"Bloody, fu-, Salazar." Andromeda grunted. She knew. She knew. That each spell she sent off as she backed up toward her kitchen was another small pocket in time for Hermione to push onward, physically and magically. But more than that, her heart was racing, her magic singing, and that small part of her, the Black-blooded part of her, rattled its cage and begged to be free, to be wild.