Dumbledore had beaten Voldemort into a miserable retreat, yet Fudge's wariness of him had not diminished in the slightest. Instead, it had deepened considerably.
Having a godlike figure in the British Wizarding World was undoubtedly a good thing, but from the perspective of those in power, any force beyond their control would inevitably invite suspicion.
It was somewhat like a Muggle king fearing a battle-hardened general under his command. Without a truly trusting relationship, this was only natural.
Fudge and Dumbledore discussed many things: Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch, Karkaroff being controlled by the Imperius Curse, and the final outcome of the Triwizard Tournament.
Yet after all that discussion, Fudge never mentioned Voldemort—not even by the euphemism You-Know-Who.
Dumbledore did not bring him up either. In the end, he took Harry and Draco back with him, and it was already past eleven at night when they reached the castle.
Although curfew had long passed, the activity room of the Owl Court Club on the fifth floor was still lit up.
There was no need to guess. They were definitely holding another all-night party.
Dumbledore reminded the two children not to stay up too late, then headed down to the dungeons alone.
Knock, knock—
Snape flung open the door to his brand-new office, his face filled with anxiety and unease.
After entering, Dumbledore did not waste any words. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing his burned left arm. "I damaged his body severely. How much time do you think we have?"
Snape's gaze remained fixed on his injured arm. "Less than a month. Your condition isn't much better either."
Most injuries caused by Dark Magic were permanently irreversible. Voldemort's plan against Dumbledore had indeed succeeded.
After applying the medicine, Snape's expression eased slightly. "Your hand won't heal. It will seriously affect