Even as the Head of Gryffindor house attacked him, all he could see was Hermione, sitting alone on the chair in front of the Headmaster’s desk. The loose neck of her jumper was low, and he could see the angry red cuts, barely clotted over. She had refused any charms or potions, scarcely allowing Poppy to blot away the blood and clean the wound while she spat and screamed, a wild animal with tangled hair. It was a stark contrast to the empty little shell in front of him now, cool and quiet, eyes downcast, exactly as they had practised. 