The first fist to his face was a shock, the second came so swiftly after that he had only just begun to register the pain of the first, and by the third he could barely breath with the blood streaming from his face and down the back of his throat. He coughed and spluttered and struggled to twist himself free from beneath Crabbe’s weight, but it was useless. There was no escape, and the feeling of entrapment had panic building in Harry’s gut. Crabbe punched him three times more, before Umbridge finally called off her attack dog.