowledge about his family that way, and Percy had almost glowed at how impressed Dumbledore had been by his initiative.
Percy could still scarcely believe it. He was going to be a spy. It wasn’t the direction he had intended to take his career, but Dumbedore had asked him to confront the choice between doing what was right and what was easy, and Percy so desperately wanted to do something right for once.
So, he returned to the Burrow and packed his bags, readying himself for his brand new life.