Hermione’s breath stopped, and then the door slammed and locked so fast Hermione could barely credit herself with the action. Her eyes darted about the room, searching for a weapon— gods, but Aberforth’s room was sparse— before settling on a chair on the far side of the room. Hermione wasted no time in grabbing it and turning to the door, waiting for someone to come inside, to press her into a fight she was bound to lose. Nevermind her magic, Hermione could barely stand or even breathe, her lungs working overtime to circulate oxygen and falling short anyway. She could feel her pulse beating in her wrists, feel her muscles shaking under the strain and the panic.