Voldemort's figure vanished into the sky, and the ruins of Azkaban fell into deathly silence.
The sea wind howled, sweeping up ash and rubble. The Aurors stood frozen in place, their wands still raised, their fingers stiff. The professors stood at the tower entrance, their faces filled with despair. Shacklebolt was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. "He... was taken."
No one answered. Flitwick let his hands hang at his sides, his wand pointed at the ground as the faint glow at its tip gradually faded. He remembered the black-haired boy standing amid the ruins, turning the stitched monster to ash. It had been less than half an hour ago.
Sprout supported an injured colleague as tears slid silently down her face.
Slughorn leaned against the wall, his lips trembling, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "We... are finished."
Another silence followed. In the distance came the sound of waves crashing against the reefs, once, then again, like some ancient, deadly countdown. Shacklebolt drew a deep breath and forced himself to straighten his back. "It's not over yet."
Flitwick looked up at him.
"Dumbledore is still at Hogwarts. Grindelwald isn't dead yet. As long as they're still here, it isn't over." Shacklebolt's voice steadied, light gathering once more in his eyes. He refused to believe that Dumbledore would simply fall like this. He refused to believe that the old man who had protected the wizarding world for decades would lose. He could not believe it.
Flitwick nodded and tightened his grip on his wand. "I'm returning to Hogwarts. Leave this place to you."
"I'm coming with you." Sprout wiped away her tears and tightened her apron.
Slughorn hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward as well. "I'll go too. Dumbledore needs people."
Shacklebolt looked at them in