[It was a whole-body tragedy.
It was an occuring event that took place every second, implementing into every sound—]
When she saw the smoke he knew she knew it was gone.
You swallow your anger and you crawl and this is all very real.
You are not yourself, but instead many things, all very alive and responsive to him.
You suppose it's like—
Magic, probably. All magic.
Hermione looks around— Harry but not really Harry, Ron screaming to save her, Peter Pettigrew being the coward he is, standing in the corner— everything is blurry, just silhouettes she will always recognise and— Lucius Malfoy, or a ghost of him, filthy and tortured and tired, Narcissa Malfoy, scared and anxious and ready— Draco. Lean, tall, wearing a black suit, Draco Malfoy, his grey eyes, Hermione knows, watching her as his aunt throws another Crucio at her and then darkness because her eyes are closed shut and her screams are piercing and chilling and tortorous—
Hermione knew how the events of this era played out.
She has no idea what this new plot twist is.
(In which Tom Riddle is annihilated.)
She should have never stopped walking.
She should have never walked away either.
Not the way she did.