Chapter 36: Failed Plans
'The Night of the Dead has been the subject of much speculation among both historians and the public. Why did the Dark Lord wait until his coup had failed to cast this curse? Wouldn't his forces have won the Battle of the Ministry if they had had the support of the victims of the Withering Curse? If his spell hadn't been ready in time, why didn't he wait a few more days? Some of my colleagues claim that it was all part of an intricate plan of his to deal with Dumbledore, the main obstacle to the Dark Lord's goals. However, I disagree. None of the theories put forth can explain, at least not in a satisfactory manner, why he would sacrifice so many of his followers for no perceptible gain. If he had done so to lull Dumbledore into a false sense of security, as the most popular theory goes, then why had he struck so hard at Dumbledore during their duel in Hogsmeade?
No, I am of the opinion that the Dark Lord didn't want to resort to such a measure because he was aware of the consequences of using houngan magic. It was only after his efforts to appeal to the pureblood population had seemingly failed that he abandoned them and prepared to rule through fear. Undoubtedly, the Night of the Dead, which itself was an imprecise name based upon a common misconception of houngan magic, struck fear and horror into the very heart of Wizarding Britain.'
- Excerpt from 'The Second Blood War' by Hyacinth Selwyn
*****
Hogwarts, January 19th, 1997
Harry Potter had stared at the body, had seen the flames slowly spread, the hole his Reductor Curse had opened in the boy's chest bleeding, the stump of his arm, bleeding as well, his leg, the cursed, leathery one, twitching still. He had killed Colin Creevey. A boy who had revered him. He had barely noticed Fleur arriving - had the whole fight been so quick that she hadn't managed to reach the room in time to intervene?
Then Luna had screamed, panicking, about her father, and he had whirled around. Xenophilius had been bleeding, hit by a bullet in the chest, Harry realised, and Luna had been desperately trying to help him, casting spell after spell while blood continued to flow from the hole in the man's chest. She had been trembling, crying, but hadn't given up. Xenophilius's breathing had made a horrible sound, with more blood flowing from his mouth. The man's lung had been hit, Harry had thought, and he had rushed to help Luna. His own spells had worked better, but the wounds had been so extensive - the bullet had gone through the man, leaving a far larger hole in his back - that Xenophilius would have died anyway, if not for Pomfrey's arrival.
He had held Luna while the matron had saved the man's life with spells and potions - and Colin's body had burned behind them. None of them had noticed the stench. Not until Xenophilius's wounds had been closed and Pomfrey had levitated him out of his blood-soaked bed.
By then, more victims of this attack had arrived, Ron among them! Colin's body had been quickly moved to another room, joining two others. And Sirius had taken him away, to have him checked for injuries and curses.
That was the room in which Harry was now standing as he stared at the blanket covering the dead boy. He could still smell the burned flesh, and the blood, despite the spells that had cleaned and preserved the bodies. Or so he thought.
The door opened behind him, and he shifted, turning. Just in case.
Hermione stood there, and behind her, Ron.
His friend was looking a bit pale still, Harry noticed, and he sounded just a bit hesitant: "Sirius told us you were here."
Harry nodded. His godfather hadn't wanted to leave him, but he was needed, now more than ever, with the Minister dead. Harry had realised that, even if his godfather hadn't.
"It wasn't your fault," Hermione said, stepping inside.
"I didn't recognise him. He blinded me with a grenade."
"Flashbang," Hermione said.
Harry ignored her correction and went on, looking at the body again. "He was shooting at me, and at the Lovegoods. He'd have killed us, if I hadn't stopped him." He took a deep breath. "But that doesn't change the fact that I killed him. I should have stunned him." They had stunned Dennis, after all.
"He'd have taken a few Stunners, mate," Ron said. "He might have killed you if you had tried that. Or he might have killed Luna and her father - he came close, didn't he?" Harry's friend rubbed his side, a reminder that he, too, had had a close call. If the bullet had hit a bit closer...
"He was mind-controlled by Voldemort," Harry said. "It wasn't his fault."
"And neither was it yours. You did what you had to. It's Voldemort's fault," Ron said. "Besides, Hermione is blaming herself."
"What?" Harry frowned at the witch.
"I should have expected something like this. At least thought of the possibility," Hermione said.
"Dumbledore didn't expect it either," Ron cut in. "No one expected the Dark Lord to use houngan magic. Which I told you already."
"It's not quite clear if it actually is houngan magic," she said.
"Turning people into zombies certainly sounds like it," Ron said. "It fits the stories about the war in the Caribbean."
"They're not exactly undead," Harry said, "they're alive but mind-controlled."
"With the withered limbs providing the link to the Dark Lord," Hermione said.
"Creepy," Ron said. "Dennis's arm was still moving, even though he was out."
Harry's eyes widened. "The snakes!"
"What?" Ron said, drawing his wand. Hermione had already taken a step to the side and turned, to guard their back.
"The snakes Voldemort sent after me and Dumbledore. I noticed that one of them had a dried-up tail. I thought it had been the fire, back then, but now…" Harry trailed off.
"Maybe that had been a test," Hermione said. "We're still not certain how detailed Voldemort's orders are, or were. But as far as we can tell, all of his victims started attacking others at the same time. We haven't been able to interrogate them, yet."
"Colin and Dennis split up," Ron said. "Dennis started attacking any student he saw, and Colin attacked you."
"He's been obsessed with me since he started at Hogwarts," Harry said, and regretted it at once. Colin had been annoying as a first-year, but he had grown up.
"If Voldemort had wanted to kill you, wouldn't he have sent them both together after you?" Hermione nibbled on her lower lip. "That might indicate that he can't actually give such orders."
"He could order all of his victims to fight," Ron said.
"But they attacked without coordination," she said. "He might have been limited to blanket orders - like 'attack the Ministry'."
"The Creeveys didn't attack the Ministry, though," Harry said. "So, he had to be able to split the orders."
Hermione wrinkled her nose, then shook her head. "Not necessarily. He might have simply ordered them to attack his enemies, and leave them to execute the order as they saw fit. Colin saw you as Voldemort's biggest enemy, which might explain why he attacked you."
"Maybe." Harry thought that was just speculation. "He shot Xenophilius too, though."
"That might have been a stray bullet, or a ricochet," Hermione said. "I think if Colin had wanted to kill him, he'd have shot him several times. We certainly trained for that."
Harry refrained from commenting that that training almost led to his own death - it hadn't been her fault. Though his friend would probably not believe it.
Not that he could blame her - he couldn't help feeling guilty himself.
*****
Ron Weasley felt like hexing both his girlfriend and his best friend. They were still blaming themselves! He took a deep breath - he could lose his temper right now - and rubbed his side. Pomfrey had said he should rest a day or two.
"Not even Dumbledore expected this," he began. "There was no way you could have expected this. No one ever heard of something like this being possible."
"There were tales of houngans controlling people," Hermione said, her jaw set.
"Not like this. Not from afar." At least Ron thought so.
"Still…" She bit her lower lip.
"You can't think of everything. No one can. It wasn't your fault."
Hermione slowly nodded.
Ron didn't think she was convinced, but hopefully it helped, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close for a moment, Then he turned to his friend."And it's not your fault either, Harry. You were surprised, blinded, deafened, and almost killed."
"I still should have used a Stunner," Harry said, frowning.
"You know what Moody said about Stunners."
"That they're great when facing a single enemy?" Harry snorted.
"You didn't know there was only one," Ron shot back. "And you know what happens if we assume there's only one." That had been a very painful lesson.
"Technically, there were two," Hermione added. "They just split up."
"You saved Luna and her dad," Ron went on. "There was no time for you to wait until you could recognise him, and make certain there was only one of them."
"I didn't actually look for more enemies after he was dead. I went to save Xenophilius," Harry said.
"And Moody will not be happy about that," Ron said. "But you did save lives."
"Doesn't make killing Colin right," Harry muttered.
"It wasn't right, but it wasn't your fault." Ron reached out with his free arm and pulled Harry into a hug with himself and Hermione. His friend stiffened, but didn't resist, and Ron could feel him gradually relax.
They remained like that for some time.
*****
London, Ministry of Magic, January 20th, 1997
Albus Dumbledore had to hand it to Tom - this curse had been a masterstroke. Both in the timing of its use, and the effects it would have. It had been bad enough to see so many Ministry employees and even Wizengamot members struck with withered, dead limbs. But now, after it had been revealed that they could be controlled by the Dark Lord and even ordered to attack their own families… Tom's leverage on the families of the victims, not to mention on the victims themselves, was too great.
He straightened up from where he had been bent over Bertie's unconscious form, which was secured to a bed in the bowels of the Ministry, ignoring the slight pain that caused to his back, and holstered his wand.
"Ingenious!" Next to him, Saul Croaker, the Head of the Department of Mysteries, was still moving his wand through complicated spells. "He used the dead limb as a conduit to control the body! He found a way to use spells meant to control the undead to control the living! Even the Thief's Downfall only removes an existing compulsion, but will not remove the withering curse that serves as the base curse, allowing the Dark Lord to retake control of the victim anytime he chooses!"
Albus suppressed a sigh. It figured that the Unspeakables couldn't be bothered to actually get involved in the war until a new kind of magic had been discovered. "It is based upon houngan spells."
"Are you certain?" Saul sounded as if he was frowning behind the magic hiding his face. "I think there are some similarities to the work Grindelwald did on Inferi."
"Trust me," Albus said, with more tension in his voice than could be blamed on his lack of sleep, "It is not related to Grindelwald's studies." He was quite familiar with the spells Gellert had created. "It is definitely based upon houngan magic."
Saul was cocking his head slighty. He had done that as a student too. "I see. Your excursion in '61?"
"Yes. As you deduced, it stems from their ways to control the dead, not the living." Albus had had to teach the masters of the Magical Caribbean that trying to expand their fiefdoms into North America had consequences they couldn't afford. Fortunately, he had had a lot of experience dealing with Inferi from the war with Gellert. "I destroyed enough of their creations to know that."
"I would have expected them to use their zombies, not their Inferi. They are, after all, famous for having many muggle villages ready to fight for them when in need."
Albus was reminded that for all his brilliance as a spellcrafter and researcher, Saul was neither a politician nor a strategist. "Using mind-controlled muggles in such numbers to conquer North American Wizard Enclaves would have threatened the Statute of Secrecy, in light of the political situation in the muggle world." Of which Saul, like so many purebloods, was ignorant.
"Ah." Albus's friend nodded. "But you did attack their homes too."
"The homes of a few, select houngans," Albus said. "And I managed to surprise them, so they were unable to call upon their zombies." Those not already serving them in their homes, at least. The fighting hadn't been clean, but it could have been worse. And their practice of kidnapping muggleborn children on vacation in the Caribbean had, if not ended, at least lessened a great deal.
Saul, of course, only cared about the magical aspects. "But still… how could the Dark Lord control a living, ensouled being, even if one limb was dead, with a spell controlling dead bodies? And the bodies of wizards, to boot? That goes against Gunther's theory."
"Yes," Albus said, nodding, "that is the question." Gunther's theory had not been proven, but neither had it been disproven ever since it had been formulated, decades ago. "Once we know this, we can cure them. Or at least prevent the Dark Lord from controlling his victims."
"Yes, yes." Saul was staring at Bertie. "We'll need to experiment."
"With the utmost care," Albus said. His tone carried enough of a threat to even make Saul, who was caught up in the research already, take notice.
"Of course, of course." Albus's friend made a dismissive gesture with his free hand.
Albus felt not quite as guilty as he probably should at knowing that Saul's research would make Tom consider him an enemy. It might even put the whole department firmly into the Ministry's camp, though the Headmaster was quite certain that the Dark Lord had spies among the Unspeakables as well, and would know that, as a whole, the Department of Mysteries was still focused only on research, and safeguarding those magics too dangerous to see the light of day.
A policy Albus doubted Tom would let the Department continue, should he win the war.
*****
"Acting Minister." Amelia greeted Albus with a nod when he entered her office.
"Amelia." He nodded back and sank into the seat in front of her desk. He had never sought the position, had taken pains to discourage any speculation about it, even, and yet here he was - as Chief Warlock, he was Cornelius's successor until another Minister could be elected. As tragic as the reason was, it also facilitated certain things. "What's the situation with the victims of the withering curse?"
Amelia's lips formed a slight frown. "As ordered, we have taken those we could find into custody. As far as we can tell, the majority of them are now secure."
Most of them would have been captured in the Ministry, attacking it, Albus knew.
"But a few have been reported as missing by their families," Amelia continued. Her frown deepened.
"I think it is rather unlikely that the Dark Lord has told them to go into hiding." He would not call them to his base either.
"Yes." Amelia glanced at him. "I suspect that they are being hidden by their own families."
Out of shame, or because they didn't trust the Ministry to save them. Or because they were ready to make a deal with the Dark Lord. Albus didn't have to lay that out; Amelia was already aware of that possibility. "That cannot be helped. But we have the vast majority of them in custody. At least of the survivors."
"My Aurors and Hit-Wizards were protecting the Ministry. That was their duty, and I'll not punish them for choosing not to risk their own lives, and those of their co-workers, to save the attackers." Amelia stared at him.
"I am not about to condemn them for it, either." Albus would have been a hypocrite for doing so, after assuring Harry that he was not to blame. Or more of a hypocrite - he knew his sins. "I was just remarking on the tragic loss of life, so close on the heels of the Battle of the Ministry."
"Yes. Which has sent morale plummeting. Even my veterans are expecting another blow to come soon. We can only hope that this was the Dark Lord's last surprise."
It was a faint hope, Albus knew - Tom was crafty and cunning. But… "We have gained a respite, at least, unless I am gravely mistaken. Nevertheless, we need to sedate the victims of this curse, lest they rise and attack us again at a most inconvenient time."
Amelia sighed. "Until we know whether that will actually stop the Dark Lord from ordering them around, that will tie up more wands. Wands we need elsewhere."
Which was, of course, part of the reason Tom had done this - to further reduce the manpower available to the Ministry. Not to mention that such a large number of helpless enemies of the Dark Lord was also a very tempting target. "It is just a temporary setback, Amelia. We will find a cure for this curse." They had to.
The witch didn't look as if she believed him. "And how long will that take?" She put the parchment in her hand down on her desk, forcefully enough to displace the air so much that a few paper aeroplanes were sent flying. "Can we hold out that long? And while we search for a cure, what will he be doing?"
"It will not hinder or delay my plans to destroy him," Albus said. Not by much, at least. Harry's training was continuing, and in a pinch, Alastor would be able to step in.
Amelia still looked doubtful. She needed more reassurances.
"Trust me. I have an… acquaintance in Jamaica."
"A houngan?" She was frowning, but she didn't look quite that cynical anymore.
"Yes. I met him during the troubles in the Caribbean. I think he will be able to provide me with enough information about the houngan spells used by the Dark Lord to create a cure."
"You'll be delving into the Dark Arts." Amelia didn't sound disgusted, or wary, but calculating. She sat straighter, too.
She was likely considering how to use this information at a later date, Albus thought. If she knew that he had studied the Dark Arts for much less noble purposes, with Gellert himself… he smiled gently and just a tad patronisingly. "You cannot find a remedy without understanding the disease, Amelia. Any Unspeakable will tell you the same."
"Saul will claim anything to justify his research and experiments." The witch scoffed.
"That does not make him wrong." At least not when it came to his knowledge. His ethics, on the other hand… "Between myself and the Department of Mysteries, we should have a cure for this curse in short order."
"I'll have to take your word for it." She leaned back in her seat.
He nodded, conceding the point. "Now, there are several positions left vacant by recent events."
"Traditionally, filling such positions is the prerogative of an elected Minister." She summoned the paper aeroplanes back with her wand.
"Given our circumstances, I do not think that we have the time to follow tradition," Albus said. "A functional Ministry is now more crucial than ever."
"Given the urgency, the Wizengamot could certainly convene quickly," Amelia shot back.
"With so many of their number still either absent since before the battle, and therefore suspect, or afflicted by the curse? I think not." Albus shook his head slowly. "I would not like to taint my successor's first term by having them be elected without a properly convened Wizengamot. Certainly you can see the problems that would cause."
Foiled by her own principles, Amelia looked like she had bitten into a particularly disgusting Every Flavour Bean, but she nodded. "Of course. So, who do you have in mind for the various positions?"
Albus noted her wording - Amelia didn't sound as if she considered his choices final - but let it slide. She couldn't do much to stop him now, and she knew it. He almost shook his head. A Minister for Magic needed more than a bit of flexibility, and Amelia, despite being among the favourites for the position, might prove to be too stubborn for the office.
He was facing more time spent on politics and even worse, office politics, when he should be preparing for his visit to Laron. Not for the first time, Albus deeply regretted Cornelius's death.
*****
Hogwarts, January 20th, 1997
Inside one of the usually unused rooms near the infirmary, Hermione Granger was staring at Dennis. Sleeping and with his wounds treated, the boy looked peaceful. He had wanted to cut his withered arm off, she remembered. And she had persuaded him and his brother to wait for a cure, instead. And now Colin was dead and Dennis had killed students for the Dark Lord.
"Are we going to give him Draught of Living Death?" Justin asked next to her.
"Dumbledore said it was the best way to keep them secure until we find a cure." That wasn't an answer. She sighed. "The alternative is cutting the arm off, but it's not yet known if that will keep the Dark Lord from controlling him." She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. "I wish we could keep him, but we don't have enough people left to take care of him." With a glance to her friend, she added: "Even Seamus will understand that." She snorted. "He certainly wouldn't want to be stuck caring for Dennis if he could be fighting instead."
"Probably," Justin said. "Will we ask him what he wants?" He nodded at Dennis.
"Could we trust it was him and not the puppet of the Dark Lord talking?" Hermione glanced at Justin and saw him flinch just a bit. "We don't know enough about this curse. Dumbledore and the Unspeakables are researching it."
"Can we trust them?"
"We are trusting Dumbledore. The Unspeakables?" She shook her head. "But there are too many purebloods suffering from this curse. They won't be able to abuse this to get to us."
"Mary-Jane has still not been taken through a Thief's Downfall," Justin pointed out. "Despite Dumbledore's promises."
"The situation at the Ministry was too volatile for him to risk a leak by the goblins. So he said." Hermione shrugged. "Now that Dumbledore is the acting Minister, we can move her through the one at the Ministry."
"Will we recruit her?"
Odds were that the witch would be another Seamus - or worse. After what the Aurors had done to her, though, it was understandable. Hermione sighed. "I think so. We can keep an eye on her that way." She didn't have to say that there wouldn't be another Allan on their watch. Justin had been there with her when they had interrogated that monster.
"Why did he attack the students?" Justin took a few steps towards Dennis, but stopped a yard away.
"I don't know." She shook her head. "I heard that Voldemort ordered the cursed to 'strike at his enemies', but left it up to them how to execute the order."
"So, he picked random massacres?" Justin sounded sceptical.
"Or he had some plan. We won't know until we can talk to him." She wasn't looking forward to that - Dennis would be devastated once he realised what he had done. "And that will likely be a while. We're not going to treat him like a captured enemy."
"If they are really using Draught of Living Death on all of the cursed, then it won't be long before half of Wizarding Britain will be in a magical slumber," Justin said.
"It's better than the alternative." Hermione looked at him. "Imagine if the Dark Lord orders them to kill themselves."
The words Justin muttered under his breath would have done the Sergeant proud.
*****
Hogwarts, January 20th, 1997
Albus Dumbledore had barely returned to Hogwarts and eaten the meal the elves had prepared for him when Severus appeared before the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office. For a moment, Albus was tempted to pretend he was still at the Ministry, dealing with the aftermath of the recent events. He had craved some rest, or at least, a bit of quiet. Fawkes, who was still barely bigger than a freshly burned phoenix, had certainly acted as if Albus was in dire need of comfort. But needs must, he thought, sighing, and let the younger wizard enter.
"Good evening, Severus."
"Albus." Severus was stiff and tense, Albus saw, when the other man sat down.
The Headmaster knew the reason for this visit. He sighed. "I haven't been able to find a volunteer, yet, Severus. The Ministry is in shambles, so many have been lost… I've been dealing with a myriad of things today."
Severus nodded. "I know. But with all those deaths, it shouldn't be hard to find a wizard or witch who has lost everyone they care about, and is willing to risk everything for a chance at revenge."
Like Severus himself, Albus knew. His friend was correct, though - and unlikely to accept excuses. "There are a number of poor souls who lost their families, yes."
"Pick the least useful then. Preferably some dunderhead with a smarter half-blood heir." The younger wizard's sneer was full of loathing and bitterness, and old wounds. His mother had been disinherited by her parents. "I trust you already have thought about such matters."
Albus winced - his friend knew him too well. While he had not planned to act on such calculations, or so he liked to think, he knew a few wizards who, who, while firmly opposed to Voldemort, would not be very helpful in the time after the Dark Lord's defeat. He hesitated a moment, then slowly inclined his head. What was another sin, piled up onto his numerous others? "Balthasar Brinden. His son was cursed in the Ministry, and killed Brinden's wife before dying at his father's hand."
The smile on Severus face was so satisfied and cruel, seeing it hurt Albus almost more than knowing his friend would soon be dead.
*****
London, Ministry of Magic, January 21st, 1997
The Ministry might officially be an ally now, but Hermione Granger wasn't about to trust the Aurors or Hit-Wizards. The Resistance entered the Atrium with weapons and wands ready, with John levitating the stunned and bound Mary-Jane Wilton in their midst.
Two of the guards at the fireplaces confronted them. Hermione thought she recognised one of them - a Hufflepuff, two years above her. And the Auror apparently in command didn't look that much older. At least his voice didn't crack when he asked, "What is the meaning of this?", but he sounded quite nervous.
Hermione used her best 'command voice', as the Major called it. "Imperius victim. We're taking her through the Thief's Downfall, on the order of Minister Dumbledore."
Whether it was her tone, the Resistance's reputation, or - as she suspected - the Minister's name, it did the trick, and the Auror stepped aside. "Ah… alright."
She passed the two wizards with a nod and walked up to the Thief's Downfall, set up in an empty door frame, like a metal detector. A number of the wizards and witches working on repairing the damage to the Atrium were staring at her and the others. A few even fled further into the Ministry. She heard Seamus chuckle behind her as she stepped through the magical waterfall. Hermione didn't share Seamus's mirth, though. As satisfying as it might feel to see those who had worked to persecute the muggleborns shy away in fear, it didn't bode well for the future - both for the immediate future, when they would have to work together to defeat the Dark Lord, and for the time after the war.
But she had to focus on their current mission, which was to finally free Mary-Jane from the Imperius. Which, fortunately, was the work of just a few seconds. A minute later, and the rest of the Resistance had passed through the waterfall as well, and cast spells to dry and clean their weapons and themselves.
"Alright, let's head back!" Hermione said. There was no reason to linger. Justin and Sally-Anne were bringing up the rear this time.
But before the group reached the closest fireplace, a wizard stepped out of it, followed by another. She recognised them at once. Arthur Weasley and his son, Percy.
"Hermione!" The wizard greeted her.
His son nodded at her and the others. "Hermione. Mister Finnigan. Miss Dennel."
"Mister Weasley. Percy." She nodded at them. "I'm glad to see you have recovered." She truly was. She turned to Justin. "Justin, take the rest to Hogwarts. John can stay with me," she added, before he could protest.
"Alright." Justin didn't sound too pleased, but he nodded at her.
Mister Weasley's warm smile turned into a puzzled one when he noticed the floating and bound Mary-Jane pass him. "What happened?"
"She was under the Imperius, so we took her through the Thief's Downfall," she explained.
"Ah." He slowly nodded, then blinked. "But why is she still stunned?"
Hermione noticed that Percy winced - he had probably recognised the girl. She sighed. "She was imperiused by Aurors, some time ago, to trap us. We don't want her to wake up in the middle of the Ministry." The witch deserved privacy for that.
"Oh, I remember that. Dreadful affair." Mister Weasley sighed loudly. "That Amelia would allow that…" He shook his head.
Percy scoffed. "Why wouldn't she? As long as the Wizengamot says it's legal, it's good enough for her. I do not think she'll change should she become the next Minister."
That was an alarming thought. "How likely is that?" Hermione said.
"We haven't heard much news during our convalescence," Percy said, pursing his lips, "but before the recent events happened, she was considered the most likely successor to Minister Fudge." He lowered his voice a bit. "Things might have changed with all the dead. Both of us have been promoted. Father's now heading the new Office of Anti-Curse Measures and Research, and I've been promoted to the position of Deputy-Head of the Department of Magical Transportation."
"Congratulations." Hermione smiled. Dumbledore was stacking the Ministry with his people, then.
"Thank you." Mister Weasley was beaming at her.
"Thank you." Percy's smile looked a bit cynical to Hermione.
"Oh, that reminds me: We'll have to have dinner together, you, Ron and us!" Mister Weasley chuckled. "We should have asked you before, but with all the troubles, there never seemed to be a good occasion. And Molly wanted to invite you to a proper home - we're currently just guests of Sirius. But we can eat dinner at a muggle restaurant!"
A family dinner with her boyfriend's parents - in the middle of a civil war. Hermione certainly hadn't expected that.
*****
Mary-Jane didn't scream when they woke her up, back in a private room at Hogwarts. The muggleborn witch simply started to sob and cry, curled up on her bed. Hermione raised her hand and took a step closer, then hesitated, uncertain if she should touch the girl, or if that would make things worse. Sally-Anne apparently had no such doubts, and moved to hug the other witch.
Hermione exchanged a glance with Justin, and left the room. Once outside, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment. She remembered the time she had been under the Imperius herself, in her fourth year. She had been lost in a haze, utterly relaxed. No worries, no doubts, no thoughts of her own had crossed her mind. As if she had been drugged. And just as with drugs, once the curse had been lifted, all her doubts and fears had returned, worse than before, joined with embarrassment, shame, and the horror of remembering how helpless she had been. And she hadn't been forced to betray her friends, and work for their murderers. She could only imagine what Mary-Jane was feeling right now.
And yet she was considering using that spell herself, if it was needed to win the war or save one of her friends.
*****
Hogwarts, January 21st, 1997
Harry Potter ground his teeth and gripped his wand so tightly, he thought he could hear the holly crack between his fingers. He had already entered the Headmaster's mind once this evening, and now he had to do it again - without a day to recover. His head was hurting, pain flaring up in step with his heartbeat.
He wanted to close his eyes and rest. Sleep. Give his mind time to sort out what were his memories, and what were glimpses he had caught from the Headmaster's. But that would be giving up. And he wouldn't do that. Everyone was counting on him to master this spell, so he could defeat - no, destroy - Voldemort once and for all. He wouldn't, couldn't let them down.
He raised his wand, pointed it at the Headmaster's forehead, and spat the incantation out.
"Legilimens!"
Once more the world shrank to pinpoint of light, then expanded, and Harry found himself floating in a room full of spheres of all sizes. They were moving around, some growing, some shrinking, and each was filling his ears with words and noise and sometimes music, forming a cacophony that made just thinking hard and painful.
But this was not his first time. He focused his mind, and concentrated on one of the spheres, until the rest had faded - pushed away, even. Until this sphere was all he could see, until it was large enough to swallow him, close enough to touch… and he was inside.
He found himself in the middle of a field with strange plants. Sugar cane, he realised, after a second. He could see a white mansion in the distance. It looked as if he was on a plantation - and an ancient one. Or at least an old-fashioned one. As he made his way through the field, he could see no signs of modern appliances - no antennas, no cars, no machines.
How old was Dumbledore?, he asked himself, as he stepped on a lawn - perfectly maintained, he noted with a brief glance - and started walking towards the mansion's main entrance. He had barely covered half the distance when the massive door was blown off its hinges. A body flew out of the dust cloud the explosion had left, landing hard on the lawn. Another figure ran out of the cloud. A young man, just a few years older, at most, than Harry himself.
"Master!" the man cried, rushing to the fallen figure's side.
"Step away from him, boy!"
Harry blinked. That was Dumbledore! But younger. And his expression… Cold and distant. He had never seen the Headmaster looking like that.
The young wizard was trembling, but raised his wand. An almost casual swish of Dumbledore's wand disarmed him with so much force, he was thrown very nearly on top of Harry, a dozen yards back.
"You have a loyal apprentice, Mister Francis. Although I wonder just how deserving of his loyalty you are," Dumbledore said, stepping closer to the older man, who was now feebly moving. "Did you kidnap him as well, years ago?"
Harry saw that the young man in front of him, who had been trying to get up despite a broken leg, froze when he heard that.
The other wizard - Mister Francis, Harry presumed - muttered something he couldn't understand, then spat. He had skin darker than Dean's, and was wearing the shredded remains of what might have been a white suit.
Dumbledore shook his head. "I told you that the times of enslaving muggleborns in the Caribbean were past. But you and your friends didn't want to listen. People like you seldom do listen to mere words. You usually need a demonstration - or a lesson."
Francis yelled something, and the young man flinched. Dumbledore looked at him and shook his head. "Do not waste your life trying to protect this man, boy. He's not worth it." Turning back to the prone wizard - houngan, Harry corrected himself - Dumbledore went on, talking in a tone as if he was discussing the weather, "I do think you and a few others of your friends will have to serve as an object lesson. To encourage, as the French are fond of saying, the rest of you to rethink your policies."
The panting, bleeding houngan spat again, then started to yell - but Dumbledore interrupted him at once with a spell that smashed into his head with a loud crack.
"There won't be any dying curses either, Mister Francis," the Headmaster said. "Diffindo."
Harry saw the head of the man roll over the lawn, trailing blood, and Dumbledore slowly picking up a wand. Behind the Headmaster, the mansion was burning. Harry blinked. That looked very familiar. He had seen that scene before, just … different. He started to walk towards the burning building, taking in the details. It looked right, and yet… it didn't fit. The scene didn't fit.
The closer he got, the more certain he was. The burning mansion was not real. Or had not been real. Just when he was about to touch it, it collapsed, and for a moment, Harry was floating in a dark, empty space.
Then he was back in the Headmaster's office, kneeling on the floor, and his head hurt worse than ever. He hissed, clenching his jaw, so he'd not scream, and sucked in as much air as he could.
"Very good, Harry. You saw through one of my altered memories, and for a moment, you broke through my defenses." Dumbledore sounded as tired as Harry felt, but he was smiling.
"It was an altered memory?" Harry managed to say while Ron helped him up and eased him back into his seat.
"Yes, it was. Inspired, so to speak, by a visit I paid to Jamaica, almost forty years ago." Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, his gaze rising to the ceiling. "I have been thinking a lot about that visit lately, so it is not surprising that it ended up being used for your training."
"Ah." Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. It didn't help much.
"You have made a lot of progress. You will soon be able to penetrate the Dark Lord's defenses. But I think you need to rest now."
Harry started to nod in agreement, but stopped when that caused his headache to grow even worse. He couldn't help wondering what exactly, other than the mansion, the Headmaster had altered in the memory he had seen.
*****
Hogwarts, January 22nd, 1997
"Are you certain of this course of action?" Albus Dumbledore had to ask, even though he knew the answer. The two men standing in front of him had made up their minds, and nothing would deter them. Neither thought he had anything to live for, not any more. Albus thought that he might be able to make Balthasar change his mind, given enough time - but then, he hadn't been able to change Severus's, not in almost twenty years.
Predictably, both shook their heads, Balthasar with a grim expression, Severus with a faint sneer.
"Very well. I have prevailed upon Miss Granger and her friends to be ready to take down the wards, and our French friends, as well as some Order members suited for such a mission, will be joining us once we have a location." Severus was without a doubt aware that Sirius and the Weasleys were the obvious choice, but Albus was not about to rub it in. He could do that much, at least, for his friend.
The potioneer produced a vial, and a small envelope. "A bit of hair from a first year Slytherin student." He handed it to Balthasar, who took it almost eagerly. A bundle of school robes lay on Albus's desk.
Albus refrained from sighing. The two had made their choice; now all he could do was honour it - and try his best to make certain they'd not die in vain.
Balthasar chuckled as he raised the vial. "Martha always used to say that I never grew up. She'd be very amused to see me change into a young boy."
Albus forced himself to laugh at the joke.
*****
"By using shaped charges, we can target the wards without doing much damage to the building. Planting them in the ground, and at an angle, will further help keep the building intact," Hermione Granger explained. "They can be used to breach doors and walls too, during the assault." She looked at the three men in the Headmaster's office.
"Did you test these 'charges'?" Snape was wearing his usual scowl. "I do not intend to risk my life only for some untested muggle contraption to fail at such a crucial time."
"We have used similar charges before, and I trust my calculations."
"You haven't tested them, then. You have bombs you already used on other targets. Use those!" Snape spat.
"Those bombs destroyed the buildings as well as the wards. If we use them here, then…"
"Did I stutter, Miss Granger? Or do you think I'm fool? I said I will not allow this mission to be put in jeopardy by using untested bombs." Snape sneered at her.
Hermione bit her lower lip so that she would not yell at the impossible man. Didn't he understand that he would die if they used the same type of bomb that the Resistance had dropped on Malfoy Manor? She glanced at the Headmaster, surely he would be able to make Snape understand what he was demanding. But Dumbledore was looking sad and grim. And not saying anything. That meant…
Hermione gasped when she realised that Snape was very much aware of what he was asking for. "We will be using the bombs then," she pressed out, staring at him.
"Good." He turned away, to the Headmaster. "With that settled, I think we are ready."
"Indeed," Dumbledore slowly stood up. "The others have gathered as well. Let us be on our way then."
*****
"I don't like this," Hermione Granger muttered ten minutes later. "We're not prepared for this."
"But it's an opportunity we can't afford to let slip by," Justin said. "And they'd not let us, anyway." He nodded at the rest of the Resistance in the room.
"I know." Hermione didn't quite frown. But she pursed her lips. Seamus, Tania and Louise, even John and Sally-Anne, all were eager to kill the Dark Lord. To end this war before more people died. And so they were off to another ill-prepared mission on Dumbledore's behalf. And once more with the Delacours, the d'Aigles, and the Weasleys at their side. If Hermione were superstitious, she would consider this a bad omen. But there was a reason she had walked out of Divination.
Still, she would have prefered more time to rest and recover. She didn't like leaving Mary-Jane and Jeremy alone either. But it couldn't be helped - they'd need everyone able to fight for this. Even with the Headmaster leading the attack.
"At least there won't be much left once the bomb goes off," she muttered.
"Provided they are not meeting the Dark Lord in the middle of a village or town," Justin said in a low voice.They'd have to use the shaped charges then. "Snape's braver than I thought."
"Yes." And more suicidal too, she added to herself. She glanced at Ron, and at Harry, who were standing with Sirius's group. She wanted to be with him, with them, but she had a responsibility to her own group. A leader couldn't leave her troops, not in this situation. And not to hug her boyfriend. The Major had been clear on that. And Hermione understood that. Intellectually.
She still wanted to rush over and hug Ron. Just once, before this battle.
*****
Outside Withernsea, Yorkshire, Britain, January 22nd, 1997
Harry Potter could feel the Dark Lord's presence the moment he arrived at the location Dumbledore had directed them to. Without a Supersensory Charm, it was not too bad, just a faint pain. But the Dark Lord definitely was in the area. He tried to catch Dumbledore's attention, but the Headmaster was furiously casting - jinxes to block magical travel.
"Mate?" Ron asked at his side, wand out.
"I can feel him," Harry whispered. "He's nearby." He stared at the building in front of them. It was too close to the muggle village for the kind of bomb used on Malfoy Manor, so the Resistance was already racing ahead to place the other bombs. The French were spreading out as well - they'd attack from the rear. Brave as usual, Harry thought - Sirius's group and the Resistance would follow Dumbledore in.
"We can get him!" Ron said.
Both knew that Voldemort wouldn't be killed today, but if his body was destroyed, he'd be reduced to a shade. And by the time he returned, the war would be over, and Harry would be ready for him.
Suddenly, he blinked. The faint pain was growing a bit stronger… was the Dark Lord moving? They had been checking for tunnels and buried bombs too, so… Harry closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his connection to the Dark Lord. Where was he?
"Mate?"
"Shh." He had to focus. Where was Voldemort? He was near, but … there! To his right. Harry turned, then opened his eyes. "He's not inside! He's on our flank!" he yelled.
"Retreat!" Dumbledore's voice was so loud - Amplifying Charm, Harry knew - the muggles probably heard him.
"Hermione!" Ron yelled.
Harry whirled around, expecting the worst. But the Resistance members were already in the air, on their brooms, and speeding away from the building. As were the two Veela and the other French.
Ron let out a relieved sigh.
Harry turned his attention back to Voldemort. What was the Dark Lord doing? Where was he? He gasped. The pain was gone!
"He's gone," Harry said, "He's left."
"Blimey! It's burning!" Ron pointed at the building.
Green flames were shooting out of the windows. Harry was familiar with them.
"Fiendfyre!"
*****
Outside Stamford, Lincolnshire, Britain, January 23rd, 1997
So, Snape had been a traitor, the Dark Lord Voldemort thought when he returned to his home hours later. A brave, but dumb traitor - as if such a simple plan would have worked against the heir of Slytherin. Dumbledore must be slipping, he thought, to have allowed that. Unless it had been a ruse.
Voldemort pondered this while he summoned a glass and a bottle of wine. If this had been a ruse, what had been his old enemy's true plan? Potter had been there, and had sensed his own presence. Had that just been a test to see how well the boy could track him?
If it had been a test, then the boy had failed. No one had followed the Dark Lord, not to his first, nor to his second decoy safe house. And Dumbledore wouldn't have sacrificed even a useless spy like Snape for a mere test. Not when he could have used the traitor still - there were few potioneers of Snape's skill.
No, it had not been a test. A gamble then? Was Dumbledore ruthless enough to sacrifice Snape for a small chance to hurt him? The Dark Lord filled his glass, then nodded. Yes, he would be. Snape was a good potioneer, but Dumbledore was an alchemist. And the old wizard had had almost twenty years to use Snape as a brewer. The spy had been expendable. Doubly so since his enemy must have known what Snape had done to earn his Dark Mark.
Well, the gamble had not paid off. The Dark Lord almost regretted not having prepared a more lethal trap. If he had placed a few bombs nearby… but his enemies would have checked for that, after his ambush in Sussex. He would have to console himself with the thought that at least Snape and whoever had been posing as the child Voldemort had demanded would have suffered before their deaths. A result well worth a little Polyjuice, an Imperius, and a short lesson in conjuring Fiendfyre.
*****
Cokeworth, Midlands, England, January 24th, 1997
Albus Dumbledore entered the small park and looked around. It wasn't a pretty sight. Dirty snow covered the playground in the center, and the bushes and trees were mostly bare, naked branches sticking out and up. He wouldn't have chosen such a spot, but it wasn't his decision.
Sighing, he cast a quick Muggle-Repelling Charm, then reached into one of the pockets of his robes and pulled out a small urn. A quick tap of his wand enlarged it. There was no name on the urn, as per the instructions left to him. None was needed, either.
He flicked his wand, and the lid of the urn floated up, followed by a thin trail of the ashes contained within. A swish, and the ashes started to spread through the park, between the bushes, quickly sinking into the soil thanks to a small charm.
The Fiendfyre had burned for hours, and hadn't left much of either Severus or Balthasar, nor of whoever had played the role of the Dark Lord. It had taken Albus some effort, even, to ensure that he would not take the wrong body to be cremated - Balthasar had wished to be buried with his family. They wouldn't mind that their father and husband had not been in his own body at his death, Albus thought.
The urn had emptied in the time he had let his thoughts wander, and the floating trail of ashes was dispersing.
Albus shook his head at the sight. It was sad to think that, as far as he knew, this was the only place Severus had ever been truly happy in his life. The place he had met Lily Evans as a child. The Headmaster liked to think that as a student, his friend had been happy at Hogwarts as well, but he knew that for Severus, his time at school had been forever tainted by the end of his friendship with Lily.
He closed the urn, and vanished it, then checked his watch. There would be a wake for his friend, at Hogwarts. It would be a very small affair. Apart from Albus himself, Severus hadn't had any friends, only colleagues and acquaintances. Duty and custom would make them attend, nothing more.
Albus shook his head. In a way, that was even more tragic than Severus's death.
*****
North of Santa Cruz, Jamaica, January 25th, 1997
The area of the Black River hadn't changed much since he had last visited the island, Albus Dumbledore thought. Nor had the hidden enclave of the late Jevaun Francis. The swamp outside looked the same, the fields looked the same, and the mansion looked the same. Albus hoped that the workers tending to the fields were not enslaved muggles, though. He would hate to have to repeat the lesson he had taught Francis.
As he approached the main entrance, the door was opened and a young woman in a thin, short linen robe bowed to him. "The Master awaits you in his parlour, sir."
"Thank you." She didn't look like an apprentice, but looks could be deceiving, Albus thought. He knew that very well. Still, he doubted that the current owner of the mansion, Bedard Laron, would try to ambush him. He wouldn't consider Bedard a friend, but they were not enemies. And the man owed him for letting him not just live, but succeed his old master - and for keeping quiet about just how cooperative Bedard had been when it came to helping with Dumbledore's lessons for the houngan rulers of Magical Jamaica.
The mansion hadn't changed much inside either, apart from the repairs. Jamaican houngans seemed to be as conservative as the Old Families in Britain. Bedard, as Albus saw when the girl opened the door to the parlour, was even wearing the same suit his predecessor had worn when Albus had killed him over thirty years ago.
"Good day, Bedard." He nodded at the houngan.
"Mister Dumbledore." The man's smile was thin, and just this side of polite. "I am honoured to have you visit my humble abode. Very honoured, even, in light of the current situation in Britain, which no doubt requires your constant presence."
The boy he had left back then had grown some teeth, Albus thought. His own smile widened a bit. "It is exactly due to that situation that I have come to visit."
"I can assure you that neither myself, nor my colleagues, have had anything to do with this 'withering curse', as the newspapers call it." Bedard said quickly - too quickly. "We have kept the agreement."
Albus sighed loudly. "I did not doubt that. But the curse is of houngan origin. That I am certain of."
"That doesn't mean any one of us was responsible. As much as we strive to keep our secrets, there are always dissidents and spies." Bedard sighed. "A plague Britain is familiar with as well, I believe. But where are my manners? Please, have a seat." He gestured to the couch.
"Indeed. I think it's very likely that the Dark Lord currently making trouble in Britain stole your secrets, and then improved upon them." Albus sat down, after a quick and subtle check of the couch. "If one of your colleagues had created such a curse, then I think we would have heard of it." The infighting on the island would have rivaled the current war in Britain, Albus was certain.
Bedard's expression soured some more. No houngan would like to hear that a British wizard had not just taken their own spells, but improved them. "A compelling argument, I have to admit."
The girl returned, carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle on it. Albus passed. He didn't think Bedard would try to poison him, but there was no need to take a risk. And he would be needing all his wits. He did use the distraction, though, to silently dispel a few enchantments in the room. Bedard was not quite as subtle as he thought - nor as skilled. But then, few could stand against Albus wielding the wand he had won from Gellert.
Bedard didn't seem to have noticed that his defenses had been rendered far less effective than they had been. Sipping from his drink, he looked at Albus. "But even if that were true, how could I help you? I am ignorant of whatever spell might have formed the base for this curse." His smile returned.
"Indeed," Albus said, "but as a houngan of your stature, you have access to the Library of Souls."
Bedard jumped up, letting his glass shatter on the floor. "How do you know about that?" he hissed, drawing his wand. When he found Albus's wand pointed straight at him, though, he froze. His eyes widened even further when nothing else happened.
"Please," Albus said, smiling.
Trembling, the man slowly stashed his wand again. "Everyone has sworn an Oath to the Loa! They'd die rather than betray our most sacred secret!"
"Death, sadly, is no bar to betrayal," Albus said. "I would rather visit with you as my guide than find my own way there. I might have to break a few things to enter, and wouldn't know where to start looking for what I seek." He didn't move his wand. He had hoped that Bedard would be less hostile. But the man's reaction to the mere mention of the library had been enough to convince Albus that some rather disreputable measures would have to be taken. He sighed. "I'm truly sorry about this. Imperio."
*****
Harbour Mountains, Jamaica, January 25th, 1997
The Library of Souls, hidden in the mountains of Jamaica since the time of the Maroon Rebellion, was, as with so many things in the Magical World, a bit of a misnomer, Albus knew. While it did contain the knowledge of many dead houngans, their souls were not actually bound to it. No, the library was built with enchantments not unlike those used to create magical portraits, although these were significantly more thorough, Albus had to admit. And using the actual skulls of the dead houngans, instead of canvas and paint.
As he followed Bedard on the small path winding through a dense forest, he kept an eye out for the defenses he knew were there. The enchanted plants and animals were not supposed to attack Bedard or anyone in his company, but that didn't mean too much given the often bloody nature of Magical Jamaica's politics. Thanks to the expertise of Rubeus and Pomona, though, he was well-warded against both dangers.
As was to be expected for a location containing so much secret knowledge, there were more defenses than just guards. They had passed through several wards already - which wouldn't stop Bedard or a guest of his. Overall, Albus expected the library to be at least as well protected against intruders as the vaults of Gringotts. Which meant that a wizard of his skill and experience could break in. Especially with the - albeit unwilling - help of one of the houngan leaders of the island. Every system had a weakness, and the library's main weakness was that the ruling houngans did not trust each other enough to require more than one of them to grant access to their apprentices. That didn't mean that the library's defenses were easy to defeat, of course. The houngans had improved on them for more than two centuries, after all - ever since Magical Jamaica had won its independence from Wizarding Britain in 1752.
Aided by his enchanted spectacles, he spotted the Thief's Downfall, concealed as a natural waterfall, ahead of them. A flick of his wrist, and a spell covered Bedard, letting the enchanted fluid wash over him without affecting the spells controlling the man - Albus had had ample time to study this particular enchantment, and ways to deal with it.
They entered a cave behind an actual waterfall - though Albus kept his counter-measures up, just to be safe - and reached a massive door carved from the same stone as the cave itself. Bedard slit his palm and smeared blood on the stone surface in a complicated pattern, then took a step back as the door started to retreat, almost flowing into the walls, revealing the antechamber of the Library of Souls. Albus frowned when he saw the silent, undead guardians arrayed there. He had known to expect such from his glimpses into the minds of Francis and his colleagues decades ago, but to see them with his own eyes…
But those abominations were not a threat to him. The spells layered on the entrance to the library proper were. Not even Bedard could get him through all of them. But Albus had come well-prepared for traps and curses. His wand made short work of the more obvious spells, and the more subtle ones were no match for his experience - he had broken into a few sanctums of houngans in his day, after all. And dealt with many more cursed tombs. And even if he should make a mistake, thanks to his skill as an alchemist and his friendship with a phoenix, he had the means to save himself which no others could count upon. Himself only, though - as the battle at Hogsmeade had shown, trying to protect another could be fatal, which was why Albus had traveled alone to Jamaica.
Soon, the doors opened, and the Library of Souls was revealed. It was far smaller than someone not familiar with Jamaica would expect. Less than a hundred skulls, each on a pedestal displaying the houngan's name and deeds, gathered in a natural cavern, expanded with magic. Far more modest than anything similar in Britain, and yet containing so much knowledge… Albus was both tempted to peruse it, and to destroy it. But he had not come here for either.
"Please fetch me the skull of Lawrence Gayle," he said. That houngan was almost unknown outside Jamaica, but the man had done more research into both Necromancy and Mind Magic than any other on the island. If he hadn't been assassinated by a rival before he could turn his research into actual rituals and spells, he might have become more famous - or infamous. As it was, his contemporaries and successors had taken his death as proof that his work had little value. An opinion the Headmaster didn't share.
Compelled by Albus's magic, Bedard stepped forward. The oldest skulls were furthest back, but Gayle had lived in the 19th century, so his skull was far closer to the entrance, just a few yards away.
Bedard mumbled the appropriate prayer and picked the skull up. He had just started to turn turn towards Albus when the skull's eyes lit up and fire shot out of its mouth, engulfing the man.
Bedard started to scream, his whole body on fire. Fiendfyre, Albus realised, as it formed a snake and dived at him. No, not at him - at the entrance! Albus hastily conjured a wall between himself and the flames, and retreated to the side, away from both the still burning and screaming Bedard and the flames sealing the entrance. The skull's mouth was now spewing billowing clouds of green mist that ate through both arms of Bedard, leaving the skull floating in the air, while the eyes released curses in all directions.
"Fawkes!" Albus cried out, flicking his wand to banish the approaching acid back with a gust of wind. Then he saw that the curses were not flying off in all directions, but curving back - to strike at him!
He conjured slabs of metal and stone to block them, but the skull was still sending out more, and the cursed fire was spreading. Fawkes appeared - straight in the path of one of the curses, and Albus acted without thinking, sending one slab up to block the curse, leaving himself open. If Fawkes was quick enough…
His companion wasn't. Albus felt the curse strike his side an instant before they vanished in a flash of fire.
When they reappeared, he fell down on the floor of his office, unable to breathe. Unable to say anything. He rolled on his back, flicking his wand, casting silently, trying to break the curse eating into his lungs. He failed. Fawkes was crying, his tears falling on Albus's chest, but they didn't help - this dark curse had to be beyond even their power. It had been a trap, he realised. For anyone researching that particular curse. He swished his wand, summoning a vial from his pocket. A last gift from his mentor. With fumbling fingers, he opened it, swallowing the liquid even while he felt as if his heart was bursting.
Relief filled him as the pain receded.
Then he realised that he still couldn't breathe. That he was still asphyxiating. But he had gained the time to cast a complex spell that drew oxygen directly into his blood. His vision, which had been fading, returned to normal. He still couldn't breathe or speak, but he was able to sit up. The pain was growing stronger again. He vanished the robe covering his chest, and shuddered.
His chest was rotting. He could see the ribs poking through the parting skin, could see the flesh shrivel up, blood and other fluids forming a pool under him. Fawkes was still crying, frantically flapping around.
Shaking his head, he smiled at his oldest friend. He wanted to tell the phoenix that it was alright, that he was just going on the next Great Adventure, but without lungs all he could do was hope that his companion would understand.
Then the rot reached his spine, and he started to fall back.
The last thing he saw, before the world turned dark, was Fawkes, crying above him. And the last thing he heard before death claimed him was the mourning song of his friend.
*****