She comes to him in his dreams. They are standing in the streets of Dyster, surrounded by human shapes. If Harry looks closely, he will recognise those shadowy shapes: they are the very people who were in his support group, the ones he so recently killed.

The Fog changes each time he looks at her. She has a shape, but the shape is inconsistent: now a woman, now a girl, now a monster, always with dark eyes and a curtain of flowing silver hair. Her voice comes from the city, from inside his own head, from the sky and the ground and the whole world.

"Look at all you have accomplished." The pride rings clear in her tone. The world around them shimmers and shifts: flickering images through the mist of monsters weeping in joy, holding one another; of humans crying out in silent, confused adulation; of the Pale Fog sweeping through the peninsula. The Fog takes his hand, in a cold hand that itself changes from talon to claw to paw to nothing at all. "Look what you have done for my children, you sweet, sweet child. Look how you have shown them, led them to my heart. They do not understand what you have given them, pet - but I understand. I know what you have done. I see what you have done. I am so proud of you, my child. My priest."

In the way of dreams, there is no moment at which the change comes. It is as though the fog-draped cloak that is now hanging from his shoulders was always there: there is no moment when it appears. There is no moment when the Fog kisses his forehead, only the burning cold it leaves on his brow.

There is no moment when the dream fades, but when he awakes, he is changed.