A/N: Just what I need to do is start a new story when I still have Blood Stains to finish and revise and am currently revising one of my much older stories.  Ah well, the vicious plot kittens kept jumping up and down on my fingers, forcing me to type the very words you see here.  If it's horrible, blame them.

            Not exactly sure where this one is going (the plot kittens aren't speaking to me).  I may have to change the summary later.  Just play along, and everything will be fine.

            A/N II: I don't own Harry Potter.  I don't own Hogwarts.  I don't own Harry's friends.  JKR owns everything, and we can only borrow from her as long as we don't make any money at it.

*           *           *

            He watched her as she lay still, her steady breathing the only sign of life in a body that had otherwise remained inert unless forced into motion for the greater part of two weeks.  Her quiet, unassuming form was a stark contrast to the busy patterns of the Chudley Cannons sheets she lay upon, the sheets that he refused to rid himself of.  It was much the same way as he had refused to rid himself of her.

            She had shown up on the doorstep of the Burrow, shivering and silent.  He had been alone when he answered the door, taking a year between school and the world to get things in order.  He had known what he wanted once.  When Hermione's life had not fit into his plans, the world he had hoped to create was torn apart.  He had been following the same routine he had followed for nearly a year now: wake up, eat, sleep, eat, shower, sleep, eat, lounge around, sleep.  Her interruption was entirely welcome.  For a moment, he even believed that she had come back to him.

            "Hermione!"  There had been a moment when excitement had taken hold and he had believed that she had come to her senses and left Him behind.  Her silence quickly shattered those quickly formed dreams.  He remembered toning his voice down to one that was filled more with concern than with enthusiasm and expectation.  "Hermione, what's wrong?"

            He remembered the way his heart had felt, as though it would surly burst when she looked up at him with those sad brown eyes.  There had been a moment when a shiver ran down his spine when he realized she was looking not so much at as though him.  Quickly, he had ushered her in.  Still, she had not spoken.

            He could remember now how he had made a pot of tea, always his mother's first attempt at fixing anything.  Hermione had sipped it slowly and with much difficulty, looking over the rim, eyes fixated at a distant spot on the wall.  Again, he had tried to extract the reason for her sudden appearance.  Again, he had met with no success. 

            He had taken the tea serving away from her and helped her from her chair.  "Come on, Hermione."  He ran his hand over her dirty, matted tresses.  "You look like you need a nice, warm bath."  He ran the warm water into the tub closest to his room, filling it with masses of shiny bubbles that popped and graced the air with a welcoming scent.  He had checked the temperature for her, and told her that he would be just outside if she needed him.  He left her standing by the bathtub, ashamed that he had wished to sit in the bathroom with her and wash the filth from her hair, wash the sadness from her soul.

            She had come out clad in a set of yellow cotton pajamas he had found in Ginny's room and laid on the counter next to the sink.  He remembered leading her to his bed and sitting her down upon it.  He could still feel the soft cotton of the towel rubbing against his fingers as he vigorously tried to extract the water from her long brown hair.  He had taken a brush and run through it, braiding it in one long plait so that there would not be too many knots when she awoke.  He had asked her if she wanted to rest, but even at that there had been no answer.

            The bedcovers had been pulled back, and he had settled her in between the sheets, tucking the soothing warmth of the comforter around her.  He had crept down the stairs to retrieve for her a glass of water in which he had placed a drop of his mother's favorite relaxation potion.  Though Ron had desperately wanted to talk to his friend, he knew that then she needed rest.  He had hoped that a bit of sleep would bring her about.  He wanted to know what had happened to her.

            It had been late into the evening when his mum had come home, asking him why the house was in such a state of cleanliness.  He had simply dropped out of life after leaving Hogwarts, lurking around the house doing nothing and answering to no one.  For a moment, though, he had felt as if it was crucial to impress Hermione.  He had to make her see that he was more worthy of her attentions than He had ever been.

            "It's nothing, mum.  I have a friend over is all."

            Mrs. Weasley had looked empirically around.  "I don't see anyone."  The fact was, there hadn't been anyone for a good long time now.  Ron had simply quit talking to Hermione after she had married Him against her red-headed friend's express wishes.  Harry had had better things to do than sit around and listen to the failure of one he had once called a friend.

            "She's in my room," he had said, not even thinking about the way his mother would take those words.

            She had exploded.  He remembered thinking vaguely about how Harry had once blown up his aunt quite by accident and wondered if his mum wasn't about to bring the same unfortunate fate upon herself.  "Ronald Weasley," the house had reverberated, dust motes falling from the ceiling which Ron had neglected to scour clean during his frenzied episode of tidying, "it isn't enough for you to vanish from society?  You have to be careless and irresponsible with girls as well?"

            Ron had blushed a peculiar shade of crimson, holding his hands before his face in mock surrender.  "No, mum.  I didn't mean it like that.  It's Hermione…"

            He remembered his mother clutching her hands to her chest.  "Hermione!  Here, in this house?  But what about…"

            "I don't know mum.  I haven't seen Him.  She hasn't spoken a word since she arrived.  She's sleeping now."

            His mother had promptly tromped up the stairs only to return moments later and floo for his father who was putting in yet another long day at the Ministry.  She asked her husband to contact Dumbledore at once, poking a sandwich at him with the fireplace tongs.  Ron had selfishly hoped it was corned beef.  Perhaps then he wouldn't have to eat the stuff.

            The hour was well past midnight by the time Dumbledore had actually arrived on the doorstep, looking unusually grave.  "Is she still here," he had asked Ron's mum, who had nodded and led the way to Ron's room where Hermione had continued to occupy his bed.  He had found himself wishing that he had chosen a better color scheme for the bedclothes, or at least a more mature one.

            His mum had stopped him from ascending the stairs with them, and he had stood rooted to the bottom step, his ear tuned to the floor above waiting for any sign of life.  He knew that he would recognize Hermione's voice the instant she spoke.  He felt his heart sink when his former headmaster returned down the staircase looking bleak and defeated.

            "Did she speak to you, Mr. Weasley?  Did she tell you what happened?"

            Ron had wished that he had better news to share with the man whom he had always so deeply respected, but all he could do was dumbly shake his head and disappoint him  "No sir.  She showed up.  I gave her tea and a bath and put her to bed.  She never said a word."

            He remembered the way Dumbledore had sighed, as though the weight of the world were upon him and Ron's admission had done nothing more than add to his crushing burden.  "Very well then, Mr. Weasley.  Do take care of her for me."

            There had been that surge of helplessness again, the same one he had felt when she had said "I do" at her wedding just eight months prior.  "How can I take care of her if I don't know what's wrong?"

            "Just comfort her Mr. Weasley.  Have patience, and I can hold out hope that she will be willing to talk."

            He could hold out hope, that meant…"You don't know if she's going to be all right, Sir?"

            "I have been told I have the makings of a poor Seer, Mr. Weasley."  That voice hadn't sounding quite so charming just then.  Ron had found himself sick with dread which Dumbledore had done nothing to abate and more to fuel.  With a soft wink and a sad smile, the wizened wizard had gone.

            Now, two weeks later there had been little change in Hermione's state.  He leaned over her as he did every morning, softly touching her shoulder.  She was clad today in pink terrycloth pajamas.  Every night, his mother dutifully supplied a clean outfit for Hermione to change into after her bath, laundering the ones that the girl left behind in the bathroom hamper.  It pained Ron to see that it seemed only her soul had left.  She was perfectly functional if he could push her too it.  Sometimes, he thought it would be easier if everything was gone.

            "Hermione," he whispered softly, trying to wake her as slowly and gently as was possible.  He remembered all of the times his mum had decided the only efficient way of rousing someone was to blanket the room in bright sunlight until they wept for mercy as their eyes burned away.  She stirred slightly beneath his hand, and he spoke her name again, noting how good it felt to roll the sound upon his lips.  It had been too long. 

            At last she opened her eyes a crack, as though she had decided to wake on her own.  As was usual, she didn't even acknowledge his presence, just stared off into a distant space that Ron was no longer a part of.  He put his hand gently behind her back and helped her to sit up, sliding her backwards on the bed so that she would be supported by the headboard.

            "Would you like your breakfast?"  He waited for an answer, but knew there would be none.  "I can go fetch it for you, if you'd like."  Still, she said nothing, and he had to turn away and head down the stairs to keep his heart from bursting straight out of his chest.  Everyday, he felt more woefully inadequate than he had the day before.  He always had to leave her after a few minutes, for if he stared too long his throat choked up and he broke down in silent tears.  What hurt him even more was the way she would continue staring into space through his displays of grief.  It was as though she cared about him so little he was nonexistent to her.

            Mrs. Weasley was busy with her wand over one of the counters as he slid into the kitchen and sat down at the scrubbed wooden table, sighing forlornly.

            "Nice of you to miss me," a girlish voice said scathingly.

            Ron looked up to see his sister standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed and hands on her hips.  Despite her nasty façade, there was a trace of a smile on the upturned corners of her lips.  "Ginny," he said trying to keep the dumb tone surprise always gave him out of his voice, "what are you doing here?"

            "Easter Break," she said, shrugging.  "Mum told me I might want to come home, and Professor Dumbledore insisted that I did.  I've only just arrived.  What's up?"

            Mrs. Weasley smiled at her youngest.  "Sit down for breakfast, Ginny."

            The red head sighed and did as she was told, looking expectantly towards the door as though she expected someone to come bursting through it at any time.  Ron didn't ask what that was about, and went back to brooding about the mess his life had become and the pain his heart harbored for Hermione.

            At last, Mrs. Weasley sat down, summoning four place settings and several dishes laden with food.  "Mum," Ron growled, "you know she likes it better up there."  The first time Mrs. Weasley had tried to serve Hermione a meal in the kitchen, things had gotten a bit edgy.  Hermione had remained the same placid self she had been ever since her arrival at the Burrow, but had planted her hand on the edge of the mattress and refused to be moved.  When Ron had forcibly carried her to the table at his mum's orders, the girl had simply stared off into space and refused to eat.  Only when he had resumed his routine of carrying a tray up to her to she regain her appetite.

            "That isn't for her, Ron," Mrs. Weasley said.  She turned her attention back to her plate though she, like Ginny kept stealing glances at the door.

            A few moments later there was a great hiss and a puff of smoke roiled from the fireplace grate.  Ron jumped up with the pitcher of water, ready to drown out any errant embers that had managed to escape onto the carpeting.  To his great surprise, the pile of ash and soot began coughing.  As the smoke cleared away, he was able to make out a human shape standing up and brushing itself off before him.  "Hullo, Ron," the figure said, straightening something on its face.  "It's very good to see you."

            Ron would have known that voice anywhere.  He smiled and rushed forwards, grasping his estranged best friend in a tremendous bear hug.  "Harry!  What are you doing here?"

            "Dumbledore called me away from Seeking for a bit.  Said I needed to come here for something."

            "Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley called out.  "Do come in.  Wash yourself off and then tuck in for some breakfast."  She looked the tall boy over as he headed through the room and seemed satisfied that he had been taking care of himself while playing Seeker for Oxfordshire.

            The four of them ate breakfast amiably.  "Nice meal, Mrs. Weasley," Harry complimented the woman who was the closest thing to a living mother he had ever had.

            "Thank you Harry dear."

            "Mum," Ginny interrupted, "why are we here?  Why did Dumbledore want Harry and I to come?"

            Ron answered that.  "Hermione," he said softly.  He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, but was only partially successful.  With all the practice he'd had at pretending not to grieve over the direction her life had taken and his had subsequently spun off in, he would have thought he would have been more accomplished at disseminating neutrality when he really felt animosity towards himself by now.

            "Hermione?"  Harry asked sharply.  "Here?"  "But what about…"

            "We haven't heard from Him," Mrs. Weasley said not without a touch of fury.

            "How long?" Ginny asked.

            "About two weeks now," said Ron.  "She just showed up one day.  She hasn't even spoken to anyone yet."

            Ginny leaned back and sighed.  "I guess that's a bit of a relief."

            "A bit of a relief?  What do you mean that's a bit of a relief?"  Ron's voice was angry and his eyes flashed dangerously.  "She hasn't spoken a word since she's been here, Ginny.  I don't see how that's in any way comforting."

            Ginny turned on her brother, daring him to continue his tirade against her.  "She's been missing for nearly a month now.  I thought something had happened to her."

            "Something did happen to her, you twit!  If she was fine, she would be talking."

            "Ron," Ginny said coolly, "I thought she had gotten killed."

            "What about Snape?"  Harry asked Ginny, leaning over the table so far it looked as though he would come crashing out of his chair.  "What does he have to say about all of this?"

            "He's been gone for even longer than that," Ginny explained.  "She took over his lessons for him just after Christmas.  All of the sudden, she was gone.  I ran to talk to Dumbledore straight away but he told me to let things sort themselves out.  He said he would take care of it."

            "And Snape hasn't been back since then?"

            "No."

            Harry scowled.  "I always knew he was a worthless git.  I told her that when she wanted me to give her my blessing for the whole affair.  I refused.  I never thought it was right, the two of them together.  She may love potions, but that doesn't mean that she has to love him.  I could never understand why she was oblivious to that fact that being Potions Master didn't make him a bloody extension of some concoction."

            "I know this has something to do with him," Ron growled.  "When I figure out what it is, he's going to wish he'd never laid a hand on Hermione, much less coerced her into marrying him."

            Mrs. Weasley stood up, banging her hand on the table, "Children, please!"  They all scowled at her as though she had demeaned them with her admonishment.  "Severus is missing, too.  Dumbledore hasn't heard anything from him for nearly four months now.  We were hoping he would show up here after Hermione did, or that she would be able to give us a clue as to his whereabouts, but so far neither of those things has happened.  I don't know why it has always been so hard for the three of you to remember that Severus Snape is on our side.  Hermione was the only one of you who was ever perceptive enough to understand that what someone was is not always the same as what someone is."

            "Yeah, mum," Ginny said now joining Harry and Ron's side, "look what good that's done her."

              "He never even acted like he cared about her," Ron said, hands clasped behind his back as he started pacing the room. 

            "Love is different for different people," Mrs. Weasley told her son softly, rising from the tables and heading out to the garden with a book and a pitcher of tea.

            "How can you call what they had love?  All they ever did was fight and be horrible to each other?"

            Harry couldn't help but smirk slightly.  He winked at Ginny, breaking the seriousness of the mood for a moment.  Harry knew his friend had died inside the night Hermione had announced to the two of them that she would be marrying Severus Snape at the end of their seventh year at Hogwarts.  Ron had loved Hermione for as long as Harry could remember, and has always shown his love for her in the way he was now describing as scandalous.

            "We need to find out what happened," said Ginny.  "It doesn't matter that we all hate Snape, she doesn't, or at least the last time I spoke to her she didn't."

            "I do hate him," Ron agreed as though that was the only part of Ginny's statement that had any relevance to the current situation.

            "Me too," Harry agreed, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Ron's hatred of their former professor sprung from a more deep and painful place than his own ever could.  "Now, more than ever since he might have hurt Hermione."

            Ron looked daggers in Harry's direction.  "Might have?"

            Ginny shook her head.  "Let me take her breakfast up to her alone.  Maybe she just needs a little girl talk.  Maybe being around you is too much for her, Ron." 

            "Fine," Ron snarled, turning around and sending all of the dirty dishes crashing broken to the sink with a wave of his wand.  "Do what ever you want.  I'm sure she will talk to you.  She'll probably talk to all of you and never say a word to me."

            Harry shooed Ginny off, indicating that he would take care of Ron's lousy mood.  "Come on, mate," Harry said, "don't be so hard on her.  She and Hermione have been friends almost as long as you and Hermione have."

            "I know," Ron said shortly.

            "She's just trying to help, Ron.  She wants to see Hermione get better as much as you do."

            "Fine, Harry, whatever."

            Harry moved to turn away but then thought better of it.  "I'm not going to let you do this to yourself this time, Ron.  I won't stand by and let you self-destruct again."

            "Like you could have stopped me."

            "I could have tried.  I just let you last time.  I just walked away.  That made it sort of hard for me to call you my friend.  Come to think of it, it made it sort of hard for me to call myself a Gryffindor.  Loyalty and all, you know."

            Ron stood there silent for a moment.  "It's hard, Harry, having her here.  It brings up all of the old memories in a way that I never thought was possible.  You think that you've moved on, you think that the ache is dull and meaningless until you're confronted with the source.  Then it all falls apart on you again."

            "You did everything you could to stop her…"

            "I told her not to do it."

            "It wasn't up to you, in the end."

            "She wouldn't listen to me.  She just stared at me, the way she does now.  Blank, like there's nothing there."

            "She'd made up her mind.  You know what she's like better than anyone.  Remember SPEW?"  There was a faint trace of a smile around Harry's eyes.  "Come on, mate.  She married Snape on her own.  It's not like you arranged it."

            Ron turned to Harry with haunted eyes.  "Harry," he said, voicing aloud the thought that had been tearing him apart since the exchange of vows that had taken Hermione away from him forever, "what if I could have stopped it?"

            Harry snorted.  "You would have done what, Ron?  Objected?  I'd like to see what she would have transfigured you into if you would have tried."

            "No," Ron said, feeling that his friend was missing the point entirely.  "What if she could have married someone else?  What if someone else would have asked her first?  What if I had just told her I loved her?"

            Harry sighed deeply, running his hands through his messy black hair.  "I don't know, mate.  You can't dwell on might have beens.  You couldn't have known it would come down to this."

            "If I had actually belonged in Gryffindor, it wouldn't have come down to this.  But I was too chicken, too stupid.  Too afraid she would say no, I was."

            "Ron," Harry said, trying to waylay his friend from the track of destruction he was currently riding on, "we were just kids."

            "It was only a year ago, Harry."

            "Did you tell her now?"

            Ron looked at him as though he had sprouted three heads.  "Of course I didn't tell her now.  She's married to that spawn of darkness now.  What am I supposed to say?  'Gee, Hermione, I wish you wouldn't have married old Snapey, cause I really love you.'  Give me a break."

            "She came to you, didn't she?  She could have come to me, or gone to her parents, or even run to Victor Krum.  She chose you, though."

            "She knew I was the only git sitting around with nothing to do since she broke my heart."

            Harry rolled his eyes.  "Fine, then don't tell her.  This might be your last chance, but you can waste it too, if you want.  Just let it go.  When she comes out of it, maybe then she'll go back to Snape without even having any reason to think twice about it.  Then you can go back to brooding and moping and wondering what might have been if you'd just been able to pluck up a little bit of courage to tell your best friend that you've loved her all along."

            Ron snorted.  "Like it's that easy."

            Harry shrugged, "sure it is.  What have you got to lose now, mate?  When we were in school she might have laughed at you, or run away, or refused to ever speak to you again.  Now, you don't ever talk to her anymore anyway.  If it blows up in your face you can just go back to status quo.  It's not like a little heartache is going to interfere with the ambitious lifestyle you've chosen for yourself."

            "Sod off, Harry."  Ron brightened a bit.  "If it's so easy, then why don't you do it right now?"

            "Ron, I don't love Hermione.  She's my friend is all.  You know that."

            "Not Hermione, Harry.  Ginny.  I know you love Ginny.  I know how it killed you when she started flirting with every bloke in the school, and even worse when she actually started dating some of them."  When Harry said nothing, Ron persisted, "Come on mate, you're a professional seeker and the Boy Who Lived for Merlin's sake!  You must have girls crawling all over you."

            "I do not," Harry said indignantly.

            "Then tell her, if it's so easy."  He paused a moment.  "I knew it wasn't."

            "Fine," Harry said, exasperated, "I will.  Later."

            "Oh no," said Ron.  "Now is good.  Now is very, very good.  Here she comes.  Go on then, Harry."

            Harry turned crimson then blanched slightly.  "Uh, Ginny," he stammered.  "I wanted to tell you something.  You see...well, it's just that…Uh, I wanted you to know that well…we've always been friendsandumIloveyou."  He said the last very rapidly, letting it all out in one giant breath of sound.

            She looked at him quizzically, then smiled.  "That's nice, Harry."  She kissed him softly on the cheek, much the way an aunt would, her face burning slightly red.  She looked over to Ron and motioned for him to join her.  "Come upstairs you two."

            "Does Hermione want to talk," Ron asked eagerly leaping from the chair he had sat back down in and banging his knee severely on the underside of the table.  "Bloody hell!"

            "No," Ginny said, rushing up the stairs with the two boys in tow.  "She doesn't want to talk, but I gave her a pen and some parchment."

            "So she wants to write," Harry concluded thickly.

            "Genius," Ginny said, rolling her eyes.  " I thought maybe she would be more comfortable that way.  She always liked written words better than people."

            "Except Snape," Ron glowered, trying his best to put a smile on his face.  This time, he promised himself, he would be there for Hermione.

*           *           *

            She could see them all staring down at her as though she were some sort of creature on exhibit.  They wanted her to talk to them.  They wanted her to tell them why she was here.

            She would not.

            She could see it in Ginny's eyes, the pity.  Pity was worse than loathing.

            Harry's eyes burned with concern and anger.  She would not fuel his rage.

            Ron's eyes were the worst.  Love. She couldn't deal with love.  She had never had to deal with love.  She looked off into space, not wanting to look directly away, for then he would have known that she had seen him.

            Ginny urged her to write with the lavender quill she now held in her hand.  It seemed like ages since she had held a quill.  It was like a piece of her from another time, from another life.  She twirled it slowly in her fingers, contemplating.  Lavender was her least favorite color.  These days, she tended to prefer black.

At least, that's what she told herself.

Harry moved the parchment about as though she were half-blind and he was trying to make her see it.  Carefully, she moved her gaze away slowly so that they would not think the action was deliberate.  If she had learned anything from the supplier of her surname, it was the art of subtlety.

"I thought you said she was going to write," she heard Ron say in a voice that sounded both impatient and hurt.  She pretended not to hear him.

She could imagine Ginny's shrug though the spot she had fixated upon prevented her from seeing the movement.  "I must have misunderstood."

"She talked to you?"  Ron again.  "I knew she would talk to you."  Wounded, like always.

"No."  Ginny this time.  "She just looked like she was there for a second.  I guess I was wrong."

No, not wrong.  She had just let herself slip a bit was all.  Calm.  Collected.  She breathed deeply and evenly, counting to herself.  It would be easy enough to elicit damage control.

"I don't think she's going to be writing."  She could hear the frown in Ron's voice now.  She heard a set of footsteps move away and knew it was him.

"Sorry," Ginny said in a choked voice.  "I just thought…"

"Don't worry about it."  Interruption had always been one of Harry's fortes.

"What you said before, did you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean, I guess I did."

"What do you mean you guess?"  She could hear Ginny's eyes narrowing.

"I meant it."  Harry was sweating.  She could tell by the strain in his voice.

Suddenly there was silence except for a slightly wet sound.  She wanted desperately to look, wanted to see that love was tangible and real, but then they would know for certain that she was indeed there.  She wasn't ready for that yet.

"Why now?"  Ginny's voice was happier now.  Free.  She had felt that way once, long ago.  It, like the quill, seemed like a piece of another lifetime.

"Because he needs to say it too."

She didn't like the sound of that and had to fight herself from bristling.  She knew they were still watching, still noticing.  She didn't so much as blink.  She had become a master of self-control.

"Could I talk to her alone for a minute?"  Harry again.  She heard Ginny's footsteps fall away.  Almost alone.

"Hermione, can you hear me?"  Nothing.  This was the hardest, when they actually spoke to her.  Then she couldn't look away.  She had to fixate, had to concentrate on being a non-entity.

"Hermione, please, you can talk to me."  Of course she could.  She just didn't want to, didn't see any reason to.  Not yet, at least.

She knew he would inevitably try again.  The Boy Who Lived.  The Boy Who Could Fix Everything.  The Boy Who Was A Hero.  He did not disappoint her.  "Come on, Hermione.  I know you're in there."

Did he really?  No, she decided.  He hoped, but did not know.  No one could know.

"Please, Hermione.  You can tell us.  We want to help you."

Of course they did.  But they also wanted to hurt him.  They didn't understand.  They had never understood. 

She heard a rustle as he knelt down beside her and took her hand in his.  Limp.  He began massaging it in tiny circles.  Unresponsive.

"Dammit, Hermione, stop this bloody nonsense!"  He dropped her hand.  He was swearing now, pacing the room.  The footsteps came near and then retreated.  Near and then retreated.  He walked first with his heels then with his toes.  She could hear the way he stepped.

Suddenly, he stopped.  Breathe.  "He loves you."  No.  Stop.  She couldn't take it.  Stop.  Now.

"Ron, he loves you, Hermione."  No need to repeat it.  It hurt too much.  She was going to react.  She could feel her vital signs rising, feel her blood pumping.  She didn't want to know.  She couldn't deal with any more right now.

"He wants to tell you, but he can't."  It was better that way.  She shut her eyes once to regain composure and hoped he hadn't noticed.

"Wouldn't it be better that way, Hermione?  Wouldn't you be better off with him?"  No way to tell, now.  No way to find out.  Dreams were born, and then they died.  She had sent many wishes on their way.  That was another time.

"You love him too, Hermione."  No she didn't.  Dreams were born and then they died.  She was different, now.  Somehow she had to be.  Death was finite, even for a dream.  There was no spell to reverse death.  She had buried her dreams with her childhood.

"He needs you, Hermione."  Did anyone really need anyone?  She had done fine on her own.  Dreams, again.  Dreams of utopia.  Dreams of euphoria.  Dreams that could never be.  Dreams that would die outside of the mind, away from the heart.  Her mind was numb and her heart was cold.  There was no room for dreams.

"You could be together Hermione."  No.  that would never be possible again.  She had hurt him enough.  He had hurt her enough. She had made a promise.  He had turned away.  She had let him go.  Unity was a contract and love a construct.  He was a dream from the hours just before the dawn.  He had slipped away like the early morning mist.  Dreams fade.

"Think about it Hermione."  She would not.  Anything else, but not that.  She pushed it away, locked it up with the keys to her soul.  Dim now, because there were no more dreams.  Tired now, because she had grown cold.  But what of the dreamer?

"You could have gone anywhere."  No.  She couldn't run anymore.  Couldn't last any longer.  The fire in her heart had long since burned away to embers and put itself out.  There was nothing left.

"If you don't love him, then why are you here?"  She heard him move away and closed her eyes heavily trying not to let the words permeate her consciousness. 

There was one part of her that still refused to die.

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