Six months passed.

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On the day they had left Hogwarts, Hermione had awoken in the hospital wing, feeling wrung out, but otherwise all right. Physically, anyway. Her emotional state was a different story altogether. Harry and Ron had been asleep in cushy armchairs that had been magicked into the ward, on either side of her bed; Harry curled up with his head in the crook of one arm, glasses askew; Ron leaning forward with his head lying on his arms, which were criss-crossed on the edge of her bed.

Both boys had awoken as soon as she'd stirred, their faces instantly losing the peace of sleep and becoming lined with worry. She had had relatively little difficulty, however, in convincing them that all she had suffered was a panic attack at the moment it became real to her that after seven years she was actually leaving Hogwarts; she told them that she had been walking back from the library when it suddenly hit her that this was, in all likelihood, the last time she'd ever walk from the library back to Gryffindor Tower, and possibly the last time she'd ever climb through the portrait hole into the common room, since she hadn't been planning to leave the tower again until breakfast, from whence she would be getting straight onto the train.

Harry and Ron had fallen for it hook, line and sinker, their relief palpable, and afterwards it would become a joke amongst them that Hermione had been so attached to school she had actually fainted at the very thought of leaving... a joke that amused the boys greatly but held little humor for Hermione, since she knew it was a lie.

She'd hated lying to them... but telling the truth was unthinkable.

00000

She had seen Draco once more, on the train, in passing; she had brushed by him as he'd been stuffing Pansy's trunk into an overhead compartment. Their eyes had locked for just a fraction of a second, then she had seen his flash down to her hand- a lightning quick, searching glance, and she knew what he was looking for- the ring. He was checking to see if she was wearing the ring.

And then he was turning away, his mouth curving suddenly and violently down, and at the same instant she had caught sight of the glittering diamond ring on Pansy's finger- Pansy who'd standing possessively close to Draco as he continued to wrestle with her overstuffed trunk- and she'd just barely managed to fight down a new wave of nausea, her hand closing tight about the velvet box she carried in her pocket, and then Ron's arm was around her and he was guiding her from the compartment, sensing that something was wrong, though not knowing what- and it was over, just like that.

She hadn't seen him again.

00000

And now it was six months later and she was sitting at the small, scrubbed oak kitchen table in the flat she shared with Harry and Ron in a very respectable wizarding section of London, and it was nine-thirty on a Sunday morning and she was in her tatty, comfortable old chenille bathrobe and slippers, with her hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail, coffee close at hand, staring down at the morning's Daily Prophet and feeling suddenly very, very cold... and very fragile, also; as though if she moved too quickly she might break, might shatter into a million pieces.

PARKINSON MALFOY WEDDING A STUNNING AFFAIR read the headline.

She quickly scanned the article;

The lavish nuptials of Pansy Parksinson and Draco Malfoy, the only children of their respective families, which took place yesterday evening on the grounds of the Malfoy Estate, have set a new standard for opulence in the wizarding world, and have united two very old and distinguished pureblooded wizarding families.

The article, which of course had been penned by none other that Rita Skeeter, journalist extraordinaire, queen of gossip in the wizarding world, went on to describe in minute detail the wedding attire, the decorations, the guest list, the flowers, the cake... and ended by inviting the reader to turn to page six for a full-color photo spread of the event.

Hermione did so, sat staring down at the moving pictures for a long moment, feeling as though her blood had turned to ice water in her veins, then stood, pushing her chair abruptly back from the table so hard that it toppled over, clattering loudly on the kitchen's tiled floor.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice came drifting to her from the living room. "Everything all right in there?"

"Fine," she called back, her own voice strangled. "I just... um... fine."

She turned and fled into her room, having the presence of mind (she still was who she was, even in times of deep distress) to take the newspaper with her, so that the cause of her upset would not be identified. Locking the door behind her, she threw herself down on the bed, shoving the now badly wrinkled paper down between the headboard and wall.

As she'd expected, she soon heard footsteps from the living room into the kitchen, followed by the sound of the chair she'd left on the floor being righted- then the footsteps were approaching down the hallway, coming to a stop outside her door.

Well, of course he'd come after her. What sort of a roommate would he be if he hadn't? What sort of a friend? What sort of a boyfriend? The two of them had been dating for about six weeks now.

"Hermione?" he called, sounding more puzzled than anything else. "Can I come in?"

Oh, God. What am I going to tell him? How could she explain the state she was in? She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed so that her feet were flat on the floor, folded her body so that her chest lay pressed against her thighs and her face was between her knees, then extended one hand toward the door and, with a murmured spell, caused it to unlock and swing gently open.

She heard Harry step inside, then shut the door behind him. She didn't look up as he crossed the room and settled himself beside her on the bed, causing the mattress to shift, and began rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles. She braced herself for the question she knew had to be coming next and that she couldn't for the life of her think of a believable answer- hell, even the truth wasn't a believable answer, not that she'd consider telling it... but Harry never asked her what had happened, or what was wrong. All he asked was,

"How can I help?"

It was just this, the sheer unselfish Harryness of this question, that undid her. In the next instant she was all over him, pulling him down on top of her, sealing her mouth to his; desperate, hungry kisses muffling his sounds of surprise, and they had never kissed like this before- sure, they'd kissed; who dates for six weeks and never kisses? But not with anything near this intensity. Harry was a... a tender kisser. A slow, gentle, nearly shy, one might almost say... gallant kisser. Nothing like the hungry passion she'd sometimes experienced with Draco.

But the thought of those photographs in the paper, the thought of what Draco had been doing the previous night, after the wedding- what he might well be doing right now, on a lazy Sunday morning with his brand-new bride- begged to be scrubbed from her mind, and as far as she could see at the moment, the most effective way to do so would be by resurrecting some of that passion, and drowning herself in it, even if only for the moment.

She thought of the photos again, of the expressions on their faces, the wide, radiant smile that Pansy had been wearing. She thought of the pain that penetration brought and wondered did Pansy hurt last night? Is she hurting now? And then scoffed bitterly at her own naivety; of course Pansy wouldn't be hurting now; that would suggest that she had been a virgin on her wedding night, when in fact, Hermione thought, Pansy and Draco had probably been- been- all along...

"Ow!"

"Harry? Oh my God, I'm so sorry!"

They both sat up, Harry rubbing ruefully at his lower lip, which Hermione had just bitten- not quite hard enough to draw blood, but... hard enough to kill the mood, anyway. Not that there had been much of a mood to begin with, just a desire to kill one sort of pain with another on Hermione's part, and as for Harry... well, throughout this entire interlude, Harry had been- and still was- more perplexed than anything.

"S'alright," he said, looking at her intently with troubled, dark green eyes. "But are you?"

"Yeah, I-" she tried to force a laugh. It came out sounding strangled. "I just don't... know what got into me," she said lamely.

It was a pretty piss-poor explanation for everything she'd just done; knocked over her chair in the kitchen, pelted into her room, slamming and locking the door, then thrown herself on him like some- some sort of- hussy. And she knew he wasn't buying it for a second. But he didn't press her. When something was bothering Harry, he hated being pressed to talk before he was ready, so now he extended to Hermione the same courtesy he expected from others. All he said was,

"Half an hour."

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, brow knitting in confusion.

"Half an hour," Harry repeated. "That's how long you have to get ready, then I'm taking you out. You've been working way too hard lately- you worked fourteen hours yesterday, and it was Saturday! I'm taking you out for lunch, and for the afternoon, and don't you even think about bringing any paperwork along. So hop in the shower, dress warmly, and then meet me in the living room in half an hour."

And so saying, he planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, stood, and left the room.

Hermione glanced toward her headboard, torn between getting ready and taking one last look at those wedding photos. She knew it would be a terribly unhealthy thing to do; looking at them was like inflicting a mental equivalent of the Cruciatus Curse on herself. Nevertheless, she actually reached her hand down behind her pillow, before forcing herself to draw it back again, empty, and head into her adjoining bathroom for a quick shower. Lunch and an afternoon out would be just what she needed to take her mind off all this; if left at home, she was sure she'd spend the whole day poring over those photos and... well, and indulging in some combination or other of hysterical tears, laughter and screaming. Not great for the old psyche.

Thank Merlin for Harry; he always knew just what she needed. Harry was good for her.

She told herself that a lot.

And tried not to wonder just who it was that these repeated affirmations were meant to convince.

00000

Harry grinned at her when she entered the living room, dressed warmly as specified. He was holding her coat and scarf in one hand, and a small, rounded object in the other. After he'd handed her the outerwear, he held up the little object for her to see. It was a heavy little snow-globe of Hogwarts castle; it had been his Christmas present to her the previous year. He gestured at the lavishly trimmed Christmas tree in the corner of the room, a few presents already scattered haphazardly beneath it. The three roommates had had an amazing time of selecting it, bringing it home and decorating it the previous weekend; there's nothing quite like setting up one's first Christmas tree in one's first apartment- even though the actual Christmas morning festivities were slatted for the Weasley's house.

"I thought about using one of the ornaments," Harry said, "but they're all so fragile. Go on and take hold; I've turned it into a portkey for today."

Hermione reached out a grasped the snow-globe, her fingers brushing Harry's, then he said "activate," and they were spinning away.

00000

Hermione heard sleigh bells even before the world stopped spinning and she opened her eyes. She found herself standing in the town square of Hogemeade Village, directly beneath a fifteen meter tall outdoor Christmas tree which glittered with glass baubles the size of dinner plates, and glowed with charmed candles that barely flickered in the light snowfall.

"Tree to tree service," Harry said with a grin, one hand under her elbow to steady her on her feet.

"Oh, Harry," she breathed, "it's gorgeous!"

"C'mon," he said, taking her by the hand and leading her in the direction of the sleigh bells. "We're going on a sleigh ride around the lake and up to the castle. Then we'll have lunch, and do some Christmas shopping."

00000

Hours later they strolled the streets of the village arm in arm, looking no older than the upper year students from the school who had stayed over the holidays and were doing their shopping in town. Harry was piled with parcels, both his own and Hermione's, and as it had been quite a while since they'd taken lunch, he suggested they stop at the Three Broomsticks for a late afternoon butterbeer before heading home. Hermione was about to acquiesce, when she happened to glance down a side street and see something that made her throat go dry. It was the Hogsmeade library, and on the other side of it, she could just catch a peek of the most sweetly charming little house-

Her little house.

And in the next instant she was making hurried excuses to Harry, telling him there was something she wanted to look up in the library, it wouldn't take her half an hour, just go on and get a table and she'd join him at the pub, no really, he needn't come with her, he'd only be bored, go find a table and put those packages down, for Merlin's sake and she'd be right there, yes, she promised.

And before she knew it, before she could even question just what the hell she thought she was doing, she was standing on the sidewalk outside the cottage, looking up at it; crystalline snow blanketed the lawn and the roof, but the rose bushes, charmed against the cold, were as green and blooming as if it had been May, the front walk and the porch were clear of snow, the windows, with their diamond-leaded panes, were cheerily lit, and there was smoke curling from the two chimneys... and Hermione was overwhelmed by curiosity as to who was living here now, now that she had turned her own back on this lovely little place.

Her feet started her up the walk even as the rational part of her mind was screaming that this was madness; she should run the other way, run and never look back.

Then she was ringing the bell.

The oddest little creature opened the door.

It was a house elf; that much was immediately apparent. The truly odd thing was how it had dressed itself. The elf wore clothes and, as with Dobby, it was clear that she (at least Hermione fervently hoped it was a she) had selected them based entirely on whimsical preference, not practicality. Everything this elf wore, from head to toe, was pink. A tiara set with pink rhinestones sat perched atop her head, teetering precariously between her ears; she was clothed in a child's fluffy pink ballet tutu with a sequined bodice and a tulle skirt; pink tights, baggy on her short and spindly legs, terminated in fluffy pink bedroom slippers, and her hands and arms were encased in a pair of pink rubber dishwashing gloves, which on her, reached right up to her shoulders.

For a long moment, Hermione simply stared at the elf in astonishment, and the elf stared back, protuberant eyes wide with what looked like shocked recognition- though Hermione thought she would surely remember had she ever encountered this astonishing creature before. Then,

"Wait here one moment, miss," the elf squeaked abruptly, "Pinky is coming right back!" and she slammed the door shut in Hermione's face.

Hermione stood there at a loss for a long moment, wondering whether she ought to ring again, or simply leave- she had just decided on the latter course of action and was in the process of turning away when the door was flung open once more, and Pinky launched herself through it, hugging Hermione hard around the knees.

"You is Miss Hermione!" the elf exclaimed, stepping back as Hermione stared down at her, open-mouthed. "You is, you is, you surely is!" And she held something out in one pink-gloved hand for Hermione to see- a framed photo.

Of herself.

The elf was nearly sobbing with joy. "Oh, miss... Pinky is so glad you have come at last! Mister Draco has given up hope, but Pinky never did, Pinky never did!" She seized Hermione by the hand and pulled her, too surprised to resist, into the warmth of the little house. "Welcome home, Miss Hermione, welcome home!"

00000

Ten minutes later, Hermione was seated at a tiny kitchen table that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in her flat, having tea with Pinky, who sat opposite her on a spindly kitchen chair that was identical to the one Hermione occupied- with the exception that Pinky's chair sported a pink plastic booster seat. Upon leading her into the kitchen, Pinky had bade her be seated and immediately begun fussing about with the tea... but once it had been served, she'd plunked herself down across from Hermione without displaying a least bit of the servility Hermione had come to expect from house elves- and found so disturbing. Most house elves, Hermione knew, would consider it unthinkable to sit at a table and converse with a wizard or witch- yet, aside from calling her 'miss' at least twice a minute, Pinky treated Hermione as a long-lost friend, not as a mistress, or any type of superior at all. It was fascinating and refreshing and altogether wonderful, Hermione thought, and she wondered where on earth Draco had found this amazing little specimen.

"-house now, miss?"

Hermione blinked. "Pardon?"

"Are you ready to see the rest of your house now, miss?" Pinky repeated.

"Oh, I- yes, that would be lovely, but it's not my house, really," Hermione protested.

"Oh, it surely is," Pinky said matter-of-factly. "Mister Draco is hiring Pinky to look after the place, but he is telling me it belongs to Miss Hermione. He is giving me the photo on my first day here and he is saying to me, he says, 'you keep this house nice for Miss Hermione, Pinky, she'll be coming soon,' because it is yours, miss- nice and legal, like. There is papers with your name on them and everything, miss, right up in the library."

"Library?" Hermione echoed faintly.

"Yes, yes, miss, come along."

The cottage was, Hermione soon discovered, one of the few wizarding buildings that was not, apparently, magicked to be more spacious inside than out. It seemed to her that it was every bit as snug and cozy as it had looked from the street. The downstairs consisted only of a front parlor with a cheerful fire burning in the little grate and a small Christmas tree, barely taller than Pinky herself, in a corner, all decked out in pink and silver ornaments; a dining room, the meticulously clean kitchen she'd lately been sitting in, and behind it a sun porch leading out to the rear garden. Then Pinky was whisking her upstairs to the second floor, which consisted solely of three bedrooms and one large bath. The smallest room was, as Hermione recalled Draco telling her once upon a time, Pinky's room. The fact that the elf would consider herself worthy of a room and not just a cupboard or some... some sort of a den (Hermione shuddered, remembering Kreacher's decrepit little den at Grimmauld Place) again spoke volumes about the wonderful uniqueness of this elf. She seemed to have more self-confidence even than Dobby.

Pinky showed Hermione her own room first, as it was right at the top of the stairs. The room was... pink. Plush pink carpet covered the floor, so soft and deep that when Pinky stepped inside, her fuzzy little slippers actually sank a bit, and left indentations in the thick pile. The walls were, thankfully, a paler shade, but quite pink nonetheless. Only the lace curtains at the window, and the ceiling, were white. Pink glass wall sconces, one on each wall, bathed the room in a flickering, rosy light, and Hermione saw that over the child-sized bed- a gracefully curving sleigh bed painted pale pink and stenciled with lavender flowers on dainty green vines- hung a large, ornately framed Degas; ballerinas in bouffant pink skirts lined up at a practice barre. It didn't look like a print. It looked original.

The rest of the furniture in the room matched the bed; there was a bookcase, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe, all of which were diminutive in size and appeared to be handcrafted, and all of which were painted in the same pale pink with floral decoration. The final item of furniture was a plump little armchair with a matching footstool, both upholstered in white silk with a pattern of large, exuberant pink roses. It sat facing the room's single window, which had a view across the lake and up to Hogwarts castle. On the wall just inside the door was a row of pegs, upon which were hanging a dazzling assortment of pink hats, scarves, shawls and even a feather boa; at the end of the row of pegs hung a floor-length mirror in a pink enameled frame. Pink rhinestone jewelry was scattered all over the top of the dresser, though the room was otherwise as tidy as a pin.

Hermione hardly knew what to say as the elf positively glowed with pride. "My goodness," she managed at length, "this is... very pink!"

"Oh yes, miss," Pinky replied, her little head bobbing, ears flapping as she nodded vigorously. "Mister Draco is furnishing it for Pinky, he is ordering all the furniture specially made! But that is not the best part, Miss Hermione-" Pinky beckoned Hermione closer, as though about to impart a monumental secret- "the best part is this!" She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the accessories hanging from the wall pegs, the glittering jewelry strewn haphazardly about. "Pinky is buying these things in town, every weekend on her day off, and paying for them with her own money!"

"Pinky, I'm so proud of you," Hermione said, and she meant it. She'd only known the elf for a few minutes, but already she could feel the beginnings of a deep affection for the little oddball.

Pinky nodded gravely, accepting the compliment in all seriousness. "Mister Draco is a very generous employer," she said. "He is paying me more each week than I could possibly spend. I is saving the rest in this-" she indicated a large piggy bank on one of the shelves of the bookcase. The bank was pink, of course. "And," she finished at last, crossing to the bookcase and placing the framed photo of Hermione, which she'd carried upstairs with her, down in an empty space which Hermione supposed was its accustomed spot, "this is not all, miss. Mister Draco is paying a galleon every week into a retirement account he is setting up for Pinky at Gringott's Bank-" she whirled to face Hermione, beaming- "a real bank account in a real bank, with Pinky's name on it, miss!"

"He... sounds..." stammered Hermione, who was suddenly having a very hard time making words come. She paused, swallowed. "He sounds as if he cares about you very deeply, Pinky," she said, once she'd composed herself somewhat. "You are lucky to have an employer like that."

The elf looked at her shrewdly for a long time. Finally, "Pinky is knowing how lucky she is, Miss Hermione," she said, "Mister Draco is a good and fair boss. But it is not Pinky he is caring deeply about. It is you, miss. He is loving you so much it hurts him. Pinky can see that well enough, oh yes."

"He-" Hermione slumped back against the nearest pink wall, her knees suddenly feeling weak. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He got married, Pinky. Yesterday," she said, then added unnecessarily, "and not to me!"

Pinky merely shrugged at this. "I is not guessing why humans do the things they do," she said. "All I is knowing is that since Mister Draco is giving up on you coming here..." she trailed off for a moment, grappling with how to put her thoughts into words. Then, "since he is giving up, he is seeming... only half alive, miss." And then, without waiting for a reply, took a thunderstruck Hermione by the hand and pulled her from the room and down the little hallway.

The middle bedroom was middle-sized. It had been converted into a library with glass-fronted bookcases lining every wall but the outer one, which again showcased a single window with a view up to the castle, which was beginning to come alight in the dusk.

Dusk! Hermione realized, and quickly checked her watch. It had been twenty minutes since she and Harry had parted ways; he would be expecting her in the pub in ten more. But surely she had time to browse through these books for just a moment or two...

She soon discovered that the left-hand wall was lined entirely with wizarding tomes, some incredibly ancient and rare, while the right held Muggle masterpieces, from Homer through Shakespeare, right up to Tolkien. The third bookcase, which was also the shortest because it terminated at the door, was empty, and Hermione realized with a pang that the intent must have been for her to fill it with books she acquired over a lifetime spent in this little house. A mahogany desk was set under the window, so that whoever sat at it could pause occasionally in their work to look out over lake and daydream. Hermione wondered what it would be like to watch the seasons change from that window.

The walls, where visible, were papered in a rich burgundy silk and the wall sconces, one on either side of the window and one beside the door, wore green glass shades. A pair of leather love seats sat facing each other in the center of the room, on a round green rug. The floors, otherwise, were bare dark wood. Hermione felt her breath begin to hitch. She thought she'd never seen a more perfect room in her life.

Then Pinky was tugging her again, insistently, out of the room and further down the hall to the last room on this floor; the hallway terminated at the door to the master bedroom. This room was larger than the other two put together, and was decorated in palest blue and silver, with an enormous mahogany four-poster bed dominating in the middle. This was the only bedroom that had a fireplace; it aligned with the foot of the bed, and a cheerful fire was burning in the grate. Hermione, now feeling decidedly dazed, felt Pinky squeeze her hand and heard the elf murmur, "you is taking your time looking around, miss. Pinky doesn't wish to intrude. You can find me downstairs if you is needing me." With that, the elf disengaged, and Hermione was vaguely aware of the pattering of her little slipper-clad feet heading back down the hallway toward the stairs.

She moved through the room as if in a dream, trailing her hand along the edge of the bed, feeling the rich texture of the silk duvet- ice blue, with a silver fleur-de-lis pattern embroidered over it. From there she wandered into the cottage's only bathroom, and discovered on a hook on the back of the door a Chinese silk robe, scarlet and gold, in exactly her size.

Her eyes were blurred by tears as she made her way back past the library, stopping to gaze inside longingly- but she knew full well that she was capable of spending hours in there, days- and her watch told her that she was already five minutes late to meet Harry. He would excuse her a few minutes; hours was another matter. It took a conscious act of will for her to step away from the door, continue down the hallway, and descend the stairs.

"Pinky," she called, impressed by the steady normalcy of her voice, as she rounded the corner into the parlor, "I'm very sorry, but I need to-"

And stopped abruptly, frozen in place, staring in shock.

At Draco Malfoy's head in the fireplace.

Staring right back at her.

Pinky, who'd been on her knees in front of the fireplace, presumably talking to Draco by floo, glanced over her shoulder, saw Hermione in the doorway, and scooted to the side, allowing the ex-almost-lovers an unobstructed view of one another.

"Oh no," Hermione said, backing up a step. "Oh no, no, no..."

"Granger," Draco said quietly, his tone cautious, as it was apparent that she was about to turn tail and flee. He didn't want her to do that; it was written all over his face. "Can we just talk?"

He ran a hand through his hair and Hermione's heart twisted; she had used to love that anxious, distracted gesture. He'd made it often during their all-night cramming sessions for the N.E.W.T.s. He looked as tired now as he ever had then, she realized- and not the sated, content sort of tiredness that one might expect to find in a new groom the day after his wedding, but a haggard, unhappy sort of fatigue. His voice was hoarse.

Hermione hovered in the doorway, indecisive, until Draco glanced behind himself and then said, "hold on, I'm coming through." That broke her paralysis; being in the same room with him via floo was hard enough but if he should actually come through... no, she couldn't handle that. To have him physically standing in front of her, solid, and another woman's husband- she couldn't bear it.

"No," she said again. She shook her head for emphasis and began backing steadily toward the front door. Draco's eyes narrowed, his face settling into an expression of dark determination, and he actually heaved himself, head and shoulders, through the fireplace just as Hermione's hand closed around the doorknob- then stopped abruptly, his silvery head cocked to the side, listening to something. A second later Hermione heard it too, with a sick jolt in her stomach- a woman's voice calling his name.

His wife's voice calling his name.

'Damn it to hell," Draco snarled, shot her one last look of mingled frustration and despair, and then was gone in a soft 'woomf' of flame.

"Oh God," Hermione whispered, flung the door open, and fled the little cottage, the sudden cold stinging her cheeks, her eyes swimming with tears, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. She made it halfway down the front walk before she heard Pinky calling to her frantically- then she found herself turning, albeit reluctantly, to face the elf.

Pinky was hurrying down the walk toward her, distress written all over her small, homely face. "Miss Hermione," she cried, and Hermione detected tears in the elf's eyes to match her own, "you isn't leaving! You can't, Pinky has waited too long! I'm sorry, I'm sorry I floo'd Mister Draco, but he is making me promise to tell him as soon as you is coming here, and he is Pinky's boss, Pinky must... must do as he asks..." the elf was gasping now, tears overflowing her enormous eyes to streak down her cheeks. "But you mustn't leave, miss, this is your house, you is belonging here, please, oh please stay with Pinky! She is keeping this house only for you and she is... she is lonely here all by herself!" And the little creature dissolved entirely into heart-wrenching sobs.

Hermione went down on her knees in the snow and pulled Pinky to her, in a tight hug. She was now crying as openly and disconsolately as the elf was. "I'm sorry, Pinky," she choked out, "you're a wonderful elf, you are, and this is a wonderful house, but it's not mine, not really... he's not mine, and so neither is any life that we could build here. I don't expect you to understand. But I have to go. I have to. And you should go back inside... you're not dressed for the snow. Go in before you catch your death of cold." She released the elf and struggled back to her feet, but Pinky did not return to the house. She stood on the walk calling after Hermione, even once the tearful girl had reached the sidewalk and turned down the street, back toward the center of town.

"Pinky is not giving up on you, miss," the elf shouted after her. "You is coming today, you will come back again, Pinky believes it! I is not giving up!"

Hermione swallowed a sob and broke into a run. Pinky could believe what she liked, but she was never coming back here, never. It was far too painful. She just wanted to go home. Home to London. Home to her flat, with the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, decorated mostly with charmed miniature Quidditch brooms that zoomed in and out amongst the branches, home with the scrubbed-oak kitchen table and her tatty old chenille robe- it wasn't Chinese silk, but it was comfortable, it was her.

She was already late; nearly fifteen minutes late, she saw, glancing at her watch once more. She needed to get to the Three Broomsticks.

Harry would be waiting for her.

Harry would take her home.