And then, in a way that angered as much as shocked her, she saw her own memories, snippets of her vicious beatings by Ron ... only with Harry in her place where he’d stolen the pain from her. A residue of it had clearly remained, despite Harry’s insistence that he had passed it all on to Enola. Hermione thought she should have guessed that he’d have kept some for himself. She felt a sort of sickness she’d never experienced before and she roiled against it, as she watched Harry being beaten to a broken pulp under the fists and weapons of that ginger fucknugget she had been forced to marry.