The elder wand revelled in the chance for real power, an almost limitless supply of magic from a festering wound of bitterness and despair. Albus Dumbledore had never used it to its full potential, never fed it the blood that it so desperately craved. Pain, that was what fed power, and Hermione had nothing to give except pain. Hermione levelled the elder wand at Alecto and yanked her bodily forward, watching her writhe in midair as the Cruciatius curse intensified, firing off every neuron in her brain.