"At least Jean's gone," Hermione said in an attempt to change the subject.  They'd given him his last dose, hauled him back to France, and left him obliviated in his own home.  Before she'd cursed him to forget, he'd hurled the romance novel she'd left for him at her head, flames licking at its well-thumbed pages.  She might have felt guilty for that little bit of knife-twisting malice if her bones hadn't already begun to ache again.  He'd had ten days of boredom he wouldn't even remember.  She and Pansy had a lifetime of dependency.