We moved like a blade through smoke and shouting, three of us in a practiced line: Snape at my flank, silent and sure; Barty Crouch, eager and sharp; Lucius behind us like polished iron. The streetlights threw our shadows long and thin across stone, and somewhere in the distance a siren was already singing.
The Aurors met us with the blunt professionalism of men who had been trained to expect monsters and to deny them mercy. The Order stood not far off — younger, keener, their faces lit by righteous light. They were not yet the bearers of history; they were raw, burning with conviction. It made them dangerous.
The fight broke like thunder. Spells flew in bright, obscene arcs, splitting air and brick. I moved through it with the calm of a man who has practiced this choreography for years: a disarming hex here, a pushing wind there, a blast to shatter someone's line of sight. Snape's dark, precise work carved openings where there had been none; Barty threw himself into the gaps with the kind of fanaticism that delights in proof; Lucius kept the flanks tidy, removing obstacles with a single, measured curse.
I tested a new refinement of an old killing charm — not for cruelty, but for speed. It cleaved through three opposing wards in a single, terrible arc; three men dropped where they stood. The moment hung heavy with consequence, then slid into motion: the others backed, regrouped, shouted, and returned fire.
A side wall groaned; the building was an old thing, the mortar weary. I sent a focused blast at its base, an excavation charm that turned structure to ruin in a heartbeat. Stone collapsed in an avalanche that buried a struggling foe beneath dust and rubble. I had no taste for useless cruelty — the effect was tactical, not theatrical — but the law of necessity is harsh.
An Order member lunged at me with a feral, indignant cry. I met him with a cutting spell I have taken care to perfect: it slices through binding wards and armor, a tool made for removing threats cleanly. He fell—struck down and incapacitated—life extinguished by the brutality of combat, not by spectacle. There was no flourish, no relish from me. Only the necessary cold of a hand doing what the hand must.
Then, in the corner of my awareness, everything shifted. A Phoenix flare — a single pulse of light and sound the world knows too well. Dumbledore's arrival. The air changed as if the sky had drawn a breath; the echoes of our conflict sharpened like the sound of glass finding its edge.
I made a decision. We had taken what we came for; we had shown force; we had sent a message. But Dumbledore was not merely another opponent. Our last meeting had taught me that he was a variable that could not be taken lightly. Pride and recklessness are dangerous luxuries; with him on the field, illusions of control evaporated.
"Retreat," I ordered, and my voice was the knife against hesitation. The Death Eaters melted back into the alleys they knew like foxes slipping through undergrowth. We dissolved into the city's bones before Dumbledore could place the next measure of his fury.
He arrived to a scene of dust and ruin and to men tending to the wounded. His presence bent the air; his eyes cut scars in the chaos. I tasted the inevitable: the escalation, the turning of attention, the sharpening of every instrument in his hand.
We had won a night and lost a public calm. That is war. We had pushed, we had shown strength, and we had retreated when the balance of risk demanded it. Back at the manor, I scrubbed the grit from my hand and felt the old, dull ache of consequence settle into my bones.
Dumbledore remained the anomaly — a blade I could blunt but could not break, a conscience that could not be bought with medals or softened with smoke. Tonight proved as much. We had struck hard; we had not been destroyed. That is all one can ask of a successful raid.
Outside the window, London breathed and the city did not yet collapse. Inside, plans rearranged themselves. The war unfolded not merely in spell and slogan, but in small, clear, inevitable adjustments. We would learn. We would adapt.
And when next we met on some shattered street or in some smoking ruin, I would make certain that the cost of opposing me would be counted in far more than just the hours of the night.