"Nice try Weasley, but he's not even half a man anymore. Just a pound of mouldy flesh under the ground," Bole said, practically beaming. He'd always wanted an excuse to go after one of the Wealsey twins. He'd despised them for years, but going after them directly was a foolish move. Bole preferred easier, weaker targets. But now Fred was dead, George was a sitting duck. So easy.
He lifted the wand he'd stolen from the Auror he'd killed during his escape and ran his tongue over it, sending out a few purple sparks from the tip. "Maybe I'll go over and take a look for myself," he continued, "Dig up the corpse and see how rotten a body has to be before the foxes won't eat it."