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The woman gave an angry little titter.

“Think your little jokes’ll help you on your death bed, then?” she jeered.

“Jokes? No, no, these are manners,” replied Dumbledore.

“Do it,” said the stranger standing nearest to Harry, a big, rangy man with matted grey hair and whiskers, whose black Death Eater’s robes looked uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat and, unmistakeably, of blood coming from him. His filthy hands had long yellowish nails.

“Is that you, Fenrir?” asked Dumbledore.

“That’s right,” rasped the other. “Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?”

“No, I cannot say that I am…”

Fenrir Greyback grinned, showing pointed teeth. Blood trickled down his chin and he licked his lips slowly, obscenely.

“But you know how much I like kids, Dumbledore.”

“Am I to take it that you are attacking even without the full moon now? This is most unusual… you have developed a taste for human flesh that cannot be satisfied once a month?”

“That’s right,” said Greyback. “Shocks you, that, does it, Dumbledore? Frightens you?”

“Well, I cannot pretend it does not disgust me a little,” said Dumbledore. “And, yes, I am a little shocked that Draco here invited you, of all people, into the school where his friends live…”

“I didn’t,” breathed Malfoy. He was not looking at Greyback; he did not seem to want to even glance at him. “I didn’t know he was going to come—”

“I wouldn’t want to miss a trip to Hogwarts, Dumbledore,” rasped Greyback. “Not when there are throats to be ripped out… delicious, delicious…”

And he raised a yellow fingernail and picked at his front teeth, leering at Dumbledore.

“I could do you for afters, Dumbledore…”

“No,” said the fourth Death Eater sharply. He had a heavy, brutal-looking face. “We’ve got orders. Draco’s got to do it. Now, Draco, and quickly.”

Malfoy was showing less resolution than ever. He looked terrified as he stared into Dumbledore’s face, which was even paler, and rather lower than usual, as he had slid so far down the rampart wall.

“He’s not long for this world anyway, if you ask me!” said the lopsided man, to the accompaniment of his sister’s wheezing giggles. “Look at him—what’s happened to you, then, Dumby?”

“Oh, weaker resistance, slower reflexes, Amycus,” said Dumbledore. “Old age, in short… one day, perhaps, it will happen to you… if you are lucky…”

“What’s that mean, then, what’s that mean?” yelled the Death Eater, suddenly violent. “Always the same, weren’t yeh, Dumby, talking and doing nothing, nothing, I don’t even know why the Dark Lord’s bothering to kill yeh! Come on, Draco, do it!”

But at that moment, there were renewed sounds of scuffling from below and a voice shouted, “They’ve blocked the stairs—Reducto! REDUCTO!”

Harry’s heart leapt: so these four had not eliminated all opposition, but merely broken through the fight to the top of the Tower, and, by the sound of it, created a barrier behind them—

“Now, Draco, quickly!” said the brutal-faced man angrily.

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