The knock came at precisely seven o'clock. Three sharp raps, the rhythm of routine. Barty Crouch Jr., her keeper, her shadow, her jailer in all but name.

The arrow came from nowhere.

One moment he was there, his breath a steady rhythm at her back. The next, a wet, percussive sound split the air, and Barty Crouch Jr. crumpled to the gravel path with a feathered shaft protruding from his throat. His eyes were still open. His mouth still forming a word that never came.

The gardens fell silent. The sea kept its distance. And somewhere beyond the treeline, a figure in dark robes melted back into the shadows of the encroaching night.

She was alone.