The Marauders: Year Seven Part Two

An Enemy Made

A ghostly green skull hung in the night sky over a home south of London. Aside from the twinkling sparks overhead, there was nothing else to give any evidence that something had happened there. The lights in the windows all glowed warmly, and there was even a bit of music drifting out of an old fashioned record player, the dulcet tones of Celestina Warbeck's latest track too peppy for the scene.

Osmond Clarke stood in the doorway of the sitting room, hand pressed against the wall in an effort to stay standing, and stared down at the carpet, where his wife lay, motionless. If the dark mark had not hung over the house, he might have thought she had fallen asleep, perhaps playing with their new baby. Except that in addition to the glowing green skull and snake in the stars above, Katie Clarke's mouth hung slack and her eyes were wide with fear and surprise. She was dead.

Osmond staggered into the room, stepping over the paper sacks of groceries he'd dropped on the floor upon entering the house. Egg whites oozed from their broken shells, the yolks running into the carpet. Osmond stepped 'round the couch that stood between him and Katie's prone body, and he grabbed onto it with shaking hands as he saw the baby, laying as dead as his mother, face-down on the carpet beside her. Osmond's knees gave way, and he fell to them, covering his mouth with his trembling hands, hot tears soaking his cheeks as he choked on a gasping, anguished breath.

"No," he bleated miserably. His voice cracked. "No. Katie... Evan... No."

"S'what happens to filthy muggle-lovers," came a rasping, horrible voice from behind Osmond. "Pureblood marrying muggle filth; oil don't mix with water, Clarke."

Turning quickly, Osmond grappled for his wand, drawing it from his pocket and only just managing to duck before being hit with a stunner. The jet of red sparks struck the fireplace and the mantle broke apart, bits of wood flew up into the air, and tiny figurines fell to the ground, shattering. A beautiful wood cuckoo clock that had belonged to Osmond's gran broke apart, too, the bird cuckooing its last as it took flight.

Antonin Dolohov blasted the couch, then the coffee table, and a large chest filled with blankets, as Osmond scrambled, trying to hide long enough to regain his balance and collect himself. He dove recklessly into the next room, somersaulting across the carpet and 'round the table. Dolohov's wand raked the air harshly, sending the chairs off to smash against the wall one at a time as he growled menacingly. Osmond managed to throw himself over the island counter into the kitchen, fell to the linoleum, and hurrying to his feet, crouched behind the counter, and listening for Dolohov to step into the dining room. Osmond was near to holding his breath, his back pressed to the counter drawers.

"C'mon out, Clarke," murmured Dolohov lowly, his voice rough and sinister, "Only I want to send you on to see your filthy muggle wife again." Osmond could hear the heavy steps as Dolohov crossed the dining room, the floor creaking in all the places it always had, the sounds he had learned over the years when he and Katie had made this place a home. He waited, counting the steps until Dolohov was close enough to strike, his wand clenched tight in his fist. There it was - the creak of the floorboard at the close end of the table. Now or never.

Osmond Clarke threw himself into motion, leaping up to his feet and jabbing his wand in Dolohov's direction with a bellowed incantation: "STUPEFY!"

Dolohov reacted quickly, blocking the stunner and retaliating with a slash of his own wand, a magenta-colored stream of sparks slashed across Osmond like a whip, hissing like a firecracker's ascent as it sliced over his chest, knocking him backward so that he fell to the floor, slamming into the cabinets and sliding onto the linoleum. His body felt like rubber, and his heart clenched inside of him, and his chest was tight as though caught up in a heavy fist that seemed to squeeze the very breath out of him.