Chapter Forty-Four

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"When will he die?"

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"When will he die?"

"When will he die?"

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7 July 1996

Years of being a Head of House had given Minerva plenty of practice at forcing herself to full consciousness at the slightest noise, so the knocking that had awakened her didn't startle her until she remembered that it was summer, and the students wouldn't return for weeks yet.

Worry enveloped her as she pulled on her dressing gown and hurried to the door.

Don't let it be about Alastor.

Severus stood outside her quarters swathed in his usual black frock coat. Sweat formed beads on his forehead despite the Highland chill that always permeated the castle, even on summer nights.

"I need your help. The Headmaster is unwell," he said.

He volunteered no more information, and Minerva asked no questions as they moved through the deserted corridors as fast as she could manage with the walking stick and rode the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's office.

When she stepped into the room, she stifled a cry.

Albus sat slumped over his desk, his breathing shallow and rapid. Empty phials littered the desk around him.

Albus's right hand was a charred ruin. Wisps of thin, grey smoke snaked through the air above it.

She approached him and forced herself to look closely at the hand. Something undulated just beneath the blackened skin. She swallowed back her rising gorge. As she watched, a dark tendril prodded its sickening way a few millimetres into the healthy tissue above his wrist. It seemed to quiver, held in abeyance by some opposing force within Albus's magic. When she bent closer, she could hear a subtle hiss underlaid by a malign susurration. She caught a whiff of sulphur and flinched back.

"Albus."

He moaned in response.

"It's Minerva. I'm here." She put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

He lifted his head enough to look at her. His eyes focussed on something far beyond her, then closed again.

"So sorry," he croaked. "Foolish ..."

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