Floor-to-ceiling windows were framed by dark green curtains, and the sunlight seized its chance to slip through where the wind had lifted them, shooting into the room. That sudden spill of light flashed across the subtly patterned walls and vanished.
Cheers came from the television in the room. On that small screen, Allen was cutting off Voldemort's palm and speaking in a mocking tone, while the television gave a close-up of the red-eyed, noseless wizard whose face was twisted with pain and hatred.
You-Know-Who, who had made countless people tremble in fear, had been defeated by Allen Harris, and the Television Station replayed those clips from time to time to give ordinary wizards confidence and a sense of safety.
A wizard who looked barely in his early twenties, with black-jade hair, gaunt cheeks, and a tall, slender build, sat on the sofa opposite the television. Beside his long, elegant hand lay a copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, a book Rita Skeeter had published in the Muggle world under a pen name.
There was a snap.
The television was turned off, and the screen went pitch-black.
The wizard shifted his gaze from the television to the book he had picked up beside him, his eyes stopping on one line—"All he could hear were Quirrell's dreadful screams and Voldemort's vicious roars... though perhaps it was only a hallucination in his mind."
The tall, slender wizard's brows drew tight, and anger flickered in his eyes. With fury burning across his handsome face, he looked exceptionally cold, like an elegant cat suddenly screeching and baring sharp teeth.
Another muffled snap followed.
The wizard closed the book in his hands. His long, thin fingers tightened around the cover, crumpling it badly; the places where his fingers pressed hardest were even crushed and