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The Attacks


The silence of the Slytherin dorms was shattered a little after two in the morning when Regulus Black woke suddenly, screaming at the top of his voice, his mouth open wide, his wrist held before him, the Dark Mark burning scarlet against his pale skin. He clutched his forearm - the scream carrying on and on and on - agonized and horrible, rattling the walls.

Nothing had ever hurt so much in all of the world. It felt as though his skin were melting, as though it were turning to plastic beneath a hot iron rod. He could see nothing, blinded by the white-hot searing pain that completely engulfed him from head to foot.

A flashback filled his mind…

There was the pale face of the Dark Lord, clutching his bone-white wand between long-nailed fingers, a calm, calculating look upon his face as he’d grabbed hold of Regulus Black’s hand, twisting his arm to make his wrist show, magicking his wrist down with leather straps on a chair in the parlor of the Malfoy’s manor home… He could see his mum, teary eyed with pride, watching over the shoulders of various other Death Eaters, faces he recognized, whose chins were held high and smiles upon their faces… the eager expression of Bellatrix Lestrange, hunkered forward, clapping gleefully, sing-songing her pride at her cousin…

“You’ll serve me, and you’ll do your family proud,” Voldemort had whispered, walking around the chair as Regulus sat uneasily, staring down at the exposed skin of his arm, his heart racing wildly, desperate to get away, yet too terrified to let the emotion show, his cheeks flushed and his breath shallow… “You’ll be great one day. I’ll see to it.”

And Voldemort had lowered his wand… pressed it viciously hard against the soft veins of Regulus Black’s wrist… and whispered the incantation…

And that same blurring, white-hot pain had ensnared his senses then, too, that same blinding hot feeling that soared through his veins, lighting him up from head to toe, breaking his mind and sending tears to his eyes, the leather straps on the chair keeping him from moving, a third wrapped about his forehead, holding his head in place… no matter how loud he screamed, he could still hear the Dark Lord laughing… laughing… the Death Eaters - including his very own mother - cheering, shouting Yes, my Lord! as Regulus sat, burning… burning…


And now he felt quite ready to pass out, dizziness spinning him, his stomach flipping over inside of him, bile rising in his throat.

Would it never end, this pain? Would it ever stop?

Barty Crouch Jr. and the others in the third year Slytherin dorm were awakened, and they were shouting for him to stop screaming, trying to cover his mouth with their palms, trying to stifle the sound… Suddenly, the door banged open and there were Mulciber and Avery and McNair, each with their sleeves pulled up as well, their Dark Marks burning as bright as Regulus Black’s…

“The Dark Lord’s calling,” Mulciber said, “Where’s your elf, Black?”




Far away from the Shrieking Shack, far away from Hogwarts, south of London, there was a small town and in that town there was a house… a very nice house. The house belonged to Bartemius Crouch, the standing Minister for Magic while the search for Harold Minchum raged. The moon hung over the house, casting pale blue-white light over the roof.

A figure walked slowly down the street toward the Crouch house, swiftly, with a bit of a spring in the step, heeled boots clicking merrily on the pavement. “Doing the Dark Lord’s bidding, doing the Dark Lord’s bidding,” sing-songed a wicked little voice from beneath the dark black cloaks. Loads of curly black hair poked, thick and shiny, from beneath the hood, and bright red painted lips moved about the words as Bellatrix Lestrange cackled and danced her way right to the curbing before the house.

Here, she lowered her wand and stared up at the house through heavily lidded eyes, her mouth curling into a bright grin as she took in the peaceful little home.

A lamp in the upstairs window was on. She could see shadows moving about the room. Mr. and Mrs. Crouch, preparing to go to sleep.

“I do hope you have a good sleep,” she cackled, and she waved her wand. “Verefodo,” she breathed… and a great wad of fire burst at the foundations of the house.

With a crack, she was gone.




In another place, also far away from Hogwarts, and far off, too, from the Crouch house, was another house - white with great rubbish bins out back. The glow of a fireplace flickered in the window of this one, and through the window, Rudolphus Lestrange could see the gnarled shape of Alastor Moody sitting in his chair - only one leg, his other bandaged heavily - lame muggle crutches leaning against the couch beside him, a book open on his lap, his good eye roving over the page.

Verefodo,” whispered Rudolphus, and he, too, laughed deeply as he disapparated.




“Arthur. Wake up.”

Molly Weasley, five months pregnant and round as could be, struggled to sit up. “Arthur.” She shook her husband’s arm, “Arthur, do you smell that?”

“Go to sleep, Mollywobbles.”

“Arthur, there’s something burning...”

And suddenly the bedroom door burst open, and there was Bilius Weasley, clutching Charlie on his hip, the hand of Little Bill clutched in his fist. “Arthur, Molly -- fire. Downstairs. I’ve tried dousing it, but it won’t go out. I’m not sure what sort of spell they’ve used, but it’s not your typical incendio - enchanted, this is. And green. And it’s moving fast. Get up.”

Arthur grunted awake.

Molly was trying so hard to roll out of bed, but her huge stomach slowed her and Arthur had to push her up from behind as Bilius turned and hurried down the stairs with the children, Charlie shrieking because his dragons book was left behind. Little Bill carried his stuffed Chinese Firebolt and kept holding it up over his head, shaking it for Charlie to see, hoping to quiet his little brother’s tears.

Arthur and the waddling Molly hurried out of the door of the kitchen only just as the beams began to fall, Molly clutching her sewing kit and a small box of family photos, her eyes wide as Arthur steered her across the grass to the gate at the far side of the lawn. “Bloody hell,” whispered Bilius, staring up at the house’s roof sparked and burned, smoke rising up into the sky - an eerie green glow - the Dark Mark - hanging in the sky, “What the hell is that?” he asked.

Charlie began to cry at the snake in the sky, burying his face into Bilius’s neck.

Arthur put his arm around Molly, who clutched her stomach, the baby kicking against her palms, angry by the jostling she was doing.




It was two days after Nymphadora’s third birthday. Paper streamers and letters still hung throughout the house, there was still cake in the kitchen, and it was the cake that Nymphadora was after. Dragging her blanket and hugging her stuffed hippogriff, the little pink-haired child snuck through the dark house. She tripped on the end of her blanket, stumbling down two steps and into the bannister, catching herself on a large potted plant and holding still, waiting, listening, hoping she wasn’t about to get caught.

Everything was silent in the Tonks house.

More carefully now than she’d been before, Nymphadora Tonks padded down the hallway and into the kitchen.

And there it was on the counter - bright pink with yellow stars made in the frosting… sprinkles on top… her cake, under a glass belljar style cover. She licked her lips and hurried to push the chair from the kitchen table against the counter, struggling to climb up on the seat, her chubby little fingers reaching for the cover…

And suddenly there was a flash - bright as could be, and neon green - and it frightened her and she stumbled clumsily backwards, the cover falling from her hands, shattering upon the tile floor, landing on her back and letting out a great wailing scream that echoed through the house.

Upstairs, Andromeda and Ted woke up - waving their wands to illuminate and Ted jumped up, first to respond to the cries of his precious baby girl.... They both hurried down the stairs, following the sound of her screams… and a great flickering green glow was coming through the window, the fire engulfing the house and Ted shouted, “Dromeda, get out! Hurry!” as he leaped through the door of the kitchen, catching Nymphadora up in his arms and hugging her to his chest, carefully keeping below the line of the thick smoke that filled the room… the cake forgotten on the counter as the streamers curled and burned away, the M in the HAPPY BIRTHDAY NYMPHADORA banner falling off the string as they ran from the house...




Similar attacks were happening all over the country. Each one had exactly one thing in common: either someone in that house was a member of the Resistance or an employee of the Ministry for Magic. Over two hundred attacks in all… including the empty home of Gideon and Fabian Prewett, and the old Dumbledore house in Godric’s Hollow.

An owl flew by night, carrying a new letter to the Ministry.

A howler.

“You were warned,” the Dark Lord’s voice would say the next morning, when the howler was opened by a red-eyed Bartemus Crouch. “You were warned and you did not heed. Heed me now, and begin the registration or you will suffer much worse than this.”