Two witches circled each other near the broken fountain. One, red-haired and fierce, her wand steady. The other, dark-haired and wild, laughing as she dodged.

A jet of light struck Bellatrix square in the chest. She staggered. Her laugh faltered.

Her eyes found you. Across the carnage, through the smoke, through the screaming.

Recognition. A flicker of something — pride, regret, madness — before the light faded from them.

She was gone.

The world kept moving. Molly stumbled back, panting. Someone shouted. Someone else screamed.

But you stood still, the echo of her gaze burning into you like a brand.