Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the screams that had filled this drawing room only moments ago. The air still reeks of copper and dark magic, curling like smoke from Bellatrix's wand.

I don't look at my aunt. I don't look at the chandelier where the Muggle-borns had been suspended. I look at Hermione Granger—curled on the floor, shaking, her arm still oozing crimson from the word carved into her flesh.

My hand finds hers. Squeezes once.

Behind me, I hear my mother's heels click against the floor as she steps closer.