workable state. There were his quills and his inkpot; there were his stacks of parchment in the Out box, and the much smaller stack in the In box. Here was his desk, with its neatly labeled files; here was his FiloParch, with its meticulously detailed record of appointments. The only thing his office lacked was, well, more than two walls.
'Ahem.' Overhead, someone cleared their throat. 'Pray tell, what is the meaning of this? Why is your desk in the middle of the hallway?'
Percy glanced up to see Lucius Malfoy standing over him. He had his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his pale, pointed face that would have curdled milk.
'It's not just my desk,' Percy pointed out helpfully. 'It's also my filing cabinets and Roll-o-Scrolls. Oh, and all my quills. Dashed inconvenient it was moving it all, too.'
Lucius blinked. 'And who are you?'
'Percy Weasley, sir, Assistant to the Director of — '
'A Weasley.' Lucius spat the word out as if it tasted foul. 'I should have known. Why, Mr. Weasley, are you not in your office? Are you aware that Ministry Regulations forbid the placement of furniture in hallways reserved for official use?'
'Well, I have to work somewhere, don't I?' Percy said in an injured tone.
'And your office?'
'It's a broom closet now,' Percy complained. 'I tried to work in there, but mops keep falling on my head.'
'Perhaps they are trying to tell you something,' Lucius suggested, a glittering look in his eye. 'It was my impression that all personnel affected by the recent office…mixup had been instructed to return home until it was straightened out.'
Percy was as appalled as if Lucius had suggested that he set fire to an orphanage. 'Go home? When I have a report on flying carpets due to the Moroccan Minister at ten o'clock on Friday? I'll be lucky if I get to go home on Christmas Day!'
Lucius' expression was inscrutable. 'Go home, Mr. Weasley.'
'I most certainly will not,' said Percy stubbornly.
'Go home,' Lucius repeated, a dangerous tone to his voice, 'before another office mixup occurs and you find that your desk has been Transfigured into a turtle, or perhaps some kind of repulsive insect.'
Percy turned a dark pink, which clashed with his freckles. 'My desk? Not my desk! This desk used to belong to Mr. Crouch! It's real mahogany! You can't possibly — '
With a weary look, Lucius waved his wand. 'Tortugas!' he snapped.
Even those Ministry officials toiling in the bowels of The Department For Regulation of Sugar Quills And Other Writing Implements heard Percy's cry of anguish as it echoed off the walls. 'Not my desk!'
With the tip of a polished Oxford loafer, Lucius, a look of smug satisfaction on his face, prodded the largish brown turtle which had appeared, dazed-looking, at his feet.
'Excellent,' he said.
Ron had suffered a number of rude awakenings in his life. When he was seven years old George and Fred had practiced an Accio spell on him while he was sleeping and he had awakened the next morning in the lettuce patch. Just the year before he'd gotten quite drunk during the Halloween Feast and had woken up in the third floor girls' bathroom. But nothing had quite prepared him for waking up on the bare stone floor of a deserted castle, surrounded by broken chess pieces and being tickled through the bars of a gold cage by a stark naked girl wearing only her long black hair and a thoughtful expression.
'Auuuugh,' said Ron, and bolted upright so swiftly that his head spun.
'Get your hands off me.'
The girl in the cage giggled and sat back on her heels. Her hair was long and opaquely black. It almost covered her, but not quite. 'Good morning,' she said cheerfully. 'Sleep well?'
'Ugh.' Looking away from her, Ron felt his head. There was a painful bruise just above his left eyebrow, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He was still in the clothes he'd worn to the Manor party. His hand ached where the snake-shaped burn scar was, which sometimes happened when he was tired.
'You know who I am.' The girl spoke again, leaning as close to his ear as she could get. 'Don't you.'
'Rhysenn,' said Ron. 'Yes, I know who you are.'
'The Dark Lord's gone, if that's what's worrying you,' she said. 'He won't be back until nightfall.'
'Actually, that's not what's worrying me,' Ron said. 'It's you.'
'Me?'
'The naked thing. It's kind of distracting.'
'Well, pardon me, I'm sure.' She sounded indignant. A moment later, she asked him, 'Is this better?'
He turned and looked at her. She had her long hair looped back over her shoulders and was wearing some kind of brief black corseted dress. It seemed an improvement if not by much.
'Thanks,' said Ron, and stood up. He looked around. The room was as he remembered from the day — hours — minutes before, although the first time he had seen the room he had not noticed the beauty of it. The chairs that glowed like thrones on the polished stone floor, the torches held up on pillars wound with carved vines, the enormous fireplace carved with angels. Upon closer examination Ron would later discover that the carved angels were hiding their eyes behind their wings. Within a huge grate a fire burned fiercely green and orange. 'Nice place you have here,' he said.
'Quite a change from the Burrow,' said a voice at the door. 'Isn't it.'
It was a thin cold voice, not immediately recognizable, although familiar.
A shudder ran up Ron's spine as he turned.
It was Wormtail, lurking in the shadows by the door. His pale sweaty face gleamed in the torchlight, and below the cuff of his robes, the glint of his silver hand was visible.
'Although,' said Ron, still addressing his words to Rhysenn, although his eyes were on his former pet, 'it seems to be infested with rats.'
Rhysenn chuckled. 'That's not very nice,' she said. 'Peter is so awfully sensitive about his former condition, aren't you, Peter?'
'Shut up, you demon bitch,' Wormtail snapped, his small, deep-set eyes flashing at her.
Rhysenn hissed at him through the bars of the cage. Ron was reminded briefly and surreally of being in some kind of zoo. 'Sniveling rodent,' she sneered.
'Lucius' whore,' Wormtail shot back.
'Fascinating as this conversation is, I think I'm going to take a walk,' said Ron loudly.
They both stared at him. 'A walk?' Rhysenn said.
'A walk to where?' asked Wormtail.
'Away from you, for a start,' said Ron. He straightened his shoulders. 'I'm hungry. I'm tired of this room. You-Know-Who didn't tell me I have to stay in here. So I'm not staying.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Feel free to try and stop me.'
'Oh, I wouldn't bother.' There was a high-pitched giggle somewhere behind Wormtail's voice. 'Enjoy your walk. I remember when we used to stroll around the lake together, me in your pocket…'
'Oh, belt up,' said Ron, exasperated. 'I was thirteen. I'm seventeen now.
I'm over the whole pet rat debacle. I've moved on. You were a lousy fucking rat and you're a lousier fucking person. Now get out of my way.'
Wormtail stepped aside as Ron stalked over to the door. His small eyes glittered malevolently. 'Before you go…perhaps we might go somewhere to talk,' he hissed, his teeth yellow in the lamplight. 'I have a suggestion you might be interested in…'
'And I have one for you,' said Ron, jerking the door open. 'Drop dead,' and with that, he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
'You know,' Rhysenn observed, into the subsequent silence, 'I really think I'm starting to like him a lot better
