The cold turned into hands. Arms. Putrid and rotting. They pulled him down, deeper into the darkness. They were the pudgy, ring-clad fingers of Hepzibah, the dirt-caked nails of a tramp, the wizened and spotted arms of an old woman — Bathilda Bagshot. More and more. The arms were like vines and he knew them all. Muggles he’d filled his underground lake with, his father, the Potters, Severus. There were hundreds of them and they pulled him down, down —

Of Your Making

(image source: resident evil)

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