Abruptly, Harry was no longer staring blearily at Crabbe’s ugly snarl, but up at Umbridge’s nasty, pleased smirk. Harry’s chest was heaving, feeling as if he had run a marathon for the burning in his lungs. Umbridge looked him up and down, tutting to herself - or at least, Harry thought she was. His glasses had shattered against his face, and he strongly suspected that Crabbe had shattered his inferior orbital rim. He could barely see more than a foot in front of his face.