The voice came from an area of wall she had passed already, believing all its occupants to be asleep, and she had to double back on herself. One of them seemed to have awoken. It was a boy – a young one, her age, sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair inside a relatively small (though of course still ornate) frame. His large grey eyes blinked at her in a vaguely reptilian manner. Not Draco’s eyes: Narcissa’s. Tilted exotically at the corners, lighter and more penetrating somehow than the eyes of the Malfoys. Milky-pale skin, a face born to sneer, sleek jet-black hair; even had Hermione not memorised the appearances of everyone even vaguely connected to the four counties’ ruling families, she would have recognised a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.