[ It leaves her feeling empty, to have told the story of her scar. Not even the anchor shard in the centre of her palm - now clenched into a fist - feels as much like it is burning as the ugly word pressed into her forearm. It has been years since she got it. It has been years since she thought of it. It has also been not a day gone by without thinking of it.

Sleeping Draughts might be necessary, she thinks to herself as her pulse races in a panic, and then -

then her table companion speaks, of a different kind of half-blood, of a different kind of mudblood, and Hermione connects the dots and hears those rhymes.

She still listens to it, all of it. Wants to say something kind, and understanding, like gods, that is terrible, but maybe the open honesty in her expression spells it out for her, because the words lock in her throat. Then she is left with that tidbit about Templars, cherry on top. ] Circles sound like such delightful places where anyone would want to be, especially people who can get pregnant.

[ The honest expression turns into a scowl, aimed at imaginary foes in this scenario, whoever they may be. ]

Your uncle sounds like a right git.