Dumbledore's Death?

A thudding rush of footsteps came up the stairs. In the blink of an eye, Malfoy was shoved aside, and four black-robed figures burst through the door and crowded onto the battlements.

Harry still could not move. He watched the four strangers with horror in his eyes; clearly, the Death Eaters had gained the "upper hand" in the fight below.

At least, that was what everyone thought, wasn't it?

No one thought there was anything wrong with it. It seemed as though things ought to be this way.

A broad, crooked-mouthed man with a strange, vicious grin let out a wheezing laugh.

"Dumbledore's been driven into a corner!"

Having said that, he turned to the short, stocky woman behind him, who looked like his sister and wore the same eager smile. "Dumbledore has no wand. Dumbledore has no one to help him! Well done, Draco, well done!"

"Good evening, Amicus," said Dumbledore calmly, as if welcoming him to a tea party. "And you brought Alecto too... how lovely..."

The woman gave an angry, mocking laugh.

"You're at death's door, and you still think these little jokes can save your life?"

"Jokes? No, no. It's courtesy."

"Get on with it."

The stranger standing closest to Harry spoke. He was long-limbed, with grey hair and a beard tangled into knots, and the black Death Eater's robe was stretched uncomfortably tight across his body.

His voice was strange, unlike any Harry had ever heard: a harsh, hissing growl.

Harry could also smell a sharp, foul stench coming from him, mingled with earth, sweat, and—without a doubt—the reek of blood.

Long yellow nails protruded from his filthy fingers.

"Is that you, Fenrir?"

"That's right," the man said in a grating voice. "Pleased to see me, Dumbledore?"

"No, I can't say I am..."

Fenrir Greyback