Hermione stared at herself in the mirror. She was kitted out in the ancient Auror leathers that fit her as comfortably as a second skin now, mended from damage taken in previous skirmishes, the wards and charms placed upon them renewed and strengthened. Her hair was dragged back into a tight, practical French braid, and her wand was firmly in the holster at her hip, her face white and taut with nerves. She felt like she wanted to vomit on her boots, and stifled the sick feeling; she often felt like this before a mission, and invariably the feeling went away – eventually.