She sat in front of the vanity mirror, carefully applying concealer to her under eyes. By rights, the horrible dark circles should be well and truly gone by now. She felt like all she did these days was sleep. Hours and hours of oblivion. Not that she minded, particularly. Sleep meant no thinking. Sleep meant pleasant dreams that (more often than she was willing to admit) bled into nightmares that would force her to wake in a cold sweat. She should be well rested, and it should reflect in her face. But it didn't. The bags under her eyes could have hidden a herd of centaurs and, no matter what she did, she couldn't muster up enough energy to put some light into her empty eyes. She knew the others were starting to worry. It had been weeks since she had woken and the updated potions had begun working their (metaphorical) magic. And yet she was still essentially a lifeless blob more often than she wasn't. She played it off, or tried to, by telling them that a side effect of the nerve potion was a flatness of personality - something that couldn't be avoided with the powerful ingredients used to deaden her nerve endings. But, in reality, she was just so goddamned tired. Too tired to try and fake it. Somewhere, the Hermione of old was screaming at this new version of herself. This Hermione couldn't find it in herself to care. Old Hermione had magic. Had purpose. Had freedom. She had none of those things.