Literature
From the Ashes
I could remember when my boots were new and polished. They were of the finest leather in all of Florence, a fortune even to look upon. But now, they had been stained a dull brown, the brown of dried blood. Scuff marks marred their gleam further as I waded through the debris of the castle. Surely, I had done some of this damage myself.
Though, I had not killed. The row of fifty strong, all dead of different causes, had not been added to by my wand. It was a wand I was still uncomfortable with, a wand that could never replace the one Voldemort had destroyed. I walked along the row all the same, searching for someone much more important than a