Ginny sat worriedly in a worn cushioned chair beside Hermione's hospital bed. As she watched the pale, drawn face of what once was the smartest girl in the history of Hogwarts, her heart skipped a beat. The small red head would never have thought that only two years after the war, after the real chance of dying by the hands of evil, Hermione would be dying, but this time by the hands of nature.
Hermione's room was a colourful fury of flowers. Harry's everlasting orchids sat right beside her bed, while Ron's daffodils stood proudly on the large window's sill, just as Ginny had arranged them. Her slender fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of the chair. She had been in this overly bright room for almost the entire day waiting for Hermione Granger to wake up. Of course, the youngest Weasley never expected Hermione to wake up today, but hoping was just as good for her.
For the past two weeks, Hermione had been in a constant state of sleep. She never moved, didn't make one sound, but Ginny knew she was alive for the one fact that she could still breathe on her own. That was what kept her coming back to Hermione's bright room that always smelt like disinfectant and flowers. Harry and Ron, however, had trouble coming to visit her. They had always seen her as independent, strong, and always ready with a comeback, but now they saw an empty shell, dependent on everyone, weak as a baby. No one even thought of happiness during that time.
Hermione, however, never knew that she was in that seemingly endless state of comatose. Even though she never moved, in her brain she was living life normally, out of the restrictive hospital bed. In her mind, she was a normal nineteen year old pursuing an education, forgotten of all magical qualities. She was a normal muggle.