Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter (or any of the other characters). J K Rowling does. Nor am I making so much as a Knut out of this.

While the plot is based on the Half-Blood Prince (in that you will find Scrimgeour has replaced Fudge as Minister for Magic, Slughorn has been shoe horned out of retirement, Snape will get his coveted position as DADA teacher and his half-blood heritage) the differences are that the Horcruxes are a rather disgusting form of cocktail, and Dumbledore is whole and unharmed other than a hangover sufficient to keep him from trying strange cocktails for the rest of his life. This is not Book Six rewritten, as the aforementioned just forms the framework, allowing the poor ickle firstie author (namely me) a more manageable plot and the ability to skip the majority of the day to day events description. Following canon completely would just not work with the plot, and seeing as the pairing favoured herein is hardly canon either…

AN: All flamers with no constructive criticism will be given detention until their grandchildren graduate with Filch.

Title translates as 'come back to life'.

Thanks to LadySunflower for betaing this for me.

If this looks familiar, that's because it's posted in its entirety on The Petulant Poetess, under my user name of ayerf there.


It is said that the shortest time known to man is the time it takes for a taxi driver to start thumping the horn while 'encouraging' the car in front to go after the traffic lights turn green. Hermione Granger agreed wholeheartedly with this aforementioned theory, although it was quite possibly rivalled by how quickly it took for Ron Weasley to fill his plate and start eating.

Hermione rubbed at her temples as the car behind her (a lurid pink taxi) honked long and loud, the driver impatient in the few seconds it took for her father to release the handbrake and drive off from the busy junction. They were on the way to King's Cross for Hermione to travel to Hogwarts for her sixth year there. Driving in London was no picnic and even more stressful when one was running dangerously late for the Hogwarts Express. Even worse was that it was raining heavily.

"We'll get there, dear. Even if we get stuck in a queue for the rest of the day, I daresay your Headmaster would arrange an alternative method for the brightest witch in a—" Helen Granger was saying, looking back at her only child with a wry smile on her pretty face. Hermione often thought that she'd inherited her father's looks and her mother's intellect, but the truth was that it was a combination of both.

She cut her mother off impatiently, having heard it all before. "Yes, Mum, I know. 'Brightest witch of your year' and 'cleverest witch your age'. I've heard it all before. It only causes me trouble. No one likes an 'insufferable know-it-all' but other know-it-alls, and dunderheads who need assistance." Hermione's lips twisted as she suppressed a smile at the category she'd just slipped her best friends into.

"'Mione, you should be proud. Your hoot results were off the scale." Alan Granger put his opinion in, meeting his disgruntled daughter's eyes in the rear view mirror before returning his eyes to the road.

"O.W.L. results, Dad," Hermione corrected, rolling her eyes. Her parents were just as off with their grasp of Wizarding world terminology as Arthur Weasley was of the Muggle side.

She worried her lower lip, a frown pinching her features as her thoughts returned to the real reason why she was so dismissive of her stellar results. With Voldemort and far too many of his Death Eaters on the loose, she and her family were in enough danger already from her mere existence as a Muggle-born. Add to that the fact that she was outshining every single pure-blood - not only in her year, but in a century - with her academic achievements, and she might as well start the funeral arrangements already. But just as she couldn't intentionally do badly, it was not possible to keep herself from noticing that she'd made the potentially fatal mistake of becoming close friends with Harry Potter in her first year at Hogwarts. Not that she'd change anything, because it was better to have friends that were dangerous to know than to have no friends at all.

A source of comfort was a much-read letter currently folded in her pocket, which she dug out (while absently thanking her lucky stars that she'd never been susceptible to travel sickness) and read for the umpteenth time.

"What's that? Not another letter from that Crumble boy, I hope!" her mother said sharply, her disapproval obvious in her voice. Her father's grip on the steering wheel tightened to the extent that his fingers went white. Neither of her parents approved, any more than Ron did, of her friendship with Viktor Krum on the premise that he was too old for her. Regardless of the fact that she'd soon be of age in the Wizarding world, even without the additional few months the Time Turner usage in her third year had added to her age.

Hermione flushed, fingers wrinkling the parchment as her hands clutched unconsciously. "Er… yes. But it is a week old! I was just going to reread it. Viktor's only three years older than me," she said, trying yet again to justify her actions of two years ago.

"He's from foreign parts! And a wizard! I wish you'd date a nice, normal boy."

Hermione looked away from her mother's indignant, reproachful face, feigning interest in the rain-blurred view of traffic moving alongside, headlights and brake lights standing out. This was perhaps the largest point of contention: that while her parents were supportive of her magical education, they still wanted her to have a relationship with a boy they were guaranteed to approve of: namely one who couldn't turn them into frogs.

"I'm not dating Viktor; he's just a friend. And I'm not interested in boys my own age, they're far too immature," Hermione gritted out the oft repeated statement from between clenched teeth. She could already feel a tension headache coming on and rubbed harder at her temples. She grimaced at the thought of what her parents would think if they knew that Viktor hadn't actually written since she'd refused his last invitation to visit him in Bulgaria over six months previous. Her prized letter, and earlier correspondence, actually came from a source almost twenty years older than her.

"Hermione, you're still doing that wrong. Let me." Her perfectionist mother reached back to massage her daughter's temples, chasing the encroaching headache away with practised fingers. She was turning back to face the road when a puzzled, concerned frown creased her forehead in response to the expression that had just frozen her daughter's appealing features into a horrified mask, her wide eyes fixed on something on the road ahead.

Mr. Granger slammed on the brakes with a squeal of stressed rubber, a muttered expletive escaping his lips. The sudden jerk that followed as their car began to abruptly stop stole the breath of the occupants of the car as they were slammed against their seat belts. What followed was both too fast for Hermione to grasp and agonisingly slow for her to remember clearly in her nightmares.

There was a blinding flash, a scream of stressed metal and a sickening crunch only dimly heard over the overpowering bang of failing airbags and crack of shattering glass. Some absurdly calm part of her realised that the cause of this confusing cacophony was a head-on collision with a speeding car. That same part of her registered that the entire car had flipped over, wheels spinning to a stop in midair.

Bright red sticky fluid pooled on the inside of the car roof above her, now dented almost beyond recognition. It clung to her hair that now dangled down into it. Hermione absently reached over and touched it, sharp sparks of pain dancing across her awareness. 'Blood.' A lot of it, slowly trickling down, pooling everywhere in her fading vision. She choked on rising bile at the sight before her.

Hermione struggled to remain conscious as her brain finally registered the pain of her many small cuts, bruises and other relatively minor injuries, her mind screaming for her parents and Crookshanks, who had been sulking in his cage on the seat beside her. Despair filled her as her brilliant mind acknowledged that very little of the blood before her was her own. From somewhere far away she heard a horrible mixture between choking, coughing and sobbing. When hot tears began to splash down into the ever growing pool of blood, she realised that the sounds came from herself, together with calls for her beloved parents and familiar. There was no answer but the wail of nearing sirens.

Wisps of acrid black smoke crept around the edges of her vision, clawing their way down her throat as she inevitably inhaled them. It was becoming harder to breathe, her lungs burning as her body shook with more gasping coughs. She belatedly reached into her now torn and blood stained clothes for her wand, her mind refusing to compute the splinters spearing her shaking hand. A strangled cry escaped her as she tried and failed to release her seat belt. 'Trapped!' The panicked thought blanked out everything else in her mind. Her struggles slowed and faltered completely as she gasped for air, smoke stinging her eyes as it smothered her. Hermione's tenuous grasp on consciousness failed as blackness swallowed her, a terrible cold embracing her battered form.