Hermione slammed the door to Tom’s atelier wide open, causing the queue of drug mules to turn to her with wide eyes, sizing up the interrupter. Rainwater dribbled down her chest and shoulders, dripping onto his tile floor with soft plonk-plonk-plonk sounds. Her hair was windswept from the fall storm; with her soaked chest heaving from her panting breaths, Hermione knew she looked like a drowned rat, but she couldn’t care less.