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The Wizarding Chronicles: The Silver StairsPrologue
THE NIGHT BURST INTO COLOURFUL FLAMES; streamers sparked across the sky. All around the village, the fireworks reflected in the windows of houses, against the dark black night sky. The darkest night of their lives was finally over! Witches in pointed black hats screeched as they poured into the streets, hugging each other, some crying, many far too shocked to realise what had happened. Wizards rushed from their stalls in public houses, crowding the street without much care for their stunned Muggle acquaintances. Drinks were abandoned for the chaotic merriment taking place in pedestrian zones all across Ireland, for every Witch and Wizard, previously listening to the Ministry of Magic's broadcast of the Battle at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – every Witch and Wizard now knew the great and wonderful truth: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had finally been defeated by "the Chosen One"!
Isabella Isaacs, a portly witch wearing whacky lime green robes, could not help grinning wide as she plunked a brimming mug of butterbeer before her guests at an outdoor café.
"Always knew he was the one, that Potter boy! He had You-Know-Who beat the day he survived the Killing Curse, he did," she lifted the mug and drained its contents, burping loudly as she resurfaced. No one seemed to care, or perhaps they couldn't hear for the shouting and the fireworks and all the pandemonium, taking place around them, was deafening. Several Muggles were dancing and shouting now, too, as though they knew all along that this day would come when the most evil Wizard of all time would fall at the hands of an Upper School dropout seventeen year-old boy. Isabella laughed as several Muggles toppled over a table heavily laden with lagers and steaming hot drinks. One cursed as he landed in a pile of hot nutmeg mead, but the partying waited not for him to reboot. Upward, higher and higher, faster and faster, green and red and purple sparks shot into the sky, at intervals, illuminating the small village below. Shattered glass and a stifled yelp came from somewhere beyond the small but central public house, and Isabella, though hearing this over the chaos, merely brushed it off for merriment. The atmosphere was euphoric, sublime even, and she knew some young lovers must have been using this opportunity to sneak away and enjoy themselves.
A green spark shot up into the air, hovering over the village, and the noise seemed to stagger for a short moment. The reminiscence of green sparks flying still held horrific and silencing power over the people. Never before had so many children and prominent Witches and Wizards been killed (except, perhaps, for the Giant Wars in the Early 17th century, but it was also difficult to compare to being squashed to death as opposed to being killed by the Unforgivable Curse). Isabella knew, all along, Harry Potter would defeat You-Know-Who and lift the veil of fear surrounding them all. Her merriment was loudest of her group, her emotions taken to the next plinth.
Jenny Warren was the first to walk around the side of the public house. She had had too much mead and it did not mix well with the butterbeer she had consumed mere minutes before the announcement. Her stomach was all in knots and she felt the burning sensation of vomit climbing its way up her pipe. In a frantic moment, she ducked under the couple kissing next to her, around the drunken dancing pair and marched straight through a motlier crew with overgrown beards and foul looks, desperate to disappear behind the crowd. So, when she spotted the body lying, face down, upon the ground inches from where she had vomited away the last two meals she'd eaten, her surprise – her horror – went unnoticed, for now it was late enough that fatigue and spirits made for quicker merriment and further boozing. Some people, she knew, were passed out under windowsills, clutching bottles of butterbeer or something stronger, with looks of pure ecstasy on their faces, but none of these lay face down on the cobblestones. There was no sign of blood, no evidence of a struggle, so Jenny Warren decided that it was another Muggle woman passed out. Her attention had been on a rather tall cloaked and bearded bloke with whom she had been dancing, and she had been thinking of snogging him before the euphoria wore off. Now, she could only think of what she must do if Death Eaters crashed the party. But weren't they gone also? Hadn't their battle been lost, their fate decided, when You-Know-Who perished some hours before? Weren't they safe from harm now? Well, yes, of course they were. He was gone; He had been defeated at last; The Ministry had said so themselves. So, why was there a very inanimate body lying near her, unmoving?
Jenny Warren tried to wheedle her way back to where she had left the cloaked figure, but she could not find him. She looked around but everyone had begun to look the same, and she felt much less secure as she noticed how many people wore black cloaks and wore them with their hoods up. Her hand gripped her wand as the panic set in. Each green spark seemed to come from somewhere out of sight, and if she could not see where it came from, she could not know where to point her own wand and defend her. The crowd had begun to look less and less like people, and more and more like those dreaded followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And everywhere she turned, shrieks for help seemed to echo in her ears. Screams and cries of agony… were reverberating….
The door swung open and a cloaked man entered the room, his boots thunking on the wood floorboards. From under the bed, Jenny could see the mud caked onto the boots, and she could smell the stink of marshland. He drew nearer and muffled a yawn. She scrunched up into a ball and held her breath. Hours seemed to pass in seconds, and he slowly bent down, his hand reaching for something on the floor. Then, just before he was about to pull away the sheets concealing the girl, a voice bellowed below:
'They aren't up there, you dim-witted blood-traitor! I've 'em down here, in their bedroom, cowering in the corner.' The breaking of a wooden door confirmed that they had just retaliated with no success. A slap and then the terrible, blood curdling scream preceded the sickening thump of a body, lifeless and limp, hitting the floor. The boots did not move.
'Get—yer bloody Muggle arse—down here right—right now, Breckenridge!' the voice gasped. The boots moved, closing the door, but Jenny did not budge, for if they chose to, they could return and kill her too.
Ghosts of years ago, drifted back into her memory, and her breathing began to come in gasps; her pulse quickened and she felt the air around her gush out. She couldn't breathe; she clutched her chest but no breath could be inhaled from the square around her. She felt her knees buckle and her body topple, but it was just seconds before she hit the street that she heard high-pitched screaming and saw boots again. Then, nothing.
Isabella lay, sprawled over on the tabletop, her limbs twitching as though shocked with electricity. She had been joking, one moment, and then she felt her entire body seize with an immense pain, and she had leaned over, and began bashing her head against the iron top of the table until blood streamed from the multiple gashes she had made. Opening her eyes, feebly, she saw her friend lying on the street, not moving. Fireworks burst overhead still, but the company she had been keeping were twitching or lying lifeless upon the street. She groaned and passed out.
On the outskirts of the village, a house stood silent, its gate firmly locked. Three hooded figures emerged from the central walk of the village and made their way toward the house, while screams of terror and stampedes of merry-makers rushed back and forth. Some fell lifeless, others seized up and tumbled over; several suddenly began abusing themselves in the most brutal manner (running into flowerpots, jamming their head into glass windows until they broke, and worse), but the three figures, wands drawn, aimed for the house. Two jumped the fence and kicked in the front door. The third waited, patiently, by the gate. The sounds of boots on the wooden stairs resounded in the distance, and the guard let out a deep breath, turning his face back toward the village. It had begun to burn as fireworks were released on the square to kill the innocents who had not been killed with the Curse. He blinked. Some night it had been. The Dark Lord was finally defeated. Their work could surface, now. Behind him, the sound of iron bedposts scraping across the wooden floor, children screaming, and doors being kicked in… it was horrible, and he couldn't take it much more. Turning on his heel, he burned the gate lock and pushed it open. Above him, green lights flashed in the upstairs windows of the house, briefly illuminating the silhouettes of young adolescents, cowering mostly, with their arms outstretched, and each flash preceded a thump as bodies hit the deck. In through the opened door, across the darkened room and up the stairs, the third man walked swiftly and silently. He drew a dagger, closed in on the first hooded figure and silently slid the blade across his throat. The figure tumbled down the stairs, clutching his neck, but his wand continued to roll, slowly, down the steps after him, and the third hooded figure was already moving toward the next room. Thrusting the blade through the broken window, the third figure drew his wand and aimed for a spot in the wall, where he knew the second hooded man stood, terrorising three children. Without thinking, he aimed and shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" and listened for the man to fall.
The house fell into shadows, then, and the children who survived filled the darkness with hysterical sobbing and whimpering. The man illuminated the room he was in and cast a glance around. It was a wreck, complete mass murder as bodies of the countless slain littered the floor. Two grown-up bodies told him that the foster parents of the house were no more. Crowding the doorway were the survivors in the other room, and they all looked completely petrified. They squinted in the light.
"Get out!" He muttered at them, though no one moved. The house collapsed into sounds of heavy breathing and stifled sobs, and somewhere behind him, a baby cried out.
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