Monochrome

ACT ONE - DISILLUSIONED

Chapter 2 - Dead Wood

"This is a high-profile case, Kingsley. I'm trusting you'll keep it under control."

Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head. He had been serving as an auror for the last twenty years and was one of the few that had their origins in nobility but still decided to serve the Ministry in ways other than the legislature. Currently, there was only one other of his type, and that was Director Amelia 'the tyrant' Bones.

Despite handling the case by herself, the woman had chosen to delegate him with some of the more private portions of the case which was how Kingsly found himself here.

Performing the Wand-inspection of the Boy-who-lived, while still ensuring that John 'blabbermouth' Dawlish didn't end up making a complete mess out of it as well.

Frankly, he had never figured out how Dawlish had gotten selected as a senior auror. Ignoring the fact that his scores weren't good enough for him to even become an auror. Even the current generation newbie cadets had a better record than he did and that was saying a lot seeing as Dawlish had been on the force for well over 10 years. Hell, if rumors were to be believed, one of the newbies— Tonks or something —was being considered by the Secret Service Wing and the Hit-Wizard forces. Gawain Robards always had an eye for talent and this girl had it in spades.

Compared to that, Dawlish was just… plain. No particular contribution to the auror office. No significant achievements or results in all his years of work. Nothing at all. And yet the man had made a stellar rise from junior to Senior Auror in less than four years. In fact, the only thing special about Dawlish was how easily he made Kingsley want to slap him.

Even after all these years, my old man's words stand true. Merit has no place in wizarding Britain.

And now, he would bear witness to yet another injustice taking place in broad daylight.

The incarceration of Harry Potter.

Even though the Director had personally attended and reported the boy's hearing, the Minister had refused to let it go. Rather, he had become even more convinced that Harry, and more importantly Dumbledore, were responsible for the whole incident.

The deaths of eight Wizengamot members, out of which two had been actual Lords, had sent the entire country into complete disarray. Funnily enough, the deaths of Cedric Diggory, and more importantly, the body of Peter Pettigrew, had been brought down in priority to the point where he wasn't sure the minister would even investigate it should he not be forced too.

Blood was in the water, and the vultures wanted to tear the boy apart.

"Dawlish has been ordered by the Minister to perform a wand inspection on Harry Potter. The evidence is flimsy at best, but the Minister isn't going to drop it. Rather, he's convinced that no matter how unexplainable the magic is, it can still be linked to the boy and prove him guilty."

The nature of spellcraft, no matter how elusive or unexplainable, had a single common factor. It had to be done through the use of a wand. Unlike what most laymen believed, wandless magic wasn't exactly a symbol of strength or skill. If anything, it was a demonstration of flamboyance. If a summoning charm consumed twenty units of magical power with a compatible wand, then its wandless version would require over two hundred units.

There was simply no reason whatsoever to engage in wandless magic. Not when the same could be performed with the aid of any compatible wand much more easily. And any magic performed with a wand left a signature. One that could be traced.

And that was where the Minister hoped to get him.

If the magical signature of the accused's wand matched with the magical signature of the victims, then that was proof enough to bring the victim into custody. Potter's own affirmation with having tried to cast an unforgivable had only welcomed suspicions about the boy's mental and spiritual state.

Between the Ministry itself being against him compounded with his own reputation of being associated with unexplainable magic, Kingsley had no doubt the prosecutors at the Ministry would try to hang it all on him. His own status as the boy-who-lived, plus his notoriety as a Parselmouth— something the Dark Lord was infamous for —would only strengthen the case against him in the eyes of the public.

And I'll be the one leading him there.

Sometimes Kingsley hated his job.

"You think Dumbledore will try to stop us?" Dawlish drawled from his left.

Kingsley sighed.

Of course, Dawlish would put it that way.

The Headmaster had allowed an official interrogation of Harry Potter, despite having multiple ways to halt it. He had literally expedited the process and Amelia Bones herself had carried it out almost as soon as the boy had woken up. And yet still, the Minister was of the opinion that the old man was trying to subvert justice from being upheld. What was worse was that the man somehow believed that Dumbledore had tried to strong-arm Bones into going along with his sinister plans.

Kingsley had chuckled at that.

While it was hard to call the director legitimately kind, she was an incredibly fair person. Boy-who-lived or not, Amelia Bones lived and died by the rule of the law, and he didn't think anyone could change that.

"What's got you giggling like that?" The blabbermouth asked him.

As he said, Dawlish didn't even need to try to piss him off.

"I'm not… giggling, Dawlish. Let's cut the chatter and finish the task we've been asked to carry out."

"There's no real rush," Dawlish waved him off. "Potter's got nowhere to go. This time, justice will be served. Did you know the lad lost me fifty galleons in the Triwizard bet?"

Ah, so that was why Dawlish was so excited to take up this case.

Kingsley deliberately looked away. He wasn't sure what the bet had been about, but knowing Dawlish, it was probably something he wouldn't want to know anyway.

The door in front of them opened with a soft creak, and Harry Potter and Minerva McGonagall stepped in.

The old woman nodded at them curtly before starting "Mr. Potter is here without parental supervision, and therefore, I, being his Head of House, will bear witness to this event."

"I… see," Dawlish muttered.

Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. He was probably disappointed at not being able to deal with the kid alone. That and the minor trepidation of standing in front of his old Head of House.

Something about being transfigured into a fluffy white kitten and given to the firsties to play with or something in his seventh year.

Personally, Kingsley was interested in the boy. With all the rumors of the Dark Lord being back, he assumed that Dumbledore would probably recall the Old Guard. The last time he had been conflicted between maintaining his Auror duties and joining what was pretty much an illegal vigilante group.

This time though…

"— to check Mr. Potter's wand for any wrongdoing and report it to the Ministry likewise."

Right. Back to the issue.

"Most importantly, Professor McGonagall, has Mr. Potter been using the wand since the night of the event?"

The old professor shook her head. "Mr. Potter has been suffering the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse," here her lips curled distastefully. "He has been kept from performing any magic since then— with the intention of allowing him to recover and to ensure that further magic did not come in the way of proving his innocence via Priori Incantatem.

Kingsley had to give it to them. They were well prepared and any form of rebuttal Dwalish could give was answered before he could give voice to it. He could practically see the man deflating like a punctured balloon.

Professor McGonagall then took out a wand box and revealing a light brown wand sitting within.

His wand has been kept in isolation in the Hospital Wing. It may not be taken into custody and you are not permitted to retain it after this investigation."

Fair enough.

He raised his arm to touch the wand, but Dawlish had already made a grab for it. Lifting it up by the handle, the man performed an ostentatious swish-and-flick before giving him a funny look.

"Mind if I do the honors?"

"...sure." Kingsley agreed.

The sanctimonious auror twirled the wand slightly between his fingers before taking his own wand and tapping its tip. He took a deep, resolute breath before intoning—

"Prior Incantato!"

And nothing happened.

Well, that's a first.

Kingsley arched an eyebrow, alternating his glance between Dawlish's face and the wand that was cheerfully disobeying his order.

"Prior Incantato!"

Kingsley was beginning to find it funny.

"It's—" Dawlish looked constipated, as he tapped the wand harder and harder in frustration. "it's — not responding."

"Not what?" The Potter boy spoke up, worry marring his features. It was clear that the boy was just as surprised by this unexpected development as everyone else.

That, or he was a fifth-level Occlumens, in which case Kingsley would require the aid of an official Legilimencer before any further action could be taken.

A few drops of veritaserum wouldn't hurt either.

"Professor McGonagall can I—?" The boy offered.

"It's against the law for the accused to be using the wand during the inspection, lad," Kingsley explained softly.

Naturally, it did nothing to ease the boy's fears, which continued to spread across his countenance.

"But it isn't working at all, Kingsley," the other man interrupted, shaking the wand.

Nothing, not even the flimsiest sparks came out of it.

It was almost as if the wand was—

"Dead," Dawlish finished his thought for him. "It's completely unresponsive."

The man looked at McGonagall carefully before moving to Potter and then back to her again. "What are you playing at? If you've done anything to the wa—"

"I think," McGonagall interrupted him icily, "that everything will be settled if Mr. Potter is allowed to demonstrate a spell of your choosing, Mr. Dawlish," Clearly the woman wasn't fond of seeing anyone antagonize one of her students without due reason.

Dawlish paused a long moment before inclining his head and motioned to Kingsley. "Will you stand witness to this?"

Kingsley jerked his head in acknowledgment.

"Very well Potter, you're to use a basic illumination spell with the wand. Think you can cast something non-lethal?"

The boy rolled his eyes at Dawlish's overly accusatory tone and accepted the wand. Kingsley noted how the boy held it in front of him. Loose grip, angled tip, and balanced at chest height.

Interesting. A natural duelist's stance. Not something I see every day.

Aiming at Dawlish, Harry Potter flicked his wand forward and muttered. "Lumos."

And once again, nothing happened.

"What's wrong, Potter?" McGonagall asked.

The boy's face was all scrunched up. "I dunno, professor. I can push my magic into the wand but nothing— nothing's happening." He waved the wand a few more times, performing a full list of second-year charms but not a single spell or even spark came out of the wand tip.

"So it's dead," Dawlish muttered.

McGonagall gave him a don't-be-stupid look. "Mr. Dawlish, it is a wand. An outer layer of wood covering a piece of tissue from a magical beast or plant. It's neither alive nor is it dead. It's a tool. Tools either work, or they don't."

"Then— then why aren't the spells working?" Dawlish looked like he was going to snap. "Perhaps some kind of dark magic was used to temporarily keep the wand from casting true?"

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "I'm not a wandmaker, Mr. Dawlish. My sole purpose here was to stand in ceremony while Mr. Potter underwent a wand inspection. Clearly, the two of you have been… unprepared for it. I'm sure Mr. Potter here would be happy to submit his wand in Ministry custody until the reason for the wand's behavior comes to light. I assume that would be all?"

Kingsley suppressed a chuckle. This was old McGonagall alright. In one clean stroke, she had effectively silenced Dawlish, while at the same time, ensuring that Potter wouldn't be taken into custody. At least not until the wand could be made to work again.

I can see how this will end. The Minister wanted Potter in. He'll have to settle for his unresponsive wand.

"Mr. Dawlish? Mr. Shacklebolt?" The professor asked again.

"Of course, professor," Kingsley actually smiled this time. "It'll do perfectly."

Harry watched with a growing sense of dread as the two aurors took the box— with his beloved wand inside it— and walked out of the room. He could feel the constant beats of his heart as the sounds of the two men marching out grew dimmer and dimmer. Really, why had he expected anything different? Every single bit of happiness had been systematically snatched away from him.

It was his wand this time. Would it be Hedwig next? And then what? Perhaps—

"Potter?"

McGonagall's voice brought his racing thoughts to a screeching halt. Inwardly shaking and trying to ignore his hastened heartbeat, he slowly turned to his right. "Ye— yes, Professor McGonagall?"

"Are you alright?" She asked, surprisingly concerned.

"I'm fine." He answered tersely.

"Okay, it's that bad then."

Harry felt his patience grow thin. Why would this woman not understand? What part of I'm fine suggested that it was a bad situation? Besides, what business did McGonagall have in this anyway? She had been perfectly alright while her precious Gryffindors had made life a living hell for him earlier during the year. All that big talk about the House being family during the sorting had been nothing but empty words.

Then again, knowing Vernon and Petunia, Gryffindor House might just be what family is about. And McGonagall, like Mrs. Stevenson back in primary school, had simply chosen to look the other way.

"Potter, I understand you must be feeling bad about this situation but—"

"I said I'm fine!" Harry ground out, his frustration starting to leak into his voice. "Why do you keep harping about the same thing?"

The old transfiguration mistress narrowed her eyes. "It's bad because I can see the gears move in your mind, Potter. I have been in this profession for over four decades now, and I know a transition when I see one."

"What do you mean?" He gritted his teeth.

McGonagall raised her right hand and began counting fingers. "You had a near-death experience a week ago. You saw a close acquaintance die in front of your own eyes. You were in the hospital wing for most of the week suffering from an acute case of magical inundation. And moments after waking up, the Ministry in its infinite wisdom decided to put you through a rigid interrogation session that might have opened old wounds. And now, you found your wand is unresponsive and possibly… for lack of a better word, dead. Am I missing anything here?"

Harry gaped at the woman.

"As I said, this kind of emotional baggage can affect your psyche, which is a dangerous thing considering one's natural instinct is to block out all unpleasant emotions and feelings. That you haven't started attacking me yet, or at least not shown open hostility is frankly, surprising."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you then, professor." Harry sneered, not willing to admit the truth behind her cold, calculated reasoning. "If that'd be all, then could I leave?"

"Pot—" The woman paused, "Harry," she began with a soft smile, "I'm really sorry you're going through all of this. I sincerely wish to help you if you allow me."

"Help?" Harry ground out. "Help me? Like you've done so far? Ignoring my plight as the entire school called a killer and vilified me as the heir of Slytherin two years ago? Or how my own housemates threw me out and treated me like a leper? Please, tell me how you'd want to help me."

The woman took a step back, saddened. "I readily admit it was wrong on my part, Potter. For all that I admonish Severus over seeing your father in you, I'm afraid I committed the same mistake. I forgot that you are closer to your mother in mind."

That put him to a pause.

"You— you knew my mother?" Harry asked, before realizing how useless that question was. After all, McGonagall had taught his parent's generation as well.

"I did, both as a student and a friend. In hindsight, it might have been a good idea to tell you about your parents, but with the way you, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have been stuck at the hip since your first year, it was easy to substitute you with James and his merry little gang. I made the mistake of thinking you'd be fine by yourself. James wasn't the type to confide in adults after all."

Harry really didn't know what to say to that.

"I can understand what it means to lose one's wand," the professor went on sympathetically, softly gripping his left shoulder. "Have faith that we'll get you a new wand tomorrow. I missed my chance at seeing you choose your first wand, but I'll not miss your second."

"But— but will my wand never work again?"

McGonagall looked away. "I'm— I'm not sure about that, Potter. As I admitted earlier, I'm no expert in wandlore. Most witches and wizards do end up losing or breaking their wands at least once during their life. This one," she held up her own wand, placing it on the palm of her hand, "is my third."

"Third?" Harry balked, wondering what on earth had made the transfiguration mistress lose a single wand, never mind two of them.

"My first time was an accident." The woman answered as if reading his mind. "I was experimenting with an unstable piece of transfiguration in my seventh year and it blew up in my face. I think I cried for a week before your grandmother— the prefect at the time —took pity on me and explained why it wasn't a big deal."

"It— isn't?"

McGonagall shook her head.

Well, that was a surprise. From his own weird experience with Ollivander, Harry had come to think of his connection with his wand as something that went beyond what one would define as special. The wand chooses the wizard, the old wandmaker had told him, and how the phoenix that had given him a feather for his wand had given another feather for a wand given to Lord Voldemort.

Just another eerie similarity between myself and him.

Strange likenesses, as Riddle had put it back in the Chamber.

"Professor," Harry tried, his mind trying to tie his thoughts together, "Ollivander told me that the phoenix that gave me a feather for my wand gave another feather. Just one other."

"Is that so?" The transfiguration professor asked genially. "Who had the other?"

"Lord Voldemort."

Minerva McGonagall held her breath. "That's… interesting to know, I suppose. Then again, the entire school had a variety of rumors about how you could speak Parseltongue."

"Professor Dumbledore said that I could do so because Voldemort could speak Parseltongue," Harry spoke up, before quickly realizing that he had probably spoken out a little too much.

"That is a load of hippogriff dung," The woman muttered, surprising him. "I'm not the expert here, but Parseltongue is infamous as a Gaunt family trait. Family traits are passed on through blood. Not through some... " her eyes flickered to his forehead, "curse-scar."

"I don't have Gaunt lineage," Harry fought back, "that Bones woman said so."

"I wouldn't bet on it. Sometimes traits do show up in muggle-born descendants of older lines. There is always the chance that your mother might have been a descendant of the Gaunt line. I would recommend you perform a lineage test this summer. It might just answer your questions, Potter."

Lineage tests. Sure. And how would that be? Ask Vernon to take me to Gringotts to check if I have more family than I know?

"...sure, professor."

The transfiguration professor nodded her head. "The fact that you and Lord Voldemort shared brother wands is definitely interesting, but now that your wand has… malfunctioned, I'm not sure how it will affect the status quo. Either way, you are no longer the amazed kid you were back in your first year. You have changed, in ways more than one. As such, there is no doubt the changes in you might reflect on your new wand."

"But will it work as good as my holly wand?"

The woman shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. Every core has its own attributes, its own strengths and weaknesses. phoenix feathers tend to have a greater fire alignment in general, and holly is the duelist's choice for defensive casting. We will simply have to see what your new wand is made up of, and things can proceed from then on."

"So it can have an impact on my magic?"

"Not your magic, merely your casting efficiency. Some easier spells might get difficult, while spells you had trouble with earlier on, might come easier to you now."

"I… see."

"Well, if there's nothing else?"

"Nothing. Have a good day, professor." Harry muttered, giving her a soft nod as he deserted the room.

The Office of the Minister for Magic

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Cornelius Fudge was having a bad week.

It had started all the way back from the night of the Third Task. Seriously, Ludo Bagman actually winning a bet should have been portent enough to tell him that something was utterly, utterly wrong. That man had the worst luck when it came to betting. In fact, if a magical trait called Sucker could exist, Ludo would be the one wizard to inherit it.

Seeing Ludo win not just one bet, but take home a veritable jackpot of six hundred galleons, along with a rare bottle of Odgen's 1863 Grand Cru Firewhiskey should have been enough of a signal that the world was nearing its end. Seriously, where were those divination nerds when you needed them?

And now, his entire world had been thrown into upheaval.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Twelve purebloods were dead. Out of the lot, six held Wizengamot seats, while two of them were actual Lords of Ancient and Noble Houses. The other four held bureaucratic positions in the ministry.

All of them dead and rotting.

All of them wearing death-eater regalia.

And all of them killed via an unexplained magical phenomenon associated with a certain Harry James Potter.

Between the loss of supporters to his vote bank and the recent wedge between himself and Albus Dumbledore, Cornelius could feel the ground crumbling beneath him.

His fingers began to drum faster against the tabletop— a sign of his growing anxiety. Even with all these years of practice, this one habit always seemed to escape his control.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

At least I still have Lucius. If he ended up…

Cornelius shook his head vehemently, trying to shove the perilous thought out of his mind.

He glanced at his watch.

Why isn't she back yet?

He had gotten a missive from Amelia Bones the previous afternoon after she had returned to the DMLE offices after an official interrogation of the boy-who-lived.

And the Weasley boy had done a good job of informing him about how Dumbledore had practically strong-armed him into letting the interrogation go the way he demanded. Apparently, whenever the Weasley had tried to direct their investigation to whatever Potter boy had done in the graveyard, Dumbledore had taken control of the conversation and forcefully changed the topic to something else.

Something strange was going on and Dumbledore was trying to keep it from the Ministry.

Keep it from him.

That alone said a lot about the man's non-existent ambition. Come to think of it, hadn't Dumbledore always ensured that he followed his commands?

Cornelius shuddered lightly.

Was that it? Had he been unable to grasp the reality all this time? Perhaps, Albus Dumbledore had no intention of being the Minister of Magic.

No, his goal was far more sinister.

With he himself being the supreme ruler from within Hogwarts and the famed boy-who-lived under his thumb, Dumbledore enjoyed power over the future of the society.

And adding this entire myth of the Dark Lord's return on top of that... Dumbledore would be the first the people of Magical Britain looked towards in a time of such strife. At that point, it wouldn't even matter if he officially took the seat of the minister. The Ministry…. His beloved Ministry would become the old man's puppet.

If he was right then this was just the opening salvo.

Killing off Cornelius's supporters through unexplained, unknown magics would merely be the first of many steps. It probably wouldn't have even been difficult for the old man. Cornelius readily admitted that the old Headmaster had forgotten more spells than most people managed to learn in their entire lives.

And now in less than three days, before Cornelius could even react to his previous move, the wily Headmaster had already begun to place his next pawn upon the stage.

The trial of Sirius Black.

Cornelius was many things, but a fool he was not.

He had suspected some wrongdoing back then when the boy and his friends had yelled at him about Black being innocent. Of course, their incoherent babbling about how the man never had a trial would only serve to make things difficult for them, considering that going through the Black case had been one of the first things Cornelius had gone through before releasing the dementor population to hunt the fugitive down.

He had checked— and double-checked —the man's trial records, and the entire thing was well documented. Sirius Black had received a court trial, and had, under the effect of Veritaserum, confessed to the murderer of Peter Pettigrew.

So there should have been no room for doubt.

Even Dumbledore wouldn't be able to save someone who was so clearly guilty.

And yet…

He somehow had.

Dumbledore had managed to pull the body from the grave and shown that Peter Pettigrew was alive. Well, before whatever act of magic struck him dead along with the others in the graveyard.

There was still an issue of the thirteen muggles that Black had apparently killed, but since the bulk of the case, they had used to imprison him had been overturned it would call the rest of the evidence into questions as well. As such, he had been forced to agree to grant the man a fresh chance at proving himself innocent.

Frankly, Cornelius had no problems with that.

After all, Black was a pureblood. A scion from a Noble and Most Ancient House.

No, his problem was entirely different. Cornelius might not have gotten enough NEWTs back during his time in Hogwarts to become a solicitor, but one did not become Minister of Magic and not pick up any legal knowledge along the way.

Maintaining his position as Minister had required him to maintain a delicate balance amongst the Wizengamot members. This was made considerably easier by the fact that Cornelius had a terrifying amount of information about their skeletons and hidden closets.

It was a hobby.

Some people collected stamps. Others collected chocolate frog cards. Cornelius Fudge collected secrets.

And one of those dirty little secrets involved the House of Black.

Sirius Black had bred true.

He held family magic.

This meant that it didn't matter that he had renounced his house. It didn't matter that Narcissa Malfoy nee Black was set to inherit before him.

In fact, absolutely none of Lucius's political maneuvering over the past decade, slowly taking control of the Black fortune mattered at all.

With the one true and remaining heir now about to be released, Sirius would become the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Malfoy's hold over the Black name and fortune would go up in flames.

And with it, Cornelius's powerbase at the Ministry of Magic.

And all of it would begin in the next three hours.

Tap! Tap! Ta—

The door slid open, and Percy Weasley stepped in.

"Ah, Weatherby."

Even in such a grave situation, Cornelius brightened up a little at seeing the tiny twitch on the young man's forehead. For a strapping lad from a family of sociable people, Percy had a rather large stick stuck up in his stoic arse if he did say so himself. Sure, Arthur Weasley and his pro-muggle-born stance was a minor annoyance to him, but even so, Cornelius couldn't bring himself to actively feel disdain for the agreeable fellow.

Compared to that, Percy stuck out like a sore thumb. He had walked out of Hogwarts as a House Prefect and then Head Boy, with excellent NEWTS in the passing, and had joined up under ole' Barty in the Department of International Cooperation.

Bah! Cornelius sighed. As if Barty Crouch's constipated face could ever contribute to anything remotely related to cooperation. That Percy had been overzealous to carry out ole' Barty's every whim had not scored him points anywhere.

Cornelius had then offered him the post of a Junior Undersecretary for a hidden purpose— to serve as spy on the Weasleys, a family with strong connections to Dumbledore. So it was natural for him to be surprised and incredibly annoyed when Percy waltzed in through the front door, snobbishly declaring that he had denounced his family completely.

Cornelius's eyes hadn't stopped twitching that day.

And that was how he had landed him with an extra attendant— Percy Weatherby. After all, in Cornelius's mind, if the boy had renounced his name, then he should be ready to suffer the effects as well.

"The woman you called for, has arrived, sir."

"Has she now. Well, bring her in, Weatherby."

And there was that funny little twitch all over again.

"Is it true that Madam Higgins is retiring? And this… the woman is going to hold her position?"

"Ah, you heard about that, did you, Weatherby?"

"It's Weasley, sir."

"Oh, my apologies. How embarrassing!" Cornelius tapped his fingers on the table, casually waiting for the boy to get the signal and leave the room.

And yet for all his intelligence, his new assistant didn't seem to get the cue.

"Did you have something else to say?"

"Sir," Percy intoned, probably with as much snobbishness as he could muster, "I must question the idea of appointing a random woman for such an important position."

"Random?" Cornelius arched an eyebrow. "Why would you say that?"

"Well sir, she's a librarian."

"And?"

"While she has indeed occupied a position in the ICW Archives, which is also, forgive me, the post of another glorified librarian."

Cornelius couldn't help but give the boy a snide look. Sure, he was appointing a librarian to what was eminently a top-post in the Ministry. Even so, the woman in question had certain… attributes that made her a rather interesting candidate for what he had in mind. Naturally, in his tunnel vision, everything else was superficial and disregardable.

"But that's too big a jump. I suggest you start her out as an apprentice to me and then, once I'm promoted, you can place her as Junior Undersecretary. But starting her out directly as the Undersecretary—" Percy began.

"Senior." Cornelius corrected him. "Senior Undersecretary. She's a smart woman and you'll do well under her."

Cornelius paused to throw him a bright smile.

"But… But sir."

"I've made up my mind. It'll be good for you. Now please fetch her. And free up my schedule for the day. I have some work to do."

The boy's miserable face truly made him feel better.

"...Yes, sir," he said as he made his way to the door.

Cornelius nodded as the kid began to leave and couldn't resist throwing out a parting shot. "You did well today. Close the door on your way out, Perky."

The way Percy's fingers twitched as he closed the door behind him really made his day.

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