"Will I?" Hermione asked him, wiping the remnants of tears from her cheek. "I hope you're right, Ron. I just...I can't handle this." And suddenly her despair shifted to anger, outright rage that this was happening. She yanked herself away from him and swept a book from her desk to the floor, where it settled with a satisfying SLAM. She didn't know why the noise made her feel better, but it did. "It's not FAIR," she yelled, now throwing a pillow toward the wall at the opposite side of the room. She resembled nothing more than a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, her cheeks red and tear-stained and her god-be-damned hair frizzing out wildly in every direction.
She sat on the bed and rubbed her forehead as though she had a headache. "Ron," she said quietly. "I...what if..." Part of her didn't want to voice this concern to him, but if she didn't now, she didn't know when she ever would. Hermione felt reckless and like she had everything to lose if she didn't speak. "What if something happens to you? I don't know what I'd do..."