The Dark Lord’s inner circle had never been so uncomfortable in their whole entire lives. They had spent numerous years in Azkaban, trapped in cold, dark cells and painfully being fed to the Dementors, but not even that could have prepared them for the scene in front of them. They were ready to run or hide, or both. They swore that spells were about to start flying any moment now. Why? Because Lord Voldemort and the Girl-Who-Lived were currently arguing in Parseltongue, eyes glowing and wands at the ready. The tension was heavy in the air around them, their magic sparking quite menacingly. They looked just about ready to hurl the Killing Curse at each other.