Black Sunday

[wand_wavers]

Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds
Voldemort had waited a very long time for this. This day would be the true beginning of his march to victory. He'd allowed enough time for the populace of the Wizarding world to grow more complacent. Even with the neverending stream of minor attacks planned to unnerve them on a daily basis, his spies reported that many people thought they were safe, that the war would not impact them.
Do breed unnatural troubles
They were wrong. Oh, so wrong. He would strike quickly and fiercely. His army is ready.
Be bloody, bold, and resolute
There is a map of Britain on the wall of the borrowed ballroom. Little lights glow upon it, marking the houses to target. Teams have been assigned, and timelines and checkpoints established.
Blood will have blood
He faces his kneeling minions, his arms outstretched. "Now you shall know carnage, my loyal fighters. You will spare no one. The smallest child, the weakest grandmother, all must die. Their bodies shall be brought back to me, but leave blood. Leave the Dark Mark. Leave blood traitors as witnesses. Leave no doubt that we are ruthless and will do what we want when we want it!" His voice rises to a maniacal shriek and the Death Eaters kneeling before him are silent as the grave.
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam
At one fell swoop?
"Arise, Death Eaters," the Dark Lord hisses. "Arise and show no mercy."
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.
In clusters the Death Eaters disapparate in a series of pops.
The cry is still, "They come!"
Voldemort smiles and waits. This is a glorious day.

Comments

[wand_wavers]

Clymenestra Dippett-Jones wakes with a start. The baby's not crying, but she has that odd mother's intuitin that something's not right. She slides out of bed, leaving Bob, her husband, wrapped in dreams.

She's in the living room, headed for the children's room when she hears the pops and feels the whoosh of displaced air. Before she can cry out a warning, her body is frozen in Petrificus Totalus.

It's horrifying when the three Death Eaters drag her husband from his bed and kill him in front of her.

It's much, much worse when they carry in the baby and little Robert.

She can't beg for mercy. She can't cry for them. She can only watch. The murderers leave, taking with them the broken bodies of the people she loved most in the world. In time, the spell wears off.

When she can move again, she begins screaming and doesn't stop for a long, long time.

[wand_wavers]

It starts with a whisper in the night.

That's all, no more, just the slightest shaped breath and a gesture, and people start to die.

The thing about casting Avada Kedavra is that it must be done with hate. One can never accidentally cast the killing curse just by saying the words and pointing; one really has to mean it.

But the other thing about Avada Kedavra is that hate is almost all it takes. No complex gestures, no shouting, no posturing. Just two short words.

Just a whisper.

[wand_wavers]

Britain isn't the only one facing the long, dark night ahead.

In Paris, the lights go out in the Latin Quarter and Montmartre, and the great red wind mill of the Moulin Rouge where the witches, harpies, veela, and mixed breeds dance until the early morning.

In Madrid, Retiro and La Latina. In Lavapiés, the historic poor neighborhood full of mix bloods, half breeds, and muggles that grew up in the old Europe magic, all the candles go out at once.

In Rome, the motor scooters shut off, the street lights go out, and there is the hollow drumming of foot steps along the Via Appia.

In Berlin, the neon lights of Mitte underground blink twice before going out. The Zürich theatre district goes dark. From the top of the Acropolis, all of Athens goes dark. Israel, Palestine, Portugal, Ireland, Norway, the Netherlands.

And there is a great cry that rose in Egypt like that had not been heard in millennia.

Britain isn't alone tonight.

[clumsy_auror]

By nine A.M., it seems like nothing more than a somewhat busy night for the Death Eaters; Tonks responds to the early-morning alarm, going back and forth between the three houses where attacks had occured, collecting data as quickly as she could.

By noon, they are starting to fit the puzzle pieces together. There are clues at each site, calling cards; these attacks are deliberately connected. Watch, Voldemort is saying. Watch what I can do. Owls criss-cross the globe as the magnitude of this night begins to hit them all.

By three, Nymphadora can no longer keep count of the attacks. She can only Apparate from one house to the next, not gathering data, now, just trying to keep on the trail of these murderers. The Aurors' ranks are stretched far too thin, like too little butter on too much bread. There aren't enough of them.

By six, she has seen too many grief-stricken eyes, held too many hands, listened to too many unearthly wails as people grapple with their loss.

By nine, Nymphadora locks herself in the far stall of the women's loo, back at the Ministry, and allows herself five minutes to cry, as quietly as possible.

Then she walks back out into the world.

The world that has gone dark.

[wand_wavers]

In a small village in Devon, the Aurors find David Derwent in the kitchen of Vervain Cottage, the house he and his (Muggle-born) wife Teresa had purchased not a week before.

His wife is not there, but her blood is -- quite a lot of it, all over the neatly tiled floor.

There's a shattered wine-glass on the floor as well. One of the glass shards is in David Derwent's hand, smeared with his own blood as well as his wife's. The sharp, jagged edge of the shard is just the right size to have made the gaping diagonal gash across his neck.

It isn't until much later that they manage to piece together what had happened in Vervain Cottage...and they find out that the Death Eaters had used the Imperius Curse to force the blood-traitor fill the wine-glass with his wife's Mudblood, and drink it.

Small wonder that he took his own life.

[wand_wavers]

Polly Naylor had never liked her in-laws much. Holidays were awkward, since it always seemed like Nancy (her mother-in-law) was always hovering around just waiting for her to slip up and say something she wasn't supposed to around some family member who 'wasn't aware'. Anthony seemed used to it, but then again he'd had years of practice dealing with his Muggle father's side of the family.

'Cheer up, Pol,' he'd tell her if she complained about it. 'It'll be fine. Mum and I have never had to use a Memory Charm yet, you know.'


..........


She nearly Splinched herself Apparating to her in-laws' house the moment she managed to work free of her bindings. A sound decision on her part, because the Aurors were already there, taking Nancy's statement.

Polly Naylor had never liked her in-laws much. But the moment she stumbles into the house and finds herself clinging to her mother-in-law, and hears the older woman's hysterical sobs, and feels her own tears starting to flow, she realises that you don't necessarily have to like someone in order to grieve with them.

Especially when it hits you that you and your mother-in-law are widows, now.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_clearly_penny_/]

Diagon Alley isn't in good shape.

When Penny comes through, it's early Monday morning, and groups are beginning to gather around storefronts-- stunned, listless, moving like they're asleep on their feet. She frowns, quickening her pace.

Flourish and Blotts has been utterly destroyed.

Penelope stares-- the display window, always bright and cheery with new books, has been shattered; it looks like a wound, a gaping hole. The store inside is dark, but she can see in the morning light that the books have been ripped from their shelves, ripped to pieces, strewn about the store. As the wind rustles the pages, she sees the curling, blackened edge of burnt parchment.

Penelope glances about, half-panicked already. Up and down the street, it's more of the same; not every store has been vandalized, but the ones that have are in shambles.

What's going *on*?

"Death Eaters," someone whispers in the crowd.

Everyone knew perfectly well.

---

Genevieve doesn't show up to work, which means that someone's got to pick up her slack. The clerks draw straws: It's Penny.

She's fairly irritated by this turn of events, but not surprised: It's like Jenny to miss. Most likely, Penny thinks, she'll come waltzing in after lunch with some excuse about a mysterious ailment.

This is what Penelope tells herself so that she can be irked instead of worried.

All day it's been like this-- anxious speculation on the destruction in Diagon Alley, whispers of worse throughout London. During their lunch break, someone tunes in to the WWN.

And, as the afternoon draws on, they begin to hear things.

Murders in London, murders in Devon, murders in Leeds. There are even rumors-- unverified-- of killings throughout Europe. They're all clustered around now, hanging on every scrap of news, listening out for names.

No one feels much like working anymore.

---

Penelope hadn't wanted to go home. There've been too many disappearances, too many deaths-- everyone warned her about going out on her own, but she thinks she's at least got to go to her flat and pack if she's going to be moving someplace safer.

She walks where she feels safe, Apparates where she doesn't-- short distances, alleyway to alleyway. Overhead, owls are swooping back and forth, hooting to each other in agitation.

Penelope shuts the front door behind her and hisses a locking charm, looking around warily for signs that someone else has been here.

Everything seems to be in order.

She turns on the lights-- and wonders if that won't be broadcasting her presence. She turns them off-- but what if that looks like she's asleep, an easy target? On, off, on, off ... eventually, she keeps them on, moves nervously through her own flat; watches the windows and doors.

On her kitchen table, she finds a pile of parchment scraps, all bearing approximately the same, hurriedly scribbled message:

ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!?






For a moment, all she can do is just stare at them, checking the signatures-- Mum and Dad, Chas, Phinny, Catherine.

Then she drops into a chair, fingers shaking, and starts to write back.

[the-woodpecker.livejournal.com]

By mid-morning, Bernard's there, working, and it's all over the Ministry. Of course they hear it.

Of course.

Elektra (What a name, Bernard had thought when he heard it, a name of ill-portent, and he now knows it is a name of ill-portent. It is.) Sorrington-Winters turns pale at the first word, but they all do. He thinks little of it, until they go to lunch and hear more more they're everywhere, more than the Aurors can handle, and she turns greenish, and Bernard snags some poor trainee from Nymphadora's division, John Poncey Something Or Other, and finds out how many, how far, how wide, how how how who--

It's at this point that Elektra, along with two more of his team members, disappear to find out.

They don't come back. He doesn't begrudge them.

They have to bury their dead.

[wand_wavers]

The Wizarding Wireless Network generally plays soft chamber music this time of night. Since it was made official that Voldemort had returned, this program has had some of the highest listenership on the station, just another sign that everyone could do with a lullaby sometimes.

In the middle of a quiet piece by Brahms, a burst of static and then an interruption:

This is Geoffrey Prunesqualor from WWN news, bringing you a breaking story. Reports are coming in from across Europe and the Middle East of an attack by You-Know-Who. It seems an army is on the march, breaking into homes and murdering all those who oppose You-Know-Who's agenda.

The death toll is estimated to already be in the thousands.

It is advised that -

He swallows, and his voice for a moment wavers. Not so easy to read his script, tonight.

- It is advised that all people return to their homes and secure all entryways as well as they possibly can. Do not answer your door for anyone, as the Death Eaters have been known to employ disguises. Be sure to have an escape plan, and go over it with your family.

If you feel you will be unable to create a sufficient ward for your home, you may get in contact with your local Ministry of Magic office to ask about safehouses in your area. Whenever possible, travel by Floo, and do not take to the streets. Trust in your Aurors, they are out their doing what they can to keep you safe.

His voice grows more confident, more rushed. One gets the feeling he has abandoned the script.

And remember, this may seem grim, but we shall get through it together. The Dark Lord may think he has us scared but we will fight him. We will show him that there's more to being a strong Witch or Wizard then just blood. We will not let his tactics intimidate us. We will tri-!

In the background, a scream.

What the hell was -?

Another, and some muffled speaking, from someone further from the mic.

They're in the -? They're in the building? But how the hell did they get -

There's a rustling sound and a thud, and Prunesqualor's voice becomes quieter.

- in? I mean I thought we had guards and wards and things. We were supposed to be safe here? We were - what's that?

Another scream, in the distance, and a noise like a faint explosion. All of Prunesqualor's calming voice that remains is a panicked, feverish pitch that is too far from the mic to be properly understood.

Then a sound like drums. A shout. A squeal of feedback.

Radio silence.




About a quarter of an hour later, someone puts the Brahms back on. It's like your mother's soothing voice after a nightmare. It never really happened, dear. Go back to sleep.

[wand_wavers]

At some point, during a very brief lull in the steady stream of depressing, shocking and downright horrific reports from across the country...someone in the Minister's office realises that no one has contacted the Muggle Prime Minister yet.

Even the Minister looks a little ill at the thought of having to do so, but there's no getting round it.

[iambetadraconis]

He waited until well after Voldemort had given their orders before permitting himself a thought of his own. Long ago he'd learned that a Death Eater must remain completely focussed on his or her master, that not even the flicker of a thought—unless it was to do with the Dark Lord and generally agreeing with every word he spoke—should pass a servant's mind, lest there be punishment to follow.

Only one's fullest attention would be accepted; anything else was unacceptable.

Oh Merlin I am to kill children, his mind screamed. And he'll know if I haven't.

Rodolphus was standing next to him, the hunger and bloodlust burning in his eyes as clear as day. That meant Rabastan wasn't about to get a say in the matter, and his brother knew it.

"This time you won't convince me to spare little brats, brother," Rodolphus said, grinning behind his mask. "This time they die, and there's nothing you can do about it."

Rodolphus adjusted his robes into place, and, fixing Rabastan with his murderous gaze, told him where they were to strike first.

Oh no...

Oh yes he would...

"Come Rabastan. To Grandmother Longbottom's house we go, and this time will be the last time."



Tonight Neville would lose yet another family member to the Death Eaters...


[Augusta Longbottom's death has already been OK'd, so dead she is.]

[capt_angie]

Angelina is working at the Ministry when news starts coming in about the attacks. It starts with an increase in activity on the level above hers- the level that comprises the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror offices.

Then the whispers start. Rumours that the forces of Voldemort are on the move. People talk in hushed voices and the atmosphere in the office becomes measurably more tense.

Twice before any kind of formal announcement is made two people in the office are taken out to be informed that a relative- or relatives- have been murdered in the attacks. Others leave to be with their families. The rest of the AMRS cluster together, comforting each other as they wait for news.

Just before noon, the door to the office opens again and a thin, tired woman with dark hair and dark circles under her eyes enters the room. Everyone stops talking as the Auror comes in. Everyone knows why she’s there. The woman looks around the office at the names on the desks and when she sees the name she’s looking for she approaches the desk.

Angelina’s heart seems to stop beating as the woman stops in front of her desk and she starts to shake. She already knows what the woman is going to say before she says it.

“Miss Johnson… could you come with me please. There has been an incident involving your family.”

[wand_wavers]

Celia Greykirk is good at what she does. She approaches healing the same way she approaches everything else, with skill, talent, ambition, intelligence, and a ruthless efficiency. A true Slytherin, her mother often says, proudly.

She's used to the controlled chaos of St. Mungo's, especially here in Spell Damage. But this is chaos spun out of control, people crowded in the corridor, some bleeding, some moaning, some crying, some simply dazed, one or two who seem catatonic, and for the moment, it brings her up short.

And then training and efficiency take over. First things first – the patients who are upsetting other patients need to be dealt with. The old man in his nightshirt, pointing his finger at people and yelling, "Crucio! Crucio! CrucioCrucioCrucioCrucio!"; the woman in the corner rocking a child's doll and wailing the most unnerving lullaby Celia has ever heard.

After that it's a matter of sorting out who's actually hurt, hexed, or cursed, and who's merely here because there doesn't seem anywhere else for them to go.

Celia, as usual, doesn't ask what happened, not beyond the most basic of questions she needs to have answered so she can treat her patients, but it's impossible not to piece the story together.

". . . Death Eaters . . ."
". . . Richard and the baby . . ."
". . . tried to stop them . . ."
". . . Janet. Killed my Janet. Took her . . ."
". . . Dark Mark . . ."
". . . nothing I could . . ."
". . . house was destroyed. Mum is missing, Dad won’t say what . . ."
". . . gone. All gone . . ."

Celia moves methodically from person to person to person as more and more and more arrive. There's nothing she can do to help most of them. There's no way to reverse the damage these spells have done.

[finalmarauder.livejournal.com]

There have still been those who want it to not apply to them. Those secure in their heritage or position, those who weren't old enough the last time to understand what this means; and it's been a long time.

It's easy to overlook (or work hard to not remember) that it wasn't 'You-Know-Who' because it was the name that was most dangerous. It's easy to forget (or work desperately to overlook) that while fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself there was plenty to fear in the first place.

Remus paces in the darkness of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, listening to the hushed murmur of the radio and hearing the death toll steadily rising in between the soothing notes of classical pieces. An Order member or two, striding through to check in on their way somewhere more important, have switched it off but it's always back on a moment or two after they've left. Someone has to keep track.

On the kitchen table there's a list of names; most of them are neatly ticked as they've floo'd or called in or sent owls (this last always with a carefully drawn question mark in brackets, just to be sure), one or two with a precise line through. He knows all of the names, remembers the faces that go with them and somehow that makes it important that this is his task. No matter what Order members have insinuated in the past, they cannot afford to 'babysit the werewolf' - this is something that must be done.



She - Araminta Worley, barely out of Ravenclaw - Remus doubts she'll make those sorts of insinuations again, hold herself apart at Order meetings and murmur comments just on the edge of hearing. Not after this morning, after collapsing into his arms and sobbing into his threadbare robes over her father.


Voldemort has been fighting for months, now, but there was always still a safe way to think about it, for those that would. A way to pretend that it was just a madman, that it didn't -

There have still been those who want it to not apply to them.

But it's not about curses or species or names, any more. After today it's not a Ministry matter or something that just concerns the Muggle-born.


It's about Us fighting against Them.

[wand_wavers]

In the middle of the day, the American Department of Magic issues a Travel Warning for the United Kingdom:

The Department of Magic urges American citizens to avoid travel to the United Kingdom. In light of the ongoing threat and recent attacks upon government officials and the general civilian population, the ability of British wizarding authorities to maintain order and ensure the security of citizens and visitors is limited. Travel in all areas of the United Kingdom, including the capital, London, should be considered unsafe, and the possibility of terrorist attacks, particularly attacks upon Muggles who are connected to the wizarding world through blood ties, is extremely high. The security environment remains volatile and unpredictable.

Americans in the United Kingdom should limit their movement to the extent possible and avoid travel by Floo. U.S. citizens should also avoid crowds, political rallies, street demonstrations, and government installations, including the offices of the Ministry of Magic located in central London. When traveling anywhere in the United Kingdom, American citizens should travel in groups, avoid travel after dusk, and leave detailed travel plans with a reliable point of contact

Later in the evening, an updated Travel Warning is issued:

Family members and non-emergency American employees of the Department of Magic have been ordered to depart the United Kingdom. The Department of Magic urges American citizens to defer travel to the United Kingdom, and Americans currently in the country should depart in light of the current security situation. This supersedes the previous Travel Warning issued today at 1445 GMT.

[wand_wavers]

It's not possible to keep this from the Muggles – not entirely – it's too much, too big, too noticeable. If Andrew Oldham had been paying closer attention, he'd have noticed that the stories on the television and the radio were somehow off, imprecise and improbable, more speculation than fact . But he hadn't been, not really, except to shake his head over it, to react with the vague sense of horror and slightly guilty fascination and relief that other people's tragedies evoke.

He doesn't recognize the young woman waiting outside his gate until she says hesitantly says his name . Even then he can't place her – did they meet in the pub? – until she says, "I'm Ursula. Imogen's sister."

Then he remembers dancing with her, laughing and a little tipsy, at the reception three months ago, when his brother married her sister. "Martin," he says. "Something's happened to Martin."

She nods, looking over her shoulder, back up the street. "It's not safe to talk in the open right now," she says. "Can we go in?"

"Not safe?" Andrew repeats. "What do you mean? Safe from what? What happened? What’s going on?"

"Please," Ursula says. "Please. We can't talk here."

Andrew looks at her, her eyes wide in fear, and nods, briefly, then opens the door.



They're gone ten minutes later, when she apparates into Andrew’s kitchen, wand out and ready. Nothing left but a message from her sister, the same message she found in her flat, and at Martin's parent's house – TRAITOR, trickles of blood still dripping down the wall from both R's.

Imogen Rosier-Oldham sits down at her brother-in-law's kitchen table and weeps.

[apwb-d.livejournal.com]

Albus Dumbledore received word by way of three dizzy owls sent within seconds of each other via Forced Apparation. He'd read the notes they carried, thinking - praying - they were part of some cruel joke. Shortly after, the Minister of Magic's head appeared in his office fire, and Albus wondered if he would ever feel like joking again.

He left Hogwarts in Minerva's most capable hands and went first to Hogsmeade. Several families had been attacked along the outskirts of the village, and he saw to the survivors being triaged in the Three Broomsticks by Healers and Magical Law Enforcement officers.

One poor soul - a former student who'd clutched at Albus's robes in hysterical grief - had lost his wife, his four young children, and, when they attacked the Death Eaters in an attempt to save the children, all three of his House Elves. One had been with him since he'd been born, Philip had sobbed, his last link to his parents who'd died some years previous.

Chizley had been the elf's name. Albus could recite the other victims' names as well. Marguerite, Rosemary, Deirdre, Lance, Kirric, and Aunty Miffs.

Having lived a long, busy life and having been Headmaster of Hogwarts for much of that, he remembered names easily. As the names of the dead trickled in, he matched them to faces of beautiful children who'd grown into fine adults and contributing members of their world.

And now? Now they were dead and their bodies, for the most part, gone. There would be too few burials in the coming days, and everyone knew what would be done with the missing dead, though none could voice the facts.

He accompanied the Minister of Magical Law Enforcement back to the Ministry for debriefings as they came in from far afield. Voldemort had planned this well. No matter what the outcome of this war, the Wizarding world would bear the scars of this day for many years.

Albus had lived through much. He'd seen more horrors than he liked to recall, and he had borne them as well as he was able. However, he knew that this would be one of the very few nights in his long, long life that he would relish his draught of Dreamless Sleep. Walking through this day had been nightmare enough.

[thecoolone]

He hasn't slept well. Perhaps it was from birthday cake, he thinks, or perhaps it's because Fleur's significantly bigger now and needs more room in their bed. Perhaps it's because the lights in the courtyard outside did an annoying flicker on and off and on and off until they finally stayed on but buzzing, or perhaps his dreams were simply hazy and not particularly friendly. He knows the sound of wings fluttering against a window only too well, though, and that does jolt him into wakefulness. An owl, wings ragged, breathless, falls inside as he opens that same window. It's clearly come a long way; Bill grabs the parchment from its talons and feeds it immediately. The owl, grateful, takes its fill before tucking its head under one wing and falling into a fast and desperate sleep.

The parchment, apparently scrawled hastily, contains a perplexing message in four words with no signature:

LUXOR RUINED, STAY AWAY

He has no idea what the message means, but he recognises the handwriting: it's from the goblin who hands out curse-breaking assignments at the auxiliary Gringott's office in Luxor's wizarding quarter. Moving the parchment nearer to a candle, he frowns: how can Luxor be ruined? Don't they know that his first impulse is to head back immediately when someone tells him to stay away?

The second owl in as many minutes, though, distracts him from that thought and he marvels that Fleur can sleep through it. Well, she deserves the sleep but this owl's parchment gets an even bigger reaction.

HQ NOW.

Reaching over to wake Fleur, he's interrupted by a third owl.

All right? Your clock hand says Mortal Peril but that hasn't changed in years. Owl back straight away, Mum and Dad

Bill grabs quill and ink, scrawls We're fine, more soon and sends it back with the third owl. He shakes Fleur awake by the shoulder. "I know you're not supposed to Apparate, but we've been summoned. Something's going on. We have to get out of here now. Right now. Hurry."

It takes only moments for the two of them to dress; hand in hand, they Apparate together to Order Headquarters. And not a moment too soon: outside, the streetlamps in a three-block radius go out with a simultaneous pop.

[sullen-seeker.livejournal.com]

The Krum house is quiet, but Viktor's not in it.

Nearly every night for weeks now there have been attacks in the Valley of Roses, and perhaps they've been done by Death Eaters and perhaps they've been done by hopefuls but that doesn't really matter now. Tonight the fires are brighter. The fires are brighter and there's green in the air, a skull with a snake in its mouth, so Viktor is going down to the valley.

(He wears a noncommital black. Everything he owns already smells strongly of ash.)

The first village he walks through is already empty of all life. Bodies on the street, blood in the gutters. Somewhere a child cries. Krum passes a dog chewing on a dead woman's leg, and walks on.

In the second there's much of the same, though down one alley he spies a figure in black with a bone-white face. Their eyes meet, just for a moment, and Krum turns away. He walks on.

The third is wreathed in fire. Here people scream and run through the streets, entire families carrying whatever they could grab. Krum transfigures his throat to make breathing easier. Smoke makes it impossible to tell friend from foe, but maybe that doesn't really matter now either.

Krum walks on.

Dawn is a long time coming.

[young_tmriddle]

He received the news from a special edition of the Daily Prophet, as usual. When he took up the slim paper, bereft of photographs but crammed with text and line after line of names, he read it from cover to cover. Then he set the paper down and headed straight for Bernard and 'Dora's flat. As he did, terrible visions filled his mind. Death Eaters couldn't have come to Milliways, but what if the family had been visiting Andromeda and Ted? What if Dora and Bernard had been in Diagon Alley and been caught out, as had the early morning customers at Flourish and Blotts?

He pounded on the door. "It's me." The moments dragged by in silence as he waited for an answer. The doorknob turned and Kathleen opened the door.

For a moment he could hear nothing but the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Are they- Oh God, are they-"

Kathleen took his arm, alarmed at how much paler the wizard had gone. The boy was already pretty damn pale to begin with. "They're at work. Got word this morning and went right in."

Tom nodded, relief washing over him. Finally he was able to hear Sunny babbling with Hiss in the living room. Looking beyond Katherine, he saw Dude on the couch, Anthony happily burbling on his lap. He ducked his head, feeling rather unsteady on his feet. "Have they heard from her parents?"

She shook her head no, and then pulled Tom into the flat. "Come on. Why don't we go have some scotch and listen to that wizard's wireless thing for news. You can wait with us as long as you want."

"Thank you," said Tom, closing the door behind him.

[wand_wavers]

The moment the reports started coming in, Molly Weasley began to write letters to all of her children, frantic to know that they are all right. Her beloved clock wasn’t being any help at all, its hands staying stubbornly fixed upon Mortal Peril.

Arthur was at work, and busier than he had ever been, and her children were scattered everywhere… what was she supposed to do? What could she do, other than wait for word, or instructions from the Order?

She stares at her clock again, and sips her tea, praying that none of the hands moves over to Lost.

[a-black-sheep.livejournal.com]

It's the gentle pop that wakes her, eyes dark and sleepy in the dim light from the hallway. It takes her a moment to pin-point what it was - nothing more than the bulb in the streetlamp across the road. Or... perhaps not only that, but if there's something else, she doesn't know what it is. Andromeda Tonks (née Black) wriggles deeper under the blanket, vaguely chilly, and her eyes start to drift shut once more.

Pop.

That was the streetlight in front of her window.

"Ted?" she whispers, as, very slowly, her stomach ices over. "Ted - "

She'd been chilly, she'd been chilly because she'd woken up without the warm, solid weight of her husband's arm around her waist. The light from the hallway is dim and - and he doesn't sleep as well as he used to, what with his back (not that he'll ever admit it), and he gets up sometimes to make himself some of that horrible milky tea he likes, and -

Andromeda's wand is already in her hand as the hallway light goes out with a quiet:

Pop.

The Blacks have always been wealthy - she'd been able to afford this house as soon as the two of them married, and she'd laughed and laughed at the looks on her family's faces when they found they couldn't touch her trust fund even though she'd married a filthy -

The Blacks have always been wealthy, and it's a big house. But Andromeda Tonks (née Black) raised her daughter here, and she knows it better than any. She's in the kitchen in seconds, just long enough to register her husband, the look of surprise as he turns to face a pale mask, white as his old, chipped mug (To The World's Best Daddy), before the light goes out with a quiet:

Pop.

And then:

Green.

And then:

"Avada Kedavra!"




In the quiet glow of Lumos, Andromeda Tonks (née Black) nudges the pale mask aside with her toe, and then spits down on Bellatrix's slack, glassy face.

Then she wraps shaking arms around her husband, and as the light from her wand flickers out, there's a sharp:

Pop.

The house is dark.

[leplusbeau]

The worst part is the not knowing, Fleur thinks. At least some people know if their families died.

She has sent sixteen owls, a dozen messages through all the underground channels she knows, and tried to Apparate more times than she can count.

Four owls came back with their message untouched. The rest? Never returned. She could barely make it last night when Bill woke her to get out the house, let alone Apparate to back to Paris.

She hadn't even told her mother that she was pregnant yet. And now. And her baby sister.

So she sits at the kitchen table at the Order headquarters and thinks very hard about how her mother and sister will be all right, that they got out of Paris, that they are in hiding. That's all. Because she doesn't believe in prayers, and it's all she can think to do instead of crying.