Behind her desk, she pauses. Looks out into the night sky. Nobody is watching her now, she knows, but still she wishes she could close the curtains. But nothing screams as loudly as acting like you have something to hide. Instead, she opens her desk drawer. The simple kitchen knife inside glints weakly in the sparse light of the stars. Dried blood flakes off the blade. Hermione takes it out and tests its weight in her hands. Presses a thumb against the edge. Fresh blood wells up, and she smiles.