Harshing sat alone after his consultation. He looked at his hands, they had been chewed by death. His skin smelt, it was rotting. This was the end.

The doctor had given him 12 months to live.

A terminal illness - he would literally rot away, no cure, no hope. Misery.

A single tear dropped onto the floor, he sniffed as he wiped away more.

He stood and went to a mirror. Some of his hair was already falling out, he was going white and balder. His eyes were red with upset. He took out his wand and pointed it to his head.

"Avada..." He then stopped. His pupils rolled into a new bode: dilated bloodshots. His frown curled into a demoniac smile.

He had work to do.