Love In The Midst Of Darkness

C h a p t e r 25 : What Fate Demands

The room was poorly lit, with a heavy atmosphere that appeared to weigh down on everyone present. The walls, adorned with dark tapestries, absorbed the sparse illumination, making the space feel smaller and more claustrophobic. A circle of hooded figures stood around a tall, polished table, their faces covered by shadows, but the tension between them was unmistakable.

The Dark Lord sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled as he scanned the people around him. His red eyes glared ominously in the dark light, pinning each Death Eater in place while they awaited his decision. Nobody dared to speak; the only sound was the mild crackling of the fire in the hearth, which did little to warm the frigid air.

"Failures," the Dark Lord finally said, his voice piercing the silence like a knife. The one word caused a chill throughout the room, but no one moved. "Too many failures. I grow weary of your incompetence."

He rose slowly, his actions unhurried, as if savoring the horror that spread among his followers. The dark robes he wore blended in with the shadows, giving the impression that he was part of the gloom. He began to circle the table, his steps echoing ominously in the silence.

"We are on the brink of victory," he said, his voice rising slightly, "and yet some of you falter. Some of you allow our enemies to slip through your fingers. This... cannot continue... Potter remains at large," he continued, his voice low but dripping with menace. "Tell me, why should I continue to tolerate such... ineptitude?."

He came to a halt behind one of the cloaked figures, who stiffened in response to his stare. The Dark Lord drew in closer, his breath cold against the back of the figure's neck. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

The person fumbled, attempting to compose a response, but no words emerged. The Dark Lord twisted his lip in contempt. "Pathetic."

With a flick of his wand, he sent the man crashing to the floor, writhing in pain under the Cruciatus Curse.  Screams filled the room, but the rest kept still, aware that any movement or sound could draw the Dark Lord's attention to them next. 

After what seemed like an age, he lifted the curse, leaving the Death Eater shaking and breathing on the cold stone floor. The Dark Lord resumed his seat at the head of the table, his visage frigid and unfeeling.

"Let this be a warning," he murmured, his tone now deathly quiet. "Failure will not be tolerated. Success is the only path to survival." 

The huge wood doors creaked open with an ominous groan, bringing the place to an unsettling hush. The Death Eaters shrouded in darkness, automatically looked toward the entrance, where a figure stood silhouetted against the pale light of the hallway beyond. She hesitated briefly to allow the tension to build before stepping forward with a grace that dominated the room's attention. 

Her mask remained in place as her boots pounded the stone floor with a deliberate beat, each step resonating down the hall like a bell. The subtle rustling of her cloak, dark as nightfall, trailed behind her, creating the illusion of a shadow moving with its own purpose. Her eyes, keen and frigid as ice, swept the room, taking in the faces of those present, daring them to turn away.

There was something disturbing about her presence—a magnetic pull that drew everyone's attention while also warning them to keep their distance. She was young, perhaps too young to evoke such fear, but she had an aura of sheer power that could not be ignored. She raised her head, chin inclined in defiance, and her attitude was one of complete confidence, verging on arrogance.

The Dark Lord eyed her in silence, his look incomprehensible. She could sense the tension in the room, as every other Death Eater observed this interaction, unsure of what it might mean. Her pulse accelerated, yet she remained cool and serene, the pinnacles of loyalty.