Percival Dumbledore rolled headfirst off his broom. His son, Albus, landed to the grass as the man stumbled forward. He ripped his wand from a strap on his belt and pressed on toward the glistening bubble of light. At its center, hidden within a ratty bramble of vines, was his six-year-old daughter, Ariana. Her precious, young face was bloody and swollen with red and purple welts. Standing over her unconscious body, and grinning with unimaginable glee, were the three Muggle boys from town. And that's when Percival understood the thumping sound.

Outnumbering her three to one, the boys were kicking his daughter repeatedly, watching in awe as the area around them responded with an eruption of unbelievable magic. At each strike, the flowers blossomed and died, the dry vines swelled with life, and flecks of rainwater hovered around them in the blazing light that emanated from the small, battered girl.

Horrified by the sight, Percival was struck dumb. Then, stony-faced and blinking tears in uncontrolled rage, he stormed forward with his wand outstretched. Behind him, Kendra cowered with her sons, crying out to the sky.

Then, quite abruptly, a man in a brown traveling cloak arrived in their midst with a broomstick on his back. Beside him was a woman in a hooded gray robe. The woman, looking weary from Apparating, sat on a fallen log and covered her head with her hands. Seeing the turmoil, the man in the cloak ran out in front of Percival, arms raised in defense. He glanced over his shoulder at the disturbing scene. The Muggle boys were so stunned by the sudden presence of adults in strange garments that they backed away from the girl.

Percival Dumbledore hardly noticed the man. He lowered his wand and lifted his daughter from the ground, weeping at the sight of her brokenness. Tenderly, he carried Ariana to his wife, the light of her unconscious spell holding firm around her body in a slick sphere of shifting color.

"She's still breathing," said the cloaked man lamentably. "She will survive."

When Kendra took their daughter in her arms, Percival swiveled round and pointed his wand at the Muggle boys.

"What are you doing?" the cloaked man asked in shock, throwing his arms wide.

"Stand back..." Percival ordered distantly.

"No, you mustn't."

"They need to be punished!"

The man shook his head aggressively. "They're Muggles. You know they don't understand our world. It merits mercy."

"I'm being merciful."

"I demand that you stow your wand, sir."

"Leave, stranger!"

"HELP!" one of the boys shouted, shrinking into the bramble.

"Please, listen..."

"This does not concern you!"

"You don't have to do this."

"HELP US!" they screamed, as the man in the brown cloak continued.

"You have a choice."

"You saw what they did to her!!! These Muggles... they don't deserve to exist at all! We are their betters!"

"They will be punished by the proper authorities," the stranger explained. "The Muggle authorities. It shall be done, I give you my word."

"SOMEONE! HELP!"

"Wrong," said Percival, every ounce of his good-natured spirit stripped from his core, as he faced the boys who had assaulted his innocent daughter. "They will be punished right here and now. You will stand aside!!"

The man shook his head, and uttered in a broken voice, "Never."

"Avada Kedavra!"

The three Muggle boys winced. A rush of violent wind thundered over them, as a blinding green light escaped Percival's wand. Then, beyond all rational thinking, the man in the brown cloak leaped out in front of the spell, taking the full force of the curse against his chest. It throttled him across the field and he slid to a stop at the feet of the three boys. His jacket was smoking. His eyes were open wide from the shock. The spell had killed him in an instant.