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Days drudged on, swamped in that inescapable muddle of emotions, each one mingling into the other, until I found myself to be living in a daze – a ghost of an erstwhile self I did not seem to want to remember anymore.

Harry and I had moved out of the woods and pitched our tent on a hillside, which, for all its heather, struck me as despairingly barren, and the conspicuous lack of anything to shield us from my imaginary vultures only heightened my sense of vulnerability. I hated it, I hated what I could see myself becoming.

I was never like this.

In school I had been teased and shunned, for being the teacher's pet, the perpetual show-off, the know-it-all, the bucktoothed, bushy-haired plain Jane… the antithesis in every possible sense to the cool, popular girl. But even though it hurt a little, I always had my parents, ever so proud. Even when the letter from Hogwarts came, threatening to take me away from everything they had ever known, they had been as incredibly supportive as ever. It was their confidence in me that I carried to my new universe, where it became clear after the first few days that I would be just as unpopular as a witch than I had been as a muggle.

And then the unexpected happened: friends. My own true, steadfast, best friends, who liked who I was, just as I was. And Ron, goofy, impetuous Ron, who affected me in ways I had not thought possible. I, the rational, sensible Hermione, had somehow given him so much power as to drive me insanely happy and utterly devastated.

So much so, that when he left, there was nothing left, just as I had thought. There was sunshine, flowers, wild animals, my best friend Harry, but everything was subdued by these strange mists that sapped everything of the meaning that they had once held. The quest itself seemed to have lost all meaning. Harry and I moved from the hillside to the alcove of a cliff, I read, we discussed, hypothesised, wondered and planned ahead. But it was all mechanical. There was nothing left.

I was never like this. If my parents could see me, they would bring me back, remind me that I could not bind my existence to another being in this manner, that there was a larger purpose that I was living for, fighting for, in the perspective of which, Ronald Weasley was a tiny speck of no consequence. But where were my parents? And where was I, now that I had ceased to exist in their memories?

I felt so powerless that I could not even allow my own acute sense of logic to shake me out of my depression. I was flailing in the winds, light-headed. It was not as easy as I had always thought. It was not a matter of being mentally strong. Sometimes you were just… doomed. Like those waves, foaming, furiously rushing towards the jagged rocks. It was beautiful.

Someone was calling out my name, softly at first, then more urgently. Death?

"Hermione… Hermione… HERMIONE!"

He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him and I realised that I had been at the edge of the cliff, dangerously close to nothingness.

The force with which he pulled me made us both fall to the ground. His heart beneath my wet cheek was pounding as he removed the locket from around my neck. I got up, awkwardly, wanting to reassure him that I could never have been so despicably cowardly as to kill myself, but he had stormed away into the tent, the locket swinging jubilantly from his clenched fist.

Harry's anger was justified. How could I have been so self-absorbed that I lost sight of him, of his suffering, and of our mission, on whose success, the fate of so many people depended. At this precarious stage, how could I have risked it all for someone who could never have truly cared about me. Someone who had hurt me, repeatedly, with practised callousness.

I had forgiven his lapses, as a doting mother figure would. I had elevated his imperfections, adoringly. And foolishly, I had made our relationship about him, about pleasing him, cooking for him, making sure that he never felt insecure. I had led things to a stage where I no longer mattered. It had all been my fault, and what I was doing to myself now, was also something that was well within my control.

I entered the tent. Harry was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his fist held against his forehead.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

He stood up with a start and looked at me, angrily, "Don't tell me it was that damned locket."

"No, it wasn't. It was me. I'm truly very sorry."

He stared at me, speechless. I half-ran to him and threw myself in his embrace, feeling as I did so, all the dark despair within me begin to melt away. After a long time, I was struck by that emotion that I thought only my parents could inspire in me: solace. I smiled, and could feel that he was smiling too.

And from that moment on, the anguished stagnancy that had settled after Ron's departure began to dissipate. There was a renewed sense of hope, and companionship and friendship. There were stolen moments of laughter and joy, and something so precious that even the Horcrux somehow could not contaminate. Yes, there were fights, we snapped at each other ever so often, I being the voice of reason perpetually dampening his reckless ideas. And yes, the infuriating lack of a sense of direction that characterised our quest, constantly bred in us uncertainty and self-doubt. But we had each other, and more importantly, I had myself, once again. My happiness or sense of fulfillment did not depend on another person, but on something deep-seated within me that I had not lost after all.

I felt, strangely enough, free. I did not have to tiptoe around anyone's immaturity. Harry was a strong person too, and we could yell our disagreements each other, we could fume and sulk, and we could both almost simultaneously drop our egos to make peace with one another.

After a long time, I felt that I needed someone just as much as they needed me.