And then he was raising his wand and there was a moment—half a moment, even—of horrified expectation, and his gaze was sharp and hard and deadly, unwavering and unrelenting, like some kind of avenging wrathful predator— “Avada Kedavra.” He didn’t shout. It wasn’t loud. He spoke with casual conviction; and the words felt strangely elegant, fucking pretty, reducing all of our bodies to deaf blind shadows, quivering in the preternatural, too-long flash of bright green light—because we were statues, his statues, and the jumbled, nonsensical chaos of the previous half-hour was gone, forgotten, vanquished, and for the first time since I had arrived in 1944, I was able to recognize Voldemort. I was able to see what must have been there all along, lying dormant, pretending to be dead, waiting to be released— No one moved.
NIGHTMARE by @provocative-envy
