Blinding chandelier light spills across the threshold, forcing you to squint after weeks of near-darkness. The marble floor gleams beneath your worn trainers, polished to a mirror finish that reflects the towering figures arranged inside like chess pieces waiting to move.

Behind you, the Snatchers’ rough hands shove you forward. Someone stumbles—Ron, by the sound of the muttered curse—and Hermione’s quiet intake of breath tells you she’s counting exits, measuring distances, doing everything she possibly can with her hands still bound.

Lucius Malfoy stands at the center of the entrance hall, his silver-tipped cane resting against the floor. He looks older than you remember. Thinner. More cautious.

Beside him, Narcissa watches with an unreadable expression, her hands clasped neatly in front of her robes.

And then there’s her.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

She moves before anyone speaks, circling the group with a predator’s eager curiosity, dark curls bouncing with each step. Her wand traces idle patterns in the air, never quite pointing at anyone in particular, never quite settling.

Well, well, well.

Her head tilts. Her lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile.