Hermione dreamed in color. She dreamed of swirling potions, and multi-hued books. She dreamed of parchments and scrolls, and long, dry fingers rumpling her hair---on the good nights.
On the bad nights.
She dreamed of the night when her world fell away into pieces. She dreamed of blood, hearts, and the pitch of her mother's screams. She dreamed of the fire, which engulfed her house; only this time there was no one there to save her. There were no long fingers pulling her out of the house, no velvety tones whispering spells in her ears. No blissful, painless sleep.