"Hermione, slow down!" Pansy pleaded, head bobbing up and down as she tried to force herself into her friend's line of sight.

Hermione was, however, far too preoccupied with stuffing the contents of her wardrobe, of her bedroom and, indeed, of her life, into a suitcase that was much too small. She was breathing heavily, perspiration pooling at her brow, and whatever force had possessed her and brought about this frenzy did not look as if it would let go any time soon.

"Ask yourself what you're doing," Pansy continued, voice panicked as she felt dangerously underqualified to be dealing with what looked to be a nervous breakdown, "and what you think this will achieve. He's gone. He doesn't want to be found. He doesn't want us… any of us. I hate myself for saying this but it's the truth: he doesn't want you."

Hermione stopped and closed her eyes, clutching in her hand a dress that would be of no use on her travels. She was so used to the voice of reason coming from within, loud and insistent, steering her clear of mistakes she could not afford to make. For Pansy Parkinson to be that voice of reason, well it frightened the life out of her. Much as she loved Pansy, the girl was not known for her level-head.

It was an insane path she had started down and yet knowing what awaited her, she could not stop.

"I found him," she said finally, a strange calmness to her tone. "It means he's out there, Pansy."

"Yes, and he's running," Pansy spat, making no effort to hide her bitterness. "And hiding. He's a coward and he won't ever change. You are my friend. My best friend," she added, speaking slowly and stressing every syllable. "I can't let you chase after your own undoing."

Then there was silence as Hermione stared at the wall, feeling like an utter coward. Pansy, in what she would later acknowledge as the bravest act of her twenty-one years, never let her gaze waver, eyes boring into the back of her friend's head, and when the silence lingered she placed her hand on Hermione's shoulder and gently squeezed.

"Please," Pansy urged, her voice breaking. "Just please don't do th–"

"I love him."

At those three small words Pansy felt the air being sucked right out of her and she slumped backwards onto the edge of bed. They were her words – the words of a desperate and confused little girl in love with a monster. There was no answer. No counter to that argument.

Three years.

Pansy replayed every minute of every day in her head. How had she been so foolish? All this time she believed Hermione was undergoing some ill-advised mourning period, but it was not loss that caused her to despair but absence, a cruel promise and the belief that he might one day return. It had been so easy to convince herself that Hermione was just waiting for Mr. Right to come along so she could finally move on. The witch was much too smart to fall into that monster's trap and not be able to navigate an escape route. Pansy was used to being wrong but not quite so accustomed to such devastating repercussions. Her first real friend and she had failed her spectacularly.

Before either of them was forced to deal with the uncomfortable silence, footsteps echoed through the house. Harry Potter was stood in the doorway, leaning most of his weight into it, in fact, breathless, somewhat tipsy and wondering why it looked like a bomb had just gone off in Hermione's bedroom.

"Uh, knock, knock," he began tentatively, eyeing first Pansy, who had been quite insistent when she left the party on the nature of the emergency, and then Hermione, who was currently staring out of the window onto the street, wringing her hands and looking so utterly lost.

"Talk some sense into her, Harry," Pansy insisted quietly, touching him gently on the shoulder as she passed.

Harry moved cautiously through the room, tiptoeing over an underwear drawer that had somehow made its way onto the floor and Pansy's handbag, the contents of which were scattered everywhere. When he reached her side he stood in silence a moment before giving her the gentlest of nudges with his shoulder.

"So what are we staring at?"

Silence.

"What's so interesting, huh?" he persisted.

"See that house across the road?" she asked, pointing with her index finger at the two story place directly across from them.

"Yeah."

"Last year a couple moved in. They were about our age. As they were carrying the boxes of their stuff from the street and into their house they looked so utterly and so… impossibly happy. They couldn't stop smiling at each other. And you know what, Harry?"

"What?" he asked quietly, struck suddenly by a foreboding feeling, like ice water dripping down the back of his neck.

She hesitated for a moment. "I didn't wish them the best. I didn't want them to live happily ever after. I was so… angry. So jealous. I hated them. I can't remember their names or what they looked like but I hated them. And it wasn't just that they were together or that they were carefree, but they were living their lives. Whatever heartache had come before, whatever monsters were in their past, they had moved on. They had found a way."

While distinctly aware of what she was saying, and the disturbing implications, it was her tone more than anything that unnerved him. It was cold, distant, removed from anything he had heard from her before. He wanted to turn, take her by the shoulders and shake her out of this despondency. But he too was still, shocked into silence, forced to watch as his best friend flirted with a dangerous precipice.

"One day, I heard screams coming from across the road," she continued, her unblinking stare fixed on the house. "The whole street heard. For almost an hour I ignored it. They had their happiness and now they could have their misery. Then I heard the sound of glass breaking and finally I drew the curtains and looked out through the window just like everybody else. He was dragging her by the wrist as she kicked and screamed, as she used up every last ounce of fight she had in her. She was drunk. They both were. And when he let go of her wrist and left her out on the curb he didn't even look back at her. He simply… closed the door. He moved on."

Feeling something catch in his throat, a dangerous cocktail of fear and uncertainty, he turned finally and took her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes and frowning deeply.

"Hermione, listen to me," he began but no words followed. She was in a dark place, a place she could not navigate alone. He wanted so desperately to reach into the darkness and save her, but when he looked into her eyes he realised she was looking right through him. She was seeing that woman on the curb, a teary, drunken mess. Either that or she was looking at him. Harry knew for a fact she hadn't forgotten his name or his face.

"Let me come with you," he said quite seriously.

She laughed a hollow sort of laugh and smiled sadly at him.

"No."

Harry wanted to scream. It had been many years since he had felt like a mere spectator to his own life, watching and waiting but unable to do anything. And while like Pansy he blamed himself he knew, ultimately, it was foolish to do so. Not only was Hermione the most intelligent witch he knew but she was wilful and courageous, a true Gryffindor. It was clear to see, though, and had been for a number of years, that a part of her was missing, lost, perhaps stolen away, and much as they tried they knew they would never fill that void.

"I love you, Hermione," he said, leaning forward and kissing his friend gently on the forehead.

"I know you do, Harry."

And yet all she could think of was that final note in his elegant scrawl. Never had someone embodied both love and misery quite like Draco Malfoy.

OOO

Harry returned downstairs to see Pansy and Ginny staring pensively at one another while Ron Weasley, stood on the far side of the room, berated an ancient looking television set.

"Work, damn you!" the redhead whined, slamming his fist against the wooden veneer. "I've pressed all the buttons. Why won't it work?"

Ron's head whipped around when he realised Harry had entered the room. He quickly lost interest in the television set, one eyebrow rising, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hopeful smile, as his ever expressive face said all the things he could not.

"She's fine, mate," Harry offered, ignoring the fiery look Pansy was giving him. "Just needs some time, I think."

"Alright, okay. But what's this even about?" asked Ron, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "And why am I always the last to know?"

Ginny was wearing a glum look as she turned to face her older brother. "I think Hermione is a better actress than we give her credit for. But–" and she stopped suddenly, offering a sad shake of her head. "Let's not do this. Let's not talk about her behind her back."

Harry fell into the seat beside Ginny and wrapped his arm around her. None of them knew what to say after that – in fact, they could barely bring themselves to look at one another. Besides Pansy, of course, who looked very much like she wanted to lash out at someone or something.

"This is madness," said Pansy, rising to her feet after a very long and very awkward few minutes had passed. "I won't let her do this. I won't."

Pansy stormed out of the room and up the stairs, putting on such a display that there wasn't a stroppy teenager alive who wouldn't have been proud. By the time she reached Hermione's bedroom she felt like a ball of energy ready to explode, all her resentment and pent up anger finally bubbling dangerously close to the surface. But when she saw her friend moving slowly about her room, quite removed from the frantic, possessed creature she had seen scarcely half an hour earlier, she simply couldn't bring herself to unleash the deluge of emotions onto her.

"I know what you're going to say, Pansy," Hermione began as she busied herself by folding her clothing and place it neatly into the suitcase, "but you don't need to tell me I'm a fool. I'm already well aware."

When Hermione finally looked up and caught her friend's gaze, she was reminded not of that day in the library, the seed from which their friendship blossomed, but rather the many cruel taunts and vile nicknames that Pansy had bestowed on her over the years. How could she stand there, herself the personification of Hermione's empathy and willingness to forgive, and not understand why she loved a man who had hurt her so?

When Hermione fell asleep at night she thought of him. She remembered his lost soul, his desperate heart. She remembered those kisses, remembered falling asleep in his arms and waking up so very alone. She remembered the insults, but she remembered too that look in his eye, hope and desire that in retrospect seemed so poorly hidden, a cry for help that only she saw because it was for her alone to answer. Of all her relationships before and since, both platonic and romantic, nothing had ever felt quite so real.

She did not want a one night stand. She did not want a friend to become her husband simply because neither of them had a better offer. She did not want to be Mrs Wrong to her Mr Right. She did not want six months of untold happiness and then to be dragged out on the curb kicking and screaming.

Hermione wanted his desperate heart. She wanted it now and she wanted it forever.

"Don't be afraid of what might happen, Pansy," Hermione said softly, "I'm not. When we were at war we lived by our hope."

"A fool's hope," she responded bitterly, her whole face feeling suddenly tense.

"But hope nonetheless."

They looked at one another and both forced themselves to smile. Hermione thought this was perhaps as close as anyone would get to understanding her point of view, but when Pansy suddenly crossed the room and wrapped her in a tight embrace, the added burden weighing heavy on her heart seemed to lift a little.

"I'm not going anywhere," Pansy insisted, as much to herself, it seemed, as to Hermione, "when you get back from your crazy voyage I'll be right here – no matter what."

Pansy lifted her chin and squeezed her friend. Never had she had a better reason to cry than this and as the tears began to flow she knew that someway, somehow, and even if Hermione was not, she was doing the right thing in standing by her friend.

"Okay," Hermione whispered in response, "tell the others that I love them. And that I'm sorry but I had to go."

From Pansy's point of view, Hermione seemed to move in slow motion. She fastened the suitcase, grabbed her wand, her bag and flashed a smile. It was then that she disappeared and Pansy simply stood there, a rather blank expression on her face, as she tried to commit this moment to memory. She had a feeling that, one way or another, this was the night on which everything changed.