Word Count: 100
It’s a headlong, windborne rush of a journey – thought tumbling over thought with mile after mile – on footless, fleeting shadow. Harried by despair and driven onward by fear, crying out past fast-flying land and sea in a wordless shriek of thwarted fury.
Summer fills the forest, the same as when he’d left it: warm rocks, shallow streams, and a breeze rustling the leafy canopy. After coming so close, the sight dissolves his mind further into insanity. Eleven years. How many more? Will another even come? Is this to be my eternity?
He is not Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort would have won.