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[ she sounds almost thoughtful for once, though not without a hint of malice. then, it's hard to say whether that would be possible in general ]

Ben. Little liar. Word with you, if I may.

[ the sound of rustling paper, as if she's paging through a book - the diary of one Tom Riddle. definite in its authenticity, now she only wishes to know where Mr. Ben procured it, and her tone suggests all the suspicion in the world. ]

Sooner rather than later; probably for your own good.

[ a sharp crack, and then the sound of heavy, crunching footsteps - it just may be that the speaker has just thrown the device without knowledge of its purpose and is now raving madly to herself ]

Wrong, wrong, all wrong! That filth -- that scum -- by no means could she have torn me from my purpose. This is not death. Too kind, too kind are their kind - never so cold as to kill. He will find me. He will seek me as I sought him, his most loyal, unwavering--

The Dark Lord will find me and I will serve him as always I have, serve his purpose as I always have. With the boy dead they will face obliteration at his hand, and He will rise again.

[ lower, then - almost thoughtful, and her words are more difficult to make out ]

He has risen again, And with He, too, have we -

- we who are absent, who should rejoice -

[ surely the others will heed the mark, and her location is of little concern to her in the face of victory -- seconds later, something akin to a shriek, a word that will be largely unfamiliar to most - ]

MORSMORDRE!

[ the speaker emits a cold laugh as a glittering jet of green erupts from her wand. it travels high enough to be perfectly visible to the populace where it halts in midair, snaking itself into the hazy form of a skull -- from whose open mouth writhes the figure of a serpent. the dark mark now lingers emblazoned against the sky, far over its caster, beckoning to those who would heed its call. ]