Author-Dzeytoun

Category-Angst/Drama

Rating-PG13

Disclaimer-Main characters and setting owned by J.K. Rowling

HERE BE MONSTERS III: WOMB OF LILITH

Chapter Two: Wizard's Rounds

Tuesday, 7 July, 1996

13 22 GMT

I decide to begin my visits in the surgical ward. It is the closest and also the least crowded, wizards not having as much need for surgery as Muggles. Hopefully by the time I am finished, many of the visitors will have left the hospital for the day and I can proceed in peace.

Keep telling yourself that, Albus. You need McGonagall with you to inspire a little Gryffindor courage.

All right, Tom. I want to start with the surgical ward because I'm not up to looking in on Remus and Harry just yet.

That's better. The truth shall set you free. Muggles say that, don't they?

They do. I don't feel any freer, however.

You aren't a Muggle.

There's something wrong with that logic, but I don't have the energy to puzzle it out right now.

I find Ron Weasley's room without any trouble. To my surprise Ginny is the only visitor at the moment. I had thought the room would be thronged with Weasleys.

"Professor!" she cries, bounding out of her chair. She comes over and throws her arms around me. A little off balance from the unexpected show of affection, I loop my arm over her shoulders and pat her back.

"Hello, Ginevra," I say softly, "how is he doing?"

She shrugs and looks toward the bed, her expression somber. "Okay, I guess. But he can't seem to rest comfortably."

I follow her gaze to where a very pallid Ron, dressed in faded blue pajamas, twitches restlessly under a standard hospital blanket. His head rolls slowly from one side to the other, although his eyes stay closed.

"The healers are worried, but they say everything should be all right," Ginny explains breathlessly. "They have to keep him asleep so the healing spells can have a chance to take hold fully. But they're afraid to put him into too deep of a sleep, because that would interfere with the spells. It's all very complicated."

"Healing magic is a very complex field, my child."

"I wish I knew more. Why doesn't Hogwarts have classes on Healing Magic?" Ginny looks up at me as she speaks. I see a light of real interest in her eyes, although mostly she seems to be talking just for the joy of human interaction.

"We have offered electives in the past," I say, "for sixth and seventh years. During the last war they were very popular."

Yes. The Ravenclaws found it fascinating, the kind hearts of the Hufflepuffs were moved, the Gryffindors wanted to help their comrades, and the Slytherins desired to know how to keep their own skins intact.

Interest is interest, Tom. Not everyone has your noble disposition.

Very funny, Albus. Very funny.

I shrug my shoulders in response to Ginny's question. "Enrollment in the subject fell off sharply after the war, then Madam Pomfrey's assistant moved on and we didn't have the funds to replace her. Madam Pomfrey had to quit offering the classes and concentrate on her healing duties."

"Oh, that's a shame." Ginny seems rather sad about it.

"Well, as we are in a wartime situation again, perhaps Madam Pomfrey would deign to offer Healing classes once more, at least on a trial basis."

"That would be wonderful!" Ginny smiles, then her face suddenly falls. "For sixth and seventh years?"

"Yes." I chuckle as the dismay on her features grows comically pronounced. "But I think she would be open to a few especially interested fifth years taking the course."

Ginny smiles radiantly.

"Now," I say, "where is the rest of your family? Did they leave you all alone?"

"Oh, no," she explains quickly, "Hermione is with me. She just went to the bathroom and for a quick breath of fresh air."

"That's good." I should have known Miss Granger would be prowling the premises.

"We made Mum go lay down. She was about to fall over, you know from the stress."

"I hope she is able to get to sleep," I say.

"Well," Ginny looks just a tiny bit guilty, "I think one of the Healers put a Sleeping Draught in her tea. Mum can be just a little demanding when she gets worried."

A little demanding? That's like calling Grindelwald a little cranky.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Instead, I give Ginny my "kindly concerned grandfather" look. "I'm sure the rest will do her good, my child."

"I hope so. I think they tried to slip Bill one, too, but he wouldn't drink the tea. Finally he started smoking and they had an excuse to send him downstairs. Dad went with him."

"Smoking?" Wizards don't usually give off smoke unless they take a Pepper-Up Potion.

"Muggle cigarettes. It's a filthy habit, but he said all the Curse Breakers in Egypt use them for stress."

"Oh. Do they have any idea how much longer Ron will have to be sedated?"

"They aren't sure. He lost several inches of his intestine, but it could have been worse. One of the surgeons said he was afraid he would have to do a closs-dummy."

"A what?"

"A closs-dummy. It's a Muggle thing they do when your intestines are too short to, er, reach. It sounds absolutely horrid! How do the Muggles live with things like that?" She shudders.

"Very well, from what I can see," I say gently. "I am glad they didn't have to do a colostomy, though."

"You can say that again!"

"I would rather not," I reply, chucking her under the chin and gaining a smile.

With a one-armed hug of comfort, I make my farewell and head for the floor below. Exiting the stairwell, I stride quickly down the long corridor leading from one side of the hospital to the other. I know I am approaching my destination when I hear a steady voice droning on –

"—specific performance shall always be allowed in cases of real property, save in instances of entailment as specified in Testament or in Finding. Specific performance may still be allowed in cases of Entail in Finding provided that – oh, hello Professor Dumbledore!" Hermes Reed puts down the large book he was reading from and rises to take my hand.

"Don't let me interrupt your reading, Hermes."

"It isn't important, just a textbook in basic property law I brought over. I figured if anything could help Remus stay asleep, it would be that!"

You should give him the minutes of Hogwarts faculty meetings, Albus. I'm sure all those brisk discussions about the shower curtains in the west wing bathrooms would soothe Remus to no end.

"How is he?" I ask, looking around the grinning solicitor to where Remus lies clad in a hospital gown.

"They say he is recovering with remarkable speed." The kindly lawyer shrugs. "Probably something about being a werewolf."

"He looks quite good." Compared to Ron Weasley, Remus looks positively wonderful. His color is natural and his breathing is deep and regular.

"I think so, too. He has a way to go yet, though. You can't take a Fire Lance spell full in the chest and expect to go dancing that night, you know."

"Remus was never much of a dancer," I say with a smile.

"I suppose he wouldn't be. Pity. Anyway, he's lucky he fell forward and put himself out. This way he only has to worry about a skin replacement over the left side of his chest."

"Is it taking well?" Skin replacements after severe burns aren't easy, even for wizards.

"Perfectly. He'll have a pie-bald chest for a while though."

"I'm sure he'll manage, Hermes." Once again I bite my cheek to contain a laugh.

"Probably. They say he should be up and about in a few hours."

"Excellent! Please send word to me when he wakes." I fold my hands together on my staff and let myself give a tiny sigh of relief.

"I certainly will."

I turn to go, but then an inspiration hits. "Hermes, have you ever heard of the Thrall Laws?"

He frowns. "Oh, yes! From the Wyrding Period!"

I quickly explain the situation with Harry. Hermes' expression turns to wonder and then horror.

"The bastards!" he squeaks, so astonished his voice goes up two octaves. "It sounds like something they would try!"

"Hermes," I say slowly, "what I'm going to say now is sheer conflict of interest, coming from the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I would understand if you don't want to continue this conversation."

"What conversation?" he answers with a perfectly straight face.

Too bad this one went to Ravenclaw. Slytherin could use some variety.

"Good. Do you think you could do some research for me and some – colleagues, on the subject of the Thrall Laws? Your time would be paid for, of course."

"I would be happy to do that, Headmaster. I assume you want to know ways of thwarting them?"

"Yes, indeed. Do you know Justice Begay of the Wizarding State?"

His eyes grow round. "Well, I know of him, of course."

"Do you have access to a Message Mirror?"

"Yes, we have one in our office. It's spelled for the utmost confidentiality."

"Excellent!" I pick up some paper and a quill from the nightstand and hastily scrawl some instructions. "Follow this procedure and it will put you in contact with Jeff Begay's personal Mirror. He may have some thoughts in this matter."

"I will certainly do that, Headmaster."

Two nurses bustle in, carrying wands, bedclothes, and a variety of bizarre looking instruments. "Excuse us," one says with the same brisk efficiency I have often noted in Poppy, "we need to do some tests and change the sheets."

"Why don't you walk with me, Mr. Reed?" I ask on a sudden impulse. "It will take them a little while. I'm sure you could use a break."

Getting tired of listening to me, Albus?

Got it in one, Tom.

"I would be honored, Headmaster."

We walk briskly up the stairs again and up to a large iron door, the entrance to the mental ward. A hulking nurse admits us and we wind our way up a narrow flight of stairs. Ancient portraits of long forgotten healers call unwelcome advice to us as we ascend. I make a point of ignoring them, but Hermes engages in good-natured banter with one who asks whether his purple bow tie is a remedy for something called "King's Croup."

We exit onto another of the hospital's interminable corridors. Turning into an open door on our right we enter a crowded room. Luna Lovegood sits on one side along with Mrs. Longbottom. The American I met in the Ministry holding area is seated on the opposite side of the bed, next to a tall, gaunt man with a high forehead. A youth of maybe nineteen lounges insolently atop a table against the rear wall. As we enter he grins, displaying a set of teeth filed to match the numerous serpent tattoos covering his face and bare arms. Neville Longbottom lays on the bed, still muttering the mantra he has been repeating ever since his encounter with the Dementor during the Battle of Diagon Alley, as our recent fight is being called in the press.

"Professor!" Mrs. Longbottom exclaims, coming quickly to her feet, "he is still no better!" Her voice is accusing, as if it is all my fault. But her eyes are reddened and her face pinched.

"I know, Mrs. Longbottom," I say softly, "we must have hope." I put my hand on her upper arm and look her directly in the eye. "I have called for help. I have every reason to believe it will be arriving shortly."

Actually, that last is stretching the truth. I have sent an urgent message to Doctor Mahalan, urging him to speed up his journey if at all possible. I can only hope my desperation was effectively conveyed.

I look over to where Luna is sitting and say, "How are you holding up, Miss Lovegood?"

"Quite well, Headmaster," she answers in her dreamy voice. "It always takes a while for someone to get better."

"So it does, my dear." I turn to the odd trio across the room. "Mr. Rand, I believe?"

"That's right, Professor." He rises to shake my hand. "My associates, Justin Rutskoi," the tall man nods, not taking his concerned gaze from Neville, "and Cat Newcastle." The boy grins again in his serpentine manner. "If the resources of the Aesculapius Foundation can be of any aid, please say so."

"I understand you are already providing support to St. Mungo's, Mr. Rand," I answer. "I know of nothing else you could do."

"Perhaps we could aid in speeding up Dr. Mahalan's arrival?" he asks. "We have supported many of his research projects in the past. We would be more than happy to provide any aid or incentive he requires."

I frown. "If I may be so bold," I ask slowly, "how did you know about Dr. Mahalan?" There is something strange about the man's eyes, but I can't quite place what it is.

He shrugs. "Who else would you call for Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter except the world's leading expert on Dementors?"

Wait a minute! Wait just one effing minute! How did he know about Harry's condition?

Good question, Tom.

Mr. Rand's smile is – well, not a smirk or a sneer, but all too knowing just the same. "I am sure you would like a walk, Mrs. Longbottom. You too, Luna. Mr. Reed, …"

"No need, Professor!" Rand interjects. "I am sure Cat would be more than happy to escort the ladies."

The boy makes to object, but some unspoken message seems to pass between him and the American. Sullenly, he slithers off the table. Mrs. Longbottom needs no one to explain the situation to her. Taking Luna by the arm she rises, dusts off her skirt, and follows the slouching teenager from the room. Rutskoi rises as well and comes to stand behind Rand, looking at me with a concerned expression.

"I'm sorry about Cat," Rand says, "his manners really are terrible."

I have it! It isn't Rand's eyes that are strange.

"Might I see your glasses, Mr. Rand?" I ask softly.

Rutskoi starts, but Rand holds up a hand to calm him. "Of course." He takes off his spectacles and hands them to me. Immediately he closes his eyes and stumbles, as if suddenly dizzy. Rutskoi catches his elbow to steady him.

I look quickly at the glasses, running my index finger over the band of runes engraved around the edge of each lens. I hand them back with a smile.

"Interesting, Mr. Rand. No wizard would need such lenses. Nor would a Squib."

"That only leaves one thing then, doesn't it?" he says, replacing the spectacles on his face. His dizzy spell seems to pass the instant the glasses settle over his nose. He straightens and regards me gravely.

"Pardon me?" Hermes asks.

"Mr. Rand here is a Muggle, are you not sir?"

"By your definition, I suppose I am," he allows.

"The glasses!" Hermes exclaims as understanding breaks.

"A gift from my wife's family," Rand says. "They are always worrying about me."

"I see." I regard him over my own spectacles. "They obviously protect you from anti-muggle wards. Do they allow you to see Dementors, as well?"

"Yes, along with many other useful functions."

"Such objects are highly illegal in Britain." I observe dryly.

"In the Wizarding State as well," Hermes interjects.

"Yes, but the law is usually not enforced in the Wizarding State unless you draw attention to yourself." Rand makes an open-handed gesture. "Too many husbands and wives and step-children and school pals would have to be hauled in."

"I'm afraid our Pure Bloods would delight in that sight," Hermes says.

"We don't have too many of those. National policy."

Hermes frowns. "You mean with rumors about the Wizarding Tax are true?"

"Of course." Rand and Rutskoi both chuckle.

"I am afraid I'm not up on American tax law," I say.

Hermes is happy to explain. "You see, American wizards have to be licensed yearly by the Wizarding State to practice magic. The license fee is based on income, and married wizards have to file jointly with their spouse. The fee for a married couple is much more than twice that of a single wizard – if both spouses are wizards, that is."

"Exactly," Rutskoi says, speaking for the first time. "The financial good of a wizard or witch is MUCH better served by marriage to a non-magical. You also get heavy deductions if your child is a half-blood. The policies evolved after the Separationist Crisis of the Civil War Era."

"It's a complicated story," Rand says, "but anyway, that's the gist of the present situation."

"It's still illegal," Hermes observes, mildly.

"Want to call an Auror?" Rand asks, his eyebrow cocked.

"I don't think that would be necessary." I say, allowing myself to smile. "Or wise, perhaps. Unless I miss my guess, those spectacles aren't the only useful objects you carry, are they, Mr. Rand? And it isn't 'Mister,' is it?"

"It is 'Mister,' although there was a time when it was 'General.' And no, my glasses aren't the only surprises I have on my person."

"I thought as much," I allow. "Do you have something to say to me, Mr. Rand?"

"Quite a few things, in fact."

Neville moans suddenly, and Rutskoi shoots a worried glance toward the bed.

"Go ahead, Justin," Rand says, "I don't think I need protection at the moment."

Rutskoi shoots me a veiled glance and hurries back to the bed.

"Justin is very worried," Rand explains softly, "he has grown quite fond of Neville the last several days. As have we all – even Cat, and that's saying something."

"Neville is a most likeable young man," I allow.

"Will you be meeting with representatives of the Ministry, this afternoon?" Rand asks.

"Yes," I say, "I will. I take it you would like to pass a message along?"

"I would like to speak with them personally, if possible. There are matters that need to be understood."

"I see." I frown and draw myself to my full height, allowing my magical aura to expand. "Do you think you should be meddling in these matters, Mr. Rand?"

Rand pales, but he holds my gaze with his cool grey eyes. "It is my duty, Headmaster," he says quietly. "And I think you need to hear what I have to say."

"Which is?" I shoot a questioning thought in his direction, as much as I can without using my wand. It bounces back, not surprisingly. Doubtless his glasses, or some other talisman in his clothing, protect him from Legilimency.

"Which will be revealed in the proper setting," he replies evenly. "There are factions within factions and wheels within wheels. I am proceeding carefully for a reason, Headmaster."

"And you can reveal nothing to me personally?"

"Of course. But first, please cut out the demi-god routine. It's about to give me a splitting headache."

Well, I never!

I never have either, Tom.

Bemused, I carefully dampen my aura. Rand pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and produces a small plastic bag of pills. Tearing open the bag with his teeth, he spills the contents into his and swallows the lot in one gulp.

"There!" he smiles, "Much better."

Hermes looks at the bag with a questioning expression.

"Standard equipment in this situation," Rand explains. "Codeine capsules, aspirin, and SSRIs."

"SSRIs?" Hermes asks.

"Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors," Rand replies. "They provide a world of benefits – including a certain amount of immunity to the effects of Dementors."

"Anti-depressants," I say in realization.

"Yes. Now, as to what I can say to you Professor, it is this. There are many people in the world who are more than a little concerned about recent events. They feel things are slipping out of control, and many old understandings and policies are being endangered."

"These people being?" I ask.

"People who feel they can't afford to be identified at the moment," he says easily. "This isn't a threat, Professor. Just an expression of concern."

"I see. And do they have anything else to say to me personally?"

"Only that they are sure you understand the gravity of the problem, as many people in Britain do not."

"I believe I do, Mr. Rand."

"Good. Because, and this is from me personally, if this gets much more out of hand, well…"

"Yes, Mr. Rand?" I say softly.

"If this gets much more out of hand, Professor," he says evenly, "all of us are going to be facing the worst magical crisis since Camlan. And this time, we don't have Arthur to trade his life for victory."

I bow my head, leaning heavily on my staff.

I'm starting to like this man, Albus.

You would, Tom.

"Or," Rand says suddenly, his voice soft, "do we?"

I jerk my head up. Rand reels backwards as my aura suddenly flares. Rutskoi catches his employer with one arm, his wand suddenly out in his free hand.

"No, Justin!" Rand says firmly, coming to his feet and staring me in the eye once again. "Don't tell me this is not a scenario you have foreseen, Professor."

Yes, I do like this man, Albus!

"You are a cruel man, Mr. Rand," I say, proud that my voice is steady.

"And a violent one," he answers evenly. "But such is the nature of my profession."

"And those you represent?"

"Most people are violent and cruel where they perceive themselves as being threatened," he says.

"I suppose so." I turn on my heel. Hermes shoots Rand a disapproving glance and hurries after me. I stop, not turning. "Be downstairs in half an hour, Mr. Rand."

"Very well."

I stride out of the room. Hermes follows quickly at my heels.

Better to get rid of the solicitor, Albus. You don't want him to see what's next.

When Tom is right, he's right – much as I dislike admitting it.

"Hermes," I say, careful to keep my smile in place, "please wait for me downstairs."

He gives me a look of concern but nods. With a slight inclination of my head, I turn and head for the lift. I ride silently and alone to the top floor and exit onto the mental ward.

Harry's screams reach me as I step off the lift. I move forward slowly, leaning on the staff. Reaching the heavy steel door, I lift the staff and knock loudly.

A small port opens, revealing the cool eyes of one of the nurses. "Professor Dumbledore," she says over the cries, "this is not the best time."

Why do nurses always have to understate things? It's tiresome.

"Just a few minutes, please," I say softly.

She sighs and opens the door. The room is padded, but otherwise looks much like a regular hospital room. Harry lies strapped in the bed in the center of the room. As I approach he arches and screams once again. Bloody streaks, like whip marks, appear on his naked abdomen. Stigmata Arcanum.

I look into his eyes, which are blank and unseeing. Carefully, I reach down and stroke his cheek. "Harry," I say softly, "it's me, Albus Dumbledore."

He snarls and twists his head, biting viciously at my hand. Or rather he tries to. The rubber bit fastened in place between his teeth prevents him. Nevertheless, I jerk back reflexively.

Hmmm. I wonder if that means that he didn't recognize you or that he did?

"He is very bad right now," the nurse says, her voice kind. "He should calm down in a few minutes." The male nurse who is leaning heavily against the padded wall nods in agreement.

Harry is, well, …

He looks like something out of a Muggle horror story, Albus.

Yes, he does. He is naked to the waist, with the bedclothes pulled up to his abdomen for modesty. I see that they are soaked with blood and… other fluids. A neat stack of fresh sheets rests near the bed, doubtless waiting for this episode to subside so the nurses can change them out. Harry's arms and torso are criss-crossed with weeping wounds like multiple lash marks. A thin trail of blood and saliva oozes from either side of his mouth around the bit, trickling down his jaws. He arches once more, screaming as his body forms a bow. I don't know how he can manage to scream around the bit, probably yet another manifestation of uncontrolled and diseased magic. However he accomplishes it, scream he does, with a volume that bashes my eardrums and makes both nurses wince. I wonder how they can stand it.

Moving forward again, I reach out and seize one of his hands. "Harry, we will help you, I promise!"

He only screams again.

My chest aches, my joints are burning, my eyes are stinging with tears I cannot seem to shed. I slowly release his hand and fall back.

"Professor," the woman nurse calls, "your robes!"

I look down and see a smear of bright crimson across the front of my white robe. I raise my hand. My fingers are covered with blood.

My, how appropriate.

I look down in horror at Harry. The cuffs around his wrists have abraded his skin, and heavy rivulets of blood are oozing over his palms. He arches and screams yet again.

And for the first time in nearly fifty years, I turn and flee.

Reaching the outside corridor, I lean heavily on the staff. There is a dull pain in my chest, and the air I breathe in seems thick and syrupy.

Remember, Albus. In with the good air, out with the bad. In with the good air, out with the bad.

I will say one thing for Tom; he is a storehouse of practical advice for emergencies.

I straighten and sigh heavily. I hate that Harry is here, of all places. But his injuries are beyond Poppy's skill, not that they are within the realm of St. Mungo's capabilities, either. The truth is he got swept up in the general rush to get everyone to the hospital and triaged, and I was so close to collapsing from magical reserve exhaustion that the first I knew of it was when a panicking Tonks told me that she and Alastor Moody were having to use all their authority as Aurors to keep the St. Mungo's staff at bay. And it wasn't easy, I'm sure. Healers spend years developing their skills at intimidation, and fighting them off on their own ground required heroics of argument that even Alastor could not have sustained indefinitely. Luckily I was able to arrange a compromise (it helps that most of the Healers automatically think of me as their Headmaster, and Dilys threw in some supporting comments from her portrait). Harry was moved into one of the unused rooms in this, the near-abandoned high-security portion of the mental ward, and was assigned a rotating staff of nurses, pending "further arrangements." I have so far been able to keep the Mind Healers at a distance, but I'm not sure I can keep it up indefinitely. Perival-Lanham in particular is pressing hard, and as he is a Canadian and did not attend Hogwarts my status does not work to the same advantage with him as with some of the others. And the true irony of it is that the highly circumstantial evidence of Perival-Lanham's involvement with the Death Eaters is probably totally misleading and he is most likely innocent and completely trustworthy. But it is not a chance I can take.

"Hem, hem…"

Then there's THAT problem.

I turn wearily, making sure that my face is totally calm. Dolores Umbridge is peering out of the grill in the door opposite Harry's room. She simpers and smiles at me. "Professor Dumbledore. I do hope Mr. Potter is a little better."

"He is improving, Madam Umbridge. Thank you for your concern."

"Not at all. I was so worried when they brought him in. I think about all my students often. I am sure you understand."

"Of course, Madam Umbridge."

Now if ever there was a sign that somebody in St. Mungo's hates you, Albus, this is it.

Actually, I believe it to be a total accident. When the Chief Healer mentioned this part of the ward, I had forgotten that Madam Bones had ordered Dolores moved to a more secure location within the hospital. I didn't learn the truth until my first visit to Harry late yesterday.

"Now, I was wondering, Professor, I know the Healers are so busy, but about my case, have they mentioned anything?"

"I would not be privy to private information about your health, Madam Umbridge. Would you like me to send one of the Healers to you?"

"Not at all." She simpers again. "If you might mention to them, however, that I am feeling so much better…"

"I will certainly convey the message. I am happy that you are recovering from your difficulties."

A spasm of rage crosses her features, but is smoothed away almost instantly. "Thank you, Professor. As you know, the episode in…" she frowns, and her eyes suddenly dart about in fright. However she recovers almost immediately from the effects of her near mistake. She must be learning how to avoid that particular memory.

My, a toad, but a smart toad. If she keeps it up she might be almost as intelligent as Trevor. Wonder if he would like to meet her?

"I am aware that you have had a very difficult time these last few weeks, Madam Umbridge," I say aloud.

She hisses in anger, but quickly regains her composure once again. "Also, Professor, I know this might be forward, but about the charges pending?"

"As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot I am not in a position to discuss proceedings that may soon be before the court. I am sure you remember that, Madam."

At that she turns rose red and her eyes bulge in anger. "The charges are worthless! Scheming lies from evil, ungrateful children!" She grasps the bars of the grill with her pudgy fingers. "Liars, all of them, liars!"

On second thought, Trevor can do better than that.

"I am afraid there is quite a large amount of testimony in this case, Madam. Not to mention certain physical evidence. However, if that is your defense it is of course your right. I would strongly recommend that you plan your defense with a barrister, however. Good day." I turn and walk away slowly.

"I HOPE HE DIES, DUMBLEDORE! I HOPE THE SCHEMING LITTLE LIAR CHOKES ON HIS OWN SCREAMS AND DIES!" Her squeal is like that of a wounded sow.

I pause.

Well, there are several things I might recommend in this situation.

Slowly, not turning around, I lift my staff.

This is not correct. This is not right.

I lower the staff again. My chest feels like it is on fire.

Oh, Albus, you continue to disappoint me.

"I'M GLAD HE'S MAD! I HOPE HE SCREAMS FOREVER!"

My throat constricts so hard I let out a strangled cough. My arm drifts upward, carrying the staff. Squeezing my eyes shut, I rap the end of the staff rhythmically against the floor.

Umbridge yelps and falls silent. After a moment a terrified whimper issues from her cell.

Then again, you do have potential.

Gathering my bloodstained robes in my free hand, I walk forward, not looking back.