It feels like the world is exploding, and she's thrown back, her hand slipping effortlessly out of Ron's, onto a rough, uncaring floor.
It feels like days, but perhaps it's only minutes before people are stirring, and Hermione hears it:
"No! Fred! No!"
She's fighting to get up, from under the rocks and dust and unconscious, maybe even dead bodies, and Percy is shaking him, and something in Hermione breaks, falls and falls until part of her is burning in Hell.
Fred, whose hands would gently brush her spine when he walked by, whose smile seemed to warm Hermione from head to toe, who Hermione secretly imagined when Ron would brush her face, say her name.
Inside she is screaming, but nothing escapes her. She's too busy burning. Far too busy to console Ron, too busy to find Harry- the reason he is dead in the first place.
She is too busy burning from the inside out.