Chapter 9
Hermione looked at Bellatrix, fighting pain and fear. Drip. Drip. Drip. That sound still echoed in her head, like a grim metronome measuring out her suffering.
"Still insisting on your silence, Mudblood?" asked Bellatrix, putting down the bloodied tools on the table. "Well, perhaps this will convince you."
She waved her wand toward the door, which opened with a dull crack. Two Death Eaters dragged an emaciated figure into the room. Hermione felt her heart stop in her chest.
Ron. His red hair was matted with blood, his face swollen and bruised almost beyond recognition. He moved like someone who had endured countless tortures—every movement caused a grimace of pain on his face.
"Ron!" escaped from her throat before she could stop herself.
Bellatrix smiled with satisfaction.
"Ah, so you can speak after all, Mudblood. How touching."
The Death Eaters threw Ron onto the floor in front of Hermione. He tried to get up, but his hands, missing fingernails just like her own, slid helplessly across the stone floor.
"Hermione..." he whispered, raising his eyes. In his gaze, despite the pain and exhaustion, she saw determination. "Don't tell them... anything."
Bellatrix laughed, circling them like a predator with its prey.
"How noble!" she mocked. "How brave! We'll see how long that courage lasts."
She aimed her wand at Ron.
"Crucio!"
Ron's scream filled the room. His body arched in an unnatural bow, muscles strained to their limits. Hermione jerked against her bonds, ignoring the pain of her own wounds.
"Stop!" she shouted. "Stop, please!"
Bellatrix maintained the spell, watching Hermione with sick fascination.
"Tell me where Potter is, and I'll stop," she said calmly, as if offering tea.
She watched Ron writhing in pain, feeling her determination battling with despair.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"I don't know!" she finally screamed. "I don't know where he is!"
Bellatrix stopped the spell. Ron collapsed limply to the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven.
"You're lying," hissed Bellatrix, coming closer. "You're lying, Mudblood, and you'll both pay for it."
She aimed her wand at Ron again, but this time she didn't speak the spell. Instead, she looked at Hermione, her eyes glittering with mad fire.
"Perhaps I should let you do it?" she asked quietly. "Perhaps I should force you to torture him yourself? It would be... fun, don't you think?"
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Bellatrix must have noticed her terror, because her smile widened.
"That's what I thought," she said. "Crucio!"
Ron began screaming again. Hermione closed her eyes, but she couldn't block out the sound of his suffering. Tears flowed down her cheeks, mixing with blood from her wounds.
"Look!" growled Bellatrix, grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to open her eyes. "Look at what happens when you defy the Dark Lord!"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The spell continued and continued, and Ron's screams grew weaker, until finally they turned into a quiet, pitiful moan. When Bellatrix finally stopped, his body trembled in post-torture spasms.
Hermione closed her eyes, calling to mind the image of Ron—not this broken, tortured man she had just seen, but Ron full of life, laughing, brave. Ron who was willing to suffer for her, for Harry, for the cause.
She couldn't fail them.
She opened her eyes and looked straight at Bellatrix.
"I don't know," she said firmly. "And even if I did, I would never tell you."
Bellatrix smiled, pressing the blade of a knife to Hermione's cheek.
"We'll see, Mudblood," she whispered. "We'll see."
* * *
Hermione sat in her office, nervously drumming her fingers on her desk. The quiet, repetitive tapping was the only sound breaking the silence of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, empty on Sunday. Afternoon light streamed through the window, casting warm streaks on stacks of documents that usually absorbed all her attention. Today, however, she couldn't focus on any of them.
Instead, her gaze kept wandering toward the door, as if expecting someone to walk through it at any moment. Harry. He was conducting the preliminary interrogation of Draco. She... couldn't. She said she had too much paperwork, but they both knew it was an excuse. She simply wasn't sure if she could maintain a professional facade sitting across from that man. Involuntarily, her hand wandered to the pocket of her robe, where a small crystal vial rested. Just in case. Just if the tension became unbearable. The calming potion she had taken an hour ago was beginning to lose its potency. Stress only shortened its effect.
Her gaze fell again on the black rose lying on her desk. Yesterday, when she returned home after going out for dinner with Harry, she found it on the windowsill of her apartment—the second one that day. She had never received two roses in one day before. For six months, there had been an unwritten schedule—one rose, one meeting.
After that kiss in her apartment, everything had changed. Of course, they met once more, and neither mentioned the kiss. But a second rose on the same day? As if Draco was desperate to see her. As if something had changed in their relationship and he felt it too.
After meeting with Harry, she decided not to go. She took his words and advice to heart. That's why when she returned home and saw the black rose with a new address, she decided—end this cycle of self-destruction. End degrading herself with this man.
That night she barely slept. She lay in the darkness, eyes open staring at the ceiling, while the black rose rested on her nightstand, looming like an accusatory shadow in the gloom. Every few hours she would get up to take another dose of calming potion, but even that couldn't quiet the chaos of thoughts. Draco, Percy, Harry, Padma—their faces whirled in her mind, merging into one kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions.
Early in the morning, as the first rays of sun began to penetrate the curtains, Harry appeared in her apartment. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all—his hair was in even greater disarray than usual, eyes circled with dark shadows, and on his cheek was a pen mark, as if he had fallen asleep over documents. He brought with him a folder filled with papers and a thermos of coffee, which only confirmed the theory of a sleepless night. It turned out that a bottle of Claritas had also been found at Percy's. This wasn't a coincidence or a false lead, as they initially suspected. The potion was under his bed, similar to Padma's case, suggesting Percy regularly took it.
Not only that—Harry spent the night checking information about the company producing Claritas. The results were at least disturbing. Besides being a small Romanian company near dragon reserves, absolutely nothing was known about it. No data on owners, no registration documents, no traces of potion imports to Great Britain. Yet Claritas was available in pharmacies across the country.
Harry laid out the documents before her—incomplete, fragmentary, full of gaps that, despite his team's efforts, could not be filled. Aurors had tried to track the distribution path, the flow of money, but trails ended in the strangest places, as if someone had very carefully erased all traces.
Harry began to suspect that her reaction and accusation of Malfoy, though sudden and impulsive, might have deeper justification. Perhaps her intuition was leading her in the right direction. Malfoy had the means, knowledge, and contacts to carry out such a complicated operation. Most importantly—he had a history of operating in the gray area of the law.
She listened to his theory with mixed feelings. On one hand, the evidence Harry presented formed a logical whole. On the other—she couldn't stop thinking about Draco, how he played with Harry's children in her apartment, how he told them a fairy tale about colorful dragons, how his lips touched hers...
But these were personal sentiments that had no place in an official investigation. People were in comas. Percy Weasley, Padma Patil, Blaise Zabini, and many others—all unconscious, connected to magical apparatus keeping them alive. And if Malfoy had anything to do with it, it was her duty to prove it, regardless of personal complications.
So when Harry proposed an immediate search of the Malfoy estate, she agreed without hesitation. They needed evidence, concrete, irrefutable evidence. And they intended to find it before another person fell into a coma.
Suddenly she felt relief—as if making this decision freed her from the weight of doubt. She was Hermione Granger, an employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She had duties, rules, responsibilities. And she couldn't allow any personal relationship to stand in the way of justice.
Even if that relationship was a toxic, destructive, but strangely addictive affair with Draco Malfoy.
A knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She jerked, spilling ink on the document she was pretending to read.
"Enter," she called, quickly cleaning the mess with a spell.
Harry entered the office, and the expression on his face immediately told her that the interrogation hadn't gone as he had hoped.
"Well?" she asked, trying to sound professional, though her heart was beating so hard she was sure Harry must hear it.
Harry sighed, dropping into the chair opposite her.
"Malfoy isn't admitting to anything," he said, not sitting down. "Of course, what else did we expect? He sat there like a bloody aristocrat, looking down at me as if he were the one conducting the interrogation!"
"What exactly did he say?" Hermione asked, trying to maintain her composure.
"That he has absolutely nothing to do with Claritas. That his company has never produced this potion. That accusing him is 'absurd and stems from personal prejudice.'" Harry snorted, clearly agitated. "Of course, he also threatened lawsuits and complaints to the Wizengamot. His magical defender is already roaming the corridors, trying to reach Kingsley." Harry suddenly stopped, looking at her intently. "Hermione, he's hiding something. I can feel it. During the interrogation, he was too composed, too confident. As if he knew exactly what to say so he couldn't be caught on anything."
"Did he mention anything about the composition of Claritas? About its potential harmfulness?" she asked, trying to redirect the conversation to specifics.
"Oh, yes!" Harry almost shouted. "He had the audacity to claim that the ingredients we identified—dragon blood, unicorn horn dust, petrified mandrake leaves—cannot be used together in a potion because they would create an unstable mixture that would be ineffective or deadly. As if suggesting that we are wrong in our analysis, not him in production!"
"And do you believe him?" she asked carefully.
Harry laughed bitterly.
"Of course not. But I ordered it checked at the Ministry laboratory. If he's lying, we'll have another piece of evidence against him."
"What's next?" asked Hermione, feeling her stomach tighten into a knot.
"We continue the interrogation tomorrow. Now let him sit in a cell overnight, think things over. Maybe in the morning he'll be more willing to cooperate," Harry smiled crookedly. "His defender is trying to get bail, but for now I've rejected the request. The risk of obstruction is too great."
"Did he..." Hermione hesitated, trying to find a neutral way to ask the question. "Did he ask about me?"
"He said something like 'Since Granger was so eager to burst into my home, I thought she would be equally eager to look me in the eye during interrogation.' He sounded furious."
Hermione felt her cheeks burning. Of course Draco is angry. She expected nothing less. She accused him, arrested him, and then didn't have the courage to face him during the interrogation.
"What did you tell him?"
"That you have better things to do than listen to his lies," Harry shrugged. "But tomorrow I want you there with me. Malfoy has always had a... specific attitude toward you. Maybe your presence will throw him off balance, force him into some mistake."
Hermione froze.
"Do you think that's necessary? I have a lot of work with documentation and..."
"This is a priority," Harry interrupted her firmly. "So many people are already in comas, and Merlin knows how many more could get sick if we don't stop the distribution of Claritas. Two new cases appeared today, despite the potion's sale being completely halted. I need you there, Hermione."
"Of course," she agreed, knowing she had no other choice. "I'll be there."
"Great. Interrogation at nine in the morning." Harry moved toward the door but stopped at the threshold. "Oh, and one more thing. Malfoy asked to speak with you. Alone."
Hermione felt her heart stop for a moment, then begin to beat at a dizzying speed.
"What?"
"He said he has information he'll only share with you," Harry rolled his eyes. "Classic tactic—trying to drive a wedge between us. Of course I refused."
"Rightly so," she said automatically, though her thoughts were racing madly. What did Draco want to tell her? What was he getting at?
"Anyway, see you tomorrow," Harry nodded and left, leaving her alone with her chaotic thoughts.
Hermione sank heavily into her chair, trying to control her trembling hands. Draco would spend the night in a cell. Tomorrow she would have to sit across from him during the interrogation, pretending she didn't know the taste of his lips, that she didn't know what his face looked like contorted in ecstasy. And he—he would look at her with those cold, gray eyes that could read her like an open book.
How long would she be able to maintain her mask of professionalism? Harry had guessed, but what if others guessed too?
Her hand wandered to the vial in her pocket. One more dose. Just to calm her nerves. Just to be able to think clearly.
But before she could take out the vial, there was a knock at the window. An elegant black owl sat on the windowsill with a small scroll of parchment tied to its leg. Even from this distance, Hermione could notice the characteristic silver trim of the seal—the Malfoy family crest.
Her heart stopped. This couldn't be a message from Draco—he was in a Ministry cell, without a wand, without any means of contact with the outside world. So what did this letter with the Malfoy crest mean?
With trembling hands, she approached the window and let the owl in. The bird landed gracefully on her desk, extending its leg with the letter. As soon as she untied the parchment, the owl soared into the air and disappeared into the afternoon sky, not waiting for a reply.
Hermione stared at the scroll for a long moment, not daring to open it. Finally, taking a deep breath, she broke the seal.
The handwriting didn't belong to Draco. It was more ornate, elegant, written by a practiced female hand.
"Dear Miss Granger," the letter read. "In light of today's disturbing events, I wish to invite you to tea at Malfoy Manor today at five o'clock in the afternoon. I have information that may prove crucial to your investigation.
Narcissa Malfoy."
Hermione felt her lips part in astonishment. Narcissa Malfoy—Draco's mother, a woman who once wouldn't have deigned to look at her as an equal—was inviting her to the manor? This had to be a trap. Or... something else, something she couldn't figure out.
She had nothing against meeting with Narcissa. Indeed, the woman might possess information relevant to the investigation. But Malfoy Manor? The mere thought of returning to that place caused a wave of nausea to rise in her throat. That's where Bellatrix Lestrange had tortured her. That's where she had held dying Ron in her arms, helpless, unable to save him, watching the light fade from his eyes.
How could Narcissa suggest that place? It was an incredible tactlessness—or a deliberate provocation. A woman who had survived the war must have been aware of the memories that connected Hermione to that house.
With a decisive motion, she reached for a quill and parchment. The answer had to be firm but diplomatic. After all, she still needed the information Narcissa might have.
After several unsuccessful attempts, during which she corrected phrases that were too harsh or too emotional, she wrote the final version:
"Dear Mrs. Malfoy,
I gladly accept your proposal for a meeting. Information regarding the current investigation is, of course, a priority for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
I must, however, express surprise at your choice of location. I thought a person of your experience and social sensitivity would be aware that some locations are not suitable for conducting professional conversations due to... let's say, too rich a history.
I suggest Madam Puddifoot's café in Hogsmeade, today at five o'clock. This place certainly has an atmosphere more conducive to a neutral exchange of information, without the unnecessary burden of memories that might disrupt our conversation.
I trust you will appreciate my candor, just as I appreciate your willingness to cooperate in the matter of your son.
Respectfully,
Hermione Granger
Department of Magical Law Enforcement"
She folded the parchment, sealed it, and summoned a Ministry official owl. She watched as the bird disappeared in the distance, carrying her message.
Meeting with Narcissa Malfoy could bring a breakthrough in the case. Hermione looked at the clock—she still had two hours until the meeting. Narcissa had replied instantly, accepting the change of venue with cool courtesy.
Those two hours of waiting stretched into infinity. She tried to focus on documents, review the laboratory report on the composition of Claritas, check import registries—all in vain. Her thoughts constantly returned to Draco sitting in a Ministry cell, to his eyes that tomorrow would rest on her during the interrogation.
She put down and picked up her quill, wrote and crossed out notes, stood up and sat down—all under the watchful gaze of the black rose that still lay on her desk, like a silent reproach to her conscience.
What information could Narcissa have? Was it about her son, or perhaps about the potion? Was she trying to defend Draco, or perhaps the opposite—provide evidence of his guilt? Narcissa had always been unpredictable, but one thing Hermione knew for certain—the woman would do anything to protect her only son. And that's exactly what caused Hermione the greatest anxiety—just how far would Narcissa be willing to go to save her son from Azkaban?
Hermione's hands began to tremble again. Mechanically, she reached into her pocket for the vial of calming potion. She drank it in one gulp, feeling the familiar warmth spread throughout her body, dampening her worst fears. It didn't solve the problem, she knew that, but at least it allowed her to function.
When the time came, she Apparated to Hogsmeade, standing in front of Madam Puddifoot's café. The place hadn't changed much since her school days—it was still overly decorated, full of frills and pink accents, but at least at this time of year it wasn't crowded with couples in love.
Precisely at five o'clock, she pushed the door, entering. Her gaze immediately traveled to the farthest, most secluded table, where an elegant woman with platinum blonde hair sat.
Narcissa Malfoy looked exactly as Hermione remembered her—impeccably dressed, with perfectly styled hair, her posture suggesting years of aristocratic upbringing. The only difference was the fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that didn't exist during their last meeting.
Their gazes met. Hermione took a deep breath and moved toward the woman who could be either her most valuable ally or most dangerous adversary in the case of Draco Malfoy.
When Hermione approached the table, something happened that she completely did not expect. Narcissa Malfoy rose from her seat in an elegant, fluid motion and extended her hand.
"Miss Granger, thank you so much for coming," she said with a gentleness Hermione had never heard from her before. "And I wish to apologize for such an unfortunate choice of location for our meeting. It was... extremely tactless of me."
Hermione shook her hand, trying to hide her surprise. Narcissa's hand was cool and smooth, her grip surprisingly firm.
"I was so distraught about Draco's situation that I completely didn't think..." Narcissa hesitated, searching for the right words. "I'm grateful that you pointed out this error to me. That's the last place I should have invited you to."
There was a hint of genuine regret in her voice that threw Hermione off balance. Was Narcissa Malfoy really apologizing? Could it be sincere?
"Please sit down," Narcissa indicated the chair across from her. "I've already ordered tea. I hope Earl Grey will be suitable?"
Hermione nodded, sitting opposite the woman whose son she had arrested just a few hours earlier.
"Perfect, thank you," Hermione replied, still unsure how to behave in this strange situation. She never expected to be drinking tea with Narcissa Malfoy, and certainly not that the woman would apologize to her for anything.
Narcissa raised an elegant teapot with her hand and poured tea into two thin porcelain cups. Her movements were fluid, practiced through years in the salons of wizarding aristocracy.
"I appreciate that you agreed to meet with me so quickly," she said, handing Hermione a cup. "I know the situation is... complicated."
"Certainly," she replied, carefully observing the woman's face. "You mentioned information that might be important to the investigation."
Narcissa nodded, taking a small sip of tea before answering:
"I understand that the Department suspects my son of involvement in the production and distribution of the Claritas potion."
"That's what the evidence currently suggests," Hermione admitted cautiously.
"My son has nothing to do with this potion," Narcissa said firmly, but without aggression in her voice. "And I have evidence that confirms this."
Hermione raised her eyebrows.
"What evidence?"
"First, financial documentation for Malfoy Industries for the past two years." Narcissa indicated an elegant leather briefcase lying next to her chair. "Every transaction, every contract, every ingredient import—everything is documented and verified by the goblins at Gringotts. There is absolutely no trace of purchasing ingredients that are supposedly in Claritas."
"These documents could be falsified," Hermione noted. "He could also purchase products completely anonymously."
Narcissa smiled slightly.
"Goblins don't sign falsified documents, Miss Granger. They're too proud for that... and too greedy. Besides, I can present other evidence. Draco was in France when the first batch of Claritas appeared on the British market. We spent two weeks at our estate in Provence, visiting vineyards. I have witnesses, photographs, confirmation of reservations."
"Why are you telling me this? Why didn't you provide this information directly to Auror Potter?"
Narcissa stared at her intensely for a moment, as if trying to make some decision. Finally, she set down her cup and said quietly:
"Because it seemed to me that you have... a personal interest in knowing the truth about my son."
Hermione felt the blood drain from her face. Did she know? About her and Draco? About their meetings?
"I don't understand what you're suggesting," she said stiffly.
"I'm not suggesting anything," Narcissa gently shook her head. "I merely noticed that it was you who personally came to arrest my son, you who interrogated my daughter-in-law, and you who seem most involved in this case. So I thought it would be most sensible to provide this information directly to you."
Hermione wasn't convinced this was the whole truth, but she decided not to pursue the topic.
"If your son is innocent, why is he hiding something from us? During the interrogation, Auror Potter got the impression that Draco isn't telling the whole truth."
Narcissa sighed, and a shadow of worry appeared in her eyes.
"My son is... a complicated man. The war changed all of us, but Draco most of all. He feels responsible for many things that weren't his fault. And he carries the burden of the Malfoy name—a name that once commanded respect but now often evokes contempt."
She paused, as if considering whether she should continue. Finally, she went on:
"As for hiding something... Yes, Draco conducts certain business dealings that might be on the edge of legality. He imports potion ingredients from countries where regulations aren't as strict as in Great Britain. Sometimes he collaborates with people of questionable reputation. But he hasn't poisoned anyone, Miss Granger. He's not a man who would put innocent people in danger for profit."
Somewhere deep in her heart, Hermione felt this might be true. Draco could be cruel, ruthless, even sadistic—but not senselessly. Not without purpose. And certainly not in a way that would harm his own interests.
"Why didn't he tell this to Auror Potter?" she asked.
"Because Harry Potter is the last person to whom Draco would admit any weakness," Narcissa answered with a hint of a smile. "Their mutual dislike runs too deep. And I'm afraid my son is unable to be rational when it comes to Mr. Potter."
This Hermione could understand. The mutual hostility between Draco and Harry hadn't diminished over the years, despite both theoretically having grown up and left their school animosities behind.
"Is there anything else I should know?" she asked.
Narcissa hesitated, and her eyes momentarily lost their typical self-assurance.
"Draco isn't perfect, Miss Granger. He has his flaws, his demons, his mistakes. But he isn't the man everyone thinks he is. And I truly think you know that."
These words hung between them, full of hidden meanings. Hermione didn't know how to respond. Instead, she reached for the folder that Narcissa had pushed toward her.
"I'll pass these documents to the appropriate people," she said officially. "They'll be verified according to Ministry procedures."
"Of course," Narcissa agreed. "I don't expect you to believe me on my word. But please keep an open mind. And... please don't judge Draco too harshly. He's trying to be a better man, although he doesn't always succeed."
Narcissa hesitated, and then continued in a quieter voice:
"I know my son better than anyone in this world, Miss Granger. I carried him under my heart, saw his first steps, his tears, his smiles... and his mistakes. I know when he's lying and when he's telling the truth. And I know with absolute certainty that he didn't do this."
Her eyes grew more intense as she leaned slightly toward Hermione.
"I'm not claiming Draco is without guilt. He has done terrible things in his life for which he still pays. But behind many of them stood his father, who now rots in Azkaban, as he deserves. Draco was a child shaped by our mistakes, by our blind obedience to... certain ideals."
This was the closest admission of guilt Hermione had ever heard from any of the Malfoys. Narcissa was speaking about Voldemort, though even now, after so many years, she didn't say his name.
"If you have any questions, I would like to ask that you contact me directly. I will always answer honestly, as much as I'm able. And I would prefer if you didn't involve... Celestine in this."
The way she pronounced her daughter-in-law's name was impeccable—perfectly polite, without a trace of open dislike. Yet Hermione clearly felt the coldness in her voice, the slight curling of her lips, the barely noticeable change in posture. Narcissa Malfoy evidently didn't care for her daughter-in-law, though she was too well-bred to say so directly.
"Celestine is... very busy with her own affairs," she added with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And she isn't necessarily privy to all aspects of Draco's activities. For her own good, of course."
These words, spoken with perfect courtesy, contained many layers. Was Narcissa suggesting that his wife wasn't trustworthy? That she was isolated from Draco's real life? Or perhaps she simply didn't like the woman who had entered her family?
"I will do everything in my power to find the truth," Hermione finally said, standing up. "Thank you for the information."
Narcissa also stood, again extending her hand.
"Thank you for listening to me, Miss Granger. And..." she hesitated, "...please take care of yourself. You look tired."
This unexpected expression of concern surprised Hermione more than anything else during this strange meeting. She merely nodded, unable to respond, and left the café, clutching the folder of documents like a shield.
Outside, she drew in the cool evening air, trying to organize her thoughts. The information from Narcissa could change the entire direction of the investigation.
Upon returning to the Ministry, she went straight to Harry's office. She found him bent over reports, with a cup of now-cold coffee beside him.
"I have something you should see," she said, placing the folder on the desk.
Harry looked at the documents, then shifted his gaze to her, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, though from the tone of his voice it was clear he already knew the answer.
"From Narcissa Malfoy. I met with her in Hogsmeade."
The explosion was immediate and violent. Harry jumped up from his chair, his face reddening with anger.
"You met with the suspect's mother without my knowledge?! Without backup?! Have you completely lost your mind, Hermione?! It could have been a trap!"
She listened to the entire tirade in silence, too tired to defend herself. When he finally exhausted his supply of terms for her irresponsibility, she pointed to the folder.
"Just look through it. Financial documents from Malfoy Industries. They could change the direction of the investigation."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left his office. She knew that tomorrow she would face the continuation of his reprimand, but now she needed rest. At home, she swallowed a sleeping pill washed down with calming potion—a dangerous combination, but the only thing that could ensure her a few hours of sleep.
Tomorrow, the most difficult interrogation of her career awaited her. She had to face Draco—not as a lover, but as a Ministry official. And she had no idea if she would be able to maintain a professional facade when his gray eyes would pierce right through her, seeing much more than anyone else.