The bronze kettle whistled along with the wind, which rammed against the windows.
The old man, who lived in the small flat above the post office, was making himself a cup of tea. He had an appointment at half past one and not a second later.
Outside, seven shadows appeared with the tell-tale crack of apparition. Though they were named for stars and celestial bodies, they wore shadows as robes. They circled the town and looked at it, its hulking form of brick and wood. A town they once knew, once drank at, once laughed at, perhaps even lived in. And now-
Now they came to destroy it.
The town was shrouded in darkness; the only light came from the moon, which winked conspiratorially. Inside the houses, the residents slept. The innocent, the blind, the disbelievers, the drunks. The fighting.
The seven witches and wizards raised their wands and counted down from twenty. Some smothered fear and morality, and some smothered excitement. They all steeled their hands, and prepared to cast their spells.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.
The old man hummed to himself the tune to an old nursery rhyme: Peverell brothers three, Death even they could not flee. The second hand on his ancient golden watch ticked, and he sipped at his tea.
Ten, nine, eight.
The seven witches and wizards looked at each other, nodding, scared, holding their breaths for - for what? They did not quite know. The merciless wind rushed against their red-tinged ears.
One.
Their spells fell onto the town, and the bottom of the sky disappeared in flame, in death, in a darkness that was indescribable. An avalanche of force and destruction swarmed the city. Chipped cups fell off their shelves, paintings were broken and forever not the same. Then came the screams of a child, loud enough to separate the membranes in the middle ear.
The old man watched the clock as it struck half past one and not a second later. He took another sip and thought, the war has come at last. Right on schedule, as always.
The single bulb in his flat winked out.