Notes: Thank you all for your kind words and continued support. To those of you who reached out on a personal level, I want you to to know how much in the depths of suffering, your words can make the sun shine. So thank you. You've made my life better and that is no small thing.

I hope it is becoming clear what's happening to our dear heroine. This one's a bit shorter, but no less important. We're close to the breaking point... oh so close.

~*~ Nineteen ~*~

The dull haze of winter dug deep into her bones as the days started to blur together. Where time had been fluid before, if not exactly linear, it was now a discordant jumble that escaped Hermione entirely. In her more lucid moments—in classes and occasionally at night when she stayed in her dorm with Aurelia—she understood something was very, very wrong with her. Whatever side effects the war had wrought upon her had never been so severe, not even during the darkest of her days when the Order ranks were disintegrating like sandcastles at high tide. No, deep down, she knew her mind was broken, shifted into something foreign, untrustworthy. But then the feeling would fade and she'd drown in those hypnotic sapphire eyes and the world would be right again. It was exhausting.

Between the twisted vines of consciousness, she'd started to hear things, whispers, dark truths that hardly seemed possible. There were tales of screams in the classrooms in the dead of night, of unmistakable green lights seen in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. One Slytherin fourth year claimed she'd seen Cygnus Black making a stag dance for him by the light of the full moon. A Ravenclaw replied that he'd seen the Malfoy heir turn his wand on a fifth year until the boy had begged for mercy. No one said Unforgiveable, but it was implied and every story made Hermione ache, her mind rebel a fraction harder against the haze encircling it.

The unease gave her enough clarity to properly feel a jolt of alarm when Malfoy—her Malfoy, not his obnoxious grandfather—slid a parchment paper across her desk at the end of Transfiguration. Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at the exchange from his place at the front of the room, half-moon glasses shielding his eyes from her. Hermione didn't pay the professor any heed; he was no longer her ally, even if she couldn't quite remember why. The paper Malfoy had given her burned into her fingers, forbidden and suddenly important beyond measure. There were only three sentences:

Ask Aurelia to help you get a new dress in Hogsmeade. I'm sure you'll be needing one. Know that you haven't been forgotten.

None of it made any sense. Why wouldn't he just talk to her? She blinked, then tried to recall the last time she'd heard his voice. Hermione's lips pulled down as dread pooled in her stomach. She couldn't remember. She knew they'd spoken, fought really, fairly often, but now she couldn't remember the sound of his voice, let alone the last time they'd spoken. It was all a white haze, present, but utterly indecipherable. A chill seeped down her spine, crawling through her veins to penetrate every limb. She glanced back at the note. She'd keep it until she told Aurelia, then she'd destroy it.

The note rubbed against the skin of her ankle for the rest of the day, stuffed into her sock for safe keeping. It was only after dinner and a heated snogging session with Tom in the Slytherin common room that Hermione returned to her dorm and finally removed the parchment. Tom was off to one of his now nightly meetings and Aurelia was chewing on a quill, honey eyes fastened on a textbook spread across her bed.

Hermione slid the note over her book. "What do you make of this?"

Aurelia barely glanced at the note. "I think it means Dacian has noticed that Tom's a possessive git."

"You knew about this." Hermione wasn't sure what 'this' was, but it was clear Aurelia knew Malfoy would be giving her the note. Her thoughts were messy again. She groaned, rubbing a hand across her temples.

Aurelia looked up, eyes narrowed as they swept over every facet of Hermione's face. "Yes. And it's best if you just join me for a nice outing at Madam Mayberry's. You could use a new dress for your upcoming Valentine's Day celebration with your fiancé next week."

Hermione's breath caught. Fiancé? She knew her relationship with Tom was serious, but she wasn't expecting a ring. Or was she? Had they talked about it? She had a vague sense of a public proclamation on his part, but nothing clear, no true memory of any conversation. No voices, no words, only incomplete sensations, the hint of something and nothing all at once. Her skin prickled and then the thought was gone.

"Yes, a nice dress would be good." She smiled at Aurelia. Her housemate was so thoughtful. "Thank you, Aurelia."

Aurelia took a piece of parchment off the top of her textbook, sliding it beneath the tome. Hermione blinked then turned away. She was so very tired and her bed was all too inviting.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

The other girl's voice was sad, weary in way Hermione couldn't understand. She threw a sunny smile over her shoulder. "You too, Aurelia."