When Was The Last Time You?
Chapter Eighty-Nine: When Was The Last Time You Started?
A Tale By: In The Shadows I Dwell

The lead we had found that day in the Lovegood's abandoned home, it transpired, was near useless. Despite everything we knew about Horcurxes it was the small details, seemingly insignificant things that were so easily overlooked that seemed to create the most hassle. No-one had seen the lost Diadem of Rowena Ravendclaw in centuries. In fact all the hours I spent researching in the days following our encounter with Lucius Malfoy at the rook shaped house proved that this was one small detail that could not be overcome easily. While the wand could be traced throughout history, a bloody, violent event marking the passing of the wand from one hand to the other. It could be tracked throughout time easily, as though it had been created to be found, just another cruel joke on Death's part. The wand while undefeatable was made to bring about the owner's death - the eldest brother had unknowingly asked for such an item to enter into his possession, just as I had walked blindly into the heart of the storm raging around us.

In fact, as time progressed I was beginning to discover just how meaningless what little information we had truly was. We had a link to the wand, though as hard as I searched there was no sign of the wandmaker Viktor had bought his wand from all those years ago, and whether you would call it a link to what potentially could have been another Horcrux was as useless as the lead to the wand. Neither had a beginning point, nor an ending point, only a small detail thrown somewhere in the middle which we were trying to use to extract the full story from. No matter how hard I tried, I knew, without a doubt, most likely due to a combination of what I learnt at school and common sense, that even we could not make something out of nothing, and those small details we were relying on, as much as I hated to admit it, were our nothing.

Sitting in the small living room of the tent that had now become our home, the silence that surrounded me at this late hour of the night sent a gentle shiver down my spine. The pain caused by the stab wound continued to wash over me at times when I least expected it, generally late at night when nothing but darkness and silence surrounded me. It was in those moments that I wished for nothing more than Draco's return, but part of me knew that it was pointless to hope for such things, to wish for his return was to place my hope in a pointless dream, the sort that was barely worth the time put into hoping for it. He had left in the middle of the night, leaving behind nothing but a note and a hole in my heart that felt as though it could never be repaired. The sort that remained open, stretching painfully until it ripped open, leaving everything within exposed. I would never have thought I, of all people, Hermione Jean Granger would be reduced to this by a boy, Draco Malfoy no less. Boy troubles seemed beyond the problems of someone who should have had the greater good of the wizarding world on their mind, rather than her pathetic broken heart, and the boy who dared to make her believe in love.

I sounded like a teenager who'd had her heart broken. But the painful truth was, that is exactly what I was. We were children, teenagers in the middle of a war, the hopes of an entire world resting on our success – that alone was a ridiculous amount of stress to have placed upon one's shoulders. I was the only one to have even finished their schooling, we had not even been allowed that, nor would Harry and Ron have chosen it if given the choice. We were teenagers, teenagers thrown into the midst of a battle none of us could even begin to comprehend. We were victims as much as anyone else, because this war had taken part of our lives from us as well. We may have been out here fighting the war, but it had stolen family, friends, peers and neighbours from us all. We were not mindless soldiers like Voldemort's Inferi, we were people and we felt pain. That was, at least what I continued to tell myself, to somehow process that what I was feeling was natural, rather than selfish.

I hear footsteps, and glance up seeing Ron's familiar face glancing down at me.

"You owe me an apology," he says simply, but I notice there is anger in his eyes, the cause of which I could not determine, only that I know, even in small confined spaces such as this, friendships were often tested.

There is the sound of my fingernails tapping lightly against the wood of the table in front of me lingering between us, impatiently rhythmic, curious as to why he demanded such a thing from me.

"An apology?" I ask carefully.

"You owe at least that much to me," he whispered through gritted teeth as though the words are bitter in his own mouth.

"I didn't do anything, why would I apologise?"

"I told you Malfoy was a lying, untrustworthy piece of scum, and you didn't believe me. Now you think it's alright to go around thinking that it's somehow our fault that you got yourself into this mess!"

"I never pretended that it was, I know perfectly well that is entirely my fault!"

"I warned you, and you didn't listen," it was as though he was saying these things believing that I had not listened, I had. I'd been careful with my emotions, though clearly my trust had ultimately been placed wrongly in Draco. "He left you, and you've been looking miserable for days!"

"Sometimes we have to accept the punishment for our mistakes, Ron, you can't protect me forever, sometimes you've just got to do whatever you have to in order to pretend that these sort of things don't hurt, that's all I can do now."

"But I don't want to see you hurt, neither of us do," he admitted pointing to the room where Harry slept. "I'd do anything if it meant seeing a smile on your face again."

"I doubt anyone wants to be hurt by someone they love," I told him, "but it's not always easy to avoid, we just have to accept that it happens, and hope, that somehow we can move on."

"Is that what you're trying to do," He asks quietly, taking my small hand in his. "Move on?"

"It's all I can do," I whisper removing my hand from his grip turning away from him, afraid that the tears I felt building up slowly in my eyes would fall, and that silent indication of how deeply hurt I truly felt would be visible to the world, when I wanted nothing more than to hide it away where no-one could see it.

"You don't have to do everything alone, he's a bloody prat for leaving you, Hermione," I feel his hand on my shoulder, his warm and comforting touch spreading through me.

"It's not the sort of thing I'm going to drag you or Harry into," I whisper, picking up a piece of parchment off the table, staring at it half-heartedly in an attempt to think of anything other than Draco or where he might be.

"Maybe I want to be dragged into it," he responds, turning me around to face him.

He leans forward, his head moving ever so slightly to the side as his lips press against mine in the clumsiest way possible – the way only Ron Weasley could achieve. Unprepared there was little I could do to avoid it. His lips are warm against my own, and my body responded, returning his kiss hungrily. But it's not the same as it was with Draco. It's already been proven that I simply did not feel any even remotely romantically related feelings for Ron, but part of me insists that I should, that he was the only one left now who would want me and the terrible mess my life had become over the past year. Who would want a killer and thief? After everything I had done, I didn't deserve the love of someone like Ron; I deserved the love of someone whose actions matched my own, because in any other circumstances, I would have deserved a one-way trip to Azkaban. In my own mind, I was little more than a criminal, inhabiting the now empty shell of a girl who would have been horrified at my actions.

My hands pressed against his chest push him away with a light shove. Biting my lip, I realise I cannot find the words to express how wrong what had happened moments ago, was. Running my hands through my hair I turn away from him. Each sentence running through my mind begun and ended with Draco, and by even mentioning his name surely it would be like opening Pandora's box, all that dwelled beneath the surface left to rise and become clear between us, not matter how avoidable I wished it were.

"You still love him, don't you?" Ron asks softly, breaking the silence I could not.

"More than anything," I tell him quietly, turning to face the ginger haired boy I had grown up with.

"Can you… I don't know, stop loving him?" There is a quiet desperate quality to his voice, as though he was almost pleading.

It is as though he believed this is his last chance to find love, and that any attempts from this point onwards would be entirely useless, because there would always be me. I can see it in those familiar eyes, he believes that this is his last chance - that if he does not survive the war, his love will have been wasted on a girl who would never love him in return. I cannot bear to see that hurt in his eyes any longer, I love him, but not in the way he wants me to, and I don't know whether I ever could – not when it feels as though trust is something I would struggle to ever give freely again. It is at this point, I do the last thing I would have done in the past - I lie to him.

"Maybe," I tell him taking his hands in my own, "but it's going to take time."

Love could grow, couldn't it, just for us?

"How long?"

I hesitate, "I don't know."

Honesty has a way of ruining things.

Where there was a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, a frown had replaced it, the hurt even more clear in his eyes than before. I've never been good with reassuring people, in fact, I'd always done a rather poor job of it in the past, though this was different. I wanted more than anything to reach over and hug him and tell him that I loved him and that nothing was stopping me anymore, despite the fact it was clearly a lie. I wanted to tell him whatever it would take to ensure his happiness for as long as I could pretend. But I had never been a liar, or a fake, I couldn't bring myself to continually hurt him, each lie would be like a calculated stab into his back, and when the knives I'd placed there myself were removed, the pain would be all that was left.

"I'm not going to lie to you," I told him, knowing that any attempt to even reach towards him would most likely result in my hand being slapped away as though it were that of someone he hated. "I at least owe you the truth."

Dedication: There are no words to describe how much a certain friend has influenced this chapter, and how thankful I am for their presence in my life.

Author's Note: Getting closer to that magic number 100. Thank you all for your lovely reviews on the last chapter!