Hermione drew the stolen wand. She could sense its reluctance: not so violent as the Italian wizard’s pure hatred, but stubborn and intractable, digging in its heels. Still, she didn’t miss the sudden wary looks on some of the werewolves, or the hungry gaze one sent her way as he watched her with the wand. She marked that one—younger than Fenrir, perhaps thirty, a little cleaner than the others, with a crooked nose and floppy black hair—as a possible wizard.