Percy Weasley

“Viktor Krum from Drumstrang. Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons. Cedric Diggory from Hogwarts and…”

It was the 'and' that made Percy pause in the middle of writing out Hogwarts, the word left unfinished in a moment of confusion. Eyes darted to the three filled lines on the records, ones he had written over thirty times to make sure they were complete perfection for this moment. There shouldn’t have been an 'and' and Percy’s stomach plummeted. He already knew it was coming, the trouble that always followed the dark-haired wizard, but Percy didn’t want to believe it.

“Harry Potter of Hogwarts.”

“Surely you cannot be serious.” Percy’s quill hovered just above the parchment, his eyes lifted over the rim of his glasses to find the stern face of Bartemius Crouch. Animosity radiated from the man to Percy’s meager dare to speak out of turn. Percy worked quickly to rectify the situation as his palms began to sweat. “He’s . . .Sir, he is fourteen.”

“I am well aware of Potter's age. Is there a point to your rambling?”

Mouth opened, Percy closed it quickly as he bit back the initial response, a close mistake of speaking to his boss as he would his brothers. “That by allowing Harry to compete it breaks every rule that was put in place to safeguard and protect young students.”

“I can’t expect someone of your level to understand rules, Weatherby." The coldness in the remark brought pink to Percy's ear first, a steady rise to his cheeks in embarrassment not just to the name but the assumption that Percy was incompetent. Crouch's mouth twitched as Percy spoke again, more quietly than before and Crouch was quick to overpower the words. "The rules clearly state that -”

“You had to be seventeen or older,” Percy replied clearly with a slight challenge. After a moment, Percy cleared his throat, his chest a little puffed up in defense. All he could picture was Ron, young and naïve, thinking one thousand galleons was worth risking his life for. No fourteen year old could handle the tasks thrown at them, they didn’t have the training or experience. Even Hermione of astounding brilliance would no doubt struggle against those who were older. “I transcribed the rules through every draft, I know them like the back of my hand. You cannot let this-”

“It has happened,” Crouch replied curtly, a flash of lost patience in his eyes. “And you will do well to remember your place.”

Percy blanched slightly. Everything he had admired about Crouch dissipated in that moment, the idol he had built him up in his mind gone. As much as Percy stood by the rules there were times they needed to be broken in order to protect others and this, he truly believed, was one of these times. “Sir,” he began quietly, not fully looking up from his notes. “I am only thinking of what is best for the Ministry as a whole. We are still facing incredible backlash after the events at the world cup. Rita Skeeter has been hounding our every move and publicizing all minor infractions. I expect any day now Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will no doubt lodging complaints about the sheer unfairness to the tournament. And now you are allowing a fourteen year old to compete, Harry Potter no less!”

There was a long pause, a deafening silence from Crouch as his pencil straight mustache twitched. Percy forced his face to remain up, not in a small act of defiance but to prove what he was saying out of concern. It was too staged and Percy couldn’t understand how no one found it suspicious that Harry’s name had been chosen. The amount of deceit and skill it would have taken to get his name in. 

Eyes followed Crouch as he rose from behind the desk, Percy willing his feet to backtrack as the man strode toward him, a look on his face not like thunder but as if he had a vile taste in his mouth. He sized Percy up, shoulders squared back as the hair under his nose remained still despite the heavy inhales. 

“I suppose it’s a good thing you’re not paid to think Weatherby. Let me make this perfectly clear to your newfound courage, you will never question me again. Your only purpose here is to bring me my tea and carry my things. Maybe fill out some forms if I think you have the capability.”

“Sir, I-”

“Are nothing but my little errand boy. And there is plenty more just like you who know how to keep their mouths shut. Your opinion is worth what is found in the bottom of the bins, less even. Are we clear?” Nose wrinkled back, Crouch leered up at Percy, spit flying as he repeated the question in a snarled bellow. “ARE WE CLEAR!”

Percy nodded, cheeks rising with color. “Yes.”

“Good. Now be a good errand boy and get me my tea. Why don’t you write it down so you get it right, no cream and three lumps of sugars.” Percy’s teeth clenched to the condescending tone, a small shake against the quill as he wrote it down on a scrap piece of parchment. “Clear off before I decide to do away with you permanently, Weatherby.”

There was no bow when he left the room like usual, Percy’s paperwork clutched tightly against his chest as he walked out as quickly as his legs could carry him. He didn’t think he did anything too terrible. It wasn’t wrong to question actions, to want better explanations for why something was happening. 

But it was only his first year at the Ministry, a lowly intern who knew nothing of the workings inside the grand building that kept their world running. No matter how much he read in preparation or studied endlessly for it didn’t change the fact that the Ministry of Magic wasn’t what he had built it up to be in his head. No amount of work or over-time seemed to please Crouch from the moment he brought Percy on. He thought he had progressed from writing reports about faulty cauldrons but looking at it now, the way Crouch had berated him, it seemed he fell a few steps down his climb to the top.