The man stumbled fearfully through the underbrush surrounding the vacant industrial warehouse clutching his fractured arm close to his body. Out of breath, he dropped to his knees.
He cringed as a long, dark shadow loomed menacingly above him.
"The Dark Lord shall hear of this," Pettigrew whimpered.
"Oh, I don't think so."
In a desperate bid, he turned to flee only to be shoved hard in the shoulder and slammed face first into the ground. The dark man delivered a swift kick to Pettigrew's crotch and he cried out in pain. As he fell he was pummeled with several deft blows to his ribcage. Now half curled on his stomach, he made a feeble attempt to crawl away. A crimson stream of blood flowed from his broken nose down to his chin and pooled under his face into the ground.
This wasn't the stylized, surreal violence that surrounded most dark revels. There wasn't anything remotely dreamlike about it. It had the gritty, unmistakable feel of cold, harsh reality. The glint of a steel blade shone briefly in the moonlight before it was plunged deep within the side of the prostrate man. This was death.
As his anger slowly dissipated, he whispered a single word into the silent night.
"Lily."
A/N: Originally written for LJ "Snape Last Drabble Writer Standing" Challenge: The Seven Deadly Sins.