Bitter
Moody, 1st war.
It's winter. January. Cold. The wind bites. I feel nothing. I feel nothing, I think nothing but rage. They took her and she's dead and I know it.
I think about Death Eaters; about how if I find Lestrange or Yaxley or Malfoy, I will tear them limb from limb and feel no sympathy.
They just might come here, in this bitter cold, Dumbledore tells me; why any one would want to be here makes no sense to me in my furious head. They probably aren't here, and they probably will never be. But that one-one thousandth of a chance means that I must troll this godforsaken forest in the middle of this frozen hell, waiting for them to never come, waiting to have my vengeance wreaked, waiting for this endless war to end.
A/N: Thanks to TheElementalWitch for the lovely beta work, and the BHS Creative Writing Club for enjoying the story. Reviewers get more drabbles AND fudge brownies!