This was not the first time Victoire had been strangled in a ruin.

Annoyingly, this strangler was soaking wet. The arm lashed about her throat was annoyingly [i]cold[/i]. Something had her wrists—clever enough to know her for wix, but daft enough to think that it had the upperhand—and Victoire began to kick wildly. Nearly six foot tall, her thrashing did not make things easy.

It spoke, which was bizarre. It spoke modern English, which was weirder. Of course, it was all a bunch of nonsense.

“Get [i]off[/i] of me, you nutter,” Victoire snarled, taking a moment to aim and drive the heel of her boot into his foot with all her might. Her wand sparked in hand, pressed between them, stinging her back, undoubtedly raising welts. She was too furious to much care. Her patronus had vanished in a whirl of light. She just had to survive long enough for Bulstrode to find her.

Her attacker called her Weasley, which just plain pissed her off. No. She had not stalked the halls of an ancient ruin for the past hour and change to somehow find someone who [i]knew her fucking family name[/i]. It was ridiculous. She was [i]never[/i] going to get away from her name, it seemed.

“My team will be here in minutes,” she hissed as best she could with the forearm cutting off her air supply. Black spots were beginning to blossom in her vision. “And my boss is going to hex the ever loving [i]shit[/i] out of you for trespassing.”