He was on the ground, one hand pressed against his ribs, his face smeared with soot and blood. The Confringo curse had caught him square in the side—a burning, searing pain that had knocked him off his feet.

You didn't answer. You just pulled him into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around him as if letting go would mean losing him forever. He smelled of smoke and sweat and something achingly familiar.

A slow, mocking clap echoed from the shadows. The sound cut through the fragile peace like a blade.

Antonin Dolohov. He was a wall of a man, scarred and predatory. His dark eyes flicked between the two of you with cold amusement.

He raised his wand.