Zym's Shortfic, Various One-Shots Options

[zymurgy]

Percy

Percy’s office door creaked open and Remus Lupin walked in.

Percy didn't look up, but continued busily scratching out a row of Arithmancy figures.

“Excuse me,” tried Remus.

“Put it on the desk,” said Percy dismissively. “Is there more Fitzmonger’s Ever-Function Fizz in the lounge?”

Remus shut the door with a bit more of a bang than he’d intended. “If you’re tired enough to need that, you should go home, Percy.”

Percy looked up but instead of his usual sullen glare his face was drawn and tired. “If you’re Mum’s emissary for the day, please go away. I’m busy.” He went back to his figures.

Remus circled the desk to look over his shoulder. Pages and pages of Arithmancy stared back at him. Complicated calculations of imports, exports, and currency exchanges. “I’ll make you a trade,” he said abruptly.

Percy whirled round in his seat. “I have to finish these figures by eight,” he snapped. “Contrary to popular belief, I actually have work to do here. You can tell Mum I won’t be home for dinner, just like I haven’t been for the past six months and won’t be for the next six.”

“I’ll do your figures if you listen to me,” said Remus.

For a split second Percy looked tempted before turning resolutely back to his work. “It’s against policy.”

Remus took a deep breath, reminding himself why he’d agreed to try to talk Percy into coming home. Ah, yes. Because Molly had been crying when she’d asked.

“Listen, Percy, at Hogwarts you always seemed – ”

“At Hogwarts I always did what everybody wanted!” snapped Percy, finally giving up any semblance of work, slamming his quill into the Ink-Quell. “I studied, I worked hard, and I got top marks. That’s why I was Prefect. That’s why I was Head Boy. I did everything they wanted!

“This isn’t about marks,” tried Remus. “It’s – ”

“Yes it is!” snapped Percy. “Because you lot were all the same! Professors always wanted me to work and wanted me to study and when I did – you didn’t like it.”

Remus, who’d been about to interrupt, paused. “What?”

“You didn’t like it!” repeated Percy. “I did everything a student is supposed to do! I was the best – and you all hated that, didn’t you? You gave the twins pats on the head, and had Ginny to tea in your office – but you never talked to me! None of you ever talked to me!

“And Mum is just the same!” Percy was shouting now, past all caring. “I did everything that she wanted. I studied because she wanted me to be a Prefect! She[I] wanted me to be Head Boy! [I] She wanted me to get a good job at the Ministry! And now that I have it she wants me to throw it all away!” Percy stopped, breathing hard, red in the face.

Remus stood, at a loss for words.

“I don’t understand, all right?” said Percy, turning the other way. “I did everything everybody wanted and they hate me for it. She’d tell me to come out of my room, to stop studying, and Dad was always happier when the others had done something stupid than when – Now they want me to throw away everything I’ve worked for!

“I worked hard to get this position and if I drop it now I’ll never be able to get in again. I make good money! I’ll go higher up in the Ministry, I will! And she understands that, doesn’t she?”

Suddenly, Remus understood. “Percy… Your mother isn’t upset that you’ve done well. She’s upset that… that you aren’t …”

“Like the twins?” finished Percy, whirling round once more, again angry. “Yes! Everybody loves the twins! And what have they made of themselves? Tell me! What have any of them made of themselves? Charley and his dragons. Mum hated that he wanted to leave for Romania. She hated that he wanted that dangerous job, but is she sending people to him to make him come home? Does she want him to give it up? No!

“Bill! Running all ‘round the globe in his fairy-tale world, living on minimum wage, in a dead-end job – Cursebreaking! She didn’t want that either, told him not to and we all know why. He could have retired as an active Breaker years ago and taken over the department – he could even have STARTED out that way, but NO he hasn’t! Does everybody glare at him when he comes home? NO!”

“I’m the only one that did what she wanted!” shouted Percy hysterically. “I did everything right! And they – ”

“And they should love you best,” finished Remus softly. He wanted to say that Percy was wrong – Bill had plenty of opportunity at Gringotts and that they had glared at Percy last Christmas because he had only come as part of his job. But in a flash, he understood. Bill had been in the same place for years, hadn’t bothered to work himself up, simply because he liked where he was – and that was what Percy couldn’t understand, would probably never understand. Just as he wouldn’t understand how Christmas, or even a simple dinner was more important to his mother than any advancement.

Percy sank into his chair, and swiveled it so that it was the other way. “Yes they should,” he said bitterly. “Merlin, but they should.”

“Percy,” said Remus, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Your mother… she may have wanted those things and she definitely thought they were good things, but … she wants her children to be happy, more. She’s not upset with the others, because they’re doing what makes them happy.”

“And I’m not happy?” demanded Percy. “Why doesn’t anybody believe that I like this? I like studying – nobody’s upset with that Hermione girl Ron brought home. Nobody tells her to lighten up and toss the books. Nobody even tells dad to put away the plugs, and Merlin knows they don’t do anybody any good. But my work is good for something, it's important, and its what they wanted. Why isn't anything I do ever good enough?”

Remus took a deep breath, and let it out again. “I’m sure you can be happy doing what you do, and I’m sure you enjoy it. I’m also sure that once you enjoyed being home, too. You don’t need to work overtime every day, Percy.”

“I’m not going back,” said Percy tiredly. “Not until they admit that I’m right, not until they behave as though they want me when I’m there.”

“Maybe you both need to do a bit of admitting,” suggested Remus. “I’ll admit that I payed more attention to the twins in school because they needed my help more. Because I needed to work more to make sure they studied.”

“So I was a forgone conclusion, then,” said Percy. “ Nobody had to worry about me skiving, or spiking the punch, or jumping off the Astronomy Tower…”

“Nobody tried to jump off the Astronomy Tower,” said Remus. “What I’m saying is… your mother is happy about your success, but she’s upset that you’re not speaking with her.”

“Charley and Bill aren’t there, either.”

“No, they’re not there, but they’re still –”

“So why am I different?” demanded Percy. “Why aren’t the rules the same for me? If Fred or George did half the work I did, they’d have been cooed and fussed over to no end, and it would be Fred and George this, and Fred and George that… all I ever wanted to know was that they were happy. Not just indifferent or exasperated with me.”

“Your Mum still makes a great fuss over you, Percy,” said Remus. “Very proud of how you did in school, and –”

“ – But now that she’s decided she doesn’t like the Minister and my job isn’t good enough,” said Percy. “It was good enough before the war broke out.”

Remus sighed. “Your mother has good reason to be upset with the Minister. That you’re working for a man she’s against is a large reason for your family to be a bit upset with you.”

“I’m not working for Minister anymore than Dad is,” snapped Percy. “I’d have to work through channels for years to get close enough for him to even bother to learn my name! Do you think he cares who the twerp is that manages his files? I’ll be he didn’t even know I was related to Mum when he went there at Christmas!

”I have a very simple Ministry desk job, which, if I do well in, might, just might get me enough recognition to move higher on the ladder. Speaking of which, I really need to get back to these figures.”

Remus sighed. Whatever Percy he’d just talked to was gone, a professional façade now in his place “I’ve talked to you for your mother,” he said, turning to leave. “I think now, I’ll go talk to your mother, for you.”

[zymurgy]

The following is an attempt to clear my brain in order to write a submission for Round One. As of now, it's pretty clear that that won't be happening, so this is an appology not only for that, but for my (Fourth Floor corridor induced) neglect of Twisted Tuesdays.
WARNING: The following is a parody. Read at own risk - I cannot be held accountable for ruined keyboards, or injuries sustained rolling on the floor.

The Spindle

“You can’t be serious,” said Harry in horror, trying to unobtrusively pull his bathrobe tighter to shield against the cold. “It’s two in the morning!”

“I am quite serious,” Dumbledore said. “Now is the time to defeat Voldemort.”

“It’s two in the morning!” repeated Harry in a wail. “And I’m not even dressed! I haven’t had hardly any training and what I have had is just to shield my mind – fat lot of good that’ll do if he spills my brains on the floor of the Great Hall!”

“Really, Potter,” Snape admonished in an infuriatingly condescending tone. “Wizards don’t spill brains; we’re much cleaner than Muggles are about that. One curse and…” he flexed his fingers dramatically using them as the completing verb to his sentence.

“That’s the point,” said Harry hysterically. “That one curse. I understand sacrifice as much as the next man –”

“Then stand aside and let me talk to him,” interjected Snape.

“ – but I simply will not go on a senseless suicide mission!” shouted Harry. “I’m the only one who can kill him, so you’ve said, and if he kills me first you’re stuck with him forever! Doesn’t it make more sense to wait and give me a bit of a chance before you toss me into the ring?”

“I’m sure the next man would be less melodramatic,” said Snape to himself. “And definitely taller… ”

“Oh shut it,” snapped Harry. “You’re just upset that it’s a Potter.”

“Potter,” said Snape airily. “Taylor, tinker, soldier, sailor, it’s all the same to me.”

“Rich man,” continued Dumbleodore enthusiastically. “Poor man, beggar man, thief!”

“Excuse me?” shouted Harry. “But you were just saying that I was supposed to just JUMP in the lion’s den?”

“Hardly a lion,” said Snape. “You’re supposed to be the lion, boy.”

“Not the point!” snapped Harry.

“Point!” repeated Dumbleodore, clapping his hands together in delight. “So you’ve figured it out!”

“Figured what out?” asked Harry, now completely frustrated. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” said Snape silkily, drawing an item out of the pocket of his robe and handing it to Harry.

Harry took it gingerly. “What in the world is this?” he demanded, turning it over in his hand. “You want me to just … stab him?”

“It’s a spindle,” explained Snape, in a tone of voice that suggested that every two year old dealt with spindles on a daily basis and that even they should understand precisely how to use them to kill Dark Lords. “You’re supposed to prick his finger with it.”

“Ron,” moaned Harry desperately. “Wake me up. I think I’m having a nightmare.”

“It’s all very simple,” said Dumbleodore, decided that once in 139 years it was all right to actually explain something straightforwardly. “When Pettigrew gave his maimed hand to Voldemort, it caused the finger he was missing to be regrown faultily – it’s his Achilles heel.”

“Voldemort’s finger is his heel?” repeated Harry stupidly. He really wasn’t a morning person, but then again, two am isn’t exactly morning, either.

“It’s an expression meaning ‘weakness’,” snapped Severus. “Honestly, Headmaster, I keep telling you we ought to have a Muggle integration week where we teach them all the things they would have learned if their relatives weren’t useless ignorant cretins!”

“… you’re telling me that an occult ritual could generate an entire working body out of some Unicorn blood and some dusty bone, but had trouble with a single finger?” demanded Harry. “That’s insane, you’re insane, and I’m tired and want to go back to bed.”

“He wants to go back to bed,” said Severus mockingly. “Really, if people weren’t already at his feet, he’d make sure to move where they were sitting!”

“Boys!” admonished Albus. “Please, we have an Evil Overlord to vanquish tonight.”

“If I do it, can I sleep?” bargained Harry.

“No, you can’t,” returned Snape. “You see – ”

“No, I don’t see,” whined Harry. “And if I botch it I’ll sleep eternally anyway, so who cares? Can we please just get on with it so I can go back to bed?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Dumbleodore pointed out. “It’s not as though you need to be up in the morning.”

“But it is as if I need to make up for all the sleep I’ve missed this week,” insisted Harry. “Don’t you understand? I do everything an ordinary student needs to, classes, homework. On top of that I have Occlumency lessons, and the Quidditch team, and the DA. And on TOP of that, I have this year's mystery to solve, pranks to perform and a Dark Lord to murder. I’m swamped. And I’m exhausted, and I really, really, really want to sleep right now, and I’ve got this crazy spindle in my hand and I’m afraid and I’m angsty and I’m confused because I don’t know what book this is because the wrong people are alive and – ”

Snape cast a silencing charm almost lazily. Harry ranted on, seemingly unaware that nobody could hear him, venting years of pent up angst, uncertainty, and negative character traits.

“I told you he wasn’t ready,” gloated Snape. “Look at him. He couldn’t burst a bubble of Drooble’s Best with that spindle.”

“Bet you a galleon he does it,” said Dumbleodore eagerly.

Snape could never resist a dare or a bet. “Done!” he agreed eagerly. “A galleon it is.”

“Oooh,” giggled the Headmaster in delight. “Two galleons say Voldemort melts into a puddle.”

“Ha!” crowed Snape. “Taken! You’re an idiot – that happens when you pour water on them! He’ll burst like a balloon!”

“You ought to be worried about water being poured on you,” said the Headmaster, eyes glittering. “Fifteen galleons says that Zym has you take a bath before this thing’s over.”

“Taken!” shouted Snape. “And TWENTY says Zym is too tired, busy and stressed to even make a cameo this time round!”

“Taken!” agreed the Headmaster, bouncing on his heels in excitement. “But we must get a move on, mustn’t we? Take the spell off the boy, there’s a good Potions Master.”

“I don’t like Potions,” grumbled Snape, removing the Spell from Harry.

“You just keep telling yourself that,” said Harry, apparently not realizing that nobody had listened to him. “‘Brew glory, stopper death…’ You know, I could use some bottled death, myself, instead of this ridiculous spindle thingy.”

“Ridiculous?” shouted Snape. “It belonged to my grandmother!”

“Calm yourself, Severus,” said Dumbleodore sagely. “You’re a teacher, you ought to be used to dunderheads by now.”

Harry took a deep breath and counted to ten. In Hindustani. “Where’s Voldemort? Even getting AK’ed is better than listening to the pair of you.”

“He’s the in Great Hall, of course,” said Dumbledore. “Where else would he be?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Harry mulishly, preparing for battle by making sure his bathrobe was snuggly shut over his oversized and tattered pajamas. “Anywhere in Britain, or on the continent, or on holiday in the Astral plane… ”

“The astral plan,” whispered Trelawney dramatically, “is… oh, sorry, am I in the wrong scene again?”

Snape exchanged glances with Dumbledore as the Divination Professor blinked in and out of being. Harry, who was used to very strange things happening around him simply shrugged and shuffled out of the room in his oversized slippers.

“You know,” said Snape casually, “somebody really ought to talk to that boy about his relatives.”

“Is there a problem?” asked Dumbeldore, looking as though he were either very concerned, or had gotten a rather questionable flavor of Bertie Botts bean. “Should we be very concerned?”

“It’s not of great importance,” said Snape with a sneer, “but somebody really ought to tell him that form-fitting is the new baggy.”

“Ten galleons says he’ll be given a makeover in book seven,” bet Dumbledore.

“Taken,” said Snape smugly. “But you really ought to get along and see how the boys doing, oughtn’t you?”

“Yes, quite,” said Dumbledore, popping another bean into his mouth. “I’ll have you broke by Christmas, you know.” He left the room, humming to himself.

“You mean you haven’t told him the book’s already been written?” whispered a scandalized portrait.

Snape smirked. “No I haven’t, but don’t you see? He’s too much of a barmy old fool to even realize he’s dead.”

Meanwhile, Harry entered dramatically, spindle in hand, bathrobe billowing behind him. He stopped short when he saw Voldemort lounging at the head table, enjoying the Daily Prophet, a large mug of coffee and a Danish.

“Er… hello,” said Harry. “It’s a bit early for breakfast, isn’t it?”

Voldemort looked up politely.

“My… my name is Harry Potter,” Harry went on. “You killed my parents.”

Voldemort looked vaguely interested. “Did I? I can’t remember. One kills so many people, you know.”

Harry scowled and decided to try it again from the beginning. “Hello,” he said menacingly. “My name is Harry Potter. You killed my father. Prepare to die!”

“You said that,” Voldemort pointed out.

“No I didn’t,” denied Harry. “I added ‘prepare to die.’”

“Ah,” said Voldemort, and went back to his newspaper.

“Hello!” shouted Harry in a rage. “My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

Voldemort yawned.

“HELLO!” shouted Harry, charging with his spindle. “My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! PREPARE TO DIE!”

Voldemort glowered at him over the rim of his paper. “You know, you really oughtn’t to shout like that when people are trying to read.”

Harry rushed the table, only to be flung back by an invisible wall surrounding the table. He landed hard and only narrowly missed impaling himself on the spindle. Voldemort gave a superior sniff and went back to his breakfast.

“Hello!” shouted Harry, stabbing his spindle at the invisible barrio. “My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die.

Voldemort sipped his coffee.

“Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

Voldemort turned a page of his paper.

“Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die.

Voldemort took a huge bite out of his pastry, splattering the table with crumbs.

“Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die.

Annoyed the Dark Lord looked up. “Will you STOP saying that?”

“Sure,” agreed Harry brightly. “Only, the Magipromter is broken and I need both hands to conjure up the script. Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

Voldemort pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now see here,” he said. “This is getting quite aggravating.”

“Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die.”

“I can conjure the script for you,” offered Voldemort, “or you could just go back to sleep, you look very, very tired.”

“Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

“Or I can hold your stupid … spinning implement… while you do it,” Voldemort said, getting exasperated. “Just so long as you stop.”

“All right,” agreed Harry brightly. “Take down that Ward and I’ll hand it over.”

“I’ll take down nothing,” snapped Voldemort, red eyes flashing as he rose, looking menacing in spite of the crumbs all down his front. “I take what I want!”

Harry blanched but held his ground. “Hello! My name is Harry Potter! You killed my father! Prepare to die!”

With a howl of rage Voldemort reached through the barrier, which crackled and hissed around him, and grabbled the spindle trying to yank it from Harry’s hand.

Harry let go abruptly and Voldemort flew backwards into the table. He scrambled to his feet quickly enough, but suddenly winced, and got a very odd look on his face, a surprised but intrigued look.

“Did you cut yourself?” asked Harry warily.

“My blood is transparent,” said Voldemort, looking at his finger, “it’s just like Unicorn blood only…” He fell dead in a crumpled heap on the floor. For no reason besides the fact that its rather cool, he burst into flame and was a pile of ash in a few seconds, incidentally also destroying Vector’s favorite chair.

Harry stared at the pile of ash and shook his head. “I did it,” he whispered to himself. “Now that Voldemort’s made an ash of himself, world is free and I can … go back to bed.”

“Excuse me, Mister Potter,” said Snape snidely, slinking sideways into the room. “But did I, or did I not, see you immolate my grandmother’s spindle? Twenty points from Gryffindor!”

Harry saw red. (He also saw the Great Hall, Snape, Dumbledore, and a pile of ash that used to be an Evil Overlord, a spindle and a chair, but those things aren’t part of a clichéd expression.) “It was like that when I got here!” he lied with a toss of his head.

“Oh, my boy,” said Dumbledore, hopping in after Snape. “Since you’re special, we can excuse you of things like burning chairs and spindles and breaking rules and killing people… hm… where’s the heartwarming message cue card… or was it a dire warning this time… let me see….”

Dumbledore rummaged through his pockets, pulling out a pile of candy, several watches, scrolls upon scrolls labeled “things Harry should know,” and “things I won’t tell him,” and “Why I like Snape,” and even one labeled, “Whether or not I’m actually dead.”

“I can’t find it,” he finally confessed. “We’ll just have to ad lib. Hm… It’s a wonderful thing you did for Wizard Kind, Harry, and always remember, follow your heart.”

Harry scowled. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Stuff a sock in it.”

He turned to stomp out of the Great Hall.

“Oh, Potter,” said Snape, “might I direct you to a hoard of rabid reporters who are just itching to get your insipid image and interview for their nasty newspapers?”

“Yes, you owe the world an account of how you murdered the monster!” said Rita Skeeter dramatically.

“Bother the world,” snapped Harry, stomping out of the room. “I’m going back to bed.”

Snape sighed and raised a sneering eyebrow at the crowd. “I always told you he was inconsiderate of other people’s time.”

Dumbleodore smiled at the reporters. “Since you can’t have an interview with the Golden Boy, how about a nice, heartwarming moral-of-the-story since I’ve finally found my cue-card?”

“Never mind that now,” snapped Severus. “You owe me eighty-three galleons!”


ZE END!