The familiar yet alien cold voice, laced with rage suppressed to its absolute limit, suddenly rang out beyond the wooden door. This unexpected development startled Sirius Black, whose nerves had already begun to slacken somewhat, freezing his movements instantaneously.
Though lasting only a moment, it was sufficient for Snape to act.
"Five-point-three feet from the floor, one-point-four-four feet from the right door frame."
As Glenn observed Sirius Black's current position through enhanced perception and relayed coordinates via earpiece, Snape was already grinning savagely whilst drawing his right hand from within his black robes.
Gripped in his right hand was unmistakably an M1917 American-made Smith & Wesson.
Simply put—an M1917 revolver with six-round capacity, primarily chambered for .45 ACP pistol ammunition. A rather renowned handgun.
Presently, the distance between Snape and Sirius Black measured no more than three meters. At such proximity, without advance preparation, even Glenn could merely dodge to avoid vital areas and absorb the shot with minimal damage. Given Sirius Black's physical capabilities and reaction time as a wizard, he couldn't successfully evade or cast a Shield Charm capable of deflecting bullets—especially not in his current weakened post-imprisonment state, compounded by momentary disorientation from Snape's sudden vocalization.
Naturally, should power assessment prove erroneous and Sirius Black successfully manifest a Shield Charm, that posed no concern. After years of research, Glenn had long since modified firearms for himself, Dumbledore, Snape, and Professor McGonagall. The weapons had evolved into semi-mechanical, semi-magical alchemical armaments, with all ammunition replaced—every bullet inscribed with alchemical patterns by Glenn, sufficient to pierce magical defenses and armor.
As for Hermione's weaponry?
Ahem, aside from Hermione perpetually requesting Glenn customize an exclusive firearm for her, she'd already experimented with every weapon in Glenn's black ring collection—they were effectively hers. The girl's marksmanship had steadily improved under Glenn's tutelage. At minimum, within fifty meters her shots wouldn't deviate from target, and with scoped assistance, she could accurately strike stationary targets within four hundred meters.
Cough, digressing. Let us return to Snape's perspective.
Snape gripped the weapon single-handed, his gaze, iron sights, and Glenn's called position aligned perfectly. Then he ruthlessly squeezed the trigger.
"Bang!"
The trigger depressed, the connected hammer struck forward violently against the primer, detonating the base charge and instantly firing the round.
The .45 caliber bullet, propelled by explosive gases, began spinning rapidly along the barrel's rifling. Friction between the rotating projectile and barrel interior caused the bullet's temperature to rise, becoming scorching hot, before finally spinning free of the M1917's muzzle.
The bullet streaked through air, parting surrounding atmosphere. Radiated heat caused slight atmospheric rippling and distortion before instantly piercing the shabby wooden door separating them.
"Thwip!"
The sound of penetrating flesh rang out. The scalding bullet spun through Sirius Black's raised right hand, leaving a mangled, bloody aperture. Through the opening—past the door's punctured hole—one glimpsed Snape's cold obsidian pupils, slightly narrowed along the same trajectory.
Sirius Black's right hand jerked away from its Snape-facing position due to both bullet impact and instinctive pain response. Regarding the penetrating wound, he merely grunted—but the first gunshot was merely Snape's opening gambit.
What followed: five consecutive identical reports and matching sounds of bullets penetrating flesh.
Knowing he'd successfully struck target and pierced Sirius Black's potentially threatening right hand, Snape understood the damned wretch beyond the wooden door possessed no remaining capacity for retaliation.
So he emptied the cylinder.
Wrist flicking, five rounds fired in rapid succession.
Right elbow. Left wrist. Lung. Left knee. Right knee.
Blood erupted from each targeted location across Sirius Black's frame.
Perhaps having endured more excruciating injuries previously, or perhaps Azkaban's torments had numbed him—despite such trauma, Sirius Black didn't scream.
Or rather, couldn't vocalize.
Regardless, he finally collapsed backward.
Hearing the heavy thud of body meeting floor, Snape revealed a satisfied—even exhilarated—malevolent smile, then kicked the door open with savage force.
What materialized within Sirius Black's field of vision was that imposing black-robed figure flicking the smoking weapon in his hand, ejecting six metallic casings before gesturing to send six fresh rounds flying back into the cylinder—his face wearing that detestable smile belonging to his long-unseen "old friend," Snape.
"At last, you've fallen into my hands."
Snape's pitch-black eyes blazed with such fervor they seemed ready to ignite as he spoke deliberately, emphasizing each syllable.
"Revenge tastes exquisitely sweet, and today I shall savor every morsel. Do you comprehend how desperately I once hoped I would be your captor..."
Snape advanced one step whilst maintaining his grip on the revolver.
Black gasped raggedly, mustering final strength to widen his eyes and glare at Snape, strange wheezing sounds escaping his throat.
Attempting speech triggered violent coughing fits as fresh blood flowed from his mouth, spattering the floor.
He could distinctly feel life ebbing away.
His lungs were nearly drowning in blood, breathing becoming impossible.
Suffocation encroached.
Was this... truly the end?
No! It cannot be!
Sirius Black's dimming eyes flared with renewed intensity as obsessions dormant for twelve years continued sustaining his weakening life force.
I still must...
Before that burning thought could crystallize, even more searing sensation and agony transmitted from his forehead, pulverizing coherent thought and causing his eyelids to spasm uncontrollably.
The acrid stench of charring flesh began emanating from his brow—Snape had pressed the still-scalding barrel against Sirius Black's forehead, the weapon uncooled from six consecutive discharges. His right thumb slowly cocked the hammer, readying the revolver for firing.
"Observe that revolting, nauseating expression. Still wish to speak? Perhaps pleading for your wretched existence?"
Snape sneered mockingly, his demeanor theatrical as he continued.
"Though none of that signifies. My sole requirement is judging based upon your words whether to squeeze this trigger—granting swift, merciful conclusion—or torture you extensively before dragging your carcass from this decrepit hovel to those Dementors circling Hogwarts... I wager they'd relish bestowing their kiss upon you."
"Rest assured—I shan't permit death before you choose."
"Therefore, endeavor to please me. That shall determine my judgment."
"Incidentally, only my satisfaction earns you quick release. Should you displease me... well, you understand perfectly."
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