Not in the way a forest can be wrong after dark, or during a storm. Wrong like a wound that hasn't healed properly. The trees bend at angles that ache to look at, their branches tangled like snapped fingers.

You've been running for three days.

Well. Four, if you count the first night, when you'd apparated into a bog and spent six hours pulling Hermione out of quicksand before realizing you'd gone east instead of west.

Harry's asleep against a moss-slick rock, his glasses crooked, his scar a violent red beneath the dirt. Ron's on watch, which means Ron's also asleep, his chin tucked into his coat, wand dangling from limp fingers.

Hermione is the only one who looks alive, and she looks alive in the way a cornered cat does—wide-eyed, twitchy, ready to draw blood.

You all freeze.

The forest holds its breath. Then—

Except the anger is different now. It's worn like a coat. It fits him.