Hermione inhaled sharply. This girl's sentencing had nothing to do with Ginny Weasley or assisting with a plot to murder the Dark Lord. The girl settled her gaze on her again, and Hermione's mouth dried, heartbeat quickening as her brain scrambled for a plan—

"Champagne, Master Malfoy?"

Charlotte stood in front of her, blocking the girl and her brother from view. Hermione blinked at her, mouth gaping open.

"No, Charlotte," Draco clipped behind her. "Thank you."

Charlotte turned her eyes on Hermione for the first time that evening. "Poor dear," she said in a motherly tone so out of place with her scarlet dress and cleavage. "You must be freezing."

A hand against Hermione's cheek.

"She's practically an icicle." Charlotte's hand drifted down her jaw, stretching to her collar. "You'll have to ask Master Malfoy nicely for a Warming Charm." She scratched the paper from under the metal, slipping against Hermione's skin like rough sand. "I'm sure you could convince him."

Charlotte winked at her, but there was something fiery in it. A tension in her jaw that promised blood. And then she was gone, sauntering through the crowd, one hand fisted at her side.

Hermione felt the world tilting on its axis, and it took her several long seconds to realize that Draco was steadying her lower back, pushing her upright. She barely registered the Warming Charm he cast over her. She stiffened and looked back to the Scottish girl and her brother, ears ringing.

Amycus Carrow was recounting her sins, speaking in rousing tones about Muggle crimes befitting Muggle punishments. The strawberry-blonde turned to her sobbing brother, speaking quickly, too low to overhear. He nodded solemnly, his shiny eyes never leaving his sister's.

They were Muggles. They had no business getting involved in any of this horror. And yet, this was the girl who'd grasped her hand under the table with glass digging into her knees. A girl who had risked everything to get Ginny's note to her. Just like she'd risked everything to protect her little brother.

A noise to her left. Hermione glanced over to find a Silver Collar girl with silent tears trailing down her cheeks.

A wild cheering brought her attention back to the front. A cannon wheeled forward.

The One O'Clock Gun.

Terror gripped her as the old war cannon spun slowly to face the two siblings.

"No!" she choked, but it was too loud everywhere — inside her mind and out.

A pair of hands on her waist. A firm chest against her shoulder blades.

Amycus called out that they would prove how foolish it was for anyone, let alone a pair of filthy Muggles, to resist the Dark Lord's will. They would take the boy first, and let his sister watch.

Hermione turned, heaving for air. A hooded Death Eater on her right turned to glare at her. The hands on her waist turned her back, forcing her to face ahead as they aimed the cannon.

A sharp jaw pressed to her temple. Warm breath fanning across her cheekbones.