DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".

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Ginny's face was bloodless and her eyes were bloodshot.

It was four o'clock on the first day of the cruellest month, and she shuffled alongside Hermione towards McGonagall's office. They'd been granted special permission to take the evening off.

The castle was, predictably, full of pranksters, and the floor was littered (in spite of Filch's persistent, cantankerous sweeping,) with purple and orange wrappers that read Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.
"Gotcha!" and "Fooled you!" and "Ha-ha, you numpty!" echoed off the walls, weaving around Peeves' ubiquitous cackle.

In the long run, everybody was made a fool by fate's cruel tricks.

When they arrived at her office, McGonagall placed both her hands on Ginny's shoulders.
"Give your family my regards," she said softly, and with extreme gentleness.
Ginny nodded. She pulled away and practically leapt into the fireplace with a garbled cry of, "The Burrow."
Hermione offered her headmistress a weak smile as she followed.

xxx

Five-thirty.
The Burrow's kitchen was swamped with deep purple shadows. The curtains were drawn and the only sources of light were the twenty-one candles that flickered atop a large chocolate cake, which was placed at the centre of the table around which all but three chairs were occupied.

Nobody thought to light up a few lamps. Nobody so much as moved or spoke.

Six o'clock.
Nothing changed.

But at ten past six, the floo roared. The entire gathering started.
It was Angelina, looking utterly worn and drained. Her braided hair seemed wilted, her robes were rumpled, her eyes were rimmed with red.
"I'm sorry," she sputtered thickly, "He won't leave his room. I've been trying for hours but–"
"He isn't coming?" Mrs. Weasley's voice was a hollow rasp.
"No – I'm sorry – he isn't."

There was an enormous CRASH! – Mrs. Weasley had tossed the cake onto the floor. She was on her feet, panting, staring down at the mess with wild eyes.
"Molly–" Mr. Weasley began...
She let out a tormented howl. A gasp went around the table, but that was just the preamble. She broke down completely, wailing and weeping loudly and unreservedly. She backed away from the table, hands reaching out to grab fistfuls of air like she was desperately seeking anything to hold on to.

Bill was the first one to get to her. He pulled her to him, even as she screamed and protested. Then Ginny, Charlie, Percy, and Mr. Weasley were there too. They patted her, and shushed her, (but she kept howling,) and coaxingly began leading her upstairs.
"Fleur, calming draught, hurry," Bill muttered as they passed.
Hermione stood as Fleur fluttered to the pantry, not sure what to do. Should she follow them up? Should she help Fleur? Should she –

She saw a tall figure slip outside into the back garden and she went after it at once.

Ron tore across the lawn, all the way to the far wall. In the dark, she could barely make out his face, but the wretched urgency of this pacing provided enough clarity. Hermione dithered by the door, watching him get consumed by his agony. Finally, he collapsed on a log amid a thicket of weeds. He was bent over with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands – and she flew to him.
Cautiously, she sat down next to him and laid a palm on his back. She could feel the vibrations of his muffled sobs.
"Oh, Ron," she whispered, and bent to rest her cheek against the back of his head.
His hair felt like soft grass, and smelled vaguely of some generic minty shampoo: The scent that had once wafted out of Amortentia.
She gently stroked his back, and with her eyes half-closed, tried to think about pretty, tranquil things, hoping those thoughts would seep out of her head and into his.

There was a slight disturbance – moving shadows, muted rustles, and a creak – and Harry sat at Ron's other side. He kept his gaze locked on the far distance. His shoulders were stiff and his jaw was clenched.
When an erratic breath escaped out of Ron, he placed a hand on his shoulder and gripped it firmly.

Hermione couldn't say how long they stayed that way. Eventually, Ron moved, and she lifted her head to allow him to straighten his posture.
His entire face was red, swollen, and clammy. She wanted so badly to wipe it and hug him, but he took care of the former himself. Then he stood up, dusted the back of his trousers and said, "Okay."
"Ron?" Harry broached.
"Yeah. Alright. 'kay." He began walking towards the gate.
"Where are you going, Ron?" Hermione called, quickly rising as well and skittering behind him.
"To George's," he grunted.
She stopped dead, and so did Harry.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Don't know," Ron shrugged, "I know I'm not Fred... not even close. But I'm going to sit outside his bloody door for however long and remind him that he still has four brothers and a sister. I'll sit there till he fucking gets it."
He breathed in and closed his eyes, calming himself down; he was never good at apparating under pressure. He opened his eyes, ready to spin –

"Oi, Ron – Wait for us, kid!"
It was Charlie, stomping towards them. And behind him was Percy, followed by Bill with his arm around Ginny.
The Weasley siblings stood in a line, all equally sombre and determined. They had always been so different from each other, such strong individuals, but in that moment they were the same blood and that was that.

The sound of their disapparation rent the sky and all that was left was the dark silhouettes of trees and hills. Harry and Hermione wandered back to the log and sat down. A little while later, Fleur joined them, with three glasses of wine levitating before her.
"How's Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked.
"I 'ave given 'er a calming draught and zum dreamless sleep potion. Hopefully she will be better when she wakes up."
Cicadas broke into song. Something – a frog perhaps – leapt into the pond with a splash.
Harry raised his glass and said, "To Fred Weasley."
"To Fred," Hermione and Fleur chorused.
The wine was sweet and fruity like a temperate spring evening.

xxx

The later it got, the more evident it became that Ron and the rest had no plans of returning. Mrs. Weasley was dead to the world and Mr. Weasley stayed by her side. Fleur made them some sandwiches which they ate out in the garden.
By and by, Hermione stood up and stretched. "I should get back to Hogwarts."
"Hogwash," Harry replied, "Come with me to Grimmauld Place. Let's get drunk."
He looked at her imploringly from over the rim of his glasses and she couldn't help but laugh.
"All right. But you'll have to let me borrow your owl so I can let McGonagall know."
"Only if you call him by his name."
She kicked his foot. "Prat. You'll have to let me borrow Herms –"
"Why, of course!"

They bid Fleur farewell and apparated to that very familiar door with a silver knocker. Harry let them in, and she was once again thrown by how perfect the house looked, all agleam and spick and span.
A crusty drone pulled her attention away from the glittering chandelier.
"Master Harry Potter," Kreacher croaked, "And... a guest."
"Right you are," Harry said cheerfully, "Could you bring us a bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses please?"

And so the day ended with Hermione sprawled on the sofa where she'd once spent so many fitful nights. Except back then, it had been tattered, musty, and generally foul. Now it was plush and clean. She had a glass of whiskey in one hand, and McGonagall's reply to her letter in the other.

"She says, as you see fit, Ms. Granger. Ha! Can't you just hear her disapproval?"
Harry grinned. "I can picture it." He pushed his glasses down his nose, pursed his lips, lowered his brows...
Hermione nearly tumbled to the ground laughing.

They made it through one bottle and talked about Auror training and N.E.W.T. prep. Halfway through the second bottle, they reminisced about the Weasley twins' rebellion against Umbridge. When Harry clumsily summoned a third bottle, he told her he loved Ginny so fucking much, Hermione and she narrated the god-awful mess she'd made of her dalliance with Terry.
He poured himself another glass and she shook her head so vigorously that she maybe, possibly, messed up her pivot joint forever.
"I'm duh-hun," she declared, "If I have one more sip I will die."
"That'll be a sad thing," Harry mused.
"Do you remember the last time we got this... this... out-offit?"
"Yeah. Fucking tent."
"Fucking tent," she agreed, "You know, I've still got my DA galleon, if you'd like to chat with Theo–"
Harry offered her a sneer and a two-fingered salute. Then he downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp. How was he still up, she wondered, he'd had the lion's share of the booze. He pulled down a sofa cushion and lay on the floor.
"Y'know what, Hermione," he slurred, "You're my four brothers and a sister."
"What?" she giggled.
"I mean... say I locked myself in a room and all, I know you'd sit outside the door. Can't be sure about anybody else, but you... you'd be there."
"I would. And you'd–"
"Do the same for you? Yeah. 'Course. But I'd wear armour, in case you get cross. Don't want to end up trapped in a jar, with canary shaped spots or–"
"Oh, shut up." She giggled once more.

Hermione apparated to Hogsmeade early in the morning, while Harry was still fast asleep on the floor. It was a Friday, and she had a full day of lessons ahead of her.
She hurried to her room and indulged in a long, sumptuous shower. Yet, it was still only seven by the time she was dressed. She made herself a crown of braids. She sat by her window and leafed through her notes on explosive hexes. At five to eight she let her hair down, and shook it so it fell in its usual, atrocious disarray.

Theo was leaning against the chair directly in front of the staircase as she descended.
"How are you?" he asked at once.
She filled him in as they went to the Great Hall.

She sat before her empty plate long after she'd had her fill of tea and breakfast, thinking that Ginny would turn up at any moment.

She didn't.

Hermione remained on edge throughout her lessons. Ginny was absent all day...

...Until she suddenly showed up during supper. She took a seat next to Hermione and began piling her plate up, not saying a word. Hermione kept watching her from the corner of her eye, and if this annoyed her, she didn't let it show.
After eating, they ambled out together.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Hermione asked, "So what happened?"
"He didn't come out till three. Looked damned awful when he did, but Charlie had come loaded with alcohol, so we just drank... a lot. And talked about Fred. I don't know if it was plain horrible, or us making the best of a horrible situation... I know I nodded off at some point."
She fell quiet as they neared a group of third year students.
"Today morning," she continued once they were in the clear, "We went home and had breakfast. Mum had made her usual spread. George wore an earring shaped like a jester's hat on his stupid gold ear. Mum told him it was atrocious. Dad, Percy, and Bill... Harry and Ron... went to work. It was all perfectly normal."

They were near the Gryffindor common room by then; the fat lady gave them a friendly wave.

"I'm exhausted," Ginny wheezed.
"Yeah," Hermione replied delicately, "You should get some sleep."
Ginny nodded, but lingered for a second or two as tears misted over her eyes. "Sometimes I hate that the world had the gall to go on after he died."

The theory of potion making was intricate and deserved to be understood and internalised with full clarity. But Hermione knew what she had to by heart – word for word. Her preoccupied state of mind wouldn't cost her a whole lot.

Keep telling yourself that.

She was sitting with a book on her lap as Ginny recited the fundamental laws, unwaveringly and accurately. The past hour she'd been in control; spirited, vivacious, and wholly and truly Ginny.
"Yes, perfect," Hermione said after she finished.
She smiled and then it was Dean's turn to elaborate on known exceptions. Hermione passed the book to Theo to check him, while she rubbed her weary eyes.

She was experiencing a strange duality of existence: Everything that had happened last year was overlapping over the present in a very disconcerting way.
The group that was sitting around her in the library was, (with the exception of Ginny, Susan, and Mandy,) the same group that had sat around her in the garden at Shell Cottage, on that surprisingly wonderful day in the middle of hell. Little Teddy was born... Lupin had arrived with stars in his eyes...

And Lupin was dead.

She rubbed her eyes harder, until she could actually see the sun setting over churning waves, hear the rush of water, smell the heady aroma of flowers and damp air...
Theo's head thrown back in laughter, Luna's quiet chuckle, Dean laugh-crying over his dad, and Malfoy... recuperating from torture just like her... alight with –

"You alright?"
She pulled her hands off her face and blinked away the spots that spanned before her vision. Theo's troubled, wrinkled countenance emerged as they receded.
"Fine," she murmured, "Who's next?"

xxx

Then came another Arithmancy hour, and she was once again alone with Malfoy. She had, out of habit, initiated another competition: A race against time and each other to verify a series of astrological forecasts.
And again, she was awfully distracted. Her eyes kept leaping away from her work to scrutinise him, while he remained diligently focused. He bent close to his parchment, then away quickly when the top of his quill brushed against his chin. His free hand absently came up to scratch the spot, fingers curling in and out. His Mark, as expected, was hidden.

How many more Weasley's would have been dead if he hadn't used the last of his strength to apparate and warn Bill?

His brows were drawn low at sharp angles almost parallel to the lines of his jaw.

Words left her mouth before she could so much as think about their appropriateness: "What was it like... when... when you decided to deflect? When you first went to Lupin?"

He stiffened immediately. His look of concentration morphed into a heavy grimace, and he raised his head to fix her with the fiercest of glares.
"What was it like killing Bellatrix?"

Ah, she should have anticipated such a rebuttal... had she given her question any consideration. She felt, at once, like the proverbial deer in the headlights and like a wild, cornered animal. Stunned, panicked, and ready to lash out with viciousness.
But she sat with those emotions for a moment, regarding the bottomless rancour of his expression. Then she decided to take a completely different route. She pulled her face to the side, staring blankly at the fuzzy halo of light around the lamp on their table.

"At that time – when it happened – I honestly don't think I felt anything. I mean, I don't remember feeling anything. She was throwing curses at me. Harry was – I thought he was dead. Tonks was dead, Fred was dead, Lupin and Lavender were dead. She'd just killed an innocent house elf in front of me and it reminded me of poor Dobby. And then she turned her wand onto Theo and I – I – Not him. That's all I could think – all I cared about. Not him. And now... I don't think about it. If I do – about the way I'd so easily, brutally snuffed the life out of another human being – I – I would just–"
"The man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment."

She sucked in a sharp breath and her eyes darted back his way. His aspect had turned analytical, in an uncertain, narrow-eyed and speculative kind of way.

"...Yes."
"She wasn't really human, Granger. She hadn't been for a while."

She knew that. And he'd said it in a way that implied that she ought to know that. Hermione bit her lip. He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms in a stance that suggested anticipation.

"That was from Crime and Punishment," she said with a certain degree of stupefaction.
He didn't flinch as he confirmed, "It was."
"You read it."
"It's what I generally do with books."
"Right."

She had been sure – an assumption that she felt was corroborated by his stone-facedness – that Malfoy would never want to bring up the whole book thing. Perhaps, as it had happened with her, the quote had flown out of his mouth without his consent. He was waiting for her next words while she had no idea what to say.
She picked up her quill once more, just so that she had something to do besides flounder. Maybe she could get back to work, and then oh so casually ask him what he'd thought about the book. All airy-like, barely looking up, casually flipping her hair over her shoulder, she'd say, oh by the way, Malfoy, what did you –

"Don't think I didn't know what you were trying to do, Granger, sending me all that dark, gloomy literature."

Her quill-laden hand fell upon the table with a soft thud.

"Excuse me?"
His arms remained tightly crossed, but he leaned forward, peering at her with his head lowered. Another unspoken challenge that prompted in her another wave of discombobulation.

"You saw how close to the edge I was; you were trying to push me over. You wanted me to do myself in."
She recoiled at the outrageous, vilifying ludicrousness of that statement and cried, "I did not! That's preposterous! I – I gave you Wodehouse!"
"Then what where you up to?"
"Theo told me you were..." she let out a strange semi-vocal expulsion of frustration, "He hinted that you might have been reconsidering... Well, he seemed to believe that reading some books by muggles might, um, help you."
"Ah! So you were trying to fix me!"

His expression was strange – a mix between deep scorn and mocking amusement; candlelight and a muddle of objectionable sentiments shimmered over his face.
She felt fury scale up her spine. "Well, clearly it worked!"
It was his turn to retreat. His hands collapsed into his lap and he jerked back. There was a moment in which his face went absolutely taut with offence. His outrage was so satisfying... until he took a moment to blink up at the ceiling, and in that process, somehow wrestled his face back into a state of mild and contemptuous humour.
"You – good grief. Sure. It worked. You fixed me. I was broken and brainwashed, being tossed around in the tidal wave of war. But now I am of sound mind and soul; no longer a vile ideologue, but a ray of syrupy sodding sunshine – all thanks to Hermione Granger and her books."
He waved a hand in her direction like, behold – a profound oddity!

How dare he make fun of her for it. How dare he make light of the fact that she'd bloody well curated and ––– she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from throwing that in his face. His disgustingly entertained face, like he had no memory of the empty, hopeless wreck he'd been back then.

But was that something anyone could forget?

An epiphany struck like a flash of lightening; she knew exactly what he was doing. That determined smirk, that testing arch of his brow...

It was a sad fact of her life that the phrase for Theo's sake, was something that'd been running through her mind with increasing frequency, and in a completely unironic way. She was doing things in his name like she'd finally found a deity she believed in.
But if Malfoy could resign himself to it, she most certainly could as well.

She pressed her indignation down to her feet, trying to stomp, stomp, stomp it out of existence.

"Pfff," she scoffed, "I'll have you know that my books and I have done a great deal. Just ask Harry."
His mouth quivered and stretched wider. "Oh fuck. Are you taking credit for all of The Chosen Prat's accomplishments, too?"
"I am not!" she rejoined, "Not all – just... just ask Harry!"
"A – I will do no such thing. Willingly conversing with Potter, about you of all things, is high on the list of things I'll never do. And B – I had no idea you were this deluded, Granger. Unbelieva–"
"I have to get to Ancient Runes," she supplied superciliously as she shoved her belongings into her bag... and took another something out of it. When she looked back up, he was immersed in his calculations again. Just like that.
"Here," she muttered.
"What's that?"
"It's a book, Malfoy. One of those things that you claim to generally read."
"The Myth of Sisyphus?"

As she turned to leave, she heard the satisfying crack of a crisp spine, and the melodious sound of a page being turned.

All the professors were at their most unforgiving during lessons, and every lesson involved gruelling exercises and class assignments aimed to prepare them for the toughest possible exam papers.

After a turbulent hour in greenhouse one, where Sprout had set up a line of dying plants that they had to rescue within a ridiculously short amount of time, Hermione dawdled back towards the castle covered in leaves. Everything was going fine for her until she got to the godforsaken Bouncing Bulb.
She felt weighed down by her satchel even though it had a weightless charm on it.

She draaaagged herself up to the common room and melted into the first vacant armchair she found.

The sensation of something being pulled out of her hair had her jumping forward, and she huffed at Luna who simply grinned and continued to deforest her mane.
"Fun lesson, wasn't it?" she asked.
Hermione groaned. "In the immortal words of Ron Weasley – that was mental."
Soon enough, Theo came over to assist Luna. Hermione sat there feeling like a gorilla that was having lice picked out of its fur by its gorilla-mates.

Days later, she was back on that same armchair, working on an essay for Flitwick. It was technically dinnertime, but she decided to save time by scarfing down a bag of crisps and some biscuits that her parents had so kindly sent for her.
She had written two feet on the importance of regulating weather-modifying charms. But her reverie was shattered when a book landed on the table before her. She started and glanced up and saw Malfoy's back as he paced quickly towards the door.

"Malfoy!" she called, "Malfoy!"
He turned slowly, resignation warring with reluctance and painting his face a funny colour.
"What?"
"You're done?"
He sighed. "Yeah."
She had to admit she was a little dumbfounded that he'd managed to finish it within a week – an insanely hectic week, at that. But she was careful enough to keep her expression stoic, and not sputter out her disbelief like she quite was tempted to.
"What did you make of it?"
He sighed again and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked closer.
"You're really obsessed with making points, aren't you?"
"Oh, that's me is it?" she taunted.
"Yes."
"And was my point successfully made?" she asked brusquely. He scowled. "What? Do you disagree with one of the greatest philosophical thinkers of all time?"
"I don't know what I think," he barked.
Her mouth opened uselessly for three seconds before she snapped it shut once more. He half turned to leave.
"I would have thought," she whispered, "The fact that you're still here, proves that–"
"Our lives weren't merely absurd, Granger," he growled, "We weren't grappling with the ultimate, inescapable futility of life. It was the most desperately hellish situation, and... and..."
He broke off on an angry breath.
"But you still chose to struggle against it, didn't you?"
"Not because I acknowledged and accepted the circumstances; not because I was unbound by hope. Hope was probably the only thing–"

And once again, he cut himself off. He was glaring at her with thunderous disgust and she wanted to squirm. She wished he would at least sit down – having this exchange while he loomed over her was maddening. She couldn't really stand up without looking ridiculous... or aggressive.

"The third kind of absurd man," she muttered, "The one who relinquishes all promise of eternity... action over contemplation..."
"Bah," he scoffed, "I contemplated a lot of things. But certainly not about the meaninglessness of victory. That wouldn't have got me anywhere."

Hermione stared at her knees, and gulped. Her tone was quivery and pitchy when she whispered, "One must imagine Sisyphus happy."
"Are you happy?" he countered bitterly.
She laughed. It was dull and dry. After a moment, she chanced looking up at him again. But he was busy boring holes into Titian's painting of Sisyphus that graced the cover of her book.
"It's a metaphor, Malfoy," she said, "Remove it from this context for a moment and you'll see that it's applicable in the case of any hardship, big or small."
His eyes flickered back towards her and narrowed. "So your point was for me to focus on the merit of always struggling, and to brush over the entire chunk that examined the nature of life and the world?"
"I–"
"In that case, Granger, your point was not successfully made."
"Oh well then."

Resentment and shame simmered low in her stomach. Yet they were quenched by the time they reached the back of her throat, doused by his awful, haunted expression.

"My point was," she said instead, more shakily than ever, "That I would never want anyone to do themself in."
He didn't say anything to that, just watched her in a steady, austere manner.

"Coming for dinner, Draco?"
It was Mandy. She came to a hesitant stop next to Malfoy and laid a hand on his elbow.
"Sure."

When the common room door closed behind them, Hermione tipped her head against the back of her chair and gazed at the ceiling.