Fic: Chutes and Ladders (1 of 4) for floweringjudas
Title: Chutes and Ladders -- Cloaks and Daggers (1 of 4)
Author: physixxx
Giftee: floweringjudas
Characters/Pairing: Percy, Severus, OMC, Shacklebolt, Scrimgeour, Charlie, and more. Charlie/Harry mentioned.
Summary: Percy Weasley is playing a dangerous game, feeding information to all three sides of the Dark War. Will he come out unscathed?
Warnings: Plot-heavy, gender-play, lite sexual situations, copious amounts of het
Word Count: 15,076 (split in four parts)
Author's Note: Unfortunately, I do not have a handle on Percy's character. Apologies for PW lovers.
GO HERE to read the fic in it's final form.
( PART ONE )
1.
I’ve never been good at flying, even as a child. It’s not that I was afraid of heights or afraid of falling; I’ve seen Mum mend plenty of Bill and Charlie’s bones to know that a broken leg is a mere wand’s wave away from being right as rain - and you’d get pudding to boot.
No, what I didn’t like about flying was that it was too chaotic. There are too many variables to take into consideration. I can be as fluid and careful as possible and still fall victim to someone else’s recklessness. There’s little control in flying. Even Charlie, who I long considered one of the best fliers I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, has had more spills than Nymphadora at a Muggle coffee-shop.
I was nine years old when I made the decision that I would never fly again. Charlie had tried to provide me with a head start before attending Hogwarts.
“You’ll fly circles around the lot of ‘em,” he said with a smile. Of course I believed him, how could I not? Charlie would never lie to me. (Let it be said, let it be known, that I consider Charlie as the only person in my family to have never lied to me.)
He showed me the correct grip, the right mounting technique, and the best positioning once on the broom. He told me exactly how to handle the broom for optimal speed and control. At first, it went without a hitch. I managed to stay aloft, probably three feet in the air, hovering steadily for several minutes.
“Good job,” Charlie said. “Now, go a little higher... that’s it.”
I admit, even in my jaded memory, I do recall the glorious feeling of wind through my hair and the freedom of dangling legs no longer earthbound. That bliss, however, was short-lived. The broom lurched and convulsed, as if it had a mind of its own and could no longer brook my presence. It made sharp turns, going left when I leaned to try and make it go right; shooting up when I wanted to go down. Of course, I was frantic. I could hear Charlie screaming directions below, but I could scarcely concentrate let alone discern his instructions. It got so bad, and I so scared, that I even tried reasoning with the broom.
“Please, let me down. Please, let me down.”
In hindsight, those were probably the wrong words to say and certainly the wrong time to say it. The broom chose that exact moment to finally do as I asked, flipping itself on its axis and tossing me aside like a child’s used rag-doll. Of all the places to land, I pick the hardest, barest spot in our yard, hardly a garden gnome to cushion my fall.
I landed hard on my side, all but shattering the bones in my arm. I didn’t cry, though. Maybe it was the shock of it all or the relief of the whole ordeal being over. Whatever it was, I remember watching Charlie run towards me and he was crying enough for both of us.
“Percy! My god, are... are you okay? Don’t move... something may be broken.”
“I... I fell down...”
“Yeah, I see that...”
“I think I broke my arm.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
“... no ...”
“That’s alright. Mum will fix it in no time.”
“Mummy’s going to be mad...”
“Yeah, but not at you.”
That seminal event scarred me for life, I think. Even in my first year at Hogwarts, when we were required to take flying lessons, I nearly failed the class. Without the extra work I did for Madam Hooch - namely volunteering to polish the school brooms once a month - I doubt I’d have passed, even marginally. Needless to say, Fred and George found this out some years later and I’ve scant heard the end of it.
I’ve always wondered if that was the moment that I realised I was hardly the Weasley the others were. Bill, Charlie, Fred & George, Ron, even Ginny - they were all excellent flyers. Father even has stories of Mum at Hogwarts doing some rather daring things on a broom. But me? I can barely see a broom without feeling sharp pains in my right arm. I could say that flying is the reason I’ve made some of the choices I have, why I found myself so quick to turn my back my family, but that’d be lying. I would certainly love to be able to pinpoint my family’s eagerness to cast me aside to my lacklustre airborne skills. Alas, that would be too easy. However, you must admit it’s an awfully large coincidence.
2.
Newspaper Clipping:
The Daily Prophet
... those who have sworn allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, also known as the Death Eaters, have increased their terrorist activities in light of the recent murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore; former Headmaster of Hogwarts; Grand Sorcerer and Order of Merlin, First Class; former Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Sources from the Ministry’s International Office of International Magical Cooperation have reported that planned visits from high-ranking wizarding officials from Germany, Italy, and Russia have been cancelled due to the highly volatile state of British affairs. The recent attack on the recently renovated Exmoor National Park Quidditch Stadium during the Chudley Cannon - Tchamba Charmers match proved too much for the Ministry Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes’ highly-trained Invisibility Taskforce and Obliviators Headquarters to contain. Our sources tell us that Minister Scrimgeour has an emergency meeting with Muggle Britain Prime Minister, John Major.
3.
Personal letter from Penelope Clearwater:
Dearest Percival,
Included in the envelope is my key to the flat. I believe I have everything. If you find that I’ve forgotten something, you may send it Muggle post if you wish, or you can burn it, whichever is more to your liking. I can’t say that I’m not relieved to be gone; I’m sure you are, too.
I never aspired to be a trophy wife, Percy, but I did want to be your wife. I do hope you attain the happiness that you’re so longing for. I daresay you will find that it doesn’t rest in the high offices of the Ministry or in the myriad of conference Floo calls at four AM in the morning. I urge you to leave the Ministry, it’s a failing mechanism, a hallow remnant of power long-since lost. If you know what’s good for you, Percy, you’ll leave this bloody war and Britain behind. I do so hope you do.
Goodbye.
~PC
4.
It’s two-thirty AM when I read Penelope’s letter (and here I thought I was coming home early, for once). It’s waiting for me when I walk in our - my - London flat, pinned to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. I read and re-read her goodbye epistle and, even though I could have seen this coming a mile away, it’s still quite the shock.
Shortly after we graduated, I asked Penelope to marry me. Her saying ‘yes’ made me the happiest man alive. Sod my family and rot Ron and the twins, because I knew she and I would be forever. We were perfect for each other. She was intelligent, quick-witted, beautiful, and ambitious - everything a man could ever want for a wife. Despite all of her good points, she lacked patience. She knew that I was on the fast-track to high Ministry standing and she claimed to understand what that meant, the sacrifices we would have to make. Yet, as time progressed, she became more and more distant. Sex became a chore to her; kissing, a bother. Dumbledore’s death at the hands of Severus, her favourite professor, hit her hard.
“We were under his care,” I remember her saying with an incredulous look on her face. “All this time and he was a Death Eater working for You-Know-Who!”
I wanted to tell her what I knew - that I had been in contact with Severus since the murder, but by then it had gotten to the point to where she and I could barely talk about ordinary things, let alone the impending war and our place in it. Soon, her paranoia took over, she stopped going out, stopped opening our post, and would hardly even answer Floo calls, even when she knew it was me.
Truth be told, I’m surprised it took her this long to leave me. I can’t say as I blame her, either. I’d have left, too. I want to leave. I allow myself only a few minutes to wallow in my self-pity before changing clothes and leaving my flat for my Meeting.
5.
I’m running late when I finally Apparate in an alley just behind the Piccadilly Theatre. The lights from the illuminated advertising hoardings drown everything of colour, masking detail with its constant flicking and changing. I pull a vial from my pocket, nearly gagging from the smell of its contents when I uncork it. Its putrid green tint is apt; the potion is probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.
Polyjuice.
As soon as the first drop touches my tongue I can feel my mind seem to slip away momentarily. My body lurches and twists; I feel soft hair sliding down my back. Ribs shift; breasts form; penis inverts to form what is probably a fully-functioning vagina. I’ve always wondered if I could have a baby as a polyjuiced woman, but taking the potion for nine months straight would probably be disastrous. My ears pop as my jaw realigns itself and I can feel pressure all over my body as the full of my height compresses into a smaller frame. It’s discomforting, of course, but in seconds, there’s a beautiful blonde young lady where Percy Ignatius Weasley once stood.
I take a moment to get used to the new body, walking and standing, turning my head, flipping my hair back in that whimsical, coy way I’d see Penelope do at Ministry functions. That was before she refused to go out. Once I feel I’ve gotten used to the mechanics of this new form, I begin to unbutton my shirt and trousers, now hanging so loose I’m surprised they stayed on at all. I pull a change of clothes from my rucksack and change into an outfit destined to get me propositioned. I look more like a two-knut whore than a super-secret Ministry agent (not that I’m a sanctioned agent, mind you. This little ‘meeting’ is strictly ‘on the sly’).
As I’m buttoning my shirt - er, blouse - I notice ‘my’ breasts. They’re... nice. ‘Huge’ is a better word, actually. The brown nipples, hardened from the nip air, are centred in slightly darker areolas; I can’t help to pinch them, nor can I help the quick gasp that escapes my mouth as I respond favourably to the tweaking. I slide one hand down my along my tight stomach as my other hand lifts a breast, feeling its heft and marvelling at how fluid it is. The travelling hand slips under the skirt’s waistband and past the panty line, or at least where the panty line would be had I remembered to bring some. Instead, it finds the soft, tight curls of pubic bush. Memory kicks in - memory of Penelope’s pussy and how it was shaped, how it smelt, how it... tasted.
Before long, my middle finger has made its way past the genital cleft along ‘my’ entrance, rubbing at the folds. My breath hitches as the tip of the finger slips past them and into me, sending shivers up and down my spine. I wonderwhy women even need men if just doing this feels so good? I blush at the thought of me repeating this evening under more pleasant and solitary conditions, of course.
Note to self: Toss off as a woman at least once before I die.
After hiding my rucksack and casting a Confundus Charm about it, I make my way to the south-western side of the Circus towards the Shaftesbury Monument. That’s where my contact and I were to meet. I’m leery because of how open and public it is, but it makes logical sense, really. The Death Eaters work in shadows, rarely coming out in the light. They hide in alleys and go in and out of buildings through backdoors. If they were looking to catch a spy among them, they’d hardly look to Piccadilly Circus, with its loud, boisterous people and even more observant Muggle police. Not only this, but there’s been a rash of wizarding prostitution going on here, so there’s low-level Aurors casing the area as well. The more I think about it, the safer I feel about meeting The Spy here in the open.
But the Death Eaters aren’t the only people I need to be wary of. This isn’t Ministry business. In fact, I could be put on trial for high treason should I be caught doing what I have been for the past six months. Nevertheless, something must be done. The Ministry has been inept for far too long, and I’ve spent my last day being blind to it.
I jaunt across the street when I see a break in the traffic flow. Forgetting that I’m wearing high-heels and not loafers, I nearly break my ankles in two; but I manage to limp to a bench where I proceed to sit and remove the cursed bone-breakers. I grimace as I massage my foot.
“Not walking long,” comes a voice from in front of me.
Without thinking, I reply, “Not like this, no.”
Damn. How stupid of me to give that as an answer. I look up to see a well-dressed Mediterranean bloke staring down at me. He’s ... handsome, if not a little rough. His hair, blonde and greasy, hangs down over his face. It’s that sort of style that you see more of lately. That ‘I-spent-seventy-five-quid-to-look-like-I-just-woke-up’ sort of look. His eyes are deep blue, which seem to glow against his dark skin. His nose... there’s something familiar about his nose.
“You should be careful, young... lady. You might meet the fancy of some unscrupulous gentleman.”
His voice is a slow drawl, coloured with an air of self-importance that could only be-
“Severus?”
Immediately, he tenses. “Shh, fool! Not quite so loud.”
Groups of pub patrons and party goers pass us by, some too close for my comfort, but I realise that’s my paranoia again and quickly push the feeling down. ‘Time for business’, I think.
The Mediterranean gent turns on his heel and begins to walk away, tapping the ground with his cane as he does so. I slide my shoe on and follow.
“Take my arm,” he says once I’ve caught up.
Arm-in-arm, we walk towards Old Compton Street and make our way to Soho.
“Next time, try not to dress like a harlot. I’ve no mind to engage in decadent activities just to maintain the illusion.”
I ignore his reprimand. I’m no longer his student and he’d do well to remember that.
“I must say,” I tease, “I rather like the new look. You should keep it.”
“And you should remember the importance of not alerting to the entire populace around us that I am Severus Snape,” he replies through gritted teeth, hissing each syllable as only the Potions Master could.
I rest my head on his shoulder and grin. “Oh, Sevvy... don’t be such a spoilsport.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I had scheduled a meeting with one of the twins. Have any Skyving Snackboxes to sell?”
Oh, he’s good.
“Touché. Enough of the banter then. What news do you have?”
We turn a corner and the walkway seems to get more crowded, its occupants more flamboyantly dressed. We can hear the muffled, not-so-distant ‘thump’ of dance music coming from various buildings around us. After a short while, I realise that I’m not in the sort of place where I will have to worry about being propositioned, at least, not in this form. I’m surprised at how bitter that makes me.
“His power has neither grown nor waned, and neither has his support. However, he is networking with far greater efficiency than before. He speaks constantly with his supporters in Africa and the mainland. There is even talk of attacks on less-guarded dragon reserves in Australia and South America.”
“Going to use dragons now since the Giants decided not to wage war?”
“Indeed.”
I take a moment to process all of this and decide what information I should give to him. There are certain things only my department knows. Should I tell Snape the wrong thing it could actually lead directly to me. But, per our agreement, I have to give him something to take back to You-Know-Who. The only question is what?
“Is there more?” I ask, hoping to get more out of him.
“Quite. But first, our exchange.”
I sigh.
“Scrimgeour has a meeting tomorrow - today - with the Muggle Prime Minister. Mr. Major is none-too-happy with how we’re dealing with our ‘little problem’, as he likes to call it. DE attacks have been too... chaotic of late. Muggles are getting hurt. Information is leaking.”
It was Severus’ turn to mull over the new information. He doesn’t speak again until we’ve entered a rather crowded pub, taken our seats in the far corner, and ordered cocktails.
“Contrary to public opinion, He does read the paper. He knew of the meeting...”
“Yes,” I interrupt, “but not of the nature of the meeting, I’d wager.”
Severus’ brow perks up. “Go on.”
“Military intervention.”
Severus almost recoils in his seat.
“Well... more than likely,” I add, rather sheepishly (especially considering my ‘big reveal’).
“You think, or you know?”
“I’m... pretty sure. But I doubt that’d be any concern for You-Know-Who.”
Severus interrupts, ‘his’ dark brown eyes alit with fire. “Oh, really? Tell me, Weasley... Have you a spell that can stop a bullet or protect you from an atomic blast, maybe? Because I certainly do not recall that on Hogwarts curriculum. But maybe I slept on that day, yes?”
Merlin, this man is infuriating!
“You don’t think he’d...”
“The Prime Minister is a prudent man and he loves Britain,” Snape answers. “He loves Muggle Britain, I should say. I gather he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to preserve it, and I doubt that would exclude military action.”
Severus is looking past me and it’s obvious the implications of what I’m telling him are hitting him hard. “I don’t need to remind you,” he continued, “that subtlety and precision aren’t exactly synonyms I’d use to describe Muggle, military proficiency. If we can go by history, I scarcely doubt they’ll be much left to Britain - Muggle or otherwise - should there be an all-out war between the British Army and Lord ... well, you know...”
What happens next takes me by surprise. Severus actually begins to bite his nails and not the sort of way one might do to rid themselves of dirt from underneath, rather, tearing at them as if it were a meal - his last meal.
“It gets worse - or better depending on who you ask,” I say as the waitress returns with our drinks, delivering a smile and a nod as she sets them down in front of us. I wait until she turns and leaves before I continue.
“Apparently America and Germany are getting... edgy over this, too. They’ve already sent representatives, as have Italy, Russia, and Japan; and none of them are happy. Even now, Germany is cleaning house, rounding up DE sympathizers and supporters as if they were scared the Fourth Reich was coming.”
“They have history, after all,” Severus finally mumbles, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. “They’d hardly want to rest on their laurels and seem as though they aren’t doing anything about what could possibly be viewed as Hitler Redux, could they?”
He has a point; I’d nearly forgotten Germany’s history.
Severus takes a sip from his lager and screws up his face. “Ack! How can anyone drink this rubbish?”
“It’s an acquired taste,” I reply, bringing my fruity drink to my lips. “Thank you for telling me about the dragons.”
“I assumed you’d like to know. I hear that you are still close to Charlie, if not any other Weasley.”
“I am.”
“And what of ... the Order, then? Any word?”
“None. My contact hasn’t been able to make it to our last two meetings. Last I heard - and this is purely hear-say - there’s a slight power struggle between Harry and Shacklebolt.”
Severus perked up at this. “Really?”
“Yes. Harry won’t tell Shacklebolt everything that he does for fear that Shacklebolt isn’t being completely honest about his allegiance. He is, after all, practically second in charge of the Ministry. Plus, the last bit of info you gave me last week wasn’t exactly the best was it? I relayed it to my contact, who gave the info to Harry, who in turn gave it to Shacklebolt.”
Severus had told me once that there was a shipment of gold coming in via boat. It was important to You-Know-Who, who wanted to use the gold for some potion that he was brewing, something that would tip the scales in his balance. Because of its importance, You-Know-Who was only sending three Death Eaters (though three powerful Death Eaters) to intercept the shipment. The team of Aurors that were sent (junior-level, I might add), not only found themselves outnumbered four-to-one, but also had a pack of werewolves to contend with. None of them survived.
“I told you before,” Severus reminds me, snapping me out of my memory, “that there needs to be losses on both sides. The Dark Lord was beginning to suspect he had a traitor in his inner circle. I had to give you some bad information to make sure that The Death Eaters succeeded in their goal. Only Bellatrix, Peter and I knew of the shipment. If the Aurors had met them full-force, I’d certainly have been found out as spy.”
I wave off his excuse. “It doesn’t matter. After that incident, Shacklebolt demanded to know Harry’s contact with the Death Eaters. Harry refused. That was the start of it. Now, Shacklebolt isn’t as forthcoming with Ministry support for the Order. It’s not like he could show much support to begin with. The Order is a touchy subject with Scrimgeour.”
“Tell me,” Severus begins, abruptly. “Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?”
I’m a little taken aback by the question. “I always thought he as still with you lot.”
“No. Not for awhile, now. He fled from Voldemort’s Keep several months ago. Haven’t seen nor heard from him since. The Dark Lord is frantically trying to find him.”
Now, my curiosity is piqued. “Why?”
“He... knows things. Things even I am not privy to.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, You-Know-Who has many weaknesses. Among them includes a rather loose lip in the boudoirs.”
I shudder - physically shudder - at the notion of anyone having that kind of relationship with the monster.
“Oh, don’t get squeamish,” Severus chastises a curl in his lip. “Tom Riddle was a beautiful man and You-Know-Who is smart enough to remember how easy it was to manipulate people when he was considered attractive. He took great pains to be so again. I doubt even someone such as you,” at this he looks me over, “could resist his charms.”
“Be that as it may, I still have no inclination to picture him and...” another shudder, “Malfoy touching each other’s bits and pieces.”
Then, another thing happens that shocks me: Severus laughs. Not some cheap chuckle or the deprecating kind of laugh where you think he’s actually making fun of you; but a deep, booming bark of a laugh that momentarily calls attention to us.
“Indeed,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye and taking a deep breath to regain his composure.
“You... should...” I swallow hard. “You should laugh more often.”
As soon as I say it, I’m embarrassed. I look down to try and hide the blush in my cheeks, but I can still see in my peripheral vision that he’s looking at me, staring at me. I take a sip from my drink to break the tension.
“You’ve given me quite a lot to take back to the Dark Lord,” he says, softly. So soft, in fact, that it pulls my eyes to his. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say, licking my lips (which have become quite dry), “unless we win.”
I go home from my meeting and toss off to thoughts of a Mediterranean blonde, of Severus Snape in his robes at Hogwarts, of a beautiful and powerful Tom Riddle, of Draco Malfoy, and of the woman I was for little more than two hours. I do not, however, think of Penelope.
Part Two
Author: physixxx
Giftee: floweringjudas
Characters/Pairing: Percy, Severus, OMC, Shacklebolt, Scrimgeour, Charlie, and more. Charlie/Harry mentioned.
Summary: Percy Weasley is playing a dangerous game, feeding information to all three sides of the Dark War. Will he come out unscathed?
Warnings: Plot-heavy, gender-play, lite sexual situations, copious amounts of het
Word Count: 15,076 (split in four parts)
Author's Note: Unfortunately, I do not have a handle on Percy's character. Apologies for PW lovers.
GO HERE to read the fic in it's final form.
( PART ONE )
1.
I’ve never been good at flying, even as a child. It’s not that I was afraid of heights or afraid of falling; I’ve seen Mum mend plenty of Bill and Charlie’s bones to know that a broken leg is a mere wand’s wave away from being right as rain - and you’d get pudding to boot.
No, what I didn’t like about flying was that it was too chaotic. There are too many variables to take into consideration. I can be as fluid and careful as possible and still fall victim to someone else’s recklessness. There’s little control in flying. Even Charlie, who I long considered one of the best fliers I’ve had the pleasure of knowing, has had more spills than Nymphadora at a Muggle coffee-shop.
I was nine years old when I made the decision that I would never fly again. Charlie had tried to provide me with a head start before attending Hogwarts.
“You’ll fly circles around the lot of ‘em,” he said with a smile. Of course I believed him, how could I not? Charlie would never lie to me. (Let it be said, let it be known, that I consider Charlie as the only person in my family to have never lied to me.)
He showed me the correct grip, the right mounting technique, and the best positioning once on the broom. He told me exactly how to handle the broom for optimal speed and control. At first, it went without a hitch. I managed to stay aloft, probably three feet in the air, hovering steadily for several minutes.
“Good job,” Charlie said. “Now, go a little higher... that’s it.”
I admit, even in my jaded memory, I do recall the glorious feeling of wind through my hair and the freedom of dangling legs no longer earthbound. That bliss, however, was short-lived. The broom lurched and convulsed, as if it had a mind of its own and could no longer brook my presence. It made sharp turns, going left when I leaned to try and make it go right; shooting up when I wanted to go down. Of course, I was frantic. I could hear Charlie screaming directions below, but I could scarcely concentrate let alone discern his instructions. It got so bad, and I so scared, that I even tried reasoning with the broom.
“Please, let me down. Please, let me down.”
In hindsight, those were probably the wrong words to say and certainly the wrong time to say it. The broom chose that exact moment to finally do as I asked, flipping itself on its axis and tossing me aside like a child’s used rag-doll. Of all the places to land, I pick the hardest, barest spot in our yard, hardly a garden gnome to cushion my fall.
I landed hard on my side, all but shattering the bones in my arm. I didn’t cry, though. Maybe it was the shock of it all or the relief of the whole ordeal being over. Whatever it was, I remember watching Charlie run towards me and he was crying enough for both of us.
“Percy! My god, are... are you okay? Don’t move... something may be broken.”
“I... I fell down...”
“Yeah, I see that...”
“I think I broke my arm.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
“... no ...”
“That’s alright. Mum will fix it in no time.”
“Mummy’s going to be mad...”
“Yeah, but not at you.”
That seminal event scarred me for life, I think. Even in my first year at Hogwarts, when we were required to take flying lessons, I nearly failed the class. Without the extra work I did for Madam Hooch - namely volunteering to polish the school brooms once a month - I doubt I’d have passed, even marginally. Needless to say, Fred and George found this out some years later and I’ve scant heard the end of it.
I’ve always wondered if that was the moment that I realised I was hardly the Weasley the others were. Bill, Charlie, Fred & George, Ron, even Ginny - they were all excellent flyers. Father even has stories of Mum at Hogwarts doing some rather daring things on a broom. But me? I can barely see a broom without feeling sharp pains in my right arm. I could say that flying is the reason I’ve made some of the choices I have, why I found myself so quick to turn my back my family, but that’d be lying. I would certainly love to be able to pinpoint my family’s eagerness to cast me aside to my lacklustre airborne skills. Alas, that would be too easy. However, you must admit it’s an awfully large coincidence.
2.
Newspaper Clipping:
The Daily Prophet
... those who have sworn allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, also known as the Death Eaters, have increased their terrorist activities in light of the recent murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore; former Headmaster of Hogwarts; Grand Sorcerer and Order of Merlin, First Class; former Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and former Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Sources from the Ministry’s International Office of International Magical Cooperation have reported that planned visits from high-ranking wizarding officials from Germany, Italy, and Russia have been cancelled due to the highly volatile state of British affairs. The recent attack on the recently renovated Exmoor National Park Quidditch Stadium during the Chudley Cannon - Tchamba Charmers match proved too much for the Ministry Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes’ highly-trained Invisibility Taskforce and Obliviators Headquarters to contain. Our sources tell us that Minister Scrimgeour has an emergency meeting with Muggle Britain Prime Minister, John Major.
3.
Personal letter from Penelope Clearwater:
Dearest Percival,
Included in the envelope is my key to the flat. I believe I have everything. If you find that I’ve forgotten something, you may send it Muggle post if you wish, or you can burn it, whichever is more to your liking. I can’t say that I’m not relieved to be gone; I’m sure you are, too.
I never aspired to be a trophy wife, Percy, but I did want to be your wife. I do hope you attain the happiness that you’re so longing for. I daresay you will find that it doesn’t rest in the high offices of the Ministry or in the myriad of conference Floo calls at four AM in the morning. I urge you to leave the Ministry, it’s a failing mechanism, a hallow remnant of power long-since lost. If you know what’s good for you, Percy, you’ll leave this bloody war and Britain behind. I do so hope you do.
Goodbye.
~PC
4.
It’s two-thirty AM when I read Penelope’s letter (and here I thought I was coming home early, for once). It’s waiting for me when I walk in our - my - London flat, pinned to the mantelpiece above the fireplace. I read and re-read her goodbye epistle and, even though I could have seen this coming a mile away, it’s still quite the shock.
Shortly after we graduated, I asked Penelope to marry me. Her saying ‘yes’ made me the happiest man alive. Sod my family and rot Ron and the twins, because I knew she and I would be forever. We were perfect for each other. She was intelligent, quick-witted, beautiful, and ambitious - everything a man could ever want for a wife. Despite all of her good points, she lacked patience. She knew that I was on the fast-track to high Ministry standing and she claimed to understand what that meant, the sacrifices we would have to make. Yet, as time progressed, she became more and more distant. Sex became a chore to her; kissing, a bother. Dumbledore’s death at the hands of Severus, her favourite professor, hit her hard.
“We were under his care,” I remember her saying with an incredulous look on her face. “All this time and he was a Death Eater working for You-Know-Who!”
I wanted to tell her what I knew - that I had been in contact with Severus since the murder, but by then it had gotten to the point to where she and I could barely talk about ordinary things, let alone the impending war and our place in it. Soon, her paranoia took over, she stopped going out, stopped opening our post, and would hardly even answer Floo calls, even when she knew it was me.
Truth be told, I’m surprised it took her this long to leave me. I can’t say as I blame her, either. I’d have left, too. I want to leave. I allow myself only a few minutes to wallow in my self-pity before changing clothes and leaving my flat for my Meeting.
5.
I’m running late when I finally Apparate in an alley just behind the Piccadilly Theatre. The lights from the illuminated advertising hoardings drown everything of colour, masking detail with its constant flicking and changing. I pull a vial from my pocket, nearly gagging from the smell of its contents when I uncork it. Its putrid green tint is apt; the potion is probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.
Polyjuice.
As soon as the first drop touches my tongue I can feel my mind seem to slip away momentarily. My body lurches and twists; I feel soft hair sliding down my back. Ribs shift; breasts form; penis inverts to form what is probably a fully-functioning vagina. I’ve always wondered if I could have a baby as a polyjuiced woman, but taking the potion for nine months straight would probably be disastrous. My ears pop as my jaw realigns itself and I can feel pressure all over my body as the full of my height compresses into a smaller frame. It’s discomforting, of course, but in seconds, there’s a beautiful blonde young lady where Percy Ignatius Weasley once stood.
I take a moment to get used to the new body, walking and standing, turning my head, flipping my hair back in that whimsical, coy way I’d see Penelope do at Ministry functions. That was before she refused to go out. Once I feel I’ve gotten used to the mechanics of this new form, I begin to unbutton my shirt and trousers, now hanging so loose I’m surprised they stayed on at all. I pull a change of clothes from my rucksack and change into an outfit destined to get me propositioned. I look more like a two-knut whore than a super-secret Ministry agent (not that I’m a sanctioned agent, mind you. This little ‘meeting’ is strictly ‘on the sly’).
As I’m buttoning my shirt - er, blouse - I notice ‘my’ breasts. They’re... nice. ‘Huge’ is a better word, actually. The brown nipples, hardened from the nip air, are centred in slightly darker areolas; I can’t help to pinch them, nor can I help the quick gasp that escapes my mouth as I respond favourably to the tweaking. I slide one hand down my along my tight stomach as my other hand lifts a breast, feeling its heft and marvelling at how fluid it is. The travelling hand slips under the skirt’s waistband and past the panty line, or at least where the panty line would be had I remembered to bring some. Instead, it finds the soft, tight curls of pubic bush. Memory kicks in - memory of Penelope’s pussy and how it was shaped, how it smelt, how it... tasted.
Before long, my middle finger has made its way past the genital cleft along ‘my’ entrance, rubbing at the folds. My breath hitches as the tip of the finger slips past them and into me, sending shivers up and down my spine. I wonderwhy women even need men if just doing this feels so good? I blush at the thought of me repeating this evening under more pleasant and solitary conditions, of course.
Note to self: Toss off as a woman at least once before I die.
After hiding my rucksack and casting a Confundus Charm about it, I make my way to the south-western side of the Circus towards the Shaftesbury Monument. That’s where my contact and I were to meet. I’m leery because of how open and public it is, but it makes logical sense, really. The Death Eaters work in shadows, rarely coming out in the light. They hide in alleys and go in and out of buildings through backdoors. If they were looking to catch a spy among them, they’d hardly look to Piccadilly Circus, with its loud, boisterous people and even more observant Muggle police. Not only this, but there’s been a rash of wizarding prostitution going on here, so there’s low-level Aurors casing the area as well. The more I think about it, the safer I feel about meeting The Spy here in the open.
But the Death Eaters aren’t the only people I need to be wary of. This isn’t Ministry business. In fact, I could be put on trial for high treason should I be caught doing what I have been for the past six months. Nevertheless, something must be done. The Ministry has been inept for far too long, and I’ve spent my last day being blind to it.
I jaunt across the street when I see a break in the traffic flow. Forgetting that I’m wearing high-heels and not loafers, I nearly break my ankles in two; but I manage to limp to a bench where I proceed to sit and remove the cursed bone-breakers. I grimace as I massage my foot.
“Not walking long,” comes a voice from in front of me.
Without thinking, I reply, “Not like this, no.”
Damn. How stupid of me to give that as an answer. I look up to see a well-dressed Mediterranean bloke staring down at me. He’s ... handsome, if not a little rough. His hair, blonde and greasy, hangs down over his face. It’s that sort of style that you see more of lately. That ‘I-spent-seventy-five-quid-to-look-like-I-just-woke-up’ sort of look. His eyes are deep blue, which seem to glow against his dark skin. His nose... there’s something familiar about his nose.
“You should be careful, young... lady. You might meet the fancy of some unscrupulous gentleman.”
His voice is a slow drawl, coloured with an air of self-importance that could only be-
“Severus?”
Immediately, he tenses. “Shh, fool! Not quite so loud.”
Groups of pub patrons and party goers pass us by, some too close for my comfort, but I realise that’s my paranoia again and quickly push the feeling down. ‘Time for business’, I think.
The Mediterranean gent turns on his heel and begins to walk away, tapping the ground with his cane as he does so. I slide my shoe on and follow.
“Take my arm,” he says once I’ve caught up.
Arm-in-arm, we walk towards Old Compton Street and make our way to Soho.
“Next time, try not to dress like a harlot. I’ve no mind to engage in decadent activities just to maintain the illusion.”
I ignore his reprimand. I’m no longer his student and he’d do well to remember that.
“I must say,” I tease, “I rather like the new look. You should keep it.”
“And you should remember the importance of not alerting to the entire populace around us that I am Severus Snape,” he replies through gritted teeth, hissing each syllable as only the Potions Master could.
I rest my head on his shoulder and grin. “Oh, Sevvy... don’t be such a spoilsport.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot I had scheduled a meeting with one of the twins. Have any Skyving Snackboxes to sell?”
Oh, he’s good.
“Touché. Enough of the banter then. What news do you have?”
We turn a corner and the walkway seems to get more crowded, its occupants more flamboyantly dressed. We can hear the muffled, not-so-distant ‘thump’ of dance music coming from various buildings around us. After a short while, I realise that I’m not in the sort of place where I will have to worry about being propositioned, at least, not in this form. I’m surprised at how bitter that makes me.
“His power has neither grown nor waned, and neither has his support. However, he is networking with far greater efficiency than before. He speaks constantly with his supporters in Africa and the mainland. There is even talk of attacks on less-guarded dragon reserves in Australia and South America.”
“Going to use dragons now since the Giants decided not to wage war?”
“Indeed.”
I take a moment to process all of this and decide what information I should give to him. There are certain things only my department knows. Should I tell Snape the wrong thing it could actually lead directly to me. But, per our agreement, I have to give him something to take back to You-Know-Who. The only question is what?
“Is there more?” I ask, hoping to get more out of him.
“Quite. But first, our exchange.”
I sigh.
“Scrimgeour has a meeting tomorrow - today - with the Muggle Prime Minister. Mr. Major is none-too-happy with how we’re dealing with our ‘little problem’, as he likes to call it. DE attacks have been too... chaotic of late. Muggles are getting hurt. Information is leaking.”
It was Severus’ turn to mull over the new information. He doesn’t speak again until we’ve entered a rather crowded pub, taken our seats in the far corner, and ordered cocktails.
“Contrary to public opinion, He does read the paper. He knew of the meeting...”
“Yes,” I interrupt, “but not of the nature of the meeting, I’d wager.”
Severus’ brow perks up. “Go on.”
“Military intervention.”
Severus almost recoils in his seat.
“Well... more than likely,” I add, rather sheepishly (especially considering my ‘big reveal’).
“You think, or you know?”
“I’m... pretty sure. But I doubt that’d be any concern for You-Know-Who.”
Severus interrupts, ‘his’ dark brown eyes alit with fire. “Oh, really? Tell me, Weasley... Have you a spell that can stop a bullet or protect you from an atomic blast, maybe? Because I certainly do not recall that on Hogwarts curriculum. But maybe I slept on that day, yes?”
Merlin, this man is infuriating!
“You don’t think he’d...”
“The Prime Minister is a prudent man and he loves Britain,” Snape answers. “He loves Muggle Britain, I should say. I gather he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to preserve it, and I doubt that would exclude military action.”
Severus is looking past me and it’s obvious the implications of what I’m telling him are hitting him hard. “I don’t need to remind you,” he continued, “that subtlety and precision aren’t exactly synonyms I’d use to describe Muggle, military proficiency. If we can go by history, I scarcely doubt they’ll be much left to Britain - Muggle or otherwise - should there be an all-out war between the British Army and Lord ... well, you know...”
What happens next takes me by surprise. Severus actually begins to bite his nails and not the sort of way one might do to rid themselves of dirt from underneath, rather, tearing at them as if it were a meal - his last meal.
“It gets worse - or better depending on who you ask,” I say as the waitress returns with our drinks, delivering a smile and a nod as she sets them down in front of us. I wait until she turns and leaves before I continue.
“Apparently America and Germany are getting... edgy over this, too. They’ve already sent representatives, as have Italy, Russia, and Japan; and none of them are happy. Even now, Germany is cleaning house, rounding up DE sympathizers and supporters as if they were scared the Fourth Reich was coming.”
“They have history, after all,” Severus finally mumbles, pulling his fingers away from his mouth. “They’d hardly want to rest on their laurels and seem as though they aren’t doing anything about what could possibly be viewed as Hitler Redux, could they?”
He has a point; I’d nearly forgotten Germany’s history.
Severus takes a sip from his lager and screws up his face. “Ack! How can anyone drink this rubbish?”
“It’s an acquired taste,” I reply, bringing my fruity drink to my lips. “Thank you for telling me about the dragons.”
“I assumed you’d like to know. I hear that you are still close to Charlie, if not any other Weasley.”
“I am.”
“And what of ... the Order, then? Any word?”
“None. My contact hasn’t been able to make it to our last two meetings. Last I heard - and this is purely hear-say - there’s a slight power struggle between Harry and Shacklebolt.”
Severus perked up at this. “Really?”
“Yes. Harry won’t tell Shacklebolt everything that he does for fear that Shacklebolt isn’t being completely honest about his allegiance. He is, after all, practically second in charge of the Ministry. Plus, the last bit of info you gave me last week wasn’t exactly the best was it? I relayed it to my contact, who gave the info to Harry, who in turn gave it to Shacklebolt.”
Severus had told me once that there was a shipment of gold coming in via boat. It was important to You-Know-Who, who wanted to use the gold for some potion that he was brewing, something that would tip the scales in his balance. Because of its importance, You-Know-Who was only sending three Death Eaters (though three powerful Death Eaters) to intercept the shipment. The team of Aurors that were sent (junior-level, I might add), not only found themselves outnumbered four-to-one, but also had a pack of werewolves to contend with. None of them survived.
“I told you before,” Severus reminds me, snapping me out of my memory, “that there needs to be losses on both sides. The Dark Lord was beginning to suspect he had a traitor in his inner circle. I had to give you some bad information to make sure that The Death Eaters succeeded in their goal. Only Bellatrix, Peter and I knew of the shipment. If the Aurors had met them full-force, I’d certainly have been found out as spy.”
I wave off his excuse. “It doesn’t matter. After that incident, Shacklebolt demanded to know Harry’s contact with the Death Eaters. Harry refused. That was the start of it. Now, Shacklebolt isn’t as forthcoming with Ministry support for the Order. It’s not like he could show much support to begin with. The Order is a touchy subject with Scrimgeour.”
“Tell me,” Severus begins, abruptly. “Do you know where Draco Malfoy is?”
I’m a little taken aback by the question. “I always thought he as still with you lot.”
“No. Not for awhile, now. He fled from Voldemort’s Keep several months ago. Haven’t seen nor heard from him since. The Dark Lord is frantically trying to find him.”
Now, my curiosity is piqued. “Why?”
“He... knows things. Things even I am not privy to.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh, You-Know-Who has many weaknesses. Among them includes a rather loose lip in the boudoirs.”
I shudder - physically shudder - at the notion of anyone having that kind of relationship with the monster.
“Oh, don’t get squeamish,” Severus chastises a curl in his lip. “Tom Riddle was a beautiful man and You-Know-Who is smart enough to remember how easy it was to manipulate people when he was considered attractive. He took great pains to be so again. I doubt even someone such as you,” at this he looks me over, “could resist his charms.”
“Be that as it may, I still have no inclination to picture him and...” another shudder, “Malfoy touching each other’s bits and pieces.”
Then, another thing happens that shocks me: Severus laughs. Not some cheap chuckle or the deprecating kind of laugh where you think he’s actually making fun of you; but a deep, booming bark of a laugh that momentarily calls attention to us.
“Indeed,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye and taking a deep breath to regain his composure.
“You... should...” I swallow hard. “You should laugh more often.”
As soon as I say it, I’m embarrassed. I look down to try and hide the blush in my cheeks, but I can still see in my peripheral vision that he’s looking at me, staring at me. I take a sip from my drink to break the tension.
“You’ve given me quite a lot to take back to the Dark Lord,” he says, softly. So soft, in fact, that it pulls my eyes to his. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say, licking my lips (which have become quite dry), “unless we win.”
I go home from my meeting and toss off to thoughts of a Mediterranean blonde, of Severus Snape in his robes at Hogwarts, of a beautiful and powerful Tom Riddle, of Draco Malfoy, and of the woman I was for little more than two hours. I do not, however, think of Penelope.
Part Two