Nine
The Jaws of the Trap
Ginny paced impatiently from one end of the small room to the other, clenching and unclenching her fists with each step. The special acoustics in the recording studio allowed the voices from Grimmauld Place to come through as if the persons were present before her, yet she avoided glancing at the video screen. After listening to the Minister drone on at excruciating length, she had no desire to look upon his smug, grandstanding face as well.
Just because the news team had agreed to provide live coverage of today’s dedication did not mean he owned the airwaves. Did he not realize the WWN had a broadcasting schedule to maintain? Not to mention paid advertisers who expected their pre-recorded spots to be aired according to contract. No, such things were too mundane for the Minister for Magic to remember; but his media staff should have been more on top of things. Percy was certainly going to get an earful the next time she saw him.
Instantly, her head jerked up at the abrupt silence. On the video screen, Scrimgeour was bending over slightly as one of his assistants whispered urgently into his ear. He nodded as he continued to smile broadly at the small crowd encircling him then began avidly shaking hands. In the background, Ginny caught a glimpse of her brother’s stern countenance. Well, perhaps he was doing his job overseeing today’s events, after all. Managing celebrities, even political ones, was never easy.
Deftly, Ginny switched audio channels and caught the tail end of an advert for a new tearoom in Diagon Alley. Following a brief burst of musical fanfare, the transmission through the wireless system was now originating from their main studio. Ginny confirmed they were only running ten minutes behind schedule. Through the wide glass window which separated her from the next studio, their special guest was entranced by the life-sized video feed that had been set up especially for her.
Time for Act Two, Ginny noted wryly. With a quill infused with a Protean Charm, she sat down to rework the interview script, confident that the shortened version would appear before Eunice just as soon as the ink dried.
Harry cringed every time the tour took to the stairs on the floor below, the muffled conversations funneling through the narrow stairwell reminding him that the party was still going strong. From their aerie, they could distinguish the guests drifting like schools of brightly colored fish seeking refreshment in the solarium below. Aided by the elongating shadow of the tall townhouse itself, the temperature outside had been dropping steadily since mid-day. Not that anyone had taken it as a sign to depart; they had simply regrouped near the buffet so they could continue to rub elbows with the celebrities. Idly, Harry watched the steam heat escaping from the vents along the glass roofline. Delicate wraiths drifting into the darkening cloudbank, never to be seen again.
“You don’t think they’ll complain about my skiving off?” Tonks tittered nervously at his elbow.
“And what if they do?” Harry shrugged.
“I’m sure your intrepid agent will set them straight,” Neville added with a boyish grin. “After he reminds them this was a benefit appearance.”
“But the Minister…” Tonks started to protest.
“It’s not a command performance unless it comes from the Queen herself,” Harry reminded her with a twinkle in his eye. “And Her Majesty remains blissfully ignorant of the wizarding world in her midst.”
A sharp crackle from the snow globe caused Neville to increase the volume on their receiver unit.
“I think Ginny’s part of the show is just beginning,” Harry whispered.
“Curtain rises on the second act,” Tonks echoed as she pulled her chair closer.
“Thank you for joining us today, Ms. Umbridge,” came the well-pitched tones of the WWN interviewer. “As a long-time employee of the Ministry’s Cultural Affairs Office, your analysis of today’s events has been much anticipated.”
“Thank you, Eunice,” Umbridge issued with a totally inappropriate giggle. “But I must point out that things were much simpler in my time. No fancy titles or divisions, just two Undersecretaries. Besides my duties to the Wizengamot, I also interfaced with visiting dignitaries while the Junior Undersecretary kept track of the Minister’s calendar of personal appearances. Nothing like it is today: ten employees to coordinate with the media and plan parties to showcase the Minister’s wisdom. Is that really necessary?”
“Bet Scrimgeour wishes he hadn’t made her wait for his overly long remarks to wrap up,” Tonks breathed.
“So you think today’s events were overblown?” Eunice followed up.
“Overblown is a brass band and some fireworks,” Umbridge simpered. “This was a media circus.”
Leaving the Minister as the chief clown? Harry considered inwardly. But that question wasn’t posed on air.
Eunice was going for a more diplomatic approach as she returned, “The attendees we interviewed were quite pleased, though.”
Umbridge cleared her throat in that artificial way of hers which made Harry grit his teeth. “Wouldn’t you be if you’d been fed lavishly? A satisfied stomach is a great motivator. Would it surprise you to learn that the curators’ salaries are paid by the Ministry?”
Harry bristled as the insinuation. Flaming dragon’s spit, wasn’t it enough that he’d donated the property? Who did she think paid the effing bills for the renovations which came addressed to the Estate of Sirius Black, Esquire?
Eunice hesitated only briefly before replying, “That was actually in my researcher’s notes, so it’s not really news to me. What’s more, it seems to be common practice for the Ministry to provide personnel to oversee areas they consider to be of importance to the wizarding world.”
“And who determines what is important?” Umbridge persisted.
“Ultimately, the Minister himself.” Refusing to be put on the defensive, Eunice elaborated, “But surely you can’t question the park keepers who are on hand at the Welsh Dragon Preserve near the Berwyn Mountains? Keeping that area fully Disillusioned from Muggles is a full-time undertaking. There’s also the wild hippogriff sanctuary near Pentland Firth--”
“Yes, yes,” Umbridge acknowledged shortly. “No one would question those expenditures. I oversaw much of that when I worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. But why is this particular crumbling townhouse of such importance to wizarding culture, I ask you? It doesn’t mark the site of an actual battle, so why is it being turned into a shrine?”
Having been well rehearsed, Eunice expounded, “Due in large part to the Statute of Secrecy, the wizarding community has limited ability to commemorate its victories. Grave markers are about the only things routinely allowed. The townhouse which served as Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix is unique in that it has been hidden by the Fidelius Charm for decades. It provided an ideal opportunity--”
Like poisoned treacle, Umbridge softly interjected, “So the Ministry’s dossier would have us believe.”
They could almost hear Eunice take a deep breath as she attempted to steer the interview back on track. “Now you don’t want to have our listeners think you haven’t visited the museum yourself. Can you tell us a bit about that, Ms. Umbridge?”
“Of course. I was sent an invitation to today’s dedication, but not being one for crowds, I contacted the curators directly and arranged for a tour for me and my knitting circle. It was just a few days ago so things were a bit chaotic. I only got a peek at the solarium as the glass panes were being repaired by four wands in tandem. Some which had sustained too much weather damage were prone to shattering, like the tinkling of wind chimes in the background.”
“And as we announced at the beginning of this segment, you have been our guest in the main studio this morning where we have all been watching the ceremonies on our life-sized screen,” narrated Eunice.
“It was so kind of you to invite me. The weather seems rather nippy to see how the spectators were all bundled up in their wooly scarves and hats,” Umbridge observed conversationally.
“Any comments on the dedication ceremony itself? Did you find it entertaining?” Eunice posed exactly as she had been prepped.
“Oh yes.” Umbridge produced her fake sigh. “It was very enjoyable. The three Aurors who participated were clearly crowd favorites.”
“I sense a bit of hesitation there…” Eunice maneuvered Umbridge expertly.
“Well, after seeing the actual exhibits within the museum, I was a bit disappointed the Ministry only used its own employees for the dedication. Couldn’t any of the other Order members be bothered to come? Please don’t give me the humility line; surely a direct request from the Minister could not be so easily ignored.”
Harry held his breath, his heart hammering in his ears. Would she allow herself to be baited?
“Technically, Ms. Tonks no longer works as an Auror,” Eunice supplied in a neutral tone. “She is employed by Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”
“Isn’t the infamous Harry Potter part of Mr. Shacklebolt’s department?” Umbridge pressed. “He was at the time of my retirement last month.”
Right on cue, Eunice provided, “It was determined it would be a huge undertaking to guarantee his safety.”
“But not that of the Minister?” Umbridge gasped in exaggerated outrage. “Doesn’t that seem a little skewed to you?”
“The Ministry determined today’s participants had enough experience to handle any untoward situations which might arise,” Eunice enunciated. “It was a cost savings measure; surely you must appreciate that?”
“Touché!” Tonks nodded approvingly.
Clearing her throat again, Umbridge pronounced, “I had been led to believe the youngest heroes, those who had been dispatched under the guise of a school field trip for the final battle, would be present.”
It was as if the earth’s motion had stopped, Harry noted as he caught everyone’s eyes. This was the moment…
“Not all of those faced Lord Voldemort directly,” Eunice artfully protested. “While these three--”
Umbridge cut across her with an imperious demand, “When did the change of plan come about?”
“There was no change of plan,” Eunice maintained evenly. “The Ministry laid the groundwork for these three from the start. Did you have different information from your contacts within the Ministry?”
Draw it out of her, Harry urged silently.
“No, they were rather close-lipped about the whole thing,” Umbridge responded curtly. “Claimed I was no longer entitled to that information since I was not a member of their department… I received my information from a different source.”
His worst suspicions confirmed, Harry tasted bitterness rather than vindication. He’d forgotten how betrayal felt like taking a red-hot iron to the gut.
He barely made sense of Eunice’s words as she continued, “I can’t deny those five heroes would have been a huge draw. Perhaps too large a draw if the word got out ahead of time. This event is in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, no less.”
“The Ministry didn’t have any concerns about the heroes presenting themselves to receive their medals--” The last of Umbridge’s words were cut off by a sharp burst of static.
Scrimgeour was not pleased. It was disconcerting enough to smile and shake hands with the public while he was trying to listen in to the live feed from WWN in his other ear. But the cloying voice of that Umbridge witch was enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge.
Easing his way as unobtrusively as possible towards the entrance to the main townhouse, he caught the eye of one of his staff members. Outside of the men’s washroom, he hissed in her ear, “Find Weasley. NOW!”
As she scurried off to comply, the Minister cast a quick Homenum Revelio spell to ascertain the W.C. was empty before he pushed inside. As the swinging door closed, he placed his own personal ward that could only be breached by his high-level retinue. For all intents and purposes, the gents had just been appropriated as an official Ministry field office.
Scrimgeour had barely finished straightening his tie in the long gilded mirror when Percy entered on silent feet. The skills he had honed to perfection as the Minister’s personal assistant served him well as he stood in perfect stillness, patiently awaiting instruction.
“Can you get me an audio feed?” Scrimgeour demanded of Percy’s reflection in the mirror.
“With the WWN?” Percy hesitated. “In mid-broadcast?”
“Of course in mid-broadcast!” Scrimgeour seethed inwardly as the sharp steps of his pacing were muted by the deep green carpeting. “Someone’s got to take that cow by the tail!”
“I’m sure it can be done,” Percy briskly promised. “Shall I bring the technician here, or would you like to set up before the universal transmitter so your image will be visible inside the studio as well?”
“No need to disturb our honored guests,” Scrimgeour intoned. “Here is fine.”
As Percy dashed off to his task, Scrimgeour briefly considered whether it would serve any function to stare Umbridge down as he cut into her interview. Deciding that it was pointless if he couldn’t savor her blanched face in return, his ego reminded him that the necessary rebuke could be imparted by voice alone.
As the WWN technicians arranged for their particular brand of magic, Percy hovered in the background in a supervisory capacity. Truth be told, he knew nothing about the details of the process, but he knew the Minister would be reassured by his presence. To avoid disturbing the tours which continued in other portions of the townhouse, the sound engineers handed each of them headsets to patch them into the program from the main studio.
Umbridge’s strident voice was blaring forth unchecked, “…didn’t have any concerns about the heroes presenting themselves to receive their medals--”
A sharp burst of static drowned out her words momentarily as the Minister signaled he was ready.
After a second of silence, Eunice took up the reins once again. “Please bear with us, Ms. Umbridge, we have another transmission from the remote site… Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, you had a comment you wished to make, sir?”
Scrimgeour cleared his throat to create an expectation among the listeners “ or so it seemed to Percy from the periphery. “Let me remind Ms. Umbridge that in her former post as Undersecretary, her department arranged for any ceremonial duties of the Minister.”
No mention was made of the Death Eater investigation that had taken up much of Umbridge’s time during those days. Much to Percy’s frustration, the allegations of her involvement with Voldemort had never been substantiated, not in a way that had allowed them to prosecute. Not that he doubted the contents of the destroyed Horcrux, but it could hardly be called as a witness before the Wizengamot. Without any corroboration, testimonies from Harry, Ron or Hermione would just be categorized as hearsay. The most he’d been able to achieve was to have her shuffled into a department where she could do the least harm. Her self-important attitude fully accepted that a posting to the International Floo Commission would allow her to rub elbows with highly-placed officials on a regular basis.
“I had my staff to deal with that,” Umbridge protested lamely to the Minister’s unspoken reprimand.
Undaunted, the Minister stressed, “Then I’m certain your staff would have advised you that a decoration ceremony held in the enclosed Ministry courtyard does not create the same security problems as an outdoor event in a predominantly Muggle neighborhood. Access to the Ministry itself can be easily controlled, not to mention the ancient spells guarding against assassination attempts within its walls. The open sky and rooftops embracing the museum grounds were much more difficult to secure.”
“Yet the Minister himself was present today,” Umbridge observed.
“As is my job,” Scrimgeour fairly growled. “Along with a contingency of bodyguards from the Auror Department. Need I remind you of the added expense of having an even larger retinue present?”
“It is not the Ministry’s place to guard private citizens,” dismissed Umbridge.
“Then you see why I couldn’t have imposed upon others to participate,” the Minister replied silkily. “Surely you can’t deny they remain controversial even to this day.”
A controversy largely stirred up by Umbridge herself, Percy noted inwardly as he kept his features impassive. If only the listeners could be counted upon to discern the nuances.
Like a small army of woodpeckers, the hard pellets of cold winter sleet bombarded the translucent walls of the solarium. So involved in flowing wine and conversation, most of the guests were caught short when the afternoon light dissolved into charcoal gloom. As the sound technicians and Ministry staff scurried to dismantle or protect their most sensitive equipment, the well-heeled herd simply migrated into the ground floor parlor of the townhouse.
Finally freed from her duties, Luna retired to the Crow’s Nest where Kingsley and Mad-Eye had joined the others. Her smile widened when she caught sight of Neville mixing more cocktails with the champagne Dobby had replenished.
“How did it go this morning?” she breathed in his ear as he pressed a tall glass into her hand.
“Gloriously!” Neville beamed. “Sorry I was so late getting back. I have absolutely tons of news to tell --”
His words were cut short by Mrs. Figg poking her head in to announce, “The weather conditions are such that our guests will be drenched if they try to Disapparate from the side yard. I’m going to allow them to Floo out via Sirius’ old room.”
“Do you need help setting up the one-way connection?” Luna inquired.
“I had one of the security details set it up as an emergency exit,” Kingsley supplied. “Just unlock it with the password Poseidon.”
“Do you need my help ushering them up the stairs?” Luna volunteered as she placed her half-empty glass on the desktop.
“No need, dear,” Mrs. Figg assured her with a grandmotherly smile. “Enjoy a nice visit with your young man. I’ll get some of the Ministry staff to help. You wouldn’t believe how many of them there are now that they’re not spread out among the grounds.”
“Probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if we departed first,” Moody suggested.
“Give us a chance to double-check the connection as well,” Kingsley added.
Mrs. Figg nodded in agreement. “Will a fifteen minute window be enough?”
“Plenty,” Tonks assured her.
Flashing Neville a knowing smirk, Harry made him promise they’d get together again soon. “Have a regular class reunion,” he insisted as he gave Neville a friendly pat on the back.
“I’m not going back into the field until after Boxing Day,” Neville assured him in parting. “The foliage in the southern hemisphere is at its peak when it’s mid- to late summer there.”
With a quick glance down the stairs, Luna waved them forth with Harry making up the rear under his Invisibility Cloak. She summoned an armful of additional drop cloths which they smoothed over every corner of the generously sized room. As an extra precaution, she added a dirt repellant charm to the pristine bed coverings to avoid greasy fingerprints.
“Eventually, we will have this room roped off as an exhibit,” Luna explained. “Perhaps we should have held off with the final renovations until then.”
Harry was about to ask her about the adjoining room when a silvery giraffe Patronus galloped through the wall and stopped before Tonks with a graceful dip of its long neck. “We were wondering how much longer you would be,” Remus’ voice issued forth. “We returned to Godric’s Hollow to find Dobby had laid out a lavish high tea worthy of Queen Victoria herself. Left to his own devices, he went into a baking frenzy this afternoon. I’ve already invited every available Weasley I could find. The children are demanding you re-enact your presentation with complete visual effects. Please feel free to invite the remainder of the cast as I’m laying out extra libations in light of the stormy weather.”
“Righto by me,” Moody growled amicably. “But I’m not playing the Dowager Queen this time, no matter how much Phoebe begs.”
“I’ll just Floo my wife that I’ll be delayed,” Kingsley remarked.
“Better yet, why don’t you bring her along?” Tonks proposed with a winning smile as she looked forward to seeing her children. If this wasn’t a command performance, she didn’t know what was.
“Don’t forget,” Ginny whispered as she sent Harry off to work that Monday. “Percy’s article is on page three. Mum Flooed while you were in the shower, complaining that he’d drifted in at two in the morning after working non-stop for close to 36 hours!”
The words echoed in his head as Harry headed down the marble corridors of the Ministry, nodding towards familiar faces along the way. The sensation of Ginny’s parting embrace was still fresh in his mind as he settled down at his desk. With a wordless command, he sent his heavy overcoat towards the rack and smoothed out the crisp pages of the Daily Prophet before him. Reviewing the morning’s edition was standard practice on Monday morning in the Auror Department “ unless an emergency situation meeting was announced, that is.
The extra duty at Saturday’s dedication ceremony likely meant Kingsley and Mad-Eye would be enjoying a leisurely breakfast before arriving for work that morning. Consequently, most employees were cocooned in their offices savoring the last memories of their weekend.
Just as in Sunday’s edition, the cover story was still about the War Museum. Harry smiled unconsciously as he found the sole reference to Dolores Umbridge as “outside sources who disagreed with the Ministry’s priorities.”
The Division of Publicity and Protocol, headed by one Percy Ignatius Weasley, was showcased on page three just as Molly had promised. Loosening his tie, Harry settled back to review the lengthy article before him.
It’s inconceivable that wizarding society could become a thing of the past. Our glorious achievements and history transformed into nothing more than a ghost story full of imaginary figures who traveled in make-believe worlds as Muggles trample over the ashes of our deeds.
But as we rub elbows daily with Muggles, in closer proximity with each passing year, is it really so far-fetched that Diagon Alley might someday be nothing but a memory? Eeylop’s Owl Emporium selling nothing but stuffed toys in plastic cages as a souvenir of glory days that have slipped through our fingers.
Not so, the Ministry’s new Cultural Affairs Office proclaims. “It’s time we made a conscious effort to preserve our wizarding heritage,” Penelope Clearwater, newly appointed coordinator vigorously attests. “Muggles do it all the time, even lend their royalty to the task. It’s about time wizards started doing the same before they out-pace us -- if they haven’t already.”
Not that the Ministry hasn’t struggled to maintain sanctuaries for magical creatures despite the never-ending difficulty of concealing them from Muggles who often surround even the most remote sites. The basalt columns of the sacred manticore breeding ground on the Isle of Staffa is one such place. Long avoided by superstitious Muggles who believed it to be the true site of Pluto’s escape with Persephone into the Underworld, it has become increasingly difficult to keep boatloads of curious tourists from cruising by at a safe distance.
But for the first time, the Ministry is turning to preserving sites important to wizards and witches themselves, not just for magical creatures.
As head of the Minister’s Publicity and Protocol Division, Percy Weasley is pleased that what started as a minor offshoot of his department is growing exponentially. “It all started with the War Museum,” he explains. “A unique site donated for our use with Muggle-repelling charms intact. It was not so easy to find other locales, however. Many important sites have been lost in the cobwebs of history. More modern ones often remain in the hands of private owners.”
Only recently, however, a rather unique tract of land was auctioned off by the village of Little Hangleton in Lincolnshire. A once sprawling house now derelict and overgrown, the family line of its owners untraceable. Muggles often drove past the barred gates just shaking their heads. Employing an intermediary company to complete the paperwork required by the courts, Ministry officials were able to obtain clear title.
“It’s bound to be a controversial landmark once it’s developed,” was the official word from Rufus Scimgeour, Minister for Magic. “But that just drives people to visit, doesn’t it?”
In a world where the stark meadow marking Dumbledore’s defeat of the evil Grindelwald has been paved over for the autobahn, it is a rarity that any land once held by a wizarding family is put up for sale. Doubly lucky that no heirs to the estate of Lord Voldemort, née Tom Marvolo Riddle, are likely to surface.
“It’s all here,” Ms. Clearwater assures us. “The boarded-up house where Death Eaters plotted long into the night. The bleak cottage where the aged caretaker maintained a solitary vigil, hobbiling down to the rusted mailbox each month to retrieve the cheque from his unseen benefactor.”
Although it may be as long as a year before the structures are refurbished sufficiently to be opened to the public, the adjoining site will be accessible within the next few months. The Cultural Affairs Office has also purchased the surrounding woods where young Merope Gaunt and her family, the last direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, lived in a one-room cabin with a dirt floor. Those squalid conditions stand in stark contrast to the once palatial Riddle estate just visible over the hedgerows.
The infamous graveyard where the Riddle family mausoleums and baroque statuary bore witness to the Dark Lord’s gruesome resurrection has proven to be more problematic. Although the rusted iron fence is securely padlocked against those who cannot simply Apparate onto the site, that has not stopped Muggles from gawking at the spooky gravestones from the relative safety of the country lane.
“This presents a challenge,” Percy Weasley remarked. “But we are fully confident we will be able to employ special charms to protect our tour groups from being seen by Muggle motorists. As anyone who has ever attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knows, the castle appears as a crumbling ruin to Muggles who wander too closely. We intend to employ similar charms with the entire Riddle estate.”
One has to ask, however, why the Riddle property? Why commemorate the origins of the most malevolent wizard ever to threaten the British Isles?
Penelope Clearwater shines a different light on it. “It’s a dark page in wizarding history; no one can deny that. But that’s not to say it’s a tale which should be buried, either. I see it as a cautionary tale: a fable of Cinderella tempered by gritty reality. Being a witch herself, Merope Gaunt didn’t need the services of a fairy godmother to ensnare her handsome neighbor; she could brew the love potion herself. Once the potion wore off, though, Tom Senior made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with poor, heartbroken Merope. She wandered homeless and pregnant until she died giving birth to Tom Marvolo Riddle, the humble orphan who would grow up to proclaim himself Lord Voldemort.”
But it’s not just a bitter tale of unrequited love, Ms. Clearwater emphasizes. “The poignancy of Tom Riddle’s tale is that of unloved children worldwide, forced to grow up in sterile orphanages instead of being sheltered within a caring family. Would this child have matured into a respectable citizen if he’d had loving parents? I’d like to think so. But please don’t think I’m deriding orphanages; most are run by dedicated employees who do their best to provide these abandoned children with the best they can. But these children need the remainder of society to step forward, to offer them places in their homes.”
Accepting a job right out of school in a Ukrainian orphanage, Ms. Clearwater is clearly familiar with her subject matter. Hired to teach wizarding children to speak fluent English before their enrollment in wizarding schools, most notably the Durmstrang Institute, she has been a major advocate for child placement as well as the preservation of wildlife habitats worldwide.
Click, click, click. The heels of Harry’s polished loafers echoed in the cavernous confines of the Ministry Atrium. The soothing sounds of the golden fountain provided the only backdrop as inter-departmental memos commanded the air like miniature Harrier jets.
As if stepping out of a tomb, he passed through the glass doors leading to the employee courtyard. Often a sunny haven in spring and summer, it had been closed over by a translucent magical shield in deference to today’s brisk temperatures. Through the milky haze of cigarette smoke, a large flock of brownish geese dissolved into nothing more than dry leaves scattered by the bitter wind.
Harry spotted Ron almost immediately, his bright ginger hair eclipsed by his orange Chudley Canons tie. Despite a woolen jumper, Harry found himself huddling over the steaming cup of cocoa Ron pressed into his hands in greeting.
“Blimey!” Ron groused. “Must be a thousand wizards in this place and no one can cast a proper warming charm.”
“ ‘Gainst regulations,” the witch manning the concession stand assured them. “Don’t want ye ta vacillate away from yer desks fer long.”
“Good for business,” Ron shot back as he fastened his thick warm-up jacket. “So what’s up, Harry?” he posed once they were out of earshot.
“Just practicing my folding technique,” Harry returned lightly. “You make it sound like you’ve never received a memo before.”
“Sure, but not from you.” Through his fringe, Ron's look conveyed that Harry was as transparent as glass.
“Did you read the article in the Prophet?”
“The one quoting Percy? Mum sent me a copy while I was still in the shower. Ruddy owl sprayed water all over the bathroom tiles!”
Harry chuckled as Ron re-enacted trying the shoo the owl away with a wet towel. Refocusing on the subject at hand, he ventured, “The new head of the Cultural Affairs Office, her name sounds vaguely familiar…”
“I’d expect so!” Ron affirmed. “Penelope Clearwater was Percy’s main squeeze while he was Head Boy. You probably looked away in disgust whenever you caught them snogging in the shadows.”
“That could apply to a major cross-section of the student body,” Harry complained good-naturedly. “Could you describe her in a different way, please?”
Ron screwed up his face. “Well, since I usually saw her from the back, I remember she had long wavy hair. Rather like a dark waterfall over Percy’s scrawny arms.”
“House?”
“Ravenclaw, I think. Yeah, definitely Ravenclaw. Percy used to moon over the dark blue jumper bringing out the sapphire in her eyes.” Ron swooned like a love-sick teenager who had just swallowed a love potion, but Harry wisely avoided mentioning that particular incident.
“Wasn’t she also one of the students who was Petrified by the basilisk?” Harry recalled with sudden clarity.
“In the bed next to Hermione,” Ron amended as the fog cleared in his mind as well. “Frankly, I was surprised she used her maiden name. In the article, that is.”
“Now you’ve really lost me.”
“Penelope Clearwater married that star Quidditch player from Sweden, Umbriel Olin. Tall blonde chap. Percy must have been fit to be tied.”
“I suppose Percy denied it,” Harry acquiesced with a knowing smile.
“Can’t say,” Ron clarified with a small shrug. “All that happened while he was estranged from the family, as they say.”
“He was undercover with the Order,” Harry corrected.
“I know, but it makes for a more interesting story my way,” Ron maintained.
“What was the name of her husband again?”
“Olin. Only he’s not her husband anymore. Remember that freak Quidditch accident a number of years ago? Made all the record books.”
“Lots of accidents in Quidditch,” Harry replied. “I confess I don’t follow it as closely as you.”
“You would have read about this one. Bloke got creamed by two Bludgers to the head at once, from opposite directions. Threw him straight into the goal posts where his team mates rescued him as he was hanging by his fingertips.”
“Didn’t he walk away from that with only minor injuries?”
“If you call a dislocated shoulder minor,” Ron supplied. “But you’re essentially correct. The Healer set him right with a well-placed spell; wished him on his way with a supply of Pain Relieving Draughts for his head. Then two weeks later, he loses consciousness in the dressing room.”
Now Harry remembered; brain trauma, the Healers had called it. Olin had never regained consciousness. He remembered pictures of the grieving widow being splattered all over the papers, a small son clinging morosely to his mother’s hand. How could he have failed to make the connection before? Harry chided himself. The Olins had been the golden couple, caught in the spotlight as they devoted much of their free time to humanitarian causes.
“The International Quidditch Board gave her a hefty settlement. Rather generous insurance policies on one of their star players,” Ron added. “Not that it was reported in the papers. It was not too long after I joined the Games Department. I understand she divided the Galleons among a number of different foundations. Wildlife preservation, I think.”
Harry did a quick calculation in his head. That would make Penelope’s son about a year older than Teddy.
“How did Percy react?” Harry inquired more out of concern than a need to pry into another’s misfortunes.
Luckily, Ron thought nothing of his best friend’s question. “Can’t say for certain. He got all quiet like, but you know Perce. Clamming up is just business as usual for him. He was much the same when they broke up after graduation, although Mum was a lot more vocal about it.”
“Lots of people drift apart after they leave school,” Harry put in diplomatically.
“Right. Well, this was nothing like that. She told him right off, said he was only concerned about his own career and treated her as an accessory. The twins overheard.”
“So what did Molly say?”
“That he should give her a chance to cool off. Give her some time to get used to her new job abroad and then Floo her. Invite her for Christmas at the Burrow.”
“That would have been the year of the Triwizard Tournament,” Harry mused as he recalled a very stuffy and self-important Percy talking his ear off at the Yule Ball.
As if reading his friend’s mind, Ron continued, “Mum kept urging him to invite her to the Yule Ball. Said his boss could hardly object as Mr. Crouch had planned to bring his own wife. Mrs. Crouch visits the same hair dresser as Mum does.”
“So did Percy get cold feet?” Not that he was one to talk, Harry reminded himself.
Ron shook his head ruefully. “I’m fairly certain he never elaborated one way or the other. You’d have to ask Ginny, though, I’m sure she has a much better memory of it. She and Mum spent hours dissecting all our foibles on a regular basis. And believe me, Percy had more faults than anyone during those dark days.”
As they were getting ready for bed that evening, Harry asked Ginny to fill him in on the rest.
“It’s really not that complicated,” she observed with a dismissive shrug. “Typical male reaction; couldn’t get off the bloody fence. Too dense to admit to himself how much she meant to him and even more tongue-tied to actually voice it aloud.”
“Rather like Ron and Hermione you’re saying,” Harry allowed with an amused chuckle.
“That’s certainly one example. Luckily, Hermione had more common sense than Pen and simply cut through all that rubbish!”
“Hermione was quicker with a handy hex.”
“A witch has to have a ready arsenal these days. Love potions are just an elaborate way of lying to yourself.”
“So you think Percy was really broken hearted?”
“Remember those months when he wouldn’t speak to the family? Buried himself in his work to the point where he practically aped the Ministry’s most narrow-minded views?”
Harry nodded, recalling only too clearly how Percy had counseled Ron to distance himself when the Ministry wanted to discredit Harry’s account of Voldemort’s return. “I always remember how shocked I was that he didn’t see through Umbridge almost immediately.”
“Exactly. Bearing in mind that Percy’s probably the most cerebral of my brothers, it just didn’t make sense. Had me wondering for a while whether he’d been the one to be Imperiused.”
“You weren’t far off the mark, Gin. Percy’s boss was.”
“Right. Can’t say that didn’t give me nightmares,” she admitted in a hollow voice. “But Mum told us all along we were just overreacting. Said Percy was just dealing with his heartache in the best way he knew how “ and being a man, he got it all backwards yet again.”
Harry laughed weakly, dreading the comments that must have been made behind his own back.
“Despite the brave face, I’m certain Mum expected Percy to come running back to the Burrow at some point so she could help him put the pieces back together again.”
“Sublimating his sorrow into an undercover assignment for the Order took a tremendous amount of courage,” Harry defended.
“Too bad he wasn’t as successful as he would have liked. I think he would have relished being hailed as a conquering hero, at least in Penelope’s eyes.”
Harry nodded grimly as he recalled the frenzied weeks in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat. Everyone working non-stop to secure evidence of Death Eater activity so the guilty wouldn’t just melt away as they had before. At least, Mad-Eye’s obsessive study of the lingering signs of the Imperius Curse had prevented anyone from claiming the same excuse as before.
But in the case of Dolores Umbridge, luck had turned against them. Granted, it had been largely in part to the mismanagement of the archival subsection which had once been overseen by none other than Umbridge herself. It was not unusual for there to be confusion in the wake of a transition of power, as when Fudge had resigned as Minister in favor of Scrimgeour; but the paperwork usually settled after a few months, old documents finding their way into reorganized filing systems as a new order was established. In this instance, the process had been greatly streamlined by the absence of large chunks of documents which supposedly had been squirreled away to prevent them from falling into the wrong hands. Most people had assumed Umbridge meant Voldemort’s hands, but the fact that none of those files had resurfaced in the six years since just made Harry all the more certain Dolores had meant to keep them out of the hands of anyone who sought to impose justice.
“So what do you think about Percy working so closely with Penelope these days? Do you think it will spark any old feelings?” Harry posed conversationally before turning off the lights.
“Considering how many women he’s dated in the past three or four years…” Ginny began.
“You don’t buy that it’s his new-found confidence and connections forged at work?”
Ginny snorted derisively. “Percy wishes everyone believed that, but I won’t deny he’s grown up a bit in the intervening years.”
“Molly’s whispered to me that she thinks Percy’s desperate to finally settle down.”
“She’s letting her own hopes color the facts,” Ginny pronounced with conviction.
“You sound distinctly like Remus when you say such things,” Harry noted with amusement.
“Too many years in the same house, I suppose. But I can’t deny he has a very analytical mind.”
“So what’s your own personal analysis, Ginny?”
“That Percy’s simply marking time as he moves from one woman to another. No one passes muster because they’re not sufficiently like Penelope.”
“But in the years they’ve been apart, Penelope herself may no longer match Percy’s idealized memory of her,” Harry pointed out.
“True, it may not work out the way he’s always secretly hoped,” Ginny pronounced in a philosophical tone. “But deep down in the romantic smidgen of his heart that he refuses to acknowledge, I think Percy still holds a candle for Penny.” She fluffed up her pillow before cuddling up next to him for the night. “Only time will tell.”
As he wrapped his arms around her rib cage, Harry couldn’t help considering his recent insights about how Ginny herself had yearned from afar for so many years. Perhaps her assessment of Percy’s motives weren’t so far off the mark, he decided. It was fair to say she was probably speaking from personal experience.