Hermione supposed she should’ve been grateful that it was a sympathetic mentor who reached into her chest to wrench free the morsel of power with which Heaven animated her and kept her leashed, instead of one who cut their teeth on the bleeding edge of righteous wrath. Tears and horror had creased Choir Mistress McGonagall’s weathered face as she reclaimed the paltry bit of magic for the Highest Order of Heaven. Unsaid but painfully clear—that the power was better spent on a  worthy  angel instead of a defiled wanton with an abomination in her womb. 