Bellatrix started them off with a chanting tone that curled and pounded once they were all in place; her consonants were low and solid and tone harsh in a way that brokered no resistance, spoke of nothing but the Elder. White meant Black in a space like this, and though her words were fleeting they still reverberated all throughout the room and through their bodies. Hermione’s part in the Ritual came next, the instruction having been clean and clear; her sliced palm opened skyward to the Wilde that ran amok beneath and through them. It was as pleasant of a sensation as Ritual magic could deliver, but not nearly so heady as to ascribe anything overtly