Beneath the Moonlight
The crisp winter air wraps its way around the landscape, its cool embrace hugging at the skins of the people leaving pimples upon their flesh as they head towards the tavern; determined to enjoy the festivities. The sun is just looming above the horizon in its battle to prolong the daylight and keep the darkness at bay- but it is slowly losing the fight as the sky slowly turns from the pastel colours to the inky blackness of the night.
Beneath the battle of the sun, the little village remained as peaceful as it always is throughout the year. The streets were empty, as were the surrounding houses, people preferring to spend their time with their loved ones whilst gathered around a fire enjoying the drinks. He knows that he'd be there too if it weren't for the task he's been set; and he intends to right after he finishes.
Absently he flexes his fingers, trying to revive them from their state of slumber that the cold night has brought upon them. He can barely feel his wand clutched in his right hand, but a quick glance down reassures him that it's there, poised and ready. He dares not remove it from the position, even if it would be beneficial; that split second could make all the difference between life and death.
He's been peering out into the vacant expanse of the street for little over four hours now; he hasn't even moved. His joints are aching and his muscles are cramping; but he doesn't move to relieve the pain, instead he steels himself by repeating the rewards over in his head. He's sure that when the time arises his body will be more than capable than reacting; his reactions have never been slow and it won't take him long to spring into action.
His eyes are accustomed to the poor lighting, he's become used to the night work that his vision is almost nocturnal. It serves him well now that he doesn't see daylight hours; he doubts he ever will, it's a sacrifice he's made. Without the sunlight he looks more deathly pale than he had done back in his school days; it's more intimidating to be faced with someone that colour, people often comment he should have been dead long ago.
He's not really sure whether they are referring to his colour or what he's doing. Most of the time he guesses it's the latter because that's probably their last thought when they come face to face with each other.
There's a loud cracking that punctuates the night sky, breaking him from his reverie and bringing him back around to the task. He knows that it's no drunken muggle making that noise and he flexes his fingers once more, prepared to pounce when needed. He cranes his neck slightly to get an unobstructed view of the cluster of wizards, none of them looking suspicious; the perfect ambush.
They're laughing as they head towards the pub, determined to enjoy the Christmas merriment; filling themselves with butter-beer and nonsense singing. He wonders how the families will react when they realise that there won't really be any reason to be joyous once they're through; he wonders whether they'll blame the Order.
There's little doubt in his mind that they will. That's the whole point.
Slowly they move from their positions in the street, the hoods and the masks ensuring they're safe from discovery. He flexes his hand once more, training his wand upon the gaggle that is slowly coming to the realisation their trapped, surrounded, outnumbered. He can see it in their faces, the deer-in-headlights looks they are all wearing, and he feels the anticipation running through his blood stream and his heartbeat ringing in his ears. Such a thrill.
The members of the Order cluster together, their wands poised on the surrounding men and he just laughs; a cold, bitter sound. They're valiant, he can admit to this; but their stupid too. Subconsciously he compares them to Gryffindors whilst he is still a Slytherin; the bravery won't get them through the cunning.
"Crucio!"
One curse is all it takes to open the flood-gates and they all raise their wands, numerous hexes, jinxes and curses flying about in the evening air, disrupting the perfect peace that the village once possessed.
He notices one of the targets trying to scarper and he can't help but snigger, following him as he tries to escape the carnage. He doesn't doubt that he's scared and he doesn't even hesitate to run after him, leaving the others to deal with the other defenceless members of the Order. The young man sprints down the street, throwing random spells over his shoulder hoping to perhaps slow his pursuer down… He probably doesn't realise that running won't help him now because he's the target and this is but the thrill of the chase.
He skids to a halt at the end of the road, brickwork marring his only escape route and he's helpless. This amuses him to no end; and he approaches him slowly because he wants to torture him, make him feel the impending doom, make him want it to hurry it up- that idea exhilarates him.
"Stupefy."
The victims' last defence, his last chance to escape and it's pathetic. But again, he has to admire that it is an attempt and some people don't even try.
"Expelliarmus," He simply says, watching as the other's wand skitters away into the shadows.
He steps forward, wanting to see the face of his victim so he can see the life drain out of them because it's so satisfying. But familiar brown eyes stare back at him and he recoils in horror upon seeing them because it's not right; it can't be.
He can hear approaching footfalls and he panics because he has two choices; to kill or to be killed. In the end it's not a choice, he knows how it goes.
"Avada Kedavra."