The burning twist of a knife ripping through her guts was something Hermione couldn’t ignore. It told her, with extreme precision, that she had mere moments left to live. The edge had been angled upwards and then stretched across, yanked back down until the edge of the blade had nicked against her hip bone. The pain was absolutely blinding; all-encompassing pressure, unrestrained heat, all of it aggravated by the notches in the metal. Blood, a near well of the stuff, poured out along with all her unmentionables.