The mill had stood abandoned for decades. Its windows were shattered teeth, its beams rotten and groaning. But tonight, it was not empty.

The Aurors had expected a roar. A curse. A battle. Instead, they got a girl in black silk, a mask of white porcelain, and the slow, deliberate click of her wand against her palm.

She stopped in the center of the mill, where the roof opened to the storm. Rain slid down her mask, tracing the cracks someone had tried to mend. She looked up, not at the sky, but at the rafters—where the Aurors crouched like wary birds.