The world around her explodes. When it comes back, it is in bits and pieces.
In a sea of blackness, the pinpricks of perception glint like shattered glass.
A black, scuffed boot.
A soft touch on her curls.
A swaying motion.
Warmth.
Nothing.
Soft greenish light.
The smell of earth and trees.
Birdsong.
Darkness.
Hushed voices, concerned.
A debilitating ache in her head.
A pained moan.
Silence again.
Warm liquid that trickles down her throat.
A hand at her neck that steadies her head.
Flashes of silver in her vision.
A soft question: “How do you feel?”
She doesn’t answer.
Loud, angry voices.
“She is catatonic. She needs a mind healer.”
“Relax, she just needs time.”
She stirs, her fingers twitch. Pain.
The voices fall silent.
Long white fingers on her hand.
A comforting squeeze.
A searching gray gaze.
Her own croaking voice.
“Draco. You found me.”
A radiant smile.
“Yes, Hermione. You are safe."
Later.
Later she would ask what happened.
Where she was.
If the war still raged.
For now, this was enough.
They were together. Finally.
She slept, a smile on her face.