The portkey drop point was fifteen miles from the manor. Draco arrived just after dawn, his boots hitting dirt in a small clearing that nobody would remember or care about. The portkey burned itself out in his hand and he dropped the ashes without looking at them.
He started walking.
Durmstrang was behind him now. Four years of training in the cold, four years of learning what separated competent wizards from dead ones, four years of building skills while other students wasted time on politics and posturing. All of it leading to this. A summons from the Dark Lord. An invitation to prove himself.
The walk took two hours. He used the time to run through what he knew. Lucius Malfoy had failed spectacularly. Greyback had gotten to him first, then Potter’s people had captured what was left. The Dark Mark had been stripped. The man was either dead or wishing he was.
Draco felt nothing about it.
Lucius had been an absence more than a presence. A few visits over the years, always brief, always formal. The man had looked at him the way you look at a mistake you are stuck dealing with. An illegitimate son from a woman whose name Draco had never learned. His mother had died when he was young, or so he had been told. Lucius never spoke of her. Never acknowledged her existence beyond the necessity of explaining where Draco came from.
Hidden away at Durmstrang as soon as he was old enough. Paid for but not acknowledged. Given the Malfoy name but none of the advantages that usually came with it. No family estate to visit during holidays. No connections to leverage. No inheritance waiting for him. Just a name and a father who looked at him like a problem that refused to solve itself.
The few times they had met, Lucius had asked about his progress at school. Not because he cared, but because he needed to know if his investment was worthwhile. Draco had learned early to give answers that were accurate but unremarkable. Lucius did not want a son who outshone him. He wanted a tool that would stay in its drawer until needed.
Fine. Draco had built his own advantages. Four years at Durmstrang had taught him that names only mattered if you made them matter through your own actions. The instructors there did not care who your father was. They cared if you could cast a curse that would kill someone before they killed you. They cared if you could think tactically under pressure. They cared if you had the discipline to train when everyone else was sleeping.
Draco had all of that. He had made himself into something Lucius could never claim credit for. And now Lucius was gone, broken and captured, probably wishing for death. Good. It cleared the board.
The information about Narcissa and her daughter defecting to Potter was more interesting. Narcissa was Lucius’s actual wife, the one who counted. The legitimate marriage that came with alliances and respectability. Cassandra was his legitimate daughter, the heir who would have inherited everything.
They had chosen Potter over the Dark Lord. That told Draco something about how badly Lucius had failed. If his own wife had calculated the odds and switched sides, the situation was worse than the messenger had implied. Narcissa was not sentimental. She was practical. She would not have defected unless she believed the Dark Lord was losing or that staying loyal would cost her more than it was worth.
Smart woman. Wrong choice, but the calculation itself was sound.
Draco had never met them. Lucius had kept his two families completely separate. The legitimate one got the manor, the social standing, the public acknowledgment. The illegitimate one got Durmstrang tuition and orders to stay out of sight. Draco knew their names only. Narcissa Malfoy, pureblood from the Black family. Cassandra Malfoy, Lucius’s daughter and heir.
Now both were with Potter. Probably telling him everything they knew about Lucius’s contacts, his plans, his weaknesses. Probably trying to buy Potter’s protection with information. It was what Draco would have done in their position.
He wondered briefly what Cassandra was like. His half-sister. Same father, different worlds. She had grown up with everything he had been denied. The manor, the family name, the social connections. All of it probably felt normal to her. She probably never questioned whether she deserved it.
Then he stopped wondering. It did not matter. She had made her choice. He had made his. They would be on opposite sides of this war, and if they ever met, it would be as enemies. That was fine. He did not need family. He had never had it anyway.
The manor came into view through the trees. It was smaller than he had expected. He had heard about Malfoy Manor his entire life, always in tones that suggested something grand and untouchable. Lucius had spoken of it during their few meetings, always with that particular pride that came from owning something impressive. The seat of Malfoy power. The symbol of their family’s standing.
What Draco saw was a large house that had taken damage recently. Scorch marks on the eastern wing, black streaks climbing the pale stone. Sections of wall that had been repaired but did not quite match the original stone. Newer brick among old, the joints not quite flush. Windows that had been replaced, the glass slightly different in how it caught light.
Evidence of fight. Evidence of failure.
He took it all in with the same analytical eye he brought to everything. This was not a functional headquarters. The damage was too visible, the location too well known. This was a place being used temporarily, probably because it was available and had symbolic value. The Dark Lord was making a point by using Lucius’s manor. Showing everyone what happened to those who failed him. Their homes became his. Their legacies became his warnings.
Draco approved of the message even as he noted the tactical weakness. Using a known location like this made you predictable. Potter’s people could find this place easily. They probably already knew the Dark Lord was using it. Which meant either the Dark Lord did not care about being found, or he wanted his enemies to know where he was.
Interesting.
A figure waited by the gate. Black robes, skull mask, wand held ready but not raised. Draco recognized the stance. Guard duty, professional but bored. The kind of assignment you got when you were competent enough to be trusted but not important enough to be inside.
“I’m expected,” Draco said.
The Death Eater looked him over. Young, blond, carrying himself like someone who knew how to fight. Probably the bastard they had been told about.
“Your wand.”
“No.”
The Death Eater’s wand came up slightly.
“The Dark Lord is inside,” Draco said calmly. “If he wanted me disarmed, he would have specified it. He did not. That means I keep my wand. You can escort me in or you can explain to him why you delayed me over security theatre. Your choice.”
The Death Eater stared at him for a long moment. Then he lowered his wand and stepped aside.
Draco walked past him without another word.
The entrance hall was empty. Most of the furniture was gone, either destroyed in whatever fight had happened here or sold off afterward. The walls had gaps where paintings used to hang.
“Upstairs,” the Death Eater said from behind him. “Second floor, the study at the end of the hall.”
Draco climbed the stairs. The study door was closed. He knocked once and waited.
“Enter.”
He opened the door and stepped inside.
The room looked like it had been completely changed. Everything that had been Lucius’s was gone. The furniture, the decorations, all of it stripped out and replaced with a single chair behind a desk. The chair was occupied.
Lord Voldemort sat perfectly still, watching him enter. The face was pale, inhuman, features refined by dark magic into something that suggested a person without fully being one. Red eyes tracked his movement across the room. The power radiating from him was intense enough to make Draco’s magic twist uncomfortably.
He stopped at an appropriate distance and bowed.
“My Lord.”
“Draco Malfoy.” The voice was high and cold. Every word precise. “Lucius’s hidden mistake. You have grown.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Durmstrang served you well. You carry yourself differently than most your age. Confident without arrogance. Capable without needing to demonstrate it.” Voldemort tilted his head slightly. “Your father mentioned you in his reports occasionally. Always briefly. Always dismissively. He called your progress unremarkable.”
“My father’s judgment was limited, my Lord.”
“Diplomatic. But accurate.” Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved slightly. “Lucius was useful for many years. He had advantages most wizards never accumulate. Position, wealth, influence, my direct favor. He built something worth having from all of that. Then he broke and let it collapse.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“He allowed himself to be captured. He allowed valuable intelligence to fall into enemy hands. He proved himself weak when strength was required.” The red eyes held his gaze. “He is no longer relevant. His failure was absolute.”
Draco absorbed this without reaction. He had processed Lucius’s failure already. The man had been a name attached to expectations, not a father in any meaningful sense. His removal from the equation was just another variable changing.
“I understand, my Lord.”
“Do you?” Voldemort leaned forward. “Understanding is easy. Show me that you understand what it means for you.”
Draco considered the question. The answer was straightforward.
“It means I start from nothing, my Lord. Whatever the Malfoy name used to be worth in your service, my father destroyed that. Any trust or authority he built is gone. I carry his name but none of his standing.” He kept his voice level. “It also means there is an opening. Your Death Eaters need leadership and direction. Losing someone from your inner circle creates a gap. That gap needs someone who can learn from his predecessor’s failures.”
“Ambitious,” Voldemort said. “Your father was ambitious too. That was never his problem. His problem was that his ambition was always personal. He saw serving me as a way to elevate himself. A means to an end.”
“My ambition is to be useful, my Lord. Personal elevation follows from that or it does not matter.”
“Practiced answer. Did you prepare it?”
“No, my Lord. But I spent four years at Durmstrang learning what separates survivors from corpses. Clarity of purpose came first. My purpose is serving your cause effectively. Everything else is secondary.”
Voldemort sat back, studying him. The silence stretched. Draco held his ground, meeting that terrible gaze without flinching. Fear was present. Had been since entering the room. But fear was just information. It told you when something dangerous needed your full attention. What mattered was what you did with that information.
“You are better trained than your father was at your age,” Voldemort said finally. “Durmstrang produces competent dark wizards. But training is not loyalty. Competence is not dedication. Many have stood where you are now, saying what they thought I wanted to hear. Most proved themselves useless within months.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“You have nothing. No inheritance, no family alliance, no accumulated trust to draw on. The Malfoy fortune is not yours. Your father’s contacts distanced themselves from his failure. His wife and daughter chose Potter over me.” He paused. “You are starting from nothing.”
Draco nodded. This was not news.
“Starting from nothing has advantages, my Lord. No preconceptions to overcome. No reputation to maintain. No legacy of failure dragging behind me.” He kept his voice even. “I can prove myself on present actions, not past associations.”
“And how would you prove yourself?”
“However you require, my Lord.”
“Generic loyalty. Every Death Eater offers the same.” Voldemort’s fingers drummed once on the chair arm. “I need someone who can think. Who can adapt. Who can handle complex operations without constant supervision. Your father could follow orders when they aligned with his interests. He could not think independently when circumstances changed. He could not set aside his pride when necessary.”
“I am not my father, my Lord.”
“No. You are younger, less experienced, and angrier. The anger is obvious in how you hold yourself. In how you responded to news of his failure. You are furious with him for being weak, for leaving you to clean up his mistakes, for dying so pathetically that disgust would be giving him too much credit.” Voldemort tilted his head. “Anger is useful if directed properly. Destructive if not. Which is yours?”
The question was a test. Draco recognized it immediately. The wrong answer would end this conversation and possibly his life.
“Both, my Lord. The anger exists and it is significant. I am angry that he was weak when strength mattered. Angry that he wasted resources on pride and vanity. Angry that he made my service to you start from disadvantage instead of inheritance.” He paused. “But anger without purpose is indulgence. I can be angry and still functional. I can want to destroy his memory and still use what he taught me about magical theory. The anger does not control me. I control when and how I use it.”
Voldemort was silent. Then he rose and walked to the window, looking out over the grounds.
“Greyback is dead,” Voldemort said. “Potter killed him three days ago. Destroyed his entire pack in one engagement. The reports indicate efficiency and tactical precision beyond what I expected from him.”
“Potter has changed then, my Lord.”
“Potter is becoming dangerous. He has moved from defense to offense. He is gathering talented witches, building infrastructure, establishing networks. He is building an organization to wage war against mine.” Voldemort turned from the window. “This cannot continue.”
“No, my Lord.”
“Greyback’s death creates a gap in my forces. More importantly, it demonstrates a gap in my intelligence about Potter’s capabilities and resources.”
Draco stayed silent, listening intently.
“You cannot carry the Dark Mark yet,” Voldemort continued. “Until you prove your worth, you will operate without that protection. Without that connection. Without the ability to summon help if compromised.” He paused. “You will be alone in enemy territory with nothing but your training and your wits.”
“I understand, my Lord.”
“Understanding is not acceptance. I am offering you a chance to prove your worth. Success earns you the Mark and a position in my inner circle. Failure means death. No one will retrieve your body.” Voldemort returned to the desk. “This is not a training exercise. This is war. War kills the unprepared quickly.”
Draco met those red eyes and felt the weight of what was being asked. Not just risk but isolation. Not just danger but the knowledge that failure meant dying alone with no backup. His father had failed because he relied on his name and position. This was the opposite. This was being sent into darkness with only his skills.
And it was exactly what he needed.
“I accept, my Lord.”
Voldemort studied him for a long moment before his lipless mouth quirked into the closest thing resembling a smile.
“You leave tomorrow. I will provide initial intelligence on Potter’s known locations. How you use it is your concern. Prove yourself useful and you will have a place in the new order. Prove yourself weak and you will be forgotten like your father.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“One more thing.”
Draco stopped.
“Your father failed because he thought he was irreplaceable. He believed his cunning and connections made him indispensable.” Voldemort’s voice was very quiet. “You are not irreplaceable. Remember that, and you might survive long enough to become valuable.”
Draco bowed his head low and left.
The hallway was empty. He walked through the manor slowly.
He found an empty bedroom on the third floor. It had probably belonged to a servant once. Small, functional, untouched by whatever violence had happened here. He checked the wards, verified the door would lock, and set his bag down.
Tomorrow he would leave for enemy territory. Tonight he would prepare.
He sat on the bed and began running through scenarios.
XXXXX
Her arms wrapped around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder. She was shaking.
“Ginny,” he said quietly, one hand moving to her head. “I’ve got you.”
She let out a shuddering breath that was half sob and held on tighter. Around them, the room went silent.
Harry held Ginny and let her shake, his hand moving in slow circles on her back. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, how she was holding herself together through will alone. Whatever happened at the Burrow had been bad.
Eventually the shaking subsided. Ginny pulled back enough to look at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears but her jaw was set.
“I’m staying,” she said. “I’m not going back.”
“Alright,” Harry said.
She blinked, clearly expecting resistance. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. You’re here, you’re safe, we will figure out the rest.” He brushed hair from her face. “But tell me what happened first.”
Ginny took a breath and stepped back, keeping one hand on his arm like an anchor. The others gathered closer, supportive without crowding.
“The Order had a meeting,” Ginny began. Her voice was steadier now but still raw. “At the Burrow. About the Lovegood attack. About Greyback.”
“And?”
“They’ve lost it completely.” Ginny’s hand tightened on his arm. “Mum too. She was screaming at Dad, at Bill and Charlie, at anyone who suggested you did the right thing. Those idiots in the Order kept saying you were going dark, that you were becoming like Voldemort, that supporting you meant betraying the Order.”
Harry’s jaw tightened but he said nothing.
“Dad tried reasoning with them. Said Greyback was a monster who killed people, who would have killed Luna and her father if you had not stopped him.” Ginny’s eyes blazed. “They said Mr. Lovegood’s death was your fault. That if you had not published that article, if you had not used them for your agenda, Greyback would never have attacked.”
The kitchen was silent.
“That was when I lost it,” Ginny continued. “I told Mum she was being ridiculous. That you could not be blamed for what Death Eaters chose to do. That blaming you for their violence was the thinking that let them get away with it for years.” She swallowed. “She said I was too young to understand. That you were manipulating me. That I needed to stay away before you got me killed too.”
“Ginny,” Harry started, but she cut him off.
“I told her no. I said I was of age and capable of making my own decisions. That you were actually doing something while the Order sat around debating and letting people die.” Her voice cracked. “She said if I left with you, I should not come back. That she would not watch another child throw their life away.”
“Percy,” Nym said softly.
“Percy joined the Ministry and Mum acts like he died. Now she thinks I am doing the same by choosing you instead of hiding.” Ginny’s laugh was bitter. “The family I want is the one that stands up and fights instead of cowering and judging.”
Harry pulled her into a hug. She came willingly, burying her face against his shoulder. This time not to hide tears but to breathe.
“You made the right choice,” he said into her hair. “You are not losing your family. Your dad understands. Your brothers understand. Your mum will come around eventually. If she does not, that is her choice, not yours.”
Ginny pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes were red but clear.
“Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise you will not go easy on them because of me. Whatever you are planning, whatever you need to do to win, do it. Do not hold back because you are worried about my family.”
“Ginny...”
“I mean it, Harry. I did not choose you so you could protect me from consequences. I chose you because you are willing to do what needs doing.” Her voice was fierce. “So do it. Fight this war properly. I will stand with you no matter what.”
Harry looked at her and saw steel beneath the tears. Like the others, she was already harder than most adults. The war had done that. Voldemort had done that. The Order’s failure to protect people had done that.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “But it goes both ways. If you stand with me, you fight smart. You train hard. You listen to people with more experience. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Come on,” Harry said, taking Ginny’s hand. “There are people you should meet. Then I will show you around. We have made changes since you were last here.”
Ginny squeezed his hand. “Lead the way.”
They found Andromeda in the library with ward books. Then Bathsheda brewing something complex in a basement lab. Then Septima and Aurora working on Dark Mark calculations in the warded study.
Each introduction was brief but warm. Each woman welcomed Ginny without reservation, treating her as an equal. It was exactly what she needed. Not sympathy or coddling. Acceptance and respect.
As they walked, Harry pointed out changes. The new training room in the east wing. The expanded library. The secure communications hub. The medical ward where equipment hummed quietly.
“This is incredible,” Ginny said as they climbed stairs. “You built your command base but actually useful.”
“That was the idea,” Harry admitted. “A place to learn and train without politics or bureaucracy.”
They reached the top floor. Harry paused outside a closed door, expression shifting to something more serious.
“Before we go further, there is someone you need to see,” he said quietly.
Ginny looked at the door, then at Harry. Understanding dawned on her in an instant.
“Luna.”
Harry nodded. “She is resting. The trauma is severe.”
Ginny’s hand tightened on his. “Can I see her?”
“Of course.”
He opened the door carefully. The room was dim, curtains blocking afternoon light. In the center, on the bed, Luna lay motionless.
Ginny made a small sound and crossed to the bed. She sank into the chair and took Luna’s hand gently.
“Luna,” she whispered. “It’s me. It’s Ginny.”
Harry stood back, giving her space. He had spent enough time here to know talking to unconscious people was more for the speaker, but it felt important.
“Your dad,” Ginny said, her voice catching. “I am so sorry, Luna. So sorry you had to see that.”
She stroked Luna’s hair, her touch achingly gentle.
“Harry’s taking care of you. You’re safe here. We all are. When you wake up, we are going to make them pay. We are going to end this war. Make sure no one else loses their family.”
Harry moved closer, his hand on Ginny’s shoulder. She leaned into it without looking away from Luna.
They sat like that for several minutes. The only sound was the hum of the ambient healing magic Nat had cast on Luna and Ginny’s occasional sniffles.
Finally, Ginny spoke again, her voice stronger.
“I want to fight,” she said, still looking at Luna. “I want to learn everything I need to be useful. I do not want to stay home waiting for news. I want to be making news.”
Harry’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “It’s dangerous.”
“I know.”
“People will die.”
“I know.”
“You might die.”
“Better than living knowing I did nothing while others fought and bled.” Ginny looked up at him. “You understand that, right? That is why you do what you do. Because doing nothing is worse than the risk.”
Harry looked at her and saw his own determination reflected back. The same fire that drove him to build this place, gather these people, decide that waiting for Dumbledore was not good enough.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I understand that.”
He helped her up. She looked at Luna one more time, her expression hardening.
“When she wakes up,” Ginny said, “she will need people who understand what she lost. Who know what it is like to keep going anyway.”
“We will be here,” Harry promised.
They left together. The door closed softly, sealing Luna back into quiet darkness. As they walked down the hall, Harry felt Ginny’s hand in his and knew whatever came next, they would face it together.
The war was escalating, casualties mounting, and the enemy getting bolder and more brutal.
But so were they.
XXXXX
Oakhaven-on-Wold had never been notable. A few dozen houses around a single main street, one pub, one shop, a church with services twice monthly. The kind of place that existed in map margins, acknowledged but not important.
Which made it perfect.
The Death Eaters arrived just after sunset. Eight of them, moving in coordinated pairs through failing light. Masks, dark robes, wands ready for violence.
The lead Death Eater raised his hand. The others stopped. He scanned the street, cataloguing exits and sight lines, then nodded.
They split up. Two toward the pub where voices and light spilled through windows. Two toward the shop closing for evening. Four including the leader toward houses at the village’s eastern edge.
The first scream came from the pub. A woman’s, high and terrified, cut off suddenly. Breaking glass. A man shouting. Then silence.
In the shop, the owner was counting his till when the door slammed open. He looked up, saw masked figures, and reached for his wand. The killing curse hit him before his hand touched it. He dropped behind the counter, dead. His wife came from the back room to investigate. She lasted three seconds longer.
The houses were systematic. Doors kicked in. Families gathered. Questions in cold voices.
The answers were useless. A small village had no knowledge of anything beyond what the Prophet published. No one had seen anything. They were civilians, muggles and wizards mixed in quiet integration that people like Voldemort considered corruption.
The lead Death Eater listened to the fifth terrified denial and decided the message mattered more than intelligence.
He killed the father first. Quick and clean, green flash dropping the man. The mother’s scream was silenced, then she died too. The children, two of them, young enough not to comprehend, stared at their parents with wide uncomprehending eyes.
The Death Eater looked at them. Then he nodded to his companion.
The second Death Eater stepped forward. His wand moved, not in killing curse pattern but something else. Dark magic that took skin and made it burn. The children screamed.
By the time they left the house, the screaming had stopped. What remained barely counted as bodies.
The pattern repeated across the village. The pub’s patrons tried fighting back, which made it worse. The Death Eaters were experienced, coordinated, and utterly merciless. Every curse meant to kill or maim. No stunners. No warnings. Just brutal efficient violence.
Within twenty minutes, Oakhaven-on-Wold was a graveyard.
The Death Eaters regrouped in the street. Eight of them, none injured, none even breathing hard. This had been easy.
The leader surveyed damage and nodded approval. Bodies in the street. Fires starting where curses caught thatch roofs. Blood and burning wood mixing in evening air.
“Mark the site,” he said.
One Death Eater raised his wand and cast the Dark Mark. Skull and serpent rose into darkening sky, glowing sickly green. Visible for miles. A declaration and warning. There was no need to hold back. No need to hide anymore.
They were preparing to leave when apparition cracks announced new arrivals.
The Order came in a rush. Seven of them, led by Elphias Doge with Hestia Jones, Dedalus Diggle, and four others spreading to flank. They took in the scene in seconds, their expressions shifting from determination to horror.
“Stand down!” Elphias shouted, his wand tracking the lead Death Eater. “You’re surrounded!”
The leader did not move. His followers shifted to defensive positions, wands ready. The pause stretched.
Then someone from the Order cast first.
It was not clear who. Maybe Hestia, maybe another. The spell was meant to disarm, to weaken. It was swatted away with ease and scorched cobblestones.
The Death Eaters responded.
Seven curses flew simultaneously, coordinated and vicious. The Order scattered, returning fire, and suddenly the street was full of lethal magic crashing against shields and exploding into weak buildings.
Elphias fought with control, his shields solid and his curses measured. He was still not trying to kill, still operating under Order rules. And that restraint was costing him. The Death Eaters cast with no limitations.
Hestia went down first, a cutting curse across her ribs that was deep enough she collapsed crying out. Dedalus tried covering her retreat and caught a bone-breaking hex shattering his wand arm. He screamed and dropped, clutching the ruin.
“Non-lethal!” Elphias shouted, his voice drowned by chaos.
Other Order members tried. Stunners, bindings, shields and counters. But Death Eaters were not fighting the same battle. Every spell meant to destroy. Killing curses mixed with blasting hexes mixed with dark magic turning blood to acid and bones to powder.
One Order member lasted twelve seconds. He disarmed one Death Eater and was lining up a follow-up when a curse from behind took his spine. He went down convulsing, his body arching wrong, and went still.
“Fall back!” Elphias ordered, his voice cracking. He held off two Death Eaters at once, his shield work exemplary, but he could not maintain indefinitely. “Regroup and fall back!”
They tried. Those who could move began retreating, laying covering fire, dragging injured allies. Elphias held the rear, his face set grim.
The Death Eaters pursued.
They moved as a unit, supporting attacks, exploiting every gap. Another Order member fell, most of their face missing from a severing curse aimed six inches left. The body hit the cobblestones and did not move.
Elphias’s shield finally broke under sustained assault. He dodged the first curse through, twisted from the second, but the third caught his shoulder. He grunted but stayed up, backing toward others while returning fire.
“We cannot leave them!” one surviving Order member shouted, gesturing at bodies.
“We do not have a choice!” Elphias shot back. “Move!”
They had waited too long. Death Eaters had them boxed between burning buildings and coordinated curse fire. Elphias saw the tactical situation degrading and knew they were about to take massive casualties.
That was when the other one moved.
Throughout the battle, one Death Eater had hung back, observing not engaging. Young by how he moved. Competent by how he positioned to see the field without exposing himself.
Now he stepped forward and everything changed.
His first curse took an Order member in the chest. Not killing curse but worse. The man’s scream cut to wet gurgling as his lungs filled with something not air. He collapsed, drowning on dry land.
His second curse caught another Order member casting over cover. It bypassed her shield, punched through protective spells like tissue, and reduced her wand arm to ash and bone. She went down screaming.
His third curse missed Elphias by inches but hit the wall behind and detonated hard enough to blow out half the building’s facade. Debris rained down, forcing everyone to shield or dodge.
Then the young Death Eater was moving forward, his wand a blur, and the remaining Order members trying to engage learned fast that they were outmatched.
He fought like someone who spent years training for exactly this. Every movement was economical; every spell placed with surgical precision. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. When an Order member tried binding him, he pivoted and the spell passed through empty air while his counter took the caster’s knee, shattering bone.
When another tried overwhelming with rapid stunners, he deflected three, dodged the fourth, and sent back a curse turning the ground beneath his attacker’s feet to quicksand. The man sank to his waist before realizing what happened. The follow-up curse ended him.
Elphias engaged directly. For maybe fifteen seconds they traded spells as equals. Elphias’s experience against the young Death Eater’s training, both moving through forms and counters with brutal efficiency.
Then the young Death Eater did something unexpected. Instead of another direct curse, he cast low, hitting the ground between them with a spell erupting upward in superheated gravel and stone spray. Elphias’s shield caught most of it but the distraction was enough. The follow-up curse took him across legs, a vicious cutting curse opening both thighs to bone.
Elphias went down hard with a pained cry, his wand flying. He tried pushing up but could not, his old legs no longer functional. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading fast.
The young Death Eater stood over him. He stared at him through the mask, his breathing completely even. Not winded. Not focused. Just efficient.
“You fought well,” he said. His voice was young. “Better than the others.”
Elphias glared up, his hands pressed against ruined legs trying to stem bleeding. Around them, the battle had ended. Other Death Eaters had finished the wounded, systematically executing every other Order member.
“Go ahead,” Elphias said through gritted teeth. “Finish it.”
The young Death Eater tilted his head, considering.
“Your time is not tonight, old man,” he said. “No, you are a messenger. Carry it back to the old fool who leads your idealists.”
He crouched down to Elphias’s eye level. The mask hid his features but not the cold calculation in his voice.
“Tell them this village was a demonstration. For every Death Eater Potter kills, we kill ten civilians. For every one of ours, ten of theirs. We will burn villages. Slaughter families. Make Britain bleed until Potter understands the cost.” There was a pause. “We are willing to pay the price for victory. Question is whether you are willing to pay for your principles.”
Elphias stared, seeing the steady gaze behind the mask. This was not someone drunk on violence or high on power. This was someone executing a strategy with complete detachment.
“Who are you?” Elphias managed.
The young Death Eater stood. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, slowly, he reached up and removed his mask.
The face was young and aristocratic. Sharp features, pale blond hair, and cold grey eyes that held no emotion as they looked down.
“You do not know me,” the young man said. “Potter will not know me. But he will learn soon enough.”
He raised his wand.
“Tell him the Dark Lord sends its regards.”
The curse was not the killing curse. It was worse. Pain pure and absolute, scrambling any thought and turning the world to hurt. Elphias screamed until his voice broke, thrashed until broken legs twisted further, and then mercifully passed out.
When he awoke hours later in St. Mungo’s, he would have new scars visible and otherwise. But he would have his life. And the message.
The young Death Eater replaced his mask and turned to the older one who nodded with something akin to approval.
“Burn the rest,” he said. “Leave nothing here besides him. Make the message clear. His friends should arrive soon.”
They obeyed. All the Order members had been executed methodically. All the bodies were arranged in the street, a mix of Order and civilians. Fires were allowed to spread, consuming buildings not already destroyed.
By the time the Death Eaters disapparated, Oakhaven-on-Wold was gone. A burned scar marked by the Dark Mark overhead and a singular body left as a warning.
The young Death Eater was last to leave. He stood in the center of the carnage, surveying his work with analytical detachment.
Efficient. Effective. Exactly what the Dark Lord required.
He turned on the spot and vanished with a crack, leaving only silence and smoke and the dead.
The war had escalated. Somewhere in the night, Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter would most certainly receive word of what had happened.
The message had been delivered.
The only question was how each would respond.
To be continued...