Theodore Nott moved through the chaos like a ghost, the silver mask cold and slick against his skin. It blurred the edges of his vision, turned the world into a smeared painting of green light and dark robes. It helped. It made the faces of the fallen into shapeless, unimportant things.

His orders were simple: clear the third-floor corridor. The resistance here had been fierce, but was now crumbling. A lone figure stood at the far end, back against the wall, wand raised and trembling. Just another obstacle. Just another scream to add to the chorus.

The scream that ripped through the corridor was different. It wasn't a shout of surprise or a cry of pain. It was a raw, shattered sound, one that tore through the mask's haze and went straight into his marrow.

He knew that voice.

It was the voice that said his name like a secret. The voice that laughed into his shoulder in the quiet dark. The voice that had promised him an 'after'.

The figure collapsed, convulsing on the cold flagstones. A strand of familiar hair escaped from their hood.

Theodore’s wand arm dropped to his side as if the bone had vanished. The world sharpened into a horrifying, crystal clarity. The mask wasn't a shield anymore. It was a coffin, and he was buried alive inside it, forced to watch.