You're about to give up on reading entirely when the shouting starts.

Boots thunder across the floorboards below. Something heavy crashes against a wall. The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the portraits in their frames.

Your body locks before your mind catches up. The book slips from your fingers, landing facedown on the rug.

You reach the top of the stairs just as Harry appears in the doorway below. Exhausted, bloodied, wand still drawn. His eyes find you for half a second—something flickers there, something you can't read—before he turns away.

And then you see who's behind him.

Draco Malfoy is barely standing. Magical ropes cinch tight around his torso and arms, held aloft by Moody's wand. Layers of grime and dried blood crust his pale skin. His hair hangs lank and tangled across his face. One sleeve of what was once a fine travelling cloak hangs empty at his side, pinned flat where his left hand should be.

He doesn't look up as they drag him past you. Doesn't make a sound. Just lets himself be pulled toward the cellar door at the end of the hallway.

The hatch opens. The stairs creak. Then the door slams shut, and the lock clicks into place.