Disclaimer: Not mine, not-not mine.

Hermione didn't know whether she wanted to burst into floods of uncontrollable tears, a stomach wrenching fit of laughter or scream as loud and for as long as she possibly could. Out of all the books she'd read, and all the knowledge that she'd immersed herself in, not one thing prepared her for this moment. The moment where she realised that she was truly alone.

"Alone". She muttered the word horribly to herself. It hurt her to think it but hurt her even more to say it out loud, to cement the thought into the air, to make it a true and certain fact, to leave it there for someone one to see and realise what she was going through. She felt ashamed for admitting it out loud, ashamed at admitting defeat, but it was as if the word had been trapped for so long inside her, and had spent the long weeks and agonizing months building up and preparing for it's escape that it couldn't be prevented, the thought was stronger than she was. It was this moment where she had realised her one flaw and vulnerability. Hermione Granger hated being alone.

The thought that her life in sixty years time would potentially consist of her sitting in a crumbling old house, with weak and fragile floorboards weighed down with books, alone, except for a bi-polar Cookshranks filled sixteen year old Hermione with a feeling of pure panic and dread. The very idea consumed her thoughts so often that she felt she was suffocating. She let out and shaky sigh and shifted her body on the common rooms plush red sofa, adjusting herself so that her head lay comfortably on the armrest and her long legs stretched out in front of her. She closed her eyes and felt the soft flames of the dying fire reach out and warm her face. Once lying down she found it easier to arrange her complex thoughts. When faced with a problem like this, she found it easier to imagine her thoughts and feelings as a long piece of knotted thick shipman's rope, that with careful precision and consideration could be untied, resulting in a clear and simple conclusion to the matter in hand, but as it so happened Hermione's thoughts seemed to be intertwined like a Gordian knot. If only she could react to a situation or problem as easily as he could, he treated his problems like fresh, powdery snow; throw it up glittering in the air and watch it fall into place; wherever it landed suggested what was meant to be. Hermione sighed inwardly, annoyed at herself for pointing out another huge contrast between the two of them. What was she meant to do with all of these feelings anyway? She knew from past experience that letting your emotions brew up inside you resulted in a nasty potion, committing things to paper or diary couldn't be trusted and relating her thoughts to a confident never ended well. In the past when she had been faced with a problem, the solution was easy. Talk to him. He was lucky enough to be blessed with a thought process that although at first may seem slower in comparison to hers, managed to asses a situation with clear clarity. But what was she to do when in fact the problem was him?

"You coming down for Dinner?" Hermione's head jerked quickly. It was a voice that she was so familiar with, a voice that she would be able to pick out in a crowd. She knew every rise and fall of his deep voice and the way his tongue manipulated his words. She sighed, brushed off the panicked wave of nausea and rose to her feet.

"I'll be there is a minute"

"Brilliant" a grin as wide as the sunrise flashed across his perfectly constructed face.

Despite the battle of emotions raging and thrashing around inside her Hermione followed him out of the portrait hole and down the long and winding stairs.

It was only the beginning.