The Final Perdition

Chapter Two: Against the Grain

A sense of calmness floated about the yellow mansion on Alberry Lane, though it seemed quite artificial. The man and woman inside were as unruffled as anyone would expect. That night was different somehow; and the family knew it.

They knew something was off, they knew something was...odd. They just didn't know what, and from the experiences they'd had in their life, they'd learned that half the time, it has nothing to do with them.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what the man and woman decided upon - silently. They did not deny their slight unease to each other.

Once they decided that nothing was amiss, they ignored the telltale signs of an intruder of any sort. They disregarded the faint thump outside the back door; they ignored the slight click of a door being shut.

They were too caught up with the giggling, pink-faced baby that was held in the woman's arms that they didn't see the long shadows cast upon the wall. They seemed to have disowned caution.

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The darkness of night was their only cover; the thing they were closest to. The shadowy figures moved slowly, precisely, stepping over thin sticks and going around considerably dry underbrush - anything to avoid observation by anyone or anything.

They were nearly silent in their advance on the yellow house that was a mere bulge silhouetted against the night sky. The white masks gleamed before the half moon, which shined down on them.

They moved behind the trees quickly, efficiently. Once they came within a few feet of the decorative lawn they paused and narrowed their eyes, roaming the still lawn.

They didn't say a word, merely guiding each other through hand movements. They gestured toward the backyard, where one apparently knew of another way in - and was correct. They found an unpainted portion of the back wall; where a brown, wooden door stood without a porch, only a small, narrow set of stairs to gain access through.

"Miserable old coot, isn’t he?" One of them whispered, and his brown eyes blinked heavily as the second one hissed a warning.

"Shut up, they'll hear us, Travers."

Travers shrugged, and stepped up the rickety wooden stairs, peeking through the diamond shaped window. He found an empty, bright red hallway with three doors, and a dull powder blue hallway rug.

"Nothing," He whispered to his companion, furrowing his brow. Travers slowly opened the door and stepped through. He cringed when the man behind him nearly fell from the stairs and made an awfully load thump as he caught himself. "Careful!"

The man didn't say anything, only glared through the white, impersonal mask that was bound to his head. Once they were inside and had shut the door as quietly as possible, they found the house reeked of stale hay and cedar.

Wrinkling their noses under their constricting masks, they crept through the hallway, glancing in the open doors. In one room was a baby bassinet with a blanket of flying snitches and bucking brooms draped over the rails. In another, there was an odd array of charmed fish swimming about the walls. Some were very pretty with colourful scales while others were thick jawed and bulky with teeth so huge they couldn't even close their mouths.

"Nutters, isn’t he?" Travers whispered, and his companion nudged him hard, earning himself a jab in the ribs. "Stop that, Dolohov, before I really do stab you."

"Then shut up," Dolohov snarled, barely catching Travers as he nearly stepped into the firelight of the sparse living room where two people sat on a couch tickling a young baby.

Dolohov seemed to have come to a crossroads; he found that the Dumbledore’s home was entirely to easy to break into, so there had to be a catch, perhaps a silent alarm. However, the man was mad and had possibly had thrown caution to the wind. However, he wouldn't rely on that; it was dangerous to be optimistic.

Travers didn't see things the same way as Dolohov, who was older than himself. He wanted only those three in the room to die horribly and quickly. He found himself pulled back into the hallway and into the child's bedroom.

"What's the plan, Travers?" Dolohov asked, staring at him through the even slits the mask provided.

"Plan? I'm the one with the plan now?" Travers asked, turning from Dolohov, who snorted.

"You're the one who’s always come up with the plans that work and you know it."

"Of course I know it, but that doesn't mean I'll do it. You come up with better ones, I just come up with the more...illogical ones." Travers seemed reluctant to admit what he was saying, as he glanced quickly back at a frown that he couldn't see.

"I know that, but Master only put us together because He's seen what we can do. He knows that we can do this right, and come away unscathed." Dolohov said, fingering the baby blanket. "Besides, the old coot should be easy - he doesn't know which way's up and which way's down."

"Too right," And Travers smiled underneath the restrictive mask, beads of sweat dripping from his cheeks. "I'll go for the baby while you distract the old man,"

"And the woman?"

"I'll get her too, she's not too old; she can't be very good with spells. We all know you're the better one with curses."

"True, but you did kill the Prewetts." Dolohov grinned beneath his mask, he'd always liked Travers, who seemed like a reliable person - well, as reliable as a fellow Death Eater can get.

"What I want you to do is distract the old man first, so I can get to the woman and child before he realizes what's happening," Travers said, turning to the door and opening it, leaving no time for Dolohov to ask how he was supposed to do that.

Eventually, Travers crept across the room, where the Dumbledores sat on the couch with their backs to the creeping man and their eyes lowered from the shadow that developed on the wall. When Travers was safely out of eyesight, Dolohov raised his wand and cast the spell for Confundus Charm.

When it hit the old man in the head, he fell from the couch with a dull thud and the woman let out a short cry before turning quickly to find Dolohov hunched by the kitchen door.

"Get out!" she screamed, her voice higher than normal with mild squeak. Before she even had her wand out of her pocket, Travers was casting 'Expelliarmus!' A bright red light flashed and the woman found herself head over feet on the floor, her wand skidding across the ground and resting in the hand of a dirty Death Eater.

Her right wrist twisted, she had enough sense to push her child as far from sight as possible, and that happened to be under the coffee table that blended with the floor.

"Get out!" she screamed again, standing up. The Death Eater was slowly approaching, both wands in his hands.

"You've no idea how long I've waited..." Travers whispered, barely audible, but the woman heard and she backed up, nearly tripping over the coffee table again. Travers cast a Confundus Charm on the woman, who staggered and blinked rapidly for a moment. During that time, Travers was able to reach the coffee table, where he was about to overturn it, when a soft body connected with his and he fell to the floor with a grunt.

It was then that he found wands didn't solve everything; the woman was kicking, screaming, scratching, biting, and pulling. Travers pushed her hard when a blinding pain exploded from his right eye. Falling on her rump, she was immediately air borne again and her hands curved in a claw, her teeth bared.

"Impedimenta!" The woman slowed considerably, her fingers still curved viciously and her teeth glittering in the lamplight. Just as Travers moved out of her way she went crashing into the floor as the jinx wore off. He heard a muffled yell to his right. Attempting to look over where he knew Dolohov had dragged the old man, he found it nearly impossible as the woman had gotten her fingernail into his eye and all her could see was red. A bright, ugly red.

The woman was struggling to stand, keeping a good eye on the baby basket underneath the coffee table.

When Travers turned his head, he found Dolohov rigid on the floor as a result of Petrificus Totalus, though it seemed as though it were a rather demented spell, as Dolohov began shaking uncontrollably, and suddenly a snap was heard. His arm was broken. The old man was now muttering 'Waddiwasi!’ He found the woman sitting up on the floor and, now taking notice of Travers and the old man, she was suddenly active again.

Nearing panic, Travers hurriedly raised the woman's wand. What had happened to Dolohov? He fumbled for the correct hold on the wand, it was slippery with sweat, but finally he managed to raise it correctly.

"Avada Kedav - " Travers heard a horrible whooshing sound that was similar to a waterfall suddenly happen in his ears, and then he found he couldn't feel anything and he could move anything. Travers felt suddenly vulnerable and lump in his throat as big as a walnut was forcing him to swallow consecutively. He felt nauseous. The whooshing sound was getting louder and the heat on his face was becoming unbearable. What had that old bastard done to him?

The woman watched as the Death Eater in front of jerked in a sporadic spasm, his hands shook and the wands fell to the floor. When Aberforth Dumbledore relaxed his hand, the man collapsed to the floor and for a moment, she thought he was only knocked out - at least until dark blood oozed from the eye-holes, nose, and mouth behind the mask. It came from anywhere possible, it escaped the mask and pooled onto the floor in a mass of ruby red liquid.

"Are you all right Demeter?"

"Yes...yes...." the woman mumbled, carefully, her heart filled with fear, she retrieved her wand from the floor and backed away was quickly as possible. "What did you do?"

His answer wasn't audible as a sudden thump was heard, and a slam of the door. Quickly, they turned and found the man that was lying on the floor was gone, only two small bits of gum in his place and a rocking, overturned white mask.

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The Master stared at the bleeding man before him, who had appeared shortly before. His mind raced through the possibilities that may have happened - perhaps the old man knew they were coming. This was absolutely preposterous, seeing as he wasn't a seer. Though...Dolohov had come back alone and shaking, his own spittle dribbling from his mouth and favouring his left arm. He had also somehow developed a limp.

"What is this?" Master snarled, motioning with his hands at the bloody mess that was pooling onto his Victorian rug.

"My Lord," Dolohov whispered, only managing a weak bow. "Dumbledore w-was...more overwhelming than we f-first thought. Tr - my companion is d-dead by some impossible c-curse, and... and the entire family unhar-unharmed."

The Master frowned, watching the dark haired man struggle with his breathing. His rasps were hollow, and he could see him struggle to draw a single breath.

"Unharmed?" the Master asked quietly. "You've not done your job, Dolohov."

"I - " Dolohov paused, his eyes widening, and suddenly his breathing stopped. The two other people in the room watched in fascination as Dolohov slowly gurgled himself to death. His own blood spilling from his mouth as his eyes rolled wildly. "He- hel..."

"Help? I think not, Dolohov, you've done nothing to deserve my help." The Master turned to the woman by his side. "Do make sure he's put in my chambers, Nyoka might like a feast."

The woman nodded immediately, her mouth forming what could only be described as a vicious snarl. She turned and, after murmuring a spell, left the room, a still clawing, gurgling, choking Dolohov floating silently behind her. Staring with glassy, horror-filled eyes at the Master.

How could this have happened? His only two good, reliable men were dead. Killed by the very same man they were sent to destroy. The Dumbledores were too much trouble; their ways needed to be set on the right path.

"Malfoy, has your eldest son ever spoken of Ademia Waters?" The man beside him turned to give a slight nod.

"Yes Master, he has." Malfoy said, his dark hair falling into his hazy eyes as he looked at the polished boots of his Master. "He has said that she was a workaholic, and strayed from the rules."

"I don't care about her, Malfoy." The Master snarled, leaning from his chair to stare menacingly at the startled face of Malfoy. "I want to know of her family. Is she very important to her brother and sister-in-law?"

"Oh - she is very close to her brother, and even closer to her sister-in-law, Master."

"Is that so?" The Master didn't wait for an answer. "I want you to destroy her - if you do not succeed in destroying her, then you will meet your fate from my hands."

"Y-yes, Master." Malfoy nodded before walking from the room, his own boots clicking rapidly on the floor.

The Master watched the dark-haired man exit - his thumb caressing the underside of his chin. Maybe, he thought, Malfoy would actually complete his mission.

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A crack echoed through the grounds of a small town in Scotland. Malfoy cringed.

“Stupid,” He muttered, before hunkering down into the bushes that surrounded the large, two story dark blue house. It was absolutely silent; the only proof of inhabitants, were the lights flickering in the rooms, the errant shadows passing over the curtained windows.

Malfoy frowned, gripping his 11 inch oak wand; he leaned further into he bushes, squinting. Was the man alone? The child? Was Ademia Waters there?

An owl hooted. Malfoy sat back on his haunches, and sighed. He wasn't made for the dirty work, how was he going to get into the house? Why the hell did Travers and Dolohov have to go and get themselves killed?

“Sons of bitches,” Malfoy muttered, looking at the leaf-covered ground in distaste. He’d have to crawl to avoid being detected by the Muggles that might just happen to walk past. A small town, yes, and that posed a problem. The residents weren’t afraid to venture out at dark for an evening stroll.

Taking a breath, Malfoy stared at the looming house, which seemed gloomy in the dark night. Passing clouds covered the moon and Malfoy wouldn’t be surprised if it started to rain.

Creeping on his bent knees and his hands, Malfoy slowly made his way on the outskirts of the yard, finally reaching the back. His hands were filthy, a branch had pulled off his hood, and there were twigs in his hair. He was going to kill Dolohov if he hadn’t already died by the time he got back.

None of the lights were on in the back of the house; it seemed whoever was home preferred to stay in the living room. Smirking, Malfoy crept silently towards the window on the right, which was cracked open. Thankful for the heated day earlier, Malfoy reached the window without so much as a crunch of dry twigs.

He put his hands on the rusty windows edges, and pushed. It opened, but not silently. A loud screeching sound came from the window’s rusty edges meeting even rustier tracks.

Cringing, Malfoy immediately dropped to the ground, leaning against the house, looking for a place to hide.

The only place was the swimming pool in front of him, whose top layer was covered with dirty, yellow and red leaves, and the stray, drowned bug. Making a face, Malfoy turned toward the garbage can, deciding that hiding behind it would be better than jumping in that filthy pool.

Nothing but crickets was heard for several minutes, that is, until light flooded the ground before the window. Heavy footsteps were heard, getting louder with each passing second. A head was shoved out the window; dusty brown hair and piercing blue eyes scanned the ground.

"What is it, Dad?" A child’s voice. Malfoy grinned, hoping that the light wouldn’t glint off his mask and catch the attention of the man who was obviously Ademia's husband, Darius Spink.

"Nothing, Ambrose. Go back into the living room." Darius didn't sound so sure, and Malfoy heard the light scampering feet he heard much too often in his own home when his youngest, Draven, was doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing.

After a moment, Darius pulled his head back into the room, shutting the window, and slowly walked out. The light flicking off after another silent moment that Darius was more than likely looking out the window.

Malfoy carefully left the safety of the garbage can and made towards the window in silence, hoping against all hope that Darius had gone to the living room as well. Though it would be just his luck if he were waiting at the door.

Pulling his wand out, Malfoy stood up straight to look through the closed window with a burst of courage. No one. Relieved, Malfoy slumped against the house with a sigh. It was luck.

Malfoy then decided that carefully opening the window was the best choice, and so he went to open the window, this time much slower, easing the rusty window open nearly all the way. Smirking with his accomplishment, Malfoy then hoisted himself up to the sill, slipping inside without so much as a sound.

Dusting off his dirt-covered robes, pulling his hood back up, and attempting to get the grass stains and dirt off his hands, he then glided towards the open door on silent feet. A trait he had inherited from his own father.

Sneaking a glance around the door frame, he found an ordinary stark white wall with a beige corded rug running along the hallway. A few framed pictures adorned the wall. He moved out into the hallway.

The people in the pictures glared at him and whispered amongst themselves, wondering who this intruder was. Malfoy hoped there were no pictures in the living room to tattle on him.

He walked along the corded rug until he reached the opening, which obviously led into a tiled kitchen. The white tiles gleamed even in the dark kitchen; the dark blue counters and the silver kitchenware seemed to glare at him in the dark. The various kitchen knives hanging from the circular magnetic piece of metal in the center of the main counter seemed to leer at him.

Shaking his head, Malfoy then had to walk even more slowly to get through the kitchen undetected upon the smooth, white tiles.

"Ambrose," Malfoy nearly fell into a stack of dishes sitting next to the sink. The voice was impossibly near. He wasn’t ready; Malfoy quickly pulled out his wand and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat the moment he climbed through that window. "Where did you put that book?"

Malfoy quickly scanned the counters, and with a groan, he found a book sitting on the center counter. Apparently, his luck had run out.

"Might as well," he said quietly to himself before he carefully pulled one of the kitchen knives down. A black shoed foot appeared first around the entrance into the kitchen, before a pair of black slacks, and then a powder blue button down shirt.

Malfoy chucked the knife at Darius as soon as he had his chest in sight. The startled look Darius gave the whistling knife widened when he saw the glossy white-masked man standing in his kitchen.

The knife made a sickening crunch as it impaled Darius' chest, pushing Darius back a few steps with its momentum. Darius gurgled for a moment, before clutching at the knife and falling to his knees.

His blue eyes wandered wildly around the room, the pupils had dilated and the blood poured over his quivering hands.

Malfoy grinned before pointing his wand at him, his fear was gone, leaving not a trace to be found.

"You always did deserve this, Spink. I’m going to enjoy this, and then I’m going to enjoy your son’s pitiful screams as I slowly kill him." Malfoy grinned sadistically as Darius seemed to become even more panicked and he attempted to control his tremulous hands enough to grasp his wand. "Oh no, I don't think so, Spink. Expelliarmus!"

The smooth, cottonwood wand spun from Darius, who was thrown into the beige cupboards behind him with a dull thud. Blood temporarily flowing out even faster from the wound in his chest. Blood spattered the once clean white tiles, staining his blue shirt and black pants.

Malfoy couldn’t help but feel victorious. He’d won, and he’d done it well. Darius
Spink was dying before his very eyes. But, where was his main target, Ademia Spink?

"Where is your bloody wife, Spink?" Malfoy growled, suddenly remembering what he was sent here for. He shouldn’t let petty grudges get in the way. Darius smiled, a trickle of blood seeping from the edges of his mouth. "Answer me!"

"Working, you son of a bitch." Darius spat, glaring at Malfoy with dull eyes. Malfoy could tell he was getting weaker. His blue eyes were darkening and his face was taking on a pasty complexion. The fact that he could barely keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds was also the telltale sign of losing consciousness.

Working. The woman was working. Malfoy growled. He should have known, the woman had always worked nonstop.

"Dad?" a soft, frightened voice from the entrance to the kitchen. Malfoy snapped his head up to glare at the boy in excitement. He’d forgotten about him. The boy was looking at the blood-covered floor and his dying father in what could only be described as cold fear and poorly concealed anger. It was obvious he’d been standing there for quite some time.

“Ambrose,” Darius managed to sputter, looking fearfully at Malfoy. "Run away, Ambrose. Run."

"But dad - "

"Run!" Darius snarled, Ambrose looked momentarily surprised, but after giving Malfoy a fleeting glare, he still didn’t manage to get out of the kitchen before Malfoy cast, "Petrificus Totalus!"

Ambrose stopped dead and face-planted in the hallway with a loud, sickening crunch that clearly stated he broke his nose. Darius looked absolutely forlorn, he glared with all that was left of him at Malfoy, who grinned right back at him.

"Well, you’re in a mess, aren’t you Spink? What’s your wife going to think when she comes home to a dead family? The anguish alone very well might kill her, not that I wouldn’t mind. Less work for me, you see." Malfoy said idly, spinning his wand in his hands. Darius only glared at him, his entire shirt was soaked with blood now. "Crucio!"

Darius immediately went into convulsions, a dull scream echoing from his mouth as he flopped like a fish out of water. Even his mouth gaped for air. After a moment Malfoy mumbled "Finite Incantatem!"

"Now, that just isn’t fun anymore." Malfoy said, sighing as if it were a tragedy.
Darius merely slumped to the floor, his eyes staring at the ceiling without feeling; the slow rise of his chest was the only evidence of survival. "Excorio!"

The effect was immediate, Darius’ nearly closed eyes popped open and he let out a bloodcurdling scream, Malfoy clearly didn’t think he had it in him as he took a step back.

Darius immediately went into action, clutching and scratching at his now bleeding head, a pile of bloody scalp lying on the floor next to him. It was obvious he’d lost too much blood, as the red liquid merely seemed to wash over Darius' face as if he’d just slowly poured water over his head.

His mouth open in a permanent howl, Malfoy frowned and pointed his wand at him once again. It was getting annoying. "Sepelio Ipseme!"

The scream that had just previously reverberated through the large house was silenced. Instead, Darius' eyes bulged to point of popping out of their sockets, and his chest seemed to swell as if he’d been stuffed with cotton. His body rose slowly off the floor with the pressure of attempting to lift himself off the bloodied tile.

The blood that flowed from his chest was slowing, his blood-covered skull gleamed in much the same fashion as the knives that still sat on the metal revolver above Malfoy's head. Malfoy watched in satisfaction as Darius started to tremble with the pressure rising inside his body. Malfoy had always preferred to use this spell on his enemies. Self-destruction at its best.

A sudden, brief bulge in his stomach, and Darius lay still on the blood-covered floor. His head flopped to the side, his still protruding eyes staring lifelessly off to the side. His stomach was bloated with the ruptured organs, and no doubt, his brain wasn’t in any better shape.

Malfoy turned toward the boy, a smirk lilting his lips. He was enjoying this.

"Enervate!" The boy stirred, turning wildly around, attempting to get a glimpse of his father. A stifled scream. Ambrose hurried over to his father, his six-year-old body quivering with the tears that left his eyes freely. A fierce glare of hate and fear directed towards Malfoy. It seemed as if the boy was oblivious to the ruined state of his father, and he clutched at him as if the body were a security blanket.

"Get away! Get away! Get away!" the boy screamed hysterically, gripping the knife that was still imbedded in his father chest, and pulled it out viciously with a spurt of blood. Malfoy blinked as the boy clumsily chucked it at him; his eyes clenched shut, his mouth open in an angry cry. The knife missed him by three feet, and Malfoy smiled.

"Well, no need to be angry, Ambrose. I merely did you a favor. You didn’t really want to read that book, did you? Or can you read?" Malfoy asked cynically, before stepping through the large pool of blood that covered all of the white tiles that had gleamed up at him. Ambrose merely backed away from his father in fear, hitting the wooden cabinet behind him.

“Get away!” he screamed again, the effort of it forcing him to shut his eyes. Malfoy managed to look insulted, though Ambrose couldn’t see anything but his eyes, which were looking at him coolly.

A door slammed shut. Malfoy snapped his head up and narrowed his eyes. Ademia was home. Voices. Obviously not alone. The boy had obviously heard a scuffle before he came to the kitchen, and apparently the Spinks had a method of security and told their son.

Malfoy felt a stab of fear slowly slid through his veins like a spiders web, he stood and looked around the kitchen, before sneering at the boy and hurrying down the hall that he’d come from. Out of sight, out of mind.

Ademia, a lithe woman, hurried into the kitchen. Her scream wasn’t stifled. Three men in Auror robes appeared behind her, one of them caught her as she backed hurriedly away from the gruesome mess that was her kitchen. Her son was bathed in her husband’s blood.

One of the men bent down to inspect Darius’ body, the other picked up Ambrose and took him from the room, along with Ademia, who was shrieking, tears flooding her cheeks.

"My dear Circe," The one crouched on the floor muttered, the second glanced over his shoulder. "That's not natural."