Five creamy white cards shone violently in Amycus’ hands. Three, six, seven, eight, and a queen inscribed in crimson, among jet black, detailed flourish that danced carefully among each card. He fidgeted with the edges, bending each in an inconsistent manner. His head ached due to the clear and probable obvious: Amycus Carrow had not one idea how to win a game of poker. Alecto would know what to do. He simultaneously relished and loathed her absence.
He trained his eyes across the table. Evan’s smirk wielded like a curved blade. Amycus felt his anger simmer. How was he clever enough to know this game? He gaze shifted to Vincent, the eldest Rosier, who seemed particularly dumbfounded, but that was of no surprise… Travers and Mulciber were clearly steps ahead and, without doubt, winning. Wilkes remained stone faced, colder than the October evening. And Snape, well, Amycus had difficulty reading any expression behind his greasy, dark curtains of hair.
Suddenly a sound protruded from behind; subtle, soft, nearly a whisper. No one jerked, but Amycus turned quickly, his head now facing the dark abyss. Nothing—no. It was something.