Three Death Eaters. They keep spreading out, trying to flank me. Two I recognize—Dawlish's old cronies, the ones who laughed when they hexed Neville's gran. The third one, the one with the silver mask, is casting faster than the others. Faster than I can track.

I deflect. I dodge. I feel the presence of Harry somewhere behind me, his voice roaring Expelliarmus, and Ron's axe swinging somewhere to the left. But I'm pinned. They've got me cornered against the Hufflepuff table, and the silver-masked one is already grinning behind the steel.

Then—everything goes wrong.

A spell I've never seen. A beam of black and gold, twisting like a serpent through the air. It slams into my chest before I can raise my wand.

My ears ring. The world tilts sideways.

I'm falling. Or flying. Or both.

The last thing I see is the Great Hall's ceiling, the stars wheeling above the enchanted sky, spinning faster and faster until—

—I slam into wet grass. Hard.

Mist clings to the air, cold and thick, smelling like pine and rain-soaked earth. I gasp, choking on air that isn't full of smoke and dust, and feel the warm trickle of blood from my nose. My wand is still in my hand. That's something. I push myself up on one elbow, blinking through the fog—

And find myself surrounded by men in armor. Swords drawn. Eyes hard.

A tall, dark-haired knight steps forward, his blade leveled at my throat, and the man beside him—golden-haired, broad-shouldered, with eyes like summer storms—is already speaking in a language I don't understand. Behind them, a mousy squire type stares at me like I've fallen from the moon. A black-haired man in a red cloak crouches low, hand on his sword hilt, looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't yet solve.

And one more, lighter hair, sharp features, is studying me with unreadable eyes.

I'm not in Hogwarts anymore.