At the order.
The Aurors nodded and took up their positions. Grison glanced once more at the tightly shut door, then strode toward the fireplace at the other end of the corridor. He needed to report to the Ministry of Magic, to draft the report that was already giving him a splitting headache, and to... he did not know what else he needed to do. He only knew that he could not stop. The moment he stopped, those images would come rushing back and swallow him whole.
He vanished into the fireplace's green flames.
In the corridor, the onlookers gradually dispersed. Some had come to visit relatives or friends, some for follow-up examinations of old injuries, and some had merely happened to pass by. But now, they all left St Mungo's Hospital carrying the same news—Dumbledore had been gravely wounded, and whether he would live or die remained unknown.
The news seemed to grow wings, flying to every corner of the wizarding world.
In the intensive care ward on the top floor of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the air was as stagnant as a thick cloth soaked in ice water. Even the fluorescent candle flames floating in the corridor seemed dimmed by the oppressive atmosphere, their yellowish halos barely illuminating the polished stone floor.
Among those departing, one figure was moving with particular haste.
He wore the pale green robes of a St Mungo's trainee healer, with a small bronze badge pinned to his chest bearing his name—Edmund Faulkner. He had joined St Mungo's only three months ago. With such little seniority, he had been assigned to the most inconspicuous logistics department, handling tasks such as recording the movement of medicinal supplies and sorting medical files.
No one noticed him.
He left St Mungo's through a