Prologue: Early 1981
The plumes of smoke descended from the nighttime sky, quickly blending into the stalks of corn that ringed the edge of this property in Devonshire.
Stalking closer on approach to where the family of blood traitors lay sleeping on this quiet night, the head Death Eater in charge peered out from the stalks and nodded to his compatriots.
Wands were drawn.
Thirty different flashes of light went off almost simultaneously, crashing into the falling-down wood holding up this clapboard house. Almost instantly, the home was ablaze. Within several minutes, the sounds of screams could be heard from inside.
The head Death Eater raised his hand, prepared to signal for his forces to move in and cast the Killing Curse on anyone who attempted to fight their way out. He hoped he would not have to, as it would be a waste of firepower: from the intelligence that had been gathered, there were six little brats, boys – none of whom were Hogwarts age; the eldest son was almost, but not quite. And their bitch of a mother was heavily pregnant with a seventh. Hadn't the traitor ever heard of a Contraceptive Spell?
Only the father might have the stamina and the knowledge to fight, but even if he did, the Death Eaters could deal with him quickly. He was a Mudblood-lover, worked some desk job at the Ministry that involved actually studying their primitive tools.
In the end, no duel was necessary. The use of wands was not called for.
It was Fiendfyre that had been cast upon that house of blood traitors, and within hours, the homestead known as the Burrow and everyone in it had been burnt to the ground.
By the time the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix arrived, the Death Eater perpetrators had vanished into the night.
Little did the murderers realize that night that within a matter of months, their fascist idol would be wiped off the battlefield, and his acolytes forced to go into hiding.
At the moment, however, this did not matter. A pack of blood traitors, Muggle sympathizers, was dead and good riddance to them!
Albus Dumbledore was generally regarded as, and considered himself to be, a stoic man. But the front page of this morning's Daily Prophet tested even his emotional resolve.
FAMILY WEASLEY, PART OF SACRED TWENTY-EIGHT, ANNIHILATED IN HOUSE FIRE.
The Headmaster of Hogwarts removed his half-moon spectacles and rubbed at the spot where the glasses left an indentation along the bridge of his nose. If Tom and his disciples were willing to go after a bloodline that was considered, at least biologically speaking, equal to them, on the basis of differing ideology, then the pureblood supremacists clearly did not care who they had to maim or murder to achieve their aims. This war crime was sending a clear message, one of intimidation, towards anyone who would dare to throw their lot in with the Order or those who sympathized with Muggle-borns or even half-bloods.
That anyone would dare to slaughter Arthur and Molly – two of the nicest wizards one could ever meet. That Death Eaters would dare to attack and kill defenseless children – babies…. All of them ranging from the age of 10 down to 1, and with yet another not yet born. The destruction of an unborn child…. That was perhaps the worst part of it all. At the last Order meeting, Arthur and Molly had not been sure of the sex of the baby, but Molly had been adamantly hopeful that it was a girl, this time.
There was suddenly a knock on Dumbledore's office door. "Enter," he commanded, tiredly.
Severus Snape slipped into the room, striding purposefully up to the elder man's desk. "Headmaster."
Dumbledore slid the copy of the Prophet across the desk to his deputy and best spy.
"Mingle with your…. confederates…." Dumbledore rumbled. "Find out who did this to Arthur and Molly. On whose orders. Did it come all the way from the Dark Lord himself? Are other purebloods with equality sympathies threatened? Are any of the other Sacred Twenty-Eight next? If so, which ones? I imagine the Houses of Longbottom and Abbott would be next highest on any such list."
Severus gawked down at the paper's headline. His dark eyes burned in outrage for only a moment before his expression was being rearranged into a poker, placid mask. "It shall be done, Headmaster." With a bow, Snape departed with a turn and a snap of his cloak.
Dumbledore slumped in his desk chair, drooping his chin onto his chest like a bird, awash in thought.
If and when this war should ever end, would there be anyone or anything left in their world to even claim the title of victor? He dearly hoped there would be, and that those who believed in true magical morality would be the ones to see it, and prevail.