The Master’s Return Ⅱ

There was such a heavy silence that even a pin could be heard being dropped onto the floor. The Death Eaters hold their breath before Primus proudly puffs up with pride with a smug expression on his face. "I thought as much-," Primus sneered before a familiar purple streak flashed from the tip of Dolohov's wand in his trademark spell.

Unable to finish his sentence, Primus wails like a gutted pig. In sheer disbelief, he gazes down and takes in the sight of his missing hand. In its place is a severed wrist that shows glistening bone and gory flesh at the edge of a bleeding severed stump. His eyes dumbly fall even more down to the ground. On the ground lays his right hand still clutching to his wand as crimson wetness spreads from the served hand, and the loud sound of droplets dripping down onto the floor from the bleeding severed wrist.

A Death Eater chokes rather faintly, while other weak-stomached Death Eaters in the crowd turn blanche and a sickly color as they hastily avert their eyes from the bloody scene. Several pinch their noses shut lest the already rising bile in their bellies continues to rise. Their swift actions for the moment halt the rapid rising of the bile that still swirled ominously in the depth of their queasy stomachs.

A sudden screech escapes Primus Wilkes's mouth as he begins to howl and wail in pain. Clutching his severed hand, Primus fails to notice the deliberate form of Dolohov steadily approaching from behind. Too late, Primus recalls the presence of Dolohov only to find the muscular wizard looming over him from behind. Shuddering, he grows still as he feels Dolohov's breath come closer halting right next to his ear.

In a mocking whisper, Dolohov says, "Primus, I cannot help but wonder just how much of a use that you will be now to the half-breed, Tom Riddle without your wand hand?"

Primus pushes down the tendril of panic within his chest at Dolohov's words and steps hurriedly away from the larger wizard. Whirling about to face Dolohov, Primus opens his mouth to speak when a shrill scream erupts from his throat in white-hot agony. Weakly in disbelief and utter bewilderment, he feels his body slump to the floor. A loud slurping-like sound follows as he raises his gaze to find a purple spark fade away from the tip of Dolohov's wand. A strong imaginable scent of blood and flesh reaches his nostrils causing him to glance down.

The urge to vomit overwhelms Primus as he sees his innards sliding out from his body onto the floor. He was far from the only one as many turned pale and green. While the weaker stomached Death Eaters, who had been holding it in let out a sickly gurgle. Feeling the bile rapidly rising, they forcefully clamp their hands over their mouths, before fleeing in droves to vomit. Those lucky enough find silver and ornamental vases in which to hurl the contents of their stomach in. The rest begin to spew in the corridor just outside the hall causing an entire gruesome chain reaction.

Clutching at his wet, slippery innards, Primus's hands quiver shakily as he attempts to shove his guts inside the cavity to no avail. Utter shock, and even fear to flash through his eyes as he futilely tries to staunch the flow as a crimson pool spread around him. All too soon fury flashes through his eyes as he opens his mouth to harshly speak but finds that even the air from his lungs seems to have vanished.

In that instant complete and utter rage flashes across Primus's face, while the triumphant sneer on Dolohov's face only grows wider. Primus futilely reaches for the wand still clenched in his served hand to find that he is incredibly weak. He slips on his slick, dripping wet, red-soaked fingers onto the cold floor. The strength in his body rapidly leaves him as if hordes of rats from a sinking ship. His lungs have great difficulty in pulling air as the beat of his heart grows weaker and louder in his ears.

Primus attempts to futilely push himself up to find that his limbs refused to listen to him. Laying in a pool of warm, cooling blood Primus manages to see the retreating back of Dolohov. Plain murder can be found in Primus's eyes as his thoughts connect to the others. Just how could their plans have gone so very astray?! They had severely underestimated the rabid dog of their puppet. DOLOHOV MUST PERISH!

With Dolohov casually moving away, the Death Eaters hastily retreat out of Dolohov's way and avert their eyes not even daring to be caught staring. Even the most outspoken Death Eater's would be a fool to even so much as a voice a protest or worse draw the maddened ire of Dolohov, who had just slain Primus. They certainly did not have a death wish, to begin with!

Making his way to the drinking cabinet, Dolohov leisurely removes a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey from within, before pouring himself a shot. Taking a sip, he smiles with great relish as he proceeds to enjoy and observe the final moments of Primus Wilkes.

In the corner of the hall, Rodolphus merely shakes his head at the inevitable ending, before turning away to stare out of the window. The moon was high, but where was the Dark Lord? Or better yet, what exactly was he doing? He thought through frigid, narrowed eyes.

However, Rodolphus kept one eye on the reflection behind him being reflected in the glass windowpane. Frightened by Dolohov's mad, violent, and deadly actions none of the Death Eaters dared to offer any succor to Primus, who grew weaker and weaker with each passing second. The metallic scent of blood is so heavy in the air that it can be tasted on the tongue. More than a few Death Eaters appear rather ill and begin to hurriedly vacate the hall in droves.

With the last rattling breaths of Primus, there are only four individuals left in the hall of Gibbons Manor. Rodolphus at the windowpane, Dolohov leisurely sipping his Firewhiskey, Gibbons as this was his ancestorial home but with his eyes solemnly averted from the grotesque scene, and Empusa Snyde. Which would have come as a surprise to any one of them as Empusa Snyde had never been close to Primus nor did she possess a single charitable bone in her body.

With one last gurgle, Primus becomes still as a black withering rune in the shape of a Hydra appears smoke-like and emerges from his body, before dissipating into the air. Dolohov, who drinking frowns and sets his drink down as he furrows his brow. Just what was that? He thought to himself as his eyes flickered over to Rodolphus, who appeared to be staring out of the windowpane. It must have merely been a trick of the mind, an illusion.

Shaking his head, Dolohov puts the incident out of his mind, before reaching for his glass again. A loud grumble can be heard from Gibbons, who murmurs to himself, "Blood is hell on the Persian carpets-. Why couldn't Primus have died on the marble floor?" It would be utterly barmy of him to accuse Dolohov; it would be better than the fault lay with the corpse of Primus.

Dolohov smirks with vile glee, before almost choking on his drink. He was not the only one as Gibbon's mouth flew agape at the unbelievable sight before them. The red-eyed figure of Empusa had drawn close to the corpse of Primus, before removing her own cloaked hood and laying it onto the corpse of Primus. It was an unbelievable act of charity of Empusa, that made one wonder if there had been a preexisting connection between Primus and Empusa.

Dolohov and Gibbons were not the only ones as even Rodolphus went as far as to turn away from the windowpane to better observe the witch. A pensive, narrowed expression appears on his face, before vanishing just as quickly as he returns towards the windowpane. But still, if one stared closely they would see that his gaze was fixated upon the reflection shown in the windowpane rather than that of scenery beyond the windowpane.

Noticing the shocked expressions of Dolohov and Gibbons, Empusa's lips twist with scorn. "I owed, Primus," Empusa hissed. "And now I consider my debt paid," before storming past them.

Dolohov and Gibbons share an uncertain expression for a moment before Dolohov returns to his drink, and Gibbons moves to summon the house elves. Gibbons had the feeling that evening was going to be tediously long, and the Dark Lord had yet to arrive. What a day it was turning out to be!