Hermione slumped back in her chair with the miserable feeling of a moment unrealised – another chance gone – tangling in her gut. She twisted her head away from the open trapdoor, eyes wet and hands clenching in her lap, as the others fought like petulant children around her. Her tear-blurred eyes went to Ginny, a still spot in a sea of chaos, and the younger witch's lips tightened in a sympathetic expression, and then mouthed the word, sorry. Hermione smiled in recognition, a pale, watery thing, then flinched as Kingsley silenced the room by striking his palm flat on the table, a dulled crack filling the room.