So where was Ron? Had he not been at the Macnair estate when George came for Angelina? She remembered what Draco had said about Voldemort "requesting" him shortly after the Auction. A pale chill of dread shuddered her.

She forced herself to focus and continue reading Angelina's physical description. Under her height and skin color, it said, "missing left forearm."

She pressed her eyes closed, sucking in a short breath. She had been right. If she cut off her arm, she could get around the tattoo.

Hermione tried to imagine it. Tried to think of George and Angelina at the boundary line of some gothic structure, staring at each other until Angelina gave him the go ahead to mutilate her. They would have killed Macnair first, thinking that would do it—that Angelina would be free if her master was dead.

They at least had wands. Hermione considered her own options. Steal a kitchen knife and hack her way through her own flesh and bone. Or steal a wand from one of her three jailors, and slice it off with a firm voice.

Either of these options were possible—horrible, but possible. But were they necessary? More importantly, were they wise?

Where would she go—armless and bleeding? She could look it up, of course, but she had no training on how to treat an amputated limb, and it could be risky with an unfamiliar wand. If it got infected, she might not be in a state to heal herself. The Order likely had a safehouse and supplies somewhere, but how would she find them? Surely there had to be another way around the tattoos that didn't involve putting herself in such a vulnerable position.

Hermione placed the information on a shelf in her mind — an Occlumency trick briefly mentioned in her textbook.

Ever since learning that she had her magic flowing through her veins, Hermione had begun pushing the boundaries of her Occlumency skills. (She suspected that was the point of them letting her keep her magic in the first place.) The more she experimented, the more it felt as though there were shelves now in her mind—places she could put things, and not think about again until she chose to.

She was practicing the technique in her armchair one afternoon when a knock rapped on her door. She stood, stuffing the advanced book under the cushion, and rushed for her door. Narcissa stood on the other side with a soft smile and folded hands. Hermione forced a polite smile, pushing away her disappointment.

Of course. It was unlikely he would be standing, much less visiting.

"Hello, dear," Narcissa said. "It's certainly been a while since I've come to see you. I apologize that you were left—"

"I'm so sorry, Narcissa," Hermione said, words pouring out of her. "I swear I didn't mean to cause him any harm. I had—I had no idea that… that I had magic, and I was angry and—and it just happened. Believe me—I wish I could take it back."