Still when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named broke into her home intent on killing her, Amelia had been terrified, and she was old enough now that she wasn't above admitting it. Fear however, was a useful tool, and the witch had clung to that fear as she fought off the wizards attacks. Fear meant she was alive, and she damned well intended on staying that way.
It had been completely accidental, managing to clip the bastard in the shoulder with a nasty hex, but it had been enough to knock him off balance and give her the opening she had been looking for. Apparating while injured and so very distracted had been a risky move, but she had managed it, even if she'f left herself open for one final attack. Why Voldemort hadn't cast the killing curse at her fleeing back, she didn't know, but whatever he had sent her way had caused such pain that before she even appeared outside the gates of Hogwarts, she had fell unconscious.
It might have been hours, days, years spent drifting through a haze of warmth and pleasantness, she really didn't know, but when she felt a small tendril of pain slivering up her spine, and consciousness flitted near the edges of her safe haven, Amelia did her best to cling viciously to whatever refuge she had been in. Consciousness seemed to be more of a formidable opponent however, and soon Amelia found herself blinking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. The room swayed and dipped around her, and her stomach screamed in protest.
"Stop," She moaned, wanting whoever, whatever, was making the world around her spin to stop.
Han mathon ne chae. I feel it in the earth. A han noston ned 'wilith. I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it. •