When Angels Fall

When Angels Fall
Chapter Two - Broken Halo

Percy eyed the cloaked figure with suspicion. Though this person was nearly a head shorter than Percy, he couldn’t help but to feel intimidated. Something about the smooth, composed tone in the other’s voice that put Percy on his guard.

“Who are you?” Percy demanded in a strangely calm, slightly menacing voice. The stranger simply laughed -- a cold, nearly humourless laugh.

“That need not concern you presently. You may regard me as a friend; I am here to help you.”

Percy could just make out the stranger’s thin lips curling into a faint grin, but the rest of his features were shadowed by the cloak’s hood. Yet there was something oddly familiar about this person…

“Lucius Malfoy,” Percy stated with disdain. He should have recognized that oily voice as a Malfoy’s right away. Lucius pushed back his hood enough to reveal his face, and a fleeting look of annoyance flickered across his features. His expression quickly smoothed back to a condescending, “friendly” look -- though a Malfoy’s idea of a friendly face was about as pleasant as a prediction made by Trelawney.

“What do you want?” Percy spat. The last thing he wanted to deal with was an enemy of his entire family.

“As I said before,” Lucius began unconcernedly, “I am here to help you.”

Percy laughed bitterly. “Right, Malfoy. You? Help a poor, disgraceful Weasley?” Percy shot him a mock sceptical look. “You do know what the word help means, don’t you? It’s a good --”

Lucius cut him short, looking thoroughly annoyed now. “”I am perfectly aware of the definition of the world 'help', Percival.”

Percy shrugged and said nothing further. He was slightly taken aback by the use of his proper name; not even Molly called him Percival. Lucius took a moment of silence, staring off into the distance and remained completely unaffected by Percy’s wary stare. He spoke at last, his eyes still trained on the far off waves of the turbulent sea.

“It doesn’t have to be so difficult.”

Percy looked at him sharply. “What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything all that difficult.”

Lucius smirked and his grey eyes flickered towards Percy momentarily. “I know as well as you do that your life is nothing but difficulties. Trying to get somewhere at that inferior organization, the Ministry. Earning well-deserved respect from peers and family. Not letting people walk all over you…”

Lucius let his words hang and waited until he was certain that Percy was mulling this over in his mind before continuing.

“We can help you. We will help you as soon as you ask -- just say the word and you’ll find yourself in a considerably powerful organization that will help you along. We know a worthwhile wizard when we see one and you are certainly worthy of our faction.”

Though Lucius appeared to be alone, Percy glanced around the beach hastily; Lucius’ frequent assertion of “we” unnerved Percy. They were, however, indeed alone. Percy narrowed his eyes again and regarded Lucius with a renewed suspicion.

“And I suppose I’d have to throw away my life and join up with You-Know-Who in return, too.” Percy said cynically.

Lucius shook his head sadly and clucked his tongue. “You Weasleys are quick to judge. The Dark Lord’s true mission is so misunderstood by so many. Have you ever taken the time to think about our cause? What we’re trying to accomplish?”

Percy was silent. Lucius had used and stressed the magic word. Think. He thought about it and realized that all he knew was that Muggle-borns were being wiped out for no apparent reason. Which was bad.

He glared at Lucius again. “Your true cause,” he snarled, “seems quite clear to me and the rest of our world--”

Lucius cut him off and said with another oily smile, “Our world. Quite separate from the Muggle world. All those who oppose the Dark Lord’s supposed prejudices are guilty of it themselves -- just look at the way they separate themselves from the Muggles. We are superior to Muggles. We possess the skill that they can only dream of. Magic. It’s what separates the greater people from the lesser. Can’t you see? The Gods have made it so, it wasn’t for us to decide. If all people were really meant to be considered equal, why would only some hold the power of magic?”

Percy sputtered for a moment but did not give him a comprehensible answer. He was at a complete loss. And so he did the one thing he always did when he didn’t have the answer: he stalked away angrily.

The storm had begun to settle by this time and the rain dwindled to a light but miserable drizzle. Footsteps marked Percy’s trail in the damp sand but a second set did not follow.

******

Percy wandered the streets of Dover for a while, making quite a spectacle of himself to any resident who happened to glance out of his or her window. He looked a mess: wet red hair matted down on his head, wet sand stuck to the bottom of his jeans, and wet glasses blurring the strange look in his eyes.

Percy mulled over Lucius’ words and cursed him for putting up such an argument when he was in no state to contradict such a bigoted yet well-worded speech. If only Penelope had stayed, he would have been better on guard…

His depression began to morph slowly into resentment. This was all Penelope’s fault! He tried as hard as he could, but that wasn’t good enough. Roger too – that boneheaded, Quidditch-playing bloke, barely worthy of claiming himself as a Ravenclaw alumni. He was to blame as well! And come to think of it, his own family even seemed to mock him. He had worked so hard for respect and still the whole world seemed to laugh in his face -- everyone from his family to his colleagues to… Penelope. She was probably having a good laugh right now with Roger about him!

These thoughts swirled through his mind for the next hour or so as he wandered aimlessly around Dover. Worse yet, the words of Lucius Malfoy intermingled with them in his confused state. By the time he stumbled into his flat, words of others were shouting in his mind, and scenes relayed themselves from his memory.

“Perfect Percy,” taunts one of the twins.

“Why would we ever want to act like him?” the other asks in disgust, shooting a disdainful look at Percy.

“Mum, no one likes the bloke; he’s stuffy and more arrogant than a peacock. At least we’re fun!”

Percy made his way to the bathroom, and muttered a spell to turn on the lights. He stared at the mirror, both hands on the sink, holding him steady. Deadened eyes stared back.

“That’s the head-boy, Percy,” a Hufflepuff whispers to a first-year. “He has a reputation for being the black sheep of the Weasleys.”

“Why, Ernie?” the first-year asks curiously, looking over his shoulder at Percy.

“Lots of people say he should’ve been a Slytherin. Wants to make it big in the Ministry. I’ve heard his brothers say he’d sooner turn in his own mum before ruining a chance of becoming Minister.”

He stared at his reflection, looking carefully at his face. He looked younger, somehow, like a lost, little boy. His eyes were ringed with red and his face was paler than normal. His nose was reddening as well with a cold.

He removed his glasses and placed them shakily on the side of the sink. The reflection blurred, and he could barely make himself out in the pattern of light his nearsightedness displayed in the glass.

“Mummy, where’s Dad and everyone?”

Molly stirs a pot of something on the stove and barely looks at the nine year-old standing in the kitchen’s doorway. “Daddy took your brothers out to play Quidditch, sweetie. They’ll be back soon. Hand me my wand, love.”

Percy frowns and hands over the wand. He isn’t very good at Quidditch like his brothers, but he still liked the game and would gladly play with them…

The echoes of memories pounded still in his mind as his hands shook. He stared still at the reflection, trying to force it into a defined shape. He leaned forward, squinting slightly and nearly pressing his nose to the glass. Nothing yet but a blur. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the dizzying haze of colours and patterns still imprinted themselves on his vision.

“Percy, I’ve been thinking; we’re really not getting anywhere. You’re always at work, you hardly ever make time for me, for us! And you’re always in such a bad mood when I do get to see you…

“I’m so sorry, Percy.”

Percy’s eyes snapped open and for a split second everything slid sharply back into focus, becoming perfectly clear. There he was in the mirror, the image unmistakable in the glass.

“We can help you.”

Maybe they could help him…

“We know a worthwhile wizard when we see one…”

At least someone did.

“Can’t you see? The Gods have it made so, it wasn’t for us to decide. If all people were really meant to be considered equal, why would only some hold the power of magic?”

Percy’s mind couldn’t find a plausible rebuttal. Perhaps there was something to this ridiculous logic…

“It doesn’t have to be so difficult.”

No, it didn’t. Percy slowly stood up straighter and stared straight into the eyes of his reflection, a fire of determination burning in his eyes.

“We will help you as soon as you ask.”

A tapping sound came at the window. Percy turned slowly and saw a raven just outside the bathroom’s small window. He opened it and the black bird flew in, its wings stretching dramatically as it circled the bathroom. It dropped a note from its beak and swooped back out the window.

Percy watched with mild surprise and reached for his glasses. The bird was already out of sight by the time he had put them on and stooped to pick up the folded parchment that had fluttered to the ground.

There was something odd about the texture of the parchment. It looked like regular parchment, but it felt oddly… powerful. As if there was some forbidden magic encasing it. Percy unfolded it and scanned the elegant script.

Percival,

You have made the right decision. Await further instructions from a visitor and do not disclose and information whatsoever regarding your connection with our organization.

The note was unsigned, but Percy knew immediately who it was from. Uneasily he put the note down, wondering just what he had gotten himself into.

And then there was a knock at the door.

******

Graceful, stunningly beautiful, and best of all, blonde. She was the dream that all men wanted as their reality. Stares, whistles, and lewd comments followed her everywhere she went, and today was no exception. She haughtily walked down a London street, ignoring the attention.

“Ooh, look at that one. Wouldn’t you like a piece of that?” An American tourist jabbed his friend with his elbow as Fleur strode by. He didn’t even bother to lower his voice, speaking as though she couldn’t hear him -- the nerve!

Fleur ignored him, but his friend began to follow her. He whistled softly, the sound making Fleur uneasy, and she quickened her pace. He did too and soon was walking right next to her, his speed matching hers whatever she did.

“So,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder, causing Fleur to stiffen slightly. “I was thinking--”

He didn’t get a chance to finish, for as soon as Fleur felt his hand brush against her chest she wheeled around and slapped him with all her might. She wasn’t strong, but the blow was enough to make the man double over for a moment, clutching his face and shouting obscenities after her. She flipped her hair indignantly as she stalked away from him, muttering to herself in French.

“Damn Muggles,” she muttered in English as she slipped into a tiny alley. She walked straight to a brick wall at the end of the alley and tapped her wand on one of the bricks. Soon she was walking through the massive archway into Diagon Alley.

Fleur hurried down the busy street, ignoring the gawking looks of wizards and scowls from witches she was receiving. Stopping in front of a two-story building on the far end of the road, she unrolled a copy of the previous day’s Daily Prophet and scanned a job advertisement.

WANTED:

Young person just out of school looking for
working experience. Obscurus Books is hiring
for several positions, including: Publishing
agents, editors, secretaries, and promoters.
High academic achievements a must!
Visit Obscurus Books Publishing Firm
at 234 Diagon Alley to apply.

She folded the paper again and looked up at the gold-painted numbers above the door. 234 Diagon Alley. She walked inside, neatening her new robes as she went and tossing her head confidently.

Just inside the doors was a small reception area with a middle-aged wizard leaning against the side of a desk. He didn’t notice Fleur at first. He was too busy puffing on a cigarette. As soon as he caught sight of her, however, he hastily put out the stub and hurried behind the desk, smiling warmly.

“Welcome to Obscurus Books, Miss. What can I do for you?”

“I am ‘ere to interview for zis job,” she replied, showing him the newspaper clipping. The man didn’t even glance at it. He didn’t take his eyes off of her, grinning stupidly. Fleur was used to this type of reaction to her Veela beauty, but she was nevertheless annoyed.

“May I pleeze see someone about ze job?”

The man leaned across the desk towards her. “Now why would a pretty little thing like you want to work here?”

Fleur narrowed her eyes dangerously but the man simply chuckled, infuriating here more. “Well, if you’re sure… Just head upstairs and go through the first door on your right.” He paused and eyed her. “And maybe afterwards you and I…”

Fleur didn’t wait around for him to finish. She followed his instructions and was soon opening the door to a large personal office. Two people, a witch and a wizard, both in their thirties, sat on one side of a low table. They were busily sifting through papers and Fleur had to clear her throat impatiently before they noticed her.

She received two very different reactions when they did look up. The man looked her up and down appreciatively and the woman scowled.

“May we help you?” asked the woman irritably.

“Yes, I am ‘ere about zis.” Fleur handed the clipping to the woman. The woman looked at her sceptically.

“What qualifications do you have?” she spat out distastefully.

Fleur checked her temper and was about to respond when the woman held her hand up for silence.

“Never mind, I really don’t have time for this. Christopher, you can take care of this one. I’m going to lunch.”

The woman stalked out the room, but Christopher was too busy goggling at the pretty, young girl before him to notice.

“So, you wanted to apply to be a secretary, eh?” He came around the table and sat on the edge of it. He gestured to an empty seat near him and Fleur sat down. “I was looking for a personal secretary…”

He moved his hand so that his fingertips just barely rested on her shoulder. Fleur promptly swatted his hand away.

“I am looking to be an agent, actually…” she said with a tightlipped smile.

The man threw back his head and laughed. “Dear, agents have to be the most highly-qualified individuals we can find and it’s rather difficult work. I think you’d be much more well-suited as a receptionist--”

“I was a top student at Beauxbatons academy, a Triwizard champion, and I received honours in three different fields of study at school,” she retorted.

Christopher smiled patronizingly at her. “You’re just not the type we’re looking for as an agent. Now about the position as secretary…”

Fleur jumped up from her seat, spun on her heel, and marched out the door. She didn’t pause when the receptionist wizard downstairs called to her, nor did she stop walking until she reached a relatively secluded spot outside of the Leaky cauldron. She leaned against the wall of the pub and dug into the pocket of her robes. She extracted a long, thin cigarette and after lighting it with her wand, brought it to her lips. She took a long drag and exhaled with a deep sigh.

Smoking was a relatively new habit for her, one that began after her first unsuccessful interview in England. Annoyed after a long meeting with a patronizing elderly man who refused to believe that a young girl like herself was fit to apprentice in his Apothecary, Fleur bought her first pack to calm herself. She had figured that while smoking was unhealthy it was at least better than drinking; you could keep your wits about you when you smoked.

Since that first pack, Fleur had become addicted to the soothing nicotine of cigarettes, smoking one whenever she needed to relax or ease tension. Being alone and unemployed in a foreign country, she frequently acted on this habit and lit up a fag.

Fleur took another drag and blew smoke in front of her, imagining the face of this latest pig who couldn’t see past her pretty face to her abilities. Another drag, blowing smoke now at the stupid American boys she had encountered earlier. Yet another puff at the resentful woman at the publishing office. She was tired of no one taking her seriously, sick of men always goggling and woman glaring, and was at the point of screaming.

But she didn’t need to scream as long as she had a cigarette to take it out on.

Fleur soon finished smoking and she flicked her wrist down, sending the butt to the cement pavement. She tapped it with one pointy toe of her boot and ground the light out.

“Miss? May I have a word?” A charming voice came from her right. Fleur looked over and was startled to see a hooded figure where there was no one just moments earlier.

She narrowed her eyes. “Fuck off.” She turned on her heel and prepared to walk away from the bloke but suddenly there he was in front of her.

“Very unladylike language, Mademoiselle.” Fleur thought she could detect a hint of amusement in his voice. “Though I daresay you don’t care whether it’s ladylike or not. I am not, as you suspect, a young bloke smitten with you. I do have something of importance to discuss, something which I think you will be very interested in.”

Fleur snorted. “And what makes you assume zat?”

The man paused and Fleur was almost certain that he was smiling. “I have a proposal for you, one that could get you the respect you deserve and allow you to use that immense talent of yours.”

Fleur hesitated. This man who wouldn’t reveal his face to her wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy type. He did seem oddly sincere, however, and she couldn’t miss this possible opportunity to get what she had been trying to obtain for years; respect and a chance to prove herself as more than a pretty face. She listened.

“I thought you would be interested,” he said after seeing her attentive look. “What I am going to offer you is a prominent position in an organization growing more powerful by the day.”

Fleur looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Zere must be a drawback. What eez it?”

The man shrugged. “Not everyone seems to think our organization is respectable. Dim people who mistake power for evil.”

The man paused suddenly and looked around. “This is not the best place to discuss such important matters. Come with me. And pull your hood over your head so your face is covered.”

Curiosity aroused by his offer, Fleur did as he directed and matched his quick pace down Diagon Alley. People shot them cross looks and muttered as they shoved past them but the hooded man didn’t seem to care. They soon reached the end of the street where Diagon Alley split of into Knockturn. Fleur was not surprised when they turned down this disreputable street.

They walked nearly to the end of Knockturn Alley before the man pulled Fleur into a narrow passage between two small shops. Fleur wrinkled her nose disdainfully at the grime that covered the walls and ground. The man pointed his wand behind them and silently cast some sort of spell that caused the space to light up white for a moment before dimming again; Fleur assumed it was a charm to prevent eavesdroppers.

“As I was saying,” the mysterious man began as he turned to face her. “The organization I represent sees immense talent in you. We feel you would be a valuable addition to our ranks.”

Fleur didn’t say anything, but she was beginning to piece together just where this man came from. His tone suggested he was involved in a less than respectable ’organization’, as he said, and his cagey wording made her suspect that the organization he referred to was indeed made up of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers.

The Dark side. That’s what everyone whispered of and condemned in this country. Untouched by the first reign of Voldemort, Fleur wasn’t quite sure what made the Dark side… well, dark. Rumours said that it was the ‘Dark side’ that was responsible for Cedric’s death, and Dumbledore himself had announced that Voldemort had murdered the boy. Fleur sniffed, thinking of her own headmistress’s distrust of the Hogwarts headmaster. If Madam Maxime didn’t believe him, why should she?

Fleur looked at the man who seemed to be waiting for her to collect her thoughts. “I do not need to ‘ear anymore,” she said decidedly. “Au revoir.”

Despite her doubts at Dumbledore’s trustworthiness, Cedric was a good friend to her. She began to walk out of the alleyway and found an invisible barrier blocking her exit. She turned and glared at the man.

“I am offering you everything,” he said calmly. “You could at last have the respect you deserve. They--” he gestured in the general direction of the bustling street of Diagon Alley, “don’t appreciate your magical aptitude. They’re not willing to give you the chance to show the world what you can accomplish. We want to give you that chance. We perceive your superb ability in magic.”

Fleur paused, contemplating his words. Again she got the feeling that he was smiling.

“We can help you to greatness and give you power. Are you going to turn that down and go back to the life full of people who disrespect you?”

Fleur sighed. He had a valid point, and she was tempted by his offer. The supposedly decent people here were holding her back. Her family was safe in France and frankly there was no one here she was particularly worried about. She shook her head, answering the man’s question.

“Excellent. You have made the right choice, my dear. Come to this exact spot tonight just after nightfall. Until then,” the man bowed and disappeared into thin air.

******

“My Lord--” A stout, balding man kneeled before a high-backed chair. The man it looked down at him with distaste.

“What is it, Wormtail?” he said harshly, his snakelike features hardening into an annoyed glance at his servant.

“L-Lucius has arrived back, my Lord,” Wormtail replied, cowering slightly under the glare. Voldemort nodded and moments later the cloaked man swept in.

“My Lord,” he began, kneeling gracefully then straightening again. “I have recruited two new younger members today. A witch and a wizard, both noted in their respected schools for high magical achievement.”

“Excellent. That old fool Dumbledore will not be able to resist after I build up the ranks. Continue Lucius.”

“The girl is French, a part-Veela right out of Beauxbatons. A Triwizard champion, in fact. Fleur Delacour.”

Voldemort sneered. “Veela magic is strong; she will be invaluable if she’s really as talented as you think.”

“My lord, I would never recruit anyone who I felt wouldn’t be a strong addition to your ranks.”