In a collapsed dungeon on the plains of Ireland, the pungent, sweet scent of burning bittersweet vines hung heavy in the air. Voldemort's Serpent Wand was currently refining the spines of three werewolf renegades into threads of silk. One werewolf's rotting lower jaw hung over the edge of a pool of blood, looking like skeletal decoration on the gates of Hell.
"Thirty-seven werewolf packs have been burned to ashes by the Order of the Phoenix." Tom Riddle tapped the front page of the Daily Prophet with a raven-feather quill. In the front-page photograph, the body of a werewolf scorched by Fiendfyre was struggling to writhe. "Our pet dogs are now more afraid of the Aurors' mint spray than the pain of the full moon."
Voldemort crushed the silk thread in his hand, the fragments condensing into a phantom image of Hogwarts' defensive layout. "Then fill the gaps with Inferis! Feed the Dementors of Azkaban to the giants, and teach them to devour hope..."
Chapter 248