#varry

Lord Voldemort stood before a line of sobbing muggles, their clothes torn and hair matted with natural grease and dirt, blood staining their bodies with no way to tell whether it was theirs or a loved one’s. It wasn’t right, of course; tearing them away from their homes, murdering the children if no magic was detected, and taking the adults away to be used as temporary practice targets or, perhaps, slaves of some kind. But Lord Voldemort had no inclination to be right.

One of them tried to run, but was immediately cursed by a Death Eater. Its screams burst out into the air. It made the crying louder, mixing into a horrendous orchestra. Lord Voldemort closed his eyes and listened to the symphony.

“My Lord?”

Tucked under the Dark Lord’s arm was a boy bordering on man, with messy black hair and shiny green eyes. When he was answered by Lord Voldemort opening his eyes and looking down at him, he continued on. “Do we have to be here?” Do I have to be here?

“We will leave soon, after I give the order to allow my Death Eaters to enjoy themselves.” He said. “Understood, Harry?”