A Dangerous Encounter

“What are we doing here, Lucius?” Francis Crabbe grumbled, his voice muffled by the Death Eater mask. The group of cloaked figures stood huddled on a quiet Muggle street, the faint hum of streetlights the only sound in the still night.

Lucius Malfoy turned toward him, his silver mask glinting faintly under the dim glow. “We are going to attack that house today,” he said, pointing to a modest brick house with white shutters and a carefully maintained garden.

Nott shifted uneasily, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you out of your mind? The Dark Lord has expressly forbidden public attacks. He doesn’t want anyone knowing of his return until his army is ready. You think disobeying his orders is wise?”

Lucius dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. “The Dark Lord won’t care,” he said coldly. “We’re only targeting Muggles. We’ll kill them quickly and leave without casting the Dark Mark. No one will be any the wiser.”

Nott’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. Beside him, Goyle stepped forward, his deep voice grating. “What’s so special about this family, Lucius? Why risk breaking the Dark Lord’s orders for some random Muggles?”

Lucius’s eyes gleamed behind his mask as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Because this is the house of Hermione Granger.”

The group fell silent, the name lingering in the air like a curse.

The name Hermione Granger was familiar to every Death Eater with children at Hogwarts. Year after year, she had been a thorn in their side, a constant reminder that their centuries-old beliefs of pureblood superiority were no more than a fragile illusion.

For every test day at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger scored top marks. Not just top marks—perfect marks. It was humiliating for the heirs of noble families, raised with the belief that their bloodlines granted them unparalleled power and intelligence, to be overshadowed by a Muggle-born witch.

“She thinks she’s better than Purebloods,” Nott muttered darkly, breaking the tense silence.

“She is better than most of you,” Lucius sneered, though his tone held no admiration. “That is the problem. Her very existence at Hogwarts has undermined everything we stand for. For every time she bested Draco, for every time her intelligence surpassed ours, she made a mockery of us all. She has shown our children that power does not lie in blood alone, and that… is unacceptable.”

“Hermione Granger?” Crabbe echoed, his tone a mix of surprise and confusion. “That Mudblood friend of Potter’s?”

Lucius’s lips curled into a sneer. “Not just Potter’s friend. She’s his brain, his strength. And more importantly, she’s a symbol. The perfect Mudblood—a filthy creature who thinks she’s the equal of purebloods. Killing her parents will send a message.”

Goyle shifted uneasily. “But she’s not even here, is she? She’s at Hogwarts.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Lucius snapped. “Killing her family will shatter her spirit. It will show Potter and all his allies that no one they care for is safe. Not even in the safety of the Muggle world.”

Nott crossed his arms, still unconvinced. “And if the Dark Lord finds out?”

Lucius stepped forward, his voice hard as steel. “The Dark Lord will not find out unless you tell him. And if you do, Nott, I’ll make sure your punishment is far worse than his wrath.”

The group exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to argue further. Lucius turned sharply toward the house, his wand slipping into his hand like a serpent uncoiling. “Let’s proceed. Quickly and cleanly. No mistakes.”

“Remember,” Lucius continued, his wand now gripped tightly in his pale hand, “we do this swiftly. No Dark Marks, no signature spells. We leave no trail for the Aurors or the Order to follow. By the time anyone realizes what has happened, we will be long gone.”

The Death Eaters advanced toward the modest Muggle house. Its lights were off, the family within blissfully unaware of the danger lurking just outside their door.

For Lucius and the others, this was not just an act of violence—it was a statement. A warning to anyone who dared challenge the old order.

The Death Eaters moved with a practiced precision born from years of terrorizing Muggle homes. This wasn’t their first assault, and for many of them, it wouldn’t be the last.

“Crabbe, Nott,” Lucius ordered with a sharp flick of his wand, “cover the back. No one escapes.”

The two nodded silently and disappeared into the shadows, their cloaks billowing as they circled around to the rear of the Granger house. The remaining five stood before the front door, their wands drawn, their masks hiding expressions of grim determination.

“Ready yourselves,” Lucius commanded, his voice cold and devoid of hesitation.

Raising his wand, he whispered, “Bombarda Maxima.”

The spell hit the door with a deafening roar, blowing it apart into splinters that scattered across the foyer. The sound echoed through the quiet suburban street, though Muggle homes remained dark, their inhabitants blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding next door.

Almost immediately, the faint crash of wood breaking at the back of the house signaled that Crabbe and Nott had forced their way inside. The Death Eaters moved in tandem, stepping into the house like shadows converging.

The Granger home was eerily still, save for the distant hum of an electric appliance. The living room lay just beyond the foyer, tidy and warm, with bookshelves lining the walls and family photos on the mantel. Everything about it spoke of a life filled with love and order—everything the Death Eaters despised.

Lucius surveyed the scene with disdain. “Search the house. They must be here somewhere,” he hissed.

The group split up, fanning out into the modest home. Bellatrix Lestrange moved with a gleeful bounce in her step, her maniacal laughter barely contained as she tore through bookshelves and cabinets. Dolohov and Goyle checked the kitchen and dining area, while Lucius ascended the staircase, his boots echoing against the polished wood.

From the back of the house came the sound of Crabbe and Nott’s heavy footsteps as they searched the rear rooms.

“Where are you, filthy Muggles?” Bellatrix sang mockingly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

Upstairs, Lucius pushed open a bedroom door, his wand casting long shadows across the walls. A bed sat neatly made, the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. Family photos adorned the bedside table—a young Hermione smiling between her parents, all of them blissfully unaware of the horrors that now surrounded them.

“Lucius!” Goyle’s voice boomed from downstairs. “They’re not here!”

Lucius’s jaw clenched as he descended the staircase, his icy gaze sweeping over the group.

“They’re hiding,” he spat. “They must be nearby. Find them!”

Bellatrix cackled, raising her wand. “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find them! And when we do, I’ll carve my name into their flesh as a reminder to their darling daughter of who they dared to challenge!”

The atmosphere in the Granger household shifted from tense silence to something far more dangerous. The Death Eaters, who had been in full control only moments ago, froze in shock as the voice came from the attic—a man’s voice, calm and cold, cutting through the chaos with unnerving clarity.

"Shut up, all of you," the voice barked. "My wife is trying to sleep."

Lucius Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and the other Death Eaters shifted uneasily as the man descended from a narrow staircase hidden at the back of the attic. His movements were measured, confident, and with each step, the tension in the room grew.

What was most shocking of all was the wand in his hand—an ordinary-looking wand, but one that exuded an aura of power and control. It was clear to the Death Eaters that this man was no Muggle. He was a wizard, and one who knew how to use his magic.

The man reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes scanning the intruders in the living room, pausing for a long moment on Lucius Malfoy.

“I’ll give you ten seconds to leave my property," he said in a voice as cold as the winds outside. "Or I will bury you here, on the same property.”

Lucius blinked in disbelief. The sheer audacity of the man left him momentarily speechless. A wizard, clearly no stranger to danger, was standing before them—and the man’s stance spoke volumes. He wasn’t afraid. Not one bit.

“I’m sorry,” Lucius began, his tone tinged with anger and confusion. “Is this the house of Hermione Granger?”

The man, unfazed, nodded slowly. “Oh, yes, it is. She is my daughter.”

The room went silent for a heartbeat. The Death Eaters, standing in the wreckage of the Granger home, exchanged looks of astonishment. Hermione Granger, the Mudblood they had despised for years, had a father—a wizard.

“I thought she was a Mudblood,” Nott sneered under his breath, but the man heard it.

The wizard’s eyes narrowed. His wand hand remained steady, and his voice was dangerously calm. “Five seconds up, Nott. And five more to go. Do you want to die, or do you want to leave?”

There was a pause—a long, pregnant silence in which the Death Eaters seemed to realize they had underestimated this man, this father, far more than they ever should have.

And then Bellatrix Lestrange, always unpredictable, always eager for violence, snapped.

Without warning, she raised her wand, her cackle echoing in the room. “You dare threaten us?!” she shrieked, her madness overtaking all reason. “Avada—”

The room seemed to freeze in time as Bellatrix Lestrange’s curse was cut off mid-incantation. Her body was ripped apart with the flick of the man’s wand, torn into hundreds of pieces in an instant. The sight was grotesque—too horrific for words. Bellatrix, once a powerful and terrifying figure, was no more than a scatter of mangled flesh and broken bone, her lifeless form barely recognizable on the floor. The Death Eaters recoiled in shock, their eyes wide as they stared at the gruesome display.

The man stood tall in the center of the room, his wand still pointed at the spot where Bellatrix had fallen. His face was emotionless, his stance unwavering. The air was thick with tension, the silence almost suffocating. Not one of the Death Eaters dared to move, their confidence shattered in an instant.

Lucius Malfoy, his face pale under his mask, was the first to react, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. It was as though the room itself had pressed the air from his lungs.

Then, with a sudden movement, the man flicked his wand again—this time with a swift, deliberate motion. The entire room seemed to tremble in response. The walls seemed to vibrate, and the air itself felt charged, crackling with energy. Without warning, a massive burst of lightning erupted from the man’s wand, shooting out in a jagged arc that split the room like a thunderclap.

The lightning surged with raw power, coursing through the bodies of the Death Eaters faster than they could react. The pain was excruciating—a searing, burning shock that rattled their bones and turned their blood to ice. Their bodies convulsed uncontrollably as the lightning flowed through them like electricity through wires, leaving them writhing on the floor in agony.

Each Death Eater screamed as their muscles spasmed violently, the pain too overwhelming to put into words. They tried to raise their wands, but their hands trembled uncontrollably, their limbs too stiff to move. Their bodies were locked in place, helpless to do anything but scream as the lightning coursed through them.

Lucius, his hair standing on end and his skin alight with the glow of the energy, fought to remain conscious, his eyes wide with horror. “W-What—what is this?” he gasped, his voice strained and desperate.

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The force of the lightning made it clear enough: there was nothing the Death Eaters could do to stop him. They were like ants before a raging storm—powerless, insignificant, and completely at his mercy.

In the chaos, Dolohov collapsed first, his body jerking one last time before going completely limp, his eyes wide and unseeing. Then Nott fell, his mouth agape in a silent scream, his body twitching uncontrollably. Goyle and Crabbe were next, their heavy frames slumping to the ground with a thud as they succumbed to the shock.

Only Lucius Malfoy remained upright, though barely. His body was racked with spasms, his face contorted in a silent scream, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He struggled to maintain his composure, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand, but it was clear that his will was slipping.

“Enough,” the man said, his voice low and commanding, as though this was all beneath him. He raised his wand once more, and the lightning ceased. The air returned to its normal, oppressive silence.

Lucius collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his body twitching weakly as the aftershocks of the lightning faded. He looked up at the wizard, his eyes filled with fear and disbelief. “Who... who are you?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the defeated Death Eaters around him. He was calculating, cold—like a predator surveying its prey.

The man stood tall, his eyes cold and unwavering as he stared down at the fallen Death Eaters. Lucius, still trembling on the floor, understood now. He had never encountered this level of power before—never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that any wizard, much less a man he had assumed to be a harmless father, would possess such a deadly force.

"I gave you ten seconds," the stranger said quietly, his voice low but carrying a weight that shook the very air around them. "You should have listened." He stepped forward, his wand now held with an almost casual ease, as if dealing with Death Eaters were as mundane as swatting flies.

Lucius, his body still convulsing from the aftershocks of the lightning, could hardly form coherent thoughts. His mind was spinning, and his heart raced in fear. "Please... don't kill us," he gasped, his voice hoarse. "Don't kill me," he begged, his pride shattered in the face of overwhelming terror.

But he merely shook his head. "It's too late for mercy, Mr. Malfoy." He flicked his wand again, and with a swift, effortless movement, he raised it over the fallen Death Eaters.

Lucius's last thought was one of regret, but there was no time for that. With a sharp, merciless gesture, Mr. Granger's wand flared to life once more.

One by one, their heads were severed cleanly from their bodies with a single flick of his wand. The sound of each beheading echoed through the room, filling the space with a finality that struck the remaining Death Eaters like a cold, hard reality. There would be no more attacks, no more plotting, no more muggle hunting.

Lucius’s body, now lifeless on the floor, was the last to fall. His head rolled away from his shoulders with a sickening thud, his mask still eerily in place, even in death. The rest of the Death Eaters, too, were reduced to nothing more than corpses, their bodies scattered around the room in a gruesome tableau of their failed mission.

Mr. Granger stood still for a long moment, the tip of his wand still glowing faintly from the magic he had unleashed. The room was deathly quiet, save for the soft, distant sound of a clock ticking somewhere upstairs.

He took a deep breath, his face unreadable. His expression was not one of satisfaction, nor triumph, but something more akin to resignation.

With a flick of his wand, the remnants of the chaos outside and inside his house vanished, leaving the area eerily calm. The bodies and dismembered heads of the Death Eaters disappeared, their forms dissolving into the air with a soft, whispered pop, leaving nothing but a faint trace of dark magic lingering in the atmosphere. He muttered another incantation, and the house slowly began to repair itself—broken windows mended, walls stitching back together, furniture righting itself as though nothing had happened at all.

The faint sound of popping noises from outside reached his ears as members of the Order of the Phoenix Apparated onto the scene. The door knocked suddenly, and his wand, which had been at the ready in his hand, vanished quickly. Because he recognized the figure standing at the door immediately.

"Mr. Granger," Arthur Weasley said, stepping inside with his wand drawn pointing it directly at him. Arthur had met Mr. Granger on several occasions before, though never under such dramatic circumstances. "When was the first time we met?"

He's still trying to process the surreal nature of the events, glanced over at Arthur and gave a thin smile. "You helped me convert pounds to wizard coins, if I recall correctly," he said, trying to maintain a sense of calm that he didn’t quite feel.

Arthur smiled back, but his eyes were still filled with concern. "Mr. Granger, are you alright?" he asked, looking around the now-repaired home, trying to make sense of the situation. "We heard there were some rogue wizards in the locality."

He hesitated for a moment. He felt the weight of the lie he was about to tell, but he couldn’t risk Arthur or anyone from the Order knowing what had really happened here. "I’m alright," he said, his voice steady. "I didn’t see any wizards."

Arthur's brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, he seemed unconvinced. But with the constant threat of rogue Death Eaters lurking nearby, he let the matter drop—for now. "Well, if you say so," Arthur replied. "Stay alert, just in case. You never know when they’ll try something."

As Arthur turned to leave, more pops echoed in the air as members of the Order Apparated away, heading back to their respective posts. One by one, they disappeared, leaving the house quiet once more. But He could feel the unease lingering in the air, the sense that something else was at play.

It was then that the last wizard remaining stepped forward, slipping silently into the house. He looked at the man, surprised. The man was tall, dark-haired, and exuded an aura of quiet authority. He looked familiar, though he couldn’t immediately place him.

"You forgot something," the man said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, as he bent down to collect two wands from the ground—ones that he hadn’t seen before.

"How many were here?" the man asked, turning back to him with a piercing gaze.

"Seven," he replied, his voice steady despite the remnants of his earlier adrenaline still pulsing in his veins.

"Any of them alive?" The man’s question was almost casual, but his expression suggested he didn’t expect any survivors.

He shook his head. "No."

The man smiled, a curious gleam in his eyes. The man extended a hand, and he took it, surprised by the firm, unyielding grip of the handshake.

"I am Sirius Black," the man introduced himself, his smile widening just slightly, as if amused by the whole situation.

"Albert Grindelwald,"