Hermione slams the door closed behind her, the Daily Prophet  crumpled in her white-knuckled fist. The built-in  Silencio  and  Muffliato over her temporary office is both a blessing and a curse as the sudden silence wraps around her like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. Or maybe it’s just the feel of blood suffocating her—a slow, painful death from the decimation and explosion of her heart. Even when she’d taken the direct hit of Dolohov’s vicious curse to the chest—the memory of that excruciating purple flame scorching her organs, melting her bones, all the while sharpening the awareness of agony in every single cell in her entire body—it had been less painful than this. 