The Measure of a Man
by Teka Lynn

It's important to measure things properly. Infuriating that people simply don't understand that.

Without uniform standards for cauldrons, the food undercooks or burns, even with the best roasting spells. Potions go awry. Inferior foreign-made products flood the market, undercutting solid British ironware.

Things have to be metrical. Precise.

"Weatherby. My office."

"Yes sir." The summons is not unexpected. Mr Crouch works many long, hard hours. A responsible staff member will always be at his service, no matter the time of day or night.

Percy gathers together his papers. Any needed supplies will be given to him.

Inside the office, he nods briskly, but respectfully. Mr Crouch barely glances at him.

"Your assistance, Weatherby."

"On the table, sir?"

An irritated sigh. "As per usual. I shouldn't need to repeat myself, you know."

"No sir."

Mr Crouch grunts, rises to take his position next to Percy. "You had better start, then. I haven't all night for nonsense."

"Very good, sir." He collects his equipment.

Percy braces himself, squints through his horn-rimmed spectacles, eyes the surface. He lifts his hand, pausing for just the right theatrical moment.

*CRACK*

The first cane mark swells up under Mr Crouch's pallid skin.

*CRACK*

The second welt, a precisely placed inch away.

*CRACK*

The third, evenly striped across Mr Crouch's back.

*CRACK*

If you don't portion things out evenly, they're not done right. Too much, and it's too strong. Too little, and it's too weak.

*CRACK*

Percy Weasley has spent a great deal of time studying Mr Crouch. He is an excellent assistant.

*CRACK*

He gives Mr Crouch everything he needs.

*CRACK*

Including his chastisement.

*CRACK*

"You've done wrong, sir."

*CRACK*

Not shouted, not whispered. A simple fact, simply stated.

*CRACK*

Mr Crouch may have difficulty sitting tomorrow. Salve will be needed. A well-cushioned chair. Some pain potions.

*CRACK*

Mr Crouch's reserve is starting to crack. His breathing is laboured, pained, close to a sob.

*CRACK*

Not too long, then. This should be a relatively easy night, if any night can be said to be easy.

*CRACK*

Mr Crouch's chest heaves, from what Percy can see of it from this angle. His employer does not straighten up, does not flinch under the blows, but something is breaking.

*CRACK*

"My boy..." Whispered, harshly soft. Percy knows the litany.

*CRACK*

"My boy...!"

*CRACK*

"Barty! Please! Your mother...."

*CRACK*

Every stroke symmetrical, none harder or softer than its fellows.

*CRACK*

The open sob now. "Barty!"

*CRACK*

Would Arthur Weasley cry out "Percy!" to a faceless underling among his staff?

*CRACK*

Blood red as hair. A hairline thread trickling from an open wound.

*CRACK*

Percy feels his heart break alongside Mr Crouch, but says nothing. It is not the part of a dependable staff member to voice his feelings.

*CRACK*

Pitiful sobbing, pitiful in a man of years and dignity. Pitiable in a widower with a madman for a son.

*CRACK*

It is enough. Percy lowers his aching arm, gathers together the sponge, the basin of water, the potions for pain. He retrieves his wand and murmurs softly. The wounds will heal cleanly and without blemish. No one will be the wiser.

No one, he hopes, has been the wiser yet.

He strokes the helplessly weeping man's grey hair gently, with more grace than he has ever shown to father or brother. "Shhh, sir. Shhh."

Mr Crouch clutches at Percy. Percy knows that Mr Crouch is not clutching at him.

They remain together until the emotional storm is over, until the physical pain has eased. The pain in the heart will not go so quickly, but it is not to be acknowledged. It would not be the part of a respectable staff member.

Mr Crouch gathers himself together stiffly, with dignity. If he limps to his chair and sits down with a wince, that is excusable in a man of his age and dedication.

"Dismissed, Weatherby."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

"And mind you where you put that cane. I won't have some stranger stumbling over it."

"No sir. I'm locking it up right now, Mr Crouch."

"Don't natter, Weatherby. I have work to do."

"Very good, sir. I'll just go back to those cauldron specifications, they should be compiled in two hours."

"Yes, well, I'm sure they'll be perfectly adequate...what the devil are you still doing standing there, boy? Get to your papers, then!"

Percy bows himself out silently. The cauldrons call.

Written by Teka Lynn
October 7, 2004 9:15-10 PM

All rights to the characters and setting are held by J K Rowling and whoever else holds them, including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Warner Bros. This fanwork was created solely for fun and has no legal or financial connection to the Harry Potter novels.