There was a long, awful silence as Ulrich stared down at Hermione crouching beneath his desk.
The moment she understood that he had finally seen her, heat rushed so strongly into her face that it felt painful. Her cheeks burned. Her eyes stung at once, turning wet with shame before she could stop it. She had really thought, stupidly, that she might manage to stay hidden until the end. He had looked so absorbed in his own thoughts when he came in, so distant and cold and focused on that paper in his hands, that for one foolish stretch of time she had believed she might escape notice.
And then he had spoken of their mother.
Of all things.
Of all moments.
And that was when she had moved, when her body betrayed her, when she got caught in the most humiliating way possible, curled like some thief under his desk, listening to words that had no business striking her that hard.
She wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole.
The silence did not break.
