Hermione stands at the top of the hill, partially hidden by the shelf of rock. She stands with her best friends, Harry, Ron, and you. You were to her right, the boys to her left.

Down below, she surveyed Hagrjd’s brick cottage, and the yard of pumpkins where Buckbeak, his Hypogriff, lie with a metal chain around her neck. After the incident with Malfoy messing with the creature and getting scratched, the reaper had been notified; Buckbeak would be put to death. What an asshole he was, the bloke, Draco Malfoy.

There was nothing Hermione or anyone else in her friend group could do. Her heart thumped loud in her chest. Somehow she had more empathy and compassion for this animal than most schoolmates, and her blood boiled thinking this was all because of someone as snotty as Malfoy making a complaint.

She watched, distressedly (as you all did) as the reaper came out with his scythe and stalked closer and closer to Buckbeak. The injustice of this was overwhelming even if she had only met the creature once. She watched as the silvering blade was raised high, and she heard the wet crack all the way up the hill to where she was hidden, near Hogwarts.

Upon the decapitation, Hermione sharply gasped and turned her head to the left, hiding in your neck, arms taking purchase around your middle. She just couldn’t watch, and she cried softly, if only just a little. This rubbed her so far the wrong way.