The fox-fur flap opened slowly and Lyra chanced a look inside the ice-yurt. A single candle flickered at the heart of the round space, barely illuminating the rickety pine table, the bed in the far corner, or the girl huddled and whimpering under a mound of blankets atop it.

A girl very much alone.

For Hermione was in a state of shock, had not even yet taken the first tiny step on the long path towards recovery. She was still gripped by the marrow-deep pain, the soul-pinching cold that the act of separation had wrought upon her. She was beyond tears now, didn't feel corporeal enough to shriek and cry and wail. She was still struggling to even process what had happened, to define in logical terms this thing that she had suffered ... and to remember why she had agreed to undertake it so willingly.

And Pap had not yet returned to help her understand. He was not there to console her, to ache and mourn with her, to bring back that warmth, that their parting had ripped away like a crusty scab over a still-raw wound. For the first time in eleven years, Hermione felt the jagged cut of true solitude as it scythed into her being. She was truly alone for the first time, without even her dæmon ... and she was convinced that it was a sorrow from which she'd never, ever heal.

It was a pain Lyra knew intimately well. So she had come to see Hermione, to see what she could do, even though she knew in her heart that the answer was nothing. There was no way to soothe that searing scorch of loneliness, the abrupt and breathtaking trauma of separation. Lyra massaged her chest as she remembered her own suffering experience, on the shores of the World of the Dead with Will all those years ago. The excruciating pain, the guilt ... and that abhorrent sense of desolate solitude.

But, at least she'd had Will. Poor Hermione had only a promise of her love ... and a whole world and more still existed between them.

So Lyra had come to try and do what she could in Mr Potter's stead. Pantalaimon had remained in their own ice-yurt out of modesty and respect, knowing that to share such intimate consolation would be awkward without Papageno there to be a proxy. When he returned, Pan would spring to life, and do for the newly-independent dæmon exactly that which Lyra was attempting to do for his sorrowful human.

Though Pantalaimon was jaded enough by life to know that his efforts would be just as futile as Lyra's promised to be.

But Lyra tried anyway. For in Hermione she saw, more and more each day, the daughter she'd always wished she'd had. A brave, clever girl perturbed by nothing, who took to her tasks with unshirking courage and forthrightness. Lyra was world-renowned for such strength herself, but these days she thought mostly that her decisions had been forced on her by extreme circumstance. Had she faced them in advance, and in the cold light of day, she questioned if she would have had the fortitude to go along with them.

And the courage that she saw Hermione employing to do just that, melted her heart with profound pity, while at the same time stirring her spirits with the fiercest sense of pride Lyra felt capable of producing.

So she had to help now, even if that help was unwelcomed or, ultimately, unsuccessful. She approached Hermione's shivering form and tucked the fur blankets tighter around her skinny shoulders. Then, as Hermione looked up in wide-eyed confusion at the movement, Lyra offered the mug of hot chocolatyl she had brought for her.

"Here, take this," Lyra whispered softly, brushing an errant lock of hair from between Hermione's eyebrows. "It will help, I promise."

Such an oath was not something a body wracked by deep need could ignore, so Hermione pulled herself into a huddled sitting position and accepted the steaming mug.

"Drink deeply," Lyra advised.

Hermione obeyed, and immediately felt the warmth and tingle of life bloom in her fingertips and at the edge of her toenails. It wouldn't heal her, but it was certainly a start.

"Thank you," Hermione mumbled, brushing away a trickle of chocolatyl that had escaped her trembling lips.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Lyra chanced, her tone as gentle as she was able.

Hermione's initial thought was to shake her head, to burrow back down into her cocoon of blankets and just hope this would all go away. But her logical brain knew that it wouldn't, that it was too late to undo this agony, and that she would have to confront all her self-loathing on the matter if she ever hoped to forgive herself for it. Besides, to wallow in her misery seemed like an insult to her Pap, her heart, her love, who had been so brave and stout in his own endurance of their shared torment. He would be back soon, he promised, and Hermione was certain he'd be disappointed in her if he saw her like this.

He'd been so courageous in taking the lead in this hated task, had suffered just as much ... and Hermione knew it was shameful for herself to be anything but his equal in this. She may not have had more courage than Papageno, but she didn't think she could bear the thought of him seeing her showing less.

So she hauled in another rattling breath, and decided to face this head-on. She turned her tear-strained face to Lyra and nursed the hot mug between her palms.

"It was ... so much worse than I imagined," Hermione began in a near whisper. "So, so much worse!"

"I know, I know," Lyra sighed, closing her eyes in empathy.

Hermione looked up in surprise. It was as if she'd forgotten that other people could be so tortured, too, or that her Mistress had gone through the exact same thing herself. The exact same thing! Somehow, the realisation eased Hermione's anguish a little. As though sharing the burden had somehow lessened it slightly.

"Was ... was it the same for you?" she breathed out, her words rising with the steam from her hot chocolatyl.

"Just the same, and just as bad," Lyra confirmed in her lyrical voice. "Drink some more chocolatyl. It will make you feel better."

It had worked the first time, so Hermione complied again. And felt a tiny bit better again. It brought the minutest bit of colour back to her cheeks, perhaps even a twitch of a smile to her top lip. And the first spark of 'maybe I can survive this' crept into Hermione's static mind.

"It's the most horrid thing, isn't it?" Hermione hushed. "The pain ... I didn't even know it was possible to hurt that much! Or even in that way. It was horrible. Worse than even that. I don't think a word has been invented that does it justice."

"I'm sorry, Hermione, that you had to go through it," Lyra soothed softly. "Or that I didn't do more to prepare you. I could have tried -"

Hermione suddenly reached out and squeezed Lyra's arm, seeing the guilt trying to settle on her Mistress' mind.

"It wasn't your fault, and there was nothing you could have said that would have adequately readied me ... nothing at all," Hermione rushed out. "That was a suffering beyond description."

"Do you regret it?" Lyra queried.

"Yes," Hermione replied immediately. "I regret it completely ... right now. But I know that I had to do it - that we had to do it - if we had any real hope of going on and doing what we have to do in the future. I have two hopes that this will be worth it in the end ... and that I wont regret it for very long."

"And what are they?"

"The first one is that this is the worst that it will get," Hermione began. "That I wont suffer anything more painful than this. Though I cant even imagine that I could! This was, surely, the most terrible horror in existence. And the second, is that I find my boy in that other world, that we do all the things predicted for us ... and that our love is so deep and satisfying and wonderful that it is thrice the level of joy that the depth of this agony was. That would make it worth it, I think."

Lyra smiled knowingly at her Apprentice. "If it inspires you, just know that it was worth it for me. The reward of my love with Will ... as soon as I felt that, I knew I'd do it all again in a heartbeat ... so long as my heart got to beat alongside his. We'll find this Mr Potter of yours, give you that chance to claim your reward. The hero always gets the girl ... well perhaps this time the heroine will get the boy!"

Hermione smiled shyly at that. "I hope so. It will keep me going when this gets the most difficult for me. And there will be times when that happens, wont there? Even when Pap comes back?"

Lyra nodded sadly. "Yes, I'm afraid there will be. It took the longest time for Pan and I to trust one another again. To forgive each other for what we did. But our situation was quite different ... and I don't think you and Pap will be estranged for very long.

"You undertook this with great courage, but also after a great, logical choice. He's probably licking his wounds, trying to get used to that alien feeling of how your connection has changed. How much thinner it feels. My Pan always said that was the most confusing part for him. Once he gets acclimatised to it, he'll be back around your feet in no time."

Hermione went to say something, but was interrupted when a something sharp pinged against the roof of the ice-yurt. Hermione looked up curiously, wondering if they were about to be hit with a deluge of hailstones or another rampant snowstorm. Then she looked at Lyra, whose expression had turned fierce and stony. Hermione was about to query it when there was another ping against the roof, then another ... then another.

Something was hitting the yurt ... but it wasn't any form of ice. For this sound was now distinctly metallic.

Then the flap of the yurt was yanked open and Mal thrust his head inside. The distant sounds of twanging strings and barking dogs came with him. Hermione froze as she looked up to see Mal's rifle, cocked and ready in his firm grip.

"We have company ... or, more specifically, a company of Tartars will have us if we don't leave right now!"

Mal's voice was so fierce and urgent that neither Hermione nor Lyra even considered protest. It was only as Lyra was helping Hermione with the last of her cold-weather clothes that the horrible realisation struck Hermione's heart, with more ferocity than all of the Tartars' bullets and arrows combined.

"Pap! We cant leave until he comes back!" Hermione shrieked.

Lyra cursed and wrung her hands. "Hermione ... he could be anywhere!"

"I don't care!" Hermione screeched back. "I'm not leaving him all alone out there! In the cold and the dark! I wont do it!"

She was so stout and fierce that Lyra knew it was pointless to argue.

"Okay. Stay here. I'll find Serafina. Maybe she can help."

And Lyra darted out of the yurt before Hermione could protest. She busied herself lacing up her heavy snow boots, before pacing around the yurt and chancing the occasional look outside whenever she heard the explosion of Mal's rifle, or the whizzing of Witch-arrows from high above, or the piercing yelp as one of the husky-dæmons perished under fire ...

Then the yurt cover opened again. Lyra was back with Serafina, who looked angry and fraught.

"Serafina!" Hermione cried, leaping up. "I'm so sorry! The Tartars must be here for me! The Magisterium -"

"Hush now, child," Serafina soothed kindly. "Don't you worry yourself about such things. We can take care of a poor company of Tartars. But it is your poor, lost dæmon we need to worry about now. We have to find him ... before they do!"

Hermione gasped as the horrific possibility flooded her mind.

"Help me, Serafina Pekkala! Tell me what to do!"

"Only you can find your dæmon, or he you," Serafina explained in a hurry. "But it is dark, not only out there ... but in here."

She pressed a hand to Hermione's chest. The sensation took her breath a moment.

"Your light has grown weak, and we don't have the time to wait for it to re-ignite properly," Serafina continued. "What we need is to give you a new light, one that your Papageno can follow back to you."

Then Serafina reached into her scraps of black silk and withdrew a bell-jar. Inside was a mass of burning flames, blue in colour, crackling away as if being fuelled from another world itself.

"Bluebell Flames, the Light of the Soul," Serafina explained. "Take them. Head out and away from the camp, away from the fighting. Let us deal with that ... and let your dæmon find you again."

Hermione took the jar in trembling hands. "How will I know which way to go?"

"Follow your heart," Serafina smiled. "For that is the only path you will ever walk along now. Go, quickly! And once you find your dæmon, find somewhere safe to hide. We will come for you when all our foolish enemies have been smote."

And with one last, fierce smile, Serafina ducked out of the yurt and back into the battle. Lyra guided Hermione outside a moment later, urged her to the periphery of the settlement, then sent her on her way and into the grim darkness, as she, too, rejoined the fray.

Hermione was now left quite alone. She hurried away quickly from the sounds of the battle, then stopped to catch her breath, which was thin and raspy in the cold, night air. So she looked around, and each direction seemed equally as alien, equally as foreboding. Dark snow, dark trees, darker shadows pervading them all. How on Earth was she supposed to know where to go?

"Follow your heart," Hermione parroted, echoing Serafina's advice. "What does that mean? Do you know?"

Hermione held up the bell jar, speaking to it as though the purple-blue flames inside were her temporary dæmon. And, bizarrely, they seemed to respond to her. In a way, at least. For Hermione was suddenly filled with the urge to walk this way. Not that way, or in that other direction, but on a particular path that led down the shallow slope. Why she felt more impelled to take this route Hermione couldn't tell. It looked no different, no better or worse, than a dozen others she might have struck out along.

But this one just felt right. And if she was supposed to follow her heart ...

So she did, for about ten minutes. That sensation didn't increase in potency, but it stayed as a steady throb in her mind, comforting her that her decision was the correct one. The path led down the hill towards the edge of a small lake that was hidden there, flanked by tall evergreens and with the lights of the aurora flickering and dancing as they reflected in the shifting water.

Hermione watched it as she descended, thinking how pretty it was, and marvelling that she could still appreciate beauty in her broken state. But her day-dreamy musings distracted her attention. She didn't watch where she was going, found her foot hitting a protruding boulder before she could react to it, then became dizzy and cross as she tumbled down and down the hill like a little avalanche of snow and semi-Witch.

Then she came to a stop ... and her heart leapt into her throat in a gout of fear.

For there, bearing its snarling teeth at her exposed neck, was one of the Tartar's snow-dog dæmons ... she knew its human couldn't be far away. Sure enough, a second later, a black long-barrelled rifle emerged from the tree-line ... and a hooded Tartar pointed it right at Hermione's terrified eyes.

There was a click ... a snarl ... a guttural roar. The floor shook all around Hermione as if she were at the epicentre of a localised earthquake. Then something came bounding over her ... something huge. There was a disgusting, pitiful scream from the Tartar ... then his dæmon simply vanished in a puff of light, as his life was snuffed out ... then another scream, one of utter triumph and emotion, from back up the hill - this time in Lyra's voice ...

"Iorek! Iorek Byrnison!"