Rabastan could already hear the screams echoing in his head as the nefarious duo shifted through the dark terrain. He envisioned the blood that would soon be pooling at his feet and fear present in the air stark as the night before them. It brought a devilish twist of a smile to his lips—one that would only continue to grow as as the two brothers set forth on what they deemed their personal playground for the evening.
When the wizard received word of what they were to do, to say he was delighted would be an understatement. He was exhilarated. It was pure heart-racing, adrenaline-pumping ecstasy—like achieving the perfect high without consuming any of the mood-enhancing potions or other controlled substances he was so dependent on. Of course, he didn’t stop there—a simple high would not suffice ( the wizard always had a high tolerance anyways ). Rabastan Lestrange never settled for sobriety like some never dare settle for anything deemed good enough. He always had to aim for the bigger prize—anything shinier and more intoxicating than what he had his current sights set on, and tonight’s mission provided him ample opportunity for just that.
He derived great pleasure from the sentiment that he and Rodolphus were bestowed this task of vital importance. He was convinced it was because they were the only ones capable of its flawless execution. If they were to deliver a message then they would put on a show—spelling out deliverances in skeleton bones and whatever ash remained in ruin after they finished burning this desolate city to the ground. The whole place was disgusting—and hardly quaint, as many of the town-folks probably felt among their ordinary land of magic-less swine. It would burn—they all would, the violent reminder thoroughly reiterated itself in his head over and over again. It wasn’t enough to simply make an example and mockery out of this muggle-loving abomination they traveled up the winding beaten path in search of. Instead it would be one of their greatest works of art yet. After all, art is subjective to the beholder, is it not?
Rabastan always had a flair for the dramatics—both of the broad-shouldered and proud-chested Lestrange wizards did. It was in their DNA, as was their destiny to claim what was rightfully theirs; making their dominion known and enemies cower at the sound of their names. Who would dare use magic in such vain? To steal it from those dictated worthy by royal bloodlines and holiest decrees, then lie and deny? Rabastan begged to meet this duplicitous soul—to string him up by his toes and have his way with him like a ragged whore ran sideways. The sinner’s punishment would fit the crime and he would be purged with fire along with the rest of the filth. He reckoned Rodolphus would also want to be endowed a similar honor and ultimately knew it didn’t matter whose mercy the savage was at so long as one of them completed the sacramental kill.
Tightly grasping the newly fashioned wand between long fingertips, the wizard noted how well it fit in the structure of his hand. His brother’s handy-work was immaculate. There was an illuminating aura to it—one that immediately provoked hunger and drew demons from his eyes. It was impossible to ignore the way it spoke to him, whispering sweet threats and other death laden promises. Rabastan was already imagining the umpteen different ways he could pawn it off to some unsuspecting git picked off the streets of Knockturn Alley. That was, if Rodolphus didn’t stake his claim back on it once this was all said and done. That wasn’t tonight’s priority though and Rabastan decided he would only cross that bridge if he ever actually arrived at it.
“ No need to tell me twice, ” Rabastan said, the notion of a smirk disappearing from his face as he secured his own moonstone-silver mask. The anti-appapparation charm his brother cast was ideal for what he had planned next—he could already feel the uncontrolled heat seeping from his palms in anticipation. “ See you on the other side of victory, brother, ” he finished before the tail of robes black as night fluttered off into the nearest structure. There was a brief rigamarole—the kicking of a door, smashing of some glass, and an apparent murderous scream cut short as a dark spew of magic ejected from the cocobolo wand now sharply focused in on the family of five inside the first crooked cobblestone house of his choosing.
Rabastan saw the killing of these muggles to be less about sport and more about their duty as pure-blooded wizards. There was nothing fun about it—muggles were so fucking boring ( not to mention utterly useless and a huge waste of space ). They just cried and screamed; begging and bargaining for their miserable lives as if they were worth more than the scum on the bottom of his shoes. Rabastan was the type who liked to play with his food before taking it to slaughter, but that was not the case here. They practically flopped over on their sides for him as if he would suddenly take pity and depart. It was easier than he’d prefer, but that was all about to change.
Exiting the house, a plum of smoke emerged behind him. There was no motion from his wand or words exchanged from his lips. Instead he dug into the pocket of his cloak to reveal a small handmade device, which he tossed as he made a flashy exit and barred the doors to prevent those who were still alive from escaping. Within a matter of seconds, the cylinder burst and their shrill cries could be heard on the other side of the door. He noted the desperation in their tones; the anxiety and denial echoing in the background as their demise grew closer. His dark eyes fell to the pavement, taking this moment of serenity to revel in his own handy-work as a glowing liquid began oozing from beneath the door. He continued watching—beaming with satisfaction as it fell through the cracks in the foundation and merged with the dirt. It didn’t take long for the flammable potion to erupt before his eyes, detonating an earth-shaking roar that would surely alert the rest of the town to its upcoming doom and unleashing utter pandemonium in their wake.
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