Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling.

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You're dead, Potter. You're a dead man. Think you can put my father in prison? Think you can just –

I warned you, Potter. I warned you that first day on the train. You should have picked me. You should have picked me over that piece of Muggle-loving trash and his Mudblood girlfriend. But you didn't. You threw away your chance to be on the winning side for the sake of some blockhead Muggle-lover whose parents couldn't even buy him a new wand. Does it make you proud, Potter? Does it make you proud to know that you joined the forces of light and happiness and fluffy bunny rabbits hopping through the forest? Probably. Bloody Gryffindors. I can't believe I ever thought you were the right sort.

Because you've picked the wrong side. You don't have a chance. The Aurors are a bunch of pathetic fools, the Ministry is even worse, and all you have on your side is an old fool who was obsolete when Grindlewald died and whatever disgusting excuses for wizards he can manage to scrape up from the gutter. You're going to lose, Potter. You're going to lose, and I'll be there when you do. I'm going to make you pay, Potter. I'm going to make you beg to be killed. I'm going to make you crawl on your hands and knees so that I can put you out of your misery. I'm –

You're dead, Potter. You're dead.