Here we have conclusive proof that I am incapable of writing a "short" short story. Perhaps i should post this in WbA instead. Some 5k words in response to CheddarTrek's prompt: *** ************ ***************** **** ~UNTITLED~ **** ***************** ********** *** About time, John Dawlish thought as he heard the door open. He looked up to see a black and white clad maid step into the hallway, a tray balanced in her hands. His stomach let out a another deep rumble, and he darted a sheepish glance to his partner. “That,” Senior Auror Alice Fenwick remarked dryly, “is starting to get annoying.” Dawlish shrugged. “Well it’s not my fault. Blame Fudge, he’s the one who pulled me here right before lunch break.” “I thought you were still on Dumbledore duty.” “He called it off after the old man hexed me.” Dawlish rubbed his jaw, wincing. “Still hurts where he caught me.” “Serves you right.” Dawlish narrowed his eyes at his colleague.“Do I sense dissent?” Alice huffed. “If Dumbledore thinks You-Know-Who is back, then I’m more inclined to believe him. Which means we should be preparing.” “There’s no evidence to suggest so,” Dawlish insisted stubbornly. “Just the word of a kid and the barmy old warmonger who seems to believe him.” “Really?” Alice began, and she opened her mouth to say something caustic, but seemed to think better of it and sighed. “You know what, let’s do this another time. The earlier we get this over with and I can get back to my comfortable bed, the better.” She drew her wand. “Care to do the honors this time?” Dawlish’s wand was already in his hand. “Halt,” he barked at the approaching maid. “Your name and business.” The maid stopped and bowed her head, but not low enough that her chef’s hat would slide forward. “Marie Bouvier, ze serving maid, from ze kitchens.” Alice pulled out a list and scanned it with her flat brown eyes. “Marie Bouvier, let’s see… Marc… Marcel… there we go. Marie Bouvier.” She lifted her head. “She checks.” Dawlish nodded, and lowered his wand. He beckoned to the maid. “Come.” The maid walked forward a few paces, and suddenly a bright crimson flash engulfed her figure. She shrieked as an iciness seeped through her, the effect of an activated Paralysis ward. Then her shriek was cut off as the cold paralytic magic too effect, freezing her in mid fall with a humming sound. At once Dawlish snapped up his wand, and the bored look fell from his face. Beside him Alice did the same, her freckled face now stern and wary. A lattice of flowing red magic surrounded the stricken maid, flowing around her in gentle pulsing waves. If not for the potential element of danger, it would have looked comical - the way her face was wide with fright and incomprehension as tried to move through the turgid soup of energy, with little progress. “Miss, do you have a wand?” He asked, his face stern. It seemed to take a moment for the maid to realize she could still speak. “No, no wand,” she stammered. “Ze do not allow us to bring in any wands.” The wards flashed blue for a moment, signaling she spoke the truth. Dawlish summoned the tray from the maid’s stiff hands, and floated it to the floor. The domed lid cracked open, and a faint delicious aroma sifted in the air. Something slithered into his nose, a burning desire to eat, eat and eat— He shook his head, and abruptly the sensation disappeared. He stared at the innocuous tray on the floor, an annoyed expression coloring his face. I’m too hungry for this bloody crap. Alice glanced at him in concern. “Are you alright?” He waved her off, and turned to the maid - and the trap that held her in place. “Do you have any items on you that could be enchanted?” Dawlish asked. “Clothes, shoes, hair, anything?” The maid seemed to think for a moment. “My earring, I think. Eet is goblin-made.” Alice waved her wand. “Accio earrings.” A single rubied earring clicked open and slipped gently from the maid’s ears, and soared into the Auror’s open hand. She examined it for a second, the glint of the tiny ruby not unlike the magic that flowed around the maid, keeping her trapped. “What is it?” “Just an earring,” Alice said, distracted with what she was doing. She whispered a word and passed the tip of her gnarled wand over the earrings. A brief flash of white answered her query. “She’s right. They are enchanted, but nothing malicious apparently.” “Figures.” Dawlish snorted, frustrated. “Can Davies and his team do anything right? I told him specifically to tune the ward to wands only. Can you imagine this happening to the French Chancellor himself? What a fiasco that would be.” Alice didn’t look convinced. She glanced back at the frozen maid, her eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute though. Shouldn’t the ward be deactivated now?” “Davies probably forgot that as well, the idiot.” Dawlish stepped past Alice, and pressed his wand against the wall, feeling for something. Alice clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure? We send a message first to confirm.” “Only if you’re the one to fill out the paperwork and debrief Madam Bones.” Alice scowled, but said nothing. “I thought so.” Dawlish shook his arm free. “Let's see... Solvo patefacio Regelo abrogare—” A circular series of tiny runes, cleverly disguised into the floral wallpaper, began to glow red. He tapped each of them in an anti-clockwise sequence, and they powered down. “There we go.” A dull buzz echoed in the hallway as the Petrification ward fell. The maid stumbled forward, caught off-balance. Dawlish reached out with a hand and steadied her. Alice still held her wand fixed on the disoriented maid, her freckled face arranged in a look of suspicion. “Why one earring?” Dawlish shot her a glance, but she persisted. “Why one earring?” The maid answered in a placid voice. “I lost ze ozzer one. Zis one I wear all ze time. Mon pere, ‘e gave zem to me, before ‘e, before ‘e...” She trailed off, and her professional facade seemed to slip a bit, replaced with a look of suppressed grief. She bowed her head and moved to pick up the platter from the floor. “Always trying to play damned detective—” Dawlish muttered, disgusted. He pushed past her. “How was I supposed to know—?” Dawlish huffed, and knelt beside the maid, helping her up. “Are you alright?” “Eet is nothing,” The maid nodded, and picked up the tray of food. “I will be alright.” “I hope your sandwiches aren’t ruined.” The maid offered him a tremulous smile, and lifted the lid of the tray. At once, an overwhelming aroma of tuna, and chicken and onions and tomatoes filled his nose. As if by magic, an overpowering sensation slammed into his stomach like a truck, filling with a consuming desire to eat, eat— Salivating in relish, he snapped up one sandwich with a muttered ‘thank you’. “Mhm, that does smell tasty.” Alice remarked. She grabbed the other sandwich and sniffed it. The maid smiled politely. “Quit complaining and eat already.” Dawlish chuckled and sank his teeth in. Juicy sauce dribbled down his lips even as he adjusted his grip, and took another bite. It tasted like heaven. * * * * * The maid watched the Mouthwatering Charm take hold. The change was funny - they dropped their wands and ate like men possessed. So careless. A good sandwich needs two hands. Her lips curved up into a not-so nice smile. Dawlish went down first. His eyes rolled into the back into his head, and he dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs. His half-eaten sandwiches thudded to the floor beside her, splattering mushed bread, meat and lettuce and thin slices of tomato and onions onto the plush carpeting. Beside him Alice stiffened and glanced at the maid, her eyes wide. Her eyes widened as Alice stared at her fallen partner in incomprehension. Then her gaze darted to the suddenly smirking maid and back to the sandwich in her hands. Realization bloomed in her brown eyes. “You…” She spat out the piece she was chewing, and darted forward, hands outstretched and face contorted in anger. Before she could close in however, her muscles suddenly collapsed as the poison in the sandwich took effect, and she slumped onto the floor, out cold. * * * * * Marie Bouvier, supposed maid, stared at the unconscious bodies dispassionately. Then in a deliberate gesture, she lifted one foot and brought it down hard on the fingers of the prostrate female Auror. Bones crunched underneath and she smiled, satisfied, her need for violence sated - if only for a bit. With a sigh she let up the pressure, regretting once again that she couldn’t kill them. The magic sensor tied to their heartbeats would trigger an instant alarm, and bring a squad of Aurors swarming into the corridor. Her contract didn’t cover that. Instead she knelt besides the bodies and rummaged through pockets, looking for something. She found it in the male Auror’s robes - an ornate silver key. She stepped over his body and walked to the door. The key fit the lock like a glove, and the door made no noise as it clicked open. Like a shadow, Marie slipped inside the silent room. If anyone had checked, they would have discovered her appointment to Haut Gourmet d’Etienne occurred just two days after the French Chancellor announced the premier catering company would be traveling with him for his negotiations with the British Ministry of Magic. They may have discovered the bribes paid to ensure she was assigned to the elite team of chefs and cooks traveling with the French delegation. But had they checked closer still, they may have discovered Marie Bouvier’s startling resemblance to the assassin otherwise known in the deep underbelly of the French underworld as Maîtresse de la Mort. Then they’d have to die, because the Mistress of Death took no chances. * * * * * A plane of dim moonlight that poured into the room, illuminating an ostentatiously decorated bedroom. Pale silk curtains draped over a pair of glass windows, obscuring the much of the view outside. A tall oak wardrobe slept against the right wall and on a varnished nightstand, single guttering candle rested, long extinguished. Her flat-heeled shoes crunching softly on the carpeted floor, she stalked over to the massive Elizabethan-style four-poster bed, where a series of soft snores droned out, muffled by a set of heavy drapes. She wrenched them aside. A little boy lay snuggled underneath the folds of the soft yellow comforter, snoring peacefully, a chubby thumb stuck between his lips. She moved beside slumbering child, her back to the window, and her shadow fell across his gently breathing body. She reached out a hand to stroke his boy’s cheek with a finger even as a knife slipped into other hand, plain in every way except for the lethal poison coating the sharp edge. “Au revoir, chère enfant,” She whispered. The blade plunged down into the mass of curls that was the boy’s head, and she gritted her teeth for the violent gush of blood that was sure to follow. What she didn’t steel herself for was the explosion of light as the boy shattered into shower of multi-hued motes. “About time. You have no idea how annoying it is to keep up a self-autonomous illusion.” With reflexes born from a life where death was lurking behind the next corner, she leapt away from the direction where the voice had come. Her palms pressed against the mattress as she cartwheeled over the bed and landed, catlike on the other side. In the same move, she whirled around, and brought the knife in front of her, her heart thudding loudly as her ribcage. “I must say, quite impressive.” A figure murmured from a chair, hidden in the dense shadows in the far corner of the room. “To go through so far undetected - your reputation precedes you.” “Who are you?” She asked, and took a step back as he rose. He was dressed in simple black robes, hood pulled up to obscure his face, but he looked too small, too short, to be intimidating. “You don’t recognize me?” His tone was mocking, cold, alluring and yet oh-so familiar, and she shivered despite herself as an unseen aura spilled from his form - dark, cold and insidious. He reached up with two thin hands to pull away his hood, and a face wreathed in shadow was revealed to her. He stepped into the moonlight. “Look ha—” She lunged, smiling thinly, the tip of her dagger gleaming in the moonlight. And impossibly something slammed against her wrist, stopping her blow cold just inches from his face. “Now, that was just rude.” Piercing green eyes met her shocked gaze. Then with a smirk, he bent her wrist back, and her world exploded in pain as the knife clattered from her slack grip. She tried to smash her knee against his groin but suddenly she couldn’t move, as tendrils of intrusive magic and sickening intent slithered in behind the barriers of his mind. “What was it, you said?” he whispered, and her muscles spasmed. She slumped against his surprisingly strong form. “Ah yes - Au revoir, chère enfant” Her world collapsed in a crushing sea of black. * * * * * Half an hour later, in a bedroom in the lavish Wisteria Manor used for the Ministry’s international hostings, a terrified boy cracked open the door to the wardrobe he was hiding in. Little Anton Robespierre, son of the French Chancellor of Magic, slipped out, wide awake and sweaty. He glanced around his room. The strange boy with the weird green eyes, and the maid who had come to kill him were gone. Shivering slightly, Anton ran out to find his father. * * * * * The world was spinning. Her vision was bit too blurry. She wanted to rub his eyes, but her arms were constricted to her sides. A dull pain pulsed from her wrist. Her head throbbed painfully, as if all the blood had rushed there. Something bad had happened but she couldn’t remember— She tried moving, and felt her entire body sway from side to side, as if she was suspended. The feeling of panic slowly returned as she realized her arms and legs were not coming loose, and that her entire body seemed to be swaying gently. A cool breeze brushed by her exposed face, and darkness pressed against her eyeballs. She squeezed her eyelids, blinking hard, and the film over her eyes fell away. She screamed at what she saw. Her vision was upside down, but she appeared to be in a low mossy clearing - mostly dark - the only illumination coming from the soft patches of moonlight which managed to filter through the dense growth of trees and brambles around the enclosure. “Glad to see you’re awake.” Dry leaves crackled underfoot as a pair of dirty, muddy-encrusted sneakers moved into view. “You were sleeping, and it seemed such a pity to wake you.” Her feelings of panic intensified as she tried to find some wriggle room, but couldn’t. “Don’t bother. Acromantula silk - I assure you that you will not be breaking free unless I let you.” A raspy grunt fell from her throat as she clamped down the feelings of terror gnawing on her insides. “Who are you?” Whoever held her captive took his time to answer, as if pondering the question. “I’m waiting for some friends so I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. It’s not like it’ll be of much help to you anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been called many things before, but perhaps the one that’ll hold most significance for you is Harry Potter.” Instead of clarity, her confusion only deepened further at his proclamation. Harry Potter? She knew the name - The Boy Who Lived, he was famous even in France, for killing the British Dark Lord, and for the events in last year’s ill-fated Triwizard Tournament, when one of the contestants had died in his arms. But what the fuck was going on? “Why do you have me?” A note of the desperation she was trying to conceal slipped into her voice. “Do you have any fucking idea who I am?” Laughter echoed in the dark clearing. “Glad to see you’ve dropped the French accent - you don’t make it sound quite as sexy as… never mind.” “I have more than an idea who you are. Your aliases are as numerous as they are well-known, but you simply prefer to be known as Madame Renaud, Mistress of Death, international assassin, wanted for implication in several political assassinations across Europe in the last decade. The French, Estonian, and Turkish Ministries all have bounties for your head.” So it was about the money then. “So that’s what you want - the money. Name your price and I shall pay you twice the amount. You have my word.” Then she’d find him and rip his throat out. “Any interesting offer, but I assure you money is not my motive. Tell me, who hired you to assassinate the boy?” “I do not ask questions,” she replied. “I am simply given a task, and I execute it.” “An amoral killer-for-hire. Interesting.” Harry Potter chuckled, then his voice turned high and cold. For the first time that night, something other than levity colored his words - a calm, placid fury simmering underneath his joking exterior. “How many people have you killed? How many children have you left orphans, how many parents have you left childless?” She felt a cold chill at his words, and tried a different tack. “You are going to hand me to the authorities then?” “The authorities? No, my dear. For you,” and there was a touch of cruel amusement in his words. “For you I have something special planned.” She was about to ask what, when a loud clicking noise interrupted her. “Right on time,” Harry Potter muttered. He sounded pleased. “Tell me, Irene Renaud. You have used acromantula venom before, yes? However have you met the creatures themselves?” The scuttling noise grew as something closer, joined by more clicking noises. Cold sweat dribbled down her forehead into the roots of her hair. “Be still now, they bite harder when you move. It makes for a most noisy, agonizing death, from what I’ve heard.” A flash of blue light hit her, and she felt her body size up. Sheer terror gripped her heart, as understanding dawned in her mind. She couldn’t even scream as a hairy black spider scampered into her field of vision, then another, then another, then another. A myriad of beady eyes blinked at her, and shiny pincers clicked frantically at her face. “Feast, sons of Aragog, feast.” * * * * * Albus Dumbledore strode down the moonlit corridor at a leisurely pace, a cup of unsweetened coffee in his hand. Steam wafted from the ceramic mug as he lifted it to his lips and took a long sip. His lips curled up into a sardonic smile. The black liquid tasted much like life these days - dark, bitter, and intended to keep him awake. Lord Voldemort was back. And all his attempts at alerting the world to this truth had fallen flat. Cornelius Fudge was sticking his head in the ground like an ostrich, content to turn a blind eye to the dark storms brewing on the horizon. The Dementors were stirring, discontent growing in their cold, tattered ranks. The Giants were already receiving envoys from the Dark Lord. In the dark forests of Worcestershire, a colony of werewolves had disappeared without a trace. The Order was stretched thin, trying to deal with threats and rumors that popped up by the second - Severus, in the lair of Dark Lord himself; Lupin, with the werewolves; Hagrid and Madame Maxime, with the giants; Kingsley, Nymphadora, Arthur... And in spite of all these signs that screamed the advent of an impending doom, Cornelius Fudge was refusing to listen to reason. Instead, the portly Minister saw fit to besmirch his name and brand him and Harry liars, and had contrived to strip him of his most of his positions. Not that Albus minded that much - the reduced workload was actually quite welcome, but at the same time his fall in political spheres was most unwelcome - at least with the authority that came with some of his positions, he could have worked to counter the Dark Lord’s subtle machinations. And Lord Voldemort was taking full advantage of the deaf ear the Ministry was turning towards his return - content to scheme from the shadows. To a degree he pitied the Minister - his actions were a clear mark of insecurity born from the knowledge that should Voldemort be alive, he wouldn’t be needed. If Lord Voldemort was proven to indeed be back, And it’s only a question of time, the panicking public would call for someone stronger, someone tougher and more decisive to take the reins and lead the fight. Cornelius knew this, feared this eventuality, and was making all the wrong decisions. Such as alienating the one man he needed by his side. To add insult to injury, Dolores Umbridge now stalked the halls of Hogwarts, terrifying students and being a general annoyance to the teachers. He rubbed his head to ward of the oncoming headache thoughts of the pink-clad, hem-hemming woman brought on - he hadn’t been so thoroughly annoyed by someone since Eric Smeek stole his knitting pins in his sixth year— Sometimes, he wondered if he had been wrong to refuse the post of Minister of Magic. Certainly under his command, the Wizarding world would have flourished and— He sighed, and abandoned that train of thought. It would do no good. The wrongs of the world were not one man’s to put right. He reached the set of gargoyles standing guard to the entrance to his office, and they sprang to life and leapt aside at his approach. He stepped onto the winding staircase, and tugged the hem of his robes where it caught the corner of one of the stone steps. He chuckled as he got it off just in time, and the stairs began to take him up. The spiral escalator ground to a halt when it reached the highly polished oak door, which swung open at his touch. He stepped into his dimly-lit office. “Good evening Fawkes.” From his perch near the door, Fawkes trilled a long, welcoming note and Albus smiled gently as he felt the tune lift his spirits. “I know, my friend, I know,” he murmured, understanding her unusual communication. Stroking his beard, he stepped beside a window and gazed outside at the black expanse that was the Forbidden Forest. The evening sky was black, starless, and the moon was only a pale silver. “I suppose there are things I should be grateful for…” Like Harry Potter. Far beyond what he had hoped and dreaded after the Lord Voldemort’s resurrection, and the dementor attack during the summer, the boy had not sunk into a mire of depression and angst to brood and hold himself responsible for poor Cedric’s death. To the contrary, he had sought Albus out, and made several rather convincing arguments as to why he needed to be trained and readied the imminent conflicts that were sure to come. Albus acquiesced after a long debate, and was pleasantly been surprised by the ease with which Harry had taken to his tutelage, showing an astonishing aptitude and grasp for magicks far above even what he Albus was capable of at fifteen. Even more surprising, Harry had heeded his cautions to keep his head down, and was shouldering through Fudge’s accusations and Dolores’ meddling with a kind of stoic indifference that was quite at odds with his former, fiery temperament. Even Severus was baffled by the change. More had happened in the graveyard than Harry cared to disclose, that was for sure… Finally there was issue of the mysterious figure killing of prominent Death Eaters and sympathisers…. Gregory Goyle Sr, drowned in a pool of his own blood in his manor. Borgin Burke, found dead in his Knockturn Alley store, a rusted, cursed blade plunged through his chest. Walden Macnair, his head lopped off by his own blood-encrusted axe. Vincent Crabbe, comatose in St. Mungo’s, chances of recovery slim. Lucius Malfoy, recovering in Italy after his house-elf had mistakenly slipped a potent poison into his tea… the list went on and on… The Daily Prophet had sensationally christened the killer The Death Dealer. Some thought it was the work of mass-murderer Sirius Black, seeking vengeance on the brethren who had abandoned him. Some still whispered it was the Headmaster himself, out to rid the Dark Lord of his most powerful followers - and Albus found this quite amusing, given that he was locked in conversation with Fudge when the very first murder had happened. Lord Voldemort was livid, that much was sure. And even though Albus himself was not sure sure where the loyalties of this new variable lay (all his attempts at reaching out or finding out more from his seedier contacts had met dead ends), he was content to stand back and wait for further developments before acting... The enemy of my enemy is my friend. With a absent flick, Albus sent his empty, now clean coffee mug zooming into the cupboard, and the mess of papers on his desk arranged itself into a neat pile. Fawkes soared onto his shoulder in a rush of red and gold, and warbled cheerily. “Yes, my friend,” he murmured, and stroked Fawkes’s bright plumage. “Time to go to sleep.” One of the silver instruments on his bookcase let out a shrill, piercing shriek. Albus paled, and strode across the room. He prodded the instrument, and it shuddered and spun and emitted a gray puff of smoke which shaped itself into a vague representation of a forest. An undesirable element had entered Hogwarts. A faint sense of unease settled in Albus’s stomach as he tightened his grip on his wand and adjusted his half-moon glasses. Fawkes crooned on his shoulder. “Let us go give our visitor a welcome, shall we?” Fawkes flew up from his shoulder and hovered above his head. He reached out and gripped his tail feathers, and together they disappeared from the office in a golden flash of fire and light. * * * * * The clearing was eerily empty - the leaf-strewn ground scattered by the feeding flurry of the acromantula. Tattered wisps of silk webbing hung from the gnarled bough of a tree, drenched crimson with blood and bits of bone and tissue - and the ground underneath was a wet black patch under the moonlight. With a twirl of his wand, he vanished the mess, wiping all traces of his presence. Then he stiffened halfway, in the middle of an incantation. “If the blood is a fashion statement, it is a pretty poor one.” Dumbledore murmured, gesturing at Harry’s blood-splattered robes as stepped out from the cover of the trees, his flamboyant robes darker and blended perfectly with the darkness. His wand hung loosely in his hand. Harry turned slowly, and his lips curled up into a dark smile at Dumbledore’s sharp intake of breath. “You saw what happened then.” “I missed the full show, but daresay I saw enough to make an educated guess,” Dumbledore whispered. “What happened here?” He peered at Harry, and inside his head, his clever mind was spinning wildly. The boy who stood before him now was someone else - someone far more insidious than the young man he had taken on as his confidante and apprentice. There was a darkness silhouetted on his face, and something terrible lingered behind his usually kind green eyes. “What happened to you, my boy?” “I suppose there is no way I can talk myself out of this,” Harry said in a conversational tone, twirling his wand absently. Suppressing a frown at the familiar movement, Dumbledore took a step forward, his aged face grim. He gripped the Elder Wand tighter in his hand and an invisible breeze ruffled his long flowing robes. “I am afraid you will have to be very convincing.” Harry spun into action, his wrist flicking fast. A dark flash of crimson light exploded from his wand in a rush of deafening noise and an oily, dark power. But Dumbledore was faster, far faster. The Headmaster’s wand blurred, glowing with a purple light, and the crimson curse shattered in a violent shower of destructive light before it even got anywhere near him. Harry snarled an incantation, and twisted his wrist as a ruinous white light began to pool at the tip of his wand, blowing apart the leaves around him in a circle as he started to cast the dark magic. But Dumbledore was gone in a twirl of purple robes, and Harry’s eyes widened at the disapparition. He lifted his wand to cast a defensive spell, but the dome of protective magic was barely formed before the Headmaster was on him in a flash, his weathered face hard, and his piercing blue eyes cold and trembling with power. A blast of terrific red power caught Harry in the chest, collapsing the half-formed magical shield, and he barely had time to shriek in agony before he was lifted clear of his feet, the air knocked out of his lungs. The mossy ground thundered as he slammed down, pain flaring from his lower back, then without respite his hand snapped back violently, and his wand was wrenched from his grasp into the waiting hands of Dumbledore. “I regret the necessity of that,” Dumbledore murmured, breathing hard. He pocketed the wand and peered at Harry, regret and silent resolve gleaming in his blue gaze. There was a desperate plea in his voice when he spoke. “Please, let me help you, my dear boy.” Harry pulled himself up with a pained grunt, and began to laugh - a chilly, high sound that sent shivers racing down Dumbledore’s back. ‘You would kill me if you knew the truth.” “I do not know what has happened to you, but whatever it is, I can help you.” Dumbledore kept the wand pointed at the ground, but a simple flick would bring it to bear. "I guarantee that I can protect you Harry, even if it's from yourself." He started forward. And froze. Harry Potter gazed at his mentor, and the emerald behind his eyes seemed to shift, replaced by something else. A shocked gasp fell from Dumbledore’s lips as Harry shuddered, then stilled. His head dropped onto his chest as if the muscles in his neck had suddenly been severed, and his jet-black hair fell over his forehead, obscuring his face in a disturbing manner. Then slowly he lifted his head, and Dumbledore’s face went slack with horror as crimson pupils stared up at him. “Hello, Albus Dumbledore.” * * * * * Let me know what you guys think eh?