And then Simon saw that what she had cradled, that which now dangled from an outflung hand, was a doll… a doll made from reeds and leaves and twining stems of grass.
And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward.
There were things in the fog reaching out fingers to pluck at her skirt, to drag her down into the uneasy quaking earth on which she stood, silent, relentless, spectral hands.