A ghostly green skull hung in the night sky over a home south of London. Aside from the twinkling sparks overhead, there was nothing else to give any evidence that something had happened there. The lights in the windows all glowed warmly, and there was even a bit of music drifting out of an old fashioned record player, the dulcet tones of Celestina Warbeck's latest track too peppy for the scene.
Osmond Clarke stood in the doorway of the sitting room, hand pressed against the wall in an effort to stay standing, and stared down at the carpet, where his wife lay, motionless. If the dark mark had not hung over the house, he might have thought she had fallen asleep, perhaps playing with their new baby. Except that in addition to the glowing green skull and snake in the stars above, Katie Clarke's mouth hung slack and her eyes were wide with fear and surprise. She was dead.
Osmond staggered into the room, stepping over the paper sacks of groceries he'd dropped on the floor upon entering the house. Egg whites oozed from their broken shells, the yolks running into the carpet. Osmond stepped 'round the couch that stood between him and Katie's prone body, and he grabbed onto it with shaking hands as he saw the baby, laying as dead as his mother, face-down on the carpet beside her. Osmond's knees gave way, and he fell to them, covering his mouth with his trembling hands, hot tears soaking his cheeks as he choked on a gasping, anguished breath.
"No," he bleated miserably. His voice cracked. "No. Katie... Evan... No."
"S'what happens to filthy muggle-lovers," came a rasping, horrible voice from behind Osmond. "Pureblood marrying muggle filth; oil don't mix with water, Clarke."
Turning quickly, Osmond grappled for his wand, drawing it from his pocket and only just managing to duck before being hit with a stunner. The jet of red sparks struck the fireplace and the mantle broke apart, bits of wood flew up into the air, and tiny figurines fell to the ground, shattering. A beautiful wood cuckoo clock that had belonged to Osmond's gran broke apart, too, the bird cuckooing its last as it took flight.
Antonin Dolohov blasted the couch, then the coffee table, and a large chest filled with blankets, as Osmond scrambled, trying to hide long enough to regain his balance and collect himself. He dove recklessly into the next room, somersaulting across the carpet and 'round the table. Dolohov's wand raked the air harshly, sending the chairs off to smash against the wall one at a time as he growled menacingly. Osmond managed to throw himself over the island counter into the kitchen, fell to the linoleum, and hurrying to his feet, crouched behind the counter, and listening for Dolohov to step into the dining room. Osmond was near to holding his breath, his back pressed to the counter drawers.
"C'mon out, Clarke," murmured Dolohov lowly, his voice rough and sinister, "Only I want to send you on to see your filthy muggle wife again." Osmond could hear the heavy steps as Dolohov crossed the dining room, the floor creaking in all the places it always had, the sounds he had learned over the years when he and Katie had made this place a home. He waited, counting the steps until Dolohov was close enough to strike, his wand clenched tight in his fist. There it was - the creak of the floorboard at the close end of the table. Now or never.
Osmond Clarke threw himself into motion, leaping up to his feet and jabbing his wand in Dolohov's direction with a bellowed incantation: "STUPEFY!"
Dolohov reacted quickly, blocking the stunner and retaliating with a slash of his own wand, a magenta-colored stream of sparks slashed across Osmond like a whip, hissing like a firecracker's ascent as it sliced over his chest, knocking him backward so that he fell to the floor, slamming into the cabinets and sliding onto the linoleum. His body felt like rubber, and his heart clenched inside of him, and his chest was tight as though caught up in a heavy fist that seemed to squeeze the very breath out of him.
Osmond was choking for air as Dolohov came around the counter bar and stood before his victim, staring down at Osmond's prone form with a menacing amusement twinkling in his eyes. Dolohov raised his wand, and in an almost lazy tone, he said, "Crucio."
A current of magic ran through Osmond Clarke's veins so intense it was as though his blood had turned to fiery poison and he screamed, he screamed as hard as he had ever screamed in his life, but the breath was gone from him so that his screams were barely audible, only the sound of his voice box popping with the desire to utter noise. He shook and writhed and his brain shuddered, thoughts of terrible things flashing pictures over the lenses of his eyes, and Dolohov's horrible laughter filling his ears.
Then it stopped and Osmond's body returned to its rubbery state. He lay on the floor like spilled matter, his muscles twitching, his chest still tight from the magenta sparks. He felt drool on the corner of his mouth, his eyes slid in and out of focus as Dolohov looked down at his face, grinning.
Everything sounded far off to Osmond, as though he were underwater. Four cloaked figures stepped into the kitchen then and Osmond stared helplessly up as they gathered around him and Dolohov, looking on like shadows. Words were exchanged that poor Osmond could not properly hear through the fog in his brain, but the laughter in their eyes, which peered through slits in their hoods and masks, was evident. Dolohov raised his wand again, and a spell hit Osmond in the upper teeth, spouting blood from his nose and mouth in a spectacular pop of bright red color. He could barely feel it through the already screaming nerve endings all over his body. Then Dolohov raised his wand again, and another blast of the cruciatus curse came down upon Osmond once more.
Dolohov and his hooded friends laughed as Osmond's body twitched and shook on the floor at their feet, jeering, calling out insults against Osmond, against his dead wife and baby, calling them filth, their mouths issuing callous words about their worthlessness and gory, terrible details about how they'd died, how they'd been tortured before given the mercy of their deaths...
"Protego!"
"Stupefy!"
The two shouts broke the reveling of the Death Eaters gathered in the kitchen. A shield charm blanketed Osmond Clarke's prone body, cutting off the cruciatus and making it rebound, the spell striking one of the hooded figures full in the face and sending him sprawling down to the floor. The stunner's red sparks simultaneously struck another figure, who dropped heavy as a stone to the floor.
Dolohov roared with anger, turning, along with the other two hooded figures, toward the source of the spells. Gideon and Fabian Prewett, in full auror uniforms, stood in the dining room of the house, their shoulders touching in a protective formation, their wands raised and aimed, and cool expressions of determination on their faces.
"Evening, Dolohov," said Gideon solemnly.
"Как жизнь?" Fabian asked, grinning wickedly as Dolohov looked surprised to hear the Russian how's life? "Having yourself a bit of fun, are you?"
"If that's what you call it in your twisted mind, that is," said Gideon.
"Yeah, looks a bit more like murder to me," Fabian said.
Dolohov raised his wand, and so did the three figures flanking him. "I am glad you could join us," growled Dolohov, "I'm always pleased to extend the invitation to members of the Resistance."
"Oi, haven't you lot heard we've changed what we call ourselves?"
"Slow with the uptake," muttered Gideon, shaking his head.
"Must not have got the memo," Fabian ceded, "You remembered to send it though, didn't you Giddy?"
"For certain; I recall quite vividly as I addressed it to His Dark Lordship Moldywart!"
Dolohov roared, "YOU DARE SPEAK HIS NAME?"
"Actually, I said Moldywart," Gideon said with a shrug, "But I can see where you got confused."
Dolohov waved his wand but Fabian blocked whatever curse he'd sent their way and Gideon chuckled, "Voldemort can't take a bit of teasing? Sen-si-tive!"
"Even my baby nephews aren't as sensitive as all that, are they Giddy?" Fabian laughed.
"Right strong little chaps," nodded Gideon. "How's it make you feel to know Moldywart's more sensitive than a couple toddlers? Really gives you some pride, I reckon, working for a coward like him?"
Dolohov leaped forward, sending curses and hexes that Gideon and Fabian blocked easily, backing away and luring the Death Eaters from the kitchen with every step they took. The two figures who had fallen were back up now, the stunner having worn off the one and the other recovering from his dose of Dolohov's deflected cruciatus. They joined their fellows and it was five on two as the twins backed into the living room.
Gideon shot a spell around Fabian's shield charm that knocked one figure head first into a mirror on the wall. His hood fell back from the velocity and his head cracked the mirror, knocking him cold as he fell to the ground, his face a mess of broken glass and blood.
Sparks and spells were flying every which way, a nasty one nearly clipped Fabian's ear, and he dove only just in time out of the way, landing on his wrist, which cracked ominously. Gideon sent a retaliatory hex that sprouted crusty shingles across Dolohov's face, pockmarking his skin viciously and making him shout in pain. Anger raged from Dolohov and his resolve redoubled. Fabian winced from the pain of his wrist, his wand clutched in the wrong hand now, and shot spell after spell at the cloaked figures. Fabian's magic was intense, even being wielded by his alternate arm didn't seem to take much toll on his ability. But Dolohov's determination now was much stronger and he took a few quick steps forward, knocking Fabian to one side with a banishing charm that sent him crashing into the fireplace. Fabian's wand fell from his grip and one of the Death Eaters accioed it up from the floor as Fabian lay dizzy in the ashy floo. Dolohov raised his wand, and Gideon tripped over a fragment of the mantle and fell to the ground.
"Thank you for playing," muttered Dolohov. "Its been a pleasure." He raised his wand, mouth forming the killing curse, and Gideon covered his face with his arms, as though shielding himself could help at all from the avada kedavra...
Suddenly a jet of light struck Dolohov and the green sparks soared up, blasting the ceiling, plaster falling from the hole the spell had made. Dolohov turned and there in the door was Alastor Moody. He wasted no time in pleasantries, rather he struck even as Dolohov's lips were curving into whatever clever greeting he had planned to say. Dolohov was knocked down and Moody turned to the other figures, two of whom scattered and ran out of the room the moment they saw Moody's focus shift to them. He got one of them with a stunner as they sprinted out, but the other threw himself through a window and into the night.
Moody struck down the others, and turned to Dolohov, who was back up, and aiming his wand at Moody's back. With a jab, Moody had sent an end table flying toward Dolohov, but Dolohov deflected. There was a shout as Evan Rosier, whose hood has fallen, got back up and aimed for Moody, and a white whip of sparks slapped Moody across the face, who roared loudly as blood spattered.
Fabian had got his wand back - his assailant having left it behind in the scramble for the window - and a jet of light hit Rosier, who shot back another blow. Gideon, too, was back up and he had Dolohov cornered, a coatrack pressing him into the wall across his neck, as Dolohov cursed streams of terrible language in heavy accented Russian. There was a series of cracks from the lawn, reinforcements coming streaming in the door, and at the sight of Edgar Bones, Frank Longbottom, Benjy Fenwick, and several others arriving, Evan Rosier and the other hooded wizards disapparated.
Dolohov gasped at Gideon, "You've made an enemy Prewett. I look forward to the day I look into your eyes as the life leaves you." He spat, the thick wad of saliva hitting Gideon in the face. The coatrack's pressure loosened slightly as Gideon reacted, and although he was fast to return the pressure on Dolohov, the Death Eater was faster. With a crack he'd disapparated.