Death

The blood drained from his face.

A grotesque sprawl of limbs bent wrong, like a broken doll– no, an old man, grey and flabby, gasping– no, not that, a shattered naked body with tarry blood sticking to its lips, glass fishy eyes staring. Broken, nothing, all nothing, and someone else holds the wand, victorious. And before his eyes he can tell it’s becoming rotten–

In a cold moment, his wand slid from his sleeve and he had it in his hand in an instant.

Riddikulus.

The shape changed. Shattered half-moon glasses, a mess of robes and a withered figure on the ground.

Tom laughed.