With a hostage in hand, Dolohov seemed even more excited.
One hand clamped tightly around the hostage's throat, while the other gripped his wand and kept tightening, as if he wanted to drive its tip into the hostage's temple.
Watching the anger and struggle in Arthur's eyes gave him a familiar thrill.
He enjoyed this process: inflicting fear, then watching others struggle between morality and survival.
"Drop your wands. I'll count to three."
Arthur gritted his teeth, crouched down, and placed his wand on the floor.
Seeing this, the other staff members could only do the same.
Three wands fell to the floor in succession, and Dolohov's smile became even more vicious.
He could kill the hostage, then kill those Ministry of Magic employees, slowly torture Arthur and Vincent, and make them see just how insignificant they were.
Just as his fingers were about to tighten, a slender blue beam precisely pierced the wrist of the hand gripping his wand.
It happened so quickly that he did not even feel any pain. He only felt his fingers suddenly stop obeying him.
It was not until his wand hit the floor with a clatter that he realized what had happened.
There was a tiny wound on his wrist. It was not deep and did not bleed, like a needle prick.
He stared blankly at his limp hand, then at the wand on the floor.
There had been no incantation, no magical fluctuation, or at least none that he recognized. Yet his hand had suddenly stopped working, as though his muscles or nerves had been severed.
Dolohov abruptly looked up at the people across from him.
Arthur and the other staff members' wands were still on the ground, and their baffled expressions made it clear that they had not done it.
Could