He didn’t want to think about it; about the way Hermione had stumbled through the veil, scorch marks on her chest and face set in pain as she fell backwards. The way Dolohov’s spell had nearly taken all of her magic from her, sucking it out in such a way her body had started to decay rapidly in the absence of it, with her sunken cheeks and pale, sickly skin—how she had felt cold to the touch and her pulse had dwindled down to something barely there—