Draco's bare shoulders as he sucked the poison from her.

The silence of Ron's scream for her from across the stage at the Palace.

A body flying backwards, hitting the pillar of a gazebo.

Harry's small frame in Hagrid's arms.

Hissing lips, spitting acid at her from the audience of a grand theatre.

The dried blood on Ginny's temple as she turned to her, pale skin translucent in the spotlight.

Hermione took each of them, holding them like books, and placed them on tall shelves, or shoved their thin spines inside of larger ones, hiding them on bottom shelves. She pulled forward the memory of her parents taking her to the circus. Her mother's perfume bottle as it was replaced on the vanity. Her father's easy laugh at unfunny jokes. An entire shelf was open at eye-level, now that she'd replaced the other thoughts. She filled it with happy memories of her parents.

When she brought forward the memory of her mother's hand clutching hers in the balcony of the Palace Theatre as the first of them died on the barricade, she heard an echo of dark voices. Voices that screamed for her to bend over and strip. Voices that shouted her worth in Galleons.

A book on the bottom shelf of her mind slid forward, begging to be opened.

She focused on pushing it away again.

"Granger."

Her eyes blinked. She was staring at the pond from a deep armchair in the Manor's library.

The books inside her mind shivered, thrumming with the energy it took for her to contain them—to keep them in place. Only happy memories of her parents.

"Granger," someone said again.

She swam back to herself. There was someone next to her. But if she looked at him, the books would fall off their shelves and she'd be left only with bare shoulders and crumpled bodies and silky voices—

"You're feeling better?" she asked, drawing breath from her lungs and preparing to look away from the pond and the still waters. "How are your ribs?"

She focused her mind, called upon her strength to keep her shields up. Her heart pounded with an excitement to see him again. And she quieted that book, pushing it away.

"Better," his voice rumbled.

Breathing deep, she turned her eyes to him, taking in a tall body leaning slightly to the right, and curious eyes gazing down at her.

Only happy memories of her parents.

Her gaze flitted away, her energy focused on the bookshelves in her mind.

"How was your birthday?" She knew her own lips had asked the question, but the voice was unfamiliar to her. "Were you able to enjoy it—?"

"Look at me."

She felt the command in her bones. Turning her head to him, finding his grey eyes, she saw him twitch at the sight of her. He looked down at the book in her lap, then back up at her.

Hermione saw him through a haze, recognizing him, but also failing to place him. Her body filled with cotton, her head filled with dust.