Arabella hugged Mr Cribbens; the rusty half-Kneazle purred throatily, his claws catching her jumper as he kneaded her shoulder. Tears dripped onto his fur, but he didn’t mind.
The black-bordered announcement ceased its dirge and now lay starkly between a plate of digestives and a pot of cold tea.
It seemed impossible. The wizard who had given her a place, a role, in the wizarding world, dead. Despite Dumbledore’s immense age, Arabella had always believed he’d outlive her.
Minerva had added a handwritten note to the announcement, offering any help Arabella needed to attend the funeral. Arabella would be there.