The same process, the same pain, the same struggle.
Crabbe's body rolled across the ground, jerking and convulsing. For the first time, expression appeared on his dull face—a twisted, agonized look, on the verge of collapse. He opened his mouth and let out a low, beastlike roar that echoed over the hill, startling a flock of ravens from the distant trees. "How could this happen? It shouldn't be like this... What am I supposed to do?" Nott knelt nearby, watching Crabbe's miserable state, his young face filled with despair. He knew he would be next.
He wanted to flee, to run, to do anything that could avoid what was about to happen. But he could not. He could not betray his master or defy his master's orders. The day he had joined the Death Eaters, he had already handed his life over to Voldemort. He had no choice.
"AAAAARGH!"
Crabbe's struggle finally stopped. He lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his entire body drenched in sweat. He opened his eyes—eyes like Selwyn's, dark red and pupil-less. Slowly, he sat up, lowered his head to look at his hands, clenched them into fists, then loosened them again.
"How does it feel?" Voldemort asked.
Crabbe raised his head and looked at Voldemort. For the first time, his dull face showed an expression—not fear, not pain, but a devout light that bordered on worship. "Powerful, my master." His voice was low and hoarse, carrying that same strange resonance that did not belong to him, exactly like the man before him. "I feel... very powerful."
Voldemort nodded in satisfaction. Then he turned toward Nott.
Nott's face was white as paper, his lips trembling violently, his eyes filled with terror and despair. He watched Voldemort raise his hand. He watched the dark-red glow gather