Chapter 1
The waiting room smelled like peppermint and regret.
Percy Weasley sat ramrod straight, his Ministry robes starched into submission, fingers drumming a staccato rhythm against his thigh. The clock on the wall ticked like a jury counting down his sentence.
This is absurd, he thought for the thirteenth time. He’d faced Dark wizards, Ministry coups, and his mother’s Howler-laced disappointment—but this? Sitting in a pastel-colored purgatory, waiting for some overpaid meddler to pick apart his psyche? He’d rather duel a Hungarian Horntail. At least dragons played fair.
The door creaked open.
“Mr. Weasley?”
He looked up.
A woman stood in the doorway—sharp green eyes, auburn hair twisted into a no-nonsense bun, a smirk that suggested she’d already won an argument he didn’t know they were having. Her nametag read:
A. Yaxley, M.H.
Percy’s stomach dropped like a stone.
Yaxley.
The name alone conjured memories of sneering faces in Death Eater robes, of his father’s hissed warnings after the war: “They’re all still out there, Percy. Just waiting for us to forget.”
“You’re not Healer Proudfoot,” he said, too sharply.
Audrey’s smirk didn’t waver. “Astute observation. Ten points to… ah, right. You’re not a student anymore.” She stepped aside, holding the door open. “Shall we?”
Audrey’s Office – Sunlit and Treacherous
The room was nothing like the sterile Ministry cubicles Percy knew. Sunlight streamed through enchanted windows showing a forest instead of London rooftops. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of both magical tomes and Muggle texts—Freud nestled between Magical Maladies of the Mind and Advanced Occlumency Theory, as if daring Percy to comment.
He perched on the edge of the sofa, back rigid. “For the record, I’m only here because it’s mandatory post-war protocol for Level 4 and above—”
“Yes, yes,” Audrey interrupted, flipping open a notebook. “Trauma checks for the traumatized. How novel.” Her quill hovered. “Tell me why you think you were referred.”
Percy’s fingers tightened on his knees. “I wasn’t referred. It’s procedure.”
Audrey’s gaze flicked to his sleeve—where coffee stains marred the cuff. “Third set of robes this week?”
“Irrelevant.”
“Occupational hazard,” she said, setting down her quill. “I notice things. Like how you’ve positioned yourself to see both exits. Or how you’re counting my breaths to time your own.” She leaned forward. “Or how you haven’t blinked in forty-seven seconds.”
Percy blinked.
“Forty-eight.” Audrey’s grin was all teeth. “Now—about those night terrors your supervisor mentioned.”
“I don’t have—”
“According to your intake form, you’ve warded your flat with three layers of silencing charms.” She tapped the parchment. “And yet your neighbor filed a noise complaint last Tuesday. ‘Screaming,’ she said. ‘Like someone was dying.’”
Percy’s pulse roared in his ears. “Get to the point.”
Audrey’s voice softened, just a fraction. “You’re not sleeping. You’re drowning in caffeine. And you’re here because someone finally noticed you’re one bad day away from collapsing.” She paused. “Or worse.”
Silence.
Then—
“Our time’s up,” Audrey said abruptly, standing. “Same time next week?”
Percy bristled. “I didn’t agree to—”
She pressed a slip of parchment into his hand. “Cut back to six cups of coffee. Unless you want a tremor in your wand hand.”
The door clicked shut behind him before he could argue.