She sat in the chair across from Alecto and Amycus Carrow, ramrod straight, her hands clasped together in her lap. There was little evidence on her face that she had spent the past few hours hugging a porcelain toilet bowl, sobbing hysterically; had either of the Death Eaters before her been more skilled in interrogation, they might have noticed the querulous tremor in her lower lip, or that she rubbed her nose a bit too often. They might have taken stock of the way she crossed and uncrossed her ankles before speaking. And if they had been particularly talented, if it had been Severus or the Dark Lord or Dumbledore trying to weasel information out of Hermione Granger, they would have found her mental barriers completely nonexistent, all of her energy directed towards one clear, shining thought in her mind, clouded in layers of purple: 