Chapter 71: Attending Your Own Funeral
"Leave it to me."
Dumbledore's expression was grave as he drew his wand from his robes and lightly tapped it against the man.
Where the wand touched Corvey's body, a trace of white frost appeared, then rapidly spread until it covered him completely.
He was frozen into a lifelike ice sculpture.
"Pomona, please take him to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies," Dumbledore said, rapping the ice figure lightly. The sculpture immediately shrank to the size of a palm and dropped neatly into Professor Sprout's pocket.
"Understood."
Knowing the urgency of the situation, Professor Sprout mounted her broom and hurried back toward the castle, preparing to use the Floo Network.
"Anything else?" Dumbledore asked calmly.
"I… I found this," Flitwick said, his body trembling, eyes vacant as he raised a wand and a dusty gray pouch.
No one recognized the pouch.
But they all knew the owner of the wand.
Russell Fisone.
The reactions were varied. Dumbledore closed his eyes wearily. Professor McGonagall broke down in tears. Snape's expression remained stiff and unreadable—just as it always was—yet his hands, hidden in his sleeves, were clenched tightly into fists.
Clinging to their last shred of hope, they searched again, expanding the perimeter. Still, there was no sign of Russell.
"Let's go back," Dumbledore said, suppressing the grief in his heart as he led the professors back to Hogwarts. They still needed to determine the whereabouts of Foley and Akeris.
The most crucial lead now lay with Corvey.
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At St. Mungo's Hospital, Dumbledore dismissed the others and stood alone beside Corvey's bed.
Though Corvey's vital signs were barely stable, he still hadn't regained consciousness. Otherwise, a few liters of Veritaserum would have been more than enough to pry the truth from him, no matter how stubborn he was.
Dumbledore's blue eyes were utterly cold. He pressed the Elder Wand to Corvey's forehead, then slowly drew out a silvery thread of memory, carefully sealing it inside a glass vial.
He needed to know the truth—what had really happened that night.
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My head hurts…
Russell woke from darkness. The moment he opened his eyes, sunlight poured down and stabbed painfully into them.
Fully awake now, he looked around and realized he was dangling from a tree, half his body swaying in the breeze. The rough bark dug uncomfortably into him, and he quickly climbed down.
The effects of the vampire transformation potion had long since worn off. He hurriedly checked himself from head to toe. Nothing was missing.
Only then did he finally relax.
His clothes, however, were torn and barely decent. Frowning, he decided to return to last night's site and retrieve his dragonhide pouch. If it hadn't been destroyed, he had spare clothes inside.
Then another problem dawned on him.
He had no idea where he was.
Find some clothes first, he thought, then ask someone for directions.
___
"So," a gruff voice said, "this is why you broke in here? Because you got lost?"
Aberforth frowned as he watched the boy in front of him wolf down a sandwich.
"Albus is utterly irresponsible," he said gruffly. "Letting a wizard this young go through something like that."
"That's a bit harsh," Russell replied as he washed the sandwich down with a gulp of cold pumpkin juice. After all, he was still part of Hogwarts—bad-mouthing Dumbledore in public didn't sit right with him.
"Hah. Loyal, aren't you?" Aberforth sneered. "But fine—who can blame you? He is the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the so-called greatest white wizard of our age."
Russell could clearly hear the sarcasm dripping from his words. Only now did he take the time to properly look around.
The room was small, dark, and filthy, reeking strongly of goat. Thick grime coated the bay windows, blocking out most of the light outside. Stubby candle stubs burned atop a rough wooden table, their flames barely holding back the gloom.
"Sir, thank you for the food," Russell said politely. "May I ask where I am?"
Aberforth had been staring silently at a portrait of a young girl, lost in thought. Interrupted, he snapped irritably, "This is the Hog's Head. Finish eating and get out."
So that was it. Russell glanced at Aberforth again—his resemblance to Albus was unmistakable. No wonder his resentment ran so deep.
"I have one small request," Russell said hesitantly.
"What now?" Aberforth whipped his head around, clearly shocked. He hadn't expected the boy to push his luck further.
"Could I borrow a set of clothes?" Russell asked awkwardly. "I'll return them once I'm back."
"Take them. Keep them," Aberforth snapped. "Now will you leave?"
Seeing that he was well and truly being shown the door, Russell didn't press his luck. He bowed in thanks and hurried away.
He spent a long time searching the site of last night's explosion, but found nothing at all.
"Great… most of my belongings were there. And my wand too…" Russell felt utterly miserable. Then he sighed—at least he was still alive.
As long as you're alive, it's fine, he told himself.
That day, Hogwarts' Great Hall was draped in black, solemn and austere. Students in dark robes worked together to transform it into a funeral hall.
"Professor Sprout… is Russell really…?" Cedric asked, eyes red as he looked at her.
"Cedric, you've asked that more than ten times already," she sighed gently, offering no rebuke. They had been best friends—it was only natural.
"Have the Addams family been informed?" Snape murmured to Dumbledore.
"Not yet," Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm concerned."
"You're right to be," Snape replied quietly. "You know how… extreme they can be."
If the Addams learned Russell was dead, the culprit—Corvey—would undoubtedly be dragged away and subjected to private justice. They had more than enough ways to make someone suffer.
Dumbledore wasn't sparing Corvey out of mercy. He feared retaliation—questions like why Corvey's abnormalities went unnoticed for an entire school year.
It sounded simple, but in truth it wasn't. How could anyone have guessed that Corvey was secretly a master thief?
Next year's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor must be vetted far more carefully, Dumbledore thought. Quirrell might be a decent choice—a Ravenclaw graduate, at least well-documented.
"What's with the mood?" Russell muttered to himself as he frowned at the scene around him. Why does everyone look so miserable? School's about to break for the holidays—aren't they supposed to be happy?
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