A.N./ Hello, once again. Welcome to chapter 2, or one, actually, of Who We Are. I would like to thank everyone for their lovely reviews (I haven't gotten any yet) and I encourage you all to continue with the great feed-back. ((Smiles sarcasticly)) In this chapter we meet Hermoine, and next chapter we will learn of her problems, so be patient, and stick with me for those of you who are reading this. (I've gotten a total of 3 hits so far.:C )

Disclaimer: I do not and will never own Harry Potter. Realize this now and mark me well, because I am not going to go about saying this every chapter. So this not owning thing applies to the whole story, thank you.

Also, forget about Voldemort, for now. He is not going to have a role in this story, as far as I am concerned. Also, if you are wondering, the sixth book, according to me, never happened. So Dumbledore is still alive and there are no crusifix's and ya-da-ya-da-ya.

Please Note: Any poems or song-like things written in this story are my own creation and mine alone. They are not to be used, borrowed, or stolen for that matter, without the author's (a.k.a. my ) permission. If you ask permission for use of a poem for a fanfic of your own or any other reason, rest assured that it will most likely be granted. I just hope that you will tell me first and respect me as an individual writer who takes her time and puts her heart and soul into everything she puts down on paper. Also, it would be nice to know when (or if) someone likes my poems or anything else enough to want to copy them or use them in something they are creating. This also would be much appreciated, and thank you.

And now, the fic shall continue. Read on non-existent readers! Woo-hoo! ;P

Continuing On:

It had been a week since Seamus' death, and slowly, everything was beginning to turn back to normal. There were less teary faces and swollen, puffy red eyes. Less broken voices, cracked from endless sobbing; and less nights spent dreamless, with nightmares and without sleep.

The time for healing had come, and the time for mourning had ended; and oh, so quickly had it passed by. Maybe it had truly only been a week, or maybe a month, maybe two. Everything was running together in Dean's memory. How was he to know? He really couldn't tell. All he knew is that it was misery here, trying to live on and continue life, without the one you loved by your side.

Everything now seemed so pointless. Dull and dreary and boring and shades of gray. This was the world perceived through the eyes of Dean. Heartbreak was one thing, he had discovered; but the total and complete loss of someone you love, that is different. There are no second chances, no next times, and no forgiveness. Just hurt and guilt and empty holes too big to fill up, no matter the abundance of your tears.

Torn up inside, there's nothing left.

The world is a place of sadness, a place of pain.

You try and get back on your feet, but you fall again,

And you realize, nothing will ever once more be the same.

Sobs and screams and tears to shed.

Desperation is all there is, and will be till the end.

Nothing changing, ever the same. The same sad story told and retold.

And there will never be anything else, for my world has grown too dark and cold.

Nightmares and darkness come,

Despite the light of day.

Alone and afraid we give up hope

-as we have found no other way.

No more chances,

No more tears

This is the end or so they say.

What could have been?

We'll never know.

For you're no longer here today.

Walking down the hallway, Dean looked around him as though in a trance. He was searching the crowd for a face, a certain face amongst the many the lingered in the crowded hallway. Why he was looking, he didn't know. The one he was looking for was not to be found. He wasn't there anymore. The saddest part of it all though, was that he wouldn't be coming back.

Dean looked down at his shuffling feet as he continued to walk along down the now slowly deserting hallway, hiding his tears as best he could from those walking and standing around him. He sniffed quietly and tried hard to keep the tears from falling. He was already getting a reputation as emo in the school for his endless depression since Seamus' death. His quiet ritual of crying himself to sleep every night wasn't helping either. He didn't need to make this worse by giving the masses one more display of emotion to hold against him. Noting this and then quickly glancing around him as though to make up his mind, Dean grabbed the edge of a nearby tapestry and lifted it, ducking into a deserted and dark passageway. As he let go of the tapestry it swung closed behind him, cutting off all light. It was dark here. It was colder back here as well, that was true, but it was empty, and Dean needed somewhere to himself to think.

Enjoying the newfound quiet of the darkness, he continued to wander on along the tunnel, one hand pressing against the wall as he walked for both reassurance and direction. Taking calming, deep breaths, he tried to stop his tears and gather his thoughts before re-emerging into the main part of the school. This passageway couldn't continue on forever, and so he needed to get himself together while he had the chance. "Seamus…." He muttered to himself, shaking his head and quietly shedding a few more tears. "How am I supposed to get over you?" His question remained unanswered though, the persisting silence, his only solace. Or maybe, maybe it wasn't complete silence.

Pausing for a moment, Dean stopped and held his breath, trying his hardest to make no sound while he listened intently. There it was! A small, soft, muffled sound that sounded like quiet puffs of wind blowing through a crack in the wall somewhere in small, irregular bits. He breathed again. Glad he was alone. But, no. He heard something else. Silent and listening again, he leaned a little towards the sound, as though to better catch the echo of it as it passed along the cold stone walls. It was a suffocated, whimpering kind of sound. As though a small animal of some sort was crying out from inside a mass of blankets. What could it be? And then it hit him. There was someone else here in this passageway. Someone else who had sought out the companionship of darkness and silence. And that someone else was crying. Sobbing actually, if he listened hard enough. He ought to know, he did it quite often himself as of recent.

Tiptoeing now, he made his way toward the sound, half of him wondering, and half of him not wanting to know, who it was that was crying. The crying grew louder and Dean could begin to make out words. Something about sadness and desperation and abandonment, and a name. Though not one he could make out. Choking with sobs the words were mixed up and the sounds didn't come out right, making it hard to determine their meaning. "I'm sorry…." He heard. "Oh, Ginny I'm so, so sorry….." followed by more sobs and sharp, ragged breathing. Ginny? Oh yeah, he knew Ginny. His roommate Ron's younger sister and a 5th year Gryffindor, she had caught his eye before. How could you not notice her, with her flaming red hair and her loud, melodious laugh? She was unmistakable, remarkable, and not someone that you could easily forget.

Pressing onward and taking less care to hide his arrival, he continued feeling his way down the dim and gloomy passageway. It was getting lighter now, but still, there was not enough light to properly see by. And then, before he even realized he was there, he stumbled upon a small, shaking form. A shadow person in a world of shadow that belonged now to them both. Huddled into itself and curled up in a ball it took him a while to realize who it was. But another glance at what should be the head of the person proved his suspicion right. The frizzy mane of hair could only belong to one person that he could think of, and that one person was Hermoine Granger.

Kneeling beside the form and taking her into his arms, he knew he was right. It was Hermoine, for sure, there was no doubt in his mind about that. But why was she crying? And about Ginny none the less? His questions unanswered, Dean hugged her tighter, using body warmth as comfort with which to calm her. And as her shaking slowly subsided, he felt himself breathing easier as well. 'Maybe comfort is a two way street,' he thought. And maybe, just maybe, the pathway of loss and recovery was one as well.