Hermione sits in dark booth at the far end of the Leaky Cauldron. She comes here every day; her parents drop her off as they speed to work. It's quiet here, and she has a corner where no one can see her. She's as invisible as she feels. She keeps an avalanche of pain on her back, trying to stem the flow.

She's written her friends so many times this summer, but only Neville ever responds, with long letters of "How are you?" and "I can't wait to see you again." Hermione is happy that at least one person seems to care that she's alive.

Well, two. She gets letters from Mad-Eye Moody, which make her smile and washes away the tears that leak from her eyes every day. Between the admonishments of "Constant Vigilance!" she reads the gruff affection the former Auror has towards the polite young girl who's kept Harry and Ron alive all this time.

She thinks, sometimes, that only Moody and Neville are ever aware of that fact that she has kept them in one piece. Everyone likes to praise Harry, but it's Hermione that keeps them both alive. Not even Molly acknowledges that, and it wraps around Hermione like a cocoon of silken bitterness.

She chews her lip as she works on a practise Arithmancy sheet. She loses herself in a whirl of numbers, a mist of equations, and a fog of astrological movement charts. She forgets that everyone is ignoring her plea for an answer, and she forgets that her only friends are a grizzled old man and a boy she won't be able to see until school begins. For a little while, Hermione is not bitter.

She barely notices when someone jostles her table. "Excuse me," a deep voice says apologetically, and she murmurs an "It's okay," without looking up once. The figure stops, and looks down at the mass of hair on her head.

"Hermione?" it asks softly. Hermione looks up; it's Blaise Zabini, from her Arithmancy and Ancient Runes classes. A Slytherin, and quiet, but he's never been rude before, so Hermione, being Hermione, is polite.

"Hello, Blaise," she says kindly. "How are you?"

He looks at her for a moment, tilting his head to one side. He studies her, tries to really see her, as she looks down at her ink-stained hands. He decides to be honest. "Lonely," he replies, and looks down at his feet. He's not quite sure why he said that to her, or why he was so honest; he only knows that she will not judge him harshly for it.

And it is her turn to look up, and look him over. She decides to be honest as well.

"So am I."

She extends a small hand towards the chair opposite her own, which Blaise gracefully slumps down into. She hands him a practise sheet, and they both look down and begin to write. As they practice, they slowly begin to feel one another out, dancing around one another as they ask questions. They enjoy the kind verbal sparring and word games they play with one another. When they leave, they nod to one another, neither quite looking the other in the eye. When they go home, and eat, and retreat to the night, they smile at the quiet talk they had today.

And neither is surprised when they find the other the next morning.

Blaise hands Hermione an Ancient Runes sheet, and they sit down, heads bowed and fingers racing as they write.

And the dance begins anew.

---

"What's it like to be a Gryffindor?" Blaise asks one day. They're walking around Diagon Alley, still not quite looking at one another.

"Annoying," she answers promptly, walking into Flourish and Blotts.

"Everyone expects you to be some superhero," she continues, reverently tracing her hands across the spine of an ancient book. "They think that all we do is sit around and brag about adventures, and plan on fights, and flex our mighty muscles as we admire the sound of our own songs."

"I don't think you're like that," says Blaise quietly, picking a history book off the shelf. "I know you're brave, but I don't see what muscles you have to flex."

Hermione laughs. They pay for their books and leave.

"What's it like to be a Slytherin?" she asks as they step into Madame Malkin’s. Hermione turns and faces the window as Blaise tries on robes, tracing her fingers on the windowsill.

"Boring," he says, his voice occasionally muffled by fabric. "Everyone thinks that they're always scheming and plotting and thinking of ways to kill Muggleborns. They all think that we're brewing dastardly potions to poison innocent first years."

"I don't think you're like that," she says, tapping her fingers on the cold stone sill. "I think you're cunning, but I've seen you in Potions. You'd poison yourself before you managed to get it to a first year.

Blaise laughs. He pays for his robes, and they leave. They walk back to the Leaky Cauldron, still not looking at one another, but enjoying the company all the same.

---

"Will we still be friends when school starts?" asks Blaise abruptly one day. Hermione studies his profile as he chews on a ball of clotted cream, looking at the racks of candy.

"I wasn't planning on stopping," says Hermione, reaching up to find a non-sugary lollipop.

"Good," murmurs Blaise, paying for their candy. " 'Cause neither was I."

They leave the shop, not looking at one another, but shoulders touching.

---

Hermione and Blaise stand side-by-side, scanning the crowds. Hermione puts her hand up and starts waving it wildly, trying to get Neville's attention. He walks over, with Luna Lovegood at his heels. Hermione and Neville hug, and Neville nods his head in a friendly fashion to Blaise. Hermione introduced the two a few weeks back, when they were shopping for school supplies, and after a few false starts, they got on very well.

Luna surprises everyone by launching herself at Hermione and wrapping her in a hug. Hermione is startled, but strangely touched.

Hermione turns around, and a wide smile spreads on her face as she spots her two best friends. She starts walking towards them, then stops dead. Standing in between them, in her spot, is Ginny. And they're laughing with her in a way that they never laugh with Hermione.

Hermione spends the first 20 minutes of the train ride sobbing into Neville's shoulder. When she is finished, Blaise, eyes fixed to the window, gives her a hug. It's awkward, as if he hasn't had much practise giving hugs, but there's affection in it, and Hermione, eyes glued in front of her, hugs him back.

Several other people filter into the carriage. Dean comes in, a small sketchpad in his hand. He draws the profile of little Orla Quirke, who has taken refuge in the carriage after another Ravenclaw began to bully her. Orla plays a chess game with Graham Pritchard, a runty Slytherin with more interest in dragons than Death Eaters. Susan Bones and Terry Boot simply look out the window, making idle talk. It's a small start.

---

At the Sorting Ceremony, Hermione and Neville sit at the far end of the table, as far away as possible from Ron, Ginny, and Harry. Dean sits with them, all three huddled in a discussion about Voldemort and politics. They are unaware of the curious stares they receive from the Gryffindor table – the genius, the klutz, and the artist, all hissing furiously at one another and gesticulating wildly.

Hermione looks up, over to the other end of the Hall. Blaise sits alone, twirling his knife in boredom. Their eyes brush over one another, and they both smile, red splashing their warm cheeks. Hermione continues to look around the room, and she smiles at all the people who took refuge in the carriage. Orla waves enthusiastically to her; Graham nods his head. Susan just grins at her, and Terry pretends to make a sweeping bow, knocking Luna over in the process. Luna, being Luna, finds it amusing and laughs.

Hermione very pointedly refrains from looking at the rest of Gryffindor table.

A small ripple of whispers draws her attention. The feast has just started, but Blaise is getting up. Very slowly and deliberately, he walks over to Gryffindor table and sits next to Hermione. He runs his fingers through his dark brown hair, and grins at Dean and Neville. The three shake hands.

Hermione is happy.

They are joined by Susan Bones, and Terry Boot, and everyone else from the carriage. A few stragglers joined them; Padma Patil ignores the look of shock from her twin sister, and Theodore Nott simply shrugs off the glares. They eat, and laugh, and Hermione feels something that she's never quite felt before.

She feels home.

The small rocks that begin an avalanche begin to skitter down the slopes.

---

It's the second day of classes when the avalanche begins.

Hermione's fingers splay all over the parchment she's working on as she helps Neville with his Charms essay. Laughing, she merely shakes her head as Neville leaves thumbprints on her essay. It doesn't smudge her words, so she shrugs it off. Hermione is freeing herself from the tangle of life, a little every day.

"Hermione," whines Ron, "can't you help us too?"

"I'm busy, Ronald," she snaps, turning her back on him.

"You're supposed to help your best friends," continues Ron.

"I am helping my best friend," she says, a touch of frost in her voice. Ron doesn't notice.

"We're your best friends," points out Ron, nodding towards Harry. Harry stands in a corner, trying to digest this new Hermione.

"Best friends don't abandon their friend over the summer," she retorts. Neville's face is too blank; anyone with common sense can see that he's trying not to explode.

Harry opens his mouth to refute the fact that they abandoned her, but his mind flashes to the images of parchment still lying in a corner of the Burrow. He realises that she's right.

Ron, unfortunately, has not yet reached that conclusion.

"Come on!" he pouts, stamping his foot. Hermione stands up, smooths her mane down, and turns around.

"I'm going to go find Blaise," she mutters, heading for the door. Ron explodes, and the first distant rumble of falling rocks can be heard.

"Of course!" he shouts, waving his arms around. "You're a Slytherin lapdog now-"

And Hermione does something she has wanted to do badly for months now; before God and Country, Hermione hauls back and slaps Ron so hard, Harry's surprised his freckles don't fall off. Ron himself falls neatly to the ground. He looks up, and shrinks. No one has ever seen Hermione this angry before.

Dean walks into the Common Room, sees Hermione standing over Ron, and merely shakes his head. Neville gathers his parchment and joins him. Seamus glares from across the room at his former best friend.

The school is divided five ways – Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and them. They who dare revoke their allegiance to an animal and colours and shields. It is four against one, but the one simply cannot bring themselves to care. Hermione has just created the last fissure between herself and the ones she once thought of as her boys. She loved them – perhaps still loves them – but she can't stand aside and be used by them. Hermione simply can't live like that. Everyone must spread their wings.

Hermione stalks off to find Blaise. Ron gets up and turns to look at Neville and Dean, who merely stare flatly back at him.

"Wha-wha?" splutters Ron, incoherent with rage, embarrassment, and bewilderment.

"She's tired of keeping two boys in hand who don't appreciate her existence," says Dean, a sliver of ice touching his voice. "You know how hard it is when someone just expects you to be something so one-sided, yet you did the same to her."

Neville and Dean troop off, and Harry is left standing there, angry and confused. Ginny watches from the sidelines, unable to think of what to say that would comfort him.

And all Harry can think about is that if Hermione was there, she would know what to say to cheer him up.

The aftermath of the avalanche is devastating, as Hermione leaves the rubble in her wake.

It's been a month, and the world has had time to adjust. Not that they're adjusting very well.

Hermione gets up, and ignores the cold stares of her dorm mates. She can feel the 'righteous' indignation rolling off them; how dare she betray her own kind? Not that it matters that they prattle about the merits of Corner's biceps.

She goes to breakfast, sits with them, and ignores the heated stares of the entire school. How dare they break a code of fellowship as old as Hogwarts itself? No matter that the code was created out of ignorance, of mistrust.

She contemplates this as she spoons porridge into her mouth, not quite glancing at Blaise as he pats her knee. It's nice to know, though, that someone is on her side.

She goes to class, and ignores Ron and Harry. They glare at her in burning fury, although Ron seems to radiate heat. Harry merely looks lost, which Hermione doesn't quite fathom. Why would he feel lost?

Sometimes, Hermione does at well. She walks around the castle, and ignores the whispers of passerby, the rumours of scarlet women and nights spent being groped by them.

Sometimes, she feels like all she does is ignore them.

---

Hermione and Blaise wander the grounds of Hogwarts, idly making circles in the thick green grass as they move in circles. The sun is bright today, and the wind warm, but Hermione feels a bit chilly inside, like a bad memory that keeps you up at night and sears your bones with regret.

She had been explaining to Blaise about her life as a Muggle child, before Hogwarts, and recalls the taunts of fellow students at her school would tease her endlessly about the books she so loved. Hermione the book-lover, they'd taunt, throwing sticks at her when she refused to respond. Hermione, the reject. Hermione with hair so thick and frizzy that the sticks would lodge in the mass of brown wire. They used to tell her that her hair looked like an abandoned spiderweb that collects dust in a dark, forgotten corner.

Blaise says nothing, but makes soft, comforting noises and pats her arm, looking above her head and into the setting suns brilliant light. Hermione smiles, looking at her feet, and they begin to walk back to Hogwarts.

---

They have gathered in a large booth at the dark end of The Three Broomsticks. The weather is fine, the drink is fine, and for a moment, they have some peace.

All things can be shattered. Pettiness and envy creep through the cracks of life like spiders scuttling for safety.

Ginny, Ron, Seamus, and Harry descend on the laughing group, irritation on their faces. They have decided that they want the large booth, and no matter that there's no other open table large enough to fit Hermione and her friends.

"Still consorting with the enemy, eh Hermione?" asks Ron, bitterness lashing like silken strings in his voice. Hermione ignores him, merely sipping her drink. Blaise, however, stares directly at Ron, his darkly glittering eyes shooting streaks of fury at the gangly red-head.

It is Ginny, however, who gives off wafts of sheer fury. She glares at Hermione, then at Dean, and back again.

A thousand strands of random information come together to form a web, and Hermione suddenly understands.

"Come on, guys," says Neville jovially, standing up and helping Padma to her feet. "I remember promising Orla we'd being her back some sweets. Let's go get some."

"Yes," says Dean through gritted teeth, obviously annoyed at being stared at, "let's." The group stands up, and they are serene as they leave. Blaise doesn't quite look at Hermione, but he can feel her sadness, etched into her bones.

Dean saunters over to Hermione, and as soon as they are out of earshot, he explains to the group. Hermione remembers that Ginny had 'picked' Dean as her next boyfriend. Dean, however, had not been informed of this, and did not pick back, and Ginny is infuriated at being spurned. And it is humiliation that spurs Ginny on; it bites at her ankles and rankles her, that a boy would turn her down. Seamus called Dean stupid for turning down a date, and Dean did not appreciate it.

Every argument pulls together into cohesion. The golden ratio transforms randomness into a coherent pattern, beautiful if somewhat disturbing. Hermione's mind is full of spinning threads that intersect, intertwine, falling apart only to be pieced back together into the finest lace. She stares at Dean.

Dean shrugs, and they enter the candy store.

---

Today, Hermione turns seventeen. At their table, a heap of presents stand, and Harry feels suddenly guilty, realising that he's never gotten Hermione a thing for her birthday. He never even knew when it was. Ron merely scowls, and Ginny looks torn between anger and abashment.

Hermione is surprised, but is pleased that someone has remembered. Neville presents her with a gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts. Orla, who hero-worships Hermione, blushingly offers her a stack of parchment, each with the words "From Miss Hermione J Granger" written painstakingly at the top in Orla's loopy script. Soon, books, and quills, and sugarless candy and an odd assortment of other things surround Hermione.

The last present, however, is from Blaise. It's merely a small envelope, with a letter inside. She opens it up, and the sun's rays light up the letters words, written in black ink that flashes bronze as it catches the sun's light.

Even the oldest cobweb is beautiful when it's covered in dew and seen in the morning light. Take heart, Farfalla, we can see it. - Blaise

Out of the letter falls a small necklace. It's a butterfly on a spiderweb, the butterfly made of delicate aurora borealis crystals and the web white gold. Blaise silently takes it from her hands and fastens it around her neck, where it swings daintily on her sternum.

"I can," he whispers in her ear. "All the time."

They smile.

---

Hermione's birthday is wonderful. She is loved, laughed with, and the day is simply grand.

Until she goes to her dorm, and finds her belongings everywhere.

Books are scattered, pages torn. Crookshanks mewls angrily in a corner, licking some wound on his front left paw. Ink bottles have been upset all over her bedspread, and her scarf, still bright in bleeding red and molten gold, has been picked apart, the thick wool frayed and burnt.

Satisfaction hangs thick and grim in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione does not know who did this, and why, and she doesn't care. All she sees are her carefully-copied notes torn to pieces, a hurt pet, and her pride lying in an undignified heap, torn apart by someone who doesn't care to know.

She turns and runs, her beloved cat at her feet. She doesn't acknowledge the snickers of the knowing and the grins of the guilty. She merely runs, runs, runs, out the door and into the hall.

Luna is waiting for her at the bottom of the tower.

"I know," is all she says, and slips her hand into Hermione's for comfort. Hermione shakes, not knowing if she wishes to cry, or scream. Perhaps she can kick everyone in Gryffindor Tower until confessions are made. She's not afraid of spilling a little blood in the name of justice.

"Why?" asks Hermione.

"Because," replies Luna, squeezing their hands and leading her away from the desecration. "But we'll get through this, Hermione. People like us, we always do."

And she's right.

---

Neville is furious.

All he wants to do is start hexing people, and chivalry be damned. He'll hex every damn person in Gryffindor. No one hurts his friends and gets away with it.

Padma walks with him, in deep contemplation. She is rational and cool under fire, her greatest gift. She allows Neville to rage, letting her own deep-seated anger to siphon itself off into the growling, chubby boy next to her. Her mind is her greatest power, and she is determined to uncover the miscreants of Ravenclaw Tower. She sniffs softly; what wise and witty person would stop to such preschool levels? As well I'm not really one of them anymore is the only thing that stays constant in the every growing web of thoughts in her head.

"Ideas?" she asks. Neville grunts; he knows that strategy is not his forte. But bravery is.

"I think it was a group of people," he mutters, fingering his wand.

"Probably," says Padma, nodding thoughtfully. She smiles wryly. "But won't Dumbledore be pleased?"

"What?" gasps Neville. Perish the thought.

"They obviously planned it together, the Gryffindors and the Ravenclaws," she points out, stabbing the air for emphasis. "We're contributing to House Unity. Dumbledore must be having fits of joy."

Neville gapes at her, then surprises her with a deep, booming laugh, deeper than the sky and warmer than the sun. "Probably," he chuckles. "Although I don't think he planned it quite this way."

Padma laughs, coolly but nicely, and nods. They giggle for a few more moments, then continue walking, both minds melding together as they begin to unravel the web of conspiracy.

Blaise leans against a wall, putting his head on Hermione's shoulder as they watch the shy, sweet Gryffindor and the whip-smart, pretty Ravenclaw walk into the courtyard together, whispering conspiratorially as they start to pluck apart the suspects.

Blaise and Hermione just smile, and not just for Padma and Neville. Blaise finds Hermione's shoulder surprisingly soft, and Hermione finds Blaise's body heat somewhat... home-like.

They watch for a few more moments before turning around and parting ways, Crookshanks walking jauntily behind them.

---

Susan scampers around Hogwarts, trying to find Theodore. She fell asleep in History of Magic again, and Theodore is the only human being other than Hermione who can actually stay coherent in Binns' class.

She continues to zig-zag across Hogwarts until she runs straight into Dumbledore, bouncing off his back and falling to her knees.

"Sorry, Headmaster," she mumbles, and gets up to run.

"Miss Bones," intones Dumbledore, motioning for her to stop. "A word with you, if you please."

Susan sighs; she likes Dumbledore as much as the next person, but she'd like to get her notes now. "Yes, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore regards her thoughtfully, and Susan's back stiffens. The inevitable has come, and the staff has decided it is high time to stick their noses up their sleeves and interfere with something sacred.

"How has your year been?" he asks, and Susan blinks before steadying herself. Not what she expected, but this is Dumbledore.

"It's been, Headmaster," she says politely, just barely keeping herself from running from his sight.

"I see you've made new friends," he continues, smiling like a slightly demented, but kindly grandfather.

"Yes," she bites off, now impatient. "It's quite nice not to be a shadow anymore."

"Pardon?" asks Dumbledore.

"It's nice not to be a shadow anymore," she repeats, trying to hurry the conversation along. "My House may hate me now, but at least I'm with other people. I'm not a dark figure in the corner, gathering dust and cobwebs in some forgotten room."

"I don't think you were an outcast," says Dumbledore, almost primly. Susan snorts.

"I was a Hufflepuff, Headmaster, and not a well-known one at that. D'you know what it's like to be the only Hufflepuff who stood up for Harry Potter my second year, after Ernie had everyone convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin? Do you have any idea what it's like to be an outcast of an outcast, ignored by your own kind? They may hate me now, Headmaster, but at least I know who I am."

With that, she stomps off, tiredness and anger washing away any remorse or horror she might have felt at telling off a professor, let alone the Headmaster.

Dumbledore watches her march away. "What am I missing?" he asks himself faintly.

"A lot, I suppose," answers a wispy voice. He turns around, and Orla is there, staring at him defiantly. If Hermione can stand up to him (and she has, in her mind and in her actions) and if Susan can, then surely Orla Quirke can as well.

"Pardon, Miss Quirke?" asks Dumbledore.

"You say you want House Unity," she says waspishly, "but you have always favoured your own. If I had flown a car into a tree, I would have been expelled, as I am not a lion. You cosset Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and protect them and shelter them. But who protects Hermione? Oh, clever Hermione, she can hold her own. Doesn't matter if she's lonely at the end of the day. No, you must make sure that their friendship endures- but only so Harry Potter can stay alive."

She walks away, her golden hair catching light like strands of purity and honesty.

And Dumbledore understands.