Schrödinger's Lestrange (lupusmalus) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-07-23 12:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1979-07] july, ! npc, marlene lupin (née mckinnon), rodolphus lestrange |
Who: Rodolphus Lestrange, & NPC'd Douglas, Leonie, Harlan, and Felicity McKinnon
What: Murder.
When: Wednesday 23 July
Where: McKinnon family home
Status: Complete.
Rating: R for violence, nothing especially squicky.
Little had Rodolphus known when assigning deaths the previous week how the tides of fate would change; little had he known how deeply grief would strike him with the death of his (albeit sick) immutable father. Grief quickly became anger, however, and anger quickly became an insatiable thirst for revenge.
Tonight he would be sated.
Tonight would be more than just retribution for speaking out against What Was Right - it would be retribution for his suffering, for daring to force him to feel. It would be a catharsis. It would be his healing. He desired more than anything to feel bones snap beneath his palms, to feel the last shuddering breaths of those who had wronged him. Them. Us. Though he did not lay claim to the greatest rationality this night (another unwanted, unwelcome, uncomfortable feeling), he prepared with a brutal certainty. He was ready to murder in cold blood, and by God if he was going to feel something tonight, it would be enjoyment. Satisfaction. Victory.
Harlan McKinnon had never been a fan of Wednesdays. True, there was the whole Hump Day nickname that still made him snicker a bit (emotional maturity of a twelve year old, that boy), but Wednesdays especially had fallen into a disgustingly tedious bit of routine since the event known as "the accident" (which his parents called it, speaking in hushed tones while avoiding his eye). Dad would go to work, mum would make sure he was up before 10 and would sit him in his chair along with her in the garden like he was some sort of wheelchair bound prop or gargoyle or something while he flipped through comic books or drew. She claimed the "fresh air" was good for him. Harlan claimed that was bullshit. Around noon Felicity would drag her messy-haired self out of bed, they'd play chess, she'd invite over her friend Debbie -- who was unfairly attractive for only being sixteen years old -- and he'd read or find some sort of other boring way to pass the time until his dad got home from work at six. They'd eat dinner, Felicity would disappear into her bedroom, his parents into theirs -- Harlan hoped to everything holy that they were just "talking" while they were in there, rather than doing something else (he really did not need anymore siblings) -- and he would have the entire lower level of the house to himself for the rest of the night.
It wasn't preferable, but it was the way that things were, and he could deal with that. Plus he'd taught himself how to pop wheelies in his chair, which someday, someday Harlan was convinced would impress someone besides himself. Leaving his wireless blasting loud enough to where he was sure his parents were about to come downstairs to have a "discussion" with him, Harlan rolled himself out of his bedroom, through the living room and into the kitchen, searching out food and possibly something with alcohol in it.
Rodolphus had Gideon Prewett to thank for the ease of his entrance into the McKinnons' house - and though there was some ironic humour in that, Rodolphus did not appreciate it. He would gladly have traded his father's life back for all the ward detectors, or whatever Corbina had labelled this contraption he held in his hand, in the world. It was interesting how a person could get so attached to a bitter, vicious old man, but he refused to reflect on it, even if deep down he was grateful that his sister might finish up her young adulthood with fewer bruises than she might have otherwise. He'd already earned his scars, and whether it was his brand of affection or his familial duty, Rodolphus had loved his father. And now he was gone.
Anger welled up in him again, unbidden, and it made breaking through the wards, now detectable, even easier (it was amazing what power rage could imbue the body with). The weak point was where he entered, and it took him just outside the kitchen, in which he could hear movement. He sidestepped around the house, ignoring the muggles that passed obliviously by; he was unsettlingly agile for a man of his size, and he kept to the wall (beneath the windows) as he made for the front door, careful only because he could be recognised (tonight's vengeance would be unmasked) and if any escaped it would mean consequences. Reckless self-endangerment wasn't Rodolphus's typical style, but tonight... tonight was different. It felt right, and though he didn't place trust in instinct or hunches, he followed them tonight.
The front door was close at hand, and though he heard the soft click of a lock unlocking with his nonverbal alohomora, the door caught as he made to open it. Breaking and entering quietly was requiring a patience that Rodolphus felt slipping quickly away, and with a soft grunt of disapproval, he stepped back from the door, drew himself to his full height, and lunged forward, one foot raised high as he kicked the door off its damned hinges.
He'd never been very good at subtle, anyway.
Rodolphus veered right, "Expelliarmus" on his lips before he'd even rounded on Harlan. It seemed a bit unfair to kill a cripple without even a warning, and Rodolphus preferred his bare hands to the wand.
Harlan's head had been halfway inside the refrigerator, lap piled with lunch meat and cheese and dressing, and had missed the soft sound of the door quietly unlocking next room over. When the door caught against the inside chain they'd had locked from within the house (Harlan's father had always griped that there was no point to adding that bit of muggle-based security; his mother argued that every little bit helped), though, he had definitely heard that, and as he began tossing sandwich ingredients before moving to investigate, the front door practically erupted off its frame.
"Oh FUCK!" Harlan yelled as the giant-sized invader burst into their home, his own wand in hand and an "Expelliarmus" of his own forming just a moment too late. The wand clattered to the floor on the other side of the kitchen, the wheels of his chair skidding against the tile of the kitchen floor as he sought out other means of defending himself if the guy got any closer. Dirty frying pan from dinner? That would have to do.
A little grease had never killed anyone - unless the grease triggered the temper of an oversized murderer, as it was doing now. The frying pan caught Rodolphus upside the ribs, but he didn't stop, he would never stop - even as he heard noises above, responding to the sounds of the crash and the yell, even as he felt a rib crack and pain blossom over his insides. He didn't care - adrenaline would force him to finish, and he could suffer then.
Giant hands tugged Harlan free from the chair as if he was a ragdoll, and Rodolphus had forgotten his wand even existed as he threw the boy halfway across the kitchen (not much of a feat, given how small it was). He followed after, the vague limp on his right (every step seemed to take extra breath from lungs that no longer wished to expand) barely hindered him. Pain was something Rodolphus understood, even liked on some visceral level; it was the emotions, the violent, insidious emotions, that he had trouble coping with.
No matter. Murder had proved a release before - it would be so again. Very soon, very soon. He could taste fear in the air.
He slammed hard against the counter, the corner jabbing hard into his back before Harlan collapsed in a heap on the floor and groaning in pain as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Terrified or not -- in this case, it was absolutely the former -- he was not letting this happen again, not like last time, not in his own fucking home. He needed to get to his wand.
Hearing footsteps pounding on the floor of the upper level, Harlan found himself distracted as the fear of the rest of his family getting involved in this settled deep within his gut. "STAY UPSTAIRS!" Harlan yelled toward the living room as he rolled himself onto his stomach, pulling himself on the ground with his arms and elbows towards the spot he'd watched his wand clatter to. He shoved one of the chairs towards his attacker, doubting that would trip him up but praying it would buy him the few seconds of distraction that he needed to make it to his wand.
Mere wood - and it crumbled to parts in Rodolphus's hands, giving Harlan the time he needed to get his hands upon his wand - but he needed more than a wand to stave off Rodolphus Lestrange, and even as his fingers wrapped around it, the sound of triumph dying in his throat, a heavy boot came down upon his back. The snapping was audible, though the boy's brain refused to accept it, to acknowledge what that sound signified. He held the wand, though somehow he realised that he could no longer feel it beneath his fingertips. He could see it, he knew it was there, but he couldn't raise it - he could turn... his body had simply ceased to function.
His cries had had no impact, and Rodolphus knew that soon there would be fully grown, fully capable wizards upon him in seconds. He could not waste time upon this one, and he let himself fall upon one knee, another crack, another - ribs, now gone, a fee exacted for his own pain - beneath him. His hands felt for chin and cheek and with a final twist, all life was gone.
Too easy, and there was no satisfaction in it - only grim purpose.
Next.
Harlan's cries for them to remain out of the way of the attack had been lost on the other McKinnons, who had come thudding through the upper level and down the staircase just in time to see the final blow against their son's life. Both parents had their wands at the ready, rushing to the doorway where the front room became the kitchen, an ear-piercing shriek erupting from the mother as she watched Rodolphus Lestrange rise from her only son's lifeless body. "Felicity, stay out of the way," Leonie hissed at her daughter (who had trampled down the stairs at her parents' heels), shoving her toward the open front door and hoping the girl would have enough sense to run to get help, or to at least get out of the way.
Douglas McKinnon said nothing, only glared at the assailant he recognized as Rodolphus Lestrange with all the loathing and spite and desire for revenge that a Gryffindor could muster. He was in his home, had attacked his family. The time for logic had passed the moment the man had decided it would be a good idea to enter his home. He shouted a powerful "Confringo!" in Rodolphus's direction, hoping to knock the lumbering bastard over and out. Then they would deal with securing him and alerting the authorities.
Verbal spells were too fair - and it was one of the primary disadvantages of being one of the 'good guys' in this war (though Rodolphus believed with every ounce of his soul - assuming he had one - that the side of 'good' was entirely arbitrary). Still hulking over Harlan's body, he had time to duck towards the nearest bit of shelter - the dining room table. It shattered around, above, near him - he couldn't tell (Rodolphus had never been very good at cowering, and having to dodge anything at all was an uncomfortable experience, particularly with a fucked rib). He was suddenly very aware of his back (now covered in shrapnel and blood) - more so aware of his wand (which had found its way back into his hand), and as he pulled himself up from the rubble, blood dripping to the floor and cold rage etched into every feature, it was more than obvious that knocking him over would take dirtier methods than these.
Crucio. He would hear them scream, and there was no bone in Rodolphus's body noble enough to give warning of that spell.
The Cruciatus struck Mr. McKinnon unexpectedly -- there'd been no warning beyond a wand quickly turned to his direction, no time to duck out of the way -- and he dropped to the ground in overwhelming pain, his glasses snapping as his face collided with the floor. He writhed on the ground, able to withstand the desire, the need to cry out for three... four seconds of inundatory anguish before yelling out in agony, his need to be strong for his wife and daughter overpowered by the hatred behind the spell.
Leonie was torn between rushing to her husband's side, dragging her daughter out of the way herself, and hexing Lestrange with every spell she'd ever learned. The final choice would help them all the most, and the final choice was what she ultimately decided on. Reducto, Relashio, Incarcerous, Glacius, all fired one after another at the man, Leonie needing to distract him cursing her husband, needing to take the fucker down for what he'd done to her only son, for what had happened to her daughter and only granddaughter only mere months earlier. Mrs. McKinnon may have been a Ravenclaw in a house full of Gryffindors, but she refused to shrink away from this fight. The man had brought it on himself, and he would reap the consequences of it, all her grief and fear for her son -- now for what was happening to her husband -- completely clouding her judgment.
He'd made a mistake in leaving the woman to her own devices, even for a few seconds, and even if Rodolphus made them rarely these days, he was quick to learn from his mistakes. Torn away from the male, who he could trust to lie on the ground a few important seconds while Rodolphus defended himself, his attentions were turned upon the woman. Her fight was all fear and anger - He could taste aggression when it was innate, and it wasn't here. It gave him an advantage that Leonie would not live to regret -
The reducto missed, and Rodolphus ignored the bits of wall that rained down upon him. He hated being forced to defend himself - he was built for overpowering others, not for defence, and his shields were good, better, and then bad - and the glacius all but took out his shoulder in a sharp tang of cold. It was worse than the rib (hate, it was so very powerful), and he deigned to cry out, the noise one of a wounded, enraged animal.
Stupefy, Confundo, ... Avada Kedavra. Oh yes, he was not above killing a woman in front of her husband's eyes. If he could have gotten closer, he'd have done it with his bare hands - but the matter was as clouded as his judgment.
Rodolphus had been correct in predicting that Douglas would not be pulling himself to his feet instantaneously after the Cruciatus had ceased. The pain had been too much, he wasn't as young as he used to be, he wasn't trained to deal with these sorts of things as an Obliviator, a million other excuses that rushed to Douglas's head and were promptly despised and forgotten as his wife was silenced with a blinding flash of green.
An almost unearthly guttural roar of rage and sorrow rang through the living room, and Douglas was back on his feet, wand in hand, and a look in his eye that clearly told he was far beyond taking Lestrange into the Ministry when this was over. His son, his wife, all gone in an instant. His wand pointed past the man and into the kitchen, a Oppugno spell aimed towards the wooden cutlery block on the counter, sending the knives resting inside flying through the air and speeding toward the man, a silent Impedimenta spell directed at the man immediately after.
And Rodolphus bled; he was quick, and he was able, but there was little one could do to avoid both blades and spells - and he chose to avoid the latter, taking the punishment for that decision in the arm, in the leg. He favoured damage to his right side, at least - leaving his wand arm free to respond (his shields grew stronger - Rodolphus learned quickly). Expelliarmus. Again and again he disarmed where he could (should?) have killed. He wanted his hands on McKinnon. He wanted to taste the blood in his nostrils and throat. His own was going everywhere and it was not enough... not enough to sate his grief.
Douglas's wand was knocked from his hand just as another blasting curse exploded forth from it, the spell instead shooting away chunks of ceiling and plaster and leaving the living room covered in a cloud of dust and asbestos. Unarmed and grief-stricken and temporarily blinded (from the raining bits of wall or just from the rage, who could tell?), Douglas moved deeper into the living room, stopping at the fireplace and grasping for one of the metal pokers. Rodolphus was not the only one who wanted to make this personal. If he wanted a hand-to-hand (or hand-to-stabby-metal-rod) fight, Douglas would give it to him.
Once sure his opponent was wandless, Rodolphus leapt toward him, at him, into him. He wanted flesh beneath his fingers, in his hands, across his teeth - he was beyond acting like a human being. It may not have been Douglas McKinnon that killed his father, but it was them, these interbreeders, these corrupters. McKinnon and his loud mouthed daughter epitomised the group that killed his father - their ideals. With a howl of rage, he swung his fists, all weight bearing down on his victim, hot with his own blood and not giving two damns that he'd dropped his wand. In the heat of this moment, Rodolphus couldn't bring himself to care whether he left alive or not. He was aware only of the searing pain that swept up half his body, the adrenaline that kept him moving, every nerve a violent impulse, and the flesh he desired. Everything else was peripheral, dull, unimportant.
Douglas smashed into the ground, air knocked out of him and nearly suffocating under Rodolphus's weight. While not a large man, Douglas McKinnon was still scrappy for his age, and he tried furiously to pull himself out from underneath him, to at least grab the poker that had rolled from his hand as he hit the ground. His fingers grazed the pole's end, it only inches from his grasp, his other hand digging into Rodolphus's side where he'd been sliced by the knives not minutes earlier.
A howl erupted - a noise of triumph and hatred and relish and pain; Rodolphus's fist (the good one, the left one) came down on the other man's face again and again until blood erupted - until he could taste it in the air. He breathed, lungs full of iron and air and an excruciating pain; he revelled in it - every inch of his body alert with the illicit aliveness in this sensory input. Civility had long abandoned the pair, and though Rodolphus had not yet resorted to biting, he was not above kneeing the other man in the side. He wasn't yet concerned with how he would die - with wards up, he had as long as he pleased to desecrate the sanctity of the home.
Given the amount of blood already on the floor, it was obviously not going to be a difficult task.
There was blood on the floor, yes, and plenty of it. Lestrange, however, seemed to forget that much of it belonged to himself. Or had, at least, until Rodolphus's fist began to smash into Douglas's face, again and again. (Perhaps there had been some small, nearly-meaningless blessing behind his glasses falling off earlier in the fight). Douglas groaned beneath each blow, his face nearly numb to the pain now but the knee to the side hitting especially hard, as he continued to attempt to hit the man off of him. His attacks obviously growing weaker now, and the poker from the fireplace was obviously out of reach. Still all fists and feet against Rodolphus, Douglas made one final attempt to fight the man off of him. Douglas's leg jerked up between Lestrange's own -- he wasn't against fighting dirty either, and desperation and devastation drove a man to do things they otherwise never would have dreamed of.
Rodolphus recoiled, agony the likes of which could not be staved off (even by neuro-chemical stimulants) spilling over his abdomen. It was a horrible, unbearable pain, and in one last act of violence, he pressed his arms harder into McKinnon, at his throat now, crushing, crushing, even as he moaned in pain. Nineteen stone of muscle drove against the obliviator's neck as Rodolphus struggled to get over the nauseating hurt. Once he could move again, he would vomit (it was amazing how certain forms of pain could drain the mind of its motive - for all of his anger and desire to murder had spilled away, turning his attentions inward). He wanted to be done. God, he hurt.
And after a few more suffocating, weakened, useless hits against Rodolphus, it was done, Douglas's body falling still beneath him.
And from the stairwell, frozen in fear and sadness that she did not know was possible, Felicity McKinnon watched wide-eyed in terror as the last bit of life slipped from her father, her mother's body laying only a few feet away. She should've gone for the door. She should have run to get help. She should have done something else and now her parents were dead, murdered by this gigantic beastly dark-haired man while her wand lay forgotten upstairs in her bedroom.
Shit, her wand was upstairs. And with that terrifying thought, Felicity was finally broken from her trance, spinning on her heels and thundering up the stairwell and into her bedroom, slamming the door shut as she grabbed for her wand. And her cat, she couldn't leave without Zippy. Had he seen her? She had no bloody idea. Felicity flailed about her room, not sure of how the fuck to get out of the house -- window was too high to jump, both doorways downstairs would lead her right to where the man was -- and instead grabbed for a notebook, furiously scribbling down the details of what had happened. Just in case.
Distracted from his bestial sensibilities by a good sharp kick, Rodolphus's glazed senses had returned to him, and he heard the pounding of feet against the stairs. It took him a long minute before he was able to get up - battered and bleeding (it bothered him less than it should have, because with blood came the ability to feel, to experience, to recover from the emotions that had brought him here). He regained his wand first before taking to the stairs, and it didn't take long before he found the appropriate door. One was abandoned (if he'd taken the time he'd have realised it once belonged to the girl Severus and Avery had killed) and the other was shut tight, the plaintive sounds of a distressed feline making it obvious to where the girl had retreated.
Despite his earlier malice, Rodolphus had never been one for untoward violence toward girls - and though he kicked in the door with what strength he had left to him (more than he ought have had), and though he pressed himself to the side to avoid whatever spellfire she foolishly threw at him, he had no desire to murder her messily. It would be quick and painless. He wished to clean up and leave, and all taste for blood had been driven out of him. "Come out and I will take your animal somewhere safe." It was the sick sort of understanding that only a parent could have dredged up - and though Rodolphus felt no shame in his baser instincts, it was not the noblest of manipulations, even he had to admit.
He'd been right to duck out of the way as he kicked open the door, as Felicity had shot a Petrificus Totalus in that direction almost immediately -- granted, one that was spoken and sloppy and muddled with grief, but something nonetheless. She jerked back against the wall as he spoke, jarred from her thoughts and her quill ripping the page that was already messy with tears and splotted ink. He was manipulative, and it was terrifying, but it was working. Part of her wanted to shrink under the bed, to hide there until he inevitably would kill her too (he knew she was there, like he would honestly leave her alone after what she'd seen), and while it wasn't much, if her cat at least could get away...
Or maybe the window really wasn't that high... no. It was.
Her face wet with tears, crying silently -- there was really no point in yelling anymore, who would hear? -- Felicity hugged her cat close to her before shutting her inside the closet, and began moving toward the bedroom door, freezing about half way. Her wand was still in her hand, pointed at the doorway, but she couldn't bring herself to move any further. "You promise?" she called out, voice shaking, knowing deep down it was pointless to bargain with murderers but not knowing what else to do.
Rodolphus let out a sigh, and pain spilled across his features, though whether it was from what he had to do or from the beating his body had taken was something he refused to think about. One did not feel pity for mudbloods and blood traitors or whatever cross of the two this girl was. One simply didn't.
"Yes." And his voice was wearied and low. Tired. Pained.
Felicity took one last look at the closet, at her room, to the doorway... she just needed to make herself move. Maybe the promise that her cat would be all right was enough. He'd probably go back on it anyway.
Squeezing her eyes shut and holding tight to her wand, not sure if she'd be able to remember the simplest of spells, Felicity finally started toward the door, shaking step after shaking step, the floorboards creaking gently as she walked. Stopping again just before she reached the doorframe, she sniffed back tears -- there was no time for crying right now, no point to it, but she was doing it anyway -- and stepped through, looking the man in the eye. "His name is Zippy. Please don't hurt him," Felicity requested, her tone obviously broken and full of grief, but a small bit of determination still left in her eyes that hopefully would guilt the man into doing what she said.
"I won't." And with that reassurance (whatever it was worth), Rodolphus reached out with one, broken arm, and cast an Avada Kedavra silently with the other. It was quick, it was painless, and he caught her before she fell, before carrying her back into the room (and breathing sharply with the pain of her weight upon his shoulder and side). Though Rodolphus could never be accused of tenderness, he did lay her out gently, carefully, on her bed and pulled a blanket over before withdrawing. Near the bed was a notebook, and he slipped it into some inner pocket with a grim expression. There was nothing he could do with the cat but take it (after stunning it - for it was less than pleased), and after he was finished with this room, he closed the door once more.
The rest of the house was simpler. He cleaned what evidence was necessary to clean (bootprints in blood, torn fabric), then dropped small cards upon each person's body, tucking the fourth back into his pocket (Felicity was spared by some whim of regret). When he was finished, he stretched a hand into his pocket and pulled out the dogtag he'd taken from Fabian's corpse. He had intended to leave it - one final message for McKinnon, a reminder of what happened to friends and family - but he hesitated, and in that hesitation placed it back into his coat. He wasn't ready yet.
Not yet.