Then— then he staggers forward, into her view, hair plastered to his forehead, dripping, out of breath, smeared with mud and streaks of vivid blood bleeding dripping his forehead, and Hermione just fumbles for her wand and screams for anybody else in the house, because she’s sure dozens more Death-Eaters are going to come flooding after him, and kill her, and kill Harry and — he just ducks her spell, and holds up his hands almost mockingly, staring at her like a dead scarecrow in a field, his body taunt and limp at the same time. 