The Dark Lord stood and breathed in the smell of Hogwarts. There was a peculiar, unique signature to the magic of this place, a palpable feeling of warmth and light. The closest thing to home he had ever known, and yet now, the sandstone castle felt small and paltry. A tiny kingdom of a tiny king—Albus Dumbledore lay dead, and the soul of the school had been snuffed out. A rare, mirthless smile tilted one corner of his gash called a mouth. 