It was a dreary winter evening, the night the Dark Lord first beheld the child. And he had not been pleased. Quite the contrary, the sight of the huddled form clutching for its mother repulsed him, and he had been quick to illustrate his displeasure with a few well-aimed Cruciatus curses at several Death Eaters in the nearby vicinity. His most faithful was crestfallen, but hardly surprised at this display. She left the shuddering infant in the care of Narcissa as she sought out her Lord--the childlike eyes that pondered her skeptically were too searching for her liking, too knowing.

“My Lord,” the dark woman whispered huskily, falling to her knees at the sight of her master’s silhouette before the fire. “Forgive me.”

“Closer, Bellatrix,” a high, cold voice hissed. “You are excused, Lucius.” The shadowy figure from the armchair nodded to Lucius Malfoy, who swept from the room with what seemed to be a moderately pitying glance for Bellatrix Lestrange’s prone form.
She rose from her knees, hesitantly moving to stand before her Lord, her eyes downcast from the thin slits that searched her expression. He surveyed Bellatrix silently, tapering fingers stroking Nagini contemplatively, considering her.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, her lips trembling in anticipation of her Lord’s wrath.

“The child,” he interrupted smoothly, “is useless to me. Kill it.” Mouth dry, Bellatrix nodded, striding into the hall to retrieve the bundle from her sister, which was now burbling happily and tugging on Narcissa’s hair.

“Come,” Bellatrix demanded, lifting the child from her sister’s arms and tugging the wobbly form though the door on unsteady feet. The infant toddled behind Bellatrix’s skirts, clumsily stumbling towards the fire until, once more, she faced the serpentine countenance of Lord Voldemort. The child, however, turned a disinterested eye to the sneering visage, and focused instead on the scaly face of Nagini who regarded the newcomer with much more interest than the latter.

Seeing the Dark Lord’s face contort at the sight before him, Bellatrix drew her wand. Avada Kedavra, she thought, Goodbye, Lysandra. She closed her eyes momentarily, blocking the view of her daughter plunked happily upon the carpet at her feet, and began to murmur the Killing Curse, her wand hand jerking into the slashing motion that would end the child’s life.

An icy grip closed on her wrist, and Bella wrenched her eyes open to see the Dark Lord surveying the child on the floor with a mixture of confusion and interest.

Nagini had wound herself around Lysandra’s chubby form, and was nestling her scaly head against the child’s neck as sticky hands patted her length affectionately. That, however, was not what had made the Dark Lord’s eyes widen with sudden amusement. From out of the young girl’s mouth, a low hissing had issued, and the snake had returned in kind. The unlikely pair cuddled on the floor, murmuring and playfully snapping at one another until another low hiss caused them both to sit up and glance at the imposing figure before them.

Bellatrix watched as Lysandra’s features split into an impish grin and she responded to Lord Voldemort in their serpentine language. Her daughter giggled, rising unsteadily to her feet and tottering towards the man in the armchair, resting her fists upon his knees for balance. At this, Bellatrix flinched towards the girl, ready to swat her away, but Voldemort waved a hand at her, carrying on a low, rapid conversation with the child on his lap who seemed delighted with the attention.

“Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord interjected after what felt like ages of the silky hissing language. “Make the arrangements with the Malfoy’s. She is to live as a guest under their protection until she comes of age. You are to remain with me--yes, you have pleased your Lord, Bella.” Blinking back jubilant tears, Bellatrix nodded, waiting for the rest of his orders. “And bring me my wand.”

From the mantle, Bella lifted the bone-like sculpture that was the Dark Lord’s wand, holding it out to him reverently, aware that the honor of touching his wand was near the highest that he could give. He took it from her, but was now watching Lysandra with interest. He addressed her once more in Parseltongue. Cocking her head, the girl acquiesced to his unknown request, offering her arm to the tip of the wand outstretched towards her.

“Tell Lucius and Narcissa to shelter her with the respect owed to the daughter of Lord Voldemort.” A bright jet of light engulfed the child’s arm, and before the shrieks of pain began, the twisted figure of a snake protruding from a skull was writhing across her forearm.

Lysandra Druella Riddle blinked furiously against the thin sliver of light that had intruded upon her otherwise peaceful slumber. With a groan, she flipped into the comforting down of her pillow, simultaneously blocking out the sunshine and the sounds of Narcissa’s shrill screams of fury flung in the general direction of some unfortunate victim.

“I will not surrender my son! I’ve already lost my husband, isn’t that enough--”

“Quiet, Narcissa,” snapped the silky voice of Severus Snape. “Your ‘motherly love’ is hardly enough to save the boy this time. Had Lucius not failed in the Department of Mysteries, things would be different, now Draco is the only thing saving your family from ruination.”

“Ruination is acceptable in exchange for his life, Severus.” At this rather pitiful declaration, Snape’s cold laugh interrupted, and Lysandra had no trouble imagining the waxy features of her Occlumency teacher split into a malicious grin.

“You think the Dark Lord will leave your son alive if he refuses?”

“Mistress?”

Lysandra jumped, wand drawn in an instant and jabbed in the direction of a sheepish looking house-elf who had, from the looks of the large breakfast tray held in his hands, been waiting for her to awaken.

“Bloody hell, Dobby,” she sighed, “you’re mental. I almost hexed your ears off.”

“Dobby is sorry, Mistress Riddle,” the creature stammered, bowing hastily. “Dobby didn’t know Mistress was still sleeping.”

“Well there’s no sleeping through their racket, is there?” She tweaked one of his ears affectionately, sliding out of bed. Despite her caretakers’ unnatural loathing of the unfortunate creature, Dobby was one of Lysandra’s dearest companions. Before the capture of her surrogate father, Lucius Malfoy, the Malfoy family had played host to important Ministry officials on many a frequent occasion. As Lysandra’s existence was unknown and would certainly cause an uproar detrimental to the Dark Lord‘s plans, she was kept hidden away, and Dobby was the only ally allowed to her.

“I’m not hungry, thank you, Dobby. I’d fancy a bit of tea downstairs.”

She stretched, surveying the greyish dawn that had interrupted her slumber and was spreading rosy fingertips of light across the grounds of the Malfoy manor. Undeniably, her father had picked for her a magnificent prison. But it was a prison, nonetheless.

“Good morning, godfather!” Lysandra called, her head poked out of the door to address Snape. Seeing her, the two abruptly fell to silence, but the glares they shot at each other were unmistakable. Lysandra chose to ignore, and skipped lithely forward to place a kiss on the waxy cheek of Severus Snape, who consequently took her hand and brushed his lips across it.

“I’m afraid I’ve come to postpone your lesson for today,” he announced. “Your fath--the Dark Lord has arranged for me to meet him this afternoon.”

“Obviously there is another reason for your unexpected arrival.” Lysandra poured herself a cup of tea from the pot on a sideboard, surveying him inquisitively. “You would have sent your regards by owl if that was all.”

“I see I have trained you too well, Lysandra.” He flashed her the smallest of tight-lipped grins. “I’m to inform you that the Dark Lord requests your presence as well.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and the cup slipped from her fingers. A quick spell from Snape saved it from crashing across the marble, but she paid him no mind, frozen as the meaning of the words sunk in.

“Me?” she repeated. “He requests my presence? But…why?”

“I assume he will reveal his will to you at that time. If you’ll excuse me, Narcissa…” He inclined his head curtly, disappearing towards the front door with a swish of his cloak behind him.

Ignoring Narcissa’s simpering, would-be comforting coos of feigned affection, Lysandra retreated towards the stairs, taking them two at a time. Draco would know, she assured herself. Draco would know what to do.

She didn’t wait to knock, but shoved the door open as she reached the landing. The pale-faced Malfoy child within was pacing before a half-empty trunk, having been distracted in the midst of packing for the start of term by the burn mark illustrated across his forearm. He hardly glanced up as she entered, preoccupied as he was tracing the ridge of the skull.

“He’s sent for me,” she murmured breathlessly. “What am I to do?”

“Sorry?” Draco was jerked from his reverie by her hysterical tone of voice, and seemed to have not heard her.

“The Dark Lord wishes to see me this evening.”

“Oh…” What little color was present in his pale visage was drained as he surveyed her. “What the bloody hell are you going to do, then?”

“Slytherin only knows. You remember what happened the last time?!” She had begun to circle the length of Draco’s bedroom, but paused and turned to face his worried expression. “Tell me what to do,” she whispered. “Whatever he wants, it can’t be anything good.”

“I’m the last person to ask,” Draco sighed, running a hand through his slicked flaxen hair. “The last time I saw him, he--” but the teenager broke off with a shudder, shaking his head in revulsion. “You should ask Snape or Yaxley, anyone else.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” she whispered. Draco broke away from his frenzied pacing, sensing the uncontrollable desperation in her voice. Sighing, he reached to take her hands, warming them between his own as he drew her close.

“You’re the daughter of the most powerful Wizard in the world,” he murmured. “And tonight you’ll remind him of that.”

The clock struck seven: a dull, grating sound that filled the halls of Malfoy Manor with knell-like foreboding. The sun was just beginning to disappear beyond the far ridges of the estate, but the house was awakening slowly as time crept towards the Dark Lord’s arrival.

Lysandra, who had donned a black silky slip covered by the hooded cloak of the Death Eaters, was perched on the edge of her bed, surveying herself in a glass. Her high cheekbones were flushed--in fear and anticipation, rather than her mother’s occasionally sanguine expression that was colored by insanity. She’d parted her long dark hair in a plait that hung nearly to her waist, and now fiddled with it anxiously. There was a quiet rap at the door.

“Come in,” she called, noting the uncommonly high note to her voice. Draco apparently noticed it too, for he entered with a concerned frown.

“He’s here,” Draco announced softly. He cast his gaze over her, lingering for just a moment more than necessary on the snake burning on her forearm. “But I suppose he’ll call when he’s ready for you.”

His expression was pitying, a glance that was spared for elderly relatives on their deathbed--it was clear he didn’t expect anything fruitful from this interview. Surprising him and herself, she reached for his hand, gripping it firmly between hers.

“Don’t give me that look,” she commanded, her tone harsher than intended. “I’ve no intention of being bullied by him.” Before he could stop himself, a derisive snort escaped his lips, and he quickly muffled his skepticism with a hacking cough.

“Don’t provoke him,” he instructed once he’d caught his breath. “You’ve got a temper to match his, everyone knows it. Keep it under control for one night.”

“Only for you, Draco,” she whispered in response, leaning forward to catch a lock of his hair in her fingers. Their lips barely brushed before a searing pain erupted in her arm and she released him, clutching at her wrist as she vanished from the room.

The firelight in the sitting room crackled merrily--or it would have been merry, had it not been outlining the imposing figure seated before it. Lysandra, from her vantage point, could see little of the silhouette other than the thin, pale fingers languidly stroking Nagini’s scaly spine. The snake sensed her presence and peered over the armchair to greet her with a hiss.

“Calm, Nagini,” a high, cold voice commanded in the same whispering language. The serpent nodded almost imperceptivity, returning to the lap of her master with a final bashful wink at the young woman. “Lysandra,” the voice commanded, turning on her. “Closer.” Swallowing hard, Lysandra crept forward, her padding footsteps muffled by the carpet.

She cast her eyes down, avoiding the red slits that searched her face as she knelt before the Dark Lord. He did not speak, but she could feel his gaze sweep over her features, surveying her coldly. Breathless, painful moments that seemed like years passed before an icy finger reached, tilting her chin upwards into the face of her father--the face of Lord Voldemort.

“You have grown since I saw you last,” he stated simply, angling her features this way and that to size her up. “You were how old?”

“Ten, my Lord,” she murmured. She shuddered as he traced the veins in her throat, but his touch was not malicious, merely curious. To her immense surprise, he chuckled, withdrawing his fingers and taking her hands in his.

“I see you have learned a valuable lesson in those years, you are quite frightened of me, Lysandra.” The change in his demeanor had sent a shock of panic slithering across her features, and she internally cursed herself for revealing it. The Dark Lord, however, seemed almost amiable as he watched her pretty visage twist into a scowl.

“I’ve missed Nagini,” she interjected, smoothly changing the topic and wrenching her hands from his to pet the contented creature. Delighted, the snake winded itself up her arm, settling across her shoulders like an exotic wrap.

Outwardly, Lysandra displayed a contented smirk, busying herself with the colossal serpent--inwardly, she was struggling to keep her breathing under control. Each second passed painfully in Voldemort’s presence, each sound was magnified a hundredfold, and she found herself jumping at each small pop of the logs in the grate. She sensed, rather than heard, hushed whispers discussing in the hallway, and barely visible under the doorframe were shadowy outlines of eavesdropping figures.

“They’re listening,” she informed the waxy face above her in their familiar hissing cadence. The Dark Lord displayed no surprise at this, but hastened to his feet and offered an arm. She did not hesitate in looping her own through his.

They glided, rather than walked, their dark robes billowing in the slight breeze, through the back gardens, winding through the maze of hedge that scattered the grounds until the Manor was little more than a tuft of smoke and a bit of chimney that could be spotted over the brush. In stark comparison to the deafening noise of the foyer, outside the silence was suffocating--made even more unpleasant by the cold, red eyes that stared her down as she waited for him to speak.

“I assume,” he finally began, breaking the stillness with a sudden harshness, “that the Malfoys have trained you in the Dark Arts?”

Without pausing to think, without even contemplating the consequences, she withdrew her wand from her pocket, took aim and shouted, “CRUCIO.” The resulting jet of red light had flown from her thirteen and a half inch dragon heartstring wand tip before she could stop it.

Voldemort was quicker, however, slashing his wand into a shield that clanged as it was hit and absorbed the brunt of the attack. When the silvery barrier disappeared, his eyes narrowed to fix her with a piercing glare, and Lysandra stumbled back a few steps in trepidation.

“You take after your mother, I see,” he whispered coolly. “Bellatrix will be pleased.”

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Lysandra interrupted, bowing her head in an act of contrition.

“I have need of such talent.” He waved his hand, dismissing her apology abruptly. “It will not be long now before Albus Dumbledore is dead and Harry Potter alongside him.”

Lysandra resisted the urge to roll her eyes--had she not learned of the imperativeness of Harry’s death many a time she would have thought his obsession bordered on insanity. Perhaps, though, it did. Whatever his drive, however, sane or otherwise, she was so fixated on her thoughts that she almost missed his next words.

“You and Draco will be responsible for the death of Albus Dumbledore.”

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore--the name sent shivers down her spine. She remembered clearly, from the collection of Chocolate Frog Wizard Cards she’d stashed upstairs, the serene, bespectacled gentleman that occasionally blinked at her curiously. The name had been shouted through the halls of the manor more times than she could count, had been cursed with raised fists, had been besmirched in every imaginable way, yet despite this predestined hatred, Lysandra could hardly imagine satisfaction at the life fading from his brilliant blue eyes.

“Death?” she repeated blankly. “We are responsible for the death of Dumbledore?”

“You are not a simpleton, Lysandra,” the Dark Lord returned brusquely. “You heard me.”

“But, my Lord--” She was thrown backwards by a red jet of light before argument could rise to her lips. On the damp, cold ground she lay, wave after wave of agony crashing over her shuddering form. She clenched her jaw, but a scream was wrenched from her throat before she could hold it back. And the pain continued, unabated.

It was excruciating beyond imagination, beyond comprehension. Through the black haze, a pair of red rimmed eyes stared coldly down at Lysandra’s shuddering form, sending innumerable multitudes of searing blades to pierce her flesh.

“Get up,” a voice hissed from somewhere above. The pain had ceased, but she remained huddled on the ground.

“Crucio,” Voldemort repeated. Again, her body was tossed unceremoniously into the air, and she landed hard on her back, barely noticing the force of impact as it muddled with the anguishing ripples that tore through her.

For how long this continued, she did not know. In one of the brief respites between this torture, however, Lysandra forced herself to her knees, struggling to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged. She was shuddering as she got to her feet, every nerve in her body still screaming in the aftereffects.

“Stop it,” she panted, her voice raspy. Voldemort’s thin lips curled into a smirk at her shivering frame, but he lowered his wand.

“The Death Eaters are gathering tomorrow evening. I will instruct you further then.”

Fury rose in her throat like bile, but she swallowed it down as best she could, fixing him with the coldest glare she could muster.

“And if I refuse?” she spat.

“I would hate to illustrate the consequences,” he returned silkily. “Suffice it to say, if young Master Malfoy’s life means anything to you, you’ll have very little choice, won’t you?”

Lysandra knew what he expected--begging, pleading for the boy’s life, but she did not stir to acquiesce. Her defiance seemed to amuse the Dark Lord, for his eyes flickered momentarily and something of a smirk played around his lips.

“I await tomorrow’s instructions with bated breath,” she finally snapped sarcastically. Voldemort brushed past her silently. Watching him go, Lysandra bit her lip, contemplating. In a quiet voice, she added in a gentler tone, “Goodnight, father.”

At this, the Dark Lord turned, scarlet eyes staring at her coldly, unreadable in the darkness. He retraced the distance between them in a few gliding strides, and his suddenness made Lysandra regret her words. His expression, as he drew nearer, seemed contemplative rather than homicidal, but she fell back a step at his sharp gaze.

A claw-like hand reached from within the folds of his cloak, seizing her arm as if in a vise. Her mouth parted in a startled cry as he bent down, brushing his lips to her forehead.

And he was gone.

Quickly as he’d appeared in the foyer, he’d disappeared, leaving Lysandra trembling and alone in the darkness of the Malfoy grounds. Her body ached from the Cruciatus Curse, and a slow trickle of warmth was dripping from the back of her head, where she’d doubtless smacked it against the pavement.

Beyond the bumps and bruises however, her forehead burned, seared with the kiss of Lord Voldemort. She turned back towards the Manor, contemplative.

It occurred to her, on the long traipse back towards the flickering lights in the distance, that he’d meant not to demonstrate an act of affection, but one of possession. The mark now burning into Lysandra’s forehead was to remind her of her true master--as if she could forget.

She was cold, a chill that couldn’t be staved off by her woolen cloak. Comparable to the effect of Dementors, it felt as if every happy memory had dissolved; erased by the mission that had been set ahead of her. It was little consolation, if any, that she’d be working with Draco. She could already see the horrified look in his eyes when he was informed--she would wait until she didn’t have to break the news to him.

“What happened?” Draco demanded before she’d crossed the threshold. “You’re covered in blood.” Rather than muttering the simplest cleaning spell, he helped ease her out of her robes, offering a damp cloth to sponge away the grime from a gash hidden by her hair.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” she muttered, exhausted. “I need rest. And perhaps a spot of tea…”

“You heard her,” Draco snapped, doubtless to a house-elf, but Lysandra kept her eyes closed against the lights of the parlor room. There was a thump, most likely a well-aimed kick, and a small grunt of pain as the creature scurried away.

“Be nice to them,” she muttered with a yawn, curling against a pillow. “I’ve told you a million times--”

“Rest,” Draco interrupted. “You’re still shaking. And what the bloody hell happened to your forehead? You keep rubbing it, it’s really mental.”

“He kissed me.” Her voice slurred with exhaustion, and she felt her lids close heavily. “Voldemort kissed me.”

“Ronald Weasley!” The shrill vocals of Ms. Weasley were enough to send the most battle-hardened wizards scampering, and had a similar terrifying effect on the cluster of teenagers in her attic.

“Mum?” A freckled face poked over the edge of the staircase, head cocked in inquisition as to his mother’s livid features.

“I told you not to experiment with those pasties anymore, leave Fred and George’s damned creations well enough alone!” The feigned confusion on the boys face turned into a scowl.

“But mum, Harry and Ginny--”

“That’s enough, Ronald!” Snickers erupted from the three onlookers behind him as Harry tossed a wrapper at the back of Ron’s head.

“Better luck next time, Ronald,” Hermione teased with a smirk, glancing up from her book for only a moment to gauge his reaction.

“I’ll be so glad when we get on that train tomorrow,” he muttered with a swipe at Harry.

The four sat in the attic, cramped into a small circle between the stacks of their trunks and books. The enclosure was nearly stifling, but the only decent place in the house they could avoid prying ears.

“Why d’you reckon Dumbledore needed you to recruit that bloke anyway?” Ginny inquired, brushing her knee lightly against Harry’s as she shifted. His heart twisted.

“Dunno,” he sighed. Her eyes on his were maddening and he was sure Ron could see the lump developing in his throat. But his friend seemed not to notice.

“That’s Dumbledore for you, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.” Hermione’s eyes were masked by the cover of ‘Practical Herbology and it’s Application in Defense’ but she nodded to iterate her assent.

“Come off it, Hermione, put the bloody book down and enjoy the last of your summer!” With a devilish grin, Ron snatched the work from between her fingers and tossed it down the staircase. It echoed with a sickening thump, followed by Crookshank’s hiss and several muted curses as Ms. Weasley dropped the casserole she’d been working on all evening.

“RONALD,” she bellowed.

“Wasn’t me, mum, it was Harry!” he hollered back. This effectively silenced the poor woman, who still regarded Harry as a guest of honor in their house, despite the fact that he’d spent the better part of the last five years under her roof.

“I’ll clean it up, Ms. Weasley!” Harry called with a glare in Ron’s direction.

“Don’t worry dear, I’ve got it.” Contenting herself to muttering, she flicked her wand and the culinary creation soared back onto the mended platter.

“You’re such an ass, Ronald,” Ginny sighed, rolling her eyes at her brother’s guffaws. Harry curled a fist and landed it on his friend’s shoulder, knocking him back into the trunks he was propped against.

“Well deserved,” Ron agreed as Harry helped him to sit up. “And now we toast.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a clear vial with an amber colored suspicious-looking liquid sloshing inside.

“Is that dad’s firewhisky?” Ginny demanded, looking moderately impressed.

“Aged to perfection.” Ron grinned mischievously. He tugged at the stopper, briefly sniffing at the concoction before raising it to his lips and taking a draught. Wincing, he swallowed quickly, shoving the bottle into Harry’s hands who quickly repeated the process before Ginny and Hermione both followed suit.

“To a good year,” Ron spoke hoarsely into their silence. “To sticking it out together despite--” A sharp gasp interrupted him and the three turned to see Harry grimacing in pain, his hands flying to his forehead.

“His scar,” Ginny muttered, lightly touching his shoulder. “Harry, are you alright?”

Harry couldn’t hear her, however, he had soared through the darkness to a large, imposing Manor. Now he was seated at the end of a long table, eyeing two terrified youth who sat before him. His hands, pale and thin, were twisted around a serpent that had lazily positioned itself in his lap.

“Lord Voldemort rewards those who help him.” Harry’s voice was shrill and cold, sending a shudder through the young man who avoided his gaze. “Those who do not, however…” The girl looked away, not in terror as the boy did, but in what appeared to be boredom. Fury boiled in Harry’s stomach and he raised his wand towards her, murmuring the Cruciatus curse.

Her scream, the fire in her eyes as she slid from her chair onto the floor before him; they forced a laugh from between Harry’s lips.

“Get her up, Bellatrix.”

The blond boy followed the movement of a robed woman warily as she crossed the room towards Lysanda’s trembling form. She glanced towards Harry from under heavy lids, her pouting lips twisting into a smirk.

“Up,” she snarled, jerking the girl roughly to her feet. “Stand proud before your Lord, Lysandra. Hasn’t your mother taught you better?”

“Narcissa is my mother,” the youth snarled through clenched teeth at the woman circling her. A flash of fury spasmed across Bellatrix’s gaunt features and the noise of her palm against the girl’s cheek reverberated through the room’s silence.

“Ungrateful wretch.” Tugging Lysandra closer by a hank of hair that she’d gripped savagely, she leaned towards her ear. “Pray you do not fail your Lord, girl. You will be truly dead to me then.”

Upon being released, she slumped into a chair again, her forehead pressed against the cool marble of the table. Harry, who had been stroking the snake during the proceedings, glanced up at the three before him. Bellatrix was breathing heavily, her eyes fixed on Lysandra’s prone form. The blonde boy, too, was watching her, but with an air of sorrow and concern.

“You leave tomorrow.” A bob of the head from the boy, a tired nod from Lysandra. “Do not fail me,” he cautioned quietly. “Do not fail your Lord.”

The scene dissolved as quickly as it had come. Rather than in a high-backed armchair in a gloomy manor room, he was huddled on the floor of an attic dripping in sweat and shaking.

“Mate, you look bloody awful,” Ronald murmured, shaking him to determine his condition. “You alright there?”

“Of course he’s not, Ronald,” Hermione snapped, brushing him away. “Harry, drink this.” A pitcher of cool liquid was tipped into his mouth, soothing the fire in his throat. His vision swam into focus before him, and three pairs of eyes were staring at him in confusion and concern.

“Was it the whiskey, mate?” Ron pressed.

“N-No,” Harry stammered, brow knit together. “I saw Voldemort again, I was Voldemort again!”

“What did you see?” Ginny’s voice was twisted in fear.

“Malfoy. He’s planning something with Malfoy. And…” He trailed off, remembering the young woman who had defiantly stood with her chin held high before Bellatrix Lestrange and Lord Voldemort.

“And?” Hermione’s agitated inquisition cut through his reverie.

“There was another, I don’t know who she was, but she’s in trouble.”