Because twilight used to mean so much more. Oneshot.

Rubex Cube
Rasielle
She hated them, and thought that she always would, no matter how old and experienced and starry-eyed she got. Sure, they were pretty and inspiring, and romantic and idealistic, but somehow that was all that was there. Somehow, no one bothered to make those hateful nights mean more. And she missed the depth, missed the emotions. Because, somehow, there was nothing meaningful, and she couldn't help herself for hating it.

This one was a prime example. Tonight's sky was a dark sheet, its cotton-like clouds like ripples in a dark velvet dress; it hung heavy, low and intense and intoxicating – like perfume. Moon and stars shone like jewelry, were diamonds that twinkled in and out of existence, disappearing in the darkness and reappearing when it seemed like the black would settle. It was so beautiful, all of it; like a fairytale setting.

She couldn't sleep. Restless, she borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak and wrenched it over her, waiting for her heart to reach a less threatening pace. Then, clear-headed, she had stolen into the night, intending to take a walk. Because maybe she could still find a chance to think, something to think about, something three-dimensional, could find another way to dig under Fortuna's skin. Maybe then they could stop pretending everything was normal, would be all right, because those were only illusions.

Where to go? she asked herself. Not the library. It was a place to visit in the daytime, to study. Not a place to think. No, she needed a thoughtful environment for that. Something unique.

And she headed to the Owlery, because she would probably be alone.

It was as dark as any other room in the castle, as silent when you didn't count the soft rustling of feathers and the sweet turning of hay. A rancid stench filled her nose, and she almost reconsidered. A thoughtful place, indeed. But she was alone, and the Owlery window was probably the tallest one in the castle. She could see the moon, full and complete and looking quite grand. She thought of Lupin, of his transformation; and then she wondered how something as beautiful as a full moon could be such a terror.

Perching herself by the window, she nearly suffocated. It was a mixture of drowsiness and contemplation, and a smidgen of the sadness she'd carried ever since the end of fourth year. Everything had changed since then; innocence was tested, people were killed, and those who weren't were changed. And yet… no one wanted to talk about it. They'd take their thoughts to the grave with them; that was fairly certain.

Well, fine. If that was what they wanted. After all, who was she to deprive them of such a significant thing? If they wanted privacy, they'd get it. But they'd handle it alone, and they wouldn't complain.

Because it was their choice.

Nights were shallow. Days were shallow. Classes and afternoons had such pitiful semblances of normality and cheerfulness that it was almost painful. Well, it was very painful.

So, of course, that made it very hard to cry.

She didn't know how long she spent sitting at the window, choking back the tears that welled up in her throat. Not tears for herself, but for those who had earned it then and would continue to deserve them now. How Harry handled this, she couldn't fathom. How she would handle this… she couldn't guess.

Five minutes later, perhaps, the door to the Owlery was swinging open, and a tall figure with a lit wand was stepping in. Startled, she sat up and moaned as the Cloak fell over her, revealing her bunched position by the window – away from the owl droppings, of course. She squinted; by the light of the wand, she could see his face, and it would be an understatement to say that she was surprised.

Pale and silver-blonde and very well known for smirking, but not even sneering now. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken, his expression dead. But she was famed for her gift of observation, and she saw the red in his eyes, the dried tear-streaks on his face, the depressed line to his mouth. It contorted instantly, in fury and panic and was that fear?

"Granger." His voice was cold, but hoarse. Ah. So she had guessed correctly.

"Malfoy."

"I shouldn't even be speaking to a filthy Mudblood like you, but what the bloody hell are you doing in the Owlery at this despicable hour of night? Or morning, rather."

"I can say the same for you too, Ferret."

His eyes narrowed menacingly. "I've got a letter, Mudblood. At least I'm not sitting by the window, crying and stargazing like an idiot. So can you move out of the way? I've got something to send."

A pause. And then – "Crying? Crying. Yes, I was crying. Though I hardly think I was the only one."

She could feel the fire he sent in that one glare, the hatred and anger and anguish and sorrow that she had yet to understand. It was uncharacteristic of her to tease anyone like this, though she hardly cared. He was crying, no doubt. But… it's got to be his brute of a father, she thought uncharitably.

She stood briskly, taking up the Cloak and swinging it skillfully around her shoulders, so that her head floated very eerily in midair. Turning a narrow shoulder, she began to stalk off before he had finished muttering his, "Wait."

But she waited, because if she could find out why he was crying she wouldn't feel so terrible. Because she did.

"You utter a word of this to anyone, Granger, and you're as good as dead. You'll be in your coffin," he spat; but she could only smile. Of course he knew that she knew he was crying. He wouldn't tell her why. Ah well. She'd puzzle it out somehow.

She left, asking herself why she'd come out in the first place. To think. Well, of course. She hadn't expected to come across a teary Draco Malfoy, who was as ashamed of his tears as he was of many things. But she wouldn't come back to the dorm empty-handed, at least. She'd come back knowing something the others didn't – even if Harry had seen him cry before – and somehow that was enough.

Nights would always be shallow, and the days even worse, and there was no use trying to make it otherwise. But, at least, it comforted Hermione a little – just a little – to know that even if the hours would be as shallow as puddles, there were some things in this world that were much more difficult to fathom. There were things that were deep, as Hermione had pretended twilights used to be.

And Hermione Granger liked puzzles, hard puzzles – even when she could never get them right.

--fin.

Afterthoughts: Not a romance fic, I assure you (because Hermione/Draco don't stand a chance). It's simply what happens when a thinker runs out of reasons to… think.