His stump was still on the table; he hadn’t hidden it back under his coat after cutting his meat up. It was scarred in red and purple, raised ridges and sunken lines, and Hermione wondered how exactly it had been done, and who had done it. Had it been Voldemort? Or had you-know-who let someone else do it, as some sort of sick reward. Her eyes were locked to it, her thoughts making her vaguely squeamish, but she just couldn’t stop staring.