A loud CRACK startled Imogen from her half-asleep reverie. At this time of night, it could only mean one thing: her father or one of his friends had just Apparated home from work. She shot out of bed and quickly—but quietly—padded into the main hallway, opening and closing the doors slowly along the way to make sure they wouldn’t squeak.

Downstairs, she heard the front door unlock, then a sharp intake of breath. Imogen poked her head around the corner of the landing, peering through the bars of the balustrade to the foyer below. Her mother had ushered inside a robed man wearing an ornate mask. Imogen held back her sigh of disappointment when she realized she couldn’t recognize the mask’s design, which meant this wasn’t her father but one of his friends. She almost withdrew from the landing, but as her mother shut and locked the door again, her movement revealed the man’s wand arm. The robes were ripped from the armpit to the elbow, and a deep, glistening gash stood out in stark contrast to the man’s pale skin.

“What happened? You were supposed to be done an hour ago,” her mother hissed quietly, flicking her wand. A jar of healing poultice appeared in her other hand, no doubt summoned from the potions cupboard on the other side of the manor.

“Lucretia…” The robed man started to say. He waved his wand clumsily with his left hand in front of his face, and the mask melted away, the hood of his robes falling back with it. Underneath were the familiar pointed features and long, pale hair of Lucius Malfoy.

“And where is Cygnus?” Imogen’s mother continued, unscrewing the cap to the jar and dabbing her fingers in the paste inside. “I don’t suppose he volunteered to help clean up again, did he?”

“Lucretia,” Mr. Malfoy repeated, more insistently this time. His left hand closed around her mother’s wrist in what looked to be a tight grip, forcing her to pause and look him in the eyes. From her vantage point, Imogen could see his face twisted in a pained expression, though whether that came from his wound or something else, she couldn’t tell. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Her mother visibly stiffened, and Imogen herself suddenly felt as though ice filled her veins. What was he saying? Sorry for what?

“No,” her mother whispered.

“We were ambushed,” Mr. Malfoy said, his face only growing more stricken, “It was Dumbledore’s sodding Order of the Phoenix again. I don’t know how they keep staying two steps ahead of us—”

“No. Tell me he’s not…?”

Imogen finally identified the something else from Mr. Malfoy’s expression.

Grief.

“I’m sorry, Lucretia.” He let go of her mother’s arm.

The jar shattered on the floor. A strangled sob tore from her mother’s throat, and then she did something Imogen had never seen her do: she broke down. She started sobbing, her hands coming up to cover her mouth while her shoulders shook uncontrollably. Imogen had never felt so terrified. Mr. Malfoy brought his uninjured arm up and wrapped it around her mother’s slender frame.

Imogen must have made a noise, because the next thing she knew, Mr. Malfoy was looking straight at her.

“Lucretia…” he said once more. He indicated Imogen’s hiding spot with a nod of his head, and her mother spun around.

“Imogen! You’re awake… How much did you hear?” she gasped.

Imogen’s expression said it all. Her mother’s face fell. Taking deep, shaky breaths, she slowly pulled herself together enough to stop crying.

“Go back to bed, darling. I’ll explain everything in a few minutes. Let me—” She choked back another sob. “Let me take care of Mr. Malfoy first, alright?”

Imogen found herself nodding, though her whole body felt numb. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t breathe; she felt like she was drowning on dry land. She had to know for certain. When she opened her mouth to speak, her own voice sounded foreign to her ears.

“Daddy’s gone, isn’t he?” she said.

Her mother was helpless to do anything but nod.