"She's mine," Malfoy snarls, and she can hear laughter too-loud and yet far away at once. She blinks, her struggles weakening fast, seeing through darkening vision Malfoy limp and stagger toward Crabbe and Goyle Sr., his bloodied face haughty and possessive. Crabbe spins, dragging Hermione with him as he turns and throwing her to the ground, and she hits hard. Pain shoots through her neck and spine as she bounces and rolls to a halt at Malfoy's feet, hands going to her throat as sweet blessed air flows freely into her lungs, and the darkened vision and dizziness retreats, her blood rushing to where it should be. She clutches at Malfoy's ankle, and he kicks her off roughly and it feels like a punch in the gut, that rejection. That lack of protection. It takes her a minute to realise: he can't act like he cares. "She's mine, you stupid fucks, and I swear to Merlin I will kill you both before I let you touch what belongs to me."