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Office 6C, DMLE, Wizengamot Administration Services— 9:47 AM
The thick envelope was taunting him. It looked like a cursed thing. Heavy vellum, magic seeping under the seal. The wax crest looked every bit official, stamped with the House of Greengrass. The sight alone was enough to turn Percy's stomach.
Official correspondence he could handle. Just not from a Sacred Twenty-Eight family—certainly not after misplacing a certain, very compromising, letter about the Heiress. Safe. Safe. Safe, he thought. No. Not safe. He would have struck himself if it would undo the last week.
He rose from his chair and began pacing the office.
Precisely eleven minutes later, he broke the seal. The falcon took flight with its sage leaf, anti-forgery charms laced into every curve of the ink. Percy exhaled and set the envelope back down, choosing another circuit of the carpet—once, twice, thrice—before giving in.
He didn’t sit. He read the letter standing, eyes scanning from top to bottom without pause. The tension in his neck was numbing. The words, equally so. Yet the intent was obvious. The possible outcome, already shaped.
A proposal. Not romantic. Not entirely. A partnership. Strategic alliance. Shared visibility.
He turned back to his workload. His day was planned down to the minute; there was no room for distraction. This audit would not review itself—a simple, dull, financial report he could perform in his sleep. Still, he kept glancing at the damned thing. A very elaborate prank, surely. The embossed stationery, header in full regalia, seemed to laugh at him.
There were only two types of mail Percy worked with. Either a declarative tone, which stated facts as immutable—or a deferential tone which cloaked its intent in subtext. This was something else—an overture, politely worded—waiting for a response. Almost correspondence.
It tickled Percy, the way the words were addressed. If he examined it unaffected, it looked like it had already been discussed between the two parties. The draft contract enclosed proved the point.
He hoped to be correct. A proposal, with no commanding tone or subtext. There was subtext, obviously. Through, the perfect genealogy terms were written—in Victorian script—facing each other as if already bound.
> Percival Ignatus Weasley, Scion of the House of Weasley, of the Ancient Bloodline of Prewett.
> Daphnee Lyssandra Vesperine Greengrass, Heiress to the House of Greengrass, Wardens of the Verdant Line.
Percy was still pacing holes in his office carpet. He buried the received documents under three layers of wards in a drawer—only to flinch at the gesture, remembering that other letter, gone under the moonlight. Perhaps—perish the thought—it had reached the Greengrass patriarch. It would be, indeed, some sort of correspondence.
The thought made him shudder. What a shame to write such foulness!
Still, that was some idea.
He switched to a more complex note on Hellenburk's testimony in a case of complicity—regarding an attempted terrorist act in a Muggle downtown, allegedly in retaliation to his niece's boisterous behavior.
Every phrase he needed for the brief was already enclosed in the damned envelope. Percy tapped his fingers thrice on the desk edge and withdraw the proposal from the drawer. He deposited it on an empty spot across from him, within reach. Great Lords, Percival, focus!
Finding a loophole in Hellenburk's deposition should have been satisfying. A major procedural flaw, it was toasted. Instead, all that remained was the boredom of paperwork and the straightforward mechanics of closing the case. His right hand hovered near the vellum. He gave in.
> Footnote needed — ‘modesty clause in joint alliances’ — see subsection on pre-nuptial magical oaths…
He was annotating it. Damn it. He was treating it like legislation. Safe! Safe! Safe! This time he almost believed it. The correspondence idea kept bothering him.
Office 7A, DMLE, Wizengamot Administration Services— 3:14 PM
Percy was admonishing himself with the precision of a Ministry memo as he walked along the corridor. The current status of his workload and a certain correspondence—received, reviewed, and presently ignored—was daunting on his nerves.
He was going to multitask work and social necessity. Plus, if someone had any idea what was going under the flow, it was a certain blond. Plus, those to families were bound by marriage.
He never had childhood friends, but he could unburden himself—slightly—around Draco Malfoy. He knocked briefly to his office door and put his head through.
"Afternoon, Lord Malfoy. I'm required at Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. Care to join me?" Percy begun all business, knowing Draco was rarely in his own office for long.
"That sounds awful." Draco said, shutting a folder, a faint frown crossing his face. "And a good afternoon to you, Weasley. You’re looking terribly official.”
Percy's breath rose, his mind already sharpened.
“How’s Records?” Draco asked, glancing sideway from the coat rack.
“Quiet,” Percy replied. “Two audits closed. One more to review.”
“And uneventful, I’m sure.” Draco smirked.
"Merlin forbids." Percy sees his anonymous memo got through potent hands. As planned.
"So, DMAC [Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes] it is. Lead on.” Draco stood and made his way to the door.
"Level Three"
"Yes—I need to drop by the International Magical Office of Law. Level Five, DIMCO [Department of International Magical Co-operation]." Draco recited the acronyms as if by muscle memory. "I'll drop you on my way down."
A paper plane collided with Draco’s shoulder. He caught it, unfolded the wings. His posture stiffened at the purple Ministry quick note.
"Bad news?" Percy asked politely because of the interruption.
Draco didn’t answer at once. They reached the lift before he finally spoke.
“Letters arrive every day, some of them even merit a reply.” he finally said, tone ungrateful.
Percy raised an eyebrow. Depends on the subtext, he thinks. No good retort came, and his tongue clicked. He folded back the cuff on his writing hand though he was standing empty-handed.
Draco leaned forward, eyes brightening. “Well, I do hope you’re considering it. House unity is a beautiful thing. Strategic. Patriotic. Fashionable.”
Percy’s lips twitched. He seized the excuse of a by-passer to delay his answer. “Since when do you meddle in matrimonial politics?”
“Since it became my sister-in-law’s favorite game. And my dear father-in-law asked my opinion. Imagine.”
Percy reached to adjust his glasses, stopped mid-gesture, touched his collar instead. “Not everything needs your opinion, Malfoy.”
“Oh, but this does.” Draco was, all too casual, poised in front of the lift door. “Do say yes. I’ve already made a bet on it.”
He was gone before Percy could formulate a reply.
Percy's flat, Westminster borough, London— 6:29 PM on the same day
Percy couldn't focus. So, he took an early leave to get home.
Taking that velum envelope with him.
Now he sat in his armchair, notepad on crossed knees, inkpot on the table beside an abandoned teacup. He stretchds his legs, yawing. He then put his stationery down. A moment to think―to regroup.
> Draft 1. I am honored by your outreach and must respectfully decline… ―crumpled.
> Draft 2. While I appreciate the Greengrass family’s interest… ―ink blot, vanished.
> Draft 3. In accordance with Ministry guidelines on personal-political contracts… ―too clinical.
When the main candlelight extinguished, he renewed it, pacing the room. He straightened a few askew book piles. Muttered under his breath.
Finally, he scrawled “Will consider”, warded the lot into a drawer, and whispered “Documented; therefore contained,” invoking his own law of emotional evidence. It was enough to go to bed with an empty stomach.
Greenthorn Hall, Glenshade Valley—the next week, on a Thursday morning
He was not planning on acceptance.
The office smelled of dried thyme and rune-etched oak; vines crept through the paneling, stone figures wielded silver knives over potion ingredients, and a cauldron simmered in the sunlight.
Lord Greengrass arrived in silent robes, sharp-creased, polite to the edge of inhospitality. His voice was quiet, his offers measured. He made no promises beyond respect. No emotional manipulation. No threats.
He just offered… terms.
The quill did not shake. The signature was perfect. The moment felt hollow.