"Well, I’m bloody glad it wasn’t me," Dean muttered emphatically, and a chorus of weak laughter went around the people sitting at the table. It was that or cry, and for herself at least, Hermione had done enough crying as she’d helped Tricia try to heal Cho. She had felt guilty that half of those tears wept over Cho’s unconscious body had been for Draco, and not for the girl on the bed. Hermione had nearly killed Draco’s father. That hadn’t hit home until Hermione had settled down at the table with her bottle of liquor under Molly Weasley’s sympathetic but worried gaze. Molly Weasley didn’t like the way they drank these days, but she accepted it most nights. She understood even if she didn’t quite approve, even if she worried and fretted. And so Hermione had sat down at the table between Neville and Ron, and unscrewed the bottle cap and thought about how she would have lived with herself if she had killed Lucius Malfoy.