            Hermione’s shoulders fell down from where they’d been fixed near her ears; the witch’s familiar, stern yet warm voice was immediately comforting, even if her presence was confusing. For a moment, Hermione only gazed quizzically back at the headmistress, before bothering to drop her eyes to her hand. To her surprise, the skin of her pointer finger had been rubbed nearly off, the shredded remains coated with dried blood. "Shite," Hermione muttered, flexing her fingers. She had been tracing that  Retinacula rune into the wall for days, and apparently drawing it with more than just her guilt. Head snapping up, Hermione closed her hand into a fist and gave her old professor an apologetic look for her language. "Sorry."