Scene II

            Midnight had long ago slid from my grasp, silvery and elusive.  I could not sleep.

            For a moment, I was back, alone, on the floor, wondering if he would come back.

            Back to hurt me, steal me from Snape.

            I wondered, for a moment, whether the words of love were real…

            The late spring night stole me from my dormitory to cradle me in its frigid arms of better-abandoned, disorganized recollections and doubts.

            Transparent eyes.

            The cold floor.

            Death.

            I didn't want it anymore, and yet it had come.  I was dead without my heart, which I had gifted him.  I was dead while my doubts and the cold night kept the heart he had given me from beating.  Dead, to all but the man who had offered to make me so.

            I'd been dead then, too.   Finishing the job with fickle physicality had been all too inviting.

            My hand clutched a luminous collection of leaves.  The branch was alive and invisible roots would not let it droop. 

A Phoenix Plant.  Phoenix Perpetua.  Died and resurrected many times, like me.   How long could it last alive?  How long could it say dead?

            Only this much survived.  The rest had crumbled, needing only the smallest touch to achieve its long-needed rest.  Our love and happiness had sprung from the ash it had littered onto the floor.  Its dieing breath created us.

            He flew away into the darkness. Our happiness together was so different from our happiness apart.  I had lived for him—

            Until I died, died into the night.  Unscreaming, unafraid.

            But now the hot sun melted me from the icy embrace that held me.  Life returned.  I stumbled from my bed.

            "Hermione?"
            "Where were you?  Dumbledore wouldn't tell us!"

            What day was it?  How long had it truly been?  I had slipped back into this normality only after I had found the strength to leave the tower, to stop fancying I could still see him leaving.  Among the awake, it was different.

            "I was at St. Mungo's.  I was sick."  A harmless lie, only half false.  They accepted it, not knowing and, perhaps, not caring for the difference.

            "You missed the Transfiguration test.  I know you studied hard."

            So it must be Saturday.  I asked and they confirmed my suspicion.

            Only a week ago, it had been my illusions that awoke me.  In a few days, heaven and hell had emerged, shattering my old life…

            Saturday.  It was Saturday. 

            I ran the gauntlet of the common room.  Questions, carelessly hurled, assaulted me.  I longed to be outside, peaceful, alone—though, the company of one was welcomed.

            My footfalls echoed against the cold stone.  I pushed my way through uninhabited halls, dodging unwelcome and non-existent interrogations.  I wanted the pain and love I had felt for myself.  Speaking them aloud would steal their sacredness, put them into mortal terms.

            Hooves tapped out a rhythm.  A human waist grew from the shoulders of a horse.

            Firenze.

            "Hermione.  I must speak with you."  His voice was soothing, a lullaby.  A celestially arranged face held the secrets of the stars.  "I have seen… something."

            My heart, lonely, but unbroken, readied itself for whatever was to come.  Two hands braced me, unseen—an illusion.