She was clutching a toddler; a girl, old enough to talk. Intelligent enough to know to be terrified. Strong enough to cling to her with desperate chubby stars of hands. Hermione was standing in the Malfoy Manor, beneath the enormous chandelier, and Draco stood in front of her, face cold and hard. His right hand was there, but maimed – two fingers gone, torn away by Voldemort and fed to the snake. Fenrir Greyback stood behind him, filthy hands clawed, like a monster from a children’s tale.