young and desperate was what they whispered, holding their fragile glasses in too smooth hands. you'd watch them with amusement, hands holding another glass, same as theirs, except in hands that had scars and blemishes, sun blots and burns, marking and ruining the callused skin.

ambitious, they called you, from behind fans and vinegar words. you'd smile at them, words as poisonous as arsenic, with nothing but third hand repaired robes and off prescription glasses that you couldn't repair.

driven, they'd mock, dog, they'd laugh, fruitless, abandoned, pathetic, weasley-

your quill was old but worked just as well as any, and you inked it periodically in a cracked inkpot from your second year. lords and ladies, you'd write, on the minister of magic's behalf-

worthless, poor, useless, traitor-

we formally invite you-

foolish, jumbled, hotheaded, hopeless-

thank you, perseus weasley, senior secretary to the minister of magic, cornelius fudge-

you'd smile. laugh. and send out the invitations.

you weren't afraid to play their game, no matter their hisses and complaints. if they wanted to play, you would too- because you were everything they said and so much more, and if they wanted to dance, you would dance the tune with them.