Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley had always prided himself on being rational. A stickler for the rules, dedicated to his studies, and assured that order was the backbone of a successful life.

Percy had always been determined to rise above the chaotic tendencies of his family but as he stood at the edge of his sister’s bed in the Hospital Wing, watching his mother fuss over Ginny, he felt something new, an emotion he could only describe as a mix between existential dread and profound irritation.

Having worried over Ginny for months, Percy bit his lip in frustration, wondering how his academically gifted mind had been so blind until now. At first, it was small inconsequential things: she was quieter than usual, she kept hiding behind large furniture when he entered a room, and once, he caught her attempting to feed a quill to her porridge. But then, things began to worsen and she graduated to actual problems: her grades started slipping, she looked pale and exhausted, and he could swear she muttered threats in Parseltongue when Ron stole the last sausage at breakfast. Every time he asked what was wrong, she either burst into tears or tried to hex him. He had let it slide. There were only so many dramatic sibling breakdowns he was willing to manage before breakfast.

But beneath all of his concern was still a deep rooted selfishness. A shameful piece of him was glad that Ginny hadn’t talked, because if she had broken down and spilled everything, then she might have let something else slip from her lips.

A secret that Percy couldn’t afford anyone to know, not even his family.

Penelope Clearwater.

He had been terrified that Ginny, in a moment of distress, might blurt out his secret relationship to their family. The teasing from the twins would have been unbearable, and his mother—oh, Merlin, his mother —would immediately demand wedding plans and grandchildren. It made Percy want to groan. How could anyone prioritize such things before carving out a sustainable and decorated career for oneself?

And so, instead of doing what any responsible older brother should have which was confronting her, demanding answers, and realizing that his baby sister was clearly being possessed by some eldritch horror (because, honestly, what else could possibly explain her grades slipping?) he had prioritized keeping his own secret and ignored all the signs.

And then she had disappeared.

For hours, Percy had stalked the halls like an anxious flamingo, glaring at every student, suspecting each dust particle of foul play. When he found out that Ginny had been taken into the Chamber, Percy had felt something snap inside him.

Oh, he had kept up his usual pompous, responsible demeanor in front of others, but beneath the surface, he had been furious . 

He was still furious: at himself and the teachers, who had done nothing to stop it. Furious at Dumbledore, the so called greatest wizard of the age, who had been bamboozled by a group of school governors and just twinkled off into the sunset. Furious at everyone who had blindly accepted that Hogwarts would somehow sort itself out, despite the reality that children were being petrified and his sister was missing .

Even after Harry Potter had miraculously solved the crisis using only his reckless disregard for safety and an unsettling rapport with large reptiles , Percy’s unease did not fade. Hogwarts was a mess . The fact that a twelve year old had done a better job at investigating than the entire faculty was not reassuring to him. A change had to be made but if he wanted to change that, if he wanted to make sure something like this never happened again he needed to understand how Hogwarts actually worked.

Not the magic of it. The system behind it. The policies. The bureaucracy.

The paperwork .

Percy had long suspected that somewhere, hidden deep in the castle, was the administrative heart of Hogwarts: the place where school policies were actually enforced, where rules were more than just Dumbledore’s whims and fancies; or Filch’s empty threats. If there was a system running the school, then someone had to be in charge of it. And if the people in charge had proven themselves incompetent, then Percy, as a responsible prefect and future Minister for Magic, needed to find a way to fix things himself.

So he searched. The library yielded nothing but outdated copies of Hogwarts: A History . The staff offices were useless. McGonagall tolerated him at the best of times, but even she would not allow a student unrestricted access to school records.

Then, one evening, as he patrolled the castle corridors with the deep frustration of a man who knew there was a better way, he passed by an ordinary stretch of wall on the seventh floor.

He was thinking, quite forcefully, If only Hogwarts had a proper administrative office, somewhere I could access every record, every policy, every procedural document— when the stones in front of him shifted.

A door appeared.

Percy, ever the pragmatist, did not question it. He went to magic school. He had long since accepted that some things simply defied explanation. So, without hesitation, he stepped inside.

The moment he did, two things became abundantly clear.

First, he had potentially discovered the single most important room in Hogwarts.

Second, this room should not, under any circumstances, exist in a rational universe.

The chamber before him was unlike anything he had ever seen. Floor to ceiling shelves groaned under the weight of ancient ledgers and parchment scrolls.Towering filing cabinets stretched to the ceiling, some labeled with impossibly specific categories like Unauthorized Student-led Organizations, 1423-1996 and Kitchenware Acquisitions, 1781-Present . 

The filing cabinets weren’t just large—they were impossible. One was slightly ajar, revealing rows of neatly organized folders, but when Percy pulled the drawer open, instead of stopping, it extended deeper and deeper, until the entire cabinet swallowed him whole. For a terrifying moment, he thought he might be trapped inside a paperwork dimension, but when he stumbled backward, gasping, the drawer snapped shut with a very judgmental click.

A desk in the corner of the room was covered in stacks of ancient, yellowed parchment, but as Percy approached, he noticed something horrifying. The manila folders were moving . One twitched. Another rustled. Then, with the speed of a striking snake, a particularly aggressive folder lunged for a stray piece of paper and ate it . Percy yelped, stepping back as the folder let out what could only be described as a contented burp .

A self writing quill scribbled something frantically onto a nearby form, then crossed itself out , crumpled the parchment in frustration, and tossed it into a wastebasket, which promptly spat it back out .

Near the far wall, a massive bookshelf labeled Unfiled Records (Beware of Sentience) trembled as if it knew Percy was looking at it. The books rustled, rearranging themselves when he blinked, and a particularly thick tome on Hogwarts Disciplinary Actions shuffled closer, as if eager to be read.

Some stacks of meticulously labeled forms sat in neat rows, quills hovering beside them, as if waiting for instructions on a desk in the middle of the room. A large, brass nameplate on it read:

Hogwarts Acquisitions & Records Room

Percy felt weak .

This was it. The true power behind the school. Not the professors, not the Ministry, but the system . The endless, glorious machinery of Hogwarts bureaucracy.

He approached the central desk with reverence, his fingers trailing over a particularly thick binder labeled Historical Amendments: Institutional Policies 993-Present. His heart raced with possibilities.

This wasn’t just an archive. This was a living, breathing monstrosity of paperwork . A bureaucratic beast .

And Percy Weasley, against all reason, loved it .

His fingers itched for a quill. If Hogwarts’ rules had been left to this , no wonder the school was a disaster. Someone needed to tame this madness. Someone needed to bring order to this chaos.

Someone needed to fill out the correct forms .

He adjusted his glasses, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward.

If he had access to the right forms, if he understood the structure behind Hogwarts' rules,then he wouldn’t have to rely on incompetent leadership anymore. He wouldn’t have to stand by helplessly while disasters unfolded around him. He could take control.

Percy Weasley, aged sixteen, future head boy of Gryffindor, had just found his true calling.

And Hogwarts would never be the same again.

Chapter Text

The Room of Acquisitions was being difficult.

This, in itself, was not unusual to Percy. After spending more hours in its confines than in the Library over his six years at Hogwarts, Percy had discovered that the room possessed a personality of its own, best described as "mildly unhinged but eager to please."

But with a personality came moods. The room sulked when ignored and occasionally attempted to be helpful in ways that defied logic, even by magical standards. And today, for reasons Percy could not yet determine, it had decided to torment him with chairs.

It had begun innocently enough.He’d stepped inside, intending to retrieve a volume on historical Hogwarts regulations, only to find the space entirely filled with chairs. Neat rows of them like he was to be a professor for a class. Haphazard mountainous stacks of them climbing the ceiling. Many were precariously balanced on top of other furniture like bookshelves, desks, and other seating arrangements like benches, which was just a bigger sort of chair.

One chair ,Percy was fairly certain was stalking him. He could hear its wooden legs creak and its pegs scrape against the stone floor. But, he didn't want to turn around and check in case it got any ideas.

Percy had sighed. Loudly. "I see we’re doing this today."

The Room, being a room and therefore incapable of responding in words, simply flickered its torches in what Percy had come to recognize as smug satisfaction.

The problem with the chairs was that they were ancient and no one seemed to care. Many were so uneven that students developed a permanent tilt in their spines after seven years, relying on their gnarled support. Others groaned ominously under any weight, making first years fear they would collapse mid meal. Some were positioned at angles that guaranteed knees would collide, leading to an entire etiquette of awkward shuffling. And yet, somehow, this travesty of furniture placement had gone entirely unchallenged for centuries.

It had taken him a full hour to discern the issue. Somewhere, deep in the tangled, contradictory web of Hogwarts’ bylaws, existed an ancient seating regulation that had been quietly ignored for nearly a millennium. It was, like most of the castle’s archaic rules, absurdly trivial yet deeply ingrained. 

Percy suspected the Room had been stewing over it for years, waiting for someone who actually cared about regulatory consistency to fix it. The Room refused to cooperate with him until he completed the task. Books would vanish the moment he reached for them. His notes would rearrange themselves into unreadable gibberish. At one point, a chair launched itself at him with such enthusiasm that he barely ducked in time. He refused to believe it had been an accident.

The message was clear. Fix the chairs now. Or suffer. And so, with the weary resignation of a man being strong-armed by sentient architecture, Percy caved.

After long hours of research and combing over fine print, Percy discovered the problem. As it turned out, the Great Hall’s chairs had technically never been in compliance to begin with regarding the castle’s original blueprints. It was a regulation which no one paid attention to, students came and went while chairs were shuffled back and forth.

No one cared. Except, apparently, Hogwarts itself; and now himself.

By the time Percy emerged from the Room, victorious yet slightly deranged from spending far too long thinking about furniture placement, he was convinced he had made the castle a better place. 

The solution had been absurdly simple.He’d rewritten the rule to account for centuries of shifting architecture, essentially giving Hogwarts permission to arrange the furniture as it saw fit. As soon as he had done so, the Room had practically purred with satisfaction. Not that anyone but him could notice.

Life continued as usual for Percy with the Room, now significantly more agreeable, and no longer hiding books from him. The castle, as a whole, seemed to be operating a touch more smoothly. Percy couldn’t help but preen quietly to himself on a job well done and moved on with his life and tasks.

Then came the end of year feast.

It started when Professor McGonagall paused at the staff table, frowning slightly, before continuing on without comment. Professor Flitwick looked positively delighted, though Percy couldn’t gleam why. At the head of the table, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in that infuriating way that suggested he knew exactly what had happened, though he, too, remained silent.

The students, however, were utterly oblivious even as they sat at the House Tables which were perfectly aligned for the first time in known history, with chairs evenly spaced in a way that didn’t lead to accidental elbow related conflicts.

From his own perfectly aligned seat, Percy stiffly surveyed the hall with the air of a man waiting for someone—anyone—to acknowledge his efforts.

He waited  and waited and then felt someone nudging him."You’re smiling. It’s unsettling, Percy," Wood muttered, leaning in close to him

Percy huffed. "Am I not allowed to take pleasure in some order and efficiency?"

Wood gave him a long look, then shook his head. "You spend too much time in that weird library closet."

Percy exhaled slowly through his nose and resisted the urge to launch into an impassioned speech about structural integrity. 

He had fixed Hogwarts itself, and all he got in return was a mildly concerned look from a Quidditch fanatic.

Typical.

Just as the feast was winding down, Dumbledore rose from his seat, surveying the Great Hall with the sort of calm that generally preceded either a speech of great wisdom or complete nonsense.

"What a year," he began, eyes twinkling. "Petrifications. Basilisks. Secret chambers. All in all, a rather standard Hogwarts experience." He clasped his hands together. "And yet, despite the usual chaos, I find myself in the delightful position of delivering good news."

The students stilled, eyes turning toward him.

"Firstly, and I do hope this does not disappoint too many of you, though I suspect it shall , end of year exams have been cancelled."

Silence fell over the Great Hall for a brief pause before pandemonium broke.

The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables erupted into cheers loud enough to shake the enchanted ceiling. Ravenclaws looked personally betrayed. The Slytherins maintained a careful air of indifference, though a few betrayed themselves with small smirks and barely suppressed grins.

Dumbledore let the noise settle before continuing, "Secondly, and far more importantly, I believe we are due for a rather special reunion."

At the conclusion of Dumbledore’s words, the massive doors to the Great Hall swung open. A hush fell instantly as the once petrified students stepped inside, looking slightly disoriented but otherwise healthy.

For half a second, no one moved.

Then the hall burst into motion.

Percy barely registered the rush of students before his own feet carried him forward. He stopped just short of Penelope, staring at her like a man who had spent too much time talking to a sentient supply closet and had forgotten how to interact with humans.

Then she pulled him into a hug.

"I missed you," he murmured into her hair, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"Obviously," she replied, squeezing him tightly around the waist.

Along the table, Percy caught sight of Ron and Harry greeting Hermione in much the same way. The Great Hall was a mess of reunions - laughter, tears, relieved chatter. It was a rare, genuine moment of peace.

Naturally, the sight of Percy experiencing a heartfelt moment was too much for Fred and George to resist.

The hug had lasted for barely half a minute.

When from somewhere behind him, Percy heard Fred’s voice, far too loud and gleeful:

"Oi, lover boy! "

That was all the warning he got before a handful of mashed potatoes collided with his shoulder.

Then, in perfect synchronisation, George launched a dinner roll at the Ravenclaw table, a Hufflepuff retaliated with treacle tart, and a Gryffindor misjudged his aim so badly that Snape ended up with pudding in his hair. Thus began the Great Hogwarts End-of-Year Food War of Percy’s Sixth Year.

Still caught in Penelope’s embrace, Percy closed his eyes and took a slow, measured breath. "I hate this school."

Penelope laughed. "No, you don’t."

He sighed. "I do when it’s covered in gravy."

She grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the doors with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly when to escape. "Come on, Head Boy-to-be. Let’s flee before we get caught in the custard crossfire."

He allowed himself to be dragged along, dodging an airborne chicken leg along the way.

Hogwarts was as absurd as ever, but at least the chairs were finally in order.

Chapter Text

Arthur Weasley winning the Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw was, in Percy’s opinion, a statistical anomaly bordering on a violation of natural law. The Weasley family did not win grand prizes. They endured, they scrimped, they made do but now, they were going to Egypt because of what Percy strongly suspected was a clerical error at the Daily Prophet. The rest of the family were currently recovering in the hotel room from the ordeal, which Percy had, of course, handled with his usual poise (which was to say, better than the rest of them, but still not well).

The announcement had barely been made before chaos ensued. Molly had launched into a packing frenzy, as though they were embarking on a decade-long expedition rather than a summer holiday. Ginny had attempted to smuggle a garden gnome into her trunk, claiming he "deserved to see the world." The twins, upon discovering this, had decided that a gnome was insufficient and made a concerted effort to bring along a chicken. The chicken, to Percy’s dismay, seemed oddly determined to come along, evading all attempts to remove it. 

Bill had wisely retreated to the attic, while Ron had dedicated an entire afternoon to the pressing concern of whether Egypt had spiders. Percy, regrettably, had to confirm that it did—news that Ron took with the despair of someone facing their execution.

Percy, meanwhile, had attempted to approach the situation with the calm logic of a Ministry official. He had made a packing list. He had organised his papers. He had ensured his copy of Hogwarts Board of Governors: Policies and Procedures which he had borrowed from the Room of Acquisitions (rather permanently) was safely tucked away.

He had also taken a moment of respite amidst the chaos to pen a letter to Penelope, informing her with what he hoped was the appropriate balance of excitement and dignified composure—that he would be spending the summer in Egypt. He tactfully omitted any mention of chickens or Ron’s ongoing existential crisis over spiders.

Then he had spent the remainder of the time preparing for the inevitability of disaster.

Their journey had begun with a Portkey, an experience Percy endured with the grim resignation of a man who had long since abandoned hope of travelling with dignity. He had braced himself for the inevitable cacophony that accompanied any Weasley family outing and was, as always, proven correct.

The moment they touched the battered old kettle, bedlam erupted. Fred and George knocked into Ginny, who shrieked and grabbed Ron, who flailed wildly and kicked Percy in the shin just as the familiar stomach-wrenching pull yanked them into the void. Someone lost a shoe. Someone else lost the chicken.(or so Percy thought, but he had the sinking suspicion it would find them again.)

Percy lost all remaining faith in magical transportation.

They landed in a tangled heap of limbs, trunks, and what —Percy dearly hoped was—not a chicken. For a long moment, he laid there, staring at the sky, reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this precise moment. With a long-suffering sigh, he extricated himself from beneath Arthur’s billowing cloak, brushing sand from his robes with the air of a man rapidly losing patience with the very concept of travel. "If we ever wish to present ourselves as a respectable magical family," he announced, "we might start by mastering the revolutionary concept of upright landings."

Molly was already fussing over Ginny, berating the twins mid-sentence while simultaneously straightening Ron’s lopsided glasses. Fred and George, utterly unrepentant, were already gleefully reenacting their midair acrobatics. Bill, having somehow landed on his feet like a smug human cat, surveyed the scene with detached amusement. Percy eyed him with deep suspicion, wondering if superior balance was an inherited trait he had simply missed out on.

Arthur, ever the optimist, smiled at his dishevelled brood. "Everyone in one piece?"

Percy adjusted his glasses and grumbled, "Miraculously. Though I suspect future generations will speak of this day in hushed tones as a cautionary tale."

A wizened Egyptian wizard in deep blue robes observed them with the polite patience of someone who had seen far worse. "Welcome to Cairo," he intoned with all the solemnity of a funeral director greeting particularly troublesome clients.

Percy straightened his robes, inhaled deeply, and prepared himself for whatever fresh madness awaited them in this new land. He did not have to wait long.

The first sign that their arrival had not gone unnoticed was the absolute cacophony of voices surrounding them. Vendors shouted, camels bellowed, and Fred and George had, in record time, located a shop selling cursed trinkets. Meanwhile, Arthur was beaming as though he had just been handed the keys to the Ministry’s entire collection of enchanted artefacts.

"Molly, look! Look at this—an enchanted carpet! Do you think we could—"

"Absolutely not, Arthur."

"But it’s a cultural—"

"No."

The carpet in question hovered a few inches above the ground, its deep crimson fabric embroidered with intricate gold patterns that shimmered in the sun. It quivered slightly, as though eager to take off, and occasionally let out a faintly impatient rustling sound, as if offended by Molly’s immediate rejection.

Meanwhile, Ginny had discovered a monkey attempting to rifle through Ron’s pockets. Ron had discovered this as well but was handling it significantly less well. "It’s got fingers! It's got tiny little hands! What’s it—Oi! It took my Bertie Bott’s—AAH!"

A furious squeak erupted from his pocket as Scabbers, roused from his usual state of near death lethargy, sank his teeth into the monkey’s thieving fingers. The monkey screeched, flinging the half-stolen sweets into the air before bolting up a nearby awning, chattering indignantly.

"That’s probably for the best," Percy remarked. "If it got soap or vomit flavour, we’d be witnessing a diplomatic incident."

Ron clutched his pocket, eyes wide. "I take it back. For the first time in his miserable life, that bloody rat was actually useful."

Fred and George, having taken all of three minutes to locate something dangerous, were now gleefully trying to convince an elderly merchant to let them test a "possibly cursed but definitely thrilling" set of exploding playing cards. The merchant looked deeply intrigued, which was never a good sign.

Bill, the one member of the family who actually had business in Egypt, looked disturbingly at ease. "You lot should probably try not to look too much like tourists."

"Impossible," Percy said, eyeing his mother, who had already begun haggling furiously over a set of brass tea kettles. "We might as well be wearing signs that say 'beware: hazard to self and others.'"

A loud squawk interrupted his thoughts. The chicken—the same chicken—had returned. Percy did not know how. He did not know why. But there it was, strutting through the sand as though it had orchestrated the entire trip.

As if sensing Percy’s dismay, the bird fixed him with what could only be described as an accusatory glare, flapped its wings, and settled onto a nearby crate as though it were preparing for an extended stay.

Percy closed his eyes, counted to ten, and reopened them. The chicken was still there. Naturally.

He sighed. This was going to be a long trip.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley had always prided himself on being well informed but the streets of Cairo clearly disagreed. For starters, he had vastly underestimated the chaos that would ensue when his younger siblings were set loose in a bustling magical market. 

So while Bill was off handling something curse breaker related and their parents were occupied with whatever artifact his father was currently trying to justify purchasing, Percy had taken it upon himself to maintain some semblance of order.

It was not going well.

They had barely left the hotel when Fred and George nearly got them arrested for attempting to haggle over the price of a cursed amulet. He had to smooth things over with the shopkeeper, who seemed equally entertained and exasperated by the twins' antics. Ginny was determined to pet every stray cat they came across (he had lost count after seventeen), and Ron had kept scanning the area for spiders. 

Resigning himself to supervising this disaster with grim determination, Percy had the look of a man who had lost control long ago. At least Ginny seemed to be enjoying herself again.After the ordeal with the Chamber, it was good to see her more like her usual self.

"Are all of your family outings like this?" a voice asked, breaking Percy from his thoughts.

Percy turned to find a group of students watching them with a mix of amusement and curiosity. They were clearly from different parts of the world, their accents and uniforms suggesting an international gathering of some kind.

"More or less," Percy admitted, adjusting his glasses. "Though I had foolishly hoped this one would be different."

One of the boys grinned. "I'm Nadim," he introduced himself, nodding toward his companions. "That’s Amal and Faisal, we're from Al-Diwan Academy. Yusuf's from Mahoutokoro, and that’s Léa from Beauxbatons. We’re here for the summer dueling program."

Percy perked up at that. "A dueling program? For students?"

"Of course," Léa said, raising an eyebrow as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "It is standard in many schools. You do not have competitive dueling where you study?"

Percy opened his mouth, then hesitated. "Well, not as an organized program, no."

Before anyone could respond, Amal nudged Faisal, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "Ha! Told you he wasn’t from Durmstrang."

Faisal groaned. "Alright, alright, I owe you five Sickles."

Percy blinked. "You were betting on my school?"

"Obviously," Nadim said, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world. "We’ve been trying to guess since we heard your accent."

Yusuf tilted his head, considering Percy. "I thought Durmstrang at first...strict posture, very formal speech. But then you started talking about organization, and… well…"

Léa smirked. "Too well spoken for Durmstrang, too stiff for Beauxbatons, and too visibly exasperated to be from Ilvermorny."

"That left us with Hogwarts or one of the smaller academies," Amal added, looking pleased with himself. "Faisal was convinced you were Durmstrang though."

Percy sniffed, growing defensive. "I assure you, I have never even been to Durmstrang."

"That just makes it worse for me," Faisal muttered, passing a handful of coins to Amal.

"So?" Yusuf pressed. "Where do you study?"

"Hogwarts," Percy said, puffing out his chest a little.

Léa nodded sagely. "Ah. That makes sense."

Percy frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Amal shrugged. "Nothing. Just that, well… if any school were to lack a structured dueling program, I suppose it would be Hogwarts."

"But then how do you learn dueling?" Yusuf asked, frowning. "Is it just covered in Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"Er." Percy felt distinctly uncomfortable hearing Yusuf’s entirely reasonable question. "That… depends on the year."

"What do you mean?" Nadim asked.

"Well," Percy began, trying to phrase this in a way that didn’t make Hogwarts sound entirely ridiculous, "we don’t exactly have a standardized curriculum. The professor changes nearly every year. It’s… a long story."

The international students exchanged looks. Amal turned to Faisal. "Didn't your older brother say that Hogwarts students don’t even practice countercurses until fifth year?"

"Fifth?" Yusuf’s eyes widened. "We learn countercurses in third. By our fifth, we’re already working on nonverbal spellwork."

Percy felt a sudden and profound resentment for the Hogwarts Board of Governors. He was beginning to suspect they were, in fact, actively trying to kill students. "I see."

"And what about magical theory?" Léa asked. "Is it taught separately from practical casting?"

Percy, who had spent much of his education suffering through classes where spell mechanics were explained without ever being properly demonstrated, sighed. "Not as much as it should be."

"I heard your exams are mostly written," Faisal said.""That's strange to us. Our practical exams determine the majority of our final marks."

Percy frowned. "Hogwarts does have practical exams."

"For everything?"

"…Mostly."

There was a pause. Nadim crossed his arms. "Do you at least have a formal dueling club?"

"Well, there was one," Percy admitted. "For a few months. But it was run by a complete fraud and ended in absolute disaster."

The group looked at him in horror. "How-"

"Again," Percy interrupted, ”It’s a long story, I cannot elaborate now."

"What about magical creatures?" Yusuf asked, clearly determined to find something impressive about Hogwarts. "You must have an advanced course, surely?"

"We do have Care of Magical Creatures," Percy said quickly, feeling marginally more confident. "And it is—well, it is—"

"Taught by a competent professor?" Léa asked dryly.

Percy deflated. "Not always."

There was another awkward silence. Fred and George, having eavesdropped on the conversation while loitering nearby, exchanged amused glances. Ginny was staring at Percy like he had personally let her down. As if it was his fault that Hogwarts was run by incompetent people who valued candy and their own hair over education.

"Well," Amal said finally, "I suppose Hogwarts does have… Quidditch?"

"Yes!" Percy seized on this immediately. "We have an excellent Quidditch program."

"Organized how?" Faisal asked. "Are there inter-school tournaments?"

"Er. No. Just House teams."

"Do professionals scout the students?"

"Not officially."

"Are there specialty coaches?"

"Not exactly, but our captains are—"

"Are you telling me," Yusuf interrupted, in genuine disbelief, “that the most famous wizarding school in Britain—home to Harry 'Danger Magnet' Potter—does not have a single professional coach for its only sport?"

"…Yes.".

Nadim covered his face with his hands. "Unbelievable."

Ginny looked personally offended. "I knew our school was behind, but this is just embarrassing."

Percy straightened his robes. "Now, let's not be hasty—"

"No, Percy," Fred cut in. "Let’s be hasty."

"Let’s be downright reckless," George agreed. "This is the worst moment of my life."

Ron, who had been quiet up until now, muttered, "And yet you still lost Gryffindor Student of the Year award last year, Ginny."

"I will hex you-in front of strangers or not! “ Ginny snapped.

Fred and George took this as an opportunity to dramatically reenact Hogwarts' failures, complete with exaggerated spell-dueling and horrendous fake British accents and an increasingly baffling interpretive dance. "Oh no, dear brother," Fred intoned in an awful imitation of Percy. "I fear I cannot counter this curse, for I was only allowed to read about it!"

Percy, without even looking up, flicked his wand and hexed them both mid-performance. They stumbled as their noses turned bright green and started growing. Justice was swift.

The international students were now fully invested in the discussion. Léa looked deeply amused. "So, you are telling me that your school does not have dueling, no competitive magical theory, no international Quidditch program, inconsistent Defense classes, and no standard countercurse instruction until you are practically adults?"

"We do have an excellent library," Percy offered weakly.

"Oh, brilliant," Nadim said dryly. "So, if you get cursed, you can read about how to fix it!"

The entire group, including Percy's own siblings, burst into laughter much to his chagrin. This was going to haunt him for the rest of the summer. As the sun began to set, the international students realized it was time to depart and bid farewell to the Weasley siblings.

As the Weasleys continued down the street, the chicken reappeared, somehow still following them. Percy stared at it for a long moment before sighing. "I suppose you’re here to rub it in too?"

The chicken clucked in what Percy could only assume was agreement.

Yes. A very long summer indeed.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley was not, as a rule, an indulgent person. But after being publicly humiliated by a group of international students about Hogwarts’ woefully inadequate education system, he felt he had earned the right to sulk over ice cream.

And if he happened to buy enough for his siblings as well, it was only because it prevented them from talking too much.

It hadn’t taken them long to find a small vibrant Egyptian ice cream stand with its floating sign proudly boasting exotic flavors that even Florean Fortescue's couldn’t match. Flavors such as  Phoenix Fireberry , Cursed Caramel , and Sphinx’s Secret (which Percy did not trust in the slightest). He settled for a simple honey and date flavor, while Ginny picked hibiscus sorbet, Ron chose something called Exploding Mango (which did, in fact, explode), and the twins each got Fool’s Gold , which changed colors every few licks from a glistening gold to a dull brown.

Ginny licked her spoon thoughtfully. “You know, Percy, you shouldn’t take it too hard.”

Percy, still brooding, scowled into his ice cream. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She gave him a knowing look. “The whole ‘Hogwarts is rubbish’ conversation. It’s not your fault—no one’s really but maybe the Governors or Dumbledore.”

Percy sighed. “I know that. But I still don’t like knowing we’re so far behind other schools. It’s ridiculous.”

Ginny hummed in agreement. They ate in companionable silence for a moment before she spoke again, voice softer this time. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about last year.”

Percy turned to look at her properly. Ginny had been steadily improving since the Chamber ordeal, but she still had moments where she went quiet, where the shadows in her eyes made her look far older than twelve. He braced himself. “Yeah?”

She traced a finger through the condensation on her cup. “After it all—the craziness of it. I keep coming back to one thing—,” Ginny murmured, pausing as her eyes flickered up to Percy, who only nodded for her to continue. “Lucius Malfoy,” she softly confessed.

Percy’s grip on his spoon tightened. “What about him?”

Ginny met his gaze, eyes hard. “The diary—I remember it now. I didn’t get it by accident. It was him. He slipped it into my cauldron.”

Ginny’s words hit Percy like a slap. “Are you—are you sure?”

She nodded. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back, it was obvious. He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Percy’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “That—” He cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “That bastard .”

Ginny smirked slightly. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”

“I’ll do more than swear,” Percy said, ice cream momentarily forgotten. “I’ll ruin him.”

Ginny blinked. “What?”

“I mean it,” Percy said, straightening his glasses. His mind was already racing. “I don’t know how yet, but Lucius Malfoy will pay for what he did—for you.” 

And for Penelope.

Ginny looked both startled and pleased. “You’d do that?”

Percy set his jaw. “Of course. He hurt you,”

Ginny’s face softened, and she nudged his arm. “Thanks, Perce.”

Percy exhaled, forcing himself to relax. “No need to thank me, Gin. Karma has a way of catching up with people like Lucius Malfoy.”

Before Ginny could respond, however, disaster struck.

Percy had been so preoccupied with their conversation that he hadn’t noticed the way the twins had been whispering conspiratorially between each other or paid attention when Ron started snickering under his breath. This, in hindsight, was a mistake.

“Oi, Percy, look down!”

Percy barely had time to register Fred’s voice before he was unceremoniously shoved forward. He yelped as he stumbled, the ground beneath his feet suddenly vanishing. He landed with a thud on a cold, stone floor, dust flying up around him, sending him into a coughing fit.

The unmistakable sound of twin laughter echoed above him though muffled by layers and layers of stone.  

“Whoops.” Percy could hear George shout. “Guess we should’ve warned you sooner about the invisible ledge. That’s payback brother, for hexing us green in front of those lovely foreigners!”

“Have fun, Perce!” Fred’s voice added, vibrating down through the earth.

Above, Ginny’s whining voice barely reached Percy’s ears. “Really? He just bought us all ice cream!”

Percy groaned, rubbing his elbow as he pushed himself up, eyeing his new surroundings in suspicion. He was within some sort of ancient tomb, lit only by the dim glow of magical torches which casted eerie shadows across the walls. Taking scope of his predicament, Percy exhaled sharply, taking a moment to compose himself. “When I get out of here,” he muttered darkly, “you are both going to regret this.”

With a cautious step forward, Percy ignored the faint scuffling sounds in the distance that he absolutely refused to acknowledge as potential mummy noises . The exit was nowhere in sight, but that was fine because Percy Weasley did not panic. 

Percy Weasley had a quill, parchment, and an unmatched talent for formal complaints. So with a steady hand, he drew out a sheet of parchment, and pressed his quill to its surface, writing in the scarce torch light.

To Whom It May Concern,
I regret to inform you that your tomb security measures are wholly inadequate, as evidenced by my current involuntary entrapment…

By the time he finished detailing every flaw in the tomb’s design (including a rather scathing paragraph about the irresponsibility of allowing unsupervised tourists to fall inside) and put the letter in what seemed to be a complaint box, the ancient magic embedded in the walls seemed to take offense. 

With a low rumble, the stone shifted, and a doorway appeared at the far end.

Percy huffed at the sight, tucking the letter away. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, stepping through the newly revealed exit—only to find himself right back on the same street with his siblings, who were still waiting for him.

Fred let out a low whistle. “Blimey, that was quick!”

George grinned. “Told you he’d be out in under ten minutes,” he said, nudging Fred.

Percy narrowed his eyes. “You bet on how long it would take me to escape?”

“Well, obviously,” Fred said. “But in our defense, we had complete faith you’d make it out.”

“Eventually,” George added.

Ginny burst into laughter, while Ron shook his head, looking caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant admiration. 

Ginny wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling. “But really, Percy— how did you get out?”

Percy straightened his robes, adjusting his glasses with an air of self-satisfaction. “I filed a formal complaint.”

Silence.

Fred blinked. “You what?”

“I found a desk—well, a stone slab that seemed like one—and I drafted an official grievance regarding the lack of proper signage and the frankly appalling state of the passageway,” Percy said, his voice growing more indignant as he recalled the details. “Then I submitted it through what appeared to be an ancient complaints box. Moments later, the walls rearranged themselves to let me out. Rather efficient, actually.”

The entire group just stared at him.

“You—” Ron started, looking halfway between horrified and amazed. “You bureaucratted your way out of a cursed tomb?”

Fred let out an impressed whistle. “That’s got to be a first.”

George shook his head in wonder. “You formally complained at ancient magic… and it worked ?”

Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Percy, that’s—that’s brilliant.”

Fred and George exchanged glances before clapping Percy on the back, looking uncharacteristically proud.

“That’s our brother!” Fred declared.

“A true Weasley, through and through,” George added with a grin.

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose, but he couldn’t quite hide the smug little smile tugging at his lips. “Just—let’s get to the Prophet photographer before Mum finds out about this.”

Their parents were waiting at the designated meeting spot, where a photographer from The Daily Prophet was already setting up, covering up  the expensive camera with a cloth to protect its inner workings from sand. Meanwhile, Molly fussed over Ginny’s hair while Arthur dusted off Ron’s robes, both utterly oblivious to the chaos that had just transpired.

The photographer gestured them into position. “Alright, everyone, close together! A nice, big smile!”

Fred and George, still looking far too pleased with themselves, took their places with grins, while Ron subtly nudged Percy, clearly still amused by his unconventional escape. Ginny rolled her eyes but sidled closer to Percy, giving his arm a quick squeeze—whether in apology for their brothers or appreciation for his earlier promise, he wasn’t sure.

However, just before the camera flashed, the twins exaggerated their grins to absurd proportions, Ginny shot them a look of half-exasperation, and Ron snickered with Scabbers perched on his shoulders.

Percy attempted something resembling a composed expression, but he had no doubt it would come out looking like a man quietly suffering. As the camera clicked, Percy sighed, already dreading whatever absurd caption The Daily Prophet would pair with their picture. He had a feeling it would haunt him for years to come.

But as he glanced at Ginny, still smiling beside him, and his brothers, already plotting their next bit of mischief, he found himself feeling something unexpected. For all the chaos, the interruptions, and the occasional humiliating experiences, it hadn’t been all bad. Maybe, just maybe, he would even look back on it fondly. And as he straightened his glasses and prepared to face whatever Hogwarts had in store, he supposed he could admit—just to himself—that this summer had been better than he ever thought it would be.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley sat hunched over his desk, the flickering candlelight making him look less like a diligent student and more like a criminal mastermind in the final act of his greatest scheme. The old furniture around him creaked with the weight of years and dust, but Percy, focused as always, seemed to ignore it all. He was staring at the parchment in front of him, quill poised like a general ready to strike.

The letter to the Hogwarts Board of Governors was nearly finished—nearly—a work of art, really. Michelangelo had the Sistine Chapel. Percy had this letter. He could almost hear the applause in his mind as he reviewed it again, ensuring that every accusation was tucked in like a well-aimed hex, every suggestion phrased in such a way that it appeared not only authoritative but inevitable.

It was perfect .

The letter claimed to be from the Ministry of Finance. Of course, the Ministry of Finance had no business with Hogwarts' budget, but that small, insignificant detail was for lesser minds to worry about. Percy had crafted it with a subtlety and finesse that would make even the most astute examiner second-guess themselves.

The target was clear—Lucius Malfoy. That slimy, pompous, arrogant—oh, how Percy longed for the day he'd get to tell him exactly what he thought of him. Lucius was a convenient villain, sure, but that wasn't the only reason Percy had decided to implicate him. No. This was personal . It was about the children— his children. Ginny, in particular.

Lucius had been involved in everything that went wrong during the Chamber of Secrets. Everything. And Percy was determined, not just to make Hogwarts a better place, but to make sure that his family was no longer under the shadow of someone like Malfoy.

"Just one more signature," Percy muttered, drawing the quill across the paper. He paused to look at the elegant flourish he'd added to the name—slightly exaggerated but still believable, right? 

The nagging little voice in his head piped up, You’re forging official documents .

Percy exhaled dramatically, pushing his spectacles up his nose , trying to ignore the twinge of guilt. “It’s for a good cause,” he muttered, as if that would somehow make it better. “Hogwarts needs it... the children need it... the reforms need it.”

There. That should silence the little conscience nagging at him. After all, if anyone could save Hogwarts from the chaos of mismanagement, it was Percy. He’d been a prefect for years; now, as Head Boy, surely, it was his duty to step up. He was better than the rest of them. After all, how could he not be? He was doing the job none of them were doing.

The children , he repeated to himself, as if this single phrase could absolve him of any lingering moral dilemmas.

"You've got this, Percy," he muttered, as though willing himself to believe it. "You're doing the right thing. They’ll never know."

He was about to sign the letter for the last time when a sudden thought stopped him. Would the Ministry notice? Could he be caught?

This is forgery , he thought, just as the little voice inside his head reminded him again.

“Fine, it's forgery—but noble forgery!” he snapped, as though arguing before the Wizengamot."And if anyone asks, I’ll just say it was part of my reform efforts . No one ever questions reforms and it’s not like anyone is going to know about it.”

He looked at his carefully crafted document and smiled. “A brilliant move, Percy”. Now all he had to do was to get it into the hands of the Governors before anyone could question it. It was almost too easy.

"That’s it. I’m done."

The voice of his mother interrupted his moment of triumph with a casual, “Percy, dinner!”

He winced, hastily shoving the letter into the drawer of his desk, leaving just enough of a crease to make it look like an accident. No one would think it was deliberate. They would think it was just a little misstep in a long day of bureaucratic nonsense. No one would ever suspect Percy Weasley. He was, after all, the very model of rule-abiding perfection. If anything, they’d probably give him a medal.

"I’m coming!" he called, adjusting his robes and making sure nothing looked out of place. No need to let anyone see him rubbing his hands together in triumph .

Dinner was in full swing, and as always, his mind was a million miles away from the ongoing chaos in the kitchen. The clatter of forks, the sound of his mother’s constant "Watch it!" directed at Fred and George, and the hum of distant chatter were all background noise as he mentally sorted through his latest plans.

Penelope was Head Girl.

Percy couldn’t hide the quiet thrill that curled through him at the thought. There were few people he respected more than Penelope, and her appointment only confirmed what he already knew—she was driven, meticulous, and brilliant. Of course, it had been expected that he would become Head Boy. But Penelope’s promotion had come as a delightful surprise. They’d both worked hard, but to see her in that role—well, it made the day feel that much more significant.

He was so absorbed in his day dreaming that he almost didn’t hear Ron clearing his throat across the table.

“Mum, Dad,  I’m telling you,” Ron said, his voice slightly muffled by a mouthful of potatoes. “Harry and Hermione are going to be at the Leaky Cauldron the day after tomorrow. They want to meet me there. It’ll be great.”

“Really?” Molly Weasley said, her voice a mix of curiosity and concern. She wiped her hands on a dish towel before leaning forward. “Why there? Not that I don’t trust the Leaky Cauldron, but isn’t that very crowded. Why don’t you meet elsewhere?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered at last. “But with everything that’s going on with Sirius Black, I don’t think this is going to be a normal visit. I just don’t like it. What if something goes wrong?”

Percy, in the middle of cutting his roast potatoes into precise, uniform squares, glanced up. He’d expected Ron to bring it up eventually, but this was the first time he was actually voicing his concern.

“Ron,” Percy said, setting down his fork, “you need to trust the Ministry. They have this under control. They’ll make sure Harry is perfectly safe.”

The table fell into a brief silence.

Fred and George exchanged amused glances. Ginny raised an eyebrow. Molly pursed her lips. Arthur, who had been about to take a sip of his drink, paused mid-motion.

Ron, however, didn’t seem remotely reassured. He threw down his fork with a clatter. “I don't care about what the Ministry’s doing , Percy. I’m worried about Harry . Danger Magnet Harry .You do remember everything that happens to him, don’t you?”

Percy sighed. “Of course I do. But he’s not exactly staying in a dragon’s den, is he? The Leaky Cauldron is one of the most watched locations in Diagon Alley, and the Ministry’s got half a dozen people keeping an eye on him.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Yeah, and how well did that work when Black escaped in the first place?”

Percy opened his mouth, then shut it again. Annoyingly, Ron had a point.

“I still want to go,” Ron pressed on. “Harry’s there, Hermione’s coming to get her books, and I never got to visit Diagon Alley this summer. Please?”

Molly exhaled through her nose. “Ronald, I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on, Mum! It’s just Diagon Alley! I’ll stay at the Leaky Cauldron, I won’t go running around, and I won’t—” he shot a glare at Fred and George, “—get into any trouble.”

Fred grinned. “We’d be more worried about trouble finding you.”

“Like it always does,” George added.

Molly still didn’t look convinced, but Arthur gave her a thoughtful nod. “The Leaky Cauldron is safe, Molly. And Harry should have a friend there with him.”

Ron looked pleadingly at his mother. “Please?”

Molly sighed, then relented. “Alright, but your siblings are coming with you. Stay together. No foolishness.”

Fred and George adopted identical expressions of mock innocence.

“Us?” Fred said, placing a hand over his heart.

“Foolishness?” George echoed, looking genuinely offended.

Molly gave them a sharp look, but Arthur grinned. “Molly, love, we were already planning to go. The kids need their school things, and I need to stop by the Ministry. We're just going earlier than planned.”

Percy perked up. “Oh, I should come with you, Dad. I have a few questions about interdepartmental procedures—”

Molly groaned. “Percy, for one day, could you just—” She waved a hand.

“Be normal?” Ginny supplied.

Percy huffed. “I am normal.”

Fred leaned toward George. “That’s exactly what someone not normal would say.”

“Suspicious, if you ask me,” George agreed.

Percy rolled his eyes as Ron grinned. “So we’re all going? Brilliant!”

Molly rubbed her temples. “Yes, but I expect good behavior.” She turned a sharp eye on the twins. “No pranks, no sneaking into Knockturn Alley, and no setting up a joke shop inside Flourish and Blotts again.”

“That was one time!” Fred protested.

“And technically outside the shop,” George pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Molly snapped. “Just behave!”

The twins shrugged.

Percy cleared his throat, adjusting his head boy badge out of sheer habit. “This is excellent. A coordinated approach to school shopping is far more efficient than staggered visits.”

Ginny sighed. “You make buying books sound like a Ministry operation.”

Percy ignored her, smoothing his robes. “I’ll also be keeping an eye on all of you while we’re there—”

Fred groaned. “Oh, brilliant. Our very own walking, talking rulebook.”

Percy lifted his chin. “That’s Head Boy walking, talking rulebook to you.”

Ron, meanwhile, had returned to his food, now grinning into his mashed potatoes.

Then, just as Percy was about to resume his meal—

BOOM.

The entire table jolted as a loud bang echoed from the kitchen, followed by a thick cloud of vivid, Weasley-red smoke billowing through the doorway.

Molly let out a sharp gasp. “Fred! George!”

Fred beamed. “Yes, Mum?”

George casually leaned back. “You’ll be pleased to know it works exactly as planned.”

Arthur blinked at the smoke. “Fascinating. What exactly does it do ?”

Ginny waved a hand in front of her face. “Aside from choking everyone in the house?”

Fred shrugged. “We’ll know in about—”

BANG. A series of tiny fireworks shot through the doorway, spelling out HEAD BOY PERCY in glittering gold letters before exploding into a shower of confetti.

Percy exhaled slowly, brushing bits of golden confetti out of his hair. “I hate this house.”

Laughter erupted around him.

But as the last sparks of the fireworks fizzled out, Percy caught sight of Fred and George’s grins—cheeky, proud, and just a little too pleased with themselves.

His ears burned, but he couldn’t quite suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Trust the twins to turn a prank into something dangerously close to sentimental.

He shook his head, muttering, “Idiots.”

Fred clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him into his plate. 

George smirked. “Admit it, You love these idiots, Perce.”

Percy rolled his eyes, trying for his usual long-suffering sigh—but as he brushed the last bits of confetti off his plate, he let himself, just for a moment, enjoy it.

Chapter Text

The moment Percy stepped out of the Floo Network into the bustling chaos of Diagon Alley, he was already regretting his decision to come. The air hummed with chatter, the scent of freshly baked cauldron cakes mixed with the sharp tang of potion ingredients, and all around, children darted between shops, their parents struggling to keep them in check. It was all so... inefficient.

"Right," Percy announced, brushing soot off his robes. "If we organize this trip properly, we can be done in under two hours. We should start with school supplies, then books, then—"

"—then maybe you should loosen up before you combust," Fred cut in, clapping Percy on the back. "It's a shopping trip, Perce, not a Ministry audit."

"Yeah, have some fun," George added. "Or at least pretend you're capable of it."

Percy sighed, adjusting his Head Boy badge. "Some of us have responsibilities."

"And some of us have lives," Fred shot back with a grin.

Before Percy could respond, Ginny had already disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for Quality Quidditch Supplies and the twins to wherever chaos was present. With a huff of disapproval, Ron, impatient as ever, dragged the entire group toward the Leaky Cauldron the moment they arrived. "I’m starving," he declared. "We can shop after a snack."

Percy, muttering about efficiency, followed along, though he didn’t bother ordering anything when they sat at a table. The pub was bustling, a mix of shoppers, travelers, and Hogwarts students catching up before term started.

As they settled in, Ron immediately scanned the pub, ignoring Percy's attempt to establish a proper itinerary. His eyes landed on a familiar bushy haired figure first. "Hermione!"

Hermione, sitting alone with a book list and a cup of tea, looked up and beamed. "Ron! I was hoping I'd see you lot soon. My parents just dropped me off—how’s shopping?”

"We just got here. Well, technically, we just got here and then I declared we needed food immediately," Ron admitted, flopping into the seat across from her. "Mum’s running errands, and Percy’s already trying to make this a nightmare."

Percy huffed. "Having a plan is not a nightmare, Ronald. It’s basic organization."

"If you say so," Ron said through a mouthful of bread. "Where’s Harry?" Ron asked, glancing around.

Hermione set down her tea. "Still upstairs, I think. He’s been stuck here all summer—couldn’t even leave the Leaky Cauldron."

Ron frowned. "That’s rubbish. Bet he’s bored out of his mind."

Hermione nodded before turning to Percy. "Percy, you took electives when you were in your third year. What did you pick?"

Percy straightened, pleased to be consulted. "I took Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Both highly useful subjects with real-world applications. Divination, on the other hand, is more—"

"Pointless? Useless?" Ron supplied helpfully.

Percy sniffed. "Let’s just say it’s not known for its academic rigor."

Hermione sighed. "Well, I picked almost everything."

Ron choked on his drink. "Almost—what? How?"

Percy, listening despite himself, raised an eyebrow. "That seems... excessive. Even by your standards."

Hermione, unfazed, continued. "I just think it’s important to get a well rounded education. And Muggleborns don’t always know what’s useful in the wizarding world. For example, I didn’t even realize how important Runes were until last year! No one tells us these things." She glanced at Percy. "Purebloods grow up understanding the system. We have to catch up."

Percy, caught off guard, frowned. He had assumed students chose electives based on interest or skill, not because they were scrambling to understand a system that had never been explained to them. Of course, he'd always assumed Muggleborns had to work a bit harder in the beginning, but he had never considered how much essential knowledge they simply didn’t receive.

Before he could formulate a response, a new voice joined the conversation.

“Ron! Hermione!”

Harry had appeared at the top of the stairs, a grin spreading across his face as he spotted his friends. Before either of them could react, he was already striding over, pulling them both into a quick, tight hug.

Ron clapped him on the back. "Alright, mate? Feels like we haven’t seen you in ages."

Hermione, beaming, pulled back. "Are you okay? You’ve been stuck here all summer!"

Harry shrugged as he slid into the seat beside them. "Yeah, not terrible, but not great either. What were you lot talking about?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Electives. School hasn’t even started, and Hermione’s already thinking about classes."

Hermione huffed. "It’s important!"

Harry snorted. Then, as if the thought had just struck him, he groaned. "Forget electives—I haven’t even been able to fly! Wood’s going to kill me when he finds out I haven’t practiced all summer."

Ron hiccupped into his water. "Yeah, he’ll probably have you doing double training sessions to make up for it."

Percy, who had been listening quietly, raised an eyebrow. "Why haven’t you been practicing?"

Harry gave him a look. "Because I don’t exactly have a backyard big enough for a broom, and the Muggle neighbors would probably notice if I started zooming around on one."

Hermione nodded. "It’s not just Harry. Loads of students don’t get to practice magic or quidditch over the summer, especially Muggle-borns. Meanwhile, Malfoy and the rest probably had all the training they wanted."

"Some even get private coaching," Harry added.

Percy stiffened. "At their age? For quidditch??"

"Obviously," Hermione said. "If your family has the money, you can get the best gear, the best trainers, whatever you need to be ahead before the school year even starts."

"Yeah," Ron muttered. "Meanwhile, the rest of us just hope we don’t fall off the school brooms."

Percy sat back, processing this. He had always thought Quidditch was just a game—fun, certainly, but not something that required any real intelligence. It was baffling enough that students treated it like life or death, but private coaching? For flying in circles and throwing a ball through a hoop? The idea that money could buy an advantage in something so trivial seemed absurd. But then again, Quidditch wasn’t just about the game, was it?

Players—especially the right players—made connections. Being a star on the Gryffindor team meant people remembered your name, respected you. It opened doors. Even he, despite having no interest in the sport, had seen how it worked. He’d watched Oliver Wood chat easily with upper-year students, seen how even first-years spoke in hushed admiration about the best players. If you were good enough, people noticed. And if the right people noticed, well...

Still, it hardly seemed fair that some students could buy their way to an advantage. But that was the case for more than just Quidditch, wasn’t it? 

Ron, oblivious to Percy’s internal crisis, pushed his empty plate aside. "Alright, we should get moving. I need to grab something for Scabbers at the pet shop before we go to the bookstore. You lot coming?"

Percy, still deep in thought, only nodded absentmindedly as they left the Leaky Cauldron and stepped back into the lively streets of Diagon Alley.

Before he could dwell further on it, a high-pitched shriek cut through the street.

Percy turned just in time to see Ron storming into the Magical Menagerie, eyes widening in horror as he spotted a mass of ginger fur prowling across the counter.

"WHAT IS THAT DOING HERE?!" he bellowed, pointing at Crookshanks.

Hermione, who had been chatting with the shopkeeper, clutched her new pet protectively. "Oh, Ron, don’t be dramatic."

Ron’s face turned an alarming shade of red. "Dramatic? Hermione, tell me you did not just—"

"She did," Harry muttered, eyeing Crookshanks warily.

Ron let out something between a gasp and a strangled noise of betrayal. "You bought it?! The menace that’s been trying to murder Scabbers since the moment it laid eyes on him?!"

Crookshanks, as if sensing the attention, stretched lazily and let out a self-satisfied purr.

"I think he’s lovely," Hermione said primly, scratching under Crookshanks’ chin. "And he’s very intelligent."

Ron looked moments away from combusting when Scabbers—who had been hiding in his pocket, trembling—chose that exact moment to bolt.

The rat launched himself off Ron’s shoulder, squeaking in pure terror, and Crookshanks immediately sprang into action.

"NO, NO, NO—SCABBERS!" Ron howled, diving after him as all hell broke loose.

The entire shop erupted into chaos.

Several other cats hissed and leapt onto the highest perches they could find. A sleek black kneazle swiped irritably at Ron’s head as he scrambled past. A stack of enchanted cat food tins toppled over, rolling across the floor. A feathery green Puffskein, startled by the commotion, bounced straight into Percy’s face.

"Merlin’s beard—" Percy spluttered, peeling the Puffskein off his glasses just in time to dodge a flying jar of toad spawn.

The shopkeeper, a sharp-eyed witch named Thansi, whirled around in outrage.

"OI! Take this madness elsewhere before you scare the kneazles bald!" she snapped, throwing her hands in the air.

Meanwhile, Crookshanks had cornered Scabbers behind a stack of wicker pet baskets, tail flicking dangerously. Ron lunged forward, grabbing his rat just before Crookshanks could pounce. Scabbers trembled violently in his hands, his whiskers twitching with sheer terror.

Hermione, holding Crookshanks firmly, looked both guilty and defensive. "He’s just got a healthy hunting instinct!" she argued.

"HE'S A MENACE!" Ron roared, clutching Scabbers like a lifeline.

Thansi, completely ignoring them, scooped up a delicate white cat named Fathi, stroking her fur and cooing, "There, there, my darling, you're safe now. Those awful hooligans won’t bother you."

Percy rubbed his temples, feeling a headache forming. "If you lot are done destroying this fine establishment, can we please move on? I apologise madam for the stress it has caused you."

Thansi shot them a withering glare as she turned her back, and Ron, still fuming, muttered, "Gladly."

As they hurried out of the shop, Crookshanks shot one last, smug glance at Scabbers, as if promising this wasn’t over.

Back outside, Arthur rejoined them, looking pleased with himself. “And my work is done!,” he announced.

Percy, still stewing over his earlier conversation, took a deep breath. “Dad... why doesn’t the Ministry do something about Muggleborn students who don’t have access to magic during the summer? Or about broom privileges? Isn’t that unfair?”

Arthur blinked in surprise. “Well, Percy, those are complicated issues. Change doesn’t happen overnight. And to be honest, most of the people in charge don’t see it as a priority.”

Fred gasped dramatically. “Unless you’re a werewolf. Or a Metamorphmagus. Or our mum redecorating the kitchen.”

George nodded sagely. “Ah, yes. In those cases, change happens at breakneck speed.”

Percy scowled.

“But that’s ridiculous,” Percy said, frustration creeping into his voice. “If students are at a disadvantage just because of their background, isn’t that exactly the kind of thing the Ministry should be fixing?”

Arthur gave him a small, proud smile. “You know, Percy, I agree with you. But bureaucracy moves slow, and most people in power don’t like shaking things up. It’s easier to maintain the status quo.”

Fred elbowed Percy. “You mean the Ministry isn’t the shining beacon of fairness and logic you always say it is? What a tragedy.”

George put a solemn hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Stay strong, Perce. Disillusionment is a painful process.”

Percy frowned, but their words stung more than he wanted to admit.

As the shopping trip wound down, Percy observed Diagon Alley with fresh eyes. He saw first years clutching hand-me-down robes, wide eyed students gazing longingly at expensive Nimbus brooms, and booklists filled with texts that cost more than some families could afford.

He adjusted his Head Boy badge almost absentmindedly, then adjusted it again. And again.

Ginny, who had just returned from a one-sided staring contest with the Firebolt display, leaned over. “You keep doing that, and it’s going to file for workplace harassment.”

Percy froze mid adjustment.

For the first time, he wasn’t sure if the system he had put his faith in was as fair as he had always believed.

A seed of doubt had been planted.

Fred slung an arm around his shoulders. “Cheer up, Perce! Think of all the thrilling paperwork you’ll get to file when you single-handedly fix the system.”

Percy straightened. “…That’s actually a good point.”

George groaned. “Great. We almost lost him to independent thought for a second.”

Chapter Text

The moment Percy stepped onto the crowded platform of King’s Cross Station, he felt the familiar dread settle in his chest. Every year, he approached this journey with a plan—a streamlined, efficient way to get his family through the station, onto the platform, and into their compartments without catastrophe.

And every year, his family actively sabotaged him.

“Everyone let’s stay together,” Percy instructed as they weaved through the throng of Muggles. “We don’t have time for distractions.”

Naturally, everyone immediately scattered.

Fred and George vanished into the crowd, whispering gleefully about some last-minute prank. Ginny became enthralled with a Muggle vending machine, smacking the side of it as if she could will it to dispense snacks by force. Ron, who was supposed to be keeping an eye on their trunks, was entirely preoccupied with Hermione, who was trying to reason with him while Crookshanks eyed Scabbers with murderous intent.

Arthur, instead of helping, had paused beside a parking meter, peering at it like it held the secrets of the universe.

Percy exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dad, please. Not now.”

Arthur looked up, beaming. “Brilliant little devices, aren’t they? Imagine if we had these in the wizarding world—charging a few Knuts for parking a broom—”

Molly yanked him forward before Percy spontaneously combusted.

The group finally reached the barrier, and one by one, they slipped through onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, emerging into thick steam and the steady chatter of Hogwarts students. The scarlet engine loomed over them, whistle shrieking, as students dragged heavy trunks toward the train.

Before Percy could attempt to restore some order, a familiar voice called out nearby.

“Oh! Hermione, sweetheart, do you have everything?”

Percy turned to see Mr. and Mrs. Granger standing beside Hermione, looking both proud and slightly overwhelmed. It was always easy to spot Muggle parents on the platform—they tended to stare at everything a little too long, as if still struggling to believe it was real.

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled as her mother fussed over her scarf, making sure it was tucked in properly. “Mum, I’m fine,” she said, though she didn’t pull away too quickly.

Mr. Granger who was holding Crookshanks like he wasn’t entirely convinced the cat wasn’t possessed, adjusted his glasses and glanced over at Percy and the rest of the Weasleys.

“Nice to see you again, Percy” he said politely.

Percy nodded, pleased to be addressed. “Likewise. Looking forward to another academically stimulating year Hermione, I presume?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hermione said. “I have a detailed study plan already—”

Ron groaned. “We haven’t even gotten on the train yet, Hermione.”

Hermione ignored him and turned back to her parents. “I’ll write to you both as soon as I settle in.”

Mrs. Granger hugged her tightly, and for a brief moment, Hermione looked far younger than she usually did. “Stay safe, darling. And if you need anything—”

“Mum, Hogwarts isn’t in another galaxy,” Hermione said, voice softer now.

Percy watched as Mrs. Granger sighed, reluctant but resigned, and let go. Mr. Granger handed Crookshanks back, shaking his head as the cat immediately began squirming to get free.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, giving her shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back.

Hermione smiled one last time, then turned quickly, as if reluctant to linger too long.

Fred elbowed Ron, who had been watching Hermione for a rather long time now. “You gonna cry, mate?”

Ron flushed. “Shut up.”

With that, Hermione marched toward the train, Crookshanks still grumbling in her arms.

The Grangers watched her go, exchanging a quiet, uncertain glance, then disappeared back through the barrier.

Percy cleared his throat, pushing aside the brief, unexpected pang of sympathy. He had never really thought about what it must be like for Muggle born parents, sending their children off to a world they couldn’t even step into.

But there was no time to dwell. Chaos was once again in full swing.

Fred and George had already enchanted someone’s luggage to chase them down the platform while cackling like demons. Molly, furious, launched into a full-volume scolding session as the poor first-year fled from his own suitcase. Ron and Hermione were still fighting as they settled aboard the train about Crookshanks, who was straining against his carrier in an attempt to launch himself at Scabbers.

Percy surveyed this horrifying display of zero discipline, absolute disregard for time management, and sheer anarchy, and let out a slow, controlled breath.

“I still cannot believe I am related to you lot,” he muttered.

Fred, who had appeared beside him, clapped him on the back hard enough to knock him forward. “Neither can we, Perce.”

Percy was now strongly considering moving to a cave in the Scottish Highlands when the train whistle blew again, signaling the final boarding call.

As he turned toward the train, his gaze landed on Penelope Clearwater. She was already aboard, speaking with another prefect, her expression calm and composed, her uniform perfectly neat.

Unlike the absolute chaos unfolding behind him.

For a fleeting moment, Percy wished he were already seated beside her in the Prefects’ compartment, discussing new rule enforcement strategies instead of supervising his family of anarchists.

But no. He had responsibilities .

From his new vantage point, Percy caught sight of his father crouched beside Harry, talking in low, serious tones.

Arthur clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, alright?”

Harry nodded, though Percy wasn’t entirely convinced.

With a final glance at his father and Harry, Percy straightened his robes and boarded the train.

He had a feeling this year was going to be absolutely demented.

Percy strode into the Prefects’ compartment, his Head Boy badge gleaming as he adjusted it for what must have been the tenth time that morning. This was it—the first meeting of the year. A moment of structure, order, and actual responsibility. He needed this after enduring the catastrophe that had been his family’s journey to the train.

The compartment was already filling with students. The newly appointed fifth year prefects sat stiffly, their expressions ranging from mild terror to excessive eagerness. The returning sixth and seventh years were more composed, exchanging quiet greetings as they settled in. Penelope Clearwater was seated at the head of the compartment, already flipping through the agenda they had prepared over the summer. Percy allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at the sight of her. At least someone here took things seriously. The train started moving.

As the train carried them deeper into the countryside, Percy sat with Penelope in their compartment, exchanging a few casual remarks. But as the fields blurred past the window, he felt the weight of responsibility settle over him. He could only delay for so long—soon, he would have to start the prefects' meeting.

"Alright then," Percy began, stepping to the front. "Now that we’re all here, let’s get started. First, we’ll be reviewing this year’s updated patrol schedules—"

A low murmur rippled through the room as students glanced toward the door. Percy frowned at the interruption. "—and as I was saying, we will also discuss—"

A cold shiver ran down his spine.

The chatter died instantly.

The air inside the compartment shifted. It was as if all warmth had been sucked out at once, leaving behind something heavy, pressing, unbearable. The lanterns dimmed, their light flickering as if struggling to stay aflame.

Then came the feeling.

A creeping, gnawing dread curled into Percy’s stomach, pulling at the edges of his mind like some invisible force trying to drag him into darkness. His thoughts slowed, his breath hitched—he had never felt anything like this before.

The glass of the compartment door fogged over, ice crystallizing at the edges.

And then, it came.

A shadowed figure, gliding silently through the open doorway.

A Dementor.

A real, actual Dementor was aboard the Hogwarts Express.

The fifth year prefect from Ravenclaw let out a strangled gasp. Someone on the Hufflepuff side dropped their quill. A Slytherin girl whimpered, clutching at her robes. Percy’s mouth went dry. He had read about them, of course. Studied them in great detail. He knew what they were, what they did. But nothing in a textbook had ever described this.

This awful, suffocating presence, the way its very existence seemed to pull the light from the world, how the edges of Percy’s vision blurred as if something was pressing into his skull, forcing every thought downward into a slow, dull abyss.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Somewhere, far away, he heard the choked sound of someone sobbing quietly.

Then, from the other end of the compartment, a voice—shaky but determined—rose above the silence.

“Expecto Patronum!”

A blinding flash of silver erupted through the fog, and Percy gasped as the weight pressing down on his chest eased just enough for him to think again. Through the haze, he saw the seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect standing at the far end of the compartment, their wand extended. The silver light flickered, taking form—not a full Patronus, not quite, but enough. A wisp of bright energy, enough to push back the Dementor.

The shadowed figure stilled, its empty hood tilting, then, as if unwilling to challenge the magic any further, it slowly drifted backward out of the doorway.

The moment it disappeared, the warmth rushed back into the room. The lanterns flared brighter. The glass defrosted. Percy shuddered as he inhaled sharply, realizing how cold his fingers had gone.

For several moments, no one spoke.

A Gryffindor prefect wiped her eyes furiously, her breath still uneven. A Ravenclaw boy swallowed thickly, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. Percy forced himself to straighten his robes, trying to reassemble his composure. He was Head Boy. He had to be in control.

But his hands were still shaking.

“Well,” he said, voice only slightly weaker than he would have liked, “I believe that was… an unexpected interruption.”

No one laughed.

The seventh year Hufflepuff prefect Cam, still clutching their wand, finally exhaled. “They shouldn’t be here.” Their voice was hoarse. “The Dementors. Dumbledore said they’d be stationed around the school, not on the train.”

Percy’s stomach tightened. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—the fact that the Dementors had come aboard or how utterly useless he had been against them. He looked at the Hufflepuff and, before he could stop himself, asked, "How did you do that?"

Cam blinked at him, clearly still shaken, but after a moment, they squared their shoulders. "I practiced," they admitted, rubbing at their temple like they had a headache. "Had to. My mum’s in Azkaban. We visit her sometimes."

The words hit Percy like a physical blow.

Azkaban.

The place filled with Dementors, their presence constant, inescapable. A prison where people were left to rot inside their own worst memories until nothing remained of who they had been. He suddenly understood more than he wanted to , why someone would go out of their way to learn a Patronus at this age.

The prefect took a deep breath. "I don’t always get a proper form, but I’ve been working on it since last year. My dad says it helps keep the worst of it away when we visit."

Percy, who had always viewed Dementors as some distant, academic horror, found himself at a loss for words. He had faced one Dementor for mere seconds and had felt himself unraveling. He couldn't imagine walking into a place where they swarmed, where they waited, where they were the air you breathed. And yet, people—innocent people—went there just to see their families.

"I see," Percy said, voice quieter than usual. "That was—impressive magic. Thank you."

The Hufflepuff gave a tight nod and sank onto the bench, looking like they wanted to think about anything else.

A small movement near the corner of the compartment caught Percy’s eye. Penny. She was seated, hands clenched in her lap, her usual composed expression nowhere to be found. Her lips were pressed together, but he could see the tension in her jaw, the way her breath wasn’t quite even. It unsettled him. Penelope was logical, focused. Unshakable. But not now. She wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring down at the floor like she was still trapped in the moment the Dementor had entered.

He wanted to say something, to check on her—but not here. Not in front of all the prefects who had just seen their Head Boy freeze up like a terrified first-year.

He straightened his robes, forcing himself back into control. "Alright," he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. "Everyone should go check on their houses. We’ll reconvene later, once we’ve all had time to—" He hesitated. Recover? Process? Pretend that hadn’t just happened? "...gather ourselves."

No one argued.

As the prefects moved sluggishly to their feet, Percy turned toward the door, jaw set. He needed to check on his siblings. They needed him more than Penny right now. She would understand.

The halls of the train were buzzing with low, anxious voices—students whispering about what had just happened, the Dementors, the unnatural cold. A few younger students still looked pale and shaken.

He started with Ginny.

It wasn’t difficult to find her compartment. It was one of the quieter ones, away from the usual raucous gathering of Gryffindors. He slid the door open to find Ginny sitting by the window, arms crossed, staring absently at the passing countryside. Opposite her sat Luna Lovegood, flipping idly through a copy of The Quibbler, seemingly unfazed by the earlier disturbance.

Percy cleared his throat. “Everything alright in here?”

Ginny barely glanced at him. “Peachy.”

Luna looked up, her dreamy expression unchanging. “You’ve still got a bit of Dementor residue on you,” she said vaguely, tilting her head. “It clings.”

Percy had no idea how to respond to that. “Right.”

Ginny sighed, rubbing her arms as if still cold. “We felt it, you know. Even here.”

Percy hesitated. He had been so focused on what happened in the Prefects’ compartment that he hadn’t considered how far the Dementors’ effect might have spread.

“I know,” he said eventually. “It was—unexpected.”

Ginny snorted. “Understatement of the year.”

Percy frowned, glancing at her more closely. He didn’t like how tense she looked, how she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. His mind flashed back to last year, to the Chamber of Secrets, to the days she spent pale and quiet, burdened by something none of them had fully noticed until it was too late.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

Ginny finally looked at him then, something unreadable in her expression. “I’m fine, Percy,” she said, too firmly. “I don’t need you fussing.”

That was exactly the kind of thing someone not fine would say, but Percy knew better than to push. Not now.

Instead, he nodded stiffly. “Alright. Just—if anything’s wrong, you’ll tell me.”

Ginny let out a small huff, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Yeah, sure.”

Luna, who had been watching this exchange like a casual observer of a play, finally spoke. “I wouldn’t worry too much. Dementors can’t steal what’s already been taken.”

Percy blinked. “What?”

But Luna had already returned to her magazine.

Ginny waved a hand. “Ignore her. She talks like that all the time.”

Percy wasn’t sure he could ignore that, but there were more people to check on. He sighed, adjusting his robes. “Fine. Just—stay safe, alright?”

Ginny rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. That was the best he was going to get.

Next, he made his way down the train to find Ron. The Gryffindor compartment was easy to spot, mostly because it was still filled with the loud hum of conversation and movement despite the earlier chill. He opened the door to find Ron, Harry, and Hermione inside, looking considerably worse for wear.

Harry looked pale, his forehead damp with sweat, while Ron had an expression of someone who had just been violently reminded of a terrible memory. Hermione, though visibly shaken, was the most composed of the three, though she kept glancing worriedly at Harry.

Percy shut the door behind him and crossed his arms. “What happened?”

Ron, still holding onto Scabbers as if the rat were a lifeline, let out a weak laugh. “You mean besides the Dementor waltzing in like it owned the place?”

Percy frowned. He had assumed the Dementors were just searching the train generally, but it seemed like this one had gone straight for Harry.

“I saw Dad talking to you earlier,” Percy said, glancing at Harry. “Did he say anything about this?”

Harry shook his head. “Just that I should be careful.” He hesitated, then admitted, “I heard screaming.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “Screaming?”

Harry swallowed. “When the Dementor got closer. It was like—like I could hear someone screaming in my head.”

Ron visibly shuddered. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t much better for the rest of us. It felt like I’d never be happy again.”

Percy exhaled sharply, pushing a hand through his hair. This was bad. The Dementors weren’t supposed to be doing this. They were supposed to be stationed around Hogwarts, not making their way onto the train, reducing students to emotional wrecks before term even started.

“You should tell McGonagall when we get to Hogwarts,” Percy said finally, looking at Harry. “If they’re affecting you worse than others—”

Harry scowled. “I don’t need special treatment.”

Percy’s lips thinned. “That’s not what I meant.”

Before the conversation could continue spiraling, Hermione intervened. “We’ll figure it out,” she said, sending Harry a reassuring look. “Dumbledore won’t let them near the castle if they’re making students collapse.”

Percy wasn’t so sure, but there was nothing else he could do here.

He gave one last glance at Ron. “You sure you’re alright?”

Ron snorted. “Not in the slightest.”

That, at least, was honest.

Percy left them to it and made his way toward Fred and George’s compartment. He could already hear Lee Jordan’s voice carrying down the corridor.

Inside, the twins and Lee were seated, talking in low, urgent tones. Their usual relaxed postures were gone. Fred was leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, while George tapped his fingers against his leg in agitated thought.

Lee noticed Percy first. “Ah, Head Boy himself,” he greeted, though his usual humor lacked its usual bite. “Come to check if we’ve been traumatized?”

Percy ignored him. “You alright?”

Fred shrugged. “Yeah, mate, all good. Just a lovely start to the school year. Nothing like a near death experience before the feast.”

George, however, wasn’t so quick to joke. “What the hell are Dementors doing here, Percy?”

Percy sighed, closing the door behind him. “I don’t know. They boarded the train without warning. They were in the Prefects’ compartment too.”

Fred and Lee exchanged glances.

George scoffed. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Yeah, let’s just let a bunch of soul sucking monsters roam around a school full of kids. What could possibly go wrong?”

Lee let out a sharp breath. “They make it hard to think, you know?” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “Like you’re trapped in your own head, but everything’s wrong.”

Percy nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I know.”

The compartment went quiet for a moment. Percy rarely agreed with them on anything, but this was different.

Eventually, Fred stretched and leaned back, putting his feet up on the opposite seat. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make sure Hogwarts is a very unwelcoming place for Dementors.”

George smirked. “A little sabotage never hurt anyone.”

Percy sighed. “Just—nothing illegal.”

Fred gasped, mock-offended. “Percy. Would we ever do something illegal?”

Lee grinned. “Technically, bending the rules isn’t the same as breaking them.”

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. He was suddenly very tired.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just—stay out of trouble.”

Fred and George saluted him in mock sincerity.

Percy did not believe them for a second.

Percy left the twins' compartment feeling heavier than before. Checking on his siblings had done little to ease the gnawing discomfort in his chest. The train still felt colder than it should, even with the Dementors gone. The thought of them returning—of that awful, hollow feeling creeping back in—made his stomach twist.

But there was still one more person he needed to check on.

He made his way back to the Prefects' compartment, though most of the other prefects had already left to patrol the train or to sit with their friends. When he slid the door open, he found Penelope still there, sitting by the window, staring blankly at the passing scenery.

She didn’t acknowledge him at first, didn’t even look up when he stepped inside. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and for the first time in all the years he had known her, she looked shaken.

Percy shut the door behind him. “Penny.”

She exhaled softly, finally turning to face him. Her usual composure was cracked—her hands were still clenched, her breathing was slow and deliberate, like she was trying to steady herself.

“That was…” she trailed off, shaking her head slightly. “Worse than I thought it would be.”

Percy sat beside her without hesitation. “I know.”

She was silent for a moment, her gaze flickering down toward her hands, as though debating whether to admit something. “I—I thought I was fine at first,” she murmured. “But when it got closer, I just… couldn’t move.”

Percy swallowed. He had frozen too. And the idea of Penelope —his level-headed, brilliant Penelope—feeling the same suffocating fear made something in his chest tighten.

He hesitated, then reached out, covering her clenched hands with his own. She didn’t pull away.

“You’re alright now,” he said quietly. “It’s gone.”

She nodded, but her fingers tightened around his. “I hate that feeling,” she whispered. “Like you’re drowning in your own worst thoughts and can’t surface.”

Percy let out a slow breath. He knew exactly what she meant. He’d spent years convincing himself that control, order, and logic could keep the worst things at bay. But against a Dementor, none of that had mattered.

He squeezed her hands. “We’re supposed to be the ones keeping everyone else together,” he admitted. “And yet I completely froze.”

Penelope looked at him sharply. “So did I,” she said. “So did almost everyone.”

“Not Cam.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “They’ve had practice, Percy. We haven’t. And I don’t ever want to.”

Neither did he.

They sat in silence for a moment, the rhythm of the train rolling beneath them, the world outside slipping past in blurs of green and gold.

Finally, Penelope leaned into him, just slightly, her shoulder brushing his. “Do you think there will be more?”

Percy didn’t have an answer. He wanted to tell her no, that this was just an anomaly, that Dumbledore wouldn’t let Dementors roam the school. But he couldn’t promise that.

Instead, he said, “If there are, we’ll be ready.”

Penelope let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You always have to be prepared, don’t you?”

He smiled faintly. “Of course.”

She sighed, but this time, when she relaxed, it felt more real. “Then I suppose we’d better make sure the other prefects are alright too.”

He nodded. Duty called. But just for another moment, he let himself sit there, her hand still resting in his, the warmth anchoring him to the present.

Then, with a steadying breath, he stood. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Text

The carriages jolted to a stop in front of the castle, and Percy nearly stumbled getting out. His legs still felt like they weren’t quite his. The chill from the train hadn’t fully left him, it lingered like smoke clinging to his bones, stubborn and sour.

“Careful,” Penelope murmured, catching his elbow with one hand and steadying her trunk with the other. She seemed to have recovered from the experience faster than he had—though, to be fair, she’d already had her breakdown. Percy hadn’t yet. Perhaps he should pencil one in. Get it over with.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, but his voice was too tight, too rehearsed. The syllables came out in clipped, brittle beats, like he was reading from the wrong page of a speech. She didn’t argue. She just looked at him for a beat longer than usual, something quiet flickering in her eyes. Then she turned and started walking toward the castle, trusting he’d follow.

And he did.

The night air was crisp, and the scent of wet grass and stone clung to everything, familiar but faintly wrong, like someone had drawn it from memory and forgotten the shading. Even Hogwarts felt off somehow, like someone had recast it in dimmer colors. The torchlight didn’t glow quite as warmly. The stars overhead looked colder, more brittle. Percy tried to shake the feeling. He tried not to think about the way the Dementor had made his ribs curl inward or about how cold the world had felt for those few awful seconds.

He should’ve been helping the first years. That was his job. His badge, polished to an unnecessary gleam back in London was clipped neatly to his robes, but it felt almost ridiculous now, like he was wearing a tin medal from a play. He wanted to be the version of himself who leapt from the carriage, eyes sharp, voice calm, instructions ready. Someone dependable. Someone in control.

But right now, he was just someone walking in through the doors, breathing slowly, one step at a time.

The Entrance Hall buzzed with life—heels clicking against stone, trunks rumbling, voices ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling in layers. But it all felt oddly distant to Percy, like sound filtered through fog. He blinked hard. Everything still had a faint blur around the edges, like the world hadn’t quite come back into focus.

A laugh burst out nearby—sharp, sudden—and it scraped across his nerves like chalk on slate. He flinched before he could stop himself.

Then Penelope’s hand brushed his, a light touch, quick as a blink. Just enough to ground him.

“You’re alright,” she said under her breath, just loud enough to slip beneath the crowd noise.

“Am I?” he muttered. It was meant to sound dry, wry even. It didn’t.

She didn’t answer, just nudged him lightly with her elbow. A tether. A signal. You’re here. Come on.

The great oak doors to the Great Hall creaked open, spilling golden light across the flagstones. Percy paused, throat tight. The Sorting Hat had launched into song already—something about standing together in the face of darkness. His stomach twisted. It felt too early to be back. Like someone had dragged him forward through time before he was ready.

“You’re not going to faint, are you?” Penelope asked, one brow raised, her tone a careful mix of teasing and concern.

He straightened instinctively. “I’m going to sit down and look deeply responsible.”

“Excellent,” she said, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Make it convincing, Head Boy.”

Together, they stepped inside.

The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, the enchanted ceiling overhead displaying a perfect night sky. The four long tables buzzed with chatter and the clatter of trunks and plates. Normally, Percy loved this moment—the start of term energy, the comforting ceremony of it all.

But this year, it felt like he was walking through someone else’s memory of it.

He slid stiffly onto the Gryffindor bench, spine bolt straight and shoulders tight. His smile at the younger Prefects was the kind computer engineers usually reserved for department heads who requested things in Comic Sans. Across the room, Penelope caught his eye from the Ravenclaw table. She had that quiet, calm look she’d given him on the train, like she knew he was coming apart and was silently holding the seams closed.

Dumbledore rose. The usual hush fell.

“Welcome!” he began, in that ever merry tone that somehow managed to suggest he’d already been up to mischief. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast.”

Percy’s posture locked tighter, if that were possible. Serious? From Dumbledore ? That wasn’t just a red flag, that was a semaphore message spelled in fire.

“As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express,” Dumbledore continued, “our school is presently playing host to some of the Dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

Percy’s hands went cold.

Oh, right . That little touch of unholy despair he’d experienced earlier. Yes, best not forget the soul sucking wraiths loitering about the perimeter like underpaid security guards from hell.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore went on, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave the school without permission.”

Percy briefly imagined someone trying to sneak past one. Someone like Fred. Or George. Or Fred sitting on George’s shoulders in a trench coat. And then immediately imagined trying to explain to their mother that one of her children was now an empty husk because they wanted to prank the giant invisible gloom monsters .

He rubbed his temple. Of course, someone was bound to joke about it.

Fred leaned toward Percy with the wide eyed glee of someone who’d just been told Christmas would be supervised by dementors this year.

“Did he say every entrance ?” he whispered theatrically. “What about the toilet windows?”

George snorted. “Imagine explaining that to a dementor. ‘Sorry sir, just sneaking out for a bit of light arson—’”

“Not funny,” Percy hissed, though it came out thinner than intended.

Across the table, Ginny had gone pale. Ron looked caught somewhere between thrilled and terrified. Percy’s stomach twisted.

They were just kids.

And the Ministry had sent those things.

“Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even Invisibility Cloaks,” Dumbledore said. “It is not in the nature of a Dementor to understand pleading or excuses.”

Terrific, Percy thought. I’m head boy of a school crawling with legally sanctioned soul hoovers. Maybe I should’ve run for Minister instead. Less stress.

Penelope, several tables away, looked at him just then, as if she’d heard.

“I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you.”

Percy didn’t shiver. Head Boys didn’t shiver. But he did contemplate the concept of running the castle entirely from under a desk in the library for the foreseeable future.

Then, thankfully, Dumbledore shifted gears.

“On a happier note,” he said, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.”

Percy exhaled. Finally , something normal. Staff turnover at Hogwarts was more dependable than the moon.

“Professor Lupin,” Dumbledore gestured to the ragged man at the far end of the table, “who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Percy turned to look—and blinked. At some point during the speech, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had quietly taken his seat, and Percy hadn’t noticed.

Lupin looked like he’d just lost a fight with a second hand shop and then taken a nap in it. His robes were patched at the elbows, and he was gently prodding something unidentifiable on his plate with the air of someone debating whether it was food or an accidental experiment.

Nothing says ‘qualified for Defense’ like visible malnutrition and a faint smell of mildew, Percy thought. Still, Lupin looked like he’d survived something. Possibly a war or a poorly maintained camping holiday. Percy decided to give him two weeks before drawing conclusions. One and a half if he set anything on fire.

He jotted a mental note to keep a close eye on the Professor’s lesson plans. If nothing exploded in the first two weeks, he’d consider it a win.

Desserts shimmered into place. Percy didn’t reach for anything. His appetite was somewhere back on the train, wrapped in frost.

This year had already knocked the wind out of him.

And it hadn’t even started yet.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley stood at the front of the Entrance Hall, trying to look like a paragon of authority. Head held high. Shoulders squared. Jaw at just the right angle of “serious but approachable.” Inside, however, his stomach was doing something between a jitterbug and a Gregorian chant.

His first official duty as Head Boy, and already he was sweating under the collar like a shoplifter in Honeydukes. A sea of prefects—eager, nervous, or downright bored—stared back at him.

“All right, listen up!” Percy called, channeling every bit of Professor McGonagall’s no-nonsense tone. “You’ve all got your sections. First-years are here now, so get to your stations. You’re responsible for getting them to their common rooms without any problems. If there’s any confusion, sort it quickly.”

There. That sounded... fine. Right? Did his voice just crack? No, surely not. He watched the prefects nod and disperse. Some looked impressively focused. Others looked like they’d wandered in by mistake. One Hufflepuff was mouthing along with what Percy had said, as if memorizing it for a test.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to look calm instead of mildly ill. That was the easy part. Now for the fun bit, patrolling hallways and pretending he knew what he was doing.

Simon Dedworth, Slytherin prefect and certified chaos enabler, strolled over with his usual grin.

“Ready for your Head Boy victory lap?”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “It’s a patrol.”

“Uh-huh. Totally. Not a thinly veiled power trip at all.”

Percy sighed. “I’d love a quiet night for once, but instead I’ve got eleven year olds to shepherd and a friend who thinks ghost corridors are a fun Friday activity.”

“No promises,” Simon said, throwing a mock-salute. “But I’ll try to behave. Mostly.”

They set off together, footsteps echoing through the corridors. Percy was hyper aware of every creak, every flickering torch. He could practically hear Fred and George in his head, narrating his evening like a badly acted drama: “And here we see Percy Weasley, future Ministry drone, boldly checking for misplaced eleven year-olds behind every statue!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to make this interesting?” Simon said as they passed a stretch of tapestry-lined wall. “Rumor has it there’s a secret room nearby. Maybe full of gold. Or goblin made shoes. Or cursed chess sets.”

“No detours,” Percy said. “This isn’t a treasure hunt, it’s a schedule.”

Simon clutched his heart. “You wound me.”

“Only emotionally,” Percy muttered, scanning the hall. “For now.”

But then, of course, fate or Hogwarts decided to test him. A faint flicker of light glowed behind a nearby tapestry.

Simon noticed it too. “Ooh. Forbidden mystery hallway. You’re not not tempted.”

Percy hesitated. A reasonable person would report it. A responsible person would ignore it. But Percy, unfortunately, was both and neither. It was probably just Peeves with a lantern and a vendetta, he told himself. Still… curiosity itched.

With a sigh of someone already regretting the decision, Percy pulled back the tapestry.

Behind it was a narrow, dim corridor, lined with portraits that looked like they hadn’t moved in centuries. One wizard was asleep with his mouth open. Another was possibly dead. The rest were blank eyed and silent.

“Well this is cheery,” Simon muttered. “Looks like the Department of Mysteries’ basement toilet.”

“It’s Hogwarts. I’m convinced this castle breeds hidden rooms when no one’s looking,” Percy said. “I bet Dumbledore doesn’t even know this one exists.”

“I hope it’s not a haunted broom closet. Remember that thing in third year that screamed when you opened it?”

“Don’t remind me,” Percy muttered, stepping in cautiously. “Let’s just take a look. A brief look.”

“I live for brief bad decisions,” Simon grinned.

As they crept down the corridor, Percy found himself growing more uneasy. The shadows stretched weirdly. The light ahead flickered like it was being indecisive. Then he saw it, a door left ajar, with light seeping through like a whispered dare or a hidden snare.

“This is either the start of an adventure,” Simon said, “or how we die in a tragic candle related accident.”

“Thanks for the optimism.”

They stepped inside. No treasure. No trap. No haunted suit of armor lunging at them with a rusty halberd.

Instead there was a kid. A very small, very lost, very tear-streaked first year curled in the corner, hiccuping quietly.

“Oh no,” Percy breathed. “It’s one of mine. ”

Simon blinked. “Are they multiplying now?”

The boy looked up, wide eyed, cheeks blotchy, and said in a quavering voice, “I was trying to find the Gryffindor Tower, and then I turned left, and then a staircase disappeared, and then a ghost told me to buzz off, and then—”

“All right, all right,” Percy said, crouching beside him. “Deep breaths. Nobody’s been expelled for getting lost. Yet.”

The kid hiccuped again. “Are you the Head Boy?”

“Yes. That means I’m officially in charge of rescuing lost children and pretending I have it all together.” He gently offered a hand. “Come on, let’s get you back.”

Simon waved awkwardly. “Hi. I’m the Slytherin. Don’t be scared.”

The boy looked mildly more terrified.

“Don’t mind him,” Percy said. “He’s actually quite nice once you get past the sarcasm and the hexing.”

“Hey!”

“I’m joking. Mostly.”

The boy gave a watery laugh, which Percy counted as a minor miracle. As they walked him back toward Gryffindor Tower, Percy felt the tension ease from the boy’s shoulders.

“I thought I was going to be stuck down there forever,” the kid said, voice small.

“You’d be surprised how many students think that every year,” Percy replied. “The castle’s basically designed to confuse everyone. I still get lost sometimes.”

Simon snorted. “He does. Once he ended up in a closet full of talking teacups and had to be rescued by a house-elf.”

“I was looking for a meeting room,” Percy hissed. “And I didn’t know the teacups talked.”

They reached Gryffindor Tower, and Percy gave the password to the Fat Lady, who raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on his guest.

“There you are,” Percy said, gesturing. “Safe and sound. Try to stay above ground level for the next week or so.”

The boy gave him a tiny salute. “Thank you, Head Boy. I won’t get lost again.”

“No one ever does,” Percy said with a wink, “until they do.”

As the portrait swung shut, Simon clapped Percy on the back.

“You’ve gone soft. That was almost… nurturing.”

Percy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Don’t be absurd,” he said, adjusting his robes in a way that suggested he very much hoped it had looked nurturing, just a little.

He kept walking, but his brain was already replaying the scene. The way the boy’s shoulders had relaxed, how he’d stopped shaking when Percy spoke to him like an actual person instead of citing school policy in triplicate. Not that Percy hadn’t been tempted to cite policy. He always was. But something about the boy’s blotchy face and ridiculous hat had made him pause.

Merlin help him, he had gone soft.

He shot Simon a sidelong glance. “I simply followed best practice for de escalation. It’s in the handbook.”

Simon grinned. “Oh yes, the Handbook of Hugging and Warm Beverages.”

“It is not,” Percy began, then sighed. There was no use arguing, Simon would only make it worse.

Still, he felt a small flicker of something beneath the embarrassment. Maybe pride. Or indigestion. Hard to tell after the Hufflepuff porridge.

He shook his head and muttered, “One act of basic human decency and suddenly I'm Mother Hen of Gryffindor.”

“Cluck cluck,” Simon said, utterly unhelpful.

Percy sighed and picked up the pace. “Come on. If I’m to be mocked, I’d rather it be in private.”

They parted ways soon after, Simon went off to patrol the dungeons in search of more wandering eleven year olds and Percy—finally—headed to the seventh floor.

He stepped into the Acquisitions Room and stopped short.

There, on a table was a steaming mug of hot chocolate, a worn book opened to a page titled Advanced Filing Charms , and a neat stack of papers aligned with near-magical precision.

Percy stared.

“All right,” he muttered. “Now you’re just showing off.”

The room said nothing, but Percy swore it looked smug. He eyed the hot chocolate. It had a cinnamon stick. Fancy.

Still haunted by thoughts of Dementors, Percy sat down heavily, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

“You’re lucky you’re charming,” he murmured to the room. “Because you’re definitely weird.”

He glanced at the papers again. Definitely not your average parchment shuffle, these had the kind of bureaucratic heft that usually came with ominous acronyms and fine print no one read until it was too late.

He sipped the hot chocolate, eyes narrowing.

“If this turns out to be another cursed document leading to a magical lawsuit, I swear I’m moving into the library.”

The book flipped a page, all on its own.

Percy sighed. “Right. Of course you have opinions now.”

And with that, he got to work.

Chapter Text

The hot chocolate was perfect which was, frankly, a little suspicious.

Percy narrowed his eyes at the mug, suspiciously frothy and warm in his hands. He hadn’t asked for hot chocolate. He’d asked the Room to bring him “any documents pertaining to magical security infrastructure within Hogwarts’ interior boundaries,” and instead it had delivered a pile of ancient legal scrolls and a beverage.

“It’s unnerving how well you know me,” Percy muttered aloud, not expecting an answer but the flames in the lantern nearest him flared just a bit brighter.

He sighed, balancing the mug on a stack of yellowing parchment and pulling the topmost scroll toward him. The title, in beautifully pretentious calligraphy, read:

“Castle Warding Amendments – Entry Protocols and Special Exceptions, Addendum to Clause 7.12”

Percy’s brow furrowed. Clause 7.12... wasn’t that repealed during the goblin protests of 1749?

He read further.

Ah no, not repealed. Suspended temporarily due to “external disputes regarding moral ambiguity in sentient object classification.”

“Of course,” Percy snorted. “One haunted wardrobe ruins it for everyone.”

Still, what lay before him was promising. Clause 7.12, if properly reinstated essentially allowed Hogwarts to magically eject anyone not registered as a current student or active staff member. It was watertight. A tight little spell net that would toss out intruders like… well, like bad soup.

He took a long, thoughtful sip.

“This could solve half our problems,” Percy murmured, dragging the rest of the documents closer. He set to work with the determined focus of a man who felt most alive when knee deep in conditional clauses.

The last term’s basilisk debacle had made one thing painfully clear: Hogwarts had no bureaucratic spine when it came to magical threat mitigation. Sure, Dumbledore had his ancient, mysterious ways, but there was no real system or formal mechanism for keeping out, say, soul eating snakes or rogue creatures.

But this? This could be a fix.

And it wasn’t just about security for the students, it was about doing something tangible for those who had been affected last year—like Penelope and Colin, who’d been petrified, Ginny who had nearly died, and all the others who had lived in fear, not knowing when or where the next attack might happen.

He still remembered the terror in Ginny’s eyes when she had finally woken up after the attack, her mind fractured by the trauma of being controlled by Tom Riddle’s diary. Penelope, always so calm and rational, had ended up petrified in the hospital wing, her nerves wrecked from not knowing if the next victim would be her. (It had been her.) Students had been scared to go to the loo alone for weeks. One Hufflepuff had tried to transfigure a mop into a basilisk detector. It had exploded.

Percy had hated the helplessness. He couldn’t do anything, none of them could. That wasn’t good enough.

This year, he wanted to be proactive. He couldn’t let something like that happen again. This wasn’t just about keeping the students safe, it was about giving them a sense of security. A place where they could walk the halls without worrying about what lurked in the shadows. No one should have to live in fear like that again.

And now with Dementors hovering around the place like the world’s worst motivational speakers, it felt like history waiting to repeat itself.

Those wretched, soul sucking things were just one disaster away from turning the castle into a psychological warzone. If there was anything worse than having students face off with an unrestrained basilisk, it was knowing that they could be at risk from those horrible, emotion stealing wraiths. He couldn’t risk a repeat of what happened last year, not when a creature like that could just slip through unnoticed.

The fact that he couldn’t even walk around the school without feeling the oppressive weight of their presence now—it was unacceptable. He couldn’t—no, would not—let that happen again.

He reached for his quill and began sketching out a reactivation motion.

INTERNAL HOGWARTS MEMORANDUM
Re: Castle Entry Clarification and Security Reinforcement via Clause 7.12 (Revival Motion)
Filed by: Percy Ignatius Weasley, Head Boy
Date: undated, late,  and slightly smudged undated, late, and slightly smudged undated,late,and slightly smudged
Method of Enactment: Retroactive filing with magical assent based on urgency protocol, subsection 3b (“If It Seems Like a Good Idea at the Time”)

Summary of Amendment:

All non-staff, non-student individuals attempting unauthorized entry into the castle grounds shall be identified, flagged, and unceremoniously ejected beyond the wards. Creatures, entities, cursed portraits, illicit Animagi, and suspiciously intelligent pets are included in this exclusion. Exceptions will be made for:

• Pre-approved alumni (with RSVP)
  
  
• Select ghosts (see attached polite list)
  
  
• Peeves (unfortunately, grandfathered in)

A note in the margin: Dementors? Debatable. Might as well lump them under "malicious atmospheric entities" and let the wards decide.

He paused, twirling the quill. Technically, he could consult McGonagall. But it was 2:13 AM, and Percy believed in the sacred efficiency of midnight bureaucracy. Also, she’d probably say something sensible like “don’t tamper with the foundational magic of the castle alone,” which would ruin everything.

“This is proactive,” Percy told himself, “not reckless.”

The Room, unhelpfully, flickered a lantern in a way that suggested it found this hilarious.

He tapped the scroll to seal it. The document shimmered, absorbed the ink, and vanished in a very satisfying magical swoop.

A heartbeat later, another shimmer. The scroll reappeared, freshly typeset in a much neater hand. At the bottom, in elegant lettering:

Filed by: Guardian

Percy blinked. “Guardian?”

He hadn’t signed it that way. The Room had taken the liberty of submitting the form itself. He was a little offended. But also a little impressed.

“Well. That’s… dignified,” Percy muttered. “Mysterious. Sounds important. Sounds like the kind of figure who wears a cloak unironically.”

He gave the scroll a satisfied nod.

“I like it.”

He yawned, setting the mug down next to his stack of victory paperwork. The castle was more secure now. He had done something useful. Something that mattered. Something that probably wouldn’t backfire terribly within the next twelve hours.

“I should do this more often,” he mumbled as he curled up on the armchair.

The Room dimmed its lights.

The scroll filed itself.

Somewhere, far below, the wards began to stir.

At that very moment, while Percy tucked himself deeper into the folds of a second-hand armchair, dreaming faintly of Ministry commendations and Penelope nodding approvingly—the castle stirred.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

The wards, ancient and ornery, shuddered to life like a pensioner finally given a reason to get up and yell at the youth. Faint lines of silver light traced themselves along the stone walls, glowing briefly as if the entire building were exhaling after a long nap. One by one, hidden glyphs blinked into visibility along hallways, archways, and beneath classroom floors. Tapestries rustled. Suits of armor twitched. 

Near the north tower, a sluggish grind echoed through the corridor as a cursed grandfather clock known mainly for showing the hour of one’s next existential crisis squealed in protest before being ejected bodily out of the nearest window. It spun twice in the moonlight and landed, disgruntled, in a shrubbery.

In the greenhouse, a potted Mimbulus mimbletonia which had previously attempted to eat a student yelped and flung itself into the air like a startled frog, ricocheting off a skylight and vanishing with a wet thwop into the Forbidden Forest.

Somewhere on the second floor, a previously innocuous broom closet began vibrating with ominous intensity. Moments later, it exploded open to reveal a sentient wardrobe groaning dramatically. It was hauled out by invisible magic and flung down the staircase with all the fanfare of a disgraced opera singer.

And in the Gryffindor common room, a rat.

Or rather, what most assumed was a rat.

Peter Pettigrew had made it nearly two years without incident, tucked safely away in his rodent disguise, doing his level best to avoid direct eye contact and being stepped on. It was a quiet life, but a necessary one. He had felt the change in the air—magic stirring where it had been dormant, doors creaking with fresh suspicion and bolted from the common room as fast as his little ratty legs could carry him.

It was too late.

A sudden shimmer enveloped him mid scurry near the Grand Staircase. A golden pulse hit like a wave, and for one frozen second, the illusion collapsed.

Peter reverted. Not all the way, but enough—torn halfway between rat and man, squashed into an undignified lump of morphing flesh, whimpering as he slid helplessly down the steps. The wards had tagged him. And the wards didn’t care for nuance.

The next thing he knew, he was flung bodily out of the front gates by forces invisible but unmistakably enthusiastic.

Unfortunately for Peter, the Dementors had also noticed the commotion.

Two of them drifting near the edge of the lake like storm clouds turned with the sort of dreadful slowness that implied both hunger and curiosity.

Peter tried to shift. He tried to flee, tried to think of anything even remotely happy.

Nothing came up.

Not the Dark Lord. Not his memories of bullying Snivellus. Not even cheese.

And then—cold.

The kind that bit through skin and bone and memory and soul.

They didn’t even pause to monologue.

One Dementor dove, cloak flaring like a death sentence, and before Peter could scream, it latched on. There was a noise—not quite a gasp, not quite a shriek—and then the empty, hollow pop of magic collapsing inward.

Silence.

Peter Pettigrew’s body hit the grass. The Dementor pulled back, clearly disappointed with the vintage.

And then the castle did the rest.

With an unimpressed hum, the wards surged again. The Dementors were flagged.

They were not staff. They were not students. They were not on the polite ghost list.

So they were scooped up and flung with all the ceremony of an empty drinks trolley over the outer boundary of Hogwarts.

Back in the Acquisitions Room, Percy shifted in his sleep.

The lanterns flickered gently. The parchment stack rustled like it was purring.

All was calm.

All was oddly, bureaucratically well.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley woke up with his cheek pressed to a scroll labeled "Regulations Regarding Cauldron Thickness (Revised 1387)." His back ached. His neck ached. The Acquisitions Room had, sometime during the night, decided that he didn’t need a proper pillow as much as he needed a stack of obscure regulatory commentary about pre industrial potion storage standards.

He sat up with a groan. A dust mote floated lazily past.

It took a moment before he remembered—oh, right. He’d passed out here after filing that late night magical amendment. Something about security... something about non-students and staff being expelled...

He straightened, eyes wide.

“Oh no.”

Outside the Room, the castle sounded unusually awake. And not in the good, productive, bells-are-ringing-and-lessons-are-beginning sort of way. There was shouting, for one thing. Also some running.

And somewhere, distantly, a banshee like wail that he really hoped was just Peeves.

He burst out into the corridor, robes rumpled, scrolls clinging to his socks. The chaos was low level but widespread. Something had definitely happened.

A third year ran past him sobbing about Flobberworms and a very cross looking seventh year shouted after her that Magical Creatures was not canceled, even if all the creatures had mysteriously vanished.

Percy blinked, heart thudding.

Had he done that?

Had his security filing... actually worked?

"There you are," Penelope Clearwater snapped, appearing out of nowhere like a well-organized thundercloud. "I've been looking for you for half an hour. Why are you always in that room? Did you sleep in there again?"

"I—possibly—yes. What's happening?"

She exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "McGonagall wants us. Now."

The Deputy Headmistress looked like she'd already fought and won three battles that morning.

"Classes will proceed as scheduled," she announced, rubbing her temples. "Or at least, appear to. Most of the core staff are unavailable. The elective staff or what’s left of them will cover. Mr. Weasley and Ms. Clearwater, I need you both to assist with coordination. Schedules, supervision, general crowd control."

Percy, despite still having scroll creases on his face, puffed up like a peacock. "Of course, Professor. I can coordinate a temporary instructional framework with the available staff. And I can adjust lunch duty rotas."

"Wonderful. Miss Clearwater, keep him from exploding."

"No promises," Penelope muttered.

Organizing Hogwarts without its professors was like trying to herd Blast-Ended Skrewts with a clipboard and a budget spreadsheet.

They managed barely. The Ancient Runes teacher agreed to take over Transfiguration because "Formulas are basically just fancy shapes, aren't they?" The Flying instructor refused to teach Defense but said she could do a dramatic reading of Hogwarts: A History from her broom if needed.

"This is going so well," Percy said dryly as he updated the day’s rotation.

"Are you saying that to reassure me or yourself?"

"...Yes."

By midday, Percy was running entirely on dry toast and righteous indignation.

He and Penelope had just finished redirecting two classes and intercepting a band of unsupervised second years trying to start a "Dementor Defense Club" using only Hufflepuff’s leftover peppermint bark.

Penelope spotted a group of Ravenclaw girls in the corridor—her friends, Percy realized, from the way they lit up and waved. She waved back, smiling tiredly.

Percy, still awkwardly beside her, gave them a hesitant wave too. One of them blinked at him, confused.

"I’ll just... go do a thing," he muttered.

He ducked away down a side corridor. Time to unwind and hide in the Room to pretend he wasn’t personally responsible for expelling half the castle's fauna.

"No one wants to talk about the budget," Percy muttered, pacing inside the Acquisitions Room. "They'll interrogate every detail of Defense Against the Dark Arts staffing, but the minute I mention cauldron replacement costs, I’m suddenly 'not focusing on real issues.'"

The Room made a sympathetic creaking noise and offered him a document.

He plucked it from the air. It was labeled:

BOARD OF GOVERNORS — MINUTES ARCHIVE, 1873 – COMPLAINTS AND COMMUNITY ENGAGEMENT SECTION

He blinked.

Tucked between complaints about Quidditch scheduling and one truly unhinged tirade about owls nesting in stairwells was a dusty old comment:

“This Board functions in an advisory capacity, akin to a parental committee—albeit one with access to school funds and several committees on Hat Policy.”

There was a footnote.

BOARD = PTA (but with more owls).

Percy’s eyes widened.

He grabbed the scroll and another one, cross-referencing budget oversight requests and how they were deflected. One memo read:

“A request for a full audit is outside our scope. The Board does not answer to Ministry budget protocols.”

Another, in red ink:

"Dismissed. Parent concern not validated. Suggest file under 'Bothersome Muggle Ideas.'"

He pulled a folded parchment from his bag—the draft he'd written under the name of the Department of Finance, asking for greater budget transparency. It was a good letter, precise and appropriately outraged. But he hadn’t sent it. He couldn’t bring himself to forge the Ministry seal, even for Hogwarts.

Now, though...

He glanced at the newly discovered PTA-style governance notes and smiled slowly. "I don’t have to forge a thing," he murmured. "I’ll just be someone’s very upset fictional dad."

He reached for parchment.

To the Esteemed Members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors,

As the concerned father of three current Hogwarts students, I find the present lack of budget transparency deeply troubling. With recent security incidents and staff shortages, it is my hope that the Board will prioritize increased visibility on fund allocation, safety infrastructure, and emergency response protocols...

— C.P. Worryweather, Concerned Parent

Return address: Lower Dibbleshire (Unplottable)

He folded it crisply, sealed it, and tucked it into his satchel.

He would send it off that evening with a school owl. No magical help. Just old fashioned, bureaucratic sabotage.

He pulled out another parchment and scrawled:

Concerned Parent Initiative – For External Reform Only

1. Safety railings on staircases
2. Annual staff background checks
3. Budget clarity on “Duck Polishing” line item
4. Accountability in House Point allocations

He smirked.

Behind him, the Room rustled thoughtfully.

More folders slid into view—correspondence logs, Board meeting attendance sheets, forgotten community suggestion boxes from the 1800s.

Percy’s eyes lit up.

The war for Hogwarts reform had just begun and it had stationery.

Chapter Text

It began, as one of Hogwarts’ finest disasters did, with a large number of animals charging down a corridor.

Percy Weasley had faced many things during his education at Hogwarts. Fireworks exploding mid meeting, a sentient filing cabinet that growled at students who misfiled petitions, and one deeply unfortunate encounter with a self replicating licensure form but he had never, until this moment, attempted to sidestep a stampede of magical creatures while still clutching a clipboard.

“Oh no no no—Gerald, not the tapestry!” Professor Sprout sprinted past him, elbow deep in fluttering sleeves, trying to herd a particularly irate Kneazle away from a portrait of Ulrich the Unyielding. The kneazle hissed, possibly at Ulrich, more likely at the idea of being deemed “non-essential.”

“Watch your feet! Puffskeins have no sense of direction!” Flitwick shouted from somewhere near Percy’s knees. A fuzzy pink ball with eyes zipped by, squeaking indignantly as it skidded under a suit of armor and vanished with a disgruntled fwoomp.

Hagrid, breathing heavily and limping slightly possibly from a disgruntled Jarvey bite was dragging a magically expanded crate labeled NOT FOR CLASSROOM USE—AGAIN toward the exit. A Niffler darted in and out of his coat like a furry magpie.

“I told ‘em this’d happen!” Hagrid grumbled. “Soon as yeh start classifying Puffskeins as hazards, it’s a slippery slope, that is!”

Percy, flattened against the corridor wall and clutching his clipboard like a shield, could only blink.

Professor Sprout, her hat now at a thirty degree angle, turned sharply toward him.

“The castle’s wards flared up,” she snapped. “Some sort of magical expulsion protocol triggered—anything it deemed ‘dangerous or unnecessary’ got forcibly relocated!”

Another kneazle streaked between them.

“Mr. Weasley, no running in the corridors!”

“I’m not running!” Percy called, already running. “I’m fast walking!”

Which was, of course, a lie, but he couldn’t very well say “I might have broken the castle,” even if the creeping dread at the back of his mind was starting to whisper exactly that. He bolted toward Gryffindor Tower, clipboard clutched to his chest like a child’s security blanket, dodging a fluttering swarm of panicked Pixies and something that might once have been a ferret but now looked alarmingly spectral. At least it wasn’t the House Cup again.

The common room was chaos, which was to say, it looked mostly like a regular evening at Gryffindor Tower, except with more shrieking and less chess.

Neville was crouched behind a sofa, trying to coax a miniature manticore out of the fireplace with a sugar quill. Lavender Brown stood on a chair, clutching her Charms textbook like a club. Dean and Seamus were holding a heated whispered argument about whether one of the vanishing Puffskeins had actually just disapparated (it hadn’t, Disapparition inside Hogwarts was still impossible, even if the creature had squeaked ominously and turned purple before evaporating).

In the middle of it all, Ron Weasley stood frozen just inside the portrait hole, his hair sticking up like he'd been hit with a mild Cheering Charm and his eyes wide with horror.

“Where’s Scabbers?” he demanded.

The room went quiet. Or as quiet as it could be with two first years chasing what appeared to be a flying hedgehog around a coffee table.

Hermione looked up from her armchair, where Crookshanks sat on her lap with the smug contentment of a feline who had recently consumed something warm and squirmy.

“What do you mean, where’s Scabbers?” she said carefully.

“I mean,” Ron said, stepping forward with all the righteous fury of someone about to uncover a terrible crime, “he was in my bed last night, and now he’s gone!”

He pointed a dramatic finger. “And all other pets are here yet he has vanished! Crookshanks must’ve eaten him!”

Crookshanks yawned.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “He did not eat your rat.”

“He’s not just a rat!”

Hermione rose slowly, her expression shuttered. “Oh, now he’s not just a rat. Funny how that wasn’t the case when you left him in the common room again—on top of your dirty socks, I might add.”

“At least, I trust my pet not to commit murder in his sleep!”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t! Crookshanks didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a cat, Ron! He chased a rat! That’s literally in his blood! ”

“He’s not just a rat!” Ron yelled. “He’s my pet! He’s mine! And your mangy, cross-bred thing has had it in for him since day one!”

“You don’t know anything about Scabbers!” Hermione snapped, her voice rising. “You never even noticed he was missing toes—”

“I did notice, thanks! It’s a war wound!” 

“Oh, is it? Did he get it fighting the Battle of the Dustbin?”

Percy froze just inside the room, caught between ducking and pretending he wasn’t related to either of them.

Harry edged away from the fireplace, where Neville was now trying to prevent the mini manticore from setting Trevor on fire. “Guys, maybe we should—”

“No! I’m sick of this!” Ron’s voice cracked. “You’re always acting like you know everything, and maybe you do , but it doesn’t mean you get to insult my pet, or act like I’m stupid every time I care about something!”

Hermione flinched. “I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“And I think you’re being cruel!”

The room reeled back like someone had cast a Silencing Charm.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. Crookshanks leapt from her arms and stalked off, tail flicking in a way that was either affronted or triumphant—possibly both. She didn’t stop him.

“Cruel?” she said, voice low and sharp. “Because I don’t want my cat punished for doing what cats do? Because I did not coddle your half dead, twitchy rat ?”

“You always think you’re right,” Ron shot back bitterly. “But Scabbers was mine. He was all I had from before Hogwarts. You don’t just get to decide he doesn’t matter.”

Hermione’s voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. “And you don’t get to blame me for the castle’s magic, Ron. I didn’t throw him out.” She wiped her tears with the back of her sleeve, brisk and angry. Then she turned away.

Harry made a small, almost inaudible noise. Percy saw him shift in his seat, a hand half-lifted as if to reach for her, say something, anything. But nothing came.

No one said a word.

The silence broke only when Crookshanks, now perched smugly on a windowsill, let out a long, strangely satisfied meow.

And then Ron—trembling now, blinking far too fast—whirled around like he might run, or yell again, or possibly burst into tears. His hands balled into fists. He looked utterly betrayed and furious and lost all at once.

His gaze landed on the manticore hatchling still dawdling by the fireplace, licking soot off its tiny claws. Without thinking, Ron snatched a half-melted Chocolate Frog from the arm of the couch and hurled it like a Bludger.

It hit the manticore square between the eyes.

With a startled squawk and a burst of indignant flame from its nostrils, the creature yelped and bolted out of the common room, leaving behind a scorched rug and the faint smell of burnt marshmallows.

Ron stood there for one more heartbeat, chest heaving, face blotchy with restrained fury. Then he turned sharply and stormed up the boys’ staircase, thudding every step like it owed him money.

Percy watched the whole thing in silence, still unsure whether or not to interrupt.

He glanced once more at Crookshanks, who had not moved from his perch, but now wore the unmistakable air of someone who had won an argument without saying a word.

That, Percy decided, was his cue to leave.

He stepped backward, careful not to knock into the smoldering armrest or the extremely tense emotional minefield currently occupying the common room. No one noticed.

He needed answers. And he had an uncomfortable suspicion the Acquisitions Room was waiting for him with all of them.

The Hogwarts staffroom was many things: dimly lit, under ventilated, and always faintly scented of burnt toast and dragon hide polish. Today, however, it resembled a war room in a collapsing nation.

Professor McGonagall sat at the head of the long table with her lips so tightly pursed they could have sliced parchment. On her left, Sprout nursed a scratched arm and muttered dire things about "the systemic bias against magical flora." On her right, Flitwick was taking notes with a tiny silver quill with grim precision.

Snape leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like someone had personally offended him by existing. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes, which was either comforting or a sign of impending doom.

“And no one,” McGonagall said slowly, “cast a single spell. Correct?”

Heads nodded. Pomfrey sniffed and dabbed antiseptic on a bite mark shaped exactly like a Fwooper’s beak. “Not even an anti vermin charm. Everything was perfectly normal until the wards surged and—poof!—half the castle’s ecosystem relocated itself.”

Hagrid, seated at the far end with a stack of paperwork teetering next to a crate labeled EXTREMELY UNWANTED , slammed a meaty fist onto the table. “Yer treatin’ ‘em like bin rubbish, tha’s the problem! Puffskeins! Jarveys! I found a bowtruckle sobbin’ in me boot!”

“I found a doxy in my teapot,” Vector said dryly. “It sang to me.”

“That… is statistically improbable,” Flitwick murmured.

“Statistically improbable,” Binns echoed from the far corner, though he hadn’t been addressed. He drifted backward into a wall and remained there.

McGonagall pressed her fingers to her temples. “So to review. The wards surged—”

“Catastrophically,” added Sprout.

“—and ejected everything it classified as a threat or extraneous creature. Including, apparently, a death eater who had been an animagus inside the castle’s walls for years.”

At this, Snape finally stirred. “You are suggesting the wards performed intelligent threat evaluation and expelled an Animagus in hiding without so much as a faculty alert?”

“I’m suggesting we’ve been outsmarted by sentient architecture,” McGonagall said grimly.

“Or,” Flitwick added cheerfully, “there was a pre existing protocol buried in the castle magic. Hogwarts is old. Older than any of us, and she doesn’t always tell us everything. Perhaps something woke up.”

“A security spell?” Sprout frowned. “Something ancient, maybe? Merlin-era?”

Flitwick mused. “Though the specificity with which it acted—”

“—is disturbing ,” Snape cut in. “It expelled a previously unknown Death Eater, a family of ghoul fleas, three jars of cursed jam, and my fireproof cloak. I fail to see the thematic consistency.”

“That jam was possessed,” Pomfrey muttered.

“Well, I liked that cloak,” Snape snapped.

McGonagall sighed. “Our immediate concern is not your cloak, Severus. It is how to reassure the Board of Governors that we have not lost control of the castle.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Flitwick said brightly, “Shall I draft a statement? Something like: ‘All expelled creatures have been humanely relocated due to a minor enchantment alignment issue’?”

“That,” McGonagall said, closing her eyes, “is excellent. Add something about student safety. Possibly include a vague reference to Merlin.”

“And should we… inform the students?” Pomona asked tentatively.

Another silence.

Snape looked deeply pained. “We could blame Peeves.”

Hagrid snorted. “Bit hard, when he was one of the things booted out.”

Everyone paused.

Flitwick leaned forward. “Wait. Peeves was expelled too?”

There was a stunned, reverent silence.

Then Lupin murmured, “But he got back in. We could just… not fix it?”

“Merlin help us all,” McGonagall muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I will speak to the students. Severus, Flitwick, with me. The rest of you, prepare your classes. As best you can. Or what remains of them.”

The staff filed out, mostly with groans and muttered oaths.

Snape lingered near the hearth, where the magical ward-readouts still hovered, casting flickering shadows across the carved stone walls. McGonagall remained seated, her hands folded neatly on the tabletop — the picture of composure, except for the twitching corner of one eye.

“You truly believe this was the castle acting alone?” Snape asked quietly.

McGonagall didn’t look at him. “Do you have another theory?”

“Oh, I have several,” he said dryly, stepping closer. “Most of them more plausible than a sudden outbreak of architectural sentience.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re still upset about the cloak.”

“That cloak was impervious to basilisk venom. Do you know how rare—”

“I’ll requisition you another,” she interrupted sharply. “Try not to make it personal, Severus.”

He raised a brow. “An unknown Death Eater, cast bodily beyond the wards. And not just removed—Kissed. Do you truly believe that was coincidence?”

McGonagall’s jaw tightened. “I believe we have more questions than answers.”

Snape’s gaze flicked to the ward readouts, still pulsing with residual energy. “It expelled Pettigrew. Before we could detain him. Before anyone could question how he was hiding here for years . Clever timing, wouldn’t you say?”

“And do you have any idea why Peter Pettigrew was found just beyond the wards?” she asked coolly, echoing him.

He paused. “Lupin was running around with him, if you don’t remember. He was one of your favorites, wasn’t he?”

McGonagall turned slowly to face him, voice like ice: “If he were one of my prized students, he wouldn’t have been found with a Dark Mark.”

Snape’s lips curled faintly. “Why not? Sirius Black was found with one. And he was your favorite.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“You may despise him, Severus,” she said, her tone low and dangerous, “but Remus Lupin is twice the man either of them ever were and you know it.”

The fire crackled between them.

“I apologise” Snape said, quieter now. “That was a low blow.”

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “It was.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hiss of the hearth and the whispering wards overhead. Then, McGonagall exhaled slowly, as if willing herself back into form.

“Schedule an emergency Board of Governors session,” she said, rising stiffly to her feet. “If the castle is deciding who does and does not belong inside its walls, we need to know why .”

Snape tilted his head. “You think someone triggered this.”

“I think someone meddled with something they didn’t fully understand.”

Her eyes drifted to the long table, where a stack of newly delivered parchment sat neatly beside her chair. The top one was, unmistakably, from Percy Weasley.

Subject: Enchanted Parchment Turnover Protocols and Faculty Tea Rotation Efficiency Proposals.

Enclosure: Updated milk supply inventory for fourth floor portrait frames.

McGonagall didn’t sigh.

Instead, she set the Prophet clipping down and reached for Percy’s memo, reading through it with a grim sort of admiration.

If only our actual government were half as efficient as this boy.

Percy Weasley had never run so fast in his life. He had definitely not run. That would be unprofessional. But he had… briskly stormed. Down three staircases. 

His thoughts had turned, uninvited while running, to the row between Ron and Hermione earlier. His face twisted in mild irritation. Honestly, he thought, Gryffindor prefects—useless lot. Can’t manage anything more complex than scrubbing broom polish.

He caught himself, shaking his head. "Stop thinking about it. It's not your problem," he muttered under his breath. “They’re children. They’ll sort it out.”

He reached the Acquisitions Room, gasping, clipboard in one hand, tie askew.

The door opened with an innocent click, as though it hadn’t just single handedly restructured Hogwarts’ entire magical ecosystem.

Inside, everything was too calm. Scrolls hummed gently in their pigeonholes. Filing cabinets gleamed smugly. The central desk had a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill waiting, and a mug of tea that hadn’t been there when he left. The tea tag read: “For Emergency Situations Only.”

Percy stared at the tea suspiciously.

“…Did you do all this?” he asked aloud.

The Room didn’t answer, of course. But the tea steamed comfortingly, as if to say, You’re welcome, darling.

With a resigned sigh, Percy sat. Slowly. 

He reached into the submission tray. His own filing from last night, stamped in gold: APPROVED. IMPLEMENTED. Below, the ominous words: Expulsion Protocol Omega. Criteria: Non-enrolled, unregistered, threatening, or misaligned with protective status. Magical Sub-Layer: Pettigrew Exception Clause Triggered.

Percy blinked.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, Merlin’s left shoe.”

He pushed the scroll away. Then pulled it back. And then, hesitantly, reached for the tea.

He downed half the mug in one go and muttered, “I’ve rewritten school policy. I’ve rewritten bloody magical law. Without a quorum.”

A drawer slid open. Inside, a single card read: Well done, Percy.

The Room purred.

Percy’s head thudded against the desk. “Please don’t tell Penelope.”

He groaned and fished the Daily Prophet evening edition out from under his arm—he’d grabbed it from the common room on instinct, the way one might rescue a teacup from a fire. The headline blared:

Peter Pettigrew—Presumed Dead Since 1981—Found Wandering Just Beyond Hogwarts’ Wards”
“Survived a Dementor’s Kiss. Ministry Aurors Summoned. Dark Mark Confirmed.”.

Percy stared at it. Then at the filing. Then back at the headline.

He banged his head gently against the desk again. “Brilliant. I’m a front page disaster.”

The lights in the Room dimmed, almost affectionately like a cat curling up after destroying a hideous vase gifted by one's sister.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley had not intended to change the course of wizarding history over tea and filing.

But then again, very few revolutions had begun with a clipboard.

The Daily Prophet headline stared back at him like an accusing Howler.

Percy set the paper down with surgical delicacy, as though it might spontaneously explode if handled improperly. His tea had gone cold. He did not remember making it. His left hand shook slightly. He sat on it.

Peter Pettigrew. A Death Eater.

Sirius Black... might have been innocent.

It was the sort of truth so heavy it didn’t quite fit in the brain all at once. Percy had spent three years quietly believing in justice, in the Ministry, in the system. Him filing a security clause that should have been present anyway if the school was run by a sane person had unintentionally unmasked a war criminal.

And accidentally improved the historical record.

He glanced again at the Prophet’s headline. There was something dreadful about how confidently the ink sat there, unmoved by the shock it delivered. He folded the paper, placed it, and tried not to be sick.

Across the hall, the Gryffindor table was awash in breakfast and tension. Ron was buttering toast and Hermione flipped through Hogwarts: A History with a determined vengeance. And Harry sat between them, silent, pale, and very clearly trying not to be looked at. A few second years were whispering behind their pumpkin juice.

Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking but they were flanking Harry like loyal bodyguards.

Percy found himself quietly, uncomfortably impressed.

He could barely manage to keep a prefect team in line, and here his little brother and his friends were navigating ancient conspiracies, possessed diaries, and rodent-based betrayals before breakfast.

He adjusted his tie, re folded the Prophet again for no reason, and promptly received a tap on the shoulder from a second-year with a trembling note.

From the Desk of Professor Minerva McGonagall
Urgent. See me at once.

When McGonagall said “at once,” it didn’t mean finish your toast. It meant now.

Her office was neat, formidable, and smelled faintly of chalk and judgment.

She didn’t waste time.

“I was meant to review and renew the staff’s magical contracts before term started,” she said briskly, emerging from behind a stack of scrolls like a general rising from wartime correspondence. “But then the purge happened. Now I need them ready for the Board of Governors meeting next week.”

She turned to face both of them—Percy and Penelope, already seated in the two armchairs that made even generals feel like schoolchildren.

“I know this is not your job. And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t urgent. But can I trust you and Miss Clearwater to handle this?”

Penelope blinked. “We’re happy to help, Professor—but isn’t there usually an administrator or liaison for this sort of task?”

McGonagall’s mouth thinned. “Unfortunately, the current budget does not cover a dedicated administrator. The position was absorbed into the broader restructuring three years ago. The oversight committee determined that magical contract renewals could be handled internally.”

Percy, who had absolutely read the oversight committee’s minutes for light reading last night, nodded fervently. “We’ll do it, ma’am.”

McGonagall gave them both a look that could transfigure insincerity into soup.

“Good. Start with Professor Sprout. She’s likely to demand a raise.”

She turned back to her scrolls.

They were dismissed.

In the corridor, Penelope exhaled through her nose like someone who had just agreed to host a Yeti summit.

“I can’t handle this on top of normal prefect duties, Percy,” she said, walking beside him with long, purposeful strides. “I’m supposed to be preparing my application for Cambridge. There’s an entire written portfolio. I need time to draft my statement.”

Percy nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

He did. While Percy longed to join the Ministry like roughly 48% of the wizarding population if you excluded full time dragon wranglers, Gringotts interns and other interesting people—Penelope had made it her mission to get into Cambridge, whether as a Muggle or a witch or as possibly the reincarnation of Newton himself. Percy didn’t quite understand the appeal of voluntarily studying more on purpose but he accepted it as one of those inscrutable Penelope traits, like her love of Arithmancy or her refusal to eat banana bread.

“You cover the regular prefect duties for both of us and I’ll handle the contracts,” Percy said, already picturing color coded annexes.

Penelope stopped mid step and gave him a flat look. “Percy. I already cover for both of us. Who do you think speaks to students when you’re holed up in a broom cupboard whispering at filing cabinets?”

“Yes dear,” Percy said patiently. “You do the talking part. I do the paperwork. That’s the division of labor.”

She sighed, loud and theatrical. “Fine. I’ll manage the patrol schedule, the fifth year complaints, the corridor key rota, and all other terrifying Head Boy nonsense. But only for two days. After that, I am throwing your contracts into the lake.”

Percy looked around—just in case any portraits were watching—and then kissed her.

When he pulled back, he whispered, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You know I only keep you around for the paperwork,” she replied.

Her eyes shone like stars—sharp, certain, bright with purpose. Percy, dangerously sentimental for a moment, wished he had more time to stare at them. He was fairly sure there were constellations in there. They were probably arranged alphabetically.

“Then I shall draft us a binding agreement,” he said solemnly, “so you never run out of reasons.”

Penelope rolled her eyes so hard they nearly dislodged her timetable. Then the bell rang.

“I have to go,” she muttered. “Some of us are trying to graduate without a citation for magical overreach.”

As she strode off down the corridor, Percy cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted after her, “Don’t pair Stretton with Gillicuddy on patrol! They’ll hex each other again! ”

She waved over her shoulder without turning. “Then maybe they'll learn boundaries!”

Percy turned back toward the stairwell, smiling like an idiot. Then reached into his satchel and pulled out his favorite quill. Time to draft some clausework. If romance couldn’t stop him, neither could cursed jam or Hogwarts itself.

Percy had commandeered an empty Transfiguration classroom and turned it into what could only be described as a Paper Room. The desks were rearranged into strategic piles. Ink bottles stood like watchtowers. A blackboard bore the heading “Operational Irregularities – Staff Employment Enchantments” in his neatest, most ominous handwriting.

He was on scroll number seven.

It was unclear whether he was breathing anymore.

“Clause Fifteen: Compensation for Extracurricular Responsibilities shall be rendered in accordance with...” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “...the barter system?”

He blinked and reread.

Apparently, under Hogwarts’ current magical employment contracts, Heads of House could technically be paid in livestock if agreed upon by both parties and notarized by a sentient quill. Which explained a lot about Professor Sprout’s annual delivery of enchanted squash.

He set that scroll aside and reached for another, this one glittering faintly with what he hoped was just accidental ink enchantment and not whatever vector of madness Sybill Trelawney had pressed into her last contractual renewal.

“Clause Eight: Working conditions in the Divination Tower shall include fair compensation, occasional incense allowance, and...” Percy squinted. “...‘One bottle of elderflower wine per celestial event.’”

Of course.

He pulled open the next scroll, which was Hooch’s, and promptly recoiled at the scorch mark on the corner.

“Clause Ten: Staff shall not be held responsible for minor mid-air collisions so long as blood loss is under one pint,” he read aloud, horrified. “Clause Eleven: See Clause Ten.”

He rubbed his temples.

To call the current system a disaster would’ve been giving it too much credit. It wasn’t even a system. It was antiquated magical bureaucracy. Some contracts dated back to the 1800s, others had been re enchanted so many times the magic had frayed at the corners, and at least one (Binns’) was written entirely in pre standardised spell law cursive, and spontaneously phased through the desk every fifteen minutes.

Some staff were listed under titles that no longer existed. Some under titles that had never existed.

And in at least one alarming case—according to a note buried inside the Charms contract—a former Assistant Groundskeeper was still legally considered an entity of the castle, and therefore undismissable unless the walls themselves voted him out.

Percy made another note: Investigate whether Hogwarts has voting procedures. (Terrifying)

He had three quills going, two checklists, one self updating legend for clause references, and a feeling that he was going to have to invent an entire subsection of wizarding contract law just to sort the mess. Honestly, he was a little thrilled.

He took a sip of lukewarm tea, straightened his shoulders, and cracked his knuckles.

“Alright,” he muttered to the empty room, “Let’s fix it.”

The scroll on the left immediately curled and caught fire.

“Great. ” Percy muttered, snuffing it out with a quick flick of his wand. “Just what I needed.”

But he pressed on, determined. 

He grabbed Lupin’s contract next.

It looked just like all the others—full of the usual nonsense about mirrored portraits, magical maintenance, and supply stipulations. But then, buried near the end, Percy froze.

“Clause Fifteen: Transformative behavior support?”

What in Merlin’s name was that ? Percy frowned at the clause, his brows furrowing as he scanned the rest of the contract. It was filled with the same outdated clauses, but this one felt... weird . It didn’t fit. He didn’t know why Lupin had this clause, but he knew it didn’t belong. It seemed like a ridiculous, personal addition buried deep in the paperwork.

He scratched his head and muttered to himself, “Why does this one look so... strange?”

But after a moment, Percy shrugged. It wasn’t his problem. He had bigger things to fix— everything needed rewriting. Lupin’s contract was no exception. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his quill and wrote a final note at the bottom of the contract: Rewrite everything .

Percy set the contract aside, fully intending to overhaul it along with all the others. After all, if he was going to fix Hogwarts, he’d have to start at the very top—and that meant fixing everything.

With a sense of grim determination, Percy dove into the next scroll.

Percy climbed the spiral staircase to the Deputy Headmistress’s office with the same reverence one might bring to a chapel or a cursed tomb. In his arms was a thick folder of fresh staff contracts, painstakingly revised, corrected, and magically warded against tea stains. He knocked twice, straightened his spine, and prepared to enter with dignity.

Inside, voices were already raised.

“Where on earth have you been?” McGonagall snapped.

Percy froze mid step just past the threshold. Dumbledore stood before her desk, somehow looking both windblown and serene, as though he had wandered in off a high cliff.

“The Minister was furious ,” she continued, practically spitting the word. “He sent four Howlers, one of which bit a clerk. I had no idea where you were, Albus.”

“That must have been before he saw me. I had to go and calm him down before he did something drastic,” Dumbledore said mildly, brushing soot from his sleeve. “I suspect he was contemplating legislation. Or public speaking again.”

McGonagall exhaled sharply. “It would’ve helped if you left a note .”

“I did,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “It’s with the house elves. Very confidential.”

He turned then, noticing Percy, and gave him a bright smile. “Mr. Weasley. I trust all’s well here?”

McGonagall gave Percy a look over the rim of her spectacles, one that said if he dared say anything other than “yes,” she would find new and exciting clauses to add to his own contract.

“Yes Professor,” Percy said dutifully. “After a few… amendments, it’s been made well.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

He drifted out the door with the faint suggestion of a lemon drop scent as he vanished down the hall.

McGonagall sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, then looked at Percy with the weary finality of someone handing over a ticking device.

“Right,” she said briskly. “You’ve done the revisions. Now go get them signed. All of them.”

Percy blinked. “All of them? You don’t want to check it ,Professor?”

“Yes, Mr. Weasley,” she said, already turning back to a towering stack of correspondence. “I have faith in your capabilities. Further, I’m sure my colleagues would read a document before they foolishly signed it.”

Percy gathered his parchments, squared his shoulders, and went off to get the signatures of underpaid, overpowered educators.

-o-

Percy found Professor Sprout in Greenhouse Three, deep in conversation with a particularly opinionated honking daffodil.

“Professor,” Percy said, clutching his clipboard and stepping carefully around a writhing puffshroom. “I’ve got your updated employment contract for you to sign.”

Sprout beamed at him through her dirt-smeared spectacles. “How wonderful, dear! Does this one still allow for squash delivery? I do so enjoy the barter system.”

“I’ve updated it to a produce stipend,” Percy said diplomatically. “With enchanted transport to avoid... aggressive vines.”

“Marvelous,” she said, signing it with a quill dipped in what he hoped was only compost. The daffodil sneezed on him.

-o-

He found Flitwick standing atop a stack of books in his office, charming his own inkwell to sing opera.

“Ah, Mr. Weasley! Contract business?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, offering the scroll. “Your previous document still referred to you as ‘Professor of Charmery and Wand Frolics.’”

Flitwick chuckled. “Oh, that takes me back! Good times, very little regulation.”

“I’ve standardized your title, updated the pay scale, and removed a clause about being required to duel poltergeists on Thursdays.”

“A shame,” said Flitwick wistfully, signing with a flourish. “Those were character building.”

-o-

Hooch was mid-hover when Percy approached the pitch, whistling loudly to catch her attention.

“Can it wait, Weasley?”

“I promise it’s quick,” Percy called. “Just your new contract!”

She landed hard enough to rattle the grass. “Better not have removed Clause Ten.”

“I... consolidated it into a general safety liability clause.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does it still allow mid-air collisions under a pint of blood?”

“I’ve raised the limit by half a pint,” Percy offered.

She grinned. “Progress. Gimme that.”

-o-

This was less of a meeting and more of a haunting. Percy stood in Binns’ classroom as the ghost slowly floated through his old desk, mumbling about goblin uprisings.

“Professor Binns,” Percy called. “You’re still technically employed.”

No answer.

“I need you to approve your updated contract. You’ve been listed as ‘Adjunct Chrono-Historian’ since 1893.”

Still nothing.

“I’ve also removed clauses that require corporeal attendance.”

That did it. Binns drifted over, stared at the scroll, then passed through it.

“I’ll take that as consent,” Percy muttered, initialling it himself with a note: Signed by proxy (ghost logic).

-o-

By the time Percy reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, his notes had grown longer, more chaotic, and slightly damp from an incident involving a rogue kettle in the staff kitchen.

Lupin greeted him with a warm, tired smile. “Ah, Mr. Weasley. What new horrors of parchment do you bring?”

“It’s just an updated teaching contract,” Percy assured him. “We’re revising spell clauses, magical liability disclaimers, and key access control in case of future emergencies.”

Lupin flipped through the pages. “Clause twelve states that I must notify the Headmistress in the event I am ‘possessed, impersonated, or legally dead.’”

“Well, we’ve had issues with all three,” Percy said solemnly. “It’s more common than you'd think.”

Lupin chuckled and signed, though he added a small asterisk with the note: Magical wardrobes needed included in supply .’

Percy decided not to ask.

-o-

Vector flatly refused to stop marking essays while being interviewed. “Multitasking builds character,” she said, scribbling a minus sign large enough to qualify as a hex.

“Just a few administrative updates,” Percy began, then paused as she crossed out an entire paragraph with a line that left scorch marks.

“Have you ever considered switching to a numeric evaluation system?” he offered.

Vector peered at him. “Have you ever considered not breathing directly near me when I’m correcting calculus?”

Percy silently moved back one chair.

-o-

Percy was walking down the fourth-floor corridor, rereading Professor Vector’s violent footnotes, when he nearly collided with a pair of slippers.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said Dumbledore, suddenly beside him. “How parchment can move people more effectively than wandwork.”

Percy flinched, then adjusted his grip on the folder. “I’m trying to build a consistent regulatory framework for—er. Yes, sir. Fascinating.”

Dumbledore smiled and disappeared again into a side corridor that hadn’t been there a moment before.

-o-

Snape was last.

Percy entered the dungeon like a condemned man, clipboard held like a holy relic.

Snape didn’t look up from his cauldron. “State your business, Weasley.”

“Staff contract renewals, sir,” Percy said, voice cracking only a little.

Snape snatched the scroll, read the first paragraph, and muttered, “Clause six refers to unauthorized possession of basilisk venom resistant garments. Aimed at me, is it?”

“No sir,” Percy lied.

Snape scribbled his name in elegant, furious script, then added: Signed under protest. File with Ministry of Unreasonable Mandates.

He handed the parchment back and said, without looking, “The ink you used for section D is hydrophobic. It will vanish by Tuesday.”

Percy blinked. “Why would—”

But Snape had already turned away and begun stirring something green and malevolent.

By the time Percy reached McGonagall’s office, he had ink on his cuffs, glitter on his shoes, a headache that felt partially magical in origin, and a stack of signed contracts that smelled faintly like sherry, parchment ash, and—somehow—burnt sugar.

McGonagall glanced up as he entered and raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve been teaching first-years how to duel.”

“Worse Professor,” Percy said, stepping carefully around a pile of curriculum proposals. “I’ve been collecting staff signatures.”

She gestured for him to sit. “Well? Any fatalities?”

“None confirmed. Though Professor Snape threatened to file a grievance with the Ministry of Unreasonable Mandates.”

“Ah. That’s only serious if he files it in green ink.” She accepted the scrolls from him and began flipping through them, lips pursed.

“I thought I’d deliver the full set. You’re the last one Mam.” Percy hesitated. “Assuming you approve of the revisions.”

McGonagall scanned a few lines. “Clause twelve… clause seventeen… Oh, thank Merlin, someone removed the livestock barter clause.”

Percy coughed. “Yes. I thought it was time we moved on from enchanted squash.”

She signed with a swift, practiced flourish and handed the top scroll back. “Consider me officially employed. Again.”

He smiled—just a bit—and tucked the parchment carefully into the folder. “That’s all of them, then.”

She gave a sigh somewhere between exasperation and affection and waved him toward the door. “Thank you Mr Weasley for your help. Off you go, then. And if Hogwarts starts alphabetizing the ghosts, I want to be informed immediately.”

But just as he reached the door, McGonagall spoke again.

“You’re a born administrator, Mr. Weasley.”

Percy paused, blinked, and turned back.

McGonagall’s gaze was steady, almost amused. “Are you quite certain you want to bury yourself in our Ministry? The International Confederation of Warlocks—particularly their Standards and Magical Protocol Division is notoriously understaffed. I hear they’re looking for interns.”

Percy stood a little straighter, clutching his folder like a shield. “I appreciate the opportunity, Professor. Truly. But I’d like to contribute to the nation before I go elsewhere. Ma’am.”

McGonagall studied him for a moment, lips pursed, then nodded once briskly, as if concluding something privately.

“Foolish,” she said. “But admirable.”

Percy didn’t quite smile, but he gave a small, earnest nod. “Thank you, Professor.”

He turned and left, contracts neatly stacked in his arms.

McGonagall watched the door close behind him, then muttered under her breath, “Heaven help the Ministry.”

Chapter Text

The meeting had already begun, in the sense that everyone was seated and had spent at least ten minutes silently judging one another.

The Hogwarts Board of Governors had gathered in the appointed chamber—a draughty, intimidating room lined with ancestral portraits and paperwork no one wanted to claim responsibility for. A flickering chandelier hovered overhead like an indecisive jellyfish, casting elongated shadows across the polished table and the six very different personalities seated around it.

Lucius Malfoy lounged at the far end of the table, looking for all the world like he was lounging in his chateaux. His cane—silver, snake-headed, and aggressively ornamental—rested beside him like a weapon waiting to be justified.

Across from him sat Augusta Longbottom, hat perched at a judgmental angle, feathers trembling with restrained fury. Her expression had the hard, weathered edge of someone who had seen too much, tolerated too little, and now found herself once again trapped in a room with Lucius Malfoy.

Elara Parkinson was composed as always, draped in muted elegance and sipping tea that was somehow still steaming despite having been ignored for ten minutes. She had the air of someone who had long ago accepted that meetings were mostly performance, and she was winning on style points alone.

Akhilesh Goldstein and Alden Smith were engaged in a low level bicker about something or the other. Alden looked halfway through a passionate defense involving parchment rights, while Akhilesh seemed more interested in doodling runic proofs in the margins of his agenda.

Elphias Doge, ancient and gently befuddled, blinked slowly at the far end of the table as though unsure whether he was attending a Board meeting or a very formal tea party. No one had the heart to ask.

The door opened with a creak that managed to sound both apologetic and accusatory.

Professor McGonagall entered at a clipped pace, arms burdened with three color coded binders, a handful of scrolls, and what might have been the remains of a first year’s disciplinary file chewed up by Peeves. Her hat was slightly askew, her expression exactly the kind of composed steel that suggested she’d walked directly here after personally breaking up a duel, mediating a poltergeist, and negotiating the release of the Arithmancy classroom from its latest sentient furniture crisis.

"My apologies," she said crisply, though she offered no excuse. She had the distinct air of a woman who did not owe excuses to anyone in this room. "Shall we begin then?"

Lucius cleared his throat in the expectant, condescending way he’d perfected in his youth and never outgrew. "Professor McGonagall, we had begun a roll call. As you are now here—perhaps you could complete it?"

"Of course," she said. She snapped her wand and conjured the roll parchment mid-air, where it floated obligingly.

She read aloud with precision.

"Elara Parkinson."

"Present," Elara replied, nodding once and not bothering to look up from her tea.

"Akhilesh Goldstein."

"Here," he said, without looking up from a now geometrically perfect doodle of a rune circle.

"Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius smiled thinly. "Naturally."

"Augusta Longbottom."

"Present," Augusta said flatly.

"Alden Smith."

"Here," said Alden, who straightened his spectacles and appeared to stop mid-rant about enchanted blackboards.

"Elphias Doge."

"Present," Doge offered vaguely, though it sounded more like a question.

McGonagall glanced once at the next name on the list, then paused.

"Headmaster Dumbledore is absent."

Lucius’s expression sharpened. He tapped his cane once against the stone floor with the kind of restrained elegance that could only be described as threateningly polite .

"Absent?" he asked. "I was under the impression this was a priority meeting."

McGonagall raised one brow. "Well, The Headmaster does have three official positions, Mr. Malfoy. He is currently attending the International Wizarding Conference, and has, accordingly, delegated."

"Delegated?" Augusta’s voice sliced through the room like a Severing Charm. "Delegated, has he? As if the welfare of the children of Britain is somehow less pressing than whatever foolishness they’re debating in Istanbul about cauldron tariffs now?"

Lucius’s lip twitched into something dangerously close to amusement.

Augusta turned sharply toward him. "Oh, you don’t . Don’t you smirk at me, Lucius Malfoy. That man might be an idiot, but you’re an absolute cretin if you think you’ve got any business looking smug in this room."

Lucius rose slowly, cane in hand, the click of its tip echoing off the chamber walls. "Mrs. Longbottom, I hardly think—"

Elara, without wrinkling her dress or changing the cadence of her voice, leaned forward and murmured, "Sit down before you embarrass yourself Lucius."

Lucius froze.

There was a moment of taut silence. Then he lowered himself back into his chair with the mechanical grace of a man unsure whether he’d just been insulted, threatened, or rescued.

McGonagall cleared her throat, not quite hiding her amusement. "If we’re finished with theatrics, Mr. Malfoy, I believe you were asking about the agenda?"

Lucius straightened the cuffs of his robes, composed himself, and gestured toward her with mild disdain. "Yes. Professor. Kindly enlighten us. What, precisely, are we here to discuss today?"

McGonagall opened her first binder with the quiet finality of someone who had been waiting all week for this.

"With respect to the matters raised in our previous meeting," she began, her voice clear and clipped, "we’ve completed a comprehensive review of all Hogwarts staff contracts. You may be either impressed or mildly horrified to learn that they had not been formally updated in nearly thirty years."

Around the table, there was a ripple of indignation and disbelief. Alden Smith leaned back in his chair, looking personally insulted by the passage of time.

"Thirty years?" he exclaimed. "That predates the floating budget clause and the Firewhisky Incident!"

Lucius Malfoy gave a tight, disdainful smile. “Typical. How charmingly provincial.”

McGonagall, who had long ago stopped being charmed by anything Lucius Malfoy had to say, carried on without pause.

"We’ve removed a number of outdated clauses, including one which bizarrely required staff to attend equinox ceremonies in formal dress robes, and another that formally assigned weather prediction responsibilities to the Divination professor."

Akhilesh Goldstein raised his eyebrows. "Was that enforced?"

"Briefly," McGonagall replied dryly. "Professor Trelawney once announced torrential rain with such mystical certainty that we canceled an entire day of outdoor classes. It was, of course, perfectly sunny."

A few smirks flickered around the table.

"We have also modernized the language of the contracts to reflect current employment standards," she continued. "Anti-discrimination policies have been reinforced, formal grievance processes clarified, and a specific clause has been added to prohibit the castle itself from taking disciplinary action without human oversight."

Doge, who had been watching a dust mote with scholarly intensity, blinked. "Oh dear. Were there… occurrences?"

"There were," McGonagall confirmed. "Most were minor. A few involved staircase tantrums, enchanted office furniture, and—on one memorable occasion—a vengeful supply cupboard that attempted to eat the Herbology syllabus."

Elara lifted her teacup in salute. "Delightfully haunted."

McGonagall tapped the stack of parchment beside her with her wand. Neatly bound packets lifted into the air and floated around the room with military precision, each one landing silently in front of its intended recipient.

"You’ll find the full report here," she said. "It contains an itemized summary of the contractual revisions, comparative annotations, and signed copies from all current staff. The changes have been reviewed and validated by myself and the Headmaster."

Akhilesh immediately opened his copy and began inspecting the clauses like he’d just been given a particularly juicy crossword. Alden leaned forward with the cautious reverence of a man preparing to cross-examine a form. Doge poked at his packet with his wand as if testing for curses.

Lucius took his with the same disdain one might reserve for receiving hand delivered spam.

Elara unfolded hers, leafing through the pages with an air of surprise. "This is unexpectedly comprehensive."

McGonagall inclined her head. "Miss Clearwater compiled the final report. I handled the presentation and formatting."

She paused for a brief moment, just long enough for a flicker of private pride to rise before she stamped it down again.

Merlin help us, she thought, if Penelope Clearwater ever joins the Wizengamot. That girl’s footnotes alone could unravel a policy bill.

She glanced at the wording again. It was precise, articulate, and mercilessly concise.

And Percy drafted the actual contract language, she remembered. Every clause, every cross reference, every comma. That boy edits like he’s taming a dragon.

It was a terrifying combination of precision and principle. She could only imagine what those two could accomplish if they ever sat on a legal bench together. Or worse on opposing benches.

Good lord, McGonagall thought grimly, they’d tear the chamber apart, and do it in alphabetical order.

Augusta flipped through her report with audible approval, the feathers of her hat bobbing in time with each decisive page turn. "Finally. Proper documentation. If this had been done twenty years ago, I daresay half the staffing disasters we endured would never have happened."

Lucius cleared his throat pointedly, desperate to redirect the conversation before it turned into another impromptu indictment of his father’s tenure. "It is rather surprising," he said with exaggerated calm, "that such extensive changes were implemented without a full Board vote."

McGonagall looked up from her binder, her expression perfectly polite and absolutely unbothered.

"As you may recall, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said coolly, "the Board granted interim authority to proceed at the last meeting. This falls squarely under operational management. It does not require a strategic vote."

Lucius’s mouth opened.

Before he could assemble a counterargument, Elara, still leafing lazily through her report, spoke without looking up. "That would be the meeting you were absent from, Lucius. If I recall correctly, you were off at the Ministry submitting your annual acknowledgment forms for the 'routine magical surveying' of your, what was it again—ah yes, your sixteen properties."

There was a beat of silence.

Lucius’s expression tightened with the precise dignity of a man refusing to rise to bait, while Augusta made a noise that might have been a suppressed snort or a triumphant cough.

"I assure you," Lucius said icily, "those forms are a legal requirement."

“Yes, for suspected death eaters,” Augusta murmured, not quite under her breath.

McGonagall gave a polite, measured nod, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She turned the page.

"If there are no further objections," she repeated, voice steady, "shall we proceed to the next item?"

Lucius gave a stiff nod, the parchment in front of him now ignored entirely.

McGonagall’s eyes scanned her notes. The next topic was going to cause considerably more shouting.

McGonagall turned the page in her binder, her fingers precise, her voice even.

"Next," she said, "a matter some of you may have already heard about—from your children, your grandchildren, or perhaps from a particularly excitable owl. Two weeks ago, an unexpected magical event occurred within the Hogwarts wards. It resulted in what can only be described as an expulsion of all animals, familiars, and magical creatures currently inside the school."

She paused, letting that sink in.

"It was not an attack. Rather, it was a ward response—an ancient defensive reaction triggered by overlapping magical conditions. In the process, we discovered that one individual—an unregistered animagus and an unknown Death Eater had been living within Hogwarts grounds." At this, a few heads jerked up. Even Elara looked momentarily uncomposed.

McGonagall continued briskly. "He was immediately detained and handed over to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A trial has been scheduled for later this month."

There was a long silence, broken only by the faint scratching of Akhilesh’s quill as he took meticulous notes.

"As for the expelled creatures," she added, “all displaced familiars and magical pets have since been recovered and returned to their respective homes, or re-homed through appropriate channels. None remain unaccounted for.”

Elara Parkinson placed her report down delicately, her brow slightly arched. "Yes. Dreadful business. I heard from my niece Pansy just last week—apparently her chipmunk familiar lost a toe in the scuffle. Quite traumatic."

McGonagall inclined her head politely. "We’ve filed a compensation form for all confirmed injuries. If your niece’s chipmunk requires magical prosthetics, the school is prepared to fund the procedure."

"Mm," Elara said vaguely, sipping her tea. "I’ll let her know. She’s been very brave."

Alden, who had been frowning thoughtfully, looked up. "Do we know how this happened? Or what caused the wards to behave like that in the first place?"

In answer, McGonagall lifted her wand and summoned another folder from her satchel. It glided through the air and landed neatly in front of him, its cover marked in Flitwick’s fine, scratchy script.

"Professor Flitwick has compiled a full report," she said. "In short, a defensive clause embedded in the castle’s ward schema dating back to the Merlin era was unintentionally activated. The wards, which usually operate in passive monitoring mode, were shifted into active enforcement due to a convergence of magical stressors."

"What kind of stressors?" Alden asked, flipping open the folder.

"The presence of Dementors," McGonagall said. "Combined with the presence of multiple concealment enchantments. The wards interpreted this as a hostile infiltration."

"That sounds plausible," Akhilesh murmured, already halfway through the diagrams. "A Merlinian clause would not distinguish intent. It would simply react."

Lucius, who had remained uncharacteristically silent until now, leaned back in his chair and said with deliberate casualness, "And where, might I ask, was our esteemed Headmaster during all this?"

McGonagall did not look up from her notes.

"He was," she said crisply, "advising your Minister on how to handle the Sirius Black–Peter Pettigrew crisis."

Lucius made a soft noise of disdain. “Was he indeed.”

“Yes,” McGonagall said, her tone tightening just enough to be noticeable. "He was attempting to prevent a second Dementor’s Kiss from being performed on Mr. Pettigrew."

There was a pause, just long enough for the sentence to fully register.

"Would you elaborate Professor? ,"Akhilesh said, eyes narrowing.

McGonagall flipped a page in her binder with a calm flick.

"Peter Pettigrew, as you know, was an unregistered animagus, a previously unknown Death Eater, and a critical witness to at least a decade’s worth of systemic magical negligence. Upon his ejection, he was subjected to a Dementor’s Kiss—prematurely and without trial. This rendered him comatose but not yet fatally drained."

She looked up, lips pressed in a tight line. "The Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, nearly authorized a second Kiss. It would have been fatal."

Even Alden, normally composed to the point of sedation, went slightly pale.

"They tried to double Kiss him?" he asked.

"They almost double-Kissed him," McGonagall clarified dryly. "Dumbledore arrived just in time to stop it. He had to physically stand between the Dementor and the prisoner, while your Minister shouted something about ‘national security optics.’"

Augusta made a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a threat. "What were they going to do, pose with the corpse for the Prophet ?"

"Probably," Elara murmured into her teacup. "They do love a good photo opportunity. I imagine they were thinking, ‘We botched the trial, but at least we got the lighting right.’"

McGonagall sighed, allowing just the faintest edge of weariness into her tone. "In short, the Headmaster was not ignoring Hogwarts. He was attempting to salvage what little sense of due process remains in our judicial system."

Lucius gave a slow, patronizing nod. "And how noble of him to leave the castle while it was launching pets."

"If you’re asking whether I would have preferred he be here for the chipmunk," McGonagall said, raising a single brow, "I suppose it depends on whether you think he could have wrestled a Merlin-era ward better than Filius Flitwick, who is 4’2” and still managed to wring the wards into allowing the pets and Peeves back inside the wards."

There was a silence, during which no one was entirely sure if she was exaggerating.

Akhilesh looked mildly impressed.

McGonagall closed the folder with a snap so sharp it could have cut glass.

"That concludes all items scheduled on today’s agenda from the school’s side," McGonagall said briskly. "Unless the Board has additional business to raise, I believe we are finished."

There was a brief silence—one of those rare, hopeful silences that tasted faintly of escape before Alden Smith ruined it, as expected.

"I have a letter," he announced, producing a slightly wrinkled scroll with a solemnity usually reserved for arrest warrants. "Actually—three. All from the same parent. A rather prolific correspondent, this one. Neat penmanship. Fragrant ink."

Augusta raised an eyebrow. "Fragrant ink. Splendid. Shall we prepare a bouquet in reply?"

Unfazed, Alden cleared his throat and unfurled the first parchment.

"The first letter," he read, "requests a complete audit of Hogwarts’ financial records, citing concerns about vague line items in the public budget and irregularities in the broomstick replacement schedule."

Lucius let out a laugh that could have curdled cream.

"An audit? Of Hogwarts ?" he scoffed. "What do they think they’ll find? Misappropriated cauldron polish? Ancient debts owed to a poltergeist? The castle literally changes shape—do they want a financial map to match?"

McGonagall adjusted her spectacles. "The school’s finances are reviewed annually by the Board who allot the budget. This parent is welcome to request the public summary. Though I warn you, it's mostly invoices for gobstone-resistant flooring and anti-slip desk charms."

"I say we decline the audit," Augusta said, waving a hand dismissively. "Anyone who’s bold enough to suggest it can volunteer to dig through centuries of moving ledgers in a building that rearranges itself mid sentence."

Akhilesh nodded. "We’d need a financial team with a sense of humor and excellent balance."

"Declined," Elara said smoothly, setting down her teacup. "With appreciation for their concern, and a firm suggestion to consider a hobby."

"Declined it is," Alden confirmed, making a mark with flourish. "Next letter: a request for the installation of magical railings on staircases, towers, balconies, and anywhere else a student might ‘fall dramatically to their doom due to structural whimsy or adolescent poor judgment.’ Direct quote."

That gave the room a brief pause.

Augusta leaned forward. "That one might not be ridiculous. I nearly lost my footing last term near the north turrets. That staircase hasn’t decided what direction it wants to go since 1841."

Akhilesh nodded. "It’s doable. Charms based railings keyed to weight or presence could phase in and out with movement. Functional, discreet. The castle might tolerate it."

Lucius gave a sigh and gestured with one pale hand. "We’re turning Hogwarts into a nursing home. Shall we issue helmets next? Seat belts for the brooms? No one ever died from a good tumble down the stairs—they just learned not to do it again."

Elara raised a brow. "A Gryffindor fell off the Divination Tower in 1903. Broke both legs and a telescope."

"They were climbing the outside of it ," Lucius countered. "While drunk on spiked pumpkin juice. That's just natural selection."

"Shall we vote, then?" Alden asked.

He conjured a scroll and hovered it in midair.

"All those in favor of installing magical railings where appropriate?"

"Aye," said Augusta without hesitation.

"Yes," Akhilesh added, already sketching a prototype in the margins of his report.

"Of course," Elara said. "It’s cheaper than lawsuits."

Doge nodded absently. "Yes. Railings are nice."

“I vote yes as well,” Alden added.

Lucius raised his hand in weary protest. "No. And I would like it on record that this is the beginning of Hogwarts’ slow descent into bureaucratic mollycoddling."

McGonagall looked up. "And I abstain as the Headmaster’s not available, though I will remind the Board the castle itself will have final say. If it doesn’t like the railings, they’ll vanish by breakfast."

Alden tapped the scroll. "Motion passes, five to one. Magical railings to be installed over the break."

Lucius muttered something under his breath about ‘slippery slopes’ and ‘Velcro boots.’

"And finally," Alden said, unfurling the last scroll, "we have a request to replace Professor Binns as History of Magic instructor with a living teacher."

That got everyone’s attention.

"The parent writes that their child fell asleep while standing during a lecture on Goblin uprisings and suffered what the Healers described as ‘vertical exhaustion.’ They claim Binns has not updated his material since Queen Victoria was considered relevant and recommend, and I quote, needs ‘someone with a pulse to teach.’"

"I have no love for Binns," Augusta said frankly. "But he’s consistent. And he does keep most of them quiet."

"He’s been dead for a century and still somehow avoids retirement,” Elara mused. It’s well known now that his voice is a sleep aid."

Akhilesh looked conflicted. "He’s factually accurate. Just not pedagogically inspiring. And he once did spend twenty minutes describing a fence treaty between goblin clans using four different calendar systems."

Lucius scoffed. "History is not meant to entertain . It’s meant to endure. If we start replacing professors just because children are bored, we’ll be left with singing crystal balls and interpretive dance professors."

McGonagall considered mentioning the Arithmancy professor who did use interpretive dance to explain probability curves but thought better of it.

The vote was called.

Akhilesh and Elphias voted in favor of seeking a new History of Magic teacher.

Elara, after a brief thoughtful pause, voted to keep Binns for one more year.

"Continuity is needed," she said, though her tone suggested she might not forgive herself for it.

Augusta and Alden voted the same. "We’ll review again next spring."

Lucius voted last, with all the smugness of a man planting a flag.

"That’s four to two," Alden confirmed. "The motion does not carry. Professor Binns remains."

McGonagall made a note, already planning a polite reminder for Binns to update his reading list—though she doubted he would register the century, let alone the message.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, quietly satisfied to hear the vote had failed.

Professor Binns would stay.

But the momentary satisfaction didn’t last.

The numbers had been too close. Elara had voted to keep Binns, but not with her usual certainty , it felt more out of procedural habit than conviction. She hadn’t even glanced at him during the vote. That, in itself, was telling.

Alden Smith had voted with him, yes—but Akhilesh hadn’t. And that was notable. If Goldstein’s wife who was more sensible had attended instead of him, Lucius was certain the vote would have gone the other way.

For the first time in years, Lucius Malfoy felt something shifting beneath his feet.

He still had influence, yes. But the room was no longer moving with him. 

Not reliably.

The vote had passed in his favor but his power had not.

And he felt it slipping.

Chapter Text

Percy Weasley had always found a certain comfort in routine: toast cut diagonally, buttered while still warm; board meeting minutes reviewed over pumpkin juice; and the quiet reassurance that someone, somewhere, was still enforcing the rules. So it was with a rare sense of private satisfaction that he scanned the latest update “Railings to be installed over winter break” and allowed himself a smile over his kippers. Safety, structure, sensible decisions: sometimes the system worked. 

It was a good morning.

Then he looked up and saw the exact moment it stopped being one.

The thing was, breakfast at Hogwarts was meant to be structured chaos, not unstructured legislative warfare, and yet Percy found himself staring at a scene that could only be described as “Ron and Hermione reenact the Goblin Rebellions but with clipboards,” and no amount of toast or marmalade was going to make it better, especially since Ron had already started shouting before Percy had even reached the bottom of his tea.

It had been like this for a week.

Every morning brought more parchment, more shouting, more first years ambushed in their pyjamas. There were now two nearly identical petitions circulating the school, several overlapping bullet points, and at least one very aggressive clause written in green ink that Percy was actively pretending not to know about.

Hermione had taken over the end of the Gryffindor table with the grim focus of someone who had drafted legislation before sunrise and now intended to ruin breakfast with it. Her hair was tied back, her stack of parchment was colour coded by category, and she was explaining, in crisp and vaguely threatening tones, why magical pet regulation was not just necessary but urgent.

“I’m just saying,” she told a nervous first year, “unregulated familiars are a public health risk. Magical environments must be protected.”

Crookshanks stretched out beside her, looking unbearably smug.

Across the table, Ron pointed his clipboard at a confused Hufflepuff like he was offering protection against dark magic.

“Scabbers was loyal,“ he said. “He’s been in the family for years. You think this can’t happen to you? Today it’s a rat. Next day it’s an owl. It will end in massacre if we let it go on.”

“I don’t think they realize both of them are getting signs for the same stuff,” Ginny murmured as she sat down beside Percy, setting her porridge on the table like she was settling in for a show. “We should start charging for seats.”

On the far end, Ron was waving his clipboard like a wand, his hair sticking out in every direction. It looked like he’d either fallen asleep in a wind tunnel or fought the bedsheets and lost. He was halfway through a monologue and gaining speed.

“Scabbers was loyal,” Ron repeated practically vibrating with feeling. “He was brave. He lived under my bed for years. He didn’t need any party tricks to matter.”

Hermione didn’t even look up from her clipboard. “He was missing a toe and a sense of humor. And it’s not hard to survive if you sleep twenty hours a day, Ronald.”

Ron spun around like that proved his point. “And he still made it through three years of Hogwarts without biting anyone on purpose, which is more than I can say for that monster you call a cat.”

Crookshanks turned his head slowly, locked eyes with Ron, and blinked once, in that deeply unsettling way cats have of suggesting you won’t be making it out of the room alive.

Percy, who had thus far managed to read two lines of the prefect rota and half a paragraph of hallway duty revisions, lowered his quill. He looked back up at his brother, who was now arguing that rodent rights were an overlooked civil issue.

It was not yet eight o’clock.

“This is your fault,” Ginny said, sitting beside him.

Percy didn’t look up. “I know.”

“You told Hermione to start a petition.”

“I said it once ,” Percy muttered, “in passing. During the project documentation. I didn’t mean this .”

“She has a bullet point titled ‘Preventing Future Scabbers’.”

“I hate everything.”

“You’ll hate this more,“ Ginny said. “Ron’s yelling about ‘rodent martyrdom’ again.”

Ron was, in fact, standing on the bench now.

“They told me Scabbers wasn’t magical. WELL NEITHER IS A TOAD.”

Ron was now mid-speech on the oppression of rodents, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra of grief, and Seamus had started clapping at the end of each paragraph, mostly, Percy suspected, to see if Ron would just keep going.

“You can’t legislate loyalty!” Ron bellowed. “You can’t regulate love! ”

“I’m not regulating love,” Hermione snapped, marching toward him with increasing speed, “I’m regulating diseases!”

“That is a disease! ”

“Crookshanks is a registered companion ! ”

“That’s not a cat, that’s the devil, ” Ron shouted, pointing like he expected an exorcism to occur. “He’s been eating everyone’s pets and homework—”

“What homework?” Hermione demanded. “Be specific, Ronald. Do you mean your one line essay on the properties of moonstone?”

Her voice had risen to a volume that startled the nearest group of owls.

“It said, and I quote, ‘Moonstone is a stone which has properties of moon.’”

Ron stared at a point just past her head, pretending very pointedly that he hadn’t heard any of that, and launched straight into a dramatic retelling of Scabbers’ imaginary wartime accomplishments, describing heroic moments that sounded suspiciously like napping in various locations for twenty hours a day.

“Get down, ” Hermione snapped, as Ron stepped onto the plates for emphasis. “You’re scaring the owls.”

An owl promptly dropped a letter on Neville’s head and flew into the window.

Percy rubbed his temple and closed his eyes. His headache was already forming. It was shaped like his brother.

From his elevated perch, Ron finally noticed Harry sitting quietly two thirds down the table. Hermione spotted him a moment later. Crookshanks trailed behind like an orange bodyguard.

Harry, who had thus far gone mercifully unnoticed, had been minding his own business, eating toast and pretending to read a Quidditch magazine that was not only upside down but also entirely blank. He looked up, saw his best friends approaching together with clipboards and matching expressions of moral urgency, and went absolutely still like a person who had just spotted two angry bears and realised he was holding the last jar of honey.

He stood, signed both clipboards without a single word, and tripped over his shoelace while attempting to flee the scene at what could only be described as a brisk, desperate hobble.

Hermione beamed at his signature like she'd won a bet. Then she turned to Ron with a smile so smug Percy wondered if Crookshanks had taught it to her.

Harry used the moment to vanish. He did not return.

Fred and George popped in from somewhere, looked around, and declared it “better than breakfast theatre.”

Hermione stopped beside Percy.

“Would you like to sign?” she asked.

“I would rather die,” Percy said.

Hermione shrugged and walked off. Crookshanks sat directly on Percy’s prefect report.

Ginny leaned in. “I think he’s punishing you.”

“I’m being punished by the entire school,” Percy muttered. “And I haven’t even finished my tea.”

He looked down at his report again. The line “Safety railings to be installed” gleamed in green ink.

“At least that got done,” he whispered.

Behind him, Ron declared that Scabbers had been a war hero. Again.

Hermione threw a quill at his head. Again.

Crookshanks yawned.Again.

And Percy, very quietly, decided that was his cue to leave for Transfiguration, which he did in fact have, and which suddenly felt like the safer option.

The Advanced Transfiguration classroom hummed with quiet energy—-a mix of Gryffindor’s bright eyed optimism and Slytherin’s calculating coolness settling into enchanted desks that creaked softly beneath the weight of eager students. Portraits of long dead professors lined the walls, their painted eyes flicking with mild curiosity or thinly veiled impatience as the faint scent of chalk dust and burnt quill ink mingled in the air.

One of the portraits - a squinting wizard in plum robes - was known to loudly critique bad posture until McGonagall had hexed him mute.

A flock of Gryffindors and Slytherins filed in with varying levels of dread, dragging bags and muttering about homework. The enchanted desks rearranged themselves into orderly rows, bumping and grumbling. One burped. Another complained that someone with “elbowy energy” was sitting on it last week and it still hadn't recovered.

Percy sank into the middle row with all the grace of a deflated balloon. He sat beside Penelope, who looked freshly caffeinated and morally upright, and Simon, who was already flipping his quill between his fingers like it was a pen.

“Rough morning?” Penelope asked, raising a brow.

“I’m fine,” Percy said, though he blinked a little too long between words.

“Petition chaos getting to you too?” Simon asked, opening his notebook upside down and not fixing it.

“I heard there’s a petition going around to stop your brother and his girlfriend’s petitioning,” Penelope said.

“Someone nailed it to the wall by the Great Hall,” Simon added. “Underneath a sketch of Crookshanks with devil horns. Really well done, actually. I think the tail moved.”

“Penny, Hermione is not Ron’s girlfriend and I don’t even know what the Gryffindor prefects are doing anymore” Percy muttered.

“Raising awareness,” Penelope said primly.

“Of what?” Simon asked.

“Everything.”

“They’ve taken over the east staircase,” Percy said. “It’s all parchment and slogans and Crookshanks sightings.”

“I saw someone handing out badges,” Simon said. “Mine says 'Regulate Your Rodents.'”

“Mine said 'Cats Can’t Consent,'” Penelope offered.

“I just want to walk to Charms without being petitioned,” Percy groaned.

Penelope patted Percy’s arm. “You look tired.”

Percy yawned.

“Okay, that was the yawn of a man who’s been yelled at before breakfast,” Simon said.

“I have been,” Percy replied. “Twice. Once by Ron. Once by Hermione. I don’t know which was worse.”

“Did either of them let you eat?“ Penelope asked.

“No.”

“Good, they haven't let anyone eat peacefully in the past week. I don't know how you escaped them till now,” Simon said.

“Maybe this is all a test,” Penelope mused.

“Of what?” Percy asked.

“Of how far bureaucracy can bend before it snaps.”

Simon nodded. “I think we’re about to find out.”

At that moment, a first-year’s desk slid halfway across the room before McGonagall swept in tartan. The room snapped to attention. Even the portraits straightened. The desk groaned and settled.

“Wands out. Quills down. No whispering unless you want your lips transfigured shut.”

Simon gave a tiny salute and mouthed, “Yes ma’am.”

McGonagall’s eyes immediately landed on Percy.

“Mr. Weasley. I do hope the table is not too comfortable. You appear to be preparing for a nap.”

Percy jerked upright. “No, Professor!”

“Mm.” She turned to the board and flicked her wand. The chalk scribbled Partial Transfiguration: Animate Qualities Applied to Inanimate Substances.

She held up a quill.

“We begin with basic partial transformation. Observe.”

With a swish and a flick, the quill’s feather flapped. Then it lifted off and flitted around like a butterfly, trailing ink behind it.

“Delicate work,” McGonagall said. “Precision is everything.”

The quill landed neatly on her palm. “Try not to blind your partners.”

There was a long pause.

“And if your quill bites you, that’s on you.”

Simon turned to Percy. “Alright, let’s see if we can give it wings or just explode it.”

“I believe in our ability to not explode it,” Penelope said.

Percy tried to focus, but the combination of warm air, ink fumes, and accumulated sleep debt from living with multiple campaigns for rodent rights made it very difficult. His eyes drifted toward his parchment, and then blurred.

Simon leaned over. “Is your handwriting melting?”

“I’m just resting my eyes.”

“You said that yesterday,“ Penelope said. “Then you drooled on the syllabus.”

“It was condensation,” Percy lied.

“From your mouth,” Simon muttered.

Penelope raised her wand and flicked it toward her quill. It flapped once, then sagged dramatically.

“Excellent. It’s a depressed pigeon,” Simon observed.

Penelope grinned. “A highly realistic one.”

Percy tried the spell. His quill twitched. Then went still. He blinked at it for a full ten seconds before realizing he was half-asleep.

His head began its slow, inevitable journey toward the desk.

Simon whispered, “He’s going. I repeat: Red Three is going down.”

“I’m not asleep,” Percy mumbled into his parchment.

“You were holding a dandelion and whispering 'I want you,' yesterday” Penelope added helpfully.

Percy’s quill slid from his fingers and rolled off the desk. He did not notice.

His forehead touched the wood.

“I think he’s out,” Simon whispered.

“Poor guy,“ Penelope murmured.

McGonagall, who had been giving a stern explanation about spell containment, appeared beside them without a sound. She tapped Percy’s shoulder.

He shot upright like he’d been struck by lightning, arms flailing slightly.

“Mr. Weasley,“ she said. “I assume your quill was so transformed it ceased to exist.”

“I—I was listening,” Percy stammered.

“Good. Then you’ll remember that even minor mistakes in partial transformation may cause the object to animate unpredictably. In your case, it appears your quill achieved invisibility and fled in shame.”

Penelope bit her lip. 

McGonagall peered at Percy over her spectacles. “Are you eating properly Mr Weasley?”

“Yes, Professor,” Percy replied quickly.

“And sleeping properly?”

Percy hesitated, then shrugged. “Depends on your definition of ‘proper.’”

She narrowed her eyes. “Sarcasm or sleeping is not appreciated in my classroom, Mr. Weasley. You’ll be staying after class.”

With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, leaving Percy blinking and slightly embarrassed.

The lesson resumed. Quills flapped, spun, and occasionally combusted. One Slytherin’s transformed quill attacked his textbook and was subdued with a jelly-legs curse. Another quill tried to write its own name repeatedly until it stabbed itself in frustration.

Percy did not attempt another spell. He blinked, wrote a single word on his parchment, and forgot what it meant five seconds later. It might have been “ink,” or possibly “bed.”

When the bell rang, McGonagall called, “Mr. Weasley. Stay behind.”

Simon gave Percy a sympathetic look. “Good luck.”

McGonagall stood by the front desk, looking at Percy over her square spectacles with something between irritation and concern.

“I assume you missed the announcement about project supervisors.”

“Yes, Professor.“

“I thought as much when I saw you drooling over Mr. Deadworth’s notebook.”

She pulled a slip of parchment from her sleeve with the practiced theatricality of someone used to declarations.

“You’ve been assigned Remus Lupin.”

Percy blinked. “Professor Lupin? I thought-”

He stopped, frowned faintly, then said, in a tone one shade too close to a whine, “Why can’t it be you? Or Professor Flitwick?”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, but her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “You flatter us both, Mr. Weasley.”

He looked sheepish. “It’s just—I work well under structure. You give structure. So does Flitwick.”

She regarded him for a long moment, then softened. “You don’t have to worry. Professor Lupin is quite competent, unlike his predecessors. More importantly, he isn’t afraid to challenge students who need it. And you, my dear boy, clearly do.”

Percy opened his mouth, clearly about to object.

She held up a hand. “Don’t argue. You have fallen asleep in 3 classes.”

Percy deflated. “I—yes, Professor.”

She sighed, her tone gentler now. “Percy, I do not want you overexerting yourself. I understand the demands on your time and attention are many—prefect duties, coursework, family drama, and now spontaneous hallway referendums—but it is necessary to take care of your health.”

Percy blinked. He wasn’t used to concern from authority figures. It short circuited something in his brain. “I’m managing.”

“You are managing to nap during spellcasting,“ she said dryly. “That is not a benchmark I recommend aspiring to.”

She regarded him for a beat longer, then added, “By the way, I would like to thank you for your help drafting the new staff contracts.”

“Thank you, ma’am,“ Percy said, blinking again, then quickly added, “Though really, Penelope did most of your notes.”

“I know,“ McGonagall said with a small smile. “I’ve spoken to her as well. She’s going to make an excellent barrister someday.”

Percy lit up like someone had switched on a Lumos behind his eyes. “Oh, she will, ma’am. Absolutely.”

He gave her a small, tired smile.

She nodded once, more to herself than to him. “Professor Lupin will expect your project outline by Friday. Do not be late.”

“Yes, Professor.”

She gave him a final look, one part approval and one part maternal menace. “Dismissed.”

Percy turned, collected his things with the weary air of someone about to go sit in a library for three hours and cry onto a textbook, and left.

Outside, Simon and Penelope were waiting by the corridor.

“Well?“ Simon asked.

“New supervisor,” Percy said. “Lupin. Apparently I need to be challenged.”

“I've heard he's a good guy,“ Penelope said, shrugging. “Competent, I think.”

“What kind of name is 'Lupin,' anyway? Sounds like tea for joint pain,” Simon said.

“Look who's speaking, Deadworth,” Penelope shot back.

“You’re literally 'Clearwater,'” Simon retorted.

“At least I don’t sound like a forgotten Victorian disease.”

“Alright, alright,” Percy cut in, rubbing his temples. “No one's name is safe today.”

“That includes yours, 'Percival Ignatius,'” Simon said with glee.

“You made that middle name up.”

“Did I?”

They walked off together down the hall, their voices trailing behind them, Penelope arguing that Simon's name sounded like a ghost who never got a proper burial and Simon countering that Clearwater was the name of a bottled water brand he'd once seen hexed to hiss insults at passersby. Behind them, in the now empty classroom, one twitching quill finally fluttered off the windowsill and vanished into the wind.

Chapter Text

Percy knocked on Professor Lupin’s door precisely five minutes before the scheduled time. He stood straight, shoes polished, robes smooth, tie perfectly aligned.  Students who had attended his class had said that he was competent, usually with an odd look of respect that Percy had found difficult to quantify. Even McGonagall had said it, which would normally have tipped the scales—but then, Lupin had been a Gryffindor, and Percy was well aware that House loyalty tended to colour judgment.

He didn’t usually trust praise that came too easily, especially from people who forgot deadlines  or thought a monster in the shape of a cat was charming. He’d believe it when he saw it, and not a moment before. After all, "competent" was a word people used when they didn’t want to say "excellent" or "boring". So he took a breath, straightened his shoulders again just in case, and reminded himself that it was just a meeting. 

"Come in," came a warm, slightly tired voice from within.

The office looked, Percy thought with mild dismay, like it had once belonged to someone deeply organized before being kindly ransacked by a visiting storm. A few bookshelves were jammed with everything from academic texts to what looked suspiciously like a collection of Muggle detective novels. A teacup sat half-forgotten beside an open essay marked in dark green ink. There was a definite smell of lavender and something that might have been caramel.

"Mr. Weasley," Lupin said, standing up with a small smile and extending a hand. "Come in, please. You’re just on time."

"Professor," Percy said, shaking the hand and then hovering awkwardly in front of the available chair, as if waiting to be told whether it was there for people to sit.

"Sit, sit," Lupin said, waving his hand in a gesture that could have meant ‘please relax’ or possibly ‘ignore this mess of a room.’

Percy sat, perching rather than settling, and retrieved a small folder from his satchel. "I've brought an outline for the project I was considering."

Lupin tilted his head, hands folded loosely. "Excellent. Let’s hear it."

Percy cleared his throat. "I'd like to examine the implementation of procedural structure within standardised spellcasting instruction. Looking at how magical laws, wandwork, incantation clarity, and Ministry regulations align—or don’t. Especially across different branches: Charms, Transfiguration, Defence."

"So you’re interested in the rules behind how magic works," Lupin said thoughtfully. "Not just what we cast, but how and why it works or fails?"

"Yes, exactly," Percy said, suddenly animated. "Spell failure rates, under defined movement protocols, regional incantation drift—I think we’re underestimating how much variance there is between what’s taught and what’s actually practiced. Flitwick insists the wrist flick is the most critical part of a levitation charm. But McGonagall swears it’s intent first, then pronunciation. I’ve seen both work. So what’s the common variable?” Percy asked, then caught himself. "I mean. That’s what I want to find out."

Lupin nodded once, slowly. "That’s very thorough," he said. "Well considered."

"Thank you, sir," Percy said, with the tense pride of someone who had expected a ten minute debate first.

He adjusted his collar. "I’ve never found theory for theory’s sake particularly useful. I want to examine the framework—the applied part. Spells are supposed to follow rules, so when they don’t, the failure isn't just academic. It’s practical. Why do they break? And what’s the correct procedure for identifying and correcting those failures, especially when the usual variables are already accounted for?"

He paused, thoughtful, then continued with a candid edge, "I’m afraid I don’t quite have the patience for pure research, sir. Or the temperament, if I’m being honest. The idea of sitting in a library for three months trying to prove a minor inconsistency in the flame resistance of ink makes me feel faint. I'd rather test what happens if you cast Aguamenti in tandem with Aquam Dantis and see how the ink reacts or doesn’t in real time."

Lupin smiled, not unkindly. "That does sound interesting."

"It is," Percy said earnestly. "Because if it doesn’t matter in practice, then what are we even testing for? Who cares if the ink’s resistance drops a percentage point under dual hydration spells unless someone is actively using it in a spell laden environment?"

"I’m assuming the librarians at Alexandria did ," Lupin murmured, amused.

Percy felt his ears turning red in embarrassment and gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. "I suppose that’s fair sir. Though I suspect even they would’ve thrown a book if they’d heard Professor Snape shout about it. He once screamed for ten minutes because someone tried to combine two dampening charms in a cauldron and nearly obliterated half the class. He bellowed something about 'centuries of alchemical law' being violated by 'dull-minded infants with no grasp of temporal layering.' It was rather dramatic."

Lupin looked far too entertained. "Ah. Temporal layering. The favourite bogeyman of every overambitious seventh year."

"And a permanent trauma trigger for John now," Percy added dryly. "I think he transferred out of Potions after that."

Lupin leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Percy with an expression that was thoughtful but not readable. "Have you always been interested in magical structure? The mechanics?"

Percy blinked. "Why?"

It was only after Lupin raising an eyebrow that Percy reminded himself that he was speaking to a professor and not a friend.

Percy cleared his throat. "Yes sir. I suppose I have. I like knowing why things work. And what happens when they don’t. I like rules that actually mean something."

Lupin nodded slowly. "It’s an interesting project, Mr. Weasley. And a personal one, it sounds like."

Percy hesitated. "I don’t see how—"

"Only that," Lupin said gently, “you seem invested in the idea that structure can prevent failure. That with enough procedure, even chaos can be controlled."

Percy opened his mouth to object, then closed it again, his thoughts momentarily hijacked by the vivid memory of Ron confidently brandishing a wand held together with Spellotape, as if it hadn't nearly turned him into a ferret. He recalled the twins' tendency to test unstable mixtures in the common room with all the caution of pyromaniac philosophers. And then there was the infamous lunchtime debacle—his pristine Head Boy badge entirely ineffective as three first years gleefully launched treacle tart at the ceiling with the synchrony of a synchronized spellcasting troupe high on sugar.

"It’s not about control," he said stiffly. "It’s about consistency. Safety."

"Of course," Lupin said, sipping his tea. "And you’re right. It matters. There’s something noble about building order into something that often defies it. Just don’t let your desire for rules make you blind to the parts of magic that are... well, beautifully inconsistent."

Lupin continued, still calm, still slightly amused. "It makes it stronger, not weaker. So I’d just ask you to think about whether this is the project that makes you think."

Percy did not like being unsure. He also did not like professors who made him think out loud in front of them. He liked checklists. He liked committee approved outlines. He did not like being psychoanalyzed over tea.

Lupin, to his horror, poured him a cup anyway. "Milk?"

"Yes, thank you," Percy muttered, still blinking like a duck that had been handed a philosophy textbook.

The rest of the conversation was easier. Lupin didn’t push the issue again, instead asking about how Percy planned to organize his research, what sources he’d already consulted, and whether he had spoken to any of the staff about cross-departmental spell records, at which point Percy perked up considerably and began describing the infernal brilliance of the magical indexing system he’d designed for the prefect filing cabinets.

They talked about timelines, and whether Percy might narrow his focus to practical school level spellcasting rather than including adult vocational training. They discussed phrasing—whether "standardisation of arcane function" sounded too clinical, and whether the term "protocol fatigue" could be used seriously in a title.

After nearly an hour, Percy had half a page of notes and a freshly inked list of questions to revise his original idea. He still wasn’t sure what had just happened but he felt oddly clearer about everything and vaguely unsettled that Lupin hadn’t lectured once.

As he gathered his papers, Lupin leaned back again and gave him a small, thoughtful smile. "I realise this is your NEWT year. You must be carrying quite the load—Head Boy, coursework, and of course sibling drama."

"It’s manageable," Percy said automatically.

Lupin nodded. "Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s a way to keep from noticing you’re overwhelmed. Work can be a very comfortable kind of madness, you know. You can disappear into it without ever admitting you’re lost."

Percy froze, just for a second.

Lupin sipped his tea, then added, with a distant sort of amusement, "You’ll need people who pull you back out."

“Were you Head Boy, sir?” Percy asked, partly because the question felt safer than confronting the rest and admitting the conversation had begun to feel suspiciously like therapy.

Lupin laughed genuinely "No. That particular honour went to one of my best mates. I was just a prefect."

"Just?" Percy repeated, eyes narrowing slightly.

Lupin smiled. "Well, I did most of the apologising for the rest of them. They were brilliant at getting into trouble and even better at getting me to relax after I’d spent the afternoon explaining to Filch why a suit of armour was singing sea shanties."

Percy tried to imagine it and failed.

Lupin, perhaps sensing the confusion, gave a vague wave. "They were a handful. But a good handful. We kept each other standing, in our own ways."

There was silence then. It was not uncomfortable, but not quite something Percy knew how to fill.

"I believe it’s nearly time for dinner sir," he said at last, standing and adjusting his tie again.

He didn't leave right away. There was a moment : quiet, suspended where Percy found himself staring at the teacup in his hand like it might whisper something useful. The smell of lavender and caramel was still hanging faintly in the air, and in that quiet, he thought, absurdly, about cauldrons.

About how even the best-crafted potion could buckle if the cauldron’s temperature rose by just one degree too quickly. How something as delicate as powdered moonstone reacted completely differently if stirred counterclockwise on the seventh turn instead of the sixth. It wasn't always about the ingredients. Sometimes it was about rhythm. Other times it was about awareness. Most of the time it was about knowing when to stop adding and start watching.

He had a sudden flashback of Snape bellowing, "Do you want to explode your classmates, Mr. Hopkins, or is your clockwise stirring just a  protest against instructions?" while the rest of the class cowered behind cauldrons. Even Percy, calm as he was, had jumped. It was funny now but the underlying point had always landed.

With potions, with magic, with people: timing was everything.

Perhaps procedures weren’t infallible safeguards. Perhaps they were just a way of delaying chaos long enough to learn something from it.

He didn’t like that idea.

But he also couldn’t quite dismiss it.

"I believe it’s nearly time for dinner, sir," he said again, this time quieter, more like a question.

"So it is," Lupin said, smiling again. "Thank you for coming by, Mr. Weasley. And do consider what we talked about."

“" will."

"And Percy—"

"Yes, sir?"

"I meant it. Don’t let the work eat you whole."

"I’ll try not to."

“Good. See you next week.”

As Percy left the office and made his way toward the Great Hall, he realised with something like reluctant surprise that he felt better. Not fixed, certainly not relaxed, but like someone had acknowledged the fraying edges of a cloth without trying to iron them.

And worse, perhaps, he now believed the rumours.

Lupin was competent.

Damn it.

Chapter Text

Penelope waited in the alcove outside the Arithmancy corridor, her back pressed lightly against the cool stone wall. The hum of voices from the Great Hall had thinned to a lazy after-dinner trickle, and the floating notice scrolls drifted overhead like slow, glowing parade banners. Their soft golden light caught the dust in the air, turning the flagstones into a dim constellation map.

She had chosen this spot on purpose. It was close enough for Percy to find her without making it an announcement to the rest of the castle, far enough to avoid the roar of chairs scraping and the inevitable seventh year debates about which Wizarding Wireless station was superior. 

She heard him before she saw him. Percy’s footsteps were impossible to mistake, the measured tread of someone who had plotted his course like a military operation. The sort of walk that said: this person has never once been caught in a corridor without a plausible reason for being there.

When he rounded the corner, satchel strap precise, cheeks still faintly pink from the warmth of the soup, there was no small talk.

"I have just come from speaking with Lupin about the project," he said, stopping neatly in front of her.

She tilted her head, folded her arms, and allowed herself the faint pleasure of knowing he wanted her reaction. "And?"

"I will admit, his feedback was unexpectedly useful."

Her eyebrows rose.

“Lupin has a clear understanding of his subject,” Percy continued, each word escaping only after being given some sort of private security clearance. "You were correct about that. Prof.McGonagall said as much as well, and… it seems you were both right."

Penelope gave a very small nod, the kind that could pass for polite acknowledgement but in her mind meant: point to me.

"Thank you," she said, and mentally updated the tally she kept tucked away where Percy would never look. Percy: fifteen. Penelope: sixteen. One point ahead, which was all that mattered .This year’s Points of Correctness Championship was still hers to win. She imagined the invisible scoreboard flickering somewhere above their heads, accompanied by faint BBC Grandstand theme music.

"May I continue now?" Percy asked with a faint air of formality, though she could tell he was more amused than annoyed.

"Yes, please do," she said, schooling her expression into polite attentiveness even as her mind began to shift toward other, more pressing matters.

He launched into a neat summary of his conversation with Lupin. Apparently, Lupin had agreed with Percy’s framework in principle but had also pointed out that magic, being magic, did not always appreciate being forced into the tight boxes of Ministry procedure. A shielding charm, for instance, might falter in a crosswind if the caster clung too literally to textbook form rather than adapting to conditions. Percy recited this in a tone that made it clear he approved of Lupin’s reasoning but also thought it slightly unfair that anyone had to point it out to him in the first place.

Penelope nodded in the right places. In her head, however, she was already stepping away from the conversation, back into the other parts of her life that required careful tending.

She had known for years that she wanted to be a barrister. Magical law was not forgiving. It did not reward sentiment but precision, and in that precision there was power. Words could bind more tightly than chains, clauses could topple fortunes or protect them for generations. If she was to reach that future, she needed more than grades. She needed an edge, something to make her stand out among the dozens of other bright, ambitious graduates , especially as a Muggleborn. That fact alone meant she would have to work twice as hard, twice as flawlessly, to be taken seriously by the firms and Wizengamot clerks who still measured worth by surname. Mistakes that a pureblood trainee might be forgiven would be, for her, proof of unfitness.

That something, she believed, was in the East Faculty Records Room. It was said to hold the syllabus for Contracts and Covenants, a subject Hogwarts had abandoned a century ago. The archived case studies and magical enforcement clauses would be a treasure for someone headed for legal work : the sort of material no library carried and no professor handed out. Unfortunately, the room was fitted with anti-invisibility and anti-theft wards so sharp they could probably detect a dishonest thought at fifty paces. She would have to get in without magic, or through someone with legitimate clearance, both of which were about as easy as borrowing the Queen’s hat collection for the weekend.

And, on top of that, she still had her Arithmancy assignment lurking in her satchel like an unwelcome bill. Professor Vector had a particular look that made students feel they had violated some unspoken social contract if work was late.

"…low-light duelling environments and incantation drift," Percy was saying, now moving into solution mode.

"Yes, of course," she murmured, catching enough to feed back a quick paraphrase and prove she was listening. While she was physically with Percy, her mind was already sketching a diversion plan. If she could lure the ward monitors toward another wing of the castle while she slipped inside the records room, she might be able to buy herself ten minutes, fifteen at most. That would require either a cooperative faculty member or a very precise reading of the ward refresh cycle.

They had drifted toward the marble staircase, the corridors thinning of students until their voices felt like the only ones left.

"We will both finish this year with our projects completed," Percy said firmly. "You will have your records analysis, I will have my procedural reform proposal, and both will be recognised for what they are worth."

"And everything else we have planned will be in place," she agreed. She could not quite tell if the reassurance was more for him or for herself.

They stopped at the junction where the corridor split, one way leading him toward Gryffindor Tower. For a moment, they simply stood together in the warm lamplight, the glow catching on the sharp edges of his folder and in the steady gleam of determination in his eyes.

"I will see you tomorrow. Good night, dear," he murmured, leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead.

"Good night, Percy," she replied softly.

She waited a moment longer before heading in the opposite direction. There was something comforting about slipping into her own small rituals, the ones Percy did not need to know about. Smoking was not a habit he approved of. She could already picture his reaction with near accuracy. There would be the precise narrowing of his eyes, followed by the removal of his glasses for a slow, deliberate polish. Then the lecture, politely delivered but backed with evidence, perhaps even a bibliography. He would point out the health risks, the waste of galleons that could have gone toward textbooks, and the danger of younger students copying her example. Somewhere in the middle, he might compare cigarettes to the Spice Girls, declaring them flashy and unhelpful, without realising he had just given her months of material to use against him.

The balcony she favoured was tucked away behind a narrow door at the far end of a side corridor. It opened onto a ledge overlooking the grounds, its stone railing cool under her hands. The night sky was clear save for a thin ribbon of cloud stretched lazily across the moon. She took out her cigarette and lighter, the small flare briefly painting her fingers gold before she drew in the first breath of smoke.

Habit had taught her to be cautious here. She murmured the listening charm she always used, aiming it toward the archway that opened onto the corridor so she would have warning if anyone approached. The magic slipped neatly from her wand, but as she turned back toward the railing, it rebounded without her noticing and settled onto something small and still in the adjacent disused classroom.

It was Percy’s old Transfiguration quill, the one that had stubbornly refused to become a butterfly during class. It had spent several days in its invisible sulk on the windowsill. Now, perhaps prompted by a delayed spell trigger or just inconvenient timing, the quill shimmered, twisted, and transformed into a perfectly ordinary brown and gold butterfly. The listening charm clung to it like an overly loyal pet.

Unaware, Penelope exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the night, her thoughts drifting back to the East Faculty Records Room problem. The wards there were keyed to treat any magical concealment as hostile intent, which, since she was technically committing theft, would not exactly work in her favor.

She took another slow draw, letting the smoke curl away on the breeze. Somewhere far off, an owl called, the sound quickly swallowed by the dark. The idea of the old Contract Law syllabus still pressed at the edges of her mind. If she could see what Hogwarts once taught about magical agreements, it would give her an advantage when applying for barrister training. Contracts were power, and power written down was power she could keep.

Her mind flicked briefly to her unfinished Arithmancy charts. If she completed them tonight, she could dedicate tomorrow evening to the records room plan. But there was still that one stubborn progression that refused to behave, and the thought of tackling it after this small moment of calm felt unpleasant.

She flicked the ash over the balcony edge and watched it vanish. Lately, Percy had been unusually elusive, nowhere to be found in any of their usual haunts, yet somehow leaving traces of suspicion in his wake.

She couldn’t pin him down, and anyway, she had her own schemes to manage; calling him out now would only get in the way. So she waited, letting the unspoken tension hang in the night air, keeping this safely in the category of "things he does not need to know, ever."

Inside the classroom, the butterfly flexed its wings, gave a testing flutter, and launched into the corridor. It drifted aimlessly at first, zig-zagging toward the moving staircases, then circling lazily over the heads of two startled second-years. It passed through the library, lingered briefly near the kitchens when a warm draught carried the scent of treacle tart, and at one point nearly collided with Nearly Headless Nick, who muttered something not meant for young ears.

Eventually, the butterfly slipped into a quieter wing of the castle, drawn by a faint trace of enchantment. It squeezed under the door of the Acquisitions Room and landed on the edge of a long central table. A clean sheet of parchment lay there, charmed to record anything the listening spell fed it. The butterfly’s charm hummed faintly, and neat lines of ink began to spread across the page, capturing snatches of conversation from wherever it had been and wherever it would go next.

The parchment did not discriminate. It would record everything, from faculty discussions about lesson plans, to the caretaker’s grievances about muddy corridors, to a spirited Hufflepuff argument over whether Take That or East 17 were the better band.

Some of it might even be useful. Most of it would be baffling. None of it would ever be seen or even suspected by Penelope Clearwater, who was at that very moment walking back toward the Arithmancy corridor, entirely unaware that Percy’s failed Transfiguration project had just become the most indiscriminate eavesdropper in Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

It had been three days since Percy’s meeting with Professor Lupin, and in that time the project had eaten most of his hours, including dinner. He had fallen asleep over a pile of parchment in the library, waking up with ink smudged across his cheek and the very distinct realisation that he had missed the entire meal. By the time it was time to patrol, his stomach was staging open rebellion.

Ordinarily, Percy would have solved this problem by appealing to his brothers, though that came with its own complications. He knew full well that Fred and George had a private pipeline to snacks through what he could only assume were unsanctioned, unsupervised, and highly suspicious visits to Hogsmeade. He had no proof, of course, and it infuriated him. If he asked, they would smirk, hand him a biscuit, and then never let him live it down.

So instead, he carried on with his patrol. It was quiet, too quiet, and Percy’s thoughts began to drift dangerously close to daydreams of roast potatoes. That was when his stomach made a noise loud enough to echo off the stones.

Cam stopped dead and turned.

“That,” they said, “was not the castle.”

Percy gave a short laugh that sounded suspiciously like panic. “Echoes, Cam. These old halls play tricks on the ears.”

Cam smirked. “Pretty sure my ears know the difference between stone and starvation.”

“It was a minor lapse,” Percy insisted, squaring his shoulders as if posture could silence his midsection.

The stomach growled again, louder this time.

Cam folded their arms. “Uh huh. Minor lapse. Sure. Tell that to the entire Gryffindor corridor that just heard it.”

Percy coughed, which did nothing except make the sound echo more cheerfully. “I hardly think—”

“You need food,” Cam cut in. “You’re about two minutes from keeling over. And when you do, guess who has to write the report? Me. ‘Dear Professor McGonagall, the Head Boy fainted dramatically by a broom cupboard because he was too proud for a snack.’ I am not writing that.”

“I am perfectly capable of finishing patrol,” Percy said, though his tone lacked its usual iron.

Cam gave him a sideways look. “You know there’s an easier option than dying on me. Kitchens.”

“Kitchens?” Percy repeated, as though the word itself were scandalous.

“Yes. Kitchens. They exist, Weasley. Did you think the feasts just manifested out of thin air?”

“I assumed… preparations were made.”

“Preparations, yes,” Cam said with a laugh. “And you’ve never seen them. Tragic. Come on.”

Percy hesitated. His stomach chose that moment to add its own commentary, a long, mournful growl that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

Cam grinned. “Thought so. Come on.”

They led him down a side passage, past portraits who gave Percy quizzical glances as if they too had heard his internal protests. When they stopped in front of a still life of fruit, Percy looked at it with deep suspicion.

“This is absurd,” he said flatly.

“Tickle the pear,” Cam instructed.

Percy turned slowly, as though making sure this was not some elaborate Hufflepuff joke. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tickle the pear. Little green one there. Go on.”

“I will not—”

“Then no dinner.”

There was a long pause. Percy’s jaw worked as though he were chewing on the concept of dignity. Finally, with the air of a man signing away his reputation, he reached out one finger and brushed the pear.

The pear giggled. Percy froze.

Cam started laughing. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”

The pear twisted into a doorknob, the portrait swung open, and a flood of warm light and the inviting aroma of freshly baked bread, roasting meats, and something faintly sweet that Percy could not identify rolled out.

The kitchens were cavernous, nearly a mirror image of the Great Hall above, with four long tables and dozens of figures bustling about them. Copper pots gleamed on the walls, cauldrons steamed, trays of bread rolled by under the nimble hands of house-elves. The sound was a chorus of clattering cutlery, bubbling sauce, high-pitched chatter and the occasional squeak of a rolling pin that had clearly seen better days.

Cam clapped him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the beating heart of Hogwarts.”

Percy’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed, “Good heavens.”

The smell alone nearly undid Percy. He stepped inside as if entering sacred ground, his eyes darting from the massive hearths along the wall to the endless trays of rolls cooling on the tables. His stomach, delighted at finally being acknowledged, growled again like a dog demanding to be let in.

A house-elf appeared at his elbow so suddenly Percy jumped. The elf had ears like sails and eyes too large for his narrow face. He bowed low, nearly brushing the floor.

“Head Boy, sir, welcome to kitchens. What is being required?”

Percy straightened quickly, fumbling for the proper tone. “Ah—thank you, I… er… nothing in particular. I was simply—observing.”

Cam leaned casually against the nearest table and already had a roll in hand. “He means he’s starving.”

Percy shot them a glare. “I said nothing of the kind.”

His stomach betrayed him with a grumble so loud three elves across the room looked up.

The elf beamed. “Then Head Boy is being seated. We is making plate.”

Before Percy could protest, a chair appeared behind him and he was nudged firmly into it. Another elf bustled up with a tray piled high with roast chicken, potatoes, and a small mountain of peas.

Cam plopped into the chair beside him, already tearing into another roll. “See? Better than fainting in a corridor.”

Percy picked up his fork with the air of someone forced into a duel. “I hardly think—”

But then he took a bite, and the argument died instantly. It was embarrassingly good.

Across the room, Percy noticed movement that did not fit the rhythm of the kitchen. An elf in what appeared to be three hats and at least six mismatched sweaters was attempting to balance a tray of teacups while muttering cheerfully to himself.

The first elf caught Percy staring and shook his head. “Do not be minding Dobby. Dobby is… different. Too many sweaters, sir.”

“Far too many sweaters,” another elf agreed solemnly, carrying a pudding dish half her size.

Cam snorted into their roll. “Honestly, I like him. Adds colour.”

Percy blinked, still processing the sight. “Does he… always dress like that?”

“Always,” chorused three elves, their tones suggesting long-suffering affection.

Cam grinned. “You have to admit, Percy, that’s commitment.”

Percy set down his fork, trying to redirect his focus to something more dignified. That was when he noticed a pair of elves working near the far hearth. Both were stooped with age, their hands trembling slightly as they lifted trays, yet they moved without pause, their faces serene in their work.

Percy frowned. “Should they not be resting?”

The elf beside him blinked at him in mild confusion. “Resting? They is having work. Work must be done.”

Percy hesitated, staring down at his plate as if it had suddenly turned poison.

Cam nudged him lightly. “Eat your peas, Head Boy.You can stare at your plate when all the food is in your stomach”

Cam had abandoned all pretence of subtlety. By the time Percy had finished his second cautious bite of chicken, Cam had somehow acquired an entire plate of jam tarts and was eating them two at a time, crumbs sprinkling merrily down their prefect badge.

“Cam,” Percy hissed. “That is hardly appropriate. We are on patrol.”

“We are also hungry,” Cam replied with their mouth full. “And if you think I’m letting a table of jam tarts go untouched, you’re dreaming.”

One of the elves nodded approvingly and offered Cam a goblet of pumpkin juice the size of a small cauldron.

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are incorrigible.”

“Thank you.”

Another tray arrived for Percy, this time a selection of sandwiches so neat they looked like they had been cut by spellwork. He opened his mouth to decline, but the elf who had served him was looking up with such hopeful pride that he could not bring himself to refuse. He took one, chewed thoughtfully, and tried not to make a sound of contentment that would only fuel Cam’s grin.

His eyes strayed again to the frail elves, still carrying trays and stirring pots as if the weight of years meant nothing. Their arms were so thin the sleeves of their uniforms seemed to flap with every movement, yet no one around them questioned it.

“Why are they working at this hour?” Percy asked finally.

The elf nearest him tilted his head. “Because there is work to be done, Head Boy, sir.”

“Yes, but—surely there are younger elves who could take over.”

The elf blinked, puzzled, as though Percy had suggested the ceiling might like a holiday. “All elves is working. Always.”

Cam leaned closer, lowering their voice. “You look like you’re about to put in a formal complaint.”

Percy’s fork clinked against his plate. “Perhaps I am.”

Cam chuckled. “Only you would turn a midnight snack into a workplace inquiry.”

Just then, Dobby shuffled past again, this time balancing an entire platter of teapots. His hats listed precariously to one side, and one of his sweaters had a sleeve so long he nearly tripped on it.

Percy half-rose instinctively. “Should someone help him?”

The other elves waved him back down. “Do not be worrying. Dobby always looks like falling, but he never falls. Except when he does. Then he gets back up.”

Cam nearly choked on their tart and then looked at it with love. “Brilliant.”

The platter wobbled dangerously, one teapot tipping, then righting itself. Dobby carried on with a determined nod, muttering about the virtues of self-expression.

Percy sat again, but unease coiled in his stomach. The food was perfect, the elves eager to serve, and yet the sight of those trembling hands and Dobby’s chaotic defiance lodged firmly in his mind.

When at last he set down his fork for good, Cam was slumped happily in their chair, jam smudged at the corner of their mouth. “Best patrol ever.”

Percy stood, straightening his robes. “Come along. We have duties to finish.”

Cam groaned but got to their feet, still clutching one last tart.

As they left the kitchen, Percy cast one more glance at the elderly elves by the hearth. They did not look up, only kept working, their motions as steady and endless as the flames that lit their faces.

As Percy’s footsteps faded down the corridor, the kitchen seemed to exhale. Dobby, still balancing his precarious stack of teapots, let out a small squeak of relief and gave a triumphant hop. “Head Boy is gone! Dobby may resume spectacular feats of balance!”

The other elves exchanged quick, knowing glances. One of the frail elders near the hearth shook a hand at Dobby. “Focus, young one. The trays of pudding will not stir themselves.”

“Puddings? Puddings must dance for Head Boy!” Dobby protested, though he carefully set the teapots on a nearby counter, leaning forward to adjust a tray of custards so that each wobble was mathematically precise.

Cam’s tart crumbs still glimmered faintly on the tablecloth as a middle-aged elf, who always wore three aprons and two hats, muttered, “He leaves chaos in his wake. Always chaos. But delightful chaos.”

Dobby, ignoring the critique, grabbed a rolling pin and began performing spins and pirouettes, sending miniature clouds of flour into the air. “See, see! Dobby shows respect through artistry! Happiness! Joy!”

From across the room, another elf, small and stooped, quietly adjusted a row of bread loaves that had been jostled during Dobby’s performance. “Dobby is… enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. Perhaps too enthusiastic.”

Dobby froze mid-spin and looked toward the elder. “Too enthusiastic? Impossible! Dobby only knows enthusiasm! Enthusiasm is… magic!”

A gentle chorus of chuckles rippled through the kitchen, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of pots and the occasional squeak of a rolling pin. Even the eldest elves, who had seen centuries pass and countless students come and go, paused in their work to watch Dobby pirouette around the kitchen, flour trailing behind him like a comet’s tail.

Finally, with a dramatic flourish, Dobby bowed to the empty doorway. “Kitchen restored! Head Boy honored! Dobby proud!”

The frail elves, resigned but fond, shook their heads and returned to their duties. The rhythm of work resumed, steady and endless, yet somehow brighter, infused with a quiet laughter that only a house-elf could conjure.

The castle was quieter than ever as Percy and Cam finished their patrol. Cam peeled off toward Hufflepuff with the air of someone carrying a precious relic (in this case, the last tart wrapped in a napkin), while Percy climbed the stairs alone. His steps carried him not toward Gryffindor Tower but toward the seventh floor corridor where the Acquisitions Room waited.

The door admitted him at once, as though it too had been listening to his thoughts. The familiar shelves stretched around him, stacked with policies, bylaws, and the occasional enchanted parchment that hummed faintly to itself. Percy made straight for the section labelled Magical Beings and flipped open a dusty binder that looked as though it had not been touched since the founders’ time.

The first entry he read nearly made him laugh aloud.

“Clause the Fifth: Any elf caught idling without a tray shall be considered in breach of duty and made to juggle trays while carrying them.”

He turned the page, his frown deepening.

“Clause the Seventh: Elves of advanced years may continue in service until their magic naturally fades, upon which their duties shall be reduced to polishing silverware and carrying messages between portraits.”

Percy shut the binder halfway, then opened it again as if the words might change on a second reading. They did not.

“This is absurd,” he muttered. “Silverware duty as retirement? That is not a policy, that is satire.”

He pulled down another volume, this one so heavy it nearly took him with it. Its title gleamed in faded gold: Codex of Domestic Enchantments, Revised 1421. He flipped through, eyes widening as he found a section titled Acceptable Rewards.

“Elves may be gifted socks only upon completion of a full century of service.”

He made a strangled sound somewhere between indignation and disbelief. “A hundred years for a pair of socks?”

A nearby shelf creaked ominously, almost in sympathy.

Percy pressed his lips together, then scribbled a note in his own folder: Review elf statutes. Possible reforms. Ask Lupin.

He flipped another page.

“Elves shall not be permitted to petition the Ministry directly, on account of their tendency to confuse matters with irrelevant anecdotes.”

Percy sat back in his chair, staring at the line as though it might vanish under his disapproval. “Irrelevant anecdotes,” he repeated flatly. Images of the two frail elves carrying trays floated back to him, followed by Dobby with his sweaters and unsteady tower of teapots.

His quill scratched across the page again: This cannot remain unchanged.

For a moment, the absurdity of it all almost pulled a laugh from him. Wizards who prided themselves on fairness had somehow preserved laws that treated elves like enchanted dishcloths. It was so inefficient it bordered on comedy.

Yet beneath the humour was something sharper. He shut the Codex with a decisive thump.

Next week, when he met with Lupin, he would ask. Someone had to know why Hogwarts was overworking its employees. And if no one did, then perhaps it was time to start asking louder.