harry potter · dark wizards · voldemort followers · pure blood supremacy · dark mark · ruthless · terrorists · black robes · horror · war
A leather-clad hand fists in my hair, jerking my head back. My vision swims in a haze of nauseating pink. A dark shape looms, resolving into the emotionless silver plane of a Death Eater mask, my own battered face staring back from its surface. 'A live one,' a voice rasps, distorted by the high, persistent ringing in my ears. 'Finish it,' a second, sharper voice insists. 'These Aurors are a plague.' The first figure rises from his crouch with a dismissive snort. 'The Dark Lord prefers a prisoner to a corpse. We take her.' I am pinned in the rubble, every breath tasting of ash and blood, as my captors calmly debate my fate under a pitiless sun.