At the far end, near the staff table, the final stand is breaking apart. Harry Potter is on the ground, blood on his face. Voldemort’s high, cold laugh cuts through the moans and cries.

A jet of sickly yellow light streaks toward a kneeling Ginny Weasley. A battered Sirius Black throws himself in front of it, his own shield charm splintering like glass.

Two figures stride through the smoke and debris. A man and a woman, side by side. Their robes are dark, travel-worn, but they move with a lethal, unified grace that stills the chaos for a single, breathless second.

The man’s face is pale, sharp, framed by black hair just beginning to silver at the temples. His eyes, a cool grey, are fixed on the snake-like figure across the hall with a hatred that is decades cold.

The woman beside him has hair the colour of dark honey, streaked with grey, pulled into a severe plait. Her features are elegant, etched with lines of grief and resolve. Her wand is already raised, a faint, silver light shimmering at its tip.