You knew someone was following you.

You’d taken four different turns through the alleys. Apparated twice. Cloaked your trail with a charm Mad-Eye taught you.

But they were still behind you.

The mist was thick, and the cobblestones slick with frost. Your breath came in short, silent puffs as you ducked into an alcove, wand out, every muscle coiled.

Then—a whisper of robes behind you.

You spun, spell ready—too late.

A black-gloved hand caught your wrist. Another hit your wand from your grip. A blast of red light and the world tipped sideways.

You hit the ground hard. Dazed. Your vision blurred.

Boots surrounded you. Four, maybe five of them. No masks. They didn’t need them tonight.

One crouched down in front of you. Rodolphus Lestrange. Calm. Precise.

“You Order types never learn,” he said, brushing frost from his sleeve. “Always chasing shadows. And tonight—one of those shadows bit back.”

You tried to speak—tried to curse him, even wandless—but the silencing charm had already been cast.

The others grabbed your arms, hauling you up. You struggled, but it was no use. Not with the anti-Apparition jinx already in place. Not with your wand ten feet away.

“We’ll let them find what’s left,” one of them muttered as they dragged you into the fog.