Cowboys and Angels

moment forty-one: analysis [the fine print IV] (February 1996.)

It was supposed to be a normal raid. As much as any raid could be said to be normal. Personally authorised by the Minister, and pushed by him, once the remaining Auror had crumpled under intensive questioning, and told of the abandoned house he'd been taken to, how he'd been conditioned by Imperius to change sides.

Fudge wanted to show this pathetic remnant of the Death Eaters exactly who was in charge - and he wanted to show that it was indeed him. As a show of strength, Fudge had ordered two entire brigades of Aurors: twenty of the best the Ministry had to offer, and thrown them a small dilapidated house on the cliffs near Tintagel.

Whatever had been at that house, it was not some ragtag group of two or three people, as the captured turned Auror had reported, but a force of some strength.

And they had been ready.

The first wave of Aurors (about five) who'd been sent inside the house had been killed instantly when the house had collapsed on top of them. Apparently, the Death Eaters (about twelve or so) had then emerged from scrublands near the house, and the battle had been joined, Death Eater fighting Auror in a way that hadn't been seen since the early eighties.

Out of the twenty Aurors who'd set out, only two had returned standing. Another three had ended up needed urgent medical care and one of those was likely to end up in St. Mungo's, as a Death Eater had 'played' with him.

Percy had been sitting at his desk, mindful of his new title as Deputy Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation, when he'd heard the news, and a little part of him had died upon hearing it.

Fudge had been wrong. This was no empty remnant, no last desperate strike. This had been calculated by men of strategy and strength, with the spellpower and numbers to decimate twenty of the best Aurors stationed in Greater London.

This was planned. It was a trap. They'd known - which meant someone had to have told them the raid was coming.

Fudge had ordered those men to their deaths, however unknowingly.

Percy's world died at that thought, as everything he'd told himself to believe in fell apart, and was shaken to its foundations. If Fudge was just another petty scheming little-minded idiot, what did that say about those who voted for him, the public Percy claimed to work for? Or the people who'd so blindly followed his orders.

Like Percy himself.

Which was why he'd gone through the rest of the day like a golem, at right angles with the rest of the world. He'd shuffled through his work, filling out papers, absently making notes, and wondered always at the back of his head when he'd be asked to fall on his wand for Fudge, and which of his co-workers as well.

That probably explained why he'd burst into great wracking sobs after collapsing into a chair at home, and why Oliver immediately wrapped his arms around him. Arms that only grew tighter as Percy incoherently babbled out what he'd learnt, fingers running up and down Percy's back.

When he was finished crying, Oliver handed him a tissue, and rested back on his haunches, watching as Percy dried his eyes. Percy, unused to the scrutiny at the best of times, had handed back the scrunched up tissue. Oliver had looked at it for a while, uncomprehending, then realised, and took it, rising to put it in the bin.

However, he returned to his gazing, and Percy turned his face away.

"I'm very lucky you're not an Auror, Perce," Oliver murmured, reaching around to gently take a hold of Percy's slightly pointy chin, and pull his face back round, Percy's eyes wide and surprised. Oliver hadn't touched him like that. Not ever. And they'd barely talked since the Argument.

As Percy found he lacked the will - or capability, it seemed all of a sudden - to speak, Oliver spoke for him, his fingers reaching up to trace the curve of Percy's cheek. "Cause then you might be dead. And I wouldn't want that."

Oliver took Percy's face in both hands now, those big brown eyes looking for any trace of emotion in that face, and all he saw was fear, doubt, uncertainty, and trapped beneath it all, a great well of need.

And then Percy felt Oliver's lips against his.