#halloween comp

Dim, ruddy evening light flooded through the window slits into his tiny cell; another day in Azkaban was coming to an end.

Antonin Dolohov couldn't care less. He scowled at the wrinkled newspaper clipping in his left hand. A young witch in purple ministry robes laughed from the picture, her brunette mane wafting around her head like a halo. The faded ruby letters shone in the darkness.

War Heroine to Lead Department of Magical Law Enforcement in Crackdown on Recent Anti-Muggle Poison Abuse .    

For the millionth time, Dolohov crumpled the paper and threw it against the wall. Instead of the paper quietly bouncing to the floor, he imagined the witch's head crashing against the stones.

  Mudblood bitch.

She  was the reason everything had gone downhill; why he had landed in Azkaban not once, but twice; why he’d fallen from the Dark Lord’s good graces; why the Dark Lord had fallen at all; why, even now, he had no hopes of returning to a wizarding society that deserved the name.

But he would rectify that. He would finish what he had started. The Mudblood must die… slowly, painfully.