Karkaroff's lips moved soundlessly, like a fish out of water.
He wanted to argue, but an invisible hand gripped his throat, leaving him unable to make a sound.
For the first time, those habitually cunning eyes filled with pure fear.
The naked fear of prey.
Douglas's magic had no incantation, no light, yet it formed a boundless net.
Azkaban's damp stone walls rose with a crash in his mind.
The Dementors' howls exploded directly against the insides of his eardrums.
The brand of the Dark Mark, which he had escaped only by betraying all his companions, grew scorching hot beneath his skin again, burning.
This chill was no illusion. It crawled up his spine, vertebra by vertebra, leaving him barely able to stand.
Invisible hands tugged at the air, pulling it so taut that it hummed, ready to snap the next second.
The students around them could not understand the bloody history buried in that word, "wretch."
But the killing intent, almost solid enough to form icicles, pierced everyone's skin with unerring precision.
They instinctively backed away from the collapsing eye of the storm.
Madame Maxime leaned her towering body forward slightly, sparks of interest dancing in her gleaming black eyes.
She looked down at the two men as though enjoying a palace intrigue drama full of twists and turns, set in a foreign land.
Behind Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles, the amusement in his blue eyes was almost overflowing.
He showed no intention of stopping them. Instead, he resembled a kindly elder indulging his own child's harmless little prank.
Only Professor McGonagall felt a hand clench around her heart, lifting it into her throat.
Every wrinkle on her face was etched with anxiety.
If this continued, Karkaroff, who valued his dignity more than his life, would storm off with his students.