They sat there for hours, McGonagall attempting to ply him with tea and biscuits and anxiously petting his hand or his hair when the tears that lurked constantly on his periphery made a reappearance. They weren’t disturbed until the glow of the dawn peaked through the tower’s tallest windows, bathing the office below in golden light, and the small clock on a shelf behind them chimed five times with the changing of the hour.