Hermione's heart sank into her own feet at the sight. She forced herself to look at Harry's scar, no matter how appalling it was. And it was hideous. There was no other way to describe it. It was rough, sore, weeping slightly with a pinkish pus. Truly disgusting. And it had a powerful stench of rank rotting and stale meat. It looked fresh, too, as though it might have happened just that morning. It was hard to look at, Hermione couldn't pretend that. She struggled to keep her gaze fixed on that wide, angry, purplish gash that spread from temple to chin, and destroyed everything in between. Even those parts of his face not touched by the scar tissue seemed red and blotchy, as though heavily scorched by violent heat.