She’s crying, blushing with humiliation. She looks up at me, and I don’t have the wherewithal to avoid her eyes. "Finite Incantatem," she mouths and repairs her bag and limps toward the hospital wing. Defiance, I could tell what was in her eyes this time. Goyle is making a beeline for her. I turn and say, "it’s quidditch practice; let’s go". It’s not, but I can fly for an hour to make it true.