Challenge: DH, part 2
Word Count: 100
"Fiendfyre. Crabbe." Snape rolled the glass of whisky between his hands. "He'll destroy the school."
"Surely not," said the familiar, beloved, hated voice. "I very much doubt it will come to that."
The whisky was allegedly aged for smoothness and taste. Snape saw no difference between it and the cheapest rotgut as he took another swallow. "You don't know Crabbe. He's all but champing at the bit."
The clock struck, once, twice. Snape winced as he realized that once again he'd stayed up too late brooding. "Damn you, Albus. Damn you, and all your little Gryffindor friends - "
Silence.