Hampton Rochester awoke with a start from a light slumber, full with fears of an atomic flavouring, brought about by a loud cracking sound that had brought him startlingly back to reality. Quickly noting that his wife was in a fine state of near comatose, comfortable sleep, Hampton settled back down, hoping the noise had merely been another part of a bad dream brought upon by his fear for world politics of late. Just as he was back to dozing, a dull scream issued from somewhere outside; jarring Hampton once more to a wakeful state. This time, Hampton found himself unable to rationalize the noise as fear based hallucination, with dull 'whooshing' and 'bangs' following the scream, seemingly occurring somewhere in the village. Now fully awake, albeit with a state of groggy stupor; Hampton's fear began to abate into anger. "Fireworks! Illegal Fireworks! Those damned hooligans!" Hampton thought to himself, "Throwing off firecrackers to wake-up the whole damn town!" Whoever these foolish punks were, Hampton was going to make sure they knew they were disturbing the peace of his slumber.
Saddling out of bed quickly and quietly so as not to wake his wife, Hampton rushed to the front door, and wrenched it open so as to begin his search for the troublemakers. The front street, to his surprise, however, was desolate and seemingly darker than normal, in a way that unnerved him slightly. As Hampton's eyes began to adjust to the perverse darkness, he began to realize many homes across from him appeared to have been ransacked, some even still in the process of being burgled, their broken windows showing the occasional bursts of strange coloured lights. Anger boiling within him, Hampton rushed towards the home across the street of a particularly nice old widow named Mrs. Figg, whose home appeared to be the current target of the perpetrators.
Entering though the stripped doorway, Hampton's fear began to erode the rash confidence his anger had provided him with. Hampton surveyed the once dainty living room, gasping at the shattered ceramics of collectible figurines and enormous holes seemingly gouged in to the walls. Overhead, loud voices could be heard; Hampton however, could not make out any of the words, only the contempt that they held. Grabbing a firewood poker to use defensively, Hampton entered in to the stairway of Ms. Douglas' home and immediately froze, noting an individual in a mask draped lazily across the upstairs banister, and whose mask faced down to him directly. "My lord!" the individual, a young man with an icy voice called to another individual upstairs, his voice filling with jeering laughter.. "We've got a Muggle, come to save the damsel in distress!" Immediately after this, a terrified squeal and a loud bang echoed down to Hampton and he noted that the contemptuous voice above him had stopped speaking after this; footsteps creaked as an individual made their way to the stairwell until finally they stopped reaching the banister, so as to peer down at Hampton.
This 'man', or lord as he had been called, wore no mask; although the face he wore could easily be mistaken for one. His pallid complexion alone alluded to some kind of dire illness, however his other features exemplified a different kind of off feeling that Hampton felt while looking at him. He had perhaps at one time been handsome it seemed, some features unchanged, his well-defined cheekbones and thin discriminating lips, but something had obviously changed his other features. His nose appeared to be much too small for his face, as if perhaps it were withering away; his eyes were a deep and unnatural shade of crimson, their shape reminiscent of a lidless snake's; and a lack of hair, or even eyelashes for that matter reiterated the vibe of 'sickness'. Despite his sickly appearance however, the man gave no other indication that he was unwell, his expression one of an indignant smirk. "Ah! Muggles! Always so quick to jump to action! That fire-poker looks like it could do some lethal damage, if perhaps I were a burning log!" the man spoke, quietly but mockingly; leading to an eruption of laughter above Hampton's head. "Before you die today..." Hampton's eyes widened. "Oh yes you will be dead, Muggle; and I should inform you that the meaning of that word being 'simple folk' to us; us being wizards." the man continued snidely, as Hampton's feelings of anger bubbled from this strange and patronizing conversation. "Now listen hear your lordship! I don't give a damn if you're some gang called 'The Wizards' or the 'Dust-Belchers', you've no right to invade people's homes and wreck 'em up!" "Effing Muggles thinks they so high and mighty!" a brutal sounding voice called down the stairway in reply. "Quiet." the pallid man lifted a hand to silence the speaker. "Before he dies, he will know who brought his death. He knows not that I am Lord Voldemort, truly more of a lord than he will ever know. He does not know that I do not lead a mere gang, but an army, an army called Death Eaters; an army who will subjugate the lesser and create a paradise for the greater!" Rage spilled in Hampton at this hate filled speech. "What are you, fucking Neo-Nazis who think you're magical fairies!? I'm calling the cops." Hampton spat on the steps as a gesture of ill-will, and turned his back to the so-called Lord Voldemort made to dash home and call the police. In the instant Hampton turned, Voldemort spoke, his voice vitriolic, and pointed an ornately carved piece of wood at him. "Ignorant Muggle, you think yourself superior to me. Avada Kedavra!" A flash of green light and a woman's anguished scream somewhere above him in response were the last things Hampton Rochester sensed before he slumped down on to the rug of the terrace, dead; a cold voice he could no longer hear echoed down to his corpse from above, framed by the sound of a woman crying; "...more of these Muggles you had sought to protect are going to die, Mrs. Figg if you do not provide Lord Voldemort with the answers that he seeks..."