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Serendipity and the fallen seraphim	By : Gemma Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 1373 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
"Under his forming hands a creature grew,
So lovely fair
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight."

I remember the gentleness and sincerity that marred the devil's perfect face, and in that moment knew and understood so well that there were no demons here. That angels suffered, and that the act of suffering so perfectly hid the beauty and fire that was so breathtaking. That burning souls and blazing eyes are the curse that eats at those untouched, until one is surrounded by nothing but empty shells of former existences. And like the phoenix, these tortured souls will be reborn, only to suffer for another lifetime, whilst eternity stretches before them in an agonising procession of glorious, joyous fire and the scorching agony of knowledge gained.

For years I wondered how I had been brought to his embrace. Lying restless in bed, lying his arms, lying on the luscious grass of his estate, seated on the windowsill of the large elegant window that looked out over all that he owned; I mused and I pondered, and often I agonised.

When had the decision been made? Was it for me to take responsibility, or had some greater being, who understood the needs and wants of man, angels and fiends, gazed upon me one day, before stretching out a finger and staining my soul?

I mused upon each event where he had been a presence in my life. I pondered his ethereal beauty and his switching nature, and I turned eyes towards myself and dissected, studied, tortured.

When the pain began to ease, my thoughts began to slow. My embraces became more tender, my demeanour more accepting. I accepted that my parents were dead, that they had been Death Eaters, and that even at the end they had not turned a thought my way.

I accepted that Draco was now my brother, Narcissa my mother, and Draco my father, though his kisses were anything but chaste. I accepted that my seat at the long elegant dinner table was not at the head, hand in hand with Lucius, that my bed was for sinful moments, and that their bed was for the occasional caress of marital necessity.

I accepted that I was his, and that he had assisted me on the winding, seductive, burning path of sin and degradation. But oh how I loved him. Oh how I love him still. How bright and shining is my angel, how perfect is his love for me, how similar our nature.

And so I close the book, the weighty tome that has become my life. I do not miss the irony of it's parallels to that book I love so well, the book that awoke my desire, and blew softly on my inner flame. The book that Lucifer moved to touch me through, his blazing eyes claiming me in a way that still causes me to tremble.

I close the book and hold it in my hands for a moment, gazing upon the leather cover which is not the colour of bitter chocolate, but the colour of the deepest black, red ribbons binding it, letters dripping in italics like old blood.

Slowly I stand, my legs uncurling from the prayer pillow. I look up at the alter before me, my eyes taking in the chalice, the athame, the incense that twists towards heaven in a bitter-scented swirl of blue-tinged smoke. The prayer beads drop from my pale fingers, and the bodice of my gown sits snug on my waist as the skirt falls in heavy folds to the ground.

As I am leaving the chapel, the skirt of my gown trailing behind me, I glance up to the mirrored panes that line the arched entrance.
An angel looks back at me, gaze steady. This angel is not cloaked in platinum hair, this angel does not rage at empty skies, this angel does not challenge those to fall along with him.
No, this angel is dark; black. Hair the colour of a raven's wing, gown the deep red of blood, dripping with crystals like water drops and pearls like beaded silk of a spider's web which has caught the dew.

Yet still the angel's eyes are a blazing blue which suck all those who dare to look down into their depths.
"Ah Serendipity." I whisper, my voice sounding holy in this silent place of worship.
And I reach up a long fingered hand, the colour of ivory, to press against the glass. I do not need to close my eyes to see the wings that stretch out from my back, their feathers burnt and blackened, charred bone skeletons achingly imperfect and ruined.

When my Lucifer steps up to wrap his arms around my waist, his hands splaying over my stomach in a protective gesture, I gaze upon the angels looking back at me, and marvel at how far one can fall, and how agonisingly perfect such a fall can be.

And the book is left on the shelf, for another golden haired cherub to discover, her eyes as honest and innocence as any child's ever was.

Once one falls, the rest come tumbling after. For could a mortal turn away from an angel's immortal sinful touch? Or the heady taste of sweetest Ambrosia?

I cannot say.
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Serendipity and the fallen seraphim