The steady thrum of the engine filled every soldiers ears as they sped down the freeway. Three khaki painted humvee's rolled in a line along the highway, twelve men divided among the three vehicles. In the front of the convoy, riding shotgun, was the group leader of the small band.
The man seemed to be in his late thirties, yet was actually a decade younger. He had a thin amount of pockmarks stretching across his tanned skin, alongside several white scars. A fine blanket of stubble darkened the mans chin and jowls while his icy grey eyes starred down at a GPS device in his palm. A patch was stuck to his chest, two connected, black bars sewn onto the patch.
"I heard he killed eleven men with his own hands" one of the privates in the backseat whispered to his ally. The soldier glanced at the superior officer for a moment, contemplating if he was listening or not. Convinced he was not, the other private leaned over and whispered a reply back. His choice was suddenly cut short, however, as the Captain pulled a the three way radio to his mouth.
"Three minutes till we arrive." he said simply. "Suit up."
His voice was devoid of any emotion, a very business-like mood encompassing his words, attitude and actions. Although it was certainly not surprising, the man seemed to be strict and straight forward. Still, the lesser's certainly followed orders. The clicking of magazines, metal, gears and zippers filled each jeep as a silent clock of three minutes began to tick down.
When the mark reached zero, the humvee's were already decreasing their speed as they bounced down a dusty, gravel road. Ahead of the group lay a exquisite mansion. A white picket fence encircled the enormous lot, a few horses grazing in the fields surrounding the house. Nothing looked out of place; no window shattered, no door busted, no burn marks or bullet holes marring the property. The only thing that lingered was an unmistakable chill of death.
The Captain sniffed the air as he hopped out of the jeep, his boots crunching the gravel beneath his boots. He held his M-4 combat rifle loftily against his chest. The forest scenery was certainly a change from what he was used too... endless sand would never leave his mind.
He shrugged off the ugly memories and turned to the men behind him. He beckoned for all of them to come closer, his other hand unfurling a roll of blue paper with silver etchings on it. The men surrounded the Captain and stared down at the blueprints.
"911 received a call from Dr. Roselburg. He was yelling, seemed to be in total fear and stated that "They were coming". After a few moments, the line went dead." The Captain explained, taking a few glances back towards the house. "I doubt this is a full blown terrorist attack, maybe local gang activity but rule nothing out men. Let's go."
With this, the small squad moved out. They spread out in a wedge formation, using the picket fences and small trees as sparse cover as they trudged. Each man had his rifle half-heartily raised, their eyes lazily scanning the terrain as opposed to the Captain. His slate eyes darted at every angle, drinking in the scenery. He located, focused in on, analyzed and moved from each window, slab of wood and door frame.
In moments, they reached the "front lawn" of the mansion. The Captain held up a fist, notifying the group to halt. He waited a moment before crouch-walking forward a bit. As he moved, every soldier in the area braced themselves for the sudden bang and clatter of gunfire. But, surprisingly, none came.
This isn't Iraq.. the Captain thought to himself, reprimanding his own actions. Perhaps he was taking this job to seriously. He was a veteran from the United States Army. The Captain, within seven years of service, had earned himself a variety of medals, including the Purple Heart and Silver Star. Unfortunately on his latest tour of duty, the Captain was shot five times, making him medically unable to continue service with Special Forces. Rather than be medically discharged, he swapped services to the National Guard and decided to continue serving his country.
Although it was easy, slow paced work, it was still work.
With a small grunt, the Captain raised two fingers and beckoned forward. On cue, the eleven ACU clad soldiers moved forward, their rifles still up. The Captain slid up to the door, smoothly pushing on it, testing it's openness. Much to everyone's surprise, the heavy, oak door glided open on well oiled hinges. With a small amount of uneasiness, the Captain lead the way in.
He paused in the foyer, the muffled thumps of boots echoing behind him. The Captain gingerly glanced back at the door, even more shocked to find four series of locks, bolts and chains hanging limply to the side as if the Doctor had invited the intruders in.
Something was certainly not adding up. Throwing his previous combat caution to the wind, the Captain motioned for his men to fan out, two or three men spiting apart and moving into the kitchen, hallways and ground rooms. Within minutes, the ground floor was cleared and the Captain swept upstairs with the soldiers. It was here they found their target.
Laying spread-eagle in the middle of the hallway was the man they sought: Dr. Roselburg. His black slacks, white shirt and suede shoes were unscathed. The only sign of struggle was his still scrunched face and his askew glasses. No blood, no bruises, no rips or tears. He seemed to be merely laying there, yet his skin held a ghastly grey parlor, perhaps the only thing confirming his death.
The Captain swept his rifle onto his back before kneeling down beside the older man. With gentle fingers, the younger examined the Doctor's body, looking for any tell-tale signs of death. As far as he could see, nothing existed. The level of abnormality raised just a bit, namely because this ruled out local gang activity.
Brow furrowed, the Captain knelt there for a moment attempting to think.
All hell broke loose.
Countless figures suddenly appeared out of thin air, all with loud cracks. Red, green and white bursts of light shot in every direction, giving the room every likeness of a christmas show. In moments, the yells of soldiers filled the air and shots were popped off. The Captain yelled a few incoherent orders, diving behind the nearby entertainment system. He watch in horror as a Private and Corporal nearby were struck in the chest by several blasts of green light. Their bodies thuded to the ground, lifeless and grey as Dr. Roselburg.
The Captain raised his rifle and pulled down on his trigger, releasing a spray of bullets towards several suited figures across the room. The shots would have mowed down the men, but to the Captain's horror, they only stopped midair and dropped. It was like some invisible force field protected the men. One of them noticed him and quickly brought a silver handgun around to aim at the Captain.
He analyzed it quickly, noticing the barrel was slightly larger and longer than a normal handgun. Even odder, it seemed to be plugged with something long and narrow, dark too. Survival instincts kicking in, the Captain launched himself forward as a jet of red light show from the end of the gun and whizzed over his head.
The stocky American's shoulders collided with the shooters knee's, causing the two to be knocked to the ground in a heaping sprawl of limbs. Reverting to his war experience, a tomahawk flashed suddenly into the Captain's hands and was brought down with scary accuracy. The sharp blade carved into the man's skull, killing him instantly. Why it took a tomahawk and not bullets to kill these beings was beyond the Captain, but he was still faced with two more above him.
With a surge of energy, the soldier whipped his weapon around and sliced the first enemies throat open, blood spurting across the room. Continuing downwards, the sharp blade slammed into the second man's weapon, knocking it from his grip. It clattered to the ground and shattered, surprisingly, leaving a wooden stick amongst the heap.
Taking advantage of the American's momentary confusion, the suited man dove for the piece of wood and straightened up quickly, the stick poised in his hand like a conductors baton.
"Stupefy!" the man yelled.
Although the term registered nothing within the Captain's mind, a sudden jet of red light shot from the wand and struck him deftly in the jaw. A numbness suddenly gripped his body and he fell to the ground, dazed and helpless.
Yet death did not come. The suited man only disappeared downstairs, the sounds of gunfire slowly diminishing as surely each soldier was killed by the strange attackers. At last, every gun went quiet and the house grew still. Within minutes of the silence, a cadre of suited men all tromped upstairs, a very sleek looking one leading them all.
In his hand was a similar pistol, yet pieces of it had been blasted off by bullets, revealing a similar stick of wood down its barrel. The owner looked to be in his mid-to-late forties, streaks of grey only just appearing in his hair. His jaw was strong and his eyes crystal blue, each one like an icy dagger piercing all it bore into. He stepped over the Captain and stared down at him with a odd curiosity.
He knelt down, revealing a fine-made suit and well polished shoes. A silver clip was wrapped around a stripped tie. The man glanced down at his chest.
"Smith" he stated in a smooth voice. He smiled, revealing perfect teeth. "Very american, no?"
He had a trace of several accents in his voice, although it was very difficult to place any. The Captain, Smith, managed a grunt in reply. Whatever the poor bastard wanted, Smith would rather die then betray his country. He was a patriot to the core.
"You fight well. Very well indeed... I see potential and use inside people like yourself." the man began, beginning to glance Smith over carefully. Regaining sudden control of his tongue, the Captain instantly spat back at the man.
"Who are you?" he asked in a vehement voice.
The man smirked, "At the moment, it would not concern you. However, I am very interested in you... I sense a great deal of worth within you." he stated, his words like oil. The man considered something for a moment, before a look of interest crossed his face. "You will join me." he said, the words obviously an order, not a request.
Still, Smith rebelled.
He screwed his face up and snarled at the man. "I'll never work for the likes of you freaks! Bolt throwing sons of bitches!" The Captain attempted over and over to make his body move, but it would not obey.
The Captain's words only seemed to stoke a fire inside the icy man. He laughed coldly, "I do not believe you understand" he said calmly. "You see, when I wish for something, I obtain it."
It was Smith's turn to laugh now. "You can torture me all you want but I'll never accept." he whispered, his voice low and deadly.
The man only raised a black eyebrow, "Pain is not needed yet... Well, at least not much." he said. With a small grunt, he disengaged the barrel of his weapon and pulled out the thin stick that seemingly everyone had stowed inside their guns. With a small smile, he placed the tip of it on Smith's exposed neck and sharply cut it to the left.
A searing pain instantly flared across the Captain's neck, a warm, trickling sensation beginning to flow down his neck. The man straightened up, revealing the the tip of the stick to be coated in Smith's own blood. The man suddenly licked the end of the wood, earning a look of disgust from the Captain below him.
He smiled wickedly, "Pureblood." he stated, earning a small contingency of grins to erupt from his followers.
The man glanced back to Smith, pointing the piece of wood at him.
"Somnum"
All went black.
For those wondering, the main characters (i.e Harry, Hermione, Ron, etc appear later.. bear with me!)