It was in the early hours of the morning when Hermione arrived in Béchar, the heat as blistering as one would expect of the Algerian summertime. Timothy was there to meet her, a short, fair-haired man with a wide face and always with something of an impatient look about him. They shook hands in the town square, Hermione asked her questions and received few answers, and eventually they parted, deciding they both would need some sleep ahead of what promised to be a long day.

It was Hermione who woke first, having barely managed to drift off for more than a few minutes at a time. It was another hour before they set off along the town's main street, the unforgiving sun at their backs and a dry, almost suffocating heat in the air. The effect was lessened with spellwork, but only so much could be done.

"His name is Amar Demsiri," Timothy explained, relenting despite knowing very little himself. "According to the few English speakers in Béchar, he has lived here all his life."

"And he's blind?" asked Hermione, her compassion shining through in her tone.

Timothy nodded. "Since he was a young boy, apparently. No one knows how old he is exactly – sixty, seven, eighty; I wouldn't be surprised either way."

"And you believe he's telling the truth?"

"I believe, Miss Granger, that he has nothing whatsoever to gain by lying."

"And the ring?"

"It's exactly as you described. How he came to be in possession of it, however, and indeed his relationship to Mr Malfoy, remains a mystery. Every time I tried to get answers out of him he would simply smile and say that he would only talk to you."

"Me?!" she replied incredulously, head whipping around. "But he doesn't even know me."

"Oh, I think he does. It is not by chance that he came upon that ring. And I believe it is not by chance that I found him."

"What, so you think this was a set-up?" she asked, stunned by the implication.

"Not a set-up, no," he replied, shaking his head and pursing his lips. "But if everything you've told me of Draco Malfoy is true, and given what I know of this town, I have to think that if he wished to disappear entirely he could have done so. The trail is faint but I'm almost positive it was knowingly left behind."

Hermione nodded and carefully regarded the man. He was a strange character who she had come to know quite by accident. Timothy had once worked for the Daily Prophet, a talented investigative journalist with a reputation for breaking big stories but, also, widely known amongst his peers for his dangerous disregard of boundaries, both on a personal and professional level. There was nothing unfair about his dismissal. It was his third strike, having arranged illegal surveillance in the office of the Minister for Magic, and by all accounts he was lucky just to lose his job and not end up in Azkaban. The tale had come first from Luna Lovegood, chief editor of the ever-eccentric Quibbler, the Prophet's only rival, and then Harry Potter, a far more reliable source whose story was similar only without any mention of the wrapspurts Luna believed lived inside Timothy's head.

Given who she was trying to find, and the desperation with which she took to the cause, it would have been unreasonable of Hermione to raise any moral objections against Timothy's methods. So she paid him, and she paid him well, told him everything she knew, shared pages and pages of notes which went some way to proving her own reputation as a perennial overachiever, and sent him out into the wide world with every lead she had and a very simple mandate: find Draco Malfoy.

They met Amar on a shaded terrace, much to Hermione's relief. The view looked out over a seemingly endless stretch of desert with no landmarks or other signs of life. It made for a rather foreboding atmosphere which the modest furniture and minimalist decoration did little to abate.

Amar had trimmed his beard and put on his finest clothes but the filthy rags around his eyes remained. Hermione looked at him and even forced a smile, though knowing full well such a gesture was lost on him. Timothy lifted his hand and signalled, and after a moment a young man came from the bar area with a tray of drinks and took a seat at the table next to Amar.

"Hermione," Timothy began, "this is Yassine. His English is quite impressive."

The young man gave a nod, apparently with no objections to that appraisal. Hermione offered another smile but quickly returned her attention to Amar, uninterested in the glass of wine placed before her.

"Tell him hello," said Hermione, trying to keep her voice steady and maintain some sense of decorum. "And that I appreciate him meeting with me."

Her words were relayed in Arabic and Amar softly smiled as he reached forward and took a sip of his wine.

"Ask him how he came to meet Draco Malfoy."

Again the question was relayed and this time Amar answered; but the answer clearly didn't sit well with the Yassine who took a long pause, seemingly mulling the interpretation over.

"He says it is not that simple," he replied, "and that–" he paused, struggling for the right word, "that trust must be established."

"Trust?" she repeated.

"Yes," he said nodding, "he asks: are you Hermione Granger?"

"Yes," she responded, quite emphatically, "who else would I be?"

When Yassine translated this Amar began to laugh and spoke again.

"He says there are many who might search for this man," Yassine relayed, "debt collectors, loose women, thieves and murderers. But there is only one person to whom he can speak. And that, he hopes, is you."

Hermione swallowed the lump rising in her throat, trying to for the moment ignore any and all implications attached to that little declaration.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she insisted, but when this was translated Amar only shook his head and replied quietly, going into some detail.

"He says he trusts nothing, least of all the tongue of a Western woman. But," he continued, despite the none too pleasant looks he was getting from both Timothy and Hermione, "he will give you an opportunity to prove yourself. One opportunity. If you answer his question correctly he will tell you everything he knows. But if you fail he will leave this place and the knowledge will go with him to the grave."

Hermione's jaw set and she had a determined look about her. "What's his question?"

Amar and Yassine conversed briefly and then the younger man asked, "What were his last words to you?"

Hermione did not need to search for an answer. It was there, right before her eyes, as vivid a memory as she could recall – his elegant scrawl; the colour and smell of the ink; the little imperfections of the parchment; and, most of all, falling asleep with it clutched in her palm. Oh, there was no doubt Draco had chosen his question wisely. Without any embarrassment or acknowledgement of the fact she was sharing such private words with two strangers, Hermione began to respond.

"The beloved are the most miserable of all," and she paused, closing her eyes, feeling suddenly like a puppet spouting off some self-fulfilling prophecy, a product of his madness, of his desperate heart, that he, in his absence, had ensured would come to pass. She lifted her chin, aware that Amar was waiting, aware too that he knew what words would come next, and took a deep breath. "I know."

The answer seemed to satisfy Amar who smiled and bowed his head. Hermione, encouraged by this reaction, slowly inched forward in her seat.

"So tell me," she implored him, "where is Draco Malfoy?"

When this question was relayed to Amar he remained quite stoic, contemplating his answer for a moment before responding.

"He says that the tale is too long," Yassine offered, "and that he hasn't the heart to tell you it himself."

Hermione's head lifted and her brows creased but Yassine waved his hand in an attempt to reassure her.

"But he adds," Yassine continued, "that while he cannot tell that tale, he is a man of his word. He respects you. And so, if you will allow it, he will show you the answers you seek."

Hermione starred, somewhat wide-eyed, first at Amar and then at Yassine. She did not doubt Draco's involvement. After all, that little test was of as much use to her as it was to him. One thing gnawed at her, however, and it was not being asked to wait. What harm was one more day after three long years? Rather, she could think only of what was left unsaid and why. What mess was Draco in? What new sins had he committed since last she saw him?

"Tomorrow, then, Miss Granger?" Yassine confirmed, leaning forward slightly.

"Yes," she replied distractedly, "tomorrow."

The return walk to their hotel felt like an out of body experience. Even as they stepped out onto the street, huge dust clouds kicking up around their feet and the midday haze stretching as far the eye could see, she hardly had the wherewithal to walk straight let alone acknowledge her companion. There was fear festering in the pit of stomach, and she had only her hope to help wash away her paranoid tendencies. Eventually Timothy bucked up the courage to speak.

"Are you okay, Miss Granger?" he asked.

"Fine," she stated blankly, "And please, call me Hermione."

"Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," she replied, staring straight forward. "Don't worry, Timothy. I won't be suffering from buyer's remorse."

"That's not exactly what I meant," he persisted.

"I know. And thank you. You've been a great help."

Hermione excused herself the moment they reached the hotel, offering a forced smile and immediately locking herself away in her room. For three years she had been in a strange, almost stasis-like frame of mind, and this close to a resolution the sense of isolation only intensified. She was scarcely alone besides when she slept and yet not together or able to connect with anyone, at least not in the way she (or, indeed, they) intended. Her friends coddled her, believing good company was the cure for loneliness, but often she felt like an intruder in their lives, a burden for them to bear. A friend, yes, but an afterthought. It was silly, because the love they undoubtedly had for her was reciprocated, but she was consumed by what was missing and, ever the academic, unable to shake the idea that her loss was only a perceived absence, blossomed from the seeds he planted all those years ago.

Though she was considered the brightest witch of her age, she had thought of him many, many times over the years. No, he never scored higher marks than her, and he did not read more books or gave a greater grasp of magical lore – but he was clever. Achingly clever. Dangerously clever. And even as she seemed on the verge of a breakthrough, she was struck by the very real possibility that this was just another game of his – a game he was bound to win.

As she settled into bed that night she was reminded of Pansy's question. What did she hope to achieve? Her idealism was not dead but he had twisted it to shape his reflection. Of course, she was under no illusions and did not expect a teary, heartfelt, hugs and kisses reunion. Her reason for searching out Draco Malfoy was not for a hand to hold while they sailed off towards their happily ever after. The real reason she had gone to such great lengths, both in terms of spending and her own exhaustive research, was because she had, all those years ago, felt what it was like to love and be loved, and while it was the sort of sentimental nonsense he would have scoffed at, the truth remained that no feeling compared.

Brief, yes, and undoubtedly painful, but exquisite too – she was filled with a breathlessness that only he could satisfy, and his every gentle caress was felt for days. It was frightening and confusing, it left her in a state of frenzy, but when she was around him again those feelings faded. He had suffered, and he was broken, almost ruined, but she did not want to do as cliché would dictate and fix him. She realised that she wanted him exactly as she found him. That was the man she had grown to care for; at first pitying him, but that pity developed into genuine sympathy and then affection, and before she knew it he consumed her thoughts and dreams.

His attempts to push her away were not taken lightly. She always felt the sting. It was a defence mechanism, though, and part of a façade that even he did not fully comprehend. It was there, however, for the same reason he wore a scar on his wrist – because it hurt. Every single time, it hurt. And he needed to feel pain, needed to feel something, to remind himself that he was alive. And rather than let others in, rather than let them realise he was a decent human being as capable of love and compassion as the rest of them, he lashed out and forced them to despise him. He fed on their hatred, allowed it to sustain him, to keep him going, living one miserable day at a time until the fates decided he had suffered long enough.

His love was mangled, perverse, but it was true. Idealism painted pictures but they were abstract, romanticised, scenes reality could not replicate. And perhaps her love was a curse, perhaps that was the only comparison that made any sense, but long before she had met Draco, long before she had met Harry and Ron, she had realised she was a creature governed by logic and truth. One could not ignore an answer because it was not ideal, or because it came with unfortunate implications. And, likewise, Hermione could not ignore her impetuous heart

OOO

When she awoke the next morning it was with a renewed sense of purpose and too, for what seemed the first time in days, something resembling a level-head. She immediately wrote to her boss at the Ministry and said she was taking a few days off. Fortunately this would not be a problem. Quite the contrary, in fact, as Hermione was constantly being told by her superiors that she worked too hard and ought to take some time off now and again.

Timothy was waiting for her downstairs in the hotel's main foyer, dressed in faded jeans and a loosely buttoned shirt. He rose to his feet the moment he saw her and gave a nod in way of greeting. They exchanged pleasantries and idle chitchat, Hermione apologising for being so distant the last time they spoke, and then made their way towards the outskirts of Béchar. Civilisation slowly fell away until there was nothing before them but the foreboding desert. There they met with Amar and Yassine and together set off in search of answers.

Whatever hopes and expectations Hermione held, they were difficult to reconcile with the reality of their journey. There was nothing there but sand and heat and wind. In this environment, she could not imagine Draco Malfoy lasting a day let alone the lifetime that seemed to have passed since last she saw him. There were no little mud huts, no villages off the beaten track. Inevitably as they kept walking, and with no signposts or landmarks, it began to feel as if they were going in circles. This was normal, Hermione assured herself, and she took further solace in the purposeful stride of their blind guide, as ludicrous as that sounded.

It was not the waiting that troubled her. It was the silence and the calm before the storm. Hermione was too intelligent not to draw conclusions, too logical and cynical not to think the worst, and as Béchar disappeared from view, the infinite stretch of desert behind them now every bit as foreboding as what lay ahead, every answer she was able to scrape together from the various clues only served to frighten her. It was with hope that she had managed to get this far, but hope died in places like this.

They were in the land of lost souls where a wrong step in any given direction would be their undoing. Even with a wand and a license to Apparate, this knowledge could poison the mind. Every now and again, Amar and Yassine conversed quietly in Arabic, although she could not fathom what it was they were discussing. There was literally nothing out there, of which every moment in this place was a cruel reminder. Feeling paranoid she started to imagine conversations quite out of left field, some strange and barbaric ritual or the prospect that they have led her out here just to rob her blind. What little Muggle money she had was back in her hotel room, tucked beneath her mattress, and though they weren't to know it she had her wand concealed but well within reach.

She took a large glug of water and gently mopped her brow with the back of her hand. She was by now increasingly breathless, thinking to herself that even Draco Malfoy's sordid little games did not contain such a lethal combination of mental and physical torture. Just as she neared her wit's end and began to object, something emerged in the distance. It was minuscule, a mere speck on the horizon, but still, it was something – a break from the monotony of this cursed place.

"Do you see that too?" she asked Timothy, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"I do," he replied, his hand lifting and shielding his eyes from the sun. "Just about."

Hermione picked up her pace, Timothy in tow, falling in line with Amar and Yassine and watching them from the corner of her eye. They both remained quiet and, despite still suffering in the heat, appeared rather calm. When paranoia reared its ugly head it created a direct and volatile conflict between her heart, filled with hope, and her mind, governed as it was by logic and cold, hard facts.

They had come too far.

As they grew closer she began to cover more and more ground, separating from the group because she felt suffocated and needed to breathe. The very air they breathed was treacherous, however, dry, hot, filled with sand, and her mind, plotting a betrayal of its own, began to whisper a very simple truth that she was, until that point at least, wise to ignore. This land of despair befitted Draco. Of all the dark, forgotten corners of the world, this was the deluge in which he chose to drown. Ever the madman, and ever methodical in his madness.

Hermione stopped suddenly and her eyes grew wide. What once was a mere speck now loomed large and came into focus. Her face contorted, her disbelieving eyes growing wider still, and she felt sick to her stomach, clammy all over, the very fibres of her being beginning to ache as the decision to live by her hope finally caught up with her. There were no words left to say. The force holding together her heart surrendered, and even her mind, typically armed with simple truths and indisputable logic, took pity on her.

There in the sand two sticks crudely tied together to form a cross. On the left arm of that cross the word Draco; on the right, Malfoy.