chapter 6
Percy arrived Monday morning to find Penelope Clearwater's desk stripped bare.
No farewell memo. No forwarding address. Just a half-empty inkwell and the faint scent of her rosewater perfume clinging stubbornly to the air.
A Ministry owl dropped a notice:
"P. Clearwater reassigned to Bulgarian International Magical Cooperation Office. Effective immediately."
Percy's fingers tightened around the parchment. Bulgaria was a lateral move at best—a career graveyard for ambitious bureaucrats.
By midnight, Percy had reconstructed the chain of events with forensic precision:
1) An anonymous report about Penelope's "overuse of international Floo privileges" (he'd approved those requests himself)
2) A surprise inspection of her travel expenses—conducted by one Yannick Yaxley, a junior clerk in Transportation
3) A "generous opportunity" in Sofia, personally endorsed by the Bulgarian Minister's new advisor—Alecto Carrow's former protégé
Every document bore the same invisible fingerprints: perfectly legal, impeccably timed, and smelling faintly of Audrey's bergamot tea.
Ministry of Magic - Records Room
2:47 AM
The air in the Records Room was thick with the scent of aging parchment and charmed dust—the kind that resisted all cleaning spells out of sheer bureaucratic spite. Percy exhaled slowly, watching his breath disturb the layer of glittering, enchanted particles that swirled around the towering shelves.
He shouldn’t be here.
Accessing his own confidential personnel file was a breach of protocol. A fireable breach.
His fingers hovered over the drawer labeled WEA-WES, wand lit with the barest Lumos.
This is absurd.
He wasn’t some lovelorn teenager rifling through old letters. He was Senior Undersecretary Weasley, for Merlin’s sake.
(And yet.)
The drawer slid open with a whisper.
His personnel file was thicker than he expected.
Performance reviews. Incident reports (that ridiculous enchanted quill fiasco from ’03). Even his old Hogwarts transcripts, stamped with the Headmaster’s seal.
And then—
A single sheet, tucked between his last promotion evaluation and a memo about his coffee consumption habits ("Concerning. -H. Proudfoot, M.H.").
Mind Healer’s Note - Session 14
Subject exhibits classic signs of high-functioning self-loathing. Obsessive adherence to rules may stem from:
The rest was redacted, black ink bleeding through the parchment like a wound.
But Percy didn’t need to read the words to know them.
"—fear of being unremarkable."
"—lingering effects of childhood middle-child syndrome."
"—internalized belief that competence is the only acceptable form of worth."
(He’d written enough performance reviews to recognize the shape of damning analysis.)
The enchanted parchment shimmered, reflecting his face back at him—really reflecting it.
Not the polished, glasses-wearing bureaucrat the Ministry saw.
But him.
Hair mussed from running anxious hands through it. Cufflinks slightly crooked (because he’d stopped letting Mum fix them after Fred died). The stupid cologne Penelope had bought him for his nineteenth birthday, still half-full a decade later because he couldn’t bear to waste it.
"You’re brilliant, Percy," she’d said the night she left, already packing her bags. "But Merlin, you’re boring."
The parchment fogged under his white-knuckled grip.
Then—
A footnote.
"See attached: Subject’s reaction to P.C. reference in Session 9. Notable physical responses:
- Increased blink rate (x1.8 baseline)
- Right hand tremor
- Immediate subject deflection to ‘cauldron thickness regulations’
Recommendation: Remove reinforcement source pending further—"
The rest was torn away.
Percy’s stomach dropped.
Session 9. Three weeks ago. When he’d casually mentioned Penelope’s transfer in passing.
When Audrey’s quill had snapped in half.
When she’d suddenly, fiercely insisted that "nostalgia is just grief wearing a cheap suit."
The file slipped from his fingers.
Audrey hadn’t just noticed.
She’d documented it.
Studied it.
Weaponized it.
And now Penelope was in Bulgaria.
Percy vanished the note with a slash of his wand, but the words clung to the inside of his skull like cobwebs.
Outside the window, the first light of dawn gilded the Ministry’s enchanted windows. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
Percy straightened his tie.
Time to go to work.
Department of Mysteries – Unspeakable Archives
4:13 AM
The air in the Department of Mysteries tasted like ozone and old secrets. Percy’s footsteps echoed against the black marble floors as he followed the trail of discarded sugar quill wrappers—Audrey’s trademark battlefield markers.
He found her in the Restricted Legislation aisle, perched atop a floating ladder, her robes streaked with ink and something darker—was that blood?
"Yaxley."
She didn’t startle. "Took you long enough." A scroll unfurled in her hands with a snap. "I expected you three hours ago, right after you left Records."
Percy’s wand hand twitched. Of course she knew.
Audrey descended without touching the ladder, her boots whispering against the stone. Up close, Percy could see the shadows under her eyes—the kind that spoke of too many sleepless nights and too much firewhisky.
"You accessed my file." His voice was calm. Too calm.
"And you accessed mine." She flicked her wand. A personnel folder materialized between them, hovering in the dim light. A. Yaxley – Restricted. "Page forty-two. Interesting reading."
Percy didn’t take the bait. "You had Penelope transferred."
"Did I?" Audrey’s smile was all teeth. "Funny. The paperwork says she requested it."
A logbook floated over, opened to a damning entry:
P. Clearwater – Voluntary Transfer Request – Signed 3:02 AM
Percy recognized the handwriting. His own.
A perfect forgery.
You used my signature."
"I used your style." Audrey stepped closer. "Down to the misplaced comma after 'hereby.'" Her breath ghosted over his cheek. "Tell me, Weasley—when did you stop noticing your own tells?"
The air between them crackled.
Percy’s control snapped.
"You had no right—"
"I had every right!" Audrey’s voice echoed off the shelves. "You were letting her win. You still measured your coffee in the exact increments she liked. You—" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "—are the only person in this damned Ministry who doesn’t see what you’re worth."
Silence.
Somewhere in the darkness, a prophecy rattled on its shelf.
Percy exhaled. "The Bulgarian office is a demotion."
Audrey’s gaze didn’t waver. "It’s a fresh start."
"For her?"
"For you." She reached into her robes and tossed something at his feet—a tiny glass phial, still smoking. "Veritaserum residue. One drop in her tea, and guess what she really thought about your ‘boring’ NEWT scores?"
Percy recoiled. "You drugged her?"
"I liberated you." Audrey’s voice dropped to a whisper. "The question is—why do you still care?"
Dawn bled through the enchanted ceiling, painting them both in fractured light.
Percy bent to pick up the phial. Cold glass. Empty.
When he looked up, Audrey was gone.
Only two things remained:
A single sugar quill, balanced precariously on the "W" shelf.
The faintest scent of bergamot, lingering like a dare.
Percy's office 5:33 AM
Percy woke at his desk at dawn, his cheek pressed to an unfinished memo.
Someone had draped a robe over his shoulders—his spare, the one he kept in his office for all-nighters. The left pocket held two sugar quills and a scrap of parchment:
"The difference between boring and brilliant is who's watching.
P.S. Your cologne is terrible. Burn it. -A"
Outside his window, the first memo airplanes of the day took flight—one trailing a familiar phoenix doodle in its wake.