A heavy mist fell from the low clouds over as the amorphous mass of black moved over the meadow as it made tentative progress toward its destination across the grassy expanse. For a few minutes, the blob disappeared into a dip between the meadow's wet and rolling hills, before suddenly emerging on the distant slope. This time it climbed slowly, watchful wizards testing the earth with their toes before gallantly leading their witches forward. Finally they crested the large mound, gathering in a circle of black umbrellas around a smaller, fresher mound of earth. Only one stood apart.
Father Earl Drayton waited quietly behind the small gray headstone. Aside from the sound of the light rain splattering the nearby umbrellas, he could hear the familiar symphony of sobs and sniffles contrasted with the barely perceptible sound of skin rubbing against skin as others tried to maintain their silent, tearless stoicism. As a priest he was no stranger to death and certainly not to funerals, both magical and Muggle. Still, it was undeniable that there had been an alarming increase in the former. Before him stood a bizarre gathering of members from the two societies. It was always a delicate dance with first generation half-bloods. Though the ceremonies themselves were largely similar, the schism was always clear. Another example was before him now, watching three pall bearers grasping the handles of the shiny mahogany coffin whilst the others held wands, levitating it. Fr. Drayton nodded as they arrived, settling their burden on the apparatus above the empty hole.
"Friends and loved ones," he solemnly began, "we are gathered today to honor the life of Martin Lankford, a humble man who spent his time on Earth shining the light of his love into the darkest corners of our world. To all who knew him, Martin was a gentle spirit, compassionate and caring, but his quiet nature did nothing to weaken the ferocity of his friendship. Indeed, Martin's departure to the embrace of his Heavenly Father came in defense of a friend and fellow Hufflepuff. Though his passing strikes a blow to us all, we must remember in life the lessons Martin taught us in death. In the face of darkness and evil there is no more valiant calling than the one to lay down one's life in defense of the rights and lives of those less protected." The priest closed his eyes and bowed his head, unable to carry on with more platitudes as the rain picked up. "Pray with me for the commitment of Martin's soul to our Creator and an eternal future filled with unending joy in His presence."
The Muggles gathered came forward to touch or place a rose on the coffin's wet lid before turning away. When the last were safely clear of the area, Fr. Drayton joined the witches and wizards that remained in raising his wand toward the sky. Channeling their energies, light illuminated the outstretched tips in a salute to the dead man's sacrifice. Briefly, the clouds broke in just the right place, sunlight gleaming down through the wetness and onto the fallen wizard's coffin. Allowing it to be bathed in light for several silent minutes, the group finally lowered their arms and left the mass of mahogany and metal to the approaching wizards responsible for interring it. Amidst the suddenly restored dimness, they set about their work with a hurried dignity. Fr. Drayton shook his head grimly. There were already two more scheduled for later that day.
Samuel Robbins breathing was ragged as his heart pounded in his chest. As he passed tree after tree in the darkness, he wondered how it had come to this. It was a simple editorial… The pain of his effort bit into his ribs as he sprinted through the woods near his cottage. The smooth soles of his dress shoes struggled desperately to grip tightly to the soft ground beneath him. He brushed a thick trail of sweat from his brow with a sleeve of his expensive silk shirt. Behind him the whooping and cackling continued. Derisory. Insulting. A recklessly fired spell cracked into the tree next to him, hissing as the bark burnt on impact. He had been wise to follow his instincts, fleeing when he had noticed the masked group, clad in all black approaching after they had breached his property's protective wards.
The other side of that coin was that he had no time to change. He had tried to disapparate of course, but they had thought of that. Samuel had been a fit enough man in his youth, but now, after years behind a desk and too many hours each day spent monitoring the political maneuverings within the Ministry instead of training, he was in no state for this. He certainly didn't need the handicap of long pants and ill-suited shoes. Now multiple spells were flashing past or cracking around him. The group was closing.
"Where are you running?" growled a deep voice from behind him.
"Not so brave without a quill!" yelled another gaily.
Suddenly he heard rushing water. How had he not thought of it? This edge of his property had been a terrible mistake to flee toward. He was minutes from a river he could never cross in the middle of this kind of fight. Still, he kept running. A spell grazed his arm, opening a gash that quickly began to leak blood freely. Another blasted the ground nearby, almost throwing him off his stride. Though the spell did not trip him, the distraction was just enough. Forgetting to slow, he bolted too quickly over the lip of a steep downward slope, his momentum forcing him to tumble onto his cut shoulder, rolling almost end over end until his body wrapped itself around a thick tree. He could scarcely breathe after the impact, a sharp pain accompanying each breath as he grabbed his ribs.
Samuel tried to drag himself up, but was immediately struck in the chest by a red light, sending him flying backward. His hand dove into his pocket in search of his wand as the shadowy figures closed on him.
"Looking for this?" one with long blonde hair asked, triumphantly holding Samuel's wand up into the moonlight. "You won't be needing it," the figure spat, mercilessly snapping it in two.
Laughter rang out from all around him.
Panicked, he quickly scanned the area. The masked menaces fenced him in from every direction. He scuttled back on his bottom, pushing away as the blonde and another, thinner figure with jet black curls came ever nearer.
"It's your turn," the blonde said ominously as the black-haired figure raised a wand. While the arm was steady and the distinctive wand cut an intimidating silhouette, the hand shook slightly.
"Do it," the blonde man hissed.
The voices around him began chanting. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" he heard.
The figure took a step forward.
"Kill! Kill!" they chanted.
The shaking stopped.
"Kill!" they urged.
The figure's wand was inches from his chest as he sat dirty, bloodied, and terrified in the soft brown earth of his own forest.
"Avada Kedavra!" the figure yelled.
Green enveloped his vision for an instant until suddenly, Samuel Robbins was no more.
As the light left his eyes, the figure's spirit surged as cheers rang out around her. She had completed the mission. She had finally fully served the Dark Lord. It felt good to be useful.
A/N: Obviously the outside world is getting darker, a theme I wanted to re-address here as it will be important and feature with increasing prominence in the next half, and certainly the final portions of the story. What did you think of the final scene here? How about the literal funeral at the beginning?
As always, thanks for reading! If you're enjoying the story, please leave a like if you haven't already and review below!