Early hours of Thursday morning, following the broadcast of the Haunting Hour...

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"I told you, she tried to crucio me,"
"As if!"
"No, the crazy girl had some sort of-."

"Gentlemen." A hooded figure threw a shadow over them both at their front door, voice low. It was late, and this was lower Knockturn Alley. You didn't ignore what was behind you here, but this one had come out of nowhere, and was right behind them on their front doorstep.

Wands came to their hands in an instant, but the figure had already drawn, and there was a bang and a splinter of wood as the front door was torn off its hinges, splitting in half as both wizards were blown inside, clean off their feet.

The hooded figure raised his eyebrows unseen, admiring the wand in his hand. Archives of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes proved fruitful when you knew the right people. A hawthorn wand, dragon heartstring was what he knew best, and it knew him.

He swept into the dark room behind what was the door, feet cracking glass and shards of pottery as boots pressed the floorboards. The air was damp, and there was the stench of bad drains hanging beneath the smell of scorched wood.

The brothers were sprawled on the floor, picking themselves up, dazed, not dead. Hawthorn sent them sprawling as soon as they had even a semblance of balance. He had not the style of Almasy, but with the right wand and motivation, opponents did not have the chance.

"Crucio!"

The younger one screamed and howled, and the older one squirmed on the floor, hands clawing for anything he could use in defence, wand somewhere out of sight. The hawthorn wand twisted like a knife, and a heavy boot stamped on the wand hand of the older one, driving flesh into fragmented pottery until blood spat across the dirty floor.

It was almost insulting these two had been able to do such a thing, given they were helpless now in their own hovel, at the mercy of his wand as he turned from one to the other to break their will.

Whereas he had wanted to beat and bind them, the excitement of the chase set in, and as the hood fell back, Lawrence's eyes were fixed with a predatory glee that had earned him an Azkaban sentence. This was for Ira Almasy breaking his bones, this was for every night he had slept in doorways, this was for every time he'd gone hungry for days, this was for the Azkaban guard who had cut his wand hand off, this was Wolfgang Storm who'd never spoken, and most of all, this was for Hannah against the wizengamot.

When at last their screams became desperate, exhausting, and still no help came, muffliato meant no-one heard, he relented, binding their limbs with chains, they hung from the rafters from the backs of their shoulders, heads free. 

From within his cloak he brought two crude masks, and smiling, dropped them over the heads of each, grinning at them as the wolf heads fell over their eyes and blotted his face from view.

Drawing his hood again, Lawrence glanced back from the doorway to admire his present. The younger brother's wolf mask bore Ed and the other bore Pratt.

He hoped he liked them.

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Find them through any means you like, Mr Pratt...