Turning Point

"You damn thief!"

Herpo the Foul's roar came to an abrupt halt. Aberforth landed in a half crouch and did not straighten for a long while, the picture frame hanging from his hand, one end resting on the ground. His chest heaved violently. The fearless momentum he had had a moment ago had vanished. Only those who truly got close to Herpo the Foul could feel that suffocating pressure. Aberforth felt as if his soul were about to be pulled out of him. His calves trembled as he planted the frame on the ground and, bracing himself against the wooden edge, forced himself upright.

He turned his head and looked at Dumbledore and Grindelwald behind him. At last, he understood what kind of crushing pressure the two Wizards, who had been locked in combat with Herpo the Foul since the battle began, had been enduring. In that instant, the omen of death had flooded into Aberforth's mind without the slightest delay. Even a Wizard like him, who had no talent for prophecy at all, could feel the terror of the Death Omen hanging high above his head. The deranged Herpo the Foul was even more terrifying than when he had been sane, magic surging chaotically all around him. Aberforth could not stand not only because he had been overwhelmed by that presence, but also because he had taken a dense barrage of direct hits head-on.

But those spells did not seem to have taken his life at the first moment. Aberforth lowered his head. He was a little afraid—afraid that when he saw his riddled, ruined body, he might no longer have the chance to finish his last words.

When he looked at his chest, the dragonhide jacket, already carbonized, was scattering into ash. But beneath the ash was not