But Harry was too busy compartmentalising the fear he'd absorbed from Hermione to truly notice, or enjoy it. He'd been afraid in his life, too many times to be healthy. He'd heard fear, seen it in others, too. But never, not once in his myriad of macabre experiences, had he felt anything quite as complete and horrifying as this. It punched him all over, permeated every pore and piece of sense he possessed like a virus. But, in opposition to this, rose his own protective anger, his fury. More than a match, a destructive defender. He stared at the source of Hermione's mind-numbing fear, let that anger course through him, as he focused on the head he would one day tear off.