Henan Dialect

The corridors of St. Mungo's were quiet.

The day-shift Healers had yet to take over, the night nurses had just finished their final rounds, and the patients had eaten breakfast and were digesting it in their rooms.

The cold white lights still shone brightly. The smell of potions had faded a little, and a window at the end of the corridor stood slightly open, letting fresh air seep in.

Cordelia stood in the doorway of her hospital room. She had changed out of her hospital gown.

She wore a plain dress with a row of tiny pearl buttons at the collar and light gray flats.

Her hair was tied in a ponytail, and a small silver clip held back the stray lock that always slipped out from behind her ear.

Gavin leaned against the doorframe and watched her clean the room where she had lived for years one last time.

A small bunch of flowers sat on the bedside table. She didn't know who had sent them, and they were already wilting.

The curtains were half open. Sunlight fell across the neatly made bed, its blanket folded into crisp corners.

"Dr. Vittel came by this morning," Cordelia said softly. "Miss Claire came too."

Gavin nodded.

"They think I'm dying." Cordelia pulled the curtains shut, her fingers lingering on the fabric. "I told them I wanted to spend my last few days at home, somewhere familiar, with my friends."

That was part of Dumbledore's arrangement.

The truth that the Obscurus had been brought under control could not be made public yet. Until the paper was published and Alaric Rowle was found, Cordelia remained "a terminal patient who had withdrawn from the body donation program and chosen to spend her final days at home."

That was what St. Mungo's records would say,