In Bulgaria, in the southeastern Balkans, inside the Dark Lord's new temporary base.
In the somewhat dim room, torches blazed on the walls, lighting the stone slabs on the floor. A dozen or so unlucky wretches dressed like local wizards were floating upside down in midair, while wisps of gray fog appeared and coiled around the victims. Voldemort had his mouth open, devouring the grayish-white substance rising from their bodies one by one. An elderly muggle woman's hair gradually turned white, and the skin that had once been full on her body seemed to have had all its moisture drained away, growing shriveled and dry. Her vitality was drawn away by those streams of black smoke—then her soul was drawn out after it, reducing this first unlucky victim to be devoured completely into powder.
The unrefined soul contained personal consciousness, and all of it was sucked into Voldemort's own head in one rush. Memories and emotions that did not belong to him made Voldemort, who had lowered his head to fight against them, swell with dark-green veins across his bare forehead. Surging magic and chaotic thoughts made that waxlike cheek, paler than bone, look even more hideous.
After a while, the movement outside the room's stone wall restored a little reason to Voldemort's blood-red eyes, but it also made the disturbed man even more furious. He waved his wand, and the neatly stacked stone-brick wall seemed to come alive. The wall opened a round hole like the eye of a storm, revealing the scene outside. Then the Dark Lord, without lowering the hand that held his spell, was about to cast again as green light began gathering at the tip of his wand.
But then, after his snake-like face creased in a frown, Voldemort flung the Killing Curse into a