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In a room littered with blood, engulfed in blood, buried in blood ... Dobby, swathed in blood, loitered. Standing with his fingers clutched around bloody scissors. Bemused, he panted; unable to catch his breath. The pain was once there. But what was once there, was now unbiddenly lost.
Taking the egregious condition of the room into account, Dobby had been obviously experimenting, meddling about with this new anomaly by which he had been seemingly hexed.
He heaved, uneasy. What was happening to him? He darted toward his wardrobe mirror. Panic-stricken, he peered at his reflection. Why was his skin becoming so awfully pale? His countenance was besieged by absolute horror.
