In her past existence, she thrived on violence. It was truly not a shock to anyone that it spilled over into her home. She was conditioned to spread misery and pain to those around her. How else was she supposed to be successful in extracting information from unwilling informants? She knew exactly where to press someone until they were on the verge of breaking, exactly the amount of pressure required to hold them there without allowing them to topple over the edge. How many people had she seen inside one of the locked side rooms she was terrified to find herself in again? How many of them never emerged again on their two feet? Of course there was an official number of the lives she'd destroyed filed somewhere in the dusty corners of Level Ten where the horrid Umbridge cow resided. Hermione didn't have the courage to seek it out. Maybe once upon a time she would've been able to see the exact number of interrogations she'd held with a source of pride. Those days were long gone. She didn't understand how she could ever casually go to work in the morning knowing that she would have blood on her hands before lunch. How did she come back home at a regular hour each day to spend the evening with her small family, pretending like what she did was perfectly normal?