She stared at the Healer, watching as her lips moved while gesturing at the clipboard in hand, but the sight and sounds were strangely distorted, garbled, as if Hermione was watching the scene from within the depths of a murky pool; in point of fact, that was quite an accurate analogy, since her throat had closed up, and she was finding it difficult to breathe as she clawed her way to the surface, struggling to no avail with all of her meager strength.
She was drowning, and those at the surface—Ron, Healer Thorson, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley—seemed to be completely oblivious.
The words that had propelled her into this state repeated themselves incessantly in her mind, clawing at the edges of her brain like a desperate, caged animal: Fertilization successful. Two viable embryos in their very primitive stages. Fraternal twins.
She was drowning, and those at the surface—Ron, Healer Thorson, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley—seemed to be completely oblivious.
The words that had propelled her into this state repeated themselves incessantly in her mind, clawing at the edges of her brain like a desperate, caged animal: Fertilization successful. Two viable embryos in their very primitive stages. Fraternal twins.
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