She wished for her mentors, that Archangel Dumbledore would give her a kind word, or Choir Mistress McGonagall would lend her the strength of her voice and belief to shield Hermione from the darkness. She’d trained—oh, how she’d trained—expecting all manner of wickedness and attacks and the vilest, most impure magic. Even after centuries of boring patrols broken up by the occasional skirmish by the Gates between realms, she’d never let her guard down.