Stumbling forward on unsteady legs, the sharp click of her heels reverberates—more white noise filling her ears; joining the symphony of betrayal, sadness, and rage echoing inside her head. Pitching her abdomen against the sharp edge of the massive desk to break her fall, her vision swirls in a kaleidoscope of color and black dots before she finally sucks in a ragged series of painful gasps. Hermione’s palms smash against the flat surface, wadding up the offensive newspaper, launching it up and away, along with campaign mock-ups and various other materials they’d been slaving over for months. Feeling the thrum and incredible pressure building in her chest, she flings her arms out, casting a cluster of wandless and wordless  Bombardas at a magnetic net in the corner of the room she’d invented as a means of collecting rogue magic. Whirling around, she watches as all the papers remain suspended in the air, a massive tornado of paper and cardstock.