Very early morning, long before sunrise (which is about 7:15am)
Gamp House, Church End, Godric’s Hollow
Floor Plan & Description

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Mortimer Gamp’s tired gaze watched his wife leave the cellar room, and heard her feet ascend the cellar stairs out of sight. Lyra and Mortimer had been married for over forty years, and could second-guess each other to great accuracy. Seeing the hour of the morning, she had suggested tea and sleep replenishment potions to counteract their all-night research. There was nothing that could truly replace sleep, Mortimer had long decided, but the mental high he was achieving from finally reaching a lifelong research goal was fuelling him.

Unclenching his fist, he set aside a bloody knife. It and an empty glass orb on the blood-spattered table top reflected in the lamplight. The cellar room smelt dank, more often closed up than when it was open. Built into the cellar by Mortimer’s great-grandfather, the existence of the room was passed from father to son. Originally a space to hide magical materials should there be a discovery by Muggles, or to hide from dark wizards attacking the family, in Mortimer’s time the room had become a haven for his research.

His focus on study in the Department of Mysteries had centered around magical potential, from how it manifested in children to the loss of power when exposed long term to dementors, to whether someone’s magical potential could be entirely robbed and absorbed into another. At the best of times, he had engaged in some suspect method to acquire data, preying on families keen to make financial gain in exchange for their time[1]. His subjects as children had become his colleagues, good friends, and neighbours.

During Voldemort’s occupation of the Ministry, such research had become entirely moral and ethical, and Mortimer had thrived upon the freedom. He had made great progress, but had ultimately been cautious that his findings would be stolen. When the occupation was ended, Mortimer had secreted the work back to Godric’s Hollow as best he could, and where he could, he continued to research.

An introduction to Ira Almasy, a growing impatience with the Ministry and a restlessness caused by his promotion to Department Head, removing him from his research post had culminated in the previous weekend[2].

“Mortimer?”

His eyes had settled closed, content to rest a moment in the hard wood chair. His head hummed with thoughts and possibilities, and he felt as if he were on the cusp of sleep or laughter simultaneously, delirious. His shirtsleeves, drawn up to the elbow, were smeared with blood just as his pale, aged forearms were, and a fresh scar just beneath the crook of his left elbow stung sharply. He felt as if he had both eaten a delicious meal, and starved himself, what a very conflicting sense.

Ignoring his wife’s distant query, Mortimer lifted his right hand and gestured to a dictation quill which sprung to attention.
“I feel both elated and distanced, an overall euphoria,” he pressed his fingers to his wrist, pausing a moment, “my heart rate is still elevated, other than the discomfort at the entry wound I feel optimistic the disconnected mental sensation shall fade. Test of magical influence shall reveal if any significant increase has resulted, but I believe I will need to -"

”Mortimer.”

Lyra had reappeared in the doorway, no sign of the tea or the potion unless she had tasked their elf with it upon reaching the ground floor of the house above them. Instead, she clasped a plain envelope[3] and her face had come over all pale. Her hair colour had reverted to the natural which she never abided. As a metamorphmagus, Lyra used her abilities to continue a more youthful, though still age appropriate appearance, and he only truly saw his wife’s unamended features when she was in shock or deep sleep. However much he assured her, her natural face was still beautiful to him, she insisted on beautifying for her own self confidence.

“What is it?” He waved his hand at the quill again and it fell to the table beside the log book.
”Someone is trying to warn us.”

Mortimer’s bloody fingers touched the copy of the illustration from Hansel and Gretel and moved to get up. Lyra’s hands went out to try and prevent him, and he stumbled against the table, upsetting the empty glass orb which rolled off the edge and smashed onto the stone cellar floor. At the very same moment a noise upstairs made the couple’s gaze snap to the cellar door.
“The students,”
"Should have killed them all as I suggested.” Lyra hissed.
“As we agreed.”

The Gamps exchanged the briefest of kisses - confirmation and an anticipated farewell. His wife’s eyes conveyed her discouragement at this plan - she was convinced they might both escape, but Mortimer could not easily change his face as his love could. If she truly loved him, she would do this for them, their life’s work.

Lyra seized the box containing a number of remaining glass orbs collected from the students, locking it shut, her appearance rapidly changing as she did. Mortimer stepped out of the cellar room in the direction of the intruders, heart thumping, one hand to his pocket, slipping into it two other glass orbs, ready to buy them time should the illegal portkey not work. Lyra’s fumbling of the umbrella in the cellar strongroom behind him distracted him just long enough to see her vanish before he pulled shut the door and attempted to ward it.

The act threw the Department Head off his own feet, amongst the boxes and crates in the cellar at the bottom of the stairs. His oak wand splintering into pieces. The magical potential he had absorbed in his experiment was havoc to his own magic, and even warding the strongroom had suddenly become an impossibility, and as such, the door was open.

Disarmed, disorientated, somewhat delirious and desperate - Mortimer reached for his pockets with bloodied, burned hands and launched the first of the orbs at the approaching shadows - the cellar erupting into bright, brilliant white-blue flames of elemental magic around him, and launched the second into the strongroom in the hope of destroying all within.

1.	1953, Never Had it so Good, 1966, Desperate Volunteers
2.	12 & 13 February 2011 Ten Below
3.	14 February 2011 The Mice Have Run

Solomon wasn't one for heroics.

That was a young wizard's game and even as he apparated on to the grounds surrounding Gamp House in the dark that long preceded dawn, he was already preparing to order the group of Aurors to take the initiative without waiting for prompt. Their only real directive was not to inadvertently kill Mortimer Gamp unless absolutely necessary. Level 2 needed answers and as far as he was concerned, dead bodies do not speak (certainly they have no reason to).

Godric's Hollow was at peace. Nothing from the outside seemed to give away that the house's inhabitants were aware of the encroaching task force.

A pause as wizards and witches alike manifested entirely. Solomon looked over his shoulder, hand moving to adjust his spectacles until he remembered he'd taken a potion to avoid them being smashed in any imminent confrontation. His eye caught Bassir's and then the senior of the leading pair on the investigation, Adon.

"Eleor. Your lot around the back," he spoke in a low voice and then indicated at a smaller set of Aurors to follow him to the front entrance. They had obtained information from Auror Gamp about the general layout of the house - Eleor would no doubt be able to gain entrance through a window around the other side. 

Solomon's jaw was tense but he smiled grimly at the Aurors before they began to split up. "Let's not go blundering in, ladies and gentleman," he reminded them. "We don't knock for Department heads."

Your lot around back.  Right now, Adon's "lot," as it were, consisted of JJ Bassir and the two other hitwizards following in their wake.  JJ and he'd worked well enough together the day before.  They'd been the ones yesterday to find the ... Adon had not words for it except 'torture chamber.' And the girl.  They'd been well-paired in outrage at the time, but Adon felt right to be nervous about his new partner's restraint, now.  All the children were accounted for, but if the experiments did not end there? If Gamp was not alone?  There was no telling whether they'd be facing all out firefight or another hostage situation.  They hadn't proved themselves particularly adept at the latter the day before. 

Adon'd been clear before: no sandwiches.  Nodding to his partner, he briefly knocked shoulders in encouragement before following Carstairs' instructions.  The group cut quickly across the graveled pathway, trying to tread lightly.  It was a relief to finally move on the lawn and, from there, to the back of the house.  Adon peered inside the windows, hardly believing as he took in what seemed to be a very neat, rather ordinary sort of...boot room.  It wasn't the sort of place you'd consider a lair for a murderous, crooked and dark wizard. 

The Gamp Home did not disappoint for long, however.  The air around them seemed to crackle a moment before there was a bright flash--an explosion of eerie light, like a Patronus.  Appearances or no, they were dealing with Mortimer Gamp; and that flash could be almost anything. "Right," he mouthed to JJ and the others, indicating they were to have the wands at the ready, before using his elbow to break the glass of the door into the house.  He reached in, turning the knob. Obediently, as though it were just any old door of just any old lair, it swung open. Adon faltered a moment upon the step.

...He had not actually expected for that to work, for the door to open so easily.  It made him feel uneasy.

There was little time for introspection at this point. Adon's movements were automatic.  He swept the boot room, moving towards the direction of the blast--which took him into the kitchen.  Two doors in either direction that lead to hallways; they'd need to clear those or risk an ambush on either end. Silently, he waved a hitwizard in either direction.  And, then, of course, came the cellar which was the probable source of--

Adon hardly had the time to cast a full, proper shield charm before the second blast.  Loose particles bounced off the shield, ringing as they made contact.  Several waves of rippling, stinging power made their way past, however, causing Adon to throw one arm up to protect his face. 

"MORTIMER GAMP!" Adon yelled, throat feeling as though it were on fire, "Come up with your hands up!" That was, if he could.

Someone’s voice yelled his name, authoritatively.  Lying amongst the boxes in their cellar, Mortimer laughed.  It was an elated, free laugh of a man delighted with progress.  Yes, there were aurors all in his house and his research had been dashed away by both his wife and the fire now raging in the strongroom, but he had been right.  That above all mattered most to him.  He was no longer a young man, the effects of his wand splintering and the extra magic raging in him made him feel as uncontrolled as an eleven year old again.  A novice at controlling magical potential once again, and that was exactly how he had considered it might become.  A lifetime’s worth of work had led to this moment.

As flames licked around his head, charring a box of Lyra’s old cloaks she had been hoping to pass on to Andromeda or Ariadne, Mortimer lifted his shoulders from the stone floor.  His lined face bore a bright expression, and he lifted his hands first before him, examining the burns with academic curiosity.  Absorbing more might have blown his head off, and he wondered if a wand was a poor vessel for additional magic - but a staff or - oh!

On hearing their feet reach the bottom of the cellar steps, Mortimer threw out his hands towards the approaching aurors, as if shoving a child on a swing.  The air seemed to fold on itself, rushing out of the cellar and up the narrow stairs to the ground floor of the house above.  The equal, and opposite reaction sent Mortimer flying backwards into the flames with a yelp.

He felt the clothes on his back catch light, and somewhere in the strong room there was the sound of smashing glass and an ungodly howl.  One of the horrendous, demonic books in there was burning, taking the malevolent enchantments with it into ash.  But above all else, Mortimer laughed.  He laughed for the sheer joy of progress, for possibility, and for the fact he had nothing to lose.

On his knees, surrounded by blue flames, Mortimer Gamp laughed wickedly at his hands as they burned bright as sunlight, and turned an ugly grin to the aurors as they entered the cellar proper.

JJ hadn't needed any prompting from Carstairs-- with a curt nod of acknowledgement, he followed Adon around the side of the house. It took everything in his power to exercise restraint, to keep from blowing up the side of the wall to get to Gamp. He glanced back at the hitwizards, Katie Quinn and Dribbles (At this point, Dribbles' real name didn't matter). JJ vaguely felt like he was being stalked by an angry, middle-aged couple. The two had been hitwizards for so long, he suspected they were born into the job. Baby hitwizards, roaming around the auror office, taking names and breaking curfews.

His wand was gripped firmly in his right hand, he could feel the ifrit carving shift, as if the wand itself was telling him it was ready for battle. Between quick reflexes and shield charms, they got through the second explosion with nothing more than a couple scratches and scrapes.

Adon oh-so-diplomaticaly called for Gamp, but Judah Bassir did not have the patience to wait. Shield charm still up, he gently pushed past Adon to get a better look. The stairs were clear, but at the bottom, the light was eerie blue, shadows moving about on the floor like fire. He glanced over his shoulder back at Adon-- between the two of them, he was sure they had this handled. Their skin bore the marks of experience (or lack thereof).

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard eerie howling and.... Laughter.

"What the--" This was some sort of twisted vision of Disney's Fantasia. "Okay, Satan."  JJ said sardonically, though the burning hands kept him from moving any closer. He didn't know the exact magic-- and he suspected that whatever it was, would land them at St. Mungos.

Oh well, he'd suffered worse. With a nonchalant shrug, JJ pointed his wand at Gamp. With a flash of blue light, he hoped his aim was true.[1]

1.	Immobulus, cast nonverbally

The first figure at the bottom of the stairs in auror robes was young Bassir.  No patience, he was rushing to the conclusion as quick as he could.  His expression bore surprise but not fear at the scene he found.  He resorted to humour as a deflection.

As wand moved, glowing hands did too, and what met in the middle was a blinding bright white burst of untempered magic meeting.  The air cracked with a noise that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building around them.  Suddenly the screaming of the dark magic book in the strong room behind Auror Bassir did not seem to be quite so loud.  Instead, Mortimer’s ears rang, temporarily deafened.

He tried to get to his feet, flames licking up his back.  What was left of his straggly white hair caught light from it, but he was exhausted and fell forward towards the invading party.

“You don’t know what this is.” He laughed at them, face near pressed into the cellar floor, phosphorescent hands outstretched.

Well. This was going just about as well as almost all things seemed to, these days.  In a burst of fire and light, Adon hardly had time to clap his hands over his ears--really, had only had the presence of mind to stay exactly as he was, holding the shielding spell.  Fortunately, that had been a decent enough course of action.  That alone had kept the flames from engulfing them, but knowing magical fires--and he knew magical fires--that wouldn't hold up.

The man's words came a though traveling through water.  Adon could barely make them out, but he could see them on his lips.  "You don't know what this is," the man stated, all the doom and gloom of a God-forsaken prophet.  Even laying prostrate on the ground, arms outstretched, as though about to pray.  Adon tried not to sneer.

"No--" he conceded rather readily before breaking off into a cough. The smoke was starting to get overpowering.  And his stomach lurched at the sight of those hands.  The glow was a sort of... unknown wandless magic.  But it didn't look like anything Adon himself could do.  External magic, if he had to guess. That did not go well--at least not in his experience.[1]  A curse? Contact with a cursed object?   They didn't have time to guess, and Mystic Ministry Mystery Man was probably going to keep any helpful tidbits about it to himself, too.  Gamp was, frankly, the least of his worries right now.  It was the magic, not Gamp, that was in control. But it was the fire that concerned him.  Always the fire.

The house didn't currently seem to be collapsing over their heads, but that could quickly change.  And the Rule One of... just about Any training he'd received: Don't become a victim.  If you went down, then your partner suddenly had two people to haul out.  JJ was beefy, but he wasn't leaving it to brawn and chance alone.

Deciding upon the immediate here-and-now, "Cuff him," he called over to JJ.   "Here," he said, jerking at his jacket from beneath his cloak.  He gave a frustrated growl before violently disentangling himself.  He could not believe he was doing this.  His jacket! His favorite-- If this man didn't fucking just kill a child... He wadded the dragonhide up, throwing the jacket over in a bundle.  "Wrap 'em in this."  That'd at least be some sort of safeguard against fire; bets were off on phosphorescent spookery, though.

Now stripped down to his shirt, Adon flicked his wand up again, preparing to amass the blue flames. The change was subtle at first: they curled into each other, then built and licked their way up the walls and onto the ceiling.  Gradually, they began to form a slow-swirling pillar of fire.  Eyes squinted, Adon heard rather than saw the cellar windows shatter from the heat. Gradually, his hand lowered, free hand forming a fist. As the sweat began to run down into his eyes, Adon felt the heat of the flames take his breath away and singe his eyelashes. Until, blessedly, it did not. Adon caught the first rush of cool air on his face, presumably from the now shattered windows, and looked at the dissipated flames, now a mere glow in the room.

And, in an instinct that had also become second-nature, Adon played the "What would Jonas Say" that so often kept Adon from punching someone out.  The words that came out were uncharacteristically light and had hints of the Cornish lilt:  "So, why don't you tell us all about it back at the office, yeh? You're under arrest."

1.	Adon grew up on a kibbutz in Israel, Kibbutz Erez, which was researching how to externalize magic to make it available for use by Muggles.  After a string of violence and abductions, the Ministry in Jerusalem was forced to intercede and shut the community down.