Disclaimer: I do not, nor will ever, own Harry Potter, or any of its characters and plots.


From John, a muggle man in 1983

It had been a marvelous day spent in the sun, down by the lake. John and his boys, as dear Mary fondly referred to them as, had fished and played in the water until the sun had drooped low in the sky. Little Tim had to be carried back home in his exhaustion, but John hadn't minded. Sure, Mary had thrown a fit when she'd seen how worn the six-year-old was, but even her fussing couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

He knew tomorrow he'd have to return to work at the mundane office building downtown. He would be lying if he said he wasn't dreading going back after such a lovely week with his children (whom he barely saw much of nowadays) and his overworked wife. As he handed his youngest son off to his love for evening bath time, he couldn't help but reminisce over the day.

Louis was growing up to be a fine gentleman if John could say so himself. At the tender age of eight, Louis already knew how to swim – and even more, he happily accompanied Tim into the water, being ever-so-careful to keep a strict eye on the younger boy. John couldn't have been more proud of the boys.

And then the way Louis' small but quick fingers maneuvered the squirming worm onto the hook! Well, if John didn't know better, he might've thought the boy had fished a thousand lifetimes before. The boy was a natural survivor. He might have to look into enrolling him into some sort of wilderness training when he got older.

To be quite frank, John had been a bit concerned when his boss had demanded him to work longer hours in the face of the sudden workload doubling. He was concerned the boys wouldn't have a proper role model to look up to – heaven knows how Daniel's kids had turned out with only their mother around after his death. He'll be damned if his boys were parading around with long hair and tight clothes.

He shook his head, looking up when Mary once again entered the kitchen. She wore the tired smile of an exhausted but satisfied mother as she thanked him for entertaining the boys. He gave her a loving smile, pulling her into his arms as gently as he could, mindful of her swelling belly. He knew she'd been praying for a girl, but a part of him rejoiced at the thought of another boy joining their ranks. Another young fellow to teach the ways of a man.

As they sat at the table, Mary nursing a cup of tea, and him treating himself to warm broth from last night's chicken soup, she began recounting her day. John didn't care much for her little get-together with the townswomen celebrating her impending birth, but he was content with listening to her voice as she droned on and on.

Mary spoke with her hands, her eyes lighting up at every strong emotion, and her smile almost as big as Louis' was after he saw the size of the fish he'd snatched up. John was endeared by all of her quirky little mannerisms, and he wished once more that his vacation would be extended.

As much as he adored his sons, he couldn't help but to love their mother even more.

The two of them were married right out of high school, but only her family had approved of them. His family thought she was only after the family money, which was significant enough to warrant suspicion. After John's refusal to bow out of the wedding, he was cut from his father's will, and whatever inheritance he would've gotten was transferred to his cousins instead.

John hadn't cared. What was money in the face of true love? He had enough savings from his allowances to buy a small plot of land where he'd worked with the local townspeople to build a suitable house. Only when it was ready had he invited Mary, who'd been staying with her parents whilst he worked day and night to complete their home.

She'd loved it from first sight and had given birth to his first son only a year after they married. John ignored his mother's attempts to contact him after his father's death, now four years ago, and eventually, the attempts ceased. As far as he was concerned, she was as good as dead. His boys had one pair of grandparents, and that was all they needed.

Soon after John had finished his broth and Mary her tea, they turned in for the night. Lying there, curled up under the thin blanket that Mary's grandmother had sown for her as a child, John felt himself smile into the darkness. He couldn't have asked for a better life. To him, everything was right in the world.

Like most tragedies, this one struck suddenly.

One moment, John was lying next to his sleeping wife, his arms tight around her; the next, he was forcibly flung from his bed, his body smashing through the window overlooking the back garden. The scream building in his throat never had the chance to escape before he hit the ground, the air in his lungs rushing out.

Dazed, he stared wide-eyed at the bright flashes that arched through the sky. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, but he saw everything. Small groups of people wearing black clothing and bone-white masks littered the grounds, holding long, thin sticks that seemed to be the cause of the light. He heard laughter and screaming, like he was at a public swimming pool or amusement park, but the sights that meant his eyes were far from amusing.

His neighbors were forced from their homes in the most gruesome of ways. He saw the beheaded body of a man he once went biking with smashing through the topmost window of the house two doors down. The force sent the body careening towards John, only to smack into another body with an awful slapping noise. The laughter seemed to grow louder at this.

Then, with a rush of hot air and a loud explosion that caused John's eardrums to ring afterwards, his own house caught fire. He wanted to scream out to his Mary and boys, but he was unable to do anything, staring horrified as the boards he'd put up himself came crumbling down.

The flames moved quicker than he could've imagined, and he swore he heard screams from instead, but it was hard to hear through the ringing pulsing through his ears. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood that he hadn't noticed was pooling beneath his head. And when a pair of sunken eyes met his, belonging to a woman who looked crazed beyond repair, he wished he'd died the moment he hit the ground.

Her laughter was the last thing he heard before he descended into the depth of hellfire, burning for the very crime of daring to exist in mundanity.