As everyone else slowly began clearing out, Hermione stayed where she was, feet rooted to the ground as if it were a part of her, connected. Here, connected to the ground she was still connected to Ron; she was still whole. If she were to move, she would cease to be a whole person. She would cease to be anything.

As they passed, people muttered their condolences, giving her pats on the shoulder, and squeezes of the hand that she barely even registered. She didn't feel anything at this moment; not the cold wind, not the rain pricking against her face, dampening her hair, not Harry's arm around her shoulder as he stood next to her, looking down into his best friend's grave whilst clutching the hand of the lithe eccentric blonde on his other side.

With a quick kiss to her temple, Harry removed his arm, wiped angrily at his eyes, and walked away as well, Luna trailing behind him after she too, placed a quick hand on Hermione's arm.

This was all wrong. The war had ended, and yet here they were again, mourning someone who had lost his life so senselessly, so prematurely. How was this okay? How was this fair? Didn't the world have any kindness left? Hermione was starting to think that it couldn't.

And that Ron had died defending her… had died, stopping the ruthless torture she was forced to keep re-living in her mind every day since it happened; it made no sense, and now everyone was insisting on treating her as if she were made of glass.

After. After she had woken in St. Mungo's, after they had told her about Ron, they had given her the ring they had found in a box in his jacket pocket. It was a small diamond offset by two tiny pearls. It had been meant for her, had her name inscribed on the inside, but now it was too late. It was After.

No longer caring about putting on a brave face now that most everyone had cleared away except for a few stragglers, Hermione let herself crumple at the knees, until she was sitting haphazardly on the damp grass by the open grave, so very un-elegant in her rumpled black dress. Pulling the chafing heels off of her feet, she slumped forward, too exhausted to do much else; too exhausted even to cry. She felt cried out. Instead she took to staring straight ahead at the bleary mass of orange and yellow flowers that Mrs. Weasley had placed on her youngest son's coffin. She stared until they transformed in her mind into the hair of that boy, who had meant so much to her for so long, and was then startled to find that the head of red hair was moving, coming towards her.

Suddenly, her sight clearing, she found that it wasn't Ron's ghost at all, but Ginny, her brilliant matching red locks falling out of their messy bun as she stooped to Hermione's level.

"C'mon, 'Mione. Time to go." The younger girl's voice was rough, as if speaking were hard, and although startled by the sound of it, Hermione imagined that it might be difficult. The girl had lost two brothers and her boyfriend had left her in the space of a month, and she had still been expected to somehow hold her family together. How could she be stopping now to even give a care for Hermione? Hadn't Ron's death been Hermione's fault? How could no one see that? Hadn't she expressed her guilt?

Knowing that she ought not argue with Ginny, not here and now, she took the offered hand up, wobbling a bit as she put her shoes back on robotically, and followed the beacon of red hair away from the field and up the winding path back to the Burrow.

The atmosphere in the familiar cottage was somber at best. She could see Harry on the couch in the living room, his head pressed onto Luna's shoulder as he clung onto the deluminator, bequeathed to him in the will that none of them had known Ron had made.

In the kitchen George was leaning against the counter staring dully into a glass of firewhiskey. He looked up and gave Hermione a nod and a sad smile. That first day he had spent two hours trying to convince Hermione through her hysterics that it hadn't been her fault, not that Hermione had been wiling to listen. Suddenly at the memory, she felt a bit sick. He had just recently lost Fred, and now Ron, and yet he had been trying to console her. She was selfish.

In the corner, Mr. Weasley was patting the hair of his inconsolable wife, as Percy, face an odd ashen white, was brewing tea at the stove, trying to keep busy. Out the window, Hermione could just barely make out the forms of Bill and Charlie setting about the grim task of burying their brother as the sun made it's quick descent, and a heavily pregnant Fleur was watching them from the doorway.

None of this was right, thought Hermione. It was all so cruel, as if it were a trick left behind by Voldemort himself, and, not for the first time, did she consider whether or not that was what it was. After all, hadn't Ron been killed by a known and faithful follower of You Know Who?

She shuddered, and retreated back into herself. It was easier here, unseeing, and without even a thought, she let whoever was grasping her hand take the lead.

Minutes later, she found herself upstairs in Ginny's room, on Ginny's floor, unable to keep upright another second, and she realized that she had no idea how she had gotten here.

"Hermione…"

A soft voice broke through the haze, and the older witch's vision cleared, her eyes settling on another pair, in a vibrant green colour that seemed to be full of questions that Hermione wasn't sure she could answer, even if she had the entirety of the Hogwarts library at her disposal.

Something in the tone of that voice however broke something down within her that she had been holding back for over a week now, and suddenly it was all Hermione could do to pull away and run.

She didn't know what she was running toward, or away from, but she knew that she had to move. She couldn't handle soft voices. She couldn't handle any voices. The one in her head was too much as it was. She tore down the stairs, through the sitting room past Harry and Luna, through the kitchen full the the brim with grieving Weasleys and other loved ones. She let the back door slam on her way through, now bare feet squishing in the mud of the garden, and then through tall grass and brambles that snagged at her dress and cut up her shins and feet. She kept on running over rocks, and sticks and gods only knew whatever else, because that was better than thinking. It was better than feeling. It was better than anything had been since that day; that night.

What she hadn't counted on was the swiftness of the youngest Weasley child, who had now caught up, and was yelling for Hermione to please, please stop, but Hermione couldn't. She had to keep running, even if her lungs were protesting, and her muscles ached, and the bruises that she hadn't let heal yet were screaming, and her ribs were in a stabbing pain. This physical pain was so much better than the alternative.

As if she had given up, Ginny stopped, letting the older girl continue for a moment, before hitting Hermione with a swift and painless stunning spell and levitating her to the ground before she could fall and inflict more damage upon herself.

Cursing under her breath as her back landed on the grass as if she were a feather, Hermione admonished herself for forgetting that she could easily be stopped, and swallowed deeply, closing her eyes, not wanting to see those green eyes again that were so much like Ron's.

The next moment she felt Ginny's hand on her shoulder, and then felt a soft mattress under her back rather than the scratchy damp ground. She knew the younger girl had side-along-apparated her back into her room.

When she did open her eyes though, she realized that they weren't at the Burrow at all, but in a very plain white room with a window and a bed and a small hearth and high ceiling, and the plainness of it momentarily startled her out of her hysteria as she had no idea where she was at all.

Turning quickly, reaching reflexively for her wand which she then remembered was lost and in need of replacement, she calmed slightly when she saw Ginny to the side of her, still in her funeral clothes, panting.