27th August, 2012, Bank Holiday Monday
Notting Hill Carnival

Notting Hill Carnival; the biggest Carribean Carnival in Europe, occuring every year in the last weekend in August. 2012 was no exception. The area roared with life, luminous with costumes and the rich sound of public celebration. The smell of Jerk Chicken and tender, juicy beef carne con papas served in paper bowls was enough to make the mouth water and the stomach stir. Everyone smiling, everyone laughing, everyone trying to get the best possible view of the parade.

Lewis liked the colours the best--those who weren't taking part had dressed the part--bright colours, painted faces, the strange choice of costumes for the women that revealed inch upon inch of flesh. There were feathers in their hair and sequins on their masks, their brightly painted, beautiful dark skin was contrasted with the sharp white of their teeth. Today was a good day--no--a glorious day, one to be proud of. It was a celebration of culture, of life, of history. And while he watched, disposing of his bowl of jerk chicken and rice, Lewis wondered how such colourful creatures could ever be capable of such malice. Of such hatred. Torture. It pained him to think about it, he had been going over and over it in his head for weeks, months, trying to figure out what they were so afraid of. Why couldn't they just leave well enough alone?

There were Hit Wizards and some Aurors present at the celebration, carefully selected muggleborns and half-bloods that knew how to blend into the festivities. Not that Aberwith's attempts were worth much; he had dashed open the wound and now, with false sincerity, tried to stop the bleeding. People were angry. Furious. Lewis was more than happy to channel that anger toward the right people. The accessible people.

He pulled off his flat-cap, running a hand over the stubbled surface of his shaved head, sweeping away the beads of sweat. He caught the eye of his brother, Patrick, up ahead on the corner. He was smoking a thin cigar. Lewis raised a hand over the crowd, a wave that was reciprocated with the raising of a hat. A signal.

The sound of the music grew closer, the parade reaching the cusp of Ladbroke Grove in a show of mammoth floats and sound systems. Those, in particular, were obnoxious. Lewis' mum had come here for as long as he could remember, back when steel drums were the traditional music of choice. But it had always been a predominantly muggle affair. His mother had run a stand with his elder sister, dragging Lewis and his brother Patrick along to help sell plantain dishes, each one a childhood favourite, served with a plastic fork. When his elder sister vanished eighteen months ago, his mother died of heart failure, the news and stress that went on and on too much for her to take. The carnival stopped being a place of celebration after that.

Lewis brushed his way past a group of giggling teenagers, they were not shy about vocalising their protest. He ducked his head in apology and smiled. Their giggling started up anew. He liked Notting Hill, really. He liked dressing as amuggle, liked perfecting it over the years to make sure he didn't draw attention for anything but his smile. The problem was, he and Patrick loved their family.

"'Ey." Lewis said as the gap was closed between the two men. He took the cigar from his brother's fingers and inhaled deeply. Who knew how long it would be before he got another chance.

"How much longer? This music is hurting my ears." Patrick snatched back the cigar, clamping it between his teeth and sweeping a suspicious gaze through the ever-thickening crowds.

"You know when." Lewis said, shooting his brother an agitated look. He was always so restless, so quick to act. He had wanted to go on a rampage, knock down the doors of Minsiter Abwewith's office to demand action, but Lewis had better ideas. He wanted to wait until they knew who was responsible. It was then, after all, who were really to blame.

The roar of the crowd intensified and the first brightly coloured float baring slim, beautiful women in stunning costumes rolled past. Lewis signalled to his brother and the two men vanished into the crowd.

They had to separate, that was important, otherwise they would draw attention to themselves. So when disappeared into the audience, Lewis slipped a hand inside the tweed blazer he wore, wrapping his fingers around the handle of his wand. He wasn't too worried about being seen with it.

Patrick unleashed the first. One of the women on the float stopped mid-dance, her expression glassy as she tackled another woman on top of the float. In a flurry of sequins and feathers, they shot off the float and hit the floor with a sickening crack. They cried out in pain but it was swallowed by the shrill screams of the audience. The confused, hysterical girls on top of the float were on their knees, trying to look, to see if their friends were okay. So when another of them launched herself off the front of the float at Patrick's will, as it accelerated at an astonishing speed, it caught everyone's attention. The float lurched over the broken body of the dancer, the grill on the front separating from the bumper, gnashing like teeth. Then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped. The grill and bumper reformed and the floats themselves bowed and heaved, throwing the people from the tops, bringing steel drums, sound systems and costumes crashing to the tarmac underneath.

The public made for the obvious exits, few making it out through the gaps before Lewis cast his first spell, putting a stop to it. The tall, beautiful buildings shook at their foundations, lurching sideways and toppling to fill the exit routes off Ladbroke Grove. The congestion of human bodies did the rest.

Lewis moved with the crowd, making no effort to conceal his wand for want of being seen, despite knowing full well that when muggles went into a blind-panic they saw only what they wanted to.

Smoke and dust billowed out from where the tops of the buildings had crashed, but through it, Lewis could see the shadowy outline of Patrick who stood perfectly still amongst the destruction.

Extending his wand hand, he threw his entire body into the next spells, a tunnel of blue and green smoke shooting from his wand, ripping holes in the road, shattering every window on the street, bowing and breaking the streetlamps as it consumed each one. The smoke bucked what was left of the floats, rained debris down on the hysterical crowds before it leapt upwards, mingling with the clouds overhead and leaving them a bruised blue colour.

When the dust settled and the brothers dispersed, the carnival had come to a terrifying halt, with every participant barricaded inside the parade circuit and a message, in white paint, scrawled across the cracked tarmac.

Suffer As We Have Suffered.