Their bodies returned to their usual selves, and Harri could hear themself breathing, their blood pumping, as they waited. A finger twitched, a foot. Ten seconds or more passed before finally, blessedly, the witches began to thoroughly stir. Hermione was the first to move, and as she rose, she nearly collapsed back onto the ground, her hair splayed out across her face and eyes rolling within her skull. She moved forward on hands and knees to cup Bellatrix’s head, guiding the older witch to wakefulness and life. They crashed upon one another with arms and teeth, whispering to one another in voices that Harri could hardly make out. They grinned, after a moment, when the sound resolved into nascent parseltongue, unlearned, known only by their souls.