"What. the. fuck?"
Terence Higgs glances up for a brief moment at the Weasley who stands before him, wide-eyed and shocked. "I said, you're on guard duty for the next couple months." He goes back to sifting through a pile of papers, organising them in alphabetical order.
Percy laughs dryly, as if this is merely some joke. "No. There is no way that I am taking the guard shift for three months. Especially if it's the sector to which my family has been assigned!" He shoves the papers back onto Terence's chaotic cedar desk, knocking a few stacks to the cement floor. The room in which they are in is small and dank. Silk cobwebs cling to the corners, and the only light radiating into Terence's office is that from a grimy circular window high above them.
"You have to face them sooner or later."
"I prefer later," Percy replies flatly, flopping heavily down into a cold metal chair. It is slightly uncomfortable, and he shifts awkwardly, all the while keeping his glaring eyes locked on Terence.
"Listen Perce, it's better to do it now; they deserve to stop mourning your death. These are orders from Malfoy, so it's not like you can change them anyway." Terence bends to retrieve the papers of the last guard shift change, which had been two months into the Death Eater reign.
"Lucius," Percy mumbles, an irritated look entering his bloodshot eyes.
"Yeah, he also wanted me to pass this to you." He searches his desk, extracting a package from beneath a pile of forms. He passes it to Percy before going back to his work. "Just promise me you'll watch yourself. It gets crazy out there at times."
"I know that!" snaps Percy, pushing himself from the chair, knocking it over with a loud clang. He crumples the letter in his hands and shoves it into his pocket, forgetting it momentarily. "To whom else have you bestowed the honour of guard duty?" Percy sneers, disgusted with Terence for the first time in three years.
Terence shrugs, having too much on his mind at the moment to be concerned with Weasley's affairs. "At Alpha? Travers, Flint, Lestrange, Macnair, Baddock, Pritchard ... There's others, but like hell I can remember them all."
Percy exhales sharply before storming from the office in a rage, having only one mission in mind. Terence looks on with worried eyes before giving his attention to the tasks before him.
Percy doesn't make it far down the unlit hallway before his curiosity gets the best of him, and he reaches for the crumpled letter inside his robes. The fancy cursive lettering spelling out Lucius Malfoy loops across with ease, and Percy inspects the rest of the envelope only to find nothing. Irritably he tears it open and reads the parchment, only to find himself infuriated in a way he's never been before. As he stuffs the paper back into the pocket, he decides to attempt to exchange shifts.
* * *
"I know you. You belong to Flint."
Rae Landon gazes sharply at the young woman now standing before her. A woman she recognises as Marie Amitri--whom Lucius Malfoy fancies. Upon closer inspection, Rae realises why the malicious warlord lusts after this Ravenclaw. Marie could catch the fancy of any bloke; she radiates beauty. While her hair is soft as silk, with a shining brilliance about it, Rae's is a bland brown with dry ends. While Marie's eyes are a sparkling coffee, Rae's are an empty blue. Both young women are of average height with a small physique.
"I belong to nobody!" Rae snaps.
Marie tilts her head; her eyes lazily look over Rae, who wears her Death Eater robes proudly. "Are you sure? Or are you just too afraid to admit it?" She closes her eyes softly, remembering back to the time she observed Flint striking Rae for reasons unknown.
"Marcus does not control my life!" she replies through gritted teeth.
"I believe he does." Marie smirks, finding sadistic joy in her next words. "Why else would Pucey be sneaking into your quarters late in the evenings? Clearwater has seen him, and so has the Weasley. You like to think that you are better than the rest of us. But you fear Marcus. You'd never admit it, but he owns you."
Rae glances up, biting her tongue as another Death Eater enters the stone chambers. "What is it, Weasley?" she hisses, tilting her head towards the intruder. She's never been fond of the red-haired family--they are a disgrace to the wizarding world. One such as he should never have become a Death Eater.
"Where's Flint?" he enquires coldly.
Rae shrugs. "I don't keep him on a leash. His business is none of mine."
"Pity." Percy rolls his eyes.
"You may not keep him on a leash, but he certainly keeps you on one."
Percy smirks, mildly amused at Marie's comment. "Oh, and Landon? You're not afraid of that fucking troll, are you? Try telling him you've been shagging his best mate for years. I guarantee then that you'll have something to fear." He twists on his heel, continuing his search for Flint.
* * *
Ten sets of footsteps echo through the vast marble chamber as five wizards stoically enter, three clad in impressionable robes of dull silver, one in vivid jade, and the other sea blue. The centre wizard, who is a few inches shorter than the rest, removes his hood to speak to the assembled delegates. As he does, long black hair falls over his face, covering his sunken blue eyes. A hushed silence comes over the chamber as they observe the spectacle before them. With a fresh battle scar jagged from his right eye to his jaw, he parts his chapped lips.
"What course of actions have you taken to aid Britain?"
"What, no introductions?"
"Who are you to enter and make demands on us?"
"We are the heroes. Now, what do you intend to do about Britain?"
"We have called this meeting of the Ministers to decide just that. What business is it of yours? We haven't heard about another faction against the Death Eaters," the Minister whose country is determined by the eagle emblem before a flag of red, white and blue on the left lapel of his robes, speaks freely and without consequence. "You seem to be nothing but a mongrel."
"I once called that land home."
"Then why should we listen to you? A lot of people call that land home," a curvy woman speaks, a French accent lacing her voice. She is dressed in a hue of ivory with a scarlet cage, and silver hair hangs to her waist, shading brown eyes.
"Because we said so. And you may find our knowledge and power helpful in this time of great need," the green wizard rasps, crossing his arms lazily as he closes his tired eyes for well-needed rest.
"Don't speak to us about power; you were the ones who ran when your country needed you the most. As far as we are concerned, you all are cowards!" The Minister of Ireland, clad in clover green robes, leans back in his chair. The identities of these wizards may not be known to any of them, but he is quick to judge.
"You don't know who you're talking to. We are the ones who fought, the ones who put our lives on the line for the good of Britain. Show the respect you would show to Albus Dumbledore, if he were still with us."
"You can't compare that egotistical tosser," the Irish Minister points an accusing finger to the centre wizard, the only one who dared to show his identity, "to someone as great as Dumbledore." The fact that these five escaped holds no meaning to him.
"Zat wizard you speak so unpleasantly about 'as been compared to Albus Dumbledore on more zan one occasion. Only a 'andful of wizards or witches 'ave come up against Voldemort and lived. Zat is ze only reason you should listen to us," the blue witch expresses, her voice sweet as honey.
There's a momentary hush over the chamber as the name Voldemort is heard.
The American Minister scoffs, pounding his fists onto the circular wooden table, around which more than thirty Ministers from across the world converge. "Are we going to listen to these children!? These . . . people who come into our chambers, as if they own the party!? I say we boot them!"
"Boot them!"
"Yeah! Boot them!"
There is a sudden uproar in the highly structured room as some pound their fists along with the American Minister, while the others attempt at silence. The green wizard clears his throat loudly. "Is this helping Britain?"
They immediately hush.
"That's better," the centre wizard starts. "Now, we are strongly suggesting that you listen to us, but if you wish to fight blindly, that is your problem. We know things, we are capable of gathering inside information, which I guarantee you will find helpful. Lucius Malfoy is powerful and not a fool. He has Death Eaters infiltrating your countries as we speak, and there are more of them than you know. They are formidable, fearless and bloodthirsty creatures. The only way to take them down is to work from the inside of their operations. It's dangerous, and lives will be lost. But the price of peace is death. If you want to free Britain from Death Eater rule, I suggest you work with us."
They look around at one another, and at the wizards before them. A few lick their lips in contemplation; others rest their elbows on the tables and chins in their hands. Together, though, they are silent.
The wizards at the front glance at their leader before turning in sequence. The witch in blue exits, followed by the wizard in green. The two unidentified ones in grey depart a few moments later. Lastly, the head wizard spins on his heel, his hair whipping away from his face.
Thirty pairs of eyes fall upon the wizard as he exits.
And they start in another uproar, this one of newfound hope in these strange allies.
* * *
"Flint!"
Marcus Flint cocks his head to the side, his lip curling in hatred at the sight before him. "What the fuck do you want, Weasley?" he spits as he immediately stands, preferring the authority that he'd have. Intimidating is what this ex-Quidditch captain does best.
"You're on guard duty next week." Percy knows never to ask questions to this Slytherin, for it shows uncertainty, and Marcus would surely act upon it.
"Point?"
"Switch sectors with me."
Marcus merely laughs rhythmically, thick black hair falling before his equally black eyes. "And deprive you from the luxury of seeing your family? I wouldn't dream it. Are you prepared to grovel for their forgiveness? Will you cry? Oh, I'd like that. I'd love to see you cry."
Percy remains unfaltering. "You want to see someone cry? Talk to Landon late at night." He turns and leaves as quickly as he came, not caring to explain his words to the dense troll.
