Chapter three: To join or not to join, that is the question! -- the boys
Cher Monsieur,
Je suis désolé que vous désapproviez nos actions, mais...
Percy's quill stopped and hovered just above the parchment in indecision. Percy had difficulty with French, so trying to write a delicate and sensitive letter in the damn language was proving a wretched experience. He had to, of course, be sympathetic and respectful to Minister What's-His-Face, but also defensive of Britain. Tricky. It didn't help matters that Percy agreed wholeheartedly with the French Minister of Magic that Scrimgeour was 'un idiot', however he didn't believe that it was very patriotic to be bitching about him with Monsieur Whatever. It also didn't help that Percy had a decision of enormous proportion to make in the next three days.
"What's up, Buttercup," Liz sang in his ear. She didn't help matters either.
"I'm not a buttercup," Percy said irritably.
"I know that -- it's what my mother used to say to me when I looked stressed. But seriously: what's up? You've been uptight all day; even more so than usual, which I hadn't really believed possible."
"Thanks!" he snapped.
"Oh, come on Perceval, I'm only concerned about you, you know that."
"I know," he said and relaxed by about a fraction of a millimetre. "It's, it's nothing, honestly. Scrimgeour and this French moron have me all wound up, that's all." He wasn't sure why he wasn't telling her the truth, he told her pretty much everything. Yet, for some reason, this felt like a secret.
"It's really just that?" And then, before waiting for a reply: "So how's that letter going, anyway?"
"Pretty bad. Do you know the French word for macabre?"
"Are you real, I don't know what the English word is. What is it, like a parrot?"
"No, that's a macaw. I'll use a dictionary." He reached over for one.
"Good idea. So are you coming out tonight?"
"Out where?" Percy asked, flipping through the creased, yellow pages.
"My sister's birthday! You remember Freyda?"
"Oh, yes. I don't know, though, I have a daunting amount of work to accomplish in a very small space of time."
"Don't get all pompous on me, Perce," Liz sighed. "Come out tonight. Please? You know it'll do you good."
"Fine," Percy relented. "Where?"
"'Poison', this new night-club not far from my apartment."
"I know where you're talking about. I'll be there." Percy said. "But why are they called apartments when their all stuck together?"
"Irony, I guess. I'll see you at nine o'clock, okay."
"Nine."
So five hours later, in extreme reconsideration of his promise to be there, Percy stood outside 'Poison', fitting in as much as a duck in a desert.
"Hey, you came!" Liz exclaimed joyfully, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tightly. She looked different from usual, partly because of her muggle attire, and partly because her chestnut hair, usually plaited tightly, was wild and loose and streaked with liberal amounts of glitter.
"Yes, I came," Percy replied ruefully.
"Come on, cheer up!" Liz yelled. "We're going in now! By the way, you look really strange dressed all muggleish." She gestured towards his jeans and shirt as she pulled him into the heaving night-club behind her.
At the bar there was a close-knit group of people, obviously magical, trying to look as if they fitted in, and failing quite sensationally. A man in a hideous tweed jacket was nibbling experimentally on the cigarette buts in an ashtray.
"No, Cole," Liz laughed, and pulled the ashtray away. She passed the nuts over to him.
"Try these," she said, and Cole blushed at his faux-pas. A woman that Percy recognised as Freyda suddenly bounded out of nowhere and leapt on her sister.
"You're late, Chick! I was starting to think you'd never come!" Freyda hands had a habit of dancing excitedly as she talked, and she was never still for more than two and a half seconds. She had already bounced off to dance to what she claimed was "Oh my God, my favourite song!" in an excited voice. Physically, Frey and Liz were similar enough to be mistaken for twins, but where Liz was laid-back to the point of verticality, Frey was as excitable as a hyperactive child after eating six Mars bars.
"So, how's quidditch?" Liz asked Cole. His eyes lit up instantly with enthusiasm and he started rambling nonsensically about some great Wronksi Feint that Frey had pulled off at the last practice.
"It was brilliant!" he said with relish. "We all really believed she'd seen the snitch. The rest of the team should be arriving soon, they can tell you about it!"
"I can hardly contain my excitement," Percy said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Cole didn't notice, but jumped up and started waving madly behind Percy.
"Hi, guys, we're over here!" Percy turned to see Oliver Wood followed by a man around seven foot tall give or take, a wispy little speck of a girl, a boy around seventeen who was quaking with fear and what looked like an amazon warrior.
"Hi, Perce," Oliver muttered, sitting down next to him.
"These rejects are Puddlemere United?" Percy asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Hey, we may look mismatched but we're good! See Kerry," he nodded to the witch who looked like an amazon, "she's an amazing beater, as strong as any man and has fantastic aim."
"Good for her. But I'm glad you're here; I really wanted someone to talk to about this Pelopidas thing." Oliver looked highly uncomfortable.
"I don't know, Percy. I've got a lot going on in my life at the moment."
"This has to be worth some consideration, though. We'd be helping people and saving lives."
"I know." Oliver looked more uncomfortable than ever. "It sounds pretty dangerous."
"I think that I'll join. I'll want more information from Wesley first but I will probably join."
"Well, it's easier for you," Oliver muttered.
"Why do you say that?" Percy's voice had taken a plunge into deep freeze, as if he sensed what was coming next. Oliver hesitated before saying,
"You know what I mean. I have a great job, being a professional quidditch player is my dream; I'm engaged to Angelina, you heard about that, didn't you?; and, you know, placing myself in danger all the time wouldn't be very fair on-" He stopped talking suddenly, looking unsure how he should continue.
"So what you're saying," Percy said, his tone positively glacial. "Is that I would have less to lose."
"No, it isn't that!" Oliver said, hastily backtracking.
"You're saying that less people would care if I died."
"No!" Oliver said, looking horrified.
"But that's what you said."
"I didn't mean it that way, I- I meant that you might be more tempted to take risks, you know, because you aren't that fazed with your job and you don't really have anyone. I was just saying that you're sort of, I don't know, looking for something
better."
Percy relaxed a bit and slumped against the bar. He laughed ruefully.
"I suppose I do long for something to give my life meaning. A raison d'être."
"A what?"
"Never mind. French has just been on my mind lately. You're definitely not joining." Oliver nodded. "I don't blame you. Sorry I snapped at you just now; I only assumed you thought my life was worthless because that's how I often feel."
"Your life isn't worthless," Oliver said emphatically, looking a little frightened. Percy smile at his concern.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to top myself; I'm more proactive than that. I'll make myself have worth by helping others. You know, that's why I originally wanted to join the Ministry: to help people." He gave a small smile. "What better place to help people than there, where I could be part of something greater than myself? Something which worked for the good of the community as a whole? That was the dream."
"What went wrong?"
"I learnt that politics isn't noble and selfless, as it theoretically should be. It's just one big smear campaign, with a sprinkle of lies, fast-tracking and nepotism. Quite depressing." Oliver looked awkward but was saved from saying anything by Frey who had appeared as if from nowhere and threw her arms around Percy.
"People, where have you been?" she shrieked. "Everyone's dancing, and you two glum boys are sitting here like old fogies or something! Come on!" She grabbed Percy's hand and yanked him so fast into the mass of dancing bodies that he probably could have sued her for whiplash, Oliver suspected.
It was boiling in the night-club, and though he wasn't dancing, Oliver felt overheated. He slid off his barstool and headed for the door, intending to catch a few minutes of fresh air. A bit of a joke really, in London, but at least it would be slightly cooler.
Outside, the air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke, almost as bad as within, the sounds of drunken yells and cars screeching to avoid some dipstick who had wandered into the middle of the road. It was scarcely less crowded here, too, with men stumbling from one pub to another, ejaculating primitive bellows which sounded like tough threats in their head. Droves of heavily painted women tottered around in stilettos, with flesh hanging over their garish, ropy clothes, giggling crazily. The pavement's natural grey could barely be seen under a carpet of broken glass, chewing gum and every type of rubbish that had ever existed. Oliver shuddered at the sight of the muggle world at its worst and walked along.
Deep in thought, he barely realised where he was walking to until he walked right past 'The Leaky Cauldron'. He stopped walking and pondered for a moment how to get past the moaning, writhing couple of muggles pressed up against the door in complete oblivion to the fact that they were blocking an entrance. Deciding on the subtle approach, Oliver shoved them roughly out the way and marched past, ignoring their angry protests.
Minutes later, Oliver was outside 'Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes', where a closed sign hung across the door. Oliver peeped through the window and saw, to his surprise, that Fred was still in the shop. He pushed the door.
"Hey, we're- oh, hi, Oliver," Fred said, putting his clipboard down. "I was just checking our stock. Come in! Do you want a butterbeer?"
"Go on, then," Oliver said, and accepted a bottle.
"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods," Fred asked genially.
"I was just passing," Oliver said.
"Uh-huh," Fred said sceptically.
"I was... wondering whether you were going to join the society of Pelopidas?" Oliver muttered. Fred took a sip of his drink, as if buying for time, leant back in his chair, and tilted his head to one side.
"I think so, yes," he finally said. "You?"
"No," Oliver said, avoiding Fred's eye.
"Why?"
"I don't know -- its too much. Why are you joining? Isn't running a joke shop action-packed enough?"
"You'd think so." But Fred didn't say anymore.
They regarded each other in silence or a while, then Fred pulled a pack of cards from his pocket.
"Blackjack?"
"Excuse me?"
"You'd be surprised what you learn when you start selling muggle cards. Here, I'll teach you."
They played for a few minutes, allowing the conversation to drift towards safer ground.
"So," Fred yawned, taking a swig of butterbeer. "When are you and our Angelina tying the knot.
"Six weeks on Thursday. I can't wait; and I can't believe I've actually managed to find someone as utterly and completely obsessed about quidditch as I am."
"Yeah, that's pretty rare. I can't say I envy you, though. In our final year she was as rough a captain as you had been."
"I wasn't rough," Oliver said indignantly. "I was getting you girls into shape." Fred let out a derisive laugh just as the bell above the door tinkled noisily. In strolled none other than Draco Malfoy.
"What are you doing here," Fred more or less snarled.
"Looking for Instant Darkness Powder," Draco said idly, running his finger along a line of products and reading the boxes. "They're all out in Knockturn Alley, would you believe it? Now, let me see... Romanian... Cuban... Russian..."
"Peruvian was quite effective, if you remember," Fred spat sarcastically. "Look, we're closed, and I wouldn't sell so much as a nougat to you, anyway!"
"Touchy, aren't we," Draco smirked. "Wesley seemed to think I had some potential for good. What are you playing? Blackjack?"
"Yeah," Fred said, taken-aback.
"My father was addicted to gambling of any sort," Draco said, by way of explanation. "Of course, he did rather keep it quiet. I'd play with you, but that would be tempting fate -- addictions run in the family, don't they."
"What makes you think we want you to join?" Oliver said, speaking in front of Draco for he first time.
"We have things in common, don't we. I suppose that makes us equals. Not a happy thought for me a few years ago, but now... Let's just say, I can't consider idiots who get their kicks from murder and torture my equals." He looked uncharacteristically troubled. "They are mad, half of them, and the other half evil. They are very little more than animals, certainly not nature's nobility. Also, I suppose, I feel bad for those I kill. I can't get my head around the fact that muggles and those born to them are equal -- but I believe that everyone, no matter how pure or otherwise, deserves life. Anything stronger here?" he asked, changing the subject rather startlingly, and nodding towards the butterbeer bottles.
"Firewhisky's out the back," Fred muttered, not sure why he as allowing him to stay, only knowing that he'd been inexplicably touched by Draco's short but very sweet speech.
Draco re-emerged seconds later with two bottles of Firewhisky and three glasses. He poured himself a generous measure, downed it, and poured another.
"Easy," Fred warned. "That's strong stuff." Draco laughed cynically.
"Do I look unaccustomed to heavy drinking?"
"Nope."
"Look, I have to go," Oliver said abruptly. "I have a game on early tomorrow."
"Yeah, you need you're beauty sleep," Fred mocked, but good-naturedly.
"Want some before you go?" Draco enquired, offering a glass.
"I can't play quidditch with a hangover!" Oliver said, looking scandalised. He disapparated.
"I'll take it!" Fred said, plucking the glass from Draco's long, white fingers.
"Hey," Draco exclaimed, and he poured himself another. "By the way, I don't have double-vision yet, so I can tell there's only one of you. Where's Fred?"
"I am Fred."
"Where's George?"
"New York, New York -- he's back tomorrow."
"Cool. I've always wanted to go to the big apple. Is it business or pleasure?"
"Business: we're considering extending Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes to the states. New York first, then LA, perhaps."
"Impressive," Draco said sincerely.
"I suppose. But it's been quite scary how well things are going. I've been feeling guilty about it."
"Guilty for being successful?"
"You wouldn't understand," Fred muttered.
"Try me," Draco challenged.
"Well, my father has struggled his entire life to scrape a living and George and I barely had to try. You know, we've made over three million galleons already. Twenty years old, and we're millionaires. It doesn't seem right."
"Hey, you earned it," Draco said with a fierceness that surprised him. "I'm the one who should feel guilty. When my parents died, I inherited enough money to retire a small town for life. I didn't earn that: I was born with it in my pocket."
Fred couldn't think of anything to say. Draco sat hunched, eyes on the burnt orange liquid between his fingers, sleek hair
falling forward over his eyes, looking miserable.
"Will you be joining this Pelopidas thing?" Fred asked, trying to distract Draco from his troubles.
"Yeah, I have to. I have to make amends. I didn't really want Dumbledore to die -- or anyone else for that matter."
"I believe you."
"What about you?" Draco countered, raising his mackerel eyes from his glass.
"I'm going -- though Oliver's not."
"I can't say that surprises me. But what made you decide to join?"
"In truth? Well, I'm a twin."
"No way!" Draco grinned. "How long have you been keeping this a secret?"
"George and I have always, always done everything together. Excluding the odd business trip, we're always together. We're never apart for more than an hour, it seems. We don't do it quite so much now, but when we were younger, we'd finish each other's sentences."
"Yeah, I remember. That was irritating, I don't mind telling you."
"The result of that was: I'm not Fred, I am one-half of Fred-and-George. This Pelopidas thing is like something I can have just for me. That's not something I've ever had before. I need this."
"You join Pelopidas as a form of escapism. Can't you just use alcohol?" Draco grinned.
"You do enough of that," Fred said.
"True. Seriously, though, if you were a muggle, you would have probably joined a cult by now."
"Probably, yes," Fred laughed. He yawned. "I'm going to bed."
"What? But we're not even fully drunk yet!" Draco said in mock outrage.
"You don't have to open up a shop at six-thirty," Fred pointed out.
"Fair enough. I'll see you in three days -- well, two now, it's after midnight -- at this Pelopidas thing. Along with whoever else deigns to show up."
Draco disapparated and Fred went upstairs, wondering exactly who would be brave enough to show up.