Barty had been half asleep again, his breathing evening out, when he felt the touch on his arm, lighter than a breath of air. Suddenly every nerve on his body was firing, every muscle tensed. His reflexes were dull from a year in Azkaban, but the Lestranges had spent weeks, months, honing them, preparing him to be vigilant, on guard for every threat. His sleeve had hardly moved an inch or two before his hand snapped up to grasp the stranger tightly by the wrist. His eyes opened and he glared up at her with dark, burning eyes in sunken sockets.