Her fingers were dainty, he noticed, as they danced languidly against the morning sun streaming through the blinds.
"What are you thinking of, little bird?"
Captivating, he decided, in a way they tried their hardest to grasp the tiny particle of dust light.
"What is it, little bird?"
"I'm thinking."
He outstretched his larger hand only to hold the smaller hand delicately, worried his strong clasp would snap each of her lean finger. It was a wasted concern, he believed, as she was full at strength in this room.
"Of?"
"Of my lost boys."
She curled her fingers around his. Pale against dark, and oddly, feeble, he noted, at least against his firm hold.
"What of them, little bird?"
"I want to know."
Her eyes glimmered, unblinking under the glaring sun. Her face was a perfect portrait: still, vacant, unreadable. Her lips said otherwise, he considered, as they curved slightly into the tiniest of grin.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Are they still lost?"
He hummed curiously, grazing his thumb on her nail rhythmically. The pinkish hue of it matched that of her cheeks, he observed, faint and feminine. He pulled them tenderly to meet his lips.
"Lost?"
"Hopelessly."
She freed her fingers from his, moving freely about like the motes in the sunbeam that she had tried to catch before.
"Hopelessly, little bird?"
"Without me."
"Maybe they're simply waiting for you."
Her brown eyes widened remarkably as she met his black. There were specks of gold, he realised. Luminous, golden, brighter than the morning ray itself.
"For me?"
"Oh, yes."
She rolled to his side, brown curls drooping around her flushed cheeks. There were honey highlights, he noted, as the colour shined like a halo before him. Her velvety hand rested on his bristled cheek.
"Can I see them?"
"Anytime."
She laid on her back, covering her pleased smile with her hands. Her whole body was buzzing in excitement, he mused, enticing an amused grin of his own.
"Will you be there, too?"
Her voice was small, a huff of breath, easily mistaken as a passing breeze. She was unsure, he recognised, from the way she coiled a wayward tendril of hair around her finger.
"If you ask for me."
"I am."
"Then I will."
Her relieved sigh at his presence sang to him. She found his hand again. It was warmer, he felt, and it kept getting warmer and warmer as she molded them together.
"Did they defeat the evil man?"
"They sure did."
"How was it?"
"They did tremendously, little bird."
Her laughter filled the air around them. It was melodious, he noted, how sweet it sounded, dulcet and child-like, a faraway life she wasn't marred by.
"Obviously. They are my boys."
"Still helplessly lost without you."
He straightened up before he offered his other hand to her. The bed was giant, he studied, as he watched her legs sway airily before she tiptoed to reach the floor.
"Can I see them now?"
"Of course, little bird."
He walked backward whilst she forward. Face to face, hand in hand, slow and careful. She was flourishing, he gushed, as her white dress complimented the curvaceous body, clinging to her as if they were sculpted together.
"What if they don't want to see me?"
"They do."
She nodded subtly. She was avoiding his eyes, he figured. Her face tilted down, watching every small step she took.
"What if they don't need me?"
"They do."
He pulled his hand back. The cool air was quick to replace her warmth. It was comforting, he admitted, to feel her warmness enclosed him familiarly. He twisted the doorknob as quietly as he could.
"Are they here?"
"Been here for months."
"Why?"
"Why, waiting for you, of course."
Her rosy cheeks painted into a deeper shade. The image suited her, he noted, making his heart race, stirring the tiny hairs on his neck.
"Stay with me, please."
"Of course, little bird."
He pulled the door open. It was dark, cold and disquieting. His foot planted outside, his other one still inside. The difference was palpable, he assessed. Dark and light, like morning sun and night sky, like her hand and his hand; different yet needed, entwined together.
"Where are they? There's no one."
"They're here, little bird. We just have to walk out of this hallway."
"It's scary."
"It is. But I'm here."
She didn't move. He didn't push her. She bit her bottom lip. He waited. Every single time.
Every single visit.
Every single try.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Ever so patiently.
"I'm scared."
"There's nothing there."
"It's dark!"
"I'll be here."
"She's here!"
"No one's here."
She wiggled out of his hold, pushing him completely out of the sun, into the night. His two feet now glued outside. Her face scrunched in anguish. She curled into herself, a safe haven to her loneliness.
"I thought you're here to help me!"
"I am."
"I thought you were the king, the knight that would lead me to my boys!"
"I am."
Her nails dug deeper and deeper under her skin. Red lines carved onto her arms. Suddenly she stopped. Her body stilled, devoid of emotions and actions.
"You're not real."
"I am."
"You think I'm the hopeless one. The helpless!"
"You're not."
"Kingsley."
"Hermione."
His name sounded divine on her heart-shaped lips. Her name tasted nectarous on his tongue. It hasn't dawned on her, he realised, how the sun room was her own conjurance. How she was trapped. How she needed to escape. It ached him.
"You're not real."
"Hermione."
"This is all their game. Diving into my brain, prying for information and intel!"
He looked around the obscurity. Memory after memory appeared in a foggy form. She had been captured by a group of Death Eaters. Hidden in their deepest lair.
Grainy, ghostly, like the dustlight she was dancing with. He turned to her, watching in pity as she delved into her darkest memory over and over again. In a loop. A never ending torture.
"Hermione."
"I'm not stupid, you Death Eater scum! You can torture me all you want! To insanity! To death! I will never betray Harry!"
It pained him to watch as she withered before his eyes: the prominence of her collar bones, the razor sharpness of her shoulder blades.
"You have to walk through the darkness, little bird. You will find your boys in the light once you past all of this."
"No! This is another trick! I won't fall for it!"
Gone were the rosy pink cheeks; the glow it radiated. In came the lily white skin; a cadaverous facial tint that could paint a hospital wall.
"Hermione, please."
"Shut up, you imposter. You're not Kingsley!"
She tripped herself as she walked backward. Tears dimming her once brilliant eyes as they streamed.
Yet, her now-gaunt face morphed into determination. Her magic flared, circling her protectively. A flame no one could ever extinguish. Not even death. It never failed to amaze him. Her lioness' fierceness, her admirable Gryffindor's loyalty.
He always looked forward to it.
"Leave!"
Her scream slammed the door to her small sunlit room, pushing him out of the puzzling mess of her mind. He closed his eyes. Devastated. Failed. Exhilarated.
He opened his eyes to see her motionless, anchored to her St. Mungo's bed. Snow white and frozen, one with the bed sheets, as dull as the walls, a porcelain doll.
He held his dainty fingers, lifeless and cold, he noted, an incredible contrast to the warmth he'd previously felt from their touch.
She was everything here that she was not there. Feeble, frail, gaunt, ashen. A spiritless body.
And her mind was too broken, a shattered glass.
"Minister, how is she?"
"Still unconscious unfortunately. I'm sorry, Harry."
"I see. No. We're sorry for borrowing your time every single day. But you're the only Legilimens that we trust."
"Don't mention it. This is the least I can do to show my gratitude. The whole wizarding world owed you three so much."
"It's been three years. I fear I might never get the chance to ever talk to her again. I'm starting to forget her voice."
He remembered everything about her.
"I'll assure you we'll get her back."
"Thank you, Kings."
He was once again left alone in the room with her. He brushed her untamable curls sideways, resting his forehead against hers.
"Legilimens."
She was in her bed, ever present, waiting for him and only him. Her false saviour, a selfish man, who wanted nothing of her freedom but only her seclusion, in this small sunlit room of hers, and she of his.
Her fingers were dainty, he noticed, as they danced languidly against the morning sun streaming through the blinds.
"What are you thinking of, little bird?"