The child was crying — crying viciously. Blood on his face, blood around him, runes drawn in blood. The ritual circle was already bleeding magic.
Dumbledore was almost choking on it. It was heavy on his tongue, burning his lungs.
A pulsating pain had been building behind his eyes. The wails had rung in his ears. He wanted it to end. He needed it to end.
He was trembling, his vision swimming. It could have been the blood loss, the dark magic vibrating through his very bones, or the bile crawling up his throat, but he wanted it to stop. He wanted to die.
But he couldn't — not yet. He had to finish it. He had to end it.
He took in the runes once more, one stroke at a time. From the baby's face to the dark wood of the floor. Crimson upon crimson. Lines circling around, weaving into each other like cobwebs, pulsating as if they were breathing.
Hands trembling, legs unsteady, he grabbed the letters from his desk. They were already sealed and addressed, both heavy with a curse, guarding them from uninvited eyes. It was his magic — his ugly, tainted magic. Magic he never wanted to feel again.
He tucked the letters under the baby's swaddle. He could not look into his eyes.
It had to be done. He wouldn't be safe anywhere else.
The blood boiled, bubbling and steaming. The stench was unbearable. He almost choked on his breath, deafened by the cries, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Then, the circle erupted in flames, dyeing the room in a flash of white.
And it all stopped.