Images stuttered to the front of her mind, backlit with gold, threaded together with violet and lavender. Harry, dead in the street, his glasses broken and askew, blood dripping from his face; Ron, gagged in a straitjacket, pale as death; books everywhere, lines of prose and statistics, Arithmancy runes staggering through it all, memorised charms and wand movements smattering through everything; Voldemort advancing, green fire circling him; and straight through everything, the bedrock of it all, was thick, choking fear, purpled and bruise-coloured, a constant pressure that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Cloying. Suffocating. Fear, fear,  fear . Dolores Umbridge holding her wand, as though she were going to snap it in half. In Hermione’s mind, she did, and this replayed several times, Umbridge breaking her wand in two and setting it aside.