Money loves to pull, into illusion, those that own it. It loves, too, to ruin the illusions that it can create.

It is always indifferent – it is we, who are not.

Voldemort, when he had decided that the Mansion in question would make yet another perfect stronghold, had found it easy to tackle the wolves – he had not driven them off, but driven them to himself.

He had the metaphorical fangs of a snake, and a tongue of honey, and he could show both, and show none, simultaneously or when he wanted to.

All this, in a way that none were aware that the evil of the wolves had been taken away, and replaced by a much more cultured, much more barbaric one.

Other factors have come into play. I have no control over them, anymore. I can not be strong, in the face of what makes us strong.

The cheek to not be alert, and to think – when on an errand for him – of a sister opposed to his very actions, would cost her.

It happened, very suddenly – to her right, a pair of scarlet-tinted, orange eyes gave a sudden glint. Less than half a second later, a scream had ripped out of her throat, and the wind seemed to carry it everywhere, let it magnify, echo and then plummet into a startling, hauntingly indifferent darkness.