She had seen death. Luna knew death. Death, she had told herself, was simply a part of life. Death, while definitely sad, was not scary. Really. But now here it was again, lashing out at her, coming out of nowhere. Unexpected, this death was terror in every sense of the word. Her throat constricted into a painful vice as moisture pricked at the corners of her eyes. Murder.

"You have a surprisingly dirty tongue… and you made such a big deal out of being a proper little hobbit. Take care or I will make you pay for each and every insult you throw at me."

Hermione hated the idea of being preyed upon. But, just maybe, somewhere deep in her gut she felt a jolt of excitement. Was it simply the thrill of being found attractive enough to pursue, regardless of his intentions?