"This isn't good," Tom remarked, peeling your blood-stained shirt up to peer at the stab wound on your waist. He looked mildly concerned. His now bloodied fingers reached into his robes for his wand, only to resurface without it. "Fuck. My wand. It was confiscated," he pushed off the grassy ground, kicking the nearest stone into the river.

"Fuck," he repeated, like a chant, pulling on his dark hair. Both you and Tom's wands had been confiscated by The Ministry.