There was a moment of silence, a moment of reprieve, where everything seemed to stop. Where time itself slowed to the point where Hermione's brain was able to slowly process every sensory input it was receiving. The flutter of Astoria's dark lashes against her translucent cheek sounded like that of a butterfly's wings; the sheen of the silver tools in her blood-stained hands gleamed under the harsh lighting of the kitchen; the background roar of an engine as others pulled into the garage rushed through her veins like the oxygen she inhaled.