Monday 13th July, 1981
THE DAILY PROPHET
MCKINNONS MASSACRED IN DEATH EATER RAID
Another night of chaos has brought familiar scenes of bloodshed as a gruesome fate befalls the esteemed McKinnon family. In the early hours of Sunday morning, Aurors arrived at the McKinnon household in Aberdeen to find six bodies: husband and wife Richard and Catherine McKinnon and their four children, David, Malcolm, Fraser and Marlene. Each of them brutally murdered in their own home, each of them another light taken from the world.
In a report from Head Auror Alastor Moody, it’s believed the attack took place between three and four o’clock Sunday morning while the family were asleep. Following the birthday of the eldest son, David, it’s suspected the family came together to celebrate despite the horrors around them. What may have been a symbol of hope in a bleak world has become yet another reminder that life in Wizarding Britain is little more than a slaughterhouse. How can the Ministry expect its people to see light at the end of the tunnel when even the most innocent of gatherings becomes the scene of a massacre?
Most distressing are the signs of struggle from the four McKinnon children, aged between twenty-eight and twenty-one, two of which once set to follow in their parents’ footsteps as renowned Aurors. Alas, even the most promising of the next generation didn’t stand a chance against these dark forces. Overwhelmed in their own home, each of the victims bare the strain of the cruciatus curse before their untimely murders.
Each and every member of the McKinnon family proved themselves to be extraordinary in only their short lifetimes, and it would be a disservice not to honour the legacy of these fallen heroes. Catherine and Richard McKinnon have been assets to the Auror department for over thirty years and contributed greatly to the safety of our community. Their first son, David McKinnon, is one of the few to pass his NEWTs with Outstandings across the board and went on to hold one of the highest political positions in the Ministry. Malcolm McKinnon had no trouble stepping out of his older brother’s shadow and made a name for himself in the field of curse breaking, where he aided over one-hundred successful missions across the globe.
The youngest and closest in age, Fraser and Marlene, each took inspiration from their parents and joined the Auror training program the moment they graduated from Hogwarts. Whilst Fraser was soon deployed to Bulgaria to carry out his services, Marlene McKinnon was an immediate active force against He-Who-Shall-Not-Be Named. Albus Dumbledore spoke most frequently and warmly of Miss McKinnon in his condolences; “Never in my life have I seen an Auror as passionate, good-hearted and loyal as Marlene McKinnon. She poured her heart and soul into everything she did, from raids to attacks to helping the elderly cross streets. Nothing fazed her, nothing could touch her in the heat of a fight. The loss of the family will be felt by many.”
A private service will be held, location undisclosed, attended only by close family and friends, of which the McKinnons had many. Alastor Moody, in the conclusion of his report, declared a memorial to be established for the McKinnons once such a thing can be prioritised by the Ministry, alongside the many who have already sacrificed themselves, and those who are inevitably yet to.
“The McKinnon’s deserve more than a [redacted] slab of stone,” Moody declared to the crowd listening to his announcement. He used much colourful language that cannot be quoted directly. “They wouldn’t want us to sit and weep over them. They’d want us to get off our fat [redacted] and fight. Fight for [redacted] sake. Prove their deaths weren’t for nothing. The lot of them were stubborn, fierce sons of [redacted], that’s why those [redacted] targeted them when they were asleep, when they couldn’t defend themselves. The McKinnons would have [redacted] up the lot of them otherwise, mark my words.”
This sentiment will surely be felt by many across the country, which may result in a much-needed boost in morale. All who revered the family must take their grief and fight for vengeance, in the name of Catherine and Richard, in the name of David, Malcolm, Fraser and Marlene. They were a family rich in love, and that love will not be wasted in the face of adversity.
More information is expected to come forth on the details of the attack in the following days. As of yet, it’s unclear whether any Death Eaters were also harmed in the attack. None have yet been identified, though Alastor Moody claims the incident is under thorough investigation. One cannot help but wonder, however, if such a case will be prioritised when the death toll mounts by the day. Who will be next? Our friends? Our family? Ourselves?
No one is safe in this war, not even the bravest and most powerful among us. What we decide to do with this horrific reminder, however, is what the fate of this country depends on. To the McKinnon family, may you rest in peace, having inspired so many of us to push on with our valiant efforts. We will remember you.
You were always a fucking coward, Marlene.
You thought nobody else noticed, but I did. You may have acted brave in front of your friends, probably convinced yourself of your own courage. But I spent all those years watching you and I saw right through it.
I remember that first day, the first time I laid eyes on you. I knew of you, of course. The McKinnons, the lion-hearts, the charmers - and you met all my expectations. We were sorted back to back. First, you - I watched you saunter up there with all that audacity that you never lost, even though you didn’t deserve it. The hat didn’t falter, not for a second, and I swear it was grinning right at me as if it knew, even then, that by separating us, making rivals of us, it would brew up a shitstorm that neither of us could escape from.
The hat barely brushed my own head before it threw me in with the snakes and I remember glaring at you from across the hall, how radiant you were, smiling and laughing. I remember thinking, how is it fair that you were born golden and I was thrown to the rats without a seconds hesitation? Who made that decision? I wanted to be you. Especially in those early years, before we’d even spoke to each other, I fantasised over you. I imagined luring you in with all your hate and charm, maybe I’d knock you out first or kiss you or something, I don’t know. But I’d bleed you and skin you and break you apart, remould yourself around me so I could be you for once.
Maybe then the world wouldn’t look at me like I was a monster waiting to happen, just another lost cause doomed for the dark arts. I’d be looked at the way you were; everyone’s knight, everyone’s jester, everyone’s Queen wrapped up in one. Every fucking day, I’d look at you and imagine you at my mercy for once and I’d cherish the moments when you looked right back at me and I saw that spark in your eye. I don’t know what you imagined was going through my mind, but I’m sure you’d have steered well clear of me if you knew the truth. You should have. I wish you’d never said a word to me, never even looked at me, I wish that with all my heart but you could never back down from a challenge, could you, McKinnon? Not a fucking chance, and now look at us.
I suppose it all started on the pitch. I’d heard the rumours you’d made it onto the team, but only when you walked out to the screaming crowd did it hit me- it was the first time you were truly my rival, and all I could think about was how beautiful you were. I’ve never played a worse game in my life and, as always, it was your fault. Time and time again you shot past me, flew circles around me just to infuriate me, that cocky smile of yours flashed my way. We lost 250-60, it’s etched in my brain. Not because of the loss, but because of what happened after. I’d took a shower in the changing rooms, the whole time thinking of you, hating you, muttering every horrible thing I could imagine about you under my breath.
Then I stepped out, and as if I’d summoned you, there you were. Hair pulled back, sweat glistening your skin, fingers working at the buckles of your leather straps. I stood and stared. I can’t remember how long, but long enough that I had the image of you committed to memory before you turned around and saw me and flashed that smile of yours again. You held out your hand, said ‘good game, Meadowes.’ Part of me wanted to clutch onto you, worship you, stunned that you knew my name, that you’d willingly touch me, but instead I refused your hand, sneered, didn’t say a word.
You should’ve hated me for it. I think you did a little bit, but I remember that spark in your eye, I saw it. You couldn’t hide anything from me, McKinnon, not even before I’d memorised every inch of you. I saw that thrill, that mischief in your eyes, like you knew I was a bad idea but that tempted you all the more.
It all blurs into one after that, every match we played against each other, every confrontation in the halls, every lingering stare in the changing room that we pretended was hatred but knew that heat was something else entirely. The way you looked at me was obscene, like you were carving me open with every glance. You pried apart my ribs, grabbed my heart and carved your name there in thick bold letters. The wound never healed and throbs with every pulse.
Do you remember the day something snapped? Like something primitive inside of us, a wild lust. We knew it was wrong, disgusting, unnatural, but how could we resist when we knew it would feel so good? I barely recall the argument that started it all. What were we fighting about? Maybe you claimed I’d looked at your friend the wrong way or shoved you in the corridor or hidden something from you after a match. Whatever it was, your anger was hot and scathing and I’d never been so glad to be burned. You spat and yelled and cornered me, your voice echoing in that empty broom closet you’d dragged me into. Closer and closer until I could feel your heat, your breath on my skin as your eyes bore holes into me - one touch and it all crumbled apart.
One brush of your hand against my thigh and there was no going back. There have been many intimate moments more loving or heated or pleasurable since then, but none of them as desperate or maniacally touch-starved as that first time. Fumbling in the darkness, your tongue down my throat, my hands in your hair, I didn’t want to be you anymore. I just wanted you to me mine and only mine. I wanted to be the only person who could peel off your mask and see you for who you truly were. A coward, maybe, but you were like a baby lamb. You had all this love to give out to others, this need to entertain, but you couldn’t care for yourself. When you spent all your time looking after others, who was going to look after you? Me, that’s who. And I’ll take that job to the fucking grave.
I was at your beck and call, you say the word and I’d have done anything for you. If you were the sun, tell me to fly to you and I would. Even if my wax wings melted and burned, I knew you’d be there to catch me. I’ve memorised every crevice of you. Every curve, every line, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the one curl of your hair that never lies flat, how you looked at me in a way you looked at no one else. Like I’m special, something to cherish, though I never deserved any of it. I’m sick and twisted and you loved me anyway, but not how real people do. The way we loved each other was borderline feral, fit for feral people. How we could possibly be soft in the midst of all that is beyond me, but we managed regardless.
Only ever in the dark though. You were the sun, and I was the shadows you cast. Never brought to light, never shown off like a trophy the way Potter does with Evans. Instead I was the dirty secret you kept tucked away, but I was happy to be. You told me once you were scared of what people thought. For the first time, Marlene McKinnon admitted her fear, and it was to me of all people. Perhaps because I was the only person who would understand, who didn’t put you on the same pedestal everyone else did. I saw your fear and cradled it, because it was the same fear I cradled within myself. So I was happy for you to keep me in the dark, because the dark is where you didn’t have to hide anymore. You could be yourself with me when nobody else was watching.
But I can’t say the irony of it all didn’t get on my nerves. When you built up your reputation of bravery and courage, when you boasted that you didn’t care what anyone thought of you - that’s not the Marlene I knew. If you were as strong as everyone said you were, why could you never look me in the eye and tell me how you truly felt about me? It was all bullshit. You couldn’t pluck up the nerve to introduce me, to show me off, but you could never let go of me either. You could never make a decision, too scared to keep me around, too scared to ditch me.
Where was your Gryffindor bravery then, McKinnon? Where was it when they showed up to your house and killed the lot of you? I’m telling you, it was all a lie and I knew from the start, I knew you weren’t what you made yourself out to be, but I fell for the charm anyway. Are you happy now, McKinnon? Happy now you can see how fucking miserable you’ve made me?
When you said you would fight, I wasn’t surprised. No one was. Dumbledore got his slimy hands on you the second he could, and I didn’t argue, because I knew that would be overstepping my place. I’d dim your glow, so to speak, by denying you the one thing that kept you going the last few years; fighting and protecting your friends, resisting evil. Evil that people have always viewed me as.
You know I hated it all. You know I hated him, that tyrannical fucker. All the arguments we had play back in my mind like a stuck record, all the times you asked me to join the fight, to be by your side. I would have. For you, I’d have done anything I physically could, but my form of resistance simply didn’t fit your mould. I’m used to the darkness, so that’s where I’ve fought. Quietly, passing under the radar, the silent knife. I was never brash and loud like you, and that’s why I couldn’t be another one of Dumbledore’s pawns. I had to do things my own way. That’s what I always believed, at least. Maybe if I’d listened to you, maybe if I’d been the lover you wanted me to be, you wouldn’t be dead, and I wouldn’t be writing this letter.
You were doomed because of me but I’m doomed without you, so I guess we were always destined to ruin each other in the end. You will go down in history as a martyr, beloved and golden. I will go down in history as a snake, a spy, a liar and a cheat. I will be despised just as much as I despise you. That’s why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because of you, Marlene. I’m going to kill the lot of them for you. Because I hate you and everything you stand for.
I’ll kill the fucking lot of them. They took you. How dare they? You weren’t theirs to take. You’re mine, you were always mine. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I thought that’s it, you’re the one. You’re the one I will hate for the rest of my life and if anyone else dares lay a hand on you, I’ll break every bone in their body, reassemble them, tear them apart all over again. I vowed this to myself and now I’ll follow through. This letter is my proof to anyone who finds it - hear me now, I have fulfilled my vow.
I swear to you, Marlene McKinnon, blood will be spilled this night and it’s your fault. Their hearts on a silver platter alongside my own, torn out with my own bare hands.
Wait for me. I’ll see you soon, my love.
Yours
Thursday 16th July, 1981
THE DAILY PROPHET
DEATH EATERS SLAUGHTERED - WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?
What is being regarded as the most gruesome and deadly attack of the war so far occurred late last night, and the culprit remains unknown. Such headlines have plagued the news in recent months, with death and destruction becoming a daily occurrence for the innocent civilians of Wizarding Britain. Today, however, that has changed. Last night’s attack marks the first major blow to the Death Eaters, with possibly irreparable damage to You-Know-Who’s forces. For the first time in a long while, some hope has been restored and perhaps all is not lost.
The details of the attack, as of yet, remain unclear. The Auror Department claims it received reports of disruption at the north end of Knockturn Alley towards eleven o’clock last night, Wednesday evening. A later investigation led Aurors to a building that backs onto Borgin & Burke’s antique shop. A brief statement from Auror Caradoc Dearborn, who was amongst the investigation team, reveals they found “a bloodbath” on the top floor of the assumed-abandoned building. Once thought to be decrepit and useless, this unsuspecting building has become the scene of a crime many are viewing as vigilante justice.
“Too right,” says a resident of Diagon Alley, who spoke to us this morning and wishes to remain anonymous. “It’s about time someone does what needs to be done, now the Ministry’s overrun by traitors. Call them a vigilante all you want, I can guarantee they’ll be hailed as a hero once this malarkey is over with.”
Such sentiments are being shared among the general public, who seem to view the act as the work of an anonymous witch or wizard fighting for justice. As of yet, Aurors are unable to confirm who committed such an attack, or even whether this was the work of one man, or multiple. So far, no one has come forward to admit responsibility, perhaps out of fear the Ministry will arrest them, rather than thank them.
“I get it, I really do,” Caradoc Dearborn explained to our reporters. “People want justice, they want to win, and this is a sign of it. I respect that. But the thing is, a crime is a crime. If we let anyone and everyone go around killing, how can the Aurors claim legitimacy over crime-fighting and defeating evil? That’s our job and the public should trust us to keep them safe. Meanwhile vigilantes like this one might put us at more of a disadvantage.”
So the question remains: at what point do we draw the line between justice and murder? Can we really find sympathy for the lives lost? Aurors have so far identified nine bodies in the attack, though only five names have been disclosed to the press: Rigel Wilkes, Elijah Borgin, Archibald Selwyn, Pleione Bulstrode and Dorcas Meadowes. All bodies were found spread between multiple rooms of the building, with some evidently attempting at an escape. An escape from what, exactly, is unclear.
What is clear, however, is many residents of Knockturn Alley have reported sightings of You-Know-Who himself that night, which begs the question: were the deaths a result of an outside vigilante, or is this a consequence of You-Know-Who’s wrath towards his own followers? Reports suggest further autopsies will be needed to decipher their exact causes of death, which may also uncover the culprit. Regardless, each and every name shown (and presumably those left to disclose) are either confirmed Death Eaters, have ties to the terrorist organisation, or at the very least are infamously involved with the Dark Arts.
Both Wilkes and Selwyn bare Dark Marks on their forearms, while Borgin and Bulstrode (previously rumoured to be engaged in an affair with one another) have been linked to crimes of the Death Eaters in the past. Finally, Dorcas Meadowes is a widely-renowned dangerous witch, who proved herself more powerful than many of her peers even during her school years. “It’s a real shame-” Meadowes’ past Head of House, Horace Slughorn, gave this statement to our reporters this morning. “She was truly one of a kind, she could have done great things. To hear this awful news- well, it just shows how futile those with too much power can be. She was a vicious woman, and has inevitably met a vicious end.”
Meadowes’ presence in this attack can only be proof of her corrupt loyalties. While some may claim even these individuals are victims, many people night will mourn what can only be described as an unfortunate waste of talent.